“I told you I could be,” he replied, smiling. “As to the dinner party, trust me. I’ve chosen the guests carefully, for greatest impact and ability to spread the word.”
Slowly she nodded. This was his world, after all, and the reason Papa had wanted him in the business at all. Papa had traded his daughter’s hand in marriage for the man’s connections to elegant society. She ought to be pleased that he was earning his keep.
“Thank you, my dear.” He gave her another gleaming look as he bowed. “I hope to lay all your doubts and fears to rest, and assure you of my complete devotion.”
And as he continued up the stairs, his heels ringing on the treads, Bianca thought to herself,That’s what I’m afraid of.
Chapter Seventeen
Everything hung upon this dinner party, and Max wasn’t leaving a single thing to chance.
The guest list had been chosen with great deliberation. He had put Lawrence to the task of sniffing out the latest rumors and whispers, and had carefully molded his ideal party. No one in dun territory; no one in the midst of scandal. No one who had fallen from favor in society, or retired from it.
Fortunately for Max, he knew someone who fit each and every criterion. He also knew a great many more who violated some—or all—of them as well, but those people he shut out of his mind. He had won Samuel Tate over with the promise of his connections. No matter what he had learned, no matter how many contractual improvements he suggested, no matter how splendidly the showroom might work out, Max knew thatthiswas his opportunity to win his father-in-law’s esteem.
His wife’s, he was not as sure of. She didn’t argue about the party, and in fact made several suggestions about the menu, to best display the greatest range of Sir Bartholomew’s dinner service. She raised her brows when the crates of crystal and silver were delivered, but Max assured her they were borrowed only, and she made no protest.
It gave him some private bemusement, that the daughter of a man as rich as Tate cared about whether they bought silver or not. They could have purchased a complete set of each to take back to Marslip and not dented the family coffers.
He dressed with care that evening, knowing it would send the first and most vital message to his guests about his change of fortune. A dark blue coat of velvet, lined with ivory silk and glittering with golden buttons. Dark charcoal breeches, cut close. A waistcoat of pale blue stripes, embroidered with black thread. Elegant, the pinnacle of fashion, unquestionable quality. He smoothed his hands down his chest, scrutinizing his reflection.
How different from a few months ago, when last he’d dined with Dalway and Carswell. When his linen had been worn to threads and his waistcoat had been a castoff. When he’d had but one pair of shoes, and those scuffed and splitting. He’d won three hundred pounds off Carswell that night, and Harry had loudly proclaimed that he’d lost on purpose, to help Max avoid the Fleet.
He didn’t want anyone’s pity tonight.
Lawrence dressed his hair, but Max refused to powder it. It was still fashionable for court, but not as much elsewhere; he’d never been able to afford a wig and now preferred his own hair. Likewise he waved off the valet’s offer of cosmetics. The last thing he wanted to look like was a macaroni, with rouged cheeks and painted mouth.
He went down to await the guests and survey the dining room. Everything was in order. The plate sparkled and shone. He had arranged for several pieces in the new scarlet glaze to be sent to London, and they glowed as if they were made of rubies in the candlelight.
“Oh my,” said a voice behind him.
Max turned. Bianca stood in the doorway, one hand on her bosom, her lips parted in amazement. She wore the gown of cream silk, with a deep peach petticoat beneath it. Her hair was swept up into a pile of curls, not frizzled in the most modern way, but with a very attractive spill of one long lock over her shoulder, and powdered to a pale pink tinge.
The floor seemed to heave beneath him. “By the heavens,” he managed to say, “you are a vision, Mrs. St. James.”
She flushed. “Jennie was so eager to do it.” She plucked at the curl lying across her shoulder. “It feels so odd. Not at all like Marslip.”
“No,” he said, mesmerized by her. “We are not in Marslip.”
And he’d never been gladder of it.
Bianca was more than a trifle curious to meet their guests.
Whom had Max invited? She had put him down as a rake, a rogue, a scoundrel who probably associated with other rakes, rogues, and scoundrels. She had never expected to meet any of them, of course, let alone as part of a plot to spread Perusia’s reputation.
But the people who arrived did not strike her as dissolute or depraved. They bowed over her hand, congratulated both her and Max on their marriage, and struck up conversation on a wide variety of topics. Bianca had expected gossip about the king’s health or the recently published memoirs of Mrs. Baddeley, the notorious courtesan. She was mildly surprised to hear instead about the excursion to Australia, the new abolition society begun by Mr. Clarkson and Mr. Sharp, and the struggles of the Americans in the wake of the war.
“Taxes,” drawled one man, Lord Dalway, in delight. “They’re squabbling with each other about taxes!”
“Again?” asked Mr. Farquhar.
“Forever,” rejoined Dalway.
“I find it much more amusing now,” put in Lady Dalway.
“I only wonder how long until they select a king,” said Sir Henry Carswell. “Or better yet, ask forourking back, and admit they were wrong on every score!”
Everyone laughed. “I doubt very much they will,” said Bianca. The guests turned her way.
