“That low born maid is causing more trouble than she is worth.”
Maximilian took another step, now close enough to Augusta to use his intimidating height to loom over her “You will refrain from speaking any word against Miss Betham in my presence. Is that understood?”
Not the least bit daunted by his attempt to cower her, Augusta stared him in the eye, seething with her own rage. “You donottell me what to do or say.”
“Remember, Madam, under whose roof you abide,” he said. “Have no doubt, I can send you to live out your days in a nunnery.”
This time her jaw did drop. “You wouldneverdare.”
“Care to test me?”
Augusta’s jaw snapped shut, but her cold, narrowed eyes never wavered from his. “That girl will bring you trouble, Duke, make no mistake. Do not think for a moment that she will not.”
Pushing past him, Augusta headed toward the door, her hands lifting her skirts in order to not trip on them in her haste. Maximilian turned to watch her go.
“Do you know someone tried to harm her, Madam?”
Augusta paused, speaking over her shoulder without actually turning. “So, I heard. Do not make me say I wish whoever it was had killed her.”
She slammed her way out of the door, leaving Maximilian to stare after her. He started to undress as Jacob returned to help him wash, comb out his hair and dress in his formal attire for supper. His rage, not abated a whit, propelled him down the stairs and into the dining hall. By habit, he glanced toward the kitchen where he usually found Eugenia and cursed under his breath because she was not there.
As usual, Augusta, Wilmot, and the Whitingtons were all inside, awaiting his presence. He nodded as they offered their respects; he eyed Augusta coldly. “My apologies for my tardiness,” he said stiffly. “I was detained.”
He expected a tart reply from her, but Augusta simply gestured for the butler to begin serving. Maximilian sat at the head of the table and glanced around. Lady Helena stared down at her plate, refusing to look at him.
So now she knows I cannot and will not marry her. I hope she does not take her upset out on Eugenia.
Countess Whitington smiled at him in her typical fashion, apparently not at all concerned that he had refused the marriage contract with her daughter. The Earl of Whitington, too, offered no comment or showed any annoyance that they had made the trip from London for nothing.
His glance rested on Wilmot. “What happened to you?”
Wilmot grimaced and touched the black and purple bruise covering his right eye. “Oh, that. I tripped over a hassock in my bedchamber and fell. I had, er, a bit too much to drink.”
“You might consider remaining sober for the sake of our guests, Wilmot,” Augusta said, picking up her spoon to begin eating her soup. “Such antics are for the low born, are they not?”
“Yes, of course, Mother,” Wilmot replied and started on his meal.
* * *
Getting drunk may be for the low born, but it sure makes sense to me now.
Maximilian stumbled his way up the stairs of the east wing, a nearly empty bottle of whiskey in his hand. He sang under his breath, an old Irish love song, often lost his balance and all but toppled sideways. He stopped to gaze behind him, at the long tumble down the stone steps if he should indeed lose what little equilibrium he had remaining to him. Shrugging, he continued on, the Irish ballad merry on his tongue.
With no outlet for his rage, no villain to beat with his fists, Maximilian went straight to his study after supper – his sanctuary where he often retreated when he wanted to be alone. It was well understood amid the staff that once he was inside with the door closed, he was to be disturbed only if the castle was on fire… or in an equally dire emergency.
In there he drank, thinking about Eugenia and how he failed to protect her. Now, in the late-night hour, he found no one about, and the stairs lay dark and shadowed. Lamps burned low on the walls, casting little light. Yet, he saw well enough despite the bleariness in his eyes. “I promised,” he muttered to himself as he climbed the steps, one slow riser at a time. “I promised she – she would not be h-harmed.”
His recriminations against himself spurred him to take another deep draught from the whiskey bottle. Swaying on the steps, he licked the alcohol from his lips and went up another few risers. “I am a cad. Yesh, I am a cad. I – a cad, let her get hurt. Lord, I am – I think – falling in love with her.”
Hiccupping and chuckling to himself, he considered what Augusta’s face would look like when he proposed to marry Eugenia. He drank another swallow, tilted his head back, then sighed as he lowered the bottle. He tripped another few steps until he reached the landing where he intended to turn in order to go up another flight of stairs. With his head down, he stumbled again and reached for the stone wall hoping to catch himself.
The dim lamps backlit the figure on the landing above him. Maximilian blinked upward, seeing only a hooded shadow with hands outstretched toward him. “What the –” he began as the hands on his shoulders pushed him hard backward. Losing his grip on both the wall and the bottle, Maximilian felt himself tumble down the long flight of stone steps.
Chapter 18
Augusta lay in her bed, propped up by pillows as she read a book by the light of a lamp. Her brown hair, streaked with silver, tumbled over her shoulders in a wave. She reached for the glass of red wine, took a sip and replaced it, then turned the page. A figure darkened the doorway to her bedchamber, and she glanced up.
“Eloise?” she asked, peering through the dimness.
