My Fair Mistress

by Tracy Anne Warren

  Nausea rose at the idea, scalding the delicate lining of her throat. Wrapping an arm around her heavy middle, she forced her thoughts back to the task at hand.

  “Be careful,” she warned as the housemaids stepped down from their ladders.

  Once again on solid ground, they curtseyed and smiled. “Yes, my lady, and thank you.”

  Returning their smiles, Julianna watched as the two young women moved to another set of windows to hang more draperies.

  At least Maris will arrive next week, Julianna thought.

  Of course, so would most of the Ton, returned from their country estates to partake in the frivolity of a brand-new Season. Yet while the nobility danced and drank and cavorted until all hours, she would be here inside the townhouse readying herself to give birth.

  Another bone of contention between herself and Rafe.

  Last month, she had gone to him and asked if they could travel to his country house in Yorkshire, explaining how she longed for a bit of peaceful solitude. After a brief pause, he’d refused, telling her he had too much business in the city for them to leave.

  “Besides,” he said, “you will receive better medical care here in London.”

  And that had been the end of that.

  She sighed. As much as she loved the new nursery and had her every need seen to here at the townhouse, she would have much preferred a respite in the countryside. If she closed her eyes, she could almost smell the spring-sweet air in her nose, her shoes crushing the greening grass as she strolled through the fields, birdsong playing like a symphony on the wind.

  But such was not to be.

  If only there were somewhere to go, even for a few hours!

  Of course, there was her townhouse on Upper Brook Street. She still owned it, even if it was locked up, the furniture shrouded in dust sheets.

  But what was the point?

  No, she decided, she would content herself by keeping busy with preparations for the baby. She had hats and booties to knit and embroidery to finish on the christening gown she was sewing from a length of delicate white moiré silk.

  I will be fine, she assured herself. I have nothing whatsoever to fear.

  Where has he hidden them?

  Blood thundered in Burton’s temples, fury burning like a brand in his chest as he rifled through the contents of Hurst’s desk. He’d already been through the man’s bedroom, study, and library twice, searching every conceivable location for the fool’s journals.

  Yet nothing.

  In the past four hours he’d searched every room in the townhouse, to no avail. The blighted things simply weren’t here.

  When he and Hurst arrived back in London earlier in the evening, Burton had set to questioning his old friend. Besotted as usual, Hurst had told him to look for the latest journal in his bedroom nightstand. The rest were stored in a trunk, he claimed. When they didn’t turn up there, he’d suggested his study.

  By the time Hurst began to seriously question Burton’s interest in the diaries, it had been too late for him—the poison Burton put into his wine already beginning to paralyze his limbs and restrict his breathing. When Burton stopped by tomorrow and “discovered” his friend dead, the authorities would conclude Hurst had died of a heart seizure brought on by a life of excess and overindulgence.

  Good thing for him Hurst didn’t keep staff in the house when he was away, Burton thought. Bad thing for Hurst. The dolt hadn’t even sent his valet ahead on this trip, he and Burton having traveled alone in Burton’s curricle despite the wet March weather.

  The idea had been to dash into Town, then dash out again, no one the wiser. Then they were to have continued on to Devonshire for a bit of seaside air. At least that’s the plan Hurst had envisioned.

  Privately, Burton had envisioned another scheme, one that included eliminating Hurst and destroying the written records the idiot had left behind. But his plan had contained a slight miscalculation. He’d already started Hurst drinking the poisoned wine before he realized the blasted journals were missing.

  While Hurst was wheezing out his last few breaths, Burton had interrogated him again.

  “Where are the journals?” he’d demanded, striking Hurst across his blue-tinged face.

  “I d-don’t know,” his friend had sobbed. “Th-they ought to have been wh…where I left them. Hel…help me, pl…please.” Gasping hard, he began to claw at his own throat.

  Moments later the convulsions set in, a wet stain forming on Hurst’s trousers as he lost control of his bladder. Burton crinkled his nose as the odor of fresh urine rose upward, creating a repulsive stink in the air. He left Hurst a twitching heap on the study floor and returned to the man’s bedroom to search one more time.

  Yet he’d found nothing.

  Nothing!

  Now, once again in the study, he glared at his old friend, at the staring blue eyes that no longer saw anything. Walking close, he took out his frustration by giving the body a pair of swift, punishing kicks.

  Useless drunkard! Burton raged. Bacon-brained lout! What has he done with those bloody journals?

  More to the point, what had Hurst written inside them? If it was nothing incriminating, he could relax. On the other hand, if Hurst had written down enough detail about Eleanor’s death to be convincing, it could cause him trouble.

  His late wife’s family had never truly believed his explanation that she’d fallen down the stairs while sleepwalking. Her father in particular had found the story suspect, but hadn’t possessed the evidence to refute him. With Hurst’s statement, he now just might.

  I have to find those damned diaries, Burton thought. Hurst had to have hidden them somewhere and gone to his grave refusing to reveal the truth. But remembering his last few minutes of life, and how he’d blubbered like an old woman, perhaps Hurst hadn’t been lying. And if he hadn’t been and the journals truly were not in the house, it could mean only one thing.

  Someone else had taken them!

  But who?

  The thought made his stomach churn, his knuckles clenched into bone-popping fists at his sides. A scream bellowed from his lungs, shaking the walls and reverberating against the ceiling.

  Whoever it is, he vowed, I’ll find him. And when I do, only God will be able to help the miserable bastard.

  “St. George and Hurst ’er back in the city,” Hannibal announced without preamble as he crossed into the breakfast room where Rafe was eating a solitary meal. “But what’s really interesting is that Hurst turned up dead this morning. Heart seizure, or so it’s bein’ said. St. George found him and is—how did I hear it—most distressed.”

  Hannibal pulled out a chair opposite Rafe and sat down.

  Rafe quirked a sarcastic brow and set the fresh orange he’d been peeling onto a plate. “Oh, I’m sure he’s beside himself with grief. No doubt been that way ever since he stood over his old friend and watched him turn blue.”

  “Ye think he done him in, then?”

  “Undoubtedly. After what Hurst wrote in those journals of his, I’m surprised St. George didn’t kill him ages ago.”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t know about the journals.”

  Rafe ate a slice of orange, the fruit bursting sweet and tangy on his tongue. He swallowed and wiped his sticky fingers on a napkin. “Oh, he knows. It has to be the reason Hurst is dead. Weak hearts, as I recall, have never run in Hurst’s family. He was far more likely to die of jaundice and a failing liver than from a heart disorder.”

  “Well, if St. George knows, then he’ll be wantin’ those journals back.”

  “Good thing, isn’t it then, that I took the liberty of copying the salient pages and forwarding them to poor Eleanor Winthrop’s father? Anonymously, of course. No doubt the marquis will find the account of his daughter’s death quite enlightening.”

  Rafe drank some coffee, then returned the china cup to its saucer. “Considering the marquis’s position in Parliament, this evidence will allow him to put pressure on the right people and see St. George brou
ght to justice. I would pursue it myself, but considering my connection with St. George, his former father-in-law will be a far more effective advocate than I.”

  “Murdering bastard ought to be hanged twice,” Hannibal said. “Once fer his wife and once for our poor Pammy. Won’t say he ought to swing fer Hurst. That poxmonger deserved whatever it was he got. Guess he’s down in Hell by now with the devil warming his feet but good.”

  “Let us hope so, Hannibal. Let us hope so.”

  Rafe paused, waiting silently for some kind of satisfaction to sweep over him. Three of Pamela’s tormentors had now received their punishment, two of them dead. And the last one—the worst one—would soon receive his comeuppance if everything went as it ought. Eleanor Winthrop’s father would be out for blood and if Rafe could arrange it, he would give the authorities reason to rethink not only her death but Hurst’s as well. With the journals, it wouldn’t be difficult to turn their inquiring eyes in St. George’s direction.

  Instead of pleasure, though, Rafe felt nothing but a lingering sadness. Pamela was dead, and nothing he did would ever change that fact. Revenge, he realized, was no longer his goal. Only justice would serve now. Justice and a freedom from the threat St. George still posed to himself and his family.

  His stomach muscles tightened at the thought that Julianna might be in more danger now than ever. St. George certainly must have learned about her marriage to him, and if he found out Rafe was behind the disappearance of the journals…

  No longer hungry, he pushed aside the half-eaten orange. “I want you to personally watch Julianna until this is over. She is to be guarded at every moment, is that clear?”

  “Completely. But it might not be easy to watch her that close and not be seen.”

  Rafe shrugged. “Then let her see you. Follow straight on her heels and if she confronts you about it, have her come to me.”

  A twinkle sparked in Hannibal’s gaze. “She won’t like it a bit. You’d best polish up your strongest armor.”

  “Very amusing.”

  “Weren’t meant to be amusin’. Just givin’ you fair warning, is all.”

  “So noted.” Rafe lifted his cup to his mouth again and drained the last of the coffee. “I believe you should also tell Appleby to pack his things and lie low for a while. Obviously Hurst has no further need of his services as a footman, so his sudden disappearance from the city won’t look odd. Chances are good St. George won’t peg him as the man who liberated the journals from Hurst, but if he does, then Appleby’s life is in grave jeopardy. Tell him I’ll take care of his expenses until St. George is firmly under lock and key.”

  “Man’s got family over in Margate. I’ll suggest he pay ’em a nice, long visit fer the spring and summer. He’ll be right happy with that, I’m certain.”

  “Good. Now you’d best be going; you’ve got work to do.”

  Julianna rushed into the townhouse.

  Or rather she waddled fast, since she didn’t “rush” anywhere these days. At the moment, however, her current physical limitations were not uppermost in her thoughts—Rafe was.

  I have a few choice words for him, she mused, and I’m going to say them. What does he think he’s doing, anyway? Having me followed, and by Hannibal no less!

  Over the past three days, she’d started noticing the man anytime she came within the vicinity of the front door. At first she hadn’t thought a great deal about it but this morning there’d been no mistaking the matter when she’d ordered the coach for a trip to Bond Street to visit some shops.

  Bold as you please, there he’d come, the big behemoth following her out of the house, only to climb up next to the coachman with the obvious intent of going along for the ride.

  After arriving at her destination, she’d said nothing as he’d trailed her down the street. But when he’d actually had the nerve to walk into the linen drapers and stand behind her, well, she knew she’d had more than enough. Turning, she had confronted him with every intention of sending him on his way. But he’d stunned her, first by openly admitting that he was following her, and then again by telling her he was doing so at Rafe’s behest.

  “If you’ve a problem, my lady, you’re to take it up with The Dragon,” he told her. “Otherwise, I’ve orders to be your new shadow.”

  When she demanded to know why she was being trailed, Hannibal crossed his beefy arms over his chest and shook his head. “Talk to Rafe.”

  Oh, I’ll talk to him all right, she vowed as she quick-waddled her way across the main foyer and down the hall to Rafe’s study. Even her longtime butler, Martin, had held his tongue as she’d come through the door, no doubt glimpsing the martial glint in her eye.

  As she approached the study she heard voices, but she didn’t care. Whoever he had in there with him could wait. Her business took precedence.

  Rapping her knuckles in a fast staccato against the door, she shoved it open, not waiting to receive permission to enter. “Pardon the interruption, my lord,” she declared as she crossed into the room, “but I must speak with you. Now, if you please.”

  The room grew abruptly quiet, Rafe and his guest turning their heads to look at her. With her attention focused squarely upon her husband, she didn’t at first pay heed to the individual seated across from him.

  Her breath caught on a surprised inhale, however, when she did, taking in the woman’s ethereal blond beauty and lithesome figure—so slender compared to her own body, now heavily rounded with pregnancy.

  From his seat behind his desk, Rafe rose to his feet.

  “Julianna, is something wrong?”

  Her gaze darted between him and the woman.

  Who is she? she wondered. What’s more, why is Rafe having a private conversation with her?

  “No. Well, yes. We need to talk,” she repeated.

  Rafe’s dark brows twisted. “Can this wait a few minutes?”

  She stared again at the woman, who gave her a small, conciliatory smile.

  Highly aware of their audience, she nearly backed down and agreed to wait. Instead, she straightened her shoulders. “I would prefer that it not.”

  Who is she? Julianna wondered again. Dear God, surely not his mistress? But Rafe wouldn’t invite such a woman to his home—to our home—would he?

  The blood drained from her cheeks at the idea.

  He crossed to her and took her elbow in his hand. “You look pale. You are not unwell, are you?”

  Recovering slightly, she pulled away from his grasp. “I am fine.”

  He tossed the blond a quick glance. “Excuse us, will you?”

  “Oh, but of course,” she answered, her French-accented voice every bit as pretty as the rest of her.

  Julianna preceeded Rafe out of the room, cognizant of the fact that he had made no effort to introduce her to the other woman. Are my suppositions correct? Has Rafe taken a mistress and is she even now sitting only in the next room?

  Opening her mouth, she nearly voiced the question, part of her desperate to confront him. Then she stopped.

  What if the answer is yes, she asked herself. If it is, do I really want to know?

  “So what is this about, Julianna?”

  Letting the sense of affront over her original complaint return, she lifted her chin and met his gaze. “As if you do not know. Hannibal is following me around Town, and on your orders, I am given to understand. I want him to stop.”

  He tucked a hand into his trouser pocket. “Oh, that.”

  “Yes, that. Call off your dog, Rafe.”

  “Sorry, but I’m afraid I cannot comply. I suggest you learn to ignore him.”

  Her lips parted. “Ignore a giant? Impossible. Everyone will be whispering, wanting to know why I suddenly have a bodyguard trailing my every step. Frankly, it’s mortifying.”

  “I don’t see why. Women often have servants accompany them.”

  “Ladies take footmen and maids with them. No one will mistake Hannibal for either one of those.”

  “You aren’t keepin
g an active social schedule this Season, and with your confinement all but upon you, you’ll scarcely be out in company enough to be noticed. I fail to see the difficulty.”

  “The difficulty is trust, and your lack of it in me. Why is Hannibal following me?”

  An inscrutable expression settled over his face. “I have my reasons.”

  “And pray tell what are those? Surely this is not because Lord Summersfield has returned to Town?”

  A scowl lowered across his brow. “No, but you are to stay away from him nevertheless.”

  Her mouth firmed. “I told you once before that I choose my own friends.”

  “And I’ve told you to have a care in your choices.”

  And what of yours? she wanted to ask. What of the woman waiting just beyond your closed study door?

  She straightened her shoulders. “So if not Summersfield, then what? I deserve an explanation at least.”

  A long moment of silence descended, as if Rafe were debating how to respond. “He is there for your protection, yours and the baby’s.”

  “The baby and I are fine. We have no need of a guard. Or would jailer be a more apt description?”

  For an instant, an expression of hurt strained his features. “You are free to come and go as you like, but Hannibal will remain.”

  “So you will not call him off?”

  Rafe gave her an inscrutable look. “No. Now, are we done?”

  Tears pricked behind her eyes. Blinking quickly, she willed them away, sorrow settling like a chunk of ice in her breast.

  He turned, wrapping his fingers around the doorknob.

  “God above, I wish I’d never met you,” she murmured under her breath.

  He paused. “Of that, madam, I am well aware.”

  Turning as fast as her figure would allow, Julianna sped away.

  Rafe stood motionless, the brass knob forgotten beneath his fingers. Closing his eyes, he fought to steady his emotions. He supposed he could have handled the situation differently, explained his concerns about St. George to her. But he hadn’t wanted to frighten her, not with the baby’s arrival so close at hand. Better she be angry with him for a time than afraid to step foot outside the house. Or worse, that she dismiss his fears as groundless and take unnecessary risks.