Gradually, as time passed, Julia grew used to his constant presence in her bedchamber also. It was odd how quickly a way of living she would have found unthinkable only a short while before had become commonplace. The intimacies of everyday life, dressing and undressing together, bathing and sleeping, had, little by little, ceased to be embarrassing. Occasionally, Julia would find herself watching Rud as he shaved or stepped into his breeches. Or, else she would turn suddenly from brushing the long blonde strands of her hair and discover his eyes upon her. At night, he insisted on drawing her close to sleep, and sometimes she would awake between midnight and dawn to find his hands exploring the curves and hollows of her body. The instant they were both fully conscious he always released her at once. At times, he would turn to his side and lie for the rest of the night unmoving, at others, he would remove himself from the bed and, taking an extra comforter, sleep in the sitting room on the hard, silk-covered settee. On those particular nights, Julia, wanting to relax and enjoy the unexpected boon of being alone, would be troubled by the unaccustomed emptiness around her and a vague guilt for Rud’s discomfort.
Lady Cathcart, Rud’s mother, did not put in an appearance. It was just as well. When Julia had informed Rud, belatedly, on the morning after the dinner party of the possibility, he had stared at her. “For what?” he asked. “What does she want?”
“I have no idea, nor did Aunt Lucinda.”
“She knows what I think of her. If she comes here dripping tears and mouthing her innocence, I will not be responsible for the consequences.”
“She is your mother,” Julia protested.
“She is a faithless witch who cares for no pleasure, no convenience, except her own. She led my father a merry dance, but I have watched her use her wiles on people for too many years to be taken in by them. I am amazed she would even think of trying.”
Greatly daring, Julia asked, “Are you certain you are being fair to her? Have you ever listened to what she has to say?”
“I suppose Aunt Lucinda could not resist telling you the sad tale, though what she expected to accomplish with it I cannot imagine. I would be grateful if both you and she would allow me to handle this affair of my mother in my own fashion. I assure you I have no need of help, however well intentioned.”
There was nothing more Julia could say. Her curiosity concerning the woman who had home Rud would have to go unappeased. Though it was not her nature to do nothing when she thought someone was wrong in his attitude, she could not force Rud to see his mother. He had not forbidden her to see Lady Cathcart, however. If the opportunity arose to make the lady’s acquaintance, Julia did not think she would be backward. But no such opportunity presented itself to her, and then, an event occurred which pushed all else from her mind.
8
It was a gray afternoon. Aunt Lucinda had gone out to make a round of calls. She had invited Julia to accompany her, but Julia had refused, pleading a headache. It was a valid excuse. She had spent so much of her free time in the last few days doing embroidery or reading that she had strained her eyes. She sat now in the small sitting room with a piece of Berlin work on her lap, though her hands lay idle upon it. Rud had gone out with his uncle before luncheon, and she was alone. Soon, it would be time to ring for tea. With that out of the way, she would ascend to her bedchamber and while away the hours until dinner dressing. Since she had by now worn every one of the new mourning creations twice over, that occupation offered little promise of entertainment.
The sound of the door opening behind her brought Julia’s head around. “Rud! I didn’t hear the carriage.”
“You must have been daydreaming,” he answered with a smile, closing the door behind him as he came toward her.
As he neared, Julia raised her lips for his kiss as unselfconsciously as if she had been doing it all her life. It had become a ritual between them when they parted and when they met again, something Rud expected of her. She had learned that if she omitted it she would find herself subjected to a passionate public embrace. Now, he put his finger under her chin, his warm mouth lingering on hers longer than usual.
“I have good news,” he said a trifle thickly as he raised his head. “The David is making her way into port.”
“Oh, Rud,” she breathed, “at last.”
“Yes, the waiting is over. A few days in port, a week, two at the most, for loading, and then, we will be on our way to St. Helena.” A shadow crossed his face and he straightened, moving to stand with one arm resting on the white marble mantel of the fireplace.
“Is — is anything wrong?”
“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “What could be wrong?”
“I don’t know. It must have been my imagination,” she excused herself. But she was sure she had not been mistaken. For an instant, she had seen regret on his face, and also worry.
“Gourgaud and the others will have to be informed. I have already sent messages for a meeting to be held tonight. Would you like to come?”
“Try to keep me away,” she exclaimed. “But is it certain the David will be routed from London to St. Helena?”
He nodded. “To St. Helena, and then on to Rio de Janeiro. It has all been arranged, thanks primarily to the help of Lord and Lady Holland, who have a consignment of food and drink to be shipped to the emperor.”
“Bless them! I do like Lady Holland, don’t you?”
“Even though she is a divorcée?” he queried.
Julia had heard that bit of scandal, of course. Lady Holland, with her constant round of charities and worthy causes, was prone to stirring up things the aristocracy had ignored for years and preferred to continue to ignore. Since they did not intend to act on her appeals, they excused themselves, and her, by pointing out the faults and weaknesses of her past. It did not matter that she was warm and lovely and had been much wronged. Julia could not help taking up the cudgels in her defense. “A young woman far away from the restraints of home in the eternal city of Rome, tied to a doddering old fool of a husband, must have found it difficult to resist a handsome young man like Lord Holland.”
“The stuff of fairy tales, in fact?” he asked, amusement lacing his tone.
“No, not really,” she answered in all seriousness. “Merely human frailty.”
“Is that what you call it?” He lifted an eyebrow. “In that case, I could wish you had more of it!” Without giving her time to reply, he stepped to the bell pull hanging beside the mantel. “I think this latest development calls for a celebration. Will you join me in a toast to the arrival of the David and the successful conclusion of its next voyage?”
“Gladly,” she said, and wondered at the grimness of his smile.
It was late when they started for the meeting of the Bonapartists. The streets were quiet, almost deserted. The reason was not hard to find. The London season had come to an end. The beau monde had packed its trunks, bags, and boxes, taken the knockers off its doors, and retreated either into the country, to Bath, or to Brighton with the prince regent. More than that, the evening had turned cool and fog was rolling in from the Thames. In the light of their carriage lanterns, it swirled around them like silken ghosts.
It was a night to notice other carriages, for the simple reason that there were so few of them abroad. As they turned the corner into the main thoroughfare leaving Berkeley Square, Julia saw the driver of an ancient hooded hackney spring to life. With the fog and darkness, she could discern no more than the shape of the man, but she thought he stared fixedly at their own barouche as it bowled past. A few minutes later she heard the echoing rattle of another carriage following them.
She turned her head in the direction of the man sitting close beside her. “Rud? Do you hear—”
She got no further, for he swooped upon her, drawing her into his arms. His lips met hers in a thorough kiss that forced her back against the claret velvet squabs. He lingered at the sensitive corner of her mouth, then trailed fire along the curve of her cheek to the tender hollow of her neck.
He pressed his face to the high-piled curls of her hair, breathing deep of its fragrance, before returning once more to the honeyed sweetness of her lips. His fingers moved to the bodice of her dress, unfastening the row of gray pearl buttons. Her breasts swelled, straining against the material as he drew it aside to expose the soft, deep valley between them. He lowered his head, and as Julia felt the searing heat of his mouth, she drew in her breath, one hand going to the crisp waves of his hair. When he tugged her bodice wider in order to direct his attention more closely to a single warm globe, she suddenly sank her fingers into his hair, giving it a tug.
“What are you doing?” she gasped.
He sighed, and then as she released him, raised his head with slow reluctance. He settled back on the seat, though he did not let her go. “You looked so aloof, as virginal and untouched as a novice in a convent, and so unaware of me that I could not stand it.”
“There are other ways of attracting my attention,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Can I help it if I prefer my own?”
She refused to succumb to his drollery. “Yes, I think you can.”
“I might, if I set my mind to it,” he agreed unexpectedly. “But I am so easily distracted.” With deliberation, he allowed his gaze to fall to the white curves presented by her still-gaping bodice.
Her right hand flew to the front of her gown. Snatching her left from behind his back, she began to refasten her buttons with feverish haste. “There,” she said when she was done. “Now, you have no excuse.”
“I think,” he said, his voice tinged with melancholy, “that absence is going to make the heart grow fonder.”
In the confused emotions of the moment, and the peculiar exhilaration of their sparring, she forgot the other carriage.
General Baron Gaspard Gourgaud was just as Julia had imagined him to be. Suave, polished, he had a flamboyant air derived, no doubt, from his theatrical background and a frivolous manner that made an admirable cover for his basic strength of character. Though he bore the highest rank possible in the French army, he was only thirty-four. Since saving the life of the emperor at Brienne following the Russian campaign of 1812, he had enjoyed Napoleon’s highest confidence.
Though Julia had attended one other of the infrequent meetings of the Bonaparte faction in London, Gourgaud had not been present. This was their first meeting.
“I am charmed, Madame, Thorpe,” he said, carrying Julia’s hand to his lips with Gallic grace as he was presented to her. “One has heard so much about you, your courage and beauty. It is a great honor to have you with us in this magnificent endeavor.”
“The honor is mine,” she replied, smiling despite her awareness of Rud standing stiff with disapproval at her side.
M’sieu Robeaud did not look much changed to Julia, though he had begun to grow the beard and mustache that would play a part in the exchange of identities with Napoleon. They gave him a surprisingly fierce look, belied by his manner. He greeted her with quiet pleasure, then moved humbly aside, so that the others crowding around could be introduced in their turn.
One of the last to come forward was Marcel de Gruys. Julia’s smile became fixed as she faced him. It was all she could do to bring herself to extend her hand to him; she could not manage to summon a smile, however false.
“We meet again,” he said, an unpleasant edge in his voice. As he bowed, he appeared to favor his right side.
“Yes.” She had to force the single syllable past her lips.
“We must renew our acquaintance. We have much unfinished business between us,” he told her with snide insinuation. “Perhaps, there will be time on the voyage outward to St. Helena.”
His eyes raked over her in a look that left her feeling naked. His thumbnail dug into the palm of her hand before she could drag it from his damp grasp. Glancing to where Rud had been standing only moments before, she saw him in close conversation with Gourgaud.
“Oh, yes,” de Gruys said with a sly nod. “I know you are married to the fine sea captain. He makes a formidable bodyguard, I will admit. Still, he cannot be with you always.”
She lifted her head, her eyes blazing. “Take care,” she said, allowing a small, ironic sneer to curve her lovely mouth. “When my husband is not with me, I make it a habit to carry a knife.”
He stiffened, a rush of blood staining his face an unhealthy red. His lips writhed in a vile epithet he dared not pronounce aloud with the others so close around them. “Save your warnings for yourself!” he hissed. “Even she-cats like you can be disarmed.” Spinning around, he stalked away.
Julia could feel the trembling along her nerves. As slowly and as casually as possible, she turned. Moving to Rud’s side, she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. He pressed it to his side, sparing her a quick glance. At the set paleness of her face, he lifted a brow of inquiry, but she shook her head, summoning a smile.
It should not have mattered, then, that he returned to Gourgaud, falling back into their discussion of the difficulties of the thousand-mile trip from St. Helena to Rio. Somehow it did.
After a time, Gourgaud reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out a pocket timepiece as large as a turnip. “Messieurs, madame, time speeds. Let us be seated. I believe Captain Thorpe has an important announcement to make.”
With alacrity, they moved into the dining saloon. Rud stood with his fingers resting lightly on the table as he told them of the David. He was a commanding figure, standing broad and tall under the crystal chandelier. The candle glow shone in the blue-black waves of his hair and gave a bronze cast to his features. His rugged attractiveness seemed, by contrast, to give every other man present a soft look that was almost effeminate.
Julia, returning her attention to her husband after glancing around the table, discovered he had finished speaking. With a sense of shock, she realized she had not heard more than a few words of what he had said.
No one else had been woolgathering. A buzz of joyous congratulations filled the room. The feeling was one of suppressed euphoria. The emperor had his ship! It was as though he had reached out across oceans to make things happen in the way he desired. It did not matter that others had made the arrangements; Napoleon had set them in motion.
Gourgaud got to his feet as Rud sat down. “I thank you, Captain Thorpe. I am sure I speak for everyone here when I say you could not have brought us more welcome tidings. Words cannot express our joy, nor can they convey our gratitude to you for your efforts in behalf of him who waits on St. Helena.”
There were a few more items to be decided. These were dispatched with a minimum of disagreement, primarily because Napoleon’s instructions were so explicit for every eventuality.
“Before we part,” Gourgaud said finally, “there is one thing more to which we must give our attention.” With a flourish, he presented a curling sheet of foolscap. “Messieurs, Madame, I have a message from the emperor!”
The main body of the letter was devoted to a barrage of last-minute instructions. Toward the end, Napoleon Bonaparte wrote:
“I sit here on this rock and attempt to visualize all that can go wrong. This exercise is designed to see that nothing will. I am confident of the future. Its promise shines clear. I have had time while accepting the hospitality of the English to regroup my forces, to survey the strengths and weaknesses of my position. The former outweigh the latter. For three years, France has known the ineptitude of the Bourbons and the contempt of the members of the Convention of Paris — Austria, Russia, Prussia, and England. The people remember their past glory and pray for its return. It shall return! I shall!”
The roar of approval was loud and long. Flushed with the excitement of the moment, clapping her stinging palms together, Julia looked down the table. She was so proud to be a part of the effort to free the emperor. It was disconcerting to see Marcel de Gruys with the hard edge of cynicism curling his mouth as he stared at the foolscap being passed from hand to hand. An instant later, he was applauding, smiling as broadly
as any.
They did not linger long after that. One by one, the Bonapartists departed as quietly and inconspicuously as they had come. Marcel, much to Julia’s relief, was among the first to go. She and Rud tarried a few minutes behind the others as he and Gourgaud discussed the best route to send word to the emperor of the impending departure of the David.
The fog had grown thicker in the hour they were inside, so thick it almost hid the coachman on the box of their own carriage from view as Julia and Rud stepped inside. Its dampness touched Julia’s face with wraithlike fingers, and she shivered, wishing she had worn her pelerine.
“Cold?” Rud asked, throwing himself onto the seat beside her as he slammed the door.
Before she could answer, the door on the opposite side of the carriage, away from the flambeau-lit entrance to Gourgaud’s lodging, swung open. A horse pistol was shoved at them.
“Hold!” a hoarse voice growled. “Sit still there and nobody’ll get ‘urt. No screechin’, mind.”
The last was directed at Julia as she swung to face their assailant. He was a short, squat man with beady eyes in a round face which sprouted a straggly beard. Her eyes widened in disbelief as she recognized the man who, more than three weeks before, had driven past her and Aunt Lucinda as they were returning from their shopping.
“What do you want?” Rud demanded, placing his arm across Julia to shield her as much as possible. It was not a great deal, since she was between him and the man with the pistol.
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 1 (Love and Adventure Boxed Sets) Page 16