by Maya Rodale
“Whatever you do, you should definitely not be seen talking to, looking at, or breathing in the direction of another woman,” Brandon counseled.
“Shockingly, the idea never even occurred to me,” Roxbury remarked. Brandon looked at him wide-eyed and then broke into a grin.
“Inchbald! This man needs another drink. He has just realized that he’s in love with his wife.”
Chapter 50
The offices of The London Weekly
“Good afternoon, Knightly,” Julianna said as she strolled into his office unannounced much as she had done a little over a year ago. She was in search of a position then, and she was now.
Then: She’d been desperate and quaking in her boots as she tried to act calm and collected.
Now: The need for this job was just as raw and urgent as ever. Having survived two failed marriages, one firing, and the backside of society, it took more than Knightly to make her nervous.
This time, however, Knightly was not surprised to see her.
“Good afternoon, Julianna. I’d ask what brings you here, but I’m certain I already know,” he said, setting down his pencil and pages and leaning back in his chair. He always leaned back, as if he were open and at ease. She knew him, though, and that he was sharp and forever on the lookout. He was not to be underestimated.
“I’ve come to submit my latest column,” she said, pulling the folded sheet out of her reticule. His blue eyes flashed interest and she smiled slyly.
She spent the morning at 24 Bloomsbury Place with her quill, her paper, and some delicious gossip. She had longed to be writing her column in her own home, and was dismayed to find it not as satisfying at she had imagined. She missed Roxbury.
She missed him with an intensity that continually surprised her. In the morning, in the afternoon, and at night. She missed kissing and sparring. She missed just knowing he was under the same roof. It didn’t make any sense to her at all, but nevertheless, she felt his absence like a hole in her soul and she ached with longing for him.
He had to go and muck it all up. How could he do that when he knew how stubborn, suspicious, and proud she was? Honestly, men were such idiots.
Julianna had bullied through her maudlin emotions and composed a stellar edition of “Fashionable Intelligence.” Knightly reached for it; she waved it away with a smile that said, Not so fast or easy, Mister.
“A few of the guests at Lady F—’s ball were up to no good,” she began to read. “Rumors are circulating that Lord R—and his new bride were discovered in one of the drawing rooms in a most delicate and intimate position. Is it a love match? The Man About Town and the rest of London are eager to know. Has Lord R—been reformed? Or is it a case of once a rake, always a rake?
Consider this, London—the new Lady R—has returned to her bachelorette lodgings. What this means for this stormy, mysterious, scandalous marriage we can only speculate.”
Here she dared a glance at Knightly, and his expression made her want to cry. Knightly occasionally grinned, but mostly his expression was inscrutable. Half the time he was clearly woolgathering about the only thing he ever talked or thought about: The Weekly.
Now, though, he had not only registered what she was saying—that her marriage of convenience was over, and that it wasn’t a simple, amicable parting. Somewhere along the lines it had become a love match. And then it was over.
She knew that the other columns would report on the love, for that was what they all saw. Feeling she had nothing left to lose or to hide, Julianna laid it all on the line—or page, rather.
Knightly understood; his expression was pained, and empathetic. And that made her want to cry.
She took a deep breath and carried on:
“But that is old news. Every few years—or every decade—something so delightfully salacious, deliciously scandalous, wonderfully outrageous occurs. I can hardly believe my pen as I write, but this author witnessed the following with her own eyes . . .”
“Care to guess?” she asked Knightly. He scowled.
“Keep reading,” he ordered, leaning forward. That brought a proud smile to her lips.
“Lady S—W—, authoress of the book Lady Stewart-Wortly’s Daily Devotional for Pious and Proper Ladies and famously outspoken authority on morality, was seen in the company of Lord W—. Faithful readers will remember that his Lordship has previously graced these pages due to a shocking preference in undergarments. This unlikely pair was discovered in a different drawing room. Alone. Unclothed, mostly (save for women’s undergarments that may or may not have been on the lady in question). In a position more fitting for a barnyard than a ballroom. This Lady of Distinction is speechless.”
Upon concluding, Julianna took a bow. Knightly applauded. She grinned.
“If you think Grenville and the penny-a-liners can top this, say the word and I’ll take my work to one of the hundreds of other London newspapers,” she challenged.
Knightly leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk and looking at her intensely with his vivid blue eyes. She did not wilt under the heat of his gaze.
“Why haven’t you?” he asked.
“Because I love The London Weekly. Almost as much as you do. But there is only so much heartache a woman can take. Are you going to take me back or send me on my way once and for all?”
She acted as calm as she could, but her heart was pounding and she held her breath, waiting for Knightly to decide her fate.
Chapter 51
St. Bride’s Church
Two weeks later
When it was her turn, Julianna—in her disguise as a boy—knelt by the side of the Man About Town and confessed her secret to him.
“Lady Roxbury is going abroad,” she said softly.
It was a fiction, just like the last thing she had confided in him. And just like the next few things she—or someone on her behalf—would tell him. The plan was simple—systematically feeding him false information to discredit him as a reputable authority of high-society gossip. She, on the other hand, would have the pure, sterling, verified truth in her column.
Julianna thrived on the competition. Part of her wanted to expose him. She also wanted to know his true identity, and for the Man About Town to be aware that she knew. And then there was a small bit of her heart that wanted Roxbury and didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything else.
She sighed. It always came back to Roxbury. It had been a fortnight since she moved back to Bloomsbury Place. The ache didn’t fade, as she had hoped it would. Her longing for him was like that for water or air—as if she needed him in order to survive. But he did not come back for her, and she was still too stubborn to go to him.
She was beginning to hate being stubborn, but old habits and lifelong traits died hard. So she was telling the Man About Town that she was going abroad, with the vain hope that it would be just the thing to set Roxbury on fire, and running after her.
Dusk was settling over London when the Man About Town concluded his calling hours. He quit St. Bride’s and headed north.
Julianna followed him from Fleet Street to High Holborn, dodging pedestrians, merchants, horses, and carriages all the way. More than once she nearly lost sight of her quarry, but thanks to the ease with which she could move in breeches, she was never too far behind.
He entered a coffeehouse called Griswold’s. So did she. However, by the time she arrived, a few steps behind, she had lost him in the dark, smoky recesses of the crowded space.
“Curses,” she muttered. And then, “Oh hell and damnation.”
She’d come too far to have lost him now. Pulling her cap low, she sauntered through the room, glancing about. She had half a mind to take a seat, order coffee, light up a cheroot, and read a paper.
A faint smile played upon her lips at the memory of her scandalous drive on Rotten Row with Roxbury. They had laughed over a woman smoking, ankles showing. All things proper ladies did not do. Proper ladies did not fall in love with rakes when they knew better, but look at h
er now.
Far from proper, and having fallen in love.
The men around her chatted about stock performances at The ’Change, horses, boxing, and they placed stupid wagers. They drank. They smoked. They spit. It was definitely no place for a lady.
But before she left, she looked again for her archrival. It was too dark, and too many men had horrible slouching postures, and too many of them had neglected to remove their hats. What manners! Then she reminded herself that no one went to a coffeehouse for well-mannered company.
She did not notice a certain gentleman until it was too late.
He firmly and discretely grabbed her arm and ushered her forward. No one seemed to notice or care.
“Sir, what are you—!” she hissed, not wanting to cause a scene in case she revealed herself. Then she might be in even more trouble—as if this wasn’t bad enough.
“Shh!” he said sharply. Perhaps she should call for help. What was worse: being kidnapped or discovered in a coffeehouse? Her reputation had certainly seen worse than either.
She squirmed around, hoping to catch a glimpse of her abductor. She also squirmed in an attempt to escape. He held firm. Her heart began to pound.
“Damn it, Jules, hold still,” he urged.
“Oh, it’s you,” she muttered. It was her husband, coming to rescue her when she did not need rescuing. Well, she might, but that was beside the point. He was here—with her! What was he doing here?
“Yes, it’s me. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll come quietly,” he said. His voice was low and firm and it sent shivers sparkling up and down her spine. Things had gone from dire to dramatic.
“Are you kidnapping me? I will not go home with you. Not now. What are you doing here anyway?” She was asking a million questions all at once. As glad as she was to see him, she did not want to leave just yet. Not when she was so close to solving that vexing mystery. With an equal fervor, she wished to throw herself into Roxbury’s arms and kiss him passionately.
While Roxbury’s presence was addling her brain and sending her thoughts spinning in a thousand different directions, the Man About Town was getting away. She squirmed again, trying to get away.
“Jules, be quiet and be still,” Roxbury ordered. “You are causing a scene. I am not taking you home. If you want the information you’ve been seeking, you will come quietly with me.”
“How do you know what I’m seeking?” she retorted.
“Don’t be obtuse. I know you, Julianna. I know your thoughts before they occur to you, your quick retorts before they cross your lovely lips. I know what you look like unclothed and I know that you think you are perfectly disguised as you search for the Man About Town.”
“How did you find me?”
“I followed you from St. Bride’s, sweating bullets all the while.”
“Yes, but where are you taking me?”
“I am going to see the Man About Town. You can wait here, if you’d like. Alone. With all these drunken men who don’t give a damn if you’re a lady. I taught you how to box, so you can defend yourself.”
“I’m coming with you,” she said in a rush.
“I thought so,” he said smugly.
Roxbury led her up the stairs, past a few doors that were open to decently sized bedrooms. And then he opened one that led to a closet.
“In you go,” he said, nudging her in the back. To be fair, it was a large closet, but still. It was a closet. It was a small, dark, dank enclosure above a coffeehouse in High Holborn. This was certainly on the list of places ladies did not go, and definitely not with rakes.
She merely lifted one brow, questioningly.
“I know,” Roxbury replied dryly. “I’m so romantic.”
Chapter 52
Roxbury exhaled impatiently. The maddening woman had once declared that if there was one thing she wished for, it was to know the identity of the Man About Town.
If there was one thing Roxbury wished for, it was his wife. He was going to win her back, and he was going to do so by revealing the Man About Town to her. Julianna was writing her column again—he knew her voice, her wit—and if she knew her rival’s secrets then she would have a certain measure of security.
She wouldn’t need Roxbury. But, God above, he would make her want him. He loved her, like no other woman. And so he knew, really knew, that she, Julianna Somerset Roxbury otherwise known as the Lady of Distinction or, more affectionately, his Lady Scandalous, was beyond a shadow of a doubt the woman for him. Forever.
A man’s life was his own. The last words of his beloved brother had been a rallying cry for all sorts of selfish and rakish behavior. Now, however, a revision was in order. Roxbury’s life was his own, but he wanted to share it with his wife.
He’d explain all that to Julianna later; she’d delight in stories of Edward’s outrageous exploits. Roxbury was sure Edward would have approved of a spitfire like her. In fact, he would have been rolling with laughter at the predicament they were in now.
At the end of the day, his plan to win her was just some plan that was nothing more than the workings of a desperate man. And it involved a tiny, dark closet above a coffeehouse in a less than fashionable neighborhood.
Thinking it too bad he didn’t fall for a woman who would be happy with merely jewelry or flowers, Roxbury leveled a stern look at her.
“After you, madam.”
“Are you demented? We’ll never both fit in there.”
“My dear Julianna, for the past month I’ve been following the Man About Town from St. Bride’s to this place. I’ve watched him go upstairs, come back down an hour or so later, and then I’ve followed him to the offices of The Times. In that time, I’ve found this spot that will enable you to stay hidden and watch everything unfold,” Roxbury told her, with impatience seeping into his voice.
He heard footsteps thudding up the stairs.
Julianna ducked in, and pulled him with her. He tugged the door shut, and then they were enveloped in darkness.
“This is lovely. Cozy, private,” she remarked. It was a prime opportunity for all manner of intimate, inadvertent touching as they shuffled around as quietly as possible in a place that was not made to accommodate two people.
“Roxbury,” she gasped. His hand had just “accidentally” caressed her bottom.
“Terribly sorry,” he replied with a grin.
“Indeed,” she drawled, but she nestled close against him, much to his pleasure and frustration.
“I thought I would have a few more days to get this ready,” Roxbury told her. “I was going to whisk you away.”
“I’m still not sure what this is, other than a horrendously compromising position, should we be caught,” she replied.
“We’re married,” he said. It didn’t matter where they were caught now, or by whom. It was a benefit of marriage he had never before considered.
“I am dressed as a man,” Julianna reminded him, “and you are trying to dispel rumors about your preferences, spread by some horrible shrew.”
And then, so very softly, Roxbury whispered, “She’s not a horrible shrew.”
“Oh Roxbury . . .” Julianna sighed.
“Though she can be if she doesn’t get a good bedding by her husband,” he couldn’t resist adding.
“And here I was about to apologize,” she retorted, which was a good enough apology for him.
“I know, my dear Julianna, and I forgive you.” If they had a prayer of making their marriage work, those words needed to be said.
There was noise in the hall—the sound of footsteps thudding up the stairs, and low male voices in conversation.
“Look here,” Roxbury whispered, and he managed to guide Julianna’s attention to two small holes carved into the wall, enabling her to see into the other room. He knew very well what she saw, and it was the revelation of a great mystery.
Chapter 53
Julianna peered into the room. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw a rough-hewn table with a l
arge towering sconce full of lit candles. There were two chairs, and a window showing a periwinkle sky. Anything else was cloaked in shadows.
Julianna fumbled in the dark until she found Roxbury’s hand to clasp in her own. Her heart began to beat hard with anticipation.
But her heart also beat hard with joy. This moment was just for her. It was a moment that he had planned and that had taken work to enact. Even after she had left him, he had still been devoted to her. Surely, Roxbury loved her. She squeezed his hand as if to say “Thank you. I love you.”
There was a man seated at the rough-hewn wooden table—but not just any man. She’d seen him out and about. Lord above, she’d even had conversations with him! But what was his name?
She nearly growled in frustration.
Whoever he was, he sat down at a table with writing supplies and brandy.
“Well, well, Branson, what’s the news today?” he asked, leaning back and sipping a glass of brandy.
The other one, Branson—there were two!—she recognized as the one from St. Bride’s this afternoon. He carried that big, black cloak under one arm. It seemed the Man about Town had an apprentice among his vast network.
“Lord and Lady Haile are moving to a new residence,” Branson answered. “There is more gossip about Lady Stewart-Wortly—her husband has sent her to a nunnery.”
“I already knew that,” Julianna whispered to Roxbury. She couldn’t resist.
“Of course, darling,” he murmured, giving her hand an affectionate squeeze.
“I’m surprised he hasn’t sent her to the afterlife. What a slow week. Has no one eloped or died under suspicious circumstances?” the other man asked, bored. She knew the feeling. After a while, one felt like they’d heard it all. He could only be the Man About Town.
“Lady Mayhew has refused Lord Pershing’s offer of marriage. As you know, everyone expected her to accept. Oh, and Lady Roxbury is going abroad,” Branson said.
“Interesting. Was it the lady herself that told you?” the Man About Town asked.
