With a jerk the woman seized her hand. “Maxim...” she whimpered.
“Bianca,” said Papa plaintively.
She held up a hand to quiet him. “Mr. Leake,” she said, eyes fixed on Greta. “Did you send for Max two days ago?”
“Aye.” Leake let out his breath. He had gone back to trying to staunch the blood still welling from his face. “I told him to wait in Stoke on Trent but he’s not there. If he’s not here, either... I suppose he couldn’t wait and took off after me.”
“I suppose so.” Slowly, still holding Greta’s hand as if the woman might wrench away, Bianca rose. “Won’t you come in?”
Mr. Leake frowned. “Not sure I’d take her inside, ma’am. She flew into a fit when I said we were going to find St. James. Until then she was docile. His name set her off.”
“Well, he’s not here, and I cannot put her outside,” said Bianca, keeping her voice soft and even. Nothing to startle Greta, who struggled awkwardly to her feet. “Come sit with me,” she urged the woman, leading her slowly into the sitting room nearby.
“Bianca,” said Papa sternly.
“Shh,” she said. Greta had flinched at Papa’s voice. “We’ll wait for Max. Are you hungry?”
Fear filled Greta’s face. She shook her head.
“All right. Sit here.” Bianca guided her to the settee. Greta perched warily on the edge. To Bianca’s surprise, Aunt Frances stepped forward and swung her own shawl around the woman, tucking it gently in place. Bianca glanced at her in gratitude, and her aunt stepped back, her expression unreadable.
“Where is St. James?” Papa was demanding loudly of Mr. Leake, in the hall outside the parlor.
“I got no idea,” replied the other man. “When he wasn’t at the Two Foxes, I thought he must have come home. It took a fair bit longer to reach this place than I thought. Your roads are an abomination.”
“And whoareyou?” Papa was so agitated, he didn’t even agree about the roads.
“William Leake, thief-taker,” was the answer.
Papa stormed into the doorway. “Bianca, come away from that woman at once!”
“No, Papa,” said Bianca. “Aunt Frances, send for a glass of wine.” She continued holding the woman’s hand as her aunt rushed for the bell.
“What the bloody hell is going on?” Papa barked.
Bianca didn’t blink at his curse. “Be calm, Papa. I believe I know who she is. But we should wait for Max.” Jane scurried in, wide-eyed, with a small glass of claret, which Bianca handed to Greta.
“And where has he gone?” Papa retorted. “Two days, and not so much as a message to his wife!”
“I have every confidence he’ll be here soon,” she said evenly. This was the person Max had been seeking, whom he had raced off to find without even pausing to explain. Indeed, she thought she heard hoofbeats approaching now.
A few minutes later she was proven correct. Hickson’s voice echoed in the hall, and running footsteps. Max caught himself in the doorway, let out an exclamation of relief and rushed forward.
At the sight of him Greta made a noise like a lamed animal. She dropped the glass and scrambled off the settee.
Bianca lunged for the claret, setting the glass aside with only a small spill. Greta had flung herself at Max, collapsing to her knees and throwing her arms around his legs. At once Max sank down, his greatcoat pooling around them. He clasped Greta to him, resting his dark head next to hers and murmuring to her as she sobbed in renewed vigor.
“St. James,” said Papa, sounding dazed. “Explain this.”
Still stroking the woman’s hair, Max raised his head. He looked terrible, his complexion gray and exhausted, his hair flattened and filthy, every inch of him covered in dust. “This is my aunt. My mother’s sister, Greta.”
“Your aunt!” Papa reared back. “What’s happened to her?”
“You’ve been searching for her for months,” said Bianca numbly. “Why didn’t you tell me, Max?”
He turned desolate eyes to her. “Can’t you guess? Because she’s mad.”
Chapter Thirty
