A Spy's Devotion (8 page)

CHAPTER NINE

“I won’t be content unless I marry him,” Phoebe said between sobs as she sat on the side of her bed. Her eyes were red, her cheeks blotchy, and tears dripped off her nose and jawline.

“Phoebe, it does no good to carry on like this. Please, don’t cry so.” Julia’s heart squeezed painfully to see her dear cousin’s distress. Phoebe’s tears and obvious pain tore at Julia, but the poor man could love whomever he wanted. Why couldn’t she accept that?

Phoebe clutched Julia’s arm. “Please, Julia. Promise me you will help me. I can’t love anyone else. I will never love anyone but Nicholas Langdon. There must be a way to make him love me. I simply will never get married if I can’t have him. I’ll die of a broken heart.”

“Don’t say such things,” Julia said as sternly as she could. “Indeed, you should not.”

Phoebe looked up at her, her lower lip trembling. Julia was reminded of Felicity’s words about her cousin not being as attractive as she. Phoebe didn’t look very pretty at the moment, even Julia had to admit. But no one looked pretty when they were sobbing without restraint.

“Listen to me, Phoebe.” Julia sighed. She pulled a small chair up to the bed and sat down, taking hold of her cousin’s arm. “You should not give your heart to someone who hasn’t asked for it. You never know who may fall in love with you, or who
you
might come to love, if you are sensible and stop being so focused on one man.”

“You don’t understand, Julia.” Phoebe shook her head and rubbed her nose with her soaked handkerchief. “You’re not romantic. You’re sensible and will marry a sensible man for sensible reasons. You don’t understand love.”

Julia was glad Phoebe wasn’t looking at her at that moment, for she was afraid her expression would reveal her thoughts. Didn’t understand love? And Phoebe did? This pining over a man she hardly knew? That was not love.

But did it matter whether Phoebe was truly in love or not? She thought she was, and she was making herself completely miserable over it. If it wasn’t love, it was close enough, and Julia was heartily sorry Phoebe was in it.

“Julia, promise you will help me.”

“I will help you if I can, but you can’t force a man to have feelings for you.” If only both she and Phoebe could fall in love with men who were in love with them, all their problems would be solved. Phoebe would not be sobbing over a man who seemed to feel no preference for her, and Julia would not feel pressured to marry a man who repulsed her.

Phoebe’s chin trembled as she drew Julia’s attention to her with an intense look. “You’ve always been the wiser one. But I simply can’t stop loving him. I know I should, but I can’t. You are my dearest friend, and I need you. Please promise me.”

How could Julia say no? “I will do whatever I can, within reason, of course. But, Phoebe, I will exact a promise from you as well. Do you remember what the vicar said last Sunday in church?”

Phoebe shook her head.

“He said God expects us to trust him to help us make important decisions, that God will give us wisdom if we ask him. Promise me you will pray about this, that you will ask God to help you know how you should act and how to control these emotions. Pray for wisdom.”

“I promise.” Phoebe sniffed.

“Now dry your face and blow your nose. We’ll go for a ride in the crisp spring air, and it will do you good.”

“Thank you, Julia. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Julia smiled. “You’ll always have me.”
Until you marry and I become a governess.
Julia pushed the thought away, determined to be cheerful for Phoebe.

Sunday came around and Julia had not seen Uncle Wilhern since he had told her she must marry Mr. Edgerton. Mrs. Wilhern, Phoebe, and Julia waited for Mr. Wilhern by the front door to join them on their short journey to church, but his valet came down and said he was not to accompany them that day. Julia breathed a sigh of relief as they left without him.

Days crept by. Julia occasionally caught a glimpse of her uncle, or heard his footsteps on the stairs, and cringed.

Tuesday came round again and Julia and Felicity left the Wilherns’ fashionable town house in Mayfair to visit Monsieur and Madame Bartholdy. Julia had something very particular to ask the Bartholdys, something that she hardly dared hope for.

Had you been a man, you could have become a world-renowned pianist.

So the great music master, Bartholdy, had said to her two years before. Had she been born in Austria or Germany, or been able to travel to the Continent, she might have been successful as a composer and performer. Vienna and Leipzig, Bartholdy said, would have welcomed a female virtuoso. She might have performed for kings and queens in palaces.

After exiting the carriage, Julia and Felicity walked down Bishopsgate Street toward the Bartholdys’ building.

Nicholas strode purposefully through the East Side; he’d had his coachman let him out so he could walk the last half mile. He had gone to the War Office to report what he’d found—or rather his lack of findings—and they had encouraged him to continue to try to get close to Robert Wilhern and Hugh Edgerton, as they had other people checking into the other three gentlemen. They also encouraged him to go about his normal routine as much as possible.

And that was why Nicholas was walking down Bishopsgate Street on a Tuesday, to keep his regular appointment. He never saw anyone he knew in this part of town, so he was startled to see a well-dressed lady walking toward him, a lady who looked remarkably like Miss Grey. But that was ridiculous. What would she be doing in this part of town?

But the longer he watched her, the more he was convinced it was Miss Grey and her friend, Miss Mayson.

As he approached them, Miss Grey caught sight of him and her eyes widened. “Mr. Langdon! I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Miss Grey.” He tipped his hat. “I could say the same to you and Miss Mayson. May I escort you?”

“Of course. We are on our way to call on my old music master, Monsieur Bartholdy.”

“But why are you walking? Why not take the carriage?”

“The coachman and I have an . . . um, understanding; I don’t make him drive past the end of Bishopsgate Street, he picks me up in the same spot, and he doesn’t mention to my aunt and uncle where I went.”

Now she was smiling. The only problem was, he could hardly watch where he was going for noticing the way her smile transformed her countenance and made the sunlight, what little there was on this overcast day, sparkle in her eyes.

“Please excuse me,” Miss Mayson said, “but I noticed a broken lace on my half boot when we were in the carriage, and I need to step into this shoe repair shop, just here, so that I might have it repaired.”

“Of course. If I may be of assistance . . .”

“Oh no, I shall be able to take care of it. You and Miss Grey can keep each other company. I shall return in a few moments.”

“Of course.” Nicholas and Miss Grey were left alone on the street in front of the shoe shop.

He was about to try to start a conversation about the weather or the state of the roads, the usual safe topics, when he spotted little Henry Lee coming out of an alley, fixing his gaze on Miss Grey. The poor urchin was as dirty and ragged as usual, and Nicholas held his breath to see if she would react as most well-bred ladies would, with a screech of horror and then an order for the offensive child to get away from her. But as Henry approached, Miss Grey actually turned to him.

“Henry! How is your sister? Is she better?” She reached into her reticule and pulled out some coins before Henry could even ask and pressed them into his hand, obviously unconcerned about soiling her white glove.

“Aye, miss. She’s much better now. No fever for at least a week.”

Nicholas tried to catch the boy’s eye from over Miss Grey’s shoulder. He shook his head and winked at the boy.

“Well, if it ain’t Mr. Lan—”

Nicholas shook his head again, frowning.

“Ah, I mean, who’s the bloke with the shiny top hat, Miss Grey? Looks like a fine dandy gentleman if ever I saw one.” Henry winked at Nicholas when Julia turned to glance his way.

She turned back to the boy. “Henry, do you know—”

“We should go, Miss Grey,” Nicholas said, holding her elbow and urging her forward. “You never know when more of these little street urchins will be lurking, waiting to steal your reticule.”

“That’s true, Miss Grey,” Henry added eagerly—too eagerly. “The bloke knows what he’s talking about. You shouldn’t trust street people like me. G’day, Miss Grey. Thankee for the shilling.” Then Henry winked slyly at Nicholas. He was sure Miss Grey must have seen it.

“All done,” Miss Mayson called out as she left the shop and joined them.

Nicholas hurried them both along until they had left the child behind.

“Do you know that boy, Mr. Langdon?” Miss Grey glanced up at him with suspicious eyes.

“Me? How would I know him? Now where did you say your Monsieur Bartholdy lives?”

“I didn’t say, but it’s just ahead, in the taller building there. That child knows you. But how?”

“Do you give that cheeky little blighter money every time you come here?”

“He knows I come this way every Tuesday. And don’t call him a cheeky blighter. He’s a dear little boy. He quite breaks my heart. He takes care of a little sister, and his mother too, and he’s only eight years old himself. He’s very brave,” Miss Grey ended stoutly.

In addition to being a maestro on the pianoforte and having a voice like heaven itself, she also took pity on street urchins no other respectable lady would look at twice. He was almost afraid he was in danger of losing his heart.

Except for one thing: her uncle might be a traitor to England. He doubted Wilhern’s niece, also his ward who owed so much to him, could possibly be as noble as she seemed. If given a choice between her uncle and her country, which would she choose? On the other hand, she might be useful in helping lead Nicholas to the other traitors who were helping her uncle.

“I thought young ladies’ nursery maids warned them not to give money to beggars on the street.” He tried to sound friendly and half teasing.

“They do. But not all ladies listen to their nursery maids.” Miss Grey and Miss Mayson stopped in front of their destination. “Thank you, Mr. Langdon, for your escort.”

“Shall I walk with you back to your carriage when you’re done?”

“That won’t be necessary. Good d—”

“I insist. I shall meet you back here in half an hour?”

“I suppose . . .”

“Half an hour, then.”

The Bartholdys’ maid led Julia and Felicity to the drawing room. Monsieur Bartholdy sat in his usual armchair with a shawl spread over his knees. Madame Bartholdy smiled and held out her hands. “Welcome, my dears,” she said in her lilting foreign accent.

Julia didn’t know much about where they had come from—it was even rumored that “Bartholdy” was not their real name—but she knew that Monsieur Bartholdy had been all over the world, playing for kings and potentates in places Julia had barely heard of. He had many souvenirs—a Russian samovar, silks from the Orient, tea sets from France, and beautiful works of art of every description. But the couple’s furnishings were simple and well worn, as was their clothing, and Julia often worried about them having enough food.