He didn’t want anyone here at Ravenscar for the simple reason that he wished to smuggle in goods one final time, and he didn’t want to take any chances. He’d never before considered smuggling this close to his home—too dangerous, too many eyes—but after Richard had followed him to Saint Osyth and discovered his midnight hobby, he knew it had to stop. So one last time. No one would know, no one would find out. He’d direct in boats from the channel to row their way up the River Horvath to a small landing. His cave was very close by.
One final time.
He would simply have to sneak out, very quietly. No one need ever know. He was fooling himself—he knew to his boots that if they were here, they’d find out. He could picture Sophie listening for his footfalls at midnight, putting on her own boots and following him, Roxanne at her side, Devlin carrying his pistols.
Unfortunately for him, he could also see Sophie standing with her hands on her hips in his cave, looking around in wonder at the incredible stalagmites and stalactites, listening to her own voice echoing off the high ceiling, and inquiring politely what he was doing there. He could also see her grinning wildly with the news that smuggled brandy was to arrive in ten minutes.
Damnation. What was wrong with him? There would be no cave visits by Sophie or Roxanne or Devlin; it was absurd to even consider it—Julian realized he was brooding, something he found unacceptable in himself. Brooding was for melancholy poets, not for men who actually accomplished things. When there was a problem, he liked to throw himself on top of it and wrestle it to the ground, not brood about it.
He eyed Sophie, who was now sitting opposite him, calmly swinging her foot and watching him. Beatrice was still sprawled on her lap. She’d said her piece, and now she waited. He liked that in her. She didn’t keep talking and talking, in case she found another argument to convince him of something she wanted to have, or repeat the same argument over and over, as most people did.
He said at last, voice remote, “I have a lot of business to conduct.”
“Yes, of course you do. What is your point?”
“Some of the things I have to do I simply can’t talk about. Also, my business will require most of my time.”
Her eyebrow hoisted itself up.
“I must see to my yacht.” Where had that idiocy come from?
“Désirée? I should very much like to see her. Show me a dirty deck and I shall scrub it for you. I am a useful girl, Julian. Use me.”
35
Julian’s eyes nearly crossed. If only she knew—yet another sign of her innocence, her damnable youth. He said, “I thought Roxanne was the enthusiast. You also sail, Sophie?”
“Roxanne has never been on a boat in her life. It’s true her father, my grandfather, nearly drowned when he was a boy, so there was never any boating for his three daughters. He was simply too afraid to allow it.
“My parents, however, were vastly different. Not that my father, the vicar, likes to sail, mind you; as I think about it, Papa doesn’t like to do anything that might make him breathe hard or bring sweat to his brow. But to his credit, he never objected when mother and I were invited to sail with the Caruthers on their yacht. Yes, I enjoy sailing.”
“But Roxanne spoke of the gentleman in Brighton who had a yacht, and then she shuddered. With pleasure, I supposed. I thought Devlin would stomp on his hat.”
“She said that only to make him want to stomp. She is very good at it. So will you take me out in your yacht, Julian? Will you let me scrub a deck?”
Slowly, he nodded. “Very well, we will remain here, for the time being.”
But what of Richard and his father? And mending the breach? Then there is the Dower House, and what of my final smuggling run? He cursed under his breath.
He gave Sophie a look of dislike. “It’s amazing what the younger generation gets away with,” he said.
“Watch and learn, my lord.”
Julian was still brooding when they saw Vicky off some thirty minutes later. He said to her as he handed her into the carriage, “Do thank your father for his hospitality, and tell him I should like to speak to him again. Perhaps he can visit me here.”
Vicky nodded, then said, “Should you like to speak to Richard again?”
“Quite possibly.”
Vicky took his hand in hers. “I do not know if Papa still believes you killed Lily. Richard does, of course. He loved Lily very much, and he did find you leaning over poor Lily, lying there as dead as one can be. I believe Father wants you to convince him you didn’t kill her. As for the Dower House, I do not know if Richard had the fire set. He has become secretive, so I cannot be certain.”
“All I can do is tell him the truth, which I have innumerable times, and ask him to his face if he is responsible for the fire.”
“It is such a pity,” Vicky said.
“What exactly is a pity, Vicky?”
“That you spent only one day at Hardcross Manor.”
It seemed more like a year. He said, “Why do you think Lily spent so much time at Hardcross Manor after we married?”
Her eyes darted away. “Why ever do you think I would know that?”
But she knew something, Julian knew it. Baffled, he nodded to the coachman, and he and Sophie stood side by side, watching the carriage roll down the wide drive.
Corinne came up behind them. “I believe Leah is pleased we are not returning. Now she will have Richard’s complete attention.”
“Did she have a London Season, Roxanne?”
“No, she did not. She was being courted by Lord Merrick at the time.”
Sophie said to Roxanne, who was now looking after Devlin, “Julian is going to take me sailing on his yacht. I believe you and Devlin should join us.”
Roxanne gave Sophie a big smile. “I should love to. When do we leave? Now? Oh, dear, I suppose I shouldn’t have said that. I know, I must mend my gown.”
“Paltry, Miss Radcliffe,” Julian said.
Roxanne tapped her toe on the graveled drive. “I see my precious niece has confessed the dreadful truth to you.”
Sophie said, “I daresay Devlin already knows about that gentleman in Brighton. I quite liked Lord Ponsonby. He was charming, don’t you agree, Roxanne? And ever so accomplished at flirtation and waltzing.”
Devlin snorted.
Roxanne stared him down. “I spent many a lovely moonlight evening with him, strolling on the Steyne. I suppose all of your mistresses join you on your sailboat, my lord.”
“Roxanne, what a thing to say.” Corinne looked torn between embarrassment and amusement. “I know you consider yourself past your last prayers, but really.”
Devlin studied her face for a moment, the white flesh, not as white as his but very nearly. “Do you know, dear one, I have never felt the need to invite my score of mistresses to sail? I believe we are always fully occupied in other activities.”
Corinne smacked his shoulder. “Devlin!”
Roxanne gave him a look, slammed her fist into his belly, and stalked back into Ravenscar without a backward look.
Sophie said, “Is your liver still intact, Devlin?”
“My liver will survive; as for my guts, they are in upheaval.” And he grinned as he rubbed his belly.
“The two of you,” Corinne said, “such ill-advised speech. I daresay that you both find each other vastly amusing.”
Now, there was an interesting thought.
Two hours later, no one was grinning when Leah’s carriage pulled in front of Ravenscar to disgorge not only Leah and her maid but also Richard Langworth.
“It is a case of the mountain and Mohammed,” Richard said to Julian, who stood silent and stiff.
“I don’t believe I wish to be either a prophet or a mound of land,” Leah said, and hugged his arm to her. “What I wish is a lovely cup of tea.”
“I wonder if the baron will be the next to show himself,” Julian said, as he walked next to Roxanne back into Ravenscar.
36
Leah Cosgrove, Lad
y Merrick, saw only Sophie when she glided into the drawing room, gowned for the evening in her favorite pale blue, her lovely white shoulders bare, diamonds at her throat. Her niece was singing a Scottish ballad, accompanying herself on the pianoforte. She wished the idiot girl were twenty years older and didn’t carry her mother’s beautiful face and all that rich dark brown hair, and—well, no matter. She said, “How can you bear sitting there with your shoulders uncovered? Can you not feel the awful draft?”
Sophie broke off her song, sighed, and turned to look at her aunt. Leah was always stylish, and this evening was no exception. “I am very comfortable, Aunt Leah. Your shoulders are as bare as mine. Are you chilled?”
Leah walked to the pianoforte, drummed her fingers on the mahogany lid. “Richard decided I should see Ravenscar, since he spent so much of his time here as a child. I cannot believe he was not warmly welcomed. I thought it a disgrace the way Mr. Monroe—”
Sophie smoothly interrupted her. “He is a duke’s son, Aunt Leah, and thus he is Lord Julian.”
“That’s as may be, but he treated Richard like he was some sort of ruffian bent on mischief. Thankfully, he had enough manners to invite him to stay.”
“Do you so quickly forget someone burned the Dower House, Leah? People could have been hurt or killed.”
Leah was scandalized. “No one was. It was a simple accident, or a servant’s carelessness, nothing more. Don’t tell me he believes Richard to blame for that? I know there are misunderstandings between Richard and Julian, but it is not Richard’s fault. Julian murdered Richard’s sister, so how is he supposed to feel?”
“I assure you Julian did not murder his wife.”
“You know nothing about it, so I think it best you keep your opinions to yourself.”
“You don’t know anything, either, Aunt Leah.”
“Of course I do. Richard confided to me that he wanted to believe Julian hadn’t murdered Lily, but he saw—do you hear me, Sophie?—Richard actually saw Julian kneeling over her body. He said he still didn’t want to believe it, but there was no reason for her to have killed herself, none at all, despite talk of her having a lover. So there.”
“Did Richard also tell you he burned down the Dower House, a sort of stupid revenge, since if he killed Julian he would be hung?”
“You are a silly girl, Sophie. As I said, it was an accident. Richard was with me the entire time.” Leah eyed her for a moment longer, then turned and flung out her arms. “I must say I cannot like this pile of stone. So many steps and frigid rooms. I have never seen such disorder in a house’s design. I cannot imagine living here in the winter—your bones would freeze, and you would crack apart.”
Sophie said, “Whilst you are in this house, Leah, I strongly advise you against accusing Julian of murder. For myself, I very much like Ravenscar; it seems to bridge the past to the present and promises it will be here in a distant future. It has a sort of grandeur that quite moves me. You might consider not speaking so badly of his home.”
“Ah, I am polite, you know. But this house—no wonder Lily kept escaping back to her home at Hardcross Manor. I wager I would have wanted to leave this monstrous pile of rock, too.”
Sophie kept her voice even, but it required a good deal of effort. “Did you know the old duke had six water closets installed in the family wing, Leah? You must visit them, you will revise your opinion.”
“Oh, those ridiculous water closets—my maid couldn’t stop heaping on glowing praise when she told me about each and every one of them, over and over again. I wanted to slap her. So what is a water closet, anyway?”
There came a rustling from behind Leah, the clearing of a throat, and Leah whirled about to see Corinne looking at her, the London Gazette lying open on her lap. Corinne said very gently, “Surely you wish to revisit that statement, Lady Merrick. It sounded so very absurd, you know.”
It wasn’t fair, Leah thought, staring at the dowager duchess. She hadn’t noticed her at all, sitting so quietly, quite rude of her, really, not to announce her presence when Leah had come into the drawing room. No, Leah had seen only Sophie, heard that pitiful little voice of hers, her fingers butchering the simple tune she was trying to play. She wondered if the dowager duchess had been purposefully quiet, urging Leah to say what she thought, wanting to hear her honest opinion, only she hadn’t liked it. And now the old bat was angry because she’d disdained a few paltry water closets?
If only Richard hadn’t insisted he and Leah visit the cliffs to gaze worshipfully over the channel, lightly touching his fingertips to her mouth, stroking her bottom lip, something that both delighted and alarmed. However, the wind was violent, the air chilled, and she’d hated it.
She cleared her own throat. “Your grace, Ravenscar—where ever did that name come from?—it is surely impressive.”
To give the devil her due, it was an excellent distraction, Corinne thought, rising and shaking out her satin skirts. “I have no idea where the name Ravenscar came from. We will ask Julian. Ah, there you are, dearest. Since you are the Prince of Ravenscar, you must know the origin of the name of your kingdom.”
“Prince?” Leah snorted as she turned to face him. “Prince? She called you Prince? Richard said nothing of a title of prince for you. What sort of affectation is this?”
“Affectation? I prefer to think of it as an old amusement, nothing more,” Julian said pleasantly. “My solicitor told me the third Baron Horsly actually selected Ravenscar for the name of his destrier. He decided the name had grit, perhaps even some magical power, since he believed his horse somehow saved him from certain death at the hands of a French knight, and thus, he decided to bestow the same magic on his new house, to bring luck.
“Actually, the solicitor said the baron named everything in sight Ravenscar, including, I believe, his wife at the time.”
“Imagine,” Sophie said, grinning, “waking up to hear your husband call you Ravenscar.”
Julian arched a dark brow. “I believe he must have shortened it to Raven in moments of closeness. As a lady, don’t you think that rather romantic, Sophie?”
Leah wanted to shout that it was ridiculous, but she wasn’t stupid. She held her tongue. Perhaps she should be more conciliatory, encourage their confidences. Perhaps she could find proof that Julian Monroe was nothing but an upstart murderer.
Both Richard and Devlin came into the drawing room, each garbed in evening black, each looking extraordinarily fine indeed. It was obvious, though, that there had been words between them. What? Julian wondered.
Sophie said, “Devlin, where is Roxanne?”
He cocked his head to one side. “I hear her tinkling voice now; she’s trilling laughter at Pouffer, I believe. She quite enjoys the old man. Do you know he tells her stories about Cornish pixies?” He bowed to Corinne. “Your grace. May I say you are looking lovely this evening? The dark blue is very charming. It is a pleasure to behold you.”
“I thank you, dear boy,” Corinne said. “Leah was telling us you made her come here, Richard. I will admit to surprise, since you believe my son to have murdered your sister. Tell me, where were you this afternoon, when the Dower House was set afire?”
37
Richard said easily, “You have known me all my life. Surely you do not believe I would take a torch to the Dower House. Why, Julian and I used to play inside, hiding in the various rooms, shouting taunts and challenges to each other.”
“I wouldn’t have believed you would turn on him, either,” Corinne said.
Julian said, “My mother is right. Given how inseparable we were as boys, how could you possibly believe I killed Lily?”
There was hot silence. Then Sophie sat herself down on the piano stool again and began to play a French ballad, her French accent quite perfect, Julian thought, her voice not very robust but sweet and true.
Richard said, “A man must believe what he sees with his own eyes. I should like a brandy, if you decide to treat me as a guest.” He paused for a moment, then sai
d, “As my father treated you very well, indeed, yet you picked up and came to Ravenscar.”
Sophie said, raising her fingers from the piano keys, “I would like to commend Baron Horsly’s sense of humor. I cannot believe he named his home after his horse, much less his wife. Do you think he really called his wife Raven, Julian?”
“Perhaps.”
“I hope she was charmed and not appalled. Could I please have a glass of champagne, Julian?”
Julian nodded, and rang for Pouffer. After the old man shuffled out, Julian turned to Corinne. “Would you care for something to drink, Mother?”
“Sherry for me, dearest,” Corinne said. “All of it is nasty, but I find sherry the least noxious. After all, Mrs. Coltrak prepares dishes with sherry, so how bad can it be? One must adapt, your father told me. But perhaps champagne would be nicer.” She looked over at Leah, standing close to Richard Langworth, her white hand on his forearm, nearly on her tiptoes, looking up at him, at his mouth, if Corinne wasn’t mistaken. What did he feel for this foul-tempered witch? she wondered.
Julian looked at the assembled company. It appeared that Ravenscar was now to be the new battleground. The kettle would boil merrily here in his home, not at Hardcross Manor, where it more rightfully belonged.
Julian said, “Roxanne? Devlin? What would you like to drink?”
Once there was champagne and filled brandy snifters, each raised a glass, but there were no toasts. There was only tense silence, each eyeing the others, both gentlemen and ladies.
Oh, joy, Roxanne thought, as she sipped her brandy. It was excellent. “Julian, I don’t suppose this is smuggled French brandy?”
He stiffened, she saw it, only a second, no more, and then he was all easy and smiling again, but she was certain. What had bothered him? Smuggling? What was this? She saw Richard was nearly en pointe, and said quickly, smiling, “I always think my brandy must be smuggled, since it tastes so good. Now, Sophie, as you can all see, is a lover of champagne.”
The Prince of Ravenscar Page 17
