About a Rogue EPB Page 4

  But Tate had curious blind spots as well. Sherwood confided that the man had had difficulties collecting payment from some of those aristocratic patrons, even as the patrons exhibited their custom dinnerware with pride.

  Max wasn’t surprised by that. He was surprised that Tate seemed to accept it, even as it cost him dearly. Max could see a dozen ways to improve the profitability of the business, and when he’d mentioned this—idly, almost absently—to Tate, the man seemed struck by the thought. It had led to an invitation to Perusia itself, which Max had accepted even though it lay in the wilds of Staffordshire.

  He could see exactly how large and prosperous Perusia was. The factory occupied four long brick buildings, arranged in the shape of an E a short distance from the canal. The tall bottle-shaped kilns stood in a cluster at one end, smoke welling industriously from the chimneys. The workmen were neat and purposeful, and always hurrying about their business. A steady stream of barges came and went at the factory landing.

  It was an opportunity, and Max was ever ready to seize an opportunity. He saw brilliant possibilities in a partnership: Tate managing the factory as he’d been doing, while Max assumed the chore of marketing and selling the wares, not just in London and Liverpool but across Europe and even into America.

  Alas, at that dinner Max had sensed that Tate was less enamored of a partnership than he was. Everyone in the Perusia business appeared to be family—a cousin traveling to the warehouse in Liverpool, a nephew managing the books, the engineering brother-in-law. It had seemed yet another opportunity just out of his reach, another chance he would helplessly watch slip away, until the Duchess of Carlyle dropped the key into Max’s hand. She may not have intended for him to use it this way, but Max was quietly sure of two things.

  First, that he would never be the Duke of Carlyle. Captain St. James had spent the entirety of their visit to Carlyle Castle ingratiating himself with the duchess. Over dinner he’d talked of taking a house near the castle, to better study the workings of the estate from Mr. Edwards, and of his hope to meet a respectable woman and settle down as soon as possible. The soldier virtually oozed earnest sincerity and dogged determination. It was almost amusing, really, how transparent his solicitude was. He all but kissed the duchess’s shoe, and practically begged her to choose a wife for him, all the better to please her.

  But it worked; the duchess seemed more satisfied than amused at his fawning, and promised to introduce the captain to women she deemed eligible and appropriate. Max thought the duchess would have him married before the harvest was in, and securely under her thumb as well.

  So the captain would be the next duke, but Max was still promised an income. He didn’t like the prospect of having to prove himself every year to get it, though, and he wanted no part of giving the duchess any sort of control over his behavior, even if he wasn’t quite the wastrel she clearly believed him to be.

  That had been the germ of his plan. Tate required a keener, more ruthless eye; Max possessed that, but required an opportunity to put it to use. And by a most fortunate coincidence, Tate also had a beautiful unmarried daughter, who’d kept an excellent table and blushed very prettily at Max’s compliments during his visit to Perusia.

  So secondly, Max meant to seize this chance to make his own marriage and secure his own fortune. With five hundred pounds—less the two hundred required to settle a few pressing debts and other expenses, get a horse, and refurbish his wardrobe a bit—and the promise of an income of fifteen hundred, plus a close kinship with the Carlyles, he was perfectly poised to sweep a lovely, sheltered country girl off her feet.

  Particularly if that country girl had no brothers and a prosperous father who was already disposed to like him.

  Max sensed this proposal would appeal to Tate. Not just a business partner but a son-in-law, who could care for the man’s family after he was gone. Not a fortune hunter, but a gentleman with an independent income, even if one dependent on a duchess’s whim. Not just a London gentleman but one with connections to a duke, elevating the man’s status now and his descendants later.

  And Miss Tate was a beauty, petite and delicate. She came to his shoulder, with inky dark curls and wide blue eyes. Her voice was soft and musical, and she had presided over dinner with grace and a sweet, innocent charm.

  Max couldn’t help smiling in anticipation as he dismounted in front of the handsome brick house. It was new, built less than a decade ago when Tate’s fortunes began to rise. Max had lived in too many old houses, with smoky chimneys and crumbling plaster and leaking roofs, to have any affection for them. He heartily approved of this snug new house, as well as the lovely, wealthy bride who would come with it.

  Samuel Tate came out to meet him, a broad smile on his square face. “St. James! Welcome to Perusia.”

  “It is my very great pleasure to be invited again.” He handed off the reins to the lad who came for his horse and swept off his tricorn hat as he bowed.

  “Come in, come in! I’d begun to fear the rains would wash out the road and delay you.”

  Max smiled. “Yes, the road was in bad shape. Perhaps I shall propose to Carlyle that he put up a bill to extend the turnpike to Marslip.”

  Tate’s eyes brightened. “An excellent idea, sir! The other potters and I have asked for such a thing before, but I’m sure His Grace’s approval would be an immense aid.”

  “No doubt,” agreed Max, still smiling. The current duke would probably ignore his request, but the soldier seemed a practical fellow, and Max suspected he was the sort to feel responsible for family. A skillful presentation and a little emotional pressure might bring him around.

  He didn’t mean to be a parasite on Tate. Quite the opposite; Max intended to make Perusia the most successful pottery works in all of England—perhaps Europe.

  Together they walked down the hill to the factory, talking of London. Tate was intrigued by all the news from town, particularly of the enduring passion for antiquities from Rome and Athens. Max answered equably, deducing that the man was thinking of new items for his factories. And this was, after all, his expertise. Max spent his life among the most fashionable set, even if he couldn’t afford that life himself.

  “Now, then,” said Tate, clasping his hands when they had reached his private office, overlooking the humming workshops below. “I suppose you’re anxious to hear my reply on the matter you wrote about to me.”

  Max inclined his head. “I am.”

  Samuel shifted in his seat. “You have the devil’s own timing, sir. That question had been on my mind lately.” He paused, his gaze assessing. “You’re not from Marslip, but you’ve got a clever head on your shoulders, and I admit I was struck by our conversations earlier about improving and spreading the reputation of our wares. But one thing concerns me greatly, and that is the depth of your interest.”

  “In the business,” asked Max, “or in your daughter?”

  “Both,” replied Samuel bluntly.

  “Of course.” Max crossed one leg over the other. “I would call it sincere and fathoms deep, on both counts. I am deeply impressed by what you’ve built, sir. After our conversation at Lord Sherwood’s, I considered proposing a mere business arrangement, whereby I would manage showrooms in London and other cities, and split the profits from it. A fair and equitable partnership.

  “But then I was invited to Perusia and met Miss Tate.” He leaned forward and rested one elbow on the table. “I sense that you are a man devoted to two things in life: this pottery works, and your family. It only made my admiration for you grow. We may not have been raised in similar circumstances, but I envy you both of those dear concerns.”

  Tate harrumphed. “You’re cousin to a duke.”

  Max opened his hands almost penitently. “We did not presume upon the St. Jameses of Carlyle Castle. My mother preferred I grow up not thinking too highly of myself, but to have humility and a sense of self-reliance. And it’s served me well,” he added in the same humble tone.

  It was not a l
ie. He merely omitted that there had been no alternative, nor any desire to debase himself by begging them after that callously sent five pounds.

  “But recently those relations have become more cordial,” he went on. “I spent several days at Carlyle Castle becoming acquainted with Her Grace the Duchess as well as my other St. James cousin. It may not be known widely, but His Grace’s brother recently fell ill and died, leaving the dukedom without a direct heir. My cousin is the heir presumptive, but until he marries and has a child of his own, I am his heir. It renewed my own sense of family, and made me appreciate your devotion all the more.”

  “Admirable,” said Tate in approval.

  “A man like you will want to see not just his fortune preserved, but also—and more importantly—his children cared for, with the fruits of that fortune.” He smiled a little. “I also confess Miss Tate’s beauty and gentle nature made a very striking impression upon me.”

  Tate’s head was bobbing faintly in agreement. “’Tis a great honor you do her, sir.”

  “The honor,” said Max gravely, “would be all mine, if you were to bless my suit.”

  “Well.” Looking quite pleased, Tate smacked his hands down on his knees. “I must say you’ve persuaded me. Your ideas about a showroom are rather grand, but with a gentleman such as yourself in charge of it, I think we might pull it off and really make something of ourselves.” He paused, something flickering over his face. “Of course, you’ll have to win my daughter’s approval as well.”

  Max smiled. “I wouldn’t wish it otherwise.”

  Tate laughed. “You’ll have plenty of chance tonight at dinner! She presides over my household in her late mother’s place, you know. Every arrangement is done at her command, from the flowers to the table setting. I can’t think you’ll find anything lacking, sir, in her skills or in her person.”

  “I have no doubt of it,” replied Max, who had already made his decision weeks ago.

  Bianca dressed for dinner that night as she might for battle.

  Papa had invited That Man to visit. He had arrived earlier and been installed in the front bedchamber before vanishing to the offices with Papa. She’d heard Jane marveling to Cook about how elegantly he dressed, how charming his manners were, and how incredibly handsome he was. They had already guessed downstairs that he was courting Miss Cathy—not merely because every unmarried man who came to the house wanted to court Miss Cathy, but also because Samuel was treating the fellow as if he were already one of the family.

  And in that case, thought Bianca grimly as she clasped on Mama’s necklace of pearls, he would be treated as one . . . for better and for worse.

  She went downstairs to the parlor. Aunt Frances was already there, looking just as irate as Bianca felt. To be fair, Aunt Frances always looked irate, but tonight Bianca was pleased to see it.

  “The chimney in my sitting room is blocked,” was her greeting. “Tell Samuel to send a man over to clear it.” Papa had built Frances a home of her own when he built Perusia, declaring that he couldn’t throw her out but neither could he share a roof with her. Her Ivy Cottage was down the hill, away from the factory.

  “Of course.” Bianca stooped to pet Trevor, the fat white bulldog who went everywhere with Frances. As usual, the animal growled low in his throat even as he submitted to her attention. Trevor acted very fierce but was virtually a lapdog, if treated the right way. Bianca scratched between his ears until his bandy little legs quivered and gave way, and Trevor collapsed onto his back and presented his belly for more scratching.

  “Trevor,” said Frances sternly. “Get up! No cheese for you.”

  Bianca quietly slipped the dog the small piece of cheese she’d concealed in her handkerchief for him. Trevor lapped it silently from her fingers as if in conspiracy to evade Frances’s temper. Having got what he wanted, the dog flipped over onto his feet and waddled off to examine the corner of the settee.

  “Has Papa told you about our guest?” Bianca rose to her feet and fluffed her skirts. Papa had decreed they must look their best tonight and she had obeyed. She wore her newest gown, deep burgundy with lace flounces and velvet trim on the stomacher, and had even let her maid tame her hair into smooth curls.

  Frances sniffed. “A gentleman, he says! Bosh. A good-for-nothing ne’er-do-well, with his eye on Samuel’s fortune.”

  “Oh no, Aunt,” said Bianca somberly, even though she agreed with every word. “Papa likes him very much.”

  Frances clucked. “More fool him.”

  Cathy came in then. She looked glorious, radiant in a rose-pink brocade gown with silk ribbons, silver combs glinting in her dark hair. But her eyes were red and her mouth was a sad droop. “Good evening, Aunt,” she murmured.

  Frances was not really their aunt; she was Samuel’s, the younger sister of his father. In her youth Frances had been considered a handsome girl, but her father’s ambition prevented her from marrying the prosperous farmer she’d fallen in love with. He insisted she wed the man who kept their business accounts, to shore up the fellow’s loyalty to the business. Frances dutifully married the bookkeeper and retaliated by making everyone around her miserable for the next forty years.

  Now she looked Cathy up and down. “Are we attending a dinner party or a funeral?”

  Cathy gave her a look of reproach. “A dinner party for Papa’s guest. You helped me choose the menu.”

  Frances glared and took a sip of her port. She always drank port before dinner, claiming it settled her stomach. Bianca thought it did more to loosen her tongue. “The London rogue.”

  A strangled squeak escaped Cathy. She bent her head and fussed with one of the bows on her gown.

  “Why do you say so, Aunt?” Bianca was deliberately prodding a hungry bear. Frances hadn’t had anyone to exercise her temper on in weeks. Samuel had been in Liverpool for almost a month and only returned recently, and Cousin Ned, the factory office manager, had learned to avoid her. In Samuel’s absence there had been no guests. Frances considered it beneath her to browbeat servants, and despite her crotchety manner, she cared for both Bianca and Cathy. Mr. St. James was fresh meat, as it were; prime prey.

  Now their great-aunt raised her brows. “What other sort is there? London is the font of all vice, my father used to say.” She sipped her port. “I recognized his sort when he was here last. Very sure of himself. Not as clever as he thinks he is. Too handsome by half. I wonder he left London at all, to consort with the ordinary people of Staffordshire.”

  “Not ordinary at all,” said a voice from the doorway. They all three turned to see Mr. St. James, blinding in green satin with glittering gold embroidering. He wore his hair neatly queued tonight, and made a very elegant bow. “There are quite extraordinary people here in Staffordshire, judging by the inhabitants of this room alone,” he added gallantly.

  Aunt Frances’s shoulders went back and her chin came up—all the better to peer down her nose at him. “What effrontery to say such a thing. We’re hardly acquainted well enough for you to know.”

  He smiled. “I could honestly say it based solely on appearances. Mr. Tate did not warn me there would be three lovely ladies at dinner tonight.”

  Frances stared at him a moment, gave another sniff for good measure, and turned her back on him. “Have us a touch more, dear.” She held out her glass, and Bianca obediently poured more port. “So why have you come all this way, if you were not eagerly anticipating our company?”

  Mr. St. James smiled. He had a deep dimple in one cheek, a very masculine slash that hardly deserved the delicate term dimple. “A man always hopes, madam.”

  “More fool you,” muttered Frances. Bianca smiled happily.

  “Welcome to Perusia, Mr. St. James.” Pale but poised, Cathy went to greet him. “Won’t you come in? I hope you remember my father’s aunt, Mrs. Bentley, and my sister, Miss Bianca Tate. We are very informal here, with only family tonight.”

  “Thank you, Miss Tate.” He bowed beautifully over Cathy’s hand. Bianca grud
gingly admitted his manners were perfect. “If you are informal tonight, I vow I would swoon away at the mere sight of your formality. You would outshine any lady in London or Paris.”

  “Trevor darling, don’t piddle on our guest’s shoe,” drawled Frances, turning Bianca’s private disgust into glee once more. Mr. St. James looked down with a startled expression at the grumpy bulldog inspecting his shoe, and sidled a step away.

  But then he went down on one knee and let Trevor sniff his hand, and—to the astonishment of everyone else in the room—the bulldog sank down and pushed his head up into Mr. St. James’s hand.

  “That’s a good boy,” said the man in a deep, rough voice, stroking hard down the dog’s head and back. Trevor’s tongue lolled out of his mouth until he lay down flat and gave a guttural moan of happiness.

  Turncoat, thought Bianca in pique. After she’d smuggled him cheese, no less.

  Papa came in then, looking quite pleased with himself. “My apologies, St. James. Cathy my dear, have you welcomed our guest?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “That’s my girl,” he said in approval, before complimenting her dress and hair. Cathy blushed scarlet at this unexpected flattery, Cathy who was so beautiful she looked lovely in a coarse linen smock and who never expected to be told so.

  Bianca rolled her eyes at this blatant fawning. Her father loved them both, but he wasn’t the type to lavish praise on anyone—least of all on his daughters. In the workshop, she and her father were notorious for arguing furiously over new designs and technique, and Papa treated Cathy’s attentions as he’d treated Mama’s: his due, and nothing out of the ordinary.

  To her chagrin, she happened to glance Mr. St. James’s way. Papa was exclaiming over Cathy’s hair combs, which had been their mother’s, and the cursed man who wanted to marry her was watching Bianca instead.

  For a brief moment their eyes met—his dark and assessing, hers probably shocked and hostile. That was how she felt, at any rate, and Bianca made a point of tearing her gaze off him and pretending great interest in the clasp of her bracelet. Such an impertinent rogue.