His manner, obsequious to Max’s disdainful eyes, was nonetheless thawing the duchess’s frosty demeanor. She nodded at him. “I expect it of you, Captain.” The glance she gave Max was cold again. “And of you, Mr. St. James.”
He dipped his head in acknowledgement.
“I understand this may be a difficult request,” she went on. “I am prepared to help. Mr. Edwards will disburse to each of you five hundred pounds, immediately. I trust you will use it wisely, and return to Carlyle Castle in six months’ time more sober, refined gentlemen. If I am satisfied with your progress, I shall grant a further sum of one thousand five hundred pounds per year, to continue as long as you remain respectable.”
Good Lord. Five hundred pounds now, fifteen hundred a year. For a moment he couldn’t believe his ears.
But he had also heard the if in her statement, and realized this was not as heaven-sent as it appeared. “And if you are not satisfied?” he asked politely.
She sighed at Max’s question. “If you do not, you shan’t have a farthing more from me. Are you really so stupid to throw away such a chance, Mr. St. James?”
No, he certainly was not. Max tilted his head in deference. “I merely wished to know.”
“I shall monitor your progress during the next six months.” She shot him a look of warning. “I am not the enemy. This offer is intended to help you. Do not delude yourself that Carlyle runs itself, or that a steward can be hired to do it all. You are both young men, neither raised with this expectation. It will be difficult for you to adjust, but you must rise to the occasion. I urge you to accept this proposal and take it seriously.”
The captain cleared his throat. “Yes, of course, Your Grace. It is extremely generous of you.”
“It is not generosity,” she retorted. “I have no wish to see Carlyle run into the ground. I wish to see it descend to someone who will appreciate its majesty, care for its dependents, and preserve it for future generations. To that purpose, you have six months to establish yourselves as someone capable of becoming that man. And you needn’t fear that the funds would cease if I should die,” she added, her dark eyes on Max again. “I will leave instructions in my will to continue the annuity so long as my conditions are met.”
Max no longer felt like taunting her. By God, he’d never imagined a chance like this. She meant it. When a man’s luck turned like this, only a fool would ignore it.
“What shall those conditions be, Your Grace?” he inquired.
“Respectability,” she said crisply. “No outrageous behavior. Sobriety. The Dukes of Carlyle have long held positions of power in Westminster, and you would do well to take an interest in politics so that you are prepared to acquit yourselves well when you sit in the House of Lords. If you do not, someone else will be happy to take advantage of you, sooner or later.” She paused. “And I have always felt a wife settles a man. The next duke will need a legitimate heir. A suitable bride is necessary, and I advise you to turn your attention to finding one.”
“We must marry?” asked the captain, a faint frown touching his face.
“The Duke of Carlyle will need an heir,” she repeated. “If you do not provide one, Captain, Mr. St. James would become the heir presumptive.”
Max and the soldier exchanged a fleeting glance. Not bloody likely, thought Max of his chances of becoming heir to the dukedom under that man. The captain was the sort who did what was expected of him. No doubt he was thinking of a woman right now who would leap at the chance to become his future duchess.
Not that Max could blame him. Everyone in this room knew he would be a terrible duke.
“Mr. Edwards will answer any further questions,” said the duchess as the clock chimed softly. She got to her feet, and a large ginger cat strolled from beneath her chair with a yawn and a stretch.
“If I may, Your Grace . . .” The soldier leapt forward to help her, bending solicitously near as he offered his arm. Max caught a few quiet words as they walked toward the door, and gathered the captain was concerned particularly about the question of a wife. Max could have sworn the fellow was asking the duchess to choose a woman for him.
Thank God he wouldn’t have that problem. He turned to the solicitor, who sat with smooth hands folded neatly on his papers. “An annuity for good behavior.”
Edwards’s spectacles gleamed. “Her Grace wishes it.”
“And are you the man who shall judge that her conditions are met?”
“I am.”
“Marriage,” said Max thoughtfully. “Sobriety. Those are well-defined; a man is married, or he is not. He drinks, or he does not. Respectability . . .” He made an equivocating motion with one hand. “That is less objective.”
“I grasp your concern.” Mr. Edwards removed his spectacles. “My advice would be to consider whether or not you would be content to acknowledge your actions in the town square. If you would proclaim them proudly, I believe you’ll have little to fear from Her Grace.”
Max thought not. He thought that the duchess would be appalled by a solid half of the things he had done in town squares, to say nothing of what he’d done in gaming hells and theater boxes and pleasure gardens. But then, Her Grace had no conception of what his life had been.
“I see,” he replied politely to the attorney.
The captain was still speaking with the duchess, his shoulders hunched over as he bent his head down to hers. Max rested one hand on his hip and tapped his fingers. The velvet of his coat was worn there from the nervous habit. What was the captain so eager to know?
He couldn’t shake the feeling that the man was trying to steal a march on him somehow. But how? The captain, as the duchess had spelled out earlier, had a nearer claim than Max, and nothing either of them did would change that. The captain had the inside lane already.
But if the duchess approved of the captain’s bride, she might settle an additional amount on him. Was that what the man was after? Fifteen hundred pounds per annum was significant—a bloody fortune, in Max’s eyes—but it was surely a trifle to the mistress of Carlyle Castle. “Does she expect to choose our brides?” he murmured, only partly to the solicitor.
Mr. Edwards’s face grew pained. “Indeed not. Surely—surely you wouldn’t think of wedding an actress or a courtesan?”
“No,” said Max, smiling faintly at the confirmation that the attorney did, in fact, expect him to do precisely that. “Nothing like it.” His gaze lingered on the captain. That fellow wanted the duchess’s approval desperately, and he wasn’t hiding it.
Max instinctively recoiled from doing the same. The duchess thought he was a thoroughgoing rogue already, incapable of making a correct decision. If the captain—who obviously stood far higher in her favor—allowed her to ride roughshod over him, she would think Max deserved it, too, if not worse.
Max wasn’t about to let the duchess, or anyone, pull his strings.
But perhaps . . . perhaps she had handed him the chance to cut those strings once and for all.
Chapter Two
For almost sixty years, a pottery works at the bottom of Marslip Hill had produced earthenware by the Tate family. It was in all respects a family business; each new generation of children was exposed to all aspects of the industry, to see where they might fit in best. Brides were wed from neighboring families, knowing what to expect and proud to ally themselves with the Tates.