Her words reverberated between them like a thunderclap.
“And why the devil not?”
“I will thank you not to yell or curse in my presence.”
Her brother had the grace to look chastened. “My apologies. I did not mean to yell at you.”
After a moment, he continued. “So, why aren’t you marrying him?”
Glancing away from his probing gaze, she studied the design on the Turkey carpet. “Because I am not, and that is all I have to say about the matter.”
Mercy, could this day get any worse? she asked herself.
Why hadn’t she thought to lock her bedroom door before having such a personal, private, secret conversation with her maid? Because she hadn’t expected to have a personal, private, secret conversation with her maid at all.
Pregnancy is obviously turning me into a muttonhead.
“Well, it isn’t all I have to say. What sort of cad is he to get you with child, then refuse to take responsibility?”
“He hasn’t refused. He doesn’t even know I am expecting. And no, I am not going to tell him,” she added, intuiting his next question before the words had time to leave his mouth.
“Why not? You need a husband, and he seems the most logical choice.” His eyebrows suddenly winged upward. “Unless he’s married. Is that the trouble? The blackguard is married?”
She sighed. “No, he isn’t married.”
“Well, then, I see no impediment to your union. As soon as we arrive back in London, the two of you can tie the knot. I’m sure the archbishop will be more than happy to provide you with a special license.”
“The archbishop won’t be providing anything because I am not getting married.” She huffed out an exasperated breath. “Now, enough. I am done being interrogated.”
He glowered.
“This is my business, Harry. Leave it alone.”
“You are my sister and I care about you. How can I leave it alone?” He raked a hand through his hair. “Dear God, Jules, what were you thinking? How could you have let this happen?”
“Actually I didn’t think it could, if you must know,” she told him in a taut voice.
He cleared his throat, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “Oh well, yes, I see your point. But I still don’t understand why you aren’t telling him about your…about the child. Did the bounder toss you aside or something?”
Misery crashed through her at his unintentionally cruel statement.
“I can see by your expression that he did,” Harry continued, his voice softening in sudden compassion. “Who is this rogue with whom you’ve gotten yourself entangled? He’s obviously a rake to take advantage of a lady. Tell me his name so I can go beat him to a bloody pulp.”
A sad smile covered her lips. “I don’t want him beaten. As for his name, it’s not important. This is my problem, Harry, and I will deal with it on my own.”
Harry scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. “Frankly, I don’t see how you can deal with it. You’re pregnant, Jules. Unmarried widows don’t get pregnant, not if they wish to remain in Society. You’ll never be able to keep this child.”
Suppressing a shiver, she raised her chin. “I’ll find a way.”
“What way? Your only option is to marry this man or else have the baby in secret and give it up.”
Unconsciously, she placed a hand over her stomach as if to protect the unborn life growing inside her. “I am not giving up my baby.”
“Then let me help you. Tell me the name of your…” he hesitated, obviously having to force himself to continue, “lover. Let me find a way to force him to marry you.”
She shook her head, despair squeezing like a knot beneath her ribs. “It’s no use, Harry. You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me, so I will.”
He only wanted to help, she knew, but she couldn’t afford to confide in him. Doing so would only make an already untenable situation that much worse. So she held her tongue and remained silent.
“This isn’t finished, Julianna,” he cautioned once he realized she wasn’t going to reply. “By whatever means necessary, I will find out the identity of this rogue who has besmirched your honor, and I will see matters put right.”
His use of her full name warned her of the seriousness of his statement. He rarely called her Julianna, and only when he was angry or upset.
“Oh, Harry don’t, I beg you—”
“Finish packing. We leave within the hour.”
Turning on his heel, he strode from the room.
Abruptly exhausted, she closed her eyes and heaved a weary sigh. Her difficulties, she very much feared, had only just begun.
Chapter Eighteen
CHEERFUL MORNING SUNLIGHT flooded in through the French doors at the rear of Rafe’s townhouse, the doors opened to let a refreshing breeze waft into the comfortable dining alcove that overlooked the garden beyond. Late-blooming gillyflowers and snapdragons added a last burst of color to the view, the scent of jasmine honey-sweet in the air.
Rafe paid little heed to the idyllic atmosphere as he read his newspaper and ate a breakfast of ham, toast, and eggs. After refilling his cup with hot black coffee, he turned a page of the Morning Post’s financial section.
He was engrossed in an article about the burgeoning timber trade in America, and was already considering the investment opportunities, when a set of footsteps rang out against the flagstone floor. Glancing up, he raised an inquiring brow as Hannibal approached.
“Sorry to interrupt, Dragon,” the big man stated, “but that young whelp Allerton’s at the door. Tried to send him packing, but he ain’t having none of it.”
Rafe frowned in surprise. “What does he want?”
“Won’t say. Most likely he’s come to beg for more blunt. Guess my little tour of the Thames wharfs weren’t enough of a deterrent to keep him on the straight and narrow. He’s got balls o’ brass to come ’round here again, I’ll say that for him.”
“Yes, well, show him in.”
Rafe pushed his plate aside but left the newspaper open.
Why the deuce is Allerton here? he pondered.
He hoped Hannibal was mistaken about his intent and that the impudent pup had not come seeking money. If he had, he obviously needed his ears cleaned out, since Rafe had made it patently clear there would be no more funds forthcoming from him or any of London’s other financiers. Perhaps he thought Rafe’s threats were nothing but bluster. Well, the young lord would soon discover he was mistaken.
He downed a swallow of coffee and allowed his thoughts to touch upon Julianna for a fleeting instant. As always, he wondered how she was faring. He knew she had returned to the city last week after her sister’s wedding, and was once again living in her townhouse in Upper Brook Street. Beyond that, her life was now a mystery to him, the two of them little more than strangers.
Shaking his head, he pushed her from his mind.
After all, he thought, Allerton isn’t here to talk about his sister, and I had best remember that fact.
Not surprisingly, the earl arrived without Hannibal to announce him. Hannibal never announced anyone, and Rafe had long ago given up any expectation that he would.
Attired in fashionable buckskins, brown morning coat, and Hessians, his beaver top hat tucked beneath one arm, Harry Davies marched into Rafe’s breakfast room.
At his ease, Rafe leaned casually back in his chair, making no effort to stand in the nobleman’s presence. Negligently, he flipped a page of his paper and sipped his coffee. Only when he settled his cup back into its saucer did he deign to look up.
“My lord Allerton, to what do I owe this visit so early in the day? I must say your presence was not anticipated.”
“If it was not, it only shows how shortsighted you are. You, sir, are an unprincipled blackguard.” Striding quickly forward, Allerton lashed out with the pair of leather gloves he held in his fist, using them to smack Rafe across the face.
A swath of fire burned Rafe’s chee
k where he’d been struck. Holding himself still, he ignored the pain, as well as his astonishment, as he turned a fearsome glare upon the younger man.
Lord Allerton had enough sense to pale beneath Rafe’s menacing look, but squared his shoulders and held his own.
“I have come,” the earl announced grandly, “to demand satisfaction. Choose your seconds, sir.”
Rafe quirked a brow, half startled, half amused.
Choose his seconds? What the deuce?
“A thousand pardons, my lord, but have you taken complete leave of your senses?”
A measure of the starch came out of Allerton’s sails at Rafe’s riposte. “Of course not. I have come here to see honor met.”
“Met for what?”
“As if you didn’t know. My sister’s name and reputation have been sullied and you, sir, are responsible. I have come here to see that justice is done.”
Rafe froze, careful to in no way betray the sudden leap of his pulses. Does Allerton know about Julianna and me? And if he does, how in the devil did he find out?
Seemingly indifferent, Rafe reached for the silver coffee urn, pouring the last of the beverage into his cup. Ignoring the nearly scalding heat, he drank it down in a few quick swallows.
“I am sorry, but I have no idea to what you refer.”
“Of course you do,” Allerton hissed. “I know all about it. How you lured her into your web. How you used and degraded her.”
Rafe’s gaze flashed up. “Did she say that?”
“She didn’t have to. She’s too much of a lady to have discussed the details, even with me. But with a bit of digging, I found out what I needed to know. Servants will talk with the right persuasion.”
Ah, so he’d bribed or coerced her servants, had he? One of the footmen who’d carried their occasional notes was the most likely culprit. Obviously, Julianna needed new staff.
“If your lady sister doesn’t care to share the details of her private life with you, then I see no cause to do so either.”
Color crept up Allerton’s neck. “You will discuss it, by damn, and take responsibility as well. Though I can see why she doesn’t want to marry you. Such a union is utterly beneath her. She’ll be cast from Society because of you.”
Rafe stiffened. “And why is marriage under debate?”
“Because you got her with child, you knave!”
Rafe’s hand struck the coffee cup, toppling it over onto the table. A few remaining drops leaked out to stain the white cloth underneath.
Pregnant? No, she can’t be.
“You must be mistaken,” he said, his words sounding as if they came from a very great distance.
“I am not mistaken,” Allerton asserted. “She admitted it to me herself. I only found out because she’s been sick and dizzy. We had to call the doctor for her when she fainted.”
Rafe’s gaze flew to meet the other man’s. “Is she all right?”
“As well as any woman who finds herself in a delicate condition.” Allerton tightened his fist. “You have ruined her, you disreputable bastard, and now you must be made to pay.”
Julianna with child.
She’d told him she was barren. He could still remember the sadness, the loss in her eyes when she’d explained her inability to conceive. And he knew she’d believed what she said. No one could have faked that kind of reaction and under the circumstances, she would have had no reason to do so. She had thought herself safe from pregnancy. Apparently mother nature had proven her wrong.
He gulped down a ragged breath.
My God, I’m going to be a father!
“Choose your weapon,” Allerton declared. “Swords or pistols. We shall meet on the field of honor tomorrow at dawn.”
Rafe pulled himself away from his musings and turned a gimlet eye upon Julianna’s little brother. “Do not be absurd.”
“Beg pardon?”
“There is no need to pardon either of us. There will be no duel.”
Allerton sputtered. “But, of course there will. You have wronged me and my family and you must atone.”
“If I have wronged anyone it is your sister. This matter is for her and me to resolve.”
The earl’s cheeks flushed a light crimson. “I protest. I must be allowed to have satisfaction.”
Rafe shrugged. “Protest all you like, but it shall make no difference.”
Needing something with which to busy his hands, Rafe grasped the newspaper and folded it into neat halves. When Allerton made no move to leave, he sighed. “I will not fight you, my lord.”
“Then you are a coward, sir.”
Rafe drilled him with a menacing glare. “If you think that, boy, you are far less intelligent than is generally credited.” He leaned casually back in his chair. “Killing you tomorrow would be a waste of my time and your life. Your sister would clearly disapprove.”
Allerton puffed out his chest. “And what makes you believe I wouldn’t kill you?”
Rafe gave a dismissive snort, his contempt at the idea plain. Even Allerton must know he excelled at both shooting and swordplay. He was quite handy with his fists as well.
“A gentleman would meet me,” the earl stated.
“Too true. But then you forget I am not a gentleman. Only gentlemen and greentops are foolish enough to advertise their personal difficulties in public. If I met you tomorrow as you propose, your sister’s reputation would indeed be damaged beyond all repair. I do not think she would thank you for it. As it is, if you can manage to keep your mouth shut, there may yet be some way of remedying the situation.”
“And that would be?”
“That is for Lady Hawthorne and me to decide.”
Rafe climbed to his feet, topping the younger man by a few inches and a lifetime of experience. “If you love your sister, as I believe you do, stay out of this. I will see to her welfare.”
“As you saw to it before? What did you do to her to lure her into your bed? What tricks and deceits did you employ to steal her virtue and leave her in such straits?”
“I believe, my lord,” Rafe continued,” that it is time you were going. I said I will do right by your sister and I shall.”
Allerton thrust out a warning finger. “You’ve hurt her enough, Pendragon. If you do so again, I promise I will kill you, and it won’t be on the field of honor.”
“Duly noted, my lord.”
Hands fisted in impotent rage, Allerton glowered at him for another long minute, then turned on his heel and stalked from the room. The front door slammed moments later.
Lord Allerton had obviously let himself out.
Knees abruptly weak, Rafe sat down heavily in his chair.
Julianna is carrying my child.
Steepling his fingers, he contemplated his future—and hers.
Julianna threaded a fresh length of rose-tinted silk into her needle, then applied it to the linen cloth tautly secured inside her sewing frame. She was working on a floral design of her own creation, the stitches she took both graceful and skilled.
She liked to sew. Embroidery had been one of her favorite pastimes ever since childhood, when her mother had thrust a sampler and needle into her hands at age four. As a woman grown, she found the activity pleasurable and highly soothing, especially now when she needed to keep her mind occupied and her worries at bay. But even as she concentrated upon forming the intricate pattern of twining leaves and flowers, her mind began to wander into troubling territory.
She wouldn’t be able to stay in Town for too much longer, she judged. A month, maybe two, if she was lucky. After that, her pregnancy would start to show. She could attempt to conceal it, of course, but she ran too great a risk that way.
No, I must leave London and retreat to the country, she decided. And it must be unfamiliar country, where she was sure she would not encounter anyone of her acquaintance.
But where? She could travel to Scotland, she supposed. The rugged environs of the north would certainly be remote enough for her purposes. But the tho
ught of spending the winter in such a cold, damp clime brought on a shiver, as if she were already surrounded by chill winds and snow.
The Continent would be far more pleasant, a warm, relaxing place in which to deliver her baby. France was out of the question, of course, because of the war. But maybe Italy or Greece, assuming she could find a ship to take her safely there. And assuming she felt healthy enough to make the voyage.
Two very, very big assumptions.
Tying off the thread, then giving the stray end a quick snip, she reached into her basket for more silk—leaf green this time. Seconds after, a gentle tapping came upon the sitting room door.
She gazed up as her butler, Martin, walked inside.
“My lady,” he announced in well-modulated tones. “A caller has arrived. I informed the gentleman that you are not receiving at present but he insists upon seeing you.” Martin’s nose wrinkled slightly, revealing his annoyance. “He refuses to leave until I have consulted with you directly.”
“Did he give you his name?” she inquired, drawing a fresh strand of thread into the needle’s eye.
“Yes. Pendragon, my lady. He said his name is Rafe Pendragon.”
She flinched and accidentally jabbed the sharp point of her needle into her skin. Grimacing in pain, she watched a bright red drop of blood rise on the wounded tip. Flustered, she reached for her handkerchief and pressed the silk against her hand.
“Shall I tell the gentleman you cannot be disturbed?” Martin asked, obviously aware of her unsettled reaction.
Too late for that, she thought.
“No, no. I will see him,” she said. “Please ask him to come in.”
The butler bowed. “Very good, my lady.”
Her pulse thudded, nervous dread clamoring in her belly.
Rafe is here and there can be only one reason.
Blast Harry for his meddling, and for his insistence in playing the gallant knight. She ought to be furious—and she was—but deep down she knew her brother meant well, even if he had no right to interfere. Had he gone to challenge Rafe? Stars above, surely the two men weren’t going to fight! Or had they already met this morning at dawn, and Rafe was here to offer his apologies for having killed her brother!
My Fair Mistress Page 24
