A Suitable Replacement (3 page)

"I'm going to depart again if you don't leave off hitting me," Max replied, catching up her hand and squeezing it gently. She smiled and squeezed back, reached up to kiss his cheek. Max kissed hers in return. "So what have you been doing lately, hellion?" She offered her arm and he took it, walking with her down the hall to the sitting room they had always favored. "That shrieking bundle you were holding when I departed must be a larger shrieking bundle by now."

She gave a soft snort, flicking dark curls from her eyes with a slight jerk of her head. "He hardly shrieks anymore, I promise."

"I am far too acquainted with father and mother to believe that," Max retorted. "I am glad the child is doing well."

"Children," she corrected. "I had a daughter last year; that one still shrieks plenty. I firmly maintain they get it from their father. They are nearly as fair as him, too, but their hair and bone structure is entirely me." She settled in a dark blue armchair and requested tea from the footman that stood waiting patiently by the door. "You'll have to come and visit; we would love to have you."

"You just want me to tell you why my sister is missing."

She grinned. "The whole town is buzzing, darling. Lady Mavin scandalized everyone by proposing to Moore, of all people, and now she has vanished. Rumors were just beginning to spread that he had killed her, and now here you arrived much sooner than she had said you would return."

"What do you mean 'Moore of all people'?" Max asked. "What is wrong with him?"

Her smiled faded. "He's destitute, to begin with. The man has scarcely a penny to his name."

"My sister is not an idiot; she would not propose to a man she thought was only after her money." Honestly, Mavin probably wouldn't care; she would at least respect the honesty of the motive, and the estate had plenty of money, thanks to their grandmother's almost demonic talents with finance. Moore had not struck him as a fortune hunter, though. He had been genuinely worried about Mavin, and truly hurt the wedding had been canceled without even a chance to discuss the matter.

"He's the son of
Reginald
Moore," Bella hissed.

Ah, now he was beginning to see what all the fervor was about. "Reginald Moore is dead, and I seem to recall most of his family died with him. Moore was a child at the time, surely, as young as he must be." He was a few years younger than Max, if looks were a reliable gauge—which, not always, but he thought they were in Moore's case. "My sister never spoke a word of it, only that he was charming and intelligent and capable and she thought they would get on well. I trust my sister implicitly. If she stood by him then I stand by him as well."

"Just have a care, Max. You are not as brash as your sister—"

"I will be fine. My sister is a far better judge of character than me."

She cast him a thoughtful look. "You have not expressed any concern as to Lady Mavin, therefore you must know where she is. Tell me!"

"I am not at liberty to say, and to be honest, I have no idea." He was relieved when the servant returned with the tea cart. "Tell me all that I have missed since I've been gone, and what social affairs are worth attending to settle back into the rhythm of it all."

Her eyes gleamed as she chose her subjects, and Max spent the next three hours relearning a world he'd not seen for three years, from Bella and several other acquaintances in the club. He even managed the dubious victory of securing three invitations for fetes that evening, and promises that many more would be sent to him throughout the week.

When he finally left the club, he was sorely tempted to return home and hide in his bed the rest of the day. Unfortunately, there was work to do yet and putting it off would only make him more miserable. "Bookshop, Willow, if you please."

"Yes, my lord," Willow replied, and the carriage was moving nearly before Max was settled. He steadied his balance, sighing softly, then adjusted his glasses and opened his portfolio again. He made further notes—cautious notes, as Bella had relayed more gossip and supposition than useful facts.
Money a concern/preference? Someone who will not be troubled by family history.

Max frowned over the last comment, tucking the pencil away and closing the portfolio.

Kelcey Moore—the boy left behind in school when the rest of his family had tried to assassinate the royal family. After failing spectacularly they had attempted to flee, and were either captured or killed at sea. Those captured were later tried for treason and executed. Moore would have only been a child, but was blamed for the poor decisions of his parents and relatives anyway. As though anyone could talk. Every family had a bit of serious scandal in its past—look at his own, two duchesses and five other ancestors burned as witches just three generations back. If he had been born just a generation or two sooner, he would never have been permitted to pursue his course of study. As it was, he was only permitted to pursue it because most everyone believed him crazy and the government had done its best to destroy or discredit the more alarming—magical—aspects of the Goblin Wars.

Still, attempted assassination of royalty was not the sort of scandal easily brushed aside. Moore was likely tolerated only because he had been not even ten years of age when his family attempted to kill the crown prince.

No wonder his sister had first approached and befriended him. Max smiled briefly, thinking of Mavin, especially their school days when she had reigned over campus with her friends; everyone had called them the Wildlings. Given her penchant for chaos, he was surprised only that it had taken her as long as it had to run off with a foreign noble.

He wondered how much longer he had until royal messengers came thundering into his home to drag him from bed and to the queen's parlor. Hopefully the problem would come later rather than sooner, and in the meantime he had more than enough to keep himself occupied.

The carriage came to a halt, and Willow rapped on the roof shortly before the door swung open. Climbing out, Max looked up at the bookshop he had not seen for more than three years. It did not appear to have changed by so much as a chip of paint; the lettering on the shop window was still faded, the building's stones still looked as though they would crumble at any moment, and the awning over the door was so worn he could not tell what color it had once been. The color had been long gone even in his childhood.

"Take a break, Willow. Be back in a couple of hours. If I leave sooner than that, you can catch up to me at the Hocus Club."

"Yes, my lord. Thank you."

Max stepped inside, enjoying the familiar scents of leather, paper, wood, and polish. A few people milled about, but mostly the shop was deserted.

"Bless my heart!" said a man at the counter, holding a hand to his chest. "Lord Max, as I live and breathe."

Max smiled and nodded. "Hello, Robert. Good to see you again after so long. I see nothing has changed."

"As though I'd ever let anyone change this old place," Robert said, coming from behind the counter to give him a quick embrace. "How are you, Lord Max? When did you return?"

"Yesterday, and I have been running to keep up ever since. How have you been?"

Robert shrugged. "Same as ever. Hired an apprentice, but she's off today. Go ahead and have a look about. I've got some books in the back I've been setting aside just for you." He patted Max's arms, then turned and bustled off.

Smiling, Max wandered through the shop, nodding politely to the few others around but not inviting conversation. He browsed the books, but the ones that most interested him were kept upstairs, and so he headed that way—

And collided neatly with someone coming down them. "Beg pardon, I did not hear or see you." He looked up, then gave a soft huff and shake of his head. "I should have known."

Moore scowled. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you move quieter than a ghost," Max said, smoothing a hand over his clothes, twitching his cuffs back into place. "Would it trouble you to make noise when you walk like everyone else?"

"One learns to be quiet when a single noise might get one killed," Moore snapped—then startled Max by grabbing him up, turning, and depositing him neatly on the second floor landing. "Good day to you, my lord."

Max shot out a hand and grabbed his shoulder. "No, please. I would like to speak with you. I apologize for my words; no insult was intended."

Moore shrugged the hand off but didn't walk away, though he did not leave the stairs to join Max on the second floor either. He stared at Max, his brow furrowed, mouth pinched and turned down. "Why would you need to speak with me? Our business is concluded, my lord. You've no further need to trouble yourself with me."

"My sister has visited a grievous wrong upon you, and I aim to correct matters as best I can. I will uphold the contract and the runaway clause." Something passed over Moore's face, there and gone too quickly for Max to put a name to it, but it stirred a strange urge to ensure it never appeared again. He firmly shook off the strange thought. "If you've some time to spare, I would like to speak with you."

"I don't," Moore said. "I told you I don't give a bloody damn about that stupid clause. I don't know why it was put there, or how I missed it. I told her it was unnecessary—and hardly fair, for I have no relatives who could have done the same should something have happened to me. Good day to you, my lord." He turned away again and headed down the stairs.

Max resisted the urge to stamp his foot. "Stop being such a bloody arse! Do not make me draw my pistol again, because I told you what would happen if I did so."

Moore whipped around and stormed back up the stairs—Max could hear his footsteps, and he realized abruptly just how bad a thing that was—and shoved into Max's space, forcing him back several paces. "I told you I did not want your damned help."

"You said you'd 'had enough of this rot,' which is not the same—"

"It's close enough," Moore interrupted. "I am perfectly capable of finding my own spouse—"

"It's in the contract!" He would be damned if he followed in Mavin's footsteps and left the man completely abandoned. A promise was a promise and he would not break his, even if they had been made without his consent.

"I don't care!"

Max slammed his portfolio down atop a stack of books. "My sister has treated you reprehensibly, she broke contract, and I aim to correct the situation—"

"You cannot simply switch one person for another, you damned idiot," Moore cut in, running his hands over his head, looking as though he very much wanted to wrap them around Max's throat. "I do not need the assistance of a stranger in finding someone to marry. That you do not see the problem with the situation only reinforces my position."

Jabbing him in the chest, Max replied, "Perhaps a stranger is precisely what you need, sir. I have not been here for the past three years. I hold none of the prejudices of my peers. By chance alone I have recently come to know of your family history." Moore's face clouded, but Max did not give him a chance to say anything. "If you would stop throwing a fit and storming off and
speak
with me, I think you might be surprised to learn how much I can, in fact, assist you."

"You are remarkably—distastefully—confident about a matter that is extraordinarily complicated."

Max retrieved his portfolio and adjusted his spectacles. "I find most challenges in life can be overcome with a scientific approach."

"Scientific approach. Marriage. You must work with a great many chemicals, my lord, and do not take proper precaution to avoid inhaling them."

Max narrowed his eyes. "There's no call for rudeness, sir."

"Then stop trying to scientifically marry me off."

"Given how abysmally traditional methods failed, I do not see why you begrudge trying something different." His own words struck him a moment too late, as he watched Moore's face close up. "I didn't mean—"

"I do not give a buggering fuck what you meant," Moore snapped. "I would prefer that you follow your sister's example and vanish from my life, my lord. Good day to you."

Max watched him go, muttering a soft 'damn' and rubbing a knuckle back and forth across his forehead. He was a bloody idiot, and he needed to right his wrong. Sprinting down the stairs, he looked around, swearing again when he realized Moore had already fled.

"My lord, I have the books—"

"Send them to my home, use my carriage, my staff will pay for the lot," Max said. "Beg pardon." He bolted out the door and just caught sight of Moore vanishing around the corner at the end of the street. Sprinting after him, narrowly dodging around the other persons in the street, he swung around the corner, expecting to see Moore a short distance ahead.

He proved sorely mistaken. Not only did the bastard walk silently, he walked
quickly
. Huffing, he resumed running, wishing he had worn boots instead of his damnable shoes.

He had nearly gotten within reasonable shouting distance, wrapping around another corner onto a narrow, mostly deserted street, when the heel of his right shoe caught on something and he went slamming to the pavement.

Pain jolted through him from his head where it smacked a jutting cobblestone, his palms scraped raw from trying to catch himself, and he could already feel blood seeping from his knees. Damn, damn, damn. Where had his spectacles gone? He carefully felt around the cobblestones, grimacing at the cold mud and bits of stone and he did not want to know what else, but had no luck funding his missing spectacles.

"Need some help, my lord?" a cool, mean voice asked.

Muddy boots came into view and crunched right down on his spectacles. Max looked up into the grimy, leering face of a young man who offered a hand up, but had a small knife in his other. "Bugger off," Max said.

"Uncalled for," the man said, holding a hand to his chest. "Be glad to help, my lord, if you'll hand over your purse and jewelry first."

Max said nothing, merely moved for his pistol—and froze anew as something sharp pressed against the back of his neck.

He forced himself to remain still as the man in front of him reached into his jacket and grabbed his pistol, tucking it into his own breeches before returning for his coin purse and pocket watch. "Now remove the jewelry, nice and slow."