“In the meantime, Julia is welcome to stay with us indefinitely,” Grayson said, and clearly meant it. His generosity and sense of justice were two of his endearing traits that more than atoned for his past reputation as a scoundrel.
“I hope I do not have to take you up on that offer. Russell and I may yet be forced to work together.”
Grayson looked at him in concern. “I think we will all be relieved when you get rid of Auclair. I fear your demons will never be laid to rest until the man is dead.”
Feminine laughter drifted from the depths of the garden. Julia and Jane were playing cricket with Odham while Hermia kept score. Grayson stood up and walked with Heath to the door. “Whatever happens, the family is with you.”
“Yes.”
“By the way”— Grayson laid his hand on Heath’s shoulder, lowering his voice—“I can see that my advice worked.”
“Can you?”
“Yes, but that sketch of you, Heath. My, my. Julia has been burning all by herself, it would seem.”
“I really can’t comment. I never tell.”
“You don’t need to,” Grayson retorted. “Julia’s drawing speaks volumes.”
Heath only smiled.
“It did give me a shock,” Grayson continued, “you exposed that way, and I thought I had seen everything.”
Heath dredged up a droll smile. “The world has seen more of me than I ever dreamed possible.”
“She really is a naughty woman,” Grayson murmured.
“Isn’t she though?”
Grayson arched his brow. “Do you want some more advice?”
“By all means.”
“Marry her as soon as possible,” Grayson said. “A woman like that does not come along every day.”
That same evening Grayson announced over dinner that he had invited a troop of traveling players to give a private performance at the end of the week. It was an annual tradition, a treat for the family and servants.
One troop or another had entertained in the old half-timbered barn on the edge of the estate ever since Heath could remember. Sometimes the players arrived in midsummer. Sometimes they did not come to Kent until Christmas. But never a year passed without a performance.
The Boscastle family enjoyed a good laugh and a good cry. Heath thought that Julia could use a distraction. He also liked the idea of involving her in a family ritual. Without a second thought, he had already begun to include her in his future. In fact, he could not imagine his life without her. For the first time in years he looked forward to the next day. He laughed more often. He wanted to make her happy.
He had been only half joking when he warned her that she could be carrying his child; she certainly had a good chance of conceiving before they left. He was astonished at how appealing he found the possibility of starting a family with her.
He would have to rush her to the altar. What he felt for her had become too overpowering to hide. He who had prided himself on his talent for secrecy suddenly could not be bothered with deception. In the past day or so, he had been caught standing too close to her more times than either of them could count. Everyone in the house, from Hermia to the housemaids, had to know that Heath Boscastle was smitten, desperately hungry for even a few stolen moments with the engaged widow who had sketched him in the nude.
His behavior went against everything he professed to believe. But he should have known that when he gave his heart, his would not be a gentle courtship, but a rather dark sensual dance that involved danger and risk. A Boscastle in love tended to be an unpredictable being. Perhaps because their breed did everything with passion.
His family understood, would not judge him, rather would offer its support. He counted on that. He and his brothers might have half murdered one another while growing up. But God help the outsider who threatened one of them.
Explaining the situation to Russell would prove far more challenging. Unlike Julia, who confessed she dreaded the moment, Heath accepted it as an unavoidable task. He had no intention of denying his involvement with her. He wanted her, would announce his commitment to her to the world.
He could only hope that Russell would be able to put his personal feelings aside long enough so that together they could apprehend Auclair.
He glanced around the dinner table, taking in the laughter, the warm atmosphere of closeness, the zest for life. What a full house already, and the entire family was not even assembled. His sisters were not here; Emma was busy in London, with her fledgling students, and Chloe was safe and contented with her new husband, Dominic, after having helped him conquer his vicious enemy.
Drake and Devon should arrive any day, if a duel or pretty young woman had not waylaid the blackguards. He intended to enlist their talents locating Auclair.
Drake arrived the following day, which was a Thursday. Windblown, dark, and vital, he brought a dash of dangerous energy to the estate. His presence sent ripples of excitement and anticipation through the house. Several young ladies in the neighborhood appeared less than an hour later with their mamas to pay a social call, pretending to be surprised that Drake had just arrived.
The maidservants especially adored the two younger Boscastle brothers, who were not above doling out outrageous compliments or cash tips to the loyal staff. Even the male domestics displayed a paternalistic pride toward their “brave young lords” and would not tolerate a disrespectful word in the village against them—although heaven knew, everybody knew, that those boys had committed sins aplenty to draw criticism.
The first thing Drake did, once he got Heath alone in the study, was to produce roughly one hundred of the pamphlets that displayed his nude caricature.
“There’s a premium for these in London. I’ve got all my friends and the servants collecting them. Julia might have warned us you were going public, Apollo.”
Heath shook his head in chagrin. “Damnation. I suppose that’s the end of me in polite Society.”
Drake laughed. “But what a dazzling debut in impolite Society. Audrey has offered a reward for the original.”
“She would.”
Drake’s laughter died away. “It didn’t sit well with Russell, I’m afraid.”
Heath tossed the stack of pamphlets into the fire, turning slowly. “He’s back? He must be on your heels.”
“Not quite.”
“Then he surely knows about me and Julia. That we are together.”
“Oh, he knows, all right,” Drake said quickly.
“And he did not come after us?” Heath’s eyes darkened in disbelief. “That does not sound like the Russell I remember.”
“Brace yourself.” Drake took a poker to the pamphlets smoldering in the fireplace. “He’ll be here soon enough.”
“Why the delay?” Heath scowled. “Wrapped up in his mistress?”
“I wouldn’t call it a delay,” Drake said with a wicked grin. “More of a detour, actually. He came to me in a fury when he could not find you in London. I told him I suspected that you and Julia might have eloped.”
“Eloped?”
“Well, I didn’t use the actual word. I merely hinted that the family owned an ancestral pile in Roxbury. And every fool and his mother knows that Gretna Green is on the way.”
Heath stared into the slow-burning flames, smiling in appreciation of his brother’s devious mind.
“Aren’t you even going to thank me?” Drake asked. “There’s time to plan, or even to run off with Julia. Whatever pleases you.”
“I don’t think I’m the type to run away, but thank you.”
“Always at your service.” Drake lowered the poker to the hearth.
“I think you mean that.”
Drake straightened. “Of course I mean it. Not to spoil the mood, but have you heard anything about Auclair?”
“No. I think it is dangerous to underestimate him,” Heath said. “I wish I understood what he intends to do, and why.”
“That seems perfectly obvious. Two spies on opposite sides. You got the bette
r of him. He has not forgiven the insult.”
“There’s more,” Heath said slowly. “I know there is, but I do not know why.”
“Devon will be here soon,” Drake said after a pause. He looked steadily at his brother. “You won’t be alone this time, whatever you face.”
Chapter 29
The traveling players performed the comedy She Stoops to Conquer in the barn on Friday evening. Following family tradition, the servants of the house were invited to attend and settled comfortably in the back, eager to be included in this annual event. Heath could not watch the play at all. The acting was awful, every other line flubbed and badly timed.
But everyone else was laughing, including Julia. It was a mindless entertainment, a release, and the very badness of the performance provided most if not all of the enjoyment.
Heath’s enjoyment came entirely from sitting beside Julia, pressed shoulder to shoulder in the stuffy candlelit barn on bales of hay. It was dark enough where they sat that he could touch her, steal a kiss between acts. This was what he wanted their life to be.
His arm slid around her waist. His thumb flirted with the curve of her hip. “It’s good to hear you laugh, Julia.”
“How can I not laugh?” she whispered back. “The acting is appallingly bad. One of the players took sick at the last minute, and Mrs. Hardcastle is being played by a man. I think she—he—forgot to shave.”
Heath glanced amusedly at the stage, but he was far more interested in the woman beside him. She looked lovely tonight in a light silver silk dress, her shawl sliding from her arms. He loved the supple line of her back, the way her sinuous muscles flared into her soft white bottom. He remembered the last time they made love, and his body reacted with a bolt of lust that could have sent the barn up in flames.
It was still early when the play ended. Hermia and Julia were strolling arm in arm toward the house, giggling as they discussed the performance. Jane and Odham were admiring the starlit garden, the wolfhounds trotting at their heels.
Heath followed behind Drake and Grayson. He could see the acting troop’s wagons parked at the edge of the estate. Many of the players had remained in the barn, to disassemble the stage. This was the one place on earth where he should have felt comfortable lowering his guard.
“Hermia and I are going to take some refreshments down to the actors,” Julia called over her shoulder at him.
“I’ll watch you from the window,” he said to her retreating figure.
Grayson pivoted to grin at him. “Do you really think she could meet mortal danger between here and the barn?”
He heard Drake’s deep chortle of laughter. “You never know. A frog could jump out at her from the fountain.”
“Or,” Grayson added, “she could sink into a mud puddle and never be seen again.”
“The rosebushes can be murder this time of year,” Drake said.
“Rotten bastards,” Heath said. But by the time he reached the house, he was laughing, too.
* * *
He lit a cigar and pulled a chair to the library window. He had promised Julia he would read the book she had given him on Egyptian hieroglyphics. He must have meant to at least a dozen times. Grayson and Drake had gone off with Hamm and Odham to the gaming room.
Heath had declined to join them.
He turned a page in the book and examined a drawing of undeciphered inscriptions, symbols believed to hold the mysteries of the ages. Scholars and linguists had struggled to decode these ancient passages. It was a study that fascinated Heath, but his mind wandered to another subject.
Keep her safe.
And keep her away from scandal.
He frowned, his dark head wreathed in a cloud of fragrant smoke. Ironic that he should remember Russell’s parting words so clearly. Now that the two men were about to come face-to-face.
Well, he had kept Julia safe.
But free from scandal?
He shook his head. He could see her through the window. She was walking with Hermia across the lawn in the bright moonlight. Julia was a minor scandal unto herself.
He wouldn’t have her any other way.
She and Hermia had reached the barn. He caught a last glimpse of Julia in her silver dress before she disappeared into the dark.
He opened the book again.
A folded scrap of paper fell out.
He read it three times before he came to his feet, his face draining of color.
I had my first good look at her in the bookstore today. She is lovely, about the same age as my sister would have been had you not killed her.
Will you mourn her, Boscastle?
Or are you, like me, incapable of suffering that sentimental insanity called love?
Armand
Heath stared down at the book, his face bleached white with realization. The stranger who had picked the book up when Julia dropped it outside the shop must have been Auclair. He had slipped the message inside before returning it to her. They had all been standing together in the street.
Heath had missed him by mere seconds. Would he even have recognized him from a drawing?
Julia’s garden, the theater, a public street. Where next? Auclair showed no fear. And what was this madness about Heath killing his sister? He had never killed a woman . . . dear God, had he? The month that had been erased from his memory haunted him. He couldn’t remember anything substantial after being tortured.
What had he done?
What would Auclair do?
He felt the blood rush to his head as he backed away from the window. Julia had given him the answer. If he had paid more attention, he might have perceived the truth himself.
One of the actors took sick at the last minute, and Mrs. Hardcastle is being played by a man. I think she—he—forgot to shave.
* * *
Hermia paused to rebalance over her arm the heavy basket of cold meats, cheeses, and bread that she carried. Her face was flushed, and she sounded a little winded.
Julia stopped to give her time to rest. “I knew we should have had Hamm help us. Or one of the other servants. Are you all right, Aunt Hermia?”
Hermia gave her an irate look. They were almost to the door of the half-timbered barn; although it was quiet inside, the lanterns were still lit, and the stage had not been completely dismantled.
“I am perfectly capable of carrying a basket, Julia.” She resumed her stride.
Julia smiled. “Then why is your face red, pray tell? Why do you have trouble catching your breath?”
Hermia sighed, looking faintly embarrassed. “Odham, that’s why. The fool kissed me as I was leaving the house. Oh, dear. The players aren’t in the barn.”
Julia glanced toward the small private woods. “They must have retired to their wagons.”
“I wanted to meet the actor who played Squire Hardcastle,” Hermia murmured, her gaze a little sad. “He reminded me of my late husband.”
“Mrs. Hardcastle looked like my late husband,” Julia said with a wistful laugh.
“Odham has asked me again to marry him.” Hermia nibbled a piece of cheese from her basket. “This time I am seriously considering saying yes. I know it sounds silly, but when I watched the play tonight, I had the strangest feeling that my dear departed Gerald was telling me to be happy.”
Julia turned her head. “Then take your basket to Squire Hardcastle and tell Odham you accept—oh, look. There’s one of the actors in the barn now. I’ll ask him to help us.”
“I shall walk ahead.”
“Don’t be long, Aunt Hermia,” Julia teased. “Odham will be missing you.”
All but one lantern had been extinguished by the time Julia entered the barn. She approached the trestle table that had been used as a prop to set down her heavy basket of fruit tarts, a wheel of cheese, and two bottles of wine.
A lone actor remained on the crude wooden stage, practicing a swordfight with an imaginary adversary. Julia wondered if he were rehearsing for the next performance. Grayson had mentioned that R
omeo and Juliet was part of the troop’s repertoire.
He slashed a graceful arc in the air, his black cape billowing with a dramatic flair. Julia sensed that he knew she was there. He was showing off a little, not unusual for an actor. She stepped toward the stage.
“I enjoyed the performance.”
He sketched a bow and jumped off the small platform. “My pleasure entirely.”
She studied his face, rough-hewn, unshaven, attractive in an unrefined manner. His eyes were hard, glistening like black coals in the dim light. “You’re Mrs. Hardcastle,” she said in surprise. “I did not recognize you without your dress.”
He bowed again, the sword drawn over his heart. “And you,” he said in a soft, faintly accented voice, “are Julia Hepworth Whitby. The woman whom Boscastle and Althorne both desire. How nice of you to provide such a convenient revenge.”
For an instant his words did not penetrate. It took her several moments to understand what he meant. But then she recognized him, the stranger in the street with the high beaver hat, and she realized with a jolt of terror that she was standing alone with the French officer who had tortured Heath so viciously in Sahagun that he bore the physical scars of it to this day. It did not seem possible. Not here, where she felt safe, protected. Not here, where he could inflict evil on so many innocent people.
“Auclair,” she said, not moving, her heart pounding in her throat. The name defiled the air. This was the monster who enjoyed watching others suffer.
He tossed his saber to his other hand as if it weighed nothing. She saw the burn marks, the reddened scars on his knuckles. She cringed at the cold smile he gave her.
Where was Heath? How long had she been gone? Only minutes, surely. Not long enough for him to miss her. And Hermia—oh, pray God, let her aunt not become a part of this.
Auclair must have seen the desperate glance she darted to the door. He advanced on her until she was forced back against the stage. A sense of cold, of disbelief, gripped her. She wouldn’t show him how afraid she was.
The Wedding Night of an English Rogue Page 28
