After Mr. Whitney left, Max issued a set of rapid and comprehensive orders to his majordomo Wilson. In response, his servants flew to various corners of London, some to Twyford House, others to certain agencies specializing in the hire of household staff to the elite of the ton. One footman was despatched with a note from the Duke to an address in Half Moon Street, requesting the favour of a private interview with his paternal aunt, Lady Benborough.
As Max had intended, his politely worded missive intrigued his aunt. Wondering what had prompted such a strange request from her reprehensible nephew, she immediately granted it and settled down to await his coming with an air of pleasurable anticipation.
Max arrived at the small house shortly after noon. He found his aunt attired in a very becoming gown of purple sarsenet with a new and unquestionably modish wig perched atop her commanding visage. Max, bowing elegantly before her, eyed the wig askance.
Augusta Benborough sighed. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to send it back, if that’s the way you feel about it!”
Max grinned and bent to kiss the proffered cheek. “Definitely not one of your better efforts, Aunt.”
She snorted. “Unfortunately, I can hardly claim you know nothing about it. It’s the very latest fashion, I’ll have you know.” Max raised one laconic brow. “Yes, well,” continued his aunt, “I dare say you’re right. Not quite my style.”
As she waited while he disposed his long limbs in a chair opposite the corner of the chaise where she sat, propped up by a pile of colourful cushions, she passed a critical glance over her nephew’s elegant figure. How he contrived to look so precise when she knew he cared very little how he appeared was more than she could tell. She had heard it said that his man was a genius. Personally, she was of the opinion it was Max’s magnificent physique and dark good looks that carried the day.
“I hope you’re going to satisfy my curiosity without a great deal of roundaboutation.”
“My dear aunt, when have I ever been other than direct?”
She looked at him shrewdly. “Want a favour, do you? Can’t imagine what it is but you’d better be quick about asking. Miriam will be back by one and I gather you’d rather not have her listening.” Miriam Alford was a faded spinster cousin of Lady Benborough’s who lived with her, filling the post of companion to the fashionable old lady. “I sent her to Hatchard’s when I got your note,” she added in explanation.
Max smiled. Of all his numerous relatives, his Aunt Benborough, his father’s youngest sister, was his favourite. While the rest of them, his mother included, constantly tried to reform him by ringing peals over him, appealing to his sense of what was acceptable, something he steadfastly denied any knowledge of, Augusta Benborough rarely made any comment on his lifestyle or the numerous scandals this provoked. When he had first come on the town, it had rapidly been made plain to his startled family that in Max they beheld a reincarnation of the second Viscount Delmere. If even half the tales were true, Max’s greatgrandfather had been a thoroughly unprincipled character, entirely devoid of morals. Lady Benborough, recently widowed, had asked Max to tea and had taken the opportunity to inform him in no uncertain terms of her opinion of his behaviour. She had then proceeded to outline all his faults, in detail. However, as she had concluded by saying that she fully expected her tirade to have no effect whatsoever on his subsequent conduct, nor could she imagine how anyone in their right mind could think it would, Max had borne the ordeal with an equanimity which would have stunned his friends. She had eventually dismissed him with the words, “Having at least had the politeness to hear me out, you may now depart and continue to go to hell in your own fashion and with my good will.”
Now a widow of many years’ standing, she was still a force to be reckoned with. She remained fully absorbed in the affairs of the ton and continued to be seen at all the crushes and every gala event. Max knew she was as shrewd as she could hold together and, above all, had an excellent sense of humour. All in all, she was just what he needed.
“I’ve come to inform you that, along with all the other encumbrances I inherited from Uncle Henry, I seem to have acquired four wards.”
“You?“ Lady Benborough’s rendering of the word was rather more forceful than Miss Twinning’s had been.
Max nodded. “Me. Four young ladies, one, the only one I’ve so far set eyes on, as lovely a creature as any other likely to be presented this Season.”
“Good God! Who was so besotted as to leave four young girls in your care?” If anything, her ladyship was outraged at the very idea. Then, the full impact of the situation struck her. Her eyes widened. “Oh, good lord!” She collapsed against her cushions, laughing uncontrollably.
Knowing this was an attitude he was going to meet increasingly in the next few weeks, Max sighed. In an even tone suggestive of long suffering, he pointed out the obvious. “They weren’t left to me but to my esteemed and now departed uncle’s care. Mind you, I can’t see that he’d have been much use to ‘em either.”
Wiping the tears from her eyes, Lady Benborough considered this view. “Can’t see it myself,” she admitted. “Henry always was a slow-top. Who are they?”
“The Misses Twinning. From Hertfordshire.” Max proceeded to give her a brief r6sume of the life history of the Twinnings, ending with the information that it transpired all four girls were heiresses.
Augusta Benborough was taken aback. “And you say they’re beautiful to boot?”
“The one I’ve seen, Caroline, the eldest, most definitely is.”
“Well, if anyone should know it’s you!” replied her ladyship testily. Max acknowledged the comment with the slightest inclination of his head.
Lady Benborough’s mind was racing. “So, what do you want with me?”
“What I would like, dearest Aunt,” said Max, with his sweetest smile, “is for you to act as chaperon to the girls and present them to the ton.” Max paused. His aunt said nothing, sitting quite still with her sharp blue eyes, very like his own, fixed firmly on his face. He continued. “I’m opening up Twyford House. It’ll be ready for them tomorrow. I’ll stand the nonsense— all of it.” Still she said nothing. “Will you do it?”
Augusta Benborough thought she would like nothing better than to be part of the hurly-burly of the marriage game again. But four? All at once? Still, there was Max’s backing, and that would count for a good deal. Despite his giving the distinct impression of total uninterest in anything other than his own pleasure, she knew from experience that, should he feel inclined, Max could and would perform feats impossible for those with lesser clout in the fashionable world. Years after the event, she had learned that, when her youngest son had embroiled himself i
n a scrape so hideous that even now she shuddered to think of it, it had been Max who had rescued him. And apparently for no better reason than it had been bothering her. She still owed him for that.
But there were problems. Her own jointure was not particularly large and, while she had never asked Max for relief, turning herself out in the style he would expect of his wards’ chaperon was presently beyond her slender means. Hesitantly, she said, “My own wardrobe…”
“Naturally you’ll charge all costs you incur in this business to me,” drawled Max, his voice bored as he examined through his quizzing glass a china cat presently residing on his aunt’s mantelpiece. He knew perfectly well his aunt managed on a very slim purse but was too wise to offer direct assistance which would, he knew, be resented, not only by the lady herself but also by her pompous elder son.
“Can I take Miriam with me to Twyford House?”
With a shrug, Max assented. “Aside from anything else, she might come in handy with four charges.”