In Love with the King's Spy (Hidden Identity)

by Colleen French

  "I just don't like him," Julia repeated, wishing she hadn't started this conversation with her mother. She knew better. Susanne Elizabeth Thomas tried to be a good parent, but she was selfish and always had been, and her words and deeds always reflected that selfishness.

  Susanne plucked her false blond curls from the back of her head and tossed them on Julia's dressing table. Lying atop a pile of ribbons, the curls looked repulsively like a dead animal.

  "Well . . . well, that's ridiculous," Susanne hiccuped. "He's an earl. What's not to like about him? He's handsome, and he's got more money than a hatter's got pins."

  Tired beyond reason, Julia smoothed back her hair and tied it in a green ribbon. "He smells like garlic, he wears gloves in his own home, and he kisses the air instead of my hand. I think he fears I'll infect him."

  Susanne laughed. "Is that all?"

  "He doesn't like me."

  "Of course he does." Her mother leaned over her shoulder to look in the mirror and blotted at the lip rouge that was smeared on her fleshy chin. "You can't be upset by that little incident in the parlor with the servant. Listen to your mother. Men are like that, Julia. They like their things, and they like to order their servants and women about." She fluttered her handkerchief. "Somehow it makes them think they've got a bigger pizzle than they do."

  Julia rolled her eyes. "There's no sense in me trying to talk to you when you're like this, Mother. Why don't you just go to bed and I'll see you in the morning?"

  "Like this? Like what?" Susanne plucked at the sleeve of her daughter's robe.

  Julia rose from the upholstered stool. "The drink, Mother. You've had too much to drink."

  Susanne hiccuped. "Have not."

  Barefoot, Julia walked toward the large four-poster bed she would share with her sister until the wedding. Lizzy slept soundly on her back, a ruffled nightcap perched on her forehead. Julia slid out of her robe and climbed beneath the goose-down counterpane.

  Susanne followed her daughter to the bed like a mother hen after her wayward chick. "All these years I've been locked away in the country caring for you," she wailed. "All those years without music, or good food and drink, without male companionship, and you can't allow me one evening of pleasure? One evening of enjoyment for myself?"

  "Please, I don't want to argue." Julia was on the verge of tears. After the incident with the servant, Simeon had ignored her the remainder of the evening. He hadn't even dined with her, but instead left her with an elderly couple who babbled all night of the appalling food and accommodations they'd had when last in Paris.

  At midnight Julia suggested to Simeon that she might turn in because her head ached. In response, he'd pinched her arm viciously, while smiling for any onlookers. He insisted she remain downstairs until the last of his gambling guests had departed, even if it was dawn the following day. The moment the last guest finally departed at quarter after two, Simeon left the room without so much as a good night.

  Julia glanced up at her mother, who stood over her bed, her clothes disheveled, her eye paint smeared. "Please Mother, just go to bed. We can talk tomorrow." She offered her hand, but her mother didn't take it.

  "Let me tell you something," Susanne said, suddenly sounding far more sober than she had a moment ago. "Your father arranged this betrothal so that you and your sister would be provided for. It was his wish that you marry St. Martin, and marry him you will." She shook her finger. "It's your responsibility to this family."

  Julia closed her eyes to hide the tears that gathered in their corners. It had always seemed to Julia that her mother enjoyed making her cry, even as a young child. "Yes, Mother. I'll marry him and fulfill my duty to the family. Now take the candle near the doorway so you don't get lost finding your way to your apartments."

  With that, Julia blew out the bedside candle and rolled over in the bed against her sister. It wasn't until her mother's footsteps rescinded in the darkness that she finally gave in to her tears.

  Chapter Three

  "I cannot order the cook to prepare a meal, nor the housekeeper to air a counterpane?" Julia stood in the front hall, her hands resting on her hips as she attempted to keep her voice even. Medieval armor and weapons surrounded her on three sides, looming above her on the paneled walls like a ghost army. "Are you telling me, Mr. Gordy, that I am not to be in charge of my husband's household?"

  The earl's secretary was a strikingly handsome man in his mid-twenties, with inky black hair, devil-dark eyes, and a perfect complexion unmarked by childhood diseases.

  Gordy kept his hands tucked behind his back, his gaze ahead. He was as cold as the polished marble floor they stood upon. "I only convey what his lordship told me, madame."

  Julia exhaled with exasperation. She had risen this morning with the idea that the best way to make amends between herself and her betrothed was to show him what she was capable of. Once he saw how well she was trained to run his home and scrub his blessed floors, perhaps he would better appreciate her. After all, that was why a man such as the Earl of St. Martin married, was it not? Not just to gain a warm bed and sons, but to have a woman to maintain his household.

  She threw up her hands. "What am I to do then, if not run his lordship's home?"

  "He did not say, madame, only that he wished the housekeeper to continue her duties without interference." Julia stared at the man, who looked back as if he considered her somewhere below the housekeeper's station. Every hair on his periwig was perfectly arranged.

  "Well, I suppose I shall have to ask him myself. Where is he?"

  "In his library."

  Julia didn't care for his tone of voice, nor the way he painstakingly avoided addressing her with a m'lady or Lady Julia, the title she was born to as the daughter of an earl. Once she and Simeon were married, she would have to discuss the matter with her husband's secretary. Julia wasn't ordinarily concerned with titles, but she expected common respect, something she didn't feel she had with Mr. Gordy.

  She turned on her heels and headed toward the earl's library.

  Mr. Gordy had to run to catch up with her. "You cannot disturb the master. He is occupied."

  Julia would not be dissuaded by a mere secretary, and certainly not by this man who she guessed could easily become her enemy. She followed a long, dimly lit corridor deeper into the catacombs of the massive house. Portraits lined the paneled walls, the eyes of his lordship's primly dressed ancestors seeming to follow her as she passed. "I won't disturb him but for a moment."

  "Madame—"

  Julia rapped her knuckles on the closed library door.

  "What is it?" the earl grumbled from the far side.

  Before she lost her nerve, she slid open the paneled door that recessed into the wall.

  "Didn't I say I did not wish to be disturbed, Gordy?" the earl shouted.

  Julia stepped into the room that was entirely masculine with paneled walnut walls and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Heavy crimson velvet drapes hung closed over the great windows, making it dark inside save for the glow of candlelight. The room smelled of acrid lye soap and his lordship's garlic.

  "I apologize for disturbing you, Simeon." She spotted the Earl of St. Martin seated behind a massive desk, quill poised. She noticed that the desk was greatly in order for a man busy at work. His lordship was a methodical man in everything he did, and she needed to try and remember that.

  He glanced up at her impatiently. "Yet you disturb me anyway, woman."

  "I . . . your man, Mr. Gordy, tells me I am not to take command of the household and kitchens . . . not even once you and I are wed."

  The earl blinked.

  Julia waited, hoping he intended to respond. She was losing her nerve. Why the blast didn't the man say something? She could feel his secretary directly behind her, hovering. "Is it true, sir?"

  The Earl of St. Martin lowered his gaze to the ledger before him. "I like organization in my life, Julia. My house is in order. I see no reason to make changes." He dipped his quill in an ink bottle and
scratched something in his ledger.

  Julia wondered if he was still angry with her over the incident last night. Surely a man as wealthy as St. Martin could not keep a grudge over something so trivial as a few broken glasses . . . could he? "I can assure you, sir, that I'm well trained in household—"

  "Madame"—he flipped the page of the ledger—"the decision was made prior to your arrival. I have no doubt of your abilities; I simply do not require them. I am not marrying you to gain a housekeeper."

  Then why are you marrying me? she wanted to ask, but didn't, perhaps because she feared the answer. Julia watched as he entered another number in the ledger as if she weren't there. Was that it? Was that all he was going to say on the matter? Well, be damned if that was all she had to say. "Simeon." She dared a step closer to the walnut desk with its carved legs that resembled lion's claws. "Simeon, what is it I'm supposed to do, then?"

  He glanced up as if it was the oddest question he'd ever heard. "Do?"

  She gestured. "When a woman joins her husband's household, it's her responsibility to be sure it runs smoothly. It's how a wife spends her days, overseeing the meal planning and cooking, house cleaning, and laundry."

  One corner of the earl's mouth turned up. "Do you stitch, madame?" He spoke now as if she were a child, slowly emphasizing each word.

  "Well, yes, of course."

  "Then why not make something pretty? Perhaps a cloth for the dining table." He lifted an eyebrow. "That would please me."

  Julia crossed her arms over her chest. She had dressed in one of the day gowns he'd presented to her upon her arrival. It was yellow, and though elegant, rather childish in styling. She didn't like it, but she'd worn it because she thought it would please him. The first thing she'd do when she left the library was go directly to her apartments and remove the blasted dress.

  It was her turn to lift her eyebrow. "A table linen, sir?"

  "Aye." He entered another numeral, his attention returned to his ledger.

  "May I not give your staff direction?" When he exhaled with obvious annoyance, she added, "I only ask so that I know what you expect of me."

  "You may have what you wish." He waved his hand impatiently as if to shoo her away. "Do what you wish; amuse yourself in whatever manner pleases you, within reason. My servants are at your disposal. Call for a hot posset or a sweetmeat. Call for a coach to take you to buy a ribbon or whatever it is women purchase. I expect you to play hostess when we receive guests, look pretty, remain clean and chaste, and accompany me when I am expected to bring my wife. I simply do not wish for you to take over a household which already functions smoothly. Is that too much for a busy man to ask?"

  She ground her teeth. "No. No, I suppose not. It's only that . . ." She let her sentence trail off into silence at his obvious dismissal. It was equally obvious that he was not interested in her opinion on the matter, nor was he going to take it into account.

  "Good day, my lord." Julia curtsied and walked out of the room. "Mr. Gordy, close his lordship's door, will you?"

  The secretary made a sound in his throat as she swept past him. She knew it galled him to be ordered by her, but he'd heard the earl. His staff was at her disposal.

  "Yes," he said flatly.

  "Gordy!" the earl shouted. "That is Lady Julia to you, and soon to be Lady St. Martin. Speak thus rudely again, and I'll see you take a dunking for insubordinance."

  "Yes, my lord." He bowed his head. "My lady."

  Julia turned sharply down the hall and made her exit, her head held high, her strides long and confident. God above, she thought as she made her retreat. I need not worry of dying in childbirth or of the plague. I'll die of boredom and frustration in this strange house.

  Hours later Julia sat on a stone bench in the humid orangery. The hothouse, obviously not one of the earl's interests, appeared to have been ignored for years and left to overgrow into a tangled mess.

  Julia dejectedly ground one heel into the flagstone tile beneath her feet. The earl didn't want a housekeeper; he didn't want a companion. He'd barely spoken to her since her arrival.

  He didn't even seem to be particularly interested in her sexually. She wondered if he thought her unattractive. If he did, it would be just as well. The idea of having to lie with him soured her stomach. She didn't come to Bassett Hall so young and innocent as not to know what would be expected of her in the marriage bed, but she had thought her husband would be interested in her. He seemed to pay her no more mind than one of his hounds . . . or a new piece of art for his gallery.

  With a sigh, she stood and stretched. The inactivity of the last few days had made her stiff and irritable. She was used to physical activity. At home on the cliffs of Dover, she had run her mother's household with few servants to aid her. From the age of eleven, she had seen to the cooking and cleaning of her father's dilapidated castle, while her mother gallivanted about the countryside, dining and taking tea with her neighbors.

  Julia had overseen the growing of their meager crops and the care of the sheep and horses in the stables. The common folk of the area had come to her—not her mother—in disputes and in time of dire illness. Julia had always risen at dawn, worked through the day, and then fallen into bed tired but content in early evening.

  It was probably the earl's impossible hours that caused her to be irritable, as much as the inactivity. Because she rose early out of habit, it was difficult for her to participate in evenings of entertainment that did not begin until nine and easily ran until two or three in the morning.

  Julia scuffed along the flagstone tiles, her head bowed. She knew it was her duty to marry the earl and make the best of the life he would provide. It had been her father's wish and was her obligation to her mother and sister. But how was she to make her place in this new life? Julia had always known who she was in her father's castle, but who was she here? What purpose would she serve other than to smile at her husband's drunken guests at one in the morning, and breed his lordship's children?

  "There you are."

  Julia looked up with surprise and then smiled. "Griffin," she greeted, as if he were an old friend.

  He was dressed so abominably in an orange saracet doublet that she laughed aloud. Embarrassed by her own rudeness, she covered her mouth with her hand.

  He grinned and brushed a hand over his open coat. "You don't care tor my choice of garment this morning, Julia?" His tone reflected amusement rather than offense.

  Was it her imagination, or did his voice lack its usual high pitch? He strode toward her with less swagger in his walk than she had noticed in the house. He didn't walk on his toes, either.

  "I'm sorry," she confessed, laughing behind her hand. "Surely it's my unsophisticated country ways. I must not know what's in good taste and what's not."

  "Do you think so?" he asked good-naturedly. Orange ribbons hung from the caps of his doublet sleeves and fluttered as he approached.

  She lowered her hand and burst into laughter again. "No," she sputtered. "Actually not. Garish is garish, whether it's in Dover or London."

  "Garish, am I?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  He halted in front of her.

  "But it suits you . . . your personality," she told him. "You'd probably look sillier in a plain black velvet doublet and hose."

  His brow crinkled. He had the most fascinating laugh lines at the corners of his mouth. "I believe that is meant to be a compliment, but I'm unsure."

  "Take it as one." She nodded her head as she folded her arms over her chest. He made her feel uncomfortable and yet giddy at the same time.

  "And who are you to talk of fashion, anyway?" he jokingly mocked. "You, in your hatchling chick gown? Gads, that neckline has been out of fashion six months!"

  She burst into laughter again, her hands falling to her sides. "Not my choice, sir, but the earl's."

  "And you like it?"

  "No, but I wore it to please his lordship as he was kind enough to have it made for me and presented it to me upon my
arrival."

  For a moment Griffin just stood there, returning her stare. It should have been awkward, but oddly, it wasn't.

  "Finding your way about Bassett Hall?" he asked after a moment.

  She lifted one shoulder. "Well enough." Then she wrinkled her nose. "I find it rather gloomy and grim, despite its cleanliness. Does no one laugh in this household but you?"

  "Yes. Now there is you." He offered his hand as if he wanted her to take it.

  She didn't dare . . . though a part of her wanted to. She was lonely, and so desperate for friendship, for human comfort. How strange that this man in his garish doublets and tippytoed walk should be the one to offer that hand in friendship. Simeon had not yet once touched her, bare skin to bare skin, or even fingertip to fingertip.

  "I don't know that I'll be laughing often in the earl's presence," Julia heard herself confess. "He thinks me a clumsy clod. This morning I was told I would not be taking over my wifely household duties once we're wed. When I asked him what I was to do, he suggested I stitch a tablecloth."

  Griffin scowled. "Sounds like my dear cousin."

  She groaned. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful. His lordship's been very kind to me and to my family. Very generous. It's just that I can find nothing to do with my time."

  They began to walk side by side deep into the tangled orangery. "Mm hm," Griffin intoned.

  He was such a good listener that she continued to confide in him. "My mother and sister are content to play at cards, try on new gowns, and make daily trips to various ribbon shops, but 'tis not my inclination."

  He reached out to help her push a long hanging vine aside. "What is your inclination?"

  She glanced at him and then away. "I . . . I don't know. In my mother's home, I ran the household, cooked, cleaned, tended the ill—women's work."

  "What do you like to do then? Surely you don't care to scrub floors in your leisure?"

  Julia had to think for a moment. No one had ever asked her before what she liked to do. "I . . . I like to read . . . and . . . and . . ." She remembered back to her childhood when her father had been alive. "And play backgammon," she finished, delighted she could name two things she liked to do for pleasure. "And ride, and walk in the garden, and tend to my flowers and herbs."