Julia London 4 Book Bundle

by The Rogues of Regent Street

  “Me?” Lilliana’s eyes clouded with confusion. Or guilt. With a trembling hand she wiped another tear from her cheek. “What could I possibly be hiding?” she asked, her voice ragged.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said snidely. “Perhaps we should ask Benedict.”

  Like a bolt of lightning Lilliana’s hand shot out to strike him, but Adrian caught her wrist and flung her arm away. “How dare you imply such a thing? My God, you are obsessed with him! Everything comes back to Benedict, doesn’t it? Everything about you is about him! Well, hear this, Adrian! At this very moment I can truthfully say I find him far more desirable than you!” she shouted hysterically.

  His head burst into a thousand tiny shards. Without thinking, he grabbed her arms, hauling her into his chest. A thousand retorts, a thousand threats rifled through his brain. But as he glared down into her gray-green eyes, he saw his own fear and anger reflected in them. The fact that he, of all people, could be driven to such a jealous rage disgusted him.

  The whole, emotionally sickening scene instantly reminded him of Archie. It was almost as if he was holding Archie in his arms. But it wasn’t Archie. It was Lilliana rejecting him, Lilliana despising him, Lilliana loving Benedict.

  He hated her.

  He hated her for turning against him after he had opened his rusty heart to her. What a pathetic fool he had become, a weak, pathetic fool who had let a silly parish princess affect him! And he had convinced himself that he loved this little cretin? Appalled, he shoved her away. Lilliana stumbled into her vanity, catching herself on the edge. With an indolent smile Adrian shrugged at her pretty little pout of fear. “Madam, you may believe what you will,” he said indifferently, and casually strolled out of her room as if nothing had happened.

  Twenty

  JULIAN DID NOT want to go, but Arthur made him. They argued the entire way to Longbridge, Julian protesting that their vow to meddle in one another’s affairs was to be on the anniversary of Phillip’s death, and not willy-nilly in between. Arthur countered that they had vowed not to allow another of them to fall, arguing effectively that when a man lost his sight—and under questionable circumstance, no less—then that certainly constituted despair. And if that wasn’t enough to suit Julian, they had promised to deliver the emerald and diamond jewelry Albright had commissioned for his bride.

  As there was no adequate retort for that, Julian turned his complaints to the road conditions, the weather, and the very irritable notion that Albright’s despair stemmed from his turning into one of those soft-bellied country earls. As they turned onto the mile-long drive leading to the Longbridge estate, Arthur spat, “The Lord as my witness, I shall never so much as cross the Thames with you again!”

  “Please God, don’t make me idle promises,” Julian sighed. “As I have been coerced into accompanying you on more than one useless excursion, I should be forever thankful if—Bloody hell, that’s Thunder!” he exclaimed.

  “Pardon?” Arthur muttered, and glanced to his left, instantly recognizing Adrian’s prized stallion galloping toward them. Both men cringed when it looked as if the rider would hit them broadside, but the stallion was reined to a halt just short of that.

  “Mary and Joseph,” Julian muttered under his breath. Arthur peered closely at the rider—just as he had suspected, it was a woman riding astride in a pair of buckskin trousers! Which, he could not help noticing, hugged two very shapely thighs. She also wore a man’s hat beneath which blond curls peeked, and a lawn shirt that skimmed two very delectable breasts. Arthur glanced at her face—large gray-green eyes, thick blond lashes …

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  Julian, looking quite surprised, responded, “I am Julian Dane, the Earl of Kettering, and my companion—”

  “Lord Arthur, I presume,” she finished for him. “I know all about the two of you. I suppose Adrian is expecting you?”

  Arthur exchanged a startled glance with Julian. “I, uh … well … no,” he stammered, and the woman swung those eyes to him, piercing him to the very core. “We, ah … it was a spur-of-the-moment thing,” he muttered lamely, completely cowed by the pair of pretty eyes.

  The woman shrugged indifferently. “Follow me,” she said, and with a tug of the reins turned Adrian’s prized stallion around.

  “I beg your pardon, madam,” Julian said quickly, “but might I inquire as to your name?”

  The woman turned her head slowly, slicing a gaze across Julian that made even Arthur cringe. “Lilliana Spence,” she answered tightly, “the mistress of this godforsaken place.” With that, she spurred Thunder forward.

  Arthur and Julian looked at one another in disbelief. “That was Lady Albright?” Julian gasped. “The sweetness and light for whom Adrian had that dainty little bracelet made?”

  “Not exactly what one would expect,” Arthur muttered, and the two of them spurred their mounts after her.

  But she was too fast for them; by the time they reached the large circular drive, Lilliana Spence, the mistress of This Godforsaken Place, was nowhere to be seen. Max, however, was standing on the steps, anxiously directing two young grooms to take their reins as Julian and Arthur alighted. “Welcome to Longbridge, my lords,” he intoned with a bow.

  Julian paused to slap the dust of the road from his trousers. “Thank you, Max. I hope we haven’t called at an inopportune time?” he said, casting Arthur a narrow I-told-you-so look.

  “Indeed not, my lord. Lord Albright is away presently, but he should return before nightfall. He would insist you avail yourselves of Longbridge.”

  And how exactly was it that a blind man could be away? Arthur wondered.

  “His lordship is with his steward,” Max continued, and gestured nervously toward the foyer. Aha, Arthur, thought, not away precisely, but accompanied somewhere. What a tragedy for a man like Albright.

  “Apparently they haven’t nailed the coffin completely shut,” Julian muttered sarcastically as he brushed past Arthur and followed Max. Frowning, Arthur followed.

  Max ushered them to a large salon, done up in soft golds and greens and sporting a dozen or more paintings. An avid fan of quality art, Arthur wandered about the room, admiring the paintings. They were really quite fine: appealing landscapes, an amusing scene from a country dance, a portrait of Albright—Arthur did a double take—a portrait of Albright on a mule.

  “Kettering!” he hissed. Julian turned from his own examination of a painting. Arthur stabbed his finger at the portrait of Adrian. Strolling casually to Arthur’s side, Julian withdrew a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles from his coat pocket, placed them on his nose, and put his head to one side in thoughtful consideration. “The nose is all wrong,” he mused.

  “Ah! You are admiring our paintings, I see!” Simultaneously, Arthur and Julian whipped around toward the sound of Lord Benedict Spence’s voice. “We are quite pleased with them. Rather good, don’t you think?” He strutted across the room like a cock, his hand extended, beaming at the two of them.

  We are quite pleased? All right, Arthur did not know much about what had happened between Adrian and his father, but he had heard Adrian make enough comments through the years, and of course, he knew what had transpired between the brothers recently. All of that, coupled with the fact that Benedict was far too cheerful, made him instantly suspicious. Benedict was the last man he would have expected to see here, save Lord Kealing himself.

  He glanced sidelong at Julian, who bowed slightly. “Lord Benedict. What a pleasure,” he said smoothly.

  “Oh no, my lord, the pleasure is ours! How fortuitous that you should come! Adrian will be quite pleased, I should think. But do have a look around. We are all very admiring of Lilliana’s paintings,” he said, and nodded toward the portrait in question with a strange smile. Correction—a smirk.

  “Lady Albright?” Julian asked, sounding a little choked.

  “Oh my, yes. All of these are her paintings! She is enormously talented, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes indeed,
” Arthur muttered.

  Benedict slapped Julian on the shoulder too eagerly, causing him to lurch forward. “Julian Dane, my old tutor! Still lecturing at the university?”

  “On occasion,” Julian responded tightly.

  “And those sisters of yours, are they well?”

  “Thank you, they are indeed quite well.”

  “Marvelous,” Benedict drawled. “Well, Christian, I suppose the duke is still in Italy?”

  “Ah … yes,” Arthur said.

  A footman entered carrying a tray. “Yes, yes, just put it there,” Benedict instructed, and hurried toward the man. Once the tray was set to his satisfaction, he glanced over his shoulder at Julian and Arthur. “Might I offer you a brandy?” he asked cheerfully.

  Arthur nodded; Julian mumbled something. With a flick of his wrist Benedict instructed the footman to pour three brandies. How very odd, Arthur thought as he strolled into the middle of the room, that Benedict should act as if he owned the place. Perhaps there had been a reconciliation—stranger things had happened.

  He took the brandy Benedict handed him and seated himself. Julian selected a chair directly across from him, arching a curious brow as Benedict bustled in between them as if they were old friends. “I sent a groom after Adrian—he’ll undoubtedly ride very hard when he learns you have come,” Benedict blithely offered.

  “Ride?” Arthur asked.

  “Hmmm? Yes, of course,” Benedict said, and plopped onto a settee, crossed his legs, and casually stretched one arm along the camelback.

  “But … how?” Julian asked carefully.

  “How?” Benedict’s brows shot up. “Why as anyone—oh dear, you haven’t heard, have you?” he asked, and suddenly laughed.

  “We learned of the accident …” Arthur started.

  “But not the miraculous recovery.” Benedict laughed again at the twin looks of bafflement. “I am terribly happy to tell you that Adrian has regained his sight. The doctor claims he was never really quite certain, and insisted Adrian’s chances of regaining it were as good as losing—”

  “He can see?” Julian interrupted, incredulous.

  “As well as you or I,” Benedict noted cheerfully.

  “B-but when?” Arthur demanded.

  “Now that is a matter of some controversy,” Benedict said, smiling. “Sort of the miraculous aspect of it all. Apparently, he regained it well before he let on. Caused a bit of strife between him and Lady Albright,” he said, and chuckled lightly. “But then again, it seems as if there is always a bit of strife between them. I am given to understand from my dear sister-in-law that my brother has a very nasty habit of hiding things from her. But that hardly surprises me, I confess. He’s never been very forthright, has he? And I have often said Adrian is not the marrying type.”

  What in the hell was Benedict talking about, hiding things and marrying types? And the extraordinary news that Adrian could see! Arthur frowned into his brandy. That news had most definitely not reached London as of yet. “I beg your pardon. Hiding things?” he asked, unable to suppress a twinge of impatience in his voice.

  “I merely refer to the usual sorts of things a man might hide,” Benedict responded with a salacious grin. “Need I remind you of the little visit the three of you paid to Madam Farantino’s when we were last in London?” He chuckled, then casually sipped his brandy.

  “How would you know of that?” Arthur asked quietly.

  “I heard it at White’s. Lord Dalhurst was complaining that his favorite lady had been unavailable, as the Rogues had come and claimed the best for themselves.” He chuckled again, and raised his snifter in a mock toast to Arthur.

  Arthur glanced at Julian; he could see the ire in Kettering’s black eyes, and quickly deduced Benedict was too dense to see it—he had never thought Benedict overly bright. “But Adrian was not with us that night,” he said pointedly.

  Benedict’s snifter wavered just slightly at his lips, but he shrugged indifferently. “Well, perhaps not that night—”

  “Not any night,” Julian said calmly, fixing an icy glare on Benedict.

  The young man turned red, and he slowly lowered the brandy from his mouth. “I assure you, I am not in the habit of keeping tabs on my brother’s whereabouts. But before you defend him too ardently, you should know that he has not been completely truthful with his wife, and that is the cause of the friction.”

  Extraordinary, Arthur thought. The little bastard was spilling the family’s dirty linen onto the floor for them to examine. Benedict was up to no good. But he artfully changed the subject, and chattered endlessly about some venture he had brewing in Cambridge. None of it made any sense to Arthur, nor did he particularly care. He never had much countenance for Benedict to begin with; the sniveling boy had turned into a sniveling man as far as he was concerned. And he was thinking of offering to fetch Lord Albright himself just to escape Benedict’s boring chatter when Adrian strode into the salon with an urbane expression.

  “Kettering and Christian, as I live and breathe,” he drawled. “I consider myself right fortunate that you have called.” He shifted a cool gaze to his brother. “Thank you, Ben, for entertaining them until I could return.”

  With a smile Benedict inclined his head and sipped his brandy. A long moment passed before he realized that Adrian was still looking at him, as were Arthur and Julian. A flush crept into his cheeks as he slowly came to his feet. “Yes, well, if you will please excuse me,” he muttered, and walked out of the room.

  When the door had closed behind him, Adrian motioned for them to sit. “So glad you have come,” he said unconvincingly.

  “Thank God, Adrian. You have your sight!” Arthur exclaimed.

  Adrian smiled thinly. “A rather extraordinary little journey.” He settled himself in the spot Benedict had vacated and glanced out the window.

  “Lady Albright must be terribly grateful.”

  “Indeed she is,” Adrian responded with a curt nod.

  Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Arthur remarked, “We met her on the drive.”

  A faint tick appeared in Adrian’s cheek and he slid his gaze to Arthur. “Did you? Astride Thunder, I suppose?” It could very well be his imagination, but Arthur had the distinct impression that Adrian was on the verge of erupting. “She has taken quite a shine to him,” Adrian added insouciantly.

  “As a matter of fact … she seems an excellent horsewoman,” Julian offered.

  “Yes, doesn’t she?” Adrian drawled.

  “Speaking of your lady wife, I brought the jewelry,” Arthur added cautiously.

  Adrian stiffened noticeably. “I am in your debt.” He suddenly sprang to his feet.

  “Let’s have a look around, shall we? I confess, I never fully realized how grand Longbridge could be”—he started quickly toward the door—“but not nearly as grand as it shall be when I am done with it.” With that he abruptly ended their conversation about Lady Albright.

  It was just before the supper hour when Arthur rapped on the door to Julian’s room, who opened it in a state of half dress. “Ah. I was hoping for a good valet,” he drawled.

  Arthur strode past him into the room, ignoring the gibe. “Explain it to me, will you? What in the hell is going on in this house?”

  Julian strolled to the mirror and began to loop the loose ends of his neckcloth around his neck. “It appears to me that Adrian is doing what he always does—seizing upon something and turning it into gold.”

  “Not Longbridge,” Arthur huffed in exasperation, although he had to agree that Adrian had indeed turned Longbridge into gold.

  “Then what?”

  “What? Shall we start with Benedict, strutting around like a gamecock? Or his lovely wife for chrissakes, astride Thunder! I should like to have that woman on the back of my ponies at Ascot,” he muttered irritably.

  “If I were you, I’d be willing to try just about anything at Ascot. What did you lose last time, five hundred pounds?” Julian quipped.

  Arthur snort
ed. “Come now, you see what I mean,” he insisted again.

  “I don’t know that I do,” Julian answered calmly as he tied a knot in his neckcloth. “Perhaps he and Benedict have reconciled. Perhaps his wife is an avid horsewoman.”

  Folding his arms across his chest, Arthur released an impatient sigh. “Don’t you think it just a bit odd that Albright seemed so smitten with her when he was in London, and now one can barely mention her name in his presence?”

  “I would suggest that perhaps the bloom has fallen from the rose,” Julian muttered, and peered closely at his neckcloth as he arranged the folds just so. “It happens to all men, Arthur. Juvenile affection quickly passes and the cold reality of matrimony sets in.”

  “I know that,” Arthur exclaimed, annoyed that Julian did not see things exactly as he did. “But there are plenty of marriages where the happy couple is quite civil to one another. Didn’t you notice how he seems to avoid the subject of her? And she was hardly in a civil mood!”

  “I don’t know that he avoids the subject of her at all. Really, you know Albright as well as I—if the lady is not worth mentioning, he will not. He should have taken a mistress, if you ask me. Unfortunately, he chose to listen to your sentimental drivel.”

  “Honesty with one’s wife is not necessarily drivel, Kettering,” Arthur responded sharply.

  Julian flashed a charming smile over his shoulder. “You worry too much, Christian.”

  “And you don’t worry enough, my lord,” he shot back. And if Kettering was too … stupid to see it, he wasn’t. Something was quite wrong in this house.

  Adrian felt like a caged animal, forced to make small talk with his closest friends, cringing inwardly every time he heard Benedict’s overly boisterous laughter, and wondering if the Princess of the Grange would deign to make an appearance tonight. As he could hardly bear to look at her, part of him hoped she would not. But another part of him wondered what his guests would think. That he had been emasculated by her desire for his brother and therefore could not stand to be in the same room with her?