by Anna Bennett
Along with Lucy and the rest of the servants, Julie had been awake most of the night. They’d run out of crates to pack things in around midnight, so they’d begun transporting trunks to Meg and Will’s townhouse. The staff there hastily emptied the contents and sent the trunks back so that they could be filled again.
Still, it seemed as though they’d made frighteningly little headway.
The heartache of moving would have been easier to bear if her sisters were here, but as it was, Julie felt very alone—and she wondered if she always would be. Oh, she and her sisters would be reunited eventually, she had no doubt of that. Uncle Alistair would continue to support her in his own quirky way too.
But Julie wanted someone to share silly, secret jokes with. Someone to hold her hand on walks while whispering deliciously wicked things in her ear. Someone to build a life with—complete with all the joyous, messy, glorious emotions that a real family entailed.
And the only person she could imagine filling that role was Sam.
She knew she was partially to blame for their row—if it could even be called such—on the night of the soiree. But she needed someone who wouldn’t run at the first sign of trouble. She needed someone who would remain by her side not only on the sunny days but the challenging days as well. Days like today.
She stood, then gripped the back of the settee as her head swam. Once the dizziness passed, she brushed the dust and dirt off her gown—the very same one she’d worn to meet with Nigel yesterday. That carriage ride seemed an eternity ago, and yet, time was ticking by much too quickly. She’d give her favorite slippers—nay, her entire wardrobe—for an extra day in this house.
She located an empty trunk near the front door and ignored the ache at the base of her spine as she lugged it into Uncle Alistair’s study. There was a reason she’d saved his favorite room for last. She looked up at Aunt Elspeth’s portrait and sighed. It was going to be the hardest.
* * *
The grandfather clock was still chiming twelve o’clock—Nigel’s deadline—when the pounding on the front door began, the banging so loud, Julie imagined a band of marauding Vikings stood just outside.
Extremely punctual Vikings.
Her heart skipped a beat as she closed the crate lid and gazed at half a dozen of Uncle Alistair’s bookshelves that she and Lucy still had left to pack. She stood and wiped her damp palms on her skirt.
“Would you please check on my uncle?” she asked the maid. “He’s been resting in his bedchamber, but if he’s anxious, he can travel to Castleton House with the next shipment of trunks. I’m going to tell our, er, visitors that we require another couple of hours. I cannot imagine they’ll object when they see how much we’ve already accomplished.”
Lucy frowned. “Of course I’ll see to Lord Wiltmore. But be careful. Especially if Lord Currington is on our doorstep.”
“I will.” Julie refrained from mentioning that the doorstep wasn’t truly theirs any longer—and therein lay the problem.
She met Mr. Finch at the front door just as he was about to open it. He hesitated when he heard the rough voices and coarse language outside. “Allow me to deal with this, Miss Juliette. I shall tell these gentlemen”—the word clearly stuck in his throat—“that we are in the process of vacating the house, as anyone with two eyes in his head could plainly see, and that we would be happy to send word once the task is accomplished.”
Julie wanted to hug the butler but settled for squeezing his arm. “Thank you. It’s worth a try.”
He smiled bravely and shooed her away. “Back to the study with you,” he said. “I’ll not expose you to such ruffians.”
Before the words were out of Mr. Finch’s mouth, the banging began anew—only louder and more insistent. Julie stopped several yards from the front door as the butler opened it a crack. “Good morning, sirs,” he said dryly. “How may I be of service?”
“Stand aside, old man.” A beefy hand reached through the narrow opening and shoved Mr. Finch in the chest, making him stagger backward.
Julie rushed up behind the butler to steady him, but they were both flattened against the wall when three large, barrel-chested men swaggered inside. “Your time is up,” one shouted, giving notice to the entire household. You have one minute to leave, and I suggest you take all your personal effects with you. Because once you walk out that door, you won’t be coming back.”
Dear God. Ignoring the throbbing in her head and the low buzz in her ears, Julie ran ahead of the largest man and stepped in front of him just before he reached the parlor. “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding,” she said smoothly. “My uncle and I are in the process of packing our things but require a—”
“There’s no misunderstanding,” he said. “The marquess wants you out. Immediately.”
“Juliette?” Uncle Alistair descended the staircase as fast as he dared, an ornate box tucked under one arm. “Is something amiss down here? I thought I heard—” He stopped in his tracks when he saw the three brawny men dressed like dockworkers standing just outside the parlor.
“Why don’t you make your way to the carriage,” Julie said soberly. “Mr. Finch and I will collect your bags and meet you there.”
He nodded courageously but wobbled as he took the next step, so she met him on the staircase and held his elbow the rest of the way.
“This is it,” he said wistfully. “This is good-bye, Elspeth.”
“For now, but not forever. We’ll be back,” Julie said, praying it was true.
One of the brutes clucked his tongue, mocking her. “You’re squandering your time.”
She checked the urge to lash out at him. Nigel was the one who’d hired him and his cronies. Nigel was the one who deserved her ire. To Uncle Alistair, she said, “Ignore him. As soon as Will learns of this travesty, he’ll return to town and sort it all out, mark my words. But for now, it’s best if we avoid a confrontation. I’ll simply walk you outside and return for the rest of our things.”
“The chit doesn’t listen very well, does she?” The man with the square jaw jabbed a thick elbow in the leader’s side.
The larger man cracked his knuckles and spoke to her slowly, as if she were a simple child. “You won’t be returning. Take what you need now.”
Mr. Finch, the footmen, and Lucy rushed past them, balancing towers of crates and boxes—all they could possibly carry.
A scream started to build in the back of Julie’s throat, but she couldn’t fall apart—not yet, at any rate—so she swallowed it. “On second thought, Uncle, go outside with Mr. Finch. I’ll follow shortly.”
He looked at the men and hesitated. “You’re sure, Juliette?”
“Positive,” she said with forced cheer. “Off with you now. We’ll be on our way to Meg and Will’s townhouse in a matter of minutes.”
“More like seconds,” one of the men grunted.
As her uncle hobbled down the pavement, defeated, Julie debated what to bring with her.
The silver, her parent’s china, and her best jewelry had been sent to Meg’s in one of the midnight shipments, thank God. But so many things remained. How could she choose two or three boxes out of scores?
Julie’s first instinct was to run for her clothes and undergarments, but they could be replaced.
The trunks in her uncle’s study, on the other hand, held decades of research, notes that could be essential to the paper he was writing for admission to the Royal Society—and critical to gaining the acceptance and respect he deserved.
But his research wasn’t the most important thing either.
If she could bring only one thing, she knew exactly what it must be. And though it wouldn’t be easy, she simply could not fail.
She dashed past the men to the study, slid a chair in front of the fireplace, and carefully stood on the seat. Staring into the kindly eyes of the large portrait above the fireplace, she announced, “Aunt Elspeth, you’re coming with me.”
Chapter FORTY
Sam was amaze
d at how much he was able to accomplish before noon nowadays. It turned out that if one wasn’t hungover or laying low after the previous night’s excesses, the hours between dawn and luncheon could be surprisingly productive.
This morning, he was eager to tell Griff about a meeting with a merchant who’d claimed he could provide all the tea Griff’s company required for half the price he currently paid. Sam had taken care not to let on how anxious he was to negotiate a contract, but he could sense a good deal like a shark smells blood—and this was an excellent deal.
He hustled back to Griff’s offices, angled through the door and nodded at the secretary, who was making accounting entries in a ledger that covered half his desk. “Good morning, Timothy. Is Griff available?”
“Good morning, Lord Travis. Mr. Griffith is attending to a personal matter, but I expect him soon.” The secretary adjusted his spectacles on his nose. “I hope you’ll be pleased to learn that your office upstairs is finally ready for you. It’s freshly painted and has a pleasant view of the street.”
“Thank you.” This was what it was like to be a part of something. To have people expect more of you. “I’ll move my things out of Griff’s office this afternoon.”
“No, no,” Timothy protested. “You must allow me to attend to it. I took the liberty of selecting a carpet and a couple of paintings in addition to the standard office furniture. We want the room to be conducive to business, after all.”
Sam smiled. “Perfect. Anything else for me?”
Timothy tapped the head of his pencil against his chin as he rifled through the neat stacks of correspondence on his desk. “Ah, yes. Mr. Youngman left this”—the secretary handed a large brown envelope to Sam—“and said he’d return this afternoon to discuss the property on Hart Street.”
Hart Street. Juliette’s uncle’s house. Maybe not legally—but Sam hoped to rectify the matter soon.
Youngman, Griff’s solicitor, had submitted an anonymous offer on Sam’s behalf to purchase the property from Nigel. Sam turned the envelope over in his hands, encouraged by its weight. Still, his fingers tingled as he opened it and scanned the papers inside.
His brother had accepted the offer.
Sam released the breath he’d been holding. This was his chance to undo some of the damage he’d caused. To make amends.
Warmth flooded his chest—not happiness, precisely. Without Juliette, he doubted he’d ever be truly happy. No, what he felt was more akin to satisfaction, and that came from knowing that she would be happy.
Sam glanced over the contract and frowned at the purchase price, which was considerable, but reasonable. Nigel had never really wanted the house. He simply wanted to bend Juliette to his will. He needed a buyer before her powerful brothers-in-law were able to come to their rescue. He needed a plausible explanation for his cruelty.
Well, Sam may not have possessed a title or a fortune, but, for the first time in his godforsaken life, he had purpose.
With Griff’s help, he’d secured a loan—one that would probably take him a decade or more to repay. Not long ago, that sort of responsibility would have crippled him, but now, he welcomed it. It would give him a goddamned reason to wake up and work every day.
In the meantime, he’d have the solicitor transfer the deed to Wiltmore so that he and Juliette could stay in their house without living in fear that Nigel would toss them out.
Youngman would handle it all while keeping Sam’s involvement in the deal a secret. He didn’t need Juliette’s gratitude, and he certainly didn’t want her to feel beholden to him.
He’d be content knowing that she and her uncle were safe. Happy.
And if he was careful, Juliette would never know what Sam had done for her.
Or how much he loved her.
She’d be free to lead the life of her choosing—one that maybe, just maybe, had room for him.
He glanced at Timothy. “I’ll go have a look upstairs. Would you inform me when Griff returns?”
“Of course,” the secretary said. “And if Mr. Youngman—” He paused as the front door opened and a harried young man dressed in livery stumbled into the office. Sam blinked, trying to place the familiar face.
And then it hit him. Bloody hell.
“How may I help you, sir?” Timothy inquired politely.
Before the man could reply, Sam said, “You’re a member of Lord Wiltmore’s staff.”
Nodding vigorously, the servant dug a paper out of his jacket pocket and thrust it at Sam. “Forgive the intrusion, Lord Travis. Lord Wiltmore asked me to deliver this to you at once.”
The skin between Sam’s shoulder blades prickled as he took the note. “I trust everything is well at the house?”
The footman shifted from foot to foot. “Not exactly, my lord.”
Damn. Sam unfolded the paper. The sight of the shaky handwriting took him back to Wiltmore’s study—and the hours they spent playing chess, trading stories, and swinging his cane like a cricket bat.
Dear Cousin Samuel,
It seems Juliette and I are moving out of our house today. We shall preside in town with my niece Meg and her husband, the Earl of Castleton. I thought you should know.
Alistair
He met the footman’s gaze. “Have Lord Wiltmore and Miss Lacey departed for the earl’s house yet?”
“I’m not certain. They were loading up the carriage when I left.”
Sam stuffed Wiltmore’s note and the contract in his jacket pocket and shot out the door. There wasn’t a hackney cab in sight, so he ran, praying he arrived in time to stop the madness.
As his boots slapped against the pavement and his breath rasped in his chest, Sam debated what to tell Juliette and how to explain the sudden reversal of fortune. Maybe he’d say that upon further investigation, he’d discovered the house was Wiltmore’s all along. That he’d come to tell her they could stay.
All he knew for sure was that he couldn’t wait to see her again … and that he’d be gutted all over again when he had to say good-bye.
* * *
Sweet Jesus, Aunt Elspeth was heavy. Or rather, her portrait was. The gilt frame measured a little over a yard wide and was nearly twice as tall. Gripping the sides, Julie hefted the picture up and away from the wall, almost toppling backward off the chair she was using as a stepstool. The bottom corner of the frame clipped an old vase on the mantel, sending it crashing to the floor before she was able to rest the portrait on the arms of the chair and catch her breath.
Her heart was still galloping from the near fall when one of the brutes Nigel had sent to evict her filled the doorway and eyed the shattered glass and dirty puddle of water. “Having a tantrum, are we?”
“Much as I’d like to,” she huffed, “I haven’t the time.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Taking this picture. I see no reason you should object, as its value is purely sentimental,” she said dryly.
“You’ve a sharp tongue, haven’t you?” he said with a sneer.
“Occasionally.” She stepped off the chair, careful to avoid catching the toe of her slipper in her hem. Now all she needed to do was lug the portrait from the study to the front door, which, unfortunately, seemed a continent away.
She briefly considered asking the man to assist her, but even if he were inclined to do so, she didn’t trust him in the least. He didn’t know how precious the portrait was to Uncle Alistair—and she doubted he’d care.
The man watched her struggle with the picture, his arms crossed, face smug.
She took several deep breaths, then hoisted the portrait off the chair onto the hardwood floor where it landed with a thud, barely missing her toes.
Good heavens, this was going to be tortuous. Wisps of hair clung to her damp neck, and her fingers were already numb from the weight of the frame. She managed to lift the picture and carry it a few steps before it slipped from her hands.
What she needed was a blanket or quilt that she could place beneath the
bottom of the frame, allowing her to slide it out of the room and down the corridor to the front door. She scanned the study but saw nothing among the crates or furniture that would be of use.
“Oh, Aunt Elspeth,” she sighed in exasperation. “What are we going to do?” She briefly rested her forehead against the top of the frame—
And had an epiphany.
“Stay right here,” Julie whispered, leaning the portrait against the wall.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the brute demanded. “You’ve already tested my patience. Do not dally any longer—unless you’d like me to carry you out of here over my shoulder.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Julie said with mock sweetness. She walked to the worn curtains hanging from Uncle Alistair’s window, fisted a velvet panel in both hands and yanked with all her might. The rod holding the curtain popped off the wall and banged to the floor. Bits of plaster and paint rained down on her head, but she clutched the curtain in her hands, momentarily victorious.
“You’re bloody insane,” the man muttered, a hint of awe in his voice.
Perhaps she was. She swiped the chalky dust from her face and slid the velvet off the rod, then balled up the fabric and deposited it on the floor beside the picture. Using all her remaining strength, she lifted the portrait so that the bottom rested on the curtain.
After a brief, fervent prayer, she tried sliding it.
It worked—not precisely like gliding over ice, but infinitely easier than lifting the frame.
Julie couldn’t wait to see her uncle’s face when she walked out the door holding Aunt Elspeth’s picture. This horrid day had been especially difficult for him, but perhaps the portrait would bring a smile to his dear, sweet face.
She ignored the man skulking behind her as she carefully, steadily slid the frame out of the room, trying not to dwell on the finality of it all. She resisted a childish but intense urge to run to the newel post and carve her initials and her sisters’ in the wood.
It was just a house, she told herself. Four walls and a roof. Plaster and wood.
She did a fairly good job of convincing herself. But halfway down the corridor she heard shouts from the front of the house. Someone outside was creating a stir.