The Secret Life of Lady Julia (5 page)

It was a game he played, like sticking a pin in the map. He imagined traveling to the first place that came to mind, but the trouble was, there was nowhere he wanted to be.

He turned away from the window and picked up the newspaper. It was days old. Donovan insisted on keeping up with London news, in case their crimes were ever discovered and it became necessary to flee, or in the vague hope that Thomas’s brother decided to forgive him and welcome him home, or dropped dead and left an inheritance. Donovan still believed in miracles. Thomas did not.

He flipped through the yellowed pages. There was no mention of her. He’d gone for months without looking at a newspaper, afraid to read Julia Leighton’s wedding announcement. Now he looked for items of society news that mentioned her. There weren’t any. Had Temberlay shut her away on some country estate for her sin? He wondered what she’d told her husband on their wedding night, or if he’d even noticed. He shut his eyes and saw her face, glazed with passion, heard the soft sighs she’d made as he loved her, smelled the sweet, maddening, luscious scent of violets.

He was a cad, and a fool.

He’d wanted to see her again, even after she’d made it clear that she didn’t need him.

Even now, when he should have long since forgotten her, he was letting himself be distracted, to feel something a man in his position couldn’t afford to feel. He had no right, not where Julia Leighton was concerned. Yet no matter how hard he tried to tell himself she was better off, or to convince himself that she had used him for a momentary thrill, the hard edge of longing never quite went away.

He’d decided to leave London when he found himself standing outside Carrindale House, staring up at her window for the fifth night in a row, sure it was the only way to stay away from her. He’d departed for Paris on the very day the papers announced that Napoleon had been defeated.

A breeze came through the window and riffled the pages of the newspaper. He caught it and laid it flat on the table again.

An announcement caught his eye. It was an invitation, every bit as grand as the ones he used to receive by post when he was Viscount Merritton, a respectable earl’s son and an eligible catch for a peer’s daughter. This invitation came from the Austrian emperor, and was addressed to Europe’s crowned heads and diplomats. There was to be a peace conference in Vienna, and a grand celebration of the end of more than twenty years of war. The sober task of dividing up Napoleon’s conquered territories would be undertaken, of course, along with the difficult task of returning—or not—the priceless art treasures, crown jewels, and estates that Napoleon had stolen.

Crowned heads and jewels. Thomas grinned. It was almost too easy. In the crush, there would be dozens, even hundreds of thieves. A few big pieces and he’d be free of this life. He frowned. Or he’d be part of it forever. Either way, it was somewhere new, somewhere different, where things just might be better, and he might find a way to be happy, if there was still a possibility of that.

Donovan returned with two bottles of champagne under his arm.

“Pack everything. We’re going to Vienna,” Thomas ordered.

“Vienna?” Donovan said. “You don’t speak whatever it is they speak in Vienna. You barely speak French.”

Thomas passed the newspaper to his valet, pointed to the invitation.

Donovan read it and grinned, his green eyes lighting. “When this is over, I want enough to buy a horse farm in Ireland,” he said.

“We’ll part ways,” Thomas agreed. “Each of us rich.”

“And where will you go?” Donovan asked as Thomas opened the first bottle of champagne. Froth spilled over the table, and he hastily rescued the newspaper.

“Italy,” Thomas said, testing it on his tongue. “Or India, perhaps.”

But neither one sounded right.

Chapter 5

Brussels

S
tephen watched as Julia Leighton helped his sister out of the coach. Dorothea was pale from the journey, and she leaned heavily on Julia, who bore her weight without comment or demure, blocking the cold wind between the vehicle and the inn’s front door with her slim figure, taking the full blast of it herself. He tried not to feel admiration for her kindness.

It was, after all, her job.

He hadn’t known what to expect when he agreed to take on a fallen woman as Dorothea’s companion. Julia Leighton had a child by a man she had yet to name, conceived, if scandal was to be believed, at her own betrothal ball. He sometimes found himself staring at the child, looking for features he recognized in the infant’s face, trying to guess his sire’s identity, but the boy looked like every other baby, including his own nephew, Doe’s lost son.

He’d only agreed to hire her as a favor to a friend—well, two friends, really, if you included his debt of honor to James Leighton, as well as the favor he’d done for Nicholas Temberlay—and he’d done it knowing that employing such a woman might prove dangerous to his career. Really, how could a diplomat take a notorious lady of dubious morals to the most important peace conference in history? Yet here she was, and he’d found himself more intent on watching her for signs of impropriety than in doing his job. She’d done nothing as yet but still might prove him an even bigger fool than he felt. Once they reached Paris, surely people would recognize her as Carrindale’s ruined daughter, and his career would be over. He was glad that Dorothea had refused to any attend official state functions in Paris, since it would mean her companion would have to stay at home with her.

And there was the issue of Julia Leighton’s unruly physical passion. What could he expect in that regard? Would she try to seduce him? He shifted uncomfortably. She was pretty enough, but he couldn’t afford such a mistake.

Not that she’d tried, of course. She had been the very picture of propriety, the perfect peer’s daughter, treating him with cool politeness. What a duchess she would have made, yet she had taken on the role of a servant with remarkable grace. He frowned. There was that damned grudging admiration again, and she had yet to fully earn it.

It began to rain, a sudden, coursing downpour, and Dorothea cried out at the icy deluge. Julia quickly wrapped her own cloak around Doe and hurried her toward the inn, careful to find solid footing in the slippery mud of the yard.

Stephen reminded himself it was not his place to step forward and help her, and moved under the protection of the eaves to watch the men unloading the coaches and baggage wains. They stopped to look at Julia as the rain pasted her gown to her legs, revealing the long, lean shape of her limbs.

He felt a moment of panic. He should send her home now, before they joined the rest of the British delegation, but he’d promised to give her a chance to prove herself—or do the opposite.

He’d given his word to Nicholas, and James Leighton had known Nicholas as well, and given his life to save theirs. James had been as heroic as his sister was notorious. Julia was here as Stephen’s way of repaying his share of the butcher’s bill. If he were forced to send her home in disgrace, he wouldn’t hesitate. She could not count on her brother’s reputation to save her twice.

Without her cloak, the rain soaked her gown, flattened her hair, and clung to her lashes. She had endured everything thus far, even Doe’s seasickness, without a word of complaint.

It appeared to Stephen, at least at first glance, that Julia Leighton was just what Dorothea needed. Doe had not been well since Matthew and her infant son had died. Stephen had feared the very sight of Julia’s child would send her back into the dark days of madness she’d endured during the worst of her grief. He wondered if she would ever be able to overcome her loss, resume her life.

Doe had known Julia slightly before tragedy touched both of them, and apparently liked her. She had agreed at once to take Julia as her companion on the journey to Vienna, without any questions at all. He hadn’t explained about the scandal, not knowing how to tell his delicate sister such a tale. He was certain she had seen the baby among their party, and Julia with him, but Doe looked past the infant as if he were invisible. He should be grateful, he supposed. Without Julia, he would not have been able to make this trip, since Doe could hardly remain in London alone.

Julia got Dorothea to the door and turned her over to her maid. To his surprise, Julia took her sodden cloak back and returned to the inn yard to direct the unloading of Doe’s luggage, insisting on her feather bed first, which was wrapped in oilcloth to keep it dry, so Dorothea could rest properly.

She stood in the rain directing things with little care for herself, and it grew more difficult for Stephen to squelch his admiration. The more he looked, the less he saw the fallen woman and the more he saw the lady, soaked to the skin and still smiling. He left his post under the eaves, gasped at the icy downpour, and crossed the cobbles to assist. They spoke only French here, and perhaps she needed his help after all.

But Julia was giving orders like a duchess—and giving them in perfect French. He skidded to a stop and watched. Every servant jumped to obey, despite the weather.

“You speak excellent French,” he said, and she turned with a polite smile. She looked pretty in the rain, with crystal drops on her dark lashes, her lips moist.

“Bien sûr,”
she replied. “My grandmother insisted that I must have a first-rate education, including Fre—”

A porter screamed a warning as a heavy trunk slipped from wet hands, tumbling off the roof of the coach. Stephen caught her shoulders, pulled her back against his chest just in time. The trunk landed in the mud where she’d been standing seconds before. Muck splashed her skirts, but she ignored it, looking up at him in surprise, her hazel eyes meeting his—wide, beautiful, very wary eyes. A shock went through him. Good God! Surely she didn’t think that he— He set her on her feet at once and stepped back.

“Watch what you’re doing!” he snapped at the porters in English.

“Take it upstairs, third room on the left,” Julia said quietly, ignoring the stains on her gown and the obsequious apologies of the servants. She drew her dignity around her like a cloak and moved away from him, concentrating on the rest of the trunks.

He didn’t take her arm when they finally went inside out of the rain, once everything had been seen to. Instead he clasped his hands behind his back, walked beside her. She was soaked to the skin, her jaw clenched to keep her teeth from chattering. “Would you like something warm to drink?” he asked.

“Thank you, but I had better go upstairs, see that Dorothea is settled.” She met his eyes, her hazel gaze unapologetic, bold. “And my son.” The reminder—the warning—was clear.

“Of course,” he said, feeling his cheeks heat at the rebuke. “Order what you like, have it sent upstairs. Good night,
Miss
Leighton.” He stressed the word Miss.

“Good night, Major Lord Ives.”

He watched her go, a lady to her fingertips.

Yet she wasn’t.

The very fact that she had been seduced, had given in to passion and possession, suggested she had a sensual side. It was intriguing, even if he must ignore it as her employer.

He was still a man, and as curious as the rest of the
ton
about the affair.

He looked away from the slender figure of the enigmatic Lady Julia.

Like she did, he had duties to attend to before he could rest. They had at least a month of hard travel ahead, and anything might happen on the road between here and Vienna.

He had to be on his guard.

Chapter 6

Paris

D
orothea’s face was as white as the lace handkerchief she held over her nose. “How horrible this city smells!” she cried. “Make the coachman go faster!”

But there was no way to do that. The narrow streets and the crowds hemmed the vehicle in, and no one paid any attention to the coachman’s orders to move aside. The city was mad with the celebration of the Feast of St. Louis. Wine, song, and laughter flowed freely through the streets, even if the coach did not.

Julia’s eyes strayed upward to the gargoyles that adorned a church. The devilish faces grinned down at them, more puckish than wicked to her eyes, but Dorothea recoiled. “How frightening!” She gasped as grinning faces danced past the windows of the coach, singing. “They look as ugly as the gargoyles, and the buildings are so black, so dirty!”

To Julia, the people looked happy, celebrating the end of two decades of war. The gargoyles looked like they were laughing at the celebrations, as if they wished they could descend from their perches and join the fun.

Soot and grime had indeed curled up in the nooks of statues, embedded itself in the carved doorways, but the windows and balconies were decked with flowers, and the sky above the city was the bluest Julia had ever seen. There was color everywhere, red, blue, and yellow, even in the black silk of the Seine.

She pressed her face to the window of the coach and gaped like a tourist. “My grandmother used to say that every city had its own charm, like a woman, or a handsome man. There is a unique scent, a particular flavor, a distinctive color to the light, which gives each place its own special magic and makes you fall in love with it. She said the first thing to do when you arrive in a new place is to smell it like a rose, find the scent of it.” Dorothea kept her handkerchief firmly over her nose.

Julia smiled sympathetically, but to her Paris was a marvel, a grand old lady who might have seen better, brighter days, but still enjoyed life to the fullest nonetheless. She took a deep breath. She could smell garlic and fresh bread, and the heady perfume of the flower market as they passed. There was wine and sweat and darker odors too, of course—the smell of life.

Dorothea cried out as several urchins climbed onto the coach and peered boldly into the windows.
“C’est Wellington?”
she heard one ask, but they dropped away, their faces twisting with disappointment when they realized the coach carried only two ordinary English ladies, and not the famous Duke of Wellington.

“They’ve gone now,” she assured Dorothea. Outside their little sanctuary, the merriment went on, with everyone making the most of the celebration. Julia supposed the fact that Napoleon had been sent into exile on the tiny Island of Elba, and a Bourbon king sat once more on the throne of France, was secondary to the people’s joy that the fountains ran with wine instead of water.

The British delegation was here at the express invitation of King Louis XVIII. He had spent the last years of the war in luxurious exile in the English countryside, and now, restored to the French throne, he wanted every foreign lord, officer, diplomat, and aide to don their finest dress military tunics and most elegant evening clothes to attend the gala celebrations.

As a mere servant, Julia would not attend formal events unless Dorothea intended to go and needed her company. Even then, her place would be in the shadows, watching from the sidelines. But at the thought her dancing days might be over, she still longed for the pleasure of seeing great events unfold. Someday, she’d tell her son about these heady days of celebration.

Except Dorothea refused to leave her room to attend the balls and dinners, and Major Lord Ives went alone.

He told Dorothea and Julia all about the parties over breakfast each morning. While Dorothea could not bring herself to go out, pleading the fact that she was still in mourning, she wanted to know every detail.

“Tell me what they are wearing in Paris now,” she begged as Julia poured the tea and tried to contain her own eagerness to hear Lord Stephen’s response. It had been many years since Paris fashions were available in England. Not that English ladies of fashion didn’t manage to smuggle in Belgian lace and French pattern books, along with the French brandy their lords illicitly imported. It was quite illegal, and unpatriotic, but no lady of fashion would allow
that
to deter her.

Stephen’s eyes widened in vague horror. “Isn’t it customary to say good morning first?”

Dorothea sent him a quelling look. “Not when there is important information to impart, brother dear. Did you say good morning before a battle?”

“No, but war is not nearly as serious as fashion,” he replied.

Dorothea rolled her eyes. “You’re stalling. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice what people were wearing!”

Stephen waited as a footman set a plate of food in front of him. “Er, well, everyone was wearing
clothes,
if that’s what you mean.”

Dorothea gasped. “You’ll shock Julia with that kind of innuendo! Of course they were wearing clothes!”

Julia felt her skin heat as Stephen’s mouth tightened for a moment. Was he thinking that she could not possibly be shocked by such a mild comment, or perhaps that for her clothes at a ball were optional? She concentrated on buttering a triangle of toast.

Would James have noticed what the ladies at a ball were wearing? Not likely. He would have danced with the prettiest girls, and spent the rest of the evening making morning appointments for male pursuits like hunting, or riding, or boxing.

Yet there
were
men who noticed a lady’s appearance. She recalled Thomas Merritt’s appreciative appraisal of her gown, her hair, her jewels. David had barely glanced at the dress it had taken weeks to select and have made, but Thomas said she was beautiful, made her feel it from her coiffed hair to her embroidered dancing slippers. She pushed the image of his smile away, the admiration that had been clear in his eyes, and took a forkful of ham. No one would look at her again that way—not without thinking of the scandal, and how easy it might be to seduce her in a dark corner.

“Come now, surely you remember
something
!” Dorothea insisted.

“Well, most ladies seemed to be wearing gowns with, um . . . kind of—” Stephen set his fork down and described a narrow, form fitting gown by waving his hands in the air.

“A high waist, fitted to the body?” Julia guessed. She had seen ladies on the streets in similar day dresses.

“Yes,” Stephen said gratefully. “But with more . . . um . . . frills, or furbelows, perhaps? I have no idea what the correct term is—than one might see in London.”

“I suppose he means more ruffles at the hem,” Dorothea said to Julia. “Oh Julia, if you’d been there, you could describe every detail to me properly! I cannot picture how anyone looked from Stephen’s description.”

“Some dresses had more than just ruffles at the hem,” Stephen forged on bravely, doing battle with the problem very diplomatically indeed, and Julia hid a smile at his kind attempts to please his sister. “There were some gowns with sparkling trims too. Glass beads, perhaps?” He put his hands on the shoulders of his military tunic. “Here,” he said, “and here.” Then he drew two fingers swiftly across his chest. The gesture looked more like a sword slash than the path an elegant fringe might take along the edge of a lady’s bosom. “And at the floor as well. It clattered dreadfully when they walked or danced, making it sound like a herd of sheep was trotting across the marble floors on pointed hooves.”

Julia hid her laughter behind her napkin. Dorothea nudged her knee under the table, and Julia knew she was enjoying her brother’s torment.

“Sheep?” Dorothea said. “You are comparing the most elegant ladies in Europe to sheep? Oh, Stephen, how unchivalrous, and most undiplomatic!”

He blushed, his freshly shaven cheeks as scarlet as his jacket. “I did not say it to their faces! I am simply no expert on fashion.” He ran a hand through his blond hair. “Many ladies wore feathers in their hair, which made it rather difficult to see around them, and ticklish if one was not careful when he bowed to the lady’s curtsy. I think some ladies dipped their heads intentionally to torment gentlemen with those feathers. Why, one chap in our party was stabbed in the eye with a particularly long bunch of peacock plumes, and had to retire for the evening to bathe his wound.”

“Does that count as a battle scar, since he is in the service of his country?” Julia asked.

Stephen sniffed indignantly. “It most certainly should.”

“And what colors were the ladies wearing?” Dorothea forged ahead. “Was one color more popular than the rest? Who wore the most shocking color?”

Stephen’s throat bobbed, and Julia noticed a thin sheen of perspiration on his forehead under his sister’s merciless grilling. “Um—many colors. White, perhaps? Pink? With colored ribbons tied here—” He delicately indicated his ribs with manly hands, pinkies outstretched, and Dorothea nudged her again, hiding a smile, obviously enjoying teasing her brother so wickedly.

Julia felt a twinge of sympathy for the poor major. He would probably take his meals with the other gentlemen after this, and that would be a pity. If she could not see the events for herself, she was glad to have him to describe them. Stephen Ives was probably extremely eloquent when asked to describe a battle or a military maneuver.

“What did you eat for supper, my lord?” she asked, changing the subject to one more dear to a man’s heart than feathers and frills.

He visibly relaxed. “Oh, there was chicken, and a wide assortment of pies—and snails done in garlic and butter,” he said, his eyes twinkling as he embraced the topic. He held up a hand at Dorothea’s grimace. “Snails are called escargot here, and they are quite delicious, as were the frog’s legs—and there was a marvelous dish of apples in cinnamon and cream, and a selection of cheeses, and the cakes . . .” He rolled his eyes in rapture, looking at them with boyish delight.

Dorothea swatted her brother’s arm gently. “Snails? You can remember how the snails were dressed for dinner, yet you cannot recall a single detail of how
people
were adorned?”

He grinned. “I wore my uniform, and so did many other gentleman. I can quote you the ranks and regiments present, if you wish.”

“Yes, yes—
of course
you and every other military gentleman cut a dash as always, and the officers put the men in ordinary evening wear to shame, but what of the ladies’ hair styles?” Dorothea demanded, nibbling on the corner of the same bit of toast she’d been worrying at for the past half hour. She hadn’t touched the rest of her breakfast, Julia noted.

Stephen’s smile fell once again, and he raised his hands above his head and wiggled his fingers like grass in the wind. “Tall,” he said. “Tied up with, um, ribbons, a few with jewels?” He shot a pleading look at Julia as Dorothea sighed.

“You are dreadful, Stephen. Thanks to you, I have a picture in my mind of sheep wearing feathers on their heads and dancing with handsome officers in uniform,” she quipped. “Why, I feel as I might have been there myself!”

Julia laughed before she could stop herself, and Stephen looked at her, trying not to laugh himself. “My sister is a great wit.” He set his fork down carefully. “You will have to see for yourself, Doe, if my descriptions do not satisfy you. There is a performance at the opera tonight. It wouldn’t be too taxing, and you could see firsthand what the ladies are wearing.”

Dorothea’s mirth faded. “No, I couldn’t. You could take Julia.”

Julia’s throat closed in shock at the suggestion. It would hardly be proper for a diplomat to escort his sister’s paid companion to an official event. Stephen Ives studied his fingers, and an awkward silence fell over the table.

“Was there anyone of particular note in attendance last night, my lord?” Julia asked hurriedly, to change the subject.

Stephen met her eyes, his relief evident, but all merriment gone. “The Duke of Wellington was there, of course. He was escorting Princess Pauline de Borghese, one of Napoleon’s sisters. And of course King Louis was present, and our own Lord Castlereagh, His Majesty’s foreign secretary and the ambassador who will represent us in Vienna.”

Dorothea gave a shocked gasp. “Wellington and Borghese attended together? Can one defeat a lady’s brother, throw him off his throne, and yet have the gall to woo his sister? They are both married!”

Julia wondered at Dorothea’s reaction. The duke’s affairs were well known, and had been a source of gleefully wicked gossip in London, as was Princess Pauline’s scandalous conduct.

“I daresay His Grace is simply being polite,” Stephen soothed. “It’s useful to have friends, Doe, and we still must keep tabs on Napoleon, even if he says he’s content on Elba. Perhaps Wellington is merely hoping to gain information from his sister.”

“Or perhaps he is simply being gracious to our enemies now that we have vanquished them,” Julia suggested. “The princess would require an escort of a rank equal to hers.”

Stephen looked surprised. “A very diplomatic observation, Miss Leighton,” he murmured.