Worth Winning (7 page)

“Another time, then,” she said, smiling widely and almost skipping to the front door of her home, never bothering to look back.

Charles stared at the sway of her hips until they’d disappeared behind the front door, which had been rapidly opened and shut. He shook his head to clear the fog that had temporarily enveloped him and realized that he’d just been summarily dismissed!

It wasn’t a feeling he was used to, and whether it was just the bet or something else, he felt a pang of something close to regret as he turned and remounted. The mare hadn’t lived up to expectations, but Julia’s company had made the morning quite invigorating.

Aphids and all.

Julia had barely closed the door before Claire approached her. “Was that your
somewhat
attractive Mr. Alver? The one you conveniently forgot to mention until Mama asked?”

Julia jumped and colored a little. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”

“I didn’t sneak. If you hadn’t been busy trying not to look back, you would have seen me standing here, clear as day.”

“I wasn’t trying not to look back.”

Claire wrinkled her nose and chose not to reply. “You didn’t invite him to tea?”

Julia shook her head. “Wrong. I did, in fact, invite him in. He declined.”

“You sound breathless,” Claire said. Her eyebrow arched, completing Julia’s sense that this was more accusation than observation.

“You scared me.”

Claire narrowed her eyes as if trying to assess the truth of Julia’s statement and then looked pointedly at the clock on the far wall. “And what would you have done if he’d said yes?”

Julia smiled and batted her eyelashes playfully. “If he’d agreed to come in, I would have gone to my appointment and fobbed him off on my
somewhat
attractive stepsister!” She peered out the window and pretended not to hear Claire’s huff of protest, trying to ignore the faint prick of her conscience. Julia told herself that the twinge she felt was hunger; it’d been hours since breakfast. She told herself she wasn’t deliberately trying to postpone the moment when she’d have to introduce Mr. Alver to her all-too-pretty and far-too-charming stepsister.

She grabbed at the handkerchief-wrapped biscuit she’d stuffed into the edge of her basket this morning before she’d gone on her walk. She would have eaten it earlier, but even she could see that it would have seemed rude and unladylike to eat in front of Mr. Alver.

She finished the biscuit as Claire watched, and, examining the too-perfect features of her younger stepsister, Julia noted that the biscuit hadn’t helped. She still felt queasy at the thought of introducing Mr. Alver to Claire. Though she hadn’t met a lot of eligible men in the years since Archie, it was universally true that all the men she
had
met had been noticeably less interested in her after they’d met Claire. That was just the way of things: men, like magpies, were attracted to things that were shiny. And in the right gown and under the right lighting, Claire practically glittered.

Not that Julia could even say Mr. Alver was interested in her. He’d walked with her and joked with her a little. But what did a walk and a joke mean, really?

Julia shifted her basket and picked up the bag of lemon peels she’d prepared yesterday.

“Well, I’m off again. So wish me luck,” she said.

Claire wrinkled her nose again. “I thought you were past the trial-and-error stage of all this? Where you needed unscientific things like luck?”

Julia hesitated, not sure how much she should reveal. Her father knew only that Julia helped out with a charitable project. Claire knew that some of the herbs and lemons were for the production of various scents, but not much beyond that.

“Every new scent is a new experiment, I’ve told you that.”

“‘I’ve told you that,’” Claire mimicked. “It’s amazing how you
never
tire of saying that.”

“No, I never do.”

Claire walked to the back door. “Well then, I won’t keep you from your work.”

There was a slight edge in her voice. Claire had always been a little miffed that this was one project Julia never invited her to help with, despite their closeness.

If Julia could have, she would have told Claire about it long ago. The problem was that it wasn’t her project—not really, despite her long involvement in, and support of, all aspects of it. It was Jack LeMay’s. And despite the fact that the three of them had practically grown up together, Jack and Claire did not get along. Which meant that Julia had very strict orders about not telling Claire about any aspects of Jack’s side projects.

She smiled a little, realizing that it didn’t seem accurate to call them “side projects” any longer. What had begun as necessity, as a way of funding temporary homes for women in need had grown into increasingly large, factories and establishments, and that, in turn had become a small empire of sorts, a self-sustaining business that was both profitable and expanding. Few who knew Jack would have believed that he was quickly becoming a business magnate, perhaps more so because he insisted that so much of it stay silent and anonymous.

Julia was certain that she was the only one in Munthrope who knew the true extent of Jack’s holdings and interests, and though she’d been fundamental in helping him get started, she doubted that even she knew just how successful he was. He always insisted that she was more of a partner than anything else and always offered to invest or reinvest her share of their profits, but finances had never really been something she’d been interested in. She’d given him almost every half penny of what she’d inherited from her mother, not because she’d wanted to get rich or even because she’d thought there were better than even odds of getting a portion of her money back.

Jack was her friend, and she loved him—not in a romantic way; they’d tried to kiss once, had started laughing before their lips had even touched, and realized that it just wasn’t for them. Jack was the brother she’d never had, the confidant she always leaned upon.

That he’d turned out to have been born with a bit of a Midas touch, that her small investment had set him on his path toward success, and that he’d paid her back in shares that he told her were worth quite a bit of money . . . well, that had just been a stroke of luck.

Or perhaps Providence.

She never asked about the shares and always just told him to reinvest—that she’d let him know if and when her family needed money—but that it wasn’t something she particularly wanted to think about. She trusted Jack. And she was proud of him and his success.

But at times like these, when she found herself having to lie, tell half-truths, or just weakly shrug, as if that were response enough, well, it was trying, to say the least. She understood that he was a private person and that it was his right to protect his own privacy. But there had been many times, especially in the past few years, as she’d gotten closer to Claire, that she wished, at the very least, he’d let her tell Claire.

With her stepsister’s naturally artistic flair, her input on everything from label making to approvals of scents could have proven invaluable. By now, Jack’s minifactories functioned not only as businesses but as residences for women in need, offering temporary shelter for women who were distressed and unable to provide care for themselves or, too often, their children. Claire’s naturally social abilities could have been used to smooth over many small squabbles and misunderstandings, often stemming from issues that Julia was simply less inherently equipped to handle—or even detect. But on this point, though she’d asked him explicitly, Jack had been resolute: he was particularly adamant that Claire not know.

Julia sighed and pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders. It wasn’t something she had ever been able to understand. Claire and Jack were the two people she trusted and knew best, and they’d all gotten along fairly well when they’d been younger, despite the eight-year age gap between them and Claire. When Claire’s mother had first married Julia’s father, Julia had thought there would be a period of transition, but Claire had been readily accepted into their group. They’d swum and fished together, taken long rambling walks, and picked fruit together. They’d joked and laughed and told one another everything and anything.

But in more recent years . . .

It wasn’t just that they were less close. There was almost an animosity between Jack and Claire. And no matter how much Julia poked and prodded, trying to get a coherent answer out of them, neither had ever offered a reason beyond, “He (or she) just gets on my nerves.”

Something that was more or less physiologically impossible. A fact that neither Claire nor Jack had appreciated her pointing out.

“I think it’s time you told me exactly what happened between you and Julia Morland.” Charles was pleased to hear that the note of authority was back in his voice. Clearly, even in disguise, he was capable of reasonable, intellectual conversation. Just not with Julia, apparently.

It was the middle of the afternoon, yet it was the first time Robeson and Charles had crossed paths that day. Robeson had slept late, enjoyed lunch in bed, and had only recently stirred. All of which Charles had learned from Oliver. He’d tried to ask one of the passing maids, who had informed him rather icily that she was sure she didn’t know (in a tone clearly implying that even if she had known, she wouldn’t be telling the likes of
him
). He’d walked down the hall and up and down the stairs a dozen times, checking and double-checking the library, trying to find an opportune time to corner Robeson.

Clearly, the bet was turning him into some sort of obsessive . . . harasser. A pest. A nag.

“Pardon?” Robeson adjusted his position on one of the chaise lounges ever so slightly, swirling in a cup something that might once have resembled tea. It was milky and almost viscous with sugar, which made it hard to discern its identity.

Robeson’s tone sounded bored and unaffected, but Charles was not so easily fooled.

“Don’t prevaricate. Clearly, there is a history between the two of you.” He paced as he spoke, noting the faded hues of what must once have been a rich Persian rug.

Robeson took the spoon out of his cup and put it back into the sugar bowl, leaving it there to contaminate the entire container. “What has the chit said?”

“Nothing.” Charles moved a chair so that he could sit in front of Robeson and force eye contact. Then he waited. He watched as Robeson looked down and around and then to either side of the room, as if the answer were tucked away behind one of his chair cushions.

Robeson pursed his lips. “She had a youthful infatuation. One that did not end well.”

Charles was quiet. Not for a moment did he believe that was all there was to the story. Julia Morland didn’t seem like the kind of woman who succumbed easily to one-sided infatuations. “She doesn’t seem the type.”

Robeson raised his eyebrows, as if to say: maybe she isn’t the type when it comes to
you
. But Charles was not convinced. “I’ve only met her twice, but I know women, and I say again: she doesn’t seem the type to make calf eyes at someone without encouragement.”

Robeson put his cup down and then spread his hands wide. “I’m not one to brag, but it was a bit of an embarrassment, really.” Robeson chuckled, as if he’d said something particularly witty. “She made quite the nuisance of herself, babbled her head off any time I was around until I could barely stand to go to the larger gatherings. She was always trying to impress me with trivia about this or that, astrology or astronomy, something along those lines. Apparently she thought of herself as a burgeoning scholar and thought that I would be impressed or perhaps find her desirable for her . . . mind.”

Charles forced his face to remain blank. It was disconcerting that Robeson was painting a familiar version of Julia, and though part of him suspected Robeson was still lying, still hiding something, there was now enough truth mixed in that it would be a difficult mixture to separate.

“It must have been what, seven, eight years ago?” Robeson lounged farther back in the cushions and tried for a look of nonchalance. He waved generally at the room around them. “This particular estate was owned by an eccentric aunt of mine I’d only met a handful of times. The property wasn’t entailed, and she’d never had any children of her own.”

“Yes, yes, you charmed your aunt into . . .”

“Nothing of the sort. According to her, I was the ‘least offensive’ relative she had. So she promised me the estate. She wrote, asking me to visit the estate so she could go over some details. You’ll remember, or perhaps not, that I was a
third
son. I didn’t think I’d ever inherit anything else. That’s how I met”—there was a briefly, slightly artificial pause before he continued—“Miss Morland. She wasn’t all that young. My sister was only a year older and already had a child, but, well, you’ve met her. I doubt the vicar and his wife ever seriously considered playing matchmaker or anything of the sort. She was, even then, already more interested in constellations than courtship.”

Charles snorted. “Except when it came to you?”

Robeson flashed a smile. “I was young.” He shrugged and leaned farther back, stretching one long leg up until it rested on the end table. “Bored. The first few times we met, she always had her nose buried in her books, and it seemed . . . an interesting way to pass time.”

“To make her fall in love with you?”

Robeson’s response was a lifted eyebrow.
Frustrated, Charles said finally, “Yes, yes, I’m the snake, and you’re the crab.”

Robeson looked at him, clearly confused.

“You never did pay attention in history, did you? Fine, I’m the pot to your kettle, the stone to your glass head. I’m accusing you of doing what I’m currently attempting. Now, if you could get on with it.”

There was a brief pause before Robeson said, “I could’ve taken advantage but didn’t. I mean, she is a vicar’s daughter, after all.”

“And you did nothing to actively encourage her?”

Robeson shrugged. “A few harmless compliments, and she was infatuated. I’m sure I would have been flattered, except that’s the summer my father and brothers passed.”