Dear Future Husband

42. It Was In The Lemonade

22 April 1894

Maximilian paced the floor of Lord Samuel Winthrop's parlour, unable to sit still after a restless night of what could barely be considered slumber. A crack of light slanted through the drawn curtains, signalling dawn.

The house was deadly silent. All but a few of the servants had been dismissed last night, after leaving the party.

Lord Winthrop had assured the host and guests that Rosalie had simply been sent home earlier in a carriage as she had been feeling unwell from all the excitement of her debut. It was a lie that made Maximilian's teeth clench, when he thought of how easily Rosalie's reputation might fall into ruin and scandal due to her mother's horrid actions.

After they had returned to the house, Lord Winthrop had retired to his study, but the candles had been burning all night. Maximilian had alternated between sleeping on the sitting room sofa–he felt it wrong to sleep on a bed, when who knew what sorts of conditions Rosalie might be kept in?–and both men had fruitlessly tried to find sleep and Rosalie.

Now, he stood to make himself and Lord Winthrop a slice of toast and a cup of tea. As the kettle whistled, he tucked his hands into the pocket of his waistcoat. It felt like a foreign garment still, like he was an actor, playing the role of a gentleman. Though he was the son of a gentleman–if his father, the duke, could be called that at all–Max still felt like he was an impostor among the finer things of life.

The tea and toast fixed, he set them on a tray. Just then, the housekeeper, Mrs. Jensen, bustled in, her eyes fixed on the tray of tea and toast he had picked up.

She looked scandalized. "A gentleman? Making his own breakfast, in this house? I won't have it. Out with you, Mr. Walker!"

"I..." he spluttered, unable to find the right words. There were no excuses anyway, not when this woman didn't know who he was, what he had been. That he was closer to any of the help than he was to being a noble lord. "Of course, ma'am. I apologize."

She harrumphed. "This is a fine house of good repute, and I won't have anyone saying we need to leave our guests to fend for ourselves."

He retreated to the dining room. Just then, Lord Winthrop made an appearance, his hair uncombed and his face unshaven, but clad in appropriate attire. Maximilian was simultaneously overdressed and under-groomed, his clothing suited to a ball but dishevelled from sleeping on the settee.

"Good morning, Maximilian," Lord Winthrop said, sitting down across from him. He was humming a hymn, Amazing Grace from the sounds of it. "Did you sleep well?"

"Poorly, sir," he said. "And you?"

How could Lord Winthrop seem so cheerful at a time like this - when his only daughter was missing? And not only missing, but possibly one's own former wife–well, possibly former; Maximilian hadn't inquired into the man's marital affairs before–had absconded with her? It bewildered Maximilian.

"About the same," he responded evenly as he buttered the toast that Mrs. Jensen had set down moments prior. "What do you say we pay a visit to Mr. Redmond Flynn this morning?"

"I..." He swallowed a gulp of tea; it was scorching. "I supposed that would be wise, sir. He is a man in whom I have the utmost confidence, as I am sure you do as well, to find your daughter."

"Oh, not only that," Lord Winthrop said, stirring sugar into his tea. "He is also excellent at ministering to wounded souls, something I fear we may both need at this hour."

"Wounded?" Maximilian repeated. He felt rather foolish this morning, parroting every other word from the man's mouth, but he could not help himself. "I... I am far from that, I can assure you."