Thornhill Manor, 1819
Juliana blinked, tumbling back to the present with a whimper of pain. At eighteen, she’d had such faith in the future. But now . . .
Dusk was in its final stages, the brightest stars now clearly visible overhead. The traffic on the river had vanished, each craft safely tied up for the night, while the breeze off the river had cooled to a decided nip, making her wish she had worn a pelisse instead of a spencer. Goosebumps threatened. The scene was, she feared, a metaphor for her life. At eighteen, she had such high hopes. And then, ever so slowly, the world around her dimmed from brilliant sunshine to slanted rays, sunset, dusk, and cold, dark night.
No! She was feeling sorry for herself again. The downhill slide into Geoffrey’s world had been marked with a surprising number of beautiful moments. Most of them with Darius. She now had the school and the friendship of so many of her pupils, particularly those among the very first—Belle, Cecilia, and Holly. She also had the satisfaction of seeing them well-established.
With babies.
Hush!
Juliana looked up at the sky, where more stars were being revealed by the curtain of night. Surely beacons of hope. They had to be. She turned her head and looked back toward the house, where warm candlelight glowed from windows where the draperies were not yet drawn.
Home. Warmth. Security.
Hope.
Nothing would change unless she broke out of the doldrums and fought her way back to some modicum of happiness. Darius had tried to help, and she had rejected him. Stupid, stupid female. Now she was going to have to do it herself. Or immure herself in Thornhill Manor, alone, slowly rotting in mind and body, with not a single descendent to inherit what she and the two men in her life had created.
Juliana returned her gaze to the river, to the boathouse and its secret entrance to the tunnel. Darius. She was going to have to mend the breach, for he would not. Not this time. That appalling scene in her bedroom had been the final straw. Without drastic action she would lose him forever. And yes, that was unthinkable.
The school now operated so smoothly she could manage a few days, perhaps as much as a week or ten days, in town. She would open the house on Mount Street . . .
Juliana bounced to her feet. Yes indeed, she would send a special messenger this very night, warning of her imminent arrival. She would go to London. And somehow she would forge a path to the happiness that had eluded her for so long.
Chapter Four
London
“What a glorious day!” Cecilia Black clapped her hands over her mouth, peeping over them at Juliana, her green eyes bubbling with laughter. “Truly, I remember your teachings quite well,” she assured her former mentor. “Rule five hundred and forty-nine: Avoid banal conversation, such as talk of the weather. But it is a glorious day, my lady. How can I ignore it?”
“And how many times have I bid you call me Juliana? Your school days are long past, Cecy. I hope we may be friends.”
Mrs. Nicholas Black lowered her hands to her lap, a smile transforming her already exceptional beauty into a portrait that rivaled the glory of the late April morning. Very well, Juliana conceded, if only to herself, after ten straight days of mizzle broken only by the intensity of thunderous spring storms, Cecy had every right to comment on the weather.
In spite of the brisk April temperature, the ladies were riding in Lady Rivenhall’s barouche with the top partially rolled back, so they might see and be seen, as was expected when parading in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour of five. “I am so glad you could join me,” Juliana told her former pupil. “For who better than you to understand why I find myself feeling like a schoolgirl granted a surprise holiday.”
Amusement faded from Cecilia’s sparkling eyes. “You should come to town more often, my—Juliana. It’s not right to shut yourself up in Richmond, forever the widow.”
“I have put off my blacks!”
“And been seen about town with Mr. Wolfe. But only on rare occasions when one of us needed your help. Surely it’s time to do better than that. I mean, truly, where would we be without you? Whoring in the streets or dead, that’s where. Belle’s a lady again, thanks to you. And there’s Holly with a fine husband and, bless her, three children, if you can believe. And as for me—”
“I should never have allowed you to go with Longmere!”
“A marquess? Whyever not?” Cecy shook her head, clearly rueful as she recalled the headstrong girl she once had been. “I was totally besotted, with no little avarice gleaming in my eye. How could either of us have dreamed . . .?” Cecilia’s voice faded away, the memory of the night Nick Black had found her crumpled form in the street, brought her to his house in Princes Street, and summoned Juliana Rivenhall to her side would haunt them forever.
Into the silence Cecy asked, “Did you know Longmere is Nick’s younger brother? They share a father.”
Juliana stifled a gasp. The most notorious man in London was fathered by a high-ranking peer of the realm? Though perhaps, after all, not such a surprise, Juliana reasoned. Both men were tall, dark, ruggedly handsome, both arrogant and highly intelligent. They lived within a stone’s throw of each other. Not a coincidence, she surmised. Nick Black had undoubtedly taken great satisfaction in acquiring a home not far from Longmere House.
“It’s rather fun, you know,” Cecy confided, her eyes taking on a renewed spark. “Knowing the grandfather of a child of mine was a marquess. If I ever have one, that is,” she added on a more somber note.
Juliana took Cecilia’s hands in hers. “Oh, my dear, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.”
“You were married four years, were you not?” The implication was clear. Not all marriages were blessed by children.
“Yes, but . . .” How could she say, My husband’s attentions were frequently elsewhere. And I cringed from bearing a child not his.
Merde!
Juliana managed a smile. “Then it’s time to do better, is it not? “I shall promise to come to town more often, to look about me with a less jaundiced eye. And you will promise to worry less about not increasing, to enjoy all the charities you oversee so well, yet take the time to thoroughly enjoy being married to one of London’s most powerful men.” Juliana’s features softened, becoming more the face of a friend than of a mentor. “Love him, Cecy, and let him love you back. Enjoy the life you’ve found. It’s not a guarantee you’ll conceive a child, but worrying about it, fussing over the lack, is an almost certain guarantee you never will.”
Good Lord, how could she so freely give advice she herself refused to follow?
Tears swam in Cecy’s eyes as she choked out a thank-you. Suddenly, her shimmering eyes widened. “Look! Is that not Mr. Wolfe?”
Juliana would swear her heart did a complete flip as she looked up to find Darius driving toward them in his curricle. Her hand, seeming to move of its own volition, rose into a decidedly undignified wave.
And then she saw he was not alone. The woman seated beside him was stunningly beautiful. Perfect aristocratic features marked by liquid brown eyes. What Juliana could see of the woman’s hair appeared to be dark as well, perhaps the shade of ripened chestnut, her gown, spencer, and hat in the very latest style. If there was one thing Lady Juliana Rivenhall could recognize, it was a courtesan. This woman was not.
Pain stabbed through her, so sharp she gasped aloud.
“My la—Juliana—what is wrong?”
“It is quite all right.” Head high, Juliana signaled her coachman to stop as Darius brought his high-stepping bays to a halt beside them.
He offered a dignified social smile Juliana immediately termed challenging. Miserable man. “Lady Rivenhall, Mrs. Black, may I present the Countess of Charlbury? Natalia, I am pleased to present to you my employer, Lady Rivenhall, and her friend, Mrs. Nicholas Black.”
Juliana had heard of people seeing red, but now she knew it was true. She could scarcely see Lady Charlbury for the scarlet curtain screening her eyes. He’d called the hussy by
her Christian name. Deliberately. Right to Juliana’s face. And termed herself “my employer.” Employer! She’d kill him!
But Lady Charlbury had no eyes for Juliana Rivenhall. She was staring, fascinated, at Cecilia. “You are the wife of the Nicholas Black?” she inquired, eyebrows raised almost to her hairline.
Cecy’s head went up, her shoulders stiffened. “I am.”
“Remarkable.” The brown eyes flashed. “I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. Black.” With the regal air of a queen, she finally turned to Juliana. “And you too, of course, Lady Rivenhall. I am honored by the opportunity to meet the ton’s best-known recluse.”
Recluse! She was not a recluse.
Many a time Darius had accused her of exactly that. Stop hiding, dammit! Come back to us, Jewel. Live!
She supposed she should be relieved to still be considered part of the ton. Somehow—most likely because she had not attempted to participate in society since Geoffrey’s death—she had not been ostracized. Oddly enough, the gentlemen who enjoyed the favors of the Aphrodite Academy’s graduates had not revealed her secret. Such a strange phenomenon, the Gentlemen’s Code. On certain subjects men could be as quiet as clams.
“Please excuse us,” Juliana said. “Mrs. Black is expected at home, and I’m sure none of us wishes to upset her husband. She smiled sweetly at the pair side by side on the bench seat above them. “Good-day, Lady Charlbury, Mr. Wolfe.”
A nod to the coachman, and they were off at as spanking a pace as the crowded Route de Roi, known as Rotten Row, would allow.
“Juliana,” Cecy probed, “that was a shock, was it not? I’m so sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter. We are, as he says, nothing more than employer and employee.”
“You are forgetting my papa is an evangelical parson. I’ve known the truth from a great fat fib since I was three.”
“Mount Street,” Juliana instructed the coachman as they drove out of the park.
“Juliana.” Cecy’s voice took on the stern note she occasionally used with Fetch, her husband’s all-too-clever young apprentice.
A sniff of disdain was Lady Rivenhall’s only reply until they were ensconced in the drawing room at Rivenhall House, enjoying the warmth and smoky flavor of Lapsang Souchong. “Very well,” Juliana pronounced as if the words were dragged from her mouth, “you may tell me about her.”
Cecilia put down her teacup, drew a deep breath, clearly reluctant to further exacerbate a sore subject. “She’s an exotic bit of fluff, I’ll give her that. Men positively slaver over her. Mother French, father Russian. She met Charlbury when her father was attached to the embassy here. A short-lived marriage—Charlbury was taken by fever, I believe.”
“She is a widow?” Could blood truly freeze in one’s veins?
“Indeed. A rather merry one, now that her year of mourning has passed. Once again a light of the ton and much admired by the gentlemen. A coup for Mr. Wolfe, to winkle her away from so many men of title.”
“She already has a title—so now, cherchez les guineas,” Juliana snapped.
A snort of laughter from Cecy, quickly cut off. “I beg your pardon. The situation is not in the least amusing. It’s just that . . .”
“I am hoist on my own petard.”
“It was merely a drive in the park.”
“Of course. And Mr. Wolfe is nothing more than my man of business.”
Cecilia, grateful for the experience of many months in Nick Black’s frequently shocking household, somehow managed to keep a straight face.
Juliana, abruptly changing the subject, offered, “If you think you can stand the joie de vivre of our successful mothers, I shall invite Belle and Holly to join us for tea, say Thursday next. Without the infantry, of course. That, I fear, would be the final straw for the both of us.”
Cecy winced, thanked her former mentor for a lovely afternoon, and departed for Princes Street in Juliana’s waiting carriage. Princes Street, where Nick was waiting. Perhaps tonight would be the night . . .
Juliana sat on the edge of a scroll-back chaise longue, the elegant flow of her forest green carriage gown a sharp contrast to the pale sea-green satin of the couch. Hands propped to each side, head bent, she stared, unseeing, at the colorful Aubusson carpet, her mind flipping from one dire thought to the next.
Darius has found a new love. A lady with a title far higher than her own.
Yet his wealth, good looks, and polished manners already placed him on nearly every guest list in the ton. His expertise in financial matters endeared him to the men, so he really didn’t need the countess to further his ambitions . . .
Lady Charlbury is a widow. Which means he’s likely sleeping with her. So perhaps she is merely a mistress.
Then again . . .
She’s young. Able to bear children. Give him the family he wants. Clever enough to hold out for marriage.
Juliana gulped, her whole body shuddered.
Darius . . . gone? Forever?
One carriage ride in the park does not a marriage make.
Ha! Idiot! She’d seen the way that woman looked at Darius, placed her hand on his arm. Proprietary, that’s what it was. Scarcely a word out of her mouth, but the message had been clear. Mine. You had your turn. You lost.
Juliana continued to sit, her mind churning in endless cycles. Ineffective, useless. Until . . .
What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. The old saying welled up through the morass in her brain. Her lips twitched, a spark kindling in the bleakness of her eyes. Who knew better than she how to attract a man? Who was more experienced, more skilled?
Juliana Rivenhall, Lady R, the Dragon Lady—procuress for the ton’s high and mighty, that’s who.
Her lips finished the climb into a smile. A feral smile. A smile with the promise of retribution.
Chapter Five
Hell and damnation! Darius’s first thought on encountering his Jewel in the park was sheer elation. High time the dagger twisted in someone’s heart besides his own. And then he drew close and knew he was wrong. The dagger that was Juliana Rivenhall had pierced his heart for all time. He might find distraction, a few moment’s respite elsewhere, but she would always hold him in thrall.
Yet she did not want him. Refused to have him. Again and yet again.
There was only so much a man could tolerate. A man who no longer wished to live alone. A man who wanted descendants to carry on his name. This time, no matter how much agony he suffered from wanting what he could not have, he would not go back. A marriage of convenience would suit him very well. And having an exotically beautiful wife who moved in the highest circles? He was a man of business, after all. He knew an outstanding opportunity when he saw it. And, as was his custom, he intended to seize the moment before it slipped through his fingers.
Jewel . . . I’m sorry, truly I am. If only . . .
Too late, too late, too late.
Darius snuffed the candle beside his bed and settled himself for a sleepless night.
On the day after her drive with Cecilia, Juliana paid a visit to Madame Francine, the dressmaker who had served her pupils so well over the years, allowing them to be displayed at their best to the men of the ton who were continually jostling each other to purchase their services. Madame Francine had also created the few gowns of color Juliana had added to her wardrobe when she, most reluctantly, put off her blacks. Widowhood had been her protection. Hidden away at Thornhill Manor, almost never seen in town, she had been able to avoid all contact with men, start her school, and elude censure for all but the slight eccentricity of exaggerated mourning.
But now . . .
Truly, Juliana had no idea what would happen if she left cards with former friends, an act which would indicate she was ready to receive callers, ready to receive invitations, return to society. Merciful heavens, what if she was rejected?
Of course she would be rejected. Her activities for the past few years could not have gone unnoticed. The so-called gentlemen of the ton might f
lock around the graduates of the Aphrodite Academy, but they would not care to have their wives associate with the woman who had educated and trained them.
Was this not, Juliana wondered, what Mr. Southey meant when he wrote, Chickens always come home to roost? And then there was that old phrase, You made your bed, now you must lie in it.
So . . . the fringes of society would have to do. There must be some among her old friends who would not give her the cut direct.
Juliana heaved a sigh. She was no longer a wide-eyed innocent, and that had to be an asset. Certainly, she would make it so. Nor would Geoffrey’s fortune come amiss in greasing the wheels that inserted her back into whatever society was left to her.
She could do this. She had been born a lady, daughter of an earl, and for all Geoffrey’s sins, the ton had adored him. Tolerated his idiosyncracies. At least all those they knew about. But would they extend the same courtesy to his wife?
There was only one way to find out.
“You will always be welcome at Ashford House, surely you know that.” A nice mix of indignation and reassurance radiated from Arabella Ashford’s cornflower blue eyes as she regarded the woman who had rescued her from degradation.
Seated beside Belle, Lady Ashford, on a plush sea-green sofa in Juliana’s drawing room was another of the Academy’s former students, Holly Kincade. The two young women presented a startling contrast—Belle’s pale golden beauty next to Holly’s warmer skin tone, dark hair, and lively brown eyes.
Holly fixed an anxious gaze on Juliana and said, “I fear we do not mix in society, my lady, but Royce and I will help in any way we can. I cannot even imagine what my life might have been like if you had not seen more in me than I ever saw in myself. How you put up with me during all those months of schooling I shall never know.”
Juliana’s lips twitched. “You were, I admit, a bit of a challenge. I swear you clung to that dreadful accent with all the tenacity of a terrier with a rat.”
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