by Meara Platt
“What a lovely day,” Julia remarked the following morning, quite cheerful as she walked into the sun-filled breakfast room and took a seat at the table beside Douglas and Charlie. She patted her pillowed seat. “Ooh, nice and warm. Good morning, gentlemen.”
“Morning,” Douglas mumbled, concentrating his attention on the furniture and not on the little wiggle of her derriere as she settled in the chair.
Charlie, his mouth stuffed with a cinnamon bun, muttered an unintelligible greeting.
“Where’s Homer?” Julia asked.
Douglas glanced up and caught the sun glinting off her golden curls. Her eyes, he noted with some satisfaction, were a sparkling lavender-blue and her cheeks held an entrancing light rose stain, obvious signs of a restful sleep.
He’d slept little last night, spending half the night pacing across his room and the other half lying in bed, his thoughts occupied by evil faerie kings and concern for the young woman whose gentle breaths could be heard through the thin wall dividing his chamber from hers.
Perhaps he should not have spent the night here.
Being so close to Julia and unable to hold her had been torture.
There was something about her that roused his ardor as no other woman ever had. It wasn’t merely lust, for she roused his protective instincts as well. She made him smile and he enjoyed talking to her, just being with her. He wasn’t certain why he found her so appealing, for her clothes were plain and practical, and those cheap butterfly pins were her finest jewelry. She wore those awful walking boots with every gown.
She carefully counted her coins.
Didn’t flirt.
Never danced.
Knew nothing of the sexual arts.
Well, he’d given her a sampling that last night at the vicarage to save her life, of course. She’d shoot him dead if he dared offer to save her again. Too bad. Lord, the things he could teach her!
Charlie distracted his attention by slurping down a glass of milk and wolfing down another cinnamon bun.
“Careful,” Julia chided. “You’ll give yourself hiccups and a belly ache if you don’t slow down.”
“Homer’s gone,” the boy replied in answer to her earlier question.
Julia turned to Douglas. “Gone? Where?”
“Business came up suddenly.” He avoided her questioning gaze, for the “business” was to deliver a bank draft to old Twombly, the Hawke family solicitor, for deposit to the account of Julia Marsden. Homer and his colleagues were then to take turns watching the bank to see who showed up to claim it.
If the pattern of extortion held true, the elusive “Miss Marsden” would show up within the next few days to withdraw the funds from the account.
Douglas needed answers before word got out that he’d found Julia and the boy.
Julia appeared troubled as she picked at the bacon sizzling on the plate Peg had just set in front of her. “Will you be escorting us about today, Lord Eastbourne?”
“I’m afraid not. I’ll be off as soon as I’ve finished my coffee. But you needn’t fret, Julia. Peg and Samuel are here. Your morning will be occupied in fittings for your new clothes. The tailor,” he said, nodding toward Charlie who seemed blissfully distracted, “will attend to the lad here in the home. A modiste and her seamstresses will also arrive shortly to measure you for your new gowns.”
“So we’re not to go out, after all.”
He shook his head. “Homer will be back by the time the tailor has finished and will take the boy to the park. You may join them or go about on your own wherever you wish. Samuel will arrange for a carriage and driver to take you wherever you like and I’ve left you a little more spending money in the top drawer of the bureau in the salon.”
“Most generous,” she said, sounding more troubled than pleased.
“Well, I suppose I had better tend to my business while I have the chance.” That business also included paying a call on his cousin, Saron Blakefield, the Duke of Draloch.
Rumors about the Draloch family had long swirled among the ton. Silly gossip, of course. But the Draloch family crest was a black dragon with blue eyes, and there was no denying the resemblance between King Cadeyrn and Saron. Had Charlie ever met the duke? Perhaps Saron had passed by there on one of his travels, even sat for one of Charlie’s portraits. That’s what he needed to find out. “As I mentioned, we won’t remain in London very long, so take advantage of… whatever opportunity… while you’re here.”
Douglas studied her expression, searching for sign of calculation. All he saw was that sweet, trusting gaze that shot straight to his heart.
“Charlie,” she said, turning from him to tweak the boy’s ear, “you’d better behave with the tailor. The sooner he’s finished with you, the sooner we can tour the town. What would you like to see first, the shops or museums?”
“I want to see palaces.”
She nodded. “We’ll drive by those, too.”
Charlie smiled at her. “Good.”
There was a hint of menace in the boy’s smile, or was he imagining it? Douglas ran a hand along the back of his neck. Was the boy a threat to Julia?
No, not possible.
And yet, that was no innocent smile.
Chapter 14
Julia stood shivering lightly in her bedchamber, for she was clad only in her camisole.
The modiste and her staff had arrived shortly after Lord Eastbourne’s departure. They carried the weapons of their trade: measuring sticks, thread, needles, pins, and bolts of shimmering silks and satins, delicate lace, and the softest wool that stole Julia’s breath.
The tailor arrived soon afterward. He set up in the small salon since Charlie wished to remain downstairs, out of the way of the “fussy” ladies who had set their wares across Julia’s bed and now commanded the entire room.
“Raise your arms,” the efficient modiste ordered in a brisk voice, though her mouth was filled with pins. Julia was amazed the woman had yet to swallow one. “Soft colors will suit you best, Mademoiselle.”
Julia nodded.
“You have a well-proportioned body. I think the fabrics will drape nicely across your chest. Indeed, you have many good features.”
The modiste, a slender, older woman had striking dark hair salted with gray and hazel eyes that studied her with the sharp clarity of a hawk. “You have good teeth,” she remarked, “and striking eyes. Anna, return to the shop. Bring me that bolt of lilac silk just arrived yesterday.”
The young brunette called Anna leaped to her feet. “At once, Madame de Bressard.”
As the modiste rattled off more items for Anna to retrieve, Julia’s mind wandered back to the day Lord Eastbourne had charged into her life. Never in her wildest imaginings had she expected their encounter to lead to anything but anger and battle.
Yet, here she stood, never so pampered in all her life.
She dared not allow herself to enjoy the luxury, well aware this dream could end with a swift wave of the earl’s hand.
“Never forget it,” she mumbled to herself as Madame de Bressard darted after Anna, calling for more fur trim and rattling off colors of ribbons, exotic colors Julia had never heard of before.
Julia was now alone with an engaging young seamstress by the name of Kit, short for Catherine. “Have you been working long for Madame de Bressard?”
“No’um, Miss. A little less than a year.” She cast Julia a timid smile.
“But you’ve been sewing quite a while. I couldn’t help but notice the fine stitches on these samples. Did you sew them all?”
“Yes’um. Been sewin’ since I was eight. M’mum said I had a talent for it and put me in charge of the household mendin’ after that.” She let out a short laugh. “With six brothers, four sisters, and more visitin’ family than I can count on m’fingers and toes, the mendin’ pile quickly grew big as a mountain. I vowed then and there never to show off m’other talents! I can cook, too, but I’ll never let on to m’family or they’ll have me doin’ that chore, too.”
&nb
sp; “Well, they must be quite proud of the work you do for Madame de Bressard.”
“Yes, Miss. They are.”
Julia noted the gleam in the girl’s eyes. “Do you hope to run a shop of your own some day?”
Kit glanced up in surprise. “How did ye know?”
“The love for your work shows on your face.”
“I would like to very much, but I ain’t refined like Madame. I’ll never ’ave the customers lessin’ I can speak like ’er, or the elegant way ye do.”
Julia held back a chuckle, wondering how a vicar’s daughter raised in genteel poverty could ever be considered elegant. “We’re only here for a short while, but I’ll be glad to help you with a few lessons. On a friendly basis, of course. I couldn’t accept a fee,” she added, noting the expression on Kit’s face, similar to her own thoughtful expression whenever she planned her weekly budget in a vain attempt to stretch her limited funds.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss. Ye ain’t his lordship’s usual sort of, er, friend. Most of ’em he sends to Madame de Bressard wouldn’t bother to scrape the likes of me off their shoes. They pretend to be fine ladies, but they’re as cold as a witch’s heart. He tires o’ them right quick and moves on to a new, er, friend. But ye’re quality and he must know it. He ain’t been half so generous with them others he’s brought ’round as he’s been with ye.”
Julia’s mouth dropped open.
“And to let ye keep yer little brother here!” She paused to cast Julia a smile. “Never heard of no gent doin’ that.”
Julia was spared the need to sputter out an answer by the return of Madame de Bressard. As they resumed their work, Julia was left to her own musings. Kit’s comments, though meant kindly, distressed her.
Goodness!
The beautiful clothes, the fine house, and attentive servants… the pin money.
Did Lord Eastbourne intend to make her his mistress?
Another distressing thought crossed her mind.
She wasn’t nearly so repulsed by the prospect as she ought to be.
*
Douglas entered the offices of his solicitor, Augustus Twombly, situated within the Inns of Court. The old stone walls of the surrounding buildings and temple in the inner courtyard were England’s bastion of truth and justice. Douglas wondered whether he would hear a word of truth spoken today.
“Good morning, my lord,” said the senior Twombly, rushing out of his office to greet him and making quite the grand affair of it.
He barked orders not to be disturbed to his clerks and fellow solicitors, one of whom was his son. The young man looked more like old Twombly with each passing day and was even developing that same paunch around his waist. But the young man did not have the same craven expression in his eyes. There was hope for him yet, Douglas mused.
“So good to have you back in town,” Twombly continued in that treacle-sweet, overly solicitous manner Douglas was growing to detest. He led Douglas into his office and closed the door behind them. “Will you be staying long?”
“Alas, no. I’m returning to Eastbourne in the next day or two, but wanted to discuss my nephew and that Marsden girl. Have your Bow Street runners found them yet?”
“Ah, that nasty business. Sadly, no. Every promising clue seems to lead us nowhere,” he said with a resigned shake of his head. “But rest assured that I have the best men in London working day and night.”
“I know, Mr. Twombly,” he said with a wry arch of his eyebrow. “I’ve been footing their expenses for some time now.”
“Quite so.”
Douglas smothered his anger, which was aimed as much at himself as at Twombly. The man was a practiced liar. Why hadn’t Douglas noticed sooner? “I sent my man around to your office earlier today.”
“Indeed, my lord. I deposited the bank draft into Miss Marsden’s account and set men to watch the bank, as you instructed. It’s been months since she last came to town. What makes you think she’ll turn up now?”
Douglas gave a casual shrug, though there was nothing casual about his purpose. “She’s likely in need of funds. I’m hoping word will reach her that the account has been fattened. Tell your runners to remain vigilant, for she must know I’ve hired them to search for the boy and will have him well hidden by now. And remind your men to be discreet. Miss Marsden may have an accomplice working at the bank, for how else could she have given them the slip that last time?”
“Ah, yes. Quite so.” Twombly’s chair creaked as he shifted in it. “I’ll make certain they don’t confront her inside the bank, but trail her to where she’s hidden the boy. That will be a more difficult task.”
Douglas slapped his hands along his thighs and rose. “I suppose that means you require more funds. Very well. I’ll have your expense account fattened as well.”
“Generous of you, my lord,” the old man said, rising along with him. But he appeared more worried than pleased, wringing his hands and frowning.
“I have great faith in you, Mr. Twombly. Don’t disappoint me.”
“I hope not to, but I fear this business will not end well. Miss Marsden is wily and dangerous. I beg you to forget this venture. Leave the sickly child to her care and continue as your father did, paying for her silence. Everyone is content with the arrangement. What’s to be gained by upsetting it?”
“My nephew is the rightful earl and deserves to take his place at Eastbourne.”
“What if Miss Marsden threatens to harm the boy? Have you considered the risk? She’ll be angry once she understands that you mean to take away her source of revenue.”
“I seriously doubt she’d risk her only bargaining chip. The boy ought to be safe enough. Find him, Mr. Twombly.”
“My lord, please! I had hoped you would forget this business. So had Lady Eastbourne. It seems a lot of fuss and bother over nothing. Won’t you reconsider? Nobody wants that child at Eastbourne.”
Douglas clenched his fists to stem his mounting anger, which was directed not only at the old man before him, but at the Eastbourne family as well. “By ‘nobody’, I assume you are referring to my mother’s disapproval and repeating her delightful words.”
“Lady Eastbourne has made her position quite clear to you. And will you not think of Lady Cynthia? Will you marry her under false pretenses? She believes you are the earl. And you can be. Your mother and I are the only ones who know the family secret and neither of us will ever reveal it.”
“Mr. Twombly,” he replied, his fists now throbbing, “I’ve heard your advice and will consider it. Set your trap and let’s see what happens next. I leave the matter entirely in your capable hands.”
“I’ll do my best, m’lord.” He escorted Douglas out, bowing and scraping, his manner so oily, Douglas felt the need to wipe the ooze off his own clothing as soon as he was clear of the solicitor’s office.
The air felt cool as Douglas rode his mount along the Thames away from the Inns of Court. His head was pounding, a dull, but persistent ache that ran along his temples. His meeting with Twombly had been unpleasant. Now, having set his own plan in motion, he desperately hoped Julia would not be the one caught in his trap.
Rather than return to Bayswater and the home he’d let for Julia and Charlie, he turned toward Mayfair and the stately Eastbourne residence. He would settle there for the next few days and go about town, call upon Saron, go on as though having nothing on his mind but the idle pleasures of London Society.
The evenings would be hard, for that’s when the danger from King Cadeyrn was greatest, assuming the faerie king existed, assuming his powerful reach extended to London. Of course, he trusted Homer and Samuel to keep the boy and Julia safe, assuming this was not a great hoax and they were truly in danger.
He sighed and shook his head.
Was he simply going mad?
Douglas slowed his mount, his attention straying to the many small boats making their way along the Thames, half-watching and half-lost in his thoughts as the wind-blown waves splashed and rolled against th
e well-worn keels. A ferryman along the opposite bank stuck his pole into the water and pushed his passenger-laden raft toward the Tower side of the river, his massive shoulders hunched as though he’d been struggling against the wind and river currents for most of his life.
He thought of Julia and her struggle to keep Charlie alive.
Even if she had been extorting his family all these years, could he blame her? He might have done the same if he were in her situation.
Douglas turned onto the bustling Strand packed with carriages and carts clattering down the roadway, the air filled with noisy peddlers hawking their wares. The noise and unpleasant smells momentarily overpowered him, but he savored each attack on his senses, for there was not a trace of honey in the air and no bluebells in sight.
“Eastbourne!” a man called out as he turned a corner by St. Martins-in-the-Field, one of the finer churches. “When did you get in?”
Douglas drew his mount beside the finely dressed young man who was riding a spectacular roan filly. “A few hours ago. How are you St. Giles? And your family?”
“All well, thank you. Does Cynthia know you’re back in town?”
“I haven’t sent word yet to your sister. As I said, only returned this morning. Not certain how long I can stay. A few days at most, I should think.”
The young man grinned. “I’ll wager Cynthia can charm you into staying longer.”
“I hope she’ll bother to try,” he replied, letting out a chuckle. “I’ll call on her this afternoon.”
“She’ll be pleased. Will you ride with us this evening to Lord Bradford’s ball?”
Douglas shook his head. “No, but I’ll see you there.”
They exchanged a few more pleasantries about St. Giles’ new horse and parted ways. Douglas spent what little was left of the morning and much of the afternoon in his study, buried in work. He corresponded with his estate manager regarding the new fields to be plowed and then read and responded to a long letter from the council members of Pevensey regarding a dispute over the common pasture. Afterward, he wrote to his customs agents regarding the harbor master’s inspection of one of Douglas’ outgoing ships.
