“Would you like to stay, my lord?” Mr. Bock asked before Alec could turn to go. “If it is agreeable to Lady Deveril, that is.”
Alec looked to his wife, whose annoyance with him was still evident. But she must have seen something that placated her in his expression, because she gave a brisk nod. “Yes, that would be agreeable to me,” she said, her face carefully devoid of emotion. Alec wondered if she were bracing herself for him to reject her offer. He could not imagine her parents had ever been particularly interested in the process by which her injury was rendered palatable to the judgmental haut ton. Indeed, he doubted they’d even done more than obtain Mr. Bock’s services initially. Neither Lord nor Lady Shelby struck him as particularly concerned with seeing to their daughter’s comfort or welfare.
“I’d like that,” he said aloud, stepping forward to take his wife’s hand in his. “I am sorry, my dear,” he said softly, so that only she could hear.
Mr. Bock, perhaps sensing that they needed a moment, discreetly excused himself to attend to some no doubt fictitious task. At Juliet’s nod Weston followed, leaving them alone.
“I suppose I can forgive you since you were attempting to protect my virtue,” she said reluctantly. “How did you even know I was here?”
“Why did you feel the need to keep your appointment a secret from me?” he asked, answering her question with a question. “I would hardly forbid you to see the man who ensures that you are able to walk on your own.”
She colored at the reminder of her own culpability in the debacle. “I wasn’t keeping it a secret precisely,” she said, her eyes troubled. “Though I will admit to not volunteering the information.”
He searched her face, trying to discern what bothered her.
“I…” She paused, as if the words were hard to come by. “I suppose I didn’t want to remind you that I am so very different from other ladies. That rather than shopping in Bond Street for slippers I am forced to have them affixed to a false foot. That I am just as much of a fraud as my mother is.”
Her refusal to meet his gaze was nearly his undoing. He could cheerfully have run Lady Shelby through with Juliet’s walking stick just then. The manner in which she’d reinforced Juliet’s insecurities was simply cruel. It was a wonder her daughter had managed to emerge from her upbringing with any part of her soul intact. Not caring that Mr. Bock might return at any minute, he gathered Juliet into his arms and held her close enough to feel the slight tremor that ran through her.
“I would never accuse you of being a fraud, Juliet,” he said against her hair. “And what makes you different from other ladies has nothing to do with where you obtain your footwear.”
Juliet raised her brows. “Don’t you mean calf-wear?” she asked wryly.
Alec barked a laugh. “You see? No other lady would laugh about such a thing,” he told her, kissing her on the nose. “You are an original, Lady Deveril,” he continued, “and worth a hundred of those other ladies.”
He would have gone on, but a discreet knock at the door heralded Mr. Bock’s return, and since they’d already wasted much of the man’s morning, Alec did not wish to further discommode him so stepped back.
“Ah,” Mr. Bock said with a broad smile, “you are reconciled, yes? Then let us continue.”
* * *
Juliet arrived back at the town house in Berkeley Square to find that Cecily and Maddie had called and were awaiting her in the morning room.
“I hope you don’t mind that we waited, Juliet,” Maddie said without preamble as her cousin came into the room. “But we simply had to see you to assure ourselves that you were all right. And though your very starchy butler did tell us so, I’m afraid we don’t know the man well enough yet to trust his word.”
“She wouldn’t believe me when I told her that you’d gone with Alec of your own free will,” Cecily said with an exasperated shake of her head. “Though we both wished to welcome you back to town of course, and to assure ourselves of your good health.”
The new Lady Deveril hurried forward to give each of them an impulsive hug. “I am perfectly well as you can both see,” she told them, taking the seat they’d left her beside the tea tray. “Though there was certainly a point where I wondered if I would stay this way.”
Maddie frowned. “What happened?” she demanded. “Was it Deveril?”
“Certainly not,” Juliet assured her, pouring herself a cup of tea. “Alec … that is, Deveril, has been lovely. But Mama and Turlington made an appearance on the journey north and tried to kidnap me.”
“No!” Cecily took her hand. “Though I suppose the fact that you are here and that the announcement ran in the papers this morning indicated that they were not successful.”
Juliet told them about what had happened when Lady Shelby and Lord Turlington met up with them near Scotland. “And I have no doubt that if Alec had been less insistent they would have succeeded in forcing me to wed Turlington. He saved me and there is no other way to say it.”
Her eyes troubled, Maddie took a bite of ginger biscuit. “I cannot say that I am displeased with how things turned out. It is much more acceptable to see you married to Lord Deveril than to Turlington. Or should I call him Churlington?”
Juliet laughed at the pun, then sobered. “My only regret is that some other girl will doubtless find herself married to the man soon. Now that I am no longer available, I fear there are enough cits willing to buy a title for their daughters that Turlington will have no trouble finding himself another bride.”
“Not with the rumors that are circulating about the man,” Cecily said. “Of course Winterson refused to give me the details, but it involves some very nasty dealings in the demimonde.”
Maddie snorted. “I’m surprised that the gentlemen of the ton have become so nice in their sensibilities. Especially for the sake of the demimonde.”
“Well, if they are so bothered by it, then you know it must be something quite disturbing.”
Juliet thought about the way Turlington’s attentions had always made her feel and she had little doubt that the rumors, whatever they were, were true. She fought back a shiver at her lucky escape.
“So, tell us about the wedding,” Maddie said, as if sensing her cousin’s discomfort. “Was it very romantic? I’ve always wondered just what Gretna is like.”
So she launched into the tale of her whirlwind wedding, complete with humorous details about Mr. Elliot’s insistence upon calling Alec “Romeo” and his wife’s terrible playing on the pianoforte.
“It certainly won’t be something you’ll ever forget,” Cecily said with a grin. “Plus you did not have to meet every obscure relative in the Deveril family tree. I swear Winterson’s mama invited people even Debrett’s had no knowledge of.”
“True,” Juliet said. “But I do wish you both had been there. It seemed wrong to celebrate such a momentous occasion without having my best friends there to share it with me.”
Cecily squeezed her hand. “I wish we had too, but we’ll be there for other important events.”
“Like the birth of your first child,” Maddie added, taking her other hand.
But their words sent a lash of panic running through Juliet, and she pulled her hands away. “I’m not sure we should start planning for that just yet. We’ve only been married a few days.”
“You say that now,” Cecily said with a grin, “but it will happen before you know it.” She rubbed a hand over her growing belly. “I certainly didn’t expect to find myself enceinte so soon. But here I am.”
“Surely it doesn’t happen that quickly for everyone,” Juliet asked, a little desperate. “I mean, you are probably an exception.”
“Juliet,” Maddie said, exchanging a troubled look with Cecily, “you sound as if you don’t wish to have children.”
The room felt exceedingly close all of a sudden, and Juliet pulled slightly at the neckline of her gown. “It’s not that I don’t wish to have children,” she said, knowing that her tone was a bit strident.
“I simply don’t know if I will be able to. Or if I should.”
“Don’t worry about it now,” Cecily soothed, rubbing her cousin’s hand. “There is plenty of time for you. Though I personally think you’d be an excellent mother.”
Juliet smiled wanly at her cousin. “Thank you, dearest. I’m sorry I reacted so strongly. It’s just that I’ve been worrying over the matter and I simply don’t know if I’ll be able to do it. Or rather, I worry what will happen once I have a babe. What if I turn out to be as terrible at mothering as my own mother is? The idea of inflicting such heartache on my own flesh and blood is horrifying.”
“I think the fact that you are concerned about such a thing means that there is little danger you’ll do so,” Maddie said, reassuring her. “I sincerely doubt that Lady Shelby wondered for a moment about her ability to be even a passable parent. I think together you and Deveril will be an excellent team. With his gregarious personality, and your quiet observation, you’re a perfect match.”
Her cousin’s words, and her succinct assessment of hers and Alec’s personalities, were so astute that Juliet wondered whether others would have come to the same conclusion. She hoped so, because when news of the way she’d snagged one of the ton’s most popular bachelors got out she’d be facing some serious scrutiny from all the young ladies who’d had their eye on him. It would go a great deal in her favor if their marriage was thought to be a love match.
“Thank you both,” she told Cecily and Maddie. “I know I sound like a peagoose, but it’s always been something I’ve worried about. Especially given how easy it is for harm to come to children even from the outside world. Look at poor little Alice and what she endured at the hands of that horrid Mrs. Parks!”
“How goes the search for Mrs. Turner?” Maddie asked, pouring each of them another cup of tea. “As far as I know there have been no developments here. Or,” she added with a grin, “not that I’ve been able to winkle out of Lord Monteith.”
Juliet explained to them their encounter with Mr. MacEwan and his mention of the artist who wished to paint Mrs. Turner.
“That is awful,” Cecily said, giving a shudder. “Especially the way she seemed to be sending a covert message through her letters.” Cecily had been integral in the decoding of messages left by Winterson’s brother earlier in the year.
“I know,” Juliet said, frowning. “I thought for a bit that Turlington might be the artist, but Alec seems convinced that it’s Il Maestro. And I cannot say that I disagree. Which is troubling. The man’s paintings are so … disturbing.”
“Agreed,” Cecily said with a shiver. “But how will you question Il Maestro if you have no notion of who he is?”
Maddie’s eyes lit up, in that manner that always heralded an idea that would get them into a wealth of trouble.
“What if,” she mused, “we put it about that we wished to commission a painting by Il Maestro?”
“Does he even take commissions?” Juliet asked. “I thought he only did them for his own amusement.”
“I noticed a few weeks ago that the Wallingfords have a painting of Saint Joan in their morning room that has all the hallmarks of being one of Il Maestro’s works. And since Lord Wallingford spends all of his time gambling there can be no danger that he himself is Il Maestro.”
“So, you’re just going to ask Lady Wallingford where she got it?” Cecily asked, skeptical.
“No,” Maddie said with a grin. “Juliet is.”
* * *
“I reckon you are right that we need to find out who this Il Maestro is and then perhaps he’ll lead us to Mrs. Turner.” Thomas Greenshaw, Bow Street runner, took a gulp from his tankard of ale. Alec had sent round a note first thing that morning requesting a meeting with the man. Though he hadn’t been comfortable saying so to Juliet, the tale that MacEwan had told them about Mrs. Turner’s encounter with the artist had bothered him. There was something about the story that struck him as odd, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint what that was. Either way, he was intelligent enough to know when to call in expert advice. And that time was now.
Though Greenshaw projected an air of idleness, with his slow movements and bored expression, Winterson had assured him that the man was one of the brightest men who’d served with him in the Peninsula. And thus far his assessment had proved correct. The runner had quickly grasped the importance of finding Mrs. Turner, and finding her quickly. Not only for her own sake, but also because her connection to Juliet made things dangerous for the new viscountess as well.
“I checked with every one o’ my connections in the East End for word of a lady matching your Mrs. Turner’s description, but no luck.” Greenshaw wiped a large hand over his mouth. “If she’s being held anywhere in the rookeries, I haven’t heard about it. Nor have me contacts. So this bloke must be hiding her in plain sight.”
“You may be right about that, but where?” Alec tapped his fingers impatiently on the rickety table he and Greenshaw occupied in the Cat and Pickle, a rather dismal little establishment on the edge of Whitechapel. “The gossips have long guessed that Il Maestro is a member of the ton but if so, he could have her hidden anywhere.
“What I need you to do, Greenshaw,” he told the man, “is to make a thorough investigation of anyone who might be soliciting young women for the purposes of painting them. I do realize that there are any number of artists who take their models from the servant class, but this feels different. And there’s an artist in particular I wish you to seek out. Actually there are two.”
Greenshaw’s gaze sharpened, and though Alec couldn’t quite put his finger on what changed, something about the other man’s posture communicated his attention.
“First I want you to learn as much as you can about the affairs of Lord Philip Turlington.” Though Greenshaw didn’t take notes, Alec knew he was making a mental note of everything he said. “My wife’s mother was, until our marriage put paid to the notion, extremely intent upon having Turlington marry Juliet. I wouldn’t be surprised if the man spirited Mrs. Turner away as a means of capturing Juliet’s notice. Or even with the intention of using Mrs. Turner’s freedom as a bargaining chip to control her.”
“And this Turlington is an artist, my lord?”
“Yes.” Alec’s jaw hardened. “He is known for his society portraits. Which is how he met Lady Shelby. And his style is quite similar to that of Il Maestro, our other suspect. In fact, I wonder if Il Maestro and Lord Turlington might even be the same person. Their styles are quite similar. And Il Maestro’s exhibits are fast becoming the only art London can talk about.”
“Aye.” Greenshaw nodded. “Even I’ve heard o’ the feller and I ain’t what ye’d call an art lover. This is the bloke what paints the suffering ladies, right?”
“That’s right,” Alec confirmed, pleased that he wouldn’t need to explain the importance of Il Maestro to the runner. “So far, no one knows the identity of the artist. Or, for that matter, his models. And, as you say, they are all suffering.”
“I ain’t exactly the type wot will blend into the crowd wot normally moves in such circles,” Greenshaw said with a frown, and another gulp of ale, as if emphasizing his point. “But I reckon I can get some information from Turlington’s servants and the people who work in the galleries where this Maestro shows ’is paintings. Most people are clumsy about hiding their secret identities. It just wants someone with a sharp eye to follow the threads.”
And according to Winterson, Greenshaw had a very sharp eye indeed.
Still, all it took was one missed clue for the trail to go cold.
“Be careful not to disclose whom you’re working for,” Alec warned. “I do not wish for any of this to lead back to my wife. She’s had enough difficulty of late.”
“Don’t you worry, my lord,” the runner said with a cheeky grin. “I can be right discreet when I sets me mind to it.”
“Excellent.” Alec stood, and watched as Greenshaw unfolded his long-limbed form, and rose, his head almost reaching the tavern
’s low ceiling. The two men wended their way through the taproom toward the entrance, the smell of sweat, ale, and plain cooking enveloping them as they walked. Just outside the door, they shook hands.
“Don’t you worry, my lord,” Greenshaw said, his eyes serious. “We’ll find your wife’s Mrs. Turner. There’s nothing I ’ate more than a man wot takes advantage of a woman alone.”
With that assurance, the Bow Street runner left the tavern yard, and Alec swung up onto his horse and headed back toward St. James Street, where he was to meet Monteith and Winterson at White’s.
Seventeen
“So Turlington and Il Maestro might be the same person?” Monteith demanded from his corner seat in the reading room at White’s.
“That’s what we need to find out,” Alec admitted. He and Juliet had gone over and over the possibilities of the artist’s identity, but aside from Turlington, whom they both agreed might be at the head of their list simply because they disliked the man, they could come up with no other possibilities.
“Couldn’t we simply inquire at the Royal Academy for a list of members? Though the fellow has moved to other venues since then, his first exhibition took place there so he must have been a member at some point.” Winterson leaned back in his chair and stretched.
“It’s a good suggestion.” Alec ran a hand over his face in weariness. He felt as if they were talking in circles. “Though I’m not sure they’ll simply turn over their membership list to us without question. You saw yourself how closemouthed these societies can be when you dealt with the Egyptian Club. They are hardly welcoming to nonmembers.”
“True enough,” Winterson said. “But we can at least try.”
“I suppose it might be easier for us to find something than for your runner to do so, Deveril,” Monteith said thoughtfully. “If the society is reluctant to speak to peers of the realm then they’ll be downright closemouthed with someone like Greenshaw. Especially with his Bow Street credentials.”
How to Romance a Rake Page 22
