The Rogue Is Back in Town

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The Rogue Is Back in Town Page 23

by Anna Bennett


  Good lord, why had she ever permitted him to kiss her? She sat up straighter and looked down her nose at him. “Your words, gifts, gestures—even your threats—have done nothing to persuade me to accept your offer. Your efforts have done naught but lower my opinion of your character. I wish to return to Gunter’s. Now.”

  Nigel heaved a sigh. “We shall be there soon.”

  They sat in uncomfortable silence as the carriage rolled along. After several seconds, he dragged his hands down his face. “You are a shrewd negotiator, Juliette. You know your worth, and I admire that.”

  “My only goals are to keep my uncle in his home and to avoid bringing shame upon my family. I want nothing from you, other than to be left alone.”

  “Fine,” he said, as though he’d finally accepted defeat. “I will marry you.”

  She stared at him, speechless.

  “Forgive me. That wasn’t the most romantic of proposals, but I am sincere. I desire you too much to let you go. You have forced my hand, but I am willing to sacrifice my standing in society as well as Lady Clementine’s sizeable dowry in order to have you.”

  A month ago, she would have swooned at the prospect of a marriage proposal from Nigel. But that was before she’d met Sam.

  Before she’d understood that love wasn’t flowery proclamations or precious jewels. Love was in small, meaningful gestures, like playing cricket with her uncle and pretending to look away when her dress slipped. It was knowing precisely how she liked her tea and writing her uncle an encouraging note. It was holding her in his arms all night long and whispering her name like a prayer. Most of all, it was becoming one’s truest self.

  The ride with Nigel had seemed interminable, but the coach finally slowed. Julie prayed they were outside the confectionery shop.

  “I do not wish to marry you,” she said firmly.

  He flinched as though she’d slapped him.

  Her heart hammered as she awaited his response. He’d never behaved violently toward her, but he was a marquess, remarkably stubborn, and used to having his way. Every drop of the bravado she’d shown earlier was used up.

  When the vehicle stopped, Nigel lifted the corner of a curtain to glance outside but made no move to disembark. “I am sorry to hear that,” he said slowly. The mix of shock and hurt in his voice almost made her feel badly for him. But not quite.

  “I do not anticipate our paths will cross often,” she said evenly, “but if they should, I trust we’re capable of behaving civilly toward each other.”

  The marquess snorted at that. His jaw clenched and nostrils flared ominously. “You and your uncle will vacate my property by noon tomorrow.”

  “What?” She closed her eyes and swallowed, praying he’d misspoke. “You cannot mean that.”

  “Oh, but I do,” he said, his tone brooking no argument.

  Panic clawed at her insides, and she scrambled for an escape route—some path out of this nightmare. “Have you considered how this will look … what people will think of a wealthy marquess tossing a feeble old man and his niece out of their home? When the news spreads, it will not cast you in a flattering light.”

  “I plan to be as shocked and dismayed as anyone.” Nigel examined a perfectly manicured nail.

  She shook her head, confused. “How?”

  “I’ll simply explain the unfortunate turn of events. I asked my solicitor to oversee the sale of the property and was completely unaware the house was occupied. After I am briefed on the matter, I shall be outraged at his callousness and lack of sensitivity. I will vow to make things right and allow you to return to the house—but, alas. By then, it will be too late.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I will have already sold the house.”

  Her stomach sank like a stone. “By tomorrow?”

  “We already have two offers. The moment I return home I shall instruct my solicitor to accept one. Which is why you and your uncle must go. It’s regrettable,” he said mockingly. “And to think, all of this could have been avoided if only you’d—”

  “We’ll leave,” she said firmly, “but we shall require a bit more time to pack our things. Give us a fortnight. Please.” She’d have to inform her sister Meg about the terrible mess she’d made. She’d have to explain to Uncle Alistair that the home he loved wasn’t truly his home.

  “Noon tomorrow,” he repeated stiffly. “Anything you leave behind shall be confiscated.”

  Her neck turned cold and clammy. “And if we are not able to leave by noon?”

  “I shall send a few ancillary members of my staff to assist you. I should warn you, however, they are neither patient nor well-mannered. I certainly would not trust them with your fine china.” He rapped his cane on the ceiling and waited, his expression stony.

  A moment later, the carriage door opened and light flooded the cab. Julie squinted as she scooped up her reticule and moved toward the door.

  She didn’t dare look back at Nigel as she hastily descended the carriage steps.

  But she heard his menacing laugh—a sound that might well haunt her forever.

  Chapter THIRTY-EIGHT

  Nigel was plotting something devious.

  Sam strolled down Charles Street, feeling the same sense of foreboding he’d experienced when he and Nigel were boys.

  Sam had been a lad of eight, sitting on a river bank with a fishing pole in his hands, when he suddenly turned wary. He knew Nigel was stalking him, and yet, he didn’t move. He supposed he was trying to prove something to his older brother—that he wasn’t afraid of him, wouldn’t be intimidated into putting down his rod.

  But his foolish pride had made him a veritable sitting duck. Nigel crept up behind him, hoisted him by the collar, and tossed him into the frigid river. Sam plunged beneath the surface of the icy water, and his heart stopped. Or it felt as though it had. He thrashed frantically, certain he would drown.

  He didn’t. But he did earn a stern scolding from his father for ruining a perfectly good pair of boots.

  Nigel watched as their father administered several painful swats to Sam’s backside. He opened his mouth to explain that he hadn’t jumped into the river or even slipped, but Nigel’s glare made him clamp his lips together. He’d taken the blame.

  Just as he had on several occasions after that. Somewhere along the way, he’d been labeled the wicked brother, and he’d started to believe it. Decided he may as well live up to the expectation.

  Perhaps he’d gone a bit overboard with the gambling, womanizing, and drinking, but he knew he wasn’t truly evil. It only seemed that way.

  That day on the riverbank had been the first incident in a long line of misdeeds he’d been accused of—some rightfully, and some unjustly.

  But Sam didn’t fault his father for disciplining him as a boy of eight. He’d deserved it. Not for being thrown into the river, but for sitting there like a simpleton when he knew Nigel was up to no good. He shouldn’t have ignored his instincts.

  Which was precisely what he was doing now.

  Sam suspected Nigel was planning something equally nefarious—worse, if the note Sam had received earlier that morning was any indication. Both cryptic and intriguing, the missive had been delivered to his office. He pulled it out of his pocket and re-read it as he walked.

  I’ve reason to believe Miss Lacey will be at Gunter’s this afternoon at approximately a quarter to four. Thought the information might be of interest.

  —Nigel

  Clearly, Nigel intended to draw Sam to Berkeley Square … but to what end?

  He was through being a pawn in his brother’s maneuverings, damn it all. As much as Sam would have liked to reconcile with Nigel, he would not allow his brother to use him against Juliette, her uncle, or anyone else.

  And yet, Sam couldn’t stay away from Berkeley Square. Partly because he longed to see her again—even if only from a distance. But also because he suspected Nigel was up to no good, and Sam couldn’t let her walk into danger.

  Besides
, if she truly was at Gunter’s this afternoon, maybe he’d have an opportunity to speak with her and see how she fared. Perhaps a look into her beautiful brown eyes would help him discern if she missed him in the slightest.

  Because he’d never stopped thinking about her.

  It didn’t matter that she vacillated between him and his brother or that she’d worn the extravagant earrings Nigel gave her. It didn’t even matter that she hadn’t refused to be Nigel’s mistress on the spot.

  Sam needed to know she was safe—and happy. Even if that happiness didn’t include him.

  He rounded the corner onto Berkeley Street and spied the confectioner’s shop in the distance. The mild weather was ideal for a shopping excursion or a jaunt to Gunter’s for ice cream. Ladies, gentlemen, and footmen laden with packages ambled down the pavement, occasionally pausing to greet passersby or admire a parasol or snuffbox in a store window.

  But Sam saw no sign of Juliette.

  Hands stuffed in his pockets, he walked along, feigning interest in a window display at a boot shop. Every so often, however, he glanced sideways and checked the entrance to Gunter’s. He considered going inside and taking a seat at the table, but his instincts—the same ones he’d ignored at the riverbank—told him he should remain outside.

  He was probably still a little early in any event, he mused, and—

  Wait. A petite woman holding a closed parasol paced to and fro outside the pastry shop. There was something familiar about her. She definitely wasn’t Juliette. Sam could have spotted her profile, with her smooth brow, pert nose, and elfish chin from a mile away.

  And yet, he associated the woman on the pavement with Juliette. She was shorter than her friend Charlotte, and a bit older. Too plainly dressed.

  He mentally snapped his fingers. Her lady’s maid, Lucy. Which meant Juliette must be nearby.

  He remained several yards away, keeping an eye on the maid and the confectioner’s shop door. Perhaps Lucy was waiting out front while Juliette said good-bye to a friend inside. The maid glanced up and down the street fretfully as though she were late or … worried.

  The skin on the back of his neck prickled. What if Juliette was in trouble?

  He walked toward Lucy and raised his hand to capture her attention, but she was suddenly fixated on the dark blue carriage that rolled to a stop in front of the shop. There was nothing distinctive about the carriage, no way to see inside, but it looked vaguely like … Bloody hell.

  Heart hammering in his chest, he waited and watched. A footman hopped down from his perch behind the carriage, scurried around to the side, and opened the cab door.

  Juliette emerged, and his chest ached at the sight of her. A long brown curl at her nape caught in the warm breeze and floated over her shoulder. The skirt of her simple apple green gown billowed around her lithe legs. Her face was pale, her expression unreadable. She clung to Lucy and hurried off in the opposite direction without looking back.

  Dear Jesus. Something was wrong. Sam started after her.

  The maid hastily opened the parasol, and Juliette ducked underneath as though she were hiding. Not from him, certainly—she was completely unaware he was there. But she seemed almost … ashamed.

  He didn’t want to think about why. Or who might be inside the carriage.

  Juliette may have needed time to think through her options where Nigel was concerned, but she would never agree to be his mistress. She would never choose wealth and security over … love.

  The wheels of the carriage slowly began to roll in the same direction Juliette was walking. As Sam watched, perplexed, the curtain at the back window of the cab shifted. Someone pushed it aside and turned to peer outside.

  Shit. A face remarkably like his own stared back at him, sneering. Nigel raised a hand in a mock salute, then drew the curtain closed.

  Sam’s blood turned cold. He was back in the river, thrashing. Fighting for breath. Drowning.

  Nigel had done it again. But this time, he’d ruined more than a pair of boots. He’d obliterated any opportunity of a reconciliation between him and Sam.

  Worse, he’d wrecked Sam’s one shot at redemption, his one chance at happiness—because neither was possible without Juliette.

  Chapter THIRTY-NINE

  “But I’ve lived here for years.” Uncle Alistair frowned. “Even if the marquess does legally own the property, why would he force us to leave now?”

  Julie perched on a stool opposite her uncle’s favorite chair and patted his knee. “It’s rather complicated.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and she paused until she was sure she could speak without crying. “I’d hoped to spare you from this—from having to move. But I fear we must leave tomorrow. I’ve already written to Meg and Will, informing them that we’ll be moving into their house here in town.”

  “And we’re not coming back?” He blinked rapidly and gazed at her with tear-filled, imploring eyes.

  She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I’m afraid not. But I’m going to direct the staff to carefully pack up all your things. I’ll make sure you’re comfortably settled in our new quarters—at Meg’s.”

  “You’ll be staying there too?” he asked, his voice threaded with panic.

  “Of course,” she assured him. “And when Meg and Will return to town with the twins and the new baby, we’ll all be together again. Won’t that be lovely?”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes,” he said, unconvinced. He rose from his chair and shuffled across the parlor toward the fireplace mantel that held an eclectic mix of prized possessions. His gnarled fingers skimmed over the clock with the broken face and the drinking cup with the griffin’s claw stem. “But it won’t be the same, will it?”

  “Not precisely. But you needn’t worry—you shall have all your treasured objects, and we’ll find a place to display them. In fact, if you should decide you prefer to have your own residence, I’m sure that Meg and Beth will persuade their husbands to procure a new, grander house for you.”

  “I’ve never wanted a grander house,” he said meekly. “I want this one—with all its memories and character and charm.”

  “I know.” She went to him, hugged him, and rested her head on his shoulder, recalling all the times he’d comforted her.

  When her older sisters had locked her out of their room so they could share secrets about boys.

  When she’d humiliated herself by botching a pianoforte performance at a musicale.

  After she’d helped both Meg and Beth pack their things to begin their new lives with their husbands.

  Now, it was her turn to remain strong for Uncle Alistair. “I’ll miss this house too—more than I can say. But the memories, character, and charm you speak of aren’t contained within its walls. They’re in you and will go wherever you do.” She kissed his wrinkled cheek.

  “What shall I do now?” He sounded tired. Lost.

  “Try to rest if you can. I’ve asked Mr. Gibson, Meg and Will’s butler, to send over additional staff to help us pack. They should arrive shortly. Shall I have a dinner tray sent to your room?” It would be easier for him if he didn’t watch as his entire life was unceremoniously dumped into scores of crates and trunks.

  He nodded. “Thank you … that is, if you’re certain I can’t help.”

  “Mr. Finch intends to personally attend to the packing of your bedchamber,” she said with a smile.

  “The staff.” He pressed a hand to his sunken chest, aghast. “What will become of them?”

  Julie’s belly twisted as she recalled giving their butler the news, not a half hour earlier. “I told them we’d give them six months’ salary and excellent references.”

  “But they’re almost family,” Uncle Alistair mumbled. “How can we—”

  Julie’s heart broke for him. “Come. I’ll walk you upstairs.”

  A knock at the front door sounded, filling Julie with dread. It was already beginning. All the footmen and maids from Meg’s house who could be spared for the evening were arriving. Soon they�
��d be dismantling the life Uncle Alistair and Aunt Elspeth had built. They’d strip the cherished pictures from the walls and leave the bookshelves bare. They’d remove the shabby furniture and roll up the stained carpets.

  Someone new would move in, and they’d paint over the wallpaper that had been the backdrop for countless family tragedies, comedies, and dramas.

  And the house would cease to be anything special at all.

  * * *

  Julie woke to the sound of a trunk slamming shut. It took her a moment to recall she was not in her bedchamber, but in the parlor.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Miss Juliette.” The dark circles beneath Lucy’s eyes said her maid had slept even less than she.

  “What time is it?”

  “Nearly seven in the morning. Would you care for some tea?” The maid placed a hand on her hip and tilted her capped head. “You haven’t eaten since luncheon yesterday.”

  “No tea, thank you—and I’m not hungry. How’s the packing progressing?”

  “The dining room is nearly done,” Lucy said with forced cheerfulness. “We haven’t quite begun your uncle’s study, but I’m almost finished with the upstairs rooms.”

  “Thank you,” Julie said earnestly. “I’ll begin on the study in just a moment.” As the maid hurried off, Julie sat up on the settee, rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, and gazed at the towers of crates surrounding her.

  The parlor looked nothing like the cozy room where she and her sisters had giggled at stories in the gossip rags, or where they’d cursed at knots in their needlepoint, or where they’d cried over empty dance cards. Without Uncle Alistair’s unique trinkets displayed on every surface and wrinkled sheet music piled on the ottoman, without the colorful satin pillows covering the threadbare chairs, the room’s imperfections were more pronounced.

  The hairline cracks in the plaster ceiling now resembled fissures. Bright robin’s-egg blue rectangles marked the spots where paintings had graced the walls, hiding much of the peeling wallpaper. Haphazardly stacked boxes and trunks threatened to topple over with one inadvertent slam of the door.

 

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