“I’ve a gift for you,” she muttered dreamily.
“You, my darling, are the perfect Christmas gift.”
Blushing, she pushed away from his embrace. “And you, my lord, are far too easy to please. Come.” Taking him by the hand, Claudia led him to sit in the well-worn leather chair, then handed him the box wrapped in gold and silver ribbons. “Merry Christmas.”
Grinning like a child, Julian eagerly accepted the box. “Shall I guess at it?” he asked, holding it up to shake it. “It’s too heavy for a waistcoat, isn’t it? Ah, I’ve got it. Cheroots rolled with American tobacco. I’m quite out, you know,” he said, and lowered the box to his lap. “I’ve rather wondered if someone has been partaking of them when I’m not looking,” he added with a playful frown.
“As a matter of fact, Tinley has taken quite a fancy to them.”
Julian laughed as he untied the ribbon. “I swear it, the man will retire to his cottage this year if I have to carry him there myself,” he said cheerfully, and lifted the lid to the box. He peered curiously at the contents, rooted around inside, and withdrew another, smaller box. “What have we here?” he muttered, and pulled off the lid. The smile faded from his face as he stared down at the ruby cuff links. The size of a farthing, they were cut to perfection and nestled in gold. “They are extraordinary,” he mumbled, holding them up to the light.
“Do you like them?” Claudia asked anxiously.
His eyes flicked to her, then to the links, a smile creasing his face. “Like them? Darling, they are marvelous!”
A small surge of elation waved through her, and eagerly, she perched on the edge of the ottoman. “There is a shirt pin inside, too.”
Julian rummaged through the box, extracting another, smaller box, and opened it. A shirt pin, topped with a ruby cut smaller but just as brilliantly as the links, winked back at him. “Oh, my,” he said, clearly pleased. “Pin it on, will you?”
She affixed the pin very artfully in his black neckcloth as she had seen her father do, and Julian immediately stood, crossing to a small mirror near the sideboard to admire it. “Rather puts your father’s to shame,” he remarked with a chuckle. “Thank you, my love,” he said, kissing the top of her head before resuming his seat. He turned his attention to one cuff and fastened the ruby link. When he started on the second cuff, he asked, “What would you like for Christmas, darling?”
You. Nothing more. Claudia shook her head. “I have everything I could want.”
“Indeed? Everything? You are quite certain?”
Oh, she was certain. The greatest gift in her life was he—he was everything to her. “Very certain,” she said, smiling.
“Come now. Surely there is something you would like to have.” He fastened the second link and straightened his cuff, admiring the rubies at his wrist. “Something you have wanted and never received?”
No. She had more gowns than she could wear, more jewels, more shoes and hats and gloves and dressing gowns than a woman ought to have a right to own. If she wanted anything, it wouldn’t come in a box, because it did not exist.
She wanted her life back.
She wanted to be Claudia Whitney again, capable of moving mountains for the less fortunate, able to extract pounds from families that were too wealthy by half and give to women and children who were in desperate need. She wanted to be the earl’s favored daughter again, to have his respect and his support. Julian was her life, but she desperately wanted her own identity, too. “No,” she repeated.
With a gentle chuck under her chin, Julian smiled. “Wait here, then, you silly girl.”
He was gone in a flash and returned just as quickly, his hands behind his back. She supposed it was a piece of jewelry, something very expensive and exquisite, and she stood, smiling again.
“I see a dozen rainbows in that smile, do you know that?” he asked softly, and brought his hands around. “Here you are,” he said, and moved to pin a little corsage of violets and white rosebuds on her breast.
Startled, Claudia stared at the little bundle of flowers, genuinely moved by the simplicity of it. “It’s beautiful.” She truly meant it—it was the perfect gift for her, simple, pretty, unassuming. “The violets—”
“Are from the little pot at the edge of my desk.” He flashed an irrepressible grin at her. “I vow to be as constant as that stubborn little plant,” he informed her, and gathered her hands in his. “I will be forever at your side, supporting you in all that you do.”
Claudia cocked her head to one side and looked at him suspiciously. “What exactly are you scheming, sir?”
That caused him to laugh, and he impulsively kissed her forehead. “I love you, Claudia. I will always be there with you, on that you may rely—but you must trust me.”
The cheerful conversation had gone suddenly serious, and Claudia looked up at him, searched his eyes for an explanation.
“Do you trust me?”
“With my life,” she solemnly responded.
Something sparked in his eyes; he kissed her hungrily, as if he had not seen her in days or weeks—then abruptly lifted his head. “Then come with me,” he said, and grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the door.
He bustled her out into the foyer, fastened her cloak about her shoulders as she asked him where in God’s name he intended to take her on Christmas Eve. “You shall see” was all he would say, ignoring her questions as he thrust his arms into his greatcoat and donned his hat and gloves.
“There is no place to go! Everyone is home with their families!”
Julian laughed as he dragged her outside, onto the stoop. A phaeton was at the ready in the drive; Julian waved to the groomsman who held the horse. “Thank you, Geoffrey. Merry Christmas to you and your family.”
“Merry Christmas, my lord. Lady Kettering,” he called back, and hopping down, jogged down the little path leading to the stables.
Julian looked at Claudia. “Well? What are you waiting for?”
“A bit of sense to strike you,” she laughed, and allowed him to help her up.
As they drove through darkened streets, a thick woolen lap rug covering them, she rather enjoyed the game he had begun, and peppered him with questions he answered as evasively as he could. But when they crossed the river, she began to realize that her guess of a surprise visit to Ann and Victor’s was wrong. Now she was wildly curious, and as they rolled to a stop in front of a crumbling brick building shoved in between two factories, she was absolutely perplexed.
“I think you’ve quite lost your mind,” she remarked as he helped her down.
He smiled in the dark, kissed her temple. “Trust me,” he reminded her, and wrapping an arm around her, led her to the dark door.
She was certain the building would come tumbling down about them as he pushed the door open. It creaked loudly on rusty hinges and she was immediately assaulted by a damp mildew scent, as if the building hadn’t been opened in years. It was pitch-black inside; she thought she heard the sound of rats scurrying across the floor, and unconsciously clutched Julian’s arm. “Julian, what—”
“Merry Christmas!” The room suddenly erupted with the flare of a dozen or more candles and a host of voices. Claudia’s great surprise was nearly fatal; with a shriek, she fell back against Julian, her heart pounding. More candles were lit as she held a hand over her pounding heart, gaping in astonishment at the crowded room.
It seemed almost everyone who mattered to her was in that room; Ann and Victor, Aunt Violet. Doreen—Doreen?—and several of the women and children from Upper Moreland Street, including Miss Collier. Her father, standing stiffly beside the Christian family; Mary Whitehurst and her husband, Adrian and Lilliana Spence and their baby daughter. Tinley, Brenda, and a handful of servants from Kettering House. As she looked around at their beaming faces, her gaze landed on a large, masonry sign that stood in the middle of the room.
THE WHITNEY-DANE SCHOOL FOR GIRLS
Suddenly, she understood. Her mind understood it but her heart co
uld not absorb it. It was too much, too precious—speechless, she jerked her gaze to Julian.
He beamed at her, terribly pleased with himself. “I will admit, it needs an awful lot of work. But I rather thought it would give you something to do besides moping about, and as there is a seemingly endless supply of cheerful laborers at Upper Moreland Street, I supposed you would have enough help. I should warn you, however, that they have organized themselves into something of a labor union, and will not tolerate unsafe working conditions.”
“You … you did this.” It was not a question; it was a statement of wonder.
Julian laughed. “No darling, you did it, through your tireless and selfless work these last two years. I just helped it along a bit. Now listen to me—I can’t be bothered with your new school,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket. “I’ve far too many important things to tend to, such as card games and the annual races at Ascot. So I’ve deeded it over to you.” He pressed a thick packet into her hand. “If you ask me kindly, I will help you, but I rather suspect you won’t need me.”
Claudia stared at the packet of paper he pressed into her hand. She could not begin to fathom how this man could have sensed what she needed when she herself could not put a word to it. But he had known it in that uncanny way he had of sensing all her needs before she did. More extraordinary than that, he had loved her enough, believed in her enough, to give her the single most glorious gift of her life. Claudia’s vision suddenly blurred; a hot tear of joy slid down her cheek.
She lifted her gaze to her husband, saw the tears glimmering in his eyes, and smiled. “I could not possibly love you more than I do at this very moment,” she choked, and threw her arms around his neck.
“Oh, God,” he said, choking a bit, too, as his arms circled her waist. “I do hope you will remember that and tell me again when we are alone.”
Her smile deepened, and she felt it in the very core of her soul. “Thank you for this gift—you cannot know what it means to me.”
He slipped two fingers under her chin and tilted her head back. “I know. Trust me,” he said, and kissed her, laughing into her mouth when their guests began to whistle, applauding and shouting for the guest of honor to cut their Christmas cake.
Twenty-Seven
ADRIAN AND ARTHUR stood along one cold brick wall, each holding a glass of punch instead of the usual libations to which they were accustomed. They very stoically observed the festivities, which to Arthur seemed a bit out of control. Julian had brought Christmas gifts for all of the children—yet another sign that he had completely lost his mind—and they scampered in and around the legs of adults like little rats. One ruddy-cheeked little fellow lost control of his horse on wheels for the third time, and it came scudding across the stone floor, careening into Arthur’s ankle. Very nonchalantly, he nudged the thing with his boot and sent it careening back to the little boy.
Across the room, Claudia, Lilliana, and a haggard-looking woman stood over the big masonry sign, talking with great animation, pointing to various places around the room as if they plotted a décor. The other women, whom Julian had brought up from some town house somewhere—Arthur was still a bit hazy on the exact details—were tending the gaggle of little monster children. In the midst of it all was Tinley, who had eaten two thick pieces of cake and then had promptly fallen asleep in his chair.
And Julian walked through the throng like a king, laughing with his servants, winking cheerfully at the women from the town house—all in all, strutting about like a peacock. Terribly pleased with himself, to be sure, he was apparently even more pleased with his wife, of whom he stole a glimpse every chance he got. It was obvious to everyone that Julian Dane was madly in love with the terror Claudia Whitney, which Arthur had, of course, predicted early on. He had just never guessed how madly in love—Julian Dane, the most unlikely man in all of England, was a lovesick, besotted fool.
“I rather suppose we can put to rest the notion that Julian might fall, wouldn’t you say?” Adrian casually remarked, referring to their graveside vow to keep watch over one another.
With a nod as tepid as the punch, Arthur responded, “Unless we were to fret about him falling headlong into lovesickness from which he may never recover.”
Adrian chuckled. “He’s definitely gone round the bend.”
“And toppled right off the cliff,” Arthur added dryly.
“Which I suppose leaves us with you, Christian,” Adrian remarked, casting a sidelong look at his friend. “Good God, what jolly fun this should be.”
With a derisive chuckle, Arthur shook his head. “I am hardly of your ilk, Albright. I will not fall.”
“I was referring to that ‘headlong fall into lovesickness from which you may never recover.’ Heart going pitter patter, that sort of thing.”
The notion was so absurd that Arthur laughed roundly. “And Kettering calls me a sentimental fool!” he quipped, grinning. “Put your mind at ease, Albright. I am perfectly content with the way things are.”
Adrian lifted a brow. “Oho! And I suppose you intend to remain a bachelor all your life? That, my friend, will never come to pass, mark my words!”
Arthur resisted the sudden urge to tug at his collar and shrugged indifferently. “What I shouldn’t give for a bit of rum to put in this god-awful punch,” he said, changing the subject and ignoring Adrian’s wide, knowing grin. The subject, however, was hardly worthy of discussion—quite frankly, the thought of marrying one woman for all eternity was inconceivable to him. While he was perfectly reverent toward the fairer sex, he personally did not need them for anything more than to warm his bed. Which reminded him—the sooner he was gone from this cozy, touching little gathering, the better. Madame Farantino had promised a grand surprise for him.
Published by
Dell Publishing
a division of
Random House, Inc.
1540 Broadway
New York, New York 10036
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events,
or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2000 by Dinah Dinwiddie.
Hand lettering by David Gatti.
Dell® is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and
the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-307-49037-7
v3.0
OPM
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Copyright
For
Brocodile, January Jones, Don Vito, the Virgin
Henley, Filbert, Princess Shoes, Scoop, Happy
Jack, Slick and Kaffiene
Thanks for keeping the Dimwonkie sane.…
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes w
ere wild.…
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.
—LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI
John Keats
Prologue
DUNWOODY, SOUTHERN ENGLAND, 1834
THE CHURCHYARD WAS SO choked with weeds that one could scarcely read the markings on the headstones. This was worrisome to Arthur—who would tend to this grave? Who would lay flowers at his headstone as Phillip lay rotting beneath the earth? As the vicar glanced up at the leaden sky and cleared his throat, Arthur glanced surreptitiously at the two dozen or more mourners huddled around, mentally assessing who among them could be depended upon to tend this grave.
Not one of them.
In a low bass voice, the vicar began the funeral hymn, and the mourners, in their black crepe armbands and funeral bonnets, joined him in the lugubrious melody. Nothing more than morbid curiosity had brought this throng here—they had come only to gawk, to see if the fantastic rumor was true, to look upon the grave and witness with their own eyes that one of the infamous Rogues of Regent Street was dead.
Arthur lowered his gaze to the plain pine box in the hole yawning before him and imagined Phillip inside, his arms folded serenely across what was left of his chest, his gray face free of pain, and the death shroud wrapped loosely about him. He regretted he hadn’t found something better in which to clothe him, but unfortunately, there was nothing better to be had at Dunwoody—it was little more than a hunting lodge and used infrequently. There had been just an old nondescript suit of clothes to give the undertaker, but Phillip had not been quite as large as the previous owner and with a good portion of his torso gone, the fit was atrocious. Not that Arthur believed that what he wore to the afterlife was important. It was just that Phillip had always been so foppishly meticulous about his dress; he would despise spending all of eternity in an old, ill-fitted suit of clothing.
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