She did this three times before she decided to give up on reading altogether; there was no point to it, when her attention was focused not on the page, but on the house before her.
"Fine old building, isn't she?" a voice called from behind her, "The design was drawn up by Edward Shepherd himself, before he set off to draw up plans for the old Theatre Royal."
Julia was at a loss as to how she should respond to Lord Montague, for she knew it was he who stood behind her. If she admitted that, yes, Staffordshire House was grand, then he would know that she had been spying on him, like some simpering debutante e. If, however, she denied that she had been spying on him—when the fact was quite obvious—he would think her a coward.
Julia debated on what she should say, but thankfully, when she turned, she found that Lord Montague himself offered something of a subject change.
"Lud," she cried, wrinkling her nose at the sight of him, "What happened to you? You look as though you have been dragged backwards through a hedge."
"Funny, that," Montague mused, as he sat himself down beside her, without invitation, "For I fell forward into it."
"I assume you were showboating for some lady," Julia said, hating herself a little, but unable to resist, "Perhaps another curricle race, to impress Miss Bowers."
Silence greeted her statement and Julia fervently wished that she could take it back, but another part of her—the hurt and jealous part—was glad to have had a chance to vent some spleen at the vanishing marquess.
"I suppose I deserve that, given my reputation," Montague eventually answered, as he shifted in his seat, "I am the fabled boy who cried wolf. Or the marquess who cried sincerity, if you will."
He sounded so dejected, that Julia felt almost guilty. Almost.
"What you do with your time is of no concern to me," she sniffed, as she picked back up her book and pretended to read.
"Is that why you are camped outside my house?" Montague queried, with a grin.
"I was not spying on you," Julia objected, though of course she had been, "These gardens are for the use of the residents, this bench happened to be the only one free."
She could feel her ears burning as she lied, but Montague did not press her. He merely glanced left and right slowly, taking in the half-dozen empty benches which lined the paths, and gave a satisfied smile.
"Are you going to ask me why I look so bedraggled?" he queried.
"No," Julia kept her eyes fixed on the first page of Evelina, "As I have told you before, I do not care what you do."
"I think you do," the marquess retorted, giving a satisfied grin which irritated Julia to her very toes.
"Of course you think I do," Julia snapped, "I am sure you think that the sun, moon, and stars revolve around you, my lord, but I am sorry to tell you that they do not."
Julia exhaled sharply, feeling somewhat satisfied.
"I am beginning to suspect that I have somehow upset my lady."
Montague was dry, but Julia had no patience for humour and wit. She was hurt, and he was the one who had hurt her. He had given her pause to hope, only to disappear once the net he had cast had ensnared her.
"Oh, I am not upset," she replied, rising in one fluid motion to a stand, "I had low expectations of you, my lord, and you have done your utmost to meet them. Now, if you will excuse me, I do not wish to waste any more of your time; I am sure there are other girls you need to meet, to whisper sweet nothings in their ears."
Julia made to leave, but the marquess had leapt to his feet, blocking her way.
"I was trying to learn how to fly," he said, waving a hand at his crumpled, mud-stained clothes, "I have been trying for these past three days to discover a way to make your dream come true."
"A likely tale," Julia sniffed, though her treacherous heart wanted to believe him.
"'Tis the truth," Montague countered, stepping closer to her, so that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, "I have spent the past few days with Monsieur Blanchard, attempting to parachute."
It was unbelievable fluff, Julia decided, her heart now hardened against him. Before her stood a man who could charm the birds from the trees if he wished, and Julia was not about to fall for his tall tales.
"I wish you the luck of Icarus, my lord," Julia sniffed, sidestepping him neatly, "If you will excuse me, I have to return home. I am most tired after my outing with Lord Pariseau."
With a flick of her hair, Julia departed, and it was only when she reached home that she realised she had let her copy of Evelina on the bench.
Drat, she thought, as she made her way upstairs, she would have to think up an excuse for Charlotte as to why she had not finished it in time for their meeting.
Yet another thing to blame Montague for, she decided with satisfaction; though she did not dwell too long on wondering why she was so upset with a man that she thought she did not care for.
The next morning, following breakfast, Julia stole out once more to the gardens, in search of her missing book. She was accompanied by Maria, who was talking herself in circles about Lord Pariseau.
"Oh, he is handsome," the maid said, though Julia had not asked.
"And he is so tall," she added, perhaps hoping that Julia might add a platitude of her own.
"And so wealthy," Maria finally finished, with a wistful sigh, "He owns half of Surrey."
"The dull half, I don't doubt," Julia was droll.
"Oh, you wicked girl," Maria laughed, "Poor Lord Pariseau, he might not have charm, but charm means very little when there is no substance behind it."
How true, Julia thought, her mind instantly flickering to Lord Montague. If ever there was a man who was all mouth and no trousers, it was he, she thought fiercely, then flushed. Perhaps she should have picked a less visual idiom, for now all she could think of was Lord Montague's mouth, as she valiantly tried to dissuade her mind from also picturing him sans breeches.
"There it is," Julia said, with a sigh of relief, as she spotted the book where she had left it.
The book remained pristine, untouched by rain or morning dew, and Julia said a silent prayer of thanks for the fine weather they had been gifted with of late. Though now that it was returned to her in one piece, she would have to think of another excuse as to why she had invariably not finished it in time for the next meeting of the wallflowers.
Maria insisted on taking the book from her mistress, though Julia was quite capable of holding it herself.
"The ink might run and ruin your lovely dress," the lady's maid clucked, "And it would be I who'd have to clean it, not you. I don't know why you insisted on wearing it for a tour around the gardens."
Julia wore her new morning dress, made from rose-coloured levantine, with a wide bouillonné of Irish lace at its hem. It was far to o grand for a jaunt around the park with Maria, but subconsciously—or perhaps consciously, if she was honest—Julia had dressed herself to her best advantage, so that if by chance a certain marquess were to glance out of his window and spot her, he might see what he had lost with all his lies.
"Lord Pariseau has not proposed yet," Julia said, by way of explanation, "Does it not behove me to look my best when out, in case I happen to chance upon another suitor?"
Perhaps she had laid it on too thick, for Maria frowned suspiciously. She had been with Julia since she was a child, her position having transitioned from nurse-maid to lady's maid as Julia grew. It was odd, especially for such a wealthy family, but Lord and Lady Cavendish had been reluctant to let go of the ties which bound Julia to childhood—including Maria. Not that Julia minded, for she was terribly fond of her.
"You're suddenly very enthusiastic about finding a husband," Maria said.
"Well, if I don't, we shall both be sent off to live with Aunt Mildred," Julia countered, "And in between her breaks from running hell, we shall both be at her beck and call."
"Oh, you are wicked," Maria chastised, but her face had paled at the mention of a life serving Aunt Mildred. With her free hand, she fixed
the bustle of Julia's skirt whilst assessing her appearance for any anomalies.
Not that there was any great call for Julia to look completely perfect, given that the gardens were completely empty.
The two ladies took a turn around the square, admiring the tulips and grape-hyacinths which had burst into bloom beneath the trees.
They had just agreed to return home, when Julia spotted a familiar figure barrelling along the path.
"Aunt Phoe—I mean—Lady Havisham," Julia said in greeting, to Violet's Aunt Phoebe, "Good morning."
"I suppose you're wondering what I am doing in the private gardens of St James' Square?" Phoebe replied, in her Scottish burr.
In fact, Julia had not, and given Phoebe's curmudgeonly tone, she had no desire to probe for answers she had not been seeking.
"The Earl of Allen lost his key to me at a game of whist," Phoebe supplied, as her lady's maid, Dorothy, caught up with her. "I had no wish to lord it over the old bugger by prancing about here, but as yesterday the public parks were so filled with flying blunderbusses —or is that blunderbussi ?—I regret I have no choice. I need peace and quiet to practice my backhand, you see?"
Lady Phoebe gestured to Dorthy who was carrying two battledores and a shuttlecock under her arm, but Julia's attention was not focused on the septuagenarian's drop-shot, no, it had caught on something else she had said.
"A flying blunderbuss ?" she asked, as her heart began to beat erratically in her chest.
"Two of them," Lady Havisham sniffed, "Lord Montague and some French fellow, jumping out of trees in Green Park. The addle-pate landed on his bottom and caused quite the ruckus. Was it another man, I might have worried that such a blow might have knocked the sense out of him, but as it is Lord Montague, I rather think there was very little sense to be lost."
"He's not so bad," Julia replied, without thinking, and Lady Havisham narrowed her eyes thoughtfully.
"I thought only two were lost," she said cryptically, "But now I fear it is three. You'll have to excuse me now, dear, I have a match to practice for. Miss Penelope Tavern thinks she has bested me, but I will show the little upstart."
With that, Lady Havisham was away, trailed by Dorothy who seemed as enthused by her mistress for a morning of playing battledore.
"Is Miss Penelope Tavern not eight?" Maria questioned, once Lady Havisham was safely out of earshot.
"Probably," Julia shrugged, but her mind was not on Lady Havisham, but on Lord Montague, who had spent the previous day attempting to fly.
"Oh," Julia groaned, placing a hand to her brow as she recalled her cruel words to him.
"What is it?" Maria asked, startled by Julia's sudden outburst.
"I have made a dreadful mistake," Julia replied, with a long sigh.
It appeared Lord Montague did have trousers after all.
Chapter Six
Not for the first time in his life, Robert realised that he had gone about solving a problem the wrong way round.
He had been so bent on the idea of a grand gesture—of making Julia fly—that he had abandoned his pursuit of her, much to the detriment of, well, his pursuit of her. He had upset her, a fact which caused him his own upset, but if one was to be optimistic about the mess he had landed himself in, it was that an indifferent woman would not have been so vexed if her suitor disappeared.
Which meant that Julia was not indifferent to him. She was...different to him? No, that didn't sound right.
Montague paused as he tried to think just what Lady Julia was to him, but in the moment that he stopped walking, a voice called out to him in greeting.
"Alright, guv'nor," a cheerful East-end accent called.
"I am not a Governor, my good man," Robert called back affably, "I am a marquess, if you are going to throw titles around, at least get them right."
"Alright, alright, my Lord Snootyboots," Gem Higgins called back, with gap-toothed grin at his own wit.
"That's not my actual title," Rob gave a theatrical sigh, "But it shall do. Come, you owe me a pint of ale for your impertinence."
Robert led Gem into the The Dog and Duck, a ramshackle tavern which stood on the periphery of the Seven Dials. Inside, crooks, thieves, and blackguards all supped on London's finest pint of ale, served by London's finest serving wench, Esmeralda.
Despite her exotic name, Esmeralda had a Cornish accent as thick as her considerable forearms, and a smattering of freckles across her pug-like nose. The title of "London's Finest Serving Wench" had been bestowed on Esmeralda by, well, Esmeralda, and her clientele were too afraid of her to argue.
"What'a you want?" the barmaid growled, as Robert approached the bar.
"Two pints of your finest ale," he replied gamely.
"Ain't got no finest ale," Esmeralda grumbled back, "They all taste the same."
"Aye, like what you throw out of a chamber-pot in the morning," an old man at the bar commented, before hastily returning his gaze to his drink at Esmeralda's quelling glare.
"Well, two pints then, if you please," Rob said, as he handed her a coin, "Anything will do, except what my dear friend beside me is drinking."
Esmeralda nodded, and glanced down at the coin in her hand.
"Ain't go t no change, neither," she said slyly.
"I didn't ask for it," Rob winked, and the petrifying woman blushed pink.
"You sit yourself down, m'lord," she said, all Benedictine hospitality now that she had some coin for her pocket, "And I'll bring 'em over to you."
Rob nodded, and returned to his seat, while the old man at the bar grumbled about loudly about preferential treatment for toffs.
"Perhaps another, for my friend," Robert called, and the grumbles soon turned more cheerful.
"Charm the birds from the trees, so you would," Gem said approvingly, as Robert slipped into the seat opposite him.
The chair creaked ominously under Rob's weight, but remained intact. Even the furniture in The Dog and Duck was too afraid of Esmeralda to misbehave.
"That's rather the point of me, is it not," Rob shrugged, alluding to his work for Whitehall.
Just like Penrith and Orsino, Robert occasionally dabbled in some espionage for the government. Unlike Penrith and Orsino, however, Robert's work involved inveigling the crooks, thieves, and general ne'er-do-wells of London's slums to share information with him.
It worked quite well, for as well as being a charmer, Robert was something of a ne'er-do-well himself, and was near fluent in the lingua franca of The Seven Dials.
For a few minutes, he and Gem discussed mundane matters, as they supped on their ale—which did taste, Robert reflected sadly, oddly reminiscent of a chamber-pot. They chattered enthusiastically about the upcoming races at Newmarket—where, Gem said confidently Mane Attraction would win. Robert made a mental note of the name, for Gem moved in circles where the results of horse-races might be known weeks before the actual event.
Their talk then moved to the matter at hand.
"I need some information," Rob said, as he took a coin purse from his pocket and placed it on the table.
"If there is one thing I have plenty of, it's that," Gem replied, as he pocketed the coin, "Tell me, who's it you're after now? A crooked count? A smuggling spinster? A villainous viscount?"
"No," Robert replied, "Though I commend you on your alliteration. I simply seek to know the comings and goings of a Lord Pariseau."
"Pariseau?" Gem raised his eyebrows, "Him wot's spending all his money on building a new Foundling Hospital?"
"Er," Rob flushed, "Yes."
"Is he a dastardly bast—ahem, I mean, is he no good? I mean, I know every wrong 'un from John o' Groats to Land's End, and that Pariseau chap never struck me as a beef bull," Gem pressed, evidently curious.
Rob paused to think before he answered. Tempted as he was to cast Lord Pariseau as a villain, he could not malign the man's character for his own benefit. Again, tempting, though it was.
"He hasn't done anything wrong, exactly," Rob was delic
ate, "Or anything wrong at all, if I'm honest. It just that he is—"
Gem frowned as he watched Rob flounder as he tried to explain himself.
"He is attempting to woo the lady I have set my cap at, and his attempts are going rather well," Robert finished, flatly.
Gem was silent—a rare event, which Robert might have appreciated, had he not been so forlorn. The wiry thief blinked several times, his brow furrowed in thought, before he spoke.
"I ain't here to run around after you," Gem grumbled.
"Oh, I know that."
"And I don't owe you no favours."
In fact, he owed Rob several, but Rob nodded in agreement.
"But, look," Gem sighed, "You been good to me what with all that trouble with the magistrate, and then the accusations of smuggling, and the time Four Finger Fred disappeared and Bow Street thought it was me. So yeah, go on, I'll help you catch your Jade."
"She is not a Jade," Rob closed his eyes, "She is a rum mort, I can assure you."
"Oh?" Gem raised an eyebrow.
"A prime article," Rob continued wistfully, "A diamond of the first water, a—"
"Enough," Gem interrupted, "I said I'd help you, no t that I'd listen to you spouting nonsense. If I wanted to listen to poetry, I'd head down Pontack's and have Byron read me a verse for the price of a pint of ale. Now, you leave all the spying to me. I've a scullery-maid in every grand house in town, I'll soon have your information for you, Lord Lovelorn."
It was something of an improvement on Lord Snootyboots, Rob had to admit, as he thanked old Gem profusely. The two men parted ways shortly after, with a promise from Gem that he would send word once he had any news.
Robert was cheerful as he returned to where he had tethered his horse, under the watchful eye of a young street-Arab, whom he had promised a pretty penny for his service.
"My thanks," Rob called, handing the boy his payment.
The young lad snatched the coin eagerly from him, stuffing it into the pocket of his breeches. Alas, the garments he wore were so worn, that Rob rather questioned the wisdom of his actions.
The Rake and Lady Julia (Wilful Wallflowers Book 3) Page 7