Insolvent was the correct word.
The carriage slowed. They were at Danby House and Julia was determined to not discuss Mr. Grant any further. If only Judith would cooperate.
Judith did not cooperate.
Danby House was quite large and quite grand and quite well-appointed. Julia would have expected no less of her uncle, the Duke. However, Danby House was not theirs to use as they pleased, therefore, she and Judith were sharing a room and a bed.
“Did you even once consider that Mr. Grant might be the owner of number 12 Portman Square?” Judith said, sitting at the vanity table, the maid brushing out her hair. Julia did not respond. “I did not, though I should have. No leasing agent would have worn such a coat as did Mr. Grant. It was tailored beautifully, was it not? The line was perfect, and the material was so beautifully cut. I wonder, do you think he had his brother’s coat cut to fit him?”
“Judith, what a question,” Julia said, eyeing the maid. She was a mature woman of small stature and a somewhat severe mien. Julia did not know her; for that reason alone, she did not trust her.
“I only wonder because if he is watching his accounts, he must make certain he is not spending foolishly. That coat was of the latest design. Being a practical sort of man, he would not purchase a new coat now.”
Julia stared at her sister. Judith, for all her sweetness, was not a fool.
“He must be very practical now,” Judith said. “He must put all his brother’s foolishness to rights and make certain his mother is well-maintained, and to do this with such a cheerful disposition. I do think he is quite a remarkable, lovely man. Don’t you?”
Julia was aware that her jaw was unhinged. She closed her mouth and then opened it again to ask, “How do you know anything at all about his mother?”
Judith replied. “Emily told me.”
Emily was the maid. Julia knew she had been correct in not trusting her. She had a slightly sinister look to her, most definitely.
Emily had the good sense to duck her head and avoid eye contact. She put the brush on the table and walked across the room to put away their cloaks in the wardrobe. Julia stood at the window, which faced a very uninteresting view into the neighbor’s back garden, and watched every move Emily made.
“Did she?” Julia said stiffly. “And how do you come by this information, Emily? By way of the servant’s hall?”
Emily stopped fussing about the wardrobe and turned to face Julia, her head still bowed. “My mum is employed at his home on Portman Square, Miss.”
“I see,” Julia said. “And you pass the time between you sharing stories of the Grants and the Whittons, I presume?”
“Oh, Julia, it’s not like that at all!” Judith said, standing. Julia had the faint suspicion that Judith was moments away from rushing across the room to stand in front of Emily, arms flung out in melodramatic fashion. Judith did not do that, not quite, but her words had the same effect. “Emily’s mother has been at 12 Portman Square for years upon years; she’s the cook there. Emily practically grew up in that house. Of course she would be interested in how the family is faring.”
“Of course she would,” Julia said, not taking her gaze off Emily. “If only to be reassured that her mother is not soon to be unemployed.”
“Oh, Julia, you would see the worst side of it,” Judith said. It was a rare outburst for her, almost accusatory, which was so very unlike Judith that Julia wondered what else Emily had said to induce such a passionate outburst. “The Grants have always been such a lovely family and their servants, of course, hate to see the family brought low, and so publicly, too.”
“Publicly, was it?” Julia said, distrusting Emily, her mother, and the entire Grant household below stairs even more completely than she had done only a minute before, which was quite a remarkable feat. “I suppose it is not possible that gossip only inflates the problem?”
“I beg your pardon, Miss,” Emily mumbled. “I meant no disrespect.”
“I’m sure,” Julia said coldly.
“If I may be excused?” Emily said.
“Please,” Julia said.
The moment Emily closed the bedroom door behind her, Judith said, “You really should have listened to her. She cares quite deeply for the Grants, though you are determined to believe otherwise.”
“I cannot abide servants’ gossip,” Julia said. “I would have thought you believed the same.”
Judith walked to the wardrobe, touching a finger to each garment as it hung in glittering, shimmering silence. “I thought I’d wear the blue silk to dinner. If you wear your green silk we shall look wonderful together.”
“I cannot wear the green until it has been altered. I am down half a stone,” Julia said. Judith knew that very well. What was she about?
“Emily is quite good with a needle,” Judith said.
Julia laughed, not an entirely pleasant sound. “I knew you had some scheme in play. I ought to have wagered hard currency on it.”
“As you mention wagering,” Judith said, spinning away from the wardrobe and towards her, “I really must tell you that Mr. Grant’s brother, Percival, was a most ---”
“I will not hear gossip about Mr. Grant and what surely must be the sole business of 12 Portman Square! Judith, really, I will not hear another word upon the subject. It is most unbecoming of us to paw over the secrets of that poor man’s family.”
Judith’s eyes grew round and innocent and contrite--all that at once. She murmured something that sounded like, “As you wish, Julia.” And more loudly, and with infinite delicacy, Judith said, “Poor, dear Mr. Grant. How he has suffered.”
Julia would not honor the statement with a reply. What histrionics Judith would fall to if she knew that Percival had nearly thrown Peter down a long flight of marble stairs she did not dare contemplate. Some people were better off dead.
God rest Mr. Percival Grant’s blackened soul.
Chapter 5
In the two weeks since Mr. Whitton had agreed to let his home, Peter Grant had not spent the days wandering from room to room, saying melancholy farewells to each room, each chair, each window dressing, each bed. No. Hardly that. He had not expected to feel any sort of wash of sentimental dribble and he had exceeded his expectations. What he had done, which shocked him more with each passing day, was wander through his family home imagining Miss Julia Whitton walking through each room looking quite elegantly at ease; sitting upon his mother’s favorite chair looking quite completely at home, standing by the dining room window and looking contemplatively upon the elm tree just coming into leaf, and lying in amorous anticipation, her blue eyes smoldering with raw lust, upon his childhood bed.
It was been quite an exhausting week for him. He was almost completely emotionally spent. Almost, but not quite completely. Peter Grant, nearly penniless, definitely homeless, was nevertheless more determined than he had yet been about anything in his life to take Miss Julia Whitton to wife.
He understood very well that Julia was in London to hunt down a very proper, entirely worthy husband for herself. It was what the London Season was for, after all. He was in no position to be that husband. He knew that.
Nevertheless, he was determined to win her.
How, he had no earthly idea. All he knew was that he was determined.
There was very little in life that had eluded Peter once he had determined to have it. Could it be much different regarding Julia Whitton? He did not see why it should.
“Was there anything else, sir?” Edwards said.
Peter was sitting in the study, the very room where he had realized that Julia was something more than yet another well-turned out blonde with nothing but marriage on her mind. Peter was doing what he had done more and more of in the past two weeks--he was wool-gathering and the lamb of his daydreams was Julia Whitton. That didn’t sound at all the thing, referring to a woman as a lamb. Such was his current state of affairs.
“Oh. No. I don’t believe so, Edwards,” he said, standing and straighte
ning his waistcoat. “All of my things have been moved to the Albany?”
“Earlier this morning, sir,” Edwards said. “Mr. Whitton and family are expected to arrive and take residence later today. Their baggage has begun to arrive.”
“Very good, then,” Peter said, smiling at Edwards, because it seemed the thing to do. He couldn’t think what he was smiling about, as to that.
Edwards stared at him with some sort of muted expectancy. Edwards had been at 12 Portman Square from the start, working his way into his current occupation. No one knew the house and its occupants as he; it was Edwards who had picked him up and held him when Percival had done his worst on the main staircase.
“Is there anything else you need of me, sir?”
“I can’t think what. You’ve been exemplary though all of it, Edwards. I am certain you must realize how thoroughly I depend upon you to keep things running like clockwork. I trust that the Whittons will come to rely upon you as I have.”
“Yes, sir,” Edwards said, looking vaguely disappointed in him. He couldn’t think why. “So I am to assume there is nothing else?”
“No, nothing else,” Peter said.
“Excuse me if I am overstepping, sir, but perhaps you might want to put something on paper?”“On paper?”
“Putting it down in writing, sir,” Edwards said. “Sometimes, seeing it written down makes all the difference.”
“I beg your pardon, Edwards, but I am completely at sea. To what are you referring?”
Edwards looked as if he would rather swallow a live coal than say another word, yet say it he clearly must.
“Love notes, sir.”
Peter was rendered speechless. He could hardly be blamed.
“Yes?” he managed to murmur. “I do apologize. Did you say love notes?”
“Yes, sir. A note secreted here and there might . . . intrigue the lady.”
Peter swallowed and lifted his chin in what he hoped was a confident gesture. “You are referring to Miss Whitton, I presume.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I see.” Peter cleared his throat. “You believe I should write, ah, love notes to Miss Whitton and hide them about the house for her to find. Have I got it?”
“Yes, sir, precisely that.”
Peter walked out of the study with a measured tread and stately composure, of that he was quite certain. Edwards followed discreetly, as he always did. When they were upon the marble stair, Peter asked, “Where did you come up with such an idea, Edwards? I did not take you for a romantic.”
“From Baker, sir.”
“The cook? I am astounded.”
“Yes, sir.” They took another four steps in silence before Edwards added, “She and Emily, you remember her daughter, sir, they insisted I mention it to you, sir. I do apologize if I have overstepped.”
“Not at all, Edwards,” Peter assured him, though of course that was a complete lie. Still, one did not humiliate one’s butler.
“I do think, sir, that Miss Julia would do you credit.”
“Do you? How . . . thoughtful of you to say so.”
His butler approved of his choice. How reassuring. They went another few steps. To say that Peter had abandoned wool-gathering was to state the obvious.
“Why do Baker and her daughter, who is not employed here, believe that love notes are in order?” Peter asked. To be honest, he was curious.
Edwards did not answer immediately, which prompted Peter to look back at him once he had reached the bottom of the stair. To his profound approval, Edwards was red-faced. As well he should be.
“Emily is employed at Whitton House, Mr. Grant,” Edwards said. “I believe that Emily has some inside knowledge of Miss Whitton’s . . . attachment.”
Peter squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “I have never and I will never tolerate gossip among the servants, no matter how well-intentioned. Miss Whitton has every reason to expect her servant to behave with discretion and decorum. It should go without saying that I expect the same from you and Baker, Edwards.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
Edwards looked abashed. And rightly so.
“When the Whittons arrive, particularly when Miss Julia Whitton arrives, there will be no indication that she has been the subject of idle speculation. Is that entirely clear to you, Edwards?”
“Completely, sir.”
Peter looked him over thoroughly before saying, “Make that clear to the rest of the household staff. I rely upon you.”
“Yes, sir. I will not disappoint you, sir,” Edwards said, bowing his way out of Peter’s presence.
The very idea, gossiping among the households, giggling like little girls over a possible match between Miss Whitton and he. It was quite beyond the pale.
When Edwards was out of sight and the house as quiet as any house in London could be, Peter walked into the library, sat down at the massive desk that had belonged to his father and his grandfather, took out the finest and heaviest paper, and began writing notes for Julia to find.
They were not love notes, how absurd, they were simply notes about the house. Just little tidbits that she might find interesting, that’s all. He was not going to take courtship advice from his cook. That went without saying, obviously.
After he had written as many notes as he could manage, and it was not as easy as all that, to be charming and informative and pithy, he left for White’s Club, still musing about his abbreviated compositions. One did not want to come off as long-winded in a note, defied the very purpose of the thing. He was quite certain he had not come off as lovelorn, which had seemed to him of increasing importance with each note he composed. It was odd how, once he had begun, writing to Julia had felt entirely natural, even desirable. Peculiar, that. He was not going to inform Edwards of that, however. Edwards had done quite enough already.
White’s was fairly quiet, and he was not quite ready to be quiet and contemplative, so it was with some pleasure that he was joined by Hart, the Earl of Hartford, in the Morning Room. Peter gave him a congenial nod and Hart took the seat next to him. Hart, ever cordial, called a porter to bring a bottle of brandy, never amiss, and poured them two drinks.
“A drink is the least I owe you, since I missed that lecture we planned to attend together---and since I’d like to hear what you took away from it,” Hart said, grinning.
“I should thank you for tickling my ear about it,” Peter said, raising his glass. “I’ll put what I learned to use at my mother’s estate in Yorkshire.”
They talked of grain strains and planting techniques for the better part of a bottle. It was something of a relief to think of something besides writing notes that were most assuredly not love notes to a woman who had more sense than to marry a man with more debits than assets on the balance sheet, and yet, here he was, thinking of her again.
It was really more than a man should have to endure. Was he pining? Had he fallen as low as all that?
Of course he had. He was to be pitied more than reviled, surely.
No matter what he was, pitiable or revolting, he was not fit company for Hart and had no mind for a conversation about grain yields. He made as gracious a departure as he could manage, and he was certain it wasn’t at all up to standard, and left with as much dignity as imbibing half a bottle of fine brandy would allow.
Chapter 6
It had been the most unimpressive, uninteresting two weeks of Julia’s life. She had not left Danby House except as it pertained to her wardrobe. She had been fitted and refitted. She now had enough ensembles to see her through the Season. Papa had been forced, and he made much of being forced, to pay extra for the modiste to have the articles ready on time. They had come to Town a bit late for a completely new wardrobe, the modiste had pleaded more than once, all to fatten her bill, Julia was quite convinced. Still, they needed the clothes and Papa had paid. It had even become necessary for Emily, their very intrusive maid, to help with the task. That had been Judith’s idea, of course. Judith and Emily, fo
r some odd reason that Julia would not fathom, had become quite intimate. Emily, according to Judith’s gushing praise, was quite adept at the needle, though she was even better at hair, and would be more than pleased to help with the more basic tasks of the work required to see them fitted out properly.
Julia had not worn a single item that Emily had touched without looking for a misplaced pin to scratch her. She had not found a single pin. Not yet, anyway. There was something about Emily and her too-eager smile that inspired the most dire suspicions in Julia, and she was not too proud to admit it.
Still, she had her wardrobe and it was spectacular, as was Judith’s. Judith, for some odd reason, did not seem as pleased with her array of finery as Julia was. Like most things recently, it probably had something to do with Emily. It would be so very pleasant to leave Danby House, leaving Emily behind. It was also of importance to Julia to leave Danby House before anyone from the family joined them. She did not know her family well at all, but from every report, and Hope had been most helpful in that regard, Danby was an absolute dictator and was to be avoided at all costs. True, he was not often in Town and could have no reason to make an appearance during the Season, still Julia did not like to take chances where her future was concerned. She would plot her own way to the altar. She would welcome no interference from Danby, or from her many aunts, uncles, and cousins. Even Papa knew she was to be trusted to make the decision regarding her own future happiness. The man, whomever he happened to be, must be approved by Papa, ultimately, yet until that moment, Julia was allowed her head.
She trusted her head, her judgment, implicitly, as was only to be expected.
The only problem was, and she had not foreseen this, was that no one was beating down the Danby House door to invite her to their fetes, their routs, their musicales, their balls. The Season was upon them. She was the niece of a duke. She had not received a single invitation that was not from a close relative. It was most discouraging. How was she to find the right man without proper introductions? Look what had happened on her own. She had met Peter Grant, a most inappropriate man. The most inappropriate man in all of London, probably. He was probably in his grand house now, watching the last of his things be packed away and sent off to wherever it was that men lived when they had no permanent address. The Albany, was it? Yes, the Albany. It was rumored, by Emily, naturally, that even the Earl of Hartford lived at the Albany. A house on Portman Square and everyone living at the Albany. It beggared belief.
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