The Romantic

by Madeline Hunter

  Last night had also been the first lovemaking after she had truly comprehended his love.

  It humbled her that he had cared for her so long, so silently. Other men might have sent those letters, or pursued her for a heartbreaking and dangerous affair. Others might have played the lovesick poet on a public stage. Some men would have let the world know about their hopeless passion. Julian’s quiet, dignified love had been much more romantic.

  He would have declared himself to a different woman. She did not doubt that. He had remained silent to protect her from Glasbury.

  A beam of the new day’s light moved to Julian’s face and he stirred. His arm tightened around her, as if his first instinct was to make sure she was still there.

  She remained pressed against him even after she knew he was fully awake. She sensed his eyes were open, then felt the kiss on her head.

  “What do you want to do now, Pen?”

  There were several things to do today, but they could wait. Right now she wanted to dwell in this lovely contentment.

  She knew what the question really meant, however. He was not only asking about this day, but also about the ones ahead. He was asking what she wanted to do with her freedom.

  “Today I want to thank the woman who saved you,” she said. “Then, very soon, I want to go with you to the cottage again. Right now, however, I want to make love in this incredible light and glorious peace.”

  They did, slowly, sweetly, perfectly. Afterward, they sent a message to Batkin to send some fresh clothes for

  Julian. By noon they were in the breakfast room, drinking coffee and reading the post and papers.

  One letter had come from France.

  “Julian, here is a letter from Catherine. She wrote from Marseilles, right before sailing again. She thanks me for my help that night very explicitly.”

  He read it. “Laclere’s man must have missed her. You should save this. I am sure that Knightridge’s handling of the judge means that you will be safe from suspicion, but should the police get ambitious, this should be enough.”

  Another letter waited her attention. It had actually arrived two days ago, but on recognizing the hand she had not opened it. She did now.

  “It appears that I need to meet with Mr. Rumford, Glasbury’s solicitor, soon,” she said as she perused the formal and abrupt request that she call at the sender’s chambers. “It must regard the property due me as his widow. A manor in Northumberland, I believe. I have never seen it.”

  “At the time of your marriage, it could support a country life in considerable style.”

  As the family solicitor, he would know all that. He would have seen the settlement. He would know more than she did. “In other words, it could not support a city life in addition.”

  “I do not think so.”

  “It appears that Glasbury’s generosity to my family upon our marriage was balanced out by a small settlement on me in the event of his death.” She set the letter aside. “I do not mind. Considering how briefly I was truly his wife, I would feel guilty accepting more.”

  “I am sure that Laclere will continue to help you, if you want to maintain your London house.”

  “I do not want Vergil to continue. I am tired of being dependent on him. Actually, having shed myself of Glasbury’s reach, I am not inclined to be beholden to any man for my keep.”

  Julian returned his attention to his paper. “Then I will not be so foolish as to offer to help you myself. However, I can afford it, and it is always yours if you ever want it.”

  Silence settled on the breakfast room. Rather more needed to be said on this topic, and it waited the saying. Pen did not want to broach the whole subject now, however.

  She wanted to be done with the past before they spoke of their future. There were still some questions about the events of the last week that needed answering, for example.

  As if guessing her thoughts, Julian set down the Gazette and tapped it. “This report of the trial’s conclusion insinuates that too many questions remain.”

  “Some people will always wonder, won’t they? Whether one of us murdered him?”

  “I expect so. They will more likely wonder about me, however. We will let Catherine’s letter be known. That will end speculation about you.”

  How like him to conclude that was all that mattered.

  “Do you wonder, Pen?”

  The calm question, thrown out as if he queried about the weather, shocked her. “Not at all. I am very sure you did not kill him, and I know that I did not.”

  “You cannot be completely sure.”

  “You are wrong. I am indeed completely sure you could not have done it.”

  “You have more faith in me than I have in myself, then. I am not completely sure I could not have done it. I wanted to often enough.”

  “That is another matter entirely, isn’t it?” She suspected Vergil had been correct when he concluded that Julian would kill to protect her. But, like the knights of old, it would have been in individual combat, not in murder.

  Julian did not challenge her confidence, but she wondered if he would always wonder if she wondered. That was far too much wondering for her taste.

  Fortunately, it would not last long. Eventually, he would understand that her love was so complete that she could never doubt him. He would also realize that even without that love, she would never question his innocence.

  Why should she? After all, she knew who was really guilty.

  chapter 30

  Julian stopped the carriage at the handsome but modest house in Piccadilly. A servant came down to attend to the equipage, and Julian escorted Pen to the door.

  A dark-skinned servant took their card. He wore no livery or wig, but the resemblance to another Negro servant was unmistakable.

  Pen handed over her short mantle. “It is good to see you, Marcus. Caesar said that you took another situation.”

  Marcus accepted both the greeting and the recognition with a countenance so bland one would think he was deaf. Pen did not care about this servant’s actions and reactions, however. Her attention immediately focused on the voice of the person she wanted to speak with.

  Sounds of busy activity poured down the staircase. Amidst the calls and scurrying above, a feminine voice dominated, cracking through the confusion like a whip with her Spanish commands.

  Marcus left to present their cards. Pen trusted they would be received. She counted on this woman to want to preen a little about her great performance.

  Marcus returned and ushered them to a library. The bindings lining the shelves looked like the kind that might be bought by the box at auction, to fill the libraries of houses to let.

  Señora Perez waited for them. She no longer wore virginal white but a vibrant violet. She no longer acted submissive and demure but exuded her magnetic vitality. She greeted them with a wide, coconspirator’s smile.

  She accepted Julian’s expression of gratitude, offered coffee, then engaged them in polite banter. All the while, she wore an expression that suggested she thought their call and the whole direction of their conversation a great joke.

  Julian gestured to an open trunk near the writing desk. “Your household is very busy today. Are you leaving the city?”

  “England is too cold for me. Already the damp affects my health. I will return home, where winter is not bitter.”

  “Society will mourn your decision. I trust that you will come back in the spring, and that we can expect your return in time for the Season,” Pen said.

  “I may return. However, I cannot guarantee that I will see my English friends again.” She turned a warm smile on Julian. “Therefore, if there is anything that requires discussion, it would not be advisable to put it off.”

  “Other than thanking you again for your timely testimony, and bidding you a safe sailing, I have nothing else I feel bound to say,” Julian replied.

  “Englishwomen must be very accommodating of their lovers, Mr. Hampton. I assumed that you came today to a
sk me to reassure the countess that you were not with me that night.”

  “I do not require any reassurance,” Pen said. “And as a gentleman, Mr. Hampton would never request that you admit openly that you are a liar and perjurer.”

  Señora Perez’s eyes flared at the insults.

  Pen sipped her coffee, then set down the cup. “I, however, am not nearly as constrained as Mr. Hampton. While I am grateful for your lie, even more than he is, I do wonder what compelled you to tell it.”

  “He was in danger. I do not believe him capable of such things. What a shame if he were to hang. So …” She shrugged.

  “You are truly a woman with a generous heart,” Pen said.

  “Yes,” Julian said. “Of course, in giving me that alibi, you also gave one to yourself. Should the countess or I ever have cause to think you had a hand in Glasbury’s death, we could not now voice our suspicions to the police without also destroying the testimony that ensured my freedom.”

  This little speech surprised Pen. She had not realized that Julian suspected—

  “Nicely done, señora,” Julian said. “Very neat.”

  Señora Perez began to pout with affront, but thought better of it. She glanced from Pen to Julian, and then back to Pen again. Those dark eyes locked on hers as if concluding where the danger lay. “As your lover says, Countess, to speak of it also puts him at risk.”

  “You worried I would work it all out, didn’t you? That is why you testified. I told Caesar that I would find out the truth if Julian hanged. So you saw to it that he did not hang.”

  “I did not care if you learned the truth. Glasbury’s death was no grief to you. If your lover died, however, you might seek revenge.”

  “Madame, the countess may know all, but I do not. I came to the conclusion that you killed Glasbury only because of your odd choice to speak for me. I can think of no reason why you wanted the earl dead.”

  “I do not admit to this crime, sir. I merely protected myself from the countess should she want to accuse me of it.”

  “Why would she think to?”

  “Look at her, Julian,” Pen said. “The eyes, and the shape of face. She so dazzled me in the theater that I missed the details. But in the courtroom, the demure and modest witness was very familiar to me. Not only her features, but her manner. So submissive, as if all her personality was drawn behind a wall. It reminded me of Caesar and Julia and all the others. It was a slave’s manner.”

  Julian examined their hostess with new curiosity. Señora Perez began building that wall that Pen knew so well.

  “You are related to Cleo, are you not?” Pen said. “The resemblance is there.”

  “You last saw her when she was a young girl, many years ago. You probably do not remember what she looked like. Most likely you never did. She was a slave who served you, and nothing more.”

  “If you know how long it was, you have an interest in that household and its servants. You have even taken one into your employment. Nor is my memory faulty. I have seen Cleo’s face in my mind and my conscience often over the years.”

  The wall simply would not stay in place. It crumbled, and Señora Perez sat there like a volcano threatening to erupt.

  “Is the countess correct? Are you Cleo’s relative?” Julian asked.

  Señora Perez glared at him. “She was my half-sister.”

  With that one statement, Pen knew she had been right in surmising the solution to the mystery of Glasbury’s death.

  “The earl visited his island estates twenty years ago,” Señora Perez said, her tone drenched with disgust. “He had lived there when his father was alive, just as his heir has managed them these last years. He had enjoyed his life there, loved being a god on that land, with slaves who could be bent and broken and beaten. So he came back. No one was glad he had come.”

  “You still lived there then?” Pen asked.

  “Only later did I leave. A visitor took a fancy to me and bought me for too much money. When he died, I walked away. I made my way to Venezuela. I created a history. There are so many like me that it was accepted. I became the mistress of men of influence. I eventually found one who would one day bring me here, so I could see my sister again.” She rose and paced around them, her bitter words raining on their heads. “She was a child when Glasbury visited. She was one of several slaves he decided to bring to England. To freedom, I thought. I knew he wanted her. I believed she would be his mistress when she got older. A better life than what she had. All of us thought her very fortunate that the master favored her.”

  “You did not know his tastes?”

  “I only learned of that when I arrived here. I looked for my sister, expecting to find her living in luxury, with servants of her own. Instead she was gone. The others left in his household told me everything. They knew I was one of them.”

  “How did you learn she had died?” Julian asked. “Even I did not know for months.”

  “Caesar learned of it. The earl was too careless around Caesar. Familiarity breeds that, and we know how to use it. Caesar had learned to read, and he saw the letter that told Glasbury of the girl’s death. He believed the earl had had her killed, and I believe it, too.”

  “So you killed him for revenge,” Julian said.

  “For justice. It was easy to catch his eye. I already knew he favored dark women. I knew his preferences in all things.” She paced away, but Pen glimpsed the expression that she tried to hide. Saw it and recognized it. Señora Perez had paid a price as she lured Glasbury to his death.

  “If you speak of this, it will do no good,” she said, turning abruptly to challenge them. “His servants will never betray me. They are glad he is gone, happy he has paid for his sins with my sister and others. Talk to them if you doubt me. They know of great crimes, of slaves brought here who spoke to the others of freedom under English law, and who then disappeared.”

  “I am sure the others will not betray you. They aided you and are your accomplices,” Julian said. “Did Glasbury never guess who you were?”

  “Never. To him I was just another slave for the night, bought with a jeweled necklace that he called a gift.” Her lids lowered. “I told him at the end. After he drank the wine. I made sure he knew before he died.”

  “Of course,” Julian said. “You would want to be sure that he knew.”

  “You sound disapproving. Perhaps you think I should have said prayers for my sister and been contented. Or asked these police of yours for help, with nothing more than a sad story as evidence.”

  “I believe that murder is wrong, madame. Does Raoul know of this? Is that why he is sending you away as quickly as possible?”

  “I choose to leave, but yes, Raoul knows. He is an educated man, Mr. Hampton. He knows all about the moral laws taught by the philosophers. But he also understands there are higher laws than those. If I had been a man, I could have challenged Glasbury. I could have met him fairly with honor. That is denied women. Either we have a man who will do it for us, or we must find other ways. I found another way.”

  “A way that endangered an innocent woman,” Julian snapped. “Do not speak to me of honor if you contemplated letting another pay in your place. You had to know that suspicion would fall on the countess.”

  Señora Perez looked a little chagrined. “You were not to be in danger,” she said to Pen. “I expected you to remain in Naples until it was finished. The authorities were supposed to assume it was a whore, some wretch who gave Glasbury what he wanted for pay, a woman who would never be found.”

  “But I was not in Naples when this was done. You knew that.”

  “I could not delay longer. I did not think a countess would ever face severe punishment, even if suspected. I believed that the aristocracy takes care of its own, if only to silence any scandal.”

  “You believed wrong,” Julian said tersely.

  “You did not seem to mind that Mr. Hampton was in the dock instead of you, either,” Pen said.

  “Your role in the earl’s
sins was misunderstood, Mr. Hampton. For that I apologize. I thought Glasbury had simply arranged for Cleo to be sold to you, illegally. I thought you were no better than the earl. After the countess explained to Caesar what really happened, I sought to win your release.”

  “And did so,” Pen said. “For that I am grateful.”

  Señora Perez gave her a woman-to-woman look. Men can make their laws and rules, her eyes said, but we know how life really is.

  Julian offered Pen his hand to help her rise, and to signal this call was over.

  “As I said, señora, to voice my suspicions against you would necessitate destroying my own alibi. If I mourned the earl at all, I might be in a severe moral quandary. As it is, I think it is well that you are leaving Britain before my conscience mulls this too long. Whether your acts can be accepted as those required for justice, we will leave for God to decide.”

  chapter 31

  I have been talking too much, haven’t I?”

  Pen whispered the words while stretching to peck Julian’s ear with a kiss.

  “Not at all. I never tire of your voice.”

  Actually, she had been talking most of the way from London. With anyone else in the world, it would have been too much after a mile. This was Pen, however, and she never bored him. Social gossip and descriptions of new fashions enthralled him, if she spoke about them.

  “It is because I am excited, Julian. I cannot believe how I look forward to these next days, with absolutely no one near me except you. Goodness, I wonder how we will fill all the hours?” She grinned impishly.

  “Well, for one thing, I will teach you …”

  She hugged his arm. “Teach me what, you rogue?”

  “How to cook.”

  “Cook?”

  “With no servants, someone has to cook. If I have a woman around, you do not expect me to do it, I hope.”

  “We might both live longer if you did. If I am a very good student and learn to cook, will you teach me other things, too?”