“He was certainly making some grand gestures when I came over,” Charles said, quirking up one side of his mouth.
Cassandra laughed. “Oh yes, he was very grand with his gestures. The poem itself was… tolerable.”
“Bad as that, eh?” Fungy said. “Must say, never heard Cawfield was a poet. You, Merry?” Mr. Fotheringay-Phipps turned to his ever-present cousin, Lord Merrick. The two were rarely seen apart, although Cassandra supposed it did happen on occasion.
“No. Doesn’t surprise me, though. I believe Miss Renwick has turned a number of erstwhile gentlemen into poets recently. One of the hazards of being an incomparable, Miss Renwick,” Lord Merrick said, giving her a broad smile and a small bow.
Cassandra shrugged her shoulders. “It will be difficult to live with, but I shall suffer through somehow,” she teased.
“Suffer is bang on the mark, Miss Renwick, with that Cawfield spouting poetry at you,” Fungy said.
“I heard you were asking after Lord Felbridge, Miss Renwick,” Lord Merrick said.
Charles looked at Cassandra quizzically. She’d heard from Olivia that he’d been shocked by his friend’s treatment of her last summer, and had even gone so far as to avoid Lord Felbridge because of it.
“Yes,” Cassandra said avoiding Charles’ eye. “I was just wondering where he was, since I haven’t seen him since I’ve returned.”
“Why would you be interested, Cousin?” Charles asked pointedly.
“Oh, I, er, I was just curious is all.” Cassandra shrugged as if it was of no importance.
“Heard he was in the country. Isn’t that what Elsworth said?” Fungy asked Lord Merrick.
“Yes, but I believe he’ll be returning to London soon. If I see him, shall I mention that you were looking for him, Miss Renwick?”
“Oh no!” She quickly moderated her voice. “No, thank you so much, my lord. There is no need to do that. I am certain I shall run into him sometime.” No need to push things, she thought to herself.
Julian was thrilled to be in London. His days of hanging on the edges of society were gone. They were done. His new position was going to get him welcomed wherever he went, invited to every party, and he should have no problems getting young ladies to dance with him.
At least, one young lady in particular—Cassandra.
The only possible problem he would have was if she was still angry with him for playing that game. But hopefully she would be so happy to see him, she would forgive him right away.
But first, he needed to enter society, make his name known and take his seat in Parliament. Julian had to suppress a smile at this thought—who would ever have thought that a Eurasian would sit in Parliament! Well, for that matter, whoever had thought there would be one in the beau monde?
And yet here he was, ready to begin his life as a peer of the realm.
He’d learned that the fashionable hour to be out and about was at four. So soon after that hour, he ventured out for a stroll among the beau monde. It was only then that he realized that perhaps things would not be quite as easy as he had thought.
The number of people crowding the pathways through Hyde park astounded Julian. It seemed as if the whole population of London were out walking, riding horses or riding in carriages. They greeted each other, calling or waving, stopping their carriages for a quick chat and holding up the whole line behind them.
Everyone knew everyone else, but there was not one person known to Julian, and he felt it.
This was almost worse than being in Calcutta. At least there he knew the people who were cutting him. Here, he was cut left and right by people he’d never seen before.
It wasn’t even so much that they cut him. It was more that they didn’t actually see him.
No one met his eye.
He tried doffing his hat to a couple of ladies who walked passed him, but they ignored him. He bowed to a very grand looking lady and gentleman in a barouche passing by, but they didn’t even look his way.
Even when he stopped in the middle of the path, blocking the way for the people behind him, they just walked around him as if he wasn’t there.
Julian was at a stand-still. Literally and figuratively. He didn’t know what to do. How did one meet people? He was sure that if he just met someone, anyone, he could meet others and then everything would be all right. But how did one begin?
“Pardon me?”
Julian turned around, startled that someone was actually speaking to him. But then he realized that the gentleman must just want to get by him on the path.
Julian gave the man a small bow. “I am terribly sorry,” he said, and then stepped onto the grass so that the man could pass.
But the man, clearly dressed in the height of fashion, did not pass him. Instead he looked at him, no, he stared at him through a quizzing glass he wore around his neck on a bright red ribbon.
Julian could not help but stare back. He looked exactly like a fashion plate from a magazine—handsome, with a well sculpted face, carefully tousled brownish-blond hair and a neckcloth tied in a style that Julian could never dream of achieving.
“You look very familiar. Have we met?” the gentleman asked slowly.
“I do not believe so, sir. I have recently come from India.” Julian held out his hand. “Julian Ritchie, er, Earl of Huntley,” he added awkwardly.
“St. John Fotheringay-Phipps, at your service.” The exquisite bowed after shaking Julian’s hand. “Believe I knew your father.”
“Really?”
“Looked exactly like you, only older and, er, fairer.”
Julian laughed. “Yes, naturally.”
Mr. Fotheringay-Phipps looked him over again with his spectacle. “How recent is recently?” he asked obscurely.
“What? Oh, just arrived in London yesterday, in Portsmouth a little over a week ago,” Julian answered, beginning to feel like he was under some sort of microscope.
“Met your aunt and Bradmore yet?” Mr. Fotheringay-Phipps asked, dropping his quizzing glass.
Julian was confused. “My aunt? I was not aware… oh wait, yes, of course! My father mentioned that he had a sister who was rather high in the instep.”
Mr. Fotheringay-Phipps laughed. “Yes, that would be Lady Bradmore. Exceedingly conscious of her social position, as well as everyone else’s. But really, very kind lady, y’know.”
“Oh, I am terribly sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“No. Quite all right. Can say anything you want about her. Not my aunt.”
Julian smiled. “Yes. You wouldn’t happen to know her direction would you?”
“Number 30, St. James Square. Believe she’ll be ‘at home’ tomorrow.”
Julian nodded, committing the address to memory. “I am sorry to trouble you, but perhaps you could tell me an appropriate time to call. I am just coming to realize that we keep very different hours in Calcutta.”
“Of course, not at all. Two in the afternoon would be about right.” Mr. Fotheringay-Phipps paused. “Haven’t met your cousin, then?” he asked.
“My cousin? I didn’t know I had one,” Julian said, growing more and more pleased as he learned more about his family.
“Charles Bradmore,” Mr. Fotheringay-Phipps said shortly. “Has a sister as well,” he continued, “Miss Olivia Bradmore, lovely girl. Very soft-hearted and gentle.”
“I look forward to meeting them.” Julian held out his hand once more to the gentleman. “Thank you so much for the information. I do hope we have the opportunity to meet again.”
Mr. Fotheringay-Phipps grasped his fingers gently. “Pleasure,” he said, and then lounged off, walking with the most bored air Julian could possibly imagine. Julian had a hard time not laughing, but he didn’t think that would be polite.
He then noticed that other people had begun to look at him. All of a sudden he existed to them. He wondered what had changed.
He lifted his hat to a woman who stared at him through her quizzing glass. Passing by in a black barouche, she and her
companion immediately put their heads together and began talking excitedly to each other.
Julian just smiled. Well, he supposed it was better to be noticed and gossiped about than not to be noticed at all.
Cassandra was in the position she had always dreamed of—admittedly, it was not one she had ever thought would actually happen. Her cousin’s drawing room held a good number of gentlemen, many of whom were surrounding her, trying to out-wit each other while hanging on her every word.
It was incredible what a little attention from the right people could do for one’s social position.
“Miss Renwick, you must be so happy to be home again after the horrors of Calcutta,” Crusty Corstairs said, voicing the sentiment which had been repeated too many times already.
Cassandra sighed. “There was no horror there, Mr. Corstairs. The English there live exactly the same way as we do here, which I must say, I found a little ridiculous.”
“But the natives and the diseases, Miss Renwick. I have heard terrible stories,” Lord Bertram said from her other side.
“There are diseases, horrible diseases, my lord. And there are natives, of course, but you should not equate one with the other.” Cassandra really did not like getting into political discussions with these gentlemen. They knew so little about which they spoke, and yet could lecture for hours.
“Tell me, Lord Merrick, how are the plans for your mother’s archery party coming along?” Cassandra asked the very tall and incredibly handsome marquis, who was frequently seen with the most fashionable young ladies and yet had never gotten trapped by one. He was, for once, without his cousin, Mr. Fotheringay-Phipps.
“Very well, Miss Renwick. I know you are going to thoroughly enjoy yourself there. You are planning on attending, are you not?”
“Most definitely, my lord, only…”
“Only? Miss Renwick, is there something in particular you would like at the party? If it is within my power, you know that I shall attain it for you,” he said, leaning forward toward her.
Cassandra giggled. “Oh no, sir, it is only that I never learned archery.” She looked up at him from under her eyelashes and batted them innocently.
He smiled. “I would be more than honored if you would allow me to teach you.”
“You are too kind, my lord,” Cassandra said, holding back more giggles. “Now this is a much more pleasant conversation, gentlemen. Or is it a flirtation?” she asked, looking around at the other men standing by her.
Lord Merrick laughed, although some of the other gentlemen did not. They only managed to look daggers at Merrick, who had succeeded in amusing Cassandra when they had not.
“It is most definitely a flirtation, Miss Renwick, and a very enjoyable one as well, despite the crowd,” his lordship said, taking her hand and placing a light kiss on the back of it.
“I say! Merrick, you are not the only man speaking with Miss Renwick, and you’d be good to remember that,” Mr. Corstairs objected.
“It’s perfectly all right, sir. I beg you, please, don’t allow yourself to get put out by Lord Merrick’s gallantry. Perhaps after his lordship shows me the basics of archery, you could give me some pointers? I am certain you are an excellent shot,” Cassandra said, tilting her head to one side hopefully.
Mr. Corstairs ran his hand through his bright red hair. “Yes, as a matter of fact I am.”
It was at that moment that she felt as if someone had just stuck a knife between her ribs and straight into her heart.
Chapter Seventeen
Between Lord Merrick and Mr. Corstairs, Cassandra could see Julian standing just inside the door. He was staring at her with a confused expression on his face. He clenched his strong jaw and his hands rolled themselves up into fists.
Cassandra blinked and shook her head. She had to be imagining this. Julian wasn’t here in London. He was in Calcutta. She looked at Lord Merrick, who suddenly was looking very concerned.
“Miss Renwick, are you all right?” He took hold of her elbow in case she should swoon. It was a good thing he did, because she was feeling remarkably light-headed all of a sudden.
“I…” she looked to him for support and a strong dose of reality. “Yes, I am fine. I am terribly sorry, Mr. Corstairs, did you say something?”
“Who is that?” Lord Bertram asked, also staring at Julian.
“Do you know that gentleman, Miss Renwick?” Lord Merrick asked.
Cassandra looked back at Julian, who had now turned his attention to Aunt Bradmore. Her cousin looked a little discomfited, but was speaking with Julian in a gracious way. She led him further into the room and toward her son.
“Miss Renwick?”
She turned back to Lord Merrick. “I am sorry, my lord, do I know him? Ah, yes, as a matter of fact I do. He is someone I knew in Calcutta, which is why I am so surprised to see him here.”
She turned to look at the other gentlemen around her, none of whom looked very happy with her reaction to Julian’s arrival. “I am terribly sorry, gentlemen, what were we talking about?”
The men resumed their conversation about archery, but Cassandra could not stay focused on what they were saying. Her eyes kept straying back to Julian.
What was he doing here? How did he get here? He could not, would not have followed her, would he? Surely he had achieved his goal of thoroughly humiliating her, of proving he could make an English woman fall in love with a Eurasian? Why would he come to England after that?
Had he followed her?
So many questions ran through her mind. So much pain welled up in her heart and began to churn into her throat. There was a bitter taste in her mouth as she watched Julian talking first with Charles, and then with Olivia.
And yet, seeing him was like a balm to her agitated emotions. Had she somehow forgotten how handsome he was, or was it just that she hadn’t seen him for so long? He was smiling encouragingly at Olivia as she spoke to him.
And there was something else that was different about him. He had vitality. Among so many gentlemen who worked hard at presenting an air of boredom, Julian was wonderfully, brightly alive and quick. He spoke quickly, and he looked alert and interested in everything that was going on around him.
How she loved him!
No! Where did that thought come from?
Yes, he was handsome, he had always been so. But watching him, smiling and chatting amiably with her cousin and best friend, she felt the same heat and shortness of breath as she had after he’d kissed her by the shore of the river in Calcutta.
How could that be? How could she still feel that way? He had betrayed her, he had toyed with her and used her. She hated him!
And he was coming over to her!
“Cassandra, Lord Huntley says that he is a friend of yours from Calcutta,” Lady Bradmore said, smiling graciously from Cassandra to Julian.
Cassandra blinked. “Lord Huntley?”
“Well, in Calcutta, Miss Renwick knew me as Mr. Ritchie,” Julian said, looking at her as if he were trying to read her mind.
“Oh yes, of course!” Lady Bradmore said, “But now you are the Earl of Huntley, naturally.”
“An earl? I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Cassandra heard herself saying.
“Yes, my father died a short time ago. I received word of it the very same day you left Calcutta,” he said. Could she be hearing right? His voice almost sounded as if it were tinged with pain.
The thought caught Cassandra by surprise. Was he hurt that she had left? If so, then he deserved it for breaking her heart. Or was the sorrow she had heard in his voice at the loss of his father?
Cassandra desperately wished she could know what he was thinking.
“I am sorry to hear about your father, although it’s wonderful that you’re here now, and an earl, my goodness! My mother must have been shocked to hear of it.”
Julian laughed, and a true smile brightened his turquoise eyes. “Unfortunately, I didn’t take the time to inform her myself, although, as you can imagine, I would hav
e loved to have seen her reaction.”
Cassandra shared a secret smile with him, both of them knowing exactly what her mother’s reaction would have been. Cassandra could just imagine the growls of denial that would have come from her.
Olivia’s large curious eyes caught Cassandra’s for a moment. As usual, nothing got past her friend’s notice. Olivia may have generally been a quiet person, but she noticed everything. There would be explanations to make later, Cassandra was certain.
“Ah, Huntley, made it, did you?” Mr. Fotheringay-Phipps said, joining them.
Julian turned around and held out his hand to him. “Yes, thank you so much. I am glad to meet you again.” He turned to Lady Bradmore. “It was Mr. Fotheringay-Phipps who gave me your direction, Aunt Bradmore.”
“No problem, no problem at all,” Fungy drawled languidly.
Julian’s lips twitched as he experienced the full glory that was Fungy.
Looking at Mr. Fotheringay-Phipps standing next to Julian made it more than obvious to Cassandra just how out of fashion Julian was, in both his clothes and demeanor. Fungy was, as ever, dressed to perfection, wearing a dark blue superfine coat over a most handsomely embroidered waistcoat, and his white topped Hessians were so shiny Cassandra thought she could see her reflection in them.
Julian was wearing clothes Cassandra remembered very well. His out-moded jacket, breeches and brilliantly colored waistcoat looked even more out of place here than they had in Calcutta, and his boots had clearly seen better days.
Could it be this which made her love him all the more?
Cassandra scolded herself. No, she did not love him—she could not, not after what he’d done.
But she did, still, admire him. She admired the way he stuck to his principles, and the way he did not let society’s dictates sway him.
She admired the fact that he dared society to accept him for who he was and not what he wore. How she wished that she didn’t have to play her games, but be more like him.
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