His Lady Mistress Read Online Free PDF Page A

of nightmares. Trapped. By a conniving little baggage!
    ‘The brandy!’ urged Marlbury.
    ‘Oh.’ Max became aware of Thornfield, to his left, attempting to pass him the brandy decanter. ‘Sorry, Thornfield.’ He poured himself a glass and took a cautious sip. He barely suppressed another shudder. Just as atrocious as the previous night. Lord. The things a man would do in response to a guilty conscience: attending ghastly house parties and drinking appalling brandy to name a couple.
    ‘I say, Blakehurst,’ said Thornfield in a low voice, ‘Miss Celia seems quite taken with you!’ He leered at Max. ‘Dare say you’ve only got to drop your handkerchief.’
    Max gulped brandy. One thing he could guarantee: Miss Celia might be taken with him, but she would not be taken by him. His handkerchief would stay in his pocket. And he would stay out of the maze.
    ‘Of course, if that don’t appeal,’ went on Thornfield, showing remarkable percipience for a man in his inebriated condition, ‘you could always amuse yourself with Fanny Moncrieff or Kate Highbury. They won’t expect marriage.’ He attempted a lascivious wink.
    Max returned a non-committal reply and reminded himself that he did, after all, bear a certain reputation. But had he realised that Lady Moncrieff and Mrs Highbury were to be present, casting their jaded, world-weary lures in his direction, then he would definitely have reconsidered his strategy in attending.
    Oh, the devil! Too late for second thoughts now. He was here and he should have come years ago. Indeed, even being in the house had not yielded results. He had found out nothing, so he would have to ask his host point-blank. And how he was supposed to ask tactfully escaped him.
     
    In the end, he eschewed tact, cornering his host as they left the dining room. ‘Faringdon, perhaps I might have a private word with you?’
    Lord Faringdon blinked. And then smiled. An oily, triumphant sort of smile that put every nerve on full battle alert. ‘Why, of course, Blakehurst. My library is private. This way!’ He signalled to his son. ‘Godfrey, tell my lady that I am engaged on some urgent business with Blakehurst.’
    Max eyed him with extreme disfavour. Good God! The man was fairly rubbing his hands in glee! What the devil did he—? The truth crashed over him. Faringdon thought he was about to make an offer. For Celia. Mentally cursing his own idiocy, Max followed his host to the library.
    ‘More brandy, Blakehurst?’
    Max abandoned good manners. ‘No. Thank you.’
    Faringdon favoured him with a conspiratorial grin and poured a glass anyway, thrusting it at him. ‘No, no, Blakehurst. This ain’t the same stuff we had in the dining room! Wouldn’t waste this on that lot!’
    ‘I’ve had enough,’ Max informed him coldly.
    Faringdon stared. ‘Had enough? Oh, ah…yes, well.’ He took a sip himself. ‘To business, then. I take it, you like what you see. She’s had only the best, so…’
    Max headed him off at once. ‘Lord Faringdon, I wonder if you could give me any news of Miss Scott?’
    ‘Miss Scott?’ The brandy in Lord Faringdon’s glass slopped over.
    Max frowned at the reaction. Faringdon’s eyes flickered under his hard gaze. Fear.
    He pressed on, relentless. ‘Yes. I believe her to be a niece of Lady Faringdon and under your care. Her late father was my C.O. and I thought to enquire after her.’ He pretended to examine a painting.

    ‘Oh.’ Disdain came through clearly. ‘I’m afraid she is no longer with us.’
    Anger surged through Max and he swung back to stare at Faringdon. Just as he’d feared. Verity Scott had been bundled off God knew where. Somewhere her tragic story could not embarrass the socially ambitious Faringdons. He could see it now—packed off to be a companion to a cantankersome old hag, or immured in some foul girls’ school as a drudge. Well, he wouldn’t permit it!
    He saw with satisfaction that Faringdon had paled and forcibly relaxed his