He had never got around to replacing Carmelita. There hardly seemed much point now. He doubted
he would have much use for such women in future. He grinned to himself, then winced. Just at that moment, he regretted not having a replacement available. He would try bis clubs-perhaps a little
hazard might distract him.
The carriage had almost reached Delmere House when, on the spur of the moment, he redirected his coachman to a discreet house on Bolsover Street. Sending the carriage back to Penbright House, he entered the newest gaming hell in London. Naturally, the door was opened to His Grace of Twyford
with an alacrity that brought a sardonic grin to His Grace's face. But the play was entertaining enough
and the beverages varied and of a quality he could not fault.
The hell claimed to be at the forefront of fashion and consequently there were a number of women present, playing the green baize tables or, in some instances, merely accompanying their lovers. To his amusement, Max found a number of pairs of feminine eyes turned his way, but was too wise to evince
an interest he did not, in truth, feel. Among the patrons he found more than a few refugees from the Penbright ball, among them Darcy Hamilton.
Darcy was leaning against the wall, watching the play at the hazard table. He glowered as Max approached. "I noticed both you and your eldest ward were absent from the festivities for an
inordinately long time this evening. Examining etchings upstairs, I suppose?"
Max grinned. ''We were upstairs, as it happens. But it wasn't etchings I was examining."
Darcy nearly choked on his laughter. "Damn you, Max," he said when he could speak. "So you've
won through, have you?''
A shrug answered him. "Virtually. But I decided the ball was not the right venue." The comment
stunned Darcy but before he could phrase his next question Max continued. "Her sisters seem to be hatching some plot, though I'm dashed if I can see what it is. But when I left all seemed peaceful enough." Max's blue eyes went to his friend's face. "What are you doing here?"
"Trying to avoid thinking," said Darcy succinctly.
Max grinned. "Oh. In that case, come and play a hand of piquet."
The two were old adversaries who only occasionally found the time to play against each other.
Their skills were well-matched and before long their game had resolved into an exciting tussle which
drew an increasing crowd of spectators. The owners of the hell, finding their patrons leaving the tables
to view the contest, from their point an unprofitable exercise, held an urgent conference. They concluded that the cachet associated with having hosted a contest between two such well-known players was worth the expense. Consequently, the two combatants found their glasses continually refilled with the finest brandy and new decks of cards made readily available.
Both Max and Darcy enjoyed the battle, and as both were able to stand the nonsense, whatever the outcome, they were perfectly willing to continue the play for however long their interest lasted. In truth, both found the exercise a welcome outlet for their frustrations of the past weeks.
The brandy they both consumed made absolutely no impression on their play or their demeanour.
Egged on by a throng of spectators, all considerably more drunk than the principals, the game was still underway at the small table in the first parlour when Lord McCubbin, an ageing but rich Scottish peer, entered with Emma Mortland on his arm.
Drawn to investigate the cause of the excitement, Emma's bright eyes fell on the elegant figure of the Duke of Twyford. An unpleasant smile crossed her sharp features. She hung on Lord McCubbin's
arm, pressing close to whisper to him.
"Eh? What? Oh, yes," said his lordship, somewhat incoherently. He turned to address the occupants
of the table in the middle of the crowd. "Twyford! There you are! Think you've lost rather more than money tonight, what?"
Max, his hand poised to select his discard, let his eyes rise to Lord McCubbin's face. He frowned, an unwelcome premonition filling him as his lordship's words sank in. "What, exactly, do you mean by
that, my lord?" The words were even and precise and distinctly deadly.
But Lord McCubbin seemed not to notice. "Why, dear boy, you've lost one of your wards. Saw her,
clear as daylight. The flighty one in the damned pink domino. Getting into a carriage with that chap Keighly outside the Penbright place. Well, if you don't know, it's probably too late anyway, don't
you know?"
Max's eyes had gone to Emma Mortland's face and seen the malicious triumph there. But he had no
time to waste on her. He turned back to Lord McCubbin. "Which way did they go?"
The silence in the room had finally penetrated his lordship's foggy brain. "Er-didn't see. I went back
to the ballroom."
Martin Rotherbridge paused, his hand on the handle of his bedroom door. It was past seven in the morning. He had sat up all night since returning from the ball, with his brother's brandy decanter to
keep him company, going over his relationship with Lizzie Twinning. And still he could find only one solution. He shook his head and opened the door. The sounds of a commotion in the hall drifted up
the stairwell. He heard his brother's voice, uplifted in a series of orders to Hillshaw, and then to Wilson. The tone of voice was one he had rarely heard from Max. It brought him instantly alert. Sleep forgotten, he strode back to the stairs.
In the library, Max was pacing back and forth before the hearth, a savage look on his face. Darcy Hamilton stood silently by the window, his face showing the effects of the past weeks, overlaid by the stress of the moment. Max paused to glance at the clock on the mantelshelf. "Seven-thirty," he muttered. "If my people haven't traced Keighly's carriage by eight-thirty, I'll have to send around to Twyford House." He stopped as a thought struck him. Why hadn't they sent for him anyway? It could only mean that, somehow or other, Arabella had managed to conceal her disappearance. He resumed his pacing.
The idea of his aunt in hysterics, not to mention Miriam Alford, was a sobering thought. His own scandalous career would be nothing when compared to the repercussions from this little episode. He would wring Arabella's neck when he caught her.
The door opened. Max looked up to see Martin enter. "What's up?" asked Martin.
"Arabella!" said his brother, venom in his voice. "The stupid chit's done a bunk with Keighly."
"Eloped?" said Martin, his disbelief patent.
Max stopped pacing. "Well, I presume he means to marry her. Considering how they all insist on the proposal first, I can't believe she'd change her spots quite so dramatically. But if I have anything to
say about it, she won't be marrying Keighly. I've a good mind to shove her into a convent until she
comes to her senses!"
Darcy started, then smiled wryly. "I'm told there's a particularly good one near their old home."
Max turned to stare at him as if he had gone mad.
"But think of the waste," said Martin, grinning.
"Precisely my thoughts," nodded Darcy, sinking into an armchair. "Max, unless you plan to ruin your carpet, for God's sake sit down."
With something very like a growl, Max threw himself into the other armchair. Martin drew up a straight-backed chair from the side of the room and sat astride it, his arms folded over its back.
"So what now?" he asked. "I've never been party to an elopement before."
His brother's intense blue gaze, filled with silent warning, only made him grin more broadly. "Well,