Page 71 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

“The package has arrived? And you’ve had it put in the duchess’s bedchamber?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And not breathed a word of it to her?”

The man looked affronted. “Certainly not, sir.”

“Where is she now?”

“In the library, sir. Looking over the letters that came in this afternoon’s post.”

“Very good.”

Maxim took himself to the library on the first floor, which adjoined the drawing room, though at present the doors between the two rooms were shut. Both rooms were darkly furnished, heavy and austere. He had intended to strip out every trace of his grandfather immediately, until his wife had pointed out that the man had rarely visited London, and the style of the rooms actually reflected tastes popular long before his grandfather’s day.

“What does it matter?” she had told him with a dismissive wave of one hand as she began to examine the impressive collection of books. “When we return from Chesleigh Court, we can decide whether or not to redecorate.”

Now he found her at the enormous mahogany desk—the furniture here was much better sized for him than the spindly legged chairs and tables of Royal Crescent, he had to admit. Her head was bent over a letter, just as the butler had indicated. When he cleared his throat, she looked up and Maxim could see she had been worrying her lower lip.

“Distressing news, my love?” He crossed the room in a half dozen strides, no longer determined to disguise the unevenness of his gait, no longer convinced his limp was a sign of weakness.

“Oh, no. Quite the opposite, in fact. Aunt Brent writes that Mama is doing as well as can be expected, and the doctor expects further improvement still, though it will be gradual. The sea air has been a blessing to them both.”

They had left the two older ladies firmly ensconced in the house in Royal Crescent, with Mrs. Horn and the other servants and under the care of a physician—not Trefrey, whom Maxim could never again persuade himself to trust. Lady Laughton’s cravings for her “tonic” were slowly abating, though not without pain and difficulty. Miss Brent had shown herself a surprisingly able nurse as well as a steadfast friend to her sister-in-law, and in taking care of Lady Laughton had nearly forgotten all her own aches and pains, just as Caro had once predicted.

Maxim took up the delicate hand that lay atop the letter and squeezed it. “Excellent news, I’d say. And what of Lady Catherine?”

“Her engagement to Mr. Parker has been announced.” Caro’s eyes were that rare luminous golden shade, the one that warmed him to his core. “Thanks to you. My aunt says they will wait to wed until spring, so that Mama may enjoy the celebration. I wondered whether we might not invite them to be married from this house?”

“Whatever you wish, my love,” Maxim assured her, turning the letter with his free hand to scan Miss Brent’s sloping handwriting. He saw no mention of Laughton’s condition.

When the earl had recovered enough to be moved from Trefrey’s establishment, Brent-Ashby had taken his father to Springhallow, the family estate in Hampshire. The man had no recollection of Maxim throwing him bodily from the house, no memory of the attack that had rendered him speechless, listless, a shadow of his former self.

Brent-Ashby’s true mettle had been shown in his ability to take up his father’s affairs and manage them more effectively than Laughton had ever done. Repairs on both the house and the tenants’ cottages had begun, along with plans to improve the produce of the farms come spring.

Nevertheless, Caro’s guilt over her father’s condition had been heavy, as Maxim had expected. He had been nearly at the point of relenting and suggesting that she go to him, rather than come to London. But the strength shown by her siblings, mother, and aunt had persuaded her to join her husband.

“Come with me,” he said, tugging gently on her fingers to coax her to rise.

She laid aside the letter and came to her feet, slipping her hand along his arm. “What is it?”

“You’ll see.”

Together they climbed the stairs to the ducal suite: a pair of sitting rooms and dressing rooms to match two bedchambers, all joined by a pair of ornate doors that were never locked. One of Caro’s delicate brows arched. “Ah. I think I have some idea what you have in mind.…”

“Do you?” He smiled down at her, the curve of his lips deliberately wicked. “And you may be right. But first…” He swung open the door to her sitting room. Atop a low, curved-leg table sat a large wooden crate, remarkably like the one Fitz Hopkins had brought back to Brighton, the one that had been the cause of great distress and greater understanding.

Now both of Caro’s brows rose.

“Something to help you through the cold northern winter,” he said, nodding toward it to urge her forward.

“Furs? Velvets?” Her fingertips curved more tightly against his forearm, and she fixed him with a seductive gaze. “I already have everything I need to keep me warm.”

“I’m flattered, my love. But why don’t you open it and see?”

At last she took a cautious step toward the crate, the top of which had already been loosened, according to Maxim’s instructions. Laying it aside, she dug through the packing straw to reveal stacks of leatherbound books, trios of volumes bundled together with twine. She traced the cover of the set that lay uppermost and glanced at him with a curious expression. “Novels?”

“The complete works of Robin Ratliff, as a matter of fact.”