“That could work, since the balcony railing isn’t all that high. She is so very dreadful?”
“This evening, before we left, she told Roxanne to her face that she had aged, that Leah now looked like the younger sister. Then she mentioned that yellow wasn’t the best color for her, as it made her look sallow. Can you imagine?”
“No, yellow doesn’t make her look sallow at all, but I have seen a certain shade of blue she wears that does. What did Roxanne have to say to that?”
“Roxanne laughed. She said perhaps Leah could lend her one of her own beautiful gowns and then she would look just the thing.”
“That was well done of her,” he said.
“Roxanne said she’d been watching how I turned Leah’s insults back to her with a smile and agreement, thus spiking her guns.” Sophie sighed. “However, this time it didn’t work out. Leah said since Roxanne had vulgar red hair, wearing any of her stylish gowns would only make her look more slovenly. Roxanne laughed again, even though I saw her hands fisted at her sides. She acts like she doesn’t care, but I know she does. Leah is not happy, Roxanne tells me, to excuse her, I suppose. Evidently, she never has been happy, even when she was a child. When I asked her what in heaven’s name Leah had to be unhappy about—then and now—Roxanne couldn’t think of a single thing. I think Leah was born mean.
“And now she is cooing over Richard Langworth. I really want to cosh her, Julian. Is the railing really low enough so I can heft her over it?”
“It is, my child, but your kindly wise uncle fears you must forgo retribution, as tasty as it might sound.”
“I am tall. I could come up behind her; she might believe she’d been smacked by a man, her lovely Richard Langworth, for example. Then I would run away, quickly.”
“It is Roxanne’s decision how to deal with her sister.” He placed his finger on her mouth. “If you like, I will speak to Roxanne, give her my wise counsel.”
Sophie sighed. “I wonder what Roxanne would say to you if you did offer her counsel?”
“Surely she would be excessively grateful.” He paused for a moment, tapped his fingertips to his chin. “Do you know, Sophie, I have changed my mind. Maybe you should sneak up behind her.”
“I might,” Sophie said, leaned up and kissed his cheek, patted his arm, and danced away.
“Are you Lord Julian Monroe, sir?”
He turned to face James Sherbrooke. So he’d heard him speaking and recognized his voice, had he? Well, Julian had wondered when this would happen. He remembered so clearly the night last fall at Saint Osyth when he’d smuggled in tea and brandy from France, the only time he’d come back to England in three years. And it had been only for a fortnight, staying with Harlan in his rooms on Potwin Street, because he hadn’t wanted anyone to know he was here, except for the gentlemen in the ministry who’d asked him to play diplomat for England to Rome, and, naturally, he had.
“Yes, I am.” He said nothing more, simply waited for James Sherbrooke to introduce himself and his wife.
Julian bowed to James but made no attempt to kiss Corrie’s wrist, a good thing, since she kept her hands at her sides. She said, “You are Devlin’s uncle, sir, are you not?”
“Yes, Lady Hammersmith, I am his ancient graybeard uncle.”
She tried to look fierce and condemning but couldn’t manage it. He smiled down at this lovely young lady, seeing the tangle-haired ragamuffin on that wild night long ago. He remembered her knee against his neck. A heroine, she was, that was what Devlin had told him. More courage than brains, Devlin had added. Could he believe she’d actually ridden a horse into a cottage, a pitchfork in her hand, to rescue James?
No, Julian would never have believed such a tale until she’d had her knee pressed hard against his own throat.
Both husband and wife were studying his face. Trying to make certain he was indeed the smuggler? He realized they weren’t quite certain what to say to him now that the evil villain was standing two feet in front of them.
He said easily, “I must say the two of you look much better than the last time I saw you—both of you were filthy, your clothes torn, nearly drowned in that deluge. I see you are married and appear quite content with each other, my felicitations to you both.” And he gave them a charming smile. He touched his fingers to his throat. “A sharp knee you have, my lady.”
They stared at him. Obviously they’d never expected him to simply spit it right out. Corrie said finally, “We thought we recognized your voice, but it’s difficult to believe that you—Lord Julian Monroe—are that wretched smuggler who would have dragged us to Plymouth if we hadn’t bested you. Of course, we did just that, didn’t we?” And up went her chin.
Julian laughed. “Yes, I am the wretched smuggler who couldn’t take the chance you’d report me to the excisemen. Smuggling has been a hobby I’ve enjoyed for many years.”
“But you don’t have many years!”
He grinned at Corrie. “I am tempted to say smuggling runs in the blood, but alas, my sire died when I was a mere babe, so I do not know if he ever indulged.” There was no need to tell them soldiers in Wellington’s army had taught him all about the joys of smuggling. “Now, I would ask that the two of you contrive to forget it.”
Corrie was outraged. “Forget it? Forget that you would have kidnapped us? Forget that you might have shot us dead if you’d wished to, or had your gnarly men beat us into the ground?”
James couldn’t help it, he laughed. He laughed even more at her red-faced outrage. Corrie shook her fist in his face and sputtered. She looked from Julian to her husband, and her sputter turned into a laugh. Soon all three of them were laughing like the best of friends. Guests began turning to look at them.
When Julian caught his breath, he said to James, “I understand you are an astronomer, that you presented a paper to the Royal Astronomical Society on what you called the silver cascade phenomena on Titan. A fascinating description you gave, so my friend told me, since he knows I have always been interested in Saturn’s moons—”
Corrie couldn’t believe it when James leaned closed to this man who’d held them at gunpoint, this man who’d planned to kidnap them, and now look at him—hooked like a channel bass. She said loudly, “I understand your mama wants you to marry Sophie Wilkie.”
Julian said, “Alas, my nuptials to Sophie are not meant to be. I am far too old for her. My mama will survive her disappointment.”
Corrie said, “James is seven years older than I. Do you believe him too old for me?”
“Seven years is, I should say, the perfect age difference. However, I am twelve years Sophie’s senior.”
Corrie said, “Isn’t seven years about the age difference between you and Roxanne Radcliffe, Sophie’s aunt? Perhaps your mama should pursue her for you instead.”
“There are only five years between Roxanne and me—not enough, I fancy, to give me any sort of advantage in the marital ring.”
“You do have ready answers, don’t you, sir? I imagine many would believe your smart replies quite amusing. Perhaps, as Devlin’s uncle, you can answer me this. Is Devlin really a vampire?”
He leaned close and said into her lovely little ear with its pearl drop earring, “He carries my blood and my lineage. My father, my mother has told me, hated the sunlight, avoided it at all costs. I shall let you draw your own conclusions, my lady,” and then Julian left them, humming, until he heard one of the Milanese tenors clear his throat. The evening’s torture was about to begin. He saw Roxanne walking toward Sophie, his mother in tow, and moved to join them. He looked back once to see James and Corrie Sherbrooke looking after him. He didn’t believe they would inform on him at Bow Street.
19
Rexford Square
Julian refolded the letter, stared off at nothing in particular, and began tapping his fingers on his desktop. This was unexpected. What the devil should he do?
He opened the letter and read yet again:Julian, it would relieve me greatly were you to visit me he
re at Hardcross Manor. In short, I wish to end the antipathy between us. I bear you no more ill will. If you wish to escort your mother, I should be pleased. Perhaps this upcoming Saturday would be convenient?
Your obedient servant,
Rupert Langworth, Baron Purley
Julian sent the letter and a note to his mother, and took himself off to the stables to ride Cannon. He joined up with military friends who’d befriended him at Waterloo.
Lord Alfred Ponsonby, an older gentleman with a wealth of gray frizzled hair and thick whiskers, had jerked him up by his collar at Waterloo to avoid an onrushing French soldier, his bayonet at the ready. He looked him up and down. “Fine horseflesh, my lad.”
“Cannon could beat that nag you’re riding, my lord.”
“I’ll grant you he could give it a good try.” Lord Alfred turned to the other three gentlemen. “I remember the grand old man himself give Julian that name; he said Julian here was so fast he looked shot from a cannon—one that worked and didn’t fall limp on the ground. And now you have transferred your name to your horse.”
Everyone laughed.
Major Ramey said, “Our poor Iron Duke—beset on all sides. I fear the end is in sight for him, with the Whigs and Earl Grey waiting in the wings, but that is politics, something I abhor. When I saw Arthur at the ministry last week, he told me he’d heard you’d finally returned to England.”
“The speed of gossip astounds me. I returned from Italy only a month ago. Since Lord Arthur is still the leader of England and has endless demands, I doubt not that the only time he would have free to see the likes of me is in the water closet.”
His heart was lighter when he returned to his town house on Rexford Square, a lovely Georgian bequeathed to him by his sire, a house he quite liked because, he freely admitted, his sister-in-law, Lorelei Monroe, very much resented Julian’s owning the town house and not her own dear husband, who wasn’t a nobody like Julian, but rather the Duke. Tavish, his butler, wasn’t to be seen. He strolled into the drawing room to find Roxanne Radcliffe planted in the middle of a small sofa, her beautiful pale pink skirts fanned out around her, Harlan Whittaker seated on the edge of his chair opposite her, his hands on his knees, looking anxious and smitten, both at the same time. A fine-looking man was Harlan, Julian thought, not very tall but wiry and strong, his hair a copper color that shone in the sun. Harlan was only two years older than Julian. He realized he was seeing his man of business as one would see a man who could possibly have interest in the fairer sex. Julian prayed he never looked so pathetic when he looked at a lady.
Tavish appeared at his elbow, carrying in a magnificent silver tray holding a teapot and a pile of cakes. Tavish had a magnificent head of dark hair, which he pomaded straight up to give him at least three more inches in height. He was a man Julian had known and trusted as long as he could remember. Tavish and Pouffer both had been mainstays in his life since he’d been a boy.
Tavish said, a dollop of worship in his deep voice, “As you see, my lord, we have a guest, a lovely, tall guest, a tall female sort of guest, unusual, to be sure, but quite invigorating to see. Ah, such a waste of inches, but I am forced to admit that she does wear all those lovely inches well, don’t you think, my lord?”
Julian shot a look at Roxanne, who was returning his look, hers quite limpid. “She does well with inches, yes, Tavish. On the other hand, I daresay if she didn’t do well with her excessive inches, it wouldn’t make much difference.” He said to Harlan, “I see you have made Miss Radcliffe’s acquaintance.”
Talk about enthusiasm, Harlan overflowed with it. “I have indeed, Julian. She has been telling me about growing up in Yorkshire, walking for hours on desolate moors, listening to ravens caw to each other from bare oak tree branches, black silhouettes in the distance, and watching storm clouds draw nearer and nearer.”
“You are a poet, sir,” Roxanne said, laughing. “I am not so fluent as you. But it was a wonderful childhood, that is true enough. Hello, Julian. May I serve you tea?”
“A dollop of milk, Roxanne, thank you. Harlan, are you here to give me news of the Blue Star?”
“I fear not, Julian. There is still no word. I am here to deliver papers concerning the new ship you are considering adding to your fleet. I made inquiries of Lord—” He shot a quick look at Roxanne. “Well, names are not important, are they?”
“No, not in this instance,” Julian said.
Roxanne handed Julian his saucer, then poured tea for Harlan and herself. “Harlan tells me he has worked for you for a goodly number of years. I inquired how goodly, since neither of you are all that aged, and he tells me you and he met in a tavern at the docks.” She paused, smiled toward Harlan.
Harlan cleared his throat. “I hadn’t yet told her you were there to find a miscreant who had word about valuable items stolen from one of your cargoes.”
Julian nodded. “That ended satisfactorily, with your assistance.” He said to Roxanne, “Harlan and I have been together for a good many years.” Julian toasted Harlan with his teacup. “A very profitable association,” he added.
“Shall I place the documents in your estate room?”
“Yes, thank you, Harlan.” Pick your tongue off the floor. “Say good-bye to Miss Radcliffe now.”
“An exquisite pleasure, Miss Radcliffe.”
Roxanne inclined her head, a small smile played over her mouth. The witch was fully aware Harlan was ready to slaver on her slippers.
“I will see you tomorrow. Now, I have need to speak with Miss Radcliffe.”
Harlan gave Roxanne one final pitiful look before he left the drawing room. Julian said, “Do you think it was your talk of walking the desolate moors or the call of the ravens that did him in?”
Roxanne grinned. “Perhaps it was talk of my two pugs, Popper and Perky, who were always trying to relieve themselves on my father’s left trouser leg. When I made civil inquiries after his family, and he told me he’d been cursed with six sisters, which made me pat his hand in commiseration, an image of Leah duplicated six times over in my brain.” She shuddered.
Julian sat down. “Harlan was the only boy in his family. His parents and all six sisters treated him like a prince. I daresay if one of his sisters had insulted him like Leah does you, she would have been tossed out the window by her siblings.”
Tavish set a platter of cakes in front of them, his rooster tail of hair standing tall and proud.
Julian waited until he’d bowed himself out. “For Christmas each year, I present Tavish with a special pot of hair pomade that comes from Naples. It shines, does it not?”
“He is a vision.”
After they each selected a tart from the heaping platter, Julian said, “Are you without sense? You should not be here alone, Roxanne.”
“Oh? And why is that, my lord? Must I remind you that I am twenty-seven years old, not a tender young morsel like Sophie. I assure you I could visit any number of questionable places and it not be remarked upon. Let me add that since you are the son of a duke, you cannot be considered a bad influence or dangerous to my virtue. You well may be, but it is not immediately apparent.”
“Why are you here?”
She grinned like a bandit. “Your mama has begged Sophie and me to accompany the two of you to Hardcross Manor, the home of Baron Purley, the father of the slimy Richard Langworth.”
Even after all these years, Julian was still surprised at how quickly his mother moved. He began to tell Roxanne he wasn’t at all certain he was even going. He paused, took another sip of his rich India tea, studied her over the rim of his cup, and said, “Why, yes, I think that is a marvelous idea. You and Sophie can enjoy the pleasures of the countryside—Hardcross Manor is close to Ravenscar, only three miles distant. Have you ever visited Cornwall?”
“No, but I have heard the southern coast is vastly different from the northern, and there are very few miles between them.”
He nodded. “Prepare to see palm trees along the drive to Ravenscar. I b
elieve you will like my home, Roxanne, it is something of a castle but not really. It was quite barren, but my mother has planted greenery to soften the landscape. There are also rolling green hills, scores of barrows—”
She sat forward, all attention. “Barrows? Do you believe them burial mounds from long ago?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Your mother told Sophie about Ravenscar. We are both anxious to see it, and the barrows, of course.”
“Good. You could spend hours poking about whilst I—”
After a moment, she said, “Yes? Whilst you have it out with slimy Richard, who believes you murdered your wife, and his sister. Will you tell me why he is so certain you are guilty of such a horrible deed?”
He studied her for a moment. “Do you not believe I could be guilty of murder?”
She waved that away. “No, not for a moment. You see, Julian, I have come to know you. You are an honorable man, a man who once he makes a promise would never break it. You would not murder anyone, particularly your own wife.”
She’d known him for weeks and believed it impossible for him to kill another person? Because he was honorable? A man who kept his promises? He felt humbled and grateful. And yet Richard, whom he’d known all his life, believed him guilty to the point he wanted him dead? Who was the damned witness he claimed knew Julian had killed Lily? He said finally, “It makes no sense for you to be completely ignorant when you will come with us to Hardcross Manor.” He paused for a moment, then said, “I would assume Baron Purley knew my father, but he never spoke of him to me that I remember. I suppose I never asked, since my father was an old man when I was born.
“I spent my boyhood years in and out of Hardcross Manor, a part of the family, really. Richard and I were inseparable, then Lily grew up and I saw her with new eyes, and so we married. Richard was my best man; Vicky was her flower girl. Six months,” he added, “we had only six months before she was shot, before she died.” He stopped, simply couldn’t bring himself to tell how he’d run into the garden to see Lily dead, blood covering her chest, how that warm sunny day had irrevocably changed all their lives. He said only, “Someone killed her or she shot herself. Neither makes sense to me, but it is either one or the other.
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