All the Ways to Ruin a Rogue (The Debutante Files #2)(4)

A pair of fresh-faced debutantes strolled past Max and his cohorts, sending them long, flirtatious glances.

“Look there now. The Pelby sisters are looking fine this day.” Will nudged a scowling Declan with an elbow. “There are perks to be had for enduring one of my mother’s parties.”

“ ‘Perks’?” Declan groused. “You cannot touch any of these ‘perks.’ ” He kicked at the ground with a boot. “Not unless you want to face a parson’s trap. Damned frustrating, if you ask me. It’s like being shown a feast but permitted only water to sip.”

Will chuckled.

Max agreed. Not that he was complaining, of course. His morning tryst had well sated him. He was now content to while away the holiday with his friends.

“I’m not jesting.” Declan leveled both of them a somber look. “I say we slip away to visit the local tavern.”

Max scanned the horizon of tables and guests, searching for a pair of dark brown plaits. He doubted her mother would allow her to attend the party, but he knew Aurelia couldn’t be far. She was indomitable that way. If a party was afoot, she would not be one to miss it. Even if that meant she hid beneath a table.

In her last missive, she had promised to show him the progress she had made with her sketching. Not that he was any judge of fine art, but he appreciated her talent. Almost as much as he appreciated her. She might be a young girl, but Aurelia was an amusing and clever little thing. He smiled and slightly shook his head. She might also very well be the only female he called friend.

“Come.” Will’s voice distracted Max from his search. “I have something to take your minds off the unattainable perks of my mother’s garden party.” Will patted the front of his jacket. At Max’s lifted eyebrow, Will lifted his jacket, revealing a glimpse of the flask inside. “Something to divert, eh?”

“That’s a blasted fine idea,” Declan said, nodding. “Let’s get to it, lads.” He led them through the thick press of guests and around the side of the house.

They did not advance very far before noticing a group of laughing young bucks near the large oak tree that Aurelia often sat beneath with her sketch pad. Apparently they’d had enough of the garden party’s niceties as well.

Max marked several familiar faces in the group, including that of Archibald Lewis, the vicar’s son. He could scarcely tolerate the fellow, but, unfortunately, he was a neighbor of Will’s and he had to be endured.

“Who invited Lewis?” Declan grumbled.

“He’s my neighbor, Dec,” Will replied as they strolled toward the group. “And the vicar’s son. How could we not invite him? Let’s get this over with.” There was no escape greeting them.

“At least hide the flask,” Dec grumbled. “I’m not sharing it with the likes of Fish-Stink Lewis.” Lewis had a certain unpleasant aroma that had earned him the designation among their set.

Archibald Lewis looked up at their approach. “Speak of the devil!” he chortled, waving a pad in the air.

Lewis’s three companions swung around. The instant their gazes landed on Max they broke into loud guffaws. Two of them bent over, clutching their guts as though in pain. Will and Dec exchanged bewildered glances with Max. He shrugged back at them, at a loss over the men’s hysterics.

“What’s so blasted funny, Lewis?” Will asked.

The vicar’s son wiped tears of mirth from his blotchy face. “I had no idea this garden party would be so amusing, Merlton.” He shoved the pad they had been studying at Will.

Max leaned forward and stared down at the parchment, which depicted a caricature of himself. He wrested the pad from Will and looked his fill, absorbing the grossly exaggerated image. The blood rushed to his face as his gaze devoured the picture. The features were definitely his.

Even if the horns on his head were not.

Even if the tiny, minuscule cock was not.

If he had to hazard a guess, he would say that the artist’s knowledge of male anatomy stemmed from observations of ancient Greek art. Michaelangelo could have fashioned no smaller a cock than this.

“What . . . who—” Will sputtered.

Dec only gaped, shaking his head in bewilderment.

But Max knew the artist.

As uproarious laughter spun around him, the knowledge penetrated Max like claws locking deep. He knew instantly whose sketch pad he held. He knew of Aurelia’s penchant for drawing better than anyone. No one else possessed a thimbleful of the talent necessary for this level of skill.

“Cockless Camden!” Lewis hooted, doubling over and slapping his knee.

Max lowered the pad and glared at Lewis. Several of the others took up the chant and he saw red. A muscle ticked in his jaw. He felt it there, pulsing in violent rhythm with his fury.

Will took Max by the arm and tried to pull him away. “Come. Let us go.”

He shook his head, unable to move. Unable to see anything past the haze of red. Unable to feel anything past the sting of Aurelia’s betrayal flowing in his veins and settling acrid in his mouth.

Why? Why would she have sketched him thusly? She was a child . . . and his friend for all of that. His gaze dropped back to the image of himself—a horned satyr with wild eyes and a shrunken manhood. Was it mere jest to her? And how could she have left it for others to find? She had to know it would be discovered. Especially this day of the garden party.