Loving Julia
LOVING JULIA. Copyright © 1986 by Karen Robards. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
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A mass market edition of this book was published in 1986 by Warner Books.
ISBN: 978-0-7595-2105-6
First eBook Edition: March 2001
Contents
Also by Karen Robards
Night Magic
Amanda Rose
To Love a Man
Dark Torment
Wild Orchids
Published by
WARNER BOOKS
DISCOVER WHY CRITICS—AND READERS—LOVE KAREN ROBARDS AND HER IRRESISTIBLE ROMANCES
“Ms. Robards [has] the marvelous talent to zero in on the heart of erotic fantasy. She seems to know instinctively our most secret thoughts and then dreams up the perfect scenario to give them free rein.… The result is pure magic.”
—Romantic Times
“FIVE STARS! HIGHEST RATING! Magical romance…. You’ll be charmed by the heroine Jewel, soon to be Julia, and her antics with the self-possessed Earl…. With this tale, the award-winning Ms. Robards gives us a taste of her writing mastery.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Ms. Robards writes ‘spellbinding romance.’”
—Publishers Weekly
To my mother-in-law, Frances Sigler,
her children, Anthony, Suzanne,
Jerry, Carl, Nancy, Pam, and Betty,
and their families.
And, as always,
to Doug and Peter.
“You, Jool, get yer arse movin’ and do as yer bid! Now! Or, by God, I’ll…”
A swipe with a brutishly thick forearm finished the threat. Jewel Combs ducked the blow with the agility of long practice. The rush of air as it just missed her head blew long tendrils of her inky black hair upward in its wake. She was not one whit bothered by the violence. Getting hit was nothing new to her; if a day had passed since her birth some sixteen years before when someone had not hit her for something, she could not remember it. Dodging blows—or taking them if she wasn’t fast enough on her feet—was a fact of life for her and all those like her: the ragged, dirty urchins who had no home but London’s filthy back streets.
In fact, she was luckier than most, and she knew it. She had a family, of a sort. Jem Meeks was meaner than a gutter rat and almost as ugly with his thin, cadaverous face and long beak of a nose, but if you did as you were bid he saw to it that you had a place to lay your head nights and a crust of bread with a bit of meat to sup on. And he kept you safe. No one bothered you if you were one of Jem Meeks’ band of pickpockets, hawkers, and petty thieves.
“I’m goin’, I’m goin’, ya ol’ cod’s head!” Jewel muttered tartly. Reaching behind her, she yanked tight and tied the laces of her most prized possession—a new dress salvaged from the castoffs of some down and out theater company.
At that time of night the loft was nearly deserted; the assorted characters who resided there practiced their vocations after dark. Besides her and Jem, there was only Ol’ Bates (whose lay was pretending to be blind drunk until some cove bent over him to rifle his pockets, and then robbing the surprised cove instead), and Nat the Tinker (so called because he would carry the finest of the watches and gewgaws he lifted under his coat, and offer them for sale to passersby on the street when the need for drink was in him). Ol’ Bates was sick, as he had been often lately what with the damp all around, and Nat was sleeping off a drunk.
Jewel stepped carefully over Nat’s snoring form, which lay sprawled across one of the half dozen or so beds made of old sacks that covered one section of the floor of the huge, drafty loft. Reaching the exit, she ducked her head to get through the low door. The stairs twisting downward were broken and rickety, blackened by the fire that had left the warehouse unusable and prey to squatters like themselves. But Jewel took them with the surefootedness of a young goat, carefully holding her skirts clear of her feet to keep her precious dress safe. A large rat skittered down ahead of her, staying close to the wall. Its long naked tail left a trail in the heavy layer of soot and dirt. Jewel barely noticed it. Like blows, rats were a part of her life.
Behind her, Jem clumped more cautiously. The thud, thud of his heavy boots echoed the gradually accelerating thumping of her heart. She wasn’t afraid, not Jewel, but she didn’t much care for this new lay he’d come up with. But, as Jem said, times were hard in this year of our Lord 1841, what with them so-called Corn Laws doing in the gentry so that they weren’t near as plump in the pocket as they used to be. And with the winter as bad as it had been, and the nobs just now starting to trickle back to town, why, things were in a sad way.
Jewel was an expert ticker hunter (tickers being watches and hunting them being, in a manner of speaking, what she did), trained by the best pickpocket around, as Jem claimed he had been before he had gotten hit with the rheumatiz. But when there was nothing in the purses of those she robbed even artistry such as hers was of little value. None of them had been having much luck lately, not even Corey the Chaser. His lay was jumping out in front of gentlemen’s rigs and then rolling away at the last possible moment, screaming so that the victim would think him injured and offer him something—generally a pound note—to keep him from raising too much fuss about being run down. As Jem said, “Ya gotta do wot ya gotta do,” and to eat they had had to come up with some new lays. If Jewel didn’t like the one he had chosen for her, well, she could do it or get out.
Her one consolation was that the new game had required the acquisition of the fine looking dress she now wore. Jewel clutched the crimson silk skirt and jumped down the remaining four steps so as not to have to wade through the pile of offal that someone had dumped on them. Landing lightly, she tugged at her tight bodice and tucked in between her breasts a torn edge of the black lace that adorned it, trying not to notice the pumping of blood in the veins of her neck, or the sweat that dampened her palms. She had loathed this lay from the first, when Jem had assured her it was a one time thing. But that first time had netted them a tidy sum, and Jem was never one to pass by a source of easy money. If her stomach wasn’t strong enough to stand the sight of a little blood, well, then, her stomach shouldn’t be so damned weak livered. Or so Jem said.
The worst part was that they needed Mick for this lay. She hated Mick, really hated him. He liked the new lay, liked the violence and the blood, she could tell he did. Mick was short and stocky with oily dark hair, a broad pockmarked face and little gleaming black eyes that glistened like cockroaches whenever they rested on Jewel. And he had thick, meaty hands—about a dozen pair of them, which he could never keep to himself. So far, she had managed to fend off anything more than the occasional grab, but she knew that she had Jem more than her own physical prowess to thank for that. Of course, if ever the day came when she refused to do what Jem asked, well, she would have to make damned sure that day never came. For a chit with no one to look after her, London’s slums were a dangerous place. Jewel figured she would last about one day before she fell victim to one of the area’s many predators. Then she would be lucky to end up, alive, in a whorehouse.
Her hand was outstretched to touch the crazily leaning door that led onto the street when it suddenly swung open. She had no time to step back before she was pulled against a thick chest and imprisoned by bearishly strong arms.
“Eh, Jewel me dear, waitin’ fer me, were ya? That’s awright, I like me wenches eager.” Mick squeezed her tight while a slow grin exposed teeth that were already beginning to turn brown around the edges from rot.
“I tole ya to be ’ome early. Ya knew we was goin’ out ternight.” Jem’s irritable grumble came from behind Jewel. She jerked angrily against Mick’s hold, feeling safe with Jem at hand.
“Ah, Jemmy, I’m ’ere, ain’t I? An’ I’m ready fer work.”
Despite her struggles, Mick hugged Jewel even tighter as he spoke, rubbing his crotch against her in a way that made her want to throw up. His man-thing was hard and swollen and it hurt as he pressed it into her flesh. She shoved him fruitlessly. She might have grown up wild, but she was a good girl that way. Her ma, whom Jewel could just barely remember, had told her always to keep herself to herself, and Jewel always had. There might come a time when she had to trade her body for food and shelter, but that time hadn’t come yet. If it did, well then, she would do what she had to do. But she sure as hell wasn’t goin’ to let Mick toss her on her backside for free in the meantime.