With This Kiss

by Victoria Lynne

  “It’s all my fault.”

  “No, Julia. It just feels like it is,”

  Perhaps it was his tone, or the look in his eyes, or just the simplicity of his words. But that statement finally penetrated her own grief and self-absorption. Morgan knew. Moreover, his understanding ran deeper than mere words of consolation. She had seen the scars he bore on his skin, she had heard the rumors of what had transpired in his servants’ quarters on that foggy morning over two years ago. For one of the few times in her life, words failed her completely.

  Julia had assumed she held a vague notion of the horror he had gone through. But now she wondered. What must it have been like to have fought so valiantly and to have failed nonetheless? To have lost everything he had held dear? The woman to whom he had been betrothed, his standing in society, his notion of his own ability to control his life and protect those around him. All of it gone with a wisp of smoke. Even his reflection in the mirror had changed. The Beast.

  A heavy somberness fell over her as the questions drifted through her mind. Too exhausted to examine them at length, she released a sigh and leaned back against his chest, taking what comfort she could from his embrace as their coach lumbered toward Grosvenor Square. To her surprise, another vehicle preceded them through the tall gates of Morgan’s estate. The door was blazoned with the regal family crest of the Earl of Bedford.

  “Were you expecting Jonathan Derrick?” she asked.

  “No, I wasn’t,” he replied, studying the coach with a slight frown.

  The vehicle came to a halt in the circular drive before Morgan’s front door. But to her surprise and dismay, it wasn’t the earl who disembarked from the coach, but her Uncle Cyrus, Aunt Rosalind, and cousins Theresa and Marianne.

  Julia reluctantly shifted off Morgan’s lap and onto the seat bank opposite him. “Just like bad pennies,” she said with a small apologetic smile. “Always appearing at the most inopportune moment.” She lifted her shoulders in a resigned shrug. “I suppose I would have had to call on them immediately in any case. At least this saves me the trip.”

  “You planned a social call?”

  “Of course. Clearly I have no choice after the events of this morning. If Lazarus knew about Henry and Annie, he cannot fail to know of the existence of the rest of my family. If he is determined to continue to strike out at the people around me, they are all in grave danger.”

  A strange, shadowed expression crossed Morgan’s face. As a groomsman moved to their door to pull it open, he waved the man off. “See that our guests are shown to the west parlor and offered refreshments. The viscountess and I will be along shortly.”

  “Very good, m’lord.”

  Morgan studied her in somber silence, waiting until his servant had stepped away and given them the privacy he obviously required. At last he said, “Has it occurred to you that Cyrus Prentisse may very well be the man we are looking for?”

  “You cannot be serious. Uncle Cyrus?”

  “You told me yourself that your uncle felt slighted by society for not having been recognized as a peer of greater stature.”

  “Resentment over his status in society would hardly would indicate a diabolical need to burn all of London to ashes in revenge.”

  “You must admit he fits the profile of the man we are seeking,” Morgan pressed. “Cyrus is directly connected to you and could easily have monitored your movements. It is certainly conceivable that he would have known of your column at the Review and of the warehouse you operated with Henry—”

  “In which case he would have demanded the entire profits from both ventures.”

  “Furthermore,” he continued doggedly, “it is not inconceivable that he might have harbored a personal grudge against me. The fact remains that he did openly press the suit of both his daughters, neither of whom interested me in the slightest.”

  “If we are to suspect every father of a daughter you either rejected or seduced in your career as a consummate rake, I imagine the list of suspects would include nearly every household in England.”

  “It should also be noted that Cyrus Prentisse was not on the guest list for the galas that were being held that year by the Earl of Chilton and Lord Webster. Many in society regarded those parties as the events of the Season. The arson that followed could easily be construed as retaliation for the perceived slight.”

  “There are many events to which my uncle is not invited,” she pointed out.

  “Would you at least consider the possibility?”

  She ran the premise through her mind. “No,” she said firmly. “No. It can’t be.”

  “Julia—”

  “Do not for a moment imagine that I am defending my uncle’s character,” she interrupted with a rueful smile. “In fact, just the opposite is true. But as far as the matter at hand is concerned…” She paused, shaking her head. “Lazarus seems to be motivated by sin and redemption. Uncle Cyrus is motivated by money and social status. They are two very different things.”

  “But if I am right?” Morgan asked.

  “If you are wrong?” she countered. “If Lazarus harms them and I do nothing to warn them of the danger? No,” she said, a slight shudder running through her frame. “I’m sorry, but I simply cannot abide another death on my conscience.”

  Before Morgan could further attempt to dissuade her from her course, she opened the coach door and stepped outside. Apparently acquiescing to her wishes, he walked beside her in silence as they made their way to the west parlor.

  The informal receiving room was one of Julia’s favorite places in all of Morgan’s estate. But as she stepped inside, she felt the same tight, uneasy tension she experienced whenever she was near her family. Gazing about the room, she noted that her Uncle Cyrus looked even more smug and superior than usual. Her aunt and cousins regarded her with expressions that could be defined only as gloating satisfaction.

  After polite greetings had been exchanged, she asked, “Isn’t the earl with you?”

  “No, but he was kind enough to lend us the use of his coach for the afternoon,” replied her uncle.

  “Oh?” Something in his tone told her there was more to come.

  “We have glorious news, Julia,” gushed her aunt.

  “Yes?”

  “Jonathan Derrick, the Earl of Bedford,” Cyrus Prentisse intoned regally, “has asked for permission to court Marianne. Furthermore, he has made it quite clear that his ultimate intention is to request her hand in marriage.”

  Fixing a polite smile on her face, Julia turned toward her cousin and said, “What wonderful news. I’m so happy for you both.”

  Her aunt immediately launched upon a long and painfully elaborate discourse regarding the details of the courtship, the date the betrothal would be formally announced, the wedding plans that had been undertaken to date, the items Marianne had acquired for her trousseau, and a million other details so petty and sundry, Julia forgot them the instant they were mentioned. Glancing across the room at Morgan, she noted that he, too, listened with polite but blank interest. At long last her aunt seemed to run out of breath, and the conversation ground to a merciful close.

  A brief, awkward silence followed. Julia hesitated, giving the matter of Lazarus final consideration. Although she knew she was directly proceeding against Morgan’s wishes, she could think of no other course but to warn her family of the danger they might be facing. The fate Annie and Henry had suffered just hours earlier loomed too large to ignore. Therefore she took a deep breath and announced, “Actually, it’s quite fortunate that you’ve all come. I had intended to pay a call this afternoon.”

  “Oh?” said Rosalind.

  “I hate to follow Marianne’s joyous news with something unpleasant, but I thought you should know…” She hesitated for a moment, searching for the right way to frame her words. At last she blurted, “There’s been another fire. Another deliberate case of arson.”

  “Oh dear,” sighed Rosalind. “Between those ghastly fires and this dreadful heat, the qua
lity are simply fleeing London. If this keeps up, there’ll be no one of any standing left to attend the gala the earl is hosting next week. Then where will we be? Something simply must be done.”

  “Yes. Well… I’m afraid there’s something else you should know,” Julia continued. “This latest fire occurred down at the docks, at a tavern owned by Henry Maddox, my father’s former bosun. It appears as though the fire may have been indirectly connected to me.”

  “Connected to you?” Cyrus’s gaze moved from her to Morgan with a frown. “How can that be?”

  In a manner as level and straightforward as she could manage, Julia proceeded to inform them that she was the anonymous author of “The Tattler,” that she had been receiving notes from Lazarus, and that she was involved in the failed trap Mr. Chivers had set for the arsonist. So as not to frighten or overwhelm them any more than necessary, she concluded briskly, “I’m certain he will not attempt to retaliate any further, but I thought it only fair you be warned in order that you might take whatever precautions you deem necessary to protect yourselves.”

  Expressions of appalled shock and stark disapproval greeted her confession.

  To Julia’s surprise, it was Marianne who spoke first. “You’re doing this deliberately, aren’t you?” she cried. “You’re trying to undermine my courtship. You can’t stand the fact that I shall soon outrank you socially.”

  “I wish you nothing but happiness, Marianne. My only concern is for your safety—”

  “How could you involve us in another scandal?” Rosalind wailed, her florid complexion even redder than usual. “After everything we’ve done for you, Julia. How could you?”

  “What will this do to my chances?” demanded Theresa. “At least Marianne has a beau. I’ll be ruined — all because of her. You cannot allow this, Father.”

  Cyrus leaped angrily to his feet and turned to Morgan. “Can you not control your wife?”

  Until that moment Morgan had been leaning casually against the marble mantel, observing the goings-on without speaking. Now he subtly shifted his posture, standing with his legs spread slightly apart, his full weight resting equally on the balls of his feet. His icy gaze fell directly on Cyrus Prentisse.

  “Apparently not,” he replied. “It was my recommendation that Julia not issue the warning you just received. Not only did I deem it a complete waste of time, it struck me as foolish in the extreme to expect any sort of appreciation for the risk she was taking in openly exposing her connection to Lazarus.”

  “Appreciation?” echoed Cyrus incredulously. “What of the risk she has subjected my family to? What of the scandal?”

  “There will be no scandal if this discussion does not leave this room.”

  “You cannot mean that you condone her activities. I warned you from the first that she was too high-spirited, too pampered and indulged. What she needs is a firm hand of discipline. If that task is beyond your capabilities, I would be only too glad to—”

  “Before you finish that statement,” Morgan interrupted, “I would ask that you remember in whose home you are standing.”

  Cyrus’s expression tightened. “Very well.” He nodded to his wife and daughters, who stood and assembled at the threshold of the room. As Cyrus shepherded them out, he turned to Morgan and haughtily intoned, “Let this matter be in your hands, Lord Barlowe. As you reap, so you shall sow.”

  “Worthy advice for us all.”

  A resounding silence filled the parlor as they left. Julia watched them go, lost in her uncertainty. Had she done the right thing in warning her family of the danger? Then again, how could she not have done so? It was preposterous to conceive her uncle as the arsonist who was terrorizing all of London, and clearly they had no intention of letting on that she was the anonymous Tattler. Still, a flurry of questions ran unanswered through her mind. What if it was Cyrus? What if it wasn’t?

  Pushing them aside for the moment, she turned to Morgan and forced a tight smile. “Well, that was pleasant.” When he failed to reply to either her words or her tentative smile, she lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug and said, “At least I warned them.”

  “Yes. So you did.”

  He moved to the window and watched the Earl of Bedford’s coach pull away from his drive, a contemplative frown marring his features. Once the gates had been closed and securely locked behind them, he turned to her and gave a polite nod. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  Morgan retreated to his study and spent the remainder of the day in conference with his secretary. Julia silently debated whether she should go to him and apologize for having disregarded his counsel, but that set a precedent she didn’t like. Then again, would it cost her so much to admit she might have been wrong? She was so dangerously anxious to please him, she couldn’t seem to think straight any longer.

  With nothing to occupy her time, she roamed restlessly about the estate. The day’s post brought nothing but a few invitations and a letter for Morgan. She briefly adjourned to her room and attempted to focus on her column but found herself completely uninspired. Failing that, she moved out to the gardens. The day’s heat, barely tolerable earlier that morning, was now too oppressive to bear. Defeated, she drifted back indoors, feeling as wilted as the flowers she had wanted to gather.

  At long last the afternoon faded into nightfall. Cook prepared a light supper of clear soup, poached fish, asparagus, beetroot, and boiled potatoes, followed by biscuits and an assortment of cheeses for dessert. Morgan proved as cordial a host as ever, but Julia found herself unable to feign an appetite. She toyed with her food, sending it back to the kitchens with an apologetic smile. She did, however, manage to drink the glass of cool, dry wine that was offered her, as well as the second. As unaccustomed as she was to spirits, she immediately felt the wine’s effect. She felt fuzzy-headed but relaxed, the restless tension that had gripped her all day temporarily allayed.

  When Morgan adjourned to his own room after supper, she was left with no choice but to do the same. As it was too early for bed, she sprawled out in a tufted chaise, attempting to find distraction from her thoughts with a book. But once again her thoughts kept drifting. Was Morgan angry at her for openly defying him in warning her family about Lazarus? Was that why he wasn’t coming to her room? As she could find no other reason for his absence, she dismally concluded that that must indeed be the case.

  A knock on her door interrupted her thoughts. At her call to enter, Morgan stepped inside. He wore a gray silk dressing robe. Judging by his bare calves and feet, he wore nothing beneath it. In his hands he carried two oversize brandy snifters, each filled with a generous splash of the amber liquor. As he moved toward her, a sensation of giddy pleasure and relief raced through her.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she said with a soft smile, privately embarrassed by the depth of that understatement. “I was just thinking of you.”

  “Oh?” He set down the brandy and moved around behind her. Taking the book from her hands, he set it aside and began to gently massage her neck and shoulders. Julia closed her eyes and released a deep sigh. His touch felt heavenly. It was light, yet strong enough to soothe away all the knots and tension she had carried with her that day.

  She had never been adept at the politics of relationships, being too forthright in nature. Thus she moved directly to the heart of what had been bothering her. “Were you very angry at me today?”

  “Angry?” he repeated, a note of genuine surprise in his voice. “What made you think I was angry?”

  “I didn’t see you all afternoon.”

  “My apologies, princess. A score of mundane business matters required my attention. Nothing important, just loose ends that needed settling.”

  “Then you weren’t upset that I openly defied you?”

  He made a faint tsking sound with his tongue. “Did you?” he said. “That sounds rather dire. Why do I not recall it?”

  “I’m referring to the fact that I acted against your wishes and warned my family about Lazarus.”

/>   “Ah. That. I wasn’t aware that was direct defiance. I thought you were simply acting your own mind.”

  “To most men they are one and the same,” she pointed out. “Particularly if those men happen to be husbands.”

  “In that case I suppose I have a confession to make. Contrary to public taste, I have never been overly enamored with the concept of a dutiful, obedient wife. I encourage that ethic in my servants but not my wife.”

  “I see,” she said, absurdly delighted by his reply. She was about to tell him so when she suddenly remembered something even more important that she had wanted to discuss with him. Breaking the gentle contact of his massage, she turned around, searching his face. “When we were down at the docks, I saw you pick up something from the ashes. What was it?”

  “You saw that, did you?” He reached within the pocket of his dressing robe and passed a charred leather tassel to her. “It jarred a memory,” he said with a shrug. “When I dove after Lazarus two years ago, my hand brushed his boot. Later I remembered not only the quality of the leather but the feel of a tassel as it slipped through my fingers.”

  “Lazarus wears Hessians?” she asked, instantly recognizing the distinctive tassel that hung from the front center of the boot.

  He hesitated, then cautiously replied, “Perhaps.”

  Her excitement at obtaining their first real clue to the man’s identity quickly waned. The tassel was far from conclusive. The expensive boot, generally worn by the upper classes, had been all the rage during the reign of the Prince Regent. It was still popular but less so now. It could have been worn by a member of the gentry, a servant who had inherited his master’s boots, or simply a patron of the tavern. Like everything else the clue seemed initially significant, but in the end it proved to be as amorphous as Lazarus himself, vanishing like a cloud of smoke.

  Nevertheless, one question remained that had to be asked. “Was Uncle Cyrus wearing Hessians?”

  “No, he wasn’t.”

  Julia experienced a strange surge of both relief and disappointment. Although it would have been dreadful to discover that her uncle was indeed the man behind the horrific acts of arson, at least they would have found some closure. How she longed to find the man once and for all, to end it completely. Instead tomorrow would bring nothing but another day of anxiety and uncertainty.