by Anne Stuart
“You don’t frighten me, Phelan. Find the terrier and we’ll take it from there,” Valerian said affably. “In the meantime, let me have Juliette. I need someone new to talk to.”
“Later, brat. I have need of her right now.”
Juliette turned to glance at him, but as usual there was no reading anything in his enigmatic expression. She didn’t want to go with him. For one thing, she didn’t want to obey any of his random commands. For another, she didn’t want to leave the sunny comfort of the one brother for the doubtless danger of the other. Did she?
She knew she had no choice. She made a low bow. “Yes, my lord and master.”
Valerian chuckled. “Better watch it, Phelan. You can’t thrash her when she mocks you.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Phelan said coolly. “Come along, lad,” he ordered, his voice heavy with irony.
Juliette followed in his wake, wondering whether she ought to keep a civil tongue in her head, always a difficult task for her. Or whether she had anything to lose.
She decided she didn’t. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she said.
Phelan paused at the top of the stairs, turning to observe her with unsettling calm. “Wouldn’t do what?”
“Call me ‘lad’ with such sarcasm.”
“Forgive me,” he said without a trace of sincerity. “I am told my cynicism is one of my greatest flaws.”
“I doubt that.”
His smile lightened his dark face. “Doubtless you think I have many far greater ones,” he suggested.
“Doubtless,” she said boldly.
“Are you hoping to goad me into sending you on your way? As I’ve already remarked, you’re extremely innocent. If you irritate me enough, I’ll simply see that you’re locked in your room.”
“I could climb out the window.”
“I’m aware of that. I used the window to enter your room and remove your clothes. I’ll see to it that the window is barred as well.”
She could feel her face pale. “You did?”
“Who did you think? Hannigan? Much as I trust him, I wasn’t about to let him wander into a sleeping girl’s room. He is only a man after all, and subject to the same temptations as anyone.”
“But not you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You weren’t subject to any temptations when you entered my room.” She pursued it with an irrational disregard of her own well-being.
“On the contrary,” he said, and his voice was low, smooth, and evoking extreme warning. “But then, I have an unfair advantage. I already know what I’m planning to do with you.”
“Would you care to enlighten me?” She found she could be almost as mocking.
Almost. Phelan Romney was a master. “No.”
She stared at him in mute frustration. “To the kitchen, young Julian,” he said, dismissing her.
“I’ve already helped Dulcie …”
“She’s in need of more assistance,” Phelan said calmly.
“You just want to keep me away from your brother,” she said shrewdly.
“Why ever should I?”
She considered it. Jealousy certainly couldn’t be a motive. “You need to warn him not to be so frank. Not if you wish to keep any of your secrets, Mr. Romney.” She used his real last name with determined emphasis, hoping for a reaction.
She didn’t like the one she got. “Wrong name, little one,” he murmured with a mocking smile. “But you’re right about my brother. I’m about to tie his tongue in knots before I let you near him again. He could take lessons in discretion from you.”
For some reason she was inordinately pleased at the vague compliment.
“But it won’t do any good,” he added.
“What won’t?”
“Your discretion. When I want to find out your secrets, I will. For the time being, I’ll let you keep them. I have other, more important matters on my mind.” He turned from her. “To the kitchen, child,” he called over his shoulder.
The term incensed her. “I’m twenty-two years old.”
He turned and looked at her, and there was no mistaking his triumphant expression. “So ancient a hag, are you?” he murmured. “I would never have guessed it. And therein lies a lesson. I just tricked you into giving away one piece of information. I can get the rest just as easily.”
“Try it,” she challenged, still furious, mainly with herself.
He took a step toward her, and she could read the determination in his face. He was going to touch her. And she was horribly afraid she might begin to like it.
“Never mind,” she said swiftly. “I believe you.” And she turned and fled down the dark, narrow stairs to the kitchen.
Phelan should have been pleased with the way things were working out. Or so he told himself as he sat alone in the library at Sutter’s Head, staring out into the late-afternoon sunlight. The past few days had passed in relative peace and harmony. The introduction of Juliette into their lives had at least temporarily restrained some of Valerian’s more reckless tendencies. To be sure, he still rode neck or nothing along the beach to burn off some of his restlessness. But the rest of the time he spent with Juliette, playing chess, teasing her, trying, with a complete lack of success, to ferret out her secrets. He’d made no attempt to travel into Hampton Regis and visit the alluringly innocent Miss Sophie de Quincey, and for that Phelan could only be grateful. A few more days, and he might even be able to convince Val of the wonders of Paris.
Phelan knew he ought to be willing to give up his interest in Juliette as a sacrifice to Valerian’s well-being. But there was a limit to his brotherly devotion, and that limit had been reached in the person of a small, determined creature who didn’t even realize how deliciously feminine she was.
That was probably the secret of her charm. Most women flirted, using every weapon in their arsenal to try to ensnare men, whether they actually wanted them or not. It was probably just a case of keeping their skills sharp.
Phelan had always found it a dead bore. But Juliette Whoever-She-Was was a different matter entirely. She truly didn’t want to entice anyone, and her grace and femininity came from somewhere inside her, unconscious and all the more desirable.
He was having a hard time of it, Phelan thought with grim humor. He ought to get rid of her. Failing that, he ought to encourage Valerian to bed her. He could do neither. As far as he could tell, and he’d been watching with jealous intensity, Valerian treated her like a younger brother, like a tame puppy, like a new toy. As long as that continued, he didn’t need to make any decisions. And he could control his own urges, no matter how irrationally fierce they seemed to have grown over the past week, ever since the advent of the fair Juliette into their lives.
God, if only they could leave this place! Leave her behind, with her unconscious temptation. Phelan had no home, and he wanted none. On the Continent he felt free, to roam, to discover, to live.
Taking his allowance and buying a commission in the army had been a rash, childish thing to do, back when he was a hotheaded eighteen-year-old. His father had even deemed it mad. But it had been the sanest thing he’d ever done. While none of his fellow officers could understand why an heir to a tidy estate would enter the army, they had accepted him, and he’d learned the kind of friendship that existed between men when lives were at stake. With Hannigan always at his side, he’d discovered a kind of peace within himself, the sort he’d never thought he could find. He’d accepted his lot with a cynical grace, continuing with his travels during the eight years since he’d sold out his commission. If only he hadn’t returned to Yorkshire and set the madness in motion once more.
He leaned back in the leather chair, a frown creasing his forehead. It had been years since he’d wasted his time in useless regrets, in longing for what simply could not be. It was best he kept his attention fixed on what he could do. Enough people were already paying the price of the family heritage. He was damned if he’d let Valerian do so as well.
>
“We’ve got trouble, your lordship.”
Phelan lifted his head, his eyes narrowing as Hannigan strode into the room. He was still dusty from his travels, and his face was grim.
“It looks it,” Phelan said. “Wouldn’t you like something to quench your thirst before you tell me?”
“Dulcie’s bringing me some ale.” Hannigan sat heavily in a chair, with the weariness of an old friend, not a servant, and Phelan realized matters were very serious indeed.
Phelan had never been a man to stand on ceremony. He didn’t give a damn about social rules, or class order, or any of that absurdity. When long ago he’d learned that the young boy playing in the kitchens was actually his half brother, he’d seen to it that Valerian had joined in his own lessons. Phelan’s mother had protested in shrieks of fury, but even at fifteen he’d managed to ignore her, and for once his father had approved of his actions in taking Valerian under his wing.
Phelan had always considered Hannigan to be more of a father than the man who had sired him, and when they were abroad, Hannigan relaxed some of his standards. In England, however, he always stood deferentially, referred to Phelan by title, and seldom held more than the briefest of conversations.
Phelan leaned back in his chair, waiting patiently. Indeed, he was a man who’d learned to school his impulses, and he’d done very well at it. Until he’d met the girl who called herself Julian Smith.
“She’s an heiress,” Hannigan said, once Dulcie had delivered his mug of ale and then made herself scarce with her usual placid discretion.
Phelan considered the information. “Valerian will be pleased,” he said wryly. “He’s been looking for one to marry.”
“Won’t do him any good. She’s already married.”
Phelan didn’t allow a flicker of emotion to pass over his face. “Is she?” he said evenly.
But Hannigan had known him since birth. “I knew you wouldn’t like it,” he said. “And you won’t like who she’s married to even more.”
“Someone I know?” He didn’t deny his reaction. It would have been fruitless. “Why don’t you tell me everything you know? I suppose the girl has a name?”
“Juliette MacGowan Lemur. Her husband’s Mark-David Lemur. We met him in …”
“In Alexandria,” Phelan supplied, immediately putting a face to the man. Immediately hating him. “I don’t remember hearing about a wife.”
“Wasn’t married then. I thought I’d best get back and tell you what I’d found, rather than waste time ferreting out the details. I imagine you can get them from her just as easily. All’s I know is they were married in Egypt, traveled back to London by boat, and then she disappeared. He’s looking for her.”
“I expect he is,” Phelan said calmly.
“Those are her earbobs, by the way.”
“MacGowan.” Phelan repeated the name in a contemplative fashion. “Then her father presumably was Black Jack MacGowan. No wonder she’s so unconventional. He was a true original.”
“Did we ever meet him?”
Phelan shook his head. “No. And now I’m doubly sorry. I knew he had a child, but I’d always gathered it was a boy. That explains a great deal. He died a few months back. That must be when Lemur stepped in. Very like him.”
“You don’t care for the man,” Hannigan said.
“To put it mildly. So it’s a husband she’s running away from, not an overbearing father. I would never have guessed it,” Phelan murmured, thinking of the fierce, defensive innocence in her eyes, in her mouth the one time he’d given in to temptation and kissed her. “How did you find all this out?”
Hannigan looked uneasy. “I have connections,” he said vaguely. “Friends, family.”
“Friends and family who’d know about stolen jewels.”
Hannigan gave Phelan his most innocent smile. “Your lordship wouldn’t want to be bothered with the sordid details. Suffice it to say word’s out about the earbobs. There’s a reward for them, and when it comes to a choice between loyalty and gold, I don’t think there’s going to be much difficulty making the decision. Lemur’s going to be able to trace the earbobs back here.”
“You think so? When the Bow Street runners can’t even find us?”
“We’ve had help in that matter. It weren’t a question of money then. My family’s been watching out for you and your brother. But runaway heiresses and diamond earbobs can complicate things.”
“The Hannigans have kept the runners away?” Phelan asked, momentarily startled.
But obviously Hannigan had already said more than he wanted to, and he simply rose, taking his empty mug with him. “I need to wash the travel dust off me,” he said, dismissing the subject, and Phelan knew he’d get no more out of him. Only Hannigan could withstand Phelan’s determination. “Where is the girl? In the kitchens?”
“I imagine she’s playing chess with Valerian,” Phelan answered. “I was hoping to keep the two of them apart, but fate decreed otherwise.” He kept his voice cool and noncommittal, with the distant hope he could fool his oldest friend. He didn’t put much stock in his ability to do so, but it was worth a try.
“Has he decided he’s in love with her yet?” Hannigan asked, knowing Valerian of old.
“I’m not certain. I expect he’s still enamored of Sophie de Quincey, though he’s trying to resist temptation. Why don’t you come along and see what you think?”
“I might at that,” Hannigan said. “I don’t want her breaking any hearts around here.”
“Valerian’s heart is very resilient. And we know that I don’t have one, at least as far as young women are concerned.”
Hannigan didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. His derisive expression said it all.
“No, no, no,” Val said. “You walk like that damned Pinworth! You’ve got to stride more. Swing your arms back and forth … Not too much! You’ll knock over the furniture.”
He was seated on the delicate little settee, his yellow silk skirts flowing about him, a light cashmere shawl disguising the muscle in his arms, as his rather too capable-looking hands did their best with the delicate teapot.
Juliette stopped her measured pacing to survey him critically. “I’ve been walking around in boys’ clothes for six weeks and no one’s noticed. I think I’ve been doing fine. Certainly better than you are at handling that teapot. You’re treating it like a bucket of slop. The milk goes first, you fool, then the tea, then the hot water. And don’t splash it in, for heaven’s sake! A woman your age would have serving tea down pat!”
“A woman my age would have servants pour the tea for her,” Valerian shot back.
Juliette raised an eyebrow. “Where were you raised? The servants bring in the tray; the lady of the house pours. Didn’t your mother ever make your tea?”
“My mother would brew me a cuppa in the kitchen,” Valerian replied. “If I’d had tea with Phelan’s mother, she probably would have poisoned it.”
“You don’t have the same mother?” Juliette questioned, stopping her pacing and sinking down beside her companion with charming, boyish grace.
“I’m the bastard of the family,” Val said with unabated good humor. “My mother was a farm girl, my father the lord of the manor.”
“Which is why your half brother is now a lord,” she said shrewdly. “So that makes you the black sheep?”
“Not me. Phelan has that honor. He follows his own rules, always has. Doesn’t half like it that he’s inherited the title, but there’s nothing he can do about it. He never liked Yorkshire, or the family, for that matter. Not that I can blame him. His mother … well, the less said about her the better. If it were up to Phelan, he’d spend his life wandering the world, discovering new places, not trapped in a manor house in the north of England. But it isn’t up to him. He can’t bring our father back to life, and I’m not sure he’d want to, even for the sake of his freedom. For reasons I never understood, my father hated him. And wasted no chance in letting him know it.”
&nb
sp; “How awful,” Juliette blurted out, horrified. At least she had the memory of Black Jack MacGowan’s unstinting love to see her through the dark times.
Valerian shrugged. “He wouldn’t want your pity. He’s learned to live a tidy, self-contained life. No one touches him, and he cares for no one.”
“Is that a warning?”
Valerian’s smile was supremely innocent. “Why should it be? You have no interest in my brother, do you?”
“Only in when I’ll see the last of him,” Juliette said firmly. She changed the subject. “How did your father die? Was it recently?” She stretched her legs out in front of her, crossing them at the ankles in perfect imitation of Valerian when he was wearing breeches.
“Not bad,” he said, surveying her. “But you need to throw your shoulders back a bit. Tilt your chin up, like you’re ready to take on the world.”
“And you need to simper more.”
“I’m sure I do. Problem is, I don’t think you know how to simper. You certainly haven’t been very forthcoming with helpful hints on the subject.”
“I’m afraid I never mastered the art of flirtation,” she said in a cool voice.
Valerian laughed. “Maybe I’ll have to teach you how to be a woman as well as a man.”
“Don’t count on it, boy-o,” Juliette retorted.
“Make a lovely couple, don’t they?” Hannigan’s voice broke through their preoccupation.
She glanced up to see him standing in the doorway, with Phelan directly behind him. In the dim light of the hallway she couldn’t read Phelan’s expression, but she could sense his reserve, and guess at his disapproval.
“Lovely,” he said, an edge to his voice that to a wishful fool might almost sound like jealousy.
“Like brother and sister,” Hannigan continued cheerfully. “Only problem is, who’s the brother and who’s the sister?”
That remark surprised a laugh out of Phelan, one nearly devoid of mockery. “Indeed, it’s hard to say who’s the prettier of the two.”
“Valerian is,” Juliette said flatly. “And definitely the more feminine.”