by Alyson Chase
A man sat across from her, an easel before him, painting the image.
Another man sat scowling in the corner.
“Lady Juliana, Mr. Duffy,” Miss Lynn said, “how lovely of you to join us.”
Brogan stiffened beside her. He studiously kept his gaze everywhere but on Miss Lynn and her partial nudity.
Juliana’s heart melted. He was a dear man.
“We don't mean to intrude,” she said. “I came to speak to my brother about some important news.”
“By all means.” Miss Lynn waved her arm. “We were merely discussing the constitutional rumblings being heard in Spain, and how such an uprising might sweep across England, as well. Nothing too important we can’t spare Snowdon.”
Juliana bit the inside of her cheek. Insolent woman. How did Snow stand her company?
“Well?” Snowdon said. “What is it?” He tapped his foot and looked longingly over his shoulder, back at Miss Lynn.
Juliana shook her head. Brogan had been right. He had seen something that she had not. Her brother was most definitely infatuated.
She drew him into a corner of the room and used Brogan’s large body to block them from view. And hopefully from hearing.
“It's about Mr. Pickens,” she whispered.
“Pickens,” he exclaimed, loud enough for the patrons of the tea shop below to hear. “Why would I care about that man?”
Juliana sighed. “He's dead. Killed. He said he wanted to speak with me and Bro— Mr. Duffy, and then was murdered the next day. Do you not find that suspicious?”
Snowdon scratched his ear “Should I?”
“Yes.” Juliana flapped her hands. Sometimes, her brother was impossible. “He wanted to talk to me, he was going to tell us who had hired him to go after father. And then he gets killed. The timing of it is too—”
“Improbable,” Snow said. He shook his head. “Your whole story is improbable. The man was a criminal. He was killed by another criminal. That's the way life goes. Truly, Jules, I begin to worry for you.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “That is not—”
Brogan nudged her. He shook his head.
She took a deep breath, trying to calm her ire. Her brother probably needed time to fully assess the situation. It was shocking news. He would come around. “Well, I thought you ought to know.”
“And now I do.” He stepped around Brogan and picked up a platter, heavy with grapes and orange wedges. He brought it to the model on the settee. “You've been posing for hours. You must be hungry.”
She plucked a fat grape from its stem. “So, was the news your sister imparted as interesting as she made it sound?”
He scoffed. “Hardly. Just my father's former secretary, apparently dead, killed in prison. Saves the Crown the expense of a trial. Good riddance, I say.”
Miss Lynn sat up, readjusting her robe as it threatened to expose more than just a shoulder. “The Crown can spare the blunt in order to provide a fair trial to one of its citizens. Truly, Snowdon. Sometimes I do despair of you.”
The man in the corner snorted. “What did you expect from the son of an earl? A humanitarian?”
Miss Lynn’s lip curled. “Lady Juliana, have you met my brother?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.” Juliana stepped forward and inclined her head. Upon closer examination, she could see this must be the brother who had been in the riots last year. He showed signs of serious injury. One eye was discolored, milky, as though covered in a thin layer of egg white. He held his left arm close to his side, protectively, and a wooden brace covered the lower portion of his leg.
“How do you do?” she asked.
He said nothing, just looked at her with contempt.
“Jacob, play nice,” his sister reproached him.
But it was only when Brogan stepped up beside her and glowered at the man that he deigned to nod.
“And this is Philippe LaConte.” Miss Lynn pointed to the artist. “A name you, and everyone else, shall soon recognize.”
He waved his paintbrush in the air, but kept his focus on the canvas.
“I seem to have become one of his favorite models,” Miss Lynn said.
The artist glared at her. “You'd be even more favored if you'd stay in position.”
Miss Lynn sighed dramatically but rolled back to her belly. She gave the painter a wink. “Have you heard of the pressure being brought on King Ferdinand? How the people are demanding he restore the constitution?” she asked, Juliana. “If your father has any influence in the House of Lords, don't you think it would be good for him to propose such reforms here as well?”
“I have heard of Spain’s troubles.” Some saw them as an opportunity to bring freedom to more of the world. Others worried it would be a repeat of France. Juliana was of both minds. She wanted more opportunity and rights for the lower classes, but after hearing Madame Tussaud speak to the Rose Salon of her time casting death masks on all the severed heads in Paris, well… She shivered. That wasn’t something she ever wanted to see happen in England.
“I’m not sure how my father feels about such reforms,” she said. “I do know he would do much to prevent seeing our streets run red with blood like they did in France.”
Miss Lynn flapped her hand. “It was a noble attempt on the French citizens’ part. And if it inspires other countries to revolt, it was all for the good.”
“Can that amount of blood spilled ever be good?” Juliana asked. Although America seemed to be making a go of it, and much blood had been spilled in that war.
Miss Lynn fluttered her fingers. “That business was over years ago.”
“Over for some,” Brogan said, his voice low. “Many still live with the consequences of what the French revolutionaries did. Those left without mothers or fathers, sons or daughters.”
“So, he does talk.” Miss Lynn rolled to her hip. “I thought you were just here to look pretty.”
Snow handed her another grape. “That's your job, my dear.”
Miss Lynn rolled her eyes.
“Not that you don't have many other fine attributes,” Snow quickly added. “Your mind is as sharp as a razor.”
“No need to go overboard,” Miss Lynn said. She turned her attention back to Juliana. “Well, what do you say? Will you at least broach the subject with your father? This one,” she gave Snowdon a look, “seems to have no influence with the man.”
Most likely because their father knew Snow had never had an interest in politics before, and a suggestion now would be curious, to say the least.
She watched as her brother fed Miss Lynn another grape. A small shiver worked its way down Juliana’s spine. Juliana wondered that her brother seemed happy to act the acolyte. He was much different with this woman than he was at home.
Brogan’s arm brushed against hers, and she leaned into him.
She supposed she acted differently with her lovers, as well.
Jacob chuckled. “The impotent viscount. You sure do know how to pick ‘em, sister.”
Snowdon straightened. “My father and I no longer see eye to eye on a great many things, but I will try again. That's what's best for the people of England, of course.”
Juliana barely bit back her response. When have you ever cared about what was best for the people of England? His new friends might be having a benevolent effect on her brother. She might not agree with the policies he wanted, but caring about the hardships of those in the world around him was a solid first step in becoming the man she wanted him to be.
And one day, he would be earl. Be a member of Parliament, be able to effect change. Make a difference. While she…
Her stomach twisted.
While she attended lectures, salons, discussions. She learned as much as she could, but what did she actually accomplish? What good was she to the world? She swallowed. It wasn’t Snow’s fault he had been born the son. That he had a path to be of service. It was only to the good that he fin
ally became serious about his responsibilities.
But jealousy gnawed at her. Along with the fear that she would remain useless throughout her life.
“Have you heard from our father lately?” Juliana asked, proud that her swirling emotions weren’t revealed in her steady voice. “Is he still at Rose’s house?”
“Yes.” Snowdon sat on the edge of the settee, swinging his leg. “You know how he loves the plum puddings Rose’s cook makes. I swear, he'll come back a stone heavier.”
Juliana’s lips curled up. She remember that cook, as well, and hoped her father enjoyed every bite.
“Plum pudding?” Miss Lynn sat up. “That does sound good. Anyone else want Snowdon to pop down to the tea room for a little snack? Get us some pastries and breads, will you?”
The artist put in an order for currant cake. Her brother demanded a sandwich.
Snowdon nodded. “I'll just show you out as I go down, shall I, Jules?”
Nodding, she and Brogan followed her brother down the steps and out onto the street.
She adjusted the brim of her hat to block the sun’s rays. “Think about what I said, will you Snow? Tell Father to stay where he is for a while more until this gets sorted out. With Mr. Pickens dying—"
“Pickens tried to steal from father. He tried to hurt you. Now he's dead. I see nothing bad in this.”
Juliana’s shoulders slumped. Unless something was staring him right in the face, her brother would never see it. “All right, Snow. Take care.” She rose up on her toes and kissed his cheek.
He hurried inside the shop without a backward glance.
Juliana blew out a breath. “My brother…”
“Is an idiot.” Brogan cupped her elbow and led her to the carriage.
She settled her skirts on the bench and sat. “He’s not an idiot. And his new friends seem to have an improving effect upon him. He never used to care about the working man.”
Brogan leaned into the corner of his carriage and stretched out his leg so his boot rested next to her hip. “You think that was him caring about the little man? He only cares about acceptance from his peer group.”
Juliana frowned. “That is too harsh. And even if true, why does he want to be accepted by that particular group? He could seek acceptance with his stuffy club members at White’s. No, his befriending such reform-minded people can only be for the good.”
Brogan snorted but said nothing.
“Surely you cannot disagree with the ideals of reform.” She prodded his leg. “It is aimed to help men such as yourself.”
He stared at her flatly. “It is men like me who are the ones to fight and die in revolutions. The world can change without such reforms. It is changing now. Fifty years ago, a man born to a woodworker would never have had the chance to sit at a desk working as an investigator.”
“But still, our society doesn’t treat you as equal.” She swallowed. She hated that he could be looked down upon by anyone, especially by those she considered friends. But he would be. And it wasn’t fair. He was a good man, honorable, hard-working. That was all that should matter.
“No.” He clenched and released his fist. “In society’s eyes, we will never be equal.” He looked out the window.
The silence was a heavy, oppressive thing. A vise wrapped its tentacles around Juliana’s chest and squeezed. Brogan already saw the end for them. He’d seen the end before they’d even begun.
She inhaled deeply, let it out. Again and again until her mind had calmed along with her breathing. She’d already known his objections. She’d broken through many of them. Against his better judgment, they were having a relationship. She couldn’t hope to alleviate all his misgivings at once, but she would keep working on him. And she was determined to succeed.
She changed the subject. “After seeing your relationship with your sister, you must think mine with Snow awfully superficial.” And perverse. For what else could her jealousy of her brother be called?
Brogan nudged her hip with the toe of his boot. “You can’t make people listen. Or see the truth. Your brother is no different than many people.”
“Yes.” She chewed on her bottom lip. Her brother was as obstinate and foolhardy as most other people.
The threat against their father wasn’t like what most other people had to face, however. “But an inability to see the truth doesn’t usually risk someone getting killed.”
Chapter Nineteen
“No, absolutely not.” Brogan widened his stance and crossed his arms over his chest. Of all the foolish ideas Juliana had, this might top them all.
“Brogan, it's an evening of music and conversation. What are you concerned about?” The light from the window caught Juliana’s hair, lighting her head up like a halo. Thankfully, the woman was far from angelic, though in this instance Brogan could wish her more tractable. They were back in the agency's offices, ostensibly to make plans for the future of the investigation, but more because he wanted a safe place to stow Juliana.
He grimaced. Even if the event hadn't had the potential to pose a threat to her life, an evening of music and conversation sounded interminable. Luckily, her safety was a good excuse.
“Someone tried to take your head off with a stone, not two days ago,” he said. “Need I remind you that putting yourself in a room full of people is not the smart way to stay unharmed.”
“But these are my friends,” she argued. “It's at Hyacinth’s house. You’ve been there before. It’s safe.”
“You suspect one of your father's friends might want him dead. This event at Miss Butters’s home will be full of his contemporaries. You might be walking into a pool of suspects. You don't know it’s safe.”
She sighed, her bosom rising and falling most becomingly.
He leaned closer. “If we skip the musicale, I promise you much more enjoyable entertainments this evening.”
She drew her fingertip down his sleeve. “Or, we could go to the musicale and then enjoy those entertainments on our return to your apartments. The best of both worlds.”
He ran his hand up the back of his head. He didn’t know if he was more annoyed that she didn’t go calf-eyed at the idea of an evening spent in his bed or that she could so easily out argue him. His talents had never lain in debate. He usually settled arguments nonverbally.
For instance, if Brogan ran his own investigative agency, he would have taken Juliana’s brother outside and learned everything he’d known quite quickly. The conversation this afternoon at Miss Lynn’s sat uneasily in his gut.
Juliana seemed to think nothing of it, but something had struck him as amiss. That lot seemed too fond of bloodshed. Or at least too indifferent. Among the intellectual class, that romanticism of The Terror seemed more and more common.
For people with such revolutionary leanings, what lengths might one go to in order to affect change? Murder an earl? He couldn’t believe Snowdon would kill his father. He was too disinterested in becoming earl. His father provided for all his needs so there was no gain for him.
But he had shown himself to be a weak man. Easily manipulated. His associates could use such a man as a pawn, be scheming right under his very nose. And with Miss Lynn ready to step in as the next countess…
Unfortunately for his theory, Lord Withington had little power in the House of Lords. Less influence among his peers. If the son stepped into his place, not much could change. Surely Snowdon’s friends knew this.
Still, something about that lot unsettled him.
“I understand Mrs. Joanna Bergen is going to be playing the harp this evening,” she said. “She's supposed to be marvelously talented. Please, Brogan. I do so want to hear her.”
Juliana gave him a most bewitching look, all big eyes and pouting lips.
His resolve began to crumble, just the tiniest bit. “Even if I were fool enough to agree to this,” he grumbled, “I still cannot go. I have nothing to wear to such an event.”
She arched an e
yebrow. “That is your excuse?” She looked him up and down, shaking her head. “What you're wearing now is fine. You might not be in the highest fashion, but that matters naught.”
Highest fashion? Brogan wasn't in any fashion. A fact that mattered to him less than the latest needlepoint stitch. Unless he was seen by Juliana’s side. He didn't wish to embarrass her.
“What would we tell people?” he argued. “I'm not a family member to chaperone you. An unmarried woman cannot show up with a friend.” He put emphasis on the last word. He had been so quick to describe Juliana as such before, but it now left a bitter taste in his mouth. “I suppose I can accompany you as a bodyguard.” His lack of fashion sense would hardly matter in that case.
But the whispers that would erupt from such an announcement, that Lady Juliana needed a protector, well, he didn't suppose that was something she wanted to face.
“Splendid.” She clapped her hands together. “Then that's what we'll do.”
His shoulders sagged. When would he learn? She never gave him the expected answer. It was one of her best features, and one of her most irritating.
She eyed him critically. “But if you don’t want to stand out, perhaps we could improve your wardrobe, just a bit. I don’t suppose you have a top hat?”
He snorted. “Never been needed.”
“Your coat and trousers are fine.” She tapped her lip with her finger. “Perhaps a jauntier cravat. Something in silk.”
He fingered his cotton neckcloth and leveled her with a withering stare.
Juliana called out to Cyrus Verity, the agent at the next desk. “Do you have a top hat and cravat Brogan could borrow?”
The investigator burst out laughing. “Brogan Duffy, spruced up? This I have to see. Oy, Hurst,” he called to another agent, “do you have a top hat for Duffy? The taller the better.”
Brogan groaned. He would not live this down.
Wil stepped out of the back office. Catching Brogan’s attention, he waved him over.