by Brenda Joyce
“He is the earl of Bedford. What else do you need to know?”
She had been Paget’s lover. She felt as if she needed to know far more than that single fact. But did it matter? She hesitated and felt her cheeks burn. “Is he still in London?”
Lucas’s eyes narrowed. “I believe so. Again, why?”
She didn’t know how to respond. Why did she care where he was? She wasn’t going to call on him. He had betrayed her in every possible way. She despised him and their affair was over; she had nothing to say to him. Or did she?
How could he have loved her as he had—while deceiving her so deliberately?
“I don’t know. Will he go back to France?” If he did return, what about Tom’s letter to Marcel?
A headache began. If she learned he was returning to France, she might have to warn him that his enemies were aware of his activities and his identity.
Lucas stood. “I am not discussing Paget with you.” Then he hardened. “Let me amend that. I am not discussing his plans with you, not in any way. Not that I know them.” He added, “But I do wish to discuss the relationship you had with him. You both went to great ends to tell me that you had become more than a nurse and the injured. Like you, he said you had become friends. But it was an odd friendship, was it not?”
He was suspicious, she thought warily. “He is an intelligent, educated man. And he was very well informed on the war. We had a great deal to discuss. How could we have not become friendly? Especially when I thought we were allies in the great cause of freedom.”
“I know you, Julianne. You became friendly with him because you thought him a war hero. But was it more than that? He is an erudite and handsome fellow. He is charming. I can see that he might have caught your romantic interest.”
She wanted to dissemble, she did, but she felt frozen instead.
“You have feelings for him.” He was grim.
“I cared for Charles Maurice. So yes, I suppose you are right. I am hurt by his deception. I am angered by it. But I have no feelings for Paget.” And as she spoke, her heart shrieked at her. It was as if Maurice could not be separated from Paget, as if they were one and the same.
Grimly he stood and walked to the salon’s elegant sideboard. Julianne watched him pour a sherry, which he handed to her. Lucas studied her. “I suggest you stay away from Mayfair,” he said. “And from Bedford House.”
JULIANNE WALKED DOWN Newgate, aware that she was late. It was her second day in London. Two small, thin children in rags stepped in front of her, barring her way. Julianne handed them each a coin without breaking stride; they grinned and galloped off. She smiled, even though she shouldn’t be giving away her funds.
She sobered. It was an hour walk, at the very least, from her uncle’s Cavendish Square house to the inn where the convention was being held. She had not considered taking a hansom—she would not waste the money. But last night on her way home, as tired as she had been, she had been outrageously tempted to veer away from Marylebone and into Mayfair.
She had been so tempted to see where he lived. What on earth was wrong with her?
She had actually wondered what would happen if their paths did cross.
But their paths were not going to cross. She wasn’t going to wander into Mayfair, even if a part of her wanted to, and he would not happen upon Cavendish Square or Newgate. In fact, she felt certain that he had never set foot in London’s downtrodden and destitute East End.
Newgate was as different from Mayfair as the night from day. The streets were narrow and dirty and littered with refuse; shabby shops lined them, offering penny wares, all crowding in on one another. Above them were small flats, with laundry hanging out of the windows like pennants, crisscrossing the street below. Cobblers, carpenters, prostitutes and laundresses had their shingles set out. Door stoops were filled with the homeless and the hungry, and beggars abounded.
No one was starving uptown, yet in the East End, destitution was everywhere. It enraged Julianne, and made her cherish her cause. And she was outraged when she glimpsed gentlemen on their fine Thoroughbreds or in their lacquer carriages, cruising the slums while trying to decide which prostitute met their fancy. How disgusted the sight made her!
If Paget had ever bothered to traverse the slums of London, he would surely understand why she supported the political and social changes in France that she did, and why she yearned for justice and equality in Great Britain. He might not change his Tory views, but surely he would yearn for some degree of social justice, too.
She didn’t even know what his real views were. She almost wished she’d had the foresight to ask him why he’d thought it necessary to go to France and spy on the French republicans.
The inn was now in sight. She was grim. She had been too hurt and angry to even think of demanding some basic truths from him before he’d left Cornwall. She had spent weeks with a man, and she didn’t know anything about him. Lucas had not filled in any of the blanks. She decided that, if there was one thing she wished to know, it was how he had been wounded. He had claimed to have been wounded while fighting against the La Vendée royalists. She was afraid he had been fighting the French republican army!
Julianne sidestepped some garbage and pushed open the door to the inn. She was in town to attend debates and discussions, to promote the cause of the French revolution and the rights of the common man, not to brood about the past or imagine an encounter with Paget. Paget stood for everything she was fighting against—he stood for indifference, ostentation, inequality and injustice. She had to remind herself of his deception and their differences. She had to get him out of her mind.
One of the convention organizers stood just within the front door at a small table. George Nesbitt held a list of names of everyone attending, but when he saw her, he smiled. “You are late, Miss Greystone. Go right in.”
She smiled back. Of course he remembered her. About seventy-five people were attending the convention. She had glimpsed only five other women. Most of those in attendance were factory workers, artisans and domestics, but a few gentry were present, as well. As she entered the public room, she saw it was entirely filled, as it had been yesterday. But she found a bare space on one long bench and sat. The young man there smiled at her. “Hello. John Hardy,” he said, holding out his hand. He had dark, curly hair and fair skin.
She took it. “Julianne Greystone. Are you a relation?”
“I wish.” He grinned. Then he whispered, “That is Jerome Butler.”
Her interest was piqued. Yesterday the convention had consisted of a morning introduction, then lectures from two relatively well-known radical thinkers. But everyone had been anticipating the lecture from Butler—a little-known but highly controversial barrister. Butler stood on the podium, a dark, heavy man with a magnetic manner. Julianne listened, and realized Butler was dismissing the concept of reform within Britain. He began to tick the most anticipated reforms off the list—such as the disposal of rotten boroughs and the widening of the franchise—and he stated all the reasons why these actions would be meaningless. Reform would not sever the cozy relations between the wealthy and Parliament. Reform would not advance wages and employment, because those in power conspired against such advancement. Only a revolution like that in France could truly dislodge the landed interests from the control they welded in the government and the economy! Only revolution, with an absolute dissolution of all landed wealth and a subsequent redistribution to everyone who was landless, would bring justice!
“In closing,” Butler cried, his face florid and flushed, “I will say this—we must welcome the French armies when they land upon the beaches of Dover and Cornwall, the rocky shores of Ireland! Yes, we will follow the example of the French republicans here in our own country and we will hunt down those who oppose and repress us! Yes, we will espouse liberty and equality for every man, no matter the policy of the current minister, no matter the law à la Français!”
The assembly burst into loud, raucous applause. Cheers b
egan. Julianne glanced at the faces around her, taken aback. The men she glimpsed were rapt. But Julianne hardly wished to steal from the rich to give to the poor. That was illegal! Butler hadn’t even suggested other means of instituting social justice, such as implementing the controversial income tax on the wealthy, or repealing the Corn Laws.
“He is good, isn’t he?” The young man seated beside her said, flushed with excitement.
They were giving Butler a standing ovation now. Julianne managed a smile when a commotion by the room’s doors made her glance back over her shoulder. She, too, stood up, somewhat reluctantly. She noticed a handful of men, holding their hands to their mouths. She was fairly certain they were booing Butler, but there was pandemonium within and she could not hear. A young man in a blue coat moved through the crowd, his strides hurried—Julianne thought he meant to leave the assembly. He opened the door that she had entered from, but he did not leave. Instead he stood back.
A dozen men, maybe more, swarmed into the hall, waving sticks and clubs.
Julianne froze.
The men rushing into the assembly began to shout, as if giving orders, but Julianne could not hear what they were saying, as everyone continued to cheer and applaud Butler. From the corner of her eye, she saw the man in blue take up the list of attendees. Shocked, she stared.
He suddenly glanced up and their gazes met. He sent her a mocking smile as he folded up the list, apparently in no rush, and put it in his interior breast pocket.
He sauntered down the aisle as the armed men began pushing the attendees to the walls and threatening them with their sticks. Some of the attendees were pushing back at the armed men. She saw one of the invaders slam the butt of his pistol across an attendee’s face. She saw another punch a man who was trying to shove him back.
They were being attacked.
She needed to leave, now.
But she was surrounded by fisticuffs and violence. She backed up, into two struggling men, and leapt away from them. She saw that Butler had been grabbed and was being wrestled to the floor by four men below the podium. In horror, she watched as he was kicked repeatedly. She was afraid they would kill him.
Julianne meant to rush forward to help Butler. But someone slammed his elbow into her ribs as she tried to reach the podium.
It was an accident, but the blow was like a cannonball, and she was shoved backward, hard. For one moment, she could not breathe.
Then, gasping for breath, she straightened and shoved past three men in a wrestling match, dodging someone else’s fist. She straightened and saw that the devil in the blue coat was standing at the podium. Their gazes met.
“Stop this,” she screamed at him. Behind him, Butler lay unmoving on the floor, and she did not know if he was unconscious or dead.
He raised a speaking trumpet, his handsome face hard. “Sedition will not be tolerated in Britain,” he said to the crowd. “We are from the Reeves Society! We will fight the radicals and levelers here. There will not be sedition and treason in Britain! Suffer the consequences of your treason now!”
Julianne glanced around and saw that the attendees who were not fighting back were being pushed to the wall, with their hands held high in the air. A dozen of her fellow radicals were on the ground, all battered and bloody. A number of vicious fights continued, but her friends were unarmed. A few of the men were refusing to go forward, and they were simply hit with the clubs or pushed to the ground. Her heart slammed with fear.
Of course she knew all about the damned reactionary Reeves societies. She had read about these vicious and brutal groups, who would disrupt radical meetings whenever they could, any way that they could.
She was too frightened to be furious.
“Even ladies have to go to the wall, if that is what you are,” a man sneered behind her.
Julianne whirled to meet the enraged gaze of a huge Reeves man, about to protest. Before she could speak, he shoved her toward those already at the wall.
It was the same as being hit. She was propelled backward, into a pair of battling men. An elbow hooked her in the jaw.
She gasped in pain as light exploded in her vision. Before she fell, she was hauled upright by the big, burly Reeves man, who jerked her hard against his side. “Got me a pretty little wench.”
Fear became alarm and then panic. Julianne tried to twist violently away, but he refused to let her go. Without thinking, she clawed at his face.
He released her instantly.
She jerked back, shocked to see red lines on his cheeks.
“You bitch!” he cried, in disbelief. Then rage filled his eyes.
He was going to kill her, Julianne thought.
The man in blue stepped between them.
She turned, desperate to flee. She was snagged by an arm or a leg and she fell, hard, to the floor. Someone tripped on her and she knew she had to get up.
She would be trampled in the riot if she did not stand! And just when she tried to arise and was knocked down again, she was pulled to her feet.
She looked into the Reeves leader’s blazing blue eyes. He dragged her through the fighting crowd and flung her at the door. “Go home,” he said.
She wanted to strike him. Julianne fled.
IT WAS A VERY BEAUTIFUL day, Dom thought.
He trotted his black Thoroughbred across the riding path in Hyde Park, passing several handsome carriages, a coach and a curricle. Most of the vehicles contained beautiful women, many of whom he knew. He nodded and tipped his top hat to everyone. They all, apparently, knew him, for the women smiled, welcoming him warmly back to London. He also received several supper invitations.
The sky was robin’s-egg-blue, with a handful of fluffy white clouds, the sun bright. The grass was green, the foliage lush and daisies dotted the lawns. He inhaled deeply, and realized he had missed the simpler moments in life. There hadn’t been any simple moments like this in France, and he knew that he had taken his life in Britain for granted in the past. He would never do so again.
A walking path was adjacent the riding path, and two young women were strolling, hand in hand. A servant followed them, a pair of dancing cocker spaniels on a leash. They were Nadine’s sisters’ age, and he smiled at them, causing them to giggle and blush.
He sobered. Nadine had clearly suffered during the past two years. He did not want to hurt her, but he could not imagine going through with the marriage they had planned. He could hardly marry her and then abandon her, practically at the altar, to carry on his wartime activities in France—perhaps never to return.
A rider drew up beside him on a handsome chestnut stallion. “Ogling the ladies, Dom?” Sebastian asked, clad in a dark green frock coat, a darker green waistcoat and tan breeches. He was amused.
“Why not?” Dom smiled at him. “When I cease to appreciate the fair sex, I will surely be dead.”
“They are very young.”
“I was enjoying the view, just as I am enjoying this delightful day.” He urged his gelding into a walk, and Sebastian had his mount walk alongside him.
“And I hope that you are also enjoying your time in town,” Warlock said, his meaning clear. Dominic’s time in London was but a brief respite.
“Did you ask me here for small talk?” Dom returned evenly.
“No, I did not.” He withdrew a dirty, rumpled envelope from his breast pocket. Halting his horse, he said, “Friends arrived in town yesterday. This is for you.”
Dom took the envelope, instantly recognizing Michel Jacquelyn’s handwriting. His heart skipped. “Did you open it?”
“Is it not sealed?”
It looked resealed, Dom thought. “Thank you.” He wondered if the friends who had come from France were émigrés or agents. He nudged his mount forward, as did Sebastian.
“Did you enjoy your reunion with Lady Nadine?” he asked.
Slowly, Dom smiled, without mirth. “If I didn’t know better, I might think you had spies in my household.”
“Why would I do that?”<
br />
“Because you are obsessed and have nothing better to do than play chess with human pieces.” He had little doubt that Warlock was up all night, plotting and counterplotting.
The spymaster said, “You remain affianced. It was inevitable that you would call on her, sooner or later.”
“Do you also spy on her?” Dom asked, not quite lightly.
“Gossip is as valuable to me as letters like the one you hold. I heard the Comte had come to town. The reason for such a return, especially in this heat, was obvious.”
Dom met his near-black stare. “Is this why you wished to rendezvous? To discuss my fiancée?”
“I have news.”
Dominic’s heart lurched.
“The convoy for La Vendée will leave Dover on October the fifth.”
JULIANNE STUMBLED into Sebastian Warlock’s house, closing and locking the door, and then leaned against it. She choked on the sobs she had been fighting as she had half walked, half run all the way back to the West End from the Newgate inn.
She started to cry, whimpering as she did so. God, she had been so afraid!
She had been pushed, elbowed, struck and nearly trampled to death. And she wasn’t ever going to forget being on that floor, pain exploding into bright lights, knowing she must get up, and also knowing she couldn’t stand quickly enough. That damned ringleader of the Reeves men had hauled her up, and much as she hated him, she was thankful for that.
She moved to the stairs and collapsed on the bottom step, pulling off her shoes. Her feet were so badly blistered two of her toes were bleeding.
She started to cry again. She wished Lucas were home!
And then she thought of Dominic, his power, his strength, and how wonderful it would be to hide in his arms. Oddly, she felt certain he would never let anyone hurt her.
Except, he had hurt her terribly.
She began to cry again. She kept seeing the men she had attended the conference with being clubbed, being pushed, being shoved and beaten; she saw Butler, being dragged to the floor and being repeatedly kicked.