it, the door flew open and a grinning, short and rotund man jumped out with his pudgy hand outstretched.
‘Lord Rivenhall!’ Still beaming, the gentleman pumped Max’s hand enthusiastically. ‘I am in awe, sir! Complete awe! In all my years of research I have never read an essay so thorough, so compelling or so well written! And the attention to detail in those sketches! I cannot wait to see your magnificent pot in all its glory, examine that bracelet or cast my beady, eager eyes over your roundhouse... What a day this is! What an honour it is to meet you!’
‘Er...thank you.’ His eyes darted to Effie in the hope she could shed some light on the identity of man, but she seemed to be doing her level best to blend into one of the columns behind Smithson or melt into the flagstones. ‘And you are, sir?’
The slightly older man chuckled and slapped him on the arm as two more gentlemen alighted from the carriage. One reed thin and slightly pompous looking as he cast his critical eyes over the estate, the other so beige and nondescript he would be impossible to pick out of crowd. ‘Probably should have started with the introductions first, shouldn’t I? Sir Percival Egerton at your service, my lord. A devoted antiquarian both man and boy and, aside from digging the ground for buried treasure much like your good self, I also edit Archaeologia for my sins. As soon as your paper found its way to my desk, I knew I had to meet you.’
He stepped aside and swept his arms out to encompass his painfully thin colleague who made no attempt to smile and stared at him down his long beak of a nose, his eyes drifting immediately to Max’s scars before he deigned to look him square in the eye. Openly judging him as men of supposed good breeding so often did and clearly of the belief he had every right to.
It was exactly this which made Max instantly dislike him. Undisguised disgust at his deformity aside, he’d met many men of his ilk in the Navy. All usually sat behind an ornate desk at the Admiralty, making sweeping opinions and decisions about things they knew little about and refusing to budge from them no matter what the cost. Give him a man who had worked his way through the ranks any day over one who believed he was born only for the highest. ‘This is Francis Brighouse, the Marquess of Denby, and one of the society’s most active and respected Fellows.’
Was it his imagination, or did Sir Percival’s cheerful smile suddenly look a trifle strained? The pompous Marquess merely inclined his head and didn’t bother to speak, so Max did the same, but made a point of smiling slightly as he did so to show the fool he wasn’t the least bit intimidated by Lord Denby’s superior title or attitude or blatant distaste. ‘Welcome to Rivenhall.’ It would be a cold day in hell before he tacked the words my lord to any remarks to this arrogant blue blood.
‘And beside him is our honourable secretary, Lord Whittlesey.’ Sir Percival’s smile was definitely pasted on this time, which was telling. ‘He was the one responsible for sifting your paper out of the plethora which find their way to us each month, so you have him to thank for our over-enthusiastic imposition.’ And doubtless was similarly responsible for returning all of Effie’s previous efforts unopened. Already loathing him and sorely tempted to just punch him and be done with it, Max shook his proffered limp hand and tried not to curl his lip in distaste as he did so.
The bland man doffed his hat and inclined his beige head, his eyes latching on to Max’s cheek like a limpet and not leaving. ‘Lord Rivenhall.’
This was all as hideously awful as he had expected and he felt his toes curl in shame inside his boots while the angry acid churned in his stomach. ‘Lord Whittlesey.’
‘We are all three of us thoroughly thrilled to be here to see it all!’ Although only Sir Percival looked thrilled, Max noted. The other two now looked fashionably bored and vaguely suspicious, as if they had no intention of gushing about Effie’s magnificent discovery until they had clapped eyes on it