by Anne Stuart
“And who’s this pretty young creature?” a soft, feminine voice crooned. Julian looked toward the lady, then realized with a shock that it was the gentleman who’d spoken.
“He’s new, Sir Neville,” Agnes offered nervously.
Sir Neville didn’t even glance in the maid’s direction, his faintly protruding blue eyes fastening on Julian’s face with an almost hungry expression. “I’m aware of that, girl,” he snapped, closing his fan and advancing on the hapless Julian. “What’s your name, lad?” he continued in that gentle, mincing voice. Julian set the tray on the table, in hopes of making a fast escape, but Sir Neville forestalled him, putting one skinny white finger beneath his chin and tilting his face upward.
“Leave him alone, you wretch,” the lady chided in a mocking voice that was a husky drawl, deeper than her gentleman escort’s. “Can’t you see the boy’s an innocent? Not your type at all.”
“Oh, I like them innocent,” Sir Neville murmured, his finger caressing Julian’s chin, his flesh cold against Julian’s skin. “It’s so much fun debauching them.”
There was a third guest in the room. Julian hadn’t even noticed as he stood trapped by Sir Neville’s basilisk eyes and the lady’s amusement, until he felt a presence behind him. An exceedingly large presence, towering over him.
“You heard her, Neville.” The deep voice sent unexpected chills down Julian’s spine. “Leave the boy alone. Not everyone shares your perverse tastes.”
“But how does he know unless he’s tried them?” Sir Neville was undaunted. “How would you like to come with me, boy? Live in a beautiful house, wear lovely, silken clothes, have all you want to eat? You’d never have to work, and you’d sleep in a soft feather bed.”
“Maybe you’d better explain to him that he wouldn’t be sleeping alone,” that sardonic voice behind Julian continued.
Julian could feel the blush mount his face. He’d heard of certain tendencies during the time he’d spent in Araby. Despite Bessie’s warning, he hadn’t realized the English shared such proclivities.
He backed away from the encroaching white hand, the avid eyes, forgetting for a moment the presence behind him. He came up against someone very large, very solid, very warm, and the hands that came down on his arms were hard and strong and steadying. “If I were you, lad,” the voice behind him said in a pleasant drawl, “I’d run like a rabbit from here. Away from dangerous wolves like Sir Neville.”
Julian turned, to stare up, way up, into the face of his captor. For a moment, transfixed, he couldn’t move.
If the lady was lovely, the other gentleman exquisite, this man was something else entirely. He was tall, maybe not the tallest man Julian had ever seen, but close to it. He was lean, almost gaunt, but there was a steely strength to his body, one Julian had felt in his hands. His hair was black and unfashionably long, and his face was very different from the lady’s. It was a narrow, mocking face, with a cynical twist to his somewhat thin mouth, a cool intelligence in his eyes. And those eyes were extraordinary. Gray, like the woman’s, yet with an odd silver light to them. Julian had the strange, unnerving feeling that the man could see through to the very center of one’s soul. And his need to escape grew even stronger. He had too many secrets to risk sharing them with this clear-eyed stranger.
“You know, Philip,” the woman said in her husky voice, “I think he’s far more taken with you than with Neville here. Maybe you should consider changing your interests.”
The man called Philip paid her no heed, staring down at Julian with an arrested expression on his face. “I don’t think so,” he said enigmatically.
The door to the private parlor opened, breaking the odd impasse, as the second serving girl rushed in, breathless. “You’re needed in the kitchen, Julian,” she said importantly. “I’ll help out here.”
“But I want the lad to wait on us,” Sir Neville announced in a peevish voice.
“Let him go, Neville,” the lady murmured. “You don’t need to debauch anyone today. Concentrate on me instead.”
“Lovely though you are, Valerie, you’re not my type,” Neville said, still casting a longing look at Julian.
“You might be surprised, dear Neville,” the lady cooed.
For a moment Julian couldn’t move. He had the strange notion that each person in the room, from the two serving girls who’d flirted with him mercilessly earlier in the evening to the lovely lady and the two disparate gentlemen, was viewing him with an unexpectedly sexual curiosity.
It was an absurd, irrational thought. The two gentlemen couldn’t be further apart, in looks, in temperament, and presumably in amatory interests. Nevertheless, Julian backed away, completely unnerved. No one made any move to stop him, but as he closed the door quietly behind him, he heard the young lady’s husky voice drawl in amusement:
“You know, Philip, maybe we should keep him instead of Neville.”
The door closed before Julian could hear the tall man’s reply. Only the sardonic tone of his voice carried through the thick oak door. Just as well, Julian told himself, moving down the narrow back stairs to the kitchen. Things were already getting too complicated.
Bessie took one look at him and shooed him upstairs to the loft over the kitchen. It was a hot, airless place, with a small, sagging bed near a window. Someone, probably Bessie, had made an effort to make the place more homelike, and Julian stared at it in numb surprise, the soft coverlet on the thin mattress, the jug of water for washing. Even his small satchel had been left, untouched, at the foot of the bed.
At least he hoped it was untouched. He hated to think how people would react if they peeked inside at his only possessions.
They were little enough. A change of clothes, this one even more threadbare than the outfit he was wearing. Lace-trimmed, fine lawn undergarments. Another swath of linen. And a pair of diamond-and-pearl drop earrings worth a small fortune.
Julian glanced toward the window, at his reflection in the moonlight. The village of Hampton Regis was still on such a warm summer night, though he could hear the trill of laughter from the tavern below, the sound of the ocean in the distance. And he still marveled that it was Sir Neville who owned that light, feminine voice, not the lady.
He unfastened his jacket and leather waistcoat and took them off, folding them in a neat pile. He stepped out of his breeches and stockings, wiggling his toes in the evening air. Reaching up under the voluminous white shirt, he unwrapped the linen, breathing a sigh of relief.
And then Julian Smith, better known as Juliette MacGowan, daughter of the infamous Black Jack MacGowan, lay down on the pallet and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.
“What do you mean, we’ll keep him instead of Neville?” the man called Philip asked.
“Now don’t quarrel,” Neville drawled. “You know I detest arguments that aren’t of my own making. Besides, I saw him first.”
“But my interests in him aren’t perverse,” Valerie cooed.
“He’s about half your age, and doubtless a virgin,” Neville replied. “That’s perverse enough.”
“Oh, I thought I’d get him for Philip.”
“The two of you are giving me the headache,” the tall man said, dropping down into a chair with lazy elegance and reaching for the glass of brandy Agnes had already poured. “Leave the boy alone.”
“I suppose I should,” Valerie said with an exaggerated pout. “Still, he tickles my sense of the absurd.”
“Why?” Neville inquired, mystified.
Valerie shot him a naughty smile. “I’ll tell you when you’re older, darling.”
Sir Neville reached for her surprisingly strong hand, bringing it to his lips. “If I could ever love a woman,” he murmured, “you would be the one.”
“I’m immensely flattered,” she replied, batting her eyelashes. “I don’t know how my husband feels about it.”
“Follow your heart, dearest,” Philip said in a sardonic voice. “Don’t let me interfere with your little pleasures.”
> Neville dropped her hand with unbecoming swiftness. “I said ‘if,’” he said hastily. “But, alas, we’ll simply have to stay friends. And speaking of friendship, I might suggest the most wonderful skin cream, made of champagne and sow’s milk. It will do wonders for your rough hands.”
“Too kind,” Valerie murmured.
And Philip only snorted, downing his glass of brandy.
Two hours later Sir Neville’s guests were safely ensconced in their carriage, heading back over the moonlit road to their comfortable lodgings at Sutter’s Head. They traveled in silence for the most part, until the lady broke it.
“There are times, Phelan, when you have absolutely no sense of humor.”
“All I have to do is look at you, brother mine, and my sense of humor reasserts itself,” he replied with a mocking drawl.
Valerian kicked at his skirts. “God, did you see the way that little sodomite ogled me? I’m sure he’d be far happier if he knew what I really had under my skirts. As it is, he’s totally disgusted with himself for being attracted to a woman.”
“I’m pleased you find it amusing,” Phelan James Murdock Romney replied.
“Lord knows there’s little enough to keep me entertained,” Valerian said. “How much longer do I have to be cooped up in these damned skirts? Why in heaven’s name did we have to choose this of all masquerades? Couldn’t we have been sailors, or tradesmen, or even gypsies? I’m actually beginning to mince,” he said, his voice rich with disgust. “And do you realize how long it’s been since I’ve had even a mild flirtation? Not to mention a real flesh-and-blood woman?”
“You were flirting quite effectively tonight.”
Valerian shuddered. “That doesn’t count. I’m tired of this. Tired of being cooped up in that house, tired of wearing skirts, tired of celibacy and inaction. I tell you, Phelan, I’m going mad.”
“I doubt it,” Phelan drawled. “I hate to tell you this, Valerian, but with your blond hair you’d never pass for a gypsy.”
“You would have, curse your black soul,” Valerian muttered without any real rancor. “If we had to go as man and wife, why couldn’t you have been the girl?”
“Not fitting for my dignity,” Phelan said. “Besides, it’s your own fault for being so bloody pretty.”
“I don’t know how much more of this I can stand. Lord Harry was killed more than a month ago, and what’s happened?”
“My mother is enjoying a very public mourning,” Phelan said in a bland voice.
“All the while accusing me of cold-blooded murder. Damn it, we need to go back.”
“You know as well as I do we can’t. My esteemed mother might be half mad, but she’s managed to convince a magistrate and the Bow Street runners that you’re a cold-blooded murderer. Our safest chance is to leave the country until this blows over.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Valerian said mutinously. “Who do you think killed him, Phelan?” he asked in a more subdued voice.
“If we knew that, we wouldn’t be hundreds of miles from Yorkshire. We’d be tracking the bloody bastard down and bringing him to justice.”
“And that’s my only hope, isn’t it? Finding who really killed him.”
“Our only hope. You’re forgetting, I’m in this, too. According to Hannigan, opinion is divided as to which of us actually did the old man in. Most people seem to think I’m the logical culprit and my mother’s lying to protect me. They know Lord Harry and I always hated each other, while you, in more ways than one, were his fair-haired boy. I didn’t even want to visit Yorkshire, much less step into an inheritance I’ve always despised.”
“No one would be daft enough to believe you could kill him.”
“No one would be daft enough to believe you’re a woman,” Phelan countered. “People believe what they want to believe. They’d rather believe the obvious than look beneath the surface.”
Valerian shrugged. “At least you’re allowing us out into society a bit. Even playacting is preferable to the damned solitude. Particularly when you won’t even let me ride in public. I never knew my black-sheep brother had such a repressive streak.”
“You may consider yourself to be completely convincing as a female,” Phelan said. “I, for one, am not so certain. We’re much better off keeping to ourselves.”
“Don’t you think people will question why we’re such recluses?”
“I simply put it about that you were in an interesting condition.”
Valerian stared at him blankly from beneath his long golden eyelashes. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that I told people you were expecting. In a family way. Smocked. Pregnant.”
“Oh, God,” Valerian moaned. “Was that strictly necessary? Surely I could have been spared that indignity!”
“It was very effective. It explained our keeping to ourselves. It also provided a good excuse for your less-than-dainty waist.”
“But will it explain my less-than-dainty feet?” Valerian countered, casting a frustrated glance out at the moonlit road. He shook his head. “Damnation,” he said wearily. “And that reminds me. What are we going to do about her, Phelan?”
“About whom? Margery? I don’t think there’s much we can do at this point.”
“Don’t be deliberately obtuse. I’m talking about the girl.”
Phelan leaned back and sighed, remembering. She’d had the most extraordinary eyes, set in that tanned face. Maybe she would have fooled most people, but not the Romney brothers. In the midst of their own absurd masquerade, it was child’s play to see through another, less polished one. “She’s not our concern, Val. We have our own heads to think about.”
“She’s only a child, Phelan. She must be in terrible trouble, to be out on her own …”
“She’s older than you think. Probably her early twenties. And I doubt her troubles are any worse than our own. We don’t need another lost soul, Val. We have too much to deal with as it is.”
Val shook his head, yanking at his artfully arranged ringlets. “I suppose you’re right. We might just make things worse. Still, did you notice those eyes, Phelan?”
Phelan Romney stared out at the moon-silvered landscape, keeping his face deliberately expressionless. “I noticed,” he said. And silence once more filled the carriage as the two brothers were left with their own troubled thoughts.
CHAPTER TWO
Juliette was dreaming again. On her third night in the old attic above the Fowl and Feathers, she lay beneath the scratchy wool cover, the fresh salt breeze dancing across her skin, and dreamed of her father. Black Jack MacGowan had been unconventional, a gruff, bluff charmer of a man, who’d loved his only daughter dearly. Loved her enough to take her with him during his travels, through wondrously strange climates and war-torn countries, on adventures that were both dangerous and fascinating. She’d been passionately devoted to him, following him everywhere, sharing in his enthusiasms, being a mother to his childlike nature, adoring him. Until he’d committed the ultimate betrayal, and died of a heart attack beneath the hot Egyptian sun, leaving her in the hands of Mark-David Lemur.
But she didn’t want to dream about that. About her father’s death, or the weeks and months afterward. That portion of her life was over, forever, and nothing would make her return to that existence. Or even relive it through dreams and memories.
Not that she wouldn’t have given anything to return to Egypt. Or Greece, or any of the warm, sunny countries where she’d lived with her rapscallion father, clambering over ruins as soon as she could walk, drinking goat’s milk, and wearing boy’s clothes from the time she was four. She could still remember the first time she’d worn a dress. She’d been all of sixteen, and her father had traded for it with an ancient Syrian.
It had been made of silk, much too big for her slender, boyish frame, hot and stifling and decades out of fashion. And she’d put it on, and felt like a queen, like a creature out of a fairy story, listening to Black Jack’s extravagant and utterly sincere flatt
ery. Until she’d looked up, into the eyes of MacGowan’s old friend Mark-David Lemur, and known the first tricklings of uneasiness.
She should have trusted her judgement. Black Jack should have trusted it as well. She’d tried to explain her misgivings to him, but her father had brushed off her concerns with his characteristic lightheartedness. He didn’t want to think his daughter was less than safe at his side. He didn’t want to consider the possibility that his good friend and cohort couldn’t be trusted.
Assuming people couldn’t look down from heaven and see the mess they had left behind, Black Jack MacGowan would never know what his actions had wrought. And Juliette, who still loved him dearly and missed him just as much, nine months after his death, as she had missed him the day he died, was content. As long as she never had to see Mark-David Lemur again.
She sat upright in bed, pulling the rough blanket around her, cold and sweating at the same time. The rope bed sagged beneath her weight, but she paid it no notice. She’d slept in more uncomfortable places than this hot, airless attic on the south coast of England. Doubtless she’d sleep in worse places still.
She didn’t want to dream about the other man either. The tall, cynical man with the still face, the silver eyes, and the thin, sensual mouth. She didn’t like men, didn’t like their animal appetites and savage disregard of others. The fact that something completely irrational drew her to that man frightened her even more than the transparent threat of Sir Neville Pinworth, or the memory of Mark-David Lemur.
Juliette climbed out of bed, padding barefoot to the open window. She could see the sea from that vantage point, and she stared at it longingly. England was the land of her birth, yet she felt more of an alien here than she had in any of the diverse foreign countries she’d lived in with Black Jack. If she could, she would stow away on the next ship bound for the warmer climates and never look back.
But she didn’t dare. Her masquerade was already fraught with danger. On land she could find enough privacy to keep her secret intact. On board a ship it would be impossible. From what she remembered of the nightmarish journey back from Portugal with Lemur, there was no such thing as solitude or modesty. And a woman masquerading as a boy definitely counted both of those commodities essential.
