A Tale of Two Lovers (4 page)

Yet, Julianna had not been prepared for the tall, arrogant, tyrannical, strikingly handsome man that had stormed in. Oh, they had mingled at parties and she’d followed his exploits, but she’d never been in such close proximity to him.

Julianna now had an inkling of what legions of women felt around him: racing pulse, breath caught. He was a formidable presence with his height and his obviously muscled physique. His features were those of a peer—all noble and strong, though she had to admit he was particularly handsome. His eyes were dark, velvety brown—and the intensity of his gaze was practically palpable.

And Roxbury had spoken to her as no one ever dared. He made demands upon her, when she was the mistress of her own self. Julianna answered to no man—except for Knightly, some of the time, when it suited her.

Roxbury gave her orders, but she was under no obligation to him and delighted in pointing that out to him. It was oddly thrilling to be told what to do, and even more so to flagrantly disobey.

She turned from looking out the window at Fleet Street below to speak to her employer.

“I shall not write the apology or retraction,” she told Knightly. He looked up from his work, editing articles for the next issue.

“You will,” Knightly said, and then he returned to his work.

She scowled at him.

“I’d rather see your pride wounded than my person,” Knightly added, setting his pencil down and giving her his attention.

“You cannot possibly mean to attend the duel. Over a little thing in the newspaper!”

“For the reputation of this newspaper and of myself, I will fight.” Everyone knew that this newspaper was
everything
to Mr. Knightly. He had his mother, Delilah, but no other family and certainly no wife. More often than not, he slept in his office. He would fight for
The Weekly
, to the death, without a second thought or shadow of doubt.

“He’s awful, isn’t he? So very rude, storming in here like that and—”

Mr. Knightly laughed.

“Might I remind you, Lady Somerset, that is exactly how you made your entrance?”

A little over a year ago, Julianna had indeed dropped in uninvited and announced that she knew he was hiring women (for he had hired her dearest friend Sophie to write about weddings the day before) and that he ought to hire her as a gossip columnist.

Though she was not a shy, retiring person, to say the least, she had been quaking in her boots for that interview. It just wasn’t done, she was unsure of the outcome, and she was desperate.

Most men left the bulk of their fortune to their wives, with small annuities to a favorite mistress or by-blows. The late, great Harry, Lord Somerset had little left over for his wife after providing for his numerous mistresses and bastards.

However, he had left her with a name so scandalous that it discouraged all but the worst suitors, which didn’t quite matter since Julianna had no intention of marrying again. Her heart, mind, body, and livelihood were too precious to trust to another.

Thus she, a lady, needed to work. The opportunity to write a gossip column was a rare one indeed—it would allow her to supplement her meager annuity, while maintaining and improving her place in society. So Julianna brazened out the terrifying interview.

To her shock and relief, Mr. Knightly agreed. It was Mr. Knightly who had transformed her from Lady Somerset, the pitiable widow of one of London’s more notorious cads, to A Lady of Distinction, the feared and awe-inspiring author of “Fashionable Intelligence.”

Chapter 5

The outskirts of town, dawn

A
duel! Over a little thing in the newspaper! After all, she hadn’t said for a fact that he preferred his own sex. Julianna had even offered a more plausible explanation for why he appeared to be embracing a person in a gentleman’s attire. Could she help what the ton chose to believe? No, she could not.

It was truly ridiculous that he was dueling with Knightly.

Men were
such
hotheaded idiots.

Thanks to her ever-faithful maid, Penny, and their network of housemaid informants—Penny’s six sisters, all servants in the best houses in London—they were able to determine the time and location of the duel.

Julianna had not been invited, which had never stopped her from attending an event before.

The hack she hired stopped some distance from the dueling field and she alighted, followed by Miss Eliza Fielding, fellow Writing Girl and the only other woman daring enough to attend with her. Once upon a time, Julianna’s best friend, Sophie, might have joined her on such an expedition, but now she was a married woman and a duchess, to boot, so she couldn’t go gallivanting around far-flung corners of town at dawn witnessing duels.

Julianna and Eliza took cover behind a hedgerow and peered through the branches. The gentlemen would be livid to discover their serious business viewed by women, particularly the one who had caused it all.

The sky was already a pale, clear blue. The grassy field shimmered with dew. The air, crisp and sweet, promised a warm summer day. The sun was bright, the birds sang, and the breeze brushed over the trees.

“There’s the surgeon,” Eliza said, pointing to a man in black, leaning against a black carriage on the far side of the field. It was a jarring juxtaposition—something so dark and deathly on such a beautiful summer morning.

A small brown rabbit hopped across the field, blissfully unaware of the gruesome activity about to unfold around it.

A duel! The men might just stomp around and fire their shots into the air and call it a day. But there was a very real chance that one of them might get shot, or even die. Julianna had never considered that when putting pen to paper; she thought only of besting the Man About Town with delicious, exclusive gossip.

She had also considered Knightly’s mantra of
scandal equals sales
, and she needed to keep her employer satisfied with her work.

But what if Knightly lost his life today? Julianna could not even wrap her head around it. She would grieve for a man who gave her an opportunity no one else would consider, and a man she respected. So many people depended upon him—the Writing Girls, particularly. If he died . . .

Julianna felt sick at the thought.

And what if Roxbury’s life ended today? Her heart began to pound, which was strange because why should she have a care for him? He was nothing but a careless, carefree rake. That sort of man had never done her any favors.

“There is Mr. Knightly with Mehitable Loud,” Eliza whispered. Their employer was calmly inspecting a set of pistols held by his second.

“What if he doesn’t survive?” Eliza asked quietly, because the question was so grave. Who would take over the paper? Would the new publisher be so supportive of the Writing Girls? What if Knightly died because of something she had written? And then if they all lost their positions because of that? Julianna’s mouth went dry, her palms became clammy, and the urge to cast up her accounts nearly overwhelmed her.

Julianna wrote because she loved to, but also because she needed the money. Eliza and Annabelle, too. It was an unspoken truth between the women that earning money meant they did not have to marry if they didn’t want to. After her disastrous marriage, Julianna certainly had no wish to.

“I’m sure he’ll survive,” Julianna lied, to herself as much as Eliza. “Roxbury was too angry to see straight, let alone shoot straight.”

At the far end of the field, a hunter green carriage emblazoned with the Roxbury family crest, gilded in gold and silver leaf, came into view. The impressive vehicle was pulled by a team of gray chargers and it came to a sudden stop, kicking up pebbles and dirt and punctuated by the whinnying of the horses.

Roxbury alighted from the carriage, in quite a rakish manner.

“He’s deuced handsome,” Eliza whispered, voicing Julianna’s own thoughts. At liberty to stare brazenly at him from her hiding place, she took full advantage.

Handsome was insufficient. There was an air of strength and vitality about him, from his shiny black hair to the slightly tanned color of his skin. He strolled confidently over to the dueling field. His movements were quick and certain, but tense.

His breeches fit him to perfection, showing off well-muscled legs. She assumed his arms were muscular as well, and she idly wondered what it’d be like to have those arms embracing her . . .

She need only ask almost any woman in London for a definitive answer based on experience. He probably came to the dueling field straight from a woman’s bedchamber.

Such thoughts aside, Roxbury seemed far too young and handsome and alive to actually die. He very well might this morning, and because of her and what she wrote.

Her heartbeat quickened, and remorse burned in her gut.

“Do you really think he was with a man?” Eliza wondered.

“It could very well have been Jocelyn. I know not.”

It seemed so stupid now.

Julianna watched as the adversaries shook hands, and their seconds did the same. She did not recognize Roxbury’s second—he was some average-sized man, in slovenly attire. After a quick conversation, pistols were taken in hand, the seconds moved away, and Knightly and Roxbury stood back-to-back.

It was Roxbury that she watched. Given the distance, it was impossible to discern his expression, but he carried himself as if fearless. This struck her with awe.

The men started taking their steps away from each other in anticipation of firing. Mehitable bellowed the numbers in his baritone, his voice easily carrying across the field.

One.

Two.

Julianna’s heart pumped hard. Terror. It wasn’t the threat of a stray bullet striking her, but that Knightly’s aim would be true. How could that be? She cared nothing for Roxbury. She barely knew him. He was just another good-for-nothing rake, and this town had plenty of those. And yet . . .

Three. Four.

She was equally terrified that Knightly would not survive. It was unlikely she and the other Writing Girls would survive in the world without him. His death would be because of her doing, too. The bullet may not be hers, but at the end of the day, the fault would be her own. Her stomach ached with guilt.

Five.

Her heart was pounding heavily in her breast, and she was quite overheated. With one gloved hand she undid a button or two at her throat.

With the other, she clasped Eliza’s hand. What if they lost Knightly? What would become of them?

Six. Seven. Eight.

And what of Roxbury? He was too young, too beautiful to die. Knightly, too, but she was thinking of the enraged and wronged Roxbury and she did not know why.

Nine. Ten.

Julianna bit down on her fist to keep a cry from escaping.

Eleven. Twelve.

And then—so quickly she might have missed it had she blinked—the gentlemen turned, and fired.

T
he Man About Town hated reporting on duels. Getting up at dawn to travel to far-flung and desolate corners of town was not his idea of a good time, especially the mornings after what
was
his idea of a good time—late nights, fancy balls, and gaming hells.

Compounding his hatred was the fact that such effort was required for an event that lasted all of a minute. One had to count the time spent traveling to some remote outpost of London, skulking about in the bushes while awaiting everyone’s arrival and then negotiating and confirming the terms, checking the pistols, etcetera, etcetera. For a minute of activity, if that.

Not for the first time did the Man About Town consider retiring.

Chapter 6

That evening at Lady Walmsly’s soiree

“D
ueling is a despicable habit,” Lady Stewart-Wortly opined to her group of listeners. She approved of very little, other than modesty, chastity, piety, and, above all, complaining about the sins of others. One could read all about it in her book,
Lady Stewart-Wortly’s Daily Devotional for Pious and Proper Ladies
, which she mentioned at every opportunity.

Julianna found her a tremendous bore at best.

“Some people think dueling is quite dashing,” replied the young Lady Charlotte, sister to the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon.

“Some people are idiots,” Lady Stewart-Wortly replied haughtily.

“Indeed,” Lady Charlotte murmured, looking Lady Stewart-Wortly in the eye.

Lady Sophie Brandon, Charlotte’s sister-in-law, bit back a smirk and Julianna did her very best to appear unaffected by the conversation or what she had witnessed this morning.

Lord Wilcox, with the penchant for women’s undergarments, hovered behind her, nodding his head heavily in agreement. Lord Walpole smoothed back his gray hair, and bore an expression of disinterest, though Julianna could tell he was listening. Not for the first time did Julianna wonder if he was The Man About Town.

Apparently, she and Eliza hadn’t been the only ones skulking about in the bushes. Word of the duel had spread around town as fast as the Great Fire of 1666.

There was no doubt that the Man About Town would report on it in his next column. He wrote for a daily paper, and his columns appeared three days a week. Because of that, he broke more stories than she. It rankled very,
very
much.

And because he was the
Man
About Town he also had access to sources of information that were forbidden to her. This morning’s paper had featured the following scene about Roxbury at White’s Gentlemen’s Club:

Upon reading the latest “Fashionable Intelligence” about himself, Lord R—stood to make his advan—addresses to his fellow peers in White’s. “You are all safe from my advances, though your wives are not.” Ladies, you have been warned!

A few “little” lines in her column had sparked this rabid curiosity for all things Roxbury.

“To look at him, you’d never think that he’d risked his life this morning,” Lady Sophie said, gesturing toward Roxbury. They all turned to look in his direction. He was standing at the edge of the ballroom, dressed in black save for the severe contrast of his white linen shirt. His eyes were dark, with a gaze suggesting utter boredom. His lips curved in a firm, wry smile. He stood with a glass of brandy in hand, tall and proud, and utterly ignored.

The sight took Julianna’s breath away.

Typically, at a ball, Roxbury was to be found, charming and smiling and laughing, surrounded by bored wives and young widows taking full advantage of their freedom. A swarm of giggling debutantes was never far behind. Women and Roxbury went hand in hand, and it was ludicrous that the ton should believe the insinuations in her column.

But they did, and now this handsome charmer was receiving the cut direct from five hundred people simultaneously and still standing proud.

Definitely awe-inspiring and breathtaking.

And tremendously guilt inducing. A stroke of her pen, and the ton’s darling was now an absolute outcast. She had thought only to best the Man About Town, and hadn’t considered that a few lines of speculation would result in such an adored man standing utterly alone. He wasn’t happy, but he was too proud to brood or hide at home. This had not been her intention, and she had never witnessed the devastating effects of her column so closely. Julianna felt quite sick.

“Lady Hortensia Reeves still seems quite interested in him,” Sophie pointed out. Indeed, the lady was obviously and frequently staring at the outcast lord. It was nice to know that some things never changed: rain in England, the sunrise in the morning, and Lady Hortensia’s deep and abiding infatuation with Roxbury.

“Did you hear about her newest collection?” Lady Charlotte asked. “Dung beetles.”

“Oh, my,” Sophie murmured.

“Well, everyone ought to have a hobby,” Julianna said with a shrug. At least collections of insects didn’t get anyone nearly killed. Well, except for the insects. Which wasn’t quite as bad as nearly getting another person shot.

She wondered how Knightly was faring. Roxbury had not aimed wide, and now her beloved employer had a bullet wound and a raging fever because of her.

Julianna took a long swallow of her champagne. She had not foreseen these consequences and desperately wished she had. Knightly would be well, Roxbury would be flirting, and her stomach wouldn’t ache with remorse.

Lady Stewart-Wortly was hitting the stride in her ballroom sermon and her booming voice distracted Julianna from her thoughts.

“Morals today are shockingly lax. The things the gossip columnists report! They are the scribes of the devil and authors of evil. Why, last week’s “Fashionable Intelligence” reporting on the scandalous proclivities of Lord Roxbury has corrupted legions of youth across London. The author ought to be ashamed of herself.”

Julianna studied the hemline of her gown.

“Lady Stewart-Wortly, you are remarkably well versed in the contents of numerous gossip columns, considering that you wouldn’t possibly read them and expose yourself to such debauched literature,” Lady Charlotte pointed out. For a seventeen-year-old girl she was quite astute.

“You are an impertinent girl,” Lady Stewart-Wortly huffed.

“I know, everybody says so,” Charlotte said, heaving a dramatic sigh, making Sophie purse her lips in an effort to restrain her laughter.

Julianna was still smoldering from Lady Stewart-Wortly’s remarks, and too vexed to laugh. Scribe of the devil! Corruptor of legions of youth! Ashamed of herself!

She was, on the whole, damned proud, if anyone wanted to know—not that she could tell them, given that her identity was still somewhat of a mystery. She supported herself by her wits, talent and daring! She was making history and living a life of freedom that most women only dreamed of. She loved her writing and
The Weekly
and wished she could shout that love from the rooftops.

Not tonight, though.

Given the events of the morning, in which two men nearly lost their lives because of her writing, Julianna’s pride was tempered considerably. She loved her writing, but it came with great responsibility to, say, not get innocent men injured or killed.

She dared another glance in Roxbury’s direction, and found that his gaze was intensely focused upon her.

She needed to escape Roxbury’s line of vision. The way he looked at her made her skin feel feverish, and she felt agitated in a manner she could not describe or understand.

Julianna excused herself from the group and walked away, with her dark green silk skirts rustling at her ankles as she wove through the crowds. She passed by the Baron and Baroness of Pinner as they began a waltz, dodged an encounter with notorious talker Lady “Drawling” Rawlings, and nodded as she strolled by Lady Walmsly, the hostess, who smiled warmly.

“Lady Somerset.” Someone called her name. She had her suspicions.

A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed them. It was Roxbury calling her—nay, commanding her—to stop.

Julianna faced forward, smiled blandly, and nodded politely at her acquaintances as she passed by them. Everyone nodded or smiled in kind acknowledgment. She had come far from the days after Somerset’s death, when the name, and she, were tainted by his scandalous death. Now the ton thought her a respectable young matron. She was welcomed by one and all as a nice young widow, who may or may not write fiercely damaging things in the paper. Everyone took a precautionary approach and deemed it best to stay on her good side, just in case those rumors were true.

She was not eager for another rake to drag her down to the dregs of society, again, so she ignored the irate man trailing behind her, and prayed no one noticed that he followed her.

“Lady Somerset.”

Julianna snapped open her fan and fanned herself with feigned ease as she slipped through the crowds. Lady Walmsly had really outdone herself this evening. She’d write all about it in her column . . . that is, if Knightly lived and the paper continued. Oh, Knightly! What had she done?

Finally Julianna stopped behind a pillar at the far end of the ballroom, and was not surprised when Roxbury cornered her there. At least here they were out of sight.

His eyes were dark and his mouth was set in a firm, hard line. She was tall, but he towered over her. Much to her annoyance, Roxbury’s mere presence set her heart aflutter.

T
he Man About Town watched Lord Roxbury follow Lady Somerset through the crowds. What business he could have with her, he knew not, though it did lend a certain amount of credence to the rumors that she was the Lady of Distinction. Then Roxbury absolutely would have business with her.

But how could that fun-loving, good-for-nothing rake know it when he, the Man About Town with years of experience in gossip and sleuthing, did not? How would one even confirm such a suspicion?

It was on his list of great mysteries to uncover.

He plucked a glass of champagne from a nearby waiter and forged ahead through the crowds, intent upon following the two of them. He knew a scandal in progress when he saw it.

Lady Somerset ducked into a discrete position behind a pillar. Roxbury followed. Then that damned old nag Lady Rawlings—otherwise known as the notorious Drawling Rawlings—appeared before him.

“Did you hear?” she asked slowly, fanning herself all the while. “Lord Roxbury fought a duel with that newspaperman this morning!”

The Man About Town fought the urge to sigh and say, “I know. I was there.”