Page 36 of To Dare the Devil

Max snorted and wiped his hands on the tea towel beside him. “Perhaps that man is better left where he fell. Dead in a filthy alley.”

“You’re that man, Valentine. We’ve all got our demons, lad. Pretending they ain’t there won’t work.”

“What if… what if it was a mistake? What if I should have died, because of everything I did?” Max looked up, discovering his heart was beating very hard and he felt clammy, hot and cold all at once. “I don’t want to be him again, Burt. I’d rather stay here. If I go back, I might fail, I might forget all this, I might—”

“Valentine, listen to me. Staying here would be failing. This ain’t who you are, any more than the man we dragged out of a filthy alley is who you are now. You ain’t no saint, but you’re not the devil neither. None of us is perfect, none of us goes through life without making mistakes. P’raps, you’ll make a few more. Who can say, but if you don’t try, you might as well ’ave died, and that’s a damn shame.”

Max looked at him, something close to anger raging in his chest. There was a part of him that wanted to shout at the old man and tell him it wasn’t fair, but that was childish and cowardly. Besides, it wasn’t anger. Not really.

“I’m afraid,” he said, the words nearly choking him, but it was a relief all the same, to say it out loud. “I’m afraid to go back. Afraid to remember who I was, what I did. People despise me, Burt, and with good reason.”

“Then you’ll have to try real hard to change their minds. Sounds like the kind of challenge a young man ought to be able to face. In order to make amends for the past. Eh?” Burt’s leathery old face creased in a smile, his bright little eyes compassionate and filled with hope.

Max let out an uneven breath, trying to find the courage to take the first step towards the future, because Burt was right: staying here would not make him worthy of redemption, it was merely hiding from the truth. He wasn’t ready to face it yet, either the past or the future, but he would be. He must be, and soon. A man of his means, with his power and wealth, he could change the lives of so many people. He could do some good in the world, and perhaps that would allow him to sleep at night once he reclaimed his true identity. He held out his hand to Burt, meeting his eyes.

“Maxwell Drake, seventh Earl of Vane. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Burt.”

Present day …

15th June 1842, Vane Hall, Chiswick, London.

“The roof is coming on at a terrific pace, so it seems as if we are only a week or two behind schedule, which is good news.” Kathy said, ticking off another item on her notes. “Did you see the draft plans my brother sent over for you? He’s open to making changes, obviously. In fact, he asked you to provide a list of any requirements. Anything you wish to include that he has not thought to provide, that is.”

Lord Vane shook his head. “It’s an excellent plan. I’ve little knowledge of gardening or home farms, and I can see a recreational area has been set aside. I am happy to approve it and any changes you see fit to make. I leave it entirely in your hands, Miss de Beauvoir, providing Lady Elizabeth is in accord, obviously.”

Kathy looked up and nodded before turning her gaze back to the list.

“The uniforms are ready, if you’d like to look at them?”

“That won’t be necessary. You had the ordering of them and if you’re content, I know they’re just as they ought to be.”

“Very well.” Kathy chewed her lip. Her stomach was in a knot, and it was getting worse. He was getting worse. Or at least, not worse, but… he was unhappy. She had done that. No, that was hubris, surely, to think she might be responsible for the light going out of him. Yet it had been two weeks since the ball and she’d not seen him smile once. He never sought out her company or teased her. He worked all hours, according to his staff, whom she was getting to know rather well now. “I hear you’ve joined Mr Pelham Villiers in working to repeal the Corn Laws.”

“Yes,” he said, closing the ledger books on his desk and stacking them neatly to one side.

“I imagine that raised a few eyebrows,” she suggested with a smile, which was a vast understatement, and they both knew it.

“You imagine right,” he replied with a quirk of his lips, which might have qualified as a smile, except it didn’t reach his eyes.

He must have been the subject of a great deal of ill will from some of his peers. Landowners all over the country had a vested interest in keeping the prices high and forbidding access to cheap imports. If they repealed the Corn Laws, they’d lose money—significant amounts of money—but the prices would drop, and the poor might be able to afford to eat. For the moment, the numbers against the repeal were far too high for it to happen, but with high-ranking nobles like the Earl of Vane weighing in behind a Liberal Whig like Pelham Villiers, there was a chance for change.

“You’re doing a good thing,” she said, hoping he heard the approval in her voice, and not just about the Corn Laws.

He made a dismissive sound, and she could stand it no longer.

“Stop it!” she said, springing to her feet. The notepad she’d been holding slipped to the floor with a flurry of paper, but she ignored it, staring at him.

Lord Vane looked back at her in surprise. “Stop what?”

“This… whatever it is. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t stay for supper, but… but it wasn’t your fault.”

He stared at her for a long moment and then snorted in disgust, shaking his head. “Of course it was. I scared you off. I don’t blame you, by the way. You did right. And it’s I that should apologise.”

“What for?” she asked, bewildered.

“For the dance,” he said, raking a hand through his hair.

When she continued to stare at him in obvious confusion, he let out a harsh breath. “Oh, come now, Miss de Beauvoir. I might not have offered you an insult, but I don’t doubt you became aware of… of my….”