She was playing with fire. Juliana knew it and did not care. Whatever game Longmere was engaged in, she too could be ruthless. And besides, he was the only man who sparked her interest, sending a surprising frisson of awareness to a heart long encased in stone.
Other than Darius, of course. That canker. That worm. That temptation as overwhelming as Eve’s apple.
Well, if there is a cure, surely thy name is Longmere.
Jason. Juliana savored the word. Jason.
As soon as the last visitor departed, she ascended to her room and began planning her ensemble for the drive in the park, choosing her garments with two men in mind. The Marquess of Longmere and the man she prayed would just happen to drive by. The man who had been a major part of her life for a decade. Surely their estrangement did not have to be so complete?
Fool! They could never be just friends. Too much had passed between them. Perhaps they had simply been born to torment each other. Unkind Fate had them in its clutches, refusing to let go.
Whatever the reason, she would enjoy her revenge. Oh yes, how she would enjoy it! Be there, Darius, be there. I want you to see me. See that I’ve moved on. Replaced you.
It is merely a drive in the park. Cecy’s words came back to haunt her. It was true. Longmere was offering nothing more than the most basic social interaction, of little more significance than asking her for a dance.
And yet . . .
It was more. Juliana knew it.
As Darius would.
Chapter Seven
“How remarkably accommodating you have become, my love.” Natalia, Lady Charlbury slanted a worldly gaze at her companion, who was supposedly keeping his eyes on finding safe passage through the congested traffic on Rotten Row. Darius Wolfe, however, had frequently been accused of eyes that missed nothing and had no difficulty catching the lady’s taunting expression out of the corner of his eye. “I recall,” she continued, “having great difficulty drawing you away from your precious work long enough for an excursion to the park once a sennight. And now . . . you are at my door almost daily. Could it be . . .” The countess, perhaps warned by the stiffening of his shoulders, paused a moment before rephrasing her comment. “I cannot help but notice that your unwillingness to tolerate the social crush has diminished considerably. Since, in fact, Lady Rivenhall came to town.”
Before responding to his elegant companion, Darius nodded to an acquaintance on horseback, offered his best social smile and a half-bow to three ladies of a certain age as they passed by in a stylish barouche. “As I believe you know, Natalia, Lady Rivenhall and I have been acquainted for many years. When her husband was foolish enough to get himself killed, leaving her one of the wealthiest women in England, he named me the person who must make sure she stays that way. Therefore, inevitably, we know each other quite well. And now that she is making an effort to reestablish herself in society after an extended period of mourning, I consider it part of my responsibility to keep an eye on her.”
A slight huff sounded from his left before the countess ventured, “I have heard that you have been her escort on occasion.”
“I have. Who better to escort a grieving widow than her man of business and executor of her husband’s will?”
“And now that she is out of mourning, you keep an eye on her still?”
“Even more so.”
“Ah.” After a lengthy silence marked only by the sound of hoofbeats, rolling wheels, and greetings being exchanged around them, Lady Charlbury said, “You play games, I think. You and Lady Rivenhall.”
Darius’s chestnuts snorted, as his hands inadvertently jerked the reins. “Games, Natalia?”
“I do believe a new round is about to begin. If you will but look to your right . . .”
Hell and damnation! Darius prided himself on his cool reaction to even the most dire situation, but the sight of his Jewel being driven through the park by the Marquess of Longmere was a blow it was hard to slough off. How could she? Of all the men in the ton . . .
Why, Jewel, why? This was the man they had worked together to ruin. Even gone so far as to beg Nick Black’s help. And she was riding shoulder to shoulder with Longmere in his curricle? Displaying herself like one of his tarts?
“Smile! Darius,” Natalia hissed, “you must smile.”
Damned if he would. As their vehicles approached each other, Darius slowed his team only long enough to grit out, “Lady Rivenhall, Longmere,” and then the danger of him dragging Jewel off the seat and plopping her into his lap was past, though his head was swirling, consumed by a rage that astonished him. He had at long last applied the discipline he used in business matters to his relationship with his employer and had thought himself free. Or at least free enough to move forward with his life. Clearly, he’d been wrong.
Idiot woman! How could she be such a fool? He’d wring her neck. Longmere’s as well.
Unless . . .
Darius guided his team out of the park, glowering at the wild thoughts chasing through his head. Games. Natalia mentioned games. Was it possible . . .?
No, never. Not with Longmere. Not when she knew how dangerous he was.
What better way to taunt him?
Fuck!
“I beg your pardon,” Darius said, suddenly recalling the lady by his side. “I admit to distraction. I cannot like to see Lady Rivenhall in company with Longmere. His reputation is far from sterling.”
As he turned his horses toward Lady Charlbury’s residence in Berkeley Square, Darius completely missed his companion’s choked-back laughter. When it came to reputations, she could not help but think the Marquess of Longmere and Lady Rivenhall well matched. Surely the men did not think they were the only ones who knew of the Aphrodite Academy?
Natalia’s amusement dimmed, however, her expression turning shrewd, her eyes cold and hard. What did she really want from life? She liked England, had no desire to return to either Russia or France. She enjoyed her role as a merry widow, but living as she wished on her jointure? Affreux! Impossible, quite impossible. That was, of course, what had attracted her to man not born to the ton. In addition to the necessary polish and good looks, she had been assured he could provide her with every luxury her heart might desire.
She would be marrying beneath her, of course, but that was a mere bagatelle compared to attempting to live in the style to which she was accustomed on a widow’s mite. And not a penny more would the new Earl of Charlbury offer her, citing the needs of his growing family. Cochon! So Darius Wolfe it would be, and who could quibble when a fortune came in such a delectable package? Ma foi, but the man curled her toes.
But would she ever be able to pry him away from Juliana Rivenhall? The Rivenhall fortune was his life’s blood, managing it all he knew. Which meant the Baroness Rivenhall would always be there, the ghost at the feast.
Merde!
But if the lady were married . . .?
Or driven back into her fortress on the river by a scandal so devastating there could be no recovery . . .?
As they said farewell at her front door, Natalia met Darius’s apologetic look with perfect composure. Her mind was made up. She would have him, no matter what it took.
Juliana and Cecilia, seated side by side in neatly arranged chairs in the drawing room of Mrs. Malvinia Biddle, wife of the vicar of St. Mark’s Reformed Church, cast surreptitious glances at the other guests. Cecilia raised a slim gloved hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. Leaning close to Juliana, she whispered, “Oh, the magical power of money. Otherwise, they’d consign us both to the flames.”
Juliana’s shoulders heaved; she sank her teeth into her lower lip for a full five seconds before she could respond, equally softly. “I am quite sure I have never been in such a respectable group of women in my entire life. Not even before my marriage. And certainly not after,” she added with some asperity.
This time Cecilia had to clap a hand over a mouth, transforming her chuckle into a discreet cough.
“Hush,” Juliana cautioned. “He
re comes the vicar.”
The invitations to a lecture on the dire situation of London’s climbing boys had come as a surprise. Both Juliana and Cecilia had expected Mrs. Dunholm and Mrs. Houghton to accept their money with a thank-you for the donation on the one hand and a no-thank-you to any further acquaintance on the other. Since neither of their lives had led them to be gullible, never for a moment did they think the women were being so magnanimous as to consider the headmistress of the Aphrodite Academy or the wife of Nick Black for inclusion in their social circle. Clearly, they must be in need of continuing donations . . . or was it possible these holier-than-thou females found titillation in being in the same room as women of uncertain reputation?
Mr. Everard Biddle began to speak, promptly revealing that the vicar of St. Mark’s Reformed Church was a dynamic speaker whose oratory allowed no place for either the amused or the cynical thoughts that had been chasing through Juliana’s and Cecy’s heads. To Cecilia, the vicar’s impassioned speech was familiar. She was, after all, the daughter of a Methodist preacher. Fire and brimstone had once been her daily bread. Juliana, however, was at first startled by Mr. Biddle’s fiery words. Not at all what she expected from a vicar of the Church of England. And yet . . . sincerity marked each word. It was plain to see he truly believed in improving the lives of the young children forced into the black holes of London’s myriad chimneys. Perhaps there was something positive to be said for this more emotional form of religion. Something more than set prayers for each Sunday of the year. More than carefully prescribed topics for every sermon, based on the church calendar. Certainly, Mr. Biddle’s words reached a more vital place in her heart and mind than any words she had ever heard delivered from a pulpit.
Amazing. Juliana was actually glad she had come. Knowing she would continue to support this cause, knowing that she was included in this bevy of good women, made her feel clean. Absolved. The feeling would not last, of course. Her sins were too great, but for a moment or two she basked in an aura of righteousness.
Absurd. Now that Mr. Biddle was finished with his impassioned plea, her worldly cynicism would reassert itself any moment now . . .
“Lady Rivenhall?”
Juliana and Cecilia turned as one to find Albinia Houghton, the thin stick of a woman they had met at the Mablethorpe’s rout, standing over them, with an almost equally pinch-faced stranger by her side. “May I introduce Mrs. Portia Osgood? She too is active in charity work and is desirous of meeting you both. Portia, Lady Rivenhall and Mrs. Black.”
Juliana had little warning beyond an avid gleam that lurked behind Mrs. Osgood’s pious expression as she said, “I contribute to an institution for girls in the family way. I understand you support something similar.”
Devil take her! Juliana could feel the woman gloating, poised for attack. But no need to panic. She did indeed support something similar. She contributed to Nick Black’s home for young women to whom giving birth was not a cause for joy. Boone Farm, where Holly’s twins were born. “I do indeed,” she told Mrs. Osgood and Mrs. Houghton, “though the main force behind it is Mr. Black, my friend’s husband.” She cast her most benign smile at Cecilia.
“But we heard you have a school of your own for wayward girls,” Albinia Houghton persisted. “In Richmond, I believe?”
In her childhood Juliana had learned how to draw a cloak of arrogance about herself, the righteous armor the nobility used to fend off any incursion by the lower classes, including middle-class busybodies. She used it now, managing to look down on the two women accosting her, even though they were at least two inches taller. “I assure you the young women in my school in Richmond are not enceinte. They are, however, in need of second chances, and that I provide. It is work I have devoted myself to for some years now. I am proud of my graduates, every last one of them.”
“I number myself among them,” Cecy declared, her green eyes sparking defiance.
“How lovely for you,” Portia Osgood murmured before Albinia Houghton seized her arm, the two of them slithering off into the chattering crowd.
“How?” Cecy burst out. “Who?”
Juliana shook her head as they sank back into their chairs, their knees suddenly weak. “We knew it could happen at any moment, but I had hoped . . .”
“Don’t fret,” Cecy said, placing her fingers over Juliana’s tightly clasped hands. “They knew all about me when I was invited. They probably consider your acquaintance a daring foray into the Underworld as well.”
Juliana gave her friend a look that would have shriveled anyone who did not cope with Nick Black and his household on a daily basis.
“My dears, I am so sorry.” In spite of a patent attempt to speak softly, there was no disguising the booming voice of Hortense Dunholm as she plopped herself into an empty chair beside them. She gave them each a searching look. “Tell me, are either of you acquainted with Lady Charlbury?”
“A nodding acquaintance only,” Juliana replied. “An introduction in Hyde Park, nothing more.”
Mrs. Houghton frowned. “Then perhaps you know Mr. Darius Wolfe? He has been a good deal in her company of late.”
Juliana could not control her reaction. Her shoulders stiffened, her chin tilting up into her most haughty attitude. “He is my man of business. I have known him for a decade or more.”
“A-ah.” Hortense Dunholm’s expression turned grim. She nodded sagely. “That is it then. The Charlbury witch has set her talons into Mr. Wolfe and fears you may be the one who could pry him from her clutches.”
Stunned, Juliana sat silent while Cecy’s angry gasp echoed around them.
“You believe she has told tales from pure spite?” Juliana finally managed.
Mrs. Dunholm considered the question carefully. “She is not a bad person, I believe, but the monster of jealousy can corrupt even the best among us.”
“You are too kind,” Cecy spat out with biting sarcasm.
“Perhaps,” the older lady agreed, “but more important is what to do about it.”
“It is indeed kind of you to help us consider the question,” Juliana returned after a swift reproving glance at her former pupil. “What do you suggest?”
Hortense Dunholm, who towered over both women by a full head and outweighed each by four stone or more, declared with all the confidence of an experienced politician’s wife. “Do nothing, my dears. Be yourselves and simply ignore the gossip. I shall put about a few hints that Lady Charlbury has perhaps been touched by the green-eyed monster, and hopefully that will do the trick.”
“But why should you do this?” Juliana asked. “We are strangers, after all.”
The MP’s wife was silent for a moment before she said, rather tentatively, “Perhaps because I am a true reformer, one who follows the word of our Lord rather than simply giving it lip service.” She stood abruptly. “Now there, that is all the sanctimonious nonsense you’ll get from me today. Off you go. Mingle. Smile. Show them you are ladies, born and bred.” She winked. “And it wouldn’t hurt to offer a reference or two to how much you plan to contribute to their favorite charities.” And with that she strode away, a ship of the line in full sail, off to conquer the world.
“Oh dear,” Cecy murmured in her wake.
“Thank God someone has good sense,” Juliana added. “At least I hope she knows what’s she’s doing.”
“How strange we should be depending on an Evangelical to rescue us from ourselves.”
After exchanging a rueful glance, the two friends rose from their chairs and set out to follow Hortense Dunholm’s suggestion to the letter.
Chapter Eight
As she stepped through the front door of the house on Mount Street, Juliana was hit by a nearly overwhelming wave of depression. Since Geoffrey’s death she had come here for only a few nights at a time while displaying her newest graduates to the gentlemen of the ton. The house held memories—poignant, bitter, glorious—memories that lurked, always ready to pounce and swallow her up.
But now, instea
d of a rush of whispers and images from the past, she felt nothing but loneliness. A dozen servants, yet she was alone. And—dear God!—although she told herself it was the constant comings and goings at the Academy that she missed, it wasn’t true. What made her feel so bereft . . . No! She refused to allow that thought into her mind.
Yet the image of Darius traversing the tunnel at Thornhill, popping up in her sitting room exactly when she needed him most, refused to go away. Darius, one-time lover and friend, whose only way into the house on Mount Street was through the front door, with every eye in the ton avidly waiting to see what scandal would pop up next.
Darius, who would not be waiting in the sitting room next to her bedchamber.
Darius, who would only call in Mount Street if she sent for him on a matter of business.
Darius . . .
Juliana sank into a chair upholstered in her favorite mix of blue and green, waved her maid away, and glowered at the intricately patterned carpet. She needed to let go. Clearly, Darius had. She should be glad he had found another interest. A woman willing to give him the home and family he wanted.
Yet here she was, scheming to use Longmere like a matador uses a red flag to incite a bull. Dog in the manger—was that not what her attitude was called? She had refused him, time and time again, yet somehow she could not bear to see anyone else have him.
For shame!
A soft rap on the door preceded her butler’s announcement. “You have a visitor, my lady. Mr. Wolfe.”
Oh, good God! She could hear the shake in her voice as she told her butler to ask Mr. Wolfe to wait in the drawing room, she would be join him shortly.
He must have dropped off La Charlbury and come directly here. Just as he turned up at the drop of every crisis. Except this crisis was personal. And had happened too many times before.
No, never before had Darius flaunted a lover before her. Not a high-born lady he might be considering taking to wife. Today’s encounter was different.
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