Nods, snickers and giggles hidden by quickly placed fans as the whispered “motherly love” traveled around the room. Cheswick waited until there was quiet again. Then his expression turned solemn and he raised his glass in Gareth and William’s direction.
“It is also my occasion for honoring two of the bravest men I know,” he said. “Major Lord Gareth McNair, Duke of Harrow, and Major William Hampson, baronet, both of His Majesty’s Army. Men whose bravery and sacrifice are the reasons we are not all speaking French at this moment. Gentlemen, we honor you.”
Thunderous applause broke out. Heat crept up the back of Gareth’s neck and he fought the urge to adjust his collar. Beside him, William’s head was bowed, his lone eye shut.
And among the cheering guests stood Julia, regal and cool and staring right at him, her eyes fixed on the flower pinned to his lapel. A pulse hammered in his throat as desire heated his blood.
He had to ask her. Ask her why she’d married Fleming when she knew he was returning from London with the special license. Surely after all this time he deserved an answer.
The crowd surrounded him, separating her from him like a wave. Manners demanded he stand there, accepting their praise and congratulations when all he wanted to do was to talk to her.
Finally, after a long three-quarters of an hour, he and William were able to disengage themselves. The guests had been no less effusive in their praise of his friend but far too many had directed their gaze over William’s shoulder than at his face. One would think they had never seen a man wear an eye-patch before.
“I need a drink,” William muttered. “I hope Cheswick still keeps scotch in his library.”
He departed, gently shouldering his way through the milling crowd. From the second floor landing, music began and guests headed toward the ballroom. Near its doors, Gareth spied Julia talking with Cheswick under a marble column. The man looked across the room and beckoned for Gareth to join them. In so public a place, and with what seemed like half of London watching, not to join them would only start tongues wagging again. As if Gareth hadn’t given them enough to talk about since his return.
He forced his step to a languid pace, slowly closing the space between them, while his heart took off at a runner’s sprint. God help him, but she was beautiful. Her skin took on the glow of the surrounding candles while their light made her ivory gown’s beaded, lacy overskirt shimmer as if a thousand stars had fallen from the sky and been captured in its silky folds. She might have been a living moonbeam in their midst, silver and slim and shining like every hope a man ever dreamed of.
He stopped before them and bowed.
“Cheswick,” he greeted. “Lady Fleming.”
“Your Grace.” The fan she held snapped open.
“Hope you didn’t mind the little accolade, Harrow,” Cheswick said. “Thought you’d rather be recognized for your war efforts than that that silly business in Hyde this morning.”
“Thank you,” Gareth said, keeping his gaze trained on Julia’s face.
“Not at all,” Cheswick said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to thank my other guests for coming. There’s plenty of champagne, so drink up.”
He strolled away, leaving them alone. As if by agreement, the other guests kept their distance. They might as well have been on the moon. Her eyes pinned Gareth to the spot. He could not have moved if he wanted.
“Thank you for the flowers,” he said.
“You’re welcome.” Her eyes continued to search his face, as if looking for some clue. “I’m very glad Ramsfield didn’t kill you.”
“Why, madam, did you think that he would?”
A smile hovered around her mouth, then blossomed into the one he remembered so well. “Not really,” she admitted. “You’ve had a great deal of practice lately, haven’t you?”
Gareth couldn’t stop his chuckle. “Indeed yes. But with that puce-colored waistcoat Ramsfield insisted on wearing, he would have been hard to miss, even at dawn. Thank God his mother arrived when she did.”
“Thank God,” she echoed.
Ask her. Ask her now. “Julia—”
“Excuse me, Your Grace.” A discreet but distinct throat clearing stopped Gareth’s question. Cheswick’s butler and major-domo stood a few paces away, his usually composed face lined with concern. Gareth withheld his sigh of impatience and asked, “What is it, Howard?”
“Lady Fleming has a visitor who says she must speak with her at once,” Howard answered gravely. “I put her in the small parlor.”
“Me?” Julia stared at the servant. “Who is it?”
“Maria, your lady’s maid. She says it concerns your sister, Lady Lucy, who saw her arrive and has joined her. Mr. James Conrad is with them as well.”
“Oh my Lord.” The fan fell from Julia’s hands. “Father.”
Gareth knelt, retrieved the fan and closed it. Handing it to her, he asked, “What about your father?”
She trembled, and her hands clutched about the fan was all that kept it from falling from her grasp again. Damning all the consequences, Gareth put his arm around her. “Just tell me, Julia,” he said gently. “What about your father?”
She stared at him, her cobalt eyes darkened to nearly onyx. Not a trace of color remained in her face, and still trembling, she whispered, “He plans to marry Lucy off to Viscount Clayton. He left town yesterday to take care of the final arrangements, but I didn’t expect him to return so quickly. He must have gone to my house in spite of me telling him he was not welcome there. That’s the only reason Maria would have come here.”
“Good God.” A bitter distaste flooded Gareth’s mouth. “Clayton is sixty-five if he’s a day. How old is Miss Heaton?”
“Eighteen.” Tears trembled on Julia’s eyelashes.
“Your sister can have anyone in London. For mercy’s sake, Julia, she’s still a child. What is your father thinking?” The taste of her name filled his mouth with an unexpected sweetness.
Something between a laugh and a sob broke her voice. “Don’t let Lucy hear you say that,” she warned. “Like all young ladies who have just made their come-out, she thinks she is blessed with wisdom and experience beyond her years. I can’t let Father force Lucy to marry Clayton. I can’t.”
“Is Lucy in love with James Conrad?”
“Head over heels. Oh, Lord, Gareth. What am I going to do?”
“First, we’re going to talk to your maid.” Moving his arm from her waist to her forearm, he maneuvered her through the crowd, trying to ignore the open stares. He just hoped The Arbiters weren’t watching.
They reached the parlor door, opened it and stepped inside to find Lucy and James Conrad sitting side by side and hand in hand on a loveseat. Maria stood nearby. Moonlight poured in from the open French doors lining the back wall and the contents of tall candelabras offered the room’s only other light.
“Julia!” Lucy’s voice rose to a wail. “Maria says Papa has returned and the Viscount Clayton will be back in town tomorrow! And that Papa already has the special license!”
She burst into tears, and James slipped his arm around her waist. “Don’t cry, darling,” he soothed. “See, your sister has brought the Duke of Harrow. They’ll find a way to help us.”
“Maria.” Gareth heard the old, familiar note of command enter his voice. “Tell us what has happened.”
At Julia’s nod, Maria said, “Lady Fleming’s father returned unexpectedly from the country. I lied and told him she and Miss Lucy went to the theater with friends. He intends—” Maria hesitated before saying, “For Miss Heaton to marry Viscount Clayton in two days’ time and says he already has men posted on all roads leading out of London to insure she will not try to elope with Mr. Conrad to Gretna Green or some such place.”
“Nooo!” Lucy wailed.
“Please, Lady Fleming,” James pleaded. “I know I haven’t got much, but I love your sister with all my heart, body and soul. I want to marry her. Can’t you find a way to help us?”
“We
need a special license as well,” Gareth said. “Maria, I don’t suppose you could steal the one Heaton has? And why the devil doesn’t Clayton have it?”
Maria made a face. “The Viscount has been laid up with the gout, and so Miss Heaton’s father obtained it. He has it locked in his safe and he alone knows the combination. When I left the house, he was in his bath.”
“Oh, why doesn’t he just get drunk?” Julia fumed.
“But if we hurry, we might have enough time to devise a plan to smuggle Lucy and James out of London,” Gareth declared.
“But I haven’t the money for a special license,” James complained bitterly. “And even if I did, we can’t get one at this time of night.”
“Yes we can,” Gareth said. “I’ll go over to Lambeth Palace and roust the Archbishop of Canterbury out of bed.”
The others stared at him with varying degrees of joy and disbelief. “You can’t do that,” Julia gasped. “Can you?”
“Being a duke is not without its advantages,” Gareth said. “Besides, the Archbishop owes me a favor. Mr. Conrad, I presume you are staying here with Cheswick and have an adequate change of clothing?”
James’ frown spoke to his confusion. “Yes, my lord, but what does that have to do with our situation?”
“If Heaton’s men are looking for escaping women, then they won’t find them,” Gareth answered. “All they’ll find is a carriage full of men. Besides, only a fool would try to stop Cheswick’s crested coach.”
“Julia and I are going to dress like men?” Hope returned to Lucy’s eyes. “To escape from Papa?”
“It’s the only way,” Gareth said grimly.
“But Papa is sure to try to follow us on his own, once he discovers we’re gone,” Julia argued. “The horses he keeps are excellent.”
“Then we need to find a foolproof way to detain your father.” Gareth stroked his chin in thought. “Maria, do you have any skill at mixing sedating tisanes? Something with a touch of poppy in it?”
The maid’s eyes gleamed in understanding. “Yes, Your Grace, but I have a better one that will force Sir George to stay near a chamber pot. The old fool needs to suffer for trying to break Miss Lucy’s heart. Sadly, it will last only a day.”
“Give the old fool an extra dose, then,” Gareth ordered. “Get a bottle of brandy from Cheswick’s butler and give it to Heaton with the earl’s compliments. Slip the dose in that. Then when he’s in utter misery, pack for your ladies and yourself and come back here. We can’t have Miss Heaton wearing men’s clothing on her honeymoon.”
“Honeymoon?” Relief flooded James’ face.
Gareth nodded. “Julia, find William and Cheswick. Tell them our plans and have Cheswick send Maria back to your house in one of his smaller coaches. It can wait until she’s finished her assignment and then bring her back here.”
“But where are we going?” Julia demanded.
“To the Willows, Cheswick’s country estate,” Gareth said. “It’s only a few hours from London. By the time Heaton recovers, our young lovers will be wed and long gone.”
And barely enough time for me to get there and back to London again for that damn meeting with the Prime Minister.
Gareth stared at his co-conspirators. “I’ll meet up with you at the Willows later. James, go find Major Hampson and tell him to meet me out front by the carriage. Best if we’re not seen leaving together.”
He hurried out of the French doors and onto the verandah. The moon had vanished behind a bank of clouds, shutting out any light while a cooling breeze kept those longing for a tryst indoors. In the distance, thunder rumbled and Gareth caught the scent of coming rain. They would have to hurry.
“Gareth?” Julia’s whispered call floated after him.
He turned and watched her white-clad figure run toward him, graceful even in her haste. If anyone had told him forty-eight hours ago he would be entering a conspiracy with this woman, he would have thought that person crazed.
But then, Julia Fleming was no ordinary woman.
She halted before him. “Why are you doing this?”
“There’s no time, Julia,” he said, trying to look anywhere but her shining eyes. “We’ll talk later.”
“But—”
“Later.”
He started to pivot away but she grabbed his shoulder, and with a surprising strength, pulled him into her arms to press her mouth against his. Heat exploded over his lips, searing them with her quick, hungry kiss. For a moment, the world rocked around Gareth, and he stood frozen, a willing prisoner of her embrace.
And then as quickly as she had arrived, she was gone.
Chapter Eleven
“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride, Your Grace.” A solemn minister, the smiling duo of Cheswick and William, and Julia. Beautiful, radiant Julia, his at last. He lifted her veil and leaned forward to kiss…
“Your Grace. Your Grace.” Taggert’s raised voice jarred Gareth out of sleep. “Wake up, Your Grace.”
“What the hell—” Gareth pulled himself into a sitting position and stared at the clock on the nightstand. “Eight o’clock? This is the second time since I’ve been back in London that you’ve awakened me early enough to rouse the dead, Taggert.”
He sank back, and covered his head with the bedclothes as flashes of yesterday’s early morning events danced before his closed eyes. His awakening of the Archbishop late the night before to obtain the special license. The frantic carriage ride out of London with William by his side, and the heart-pounding wait for the wedding party to arrive at Cheswick’s estate. Recalling Julia stepping from Cheswick’s carriage, clad in the earl’s old clothing, Gareth swallowed the groan rising in his throat. Cheswick’s old breeches had hugged her hips and bottom to perfection, his linen shirt and tailored jacket fitting her bosom in a way no tailor ever intended. Even her dressed as a man hardened him.
And then the brief ceremony that united Lucy Heaton and James Conrad forever, and Gareth and William’s dash back to London, arriving just in time for their meeting at the War Office and the Prime Minister to discuss rumors that Napoleon was again planning to escape.
Because, in spite of their moonlight kiss two nights ago, the greater the distance between Gareth and Julia, the better.
“Your Grace,” Taggert said again.
Gareth tried sitting up once more, only to have a hammer begin pounding in his head. Death might be preferable to this. “This better be good, Taggert.”
“Too much to drink last night, Your Grace? Shall I fetch The Remedy?” Not even the barrier of the bedclothes could muffle Taggert’s sarcasm.
“Go away,” Gareth groaned again.
After he and William had finished at the War Office, Gareth had gone to not one, not two, but three gambling hells, and had risen the winner all three times. After that, he attended a private horse race, doubled his winnings, and bought the horse. In the early evening he had visited a number of homes available for purchase. It didn’t matter if it was early evening or not. He was a duke. After narrowing his choice down to two, he returned to his rooms at Rochester’s, dressed for the evening and went to the theater, followed by a private late supper with a woman who gave every indication she was his for the taking.
And after seeing the lady home, he preceded to drink away the remaining night. Gods, how much brandy would it take to wipe Julia Fleming from his mind once and for all? “What did you want, Taggert?”
“Sir William is here to see you, Your Grace.”
Gareth lowered the bedclothes a fraction, and peered out at his manservant. Taggert’s grim expression pulled him into an upright position once more. “I didn’t promise to go riding with him again this morning, did I?”
“No, Your Grace, but he says it’s imperative that he speak to you immediately.”
“At eight o’clock in the morning, it had better be.”
Fighting the nausea rising in his throat, Gareth pushed the bedclothes aside, stood and grabbed his robe from the
foot of the bed. Shoving his arms into the sleeves, he strode into the parlor, combing his hair with his fingers. “I hope your life is fully insured, William,” he growled. “Because it won’t be worth tuppence—”
Gareth’s words died away at the sight of the clergyman standing next to William, turning his wide-brimmed hat round and round in his hands. There was something familiar about the man’s face. “You’re—” he started to say.
“You will recall the Reverend Jonas Smith,” William finished.
The past screamed into Gareth’s brain. Eight years ago. A secluded grove with William beside him as they waited for Julia, and then this man joining them. “You brought Julia Heaton’s letter, telling me she had married Charles Fleming,” Gareth accused.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Smith gripped his broad-brimmed hat more tightly. “I heard yesterday you had returned from the wars. I have long prayed for your safety.”
“Did you come to see proof of your prayers’ efficacy?” Gareth asked sarcastically, seating himself near the hearth. He waved William into a nearby chair but did not invite Smith to sit. A duke could do that.
The clergyman reddened. “No, Your Grace, but I am grateful the Almighty delivered you home safely, for I have something I need to confess to you.”
Gareth accepted a cup of coffee from Taggert. “Don’t people usually come to you for that?”
“I have prayed the opportunity might present itself. You see, Your Grace, I have grievously wronged you.”
“Indeed?” Gareth yawned. “Other than waking me up at an unholy hour, how have you grievously wronged me?”
“It concerns the letter I gave you that night eight years ago. The letter from Lady Julia Fleming, then Julia Heaton. Do you remember it?”
That night. The night when a few short lines on said paper ended his youthful dreams of love and happiness. “In fine detail,” Gareth said. “What about it?”
Smith made a gulping sound before answering. “Lady Fleming did not write that letter. I did.”
Back in Your Arms Page 7