by Meara Platt
It was almost four o’clock by the time he’d addressed the most urgent matters.
His valet knocked softly on the door.
“Is that you, Cromwell? Come in.”
“My lord,” he said, “you asked me to remind you about Miss St. Giles.”
“Blast, I forgot about Cynthia.” He ordered his coach readied, then washed and dressed in haste, glad for the capable assistance of his long-time valet, a dour old curmudgeon by the name of Oliver Cromwell. The dour man never failed to mention that he was no relation to the usurper of the Crown and it had become a sort of jest between them, for even though Cromwell was a cranky old badger, Douglas liked him quite well.
“By the way, how’s your leg?” Douglas asked.
“All better, m’lord.” He appeared surprised that Douglas had remembered last month’s unfortunate incident with Cynthia’s unruly mare as they’d traveled to the St. Giles estate near Windsor for a weekend party. “Wicked bit o’ work that beast. Well, you know what they say.”
“No, Cromwell. Enlighten me.”
“A horse has its master’s disposition.”
“Nasty horse, nasty rider?” Douglas folded his arms across his chest and frowned. “Is that so? I’ve never heard the expression before. Do you not care for Miss St. Giles?”
“I don’t know the lady, m’lord,” he said, busying himself with folding the cravats he’d set out on the bed for Douglas. “I’m only acquainted with her horse. Besides, it isn’t my place to have an opinion of my betters. What matters is that you like her.”
“I do.”
“Then she’s a very fortunate young woman.”
Douglas dismissed his valet, then hurried downstairs. He climbed into his waiting coach, and as the horses drew away from the curb, Douglas eased back against the squabs and allowed his thoughts to stray.
He was eager to see Cynthia, though he doubted she’d missed him very much, for she had no shortage of suitors. A blonde-haired beauty with striking blue eyes, soft pink cheeks and even softer lips, she was proclaimed an Incomparable and courted by several noblemen in search of a wife. He was flattered that Cynthia held him in particularly high regard and he’d returned the compliment.
But his attention came at a price. She was expecting his proposal of marriage.
Lord, what a mess.
The only blonde-haired beauty who occupied his thoughts just now was Julia. His fascination with the girl was easily explained. He’d spent a week in her company, a tense week filled with peril. She and the boy were still in danger and, for that reason, held his attention. He didn’t like to be parted from them even for a few hours.
But matters would soon draw to a close now that they had reached London. He intended to give Julia… or Twombly, enough rope… one of them was about to walk into the hangman’s noose.
Douglas shook out of his thoughts as his coach drew up in front of the St. Giles home, an immaculately maintained residence situated in one of the more fashionable Mayfair squares. An elderly butler escorted him into the drawing room and announced him to Cynthia and her many guests.
“Lord Eastbourne,” Cynthia cooed, leaving her circle of admirers to greet him, “how lovely to see you. My brother assured me that you would turn up, but I feared you’d forgotten all about me.” She batted her eyelashes quite prettily over her blue eyes and turned her lips into a practiced pout. Her golden curls rested delicately against her soft, peach cheeks.
“No man could ever forget you, Lady Cynthia,” he said, taking the hand she’d held out and bowing over it. He spent the remainder of the afternoon by her side, forcing himself to participate in what passed for sophisticated conversation, though it was little more than idle gossip and he found it quite dull.
Cynthia tossed him another practiced pout when he rose to leave, but didn’t detain him as he departed with her other guests. After all, Lord Bradford’s ball was to be a grand affair and even a young woman as beautiful as Cynthia needed time to prepare.
She tossed him a parting smile.
He noticed that the smile never reached her eyes.
*
Douglas waited until the evening of the third day to quietly return to the Bayswater house he’d let for Julia and Charlie. The house was dark when he entered, save for a dim glow emanating from the salon where he was to meet Mr. Barrow.
A clock standing in the entry hall let out a soft bong to chime midnight as he strode past it into the salon. “Mr. Barrow?”
He had expected to find Homer seated beside the warming fire, prepared to report his findings, but the room was empty. Had something untoward happened to the Bow Street runner?
Douglas tamped down his concern and, after a moment’s pause, decided to go upstairs in search of him. He also resolved to look in on Julia and Charlie, for the pair was under his protection and it was his duty to make certain they were safe.
They were his responsibility and that wouldn’t change, unless Julia was the rabbit snared in his trap.
Not that he hoped for such an outcome.
He liked the girl.
She had a warm, forthright manner he found refreshing, more so after having spent the last few days pursuing idle pleasures with the cream of London Society and finding their conversations unbearably vapid. Not even the beautiful Cynthia St. Giles could hold his attention.
He found Cynthia’s conversation dullest of all.
Adding to his frustration, Saron was not in London and not due back for several more days. That his cousin, the Duke of Draloch, bore a striking resemblance to the Fae king, only added to his confusion. How was Saron connected to all this?
“Lord Eastbourne! Goodness, you startled me,” Julia said, bumping into him as she entered the salon as he was about to leave it.
He switched course and invited her in, taking the empty glass of milk held in her hand and setting it aside on a nearby table.
“I didn’t realize you were here.” She shivered lightly, then tightened her shawl about her shoulders.
He recognized that familiar old wrap she’d brought down with her from Borrowdale and frowned. “Didn’t mean to alarm you.”
“Not at all. I’m glad you’ve come. There’s something I wish to discuss.”
He shrugged off his overcoat and tossed it onto the sofa, then motioned for her to join him by the fire burning in the grate, for she appeared cold. He tried not to watch the delicate sway of her hips as she settled into one of the chairs, but he wasn’t a saint, and she moved with sensual grace.
He cleared his throat. “You’re still wearing your old clothes. I thought your new ones would be ready by now.”
“Did you?” She stuck her pert chin into the air.
Was she annoyed with him? “Well,” he said with an arch of his eyebrow, “one or two gowns, at least. No matter, where’s Mr. Barrow?”
“He isn’t here. Oh, he’s just stepped out for a short while,” she hastened to add when his frown deepened. “Samuel’s upstairs with Charlie now. He’s fast asleep. Charlie, that is. He’s been sleeping soundly these past few nights, no doubt worn out by the excitement of each new day and the promise of more fun to come.”
He noted relief in the soft glint of her eyes as she added, “He never mentions King Cadeyrn or the bluebell garden. All has been blessedly quiet.”
Douglas drew up a chair beside hers and sank into it. “I’m glad. And what about you, Julia?”
She shook head and let out a contented sigh. “I didn’t think it possible, but I’ve had the loveliest time here in London. We spent the first day in the park with Mr. Barrow, enjoying a long stroll in the sunshine. The walkways are smooth and even, so we had little trouble pushing Charlie’s chair about. There’s a toy shop at the edge of the park. I purchased a tin of miniature soldiers for Charlie using some of the allowance you left in the bureau drawer. I kept the receipts for you.”
“Those funds are for you to do with as you wish. You needn’t account to me.”
She shot him another
glance of annoyance. “Yes, well that’s what Mr. Barrow said. I’d like to speak to you about that.”
“Of course, whenever you wish. Did Charlie like the tin soldiers?”
“He loved them,” she replied in gentle wonder. “When we returned home, Charlie, Samuel, and Mr. Barrow played with the soldiers the entire evening, staging mock battles and having a rousing good time until it was time for Charlie to go to bed. I haven’t seen him this happy in years.”
“Pleased to hear the lad enjoyed himself.”
“Yesterday we toured several museums and today we spent hours strolling about an art fair. When we returned, the men resumed their mock battles with the tin soldiers and I baked an apple pie.”
“Ah, that’s the delightful scent I detect in the air.” Douglas inhaled deeply.
Julia laughed. “Forgive me, I should have offered you a slice. Give me a moment and I’ll set out a tray for you.”
“I’ll join you in the kitchen.” He followed her in and watched her move smoothly within the confines of the small space, darting from cupboard to table to stove with the efficiency of the British naval fleet maneuvering about the Channel.
She warmed the pie and put on the kettle for tea.
He offered to help.
“You, my lord? I can’t imagine you in an apron.”
But he insisted on carrying the heavily laden tray into the salon. He doubted the fair Cynthia had ever lifted anything heavier than a delicate lace handkerchief. He strongly doubted she’d ever entered the St. Giles kitchens, much less baked an apple pie.
Julia seemed quite pleased when he polished off the first slice and cut himself another.
Her smile, Douglas noted, reached into her eyes.
“My lord,” she said, darting her tongue across her lips to dab away a crumb, the simple gesture sending his heart shooting into his throat. He thought of several wicked uses for her tongue, all of which would earn him a resounding slap from the sweet innocent seated beside him.
“My lord,” she repeated more insistently, “may we now discuss the pin money you left in the bureau drawer?”
He set down the cup of tea he’d just raised, allowing it to land with a clatter. “Is it not enough?” he asked, struggling to control his disappointment. She was quite the little mercenary.
“I don’t wish to seem ungrateful, but your generosity must stop.”
“Stop?” He shook his head, confused.
She withdrew a square of silk from her pocket and, with it, a folded scrap of paper that turned out to be a purchase order from Madame de Bressard. There were no prices listed, of course, for such matters were simply not discussed. “You’ve given me too much. I’ll never use the satin gowns you’ve ordered. Oh, they’re quite magnificent, but I’ll never travel in your elevated Society or be invited to your elegant affairs. So, what am I to do with five satin gowns? And their matching fur-trimmed capes?”
She sighed and shook her head. “I will, however, accept three wool gowns, but no more. And you’ve ordered silk slippers for me. Utterly impractical. Where shall I ever wear them? How do ladies manage to walk in them? I’ll accept a pair of boots like the ones I’m wearing now.” She pursed her lips and stared down at her feet. “These are badly worn and may not last another year.”
Douglas burst out laughing. “Julia, I can easily afford three times the expense.”
“That isn’t the point. I do understand the need to dote on Charlie, for he’s your nephew. But I’m no relation to you. Indulging me in this fashion is… well, it’s…”
“You’re Charlie’s cousin. Isn’t that reason enough?”
“Hmm.”
“Do I need another reason?”
“There’s no help for it,” she muttered, tilting her pretty chin upward again. “I must ask you, er, though I don’t wish to offend you, but I must be very clear on this point. Do you intend to take me on as your mistress?”
Douglas let out a strangled oath. “My mistress? Who put this mad idea into your head? My mistress? The thought never crossed my mind! Dismiss it from yours at once!”
She rose and planted her hands on either side of her waist. “I’m not asking to be your… your… the problem is that others believe I am. All I’m asking is that you not be so generous with me.”
He rose as well, now towering over her. “In all my life, I’ve never had such an absurd conversation with anyone.”
“Worrying about my reputation is no trifling matter.” She gazed up at him, pain glistening in her eyes. “I’ve nothing in this world but my good name. How can I not worry about what others think? Or what you might do in a day, a month, a year from now if you tire of Charlie, or ever decide he doesn’t need me. I believe you mean to do what’s right, but life isn’t predictable, is it? No one can know what the future will bring.”
He sighed and took her hands, wanting her to trust him. But how could he demand it of her? His very presence here tonight belied that trust. He needed to speak to Homer and receive his report because he needed to know if she was a thief and extortionist. “Very well, you’ll have your three wool gowns and a new pair of boots. We’ll discuss adding more to your wardrobe in a few days, after you’ve had time to reconsider.”
By then, he would know whether Julia had been lying to him.
He was sophisticated and cynical, but Lord help him, he was growing to care for the girl, more than he wished to admit.
This vicar’s daughter, he realized with a jolt, had the power to break his heart.
Chapter 15
Douglas returned to his townhouse much later that evening, his purpose in meeting Homer unfulfilled. He’d waited up half the night hoping for word from him and then fallen into restless dreams of Julia that overwhelmed him even now that it was morning and he was fully awake, bathed and dressed, and attempting to work.
Those dreams still had him aching to explore Julia’s body and destroy her innocence in the most improper ways. He understood that his desire to absolve the girl of any crime had somehow twisted into something hot and sexual. But what surprised him was the continued intensity of his desire and his deplorable inability to cool it down.
Blast! Of course, he’d never act upon his lustful urges.
Whatever her other faults, Julia was innocent in that way.
He’d made the profound discovery on their last night at the vicarage when rescuing her from King Cadeyrn’s icy grip. Keeping her unspoiled even as he’d roused her to passion had been one of the most difficult things he’d ever done. Her responsiveness to his touch had worked magic on him so that he no longer merely wanted her but craved her.
Blasted faeries! Was this another of their spells? Did such creatures exist?
“M’lord,” Cromwell said, knocking lightly at the open door to his study shortly before noon. Douglas was attempting to concentrate on the letters and documents piled on his desk, but he’d remained too distracted with thoughts of Julia and worry that something bad had happened to Homer. Because of that, the hours passed slowly and he’d accomplished nothing useful.
Douglas rose from his chair and came around to the front of his desk, grateful for the interruption. “What is it?”
“There’s a Master Homer Barrow asking to see you.”
Relief washed over him, for he’d grown quite attached to the sometimes irritating and always opinionated Bow Street runner. “Show him straight up!”
“At once, m’lord.”
After a moment, he heard Homer’s lumbering footsteps on the stairs.
“Where the deuce have you been?” Douglas hurled the question as he dragged Homer into his study and closed the door behind them. “I was about to send a search party out for you. Are you hurt? You look tired.”
“I’m fit as a fiddle, m’lord,” he assured. “Been a long night, but I have news for ye, some of it good. Some of it bad and some of it very bad. Where do ye wish me to start?
“At the beginning.” Douglas leaned against his desk, his heart dropping into hi
s stomach as he regarded Homer’s serious expression. “Go on, tell me all of it.”
“Well, the good news ought to come first, I think.” He cleared his throat and proceeded. “It took me and m’mates a while to clear Julia of suspicion because the real thief took ’er sweet time comin’ forward. Even I was beginning to doubt our girl.”
“The real thief?” That meant Julia had been innocent and telling the truth all along, only he’d been too cynical to believe it.
Homer shook his head and sighed. “Sure enough, yesterday afternoon, just before the bank’s closin’ time, the imposter makes ’er way in, strutting in as though she owns the place. ’Er name’s Eliza Dutton, a young widow from Cheapside whose husband left her destitute. But ain’t that often the way, m’lord? Life is hard on ’em that don’t have. She saw no harm in takin’ a shilling or two from a fancy toff.”
“Weren’t you with Julia and Charlie all of yesterday afternoon? How did you know it was this Miss Dutton who showed up at the bank?” He trusted Homer Barrow and knew the resourceful man had his reliable sources of informants, but he wished to know every detail for the sake of clarity.
“M’friends, Mick and George, have been coverin’ the place for me ever since we returned to London. Mick’s a clever little fellow and has the look of a bookkeeper, spectacles and all. He got ’imself set up as a clerk inside the bank.”
“How?”
Homer let out a jovial guffaw. “Ye wouldn’t want to be knowin’ that, m’lord. Let’s just say he has a fine penmanship.”
Douglas stifled a groan, realizing Mick must have forged his own engagement letter, probably signed Lord Carlisle’s name to it, for he owned the bank. “And what about George?”
“He stood watch outside, pretendin’ to be fixin’ some cobblestones. Then yesterday afternoon, Mick comes runnin’ out, nods to George and they follow the widow back to ’er home. Knowin’ I was eager to talk to this imposter, George runs off to fetch me.”
“That’s where you were last night?”
“Quite right, m’lord. Just as I arrive at the widow’s house, she comes hurryin’ out the door in a mad rush, as though she’s late for an appointment. I duck into the shadows, then follow her to the river. She stops by the ferry. Waitin’ for her is… yer solicitor, Twombly.”