Diane laughed. “I told them that you would be onto the game very quickly. Were we so obvious?”
“I concluded a month ago that certain ladies have turned their attention to finding me a wife.”
“Not necessarily a wife. There is some concern that you may be lonely, that is all.”
No, not necessarily a wife. He glanced to a corner of the drawing room where Señora Perez sat on a sofa, surrounded by men who laughed and hovered. Twice now she had caught his eye and favored him with long, smoldering looks.
He did not think she had been included tonight for his sake. Her vivacious personality ensured many invitations because she enlivened any gathering. She had caused a sensation in society, and by the beginning of the season would undoubtedly be a fixture at even the most elite parties.
Diane noticed his attention. “Daniel does not believe she is from Venezuela,” she confided lowly. “He says her accent is quite different from Señor Perez’s. He thinks she is from Guyana, perhaps.”
“Since your husband has spent some time in that area of the world, he is probably correct.”
“He also is not convinced that she is the legal wife of Raoul Perez. He does not think Señor Perez would permit a wife the freedom to flirt as this woman does. Also, it is obvious she has very little European ancestry. Raoul is a son of the criolloelite and would be meticulous about the bloodlines of his legitimate children.”
“A mistress?”
“Possibly. What do you think? Is my husband correct?”
“I think that the parties in London promise to get very theatrical during the next months if he is, but that the real dramas will play out in private, if we are fortunate.”
Diane’s gaze did a slow hostess scan of the drawing room, to make sure she was not needed. “Do you think it too intrusive for us to wonder about your happiness, let alone seek to influence it?”
“I am honored. If I do not cooperate, it is not for lack of understanding the kindness intended. I may not seek a wife, but I am grateful to have friends.”
“I told Bianca and Sophia that I did not think you would cooperate,” she confided. “I told them that I think you are a man who waits for something other than what we can arrange.”
Julian had no idea how to respond to that, so he said nothing. Neither did his hostess. She remained beside him, however, as if they continued the conversation. That was one of the things he had noticed about Diane St. John from the start. She did not always feel obliged to fill the silence.
This time, however, he sensed an agitation in her, as if she would like to speak but held back.
Finally, she sidled one step closer. “Charlotte told me about Glasbury. I never liked the man. I remember when I first came to this country and Penelope befriended me. She had recently left him and he did all he could to see that their old circles cut and dropped her. He even insinuated himself among the new friends she made, so that his presence would make hers unacceptable.”
“The countess knew that would happen.”
“Pen is one of my dearest friends. It would give me great comfort to know that she is safe and unharmed and that Glasbury has not found her.”
“I have no reason to believe that she is not safe.”
Her expression cleared. “Please come with me, then. I have something to give you.”
Julian followed her out of the drawing room and into the expansive quiet of the library. She walked to a writing table and extracted a sealed letter from its drawer.
“Please take this, Mr. Hampton. Daniel owns properties throughout England and Scotland. This letter contains information regarding some of their locations, and instructions to the people who care for them to welcome you in the event you ever visit. These are lovely but isolated houses that you may wish to visit someday.”
Julian accepted the letter. “I do not anticipate visiting, but I am grateful for the invitation.”
“You may decide that some country air has appeal one day. With that letter you can indulge yourself at once, on an impulse.”
“You are too generous.”
Just then the library door opened and the master of the house strolled in. Daniel St. John usually appeared either very distracted or very intense. Tonight it was the latter. His sharp dark eyes took in the two of them and his hard mouth smiled in its naturally sardonic way.
A shipper and financier of immense wealth, St. John was French born, although most of the world did not know that. His past was shrouded in mystery to all but his closest friends. One had only to see his attention focus on one like this to hope he would never be an enemy. Even when distracted or indifferent, his slightly cruel countenance warned that he was not a man to trifle with.
Julian suspected St. John’s aura of potential ruthless-ness ensured his success in business as much as any brilliance with numbers or strategies. Only a fool, upon meeting St. John, would consider engaging him with lies or fraud.
“There you are, Hampton. The others will join us shortly. Please excuse us, Diane. This meeting on Dante and Fleur’s Durham project will be brief, I promise. Our guests will be none the wiser.”
Diane departed. Julian slid the letter into his coat.
“It is a good thing that I know you to be a good friend, Hampton, and that I trust my wife completely. Another husband would be very curious about that letter and its contents.”
“I suspect that I will find your writing should I ever open it, and not hers.”
“Yes. Well, she worries about the countess. Now that we have made an attempt to help, she will be less distressed.” St. John went to the desk and removed a sealed packet. “She does not know about this, however, so I require your discretion. If she were aware I felt the need to take such a step, she would only worry more.”
Julian took the letter. “What is this?”
“A list of my ships, their ports of call in Britain and France, and anticipated dates of sailing. Also a letter from me to be given to any of the captains, with orders that passage be provided to the person who presents it.”
Julian fingered the letter’s edge thoughtfully. “How much do you know?”
“No more than anyone but you. However, the countess is a woman bred to a sense of duty. If she left Glasbury, it was for good reasons. It is not too difficult to surmise what some of those reasons might be.” Steps could be heard approaching the library door. “I trust that you know that I am available, should you ever require my aid in any way.”
Julian knew that. It was becoming clear, however, that his closest friends were convinced that Penelope was indeed back in England, and that Julian Hampton was helping her to hide.
Unfortunately, Glasbury had concluded the same thing.
chapter 7
Julian headed back to the coast before dawn the next morning. He rode his horse so he could make good time. The night was rainy, but the weather turned fair once the day broke.
As he approached the cottage he permitted himself a little fantasy, of Pen greeting his return. He pulled his horse up near the stable and surveyed the house.
No face showed at the door or window. No call or wave hailed him.
Of course not. She had more on her mind than the return of the faithful solicitor.
He took care of his horse, then walked to the house. Its silence seemed to grow as he approached. The mood was familiar but out of place this day. Someone dwelled in the cottage now.
As soon as he stepped inside he knew that was no longer true.
She was gone. The chambers echoed with emptiness. He looked on the terrace, expecting the vacancy he found. He went up the stairs, knowing she would not be there.
Her trunks still were. Their presence chilled him for a moment. Fear that she had been snatched during his absence made his blood prickle.
No, it had not been that. She had walked away. She had tucked her valuables on her person, left the trunks, and disappeared. No other choice guaranteed her freedom, so she was headed into obscurity, where she would feel safe.
Considering his meeting with Glasbury, he wasn’t entirely sure she had made a bad decision.
His soul emptied anyway, until it was as vacant as the cottage. He went back down, resenting the house’s silence as he never had before.
Not just silent. Lonely. What kind of a man welcomed such a thing?
Out on the terrace, he looked down at the water.
She had left without a word. No warning and no farewell.
The morning tide was in, and the boat swayed in the surf. He stripped off his coats, neckwear, and shirt, and walked down the stone steps. He sloshed through the foam lapping on the sand and climbed into the boat. Taking the oars, he rowed straight out to sea.
The exercise felt good. So did the sun on his skin. It still carried remnants of summer’s warmth even if the wind bore a taste of winter’s bite. The strain of his arms and back, the battle with the waves as he rose up each one and slid down, relieved some of the turbulence in him.
Maybe she had only made the decision after he departed yesterday. Perhaps she dared not tell him because she thought he would interfere.
Most likely she had not confided her decision because she felt no need to. He was only her solicitor. Her servant. Her blackmail-monger, as Glasbury had put it.
He pulled harder at the oars. He wished the day were stormy and the waves higher. He wished this exercise would exhaust him, so his mind would be too tired to absorb the desolate truth slicing his soul to shreds.
He would never see her again.
A large wave caught the boat and lifted it high. He stopped rowing and let it bear him forward, tottering on that wall of water, flying. He scanned his high view of the rocks and house.
His gaze halted, and darted back to the left. A spot of blue commanded his attention. Sapphire blue, and not the color of the sea, it draped the rocks below a steep drop from the cliff path.
The wave dumped him down and he turned the boat. He rowed south along the shore with all his strength, praying that the spot of blue did not cover a tragedy.
Pen squinted against the glare of the sea. She thought there had been a boat out there being rowed toward the horizon.
Surely not. That would make no sense. A sane person did not row out to sea.
Unless a person wanted to examine the whole coast, that is.
Had those men waited until now to search? Despite an exhaustion that had wrung her spirit dry, the old, horrible panic began again.
She glanced back at the plot of sand she had sought last evening. It was submerged during the high tides. Last night she had been forced to climb on this large rock when the tide took her spot. It had been dark then, but it wasn’t dark now, and she was visible and vulnerable.
The sea had wanted to claim her perch, but it appeared no longer to be rising. At least the tides turned before there was nothing left above water. In a few hours there should be enough beach to walk back to the cottage, assuming she dared risk it and she was not too numb to move.
The cold spray had soaked her garments and her wet cloak did not offer much comfort. She pulled it tighter anyway, and tried to ignore the chill that had her teeth chattering.
She looked for the boat again. Perhaps she had been mistaken. If not, there was nothing she could do now to escape detection. She was so tired and miserable she was not even sure she would mind being found.
Suddenly the boat came in view, very plainly. Long and dark, it moved parallel to the shore, coming toward her.
The panic surged.
A dark head turned. A shout called out her name.
Her heart took a leap. Tears of relief blurred her eyes.
It was Julian. He had said he would return this afternoon, and here it was early morning and he had already come.
“Julian,” she called back. “I am here, Julian. Save me.”
The boat came closer. She could see his taut arms pulling the oars and his dark hair blowing in the wind and his strong shoulders glistening from the spray. He appeared so magnificent that she forgot her peril.
He rowed right to her, then set up one oar and let the sea bring him in. Navigating the submerged rocks, he came within ten feet of her. He jumped into water that reached above his waist, tucked the boat between two boulders, and strode toward her.
Half naked like that, he appeared to be an ocean god striding through his domain. The muscles of his shoulders and chest were certainly sculpted well enough for the role.
“How did you get here?”
“There was a man and I did not dare go back and I hid and then the tide came in and I was stuck and—”
He lifted her into his arms, effortlessly. Strong arms, so welcome and so comforting. “Explain later. You are wet and chilled and we need to get you to a fire.”
Grasping her closely and holding her high, he bore her to the boat. In those few steps, her body went slack as both her danger and relief sapped the remnants of her spirit. Her head lolled against his shoulder. The warmth of his skin and the security of his strength almost undid her.
He paused and looked down at her, his face mere inches from hers, his expression both severe and gentle.
He placed her in the boat as if she were made of china, then climbed in and pushed them back into the sea. She sat facing him, shivering in her wet cloak, as he rowed toward the cottage.
She admired how dashing he looked with his naked muscles moving to the effort. She should probably avert her eyes to the water or the boat’s floor, but his arms and torso mesmerized her.
“Did you row out looking for me when I was not at the cottage?”
“If I had, I would have worn a shirt.” It was not a scold, just a statement that said she was looking as she should not and that he knew it. “I like to take the oars for exercise. When I am in London, I often row on the Thames in early morning.”
She was too tired to be embarrassed, but she did manage not to look at him so blatantly. “Did you not think it odd I was not there?”
“I assumed you had decided to leave.”
That she might have left did not seem to either surprise or dismay him. He had found her gone, and simply returned to the activities that he normally pursued here.
“I am very fortunate that you saw me and realized I was caught by the tide.”
“I saw the blue of your cloak. I did not know how it got there.”
He did not sound as if he had been very concerned. He had just been rowing, seen the blue, and investigated out of curiosity.
“It was my hope, of course, that I would find it wrapped around a living woman.”
A tightness in his voice caught her thoughts up short. She looked in his eyes, and he diverted his attention to his oars.
He had indeed worried, in the worst way. He had rowed toward her thinking he might find her dead, from the sea or from a fall. Maybe not an accidental fall.
“I will never hurt myself because of him, Julian.”
He brought them to the stone stairs, pushed the boat into the shallows and tied it to its post. He carried her to a step above the water.
She wobbled from the stiffness that had claimed her legs and the exhaustion that had robbed her strength. His arms scooped her up again. He carried her up the stairs and into the library.
He sat her in a chair and bent at once to build the fire.
“It has died,” she said. “The fire. Perhaps he did not wait here all night after all.”
“Who?”
She told him about the man at the cottage. “I dared not return here, lest I find him waiting.”
He got the fire going to a pleasant roar, then left her to bake near it. It felt so good that she got drowsy. Sounds vaguely penetrated her stupor as he moved about the house.
A gentle hand on her arm coaxed her out of the gathering fog. “I have made a bath in the kitchen near the fire. A hot one. You will feel better for it.”
She really did not want to move. Wet clothes or not, with relief had come deep aches and a relentless chill.
&n
bsp; “Come, Pen. I worry for your health.”
She sighed. “If you insist, Mr. Hampton.”
She forced herself to her feet.
And found her nose an inch from his chest. He had donned a shirt. Pity.
Her gaze moved up to his face. One of his rare smiles greeted her. Not a completely gentle one.
“So, I am Mr. Hampton again. It seems that I am only Julian when you forget yourself.”
“I … that is …”
“We have known each other more than half our lives, Pen.”
She had not even noticed what she called him.
“I do not want you to call me Mr. Hampton in private conversation ever again.”
He stepped aside. “I brought down some dry garments for you. They are near the bath. If you require anything else, just call for me.”
Julian had set the metal tub close to the fire and filled it with hot water that the hearth kept warm. Easing down into the steamy comfort made her groan with pleasure. The heat immediately started to leach the chill out of her.
She could not ignore the fact that a man was very nearby. Knowing he was there gave the languid soaking a naughty titillation. As she dipped low to rinse her hair, she imagined she heard his footsteps coming toward her. An exciting alarm shot through her.
“I found no evidence of intruders in the house.”
She startled at his voice and quickly glanced over her shoulder to the door. He did not stand there. He must be right on the other side, however.
“You are sure?” she asked.
“There are also no wheel marks or horse or boot prints outside, other than mine.”
“I did not imagine that man, Julian.”
“I am not saying that you did. However, it is common for people using the cliff path to cross the terrace rather than walk around the property. It happens even when I am here.”
“Then I imperiled myself for nothing more than an overwrought imagination.”
“If you saw someone at the cottage, your caution was sensible. If your fear kept you on the rocks all night, we should have expected it might.”
The Romantic Page 7