The King's Code (The Lady Spies Series #3): A Regency Historical Romance

by Samantha Saxon

  “If you gentlemen will excuse me. I believe I have finished for the night.”

  Unaccustomed to losing, the proprietor clenched his jaw, asking, “Will you not stay, Mister McCurren, and give the table the opportunity to win back our loses?”

  Seamus rose, pulling out his pocket watch from his cobalt waistcoat, and verified his body’s suspicion of the late hour. “I’m afraid not, Mister Youngblood.”

  Madame Richard snapped her long fingers and a small man appeared at her side. “Mister Matthews, please pay Mister McCurren his winnings and then call for his conveyance to be brought round.”

  Dipping his head toward the beautiful bawd, Seamus held her shimmering eyes as the tiny bookkeeper scribbled in a leather ledger before begrudgingly handing over the considerable amount that Seamus was owed.

  “Good evening,” Seamus said to his host as he stuffed the stack of currency into the right pocket of his jacket, his fingertips confirming the presence of the cold steel of his pistol.

  He turned away from the table then walked to the front door, carefully avoiding the whores who were so very eager to help him celebrate his good fortune. Once clear of their temptation, Seamus rode home, all the while mentally preparing himself for yet another bout with polite society and another daunting week with the inscrutable Juliet Pervill.

  Chapter Ten

  ~

  It was two o’clock on Saturday afternoon and Juliet was reading in bed when the door to her bedchamber burst open.

  Startled, she looked up, and her mother strolled in as if it were her home and not Lord Appleton’s.

  “So,” the countess began, looking down at Juliet with both hands on her narrow hips. “You’re alive.”

  Juliet rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Mother. Of course I’m alive.”

  Her mother grasped the cozy counterpane and snapped it back, exposing Juliet to the harsh winter air.

  “What else was I supposed to think when you failed to come home last weekend?” Her mother raised a brow in what Juliet knew to be irritation.

  “I never agreed to come home, Mother.” Juliet leaned forward and yanked the blankets back to their rightful, and much preferred, position.

  “And how was I to know that, as you never wrote saying you would not be home?” her mother inquired, pulling the counterpane off the bed entirely, thus forcing Juliet to get out of bed and don a heavy dressing gown or freeze to death.

  “I’m sorry, Mother.” She leaned over to pull on her slippers, but when she rose, Juliet was startled to see tears in her mother’s beautiful blue eyes.

  She had never seen her mother cry. Well, almost cry, and Juliet watched as her mother’s hurt was once again masked by her elegant composure.

  “I would have preferred it if you had written, Juliet. I would have come to town immediately instead of waiting for you at the estate.”

  “I apologize, Mother,” Juliet offered with utmost sincerity. “It was inconsiderate of me and I can only tell you that I was not thinking clearly last week. Please, forgive my thoughtlessness.”

  “Of course, I forgive you, darling. I just . . .” Her mother swallowed and met Juliet’s eye once again. “I would have been here . . . had I known you were not coming home.”

  “I know you would have come, Mother.” Juliet had to stop herself from crying, too. “I’m all right, or rather, I shall be all right.” She attempted to sound cheerful. “Being ruined will take some getting used to, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that it will.” The countess patted her perfect coiffure. “However, I refuse to allow you to lock yourself away with your books.”

  Juliet grinned. “I like my books.”

  “I have noticed that over the past twenty-two years, darling,” her mother remarked, annoyed. “But if you do not remove yourself from this room on occasion, you shall end up as wide as the door with only me and your cats for company.”

  Juliet smiled impishly. “I shall always have Felicity.”

  “Felicity will marry.”

  Juliet blinked, never having truly considered their separation.

  “Felicity has refused nine offers of marriage,” she pointed out in a bit of a panic.

  Her mother heard the alarm in her voice and smiled kindly. “You have seen your cousin with babes, Juliet. Mark my words, Felicity will settle within the next few years.”

  Juliet thought of her cousin’s deepening sadness and knew that her mother was correct. Felicity would marry and Juliet would be alone, a ruined woman.

  “I don’t know what to do, Mother.”

  The countess hugged her and whispered in Juliet’s ear, “Felicity will always welcome you in her home. I just want you to understand that it will be different once she marries.” Her mother leaned back and wiped Juliet’s frustrated tears from her cheek. “In the meantime, you are to get dressed in your most magnificent gown so that we might attend the Duchess of Glenbroke’s ball.”

  “I really do not wish to—”

  “You must, darling,” her mother insisted. “You did an excellent job at the Spencer ball of putting doubt into the gossips’ minds. Oh, how I wish I could have seen you slap your father.”

  Juliet laughed. “It was quite spectacular.”

  “I’m sure,” the countess agreed, grinning. “But for the moment you must behave as if nothing untoward has occurred with Lord Harrington. The Duke and Duchess of Glenbroke are hosting this ball to influence the opinion of polite society in your favor. If you do not attend, you are as good as admitting your guilt.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Juliet snapped.

  “Yes, it is, but unfortunately, it is true. Now . . .” Her mother walked toward the armoire, throwing it open to find something suitable for Juliet to wear. “Dear God, Juliet,” she gasped, staring at the drab gowns Juliet had commissioned from Madame Maria’s. “A scullery maid has been depositing her clothing in your armoire!”

  Juliet sighed, knowing she would have to explain. “Those are my gowns, Mother.”

  “Oh, darling!” Countess Pervill fingered the dowdy fabric, aghast. “These are the most hideous gowns I have ever laid eyes on.”

  “That is their purpose, Mother.” Juliet tightened the sash to her dressing gown and walked toward the countess, who was holding a gray gown as if it were a child’s soiled nappy. “Those are my vocation clothes.”

  “Must you use that word, Juliet?” Countess Pervill dropped the deficient gown on the floor.

  “Vocation?”

  Her mother groaned. “Yes.”

  Juliet smiled at her mother’s snobbishness.

  “You always know how to lift my spirits.”

  “It is not your spirit which needs reviving, Juliet, it is your reputation. Now”—her mother pointed toward the washroom—“go and bathe and I shall find something suitable for you to wear to the ball.”

  Resigned, Juliet walked toward the door, knowing that defying her mother would only increase the duration of her own suffering.

  “As you wish, Countess Pervill, and might I assume that I can expect the continued pleasure of your company?”

  “You can,” her mother said simply, unscathed by Juliet’s sarcasm. “However, you shall have to wait to enjoy it as your bath water is getting cold.”

  Juliet rolled her eyes and shut her mother out of the small washroom. The sound of pouring water welcoming her as she walked through the warm steam to the side of the tub.

  “Thank you, Anne.” Juliet nodded to her lady’s maid, who curtsied before leaving the tranquil room.

  The instant the door closed, Juliet untied her sash and stepped tentatively into the deep tub. The water was the perfect temperature, and as she sank down, the warmth continued until it had reached her scalp. She moaned with pleasure, thinking there was nothing better than a hot bath on a cold day.

  Winter in London was dreadful and it seemed as though she was never truly warm until the sun reluctantly returned in spring. Juliet swept her long, chestnut hair o
ver the rounded edge of the bathtub and leaned back.

  Perhaps she should marry an Italian, now that she was ruined. She could live year round in a warm home with the added benefit of a husband with all that lovely caramel colored skin. But would her Italian lover taste as good as her favorite sweet?

  Yes, she was quite certain that he would.

  Juliet took a moment to formulate a picture of her very tall, very muscular, and very swarthy Italian husband.

  Grinning with the pleasure of her own daydream, Juliet sank beneath the surface to wet her hair in preparation for washing, the heat of the bath water seeping into her very bones.

  I could never live in Scotland, it’s far too cold.

  The caramel of her lover’s skin faded and Juliet bolted upright as her mind’s eye stared at the likeness of a nude Seamus McCurren. Stunned, Juliet grasped her lavender soap and scrubbed her licentious thoughts away as she mercilessly washed her unruly hair.

  Seamus McCurren? Juliet snorted. With his angular features and exceptional body, the man was well out of her reach.

  Those eyes, my lord, those golden eyes could tempt a woman to bed without him ever uttering a seductive word. And the words would be seductive when uttered by those lips . . . Juliet stilled and her eyelids drifted closed so that she could feel his lips again.

  Her heart began to race as she pictured kissing him back, kissing that beautiful jaw, the subtle cleft, the pulse of his throat as it led down to that beautiful—

  “Juliet, are you all right?” A loud thud brought her back to her senses as her mother spoke through the door.

  “Yes,” she shouted, flustered. “I’ve just dropped my soap in the tub.”

  “Well, do hurry, darling. We must dress your hair.”

  Mortified, Juliet quickly dried herself, emerged into her sitting room, and immediately crinkled her nose.

  “What is that horrible smell?”

  “Your gowns.” Countess Pervill tossed one of Juliet’s drab gowns on the fire.

  “I need those gowns!” For protection against men, against her love of men.

  “Too late, darling, that was the last ghastly gown.”

  “Mother!”

  “As for this evening’s attire,” Countess Pervill continued, completely ignoring Juliet’s protests, “Anne and I have selected a lovely ball gown and we will pile your hair in a chignon to make you appear taller than you are.”

  “Oh, a chignon will make me appear six foot at least.”

  “How I wish I had given birth to a simpleton,” the countess lamented.

  “As do I.” Her mother raised a brow, surprised at Juliet’s docile agreement. “So that I might not know the extent of the humiliation I am about to endure.”

  “I did not raise a coward, Juliet,” her mother observed. “So, why were you hiding in bed like one?”

  Juliet gave an exaggerated tsk. “My hiding in bed has nothing to do with being ruined . . .” she began, before realizing her mistake and falling silent.

  “Juliet?” Damn! Her mother walked over and stared her down. “Why were you in bed?”

  Juliet stared back, not about to tell her own mother that a colleague had kissed her, not about to admit the crushing truth that he had done it only to ruffle her feathers and get her out of his precious office. Not about to admit that she had just spent far too many delightful moments picturing that colleague nude.

  “I didn’t feel well.”

  “And now?”

  “Fine.”

  “Excellent.” Her mother’s maneuvering was flawless, giving Juliet no avenue of escape. “Then go have Anne set your hair.”

  Juliet turned to see her lady’s maid dutifully standing at the vanity with a mother of pearl hairbrush at the ready.

  “Very well,” she said, refusing to be coerced by her resolute mother. “I shall attend the ball because Sarah has generously given it.”

  “Yes, the duchess has been quite generous.” Her mother’s eyes sparkled, frightening her. “She even provided you an escort.”

  “Please”—Juliet’s face was contorted by trepidation— “tell me you are joking.”

  “I would not jest about something so significant as this, darling.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Her mother shook her dark head. “However, when the gentleman arrives, I shall express my gratitude for his willingness to escort a woman of questionable reputation.”

  It was rather good of the man. “Please, don’t, Mother,” she begged.

  “Very well.”

  Her mother sighed and Juliet raised a brow, wondering who this chivalrous gentleman might be and wondering more if he might expect some form of gratitude from a “woman of questionable reputation” in return.

  Chapter Eleven

  ~

  “Bloody cold tonight.” Christian St. John stamped his feet as his older brother, Ian, knocked on the Appletons’ black lacquered door.

  “I told you to wear your heavy coat,” the Marquis Shelton said with not one ounce of sympathy.

  “I couldn’t,” Christian explained. “My greatcoat clashed with the color of my jacket.”

  Ian glanced at Christian’s blue jacket and his blond brows furrowed with distaste.

  “You’re a bit of a dandy, aren’t you, little brother?”

  Irritated by the condescension in his arrogant brother’s voice, Christian fired back, “Not all of us dress to impress Parliament, Ian. Some of us prefer the notice of women.”

  “And some of us,” the marquis said, looking down his nose, “prefer the notice of ladies.”

  The door opened and Christian was spared from yet another lecture on the unsuitability of his many paramours.

  “Good evening, Marquis Shelton,” Lady Felicity’s butler said, expecting them. “Lord Christian.”

  Christian nodded, appreciative of the butler’s courteous acknowledgment of him while in his illustrious brother’s company.

  “If you would be so kind as to wait in the drawing room, I shall inform Lady Felicity that you have arrived.”

  “Thank you,” Ian replied, prompting the butler to bow deeply to the future Duke of St. John before withdrawing from the foyer.

  “He never bows for me like that.” Christian plopped into his favorite chair of the familiar drawing room.

  “Well.” His brother removed his beaver skin top hat and set it on a round side table. “You are only the spare after all.”

  Christian adjusted his white gloves, noting the grin that his brother attempted to hide. “You’re quite the blackguard, aren’t you, big brother.”

  “Better a blackguard than a wastrel.” Ian walked to the fireplace.

  Christian laughed, ending their brotherly barbs. “Good of you to do this, Ian.”

  “Not at all.” His brother waved his gratitude away as he warmed himself in front of the fire. “I needed a break from Parliament.”

  “I would put a bullet through my head if I were forced to bang the political war drums,” Christian muttered to himself more than to Ian.

  “The work I do is imperative, Christian. Many would vote to withdraw from the Peninsula, giving Napoleon free rein over Europe. What they fail to comprehend is that our isolation will only give Napoleon the time and resources he needs to invade England.”

  “I know, I know.” Christian stretched both arms over the back of the settee, having heard the speech a hundred times before. “I’m in complete agreement, remember?”

  Ian chuckled, placing an elegantly positioned elbow on the mantle. “My apologies. Force of habit, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, do quail the habit when the ladies arrive. I know you are a bit rusty when it comes to women.” His brother shot him a glace that conveyed forbearance.

  Lady Felicity swept into the room, looking as beautiful as ever.

  “Marquis Shelton, it has been far too long,” she said, offering Christian a polite nod before turning back to Ian. “I shall just go and retrieve Lady Juliet. Howev
er, I did first want to thank you for doing this for my cousin, for me.” Felicity put her right hand to her chest.

  “It is purely”—Ian bowed, lifting her hand to his lips— “my pleasure, Lady Felicity.”

  Felicity curtsied and Ian met Christian’s eye over the lady’s lovely head, raising his left brow.

  “We will be but a moment.”

  Christian bowed as Felicity left the room and then looked at his brother the instant the door closed.

  “What was that?”

  “What?” his brother asked innocently, but Christian knew him far too well.

  “Don’t bloody well fob me off. That look . . . with the eyebrows.” Christian pointed to his brother’s irritatingly handsome face.

  The marquis shrugged, shaking his head. “I had forgotten how beautiful Lady Felicity was.”

  Christian’s jaw dropped, stunned. “When is your birthday, Ian?”

  “Next month and thank you for remembering.”

  “I knew it! You’ll be thirty next month,” he accused his brother.

  “You really are quite strange, Christian,” Ian said, turning away from him. “Perhaps we should consult with a physician specializing in—”

  “Don’t change the topic of conversation.” He walked toward Ian, peering into his brother’s eyes. Ian was a master at hiding his thoughts but Christian had spent his life digging them up. “When you were twelve, you told me that you planned to marry by thirty and have two heirs by age thirty-five.”

  “What do you care if I wish to marry?”

  “Oh, I pray you marry, Ian.” Christian was nodding adamantly. “If only to keep Father off my back. However, you will not court my friends so that you might adhere to some self-imposed schedule.”

  “Thank you for the advice, Christian. I shall consider it as much as I ever do.”

  “I’m quite serious, Ian.”

  His brother raised a brow, looking him up and down. “Are you?”

  “Yes.” Christian held his ground as the door to the sitting room opened.

  “Good evening,” Juliet offered, forcing Christian to turn away from his obstinate older brother.