The Mistress' House

by Leigh Michaels

  It was clear to Julian that he had better visit both a tailor and a barber before presenting himself to his grandfather. For that worthy gentleman, even the war would be no excuse for careless grooming.

  Still, it was good to be home and with Thorne, who had always been his favorite cousin—though the man seemed to have just one topic of conversation these days. No, that wasn’t fair, Julian told himself. Thorne could—and did—talk quite sensibly about horses, estates, canals, and society gossip, in between references to his wife. The Countess wasn’t even in London, but she seemed to be right there in the dining room with them—even after the brandy and the cigars came in, when any lady of quality would have fled to her private parlor and any normal husband would have been relieved to speak of other things.

  “Charming though your countess sounds,” Julian said as he sampled the brandy, “I’m still amazed you let yourself get caught in parson’s mousetrap.”

  Thorne shook his head. “I walked straight in with my eyes open. You’ll be looking for a bride soon yourself, I expect.”

  Julian sighed. “I imagine that will be the next thing on the Old Man’s list, after selling my commission.”

  “Or possibly even before. Anne could help you there—she seems to know every young woman in the ton.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind when I decide to put my head in the noose.” Morosely, Julian watched the brandy swirl in his glass. When, he’d said. Not if. But though that had been a slip of the tongue, it was also a fact—he would have to marry. “Tell her not to get in any hurry to bring me to the ladies’ attention. I’ll look around when I’m good and ready.”

  “I didn’t mean she’d try to marry you off, Julian, for she won’t. It’s just that you’d be wise to ask her counsel before making your choice. Young women can be remarkably sweet in masculine company before the wedding and then turn into shrews the moment they leave the altar. Anne can spot things like that.”

  Julian couldn’t bear thinking of altars and weddings just now. “I’ll keep that in mind. But at the moment I have other priorities.”

  “Probably wise. With the Season over, you’d have to look long and hard anyway. Most of this year’s debutantes have been spoken for, or else they never will be. Let the word spread that you’re home, and by next spring when the Marriage Mart is in full swing, you’ll be able to dance at Almack’s and take your pick of the next crop.”

  “The very idea of all those matchmaking mamas terrifies me more than facing a cavalry regiment.”

  “You could go to Bath for the autumn, I suppose—it’s a lot less intense than the London Season. And there’s something to be said for getting it over with quickly.”

  Julian shuddered. “No, thanks. I’m going to enjoy being unfettered while I still can. In fact, if you don’t mind forgoing my company for the rest of the evening, I think I’ll go for a walk and shake some fidgets. That nap left me feeling restless.”

  “Be careful, Julian. After dark, a man wandering the streets alone is a target, even in Portman Square.”

  “And wandering around Waterloo was safe?”

  “Point taken. Make yourself at home.” Thorne stubbed out his half-smoked cigar. “I have some letters to finish. If all goes well, I’ll be leaving for Surrey by the end of the week—but you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. It appears I’ll be coming back and forth all through the autumn to deal with loose ends.” He sounded irritated by the prospect.

  Julian couldn’t decide whether to be amused or concerned. It wasn’t natural for a man to be so impatient to get back to his new wife… at least, not a man like Thorne.

  After his cousin had gone back to his library, Julian took his glass of brandy over to the long windows. If he stood close enough to the window, he could see beyond the reflected candlelight to the garden beyond. Trees swayed gently, and banks of light-colored flowers ruffled in the early autumn breeze. And beyond the flowers…

  He leaned closer yet to the glass. Someone was out there between the flower beds. All he could really see was a pale oval, something that might be a face and that seemed to float across the lawn. He might have thought it a ghostly apparition, except that he didn’t believe in spirits.

  Something drew him to take a closer look. Quietly and impulsively, he opened the window and stepped over the low sash into the soft silt of the flower bed beneath. His boot heel sank and almost overset him, and he did considerable damage to a lilac bush before he regained his balance. By then, the apparition had moved along the garden path to a spot farther from the house. But from this angle he could see it wasn’t just a head but a woman—judging by the size of the form and the sway of the step.

  A housemaid, perhaps, who had slipped out for a quick break and a breath of air? But what maid would dare to wander around her employer’s garden at an hour when someone looking out of the public rooms might see her?

  The stealth he had learned on reconnaissance missions served him well, for he was within a few feet of her before she noticed him. She was bending to smell a flower on a small bush when Julian’s boot cracked a stick underfoot and she jerked upright.

  The pale oval of her face was surrounded by red-gold hair that fell in perfect, springy ringlets to her shoulders. Her face had seemed to float because she was wrapped in a cloak, but the hood had fallen back, leaving her head bare. Her wrap was velvet, so dark and rich a color that it seemed to swallow the moonlight, and the fastening at her throat was gold. Clearly not a servant, then.

  One of Thorne’s mistresses, perhaps? There had been plenty of them. But surely Thorne wouldn’t be meeting one in his own garden…

  “Good evening,” Julian said.

  The mysterious lady drew her cloak closer. But there was frank interest in her eyes and not a hint of fear. Did that mean Thorne was going to be along any minute, expecting to meet her here?

  “Good evening.” Her voice sounded like honey flowing across warm bread.

  “We have not been introduced,” Julian began.

  Her laugh was low and rich, rippling across his skin like the touch of a gentle hand. “Yes, I’d noticed that. If it offends your sense of propriety, sir—”

  He felt like a fool. “It does not. You’re wandering around my cousin’s garden in the middle of the night, so I think that could be taken as introduction enough.”

  “It’s just gone eleven—I heard the church bells only a moment ago. That’s hardly the middle of the night.” Her tone was light, careless. “Lord Hawthorne is your cousin?”

  Wariness licked at Julian’s bones. Danger lurked as surely along this peaceful garden path as it ever had on the roads of Spain. The danger was of a different sort, that was all—couched in the cultured voice of a young woman who had just identified potential prey. If he was the cousin of an earl, then he might be someone important, too. Perhaps even someone worth pursuing…

  And he had very neatly sprung the trap on himself. He wanted to curse.

  “A cousin, yes.” He kept his voice casual. “One of many. His branch of the family is senior to mine—I’m just the son of a younger son.” That was all quite accurate, he thought, proud of himself for turning the tide and deflecting her interest—even if it wasn’t the entire truth.

  She didn’t seem disappointed. “I thought perhaps you meant Lady Hawthorne was your cousin.”

  He was annoyed with himself. That long, involved explanation had been entirely unnecessary—she’d only been asking which of the Hawthornes he was claiming. Unless she was a better politician than any other woman he’d ever met. It wouldn’t be the only way she was different from the women he had known…

  In the moonlight, her face was as smooth and pale as ivory. At the moment she looked quite serious, but he hadn’t forgotten the sparkle in her eyes and the way her generous mouth had quirked right before she laughed. Something inside him longed to make her do it again so he could watch more carefully this time and catch each telltale sign before she burst into that rippling, sensual laugh. So he coul
d enjoy every single moment…

  By doing what, Hampton? Telling her a joke? He pulled himself back to the moment. “Julian Hampton, at your service.”

  Her gaze summed up his appearance. “A pleasure, Major Hampton.”

  She was a very close observer, this mysterious lady, to so easily spot his rank despite the uncertain light and the disrepair of his uniform. Now he was especially glad of his faded coat and his worn boots. In case she hadn’t really been convinced by his recital of the family tree, it was just as well that he looked the part of an impoverished younger son barely making do on Army pay. Besides, at the moment it was mostly true.

  “He has many cousins, you said?”

  “Litters of them,” Julian lied. “And you? You know my name, but I do not know yours.”

  She shrugged, and the velvet cloak rippled in the moonlight, making him wonder what lay underneath. Was she really as slender and fragile as she seemed to be? “Oh, I’m no one, really.”

  “Wise of you not to give your name,” he admitted. “Your mama would be very unhappy to hear of you wandering at night alone.”

  She sidestepped the hinted invitation to tell him about her family. “But I’m not alone,” she said with that low, sensual laugh. “You’re with me.”

  The frisson of impending peril licked at him again. That, he thought grimly, was precisely the problem. If he was found with her in Hawthorne’s garden in the dead of night, there would be hell to pay.

  But now that he’d got himself into the situation, he couldn’t just walk off and leave her out there by herself. “I’ll see you home.”

  “My garden is just through there.” She waved a hand vaguely. “But it’s quite small, so I trespass now and then to enjoy Lord Hawthorne’s. I do beg you not to tell him we met here.”

  “You think he would be angry at you? It seems unlikely to me that he would be unwilling to share the scent of his flowers.”

  “The thought of facing his wrath terrifies me.”

  She didn’t sound terrified. A bit cautious, perhaps. Even a trifle concerned that she might be discovered. But no more concerned than I am that someone will find us here, alone together. “You need have no fears on that subject,” he said dryly. “I shall not tell him.”

  “Thank you.” She rewarded him with a smile that seemed to make the moonlight a little brighter and a little warmer. “But since my presence makes you ill at ease—”

  Julian wanted to protest, which was utterly foolish. She was uncomfortably perceptive in recognizing his concern, and he suspected she wouldn’t hesitate to laugh at him if he denied it.

  “—and as I have no wish to cause a gentleman to stand about in the night air on guard duty while I take my exercise, I shall return to my home. Good night.”

  Before he could answer, she pulled her hood over her bright hair, stepped behind an azalea bush into the shadow of a huge, old elm tree, and seemed to vanish into nowhere.

  ***

  Meeting a scruffy, threadbare soldier in the garden was quite the most excitement Georgiana had experienced in the entire long week since she had confronted Lord Hawthorne and demanded his assistance in dealing with Uncle Rufus. She almost wished that she had stayed out a little longer and asked Major Hampton to tell her about the battles and campaigns he had fought in.

  But as Hawthorne’s cousin, Julian Hampton probably had the same sort of starched-up soul as the Earl, despite the worn-out uniform. “We have not been introduced.” “I’ll see you home.” Yes, he sounded exactly like the Earl. It was just as well that she hadn’t stayed. The temptation to tweak him would have been irresistible, and who knew what complications that might have led to. If he happened to mention her to his cousin…

  He had said she need not fear, and she had no reason to think he was not a man of his word. Still, it was only sensible not to push his sense of propriety too far.

  He was the son of a younger son, he had said. Perhaps he had come to Lord Hawthorne for financial help. He certainly looked as though he could use it. A scruffy, threadbare soldier… and not just because of his mangy uniform, battle-scarred boots, and unkempt black hair.

  He looked too thin for his height. He was also too brown in the face, as if he had been in the sun for months on end. And his eyes—blue, she thought, though it was hard to tell in the moonlight—looked far too tired. Yet his expression had held kindness, along with a bit of wariness.

  She paused to think about that. Major Hampton, she concluded, had been just the slightest bit afraid—of her.

  A thrill of feminine power surged through Georgiana. How very interesting that she could actually frighten a tried-and-true soldier, a man who had faced Napoleon’s army…

  Yes, meeting Major Hampton was by far the most entertaining thing that had happened to her all week.

  Not that he should feel particularly flattered by the honor, for he didn’t face much competition. In fact, this had—until now—been the dullest week of Georgiana’s life. Worse by far than being stuck in Dorset with Uncle Rufus and his dogs.

  She’d believed that once she was in London, things would get better—but they’d no sooner arrived in the city than Uncle Rufus had told her of his latest lunatic plan. Then she’d convinced herself that once she managed to reach Lord Hawthorne and explain to him what Uncle Rufus had in mind for her, he would make everything all right.

  And to be fair, Lord Hawthorne had helped—a little. At least Uncle Rufus wasn’t haranguing her every day about what she owed the family and how easy life would be for her if only she did as he wanted. What he meant, of course, was that it would be easy for him. She sniffed at the very idea.

  And she did have a nice place to stay—for Number 5 Upper Seymour Street was quite the loveliest house Georgiana had ever seen, much less lived in. The bedroom she was using made her feel like a princess. Being surrounded by all that green velvet and lace made her feel elegant from the moment she woke up each morning.

  But however nice it was, the town house didn’t make up for being hidden away from the world, told not to even set a foot out of doors. And however much she appreciated not having to listen to Uncle Rufus rattling on, that didn’t make up for being ordered not to talk to anyone except the servants.

  Plus, Lord Hawthorne seemed to have forgotten all about her. He hadn’t even come round to call, to tell her how matters were progressing or what Uncle Rufus had to say. The only visitor she’d had was Perkins—and he hadn’t said a single word that mattered. He’d brought her a couple of novels that she didn’t want to read, and he’d rattled off a whole lot of drivel about patience and forbearance and due time, and then he’d gone away again. Luckily for him, he’d made his escape just as she’d gotten seriously near to losing her temper and throwing a book at his head.

  She knew she should be happy that she was somewhere safe and quiet, and where Uncle Rufus wasn’t kicking up a dust. But everything was so dull at Number 5 Upper Seymour Street that Georgiana was about to go mad.

  Spending a few minutes in the garden with Julian Hampton had been a nice change. And, if he happened to walk out there again, it might be fun to see if she could scare him just a little more.

  ***

  The sun was brilliant in the morning, and from the breakfast room, Julian could see no shadows flitting in the garden. But then, his mysterious lady with no name was likely still abed. Julian himself had been up since before dawn, as he always was. That habit from long years of campaigning was hard to break; the moment the first light of day crept into the eastern sky, he was alert.

  The butler brought in the morning post. Thorne glanced through it and tossed a letter across the table to Julian. “It didn’t take the Old Man long to discover you’re here. His spy network seems to be as good as ever.”

  “The government should have adopted it during the war. We’d have beaten Boney in a year.” Julian broke the wafer and spread the page open. The letter was short and to the point. “It’s a summons, of course. I’m to appear for dinner this e
vening to account for myself.”

  “At least we have a few hours to get you into shape.”

  Julian felt mulish. “I think I’ll go just as I am.”

  Thorne pushed his plate aside. “It’s only a step to my tailor. Sooner or later you’ll have to put the uniform away, so we may as well start the process. And it looks to be a pleasant day. If you don’t mind the walk…”

  Julian pulled his mind back to the breakfast table and finished his coffee. “As long as you don’t expect me to carry a pack and a rifle,” he said dryly, “I think I can manage it. The tailor first? Let’s go, then, and get started.”

  It was not only a beautiful morning but a fine one. A warm breeze stirred the oak leaves in Portman Square and teased a too-long lock of hair loose over Julian’s ear. As they strode off down the square and then turned the corner onto Upper Seymour Street, he found himself watching the houses. From the vague wave of the mysterious lady’s hand last night, she must have been indicating a house somewhere along here…

  He saw a carriage pull up before a nearby house to wait. The front door opened, and his pace slowed so he could observe as a family came out to climb into the carriage. But there was no bright-haired young woman among them.

  On Oxford Street, he saw a girl with reddish hair, but she was too young and obviously a servant—and in any case her hair was straight, rather than in ringlets. On Bond Street there was a lady who walked with the same sort of glide in her step as his mysterious lady, but her hair was dark and she was far too old.

  Thorne was watching him thoughtfully, and for an instant Julian almost asked whether he had noticed a stunning young woman with curly red-gold hair anywhere in the neighborhood. But he couldn’t, of course—for how would he explain how he’d happened to meet this lady of mystery? Tell Thorne that a neighbor was making a habit of trespassing in his garden? At any rate, Julian had given her the promise of a gentleman that he would not breathe a word to his cousin. And he was a man of honor.