The Redemption of Julian Price

by Victoria Vane

“Since when did you become such a stick in the mud?” she asked.

  He arched a brow. “I won’t rise to that, Hen.”

  She pouted for a moment in silence, miffed that he refused her the ribbons. “Given your state of affairs, I wonder that you even purchased such an extravagant vehicle in the first place,” she remarked.

  “I didn’t buy it,” he replied tightly. “It was Winston’s and will soon be going up for auction, along with the horses and the rest of his belongings.”

  “Oh.” Henrietta’s gray eyes flickered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give offense.”

  “None taken.” Julian shrugged it off. “I am not quite the wastrel that everyone seems to think.”

  “Yet you do nothing to dispel the false preconception,” she said. “Why is that?”

  “Why should I trouble myself?” Julian remarked. “They are predisposed to believe what they wish to believe, regardless of what I say or do to the contrary. Winston and I have fed the gossip mills for too many years. Why should I now deprive the people of Shropshire of one of their chief pleasures?”

  “You needn’t be so cynical, Jules,” Henrietta chided. “Not everyone in Shropshire thrives on gossip. Speaking of which, what actually happened to your uncle? I’ve heard rumors, of course, but rumor rarely bears much resemblance to truth.”

  Julian arched a brow. “And what, pray tell, do the rumormongers say of Winston’s demise?”

  “Some claim ’twas a duel over a game of cards,” she replied. “One said he fell from his horse during a drunken race, and still another said he was murdered by a jealous husband.”

  “It was nothing so fantastical, I assure you.” Julian laughed. “Winston succumbed to a case of influenza.”

  “Influenza?” Henrietta said incredulously.

  “Yes. I’m quite certain he would have preferred a much more notorious death, but there you have it. The Maker rarely gives us our preference in these matters.”

  “When did you learn of his death?” Henrietta asked.

  “I received word of it about a year ago.”

  “Why did you not come home then?”

  He hesitated, recalling his reaction to the news. He’d been riddled with guilt that he’d felt nothing, absolutely nothing at the loss of the man who had raised him, albeit with almost total disregard. No, he couldn’t mourn Winston, but he did mourn Thomas, his friend, who’d acted as his closest confidant and conscience. Losing him had created a void that he was at a loss to fill.

  “Because I knew it would make no difference,” Julian replied. “Besides that, victory was in sight. For once in my life, I wanted to see something through. I owed as much to my fallen comrades. Had we lost, their lives would have been taken in vain.”

  “I don’t understand you, Julian. You proved your loyalty and dedication to our country’s cause at your own expense. Why do you not show the same concern for your family?”

  Julian stared ahead. “What family? My parents and sister are gone, and Winston died without a wife or heirs. I am all there is left. Do you know I never shed a single tear for Winston?”

  “Why should you have?” she exclaimed. “That wastrel never did a thing for you except to squander your inheritance! Which leads back to my point. You survived the war. We lost far too many good men. It is your duty to continue your family line. You need to live again, Jules, not just survive from one day to the next.”

  “How, Hen? When I barely have the means to feed myself,” he snapped, immediately regretting both his words and lapse of temper.

  “What? You told us you weren’t ruined,” Henrietta accused.

  “I lied,” Julian confessed. “Fool that I am, I trusted Winston, and he destroyed me. The money is all gone, Hen. There is nothing left but debt that I have no means of repaying.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I have no choice but to sell it all. I came back to Price Hall merely to appraise the condition of the house and the tenant farms . . . and to say good-bye.”

  “Good-bye?” Her throat tightened. “Does that mean you are going away again?”

  “After considering all of my options, it appears my only choice is to return to Portugal.”

  “P-Portugal?” she repeated incredulously. “I don’t understand! The war is over. Why would you wish to go back there?”

  “The decision has nothing to do with what I wish, Hen. I wish I could snap my fingers and have a fortune appear, but it doesn’t work that way. I have no money, and I have no prospects. Fortunately, the Portuguese aren’t all that particular given the number of men they’ve lost.”

  “But if you intended to remain in the army, why did you sell your commission?”

  “I needed funds, and it was the only thing I had of value to sell,” he replied.

  “Surely there must be another way.”

  Julian gave a fatalistic shrug. “If there is, I have yet to discover it.”

  “If you could somehow manage to keep Price Hall, certainly in time, you could generate sufficient income to save yourself.”

  Julian sounded a bitter laugh. “Even at its height of prosperity, the estate only generated a thousand pounds per annum.”

  “That’s more than enough to support an entire family in comfort,” Henrietta exclaimed. “Have you spoken to Harry? Perhaps he could assist you with a loan? How much do you require to keep the banker happy?”

  “Twenty thousand pounds,” Julian stated flatly.

  “Oh.” She swallowed hard. “That is a considerable sum.”

  “Yes. May we please speak of something else now?” he ground out.

  “What if—”

  “Please let it go, Hen.”

  “But I’m only trying to help.”

  “There is no help for me,” he said. “There is no solution. Sometimes life makes no sense, but we have little choice but to march on and face the cannons and just hope for the best.” Lips compressed, Julian tapped the leader’s flank, pressing his horses harder. “In all truth, Hen,” he continued, “you and Harry are the only reasons I considered staying in Shropshire. But it’s impossible. You see that now, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I do see,” she agreed softly. “I’m so very, very sorry, Julian.”

  “There’s nothing for you to apologize for,” he said curtly. “It’s my mess, and I shall deal with it.” They rode for the next several miles in relative silence.

  Returning to Portugal wouldn’t just mean saying good-bye to Henrietta. Portugal had revealed a facet of his character that he’d hoped to bury. Going back would be closing the door on any remaining hope of reclaiming the man he used to be. Stiff-backed and tight-jawed, Julian fell once more into grim thoughts of an even grimmer future as he stared at the road ahead.

  ***

  Tired and choked with dust, another hazard of an open carriage that Julian hadn’t warned her of, Henrietta and Julian clattered into the cobbled yard of the coaching inn shortly before dusk. Julian leaped down first to instruct the stable grooms as to the care of his horses and then returned to assist Henrietta and Millie. Lifting Henrietta from the phaeton, Julian lowered her gently to the ground but maintained his hands at her waist for a long moment but he didn’t speak. Tension hardened the lines about his mouth. Was he still peeved about their discussion? She shouldn’t have continued pressing him about his troubles. The subject had only spoiled the earlier camaraderie they’d shared.

  Henrietta’s gaze was riveted to Julian’s broad back as he turned to help Millie down from the perch behind the seat. Her mind scrambled for a solution. At first, she’d wondered if she could somehow gain access to her dowry. It was no great fortune by any means, but she’d thought perhaps it could buy him some time, but five hundred pounds would hardly remove a pebble from his great mountain of debt.

  Julian spun back around and caught her watching him. Suddenly self-conscious, Henrietta stepped away and shook out her rumpled skirts. What she wouldn’t give for a hot bath. It would be well worth the extra coin.
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  “If you and Millie wish to repair to the taproom,” he said, “I’ll inquire after bedchambers.”

  While Julian sought accommodations, Henrietta and Millie entered the public rooms of the oak-beamed, Tudor-style structure bearing a placard of a black boar. The interior was crowded and loud, smelling of smoke, sweat, and tallow candles. Gazing about, Henrietta noted that the company was certainly rougher than what she was accustomed to, but then again, she’d done very little traveling in her lifetime. Outside her monthly shopping trips to Shrewsbury, her only true adventure outside of the country had been her single London season three years ago.

  Henrietta and Millie found space on opposite sides of a crowded table. Mille sat on the end beside a middle-aged couple while Henrietta took her place beside a very large bald-headed gentleman, who at first glance appeared to be a lower tradesman. “Pardon me, I don’t mean to crowd you, sir,” Henrietta offered apologetically as she settled on the bench beside him.

  “’Taint no trouble ’tall, missy.” Flashing a smile that revealed several missing teeth, he laid a hand the size of a ham hock on her arm. On closer inspection, there was nothing genteel about his appearance. With his heavily pockmarked face and ill-tailored clothing, he appeared more like a brigand trying to pass for a tradesman. “Ye headed to Lon’n?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Henrietta replied stiffly. “To visit a kinswoman.”

  “Be ye traveling alone?” He cast a leering gaze down at her bosom.

  “No,” Henrietta responded with a tight smile and yanked her pelisse more tightly around her. “A gentleman accompanies us.”

  “Aye?” He raised his gaze back to her face. “Yer gentleman shouldn’t leave such a pretty piece as yerself all alone.”

  “I-I’m not alone,” Henrietta insisted. “My maid is also here with me.” She nodded to Millie across the table, but Millie was trying to catch the serving girl’s attention. Henrietta breathed a sigh of relief when his hand dropped from her arm, only to suck in a deeper gasp as he placed it on the small of her back. She tensed, her mind racing. She briefly considered punching his nose, but it would probably only serve to enrage the brute. Willing herself to remain calm, she said, “Sir, would you kindly remove your hand from my person?”

  He released it with a laugh only to clamped his hand on top of hers and pull it beneath the table. “Ye know what this is, missy?” he breathed drunkenly into her ear as he forced her to cup the protrusion between his legs.

  Dear God! Did she really have her hand on a man’s . . . Her throat tightened with panic. Where the devil was Julian?

  “It’s a piece of your body you are sorely going to miss if you don’t release the lady at once,” a soft but ominous voice replied.

  “Julian!” she breathed his name like a prayer.

  “Bugger off,” the brute growled. “The lady and I be conversin’.”

  “And to think I asked nicely,” Julian drawled.

  In the blink of an eye, Julian’s arm encircled her accoster’s neck in a strangle hold. Henrietta gaped as the man’s bloodshot eyes bulged. While one hand tore at Julian’s arm, the other reached into his coat pocket. Was it a weapon? Her heart leaped into her throat.

  “Julian!” she cried out in warning.

  Visibly tightening his hold, Julian gave a swift backward jerk that unseated the man from the bench. Food and drink took flight. The diners scattered from the table with mixed cries of outrage and indignation. Others surrounded the pair of combatants, watching gape-mouthed while one opportunistic bystander offered to place wagers on the outcome.

  Before the brute could even recover his breath, Julian had planted his boot on the man’s throat, “Make one false move and I’ll crush your windpipe,” he threatened, his voice low and his expression murderous. His warm brown eyes appeared black and deadly. Who was this man? If she hadn’t known it was Julian, Henrietta might not even have recognized him.

  “Now you and I shall converse,” Julian addressed his adversary as if discussing the weather. “Or better said, I will speak, and you will listen, if you wish me to remove my foot from your throat. There’s a coach in the yard departing for Newcastle. You’ll be leaving on it. Furthermore, you will depart with the knowledge that if I ever see you again, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes,” the brute hissed spittle in answer.

  “Very well.” Julian leaped back as if releasing a wild beast.

  The man reacted much the same, scrambling away on all fours and slobbering like a rabid dog. Grabbing an overturned bench, he pulled himself unsteadily to his feet. Eyeing Julian with sheer malevolence, he once more reached inside his pocket, this time retrieving a lethal looking blade. “No one threatens Jemmie Duncan,” he growled, tossing the knife from hand to hand.

  “Be there trouble here, gents?” The innkeeper appeared just in time, cocked pistol in hand.

  “Mr. Duncan was just leaving,” Julian replied blandly, seemingly unconcerned with the danger.

  “Is that so?” the innkeeper replied, eyeing the knife and then training his pistol on Duncan. “Mayhap ye’d like to relieve our friend of his weapon, Mr. Price?”

  Duncan’s gaze darted with hatred from one man to the other as Julian removed the knife from his hand and then slid it into his own pocket. “I believe a coach awaits departure.” Julian slipped the innkeeper some coins and nodded to the door. “Pray see that he gets on it.”

  “I ain’t headed north,” Duncan growled. “I be going south to Lon’n.”

  “Then you will take the scenic route via Newcastle,” Julian replied. “Now go before I put my boot to your arse.”

  The innkeeper extended his hand to Duncan. “Since ye’ll not be needing that room now, be kind enough to hand over yer key.”

  Glaring at Julian, the man gave it up.

  The innkeeper offered it to Julian with a smile. “It looks like we have a room for ye after all, Mr. Price.”

  “Thank you.” Julian accepted it with a nod. “Come, Henrietta.” He wrapped his arm protectively around her trembling body.

  “Are these places usually so dangerous?” she asked, praying her legs wouldn’t give out as they climbed the narrow staircase to the rooms above.

  “I’m sorry for my delay, Hen. I was trying to secure two rooms for the night, but there was nothing—until now.” He dangled the key. “As to your question, it’s always hazardous for a young woman to travel. I should not have left you alone for so long.”

  “But I wasn’t alone. I had Millie,” she said.

  “A maid is insufficient. A woman needs a man to protect her. I was negligent.” His arm tightened, almost crushing her ribs. “I will not make that mistake again.”

  Julian opened the door to a cramped chamber containing a tiny fireplace, a table with a chipped wash basin, a straight-backed wooden chair, and a single bed. “It’s not much,” he apologized, “but it’s all they have. This is a rougher place than I had first thought, but it’s too late now to drive to another inn.”

  “It’s fine,” Henrietta said. “I’m just glad to be out of the public room.” She suddenly felt dirty, as if the brute’s touch alone had soiled her. “Julian, if it’s not too much trouble, could you inquire about the availability of a bath?”

  “Of course,” he replied. “I’ll arrange for it along with a meal. Since you desire a bath, you and Millie can take your supper here in private. I’ll take mine below stairs.”

  “Will you join us after?” she asked.

  “No. You and Millie will take the room. I’ll bed down in the coach.”

  “But I won’t sleep knowing you are out in the cold. We can share the room,” she said.

  “My dear Hen,” he replied with a dry laugh, “a coach is a luxurious accommodation compared to sleeping on the bare ground in the Pyrenees. I go now to sup. You will remain in this room with the door locked.” His gaze held hers for a moment. “That is not a request. Henrietta.”

  “Yes, Julian,” she agreed with a nod.


  Reverting back to formality, Julian made a slight bow and turned to depart.

  “Julian?” Henrietta halted him at the door. “What if that vile man comes back? I would much prefer it if you would sleep here. You needn’t fret about propriety,” she continued. “Millie is here as a chaperone.”

  Julian hesitated. “Do you truly feel unsafe?”

  “I feel uneasy,” she said, which wasn’t a lie. “I would much prefer it if you were close by.”

  “All right, Henrietta,” he sighed. “I’ll see about getting a pallet.”

  ***

  Julian shut the door softly behind him, waiting for the tumblers to turn before he stepped away. He then headed briskly down the stairs and back into the tavern for something to suppress his almost uncontrollable surge of bloodlust. Just moments ago, he’d very nearly killed a man, not that it would have been the first. In his years on the Peninsula, he’d killed dozens if not a hundred men. Thomas had once told him that the faces of myriad dead men haunted his dreams. Julian had never dared to confess that he, on the contrary, slept very soundly.

  The taproom went silent when he entered. Gazes flicked and darted his way before the occupants resumed the low buzz of conversation, occasionally broken by a cough or a cackle.

  “Whiskey,” Julian called to the barkeep. “Give me the bottle.”

  The man behind the bar set a bottle of Irish whiskey in front of Julian and then leaned in with a whispered word of caution as he filled the glass. “The bloke ye dispatched. He be a bad ’un. I’d watch me back if I was you.”

  “Your concern is duly noted.” Not that Julian was unduly concerned. In six years on the Peninsula, he’d acquired many deadly skills—knife fighting was only one of them. Had the innkeeper not pulled a pistol on the blackguard first, Julian would have had no compunction in slitting the pig’s throat with his own blade.

  Julian raised his glass to the barkeep and then downed the first of many burning gulps that he hoped would dull the relentless drumbeat pounding in his ears. It wasn’t long before the languid lethargy that he sought settled into his limbs and calmed his mind.

  His thoughts then turned back to Henrietta. The vision of that bastard’s filthy hands on her, and even worse, of dirtying hers on him, had sent bile rising into his throat. He tried to tell himself he was only being protective, but if he were being honest, his feelings went much deeper than that. He’d been almost sick with envy when Thomas had voiced his intent to wed her, but knowing his best friend was a far better man, he never would have tried to compete for her. But now Thomas was gone, and Hen was facing the prospect of spinsterhood. She insisted it was what she wanted, but he didn’t know if he believed her. Was she trying to convince herself?