As soon as Tristan entered the room his gaze centered on Julia, and relief surged through him as did the usual jolt of desire. The yellow gown with the embroidered flowers had gained patches of dust that hadn’t quite come clean, though he had no doubt the Ravencliffe maids had tried. He bowed to Lady Ravencliffe, then Julia and Alice. “I am glad to see you both looking so well.”
“As I am to see you,” Julia answered. Her cheeks flushed and her voice betrayed a huskier note than usual. “We were given to believe we would not see you again in this life.”
He grinned at Julia, “I see you used your head for more than holding hair pins.”
Tristan didn’t notice Alice’s impetuous approach until she collided with him in a joyful embrace. He looked down to see her blond head pressed against his middle, her blue eyes shining up at him. “Oh, Mr. Sheffield! I was so worried about you!”
He ruffled her hair. “The feeling was quite mutual, I assure you.”
“If Alice will free you to move,” Ravencliffe said from his place at the head of the table, “I suggest you tell John Footman what you would like on your plate and take a seat. After breakfast we shall adjourn to my study to discuss how best to deal with what we now know.”
Alice released him and returned to her chair, but not before grinning at him in satisfaction. “Miss Dorsey is awfully good at picking locks.”
Julia turned a bright red and Lady Ravencliffe laughed. “I fear,” Lady Ravencliffe said with a chuckle, “that you have corrupted Alice’s sense of propriety, Mr. Sheffield. She is quite proud of the skills she and Miss Dorsey gained while in your care.”
They finished breakfast soon after and, when they rose to go to the study, Lady Ravencliffe took Alice to the nursery where they were to await Lady Ravencliffe’s modiste. Lady Ravencliffe had insisted that both Alice and Julia must have new clothing as soon as possible, and sent word to Madam Fochet within an hour of their arrival the day before.
In the study, a room done in dark wainscoting with dark green carpet and lighter green walls, Tristan saw Julia seated in an ornate Queen Anne chair. Ravencliffe took an overstuffed chair near a brightly burning fire, and Tristan paced between them, frowning, angry, listening for clues to track down her abductors.
Julia repeated the events of her abduction.
In turn, Tristan told them his story. When he finished, he turned to Julia. “Could Ned have acted in your cousin’s name to cover his own misdeeds?” Tristan asked. “He could have had access to Summerfield’s papers.”
“No,” Julia furrowed her brow and caught her lip between her teeth before lifting her gaze to meet his. “He is completely loyal to Renard. If he had access to papers he shouldn’t have, Renard likely gave them to him. Ned has been with Renard for as long as I remember,” Julia said. “I never liked him much, but he was absolutely loyal to my cousin, so I ignored my feelings.” She clasped her hands together and caught her lower lip in her teeth, adding, “Tom did say something that makes me think Ned does more than follow orders.”
Tristan had suspected as much. “What do you know about Tom?”
She thought for a moment, then said, “Tom started working for Renard when I was ten or eleven. I never noticed him much since he was a lower footman at the townhouse. He was in and out along with Ned and never spoke to me. When he tied me up, I asked him why he went along with the abduction, he told me Renard saved him from the hangman—and paid him well.”
“Mrs. Dawes says the head footman, Ned, returned but left again early the next morning after the lower footman arrived.” Ravencliffe glanced over at her. “That was probably when Tom reported you and Alice had escaped, because Ned left immediately. No one at the townhouse has seen either of them since.”
Tristan’s brows lowered and his nostrils flared. “It is time to confront Summerfield and discover if he is as involved as Ned claims.”
Julia said, “When you interview Renard I must come along. I have remembered the night my sister disappeared.” She crossed, then uncrossed her arms before turning emotion-dampened eyes toward Tristan. “Renard sent Beatrice away, she was not taken by random men.” She shook her head as though to deny her memory. “She screamed at me to run—and I ran—but I tripped and hit my head when I fell. The next thing I knew, I was in the carriage with Renard. I was confused and frightened... and believed him when he said she was dead. But now I don’t know what to believe.” Tears fell unheeded down her cheeks. “Did she really die? Did Ned tell me that to be cruel? What if what he said is true and she is still living like that? I need to know.”
He hated to crush her hopes, but truth was often brutal. “After what Ned told you of your cousin’s activities, it is likely true. Are you sure you want to know?”
“She is my sister!” Julia declared. “How could I not want to know?” Her ready flush blossomed though she did not back down. “If she was forced into a disreputable life it was through no fault of her own. I must know. I must find her. Even if all I find is a grave.”
Her green eyes glistened with tears and Tristan had to resist the urge to gather her into his arms to console her. He recognized the need to pursue elemental answers. He’d had needful questions, too. He had needed to know who his father was though his mother had refused to name him until her death, and he understood the questions that left one isolated and incomplete.
He cherished his half-siblings and the sense of haven they gave him despite the difficult time he’d had adjusting to a life so different from his early childhood. Julia deserved a haven, too. But, if Beatrice lived, would her sister want to reestablish their relationship? There was no way to know how life had changed the girl of Julia’s childhood. Life was rarely kind or fair.
Julia clutched her skirts, kneading the cloth in agitation, and her voice revealed the frustration held in check. “I need to talk to Renard myself.”
A knock on the door announced the footman with word from Lady Ravencliffe asking if Miss Dorsey would be much longer as her modiste had arrived with sample gowns from her shop.
“Tell my mother Miss Dorsey will be there shortly.” Ravencliffe told him before turning back to Julia. “My mother maintains that a well-dressed lady has the power to prevail in matters that demand strength of confidence. As we are clear with what must be done, I suggest you allow her to provide you with the tools you need for confronting Summerfield.”
CHAPTER 19
Julia assessed herself in the mirror. Lady Ravencliffe was right. The blue and green striped muslin sample dress the modiste had altered for her immediate use made her feel confident that she could demand answers from her cousin.
The fine clothes provided during her failed season had been packed away long ago, and she’d chosen simple and practical clothes for life at the cottage. Had she been of a mind to follow fashion she could have done so, but other than a few dresses for church and trips to Portsmouth, she had paid little attention to her wardrobe. And, of course, she’d been hurried from Tristan’s home with only what she’d worn that morning. The yellow dress was now quite ruined.
The maid Lady Ravencliffe had assigned to Julia dressed her hair in a new style that made her look less severe. Her maid at home, Molly, was a dear, but she was country trained and had not the skills of the young woman today who had drawn her hair into side curls that softened the thin angles of her face. She almost didn’t recognize the woman who gazed back at her.
What would Beatrice look like now? If she found her, would Julia recognize her? She’d had deep brown eyes like their father and that faint dimple in her chin with a deeper one at the corner of her mouth when she smiled. Did she still get hiccups when she laughed too hard? Did she have anything to laugh about? Did she—
“Oh, you look lovely,” Alice said from the doorway.
Julia turned to see that Alice also wore a new dress. Her tussle with the knots had loosened her front teeth and her tongue played across them, making them shift. Julia saw, too, that Alice wore the sides of her hair pulled back and
tied with a pink ribbon in addition to the superfluous hairpins that the child had tucked into the sides. “So many pins,” she teased. “Surely you know you will not be locked into a room by Lord or Lady Ravencliffe.”
Though she smiled, Alice’s eyes were solemn when she said, “Mr. Sheffield said one must be ready for any eventuality at any time.”
“I don’t suppose keeping extra pins in your hair is of much consequence, if it makes you will feel better.” Julia knelt and hugged Alice, then whispered, “But now you are here you need not worry. Neither Tom nor Ned know you are here, and someone will be with you at all times until those responsible are brought to justice.”
There was a light tap at the door before the upstairs maid assigned to Alice said, “Mr. Sheffield has arrived, miss.” She held out her hand. “Come along, Miss Alice. Mr. Sheffield is waiting for Miss Dorsey.”
Julia stood and adjusted a pin in Alice’s hair that had slipped loose. “It is fine to be prepared, dear, but do not borrow troubles before time.” She reached for her bonnet. “Enjoy yourself. Stay with Nan, and I shall be back soon.” Julia took a deep breath, her stomach tightened and her confidence slipped as she donned her pelisse. If only courage could be donned so easily.
At the base of the stairs, Lady Ravencliffe waited with Tristan and her son. “My dear, you look ravishing.” She turned to the gentlemen beside her. “Did I not tell you she would?”
“You did, indeed, Mother,” Ravencliffe agreed. ”You are rarely wrong about such matters.”
“I know.” She beamed at her son, then at Julia. “It is a gift.”
Tristan stepped forward, bowed over her hand and murmured, “Current fashion suits you well, Miss Dorsey.”
Once she and Lady Ravencliffe’s maid took their places on the carriage seat across from him, Tristan studied Julia for several seconds before asking, “Are you sure you want to confront him yourself?”
“I do not really wish to confront him. I confess I am a terrible coward. But I have to do this.” She clasped her hands together, determined to keep her nerves under control. “I need to watch his expression. I need to hear him say it. I need to know.”
“When did you last see him?”
“When I reached my majority and he permitted me to move to the cottage.” Tristan frowned and Julia explained. “I could not return to society. I embarrassed him greatly.”
“He cut you out of his life for giving in to your fears?” Tristan’s brows creased and his nostrils flared. “You were barely out of the schoolroom.”
“He did not cut me out of his life,” she countered. “He wrote to me regularly. He settled a quarterly allowance on me and let me make a home at the cottage. He had long assured me I would marry one day,” conflicting emotions made her stop and looked out the window. “Though that was before...”
She turned to face Tristan before leaning back against the padded seat. “I am not sure how I shall face him again... particularly now that I know of his deception, but I shall.”
When the carriage pulled up in front of Renard’s townhouse near Cavendish Square, Julia viewed the great mansion with a profound sadness. Renard had never been a demonstrative man, but she had admired the man she thought he was. She had believed him to be a man who held his emotions close to his heart, but had never doubted those emotions or that she held a place in them.
How could Renard have ordered her sent to a brothel because she had failed to keep Alice with her at the cottage? Worse, how could he have planned such a fate for young Alice? It haunted her to think of the many young women she’d sheltered for him over the years—women Ned claimed he had sold into a life of shame as she now feared her cousin had sold her sister.
“Are you ready?” Tristan asked.
She nodded and allowed him to assist her to the street. Inside her gloves, her hands were cold as winter ice.
Renard’s longtime butler showed no surprise at seeing Julia when he opened the door, though he’d not seen her since her disastrous debut. Instead, he bowed and welcomed her and Tristan, then directed a footman Julia didn’t recognize to take the maid to the servant’s hall to wait. After taking Tristan’s hat and coat, he led them up to Renard’s bedchamber.
Each step upward flooded Julia with memories of her short time in London. Though she had lived at her cousin’s country estate until leaving the schoolroom, she had taken up residence here in preparation for her Season. It had been a time of excitement and anticipation. Renard had arranged for a companion to see to her wardrobe and dancing lessons. He had acted as her partner on occasion in order to test her skills. He had spared no expense on her behalf. How could such a generous guardian be the scoundrel and traitor Ned claimed him to be?
When they reached the second floor, she caught a whiff of stale air and the taint of the sickroom. Someone had placed bowls of rose petals and spices around the hallway in an unsuccessful attempt to lessen the sour odor of illness. At the butler’s knock, the door opened to reveal a slightly plump woman of middle age. She curtsied to Julia and nodded her head to Tristan.
Julia reassessed the effectiveness of the rose petals when she entered the room. The curtains had been opened wide to let in the spring sunlight but the windows remained closed, trapping the foul air.
In the years since she’d last seen him, Renard’s solid frame had thinned to a brittle cage of narrow bone and flesh. His once noble features had turned dour and he lay, frail and emaciated, beneath thick quilts and propped against stacks of pillows. What was left of his brown hair had turned white and his flesh stretched over his bones like wet cloth. He looked to be nearly double his fifty years. How much of his alteration, she wondered, was the disease and how much the cost of treason?
Julia stood back until Tristan explained that the Foreign Office had reason to believe someone connected to the earl was selling secrets to the French.
“Are you aware of anyone whom you might suspect of this?” Tristan asked. “Your head footman, perhaps?”
Renard regarded him with a look of disgust. “Ned is a servant, loyal to me alone. He hasn’t the imagination or connections to sell secrets.”
“Are you sure?” Tristan questioned. “He recently abducted Miss Dorsey and Lord Goodwin’s daughter. He told Miss Dorsey you sold secrets and women and claimed to be acting on your behalf. Is that true?”
“Did I not just say he was my man? I give him certain freedoms with the women, but he follows all my orders before implementing his own actions.”
“Then you admit you have traitorously provided secret information to the French?
“I am a patriot, not a traitor.” He stared at Tristan, his expression defiant and proud though his thin voice barely carried across the room. Gone was the firm baritone Julia remembered. “Nor do I suffer servants or petty clerks to take credit for my efforts.” His lip curled in contempt. “Our king has lost his senses and his son is a fool, while Bonaparte is a brilliant commander whose mind is sharp and who knows how to control his country. It is my patriotic duty to help bring order to this land.”
Julia stared, aghast to hear his praise for the monster who threatened the world with his greed for power. Who was this stranger? How could he have taken her into his care, educated her, fed and clothed her, even given her a home where she felt safe—yet turn his back on his heritage and the country of his birth?
Tristan cleared his throat, then asked, “Does that mean you are the one who demanded Lord Goodwin provide you with the dates and routes of troop supplies? That you ordered your man to ambush the Goodwin carriage in order to force his hand?” His voice hardened. “Do you admit you are responsible for the death of his wife and infant son, then ordered the abduction of his daughter?”
“Bunglers.” Summerfield’s mouth turned down. “The heir was more valuable than the girl.” He shot Tristan a hard look. “Had it been the boy, Goodwin would have complied immediately.”
Renard turned his head toward Julia. She flinched at the bitter anger that burned, vivid
and unmistakable in his eyes. “Got away, did you? The brat, too, I suppose.”
His breathing shallowed and strained wheezing filled the room. His nurse started forward, but he waved her off. “Incompetent idiots!” His hand curled into a fist before he glared back at Tristan. “And yet, you think I would trust a servant with saving England?”
He choked on another bout of coughing. When he could speak again he said, “If Ned had done his job he’d have sold the brat in Portsmouth so Goodwin would know his daughter’s fate.” He returned his attention to Julia. “The one you should have shared with her.”
“Why?” she asked. The question rose simply and painfully to her lips.
“Why?” His voice though thin, still had the strength of conviction. “Because our country needs a leader, not a madman or lecher. Napoleon knows how to lead.”
“I did not mean the treason,” Julia said. “I meant why would you betray me? You saved me from the Terror. You raised me.” She stared at him and a great yawning emptiness threatened to overwhelm her.
“Because you failed me—twice,” he said bluntly. “You were to be my hostess.” He raised a shaking hand, pointing at her before forming a fist and bringing it down on the bed with all the force he retained. “You were to take the role your mother should have filled, but your disgraceful exhibition ended that.”
Another fit of coughing shook him and he lifted a blood stained handkerchief and wiped fresh blood from his mouth. When he recovered, he eyed her in obvious disdain. “Then you let this Foreign Office flunky,” he tipped his head toward Tristan, “take the child despite my warning to keep her close. Twice.” He wheezed. “Twice you failed me.”
“What does my mother have to do with this? Julia felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. His illness must be affecting his mind. Perhaps that explained his actions. “She died in France nearly twenty years ago.”
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