The Secret Life of Lady Julia (15 page)

Chapter 22

J
ulia hurried down the hall to her room, her footsteps echoing through the marble corridors, her cheeks burning.

It had been quite a day. She had shot a man in the leg, almost killing him—probably. Someone had returned the pistol to her, and she’d tucked it back into her reticule. She tossed the bag into the corner now, not wanting it near her.

Stephen had been wrong. She wasn’t anything like James. James was brave and smart, and he wouldn’t be hiding in the dark of his bedroom trembling like a leaf.

She forced herself to cross the room and light a candle. She caught sight of her pale reflection in the mirror. Was she different? Her eyes were deep hollows, her cheeks lean and reddened by the wind. Would James even recognize her? She was not the little sister he’d known.

Not only had she shot someone today. She’d allowed Stephen Ives to kiss her.

She put a hand to her lips, touched the still-tingling flesh tentatively.

It hadn’t been a brotherly kiss, or the type of kiss given in thanks for a kindness.

It had been the kiss of a man who admires a woman, desires her. Even with her limited experience of kisses, she knew that much.

Her first kiss, at her betrothal ball, had altered her life forever. And her second one, Stephen’s kiss? “Impossible,” she murmured.

She felt a frisson of shock that a man like Stephen Ives—a gentleman, a diplomat, an officer, someone who knew the worst of the tales about her—had kissed her! It wasn’t like Lord Stewart’s kiss, forced upon her, a hard, cold parody of affection.

Nor was it like Thomas Merritt’s kiss. Would she forever compare all other kisses to his?

She tried to leave Thomas out of her analysis of the situation. She had to, if she was going to make any sense at all of it.

Stephen’s kiss had been a comfort, a soothing balm after the events of the afternoon. She wanted to sink into his arms and not remember that she’d shot someone. She hadn’t seen stars. She’d felt safe in his arms, yet unsafe. She was treading on dangerous ground yet again.

Julia watched herself in the mirror as a bloom of color rose over her cheeks. She genuinely
liked
Stephen Ives. He was kind, charming, intelligent, and handsome, but she had never considered him in a—well, a
kissing
kind of way before.

What could he have been thinking? Horror struck her, and she met her gaze in the mirror, saw her own mother’s accusing eyes, filled with scorn and shock. Did he assume she might be willing to— No, he’d been perfectly correct in every way with her until now.

It
must
have been shock, gratitude, or some other emotion that made him do it.

The door opened and she spun around, wondering if it were Stephen come to kiss her again, or worse, beg forgiveness for being so rash. But it was Dorothea. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks glowing, and she was smiling like a cat with a canary in her teeth. Julia felt hot blood fill her cheeks again. Had Stephen told her about the kiss, or had Dorothea heard that she’d shot a man in the park? Surely she wouldn’t be smiling about the latter.

“I’m having supper with Peter tonight,” Dorothea said. “Alone, in the small dining room downstairs, before we go to the concert.”

“Oh? Did you want me to join you?” Julia asked, wondering if she needed a chaperone, but Dorothea giggled.

“Quite the opposite! I do want you to help me choose a dress—something bright and pretty—but I was hoping you would be otherwise engaged this evening.”

Julia had nothing planned. The Castlereaghs were attending a formal dinner at the home of the Austrian ambassador, Prince Metternich. She had not been invited to the important and exclusive function, of course. “I’m not—” she began, interrupted by a knock at the door.

Her chest tightened. What if it was Stephen? Dorothea was sure to ask why he was coming to her room. She had a way of reading the truth in her brother’s eyes. Julia imagined him standing in the middle of the rug, his hands behind his back, looking more like a chastised schoolboy than a lord major as Dorothea put him to the question.
I kissed your companion,
he might tell her,
and now I’ve come to—

To what?

“Aren’t you going to answer the door?” Dorothea asked, going herself.

A liveried footman bowed. “This arrived for Miss Leighton. The courier asked that it be delivered at once.”

Dorothea took the envelope off the tray and glanced at it. “Prince de Talleyrand?” she said, her brows rising. “How do you know the French ambassador, and why on earth is he sending you messages?”

Julia crossed to take the letter, a prickle of surprise crawling along her spine, but it had been a day of surprises. “It is probably from his niece, Diana. We’ve met several times in the past few weeks.”

“Truly?” Dorothea asked, sitting down to wait while Julia opened the letter, her eyes alight with curiosity. “What did you talk about?”

Julia turned the envelope in her hands, glanced at the seal. Not Diana’s. And the script that addressed the letter was bold and masculine, not Diana’s delicate hand. “Oh, we—gossip, mostly, I suppose.”

Dorothea smiled. “I can’t wait to hear! Peter brings me stories, but not from the niece of the French ambassador! Do open it.”

Julia broke the seal, scanned the enclosed message and nearly dropped the letter. She stared at it, read the polite note again. It was written in French, and bore the unmistakable tone of a man certain his order would be obeyed, even if it was disguised as a very kind invitation to a birthday dinner for Diana. “It’s an invitation,” she said to Dorothea. “Apparently, Diana’s birthday is tomorrow, and the prince is having a supper party for her this evening. He is sorry for the lateness of the request, but asks if I might attend.”

“Truly?” Dorothea gushed again, and held out her hand. Julia put the letter into her palm and crossed to the desk. “Why on earth?”

There was yet another knock on the door. “And who might this be, the Tsar of Russia?” Dorothea quipped, but a mere maid entered with clean linens and a pail of kindling.

She curtsied and set her burdens down before turning to Julia. “Oh, my lady, the tales of your bravery are all they’re talking about in the servants’ hall!”

“Her bravery?” Dorothea asked, looking from Julia to the maid and back again. “What does that mean?”

“Lady Julia—Miss Leighton—shot three robbers in the park! They were trying to steal the crown from the Austrian emperor himself!” the girl gushed.

Dorothea’s eyes widened. “Truly? What on earth were you doing in the park?” she asked Julia.

“I was walking.”

“Alone?”

“No, she was with Major Lord Ives,” the maid said, bending to lay the fire in the grate. “He killed six robbers himself, and climbed a tree to retrieve the crown.”

“Stephen climbed a tree?” Dorothea gasped. “He hasn’t done so since he was eight. As I recall, he got stuck and had to be rescued by his tutor.”

“He carried the crown in his teeth!” the maid said.

Dorothea looked confused. “All this happened while I was napping?”

There was another knock, and this time a footman entered, carrying a scuttle full of coals for the fire. “If I may be so bold, we’re all proud of you, Miss Leighton, belowstairs, saving Major Lord Ives’s life like that,” he said.

Dorothea turned. “Did you catch him as he fell from the tree?”

“Tree?” the footman said. “He was facing almost twenty men, my lady, all armed with pistols, and he had naught but his sword. If Lady Julia hadn’t shot eleven men, he’d have perished there in the park.”

“You shot eleven men with a single pistol, Julia? I thought it only held one bullet!”

Julia’s cheeks warmed. “It was only one man, and I merely grazed him. Everyone else ran off unharmed.”

The footman’s mouth twisted as he stared at Julia. “D’you mind if we tell it our way, m’lady? It makes a better story.”

“It’s a lovely story,” the maid added. “You could dine out for weeks on it, as Lady Castlereagh might say.”

Dorothea rose. “Yes, well, Lady Julia is to dine out tonight, as a matter of fact, with the French ambassador, and she must dress at once.” She made a shooing motion with her hands, and the servants bowed, glancing adoringly once more at Julia as they left.

Julia crossed to the desk and took out a sheet of writing paper. “I wish you hadn’t told them that. It will be all over the kitchen that I’m having dinner with the Emperor, or the Tsar, or both!”

“What are you doing?” Dorothea asked.

“I’m sending my regrets to Prince de Talleyrand,” Julia replied.

“Of course you’re not! Once you have told me the whole story of this afternoon’s escapades, you simply must go!”

Julia regarded her with a half smile. “I am a servant, Dorothea. It is not my place to attend supper parties with the French ambassador and his niece, especially without permission.”

Dorothea waved her hand. “You have
my
permission. Is it that you don’t have an escort?” She pointed at the pen in Julia’s hand. “It would be better if you sent your acceptance, then wrote a note to Stephen to ask if he could escort you.” She snatched the pen from Julia’s hand. “Better yet, I shall do it for you, so he cannot refuse. Not that he would, of course. He is fond of you, and he would gladly lend you an arm to lean upon, especially now that you’ve saved his life.”

Julia felt her skin turn crimson again at the idea of spending such an evening in Stephen’s company. How might such a request look—
or feel
—especially now, so soon after the kiss?

“I believe he is attending a state dinner with Lord Castlereagh tonight—” she began.

“Then we shall send one of Castlereagh’s aides to escort you to the door of the French Embassy. You shall not go unchaperoned.”

Dorothea grabbed Julia’s hand as she opened her mouth to protest again. “Come with me,” she said. “I just know you were about to say that you have nothing to wear, but we shall go at once and raid my wardrobe for pretty dresses for both of us to wear tonight, you at your French ball and me at my far more intimate meal. Who knows whom you might meet—a handsome French diplomat, a charming prince, a lord or two, even. You must dress tonight the way you did in the days when we both attended London parties and danced and flirted the nights away.” She picked up the vial of perfume that sat on Julia’s dressing table, the last of her favorite perfume, which she had not worn since she left her father’s home. Dorothea opened the stopper and sniffed deeply.

“Hmm. Yes, wear some of this too. You are too good to be a servant, Julia, though I adore your company. It will do you good to go out into the kind of society you should be mixing with. I won’t hear any more excuses. It will be perfectly all right—more than all right. Now come and help me. I need something especially nice to wear tonight, perhaps pink? And you should wear green, to bring out the color of your eyes. I would suggest blue, but perhaps it would appear too French? Perhaps not . . . we shall see.” She swept Julia down the hall to her rooms, calling for her maid.

Dorothea sent Stephen a note, and he sent one back. He could not change his plans for the evening, being officially required as Lord Castlereagh’s aide. After another insistent note from Dorothea, he agreed to arrange a coach to take Julia to Kaunitz Palace. Despite appearances and propriety, which demanded an unmarried lady needed a chaperone, Julia realized that she was outside the bounds of such precise etiquette. Stephen had probably agreed to let her go in hopes that she might overhear something of use. She no longer needed instructions. She simply reported what was useful, and had become quite good at discerning useful tidbits among ordinary chatter.

S
everal hours later Julia was dressed in a pale gold silk gown, her hair elegantly styled by Dorothea’s maid. She hurried down the grand staircase to the front door, where the arranged coach awaited her.

“Well, well, what have we here?” Lord Stewart’s voice rang through the foyer, stopping Julia where she stood on the steps. Her stomach clenched as he crossed the hall to stand at the bottom of the stairs, blocking her way to the door. He gave her an insolent look of appraisal. “The plain workaday pigeon is a peacock by night, I see. Where are you sneaking off to?”

She raised her chin. She wished she had the daring to sweep past him without a word, to let him watch her get into the coach and wonder, but she did not. As a mere servant, he would never let her pass. “I have Lady Dorothea’s permission, my lord.”

“An errand, at this hour, in that grand dress? No one alerted me that you would be out of the palace—” He made a show of looking behind her. “—and quite unescorted. I am responsible for the safety of this delegation, and that includes knowing where everyone is, servants and underlings included. Especially you, given your reputation for—”

“I am attending a birthday celebration,” she interrupted.

“Ah, but whose birthday is it?” he asked, setting one booted foot on the bottom step, leaning against the balustrade, his eyes roaming over her.

“I am going to visit—” Julia swallowed the rest. Would he approve or disapprove if he knew she was going to spend the evening at the French Embassy? If he forbade her to go, she would be forced to return upstairs, Dorothea’s permission or not.