Andrea Pickens - [Lessons in Love 02] (20 page)

With a heavy sigh, he wrested his thoughts away from that direction.

Besides, he knew the answer to his question. Most men didn't want a unique female. The rare one that might appreciate her qualities she was highly unlikely to meet, given her situation.

The gnawing inside him became a little sharper. That his plans for her would only exacerbate her problems did nothing to assuage his already tender conscience. But there was nothing for it. She simply couldn't remain as Max's tutor, though why he still couldn't explain. It simply wouldn't do. However, he vowed to himself, he would see her comfortably settled before all of this was over. He would make sure she had her precious independence and would not have to take a position of servitude again.

So why didn't that make him feel any better?

It was quite a time later before the large hound heard the tread of his master's footsteps retreating up the stairs to his bedchamber.

Chapter 9

Wrexham stared in consternation at the letter in his hands. He had already read it a second time, and his scowl had only deepened. What the devil could Edmund be thinking to—

"Good morning, Father." Max limped into the breakfast room, leaning heavily on a cane, Allegra hovering anxiously at his elbow.

The earl's expression brightened considerably, though his brows still puckered in concern. "Halloo, Max. Are you sure you should be moving about so much? I should be happy to have a tray brought to your room and have my tea with you."

"I am heartily sick of a tray in my room," grumbled Max. "I don't need to be treated like an invalid anymore."

Allegra rolled her eyes in mock despair. "Well, Dr. Graham did allow as he could get up if he felt able. Unless, sir, you would like to locate a length of rope...."

Wrexham chuckled. "No, I suppose we needn't resort to that." He turned his eyes to his son. "As long as you show some sense and do not tire yourself unduly."

The lad nodded a vigorous assent as he slid into his chair. A moment later he was digging into a plate heaped high with gammon, shirred eggs, broiled kidney and a slice of pigeon pie that one of the footman had prepared for him. "Heartily sick of porridge, too," he mumbled between bites.

Allegra and Wrexham exchanges amused looks.

As Max sent his plate back for a second helping of everything, he glanced at the folded sheets of paper lying next to the earl's cup.

"Who is the letter from? Anything of interest?"

Wrexham had momentarily forgotten the pages he had laid aside. "What? Oh, it's is from Bingham. Naturally he inquires as to how you are coming along. He—" The earl stopped short. "He hopes you are feeling better," he finished lamely.

Max lay down his fork. "What else does he say?" he demanded.

Wrexham was uncomfortably aware of two sets of eyes boring into him. "Nothing of note," he muttered. "Sandhill has returned to town, but we knew that."

Max pulled a face. "There is something you are not telling us."

His father made a show of taking up the freshly ironed newspaper and opening it with a decided snap. Max shot a disgruntled glance at Allegra but remained silent as he began to chew thoughtfully on a piece of sirloin.

She didn't like the look in his eye. Not one bit.

* * *

Later that morning, Max made his way into the schoolroom where she sat comparing two different translations of Homer. His expression was still cause for concern—Allegra had come to know him well enough to recognize when he was bursting with something to tell her, though at the moment he was taking great pains to appear nonchalant.

She regarded him warily as he flopped onto the comfortable settee by the window.

"Have you read any of E. M. Quicksilver's novels," he inquired casually.

"Why Max, I hadn't imagined that sort of horrid novel would have any interest for you. You know, they are supposed to appeal to frivolous ladies of the
ton
who have nothing better to do with their afternoons than immerse themselves in outlandish plots with rather silly heroines and brick-headed heroes who should have more sense than to fall in love with such brainless widgets."

He grinned. "I've read them all."

"So have I," she admitted. "He's is better than most, but not quite as evocative as Mrs. Radcliffe."

"I shall tell give him your opinion next time I see him—he's always interested in what the critics think."

"Hmmm," was her noncommittal reply as she kept her head bent over the texts.

"It's Lord Bingham," he announced after a dramatic pause. "Quicksilver, that is."

Her pen stopped its scratching.

"Nobody knows except my father—well, and me, of course," he continued, a note of triumph creeping into his voice at having finally garnered her complete attention. "He has a vivid imagination, does he not? And he knows all sorts of interesting people in Town. For research, he says."

"Does he?" Her voice remained noncommittal. Was it her imagination or was the lad playing her like a trout on a line? And where had he learned to be so sly in his machinations. A month ago he would have blurted out what was on his mind without....

She swallowed hard, trying not to feel guilty as she recalled that Lord Wrexham had been worried that Max was too staid. Well, that concern could be tossed out the window.

"That's very interesting, Max. It appears Lord Bingham is a man of many talents—"

"Oh, more than you know!" he crowed. "Why you would be astounded by his latest plot!"

She began to write again. "Then I shall look forward to reading his next volume."

The lad abandoned his show of nonchalance. "Aren't you even a bit interested in what I've learned?" he demanded.

Allegra opened her mouth, but before she could answer, Max continued on, unable to contain his enthusiasm.

"It's the most fantastic plan—"

"What is?" she interrupted.

"Why, the plan Lord Bingham has come up with to ensnare Sandhill and son."

She put her pen down. "Is that what is in Lord Bingham's letter?"

"Yes! That's what I've been trying to tell you."

"And you convinced your father to share it with you?"

The lad's eyes dropped to the floor.

"Max?"

"Not exactly," he mumbled. "But don't be angry with me! We have a right to know what is being discussed. Why, just because you are a female and I am a few years shy of a certain age doesn't mean we should be treated as if we were imbeciles."

On that she had no argument, which, she knew, was what Max was counting on. The lad was fast bridging the gap between child and adult—too fast in this case!

She heaved a sigh.

"I went to see father in the library and, well, the letter was lying on his desk," he explained. "I... I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my side and had to sit down for a moment. Father insisted on fetching my medicine from my bedchamber, and in his absence—"

"Max! That's enough!"

He took on an injured expression. "But you haven't heard the best part!" he protested.

"Nor will I," she said firmly. "That was an underhanded trick to play on your father, not one worthy of a gentleman."

Max had the grace to color.

"And furthermore, I promised your father that I would not engage in any more escapades with you. Lord knows, he's endured more than enough worry over your well-being in the last little while."

"This doesn't involve me," countered Max. "And you agreed not to act on your own here at the Hall. Lord Bingham's plan is contingent on being in London." His eye took on a gleam as he added one last point. "And remember, Father has already informed you that when we reach London, you will no longer be in his employ."

"Good lord, your reasoning would put Machiavelli to blush," she muttered. Nevertheless, he had a point. And she had to admit she was intrigued.

Max didn't fail to sense it and sought to press home his advantage. "At least listen to the plan, Mrs. Proctor. What harm is there in that?"

Her last defenses crumbled in the face of curiosity.

"Oh, very well."

* * *

Wrexham eyed the clock on the mantel. He had a meeting with his steward out by the south pastures but there was ample time for taking Ulysses out for a good gallop beforehand. Both of them had spent far too much time cooped up inside of late. He was about to rise when a knock came at the door.

"Come in," he called curtly, adding a curse under his breath. He had been looking forward to the wind in his face.

Allegra entered with Max in tow.

He took one look at their solemn faces and felt a stab of alarm. "What is wrong? Should I summon Dr. Graham—"

"No, my lord," said Allegra quickly. "There is nothing the matter with Max's health. However, there is something he would like to tell you."

The look of concern on the earl's face changed to one of wariness as he turned to regard his son. "Yes?"

Max fell into a rather prolonged fit of coughing.

"That won't fadge," scolded Allegra. "Neither your father nor I were born yesterday so you might as well get on with it."

The noise stopped and the lad shifted his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Ah, Father, I am to apologize for a most ungentlemanly trick. I contrived to have you to fetch my medicine so that I could sneak a look at Lord Bingham's letter."

The earl's dark brows rose.

"I know it was wrong," continued Max. "But... but you should have shared Lord Bingham's plan with us! Mrs. Proctor has a right to know all that is being discussed about her problem."

Wrexham ignored his son's last outburst and fixed his gaze on Allegra. "I take it Max wasted no time in conveying to you what he had read?"

She nodded.

He let out his breath in an exasperated sigh. "Well, thank the lord that someone besides me has a modicum of reason in this affair. It is gratifying to see you exhibiting the good sense I have come to expect from you, rather than succumbing to harebrained schemes that—"

"Actually I think it is a brilliant plan."

Wrexham stared at her, dumfounded.

"I do not approve of Max's violation of your trust, sir. And as I have told you, I do not intend on doing so myself while under your roof. But once I am in London, I fully intend to inform Lord Bingham that I wish to put his idea into action."

"The devil you will!" exploded the earl. "Are you mad? Why, Bingham's plan is no better than something out of one of his horrid novels—"

"They are very good, you know," interjected Allegra. "Though as I said to Max, perhaps not quite up to snuff with Mrs. Radcliffe's writing."

"This is no laughing matter, Mrs., Proctor. I don't think you have any notion of the risk involved. It's far too dangerous—I forbid you to entertain even the thought of it!"

Allegra's eyes took on a decided gleam. "Forbid me? And under what authority do you propose to do that?"

He was taken aback for a second.

"May I remind you, my lord, that seeing as I am not your—not a member of your family, you have no right to do any such thing." She smiled grimly as she followed up on her advantage. "Have you forgotten that once we reach London, I will not even be in your employment anymore?"

Wrexham's fist came down on his desk. "Then perhaps I shall leave you here in Yorkshire," he said through gritted teeth.

"Then I shall take the mail coach. I have the funds," she replied calmly.

"Oh, bloody hell," swore the earl under his breath. "Sit down, both of you," he demanded. "Let us attempt to discuss this in a rational manner."

"That is a useful idea, my lord, especially if you will stop shouting," murmured Allegra.

"I am not shouting," retorted the earl. And indeed, his tone did modulate to somewhere in the vicinity of a normal conversational level. He regarded the two figures now seated before him with a steely gaze and his long fingers began to drum on the tooled blotter. The tinge on Max's cheeks betrayed his discomfort under his father's quelling scrutiny, but Allegra met the earl's angry eyes without flinching.