Chapter 1
Tyranny follows the tyrant. Woe to the man who leaves behind a shadow that bears his form.
Victor Hugo
Six Months Later
Maxwell Crenshaw had left New York for London three times this year. The first time had been to save a sister from a marriage she didn't want. The second time had been to find his other sister, who had run away from a marriage she didn't want. This time he was in London to see his father, who had been on his deathbed ten days ago when Max had set off from New York. Thank God the message that had been waiting for him in Liverpool indicated there had been substantial improvement in his condition. But it didn't change the resolution he had come to on the ship. He planned to convince his parents that it was time to come home. London had been disastrous for the Crenshaws.
"Max! Thank God you're here." The front door of the Crenshaws' townhome on Grosvenor Square had barely closed behind Max and his secretary before Mother came sailing out of the drawing room, arms outstretched to greet him. Handing off his hat and gloves to a manservant, he met her halfway. She looked as well put together as usual; her gown was the height of fashion, and diamonds flashed at her wrists and neck. She was pale, however: a sign of her worry.
He held her for a moment longer than necessary, noting how her shoulders trembled. "I came as soon as I could." Since Papa and August had come to London in the spring, Max had assumed control of the American operations of Crenshaw Iron Works. It was a job he had been born and bred to do, having worked alongside his father since he was twelve years of age, but it was very demanding. Thankfully, coming to London twice in the spring had forced him to delegate duties, so he had left the office in the capable hands of a manager.
"I know you did. I'm so happy you're here." Pulling back enough to see his face, she patted his cheek as if he were a child. "Tom." She greeted his secretary. After their pleasantries were exchanged, she instructed the footman to show him to a bedroom.
Taking Max's hand, she tugged him toward the stairs. "How was your voyage?"
"Fine. What have the doctors said?"
"His heart is weak, but you'll have to ask August for the specifics." She waved him off. "She's up with him now. You know me. I can't keep track of those medical terms. The important thing is that he is improving. They believe that with rest he will recover."
"He's been working too hard." It wasn't a question, because they all knew how much the man worked. He was up early every morning and spent the evening at all the social events London had to offer. He wasn't resting like he should. "You both must come home to New York." At least there they maintained a more conventional schedule.
"You'll have to take that up with Papa."
She smiled, but he could sense her reluctance. She didn't want to leave the social acceptance they had found in London. With one daughter married to a duke and another married to an earl, all ballrooms were open to them. Things were different in New York. As new money, the Crenshaws had been excluded from the upper echelons of Society. Mrs. Astor kept her list of the best families in New York, and his family wasn't on it, or they hadn't been before the marriages into nobility.
While this had never bothered anyone but his parents, the allure of acceptance had proven too much for them to resist. And it looked as if it was proving to be their downfall. First, they had sacrificed their daughters, and now Papa's health.
Clenching his jaw to keep from insisting, he held his breath as she pushed open the door to Papa's bedroom. August rose from her seat beside the bed, but his gaze went past her to their father lying back against the pillows. Max's breath caught in his chest at how pale and wan his father looked. The man who was always so in control of the world around him appeared to have lost at least twenty pounds in weight, possibly more. His skin seemed to hang on his cheekbones. For the first time, Max understood how close they had come to losing him, and it left him feeling weak.
"Max." His father's eyes lit up in a way that made the tightness in Max's chest ease the tiniest bit.
"I'm so glad you're here." August closed the leather-bound journal she had been holding and hurried over to hug him.
"Good afternoon, Papa. August."
His sister smiled up at him, but she looked exhausted. Blue tinged the pale skin beneath her eyes, and lines bracketed her mouth where he hadn't noticed any before. She had worked at Crenshaw Iron since she had been old enough to insist upon it. At first Papa had humored her interest in numbers and analysis, but she had proven herself to be more than capable. She had come to London with their parents to help build the European branch of their business, and she had excelled at the task. Max had a sinking suspicion, however, that she was as overworked as Papa, a condition that had likely worsened as she had shouldered their father's workload while he convalesced.
"What are the doctors saying?" Max asked, releasing August and walking over to the bedside to squeeze his father's disturbingly frail shoulder.
Papa gave a low cough. "You know doctors. What do they ever say? Rest, take in fresh air." He shrugged. "I'll be better in a few days."
August's brows drew together in concern. "You will improve, Papa, I have no doubt about it, but it will take weeks to recover from the attacks."
"Attacks? There was more than the one?" Alarm caused Max to speak louder than he meant to.
Mother gave a soft mew of displeasure and left the room, as if the conversation was too much for her. August put a calming hand on his back.
"It was only the one at Farthingtons' soiree," Papa said.
"We were all at a party hosted by the Earl of Farthington when the attack happened," August explained. To her father, she said, "No, the doctors are certain you had another two days later."
Papa waved his hand as if the event wasn't worth mentioning.
Her mouth turned down in displeasure. "We were home, and he was supposed to be resting. But he was drowning in reports and correspondence that he had sent over from the office behind my back. He had another episode."
"It wasn't as severe as the first one," Papa interrupted.
Ignoring him, August went on. "The doctors called it angina pectoris. Essentially, it's pain of the heart caused by periodic loss of oxygen and is a sign of heart disease. They suspect there is an accumulation of fatty tissue compressing the organ."
"I am as healthy as an ox."
"An ox with a heart problem," August shot back but walked over and gave him a kiss on his cheek to soften the words. "I have to go now. Evan sends his regrets for not accompanying me. He had a meeting with his estate manager. We have a dinner to attend, but we'll stop by and check on you on our way home." To Max she said, "We can talk more tonight, but let's have breakfast in the morning to discuss how to proceed."
Max agreed, and she departed, leaving the room feeling eerily still in her wake. The only sounds were the ticking of the clock on the mantel and the chime of the doorbell downstairs. "Healthy as an ox?" Max said, taking a seat in the vacated chair.
One corner of the older man's mouth turned upward, and his eyes seemed to visibly fade. "She worries too much, so I play along."
Max's own heart seemed to stutter in his chest at his father's admission. "Then you did have more chest pain?"
Papa nodded. "A bit, yes. There was another time as well, but I didn't see a need to mention it. What are the doctors going to do? They've prescribed plenty of rest, bone broth to thin the blood, and a tonic." He gestured toward a brown glass bottle with a cork stopper on the nightstand.
What indeed? The energy that had spurred Max onward since he'd received the telegram about Papa's health drained away. Running a hand across the back of his neck to ease the tightness there, he said, "I've arranged to stay several weeks, longer if needed. August and I can see to the office here while you rest. After that, once you're stronger, you and Mother will return to New York with me."
"Leave London?" His face closed in mulish disagreement. "No, I can't see that happening until at least the spring. Perhaps longer. I've been working all summer on plans for India. We already have production underway to lay a thousand miles of track. As a matter of fact, I was hoping to take a trip there before returning to New York."
"A trip to India?" A trip like that could kill him. "Are you out of your mind?"
"Not now, obviously. I had hoped for January, but I concede it might not be the best time, so perhaps in March before it gets too terribly hot. I'll need to see the progress we're making with my own eyes. The railroads will have begun by then. No, don't give me that look; you remind me of your sisters. I will be better then."
"Papa, this is absurd. It is far too early to discuss trips abroad. Besides, you know I don't approve of this India expansion."
"I am aware of your feelings on the matter." Sighing, he added, "I suppose you're right. There are more important matters to discuss now."
Max's stomach churned in warning. "No, you need to rest and recover. Everything else can wait."
"I'm afraid this can't." His father's full mustache twitched in the way that it always did when he had to deliver unpleasant news.
Max sighed and sat back in the chair, stretching his long legs out before him and crossing them at the ankles. The upholstery creaked in protest. At six feet and three inches in bare feet and with a solid frame, protesting furniture was a common problem. There was no escaping what was coming, so he might as well get comfortable. "I believe I know where this is heading, but say it anyway."
"We need to begin thinking about the family legacy." The lines on his face seemed to deepen.
Max had been prepared to suffer through a monologue about the need for him to take the lead in their European venture, which would have effectively taken that role from August. While Papa had been somewhat supportive of her role in the company, he considered it an indulgence and wasn't above taking it away. Max was not prepared for this. "The what?"
"The legacy. I would like to have a hand in guiding my grandchildren through the ranks of Crenshaw Iron. I must admit that this . . . spell has given me cause to consider the fact that I may not be immortal as I had once hoped. In fact, I wonder if I will live long enough to see grandchildren through the ranks at all."
Max swallowed against a lump threatening to clog his throat. "Don't speak that way. Violet is with child now and due to deliver in the new year. August could-"
"August has informed me in no uncertain terms that she plans to wait to have children. Besides, her firstborn son will be too busy learning how to be a duke to run Crenshaw Iron. The same goes for Violet's child, and neither of them will be Crenshaws. They won't carry the name, and they'll have responsibilities here."
Max wasn't entirely insensitive to his father's suggestion. All his life he had embraced the Crenshaw legacy, begun by his grandfather, and imagined his own son taking over the reins of the company-though now that August had proven herself so adept, perhaps that mantle could be picked up by a daughter. While he had welcomed the idea, it had always been one that would be realized far into the future. Into his thirties. Not now at the age of twenty-eight when his life was so busy. He had assumed he would have another five years at least before considering the responsibilities of a wife and child.
"Let's talk about this later, Papa. As you said, you will recover."
The older man shook his head, his groomed and oiled hair shining in the lamplight. "We must speak of it now. While I do believe I will recover somewhat, I am not so foolish to believe I will be as good as before. I'm old, Max, but I still know a thing or two about planning for the long run. We must begin laying the foundation now. I want you married by the end of the year."
"Good God, Papa, that's not even two months!"
Papa held up a placating hand. "Yes, I'm aware. I'll settle for an engagement."
Max regarded his father through a narrowed gaze. The man was shrewd when it came to negotiation. He would bargain with the Devil himself to get what he wanted, and Max felt no relief in the knowledge that he was his son. One only had to look at how Papa had negotiated August into accepting her marriage to see that. There would be consequences if Max chose not to agree to his father's terms.
His jaw clenched in anger, he said, "You're trying to manipulate me, to use me like my sisters."
The corner of Papa's mouth quirked upward again. "Aren't you and August always harping on me about equality among the sexes? Well, I have taken your words to heart. A son should marry just as a daughter should."
"I don't know what you have planned, but I will choose my wife. I won't have some brainless pawn served up to me."
"You would never stand for that. I would have nothing less from you. Despite how you might feel about my machinations in the past, I do appreciate the fact that when I'm gone August and Violet will be left in good hands. I have only wanted what is best for them."
Now Max was genuinely bemused. "I don't understand. If you don't have someone in mind, then why-?"
"Oh, I have several young women in mind. Amelia Van der Meer for one." Max was already shaking his head, but Papa continued. "Her father is a good friend and respectable businessman."
"Is she even Violet's age?"
“You mean the Violet who is now married with a child on the way?”
“I won’t marry someone so young.” He needed a wife he could talk to about his day over dinner, not one who would smile mindlessly at him as she fell over herself to see to his needs. The memory of the one time he had been foolish enough to allow Amelia to corner him at a party sent him to his feet in a state of agitation. Rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, he walked to the pitcher on the bureau across the room and poured himself a glass of water. Miss Van der Meer had all but pawed at him in her bid to keep him to herself.
“I understand,” said Papa, but Max rather thought he didn’t. “That’s why I don’t want to suggest anyone. It’s not so much who the lucky young woman is as long you marry soon.” There was a brief pause, then he added, “Any woman you choose would need to be respectable, of course. Wealth would be a boon, but not necessary. Did you have anyone in mind?”
Unbidden, an image of Helena came to mind. She was looking at him in disapproval, with a slight smile curving her generous lips, after he had just informed her that she had been wrong. Violet had run away with Christian, and Helena had insisted they go to his Scottish estate to find them. But none of the staff there had heard from the wayward couple. After that, he and Helena had spent several days combing the countryside for his sister before finding her with Christian in a small village outside of York.
Nothing untoward had happened between Max and Helena on the trip; they had both been too worried for Violet’s safety to entertain a flirtation, except something had happened. The devil if he knew how to describe exactly what. He had become familiar with her every emotion and how each of them reflected on her lovely face. He admired her intelligence and her quick humor, and in the months since, he’d been unable to stop thinking of her.
She wouldn’t want to marry him, though. She was settled in London and Somerset, and her family was here. It wasn’t as if he knew her well enough to even consider marriage, but he liked what he knew about her. There would be no vapid dinner conversations with her.
No. She was a lady who inhabited a completely different world.
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