"He truly is a glorious sight, is he not?" her friend inquired slyly.
"Yes," Julia somehow managed to squeak past her choking mortification. After all, it would have done no good to deny her admiration. Amy had caught her gaping. Wondering if anyone else had noticed her indiscretion, she glanced around. No one appeared to be paying her the least bit of mind, including Miss Philpot, who was indulging in her favorite pastime of glowering disapproval at everyone in her sight. Relieved, Julia again turned her attention, albeit more discreetly, to Mr. Harwood.
She was now a scant three yards away, a distance that closed rapidly as Amy quickened their pace. As she struggled to compose herself for the upcoming introduction, rehearsing the words she would utter in her mind. Lord Shepley looked up and noticed their approach. A handsome man, from whom Amy had inherited her stunning legacy of thick golden hair and clear green eyes, his lordship smiled in welcome as the women approached.
"Why, it is Lady Julia," he exclaimed with genuine pleasure. "Always a delight to see you, my dear."
Julia sketched what she hoped was a pretty curtsy. "Lord Shepley," she murmured, stealing a glance at Mr. Harwood through her lashes as she dipped, trying to read his face. Did he recognize her from the bookshop? Did he even remember her? It was impossible to tell from his blandly cordial expression. While one part of her hoped that he did remember her, that he had found her every bit as unforgettable as she had him, another part hoped that he had forgotten her and her clumsiness, thus giving her the opportunity to form a fresh impression. Her curtsy now completed, she rose, looking expectantly at Lord Shepley, waiting for him to tender an introduction.
His lordship did not disappoint her. "Lady Julia Barham, may I present Mr. Gideon Harwood, lately of India?"
Thus given permission to look directly at the man by his side, Julia smiled and did exactly that. As Lord Shepley continued the introduction, explaining, "Lady Julia is the daughter of the Marquess and Marchioness of Stanwell, both dear friends of mine," Julia reacquainted herself with his face.
It was exactly as she remembered, lean and tan with steel-gray eyes that revealed nothing yet seemed to speak volumes to those who knew how to read what was in their cool depths, which, regretfully, she did not. True, he was not precisely what she would call handsome, at least not in the currently accepted sense of the word. Yet there was something about the boldness of his sharp-planed cheeks and the strength of his high-bridged nose that quickened her pulse in a way that the ton's almost effeminate ideal of manly beauty did not. His was the face of a real man, a stalwart one who lived life hard and savored it to its fullest.
As she now gazed at his firm mouth, noting its pleasing shape, he said, "A pleasure, Lady Julia," in a timbre that sent a thrill down her spine. He then sketched what she had to admit was an exceedingly polished bow, treating her to an excellent view of his hair. It was beautiful hair, thick and fashionably cut in a long crop that fell naturally, she suspected, given its inherent wave, in the stylish tousle so many men labored hard to achieve. She especially liked the color, the way the sable darkness was streaked with gleaming chestnut and russet highlights.
Tearing her gaze away as he straightened back up again, so as not to appear overly bold, Julia inclined her head in acceptance of the introduction, dismayed to find that her carefully rehearsed speech had quite flown her mind. As she looked up again, struggling to recapture it, she saw that he was no longer looking at her, but at a point beyond her. As she watched, his eyes widened briefly and then narrowed, as if in query or wariness. Mystified as to what had prompted the peculiar response, she stepped aside, turning slightly as she moved to follow his gaze.
It was her father. The blood had drained from his face, and he stood stiff and still, his eyes taking on an oddly hunted look as he stared back at Mr. Harwood. Not quite certain what to make of the curious byplay, she glanced several times from one man to the other, neither of whom moved so much as a muscle the entire time.
"Ahem!" Lord Shepley cleared his throat as he too looked from man to man, marking their perplexing tension. "Er-I say, Harwood, are you and Lord Stanwell acquainted?"
The intensity of Mr. Harwood's gaze seemed to increase as it bore into her father. "Are we, Lord Stanwell?" he inquired, his voice textured with a wealth of meaning.
Though her father blanched a shade whiter at his words, his voice was steady and demeanor confident as he replied, "If we are, sir, I fear that you have me at a disadvantage."
Mr. Harwood smiled then, a thin, wintry smile that did nothing to soften his harsh expression. "My apologies, my lord. It seems that I have mistaken you for someone I once knew, a man by the name of Barham, the lord of my childhood village. I must say that you bear a remarkable resemblance to him."
Her father turned positively ashen.
"A Barham relative, perhaps?" Julia's mother chimed in, seemingly oblivious to the bristling between the men.
Opening her carved ivory fan to cool herself from the gathering heat of the crowd, she added, "Barham men have a tendency to bear a striking resemblance to one another. You have said so yourself on several occasions, Bertie."
"The man could be a relative, yes-a distant one," her father murmured, his gaze still locked with Mr. Harwood's.
Inquisitive by nature, especially when it came to other people's affairs, her mother said, "Hmm, yes. Now let me think. He could be referring to the Berkshire line of Barhams. There are three of them, I believe, and one has a rather fine village near Lambourne." Smiling brightly at the object of her prying, she inquired, "Do you, by chance, hail from Berkshire, Mr. Harwood?"
Her father raised his eyebrows slightly at her question, a gesture that was answered by a tilt of the head by Mr. Harwood. "Do you?" her father finally echoed, giving a faint nod that had nothing whatsoever to do with the question and everything to do with his silent communication with the man before him.
Mr. Harwood slowly shook his head. "No. I am from Yorkshire, my lady, the North Riding region."
Her mother frowned at his response. "I cannot recall any Barham relatives in North Riding. Can you, Bertie?" Her gaze was on her husband now.
His remained on Mr. Harwood. "There is one, yes, but a very distant one-a cousin four times removed, I believe, who has an estate in that region." His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly as he spoke, and he again nodded, a gesture so minute that it would have gone unobserved had Julia not been watching him so closely. "However, as we have never met, I cannot attest to the resemblance between myself and the man."
"Could he, perhaps, be the lord of your village, Mr. Harwood?" her mother inquired.
Mr. Harwood shrugged one shoulder. "Perhaps."
"Then perhaps-"
Whatever her mother wished to say was cut off by, "Lowd and Lady Stanwell? Lady Julia?"
All gazes turned to where Lord Wolton tottered toward them, waving his patterned silk handkerchief to command their attention. Julia could not help noticing that he favored his left ankle, no doubt having twisted it without her arm to brace him against the hazards of his high-heel shoes. Now recapturing Julia's arm with a proprietary air, he inclined his head in greeting to Lord Shepley.
Lord Shepley nodded back. "Lord Wolton." That formality complete, he introduced his lordship to Mr. Harwood.
As he always did when he did not quite approve of someone or something, which was most of the time, Lord Wolton lifted the quizzing glass that dangled by a gold chain from his coat and raked the other man with his gaze in an insultingly thorough manner. Judging from the way his nostrils twitched and the contemptuous curl of his lips, he most probably would have cut Mr. Harwood had the introduction been tendered by a man of lesser station than Lord Shepley. As it was, he offered only the slightest of nods. Rather than bow, which was the appropriate response from a commoner being acknowledged by a peer, Mr. Harwood returned Wolton's nod in equal measure, an affront that made Lord Wolton stiffen with outrage.
Turning his back on Mr. Harwood in a deliberate snub, Wo
lton said, "Lowd Stanwell. Lady Stanwell. My deawest Julia." He gave Julia's elbow a meaningful squeeze as he uttered the word "deawest." "I have managed to secuwe chaihs foh the pewfowmance. I have taken the libewty of having the footmen set them thehe." He used his free hand to indicate to where a pair of footmen stood guard over four chairs set beneath a bower of lights opposite from where they stood. "Do come now. I have owdewed wefweshment to be bwought."
As he uttered the words, the crowd around them broke into wild applause. Julia glanced up to see Mr. O'Keefe taking the stage. "Come," Lord Wolton repeated, urging her to the chairs. Seeing no other choice, she allowed herself to be led away, but not before she nodded to Mr. Harwood in cordial farewell.
Mr. Harwood, however, did not acknowledge her courtesy. He did not even see it. He was again engaged in a staring match with her father.
Chapter 4
Scratch! Scratch! Scratch!
Gideon looked up from the contract he was reviewing to see his majordomo, Simon Rowles, standing at the open door of his cozy, book-lined study, softly scratching at one of the gilded door panels in a bid to gain his attention. "Rowles?" he responded, arching one eyebrow in query.
The servant's hand paused midscratch. Unlike the cadaverous beings of decrepit stateliness that helmed the neighboring town houses on fashionable Grosvenor Square, Rowles was not only relatively young for a majordomo, having recently reached the distinguished age of thirty, he was a swarthy, roguish-looking fellow with a cocky grin and a wry, satirical wit. At the moment he appeared uncharacteristically sober. "The Marquess of Stanwell, sir. He is demanding to see you on a matter that he purports to be of some urgency."
Gideon glanced at the longcase clock to the left of the door. Its ornate brass dial read seven forty-five. Though his lordship's call came as no surprise, the earliness of the hour he had chosen to make it did. Then again, he doubted if the man had slept a single wink the previous night. Guilty minds seldom rested. Smiling darkly at his philosophical thought, he nodded. "Very well, Rowles. I will receive him in here."
Rowles bowed and then departed to do as he was instructed.
Gideon resumed studying the papers before him. Well, at least he went through the motions of doing so. Though his eyes were on the words, his mind was on the upcoming encounter with Lord Stanwell, wondering what the man would do or say. For the life of him, he could not even begin to imagine what could be said to defend or justify a case of bigamy. And Lord Stanwell was clearly guilty of that particular crime. How could he not be? He had been married to Lady Silvia for twenty-seven years at the time of her death, an interval during which he had fathered the chit who had been introduced as his daughter the night before. And there was no doubt whatsoever as to the girl's parentage. Not with those eyes and that hair.
He also suspected that Lady Silvia had been his lordship's first and therefore legal wife, given the fact that his lordship had been little more than a youth when he had wed her. As for the legality of the marriage itself, well, since his father had performed the nuptials and had recorded the entry in the village church registry, he had every faith in its legitimacy. He was trying to remember the specifics of that entry when Rowles announced his lordship.
Gideon waited several moments before looking up, a ploy calculated to illustrate his mastery of the situation and thus establish his control of the meeting. When his lordship had cooled his heels for what he deemed a proper interval to suit his purpose, he pushed the papers aside and acknowledged him with a cool nod. "Stanwell."
Lord Stanwell inclined his precisely curled and queued head in return. To his credit he appeared perfectly at ease, revealing none of the trepidation he no doubt felt inside. "Harwood. Good of you to receive me at this ungodly hour."
"Hmmm, yes. Now that you mention the fact, it is rather early for a call," Gideon replied, languorously stretching his spine as he leaned back from his imposing Chippendale desk. Now lounging in a deceptively relaxed pose, he rested his chin atop his steepled hands, fixing his visitor with a steady gaze as he inquired, "To what do I owe the honor, my lord?" He already knew the answer, of course, but he could not resist toying with the man.
His lordship smiled, a taut, strained expression that betrayed a crack in his composure. "I have a proposition. One that I am certain you will find quite interesting."
Gideon's eyebrows raised a fraction at his response. "Indeed?"
Lord Stanwell nodded.
"Pray tell."
"Since my business involves a matter of some delicacy, may I suggest that we discuss it in private?" He cast a meaningful look at Rowles, who hovered on the threshold, no doubt hoping to collect gossip about their illustrious caller to carry to the servants' hall.
It was all Gideon could do to hide his grin at the thought of how his housekeeper, the devout Methodist Mrs. Courter, would look should she catch wind of the true purpose of Stanwell's visit. Willing himself to frown instead, he glanced at the majordomo and quizzed, "Is there something you wish, Rowles?"
Always the model of decorum when circumstances dictated, Rowles sketched an elegant bow. "I was wondering if your guest would be requiring refreshment. Breakfast perhaps?"
Gideon had to bite his tongue to repress his chuckle at the servant's impudence. So much for decorum. Then again, he'd hired the man more for the amusement he provided than for his skills as a majordomo. Shooting the servant a look meant to quell any further indulgence in witticisms, he returned his attention to his caller. "Lord Stanwell?" he politely inquired.
His lordship shook his head, his amber gaze darting this way and that to avoid Gideon's now-probing stare. Another chink in his armor of calm. "No, no. Nothing. I-" His skittish gaze arrested abruptly on the crystal decanters ranging the sideboard to his right. "Well- ahem!- perhaps I could do with a brandy. Mmm, yes. A brandy would be very nice, indeed." Chink number three.
"A . . . brandy?" Rowles echoed in a choked voice.
Again, Gideon suppressed a grin. His lordship had just provided Rowles with a particularly tasty morsel of tittle-tattle. By the time the servants finished chewing over Lord Stanwell's early-morning request for spirits, they would no doubt have him cast in the role of an inveterate tosspot who relieved himself in drawing-room corners and puked at the dining table. Hard-pressed to maintain his impassive facade in the face of that diverting thought, he nodded at the servant and said, "You heard his lordship, Rowles. A brandy. Or would you care to serve yourself, Stanwell?" Again he deferred to his lordship. Such a perfect host, he.
His lordship's dithering gaze skittered back to the decanters. "I will serve myself, thank you."
Gideon nodded again. "Very well, then. You may leave us, Rowles. And please close the door behind you."
Now alone, Gideon waited until Lord Stanwell had poured himself a ration of his finest brandy and loitered awkwardly at the sideboard before again addressing him. "Do sit, Stanwell," he said, indicating one of the two Chinese elbow chairs flanking his desk. "Or should I, perhaps, address you as Lord Gilbert? After all, that is the name by which I know you."
"And rightly so, for it was indeed my name when I acquired Fellthwaite Village," his lordship replied, crossing the room in several long strides. Now settling his stocky frame into the designated chair, he explained, "I came into the world as Lord Gilbert Barham, third son of the Marquess of Stanwell. As a third son with two exceedingly healthy and sober older brothers, I had no expectations whatsoever of gaining the family titles, and thus expected to spend my life simply as Lord Gilbert. Truth be told, I was happy as such."
He sighed then and closed his eyes. "You see, my father was a harsh, cruel man, a tyrant whose standards for his heir were impossible, to say the least, and I was relieved to escape his tyranny. Though
it shames me to confess the fact, I was terrified of him-so terrified that I was reduced to a craven coward whenever he so much as looked in my direction. It is because of my cowardice that I find myself in my current pickle." Sighing again, he opened his eyes, his ex
pression haunted and his gaze imploring as it locked with Gideon's. "If you will permit me to explain my situation, I believe that you will not judge me so very harshly."
Though Gideon doubted if that last would prove true, he had to admit that he was more than a little intrigued. Not about to give his lordship the advantage by revealing his interest, he schooled his face into a mask of bored indifference, a look he had perfected for the purpose of bargaining with the notoriously miserly Rajput chieftains. "As you wish, my lord."
His lordship nodded and took a long-and no doubt fortifying-swallow from his glass. His voice now raw from the burn of the strong liquor, he began. "Let me preface by saying that I truly loved Silvia. She was my first love, my heart's blood, and I would have been content to live out my days by her side in Fellthwaite."
"Then why did you not do so?" Gideon felt compelled to ask out of loyalty for the woman who had shown him and his family great kindness.
"As I said, I was terrified of my father, and even my love for Silvia was not enough to give me the strength to defy him." His lordship now stared at his glass, his thumb restlessly tracing the smooth rim. After several rotations, he shook his head. "I have so much to explain, I scarcely know where or how to begin."
"Perhaps you should start by telling how you came into the title," Gideon said. It seemed as good a starting place as any.
"It was the influenza. Perhaps you remember the outbreak that occurred twenty-two-no, it was twenty-three years-ago?"
Gideon nodded. He did. He had been six at the time and had barely survived his own battle with the disease.
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