How to Romance a Rake (7 page)

With the promise of compensation, Mrs. Parks’s attitude changed dramatically. She had gathered the baby’s things and changed and dressed her while Monteith went to alert the coachman that they’d be leaving shortly.

Finally, some ten pounds poorer, Alec carried Alice from the dingy rooming house, Monteith following with Alice’s things.

As if she knew she were being rescued, Alice clung tightly to Deveril, wrapping her little arms round his neck.

If the coachman thought it irregular for his master to be accompanied by a baby, he kept his thoughts to himself.

Ensconced in the carriage, Alice now fingered the simple ebony stickpin adorning Alec’s cravat, while the two men stared bemused at one another.

“This will make an excellent story for Winterson’s delectation,” Monteith said finally. “Only one thing remains to be seen.”

“What’s that?” Alec asked, removing a small hand from poking him in the eye.

“Whether little Alice gets carriage sick.”

Deveril’s response was not fit for a child’s ears, though Alice didn’t seem to mind.

*   *   *

While Deveril was searching Mrs. Turner’s flat, Juliet was trying to listen politely to Lord Turlington’s comments about the paintings they observed in the new Southerton Gallery.

She had planned on asking Madeline to accompany her to see if Mrs. Turner had perhaps gone to visit her sister in Richmond, but when she’d reached the breakfast table that morning, her mother informed her that they were to attend the gallery opening with Lord Turlington.

“Wear the new peach sarcenet,” Lady Shelby told her. “And ask Weston to arrange your hair in something more elaborate than your usual chignon.”

As usual, Lady Shelby herself was exquisite. Her dark, glossy tresses were artfully arranged to reveal her elegant neckline. And her deep russet-colored gown fit her to perfection. Juliet wondered, not for the first time, if it were possible for such a plebian specimen as herself to be birthed by such a paragon.

“I had hoped to visit Madeline today,” she said, hoping that the mention of her cousin would remind Lady Shelby that she was not the only one of the Ugly Ducklings who had yet to snare a husband. But it was of no avail.

“I’m afraid that is impossible, Juliet.” Her mother’s rosy lips pursed in a pouty frown. “Lord Turlington has requested your company in particular. I believe if you handle him carefully he might be brought up to scratch.”

Juliet stirred a spoonful of sugar into her tea and said nothing. Her mother had begun pushing her toward Turlington at the beginning of the season. Even before Cecily had married Winterson. It had come as a surprise because until this year her mother had openly scoffed at the notion Juliet would ever marry at all because of her injury.

Never one to balk at speaking her mind, Lady Shelby had lamented the consequences of Juliet’s accident almost from the moment it happened. Not so much the fact that Juliet would find ambulation difficult, but that she would not be able to take her rightful position in society.

But this season, even before the family made the journey from their estate in Kent, Lady Shelby had begun to sing a different tune. She’d praised the virtues of married life to her daughter. She’d taken a renewed interest in Juliet’s fashion choices, even going so far as to insist that she wear colors that for most debutantes would be verboten.

Accustomed to blending in with the other young unmarried ladies of society, Juliet had braced herself for taking a more active role in
ton
activities, but to her shock, she soon learned that her mother’s hopes for her centered on one gentleman alone: Lord Turlington.

A widower in his late thirties, Turlington was known for his passionate interest in art. A painter himself, he could often be found discussing his interest with anyone who would listen. And he had written several well-received pieces of criticism for various serial publications. As an expert in his field, he was impressive. As a marriage prospect for an unassuming young lady, however, he left much to be desired.

Though she had often chafed at her mother’s lack of optimism regarding her marriageability, Juliet found her sudden insistence that Lord Turlington could be hers for the taking odd in the extreme. His title was not particularly old, or prestigious. And he was viewed by many, including Juliet’s own father, as a grasping social climber.

Then there was her own opinion of the man. Not only did she find Turlington’s constant discussion of his own accomplishments tedious, she also thought that his assessment of his own skill as an artist was dead wrong. Since her mother had developed an interest in him as a possible suitor for Juliet, she had paraded her daughter through the various galleries of London that had Turlington’s works on display. And if she were being completely honest, Juliet found them … disturbing.

Like most artists of his generation, Turlington liked to paint scenes from great historical or literary events. But Turlington’s always seemed to depict women in some sort of dire situation. Having gone through a dire situation of her own, she did not care to see such raw emotions depicted on canvas. And though she knew the models themselves were merely acting, she could not help but sense that Turlington, with his brush and paints, brought life to such emotions because he enjoyed them.

*   *   *

“Juliet, are you attending to me?” Lady Shelby demanded. “I said that Turlington might be brought up to scratch. I should think you would be grateful considering that only recently you had no hopes for making a marriage at all.”

Ah, yes, Mama, do not mince words.

“I am not sure that I should find Lord Turlington to my liking as a husband,” she said aloud. “I know he is your friend, but I was hoping that I might be able to find someone a bit closer to me in age…”

“For what, pray?” Lady Shelby asked. “For dancing, as you were attempting at Winterson House last evening? My dear Juliet, you know that I wish more than anything that you were like other young ladies, but you are not. A young husband would only find you tedious because you would not be able to keep up with him … physically, I mean.”

She raised one perfectly arched brow. “Do you know what I refer to?”

Juliet felt a blush rise in her cheeks. “I … I … think so.”

“I do not mean to be unkind, my dear, truly I don’t. But husbands require certain … duties of their wives. Duties that require a certain degree of … physicality. I simply do not believe your injury would allow you to participate in such activities. At least not with the regularity that a young man would require.”

Juliet kept her eyes on her toast, suddenly not as hungry as she was when she entered the room.

“An older husband,” Lady Shelby said briskly, “would be much more willing to overlook your frailty. Indeed, I believe he might even be willing to let you continue with your study of the pianoforte. After all, you will need some way to occupy your time.”

Stunned, but unsurprised, at her mother’s tactlessness, Juliet didn’t bother to reply. It would do no good to argue with her, she knew. And upon the subject of Lord Turlington, she was not to be gainsaid.

“Come, finish your breakfast and we’ll be off. Turlington has a new painting at Southerton’s. It is of Desdemona, I believe. One of his new series based on the heroines of Shakespeare. I will try to persuade him to take us to Gunter’s afterward. You will like that, won’t you?”

Lady Shelby rose and glided from the room, her smooth gait everything that Juliet’s was not.

Was this really what things had come to? she wondered. Was she to be forced into marriage with a man who repulsed her simply because her mother willed it? For the millionth time she wondered what had persuaded her mother to become so hell-bent on marrying her daughter off to Lord Turlington. To go from disbelieving that her daughter could marry at all to attempting almost daily to press her into marrying Turlington was strange indeed.

She wished Anna were here to discuss the matter with her, or that she were somewhere that Juliet knew she was safe. Her letter of last evening had left her uneasy and worried. She wondered if Lord Deveril had been able to learn anything new during his visit to Hans Town.

Unbidden, the memory of how she had felt in Lord Deveril’s arms sent a little thrill down her spine. She had a suspicion that marital duties with the viscount would be just as energetic and frequent as her mother had described. And despite her injury, she had a feeling that she would adapt to the situation if her husband were someone like Deveril, someone she could respect and care for. As opposed to the older, and unsettling, Lord Turlington. She tried and failed to imagine the older man investigating the disappearance of her former music teacher as Deveril was doing. Turlington would dismiss the matter as beneath his notice, she had little doubt. Which was another point in Deveril’s favor.

Not that Juliet was keeping a tally.

What was most surprising with regard to Lord Turlington was her mother’s sudden championing of the man as the ideal suitor. Something, Juliet was convinced, had made Lady Shelby change her mind regarding her daughter’s marriageability. And Juliet wanted to know what that something had been.

With a sigh for her wasted breakfast, she rose from the table, leaning on her elegantly carved walking stick, and made her way to fetch her bonnet and pelisse.

When they arrived at the Southerton Gallery it was to find the entrance teeming with curious visitors.

“Never say this is all for your painting, Turlington,” Lady Shelby cooed, making Juliet feel slightly ill. She’d been complimenting the gentleman lavishly from the moment he handed them into his carriage. And somehow managed to make it seem as if Juliet were the one making the compliments.

“I’m afraid not, Lady Shelby, Miss Shelby,” he said, ushering them through the crowd. “I believe this is for the latest work by
Il Maestro
.”

Juliet had read about the mysterious painter in the
Times
. His identity was unknown, and the subject matter he depicted was shocking in the extreme. While Juliet found Turlington’s paintings disturbing, those of
Il Maestro
were outright frightening. Drawing from the gothic tradition made popular by the novelists Walpole and Radcliffe,
Il Maestro
’s paintings were bone-chilling, depicting all manner of unspeakable acts. And in a city where hangings were still viewed by some as jolly good entertainment, works like these were considered tame by most.

“Mama, please do not let us go inside,” Juliet asked, her distress such that she actually clutched her mother’s arm, something she had not done since a small child, when she’d been scolded severely for wrinkling her mother’s sleeve.

“Do not fear, Miss Shelby,” Lord Turlington chided, chucking her under the chin as if she were a child. “It is merely artistic expression. It cannot harm you. Though I approve of your diffidence. A lady can never be too careful about what she allows herself to be exposed to.”

And against her will, Juliet was ushered into the busy gallery, where the line snaking around the room led into a side room, where presumably
Il Maestro
’s latest monstrosity was on display.

When the line had moved but a little, Juliet took advantage of her mother and Lord Turlington’s distraction as they discussed some esoteric art technique with an acquaintance to slip back into the crowd. Making her way past small groups of people, she finally reached the side entrance to the gallery, where she slipped into a small courtyard that had been set up for visitors to rest their weary feet. Taking advantage of a bench, Juliet gingerly lowered herself to sit, and plied her fan in an effort to cool her overheated cheeks.

“Ah, here you are,” she heard from the doorway. She turned to see Lord Deveril, resplendent even in day wear of buckskin breeches and highly polished boots, with a bottle-green coat, snowy white shirt, and neck cloth.

“Lord Deveril.” She smiled, feeling a little breathless to see him again. Especially in light of the aforementioned duties. “I did not expect to see you again so soon.”

“But Miss Shelby,” he chided, bowing over her hand, “I did tell you that I would report as soon as I’d learned something.”

“Oh, of course. Mrs. Turner.” She blushed to have forgotten her friend so quickly. “You are so kind. I had not expected you to learn anything so soon.”

“Well, the news isn’t much, I fear,” he told her, his expression serious as the gentle May breeze ruffled his golden hair. “May I?” he asked, indicating the seat beside her.

She really shouldn’t, but Juliet found it impossible to refuse him. She gave a small nod and he sat beside her.

Quickly he outlined his and Monteith’s experience that morning at Mrs. Parks’s establishment.

“We found little to indicate whether or not Mrs. Turner’s flight was voluntary or by force, though it did not appear that she’d packed a bag,” he said. “And I found something that I thought would be of interest to you.”

Reaching into his pocket, he removed a small blue bound book.

“Oh,” she cried, taking it from him. “It is her teaching notebook. I bought this for her last Christmas when she complained of running out of space in her old one.”

“I have only made a cursory examination,” Deveril explained, his expression serious, “Not having been a friend, I did not feel quite right about invading her privacy in such a manner. But I thought that perhaps you would be the most appropriate person to read over it.”

“Thank you,” she told him, her eyes filling with moisture. “You cannot know how much this means to me.”

“I think I do,” he told her, taking her gloved hand in his. “I also wanted to let you know that Mrs. Turner left something else behind. Something not quite so easy to carry in my pocket.”

She frowned. “Her piano?” she asked.

“No,” he said, his brow furrowed in a frown. “I’m afraid that Mrs. Turner left her daughter behind with Mrs. Parks.”

Juliet’s heart sank. If Mrs. Turner had left Baby Alice behind then something was definitely wrong. Though Mrs. Turner was fond of Parks, she was not comfortable with leaving Alice there for extended periods.