Maggie MacKeever (19 page)

Lady Georgiana raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t realize he was in the market for a bride.”

“He’ll have one, want her or no,” retorted Hannah. “It is Ned’s duty to the title, and so I have told him more than once. Since chits
straight out of the schoolroom don’t suit him, I have settled on
Madalyn Tate. She is seven-and-twenty, widowed, and has already produced a set of twins. Moreover, she and Ned are acquainted, and rub on well enough.”

Georgiana could find nothing with which to quibble in this way of thinking. “It would be an unexceptionable match.”

“The gel has good bloodlines,” continued Hannah. “She is connected to both a duke and a marquess. She is intelligent but not too intelligent, pretty but not too pretty, and her conduct leaves naught to be desired. Since she has been married, she’ll know what to expect, and won’t be hanging on Ned’s lips or enacting romantical high flights.”

Lady Georgiana glanced at Julie, who had developed a sudden interest in the seam of her glove. “What has Dorset to say to this?”

“It doesn’t matter what he says. He will marry her.”

Rose had explained the callous nature of matrimony among the upper classes, who were more inclined to wed for fortune or property or social position than for love. Julie thought, poor Ned. The shopkeeper with his wife might well be happier, not withstanding having less to eat.

On the other hand, the earl had been making sheep’s eyes at another woman while Julie was sitting on his lap.

“I’ll be glad to have the business settled, my position being most unlike your own, dear Georgiana.” Hannah bared her teeth. “Once your Tony marries, you will be pensioned off. No bride wants her mama-in-law living under the same roof.”

Tony wouldn’t be taking a bride in the near future, resolved Georgiana. “You are so confident that Dorset will fall in with your plans?”

“Dorset will do as I tell him.” Hannah fluttered her fingers at an approaching acquaintance, and rose. “Should he prove difficult, he will discover that I have more than one string to my bow.”

Georgiana watched Lady Dorset greet the newcomer. The two women huddled together like washerwomen gossiping over a fence. “By the time Hannah informs all her acquaintance of her plans for Dorset, she might as well have placed an announcement in the press. You like him, I think.”

Color rose in Julie’s cheeks. “We have mutual acquaintances in Yorkshire.”

“Ah, yes. How could I have forgotten Yorkshire?” In Georgiana’s experience, which was not inconsiderable despite her enfeebled state of health, rascally earls where not prone to do as they were told; were, indeed, much more like to do the opposite, which might march well with her plans. Did Julie disgrace herself with Dorset, Tony would not only be freed of his infatuation but Hannah’s nose would also be put out of joint. “I believe you shall have an evening gown. Silk would be appropriate, with an interesting décolletage. You aren’t ample in that area, but a good modiste can compensate.”

Ned hadn’t found her bosom lacking, Julie thought resentfully. Unless he’d been being polite?

She wouldn’t be able to look him in the face again after what she’d done. What she’d let him do. What she’d
invited
him to do. She’d made a cake of herself and now Ned was to marry someone named Madalyn and Julie wished to howl.

Hannah hurried back toward them, crimson with excitement. “The French ambassador’s wife has hanged herself. Is it not the most shocking thing?”

Chapter Twenty

Tears are sometimes as weighty as words
.
— Ovid

News of Amélie Morel’s suicide raced through London, speculation nipping close on its heels, for there was nothing the
ton
liked better than tearing to shreds one of its number who’d been careless enough to get caught out doing something he or she should not. What Mme Morel had done to warrant a resolution so extreme as hanging had not yet been ascertained, but rumor had her embarked upon everything from engaging in liaisons with inappropriate paramours to selling secrets of state, for her husband was after all a diplomat. M’sieur Morel was so devastated by this furor — or so gossip had it — that he was closing up his house and packing up his mistress and setting sail for France.

Wakely Court was quiet tonight. Clea had been appropriated by Hannah for the evening. Cerberus sprawled on the hearth gnawing a bone. Ned stood at the library window, looking out into the darkness, thinking that if he hadn’t given that stained glove to Julie, the French ambassador’s wife might still be alive.

Came a tap at the door. “Come,” called Ned. He didn’t turn around.

Tidcombe managed to convey disapproval through the mere clearing of his throat. “A young person to see you, my lord. She won’t give her name.”

Not Kane, then, which was a relief. Ned wasn’t eager to hear what his friend had to say about this latest development. “Send her in.” He had little doubt of the young person’s identity. Unusual of her to enter by way of the door.

“Yes, my lord,” Tidcombe withdrew.

Cerberus sprang to attention, lips curled back in a snarl. “Shut up,” snapped Ned. “Or I shall give you to the cat’s meat man.”

“Would you?” said Julie, as she stepped into the room.

“No, because Clea would dislike it. She’s unaccountably tolerant of the beast.” Ned picked up the mangled bone and tossed it out into the hall. Cerberus
raced after it. Ned closed the door. Under her dark cloak, Julie wore a pretty, if outdated, printed muslin dress. Her face was pale and drawn.

Ned had seen that expression before, on the battlefield. He opened his arms. She flung herself against his chest and burrowed into him.

Her grief was silent, and all the more poignant for it. She wept as if she’d never wept before. Quite possibly she had not. Before lowering one’s defenses sufficiently to indulge in a good cry, one needed to first feel safe. Ned held her close and whispered soothing nonsense. The hood of her cloak had fallen back and her curls tickled his chin.

He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. She jerked back. “Why did you do that?”

With his thumb, he brushed tears from her cheek. “I was comforting you,” he said.

She stepped out of his embrace. “That poor woman’s dead, and it’s my fault.”

To some extent, Ned agreed. They were both to blame. “Someone wanted that glove badly. But you are hardly responsible for its significance to Amélie Morel.”

Julie shook her head. “I’m the one who took it away.”

So she had, and the memory would haunt her. Ned said, “If you hadn’t taken it, what would have been your punishment?”

Julie bit her lip. He added, “If someone strikes you again, you must tell me, and I’ll cut out his heart. Who is behind all this, Jules?”

She stared. “What did you call me?”

“Jules is an obvious nickname. Why do you look at me like that?”

“Rose calls me Jules, and— My friends.”

“Am I not one of your friends?”

“You,” Julie retorted, with a trace of her usual spirit, “are a bloody earl, and you’re going to marry a girl named Madalyn, so you shouldn’t be playing your games with me, even if I asked you to, which I know I shouldn’t have, so we will forget all that if you please.”

She’d managed to startle him. “I’m going to
what?”

“Your cousin told Lady Georgiana that you’re going to marry Madalyn Tate. Who is of good birth, widowed, and already has a set of twins so it’s a fair bet you can get an heir on her.” Julie gave the old globe a ferocious spin. “Lady Georgiana says that the way your cousin is spreading that news around the town, you won’t have much choice but to do as she wants.”

Ned wouldn’t strangle Hannah, but only for Clea’s sake. “In spite of what my cousin might intend, I’m not going to marry Madalyn Tate.”

“Unless Lady Dorset manages to trick you. She seemed to think she might.”

Hannah could try. She’d have no more success than Joham Sandoval. “Would you mind?”

“If you married?” Julie shrugged. “Why should I?”

“You might have reason to think that I’m partial to you, since we kissed and all.”

“I expect you’ve kissed a lot of girls, my lord.” She picked up Clea’s astrolabe. “You’ve said yourself that you’re an eligible gentleman.”

“My cousin seems to think so. However, I frighten most of her candidates witless, which doesn’t bode well for a felicitous married life. I almost did marry once. Her name was Bianca. We met while I was living in Lisbon.”

“What happened?”

Any number of things, including his discovery that the lovely Bianca couldn’t be trusted out of his sight. “Her family could not approve.”

Julie frowned. “How can that be?”

“I wasn’t an earl then,” Ned said wryly. “Nor had any notion that I someday might be.”

“Then won’t her nose be out of joint when she learns you are.”

Ned imagined Bianca had heard the news by now. He found himself grateful for the distance between England and Portugal. Julie moved from the astrolabe to the perpetual calendar. “
Are
you partial to me?” she said.

Ned realized she was nervous. “What do you think?”

Julie abandoned the astrolabe for the counting board. “You did kiss me, my lord.”

“So I did.” And he’d do it again in an instant, if she would stop flittering about. “Do you mind?”

“Didn’t act like I minded, did I?” The pewter inkwell next engaged her attention. “I told Lady Georgiana I didn’t feel well and wanted to stay home tonight. She wasn’t pleased.” Julie turned back to him, and took in a great breath. “I’m supposed to steal a book.”

“What book is that?”

She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. “Crypto-something. I wrote it down.”

And wasn’t this interesting? Ned retrieved the notebook from a shelf; carried it to the chair drawn up before the fireplace.

Julie peered over his shoulder. “Is that it? It doesn’t look like much.”

He flipped through the pages. “The origins of the
Cryptographia
are obscure. It is generally held to have been written by a monk. Men of the cloth were pre-eminent among the servants who secretly made codes and deciphered them for the princes and great captains of Europe during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.”

“Why would anyone want something like this?”

“The author explains the peculiarities of the main European languages utilized in ciphers. The most common codes used in
passing secret messages can be broken by anyone in possession of this notebook, a detailed knowledge of French, and a minimally functioning brain.”

“Oh.” Julie remained doubtful. “I didn’t bring your statue back. But it’s hidden away safe.”

Ned could have cared less about the blasted statue. He was
concerned about Julie being sent for the notebook. There was nothing in it of particular importance — unlike the copy in Kane’s possession, which had some interesting notations added — but Kane would never be convinced of Julie’s innocence if he learned of her current errand.

Was Ned a fool to believe her innocent? A wise man would surely keep his distance until he determined just who and what she was. But then Julie caught her plump bottom lip between her teeth and desire shot straight to his groin and there was nothing for it but that he must bite that pretty lip himself.

Ned tugged on Julie’s arm. She squeaked and clutched at his shoulders and ended up sprawled in his lap.

He smoothed one hand over her bright curls. Julie clutched his wrist. “I thought maybe you trifled with me because you are a gentleman and you knew that was what I wanted you to do.”

She thought he didn’t desire her? He should leave it at that, and move her off his lap, and take himself safely to the far side of the room. Instead, Ned caught her hand, and kissed it. “What made you take such a cork-brained notion?” he inquired.

“I can’t remember,” she whispered. “I’m not able to think clearly around you. You make me crave things I can’t have.”

He drew her closer to him, saluted her earlobe, nibbled his way along the sweet line of her jaw. “Such as?”

“An ordinary life.” Julie slid her arm around his shoulder. “I’d never thought of such a thing before you.”

Her throat was smoother than the finest satin. Ned pushed aside her cloak. “What
is
an ordinary life?”

“Being able to go places and do things without forever looking over one’s shoulder,” Julie whispered. “And forever worrying about being found out.”

His fingers stroked across her chest, dipped inside her low-cut bodice. Julie moved restlessly against him. Her scent filled his nostrils, and Ned was achingly aware of her body pressed against his own. He should slow down, he thought dimly, before they passed the point of no return; but his hand had slipped under Julie’s skirt, and slid up her slender leg, over coarse stockings that were infinitely more erotic than silk, to the bare warm flesh above her garter, and he was not altogether in possession of his wits. “I’m glad you came to me,” Ned murmured. Speech required immense effort. Julie lay draped in delightful disarray across his thighs.

She blinked at him, distracted, dazed. “I hope I wasn’t followed. I don’t want you involved.”

“I already am involved,” Ned retorted, without thinking. “I gave you back that damned glove.”

This utterance restored them both to sanity. Ned jerked his hand out from beneath Julie’s skirt. She scrambled off his lap and snatched up the notebook. “I have to go.”

So she did, before Ned forgot he was a gentleman and pulled her back down on his lap. “Wait.” He moved stiffly to the desk. From a drawer, he withdrew her knife.

She took it from him, eyes downcast. Ned rearranged her cloak around her shoulders, walked with her to the library door.

Julie looked up at him. “I know you don’t trust me, but I promise that as soon as I can, I’ll get your statue back to you.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you.” Ned broke off as this clanker earned him a snort. “You have Bates following me,” Julie pointed out.