Not to mention that Lady Castlereagh would hardly approve of a woman like herself mixing with the upper echelons of the diplomatic circles for any reason. She imagined her ladyship perched in her private sitting room like a vigilant bird of prey, waiting for word of any impropriety she might commit so she could swoop in for the kill—in this case, Julia’s dismissal. The events of yesterday had been improper indeed. If Stephen had assumed the worst when he saw Thomas Merritt sprawled on the floor of her room, what would Lady Castlereagh make of it? And Lord Castlereagh would surely help his wife toss her out if this plan failed. And what would become of Thomas Merritt? Surely people would guess the truth when they heard she’d known him in London.
Ruin, all over again.
A jolt of horror passed through her, and she jumped to her feet. Dorothea looked up at her. “I’m going down to ask someone to deliver the note,” Julia explained.
Dorothea set her playing cards aside.
“Yes, do.” She looked out at the snow. “It looks cold, doesn’t it? Even if the snow is rather pretty. I suppose we must stay indoors today, wait and see if it will melt or stay. Could you bring me a book from the library? Poetry, I think. Something bold, heroic, and romantic.”
“Of course.”
As the clock on the mantel chimed the hour, Dorothea picked up the watch and compared the time with a smile.
Julia’s quick footsteps echoed all the way along the hall and down the stairs. Lady Castlereagh had insisted that carpets be installed in the wing of the house she occupied, saying the clatter of boots on stone made her fear the palace was being overrun. The rest of the corridors remained unadorned, and even the soft hiss of a lady’s slippers filled the air like a malicious whisper.
Where was Mr. Merritt now? she wondered as she entered the library and began to search for a book for Dorothea. Was he thinking of her the way she was thinking of him?
He’d probably forgotten everything about that night. Would she have forgotten too, if things had turned out differently, if she had not quickened with his child, if David had lived and she’d become Duchess of Temberlay?
Of course she would have, she lied to herself. She would be at Temberlay this very moment, overseeing the day’s meals, or planning a dinner party. No, she could never have married David. Not after Thomas.
She scanned the shelves, finding books in German and French, which Dorothea could not read. Then at last, in a corner, tucked away on the far side of a mahogany shelf, she found a volume of poems by Lord Byron. If Dorothea wanted words to warm her in the depths of a winter’s day, this would certainly do it. She recalled the salacious pleasure of gossiping with London ladies over tea about the wicked poet. He did as he pleased, lived beyond the pale of good manners and good society, and if his poems were any indication, he enjoyed every moment.
Just like Thomas Merritt.
The door opened, and her ears pricked. Was she eavesdropping? Was it better to come out, make herself known, or to wait until whoever it was departed and then make a quiet exit? What if it was Charles Stewart? She clutched the book to her chest, peered carefully around the shelf and stifled a gasp.
It was worse than Charles Stewart. It was Thomas Merritt, and Stephen.
“In here will do,” Stephen said, his tone harsh.
“Indeed. Looks much more comfortable than a dark dungeon. Does this palace actually have a dungeon?”
A shiver rushed through her at the sound of Thomas’s deep voice, and the hairs rose on the back of her neck. She couldn’t move.
“Sit down, Merritt. I’ve sent for Miss Leighton to join us.”
Julia’s eyes widened in dismay. It would certainly look odd if she popped out from behind the shelf now.
“Any chance you might consider sending for tea, and a scone or two? I was about to have breakfast when you apprehended me, and I’m fair starving now.”
“Later,” Stephen snapped.
“Then will this interrogation take long?” Thomas asked calmly.
“You aren’t going anywhere.”
“As you wish, but your hospitality leaves much to be desired, Major.”
The door opened again. “Yes?” Stephen said impatiently.
“Lord Castlereagh wishes to speak with you in his study, Major Lord Ives,” a servant said.
“Come along, then, Merritt, on your feet—” she heard Stephen order.
“No sir,” the servant interrupted. “Just you. The gentleman is to wait here.”
“I promise to behave myself. Is there any silverware or valuables in the room you’d prefer to lock up before you go?” Thomas said lightly.
“Lock the door behind me,” Stephen ordered the servant. “If he tries to leave, shoot him.”
“I haven’t got a gun,” the man complained, and Thomas’s sudden burst of laughter startled her.
“There’s a rather lethal looking letter opener here on the desk,” he offered.
“Just guard the door,” Stephen said, and she heard the door close, the jangle of the key, then silence. Her heart sank. She was locked in with Thomas, and how would that look when Stephen returned? She would have to stay here all day, she supposed, hiding. His presence sent pins and needles through her limbs. She wanted to sit down, or to run.
How silly she was! She would step out, cross the room and leave. It was as simple as that. She took a breath and came out from behind the shelf. He was standing by the window, staring out as if he was considering plunging through the panes.
“I was wondering if you would make yourself known.” He smiled apologetically. “I smelled violets.”
“Were you planning to escape out the window?”
His eyes roamed over her, and she clutched the book against her chest like a talisman against his allure.
“Would you stop me?” he asked. She looked pointedly at the letter opener.
“If I had to.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and grinned, and her heart turned over at the memory of what that smile could do to a lady’s composure and good sense. “Then I’ll stay. What shall we talk about? Shall I start by saying you look well? Vienna agrees with you, but the air is so much healthier here than in London, is it not?”
Hot blood crept into her cheeks. He was mocking her. She looked at the bruise on his forehead.
“Does it hurt?” she asked.
He raised a brow. “Proud of that, are you? No. It only hurts when I wear my hat.” His mouth quirked to one side, and her heart skipped a beat. How many times had Jamie given her that exact smile? She tightened her hold on the book.
“I had no idea it was you when I hit you.”
The grin deepened, showing the dimples he’d passed on to his son. “Then I might have expected a different greeting if you had recognized me sooner?”
She leveled a quelling gaze at him. “Not at all.”
“You probably would have hit me all the harder,” he said quietly, sobering.
She glanced at the door. Where on earth was Stephen? Would he leave her locked in here all day? The room was overly warm, and she had things to do upstairs. Dorothea was waiting for her to return, and she could not simply stand here with the charming Mr. Merritt, wishing . . . Wishing what? That he would come closer, or step back, or kiss her again so she could see that it truly wasn’t the way she remembered it and stop thinking about him? She looked at the window, tempted to open it herself, push him through it, get him out of her life for good.
“Does my presence here this afternoon have anything to do with you, my lady?”
Warning tightened her skin. “Why would you think that?”
“A vague hunch.”
“Do you imagine I have the power to order people arrested on a whim?” she demanded.
He tilted his head and grinned. Jamie again. A jolt of awareness frayed her nerves.
&nbs
p; “I don’t know. Do you? You were never good at hiding your emotions, my lady. They show on your face, in every line of your body, at least as I recall. So why am I here?”
She felt her skin heat another degree, remembered the feeling of his body against hers as they danced, kissed, made love . . . he was coming toward her, prowling like a panther, still dressed in the same black clothing he’d worn last night. He looked thoroughly disreputable with the bruise marring his face, dangerous. Better, even, than she remembered him. She resisted the urge to step back, faced him with determination and cold hauteur. Let him read what he wished in that.
He reached out and she drew a sharp breath, waiting for his touch, but he merely took the book from her hand. “Yes, indeed. I can read you like a book of—poetry?” He glanced at the cover and back at her. “Julia, you know why I’m here. Care to enlighten me?”
She was not so transparent as that, was she? Oh, please, not with him, not now! She straightened her spine, drawing herself up as tall as possible. He was far taller still, and so close she had to tip her head back to meet his eyes.
“Of course I know,” she snapped. “You are here at my suggestion. Major Ives wanted to turn you over to the Austrian authorities, but there is a matter that we—”
“Ah, so he’s Major Ives to you, is he? Not Stephen, or darling, or—”
She snatched the book out of his hand and spun on her heel, heading for the door without another word.
“ ‘When we two parted in silence and tears, half broken hearted to sever for years . . .’ ” he said, and she stopped in her tracks, turned to face him.
“What?”
“Byron’s poem, ‘When We Two Parted.’ I’ve always had a penchant for his writing. Every young buck in England secretly wishes he were Byron. He’s quite a rogue, yet women adore him, sigh for him,” he said, scanning her face.
Did he expect her to sigh? He was about to be disappointed. She tucked the book behind her back. “I detest Byron,” she lied. “The book is not for me. A friend requested I bring it upstairs for her. Not that it’s any of your concern, Mr. Merritt.”
He tilted his head. “Why, you’ve become as prim as a governess since we last met, my lady. I think I preferred the blushing debutante.”
She flinched at the assessment, far too close to the truth. He reached out and touched her cheek, drawing his finger down the curve of her face. Fire transferred from his touch, and heated her skin, the simple caress burning all over her body.
“Ah, there she is,” he said, his whisper vibrating over her senses. “The debutante, I mean.”
She could smell the faint hint of his soap, the still-familiar scent of his body. Had she not forgotten even that? She remembered how his hands felt on her body, the champagne taste of his kiss, the sound of the whispered endearments and charming compliments . . . Her mouth watered, and she moved back, retreated, not daring to take her eyes off him, not wanting to, but knowing if she stayed, if he touched her again, she would never, ever be free of this man.
Her cheek still tingled, and she resisted the urge to touch the spot. She backed toward the door. “If you’ll excuse me, I have things to do,” she managed in a breathless rush. “I’ll bid you good-bye.”
“This time for good, eh?” He was advancing toward her, taking one step forward for every step she took back. “Since we likely won’t see each other again, perhaps you will do me the kindness of satisfying my curiosity?”
“As to what?” she croaked.
“Ah, Julia, you were once entirely honest in your speech, your actions, your passions. Has that changed? It would be a pity, because that was what I liked best about you.”
Her blood flowed hotter still, and the tingle on her cheek spread. “I’m surprised you remember,” she said tartly, but it came out a husky purr. She couldn’t seem to look away from him. His gray eyes were as deep as a well. She felt as if she was about to fall in and drown, and it wouldn’t be a terrible fate at all.
“I remember,” he said, his meaning clear. “I also remember you were about to marry a duke. What happened after I left that night?”
The pain returned, like hitting the cold water at the bottom of the well, bringing with it the regret, the guilt. She tore her eyes from his. “He—died.”
She glanced up as a flicker passed over his face. Horror, perhaps, or was it merely pity? She didn’t want his pity. Anger flared.
“And you, Mr. Merritt, were you a thief even then?”
He smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid so. I was hoping to steal your mother’s tiara that night.”
She felt something snap inside, a thread of hope, perhaps. He hadn’t cared a whit for her, not while he danced with her and flattered her, not when he kissed her, and not when he made love to her in her father’s library. And in the park, when he rescued her, made her feel feminine and beautiful? Just part of the ruse, no doubt.
“I see,” she said coldly. “You said you came to steal Lady Castlereagh’s tiara too. Do you specialize in tiaras?”
He looked appreciative of the jest. “I got neither one. I’m sure if you ask your mother, she will confirm that her jewels are exactly where she left them, as are Lady Castlereagh’s.”
Ask her mother? “That would make you the worst thief in Christendom!” she said, her heart sinking. She had promised Lord Castlereagh he could— Oh, no.
“And beyond,” he agreed easily. “How did you end up in Vienna?”
Julia blinked at the question. “I—I came with the embassy.”
“Why?” he shot back.
“I wanted an adventure.” It was partly true. That adventure that started the moment she laid eyes on him in her father’s ballroom.
“An adventure,” he drawled. “With—” He jerked his head toward the door. “What is Ives to you? A replacement for Dull Duke David?”
Indignation closed her throat, kept her from a tart reply. “Major Lord Ives is a gentleman and a diplomat,” she said, telling him nothing at all that he didn’t know.
He smiled at her again, a mocking smile, touched with a little sadness. He raised his hand to touch her again, but she moved out of reach, and he dropped his hand. “Not a thief. Whatever he is to you, he’s a lucky son of a—”
She gasped at the jangle of the keys and turned to look at the door. Stephen entered.
“Here you are. I was looking for you,” he said, and glanced suspiciously at Thomas Merritt. “What are you—”
“I was hoping you were the footman with tea,” Thomas quipped, distracting him, rescuing her once again, stepping in front of her, blocking Stephen’s view of her flushed face so she could compose herself. “Might I have some stale bread and moldy cheese, at least, or whatever it is you feed condemned prisoners here?”
Stephen smiled coolly at him. “You’re not condemned, Mr. Merritt. In fact, you’re about to be offered a reprieve. I suggest you take it.”
Thomas raked her with a glance, then turned back to Stephen. “What the devil does that mean?”
“Sit down. We have a lot to discuss.”
Thomas stared at them as if they were mad. Julia was perched on the very edge of the settee across from him, her lower lip caught between her teeth, nervous, unsure of his response to the odd—and dangerous—request. Only it wasn’t a request at all. Ives’s cold glare dared him to refuse the proposition, hoped he would.
Thomas sat forward. “You want me to break into the Kaunitz Palace, the most carefully guarded building in this city, and steal some papers?” No one moved. “And if I won’t do it?”
“You’ll hang,” Ives said pleasantly. Thomas waited for more. “Surely this is not a difficult proposition. You’re a thief. We have something that requires stealing.”
Thomas felt Julia’s gaze on him like a touch. His fingers still burned from touching her cheek. “Have you no patriotis
m?” she asked.
He laughed at that. “Patriotism? England has hardly been a friend to me.”
“Do you believe in nothing, then?” she said softly.
“I believe in preserving my own skin.” She looked at him as if she suspected that wasn’t true at all, knew it in her heart. He frowned at her, but she held his eyes steadily, giving him no choice.
Stephen Ives got to his feet, began to pace. “This is pointless. Will you do it or not?”
Julia didn’t look away, and Thomas held her gaze. This was a fool’s errand, certain to get him killed. And yet how could he say no? “I have conditions of my own,” he said instead.
Ives stopped pacing. “Conditions? Isn’t letting you live enough?”
“You’ll have a full pardon,” Julia said. “You could, if you wished, go back to England.”
He laughed again. “No, thank you.” When had Julia become a spy? She was good at it. He hadn’t suspected a thing until she breathlessly outlined her plan. He felt a surge of admiration. She wasn’t the blushing debutante now. She’d grown up since he last saw her, and he wondered again what the hell had happened to her, and how she’d ended up here, with Ives.
“What conditions?” she asked. He read the fear in her eyes, at what he might ask.
“Freedom, first of all,” he said. He watched her shoulders drop a little with relief. “I wish to return to my own lodgings, comfortable though your dungeon might be. You have my word—if you meet the rest of my conditions—that I will not try to flee.”
Julia nodded agreement, but Stephen Ives shook his head. “I’d be a fool to agree to that. You’re a thief, Merritt. Why should I trust you?” he demanded.
Thomas shrugged. “Then I’ll stay here, but I want a room on the second floor, a bedroom with a sitting room, and . . .” He slid his eyes ever so slightly toward Julia, and watched Stephen Ives turn purple. Ives did not want him anywhere near Julia.
“You may remain in your own lodgings, but under guard,” Ives said stiffly.
“That is my second condition,” Thomas said. “No guards.”
Ives snorted. “You have a very long list of demands for a condemned criminal.”
The Secret Life of Lady Julia Page 22