by Alyson Chase
He didn’t like it.
And his restlessness had nothing to do with the coffee. Juliana sat across from him, looking as calm and collected as no woman had the right to look after the night they had spent.
The things he had done to her.
His groin tightened at the memories.
There had been nothing in his apartments that morning to feed her, so Brogan had taken Juliana to the coffeehouse near his office. A half-eaten jam tart rested in front of her along with a steaming cup of chocolate.
Juliana slid her finger through a bit of jelly that streaked her plate and brought it to her mouth.
Brogan pulled at the leg of his trousers, hoping to give his poor, teased cock some breathing room as she sucked at the tip of her finger. The little minx must know what effect she had on him.
He knew how his body felt about the woman seated across from him; he didn't know quite how to feel about what they'd done last night, however.
She was the most enticing woman he'd ever met. She knew what she wanted, and she put all her efforts into getting it. Unfortunately, what she seemed to want was him. And he had doubts about the intelligence of that.
“Are you expecting an attack from some quarter?” she asked. “Some dangerous criminal to draw down on you?”
He started. “What? What are you talking about?”
She shrugged. “You've been tense all morning. As though you're expecting something bad to happen at any moment.”
He blew out a long breath and rolled his shoulders. She was right. She just didn’t realize that she was the threat he was wary of. “I'm fine.”
She dabbed her lips with her napkin. A rousing chorus of jeers and laughter at the table next to theirs made those lips curve upwards.
Juliana was a strange woman. She even joined in other people’s joy, and he had a hard time seeking his own. It was a realization that didn’t sit well. He didn’t want to live a cheerless life.
He didn’t want to live an immoral one, either.
“Look,” she said, “things don't have to be awkward between us. I think you're making too much of last night. I know you think there can be nothing between us. But we aren't even at the point of seeing if we would want to make each other promises. Can't we just enjoy each other and see where it goes? It might end in a month. We might become sick of the sight of each other.”
He snorted. “I sincerely doubt that.” His gaze dropped to her bosom, her hips. Even covered in a thick, scarlet silk, her body was a tempting sight. He finally had an accurate image of her every inch, no imagination needed. And it wasn't something he'd ever tire of seeing.
She leaned forward. “This doesn't have to be complicated. We'll make it whatever works best for us.”
Brogan ground his back teeth. She made it sound simple, something easily had… and easily broken off. He should be grateful she felt the way she did. Grateful she wouldn’t cling or cry when their affair came to its inevitable end.
But would a few tears be too much to ask for? Her nonchalant attitude grated on his nerves. “An affair between you, an unmarried daughter of an earl, and me, a Cit, is not only complicated, but scandalous if it ever comes to light.”
“We’ll be discreet.” She picked up her cup. “Such things are not as uncommon for my set as you might think.”
He gripped the edge of the table. How casual she was. How careless. The sentiments she’d developed from her unusual education had made their affair possible, but it also made her blind to its dangers.
In civilized circles, their liaison was unthinkable.
Letting her go was equally so.
He slapped his hand on the table. She made it sound simple, and perhaps it could be. Perhaps he was thinking too far ahead. It was better to enjoy the moment, sweet as it was, and not worry about the future.
“All right,” he said. “One day at a time.”
The door to the coffeehouse swung open and two familiar figures strolled inside.
Brogan nodded at Wil and Lord Summerset, one of the owners of the agency.
Wil caught his eye and changed direction, heading toward their table, the earl a step behind.
“Good morning,” Lord Summerset said. He tipped his hat to Juliana, a monstrously tall, purple job that matched his waistcoat. He flicked the rim of it with his thumb, looking for all the world like he was proud of the eyesore. “I see you share my affection for this coffeehouse, Mr. Duffy. And who might this charming companion of yours be?”
Wil gripped his hips. “Lady Juliana Wickham is a client of the agency. Mr. Duffy has been assigned her case.”
“And you breakfast with our clients to show them the full array of services our agency provides.” Summerset arched an eyebrow. “I applaud your dedication.”
Wil cleared his throat. “There was an attempt on Lady Juliana’s life. She is staying with Mr. Duffy until we know she is safe.”
“I see.” Summerset smirked at Brogan before turning his charm on Juliana. “I do hope our agency is providing everything you might desire, Lady Juliana.”
“Quite,” she said. Brogan had to give her credit. Her voice was unruffled, but the faintest hint of a blush stained her cheeks. Perhaps she wasn’t as worldly as she pretended. “In fact, just this day we might come to a resolution of the case.”
Wil looked to Brogan.
He told his employers of Pickens sending a note asking to speak to them.
“Good,” Wil said. “The sooner this business is over, the better it will be for Lady Juliana. For all involved.” The look he gave Brogan carried significance, and Brogan flushed.
“You look familiar, Lady Juliana.” Summerset placed his hand on the back of her chair and leaned forwards, much too close for Brogan’s liking. Much too smirking and simpering. The earl was married, and by all accounts happily so, but marriage hadn’t taken the flirtation out of him. “Did we dance together at Lady Mary’s fête last autumn?”
Juliana favored him with a smile the earl didn’t deserve. “I was there, but didn’t dance. Though we weren’t formally introduced, I believe we were in the same circle of conversation at one point. Lady Mary does have the most interesting evenings. She is one of my favorites.”
Summerset smiled. “Mine too. Are you planning on attending—”
Brogan stood. “Well, we must get going.” He rounded the table and pulled Juliana's chair back. “The day is getting on.”
Juliana looked to her half-eaten tart to him, and sighed. She stood. “Yes, we have an appointment with Mr. Pickens, one I don't want to be late for.”
They made their farewells and left the coffeehouse. They climbed into an agency carriage and rolled away.
“Do you not care for your employer?” Juliana asked.
Brogan looked out the window. “He's fine.”
“Is it a problem with nobility in general that you object to then?”
Brogan narrowed his eyes. “I object to nothing in general. I look to specifics. The earl is as fine a man as any.”
“Do you ever socialize with him?”
Brogan shot her a sharp look. “Of course not.”
She lifted her hands, palms up. “Why? He's not a different species. You have interests in common. Would he snub you?”
Brogan shook his head. “I, and all the other agents, were invited to his home for a holiday party. The earl, all the owners of the Bond Agency, have extremely varied acquaintances. I was unable to attend.” Rather, he’d chosen not to go. He worked with the men. He didn’t need to be friends with them.
“Then it is you,” she said. “You seem to think you have a place in this world, a box you should remain within.” She looked at her skirts. “A box I might not fit into.”
She didn't fit into his life. And yet they fit together so very, very well in other respects.
They passed the remainder of the journey in silence. Brogan could feel her hopes as though they were a tangible thing.
&
nbsp; He wanted to share them, but commonsense prevailed.
He flipped back and forth between believing that they could just enjoy each other day to day, to knowing they would come to an end soon.
At the prison, he helped Juliana down and led her through the streets to reach the front gates. He pounded on the door, sliding his other hand into his pocket for his billfold. How much would this visit cost the agency?
Whatever it was, it would be worth it if it brought the threat to Juliana to an end.
A guard he didn't recognize opened the door. “What?”
“We’re here to see Mr. Pickens.” Brogan held up a banknote as encouragement.
The guard’s face hardened. “Pickens won't be seeing nobody today.”
Brogan’s shoulders went back. The prison couldn't still be closed for inspection. Was this an extortion attempt for more blunt?
The guard glanced at Juliana then at the space over Brogan’s shoulder, saying nothing. He looked as immovable as a gargoyle.
There was shuffling behind him, and the door swung wide. A familiar face poked his head out. The guard he’d dealt with previously looked longingly at the banknote Brogan held.
“Forgive my friend,” he said. “He doesn't mean to be rude. He doesn't know any other way.”
That garnered a glare from his fellow guard.
The second guard wrinkled his nose. “What he meant to say is that Pickens won't be seeing anybody at any time. He was killed yesterday.”
Chapter Eighteen
Juliana paced the wooden floors of the agency's office, making sharp turns at either end of the room. She bit back oath after oath. Her frustration should have boiled her blood.
Dead.
She couldn't believe it. Right when Pickens was ready to talk. The timing of it seemed too coincidental to be believed. Could someone have set it in motion?
Brogan sat on the corner of his desk, arms crossed, speaking to Wilberforce. “The guard said a fight broke out yesterday in the common area during afternoon exercise. Two other people are receiving care for knife wounds, but Pickens was dead when the doctor arrived.”
“And the man wielding the knife?” Wil absently rubbed his thigh.
“No one seems to know who it was. No one saw, or at least no one's talking.” Brogan ran his hand up the back of his hair. “There was a mass of bodies rolling about and the guards couldn't see who was doing what.”
“And your one lead is dead.” Wil’s voice showed as much disbelief as Juliana felt.
Brogan nodded.
“It can't be coincidence,” she said. “It would be too providential for the person responsible for the attacks against my father to have the one person who could name him die before he spoke.”
She leaned against the windowsill. “How hard would it be to pay someone to kill Pickens inside the prison?”
Wil pursed his lips. “Not hard at all.”
She slapped the wall and started pacing again.
Their one lead gone.
“My brother must see the truth in my suspicions now,” she said. “Once I tell him Pickens was killed, he’ll have to believe me. Do more to protect our father. Question all the servants, investigate his friends. Something. Anything.”
“Our questions and investigations have discovered nothing.” Brogan flexed his hand. “I don't see how you brother’s would do any better,” he grumbled.
She frowned. Men and their egos. “I just mean it will be nice not to have to work against my brother in this matter.” She nodded. “I must talk to him.”
“If you wish,” Brogan said. “But for men predisposed not to believe any danger exists, this will easily be brushed away. Prisons are full of violent people. A violent act occurred. Pickens getting killed isn’t all that unlikely.”
“Even my brother,” she began then paused. No, her brother probably wouldn't see the truth of this. He would believe it was naught but coincidence because that was what he wanted to believe. It didn't mean she didn't have to try.
She checked the clock in the office. “I'd still like to talk to him.”
Brogan stood and gathered his coat. He paused when Wil grabbed his arm and whispered something in his ear.
Brogan tensed, but nodded. Keeping his gaze averted, he led Juliana from the office.
She fiddled with the hem of her glove on the ride to her family's rented townhouse. Last night had been amazing. Today, not so much. She knew Brogan had regrets. She wasn’t used to being someone’s regret. She didn’t like the feeling. And she didn't know how to allay his concerns.
She wasn't looking to trap Brogan. And they were obviously compatible. Why couldn't the blasted man just enjoy what they had? Why did he have to see a barrier where none existed? It was like he intentionally looked for an excuse for them to fail.
He was a pessimist. Like he didn't expect his life to go the way he wished it. She chewed on the inside of her cheek. Perhaps his life never had gone the way he wanted.
She'd had it easy. When she wanted something, she almost always got it. Brogan had to work for everything he had. He faced struggle after struggle.
Would he work to have her? Was she worth the struggle?
They rolled to a stop in front of a three-story townhouse. Juliana got out of the carriage and stared at up at her family’s London residence. She lived there almost as much as she lived in Bluff Hall. She knew every inch of every hall and still, standing there before it, she felt like a stranger.
She trudged up the steps and knocked at the door like a guest.
Mr. Johnson, the butler, gave her a smile and a nod when he opened the door. “Lady Juliana. It’s very good to see you.”
“Thank you. Mr. Johnson.” She and Brogan stepped into the entry. “Is my brother at home?”
“No, my lady.”
“Did he go to his club?” She looked up the steps. Everything was quiet. Solemn almost. She couldn’t remember much laughter in the house, but today it seemed excessively glum. The oppressiveness of Bluff Hall had extended here.
“I don't believe so, my lady. The carriage went in the opposite direction.” Seeing as they weren’t removing their coats and hats, Johnson folded his hands.
Juliana sucked on her lower lip. She didn't think any of their societies or salons had meetings today, but Snow had a busy social life. He could be anywhere.
The butler cleared his throat. “The driver has told me that my lord frequents an apartment above a tea house on Butler Street of late. He seems to meet there a couple times a week.”
Juliana gripped the man's forearm and squeezed. “Thank you, Mr. Johnson.” It was improper for a butler to speak of his master's whereabouts, but the servants had always favored Juliana over her brother. A fact for which she was becoming increasingly grateful.
With one last squeeze of his arm. Juliana turned and skipped down the steps back to the carriage.
Brogan handed her in and gave the driver directions.
“Should we send a note ahead?” Brogan asked.
Juliana tipped her head. “Why?”
“In case…” Brogan paused. “Well, if he’s in an apartment… Your brother could be...” He shifted.
“In flagrante delicto?” Juliana supplied. She shook her head. “It’s the afternoon. Broad daylight.”
Brogan dipped his chin and gave her a look. “Desire doesn’t account for the time of day.” He proved his point by giving her a very lascivious look up and down her body.
She pulled at her fichu, suddenly warm. “Be that as it may, we’re talking about my brother. He’s not like that. Too… cold-blooded. He's probably just with a friend.”
Brogan arched an eyebrow. “You brother is in a relationship with Miss Lynn, the woman from your salon. Does that sound cold-blooded?”
“What?” She fell back against the carriage seat. “Why do you think that?”
“I saw the way they looked at each other, the subtle touches.” He ran hi
s finger over her knee. “Something only lovers would do.”
She thought about that. She also thought about climbing onto Brogan’s lap here in the carriage and having her way with him. But Butler Street wasn’t far so she turned her mind back to her brother.
Snow did seem fond of the woman, more than Miss Lynn’s abrasive personality would warrant. She was attractive, no doubt, but Snow needed something more than just obvious charms. Perhaps Juliana had misjudged the woman. Perhaps hidden depths lay within.
She smoothed her skirt. “Still, I'm sure wherever he is now, it'll be fine for us to call. He is my brother and I have something urgent to speak with him about.”
Brogan shrugged. “As you say.”
They found the tea shop and, ignoring the delightful smells of fresh bread, they climbed the steps to the apartments above.
Brogan knocked.
Expecting a maid servant to answer the door, Juliana’s eyes popped wide when it was her brother’s face that appeared instead. “Snow?”
His posture stiffened. “What are you doing here?”
“I've come to speak with you.” She peered over his shoulder. “I don't want to interrupt your… meeting? But it is most important.”
He pressed his lips together. “It’s a small gathering from the Rising Sun Society.”
Her brother had taken her to one of that society’s meetings. There had been a lot of shouting and anger over the inequalities in England, but no productive ideas. Juliana had only attended once. She’d forgotten Snow was a member.
“Snowdon, who’s there?” a woman's voice called.
Juliana had also forgotten that the Rising Sun was where Snow had met Miss Lynn, and then brought her into Voltaire and the Rose Salon.
“My sister and her…” Snowdon narrowed his eyes at Brogan.
“Her friend.” Brogan folded his arms across his chest.
“Well, let them in,” Miss Lynn said.
Her brother sighed, but did as he was told.
Juliana stepped into a small room, made even more confining by the abundance of furniture, knickknacks, and rugs piled everywhere. At the far wall, a striking cerulean blue settee drew the eye. Arranged on top was Miss Bella Lynn, wearing nothing but a silk robe. Her calves were bare, along with one shoulder as she lay on her belly, posing.