The Secret Life of Lady Julia

by Lecia Cornwall

  Julia realized that no one cared about her affair. There were far more interesting things to discuss. No one was shocked or horrified—­outside the British delegation, of course. She looked around her, wondering if perhaps she could make a life here, once the conference ended.

  The prince nudged her. “I met the most charming En­glishman the other night at Princess Kostova’s salon. A viscount. He is not part of your embassy—­like me, he is merely here to watch this great bumbling spectacle unfold. I could arrange an introduction, if you wish to fall in love while you are in Vienna. A love affair is good for the soul as well as the heart,” de Ligne said. “I daresay Katerina will find a new passion within the week, and the viscount will be left lonely. She is nothing if not fickle, and Anna did not care for the fact that he does not like caviar.”

  Julia laughed. “I have no idea what that might mean, Your Highness, but for the moment, sir, I am quite done with love.”

  “I detest caviar myself,” Diana added.

  “Is there someone else?” the prince asked. “Forgive me, but I am quite aghast that a single lady as lovely as yourself would turn down a handsome viscount, equally single.”

  She thought of Jamie and smiled. “There is indeed someone else, and he is the love of my life.”

  Chapter 18

  “You still have the watch, I see,” Donovan said, removing the contents from Thomas’s pockets, folding his clothes. “I never thought of you as sentimental.”

  “I’m not,” Thomas said, looking up from his book, taking the watch from the valet’s hands, tucking it into his waistcoat pocket, out of sight.

  “Did you by any chance bring home anything we can sell? We cannot eat sentiment, if I may be so bold.”

  “You have always been bold,” Thomas said, shifting uncomfortably. “Even more so recently, if I may be so bold.” But Donovan was right. He hadn’t brought anything home for nearly a week, not even a paste garnet set in tin. The money he’d won gambling at the ball was almost gone.

  He would need to find another game, or work up the nerve to steal another jewel or two. Or more.

  Donovan leaned against the bedpost and looked at him. “One needs to be daring. I’ve even been so bold as to make a few contacts on my own. There’s a gent who lives in the park, has a few followers. He fancies himself a kind of Robin Hood, except he steals from the rich and shares only with a very select group of friends.”

  “Is this your way of giving me your notice?” Thomas asked.

  Donovan studied his fingernails. “No, not yet. They want information, contacts, times and places, you see. They need someone on the inside, someone who is invited to the grand parties, knows the best ­people—­the rich and gullible ones.”

  Thomas felt his stomach tense. He didn’t like what was coming. “Donovan . . .”

  His valet held up a hand. “No, hear me out. It will be easy. They have an ear to the ground, these lads. They aren’t stupid. They’ve heard the stories of the parties you’ve attended. They know you’ve seen the jewels, had access to them.” His face turned hard, his hand became a claw. “They were in your grasp!”

  “Tell your friends—­and I doubt they are anyone’s friends—­that I’m not interested.”

  Donovan stared at him. “Suddenly you’re back to honor and high-­minded ideals after all this time? Men with high ideals and no friends starve, my lord. What will you do, work for a wage? Maybe we could trade places, eh?”

  “Don’t be impertinent,” Thomas said, but it sounded weak, especially since Donovan was right. Would he survive on the charity of lovers like Katerina until he got too old to appeal as a casual bedmate? He imagined living like the Prince de Ligne, counting on the stories of his glory days and his ability to amuse the rich to keep himself fed.

  He turned on Donovan, angry now, and threw the book across the room. “And what can they give me in return?” he demanded. “What will my share be?”

  The valet’s eyes flared with surprise at his violence, then he smiled slowly. “What do you want?”

  A way out, but they could not give him that. He would be drawn ever deeper into their world of the shifting shadows, trapped in the sucking tides of a disreputable life, without a shred of honor or dignity left. He would become a man who would do anything, take anything, to survive, as far from the genteel English life he’d been born to as it was possible to get. He reached into his pocket, took out the watch. It had become the symbol of everything he’d lost, everything he regretted. “I want to find the Englishwoman who owns this watch, can they give me that? She is somewhere in Vienna.”

  Donovan looked stunned. “That’s it? You could name any price for your help. You needn’t even get your hands dirty. Just point the way for them.”

  And how would they take the jewels, the gold, the art, they wanted? By violence. His hands would indeed be dirty then. “This is enough,” he said, clutching the watch stubbornly. “For now.”

  Donovan studied his face, still baffled. “D’you know what they want? They want the tiara Lady Castlereagh was wearing at the Emperor’s ball. They want that old Russian whore’s necklaces and rings and bracelets. Everyone knows about her. Someone will steal them eventually. Why shouldn’t we benefit? The price they’d bring would free you from this life, buy you all the honor and sentiment you could want. You could buy Brecon Park right out from under your brother’s arse.”

  Thomas shut his eyes, imagined Anna toying with her “soldiers,” her pride, her delight. What would she be without them? And he didn’t want Brecon Park at any price.

  “What is it you want, Donovan? I thought you wanted to go back to Ireland, buy a farm, settle down.”

  His valet gave him a feral grin, all teeth and cold eyes. “That was before I saw the possibilities.”

  Thomas suppressed a shudder of revulsion, at Donovan, and at himself, but it seemed there was no other way out.

  “I’ll find a way,” he said aloud, fervently.

  “Good,” Donovan said, mistaking his meaning. “I’ll tell my friends you’re in.”

  Chapter 19

  “More tea, Stephen? Actually, do try one of the apricot tarts. They’re delicious.”

  Stephen watched as his sister poured more tea for him. She was dressed in a new gown of pale green wool, instead of her usual dark mourning garb. They were taking tea together in her sitting room after nearly a month of hurried visits in the hushed twilight of her bedroom.

  He hadn’t quite known what to expect when he received her note inviting him to tea, but here she was, looking much better. Almost—­well, happy. He accepted one of the dainty tarts and let the tang of the fruit and the richness of the buttery pastry fill his mouth.

  “Aren’t they wonderful? Peter brought them for me.”

  “Peter?” he asked in surprise, trying to swallow and speak at the same time. She handed him a napkin.

  “Peter Bowen, the doctor,” she said, as if that explained why a physician was bringing his patient pastries. But it could mean that the good Dr. Bowen was—­ He gasped, and the crumbs shot down his throat, making him cough. She slapped him on the back.

  “The doctor? Peter Bowen?” he repeated like an idiot, gaping at his sister.

  “He’s been so kind, and I’ve enjoyed sitting and chatting with him.”

  “I suppose he’s the only visitor you’ve had,” Stephen said sharply. “Of course you’d enjoy his company.” He’d have to speak to the doctor, especially now that Doe was well again, tell him that his ser­vices were no longer needed.

  Doe tilted her head and laughed. “You used to get that exact same look when Matthew began courting me, all indignant brotherly concern.”

  He set his plate down, the tarts spoiled for him now. “Do I have anything to be indignant about? Is Bowen courting you?”

  “It’s a friendship, nothing more,” she replied. “And he is no
t my only visitor. Julia is here constantly, and she tells me about the balls and parties she’s been to.” He caught the question in her eyes, shifted uncomfortably in his chair and concentrated on his tea for a moment.

  “She’s part of the embassy,” he said. “Most of the other delegations bring ladies to the balls and parties. It ensures there are enough dance partners for the gentlemen, who, as you can imagine, far outnumber the ladies here in town.”

  “I see.” She set her own cup down. “You should know I’ve had a note from Lady Castlereagh herself, complaining about Julia.” She pinned him with a look, an older sister brooking no impudence from her younger brother. “What is Julia really up to, Stephen?”

  He held his breath and picked up his cup, hiding behind it, wondering if he dared to tell her the truth.

  “Is it you, Stephen? Do you have feelings for Julia? I assume you are her escort when she goes to these parties.”

  He dropped his cup in surprise, and spilled tea across his lap. He leapt to his feet, mopping at it with the napkin. “Of course not!” he spluttered.

  She calmly offered him another napkin. “Really? A lovely young woman like Julia, intelligent, witty, charming, and you have no feelings for her? I despair of you, brother dear.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Doe! We all have a job to do, and Julia is merely doing her part. Lady Castlereagh can go and be hanged!”

  “Shh,” Doe cautioned. “Peter says we must be careful what we say. Ironically, private conversations are not private indoors. One must go to the park for intimate conversation.” She sighed. “How fortunate the weather is still so lovely right now.”

  He glanced at the window. “It’s raining,” he said.

  “Yes, today it is,” she said with another sigh. “But yesterday was lovely.”

  “You were in the park yesterday?” he asked, surprised yet again.

  “Yes. I went out with Peter, and of course Julia. I would have invited you too, if I thought you had time. Now that I know you don’t fancy Julia, I’m glad I didn’t.”

  “I do not . . .” He paused. But he did, and the look in Doe’s eyes confirmed that she knew it too. He stopped talking.

  She righted his cup and poured him more tea with a knowing smile. “I wonder if you—­or she—­knows how lucky you are?”

  Was he? He was beginning to think that it had been good fortune indeed that brought Julia into their lives.

  “Doe, I cannot simply—­”

  She laid a hand on his sleeve. “Yes, you can. You must, Stephen. Tell her how you feel. Don’t wait. Life is much too short.”

  Chapter 20

  “There’s something I wished to, um, speak to you about,” Stephen began, and Julia turned to look at him.

  “Oh?” It had become the habit among the residents of Minoritenplatz Palace, and at almost every other embassy in the city, to walk outdoors if there was something private to discuss, away from potential listeners. ­People crowded the park, some speaking in low tones with their heads together, others craning their necks to catch whispered secrets.

  The crowds were somewhat thinner today, given the distinct possibility that there would be rain, or even snow, before evening, and any gossip and intrigue that could be saved for a warmer afternoon had to wait. Still, there were several small well-­wrapped groups strolling in quiet conversation. Less hardy souls rolled by in closed coaches, the horses blowing frosty mist.

  Julia felt the cold creeping up through her boots as they walked along the cinder path, but it was nice to be outdoors in the fresh air. She waited for him to speak, but they walked on in silence for a few minutes. Was he upset about something she had done or failed to do? She was doing her best to balance her duty as Dorothea’s companion with her activities as a listener. She cast a glance at his face. He looked pensive, thoughtful.

  “Is this possibly about the fact that Dr. Bowen is spending so much time with Dorothea?” she asked, thinking perhaps he was worried that his sister was not recovering and still needed the doctor’s care even weeks after the overdose. “You needn’t worry. He believes she is quite out of danger, but we thought a few more days in his company might be a good idea, in case someone began to ask questions as to why he was visiting her so often. Giving the appearance of a friendship between them seemed the perfect idea . . .”

  Stephen stopped in his tracks. He looked horrified as he turned to face her. “You arranged for Bowen to befriend her?”

  Julia clasped her hands together inside the thick woolen muff she carried. “Yes, along with Dr. Bowen himself.” She faced him. “There was a flurry of notes from Lady Castlereagh last week. She wished to know why Bowen was spending so much time with Dorothea if she was entirely well again. Her ladyship suggested another doctor should examine her, make sure she didn’t have anything catching. Dorothea was horrified, of course, both by the suggestion that she was contagious and by the thought of another doctor. She likes Dr. Bowen. And so, Dr. Bowen and I thought a—­friendship—­might offer a reason why he was still visiting her.” She was babbling, talking too much and too fast, and he was staring into her face as if she were a stranger—­a very daft, very talkative, very annoying stranger.

  “And what will happen when Dorothea realizes that he is simply visiting her to cover for me, and you, and the whole damned British delegation, that it’s all politics, not friendship at all?” Stephen demanded. “She’ll be heartbroken. You are not doing her a favor at all. It’s cruelty.”

  Julia felt her smile slip in the face of his anger. He was protective of his sister, gentle and kind, and she admired that, but why would he disapprove of Dorothea enjoying a simple friendship? Dr. Bowen had been happy to have a reason to keep visiting Dorothea, liked her company. Would Stephen not be pleased if Dorothea found new love, a way forward with her life? Perhaps he feared that Peter Bowen was not suitable for his sister, the widow of a viscount, the sister of a baron.

  “Have you not noticed how happy Dorothea has been of late?” she asked. “Even if she cannot walk in the park with Peter, she walks with me, or her maid—­”

  “You call him Peter?” Stephen demanded, his brows drawing together, colliding.

  She felt her face heat despite the cold. What was he suggesting? “He has given me permission to do so.”

  “Do you meet with him to discuss my sister often?” My, but he was stiff this afternoon. He was scanning the park, looking at everything and everyone but her, his tone brittle. He had stopped in the middle of the path, his hands clasped behind his back, at attention. A pigeon flapped overhead, and she wondered if the bird would land on him, mistaking him for a statue. He’d sunk his chin into his greatcoat, oblivious to the fact that his nose and cheeks were reddening from the cold.

  Julia raised her chin. “No. He visited Jamie at my request. His teeth are growing in, and he’s fractious. I was concerned that his crying might disturb someone.” She had been up at night for weeks, walking the floor with her son until he slept at last. “Peter—­Dr. Bowen—­was the one who mentioned the notes from Lady Castlereagh, and her fears about Dorothea’s health.” She assumed a similarly stiff posture to match his. “Perhaps I should mention that Dr. Bowen has invited Dorothea to attend the symphony tonight. There is to be a performance of Beethoven, and the maestro himself is conducting. She is most excited to go, but if you think it best that she stay at home, you should speak to her.”

  He popped his head out of his greatcoat like an angry turtle. “I will indeed. I won’t have anyone using my sister as a pawn, Miss Leighton. What will happen when Bowen decides she can do without his company? He’ll grow tired of her, and then what? Dorothea is already beginning to imagine that he has feelings for her, and she most certainly has feelings for him.”

  Julia felt her heart melt, and she smiled. “But that’s wonderful!” He was still frowning. “Isn’t it?”

  He began walking again, in lo
ng, angry strides she struggled to keep up with. “Dorothea is a fragile creature. Bowen doesn’t know her as I do. Only a year ago she lost everything she loved. Do you expect me to stand by and allow her heart to be broken again?”

  She caught his arm. “But what if it isn’t? And she didn’t lose everything. She had you.”

  He stopped again, and studied her face, looked at her hand on his arm, his eyes softening at last.

  Was he remembering that her own world had also collapsed a year ago, that she too had lost everything? If not for her own strength, and for this job, where would she be now? Seeing Dorothea happy again, hopeful, had given her hope as well, but if he didn’t approve of his sister finding love again, he would hardly think it appropriate for her. Would anyone? Would she only ever have memories of that one, brief, frenzied night to keep her warm?

  She withdrew her hand and stepped back, continuing ahead, measuring her distance from him in the crunch of her footsteps on the cinder path. Perhaps there was no hope for her to find redemption after all. She hadn’t just lost everything—­some would say she had thrown it away, and did not deserve a second chance. Perhaps Stephen Ives thought so, would forever see the taint upon her.

  She looked up at the bare gray limbs of the trees, felt tears fill her eyes but blinked them away. There was no room, no time, for self-­pity. If she could go back now and change everything, would she?

  As long as she lived, even if she spent the rest of her days alone, she would never forget the admiration in Thomas Merritt’s eyes, and the way he made her feel like a woman for the first time. She could not have married David after that night, even if pregnancy had not prevented it. They would not have made each other happy, or ever had any more than vague regard for each other—­and even one night of passion was better than a lifetime of vague regard.