“I saw you arrive. I have a brandy ready for you. I have asked Cook to serve nuncheon in here. We have a bit to discuss.”
“I appreciate that. I am indeed hungry.” Max accepted the brandy and sat down in the armchair in front of the stone fireplace. He could always count on Harlow’s hospitality. As a child, he loved coming to Harlow’s. His family treated him as another son, and Harlow treated him as a brother. This was like a second home to Max, and he felt comfortable laying out his vulnerabilities.
“You received my missive.” It was a statement and not a question. “It has been difficult to have her in my home and not be able to touch her. Her presence was the last thing I thought to entertain when I returned from France.”
“Yes. Tell me, how is Lady Tipton doing?” Harlow slowly moved his glass about his lips, a habit he was apt to do when he was discussing difficult topics.
“She has mostly slept, but she seems better. The dog only leaves her side to eat or conduct his own business. I cannot believe she still has that little ragamuffin.” Max chuckled, unable to suppress his amusement. For his size, Shep was fiercely protective.
“I know that this convalescence was the last thing you expected, but there is much more to her story. There are some things of which I need to apprise you. Dean, my man of business, has been very busy. He is a tremendous source of information.”
“Yes, he is always well-versed in the latest on-dit. What has he learned?” Max took a slow breath. He could feel his anxiety rising despite the warmth of the brandy. “I thought I had gotten past all of…this.” He waved his left arm about in frustration. “But it is as if it all happened yesterday.”
“Lord Tipton had a mistress but spent a lot of time in gaming houses of late.” Harlow hesitated and seemed to choose his words. “His proclivities leaned in a rather harsh…cruel direction. More than one house in the East End banned him after he left girls beaten and maimed.”
“I had heard he was cruel, but he seemed to keep things quiet. His first wife died without issue. And it was a death that was not spoken about except in hushed voices. His marriage to Maggie came out of the blue.”
“Yes. Her uncle arranged it to cover a gambling debt. It seems Viscount Winters also has a reputation for the gambling houses. At the moment, he seems to have a rather large debt. There are many outstanding vowels.” He hesitated for a moment. “Max, there is more.”
Max took a large drag of his drink and closed his eyes. He knew there was a lot to the story. Now he knew Maggie was hiding from her husband. “You used the past tense when speaking of Tipton.”
“Yes,” Harlow said. “Her husband is dead. They found him on the ground below his balcony window with this throat cut.”
Max felt every nerve in his body. “Surely they do not suspect Meg of this? She is not capable.”
“His throat was slit, and there were signs of a struggle. I do not believe they suspect her yet.”
“Whom do they suspect? And why did you say yet?”
Harlow moved to the fireplace. Leaning his head against it, he threw the last dregs of his drink on the fire and watched it flame up. “They do not appear to have anyone in mind, but I believe her uncle is searching for her—or has someone looking for her. A Nash Slade. Bad fellow. Thief, mostly, but they know him in the underworld as a go-to.”
“She saw him. He was rifling through her father’s office.”
“Maybe you should start with all you know.” Harlow poured them each another drink.
Max stood. Suddenly restless, he walked to the window and stared off into the distance. Harlow’s study was paneled with rich wood tones, and the armchairs in front of the massive stone fireplace were covered in a soft brown leather. A family portrait from a picnic years past hung over the fireplace. The whole family seemed to watch over the room. While most might find that odd, Max had always found it comfortable. He looked at the portrait, recalling the day. He had been there when the painter showed up, and Harlow’s family had insisted on his inclusion. Despite his mood, a smile worked its way onto his countenance when he spotted the younger version of himself sitting on the edge of the checkered cloth, enjoying the cheeses and meats that Cook had packed. “Those were good times with your family, Harlow.”
“Yes.” Harlow rose and studied the portrait for a moment. “But we must talk. From what I have gleaned, Maggie could be in a great deal of danger. Your footmen—they are keeping the property under watch?”
“What are you not telling me?”
Harlow met his gaze. “If my guess is correct, her uncle is trying to pin her husband’s death on Maggie to steal Maggie’s inheritance she received from her mother.”
“Wait. Slow down. How can he pin the death on Meg?”
“He is spreading word that his niece has been seen passing money to unsavory characters. But I have hired runners, and they are tracking the real killer. Maggie may have had freedom from the man to gain, but Viscount Winters was into the man for a lot of money. What he does not know is that Tipton sold the vowels shortly before his death to pay his own debts. Dean secured the name of the individual who bought them, and the vowels for me—a true stroke of genius, I would say.”
“Yes. Remind me to reward your man of business.” Max would love to call them due now and watch Winters squirm. “Would you sell them to me?”
“Are you sure that is wise? I think it would be better if I hold on to them for a bit until we find some holes in this mystery and how we can best use them to our advantage.”
“Deal. You
