Juliana

by Bancroft, Blair

  Juliana sat at the delicate Louis Quinze dressing table in her bedchamber and peered into the mirror, meticulously putting her coiffure to rights, brushing a bit of rosy powder on her cheeks, enhancing her lips with a scented oil from the Far East. She stood, straightened the folds of her azure carriage dress, piped in dark blue, took one final look in the tall cheval glass that occupied one corner of the room, her face grim as she nodded at her reflection. She would never be as exotically beautiful as Natalia, Countess of Charlbury, but her bronze hair glowed and a lively intelligence shown from eyes the color of Baltic amber. She would do.

  Darius, pacing the drawing room, missed every nuance of his Jewel’s careful preparations. The moment she entered the room, he swung on her, barely keeping his voice beneath a shout. “Longmere, Jewel? Are you mad? You will not go near that man again, do you hear me? Not ever!”

  “But, Darius,” she breathed, eyes widened to a patently false innocence, “Longmere tells me he is much reformed.”

  His rage escalated. She dared bat her eyes at him! Play the innocent coquette at her age, would she? “Cecilia was broken when Nick found her. She might have died. Good God, woman, you helped us destroy him. How could you even think—”

  “Cecy tells me he and Nick have reconciled, that though the incident is not forgotten, Longmere has truly made an effort to be a better man.”

  “Which makes no never mind. He is not going to have an opportunity to get his hands on you!” Her lips began to twitch and Darius repressed a strong urge to shake his precious Jewel. She was enjoying their quarrel, miserable little wretch.

  “You may advise me to your heart’s content on matters of business, Mr. Wolfe, but you are not free to comment on my social life. As I shall refrain from commenting on yours.”

  “Oh no, you’ll not get away with that,” he told her, stalking closer, a wolf prowling through the dark forest of their past. “You and I are as bound together as two people can be, your fate and mine so entangled we will never be free.”

  Juliana’s look of shocked indignation forced him to pause, considering his words and for once finding himself speechless. What had he just said?

  Her face went blank, the amber eyes hardening, as Baltic pine sap had hardened into gemstone so many millennia ago. “You cut yourself free, Darius. You’ve actually done it. Go and enjoy your freedom. You no longer have the ordering of me, only of my affairs.”

  Fuck! Sent on his way. Again. He should have known . . .

  He should never have come. But Longmere. Of all the men in the world, Longmere.

  Fine. If his Jewel wanted to end up a bloody mess at the foot of Longmere’s steps, so be it. Perhaps he’d apply for a special license tomorrow. He doubted Natalia would object to a hasty wedding. And let the ton think what they pleased . . . which meant smirks, nudges, and all the old biddies beginning a nine-month count.

  Hell and damnation! Darius slammed out the front door, jumped into his waiting curricle, and whipped up his horses. His Jewel was going to be the death of him yet.

  Juliana felt the chill almost immediately. Although no one had yet given her the cut direct, acquaintances exhibited telltale signs of unease when speaking with her. Flushed cheeks, the inability to look her in the eye. Altogether too much eagerness to cut the conversation short. Even a number of the men had gone cold, offering cool nods instead of admiring glances marked by more than a few open flirtations. Her attempt to reinsert herself into the ton was slipping away with the inexorability of spring rain soaking into the thirsty earth. And there was nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do about it because she greatly feared every word of the gossip making the rounds was true.

  A few close friends remained unaffected, some going so far as to express indignation on her behalf. And then there was Longmere, who told her not to bother her pretty head about such foolishness and made a point of inviting her to his box at the opera, escorting her to Drury Lane and to what Juliana had to admit was an enchanting evening at Vauxhall. He was a marquess, after all, and she was not above using him to rescue her reputation, as well as to incite Darius’s wrath.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t take long to discover that the Marquess of Longmere’s reputation was so far removed from sterling that his escort was doing little to salve more than her pride. She was seen everywhere, but her reception still left much to be desired. Juliana did, however, enjoy the dark looks Darius shot her way whenever their paths crossed. Oh yes, she was driving him wild. A thought that gave her the greatest pleasure.

  Late one morning—disgusted with a society that swayed with delicious horror to each new scandal to come along, and disgusted with herself for caring—Juliana ordered her coachman to take her to the house on Princes Street. Where, abandoning years of honing her stoic attitude to perfection, Juliana confided the events of the past ten days to Cecilia’s sympathetic ear.

  “Oh dear,” Cecy murmured. “Mr. Wolfe must be furious.”

  Startled, Juliana swiped an incipient tear away before offering, “Well, of course he is. Is that not the point?”

  “But Longmere of all people? Truly, Juliana, do you wish to give him an apoplexy?” Juliana returned such a fierce glare, Cecy could only shake her head, murmuring a soft “Oh” of understanding.

  “So what’s to be done? I am usually good at contriving, but I must confess I am at a stand. I long to return to Thornhill, my fortress against the world. But if I do, I fear I shall never leave. I will be hiding myself away, dwindling into old age with nothing but the accomplishments of my students to claim for my contribution to the world.”

  “A major contribution,” Cecy said with a comforting smile. “We have done rather well, you know.” A further examination of Juliana’s crumpled face sent a volley of words tumbling out of her mouth. “Where would any of us be without you? But that doesn’t mean you’re not entitled to happiness as well. To a husband and children, if that’s what you want. Nick swears Longmere is no longer part of the rakish set. He drinks in moderation, is seen at an occasional social event, where I believe he has not shocked a single soul in over a twelve-month. He has actually attended church a time or two. And his title is one of the highest in land. Truly, Juliana, you could not do better.” Cecy regarded her friend with eyes that pled for understanding. “If I have forgiven him, why should not you?”

  “Because she doesn’t love him.” Both women gasped at the bone-dry words spoken by a tall, handsome young man leaning against the door jamb. Clearly, Fetch’s speech and mode of dress had improved considerably since the last time Juliana had seen him. He must be sixteen or seventeen now, though his knowing eyes and worldly bearing proclaimed him a decade older.

  “Have you been eavesdropping?” Cecy demanded.

  “Since when have I ever been anything but curious as a cat?” the boy returned with a lazy drawl. “It’s like Nick always says, ‘Keep your ears wide, eyes sharp, and your mummer shut.’ That’s me, my lady,” he added, turning to Juliana. And I’ve a suggestion for you.”

  Well, why not? She was certainly at a stand. “Yes?”

  “I didn’t think of it just this minute,” Fetch admitted. “I been meaning to speak to Nick about it, but seems like you’re the one in need of the idea at the moment.”

  “I am,” Juliana agreed. “Please sit down, Fetch, and tell us what you have in mind.” What a handsome young man he was, she thought as he seated himself on the edge of a luxuriously upholstered chair. Fetch wore his pale blond hair too long, no doubt in imitation of Nick Black. His blue eyes shone with a remarkable intelligence from a face with such aristocratic lines that Juliana suspected that, like his mentor, there was a nobleman somewhere on his family tree. She had known him long enough to accept that any idea he might offer was worth listening to. She gave him her full attention.

  “It’s like this, you see,” Fetch said. “I had in mind a different kind of Sunday school. I was one of the lucky ones, with Nick taking me on and making me learn all that stuff I didn’t want to lear
n. Making me mind my manners and know how to talk. But most orphans and abandoned kids don’t get much schooling at all. Not even in the places Nick and Miz Cecy run. They get old enough to be apprenticed or go into service, and that’s it. Everything else they learn is just training for the work they do.” Fetch paused for breath, casting an earnest look at the women to see if they understood what he was saying.

  “Go on,” Juliana urged. “Tell us about the Fetch version of Sunday school.”

  “It’s my Cathy gave me the idea,” he replied. “She’s nursemaid to Mrs. Kincade and right glad for the job, couldn’t have found better. But . . . well, I know I can’t expect her to be able to learn all I’ve had dinned into my head, but I’d like her to know more than she does. Like her to be exposed to good books, poetry, music . . .” Fetch, in uncharacteristic uncertainty, stumbled to a halt. “I suppose you think I’m fit for Bedlam,” he declared, with a touch of his old belligerence. “Or ashamed of her or something. But I’m not. I like her fine just as she is. But I want her to know these things for her own sake. Because it’s her right to know, not forever be condemned to ignorance. As I was ’til Nick grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and forced me to it.”

  Juliana was so moved she could scarcely form words. “And you’re calling your idea Sunday school because that’s the only day of the week children have free after leaving the orphanage.”

  “Yes, ma’am—my lady.” Fetch sat with his back ramrod straight, defiant, looking her straight in the eye.

  “And how do you suggest this helps Lady Rivenhall’s problem?” Cecy asked, a frown wrinkling her forehead.

  “It’s a grand new charity, now isn’t it? An idea I doubt even the middle-class gentry, who worry about such things, will object to.” Juliana almost gasped aloud at the boy’s adept reading of society, as well as his grasp of the vocabulary to express himself. The tutors Nick Black had hired for his recalcitrant apprentice had exceeded all expectations.

  “I suspect some will object to educating the lower classes beyond a bit of reading and writing,” Fetch continued, “but I’m hoping a good number will applaud your efforts. You’ll have most of the vicars and MPs on your side—the Whigs at least—and all the charitable ladies.” Fetch grinned. “You can even invite some of them to participate. Lots of possibilities for reconciliation over tea.”

  Cecilia clapped her hands, chortling out loud. “Good Lord, Fetch, you’re becoming as devious as Nick.”

  “Always been that way, Missus. That’s why he chose me, now isn’t it?”

  Juliana took a deep breath. “Fetch, when I came here today, I was defeated, ready to run. And now . . . I don’t know if your idea will improve my position in society, but I do know you have given me a new goal, a truly intriguing idea to pursue. And I thank you. Tell Mr. Black you have done him proud.”

  Fetch bounced up from chair. “Thank you, my lady.” After a very proper bow to both women, he exited the room, his shoulders fixed in the cocky stance of a street kid grown into the treasured apprentice of the most feared men in London.

  Behind him, two pairs of eyes—amber and green—misted over, but the tears threatening to spill down alabaster cheeks were no longer tears of sorrow.

  Chapter Nine

  Juliana sat in her drawing room, back straight, hands draped gracefully in her lap, every fold of her sea-green gown carefully arrayed—a perfect portrait of how a lady of the ton comported herself when awaiting a guest. She’d had to send for him, of course. Setting up and maintaining a charity school, even a school that operated one day a week, was an expensive proposition. And of course the Aphrodite Academy was a constant drain on her resources, every penny she negotiated for her graduates going into bank accounts set up for the young women’s future. Fetch’s Sunday school would be the same, all the money going out, none coming in.

  Therefore, Darius. Who would not hesitate to tell her how close to the edge she would be skating if she took on this new project. She had never closely examined how much wealth Geoffrey left her—a great deal, of that she was certain, for Darius never chided her about monies spent, but yet another drain on the estate . . .

  Or was a Sunday school a mere bagatelle to her vast fortune, and she was merely using it as an excuse to summon him to her?

  “Mr. Wolfe, my lady.” And there he was, standing in the doorway, glowering at her, his dark eyes seething with enough emotion she could feel the sparks across a good fifteen feet.

  Juliana proffered a cool nod, appreciating his feral grace as he stalked toward her, flipped the tails of his coat, and seated himself directly across from her.

  “You sent for me, my lady?” His unspoken disapproval of her association with Longmere pulsed between them.

  She could be equally cold, equally abrupt. “I am considering setting up a school that would provide further education for apprentices and young people in service. It would operate only on Sunday. Do I have enough money to afford an additional charity?”

  “Good God, Jewel, don’t you read the reports I send you?”

  Juliana hung her head, repressing the urge to bite her lip. “I have always trusted your excellent management, Darius. And financial papers bore me.”

  He groaned. “Juliana, look at me!” Slowly, she raised her eyes and peered at him, all semblance of aristocratic arrogance in abeyance. “You own vast amounts of land, numerous houses, mills, ships, and money in the funds. You are one of the wealthiest women in England. You could set up a full-time school in each major city and still live a life of luxury. And you should damn well know that without my telling you so.”

  She did. Of course she did. But she had taken great glee in writing the note that said, “Mr. Wolfe, please call on me immediately. I have a matter of business to discuss with you.”

  Forcing Darius Wolfe to jump to her tune.

  “You will need a suitable property,” he said.

  “Which I am certain you will be able to find for me,” Juliana returned, blandly displaying her most limpid amber gaze.

  “Somewhere between Mayfair and Covent Garden,” he mused, looking thoughtful.

  “But what about Cathy, who is all the way out in St. John’s Woods? The school is Fetch’s idea, you see, so Cathy is all-important to our plans.”

  Darius sighed. “You must start at the beginning of this tale, Jewel, and give me the whole.”

  Juliana pursed her lips, nodded, and did as he asked, reporting the nastiness of the new rumors being circulated, the words bitter on her tongue. She touched briefly on her despair, followed by her visit to Cecilia, where Fetch had offered his surprising his idea as an opportunity to raise her esteem among members of the ton while fulfilling his own private dream.

  “Boy’s too clever for his own good,” Darius muttered when she was done. “A chip off the old block. Are you sure he’s not Black’s bastard?”

  “They both swear not. And surely no son of Nick Black would have wheat-colored hair.”

  “True.” Darius was silent for several moments, clearly thinking the problem through. “I suggest,” he said at last, “that we start small, setting up an establishment that will accommodate Cathy and a few others in service west of Regents Park, perhaps northern Mayfair as well. If that is successful, we can set up similar schools in other areas. And never fear, I assure you, you can afford it.”

  “You are very good at your job,” Juliana murmured. “But then I always knew that.”

  “I will look for a suitable accommodations immediately. Do you wish me to interview schoolmasters as well?”

  “And the cream of governesses,” Juliana returned swiftly. “Not all females are widgeons, Darius.”

  He gave her a wry look. “As you would have me believe.”

  She tossed her head. “Very well, I was quite certain I could afford it, but you are my man of business. We planned the Academy together, did we not? I feared if I did not consult you, you would twitch the apron strings and give me grief.”

  His scowl snapped b
ack I place. “You are in sole charge of your money, Lady Rivenhall. I merely make certain that all your enterprises function properly, creating even more wealth.”

  “You are still angry with me.”

  His dark gaze was steady, unbending. “As long as you cling to Longmere, yes.”

  “He is . . . kind. Attentive.” He does not flaunt another woman in my face.

  Darius stood. “Now that I have my orders, my lady, I will take my leave and be about your business.”

  “Darius!” Astonished by his continued intransigence, Juliana blurted out his name.

  He bowed and strode out, leaving her frozen in place behind him. Dear God, her efforts had been for nothing. Jealousy had not brought him back, hat in hand. And business had remained just that. Business.

  Darius was gone, truly gone. That horrid creature had triumphed. Over Juliana, Baroness Rivenhall, the most skilled lover in the land. Even though it was a position she had never wanted. A position that had brought her only heartache.

  She could have had him, of course. This anguish was entirely of her own making. Darius had asked her to marry him a dozen times or more. Yet each time she had turned him away.

  The hauntings in her head had turned him away. Darius understood that. Which was why he had tolerated her refusals for so long.

  But not anymore. Except for matters of business, he was done with her idiosyncracies. And, truthfully, who could blame him? Her fault, her fault, her fault. Dear God, would she never be free of the curse of the past?

  Juliana bowed her head and, like the scourge of a whip, allowed her memories to rush in.

  There was a sudden hush as Juliana entered the vicarage of St. Marks Reformed Church. Startled eyes, pursed lips, followed by a huff or two. Evidently the so-called ladies present had not expected her to show her face at this meeting of the Women’s Committee for the Protection of Climbing Boys. Mrs. Biddle, the vicar’s wife, recovered first, coming forward to greet her. “Lady Rivenhall, how good of you to join us. Your support of our cause is most welcome. Please be seated.” She waved a hand toward the comfortable chair from which she herself had just risen.