Edith Layton (4 page)

After a long while, even the beauty of the countryside paled. “How long until we get there?” Julianne finally asked.

“We’ve been there for the past ten minutes,” Hammond said, glancing at his pocket watch.

Julianne stared. “All this is part of the estate?”

“Yes,” Sophie said in a pinched voice. “And you haven’t seen half of it. Wait until you get a look at the manor. And the dairy. And the buttery, and the or
angerie, and the stables,” she said, dropping each name like a bead of venom as she glowered at Hammond. “There was an indoor tennis court. The earl who built it was a friend of Charles II, and he was a fiend for the game, they say. But it’s fallen to ruin. We were going to pull it down entirely,” she added, glaring at Hammond.

“If you look to your right,” Sophie went on, “you can get a glimpse of the lake. The music temple is to the right. The Parthenon—the white rotunda in the distance—is on that slope to the back over there. There’s a maze around back of the manor, near the waterfall and reflecting pools. And there,” Sophie said in a perversely satisfied little voice, “ahead. You can finally see the manor.”

Julianne couldn’t speak. She could only stare. She’d seen a few great houses, from afar. She’d never seen the like of Egremont.

Made of golden stone, tall and well proportioned, it sat atop a rise and surveyed the land around it. A columned front portico overlooked a leaping fountain in the center of the drive, where a larger-than-life-sized Triton ruled over a shoal of marble porpoises. Even the front drive was spectacular; the crushed seashells that they drove over were pink and gold. It was more than the obvious money the mansion signified that impressed Julianne. The place was gracious and beautiful. Now she could understand Sophie’s despair at the thought of losing it, and even her fury at what she thought was her fiancé’s less than vigorous defense of his rights to it. She could even begin to see why a man would lie and cheat to attain it.

“We’ll take you through the house, then walk though the grounds,” Hammond said, as the carriage stopped in the front drive.

“I don’t understand,” Julianne said, when she took his hand and stepped down. “Are you allowed just to roam here? I mean,” she added, when she saw Sophie’s affronted look, “since the place isn’t lived in, can just anyone come visit?”

“The place is lived in,” he said. “The staff’s still here to keep the place running; a house of this size can’t just be abandoned. The estate pays their wages while ownership is in dispute. I have access, as does the man who claims to be Christain Sauvage. But no one lives here but the staff. Come, this way.”

A butler met them at the door, and Julianne was led through the interior of the treasure house that was Egremont. She was glad she’d worn her best straw bonnet and her prettiest walking gown, a confection of fluttering patterned yellow, because she’d have felt like a peasant in anything else. This house demanded the best of its guests.

She paced down shining corridors and gaped at ornate carvings, goggled at frescoed ceilings, climbed up one of the magnificent twin staircases and down the other. She saw state bedrooms and family quarters, studies and offices, a vast library that held books up to its domed and skylit ceiling, major and minor music rooms, withdrawing rooms and salons, great chambers and long galleries, and a kitchen the size of a barn. She saw masterpieces in gilded frames and mantelpieces carved from marble and mahogany over the many hearths. The artisans who had constructed
the place had played with stone and wood, making them into exquisite shapes. She saw furniture made for kings and statues stolen from ancient temples. After a while she stopped exclaiming, because there was simply nothing left for her to say.

“Now you see,” Sophie said, when they finally went outside again.

“I do,” Julianne breathed.

But there was more. Most of the outbuildings were worthy of anyone’s main residence, Julianne thought. At least, she’d have moved into the Orangerie, pitched a tent next to the little marble fishpond there, and lived happily ever after beneath the palms and citrus trees.

It was as they were strolling toward the ruined tennis court that they saw him.

He could be no other, Julianne thought. Not because she recognized him, but because of the way that Sophie stiffened, and Hammond paused.

Even from afar, it was plain to see by the set of the gentleman’s dark head, the set of his shoulders, the way he moved with wary grace. He didn’t exactly walk as though he owned the place, but as if he was ready to be attacked for defending it. He was with another man, but he was the only one she noticed. He was slender, immaculate, distinctive, only a little taller than average, but unique and unforgettable.

His face was remarkable. Even from afar the clarity of his complexion, the smoothness of his skin, the almost mannequin-like purity of those strict, even, masculine features, was striking. As they came closer, and he looked up to see them, his thin dark brows
raised, and she caught the silver blue flash of his eyes.

Their eyes met, and Julianne’s widened. She surprised a sudden look in his that made her think he recognized her. Those crystalline eyes lit with pleasure and rising joy…or was it the interest of a man for a woman he found attractive, as she’d been instantly drawn to him? But she knew she wasn’t that stunning, and that gave her hope that he remembered her. Because now as she stared at him she realized she couldn’t say she knew him, but she was sure she’d discovered someone she wanted to know.

She couldn’t guess his reaction and couldn’t try. She was struggling too hard to conceal her instant response to him. And that response was awe, gladness, and a sense of coming home—followed by dawning sensations of danger, mistrust, and fear.

She refused to be made a fool of. And yet, she was very much afraid this man, whoever he might be, was a man who could do it.

T
he two parties of strollers came to a halt face-to-face on the path beside the ruined building that had once held a tennis court.

“Sauvage,” Hammond said, acknowledging him with a curt bow.

“Hammond,” the other man said, as he too bowed, “Miss Wiley.” But his eyes were on Julianne.

“Allow me to introduce you,” Hammond said stiffly, “This is…

“…the fellow who says he is Christian Sauvage,” Sophie interrupted, speaking to Julianne.

“And this is Sophie’s cousin, come to visit,” Hammond said, when Sophie closed her lips tightly.

“Delighted, Miss—?” Christian said, leaving the obvious question of her name hanging.

Julianne opened her lips to answer and got a sharp pinch on the tender inside of her arm. Since she’d been walking arm in arm with Sophie, no one saw it, but it brought tears to Julianne’s eyes. By the time she recovered herself, Christian had gone on smoothly. “Yes. And here is Mr. Battle, an architect, all the way
from Manchester, where he’s restoring a castle. A tennis court isn’t such a grand commission, but since I could honestly tell him a king played here, he decided to take a look to see what can be done with it.”

“We’re going to tear it down,” Sophie said.

Christian nodded. “I see. I am not.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Obviously,” Christian said after a moment, “neither of us can do anything at the moment.” He seemed more amused than annoyed or disconcerted. “Which is just what I told Mr. Battle. But it’s good to get ready for when things are settled. I thought the old tennis court should be restored because it’s historic, and also because it would be a good entertainment on cold winter afternoons. That’s how I liked to spend my long hot December afternoons.”

There was another silence as they all remembered his exile, during which Julianne got the distinct impression that Christian was even more amused.
If,
she reminded herself, he was indeed Christian. The eyes were blue enough, and though his hair had been light all those years ago, hair often darkened with age.

But he was more than handsome—he was startlingly attractive in a disturbingly masculine way. When she’d last seen him he either hadn’t been, or she’d been too young to see it. It had been his patience and kindness that had enthralled her then. Still, how could she have forgotten those astonishing eyes? Eyes that were looking back at her with the same interest and curiosity she was showing toward him.

She blinked and dropped her gaze. She’d been staring, gawking like the girl she’d been when she’d last
seen him—if she’d ever seen him. Confused, Julianne looked away. When their eyes met, it had been palpable as a touch, and just as exciting and disturbing as she imagined a touch from a fellow like that would have been. It wasn’t only that he was so striking-looking, he was so
aware
, as though he lived on tiptoe.

But how was she supposed to identify him if she couldn’t look at him? If she couldn’t ignore the warmer feelings he caused in her, she’d have to confess her ignorance and leave for home.

She definitely didn’t want to go now.

“A shame we haven’t had a chance to talk, Cousin,” Christian told Hammond. He smiled, but the smile was wary. “So,” he said, “are we going to go on with this dagger’s drawn stuff? Mind, I don’t blame you for doubting me, or being reluctant to cede the place. My God, when I first saw it I was knocked sideways! It’s not just a manor, it’s a kingdom.”

Hammond laughed, unexpectedly. “Almost exactly what I said when I arrived. I was bowled over. I never came here as a boy, myself. Oh, once or twice, of course, for important family affairs, but I never paid it much mind. It wasn’t in my future and so not in my plans. When I heard I’d inherited, I was staggered. So was the rest of the family.”

“Oh?” Christian said, raising a thin brow. “There are many others?”

“Not many, but some.” Hammond nodded. “Old Cousin Maurice, up north, Second Cousin Ferris in Scotland, and a raft of third cousins down in Sussex. We…
I
have a distant, but numerous family, at least, those who are a few times removed.”

“I’d heard of Sir Maurice and Ferris,” Christian said thoughtfully, “and the others. They were disappointed to hear of your inheriting? They should be thrilled to hear about me. But still, they’re too distantly related to care that much, or at least, they should be…although they become less distant from the title every year, don’t they?”

“You’re thinking of saying one of them might have had a hand in shortening the succession?” Hammond asked. “Bow Street was far ahead of you. Sir Maurice hired them to investigate years ago when the last earl died. He could afford to, he’s almost as rich as the earl was. Although he doesn’t leave his own estate for more than a walk in his gardens these days—at least not since his son died in an accident three years ago—he’s always taken the family seriously. Did you ever meet him, by the way?”

They all went silent, watching the man who called himself Christian Sauvage, waiting for his answer.

He seemed amused by their sudden attention. “No, as I said, we weren’t considered part of the family then.”

“In any case,” Hammond said glumly, “Sir Maurice didn’t discover a thing. And none of the family had the ways or means to commit mischief.”

“Whereas,” Christian said, favoring Sophie with a tilted smile, “I had both?”

“I never said that,” Sophie said, drawing herself up. “I merely wonder if you are indeed the heir to Egremont.”

“Well said,” Christian said. “It’s good to have things out in the open. I don’t blame you for doubting
me. But I am who I say I am, and I’ll prove it. It’s a shame I’ll have to do that through attorneys and law courts, because that makes it hostile, but it will be done.”

He bowed again and began to walk off, but Hammond stopped him. “Sauvage!” he said. “This makes no sense. We should talk.”

“Why, yes,” Christian said, as he turned around. “I’d like that. But I don’t want to keep the ladies standing here in the open. Tell you what,” he said, “the squire was right. The White Hart has a tolerable table. Would you care to meet me there for dinner?”

Hammond looked down at Sophie. She squirmed, frowned, but then raised her chin. “Should you care to come to dinner at our house, Mr. Sauvage?” she asked.

Whatever he had expected, it clearly wasn’t that. The smooth bland expression gave way to obvious surprise. Then a sudden smile illuminated his face. “Why, thank you, how kind,” he said. “I’d like that. Uhm, but would your parents, do you think?”

“It was in fact my father who suggested it,” she said grudgingly.

The sparkling eyes lit with laughter. “I see. Well, then”—he slewed a glance at Julianne—“I’d be delighted.”

“Tomorrow night then?” Sophie asked.

“Thank you. I look forward to it,” he said. He nodded and, smiling, strolled away.

They didn’t speak until he was out of earshot.

“That was well done,” Hammond told Sophie, as they walked on.

“There wasn’t anything else I could have done,” she said bitterly. “You maneuvered me into a corner.”

Julianne thought it was Christian Sauvage who had done that to both of them, but asked instead, “Why didn’t you introduce me?”

“Ham and I decided it would be better not to. This way, he won’t guess he should know you. When we do spring your name on him, we’ll do it in front of others, so we can judge his reactions more closely. And this way, too, you can judge him without him trying to influence you.”

“As for that,” Ham asked, “any impressions yet?”

“Well,” Julianne said slowly, thinking, “he doesn’t sound familiar. But his voice would obviously have changed. He speaks well, but not like someone from another country. I’d think he’d have picked up an accent from where he’d been so long.”

“He said his accent was set when he left,” Hammond said, “and New South Wales is hardly a country. There’ve only been people there for forty years or so. Of course it was inhabited by natives before that,” he corrected himself. “I mean civilized people.”

“I’d hardly call criminals ‘civilized,’” Sophie said with a sniff.

“Other settlers went there, too,” Hammond said. “Not many, I grant you. I’ve read Captain Cook’s accounts. It really isn’t much more than a penal colony even now, so there wouldn’t be a regional accent to the place.”

“And so far as his face,” Julianne said, thinking aloud, “the years change us all. No,” she shook her
head, “I’ll have to talk to him.” She wondered how she’d do that without that uncomfortable awareness of his attractiveness distracting her.

“That you shall,” Sophie said gaily. “Who knows? A chance word, a slip of the tongue, a memory recalled, anything like that might tell us more than a coachload of Bow Street runners. You may be the one to unmask him. I’m so glad you came, Cousin,” she added, giving Julianne a sunny smile.

Julianne was glad, too, though even now she didn’t know if she wanted to be the one to unmask the man who called himself Christian Sauvage. She was already wondering if she might uncover more than she bargained for.

“Isn’t this gown too elegant for a simple dinner?” Julianne asked as she gazed at herself in the looking glass. “If you really don’t need it, maybe I could save it to wear on a more auspicious occasion?
Here
, of course,” she added quickly, so Sophie wouldn’t think she was a beggar looking for things to take home. “I’d have no need for something this modish at home.”

“This
is
an auspicious occasion,” Sophie said. “If you can addle his wits, maybe you can find out more. When men are swayed by their eyes they don’t pay attention to their ears, or their brains.” She laughed. “And that’s definitely a wits-addling gown. I’m very glad my Hammond is constant as the sun in the sky. Actually, he offered for me the night I wore that gown, so if you’re worried about
him
thinking you’re out to entice him, don’t.”

Since that was the last thing Julianne had been
thinking of, she fell silent. And now the gown suddenly looked a little less magnificent, more like the castoff it was than the most beautiful thing she’d ever put on her body. But still, there was no denying it was exquisite. Simple yet luxurious, it was a column of deep, rich, crimson raw silk. It had long sleeves, a daring neckline, and golden ribbons that crisscrossed beneath the breasts. A line of embroidered golden rosebuds marched along the hems of the sleeves and skirt.

Julianne gazed at herself and was astonished at the transformation the gown and Sophie’s maid had made in her. She looked sophisticated, exotic, and definitely erotic. And yet, even so, entirely proper. She didn’t know how it was done although she’d paid careful attention to every step of the process, as had her own maid, who’d watched, wide-eyed.

Sophie’s maid had brushed out Julianne’s brown hair and drawn it up and tied it with a red ribbon so it tumbled down in one long glossy ringlet against her shoulder. Julianne had held her breath and closed her eyes as the maid applied a whisper of soot over each eyelid. When she’d opened her eyes again, they’d looked huge, deep brown, and exotic. A drift of rouge along her cheekbones made those widened eyes look tilted. Sophie had giggled as Julianne gasped when a fingertip of rouge was lightly drawn down along the cleft of her breasts. But that accentuated their fullness, called the eyes to their buoyant shape, and made the valley between them mysterious.

Julianne felt like an actress, or a fast woman, when the maid was done with her. But she also appeared so
deliciously appealing that she grew excited just looking at herself. She didn’t know if the man who called himself Christian Sauvage would be addled by her looks, but she definitely was.

Sophie watched over the transformation, preening a little herself. She looked like a charming cherub in her gold gown, her curls dressed like a statue of a Greek god and shining like an angel’s. “A good lady’s maid knows all the tricks a good courtesan’s maid does,” she told Julianne. “The only difference is that a lady’s maid knows when to stop.”

“I’ve something good to work with here, too,” the maid said, looking at Julianne. “…As I’m accustomed to,” she added hastily when she saw the look that flashed in her mistress’s eyes.

“Well, one thing’s certain,” Julianne murmured. “He won’t recognize me. I’m not sure I do!”

“Well, why should he?” Sophie said in an artificially bright voice, as she gave Julianne a warning look. “You never met the fellow before the other day. Unless it is my Hammond you’re speaking of?”

Julianne winced. She’d forgotten no one else was to know of her purpose for being here. “Of course not, Sophie,” she stammered. “I only meant I feel transformed.”

“Sukie, a very good job. You may go,” Sophie told her maid. “You too,” she told Julianne’s maid. “My cousin and I can carry on now alone.” She turned to Julianne the second the door closed behind the two maids.

“I know, I know,” Julianne said wretchedly before she could speak. “A mistake. I shouldn’t have said it.
No one’s to know my motive for being here. It’s just that I’m not used to subterfuge.”

“Well, get used to it,” Sophie said angrily. “The fellow’s a criminal, for heaven’s sake! He has wiles, and money, at least enough to spend fostering his schemes. And you know that servants, even the best of them, are not only indiscreet, they can be bought.”

“Not my Annie,” Julianne said, straightening her back. “I don’t know about London servants, but ours are practically members of the family…”

“Who don’t have as much money as the rest of the family,” Sophie said coldly, finishing Julianne’s sentence for her. “And who have to sleep in the attics, do the washing and pick up after you. Even on a farm. Am I right?”

“Well, yes. But…” Julianne’s voice dwindled. It was true, though she liked to forget it. Still, there were some things she had to establish here and now. She began to suspect that if she didn’t show some spirit, she’d be run over and squashed flat by her cousin. Sophie might be small and adorable, and good company when she wanted to be, but she was also high-handed, arrogant, and possibly more conscious of class than any girl Julianne had ever met.