Waiting Game (3 page)

Nothing loth, he bent and kissed her lips. “And to you, my dear.”

* * *

Meanwhile, in nearby Mayfair, Lord Rupert Latham knocked on the door of a tall, narrow house in Curzon Street. Since he was a frequent visitor, he was admitted by the butler and shown at once into the drawing room, where he gazed about the elegantly appointed chamber with an air of marked disapproval.

“What, no evergreens in honor of the season?” he chided the mistress of the house, a fair-haired beauty who sat on the straw-colored sofa with a book in her hand. “I confess, I came calling with no other purpose than the hope of catching you beneath the kissing ball.”

“Then I fear you are doomed to disappointment,” replied Julia, Lady Fieldhurst, laying aside her book as she rose to greet him. “You forget that I am still in mourning.”

“In letter, if not in spirit,” he agreed. “Fortunately, our festivities need not be hampered by the lack of botanical display.”

He took her in his arms and would have kissed her, had she not turned her head at the last minute, leaving him with nothing but a mouthful of golden hair.

“Don’t, Rupert.”

He raised his head, but his arms tightened about her waist. “Why the devil not?”

“I told you—”

“You told me a great piece of nonsense about being in mourning for a husband you were perfectly willing to cuckold eight months ago, when he was still alive.” His eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. “And yet I have a feeling your reluctance has less to do with your deceased husband than it does with your living one.”

“And why shouldn’t it? After all, it seems wrong for me to—to indulge in pleasures that are denied him.”

“He can’t miss what he never had, while I—” He bent his head again, this time pressing his lips to her ear. “I have been waiting for eight long months.”

She put her hands to his chest, holding him at arm’s length until he took the hint and released her. “I’m afraid you’re going to be waiting longer than that.”

“I see,” he said, glowering at her. “You intend to keep me dangling until the annulment is granted.”

“If you must know, it’s worse than that. It was a mistake, Rupert. I’d quarreled with Frederick, and then had too much champagne, and—and I made a mistake. In a way, I’m grateful to Frederick for preventing me from following through with it.”

“I see,” he said again. “Then we are to be, as they say, ‘just friends.’ But I warn you, Julia, I do not give up easily. I trust you will permit me to hope?”

She sighed. “I suppose I can’t stop you, but you may be sure I shall do nothing to encourage you.”

“Your very existence encourages me. I shall not say goodbye, then, but
au revoir
.”

He raised her hand to his lips with an air of exaggerated gallantry, and she reluctantly allowed this familiarity; it seemed the quickest way to be rid of him. After he had gone, she returned to the sofa and picked up her book, but found she had no more interest in the convoluted tale of a well-born (and, if the truth were told, rather vapid) young lady who falls in love with a stable lad who turns out to be the lost heir to a tiny, and entirely fabricated, European kingdom. Really, Julia thought, eyeing the gilt-edged, calf-bound volume with disfavor, authors ought not to write such drivel. It only encouraged impressionable young women to yearn after wholly ineligible men.

This observation led, not unnaturally, to thoughts of her own wholly ineligible man, Bow Street Runner John Pickett, twenty-four years old and, at least in the eyes of the law, her husband. There had been no word from her solicitor as to when their annulment would come before the ecclesiastical court, but this was not entirely unexpected: Mr. Crumpton had cautioned them that it might take several months, and no attempts by the current Lord Fieldhurst to grease the wheels of justice had had the least effect in speeding the process along. In truth, she was not quite certain whether to be sorry or glad. Given the humiliation that the process demanded of poor Mr. Pickett, it would surely be kinder to have it over and done with as quickly as possible, so they could both put the unfortunate episode behind them. And yet she could not shake the feeling that there remained some unfinished business between herself and Mr. Pickett—and that it would remain unfinished regardless of what the law had to say as to their marital status.

It was with considerable relief that she heard the strains of “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” being inexpertly performed just outside her door. She heard the butler’s footsteps crossing the hall, and called out to forestall him.

“Never mind, Rogers, I’ll go.”

She opened the door and found half a dozen children of varying ages and heights, all belting out the old carol with gusto, if not skill. Nevertheless, this was the season when intention, rather than execution, should be rewarded. She leaned against the doorframe, hugging her arms about herself for warmth, and listened, smiling, until the final “tidings of comfort and joy.” Fortunately, she had anticipated such holiday visitors, and the excellent Rogers had prepared for this eventuality by placing a small bowl of pennies on the piecrust table next to the door. As the last note faded, she reached into the bowl, grabbed a handful of coins, and tossed it into the group. The makeshift choir broke up at once, the children scrambling after pennies with squeals of delight that were only slightly less musical than their singing had been. Having retrieved the last of the coins, they shrieked their thanks before hurrying off toward the next house in quest of further riches.

Alone once more, Julia gazed up at the stars, shining like diamonds in the cold, clear December sky. Her thoughts returned to John Pickett, and she wondered where he was this Christmas, and if he was thinking of her.

“Happy Christmas, Mr. Pickett,” she whispered, then stepped inside and closed the door.

The twenty-sixth of December—commonly known as Boxing Day—being the day on which servants, pensioners, and other dependents were given their Christmas boxes, Julia’s morning was filled with presenting these gifts and accepting the thanks of their grateful recipients. Although her household staff was small, enough pomp and ceremony accompanied the procedure that it was past noon by the time she had leisure to compose an answer to the letter that had come to her from Somersetshire the day before Christmas. But compose it she must if it was to be sent out when mail delivery resumed the next morning, and so she settled herself at her elegant rosewood writing desk and reached for her correspondence. She shuffled through tradesman’s bills (one for coal, another for wax candles, and a third from the greengrocer, all of which must be paid by the end of the month) until she found the one she sought: a single sheet of fine vellum addressed in her mother’s spidery script. Her heart sank as she unfolded the crossed sheet and reread Lady Runyon’s melancholy missive. At least, Julia reflected, she could reply to her mother quite honestly that she had not received the letter until Christmas Eve, much too late to change her plans for the holiday.

In truth, she would have had no desire to spend Christmas at her childhood home even had the letter arrived a full month earlier. The death of her sister Claudia a dozen years earlier still hung over her parents’ house like a pall, and Julia could not bear the thought of hearing her mother still bemoaning the loss of her elder daughter after more than a decade. Still less could she face the prospect of being obliged to enact the rôle of the grieving widow. And that her mother would expect nothing less of her, Julia had no doubt. No matter how unsatisfactory the late Lord Fieldhurst might have been in life, Death, in Lady Runyon’s opinion, erased all the deceased’s faults; only witness the pinnacle of perfection which poor Claudia had achieved in her fond parent’s memory.

And, as usual, it was Death that provided the theme of her mother’s Christmas correspondence. Beyond the annual complaint about how the Joyous Nativity only served to make her all the more Conscious of her Own Loss, she predicted confidently that, as Painful as her dear Child must find the Holiday Season at present, Time—that Great Healer—must eventually Blunt the Edges of her Sorrow (the privilege of perpetual mourning, it seemed, was one Lady Runyon reserved for herself), for having just turned twenty-seven, Julia was Too Young to spend the Rest of her Life Alone. Reading these lines, Julia could not help thinking that, if her mother knew she had contracted a second marriage (albeit unintentionally) a scant six months after Lord Fieldhurst’s death, Mama would be singing a very different tune.

Still, one of her mother’s assertions gave Julia considerable food for thought, and she searched for the intriguing lines to read them again. Yes, here it was, right after the bit about the Blunt Edges of Sorrow. Here her mother pointed out that in four short months (Short? Every one of the previous eight had seemed to last an eternity!), her year of mourning would be completed, and she would be able to Rejoin the World from which she, in her Grief, had Withdrawn. Overwrought though the expression of it might be, Mama’s reasoning was quite correct, Julia thought, feeling something akin to hope for the first time in many days. In only a few months, Frederick would have been gone a year, and she would be able to put off her blacks for good. But what would she wear instead? Everything else she owned would be at least a year out of date.

She cast the letter aside and rose to her feet, her mind made up. Her reply to her mother would just have to wait. She would spend the afternoon taking stock of her wardrobe, and tomorrow she would go to the linen-draper’s to purchase fabrics for a few new gowns. Not a whole new wardrobe, of course, at least not all at once; the terms of the marriage contract had left her quite comfortably situated, but she hadn’t the income at her disposal that she’d once had. Then again, neither did she have the need any longer for the elaborate costumes which had been
de rigueur
for the state dinners and levees she’d been obliged to attend with Frederick. She could well afford a new gown for evening, as well as one or two for day wear.

And as for exactly whom she hoped to impress with this display of finery, well, that was a question best not examined too closely.

* * *

Boxing Day might still be a holiday for the leisured classes, but at the magistrate’s court in Bow Street, the term had an entirely different meaning, as those merrymakers who had imbibed too freely the previous evening had been hauled in by the night patrol on charges of brawling, assault, disturbing the peace, or some combination of the three.

“So much for peace on earth and goodwill toward men,” Mr. Colquhoun grumbled to Pickett, having dismissed the last of these with a stern warning and a hefty fine. “A pity it never lasts beyond the fourth cup of wassail. That’s why my Janet has always imposed a two-cup limit.”

 Pickett merely smiled at this. It had been clear that at least one of the gentlemen present had found a way around this restriction, for Fanny’s husband, Robert, had been just a bit well-to-live by the time the party had broken up.

“Aye, we’re a worthless, good-for-nothing lot,” the magistrate said, apparently reading Pickett’s thoughts. “Still, I hope Christmas with the Colquhouns was better than spending the holiday alone.”

“It was, sir, very much.”

“I’m pleased to hear it, for my family will take it very ill if you are not included next year. My granddaughter Janet, Mary’s girl, has made up her mind to marry you, just so you can keep her supplied with raisins. I felt it only fair to warn her that by next Christmas your affections might be engaged elsewhere, and that you might even be in a position to celebrate with a family of your own.” Seeing the doubtful expression on his protégé’s face, the magistrate added bracingly, “Come, John, you’re young, and for some reason females seem to find your face appealing. No knowing what the coming year may bring.”

Pickett knew very well what the coming year would bring for him: abject humiliation, as a result of which he would have become such a laughingstock that no decent woman would allow him to court her. Not that he would wish to do so in any case, having irrevocably lost his heart to the very lady for whose sake he was prepared to abase himself.

Thankfully, the magistrate did not give him time to dwell on the matter. “But in the meantime, crime never takes a holiday. Sir Archibald Maddox claims his wife’s pearls were snatched right off her neck as her ladyship was leaving divine services at St. George’s yesterday morning, and requests a Runner to investigate.”

Pickett frowned thoughtfully. “They were stolen yesterday, and the theft is only being reported today? Why the delay?”

“I daresay it has something to do with the fact that yesterday was Christmas Day. But perhaps you’d like to put that question to the lady herself.” As further incentive, he added, “The pearls belonged to her mother, so they have a sentimental value far in addition to their monetary worth. Lady Maddox is offering a reward of twenty pounds for their safe return. You could find a use for twenty pounds, could you not?”

Pickett opened his mouth to agree, and then hesitated as a new and unwelcome thought occurred to him. “St. George’s? The one in Hanover Square?”

Mr. Colquhoun nodded. “Not in the square proper, but very near it—hence the name.”

“And St. George’s, Hanover Square is the parish church for Mayfair, is it not?”

“Aye, it is,” the magistrate affirmed with lowering brow, having a very fair idea of Pickett’s thought processes.

“Then—then I thank you for the opportunity, sir, but I think you would do better to send one of the others. Mr. Foote has already solved one such case, so perhaps he would be the best man for this one.”

The bushy white eyebrows descended in earnest. “Recovering stolen property hardly constitutes solving a case, Mr. Pickett, and you would do well to remember it! Paying out finders’ fees is a far cry from bringing a criminal to justice. I’m sure I need not tell you which one I would prefer.”

“No, sir, but you said—you promised me you wouldn’t send me to Mayfair, at least not for a while.”