by Alyson Chase
“We’ll stop again.” They rounded a corner, and Brogan pounded on the ceiling. The next thing he pointed out to her was the front door of a brothel. Two scantily clad women lounged against the entrance, calling out to men as they passed by.
“There are probably twenty such girls in that whorehouse,” he said. “Do you have ribbon enough to help them all? Will you dissect your gown until you’re down to your skin trying to feed the world’s hungry?” He scraped his palm across his jaw. “There's so much misery here, you could drown in it.”
“But…” She peered out the window until one of the working girls caught her eye and gestured lewdly. Juliana drew back. “There must be something we can do.”
“You want to help?” He set his shoulders. “You have to use your head, not your heart. You can start a charity or a foundling home. It's something a woman in your position sometimes does. And it does help. But you can't help everyone.” He glanced away. “If you married me, you wouldn't even be in a position to do that.”
His guts squeezed. If she married him, she would be nothing. A small footnote in history. The Earl of Withington’s idiot daughter who let her heart overcome her good sense.
Brogan couldn't do that to her. He wouldn't, even if he spent the rest of his life regretting letting her go.
She was but a shadow in the darkened carriage, but his gaze traced every dark line and curve of her form.
And he would regret it, he knew. He’d have moments when he lay in bed alone and kicked himself for rejecting everything she had to offer. Before he remembered the kind of life he’d saved her from.
But he would be full to bursting with regrets.
He regretted meeting Lady Juliana Wickham.
He regretted taking her case.
He regretted starting this affair.
He regretted ending it this night.
Juliana wasn't a woman a man could just walk away from unscathed. She left scars.
“I want to go back to your apartments, please.” She laced her fingers together on her lap.
“Not yet.” He pounded on the roof once more. They had a final stop. One more piece of evidence to prove to her that he… He swallowed.
“Please, you've made your point,” she said.
“One more stop.” Two more turns and they were there. “Halt,” he called to the driver. This time he opened the door. He didn't let her climb down, of course, but he wanted her to have a full view of where the man she claimed to want to attach herself to came from.
They leant forward together to look out the opening.
“What am I looking at?” she asked.
It was a squat, three-story building. The roof slanted, giving the building the appearance of listing to one side. Who knew? Perhaps the structure actually did lean. If there had ever been paint on it, it had long since worn away. The windows were boarded up, even on the upper floors. There was nothing on the streets that a resident could possibly want to see.
“That building.” He jerked his head at it. “That’s where I grew up, where my family and I lived until I had some success in the boxing ring.” He fingered the wood piece in his pocket. “This was my home.”
A man stumbled from the alley next to it and vomited upon the street. They were twenty feet away, but Brogan imagined he could smell the acrid scent. He probably could. The same man had probably cast up his accounts every night this week.
The man looked up from his hands and knees. Brogan could see the moment when his look became calculating. Whether he would come begging or attempting to steal, Brogan didn't care to find out. He shut the door and told the driver to move on.
Juliana worried the fabric of her gown, rubbing her skirts between her thumb and forefinger. “That’s it, then? You rub my face in poverty, a poverty I was fully aware of by the way, and think I’ll go running?”
Being aware of poverty and seeing it right under one’s nose were two very different things. Brogan knew it. Juliana knew it. Her words may have been defiant, but the tone was already becoming more uncertain. His previous life had shocked her.
Which was what he wanted. He dug his knuckle into his breastbone. So why did he feel like a right bounder?
“That’s it,” he said.
She laughed, the sound high, unsteady, and false. “So, we’ll carry on as before, having a diverting liaison until the case ends.”
“No.” He was done dying by a thousand cuts, one small lash a day. It was time to cut this off, once and for all. “We will only have a professional relationship from now on.”
“What?” She clasped a hand to her stomach, her voice rising. “We don’t need to do that. We can go back to the way we were before.”
“In life, you can’t go back.” Something else her privileged upbringing hadn’t taught her. In this instance, he didn’t relish being her instructor. He sighed. “You’ll thank me for this later.”
She curled against the wall of the carriage. “I’ll thank you to take me to Hyacinth’s now. Don’t expect thanks for anything else.”
“As you wish.” He called the directions to the driver.
He stared out the window, watching as the dark streets of London rolled past. He would have to get used to this darkness. With Juliana out of his bed, his days, any light that had brightened his life was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Juliana tossed the volume of poetry on the seat beside her. Even Rodger Rose’s melodic words weren't enough to soothe her depressed spirits.
“Is something the matter?” Hyacinth asked, looking up from her needle work. “You've been as fidgety as a cat all day.”
“I'm fine.” Juliana slouched back on the settee.
Hyacinth ‘hmmed’ and cast her gaze back to her work.
Juliana was thankful her friend didn't press further. She knew she was being a poor companion to Hy, knew that ever since her fight with Brogan she hadn’t been able to muster up the will to be pleasant or interesting.
Hy thought it her public fight with Brogan that caused her ennui. Even though Juliana trusted her with the truth, she couldn't bring herself to expose her deepest feelings, even to her closest friend.
She stared out the window, wondering which agent had been assigned to watch over her today. She knew one of the Bond Agency investigators lurked about the grounds and surrounding streets.
She also knew it wasn't Brogan.
Mr. Verity, the agent protecting her that first day, had told her Brogan hadn't volunteered for the duty.
She plucked up the book again, tapping her thumb on its spine, and tossed it back down. “I'm going for a turn about your gardens,” she told Hy. “Do you want to come?”
Without looking up, Hyacinth said, “It looks like rain. I think I'll stay inside.”
Juliana nodded and stood. She passed Mr. Butters’s office on her way to the rear door and waved to him at his desk. It was much more pleasant staying at the Butters’s house as an invited guest. She shook her head. All the subterfuge and secrecy of before felt a bit foolish now.
She’d almost made it outside when the butler found her.
“Lady Juliana, you have a caller.” He tugged on his lapels. “Your brother's here to see you.”
“Snowdon?” She chewed on her lip. She and Snow had much to discuss, but it wouldn’t be a comfortable conversation. She’d thought about Brogan’s suspicions, about how Snow’s friends could be using him, and come to the conclusion that he might be right.
She hated to admit that a man who had his head up his rear end on so many other issues could be correct in this one, but there it was.
She blew out her cheeks. And delaying an uncomfortable conversation did no one any favors. “Can you show him to the folly?”
The butler nodded and hurried away.
Juliana slipped outside the back door and made her way to the mock Roman temple. The folly seemed out of place in a London townhouse garden, but the Butters enjoyed its frivolity, one of the reasons w
hy Juliana liked the family so much.
She sat on one of the stone benches beneath the portico and arranged her skirts—and her thoughts. Her brother didn't take well to being shown he was wrong. She had to approach this carefully. Try to make him come to the conclusions himself.
“Jules?” Snowdon hopped up the steps to stand before her. “What are you doing out here? It looks like it might rain.”
She smiled. If only he'd shown an interest in her best friend, maybe all of this could have been avoided. She would have had a sister she adored, and her brother, a wife he could trust. But, alas, even over several meetings, there was no interest on either side.
“The weather will hold,” she said. “It's good to see you, Snow. It's been too long since it's been just the two of us talking.”
He circled his hat in his hands. “Yes, it has been. I'm leaving for Bluff Hall soon. Come back with me, Jules. Don't you think you've pursued this nonsense long enough?”
Her spine snapped straight. “Our father's life isn't nonsense.”
He frowned. “I thought since you broke off relations with the Bond Agency that you’d realized our father's life wasn't in danger.”
“You heard about my fight with Mr. Duffy?” she asked.
Snow rocked onto his toes. “Oh, yes. Half of the Ton has heard about that argument. Sir Williams is saying what poor form it was to fight at his house in such a public event, but secretly he’s delighted his home was the hotbed of a minor scandal.” He smirked. “It sounds like you gave that tosser a what for.”
“Brogan isn’t a tosser,” she said through gritted teeth. Stubborn. Infuriating. A right pain in her rear, yes. But he wasn’t ill-bred. She gripped the edge of the bench, the cold stone chilling her palms. “I had thought your association with Miss Lynn had changed your attitude about the working class.”
“Yes, well.” He cleared his throat. “Miss Lynn doesn't control my thoughts. I'm still my own man, sister.”
Juliana let out of breath. That was good to hear. It could make this easier. “Her ideas, while well-intended, can lead to much destruction. I’m glad you don’t agree with her on everything. She is a unique thinker, though. I credit her with that.”
A small smile tilted his lips. “Miss Lynn is unique in every respect.”
“Are you two close? Are you…” She hesitated. “Are you going to ask her to marry you?”
Snowdon studied her. “Perhaps. Does the idea of her as a sister bother you?”
“Yes.” A small niggle of jealousy wiggled beneath her breast, but she stamped it out. Her brother marrying a woman of his choice, one in a lower class, had no bearing on her ability to do the same. Brogan would be a mule about their relationship no matter what Snow did.
“And here I thought you believed in equality,” her brother said.
She stood and grabbed his arm, squeezing. “I don't object for the reason you think. I only worry about you. About the kind of woman she is.” Even though no one was around, she lowered her voice. “Don't you find it odd that father's accidents began after you became acquainted with Miss Lynn?”
“What are you saying?” He snorted. “You think she's behind it?”
Juliana shrugged. “She says she doesn't object to violence to achieve her ends. If she were to make you an earl, think she could control you, what wouldn’t a woman like that be capable of?”
Snowdon threw back his head and howled with laughter.
She tapped her foot until his amusement trailed off. Her reasoning was sound. He didn’t have to be a jackass about it. “I can see you disagree with my assessment of your paramour.”
He clapped her shoulder. “Not at all, sister dear. I laugh because of the irony. You worry about what Bella has done, but you’ve never once questioned what I am capable of.”
Juliana’s fingers tingled. “What do you mean?” She took a small step away from her brother, uneasiness sliding up her spine.
Snow slid his hand into his coat pocket. “Come with me to Bluff Hall. We can have a nice, long talk about everything that worries you. You’ve imposed upon the Butters family long enough.”
She glanced at the back door into the house and took another half-step away. “Mr. Butters has assured me I’m welcome for as long as I like. What do you mean ‘what you’re capable of?’”
“Perhaps he’s just being polite.”
“I don't want to go to Bluff Hall.” She stuttered over the words. The same feeling of dread that filled her veins when she entered their home was starting to swamp her now.
“Why do you always have to make things difficult?” he asked. “All my life it's been, ‘Isn’t Juliana clever,’ and ‘Why can’t you help the tenants like your sister does?’ Do you know how annoying it is being your brother?”
Juliana stumbled back. “What are you saying? You can't mean…”
“I'm tired of this family holding me back.” He slapped his hat on his head. “Bella's shown me who I can truly be. How much change I can make in the world with the Withington title. How renowned the name Withington, my name, can be. I'm not going to let you stop me.”
“It’s not your title, not yet.”
“Soon.” He gazed around the gardens.
“You tried to kill father,” she whispered. Her skin crawled, like hundreds of spiders skittered across her body. It was monstrous, beyond her comprehension. She shook her head, trying to clear it. “I don't understand.”
His eyes snapped to her face. “You wouldn't. You wouldn’t understand how infuriating it is being smarter than every man in the room yet still hearing them talk down to me like I were a child. How can they expect me to have any accomplishments when I’m only a viscount? It’s not fair. Society sets up all these expectations for men like me then throws up barriers to achieving them.”
She pressed a hand to her stomach. If he had stamped his foot, he couldn’t have presented a better picture of a spoiled child in leading strings defying his nanny.
He slipped a small pistol from his coat pocket and waved it in front of her. “We're going to Bluff Hall. Don't make a fuss. You won't like the results.” He slipped his hand back into his pocket but kept his fingers wrapped around the pistol grip.
She placed her hand on a stone column, leaning against it. This couldn't be happening. It couldn't be true. There had been affection between them growing up. It still existed, at least on her part.
“Oh, Snow, what will come of you?” She’d thought Pickens had met an ignoble end in prison. How much worse would her brother, a viscount, fare? Would he hang? Would her father hush it up, send Snow away somewhere?
“Come on.” He jerked his head toward the front of the house. “The carriage is waiting.”
She stumbled down the steps of the folly, her mind swirling. Perhaps he was ill. A disease could affect the mind as well as the body. There was no other explanation for a man to try to kill his father. Their father had given them everything they needed, never had a harsh word for anyone.
“This is going to devastate Father,” she said. His son, his heir, trying to kill him.
Snowdon grabbed her elbow with his free hand. He tugged her along the garden path that ran the side of the house. “Don't worry. He won't even know what hit him.”
Her knees gave way. She would have fallen to the gravel if Snow hadn't jerked her upright. Here she'd been thinking of the awfulness of her brother's actions. Of their family’s shame and heartache. She hadn't thought ahead to where he might be successful.
“I won't let you hurt him,” she said. Her voice sounded far away.
Snowdon pushed her against the garden gate, freeing the latch before grabbing her again. “What are you going to do, little sister?” He pushed her through the opening. “Write an essay to stop me? Give a little speech like you do at the salon?” He snorted. “No one there likes to hear them. They won't be any more effective now.”
A couple in a small curricle laughed as they rolled past, the
man flicking his whip in the air.
Juliana saw his wrist moving, saw the cat’s tail snap, but didn’t hear the crack. It was like a wet blanket had been thrown over the sounds of the city, leaving only a dull rushing sound in her ears.
Another man hurried down the street, his face buried in a paper, swerving around her and Snow as he passed.
She blinked. How did the rest of the world keep moving while hers was falling apart? Brogan had been more right than even he knew.
“You're all right, mum?”
Snowdon’s fingers dug into her flesh as they turned to face the agent striding down the pavement. It was Mr. Hurst today. A nice enough man, but when all she wanted to see was Brogan, he was a poor substitute.
“Everything's fine,” Snow said. “Nothing for you to be concerned about.” He towed her toward the carriage which stood ten feet away.
Juliana recognized the driver on the box. Surely the servants wouldn't help Snowdon with his plot. They all respected her father.
But doubt rooted in her breast. If even Snowdon could be so evil, who was to say who else could be involved? What a little bit of money wouldn’t seduce someone into doing?
“Lady Juliana?” Mr. Hurst shifted his hand to the back of his trousers.
Snow cut her a look. “You know him?”
“An investigator for the Bond Agency,” she said. “I haven't cut all ties as you thought.”
A giggle burbled up her throat. Their plan had worked. They’d uncovered the villain. And now she wished she’d never had this harebrained idea. She wanted nothing more than to go back in time fifteen minutes, when she didn't know the truth.
“Tell him everything's fine,” Snowdon hissed in her ear, his grip on her arm going even tighter.
“Everything's fine,” she repeated. “My brother and I are just...”
She blinked. What was she doing? Was she willingly going to leave with Snowdon like a lamb to the slaughter?
She jerked her arm away. Turning, she looked up at her brother. She traced the familiar lines of his face with her gaze. Had his eyes always been so mean looking? His jaw always so soft? He looked a stranger.