“Mama, I just remembered something I forgot to say to Papa. Will you excuse me?”
A wide stone drive curved past the front of Turbans, and just as Julia stepped onto it, a phaeton emerged from the nearby stables. When she gave an urgent wave, Lynton slowed the horses.
“We’re in a bit of a rush!” her father shouted from a distance.
“I won’t keep you, Papa.” Lifting her skirts, Julia hurried over and reached up to touch his hand. Adolphus Lynton was watching them curiously. “I just wanted to beg you to grant me one promise. Please, tell me that you will avoid that odious Lord Sebastian Trevarre. I—I have heard that he is a very bad man!”
“You’re spouting fustian, my dear,” he blustered. “I haven’t the vaguest notion what you mean. How in the world would I know Lord Tre-whatsit? I’ll see you in a bit. Don’t worry.”
“That’s right, my dear Miss Faircloth,” Lynton interjected. “I’ll be with your father, after all. No cause for concern.”
As Julia watched the phaeton roll away and turn onto the Lansdown Road, she reflected that at least her father had had the good grace to flush when he heard her utter Lord Sebastian’s name. He wasn’t completely without shame…yet.
* * *
“I am not certain you ought to bet any more against me, sir,” Sebastian said in a low voice.
Staring back across the piquet table, Graeme Faircloth discarded, then defiantly drew a card, demanding, “Why should you decide my course of action? Have I not free will?”
“Of course, but reasonable men have been known to regret their actions while gambling, sir.” Sebastian was surprised to find himself remembering the lovely face of Julia Faircloth as she confided that her father was in trouble.
“Speak for yourself, my lord. I have owed you a good deal of money for several days now, and I mean to even the score as clearly as possible before you call upon me to pay you.”
The two men were in one of Lansdown Crescent’s grandest homes, the entire first floor of which had been given over to gaming-rooms. The elegant saloon boasted a faro-bank, and tables of deep basset and the popular game E.O., but during these daylight hours there weren’t many players.
“I suppose I am feeling rather nervous about gambling myself since hearing the sad tale of the Marquess of Caverleigh,” Sebastian remarked, while surveying his twelve cards to see if he had any flushes. Keswick, who was playing vingt-et-un nearby, glanced over upon hearing his master’s words. The two of them never revealed anything about their own connection, or Sebastian’s relation to Caverleigh, but they each continued to ask casual questions in an effort to learn what had really happened to George.
“Caverleigh?” Faircloth scratched his head, then looked over at Adolphus Lynton, who was watching the play through his quizzing glass. “Wasn’t he the fellow who was here a few weeks ago? Seems to me that he’d just inherited and didn’t quite know how to comport himself, what?”
“Quite,” Lynton replied in disparaging tones. “He was half in his cups every time I saw him.”
“One must learn to indulge oneself responsibly,” Faircloth intoned. He returned his attention to his cards.
“Gambling can have an ill effect on the sanest man, don’t you think?” murmured Sebastian. “It does pay to take care.”
“I am taking care, by winning today so that I won’t have to pay last week’s vowels. You see? Now then, let’s get on with it.”
Sebastian recognized Faircloth’s feverish edge. He was ill with the disease of gambling, just as his own brother had been. The only cure was to stay far away from the tables, and it usually took a crushing loss to bring a man to that point. As long as his friends felt sorry for him and forgave his gambling debts, as some had already done that day, Graeme Faircloth would continue to lie to his family and haunt the tables.
As the afternoon unfolded, the two men continued to play piquet and Faircloth’s losses mounted.
“Let us part now,” Sebastian suggested, throwing his cards on the table after a hand that had been particularly beneficial to him. “You have not evened the score, sir. Just the opposite.”
“You cannot turn away from me now, my lord! You owe me the chance to erase this debt! I can feel my luck shifting. The next game will be completely different—”
Sebastian got up to pour himself a glass of wine, and Keswick sidled over.
“We believe that your lordship ought to take the man’s money,” he whispered. “If he insists on losing, why should you not be the beneficiary? This may be the only chance to win enough to recover your beloved Severn Park. Would you ruin your own future out of pity for a pathetic gamester like that?”
“Aren’t you heartless!”
“When we must choose between your lordship and that foolish fellow, it is not a question of heartlessness.” Keswick’s tone grew more insistent. “We recall that there is more at stake than a simple game.”
“I wish that someone had tried to talk sense to George.” Sebastian stared into the distance.
“But no one did. Perhaps it was Mr. Faircloth himself who won vast sums of your brother’s fortune, forcing him to lease Severn Park to strangers, forcing him to flee to Tuscany in shame! Did any of these righteous Bathonians have sympathy for his plight? We think not! Kindly remember, my lord, that we journeyed to Bath to set about restoring your family fortune—which is in the pockets of these very men!”
“Heartless was too mild a word,” Sebastian decided with a sardonic glance. “You’re nothing short of bloodthirsty.” Drinking down the wine, he straightened his wide shoulders and added, “However, you are also correct. And, I may be doing Mr. Faircloth a favor by taking his money. Perhaps, if he loses badly and has to face his family, he’ll understand that he cannot gamble again.”
Back at the piquet table, he found that Adolphus Lynton had drawn a chair close to Faircloth and seemed to be whispering advice.
“Are you certain that you wish to continue?” Sebastian asked.
Lynton addressed the older man in stern tones. “He hopes that you’ll surrender now, so that he may keep the vast sum of money you have already lost. He would like to break down your confidence. Without confidence, a good man is finished.”
“That’s right. Even my dear daughter Julia has warned me about this rogue. However, I shall persevere, and the forces of good will prevail.” Faircloth blotted perspiration from his brow, adding, “I can sense that my luck has shifted!”
The mention of Julia gave Sebastian an uneasy feeling, reminding him that she would be hurt if this continued to go badly. And yet, had he not done everything that he could to persuade Faircloth to stop?
“Right, then,” Sebastian said, lifting both brows, “Will you bet, sir?”
“Double or nothing.”
A hush fell over the small crowd that had assembled around the piquet table.
“How will you guarantee so large a wager?”
“My home.” Graeme Faircloth seemed to struggle for breath. “I’ll put up Turbans—but it’s only a formality. My luck has shifted. I can feel it!”
Chapter 4
As dusk gathered round the minaret, Julia closed her book of Greek lessons and gave Freddy a smile.
“Don’t say that you’re setting me free at last?” he cried.
“You shouldn’t speak to your tutor in that tone of voice, Master Faircloth.” She gave him an indulgent smile. “I must return to the house. Mama has a sick headache and I promised her that I would consult with Cook on her behalf. Don’t forget to bring your essay on Tudor England. Papa wants to read it.”
Freddy had been shuffling his papers into a pile, but now he paused, brightening. “Do you think he means it?”
“Of course he means it. Papa loves you very much. Why would you ask such a question?”
He stood watching as she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, protecting herself against the chilly March evening. “You do know what I mean, Jule. Sometimes it seems that he’s only pretending to be interes
ted.”
“Well…” She felt a telltale flush spread over her cheeks. “Papa has a lot on his mind these days, but it’s nothing to do with his love for us. We must be patient and helpful, and trust that he’ll work it all out soon.”
“Patient? Don’t sound a bit like you!”
Julia closed the arched door on his laughter and paused for a moment in the fragrant evening air, pondering her brother’s uncanny ability to put his finger on the truth. No, she wasn’t a bit patient, and if there were truly something else she could think of to do to stop her father from his ruinous pursuits, she would have done it in an instant.
Nearby, an orange-beaked blackbird was pecking in the garden for its supper. Up the hill, some of Turbans’s windows were aglow with candlelight, and smoke curled from the chimneys. It was that in-between time of year, when spring beckoned by day and winter crept back by night.
As she started toward the house, Julia made out the figure of her father. He stood beside the wall, his head bent against one of the stone turbans, and something in the set of his shoulders sent her heart plummeting. It almost looked as if his back was broken. She caught the edges of her shawl with one hand and lifted her skirts with the other and hurried up the lawn.
“Papa! Papa—”
As she drew near, he slowly raised his head and looked at her. “Oh…Julia, my dear. Ah, here’s another lock of your hair come loose.”
She reached for his hands and found them ice-cold. “You’re awfully pale, Papa. Come inside and have a cup of tea, or a spot of brandy.”
“No. A ride, I think.” And with that, he patted her cheek, sighed deeply, and went off toward the stables.
Julia called to him again as he rode away, but this time he didn’t seem to hear.
* * *
At dawn, Graeme Faircloth’s body was discovered by a passing wool merchant. He’d broken his neck in a fall from his horse over a treacherous water jump, and the horse was later found grazing in the meadow adjoining Turbans.
Mrs. Faircloth was inconsolable. She had already spent the last evening of her husband’s life alone in a darkened room, and now she seemed determined never to come out again. Days passed in a fog for the surviving family members. Julia chose the clothing in which her father would be buried, and according to tradition, none of the women attended the interment at the tiny Margaret Chapel, tucked away behind Brock Street. William Bradstreet, the family’s solicitor, took young Frederick to the services. When they returned to Turbans, Julia thought that Freddy’s pale, stark countenance had never before so resembled their father’s.
Mr. Bradstreet had given her a bracing hug, muttering, “Thank God your family has you, my girl. Mr. Faircloth always said you were the strongest one, and I can see that he was right. And, we must all give thanks for Turbans.”
Julia brightened slightly. “Yes. At least, for the first time in our lives, we are financially secure. With Turbans, we can soldier on.”
Someone had to manage the details of their lives. Julia grasped her duty immediately, but even she felt weak-kneed. There were moments during the day when she would be talking to the housekeeper or picking out a menu and her thoughts would wander off, dismally, to fix on an image of her father’s broken body lying alone in a muddy field. Her heart would pound, aching, but she couldn’t stop the thoughts. Worst of all, she feared that he had meant to die. Could he have taken his own life in order to escape those horrid gaming debts?
She roused herself, shaking her head, sick with regret and grief and dread. Were more surprises yet to be revealed?
Julia looked around and found herself sitting at her father’s desk in the walnut-paneled library. She remembered then that she’d been assembling the notes of condolence to show her mother, though they would doubtless only intensify her weeping.
Looking at the small pile of notes, Julia noticed one she hadn’t read herself. The sender’s address was inscribed in a bold, striking hand, and the distinctive crested seal had been pressed in haste. She broke it. Inside, she found a few terse sentences:
Please accept my sympathies for your profound loss. Although I was acquainted with Mr. Faircloth only slightly, I don’t doubt that he was a fine person. And it was signed, Yr. Humble etc., Lord Sebastian Trevarre.
Tears blurred Julia’s vision as she stared at his name. So vital was the signature, it seemed that the ink must still be wet. Clearly, she could again hear his voice warning, “Your father’s problem is his own, and only he can solve it.” And, she could see his gray-green eyes, relentlessly honest, meeting her gaze when she spoke to him. Lord Sebastian had been direct with her, yet she’d felt that he was like smoke. She’d come away completely uncertain about who he was, where he had come from, and whether there was a drop of kindness in him.
Of course there was not! His name should be Lord Satan, not Sebastian! Angrily, Julia tore his note to pieces. He was a hateful, odious person, and he’d doubtless practiced his verbal fencing on her own poor father! If Lord Satan hadn’t been so hard on him, if he’d extended a hand to offer forgiveness, Graeme Faircloth might still be with his family.
The shreds of cream parchment lay before her on the desk, but one fragment of the note was still intact. The signature: Lord Sebastian Trevarre, with all its rakish flair, remained in its entirety.
“Miss Faircloth. Miss Faircloth?”
“Hmm?” Julia blinked, realizing that the voice that spoke her name was real. She stood and looked at the housemaid. “What is it, Abby?”
“Mr. Lynton to see you, miss.” Bobbing a curtsy, she backed away and Adolphus came forward to stand in her place.
“Ah, Julia, how pale you are.” He bowed, looking exceedingly concerned. “As usual, you are taking on far too much, at a time when you should be resting.”
Remembering the conspiratorial wink Lynton had received from her father, Julia instinctively felt that he was not really their friend. She came around the desk and gave him a polite smile. “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Lynton, but I am coping. One must carry on, and I have a great deal to occupy me. In fact, although I appreciate your visit, I have a duty to Freddy, who is waiting in the minaret to show me his lessons—”
He caught her hands. “I’ll only keep you a moment, my dear. How good it is to hear that my visits are precious to you.”
“This truly is not a good time,” Julia protested. She found that she was annoyed by the contrast between his severe choice of clothing and the foppish affectation of a quizzing-glass. The simplest aspects of Lynton’s person grated on her nerves, now more than ever.
“Ah, I think you’ll be singing a different tune when you hear what it is I have to say. Although you have previously been slow to accept my attempts to woo you, if I did not note the change in your current circumstances, I would be a poor excuse for a man. That is exactly what you and your family need now: a man with the strength of his convictions. Quite frankly, I have long believed that your household could stand to feel a firm, masculine hand, and I can also offer an impressive array of connections, including certain persons in royal circles!”
“Mr. Lynton—”
“Call me Adolphus. It would please me immensely if you would accept my proposal of marriage.”
“Adolphus, please don’t say these things!” she exclaimed, horrified.
“Julia, I love you—”
“You must not speak another word.” Firmly, she pressed her hand against his bony chest before he could swoop down and kiss her, as she sensed he was about to do. “I do appreciate your concern, but I cannot accept. If you knew me better, you would never speak of love. I am hopelessly flawed. I’ve decided that I am the sort of woman who should not marry. I—I would only order you about and make you quite miserable.”
His sober countenance was set like a statue. “I’m certain you are wrong.”
“Well, there you have it. If we can’t even agree on whether or not to marry, what chance for success would we have? Now then, I must dash off to the minaret. Do forg
ive me.”
Julia patted his hand, but she could see in his smoldering eyes that he hadn’t given up, and the subject was not closed.
* * *
Clad all in sober gray on an overcast morning, Julia went alone by carriage to hear the reading of her father’s will. Her mother was in no condition to be present, so Sarah stayed by Polly’s bedside, and they all agreed that there was no reason for Freddy to go. Everyone knew that, as the only son, he would inherit the entire estate. Julia only went to represent him, and because she felt it was her duty.
Mr. Bradstreet kept a small, stuffy office above his home in Henrietta Street. To find that esteemed address, the Faircloth coachman had to cross the crowded Pulteney Bridge, and by the time they arrived, Julia realized that she was a few minutes late. A pinched looking clerk met her at the door and showed her up a narrow staircase to William Bradstreet’s book-lined study.
Through a haze of smoke, Julia discerned Mr. Bradstreet, standing in front of his desk with a clay pipe in his mouth.
“Good morning, sir. I apologize if I have kept you waiting. I fear there was a terrible crush of sedan chairs on the bridge!”
Tall and spare, with wisps of reddish-gray hair, William Bradstreet extended a hand to her. “Yes, yes, I have a theory that the Baths are more crowded whenever it looks like rain.” He smiled at her with his eyes. “You look as if you haven’t had a good meal since your father’s death. I imagine you must be taking care of the entire household and neglecting yourself.”
“Don’t worry about me. It helps me to be busy. Speaking of that, we ought to proceed so that I may return home before luncheon. I predict that Mama may venture downstairs today.”
“Good for her.” He went behind his desk and shuffled paper, clearing his throat nervously. “Suppose I should mention—there is one other person here with us today—”
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