“What cheek!” Lady Brookhampton declared, staring at Juliet in offended shock.
“Yes. We colonials speak our minds.”
“Perhaps, then, I too should speak my mind,” Katharine said, with a superior little smile as she nodded toward Charlotte. “Why, look at you, married less than a week and already toting his brat. I dare say, Lord Gareth works fast, does he not, Mama?”
“Juliet is not the first woman Lord Gareth has ruined. But she just said she doesn’t want to hear anything bad about her husband, Katharine.”
Juliet smiled sweetly. “Oh, but Lord Gareth wasn’t the one who ruined me.”
Both women looked at her.
“Charles was.”
“What?!” The word shot from Lady Brookhampton’s mouth like a ball from a musket; beside her, her daughter’s jaw nearly fell off its hinges.
Juliet said, “You know, Charles? The one you all think was so perfect?” Good Lord, would you listen to me, defending Gareth over Charles! “He and I met in Boston in the winter of ’74. We were engaged to be married, but he died in the fighting near Concord last year, and the legal union was never made. I came to England seeking the Duke of Blackheath’s help, as Charles had bid me to do should anything happen to him.” Juliet’s steady, dark green gaze never wavered as she faced down her husband’s detractors. “Lord Gareth is an honorable and selfless man. He married me so that his brother’s baby would bear the de Montforte name. I think that is most noble of him. Don’t you?”
Lady Brookhampton’s jaw was working up and down as she fought to find words. “Well, I well, yes, I suppose it is.”
Her daughter’s face had gone a very unattractive red. “You mean to say you were engaged to … to my Charles?”
“Was he your Charles?” Juliet smiled sweetly and got to her feet. “I’m sorry. He didn’t mention it. I thought he was mine. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do. Good day.”
The Duke of Blackheath, his two gundogs trotting at his side, his walking stick parting the brambles and nettles before him, was just heading home after a long walk over the downs when he heard hoof beats pounding toward him from the direction of the castle. He raised his head and frowned, calling the dogs to heel. His rambles were part of his morning ritual, and everyone at Blackheath knew he was not to be disturbed except for one thing.
A message from London.
The rider came galloping up on his cob, bits of chalk flying from the steed’s heavy hooves. It was one of the servants, flushed and breathless. He pulled the horse up sharply, dismounting before the animal had even come to a halt.
“Your Grace! A message for you—from London!”
The duke cradled his walking stick in the crook of his elbow—actually no ordinary walking stick, but a deadly rapier concealed inside that knobby length of wood—and calmly took the note. He broke the seal and began to read:
My dear Duke,
I regret to inform you that I have lost the trail of your brother Lord Gareth, who was, along with his wife and child, evicted from Mrs. Bottomley’s late Monday night after a disturbance in which several of her clients were injured at his hand. I have already spoken to the other members of the Den, all of whom confess ignorance and worry as regards his whereabouts, and am shortly on my way to call on his new wife, who is staying at de Montforte House until such time as his lordship returns for her. The usual haunts have not yielded any sign of your brother, and at this late hour, I am beginning to fear the worst. I implore you to come to London with utmost expediency to assist me in my search.
C.
Lucien’s face went black with fury. “By God and the devil, what will it be next? Am I to hire an infernal nanny for him at the age of three and twenty?!”
“Your Grace?”
He crumpled the note in his fist, his eyes blazing with such wrath that the servant took an involuntary step backward.
“Ride ahead, Wilson, and inform the stables that Armageddon is to be saddled at once. I leave for London immediately.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The de Montforte footman who answered the urgent knock at nine past the hour the following morning didn’t recognize the man who stood just outside.
“I am sorry,” the servant said, already closing the door on the tall fellow dressed in a humble suit of green broadcloth, “but her ladyship is not receiving callers.”
“Oh, I think she’ll receive me—” he smiled—“I am her husband.”
The footman’s mouth dropped open as he recognized the figure standing just outside. “Lord Gareth!” He choked out a sputtered apology. “Why, the whole household has been worried sick about you; they thought—”
“Yes, I can imagine what they thought,” Gareth quipped, grinning ruefully. “But as you can see, I have not abandoned my wife and daughter after all. Please summon my wife, would you, Johnson?”
The footman bowed and hurried off. He had always liked Lord Gareth and didn’t believe all the wicked tales making the rounds about him “abandoning his wife.”
A moment later, Juliet herself was hurrying down the stairs in a flurry of skirts.
“Gareth?”
She came up short, pausing at the foot of the stairs, hesitant, uncertain, unsure. He stepped over the threshold, his hat in his hand, a little smile on his face that only hinted at how his heart had leaped at sight of her, and everything inside him had begun to sing. For two days he had anticipated this moment, alternately mad to see her again—and dreading the reception he was sure he would get. He had, after all, had a row with her, dumped her here, then disappeared for three days.
“Hello, Juliet,” he said, with boyish sheepishness.
She leaned against the balustrade and eyed him with a mixture of wariness and relief. “Hello, Gareth.”
And then both chorused: “I’m sorry.”
They rushed toward each other, she flinging herself into his arms and he lifting her high to swing her once, twice around, her skirts flying up over her legs, her shining face just inches from his own. He set her down and was kissing her before she even found her balance, his mouth hungrily meeting hers, seeking forgiveness, seeking proof that she still cared. She responded with all the passion with which she had missed him, worried about him, and—despite herself—wondered about him.
“Ah, dearest,” he murmured, setting her back on her feet so that he could gaze down into her face, alight with joy and relief. In that moment he realized she’d been just as worried about his reception as he’d been about hers. “I am sorry for going off and leaving as I did; can you possibly forgive me for not sending word back to you?”
“Only if you can forgive me for losing the money.”
“That was my fault, not yours.”
“No it wasn’t, it was mine—”
“Shhh.” Smiling, he leaned down and stopped her protest with another kiss that left them both reeling.
She put her arms around him and hugged him. “Oh, I am so glad you’re back, Gareth. I was worried sick about you!”
“I don’t feel as if I deserve your worry, Juliet.” He swallowed, hard, all but undone by the magnitude of her forgiveness. “After all, Charles would never have—”
“Stop it. I don’t want to speak of Charles. I’m positively sick of the way everyone keeps comparing you to him. I just want to stand here for a moment with you, the man I married.”
Gareth’s brows shot straight up. Shocked into speechlessness, awash in a sudden, all-enveloping pleasure at her words, he held her for a long, happy moment, pressing his cheek against her soft hair, loving the feel of her body against his, the delicate bones of her shoulders beneath his hands. I just want to stand here for a moment with you, the man I married. Could he read into those words what he wanted to read into them? Had she finally put his all-too-perfect brother aside, in favor of him?
If so, he was truly blessed, the happiest man in England. And as he stood there holding her, he got a tantalizing whiff of her soap, felt her breasts pushing a
gainst him, her hand roving down his back. Oh, he couldn’t wait to continue what they’d started on their wedding night!
“So, aren’t you even going to ask me where I’ve been?” he finally asked, holding her at arm’s length and grinning down at her. He pulled down his lower eyelid to expose his eyeball and shoved his face playfully into hers until a burst of laughter escaped her. “Don’t you want to look into my eyes and see how bloodshot they are from two nights of steady debauchery?”
“Oh, do stop teasing me so!” she cried, smacking him lightly. “I have more faith in you than that.”
Her words warmed him in a way that strong spirits never could. “Do you? I must confess, it’s a very humbling feeling, to find that someone in this world has faith in me after all.”
“You’ve never given me any reason not to have faith in you. Though I should tell you that every harridan in London—culminating with Perry’s mother and sister, both of whom I finally threw out—came here to speak ill of you.” She grinned. “But I didn’t believe them, of course.”
“You threw them out? Perry’s mother and sister?!”
“Well, yes. They were ripping you to shreds.”
He threw back his head in laughter. “Oh, what a plucky woman you are, my brave little colonial!” He sobered then, suddenly worried. “I probably shouldn’t ask what they said about me, though curiosity begs that I do.”
“Oh, just that you’ve ruined every woman in England, and you’re having an affair with Lord Pemberly’s wife.”
He guffawed. “Lord Pemberly’s wife? His mistress, maybe, and that ended three months ago! What rubbish!”
“Yes, I rather suspected as much.”
“Oh, Juliet. How can I ever thank you for believing in me?”
Her eyes warmed; she reached up and ran her soft, dainty hand over his jaw, then removed it and put it behind her back, gazing up at him with a coy shyness. Her cheeks flared pink, and he knew she was thinking about their aborted wedding night lovemaking. “I can think of a way.”
“Dear God, why didn’t I come back two nights ago!”
“I don’t know. But I do know that my trust in you must be rewarded,” she said playfully. “I’m certain that you haven’t spent the last few days with another woman, and I can tell just by looking at you that you haven’t spent them carousing, either; your face is clean-shaven, your eyes are too clear and bright, and you have this … this rather humble set of new clothes. What have you done, Gareth?”
He grasped her upper arms. “I had a dream, Juliet. Actually, it was more like a vision than a dream. I—” He abruptly decided not to tell her that Charles had been his mentor in the dream; she would make him tell her everything about Charles, neglecting the message of the dream in favor of Charles’s presence in it. Jealousy rose within him at the very thought; he’d had a tantalizing taste of this woman’s passion, rather liked the idea that she had actually worried about him these past two days, and was not inclined to share his wife—his wife—with his dear departed brother. “I dare say there was a message in the dream,” he continued. “It scared me. In it, I saw what I’ve been, realized what I would become if I continued on the path I was on. I saw that I was well on my way to losing you and well, I know we don’t really know each other just yet, but I am growing rather fond of you, you know? So I sold my expensive clothes, sold my jewels, and”—a brief shadow of pain crossed his face—“I sold Crusader.”
“Oh, Gareth. you didn’t! I know how much he meant to you—”
He shrugged, as though selling off his beloved horse had been as easy as pawning his jewels. “You and Charlotte mean more. And we needed the money so we could have a place to live, food in our bellies.”
Juliet frowned. She hated to destroy his newfound confidence, but she had the sneaking suspicion that he had not thought things through beforehand. “Er, Gareth that was very noble of you, but what will we do when the money runs out?”
He shrugged, looked down, and kicked at the edge of the carpet, obviously embarrassed. “I well, I’ve found work. I think we shall be all right. I mean, we won’t live in the lap of luxury, but—”
“Work?”
“Yes. I know you’re probably wondering where I’ve been the past few days. Well, I swallowed my pride and went to see that fellow Snelling up in Abingdon; you know, the one who followed us the other night and offered me a job. I wanted to talk to him and see just what it was he wanted me to do before bringing you and Charlotte all the way back to Berkshire.”
“You mean you’ve been up in Abingdon the past two days, trying to work out a way to support us?”
“I have indeed.” He grinned. “Proud of me?”
“Well, yes, but—just what is it he wants you to do?”
He shrugged. “Oh, nothing really just a little fighting, ’tis all.”
“Gareth, I don’t like the sound of this.”
“Everything will be just fine, Juliet. I can take care of myself.”
“You were furious with him when he made that offer the other night. You were insulted and ready to kill him. And now you tell me that everything’s just fine?”
He reached out and grasped her by the shoulders. “Juliet, we need the money.”
“I thought gentlemen didn’t engage in swordplay for money.”
“They don’t, but—Oh, never mind, it doesn’t matter. Even gentlemen have to find ways to feed their families, don’t they?”
“Gareth, I—”
He turned, picked up a bundle he’d left propped against the steps, and, grinning, held it out. It was a beautiful bunch of red roses, tied with an expensive silk ribbon. “Here, I got you a present. It’s to celebrate.”
“Gareth—” she shook her head and looked at him in mock exasperation—“if you’re going to start being frugal, you can’t be wasting money on buying me flowers. Money should be spent on necessities!”
He grinned. “Do you like them?”
“Of course I do, but that’s not the point—”
“I said, do you like them?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Then they are a necessity. Now, go fetch Charlotte and let’s get out of London before the neighborhood awakes, shall we?” He gazed down at his humble clothes with a mixture of amusement and ruefulness. “I don’t want to give those miserable old gits anything more to talk about than they already have.”
“What do you mean, she left London?!”
The bellow came rolling through the foyer and into Lady Brookhampton’s parlor like a thunderclap. Nervously, she set down her little telescope—with which she had been perusing de Montforte House across the street, from where the Duke of Blackheath had just stormed—and hurried out to the door where the chalky-faced footman was shrinking from the wrath of that very same duke. Lady Brookhampton paled. Never had she seen Blackheath so furious.
“Your Grace! What a pleasure it is to see—”
He tore off his hat and stalked inside, the walls themselves seeming to shrink in terror of his fury. “You know everything that goes on in this city; where is she? And where’s that confounded brother of mine?”
There was no use pretending ignorance; the duke knew she had a telescope, knew she was a valuable font of information. Lady Brookhampton waved the footman off and bravely met Lucien de Montforte’s black glare. “He abandoned her for three days, you know. Married her, lost all their money, then dumped her.” She cupped a hand to the side of her mouth and whispered, “Is it true that the brat is Charles’s?”
“Never mind that, where did they go?”
“Surely, Your Grace, your own staff would be better prepared to answer such a question than I—”
“Where—did—they—go?” he ground out, a blood vessel throbbing in his temple.
“Well! If you must know, I did just happen to see Lord Gareth return this morning, then come back out with that woman. But as to where they were headed, why, that is beyond me, Your Grace.” She saw him growing angrier and angrier, and, in an
attempt to mollify him, wrung her hands in a pretense of concern. “Oh, Lucien! You know as well as I that your brother will never be able to care for her and that babe! He’ll have them sleeping in the street and starving for want of food! He’ll have them begging like waifs! You have to find them!”
“Where is Perry?”
“I don’t know, I never know where Perry is nowadays, thanks to—”
“And those useless friends of theirs?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know that, either.”
The duke swore angrily and strode back out the door, jamming his tricorn on his head as he went. His face was thunderous. His grip on his riding crop was savage. He swung up on that vicious black beast he called a horse and, without a backward look, went galloping off down the street.
Her knees shaking, Lady Brookhampton released her pent up breath, leaned back against the wall, and dabbed at her forehead. For the first time in all these years, she actually pitied the Wild One.
God only knew what the duke would do to his errant brother when he found him.
They caught the stage out of London. This time, there were no highwaymen to lend excitement and danger to their journey, no muddy roads to slow them, no rain pouring out of the sky to make the trip a miserable one for those riding on the roof. The team was eager to be off, and they were out of London and on their way in no time.
Sitting inside with Charlotte on her lap and her husband dozing in the seat just across from her, Juliet sat lost in thought as she stared out at the shifting clouds and changing scenery. Uncertainty prickled her spine. She may have trusted her husband’s fidelity during his three-day absence, but she didn’t have quite so much faith in this dubious scheme that filled him with such excitement. He was a nobleman, bred to a life of leisure and elegance. As a second son blessed with charm and charisma, she could see him as an MP, or even an ambassador to some foreign post; but she could not envision him lowering himself to something so vulgar as sword fighting for show. What was he getting them into?
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