by Brenda Joyce
Now Julianne realized they were approaching the Pantheon, where she would meet Marcel. She began to perspire, fear tightening every fiber of her being. Thank God this terrible interlude would soon end, she thought. She wanted nothing more than to go home and escape Dominic’s utter indifference.
Eddie slowed the carriage. A moment later, he was helping her to alight. “I doubt I will be more than a half an hour,” she said.
She entered the Pantheon, clutching her reticule tightly. The main hall was vast, the size of most of Bedford House, with a high, domed ceiling. She knew there were several different rooms within, but Marcel had told her he would find her in the main hall. There were perhaps a dozen groups present; clusters of bewigged gentlemen were in deep conversation, gentlewomen were strolling, as were several couples. The hall was flanked on both sides by double-storied aisles behind dozens of magnificent columns. She could not see into the shadows of those side halls.
As she glanced across the main hall, she did not see Marcel. He was undoubtedly hiding by a pillar or in a far aisle, she thought. Was that where Dominic and Warlock were, as well? She had been told that they would go to the Pantheon and take up their positions before she arrived.
She watched a couple flirting by one of the columns, not far from where she stood. He wore green velvet, she wore dark blue. His back was to her, but she could glimpse the pretty woman’s face. They were lovers, she thought with a pang, for the woman kept touching his arm, smiling, and he held her hand. She watched as he kissed it ardently. Or if they were not lovers yet, they soon would be.
She was a woman of experience now.
Suddenly the young man detached himself from the woman and turned. Julianne froze as she recognized Marcel, who was wearing a long curly white wig. He approached, his strides languid. “Good afternoon, Julianne. My, you look ghastly.” He was sharp. “What is wrong?”
“Spying does not agree with me.”
He studied her. “And?”
Julianne fought not to glance past Marcel. So far, neither Dominic nor Marcel were in her line of vision. “Lucas leaves for France tomorrow on the first tide, and he will disembark at St. Malo.”
Marcel started. Then he smiled. “That is very good, Julianne. Do you have anything else for me?”
“Isn’t that enough?” she asked, but she heard the tension in her tone. Where was Dominic? Warlock? Julianne realized she had glanced around the hall.
“Who are you looking for?”
“No one.” She trembled, dismayed. Where were they?
“I hope you are not considering betraying me.”
She wanted to spit at him. “One day, you will get your just deserts.”
He laughed and walked off.
Julianne stood alone in the midst of the great hall, in absolute disbelief. What had just happened? Why hadn’t Dominic seized Marcel?
She turned to watch Marcel leave the hall, through the front entrance that would take him out onto Oxford Street. She clenched her fists in frustration and despair. Then she looked around the Pantheon again, but she saw neither man.
Very angry, she lifted her skirts and rushed outside, where Eddie was waiting besides the curricle. “Take me home, please,” she said tightly, climbing inside. This terrible interlude wasn’t over after all, she thought desperately. She could not survive another night behind closed doors with Dominic.
She hugged herself and fought the need to succumb to self-pity. Her mind went around in circles as she tried to decide what had happened to Dominic. She began to worry. Surely, only a terrible accident or incident would have kept him from seizing Marcel in the Pantheon.
A half an hour later, the gig turned into the drive at Bedford House. Julianne was incredulous. Warlock’s closed carriage was in the drive, parked before the front steps, not far from Dominic’s larger lacquer coach.
She practically leapt from the curricle, without help, and was about to fly up those steps, when the front door opened and two servants came out—carrying bags that were suspiciously familiar. They looked like the bags that Nancy had brought to her bedchamber for her to use that first night after Dominic had learned of her betrayal. She froze.
The servants did not look at her. They took the bags to Dominic’s coach and placed them on the roof, where they were lashed into place.
“Well done.”
She whirled at the sound of Warlock’s voice. He and Dominic had just come out of the house and stood above the front steps. Warlock was pleased; Dominic was grim. “You did not seize him!”
“I never said we meant to capture him, Julianne. But now I know the identity of our man.”
She had been played. “You were at the Pantheon?”
“Of course we were there,” Warlock said pleasantly.
She turned to Dominic and knew that whoever Marcel was, it was not good news. And for the first time in days, his gaze met hers. “What is it?” she whispered, frightened.
He did not speak.
“Marcel is, unfortunately, highly placed,” Warlock said.
More dread began.
Warlock came down the steps and took her hand and actually kissed it. “I know you dislike me, but if you ever need my services, send word.”
She withdrew her hand as if burned. Was he telling her goodbye?
And somehow, as she turned to Dominic, she knew. Her heart lurched with frightening force as their stares locked.
He came down the steps. “You may take my coach to Cornwall.”
She inhaled. “I can’t leave like this.”
“I am not giving you a choice.” He took her arm and began to guide her toward the vehicle.
Panic began. How could she leave like this? What if Nancy was right, after all? What if, one day, he might be able to forgive her? But he would never do so if she left now, without a genuine chance to explain her actions to him! “Please let me speak with you before I go. Please—if I ever meant anything to you.”
They had reached the coach, and a footman opened the door for her. “There is nothing left to say.” He did not look at her.
“I am sorry! I love you!”
His face set, he pushed her forward and upward. Julianne found herself thrust into the coach and she fell onto the seats. The door slammed closed.
She jerked upright and moved to the window and flung it open. Dominic stared; she stared back. And then he nodded, without removing his eyes from her. She heard the brake being released. She cried, “Are you going to France?”
He stepped back from the carriage, as it began to move.
He was sending her away and returning to France. It was over.
Julianne hung on to the window, looking out, until she could no longer see him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
September, 1793—Cornwall, England
JULIANNE PULLED HER wool cloak closer to her body as the stark outline of Greystone Manor came into view. Seated within Dominic’s coach, she stared miserably ahead. How desolate, gray and lonely the manor now seemed, silhouetted as it was against the pale blue, cloud-swept skies, the vast Atlantic ocean, the near-white cliffs. Rain was in the air, she thought helplessly, and she felt as desolate, as isolated, as alone as that manor seemed to be.
She hugged herself, but not because of the cold.
The journey from London had been endless. Nancy had been sent to keep her company, and she sat across from Julianne now. She had done her best to cheer Julianne, but of course, her efforts had been in vain. Julianne could barely keep up her end of the conversation. After their first day on the roads, Nancy immersed herself in a novel, realizing that Julianne had no interest in chatting. How could she make small talk? She was in too much heartache. She had traveled in this coach with Dominic so many times, and she could recall each and every single one of them. Her memories both consoled and devastated her. They were a flood tide. She had never missed Dominic more.
Her future felt as gray as that autumn day in Cornwall.
She stared at the manor as their c
oach halted. It was truly over, and she must somehow accept that. Her memories would be her only companion. Instead of being crushed by them, she must be comforted. She had their child to think about now.
Eventually, she would have to tell Dominic about the child—if he survived.
She remained so afraid for him, so afraid of what he would face in France. By now, he was in the Republic. Was he in the midst of a battle in le Loire, even as she sat safely in his coach? Or was he in the midst of some dangerous assignment, playing spy games in Nantes or Paris?
His enemies were everywhere! They were the republican soldiers; they were the Jacobins on the street. She had heard about the “représentants en mission”—the citizens in tricolor sashes, who scoured the country for traitors to the revolution. These agents could accuse generals of treason and take over their command. They could so easily accuse Dominic of treason. How could Warlock allow him to go back there?
Would another assassination attempt be made upon him? Or would he be arrested and sent to prison to await the guillotine? she wondered, shivering, and was made sicker by the thought.
She needed to know that he was well. She had already decided to write Nadine, for surely his lifelong friend would be kept abreast of his fortunes. But she was afraid Nadine would not reply to her. Catherine had probably told her everything by now.
“We are here, mademoiselle,” Nancy said, touching her hand softly.
Julianne managed a grim smile.
A footman had opened the door for them. As he did, the front door of the manor opened, and Amelia rushed out, followed by a tall, muscular man. “Julianne!” She was beaming, her dove-gray skirts flying as she raced toward them.
And suddenly Julianne began to cry. She had never seen a more welcome sight. She rushed from the carriage and into her sister’s arms. They clung.
“Are you all right?” Amelia cried, her gaze searching, her smile gone. “Is this Bedford’s coach?” Wide-eyed, she stared at Julianne.
Julianne had written her twice while in London. She had not told Amelia about the affair, even though she had desperately wanted to confide in her sister. But Amelia would not approve, as she hadn’t approved of their affair in July. She had told her that Dominic felt that he owed her and that she was his houseguest. She had assured her sister that Lucas approved, and then distracted her with tales of society and the events she had been attending.
“Yes, the coach is Dominic’s.” As she spoke, her tone quavered. She could not dissemble with Amelia any longer; she had never needed her sister more.
Amelia clasped her cheek with worry. “I am so glad you are back. I have missed you terribly. Come inside, Julianne.” She was firm.
Amelia knew that something was terribly wrong, Julianne thought. “Nancy, do come in. You will spend the night.”
Nancy curtsied. “Merci, mademoiselle.”
Amelia turned to the stranger who was standing by the front door, watching them all. “Garret, please show Nancy to the kitchens.”
Arm in arm, the sisters walked into the house. Momma was seated in one of the big burgundy chairs before the hearth, where a fire blazed—it was already quite cold inside the house. She turned her head, saw them, and her eyes brightened. “Julianne!” she cried warmly.
Momma had recognized her. For one moment, Julianne was in disbelief. Then she ran forward and fell onto her knees as her mother embraced her.
“How are you, my dear?” Momma asked, stroking her hair. “And why are you so distraught?”
She looked up at her mother, crying. Momma had not recognized her in months. “I have been in town, Momma, in London. I am merely tired from the journey home.” She managed to smile.
“I hope there were a great many balls.” Momma smiled. “I cannot recall—do you have a suitor?”
Julianne tensed, but kept smiling. “Of course I do.”
Momma nodded, and looked at Amelia. “I am suddenly tired…” She trailed off.
Amelia looked at Julianne, her own gray eyes bright with unshed tears. “I will take her upstairs and be right back.”
Julianne nodded and stood up as Amelia and their mother left. She hugged herself as Nancy came inside. “Can I make you and your sister tea?”
She somehow nodded, trying to smile. Then she heard her sister returning downstairs. Amelia approached quickly, taking Julianne’s hand.
“She remembered me,” Julianne whispered.
“It was her most lucid moment in months, or maybe even years.” Amelia’s gaze was searching. “Your heart is broken, and this time, it is even worse than before.”
“Yes, my heart is broken.”
Amelia held out her arms and Julianne went into them. She had thought that she had no tears left, but perhaps because of the child, she felt them trickling down her face yet again. Then she stepped back. “I love Dominic so much, and he loved me—until recently.”
“Oh, Julianne,” Amelia said, but with some pity.
She was comparing Dominic to St. Just, Julianne knew. “No, he fell in love with me, Amelia. He broke it off with his fiancée and he gave me this.” She held up her hand and pulled back her long sleeve to reveal the diamond bracelet. Amelia gasped. She did not show her sister the cameo he had given her in a state of anger—she would not, could not, wear it.
Amelia stared closely now. “If he is in love with you, then why are you brokenhearted?”
Julianne trembled. “I was threatened by a radical, Amelia, and I had no choice but to spy on him.”
Amelia turned white.
She would tell her sister all about Marcel eventually, as Amelia needed to have her wits about her, never mind that they now had a guard. “Because of my actions, Dominic was almost murdered,” she said. “And I had to confess to my treachery.” Feeling unbearably weak, Julianne collapsed in one of the burgundy chairs. “He was furious, of course, and unforgiving.”
Amelia knelt beside her and took her hand.
“He has thrown me out, Amelia, and turned his back on me—as if we never loved one another!” Julianne cried. “But I could accept losing him, if only I knew he were safe. He has gone back to France, Amelia, to spy on his enemies. Even as we speak, I do not know if he is alive.”
“Oh, Julianne. I don’t know what to say.” Amelia’s gaze was searching. “Certainly there would be news if some terrible fate had befallen him. Are you sure he loved you? He was so ruthless last summer… Please tell me you didn’t resume your affair.”
“Amelia, there is so much you don’t know. I was thrown in the Tower for my radical opinions, but he rescued me. I fell ill, and he nursed me, and being in his arms was the most perfect place!” Julianne cried, clinging to both of her sister’s hands. “I will always love him and there will never be anyone else for me. But he despises me now, and worse—far, far worse—he is in France, where he might die.” Amelia would have to know, sooner or later. “I am having his child, Amelia.” She touched her belly, which was just beginning to swell.
Amelia stared in shock. She was starkly pale. “Are you certain you are with child?”
“Yes. I haven’t had my monthly since June.” There was simply no doubt now.
Amelia put her arm around her. “I am reeling. He must marry you, Julianne.”
She laughed, the sound hysterical and mirthless. “If he survives the war, I will be happy—that is all I am asking God in my prayers. But he will never be forced to the altar, Amelia, and I would never marry him under these circumstances.”
“You are carrying his heir,” Amelia said, straightening to stand. “He might be a cad, but I am fairly certain he will act with honor.”
Would he decide to marry her—if he ever returned? Even while despising her? Julianne shuddered. She had already experienced living with him under that circumstance. She could never do it again. “He doesn’t know.”
“Then you must tell him.”
“I wasn’t sure before, and then he learned of my treachery.” She shrugged helplessly. “Of course he
must know, when he returns.” She trembled, thinking if he returns.
Amelia put her arm around her. “There is time. And you are right. We must worry about his fate first. And we must take care of you and the child.”
And suddenly Julianne was so glad to be home. “Thank you, Amelia.”
“There is nothing to thank me for.”
MY DEAR SISTER,
You can imagine my shock when I received Amelia’s letter stating that you are carrying Bedford’s child. Julianne, I trusted you. I would have never let you reside at Bedford House otherwise. My impulse was to rush to Cornwall to berate you for your betrayal of that trust, for my shock so quickly turned to anger. But then I remembered, too well, your confession of your feelings for Paget.
I can never remain angry with you for very long, Julianne. I care for you far too much. However, I am disappointed and dismayed. No matter your naïveté and inexperience, I would have expected you to withstand Paget’s attempt at seduction.
But I must also blame myself for failing to see what was transpiring before my very eyes. I must blame myself for leaving you in his care as his houseguest. I must blame myself for putting the demands of the war ahead of my duty to my own sister.
And I blame Paget for his inexcusable behavior.
What is done is done. Now I must consider your welfare and that of my nephew’s or niece’s. Marriage has not been mentioned. I intend to speak with Paget as soon as possible and make certain his intentions are now honorable ones.
I hope this missive finds you in good health.
Your loving brother,
Lucas
Julianne inhaled, having just reread Lucas’s letter. It had not come as a surprise. Amelia had told her a day or two after her arrival at the manor that she would write both Lucas and Jack immediately. Lucas’s response was exactly as she might have expected—calm, rational and forgiving.
