“Thank you, Lady Helena. I do appreciate your loyalty. If you will excuse me, again, I must have a conversation with my brother.”
Bending his neck in a quick bow, Maximilian left them and walked quickly back to the castle. He was left fuming – his anger unabated. He hurried to Wilmot’s chambers and knocked on the door. He knew his brother left his apartments only for meals, and only then because Augusta demanded it of him. Wilmot’s valet bowed him through to where Wilmot sat in the sunlight near the window, eyes fixed on the glass.
“Wilmot,” Maximilian said.
Wilmot glanced up, then stood. “Max. What brings you here?”
“I need to talk to you. May we sit?”
“Of course.”
Maximilian pulled up a chair as Wilmot sat back down and observed his brother’s haggard face drawn with lines his youth should not have. He let out a heavy sigh and spoke in a soft voice. “The coachman was your friend, was he not?”
Wilmot turned his face toward the window. “Yes.”
“I am so sorry, brother. I liked him, too. He had been with our family for a long time.”
“He taught me a great deal about cards.” Wilmot spoke in a monotone and continued his blank stare out the window. “I liked playing cards with him.”
“I know. His widow will be well-cared for.”
“Thank you. I was going to make sure she was if you did not.”
Maximilian shrugged. “He died in my service. Of course, I will take care of his family.”
“That is good of you.”
“There is something else you should know, Wilmot,” he said slowly.
“What is that?”
“Nigel discovered the coach had been tampered with,” Maximilian went on, studying what he could see of his brother’s face. “Someone tried to kill me.”
Wilmot did not look at him. “That is absurd, Max. No one would want to kill you.”
“Someone tried. I want you to know so you can take precautions, Wilmot. They may want you dead as well.”
His brother gazed down at the long cut on his left arm, still puckered and fresh, red and angry looking around the neat row of stitches. “Thank you, Max, but I think you are wrong. No one would want either of us killed.”
“I do hope you are correct about that.” At that moment, Maximilian could not remember a time when he was more concerned about his brother than he was right now. Were Wilmot’s blank expression and dull eyes a sign that he is contemplating hurting himself again? Or is he just grieving for his friend?“Are you all right?”
Wilmot snapped out of his haze. “Of course. Why do you ask?”
“You are my brother, and I will always worry about you.”
Wilmot managed a small smile as he glanced up. “You are kind, Max.”
“I try to be. The coachman’s funeral will be held late this afternoon. You will be there, I trust?”
“Of course. He was my friend.”
Maximilian rose and slapped his brother on the shoulder in a friendly fashion. “I will see you then. Take care.”
He knew he would find his stepmother in the solar. He did not relish his task and knew she must also be informed of the attempt on her son’s life. If whoever cut the shafts on the coach wanted not just him dead – but his family as well – then Augusta must take steps to protect herself. Pondering the idea of bodyguards while he tried to discover the saboteur, Maximilian entered the solar.
Augusta was not alone. The Countess of Whitington sat with her, and the two worked on the invitations for the upcoming ball. He had quite forgotten about it over the last few days and wondered if it was wise to postpone it. The two women glanced up as he entered.
“Madam,” he said. “Countess Whitington, I apologize for the interruption.”
