"Yes. I can be ready." Nearly bursting with happiness at the thought of spending two more days with him, she flashed her brightest smile. "Thank you, Julian."
"You might not thank me if it rains," he warned.
"It wouldn't be the first time you've gotten me wet." She drew back as a strange look passed over Julian's face. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he muttered through his teeth. "Absolutely nothing."
AFTER SEEING HENRIETTA TO the door, Julian declined an offer of tea and made a brisk departure, wondering what fiend had taken hold of him. Why had her most innocent remark conjured such salacious thoughts? It was probably her earlier comment about experiencing all that the marriage bed had to offer. He took a moment to emphasize those two words he'd never thought to couple together in a sentence—marriage and bed.
Hen had asked him if he'd ever considered marriage, and he'd answered her truthfully in the negative. While it wasn't his habit to consort with camp followers or common street doxies—at least not since leaving Winston's sphere of influence—his experiences with women were limited to brief affairs. He'd never contemplated anything beyond satisfying the immediate needs of his flesh. Nor had he ever lacked for opportunity. Lonely widows were plentiful since Napoleon had set out to conquer Europe.
His current mistress, Muriel, was such a woman, the widow of a fellow officer, Captain Charles Mathieson, a decent chap who'd fallen at La Victoria. Julian had called upon her to pay his respects and deliver some of Mathieson's personal effects. Although it had been well over a year since he'd died, as soon as he'd recounted the full story of her husband's death, she'd flung herself tearfully into his arms. Intending only comfort, Julian had held her. What had begun as simple consolation quickly became much more. Although he liked her well enough, and his body responded to hers, his heart had always remained untouched. He did not love her, nor she him, yet they met each other's needs—his need for sexual release and hers for comfort and a small measure of security.
Security. That was the other reason he'd never considered marriage—because he had nothing of value to bring to the union. He'd returned to England to find his estate nearly as bankrupt as his person. Oh, not in the moral sense, although many in Shropshire might argue that. In comparison to his Uncle Winston and his cronies, Julian was a model of virtue. He referred to his emotional state. After six years on the Peninsula, watching men die, he was numb inside and almost utterly depleted of feeling.
Henrietta had also asked what would make him happy. He truly didn't know if he was capable of feeling happiness, of feeling anything at all ever again. Even his mistress had failed to spark any life in his insensible soul. His time with Henrietta had been only a temporary balm, just as the bottles of port he'd drunk with Harry had been.
It was now time to return to London to face the ugly reality that had greeted him almost from the instant he'd set foot back on English soil. Julian had returned to Shropshire to make a thorough account of every asset in hope of finding some way to keep Price Hall. Though he made light of the state of his affairs to Harry and Henrietta, he was on the brink of losing everything, through no fault of his own. Winston had had control of it all until only three years ago. Once he'd reach his majorite, Julian should have come back home then to claim what was rightly his. Mayhap then he could have still salvaged something, but duty and loyalty had prevailed while Winston the wastrel had stayed true to form right to his inglorious end.
Now, after risking life and limb for king and country, nothing remained of Julian's inheritance but a heavily mortgaged estate. Many men mended themselves through an advantageous marriage, others through good fortune at the tables. But neither of these were viable options. He had no title to offer a wealthy bride and no luck at gaming. Other men in similar straights dealt with their debts with a muzzle strategically placed at the temple. Some called it the gentleman's way. Julian called it the way of a coward. Having eliminated all of these possible solutions, Julian was left with only one option—a return to Portugal and a lonely life as a mercenary. Determined not to act in haste, Julian resolved to pass the next few days in careful contemplation of his future. Given the circumstances, the drive with Henrietta would be a much-needed diversion.
The Redemption of Julian Price: Chapter Three
JULIAN'S WISH FOR DIVERSION WAS GRANTED, yet it proved to be thoroughly unsettling. He'd become far too physically aware of Henrietta in the past few days and now his buckskin-encased thigh rubbed against hers each time the phaeton jostled, an almost constant occurrence on the rutted roads. He wished he could concentrate on something besides this case of unseemly lust for his best friend. Did she feel it too? She seemed unusually tense, sitting rod-straight beside him. He resolved to call upon Muriel immediately after delivering Henrietta to her aunt. He hoped a few hours with his mistress would effect a cure for this most annoying of maladies.
"Julian, may I drive for a while?" Henrietta's soft voice interrupted his thoughts.
"I think not, Hen," he replied.
"Why not?" she asked. "You know I've driven almost as long as you have."
"But you're never driven a high-perch vehicle. It's quite different from the gigs you are accustomed to."
Her tawny brows met in a scowl. "You don't trust me?"
"It's not so much you as the vehicle that I mistrust," Julian responded evenly. "Phaetons have a precarious tendency to overturn."
"Then I'll be careful on the turns," she said.
"I'm sorry, Hen." Julian shook his head. "I've promised your family to deliver you safely to Lady Cheswick. I won't shirk that responsibility."
"Since when did you become such a stick in the mud?" she asked.
He arched a brow. "I won't rise to that, Hen."
She pouted for a moment in silence, miffed that he refused her the ribbons. "Given your state of affairs, I wonder that you even purchased such an extravagant vehicle in the first place," she remarked.
"I didn't buy it," he replied tightly. "It was Winston's and will soon be going up for auction, along with the horses and the rest of his belongings."
"Oh." Henrietta's gray eyes flickered. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to give offense."
"None taken." Julian shrugged it off. "I am not quite the wastrel that everyone seems to think."
"Yet you do nothing to dispel the false preconception," she said. "Why is that?"
"Why should I trouble myself?" Julian remarked. "They are predisposed to believe what they wish to believe, regardless of what I say or do to the contrary. Winston and I have fed the gossip mills for too many years. Why should I now deprive the people of Shropshire of one of their chief pleasures?"
"You needn't be so cynical, Jules," Henrietta chided. "Not everyone in Shropshire thrives on gossip. Speaking of which, what actually happened to your uncle? I've heard rumors, of course, but rumor rarely bears much resemblance to truth."
Julian arched a brow. "And what, pray tell, do the rumormongers say of Winston's demise?"
"Some claim 'twas a duel over a game of cards," she replied. "One said he fell from his horse during a drunken race, and still another said he was murdered by a jealous husband."
"It was nothing so fantastical, I assure you." Julian laughed. "Winston succumbed to a case of influenza."
"Influenza?" Henrietta said incredulously.
"Yes. I'm quite certain he would have preferred a much more notorious death, but there you have it. The Maker rarely gives us our preference in these matters."
"When did you learn of his death?" Henrietta asked.
"I received word of it about a year ago."
"Why did you not come home then?"
He hesitated, recalling his reaction to the news. He'd been riddled with guilt that he'd felt nothing, absolutely nothing at the loss of the man who had raised him, albeit with almost total disregard. No, he couldn't mourn Winston, but he did mourn Thomas, his friend, who'd acted as his closest confidant and conscience. Losing him had created a void that he was at a loss to
fill.
"Because I knew it would make no difference," Julian replied. "Besides that, victory was in sight. For once in my life, I wanted to see something through. I owed as much to my fallen comrades. Had we lost, their lives would have been taken in vain."
"I don't understand you, Julian. You proved your loyalty and dedication to our country's cause at your own expense. Why do you not show the same concern for your family?"
Julian stared ahead. "What family? My parents and sister are gone, and Winston died without a wife or heirs. I am all there is left. Do you know I never shed a single tear for Winston?"
"Why should you have?" she exclaimed. "That wastrel never did a thing for you except to squander your inheritance! Which leads back to my point. You survived the war. We lost far too many good men. It is your duty to continue your family line. You need to live again, Jules, not just survive from one day to the next."
"How, Hen? When I barely have the means to feed myself," he snapped, immediately regretting both his words and lapse of temper.
"What? You told us you weren't ruined," Henrietta accused.
"I lied," Julian confessed. "Fool that I am, I trusted Winston, and he destroyed me. The money is all gone, Hen. There is nothing left but debt that I have no means of repaying."
"What will you do?"
"I have no choice but to sell it all. I came back to Price Hall merely to appraise the condition of the house and the tenant farms… and to say good-bye."
"Good-bye?" Her throat tightened. "Does that mean you are going away again?"
"After considering all of my options, it appears my only choice is to return to Portugal."
"P-Portugal?" she repeated incredulously. "I don't understand! The war is over. Why would you wish to go back there?"
"The decision has nothing to do with what I wish, Hen. I wish I could snap my fingers and have a fortune appear, but it doesn't work that way. I have no money, and I have no prospects. Fortunately, the Portuguese aren't all that particular given the number of men they've lost."
"But if you intended to remain in the army, why did you sell your commission?"
"I needed funds, and it was the only thing I had of value to sell," he replied.
"Surely there must be another way."
Julian gave a fatalistic shrug. "If there is, I have yet to discover it."
"If you could somehow manage to keep Price Hall, certainly in time, you could generate sufficient income to save yourself."
Julian sounded a bitter laugh. "Even at its height of prosperity, the estate only generated a thousand pounds per annum."
"That's more than enough to support an entire family in comfort," Henrietta exclaimed. "Have you spoken to Harry? Perhaps he could assist you with a loan? How much do you require to keep the banker happy?"
"Twenty thousand pounds," Julian stated flatly.
"Oh." She swallowed hard. "That is a considerable sum."
"Yes. May we please speak of something else now?" he ground out.
"What if—"
"Please let it go, Hen."
"But I'm only trying to help."
"There is no help for me," he said. "There is no solution. Sometimes life makes no sense, but we have little choice but to march on and face the cannons and just hope for the best." Lips compressed, Julian tapped the leader's flank, pressing his horses harder. "In all truth, Hen," he continued, "you and Harry are the only reasons I considered staying in Shropshire. But it's impossible. You see that now, don't you?"
"Yes. I do see," she agreed softly. "I'm so very, very sorry, Julian."
"There's nothing for you to apologize for," he said curtly. "It's my mess, and I shall deal with it." They rode for the next several miles in relative silence.
Returning to Portugal wouldn't just mean saying good-bye to Henrietta. Portugal had revealed a facet of his character that he'd hoped to bury. Going back would be closing the door on any remaining hope of reclaiming the man he used to be. Stiff-backed and tight-jawed, Julian fell once more into grim thoughts of an even grimmer future as he stared at the road ahead.
TIRED AND CHOKED WITH dust, another hazard of an open carriage that Julian hadn't warned her of, Henrietta and Julian clattered into the cobbled yard of the coaching inn shortly before dusk. Julian leaped down first to instruct the stable grooms as to the care of his horses and then returned to assist Henrietta and Millie. Lifting Henrietta from the phaeton, Julian lowered her gently to the ground but maintained his hands at her waist for a long moment but he didn't speak. Tension hardened the lines about his mouth. Was he still peeved about their discussion? She shouldn't have continued pressing him about his troubles. The subject had only spoiled the earlier camaraderie they'd shared.
Henrietta's gaze was riveted to Julian's broad back as he turned to help Millie down from the perch behind the seat. Her mind scrambled for a solution. At first, she'd wondered if she could somehow gain access to her dowry. It was no great fortune by any means, but she'd thought perhaps it could buy him some time, but five hundred pounds would hardly remove a pebble from his great mountain of debt.
Julian spun back around and caught her watching him. Suddenly self-conscious, Henrietta stepped away and shook out her rumpled skirts. What she wouldn't give for a hot bath. It would be well worth the extra coin.
"If you and Millie wish to repair to the taproom," he said, "I'll inquire after bedchambers."
While Julian sought accommodations, Henrietta and Millie entered the public rooms of the oak-beamed, Tudor-style structure bearing a placard of a black boar. The interior was crowded and loud, smelling of smoke, sweat, and tallow candles. Gazing about, Henrietta noted that the company was certainly rougher than what she was accustomed to, but then again, she'd done very little traveling in her lifetime. Outside her monthly shopping trips to Shrewsbury, her only true adventure outside of the country had been her single London season three years ago.
Henrietta and Millie found space on opposite sides of a crowded table. Mille sat on the end beside a middle-aged couple while Henrietta took her place beside a very large bald-headed gentleman, who at first glance appeared to be a lower tradesman. "Pardon me, I don't mean to crowd you, sir," Henrietta offered apologetically as she settled on the bench beside him.
"'Taint no trouble 'tall, missy." Flashing a smile that revealed several missing teeth, he laid a hand the size of a ham hock on her arm. On closer inspection, there was nothing genteel about his appearance. With his heavily pockmarked face and ill-tailored clothing, he appeared more like a brigand trying to pass for a tradesman. "Ye headed to Lon'n?" he asked.
"Yes," Henrietta replied stiffly. "To visit a kinswoman."
"Be ye traveling alone?" He cast a leering gaze down at her bosom.
"No," Henrietta responded with a tight smile and yanked her pelisse more tightly around her. "A gentleman accompanies us."
"Aye?" He raised his gaze back to her face. "Yer gentleman shouldn't leave such a pretty piece as yerself all alone."
"I-I'm not alone," Henrietta insisted. "My maid is also here with me." She nodded to Millie across the table, but Millie was trying to catch the serving girl's attention. Henrietta breathed a sigh of relief when his hand dropped from her arm, only to suck in a deeper gasp as he placed it on the small of her back. She tensed, her mind racing. She briefly considered punching his nose, but it would probably only serve to enrage the brute. Willing herself to remain calm, she said, "Sir, would you kindly remove your hand from my person?"
He released it with a laugh only to clamped his hand on top of hers abd pull it beneath the table. "Ye know what this is, missy?" he breathed drunkenly into her ear as he forced her to cup the protrusion between his legs.
Dear God! Did she really have her hand on a man's… Her throat tightened with panic. Where the devil was Julian?
"It's a piece of your body you are sorely going to miss if you don't release the lady at once," a soft but ominous voice replied.
"Julian!" she breathed his name like a prayer.
"Bugger off," the brute growled. "The lady and I be conversin'."
"And to think I asked nicely," Julian drawled.
In the blink of an eye, Julian's arm encircled her accoster's neck in a strangle hold. Henrietta gaped as the man's bloodshot eyes bulged. While one hand tore at Julian's arm, the other reached into his coat pocket. Was it a weapon? Her heart leaped into her throat.
"Julian!" she cried out in warning.
Visibly tightening his hold, Julian gave a swift backward jerk that unseated the man from the bench. Food and drink took flight. The diners scattered from the table with mixed cries of outrage and indignation. Others surrounded the pair of combatants, watching gape-mouthed while one opportunistic bystander offered to place wagers on the outcome.
Before the brute could even recover his breath, Julian had planted his boot on the man's throat, "Make one false move and I'll crush your windpipe," he threatened, his voice low and his expression murderous. His warm brown eyes appeared black and deadly. Who was this man? If she hadn't known it was Julian, Henrietta might not even have recognized him.
"Now you and I shall converse," Julian addressed his adversary as if discussing the weather. "Or better said, I will speak, and you will listen, if you wish me to remove my foot from your throat. There's a coach in the yard departing for Newcastle. You'll be leaving on it. Furthermore, you will depart with the knowledge that if I ever see you again, I will kill you. Do you understand me?"
"Yes," the brute hissed spittle in answer.
"Very well." Julian leaped back as if releasing a wild beast.
The man reacted much the same, scrambling away on all fours and slobbering like a rabid dog. Grabbing an overturned bench, he pulled himself unsteadily to his feet. Eyeing Julian with sheer malevolence, he once more reached inside his pocket, this time retrieving a lethal looking blade. "No one threatens Jemmie Duncan," he growled, tossing the knife from hand to hand.
"Be there trouble here, gents?" The innkeeper appeared just in time, cocked pistol in hand.
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