Stephen’s throat bobbed, and Julia noticed a thin sheen of perspiration on his forehead under his sister’s merciless grilling. “Um—many colors. White, perhaps? Pink? With colored ribbons tied here—” He delicately indicated his ribs with manly hands, pinkies outstretched, and Dorothea nudged her again, hiding a smile, obviously enjoying teasing her brother so wickedly.
Julia felt a twinge of sympathy for the poor major. He would probably take his meals with the other gentlemen after this, and that would be a pity. If she could not see the events for herself, she was glad to have him to describe them. Stephen Ives was probably extremely eloquent when asked to describe a battle or a military maneuver.
“What did you eat for supper, my lord?” she asked, changing the subject to one more dear to a man’s heart than feathers and frills.
He visibly relaxed. “Oh, there was chicken, and a wide assortment of pies—and snails done in garlic and butter,” he said, his eyes twinkling as he embraced the topic. He held up a hand at Dorothea’s grimace. “Snails are called escargot here, and they are quite delicious, as were the frog’s legs—and there was a marvelous dish of apples in cinnamon and cream, and a selection of cheeses, and the cakes . . .” He rolled his eyes in rapture, looking at them with boyish delight.
Dorothea swatted her brother’s arm gently. “Snails? You can remember how the snails were dressed for dinner, yet you cannot recall a single detail of how people were adorned?”
He grinned. “I wore my uniform, and so did many other gentleman. I can quote you the ranks and regiments present, if you wish.”
“Yes, yes—of course you and every other military gentleman cut a dash as always, and the officers put the men in ordinary evening wear to shame, but what of the ladies’ hair styles?” Dorothea demanded, nibbling on the corner of the same bit of toast she’d been worrying at for the past half hour. She hadn’t touched the rest of her breakfast, Julia noted.
Stephen’s smile fell once again, and he raised his hands above his head and wiggled his fingers like grass in the wind. “Tall,” he said. “Tied up with, um, ribbons, a few with jewels?” He shot a pleading look at Julia as Dorothea sighed.
“You are dreadful, Stephen. Thanks to you, I have a picture in my mind of sheep wearing feathers on their heads and dancing with handsome officers in uniform,” she quipped. “Why, I feel as I might have been there myself!”
Julia laughed before she could stop herself, and Stephen looked at her, trying not to laugh himself. “My sister is a great wit.” He set his fork down carefully. “You will have to see for yourself, Doe, if my descriptions do not satisfy you. There is a performance at the opera tonight. It wouldn’t be too taxing, and you could see firsthand what the ladies are wearing.”
Dorothea’s mirth faded. “No, I couldn’t. You could take Julia.”
Julia’s throat closed in shock at the suggestion. It would hardly be proper for a diplomat to escort his sister’s paid companion to an official event. Stephen Ives studied his fingers, and an awkward silence fell over the table.
“Was there anyone of particular note in attendance last night, my lord?” Julia asked hurriedly, to change the subject.
Stephen met her eyes, his relief evident, but all merriment gone. “The Duke of Wellington was there, of course. He was escorting Princess Pauline de Borghese, one of Napoleon’s sisters. And of course King Louis was present, and our own Lord Castlereagh, His Majesty’s foreign secretary and the ambassador who will represent us in Vienna.”
Dorothea gave a shocked gasp. “Wellington and Borghese attended together? Can one defeat a lady’s brother, throw him off his throne, and yet have the gall to woo his sister? They are both married!”
Julia wondered at Dorothea’s reaction. The duke’s affairs were well known, and had been a source of gleefully wicked gossip in London, as was Princess Pauline’s scandalous conduct.
“I daresay His Grace is simply being polite,” Stephen soothed. “It’s useful to have friends, Doe, and we still must keep tabs on Napoleon, even if he says he’s content on Elba. Perhaps Wellington is merely hoping to gain information from his sister.”
“Or perhaps he is simply being gracious to our enemies now that we have vanquished them,” Julia suggested. “The princess would require an escort of a rank equal to hers.”
Stephen looked surprised. “A very diplomatic observation, Miss Leighton,” he murmured.
Dorothea sniffed. “His Grace could not have chosen a woman more shockingly indiscreet! And what of his poor duchess? Kitty is a lovely person, even if she isn’t as flamboyant as her husband.”
Stephen smiled fondly at his sister. “Kitty is your friend, but I believe she is more accepting of her husband’s behavior than you are, Doe. Best to leave it be.” He got to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to see to. Miss Leighton, try to convince her to come to the opera tonight. You used to love the opera, Doe—”
Dorothea shrugged and picked at the edge of her napkin. “That was before,” she murmured. “I loved it because Matthew enjoyed it so very much. It would be unbearable now.”
Julia’s heart went out to her. “We shall go shopping,” she said cheerfully, “or have pattern books brought in to us, so we’ll know exactly what to order to take to Vienna.”
Stephen sent her a grateful smile as he left the room.
Julia read to Dorothea while the rest of their party went out that evening, Lord Stephen to see to his official duties at the opera, and the servants who could be spared to the taverns and the parties on the streets.
“Is there any laudanum?” Dorothea asked, lying on the bed with a cool cloth on her forehead. “It’s so hot and my headache is unbearable.”
“None,” Julia said firmly. “But we have chamomile tea or some feverfew for your head.”
Dorothea regarded her fiercely. “That’s not medicine! I will never be able to rest. We must find a doctor, get some laudanum at once, I say.”
Julia ignored the order and crossed the room to dip a cloth in cool water. She bathed Dorothea’s temples, but Dorothea snatched the kerchief and flung it aside peevishly. “It doesn’t help!” she said.
Julia felt the pain of Dorothea’s endless grief, but she could not give in. Dorothea was dependent on the drug, and Stephen feared it was making it impossible for his sister to recover from her loss. He had instructed Julia that Dorothea was forbidden to have any more laudanum.
Julia herself knew the harm it could do. Her own mother had slipped into the drug’s dangerous embrace for weeks after James died. Laudanum dragged its victims into a sleepy twilight, where they lived without pain or emotion of any kind, only half alive. She knew that Stephen hoped good company and new places would replace Dorothea’s craving for the drug and improve her spirits, but her longing for laudanum continued.
She remembered Dorothea as a young bride, vibrant and witty, her eyes bright, the life of every party she attended. Now she lay in the dark, dull, listless, and afraid. She rubbed Dorothea’s wrists, anointed her temples with attar of roses, and wondered if she might resort to laudanum too, if she lost Jamie, or a beloved husband.
She would probably never marry now, or be any man’s beloved. That was a pain and a pleasure that she would never know.
“I cannot rest!” Dorothea sobbed, clutching Julia’s hand on a fierce grip.
“I’ll open the window, let the cool air in,” Julia said. “Try to sleep.”
“No! Leave it closed. The air smells of sweat and garlic and piss, and the street is too noisy. I won’t have the window open, d’you hear?” Dorothea said sharply, moving restively on the sheets.
“Then I shall read to you,” Julia said calmly.
Gradually, as Julia read, Dorothea drifted off. She moaned in her sleep, her brow furrowed as her ghosts haunted her.
At last the clock struck eleven, and the door opened with a soft c
reak. Dorothea’s maid tiptoed in, back from her night out. “I’ll keep an eye on her now. You get some sleep,” she said kindly, and Julia went to her own rooms, and opened the door of the small antechamber where her son slept in a cot near his nurse.
He opened his eyes and smiled at her, waving his arms to be lifted, and she picked him up and crossed to open the window, letting the cool night air flow over them both. There were fireworks bursting in the sky above they city, great blossoms of red and yellow, and she watched the colors reflecting in the baby’s wide eyes and against his soft flesh. He reached out a chubby hand, and she smiled and kissed the soft curls on his head.
Jamie was her whole world. She had lost everything but gained her son, and he was enough.
She hugged him tightly, and he made a soft exclamation, his fingers coiling in her hair. She kissed him again, breathed him in. She would devote herself to him, be father, mother, and friend, protect him with her life if she had to. On days when she wanted to break down and cry for all she’d lost, she had Jamie to console her, the miracle—never the mistake.
She gazed up at the fireworks. Where was Thomas Merritt now? Far from here, no doubt, unaware that he had a son. He’d probably forgotten her altogether. Jamie cooed as a new burst of scarlet petals filled the sky, and Julia smiled down at him.
He was her son, and no one else’s.
The coach came to a stop on a hill just outside Paris as the fireworks began.
Donovan whistled as he looked out the window. “Look at that!” he said, staring at the colored lights bursting over the dark city. “We should have stayed an extra day or two, had some fun.”
Thomas barely glanced at the sky. He wasn’t interested. He wanted to be gone from the city, on the way to somewhere new, someplace that might offer him—well, whatever it was his restless soul was looking for. Even he didn’t know. He was beginning to fear he’d spend his life wandering aimlessly from place to place, never finding a home. It made him angry, irritable.
“We have work to do,” he said to Donovan. “And if we want a decent place to stay in Vienna, we’d best get there before everyone else.”
“I know, I know,” Donovan sighed. “The longer we wait, the more a place to stay will cost, if you can’t find a landlady to charm into letting us stay for free.”
Thomas knocked on the ceiling of the coach. But the coach didn’t move. The coachman was probably watching the fireworks, couldn’t hear over the booms and whistles. “We will need to appear to be entirely respectable and start forming social connections as soon as we arrive, make friends, earn the trust of people who count, and they’ll provide us invitations to the best parties, the finest balls.”
“And access to the best jewels,” Donovan added eagerly. “To be delicately plucked from the prettiest necks, wrists, and earlobes.”
Thomas glanced at the grinning face of his valet, glowing devilish red for a moment in the light of the fireworks. Donovan was starting to enjoy this life. He liked stealing from the rich who had been his masters all his life. For Thomas, it was a matter of survival and nothing more, but Donovan was in danger.
“Once we are done in Vienna, we’ll both find a quieter life,” Thomas said firmly. He would take just enough to send Donovan home, then he’d gather the last shreds of his honor and dignity and face what was left of the ruins of his own life, make some decisions.
Vienna was simply one last, great chance to make his fortune by stealing it. He tried to see it as revenge—since that’s what made it necessary for him to stoop to stealing in the first place—revenge on his brother, his duplicitous sister-in-law, the society that shunned him without bothering to ask for his side of the tale. But revenge didn’t make this life any more palatable. Of course, if his brother were here at this very moment, with their father’s gold watch in hand, the familiar ruby pin in his cravat, his signet ring on his finger, and his duplicitous wife with him, draped in his mother’s jewels, Thomas knew he wouldn’t blink, wouldn’t hesitate. He’d take it all, leave them naked and bleeding, the way they’d left him.
He knocked again, more forcefully this time, and the coach lurched grudgingly on, the driver’s gaze torn from the fireworks as the last one fizzled over the silver ribbon of the Seine.
“Then are we to have no fun at all?” Donovan grumbled.
“Later,” Thomas replied. “First, we make our fortune.”
Chapter 7
Vienna, September 14, 1814
“Look, Dorothea, it’s Vienna at last,” Julia cried, struggling with the latch on the coach’s dust-dimmed window.
But Dorothea was asleep, worn out by hours—weeks—of jolting over rough roads. She was pale and sweat had pasted her hair to her forehead. The dust kicked up by the horses had folded itself into creases in her skin, left a coating on her skirt and bonnet. Julia knew she looked every bit as travel-worn herself, and wished for a moment she had a mirror.
“Almost there,” she murmured, and turned to stick her head out the window. They had been through five countries in a month, including France, Switzerland, Germany, Bavaria, and Austria. As much as Dorothea had hated the long hours of travel and the hardships of the road, Julia had loved them. She didn’t miss England at all, while Dorothea constantly bemoaned the lack of English comforts, manners, and food. Julia had hidden her enthusiasm for Dorothea’s sake, but she adored the dark forests of Germany, the glorious peaks of the Swiss Alps, and the ripe golden fields of France. The signs of twenty years of war had been visible too—deep scars across the landscape, burned villages, ruined manors. The people they passed on the road and met at the inns showed the ravages of war as well, their gazes narrow and suspicious as they watched the strangers pass.
The wayside inns had been rough places, the food coarse and unfamiliar, but the British ambassador, Lord Castlereagh, had been in a hurry to reach Geneva, where his wife Emily was waiting to join the delegation. Then, he wished to get to Vienna as quickly as possible, to set up his embassy and take the measure of the place before the conference officially began.
Dorothea had been terrified by the rumors of bandits on the roads, and insisted that Stephen give her a pistol, which he refused to do. He gave it to Julia instead, discreetly and out of Dorothea’s sight, and she kept it in her reticule under the seat.
He showed her how to use the weapon while Dorothea napped one afternoon. “Not that we aren’t as safe as could be, with a detachment of troops riding with us,” he said. “I just don’t want Doe to get so frightened she shoots a farmer, or Lord Castlereagh’s valet.”
“Aren’t you worried that I might shoot someone by accident?” she’d asked.
“You hardly strike me as the nervous sort, Miss Leighton. Still, handle it with care, won’t you?”
Since then she had only considered using the weapon once. Lord Castlereagh’s infamous half brother, Lord Charles Stewart, joined the party with Lady Castlereagh at Geneva. He was a brash soldier who had fought bravely on the Peninsula with Wellington and was now officially in charge of the delegation’s security, and other matters, which weren’t discussed. Stephen introduced Lord Stewart to Dorothea, but Julia had noted that he was much more interested in her. She read the knowing look in Stewart’s dark eyes, the way he smirked when he caught her eye. He’d been in London during her scandal, and of course he knew the gossip.
From that moment, she’d felt his eyes following her, had read speculation and obscene invitations in his gaze. She was careful to avoid him, kept her door locked and stayed away from Stewart as much as possible.
One morning as she was supervising the provisioning of Dorothea’s coach, he caught her unawares. She turned a corner and nearly walked into his broad chest.
“Lord Stewart, I didn’t see you there!” She’d gasped, her stomach rising into her throat as he caught her arms. Instinctively, she stepped back, and retreated right into the side of the
coach, trapped.
“I’ve been wanting a word, my dear Julia,” he said. He reached out a hand, drew his finger over her cheek. She turned away, felt sickness and fear rise in her throat. “I think we should become better acquainted, don’t you?”
If she had still been an earl’s daughter, he would not have dared to touch her, or to stand so close, or to make such a suggestion, but she no longer had the protection of a title, or even respectability. She fixed him with her best lady-of-the-manor glare, which once would have left him cowering. It had no effect at all now.
“I have duties to see to, my lord. I have very little free time to converse with—”
He laughed. “Oh, I’m not interested in conversation. I’m interested in visiting your room tonight—or you could come to mine if you prefer,” he said boldly.
Fear turned to fury. She raised her chin, met his eyes. “Please excuse me at once,” she said coldly.
“Of course, forgive me—you like to be seduced, don’t you? You like a crowd nearby, the thrill of getting caught adds spice for you, doesn’t it?”
She tried to push past him, but he blocked her way, put one hand on the side of the coach, gripped her jaw in the other, pushing his mouth against hers. She turned her head away from the obscene kiss, shoving at him, but he was like a rock, unmovable. He pressed against her, grinding his erection into her hip.
“No!” she said, shoving harder, using her fists to pound on his chest, swinging at his head. He laughed as he ducked the blow, caught her fist in his.
“There’s no need to be like that. We both know you like it. Come now, lift your skirts for me.” He pawed her breasts, thrust his hand between her legs. Panic seized her. She felt the pistol in her pocket and jammed it into his belly.
He looked down in surprise, then met her eyes, his lust extinguished. “What’s that?” he asked, but she could see he knew exactly what it was.
The Secret Life of Lady Julia Page 6