The Bachelor List (27 page)

“I suppose so.” Asquith looked at the broadsheet in his hand with a puzzled frown. “Not the first time you've been mentioned in it.”

“No,” Max agreed without expansion.

Asquith gave him another look. “Not a case of hell hath no fury, is it?”

Max gave a short laugh. “No,” he declared with finality. Constance could not complain of being scorned by her lover. The deception that had produced such a savage attack had had nothing to do with the glories of their shared lust . . . their deepening emotional intimacy. It wasn't directed at Constance personally . . . unlike the fiercely personal nature of her revenge.

His mouth tightened again. He stood up abruptly. “If you'll excuse me I've some business to attend to. I'll wait upon the Prime Minister this afternoon if he wishes it. But there's little I can offer in the way of explanation.”
Or excuse.
But he kept the addendum to himself.

“Of course . . . of course. I'm sure the Prime Minister will understand. Such things happen in public life. We all know it.” Asquith nodded with a vigor that was not quite convincing. “Best let it just blow over, as you say.”

Max nodded and accompanied his visitor outside onto the wet street. “I'm going to the mews for my motor. Can I drop you somewhere?”

“No, thank you, I'll take a cab to Downing Street. It's no distance.” Asquith extended his hand. “We have to deny this rumor, of course.”

It seemed that the Chancellor had finally come to the point, Max reflected as they shook hands. He had been sent with the message that it was Max's responsibility to ensure that the rumor caused Downing Street no embarrassment.

“Of course,” he said. “But I wonder whether by denying it we give it credence?”

The Chancellor coughed into the gloved hand now returned to him. “The PM thought that perhaps you could discredit it. Imply a personal grudge . . . that kind of thing, don't you know?”

Max felt his anger return in full flood. She had put him in the most impossible position. To attack the anonymous editors of
The Mayfair Lady
would make him look a fool, tilting at windmills. To expose Constance and her sisters as the editors, to so much as hint at his relationship with Constance, was out of the question. Unimaginable.

But the Honorable Misses Duncan were going to bear the full brunt of his outrage. And Constance was going to write a retraction.

“Assure the Prime Minister, if you will, that I have the situation in hand.”

“Of course.” Asquith was all acquiescent courtesy. A gentleman's word was his bond and a gentleman didn't question its ramifications.

They nodded, exchanged smiles, and parted company. Max strode to the mews, where his Darracq was garaged. He put up the canvas roof, reflecting that its open sides would give him little protection from the rain, but it was better than nothing. Within ten minutes he was driving to Manchester Square, swiping the rain off his goggles every few seconds.

He parked the car in the square and mounted the steps to the front door of the Duncan mansion, his urgency belied by his measured pace. He pressed the bell, resisting the impulse to keep his finger on it. It was opened in Jenkins's customarily stately fashion.

“Mr. Ensor, how nice to see you,” the butler declared without cracking a smile. “Miss Duncan is not at home, I fear.”

“I see.” Max put a foot in the door. “Miss Prudence, or Miss Chastity, perhaps?”

“They are at home, sir. But I don't know if they're receiving visitors.”

Max reflected. He didn't want a showdown with Constance's sisters. It would be a pointless waste of energy. “Do you happen to know where I might find Miss Duncan, Jenkins?” he inquired mildly.

“Not offhand, sir. I expect she will be home this afternoon.”

Max felt the crackle of the broadsheet inside his waistcoat. It was Saturday. There was bound to be a meeting of the WSPU at lunchtime when shop workers would be beginning the half holiday that started the weekend. Constance was probably in attendance. What better place to confront her?

“Thank you, Jenkins. I'll call again later.” He smiled a benign smile and ran lightly down the steps to his car as if he had not a care in the world. He cranked the engine, getting soaked in the process, and then under the inadequate shelter of the car's canopy he examined the back page of the broadsheet. There was a meeting at noon in a church hall on Brompton Road. He put the car in gear and headed for Knightsbridge.

Jenkins waited until the visitor had driven off before he closed the door. The sisters had not confided in him, which was in itself unusual, but he knew that something was amiss, and that it had everything to do with Miss Con and Mr. Ensor. He went upstairs to the parlor.

“Mr. Ensor was here inquiring after Miss Con,” he declared from the doorway.

Prudence looked up from the ledgers she was balancing. “Did he say why, Jenkins?”

“No, Miss Prue.”

“Did you tell him where she was?” Chastity asked from the depths of a sewing basket where she was selecting stockings that needed darning.

“No, Miss Chas.”

“Well, that's all right, then.” Chastity smiled at him.

“May I inquire as to the problem?” Jenkins asked.

Chastity wrinkled her brow. “I think Con had better tell you. It's not really our business.”

Jenkins bowed. “I understand, Miss Chas.” He left them to their darning and their bookkeeping, understanding perfectly.

“Are you sure you're ready to do this, Constance?” Emmeline asked as they stacked papers on the table beside the door to the church hall.

“Yes, it's time I was blooded,” Constance said with a grim, tight smile. She was going to make her maiden speech at today's meeting.

“This resolution has nothing I suppose to do with that extraordinary revelation in
The Mayfair Lady
?” Emmeline inquired with a shrewd look. “I assume you've seen it. Everyone else seems to have done.”

“I saw it,” Constance said shortly. “And I blame myself. I introduced the man, after all. I don't know how I was so blind.”

“But who
did
know what he was up to?” Emmeline wondered. “It's intriguing you must admit.”

“Very,” Constance agreed.

“We're blithely assuming it's true,” the other woman mused. “There was no hard evidence presented, though.”

Constance glanced at her. “I don't doubt it.”

“No, well, you know him better than I do.”

“I thought I did.”

Emmeline nodded and left it at that. “There might be press here this morning to hear your speech,” she warned. “Are you ready for the publicity?”

“I'm ready to stand up and be counted,” Constance responded. “My father will be quite apoplectic, but he'll get over it.”

“And your friends?”

“If they're my friends they'll stand by me. If they're not it's no loss.” She sounded much more nonchalant than she felt. Her anxiety stemmed not from the prospect of speaking in public and making her affiliation known to the world, but at the possibility that someone might link her with
The Mayfair Lady
. But her sisters were resigned to that chance, accepting that it was time for Constance to declare herself. If there were rumors and whispers, then they would face them down with placid denial.

Constance went up to the platform to check her notes. People were beginning to trickle into the hall, shaking umbrellas, discarding wet hats and coats. The smell of damp wool was in the air. She wondered if the rain would keep people away. She wondered if Max had yet seen
The Mayfair Lady.
Apprehension niggled. What would he do? He would have to do something. Another man maybe would let it go, but not Max. And mingling with apprehension was the uncomfortable thought that perhaps she had gone too far. It was such a personal attack. Her sisters had said nothing about the piece, although she assumed they had read it before Prue took it to the printer. Their silence she felt was eloquent.

In all honesty Constance admitted to herself that the virulently personal tone of her revenge stemmed from her own hurt and sense of betrayal. It was not a well-thought out response. There was nothing balanced about it. And even though she felt it was justified, she couldn't control her uneasy anticipation of his response. Or the recognition that he was entitled to come at her with the same teeth she had used on him.

She looked up from the notes in her hand as the other leaders joined her on the platform. The hall was two-thirds full, expectant faces raised to the dais. The doorkeeper was just closing the door when Max Ensor walked in.

Constance froze.

Max looked straight at her as she stood behind the table on the dais. For a moment she was aware only of his eyes. They were like twinned blue sheets of fire and she had to resist the instinct to draw back from the scorching heat of his anger, the blistering power of his determination.

Clearly he
had
read the new edition of
The Mayfair Lady
. And clearly, as she had suspected, he had seen the mock-up of the broadsheet that evening of sabotage and put two and two together.

But then her own anger returned fresh and raw to banish the tremor of alarm at the sight of him.
How dare he come here now? What was he intending to learn this morning? Did he really imagine he would be permitted to stay now that his deceit had been exposed?

She glanced down at her hands. To her surprise they were quite steady. She spoke, her voice carrying across the heads in the body of the hall, and the slight buzz of conversation died.

“This is a meeting for supporters of the WSPU, Mr. Ensor. We do not welcome spies. I must ask you to leave.”

Max had not expected this. The sheer brazen effrontery of her head-on attack took his breath away. He took a step towards the dais.

“I should warn you, sir, that if you do not leave of your own free will then there are plenty of people here to help you on your way. What as women we may lack in physical prowess we make up for in numbers.” Stinging irony edged her voice. “I can imagine the national press would find it a most interesting story.”

There was dead silence in the hall. No one seemed to breathe for a minute. All eyes swiveled to the man standing at the back of the hall, gloves in hand, driving goggles pushed up on top of his rain-soaked cap.

Max could barely credit what he was hearing, but he wasn't going to put her sincerity to the test. He had no choice but to accept an ignominious defeat and retreat.

“We will have an accounting, Miss Duncan. Make no mistake.” He didn't raise his voice but every word was as clear as if he'd used a megaphone. He turned on his heel and walked from the hall, letting the door slam behind him.

And now Constance's hands shook so hard that the notes she was holding fell to the table. She concentrated on putting the scattered sheets together, keeping her eyes down, aware that she was the focus of everyone's attention both in the hall and on the dais.

“You didn't expect that, I gather,” Emmeline murmured, helping to scoop up the papers as Christobel broke the momentary hush by reading the minutes of the last meeting.

“I didn't expect him to come here,” Constance returned in a low voice. “He must have suspected that a lot of the people who would come to a WSPU meeting would have read the article.
The Mayfair Lady
is known as a pro-suffragist publication.”

“Perhaps he wanted to defend himself,” the other woman observed.

“This is not the forum for it,” Constance said with a snap. She knew she had overreacted and her anger now was directed only at herself. “You wouldn't have tolerated his presence, surely?” She heard the defensive thrust to the question.

Emmeline shook her head. “I don't know.” She hesitated, then said, “It doesn't do our cause much good to make enemies in high places, Constance.”

“He was an enemy already,” Constance said. She felt a flash of empathy for Christobel's impatience with her mother's softly-softly approach. She glanced at Christobel who raised her eyebrows interrogatively. Constance nodded. She was as ready as she would ever be. Christobel took her seat as Constance moved to the podium.

Chapter 18

M
ax sat behind the wheel of his motor as the rain drummed on the canvas roof. It took five minutes to clear his head. Of all the lunatic impulses! To put his head in the lion's mouth like that. It would simply feed straight into the rumor mill and add yet more titillating detail to the article in
The Mayfair Lady,
which would be on every tongue by the end of the day. It was bound to reach Fleet Street by some route or another, and if there had been any members of the press in the hall they were going to have a field day. He had been blinded by his own fury, his desire to exact vengeance on that arrogant, insulting, impossible woman. How had he ever thought he could make her his wife? Madness . . . sheer madness.

But he had to concentrate on damage control. Raging at Constance wasn't going to help at the moment. When he got his hands on her, then he would have an accounting, but for the moment he had to think clearly.

He cranked up the engine, climbed in, and drove back to Manchester Square, where he parked on the far side of the square garden from the Duncan house. A massive oak tree in full leaf offered sufficient cover if anyone cast a casual glance around the square, but he was perfectly positioned to observe any comings and goings at No. 10.

He saw Lord Duncan leave in the family carriage soon after one o'clock and it was close to two o'clock before a hackney cab delivered Constance to her door. By that time his already vile temper was incendiary. It had stopped raining finally but his waterproof driving coat was still soaked through, and rain dripped from the sodden canvas hood above his head, unerringly finding a path inside his collar and down his back.

He got out and walked across the garden, heedless of the effect of puddles and wet grass on his once-shiny shoes. He mounted the steps to the front door and pressed the bell, this time keeping his finger on it until the door was opened.

“Mr. Ensor.” Jenkins looked at him askance, at the finger still resting on the bell.

“I saw Miss Duncan come in a few minutes ago,” Max said brusquely, pushing past the butler into the hall. “Where is she?”

“She's at luncheon, sir.” Jenkins's eyes darted involuntarily towards the door to the small family dining room, where the ladies ate when they were alone.

“Then she won't mind being disturbed.” Max gave him a nod and strode to the door. Jenkins, for once disconcerted, scurried behind him murmuring protestations.

Max flung open the door and stood there in the doorway. The three sisters stared at him, for the moment too taken aback by the abrupt nature of his arrival to react. “Constance, I want to talk to you,” he stated. “You two, leave us alone, if you please.”

“We're having luncheon,” Prudence protested. “You can't throw us out of our own dining room.”

“Actually, Prudence, I both can and will. Now, you and Chastity,
out
, please.” The “‘please' ” did nothing to soften the command.

Constance stood up. “There's no need to disturb my sisters. We'll go into the drawing room. There's no one there.” She swept past him without an upward glance. It seemed to her that he was radiating so much heat, he was too hot to touch. Her heart pounded uncomfortably and her palms were suddenly clammy. She didn't look at her sisters either, knowing that if they guessed at her sick turmoil they would insist on standing behind her.

Max followed her, leaving Jenkins to close the dining room door.

“Blood is going to flow.” Prudence half rose from her chair and then sat down again. “But I think we'll be surplus to requirements.”

“We'll mop up later,” Chastity said with what her sister considered remarkable composure. She smiled at Prudence. “Don't worry, Prue. This has to happen if Max and Con are ever going to accept that they love each other.”

“Last week I might have agreed with you,” Prudence said. “But I can't help thinking things have gone too far. Con actually threatened to throw him physically out of a meeting. In
public
. It's all totally out of hand now.”

“Oh, I wouldn't be so pessimistic.” Chastity sliced lemon meringue pie. “They're both extreme, passionate people, they're going to loathe each other as much as they love each other. It'll always be like that. Let's just hope they don't break too many plates, at least not of the heirloom variety.”

“You are so sanguine.” Prudence shook her head and helped herself to pie.

There was silence in the drawing room as the two faced each other. Constance had walked swiftly and without thought to the spot where she felt most comfortable, with her back to the fireplace. Max remained by the door for the moment, his back against it, as if to hold it against intruders.

“If you'd like to start with an apology, I'm listening,” he said after a minute, amazed at the mildness of his tone. It bore no relation to the state of his temper.

“Oh, live your fantasy,” Constance exclaimed. “You want
me
to apologize. What for? I merely exposed you for what you are. A trickster, a spy, a dishonest—”

“Enough,”
he declared, his voice rising a notch as he came across the room towards her. “I have had enough of your insults, Miss Duncan. One more and I won't answer for the consequences.”

“Oh, typical male response,” Constance scoffed. “Threats of violence are always the answer.” She sounded braver than she felt. He seemed to have grown somehow taller and broader in the last few minutes.

Max inhaled sharply. He was not going to play that game, but he was prepared to match her when it came to wrestling in the mud. He turned aside and sat down on the arm of the sofa, idly slapping his gloves into the palm of one hand. “You will apologize, Constance, and you will write a retraction for the next edition of that broadsheet,” he stated. “If you do not, somehow it will become common knowledge that you and your sisters are behind
The Mayfair Lady
.”

“You would
do
that?” She stared at him.

“If you make it necessary. Just bear in mind that you fired the first salvo.”

“Because you
used
me,” she said, soft and fierce. “You pretended to like me . . . to share things with me, and all along you were merely interested in using me as a way into the secrets and plans of the Union. I
heard
you. I heard what you said to the Prime Minister. ‘I've seen these women in action. I have an ear to the ground.' ”

Max winced, remembering. But he wasn't going to allow her the high ground. “Just one minute, I did not pretend—”

“No,
you
wait just one minute,” she interrupted. “Deny it if you can. Deny that you said those things.”

“You're taking them out of context.”

Constance laughed. “Oh, a typical politician's defense. Whenever you're caught, the old excuse is trotted out:
taken out of context.
” She mimicked his tone. “What was the context, Max? A quiet collegiate postprandial conversation in the bastion of male power. I heard what I heard.”

Her voice rose as she saw that she had him on the run. “You deceived me, pretending to . . . Oh, I can't talk to you. I can't bear to be in the same room with you.” She made a brusque, dismissive gesture, turning her head aside as she tried to control the choke in her voice, to force back the tears that were both angry and hurt. She would not show him any weakness.

But he heard it anyway and came back at her. “And weren't you intending to use me in the same way? To get me to use my political influence to advance your cause. Wasn't that behind your initial interest in me?”

“That's not the same thing at all.”

“Isn't it? You mean I'm fair game and you are not?” He was incredulous. “Come on, Constance. You insist women are men's equals, so why do you demand special treatment?”

“I'm not,” she declared. “That's a thoroughly spurious argument and you know it. I didn't attack you personally, manipulate you, pretend to feel something . . . anything . . . just to gain information that I could use against you.”

“And what do you consider this?” He pulled the sodden paper that had once been the broadsheet from inside his coat. “This is the most blatant, underhanded, utterly personal attack . . . far far worse than anything I intended. It's designed to ruin my career. Can you live with that, Constance, while you prate your high principles and moral convictions?” He threw the paper to the carpet at his feet.

“How
dare
you deny what you intended? How
could
you lie? I heard
you . . . I heard what you said to your Cabinet friends. You were going to use our . . .” She waved an all-encompassing hand. “Whatever you want to call what I stupidly thought was between us, simply to advance your career. You can't deny that.”

“I can deny that I meant you any—” The rest of his sentence was drowned in a cascade of water as Constance, enraged beyond thought or reason, took advantage of his seated position, picked up a round bowl of sweet peas, and tipped it over his head. Water and fragrant, vividly colored flowers dripped from his head, clung to his shoulders, fell into his lap.

He jumped up with a violent execration, scattering sweet peas left, right, and center. Constance stared at him aghast, her fingers pressed to her lips. Laughter suddenly bubbled in her eyes, inappropriate but helpless laughter.

“What the
hell
!” He dashed at the water. “What the
hell
was that?”

“I'm so sorry,” she said through the bubbling laughter. “But you provoked me to such an extent that I couldn't help it. Here, let me.” She approached with her handkerchief and dabbed ineffectually at his shoulder. A flower was caught in his hair, another one behind his ear. Solicitously she reached up to dislodge them. He slapped her hand away.

“I'm so sorry,” she said again. “But you were already very wet anyway. In fact,” she added with her head on one side, “I think the floral touch is something of an improvement. I'll get a towel.” She moved to the door but he caught her arm, swinging her back towards him.

“Oh, no, you don't. Not until I've wrung your neck. You
vixen,
Constance.” Laughter still mingled with anger glittered now in his eyes and was matched with hers. His hands encircled her neck, the fingers pushing up her chin. “
Shrew
,” he said.

“I think at this point in the play you're supposed to say, ‘Come on and kiss me, Kate,' ” she murmured.

“Will you ever stop putting words into my mouth?”

“I doubt it.”

“Then, ‘Come, kiss me, Kate, we will be married o' Sunday.' ”

“Oh, nicely capped,” she whispered. “Very nice, Mr. Ensor.”

“Be quiet!” His mouth enforced the command. The passionate force of his kiss had little of the lover about it. He held her head in a vise; the pressure of his lips on hers was so fierce it was as if he would brand her with the imprint of his mouth. Constance couldn't resist even had she wanted to, and indeed matched force for force, as if the kiss was some kind of exorcism that finally blunted the blade of their mutual anger.

“I told you everything would work out,” Chastity said from the doorway, surveying the couple, who seemed to be locked in some elemental struggle.

Constance drew away from Max and looked over his shoulder at her sisters. She touched her swollen lips with her fingertips and caught her breath. “You're not supposed to creep up on people.”

“Well, we got worried when the shouting stopped,” Prudence said, coming fully into the room with Chastity. “So we thought we'd better make sure you weren't both bleeding on the floor. Whatever happened to Max? He's growing sweet peas.”

Max ran his hands through his hair, dislodging a bloom. Water dripped from his hair. “I trust Constance is the only virago in the family.” He shrugged out of his driving coat and went to the door. “Jenkins?”

“Right here, sir.” Jenkins stepped instantly out of the shadows beneath the staircase.

“Take this and see what you can do with it, please. And bring me a towel.”

Jenkins took the coat, holding it at arm's length. “May I suggest your morning coat also, Mr. Ensor. A warm iron will have it good as new. And perhaps I could offer one of Lord Duncan's shirts.”

“Just take care of these two.” Max handed him his black coat. “I don't imagine the ladies will object to my shirtsleeves.”

“Not in the least,” Chastity said, ignoring the ironical note to his statement.

“Are you sure you wouldn't like a dry shirt?” Constance asked.

“Quite sure, thank you. Your solicitude overwhelms me. Bring me a large whisky, will you, Jenkins?”

“Very good, sir.” Jenkins bore his sodden burden towards the kitchen.

“So you've patched things up,” Prudence said, surveying the flower-littered carpet.

“Far from it,” Max replied. “Matters couldn't be further from patched.”

“Oh,” Chastity said in surprise. “We rather thought, seeing you—”

“Never jump to conclusions,” Max said. “Your sister and I still have a great deal to discuss . . . a small matter of reparations, for instance.”

All eyes turned to Constance who was now standing with her back to the room, seemingly oblivious of her companions, gazing out at the dripping trees.