Page 51 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

“What should I do?” she asked.

“My first impulse is to advise you to wash your hands of the lot of them, and to let me go downstairs right this moment to tell them in no uncertain terms what will become of them if they continue to importune and harass you.”

She nodded, more in understanding than agreement. “But…I don’t think they’re all equally guilty. I believe Papa must have persuaded the others that I had both the means and the obligation to clear away their troubles. And so they wrote. Should they be punished for their misunderstanding, for doing what he told them?”

“You have a generous, forgiving spirit—for which I can only thank God.”

He felt her shoulders rise and fall in a silent huff of laughter. Then she whispered, almost to herself, “I don’t know if I can forgive my father.”

Maxim was quite sure she shouldn’t. Then again, neither should she be ready to forgive him. But she had already shown herself willing to extend compassion to the undeserving. Perhaps the rest of the family, so long under Laughton’s thumb, could yet be salvaged? Only time would tell. The problem was, he didn’t have much of it to spare.

“Let me ring for your maid, my dear. And leave the rest to me.”

Against his shoulder, her head scrubbed in a silent nod of acquiescence. Once, such a sign of her fledging faith in him, of her affection, would have prompted him to push her away—for her own good, he would have told himself.

Now, he tightened his embrace and drew her closer, determined never to leave her again.

* * * *

A quarter of an hour later, Caro stepped from her chamber wearing a fresh dress, with her hair neatly arranged, and tried not to feel disappointed that Maxim was not waiting on the landing to accompany her down to the drawing room.

A floor below, Geoffrey laid a hand on the door to open it, waiting for her nod. Muffled but familiar voices wafted from the room, and she had to lay a palm over her belly to settle her nerves. She’d been managing her family on her own for as long as she could remember. If she must, she could go on doing it. Only, he’d promised.…

At the jerky, uncertain movement of her chin, Geoffrey swung open the door. At first, no one seemed to notice her arrival. Papa stood before the bow window, hands folded behind his back, staring contemplatively out to sea. Toward the middle of the long room, in the pair of chairs before the fire, Mama dozed, while Christopher slouched, idly twirling what appeared to be a guinea over and between the fingers of one hand. Beyond that, Catherine sat at Caro’s desk, neither reading nor writing, while Aunt Brent… Rapidly, she scanned the large room again. Where was Aunt Brent?

“Ah, my dear, I did not hear you come in.” Maxim unfolded himself from the little high-backed sofa in front of her, where he’d been sitting beside her aunt, who had surely been regaling him with stories of her supposed ill health.

“Took you long enough,” muttered her father, and the sound of his voice made Mama jump, though she did not rouse. She must have taken a dose of her tonic after breakfast; travel always wreaked havoc on her nerves.

“Hartwell agrees that the sea air will do me good,” Aunt Brent announced triumphantly.

“And Lady Laughton, as well,” Maxim added.

At the sound of her name, Mama’s eyelids fluttered. “I wasn’t asleep,” she insisted, pushing herself more upright in the chair and dabbing discreetly at the corner of her mouth with her handkerchief.

Christopher made a scoffing noise in the back of his throat. “No one could blame you if you were, Mama. Brighton’s deadly dull.” He sent a hard look at his father. “Especially this time of year. Perhaps, Hartwell, you know where there’s some entertainment to be had? Cards, or the like?”

“For God’s sake.” Catherine tossed aside the quill with which she’d been toying. “It’s not even noon, Lord Brash,” she reminded him, mocking him with the contraction of his courtesy title, Viscount Brent-Ashby, by which his chums addressed him and which their father despised.

Caro’s eyes shot toward Papa, awaiting a reprimand—for either of her siblings.

She waited in vain.

“How long is your visit to be?” She had to drag the inquiry from her chest, dreading the answer.

“A fortnight,” a pair of voices replied in unison, a tone of delight from her aunt and one of dismay from her brother.

“I was sure we could count on your hospitality,” said her father, at last turning away from the window.

Only she caught the warning flash in Maxim’s eyes and, oh, how she wanted to watch him put Papa in his place, as he’d done the morning of their wedding. But of course, the effect of that set-down hadn’t lasted long enough to matter. The devil was invulnerable to fire and brimstone.

“Of course you were,” Maxim replied when he had composed himself, his voice quiet in a way that would have sent shivers down the spine of a man of sense. Caro noted that he promised her family nothing. “As for entertainment, here is what I propose. Brent-Ashby and I will go for a ride. Lady Catherine would no doubt enjoy a stroll with her sister along the water—”

“And to the shops?” Catherine interjected hopefully.

“Just as you wish. And Lady Laughton and Miss Brent, will you join them or stay in and rest from your journey?”

Caro expected Mama to choose the latter, but her eyes were suddenly as bright as she had ever seen them. “A walk sounds lovely.” Not to be outdone, Aunt Brent nodded.