The bells of St. Dunstan’s in the West were just chiming the hour of nine o’clock when Julia stepped down from the cab in front of Aidan’s offices in the City. She tossed a full shilling to the driver, not wanting to bother counting out the proper amount of change, and raced into the four-story stone and granite building on the corner of Fleet Street and Chancery Lane.
She halted in the impressive Italianate foyer to get her bearings and spied a clerk seated behind a lavishly carved rosewood secretaire. As she approached him, the tap of her heels echoed off the Siena marble floor and the impressive high ceilings.
Aidan had obviously left instructions that she was to be expected, for upon giving her name to the clerk, she was led to an electric lift and handed over to the liveried young man operating it, who took her to the top floor.
“To your left, ma’am,” the boy told her as he opened the wrought-iron gate so that she could her exit the elevator. “Shall I escort you?”
Julia glanced toward a set of tall baize doors and back at him with a smile. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Very good, ma’am.” Tipping his cap, the boy slid the gate closed between them, then pressed the electric button and sank out of sight.
Julia went through the doors and found herself in another office suite, this one far more masculine and far more English in its decor than the lavish foyer downstairs. In fact, she reflected as she glanced around, it suited Aidan so perfectly, he might have decorated it himself.
Everywhere was solid practicality combined with comfort, everything understated, nothing too lavish. There was oak paneling, hunter-green wallpaper, a thick, muted Persian carpet, and sporting prints and English landscapes on the walls. Everything was tasteful but subdued, the lighting was electric, the pictures hung perfectly straight on the walls, and there was no sign of frivolity or absurdity in sight.
Before her reposed a massive desk of dark cherrywood, and behind it, a sandy-haired young man with pince-nez rose from his chair.
“Lady Yardley?” At her nod, he bowed. “I am Mr. Lambert, His Grace’s secretary. The duke is expecting you, if you will come this way.”
She followed him to the door, pausing as he opened it and announced her. Aidan rose from the chair behind his desk as she entered, and once she had passed into his office, his secretary started to depart. Aidan’s voice, however, made him pause.
“Mr. Lambert, close the door behind you, if you please.”
Both Julia and the secretary looked at him in surprise. Mr. Lambert didn’t question him, but Julia did so the moment the door clicked shut.
“The two of us alone behind closed doors, Aidan?” she teased as she approached his desk.
“You came to discuss a topic that last night seemed private to you, expressing the desire that no one overhear. I assumed you would feel the same today. Am I wrong?”
“No, but it’s not really proper, is it?”
“With you, Julia, propriety always seems to go out the window anyway. I’ve rather given up on it.”
She chuckled. “I always knew there was hope for you.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” He gestured to a chair opposite his desk. “Shall we sit down?”
He waited until she had taken the offered chair, then he resumed his own seat and came straight to the point. “You said last night you need employment because you are in debt?”
“Yes. I want to clear those obligations and start my life fresh. The most logical course seems to be a profession.”
“Unfortunately, there is really only one well-paying profession open to women.” He paused, looking at her. “As we discussed last night.”
His reminder of what he’d said the night before about having a mistress brought all her nervousness rushing back, along with a new, different sort of agitation, and Julia realized to her horror that she was actually blushing. Heavens, she thought, feeling the heat flood her face, what was wrong with her? She hadn’t blushed since she was a girl of sixteen.
She appreciated that something was different, but she couldn’t pinpoint just what it was or the reason for it. Acutely aware of the heat in her cheeks, she forced herself to say something. “But you already have a mistress,” she reminded, taking refuge in flirtation. “Such a shame, too,” she added, slanting him a naughty look. “We could have had so much fun.”
“Yes.” His expression didn’t change. His gaze flicked down, then back up. “I agree.”
Her blush deepened. Heavens, what was wrong with her? Never before had she felt this way with Aidan—so off-balance and unsure. She didn’t like the feeling, and she strove to regain her usual careless assurance. “It would have been amusing for both of us, I daresay, but c’est la vie.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “You want to get married, and I want to rebuild my reputation, for my family’s sake.”
“Not for your own?”
She shrugged. “I was prepared for losing my reputation when I—”
Seduced you.
The words hung in the air for a split second before she went on, “When Yardley divorced me.”
“I see.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I don’t know how much you owe, of course, but it seems to me there is a very simple and honorable way to resolve your difficulties, at least in part. Why do you not sell your jewels?”
“Jewels? I don’t have . . .” She paused, realizing which jewels he was talking about, remembering the glittering three-strand necklace and drop earrings she’d taken to wearing for formal engagements. “Ah, you mean the diamonds I wore last night. I can’t sell those.”
“Why not? Selling them would surely bring enough to pay at least some of your debt.”
She stirred uneasily, not wanting to explain. “Heavens, Aidan,” she drawled instead, laughing. “Women never sell their jewels! That’s almost sacrilegious.”
He didn’t smile. He didn’t even change expression. But when he spoke, there was a hint of reproof in his voice. “Don’t do that, Julia.”
She looked at him, wide-eyed. “Do what?”
“Joke and deflect and make light of something because you don’t want to discuss it. If you can manage to be straightforward with me, I might have some helpful suggestions to offer. Is it sentiment that stops you from selling your jewelry? Jewels are often passed down in a family, but—”
“It’s not sentiment. It’s—” She stopped, biting her lip, cursing silently. Why was being straightforward so damned difficult? Perhaps because what he wanted to know involved talking about her life when it had been so awful, when she had lived with things that were sordid and a marriage that was a nightmare, and now that the nightmare was over, she didn’t want to relive it. Or perhaps it was telling the truth itself that was hard; she’d been lying for so many years to so many people that it had become second nature to her. Lying to Yardley, lying to the family, lying to friends—out of fear or shame or her damnable pride. God knew, lying was all she had ever seemed to do with Aidan. But right now, when he was looking at her with those steady, searching eyes of his, she wondered if maybe it was time to try simple honesty. After all, wasn’t that part of the fresh start she wanted?
Julia lifted her chin. “I tried to sell my jewels seven years ago, after Yardley cut off my income. He’d already been reducing my allowance every year until by that point it was almost nothing. He knew I was already in debt, and he was trying to bring me to heel, you see, force me home to Yardley Grange.”
Aidan frowned, uncomprehending. “Why didn’t you go? If you had, he probably would have reinstated your income.”
“No.”
“But surely it wasn’t unreasonable of him to expect you to live part of your year at home. You were his wife.”
She shook her head, struggling not to let an easy lie come tripping off her tongue. “You don’t understand.”
“You were unhappy. You must have been, I know, but—”
“No, you don’t know!” she said fiercely, and slammed down the lid on the topic. “I don’t want to talk
about Yardley. Please don’t ask me to do so.”
“All right.”
The reply was mild, agreeable, but she still felt prickly as a chestnut, and she had to take a few deep breaths before going on.
“When Yardley cut me off completely, creditors began coming to him for payment of my bills,” she resumed, “and when he realized his refusal to pay my quarterly allowance wouldn’t be enough to force me to come home, he announced in the newspapers that he would not honor any of my debts, past, present, or future. I knew my only choice was to sell my jewels. My husband had already taken back the pieces that belonged to his family, but I did have jewels of my own. When I removed them from the bank and took them to a pawnbroker, that’s when I found out.”
“Found out what?”
“They’re paste. All of them. Yardley had removed them from the bank at some point, and replaced the jewels with paste replicas. He had the right. Under the terms of the marriage settlement, all my jewels came into his family. They were . . .” She paused, choking up a little from anger and a hint of pain. “I was too young and naive to realize it, but that was what Yardley wanted—to make sure I didn’t have money of my own. It was a way to control me. Yardley likes control. I wasn’t—” She stopped. Her hands curled into fists. “I wasn’t very cooperative in that regard, I’m afraid.”
“I see.”
He didn’t see at all. He couldn’t. He was a man, and an honorable one. How could he see? Men like Aidan didn’t have any understanding of men like Yardley. Or perhaps he did see, and he pitied her. What a ghastly thought. She tore her gaze away and took a deep breath. “Anyway, that’s all water under the bridge,” she said, striving to regain the light, I-don’t-give-a-damn demeanor it had taken her years to perfect and which had chosen a most inconvenient time to disappear.
“It’s a bit rough, you know,” she went on, giving him an aggrieved look. “Explaining all one’s past mistakes and bad decisions and talking about that dreadful former husband of mine. Can we talk about my present difficulties, rather than my past ones?” When he didn’t answer, she began to feel a bit desperate. “Please.”
“Very well.” He gave an indifferent shrug, putting aside his curiosity without a qualm, seeming in no frame of mind to offer the pity she dreaded. “Another way to raise funds would be to sell your motorcar.”
She shook her head. “I won’t sell the Mercedes. It’s very dear to me, and I can’t bear to let go of it. I fought tooth and nail to keep Yardley from taking it. Don’t ask me why it’s important to me, for I can’t explain, but I cannot bear to sell it.”
“Do you have any other salable assets? Property? Investment funds? Shares?”
She shook her head with each question. “I have my cottage, but I can’t sell that. It’s entailed to me, and my eldest daughter after me, should I have any children. If not, it goes to my closest female relation upon my death. None of that matters, though, because I would never sell Dovecotes. It’s my home. At least . . .” Her throat went dry and she swallowed hard. “It’s the closest thing I have to a home of my own. The cottage and the motorcar are the only things of value that I have. Control of all my other property, including my jewels and what I inherited from my parents upon their death, went to Yardley. That was agreed in the marriage settlement.”
Aidan made a sound—exasperation or surprise, she couldn’t tell. “For heaven’s sake, what sort of marriage settlement did your father lay down upon your engagement? Your jewels became Yardley’s. Your inheritance became Yardley’s. Was there no protection of your assets at all? Not even a guarantee of pin money?”
“I wasn’t really in a position to bargain. The point is,” she hastened on, afraid he would ask more questions, “I know I have very few options, but I so badly want to pay my debts.”
“Why? Does it matter? Most people have debts. And although those to whom you are indebted can press you, they can’t do much else to you, really, unless—” He broke off, frowning at her. “Julia, you’ve not entangled yourself with any riffraff, have you? The sort who’d threaten you if you don’t pay?”
“No, no, nothing like that. Heavens, give me a little credit for my intelligence!”
He looked relieved, and she felt oddly touched. “Why, Aidan,” she said, half joking, “are you worried about me?”
His chin lifted a notch. “I would be worried for any woman in distress of that kind.”
Of course he would. “Well, let me put your mind at ease, petal. No riffraff.”
“My mind is never at ease with you in the vicinity. Chalk it up to past experience. And don’t call me petal.”
“If I’d been involved with that sort of crowd, I’d have become some man’s mistress and paid the moneylender long ago. But it’s not like that. I just want a fresh start, and I’ve already put my family through so much, I don’t want to be a burden to them or a worry any longer. And I want . . .” She paused, struggling for a way to explain. “I want to be useful somehow. I daresay that sounds silly to you.”
“On the contrary, I don’t think it’s silly at all. Why would you think I should?”
“I’m a woman, that’s why. Men do have the most irritating tendency to pat us on the head and say things like, ‘There, there, my dear, you’re pretty, and that’s enough for a woman. No need for you to be useful.’ ”
He grinned at her mimicry of the typical British male.
“It makes us want to kick you,” she added in a normal voice. “Since you are looking to marry, that’s something you should know.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” He paused, thinking a moment. “Are you certain Paul can’t honor your debt?”
She shook her head. “I won’t ask him to. He’s already paid my debts twice. Besides, though he’s been reasonably well-off in the past, his wife’s income is gone now, and without that—” She broke off, for it wasn’t right to be revealing Paul’s troubles. “Anyway, that’s not the point. I told you, I don’t want to have to go to him again.”
“Fair enough, but you could at least have gone to him for advice. But you’ve come to me instead.” He paused, studying her. “Why?”
“Isn’t it obvious? You’re rich! You could employ me.”
“And in exchange for my money, what skills could you offer me?”
Though he was looking at her with nothing more than polite disinterest, she felt a wave of heat run through her body at the question, and she wanted to fire off a flirtatious rejoinder, but for the life of her, she couldn’t think of one. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I also thought that since you’re a man with vast business interests, you might see another alternative, something I hadn’t thought of, some clever way I could make money.”
“Thank you for the compliment, but even I am having trouble finding a solution for you. As you’ve said, a profession seems your only option, although any post you took up would not be likely to pay enough in wages to reduce your debt much. At least not in the short term. It depends on the interest rate and how much you owe.” He shot her a look of inquiry.
She hesitated. “It’s a lot.”
“How much?”
“Too much.” She gave him a disarming smile, but it didn’t work. He continued to look at her, waiting, and her smile faded into a sigh. “Twenty thousand pounds,” she answered, readying herself for a lecture about extravagance.
He didn’t bother. He didn’t even seem surprised. “I see. And the interest? Or is it all tradesmen’s bills?”
She shook her head. “No, I borrowed from a moneylender last year to pay off all the tradesmen I owed. I’ve accumulated more bills since, but the bulk of my debt is to a moneylender.”
“You’d have been wiser to leave it with the tradesmen. They would never charge a baroness interest.”
“I know, I know, but people in trade can’t afford such largesse. They have bills of their own to pay, families to feed. It might not have been the wisest decision from a business standpoint, but it’s done. No undoing it now.”
/> “And the interest rate for this moneylender?”
“Eleven.”
He shook his head with a sound of exasperation. “That’s robbery. Julia, since part of why you came to me for is my advice, let me say don’t ever handle money matters yourself. You’re hopeless at it.”
She was prepared to take that criticism on the chin. She wholly deserved it. “I know. But what do I do now? As you said, a profession would have to pay enough to be worth the bother. And what would I be qualified enough to do? I’m not really accomplished at anything. I’m a social butterfly, with no talents to speak of, and though I’m quite amusing to have at parties, I daresay, that’s hardly a profession!”
“No,” he agreed. He paused a moment as if considering. “You could marry again, of course.”
She stared, looking straight through Aidan, out of London, into Dorset, back into the past, back to Yardley Grange. She could see her former husband’s brooding face across the drawing room, watch his hands toying in seeming idleness with that damnable silk cravat he always carried, observe how his black eyes covertly followed the maids who brought the tea or made up the fire—maids who were always very young and very pretty.
She suddenly felt sick.
“Julia?”
The sound of Aidan’s voice jerked her out of the past, and she returned her attention to the present and the man before her, a man whose face was agreeably handsome and whose eyes were warm and steady, a man as different from her husband as chalk was from cheese, a man who probably didn’t even know men like Yardley existed.
Aidan was looking at her with a frown of concern. “Are you all right? You look quite ill all of a sudden.”
She felt ill, and she could only imagine what sort of expression was on her face. She pasted on a smile. “Sorry. I was woolgathering, I’m afraid. I didn’t have breakfast, and that always makes me terribly absentminded. What were you saying?” She fixed an expectant stare on him, giving herself time to curb the nausea in her stomach and regain her usual careless air.
Scandal of the Year Page 10
