“Judith, we really must be on our way,” Julia said.
“I am almost ready. Emily is just finishing with my hair,” Judith said.
Of course Emily was in the room with them. When was she not?
Emily had arranged Judith’s hair in a very ordinary, tidy upsweep with a competent bit of fullness at the crown. Julia was tempted to go down without Judith, but then she could only expect Judith to sit and murmur secrets with Emily on the bed for the next hour. Such was the growing absurdity of that relationship.
“Thank you, Emily,” Julia said. “Nicely done. Now Judith, we really must go.”
“I don’t see there’s any need to hurry,” Judith said. “I’m certain Mr. Grant moved out of 12 Portman Square last night. He seemed such an efficient sort of man.”
“No, miss,” Emily said. “Mr. Grant is leaving today. Saying a sad goodbye to the family home, I expect.”
Julia compressed her lips, praying for calm detachment. Her prayers were not answered.
“I am leaving now, Judith. I don’t care where Mr. Grant is and I don’t expect a maid in the Duke of Danby’s employ to have either knowledge or concern as to his whereabouts.”
Both women looked at her in the mirror, their eyes round with what Julia hoped was speechless shame.
“It’s only that I thought you--” Judith said, clearly not feeling the speechless shame she ought.
“I don’t care what you thought, Judith,” Julia said. “I will wait for you in the carriage. Please don’t dawdle.”
She nodded to Emily, which was far more cordial a departure than the girl deserved, and walked out of the room. She had forgotten to put on her hat. She was not going back for it.
She did not bother to indulge in the ridiculous thought that she was eager to leave Danby House and arrive at 12 Portman Square because Mr. Grant might still be about the premises. That was completely absurd, as anyone who knew her would understand.
No, it was only that she was that eager to be done with the annoying Emily. That was completely in character for her, as even Judith must acknowledge.
To Judith’s credit, she was nearly on Julia’s heels and straightening her cloak before Julia had managed to get her breathing under control. She felt out of breath, all that frustrated fury at Emily, no doubt. The carriage left Danby House and began the journey to Marleybone and Portman Square; Papa would meet them there for tea later in the day. He had some sort of business acquaintance he was meeting at White’s club for most of the afternoon.
They commenced in silence. When Judith opened her mouth to say something as they crossed Oxford Street, a chilling look from Julia stopped her cold. As they turned onto Wigmore Street, and Julia was quite pleased at how she was learning her way around London, its various streets changing names with the utmost abandon, making it quite a vigorous challenge, Judith cleared her throat feebly and opened her mouth to say something. Julia spoke first.
“I cannot express how glad I am to get you away from that maid. She seemed to exert the most absurd influence upon you.”
“I thought she was nice.”
“Clearly.”
“She meant no harm.”
“Then she should have kept her mouth shut and gone about her duties. Of all the things a maid must be, unobtrusive is the main thing,” Julia said.
“I would have thought being efficient was the main thing,” Judith said.
“She was neither.”
“You took a dislike to her.”
“Because she gossiped.”
“Well, if you want to put it that way it does sound horrid,” Judith said. “I thought it was kind of her to explain the situation to us. We are new to Town.”
“The day I take counsel from a maid, Judith, is the day I . . . move out! You should not have encouraged her. It was most unbecoming.”
“I suppose you feel you are protecting Mr. Grant,” Judith said, her eyes betraying the slightest tinge of calculation.
“Actually, I am protecting you,” she said. “It would not do for Danby to hear of his niece being too familiar with his staff. Think what trouble he could cause for us.”
“I don’t know how he should hear of it.”
“By gossip, of course,” Julia said, giving her a stern look. “Gossip cuts both ways, Judith. You must stay clear of it, above it all.”
“As you do,” Judith said.
“You needn’t sound sarcastic.”
“I am not being sarcastic! You have behaved with the most impeccable decorum since we arrived in Town. It’s quite . . .”
“Quite what?”
“Unlike you?” Judith said. She did not even have the grace to blush. Sisters really could be a bother; they always saw too much.
“Whatever does that mean?” Julia said, hoping Judith would be too intimidated to answer her. Judith did not appear intimidated in the slightest.
“Oh, only that when we were in Hyderabad you gave me the impression of being, oh . . . ,” she drawled, looking out the side window to a view of a street vendor. A very dirty street vender.
“Being?” Julia prompted.
“Somewhat experienced,” Judith said. “With men,” she added, completely unnecessarily.
Julia did not blush and she did not squirm. Julia sallied forth into the fray.
“I was only days from being wed, if you remember,” Julia said.
“Of course I remember,” Judith said, wide-eyed. “Are you admitting that you are experienced? With men?” she added, again, completely unnecessarily.
“I am admitting nothing,” Julia said, “except that I was in love, about to be married, and was robbed of my betrothed just days before the ceremony. Are you accusing me of something?”
“Of course not! I never would.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. I would hate to think you hold me in such low esteem.”
“Never, dear Julia,” Judith said, reaching out her hand and taking Julia’s in her grasp, smiling her sweet smile into Julia’s face.
Julia knew without any doubt that Judith didn’t believe a word of her denial. Sisters really could be such a bother.
Thankfully, the carriage arrived at 12 Portman Square and moving into the house became the focus of their attention. It was managed smoothly enough; most of their items were of a personal nature and had been moved earlier in the day. Edwards, the butler, opened the door for them, behaved entirely appropriately, and took charge of the whole affair. He had a footman proceed up the long marble stair to the second floor, telling them that there were five bedrooms on that floor and that Mr. Grant had instructed them to place Miss Judith’s belongings in the blue room and Miss Julia’s in the green bedroom. He opened the door to each room as he said the words, Judith rushing in with a cry of delight, Julia walking into the green room with a look of satisfaction.
Her look of satisfaction was wiped off her face by the sight of Mr. Grant standing by the window, the sunlight picking up the lighter strands of his hair so that they gleamed a dull gold. She stopped short. The footman seemed to disappear into thin air. Mr. Grant did not disappear in like manner; no, Mr. Grant was quite substantial.
“I do beg your pardon, Miss Whitton,” he said. “I should have quit the place hours ago. I can’t think why I lingered.”
She swallowed and walked to a chair upholstered in pale green silk damask, placing her hand upon the back. “It must be a difficult thing, to leave a childhood home to strangers,” she said.
She had not seen Peter Grant in two weeks. She had looked for him, in a very casual, mildly curious sort of way, and not seen him anywhere. Of course, it was not to be expected that he would be visiting a modiste. Still, she had looked. She had told herself that she was merely looking for a familiar face, and as she knew almost no one in London, it made perfect sense. She had even accepted it as truth because any other truth was unacceptable.
She could not and would not marry a pauper. She had been reared much more carefully than that. She had a duty to her famil
y, to herself, and to her future children.
“I do not feel that we are strangers,” Peter said.
He had not moved yet she felt that he was closer, so close that she could feel his breath on her skin and see the golden tips of his eyelashes. But it was an illusion. He had not moved. She had not moved. She held onto the back of the chair, tightening her grip.
“How kind of you to say,” she said.
“Is it? I thought it might be over bold,” he said. “As as long as I am being far too bold, I may as well continue on. This was my room.”
“Oh. Was it?”
“Yes. It has a good view of the square.”
“Yes. I can see that.”
“Your sister, she has my brother’s room. It is a bit larger,” he said, giving the suggestion of a shrug, “however the view is not nearly as fine. Or so I always thought.”
“I’m sure we shall both be content with our rooms,” she said, “and the house. Such a grand house will be an asset during the Season.”
“Now it is grand?” he said, a lopsided grin blooming briefly on his face. “You did not speak so highly of it before.”“Before the terms were settled? I should hardly think so,” she said, allowing a brief smile to linger on her lips. “I am not so careless a negotiator, Mr. Grant.”
“So you like the house?” he asked, almost bashfully, almost hopefully.
“I think it is a magnificent house,” she said. “I assumed you knew that for yourself.”
“A man never likes to assume such a thing,” he said, “about his house, about anything, really.”
“I should have thought that a man would know such a thing and would delight in the knowledge,” she said.
They were not speaking of houses, not quite. She was not entirely certain of what they were speaking. Something more personal, more intimate, based on the blood roaring in her veins and the pounding of her heart.
“I can only confess to being pleased that you are satisfied with the house.”
“I am. Very,” she said. It came out almost in a whisper. She couldn’t imagine what was wrong with her. She should look away from his eyes. She couldn’t.
“You look good in this room. In my room,” he said, his voice low and soft. “I knew you would.”
It was too intimate, far too intimate a remark, and she must rebuke him instantly. She could not find the will to do so. She did, however, turn the topic of conversation.
“It will be a wonderful house to see us through the Season,” she said.
He dropped his gaze briefly, studying the pattern of the carpet, and then asked, “Are you planning to host a ball this Season? The dining room makes an adequate dance floor, once the table is cleared out,” he added, smiling up at her from beneath the brush of his thick hair.
“Did your family ever host a ball or a rout during the Season?”
“Once,” he said. “My mother had hopes of marrying Percival off to some likely girl. She convinced my father to put on a modest ball and, grumbling about the cost from the outset, they had their ball.”
“Percival did not meet anyone for whom he felt an attraction?”
She did not care about horrid Percival. She was aware only of the desire to keep him talking, to keep him in the room. She would not marry him, could never marry him; that did not mean she could not enjoy talking with him. There was something oddly compelling about the man. She could hardly take her eyes from him.
“Percival spent much of the night at the gaming table,” Peter said.
He had not moved, nor had she, and suddenly the distance seemed too great, a yawning chasm between them, dark and deep, and she wanted nothing more than to find a way across it.
“I’m surprised your mother allowed gaming at her ball.”
“You did not know Percival,” he said, one side of his mouth lifting in a brief grin.
“I’m beginning to feel as if I do,” she said. Horrid, hideous Percival.
“I fear I must apologize for that,” he said, dipping his head and grinning at her sheepishly. She laughed, startling herself.
“I fear I must agree,” she said. “He sounds . . . ”
“Yes?” he prompted.
What to say that did not break every bound of propriety and decorum? As to that, there was nothing of propriety in standing alone in his bedroom. Her bedroom. Either way, it was worthy of a good gossip. And Judith was right next door.
“I really mustn’t keep you,” she said.
He looked mildly disappointed, nodded, and walked to the door. She gripped the chair and put on her most regal expression.
“I do not want you to feel yourself a stranger here, Miss Whitton,” he said at the doorway. “Being new to Town, this your first Season, so many new acquaintances,” he said, dipping his head down, staring at the carpet for the space of one heartbeat, two heartbeats, lifting his eyes to stare into hers, “here you have a home. I do hope you find yourself at ease here, in this home, this room.”
This bed.
He did not say the words, yet she read them in his eyes.
“I am certain I shall,” she said.
“I am so very pleased to hear it,” he said. “Good day, Miss Whitton.”
Before she could draw breath to answer him, he was gone.
Before she could collapse into the chair, and she did want to, Judith hurried into the room. “Wasn’t that Mr. Grant?”
“It was. He was loathe to leave his home, small wonder,” Julia said crisply.
“He did seem a most congenial, most sentimental sort of man.”
“Did he? I hadn’t noticed.”
Once one got into the habit of deceit, it truly was quite simple to keep at it.
“I found a note from him, in my bed chamber,” Judith said. “I presume it was from him. I can’t think who else would be leaving notes, can you? I shouldn’t think it would be the sort of thing Edwards would do, do you?”
“A note? He left you a note?” Julia said.
“Yes,” Judith said, looking charming and lovely with her light blond hair arranged just so and her sweet expression and her pale lilac day gown with the yellow embroidery. Julia looked down at her own dress; she was wearing a completely ordinary blue gown with nothing remarkable about it, and her hair was still as straight and unfashionable as ever. “I found a little note tucked into the window sash. See?”
Julia did not grab the note out of Judith’s hand, but it was a near-run thing.
I once regularly fed pigeons from this spot. If you open this window, they will appear and expect a tidy supper.
Julia smiled and touched the words on the page. Congenial and sentimental, yes to both. It was also worthy of note that he had fed the pigeons, nasty birds, from Percival’s window, making them Percival’s problem. Peter Grant was also clever and devious. She instantly liked him even more than she had.
“Is that not charming?” Judith said.
“Charming,” Julia said, nodding.
“Do you suppose he left a note in this room?”
Julia handed the note back to Judith and said, “Let’s find out.”
It took only a few moments to find the note; it was folded and tucked between two books on the mantle.
The books in this room will induce sleep within a few minutes of any attempt at them. I speak with confidence and authority upon this sole topic.
Julia grinned and looked at the spines more closely. The red leather book was a series of essays upon astronomical equations. The blue leather book was a history of the Roman emperors, written in Latin.
“They look dreadful. Do you suppose he is fluent in Latin?” Judith said.
“I shouldn’t think so, based upon the contents of his note,” Julia said. It was a relief. She didn’t think she could marry a man conversant in Latin.
Marry him? She stiffened her spine. Of course she was not going to marry Peter Grant. He was a pauper. He’d been forced to let his house, if any proof of his lack of funds were needed. And none were.
/> This is what came of speaking to attractive men without a chaperone. Thoughts and feelings simply flew away with one. Well, no feeling was going to fly away with her. She had her plan and she was not going to abandon a perfectly good plan.
“Do you suppose there are other notes, in other rooms?” Judith said.
Julia looked askance at her, understanding very well the gleam in Judith’s eyes.
“I’m certain that we must have more to do with our time than hunt down notes,” Julia said.
“Do we, though?” Judith said, smiling.
Julia did not dignify that question with a reply. She did, however, look under the rug. Mr. Grant might have thought there was something about the carpet that required explanation. He had kept staring at it, after all.
Three and a quarter hours later, the house having been searched (and appreciated---the dining room really was quite astounding) thoroughly, Julia had found, read, and fondled six notes. Judith, without a word to mark the decision, had handed any note she found over to Julia for Julia to read first. Julia refused to consider the meaning behind this consideration. Judith had always been a thoughtful, gentle girl. It was entirely like her to do something so agreeable. Why it should be agreeable was another term that Julia refused to define.
Really, too much introspection was unhealthy and led to dangerous thoughts. She was entirely opposed to it.
Sitting in her room (his room), having changed for tea, she read the notes again, stroking the heavy paper with her fingertips. She had read them before, with Judith’s eyes upon her. Now she read them in solitude (in his room) and the action was one of such intimacy that she could hardly credit it.
In the study on the first floor, sticking out from the edge of the desk blotter, was found this note: This chair is not as comfortable as it should be. Whoever sits here will do far more actual work than they had intended.
Dismissing the Duke Page 13
