The Secret Life of Lady Julia (22 page)

Chapter 35

S
tephen had never hated a man like he hated Thomas Merritt. He had not been able to get the image of him with Julia out of his mind. He imagined her kissing him, holding him close, allowing him to—

“Did Merritt kill Temberlay?” he’d asked her as she stood before him after her admission, her chin high, waiting with dignity for whatever scorn he would heap upon her. He didn’t have the words to express the pain he felt. He wanted to step away, run, never look at her again, but he just stood there and stared at her, thinking her beautiful even as hatred for her seducer built with every second. She’d looked surprised that his first question should be about Temberlay.

“No. He’d left England by then. He couldn’t have.”

“And does he know about—” He felt bile fill his mouth and he swallowed it. “ . . . about the child?”

Her gaze turned ferocious, as protective as a mother tiger. “No. I had no way to tell him, nor did I wish to.”

“You didn’t trust him?” he asked, and choked out the next question, his fists clenched. “Was it rape?”

She blushed scarlet. “No! I simply had no intention of forcing him to do the honorable thing and marry me. There would have been no dowry, and my father would still have disowned me. Jamie is mine.”

“Then you don’t intend to tell him, even now?”

“Especially now,” she insisted. “He has not yet agreed to help us. Do you think he would, if he was suddenly faced with—”

“He has very little choice in the matter,” Stephen said through gritted teeth, meaning the mission. Merritt could be forced to that at least, but she mistook him.

She lifted her chin, her eyes ferocious. “There is always a choice, my lord, and this one is mine alone to make.”

She’d spun on her heel, her head high, her back straight, leaving him standing in the hallway staring after her, hating Thomas Merritt.

And now Merritt sat in the coach with him, on his way back to the embassy. Stephen glared at him, the thief, the rogue, the debaucher of innocent ladies. He clenched his fists until his gloves squeaked, wanting to lunge across the small space and clamp his hands around Thomas Merritt’s throat and squeeze until he stopped breathing.

It had not been rape.

“To what do I owe the honor of this rather elaborate summons?” Merritt asked, his eyes half shut, meeting Stephen’s glare. The dark bruise shadowed his broad brow, made him look dark and dangerous. He was, Stephen supposed, exactly the kind of man a woman would find attractive, even injured.

Especially injured.

He had a brash charm even men would find appealing in a companion to spend an evening drinking or gaming with—someone quick with a joke, clever. He wondered what Merritt would be like on the battlefield, under fire, where charm didn’t matter.

“I suppose the lady who owned the watch wishes to thank me personally, is that it?” Merritt continued in a bored tone when Stephen didn’t reply, though his gaze was sharp enough. “She could simply have sent a note, or invited me to tea. This—abduction—was hardly necessary. I am always glad to bow to the whims of ladies.”

Was it Julia’s whim or his, that night at her betrothal ball? She’d been innocent, young . . .

She said it had not been rape, but would a well-bred lady as young and sheltered as Julia know the difference? He felt anger flare.

“The lady in question is my sister, and I would not allow her to sully herself with any kind of contact with a thief and a liar and a—”

Merritt’s eyes opened fully, glittering with interest. “A what?” he asked, bidding Stephen to continue, but Stephen clamped his mouth shut, and imagined calling Thomas Merritt out for his various sins and shooting him between the eyes.

Merritt sighed. “There really is nothing to fear, Major. I mean your sister no harm. I returned the watch because I thought it was the kind of thing a woman might miss, a gift from a devoted husband, a keepsake of a fleeting moment of childhood. I want nothing from her, and I don’t expect a reward.”

“Good, because you’ll get none,” Stephen snapped. “Just how did you come by the watch again?”

“As I said, I won it gambling at a ball. I don’t recall the man’s name, if that’s your next question. It was a good night, actually. I went home foxed with a pocket filled with my winnings, including that watch.”

Stephen sent him a steel-edged glare. “And you decided out of the goodness of your heart to return it? How did you know where to find her? There are thousands of ladies in Vienna.”

“True, but the man in the portrait is wearing a British uniform, like most of the Englishmen in town for the conference, including yourself. I assumed the owner was with the embassy.”

So he was smart as well as charming. It didn’t make Stephen like him any better.

“Why not simply come to the front door, hand it over?”

Merritt looked away. “Call me sentimental. I wished to give it back to her personally.”

“A knight errant on some chivalrous quest. Robin Hood, wasn’t it?” Stephen mocked. “Let it go, Merritt, and stay away from her—and Julia Leighton as well.”

Merritt pinned Stephen with a pointed look at the mention of Julia’s name. Stephen glared back, letting him know that she was under his protection, safe from the likes of him.

“That would be easier if I wasn’t on my way to the British Embassy, wouldn’t it? Not by my choice, of course. So why am I going a-visiting so early this morning? It’s hardly the polite hour for calls.”

“I’ll explain when we arrive.”

Merritt gave an exaggerated sigh. “Then I’m not to be hanged for my crimes just yet. If I were, I have no doubt the ambassador would simply have sent you to carry out the command. Or we’d be on the way to an Austrian prison, not a palace.”

“Unfortunately, it’s not my choice,” Stephen replied, his mouth twisting. He imagined pulling the noose over Merritt’s head, wiping the smirk off the bastard’s face as he tightened the rope against his throat. Stephen’s foot twitched as he imagined kicking the stool out from under him.

He turned away, looked out the window at the sugary dusting of snow that made the city look pristine and soft, when it was anything but, in his opinion. It was a den of thieves and liars, without an honorable man among them. They passed the rest of the journey in stony silence.

When he glanced at Merritt again, the man was fast asleep, as if he had nothing at all to fear.

Chapter 36

J
ulia set the pen down and rubbed her eyes. Try as she could, she couldn’t stop thinking about Thomas, how he’d looked, what it felt like to be in the same room with him again. She’d been staring at the chair he’d occupied for half an hour, when she was supposed to be writing a very important note.

How long did it take desire to sicken and die?

He was a rogue, a scoundrel, and a thief.

“Who are you writing to?” Dorothea asked. She was sitting by the window, playing Patience.

“To Diana de Talleyrand, to thank her for inviting me last night.” Diana would tell her uncle she’d received Julia’s note, and he would understand that Julia had delivered his message. The prince would expect to hear from Castlereagh, think he’d won.

“How kind of you. Perhaps we should ask her to tea. What is the correct diplomatic protocol for asking an ambassador’s niece to tea?” Dorothea mused. “Will it matter which chair she is offered, or from which side we pass the cakes?”

Julia bit her lip. “I don’t know.” She would undoubtedly lose Diana’s friendship entirely when the theft was discovered. She was sorry about that.

“Lady Castlereagh would know, of course, but she would also wonder why we wish to pursue Diana’s friendship,” Dorothea mused. “It would not occur to her we simply admire her, and have no political motives at all. Her ladyship is a political creature, and a suspicious one at that.”

Not to mention that Lady Castlereagh would hardly approve of a woman like herself mixing with the upper echelons of the diplomatic circles for any reason. She imagined her ladyship perched in her private sitting room like a vigilant bird of prey, waiting for word of any impropriety she might commit so she could swoop in for the kill—in this case, Julia’s dismissal. The events of yesterday had been improper indeed. If Stephen had assumed the worst when he saw Thomas Merritt sprawled on the floor of her room, what would Lady Castlereagh make of it? And Lord Castlereagh would surely help his wife toss her out if this plan failed. And what would become of Thomas Merritt? Surely people would guess the truth when they heard she’d known him in London.

Ruin, all over again.

A jolt of horror passed through her, and she jumped to her feet. Dorothea looked up at her. “I’m going down to ask someone to deliver the note,” Julia explained.

Dorothea set her playing cards aside.

“Yes, do.” She looked out at the snow. “It looks cold, doesn’t it? Even if the snow is rather pretty. I suppose we must stay indoors today, wait and see if it will melt or stay. Could you bring me a book from the library? Poetry, I think. Something bold, heroic, and romantic.”

“Of course.”

As the clock on the mantel chimed the hour, Dorothea picked up the watch and compared the time with a smile.

Julia’s quick footsteps echoed all the way along the hall and down the stairs. Lady Castlereagh had insisted that carpets be installed in the wing of the house she occupied, saying the clatter of boots on stone made her fear the palace was being overrun. The rest of the corridors remained unadorned, and even the soft hiss of a lady’s slippers filled the air like a malicious whisper.

Where was Mr. Merritt now? she wondered as she entered the library and began to search for a book for Dorothea. Was he thinking of her the way she was thinking of him?

He’d probably forgotten everything about that night. Would she have forgotten too, if things had turned out differently, if she had not quickened with his child, if David had lived and she’d become Duchess of Temberlay?

Of course she would have, she lied to herself. She would be at Temberlay this very moment, overseeing the day’s meals, or planning a dinner party. No, she could never have married David. Not after Thomas.

She scanned the shelves, finding books in German and French, which Dorothea could not read. Then at last, in a corner, tucked away on the far side of a mahogany shelf, she found a volume of poems by Lord Byron. If Dorothea wanted words to warm her in the depths of a winter’s day, this would certainly do it. She recalled the salacious pleasure of gossiping with London ladies over tea about the wicked poet. He did as he pleased, lived beyond the pale of good manners and good society, and if his poems were any indication, he enjoyed every moment.

Just like Thomas Merritt.

The door opened, and her ears pricked. Was she eavesdropping? Was it better to come out, make herself known, or to wait until whoever it was departed and then make a quiet exit? What if it was Charles Stewart? She clutched the book to her chest, peered carefully around the shelf and stifled a gasp.

It was worse than Charles Stewart. It was Thomas Merritt, and Stephen.

“In here will do,” Stephen said, his tone harsh.

“Indeed. Looks much more comfortable than a dark dungeon. Does this palace actually have a dungeon?”

A shiver rushed through her at the sound of Thomas’s deep voice, and the hairs rose on the back of her neck. She couldn’t move.

“Sit down, Merritt. I’ve sent for Miss Leighton to join us.”

Julia’s eyes widened in dismay. It would certainly look odd if she popped out from behind the shelf now.

“Any chance you might consider sending for tea, and a scone or two? I was about to have breakfast when you apprehended me, and I’m fair starving now.”

“Later,” Stephen snapped.

“Then will this interrogation take long?” Thomas asked calmly.

“You aren’t going anywhere.”

“As you wish, but your hospitality leaves much to be desired, Major.”

The door opened again. “Yes?” Stephen said impatiently.

“Lord Castlereagh wishes to speak with you in his study, Major Lord Ives,” a servant said.

“Come along, then, Merritt, on your feet—” she heard Stephen order.

“No sir,” the servant interrupted. “Just you. The gentleman is to wait here.”

“I promise to behave myself. Is there any silverware or valuables in the room you’d prefer to lock up before you go?” Thomas said lightly.

“Lock the door behind me,” Stephen ordered the servant. “If he tries to leave, shoot him.”

“I haven’t got a gun,” the man complained, and Thomas’s sudden burst of laughter startled her.

“There’s a rather lethal looking letter opener here on the desk,” he offered.

“Just guard the door,” Stephen said, and she heard the door close, the jangle of the key, then silence. Her heart sank. She was locked in with Thomas, and how would
that
look when Stephen returned? She would have to stay here all day, she supposed, hiding. His presence sent pins and needles through her limbs. She wanted to sit down, or to run.

How silly she was! She would step out, cross the room and leave. It was as simple as that. She took a breath and came out from behind the shelf. He was standing by the window, staring out as if he was considering plunging through the panes.

“I was wondering if you would make yourself known.” He smiled apologetically. “I smelled violets.”

“Were you planning to escape out the window?”

His eyes roamed over her, and she clutched the book against her chest like a talisman against his allure.

“Would you stop me?” he asked. She looked pointedly at the letter opener.

“If I had to.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and grinned, and her heart turned over at the memory of what that smile could do to a lady’s composure and good sense. “Then I’ll stay. What shall we talk about? Shall I start by saying you look well? Vienna agrees with you, but the air is so much healthier here than in London, is it not?”

Hot blood crept into her cheeks. He was mocking her. She looked at the bruise on his forehead.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

He raised a brow. “Proud of that, are you? No. It only hurts when I wear my hat.” His mouth quirked to one side, and her heart skipped a beat. How many times had Jamie given her that exact smile? She tightened her hold on the book.

“I had no idea it was you when I hit you.”

The grin deepened, showing the dimples he’d passed on to his son. “Then I might have expected a different greeting if you had recognized me sooner?”

She leveled a quelling gaze at him. “Not at all.”

“You probably would have hit me all the harder,” he said quietly, sobering.

She glanced at the door. Where on earth was Stephen? Would he leave her locked in here all day? The room was overly warm, and she had things to do upstairs. Dorothea was waiting for her to return, and she could not simply stand here with the charming Mr. Merritt, wishing . . . Wishing what? That he would come closer, or step back, or kiss her again so she could see that it truly wasn’t the way she remembered it and stop thinking about him? She looked at the window, tempted to open it herself, push him through it, get him out of her life for good.

“Does my presence here this afternoon have anything to do with you, my lady?”

Warning tightened her skin. “Why would you think that?”

“A vague hunch.”

“Do you imagine I have the power to order people arrested on a whim?” she demanded.

He tilted his head and grinned. Jamie again. A jolt of awareness frayed her nerves.

“I don’t know. Do you? You were never good at hiding your emotions, my lady. They show on your face, in every line of your body, at least as I recall. So why am I here?”

She felt her skin heat another degree, remembered the feeling of his body against hers as they danced, kissed, made love . . . he was coming toward her, prowling like a panther, still dressed in the same black clothing he’d worn last night. He looked thoroughly disreputable with the bruise marring his face, dangerous. Better, even, than she remembered him. She resisted the urge to step back, faced him with determination and cold hauteur. Let him read what he wished in that.

He reached out and she drew a sharp breath, waiting for his touch, but he merely took the book from her hand. “Yes, indeed. I can read you like a book of—poetry?” He glanced at the cover and back at her. “Julia, you know why I’m here. Care to enlighten me?”

She was not so transparent as that, was she? Oh, please, not with him, not now! She straightened her spine, drawing herself up as tall as possible. He was far taller still, and so close she had to tip her head back to meet his eyes.

“Of course I know,” she snapped. “You are here at my suggestion. Major Ives wanted to turn you over to the Austrian authorities, but there is a matter that we—”

“Ah, so he’s Major Ives to you, is he? Not Stephen, or darling, or—”

She snatched the book out of his hand and spun on her heel, heading for the door without another word.

“ ‘When we two parted in silence and tears, half broken hearted to sever for years . . .’ ” he said, and she stopped in her tracks, turned to face him.

“What?”

“Byron’s poem, ‘When We Two Parted.’ I’ve always had a penchant for his writing. Every young buck in England secretly wishes he were Byron. He’s quite a rogue, yet women adore him, sigh for him,” he said, scanning her face.

Did he expect her to sigh? He was about to be disappointed. She tucked the book behind her back. “I detest Byron,” she lied. “The book is not for me. A friend requested I bring it upstairs for her. Not that it’s any of your concern, Mr. Merritt.”

He tilted his head. “Why, you’ve become as prim as a governess since we last met, my lady. I think I preferred the blushing debutante.”

She flinched at the assessment, far too close to the truth. He reached out and touched her cheek, drawing his finger down the curve of her face. Fire transferred from his touch, and heated her skin, the simple caress burning all over her body.

“Ah, there she is,” he said, his whisper vibrating over her senses. “The debutante, I mean.”

She could smell the faint hint of his soap, the still-familiar scent of his body. Had she not forgotten even that? She remembered how his hands felt on her body, the champagne taste of his kiss, the sound of the whispered endearments and charming compliments . . . Her mouth watered, and she moved back, retreated, not daring to take her eyes off him, not wanting to, but knowing if she stayed, if he touched her again, she would never, ever be free of this man.

Her cheek still tingled, and she resisted the urge to touch the spot. She backed toward the door. “If you’ll excuse me, I have things to do,” she managed in a breathless rush. “I’ll bid you good-bye.”

“This time for good, eh?” He was advancing toward her, taking one step forward for every step she took back. “Since we likely won’t see each other again, perhaps you will do me the kindness of satisfying my curiosity?”

“As to what?” she croaked.

“Ah, Julia, you were once entirely honest in your speech, your actions, your passions. Has that changed? It would be a pity, because that was what I liked best about you.”

Her blood flowed hotter still, and the tingle on her cheek spread. “I’m surprised you remember,” she said tartly, but it came out a husky purr. She couldn’t seem to look away from him. His gray eyes were as deep as a well. She felt as if she was about to fall in and drown, and it wouldn’t be a terrible fate at all.

“I remember,” he said, his meaning clear. “I also remember you were about to marry a duke. What happened after I left that night?”