The Wild Marquis (16 page)

H
is final argument persuaded Juliana. “I need a place for some of my servants to stay for a few days,” he said, couching it as a favor to him. “They can guard the shop and feed the dog.”

She said yes, thank God. Cain wasn’t prepared to leave her in London without him, not even with half a regiment for protection. He could scarcely bear to leave her for the night. He sent for Tom and Peter, his youthful footmen, to set up camp downstairs, but he would have felt better—in a number of ways—if he shared her bed.

Together they planned a discreet departure from London. Cain’s personal traveling carriage, he assured Juliana without cracking a smile, was a very ordinary-looking equipage, a chaise painted a sober black. With the use of hired horses and postilions from the very beginning of the journey, no one would penetrate his disguise. Lord Chase would disappear to make way for Mr. John Johnson, a merchant of awful propriety and a most suitable second husband for a widowed bookseller.

The next morning found him waiting at Charing Cross. Following the principle of hiding in plain sight, he’d agreed to meet Juliana at one of London’s busiest corners. The furtive nature of their departure for Salisbury was as much to protect Cain’s reputation as Juliana’s. Now was not the time for him to be jaunting around the countryside in company with a female. None of the citizens going about their affairs paid the least attention to him, clad as he was like a man of little consequence.

She was late. Mel was supposed to have arrived at St. Martin’s Lane with the carriage an hour ago. Cain pulled his topcoat closer and huddled his shoulders against a stiff breeze. He wouldn’t have expected the efficient Juliana to keep him waiting, but Mel, once she got started, could talk the hind legs off a donkey. He occupied the time imagining the discourse between that unlikely pair. And fighting the urge to run the few hundred yards to the bookshop to fight off murderous book collectors armed with…whatever murderous book collectors wielded.

Frederick Fitterbourne might be the obvious candidate for their villain but he was in Wiltshire. Whoever broke into the shop and hid the book was in London.

At last he recognized his traveling carriage passing the King’s Mews, making slow progress due to the frequent stops of other vehicles in the busy commercial thoroughfare. Tired of delay, he crossed the street and met it as it reached the corner of the Strand.

“You’re late,” he said, slamming the door.

He settled into the front-facing seat, next to Juliana, and felt his chest expand with relief and anticipation.

It felt good to get out of London. Esther was safe at their aunt’s, and the law proceeded at its customary treacle pace. So he’d exhumed the garments he’d worn before he inherited his fortune, told his aunt and household he had business at one of his estates, and disappeared.

His spirits soared at the adventure ahead of him. And his company on the quest.

“I had to show Mrs. Duchamp everything,” Juliana explained. “And change my clothes.”

“Are you warm enough? Why don’t you take off your pelisse? I’d like to see the gown.”

He’d sent Mel around to the ever-obliging Mrs. Timms for garments suited to a widowed tradeswoman traveling to visit relations, accompanied by her affianced husband. He’d absolutely insisted that his “betrothed” not be dressed in black.

“I like the color,” he said, with a slight frown. “And the cut too. It suits you, but it’s still too sober.” The revealed traveling dress in blue wool was distressingly decent. “I wonder if Mrs. Timms is changing her clientele.”

Juliana liked her new dress and loved the compliment. Her blush was caused by the knowledge that it fastened behind, as did her new stays. She wasn’t sure she could manage them alone.

She’d worry about that later.

Meanwhile, she decided, she’d have her adventure.
Though she didn’t share Cain’s optimism about the outcome, she could at least enjoy the opportunity to travel out of London for the first time in four years. And in such comfort.

“By the way, Cain.”

“Yes?”

“You told me your carriage was quite undistinguished.”

“It’s black, plain and unmarked.”

“And quite roomy.”

“I had it specially made.” His lips widened the merest twitch and his eyes began to twinkle. “According to a Russian design. I’ve never seen why one should travel in discomfort.”

“The upholstery is velvet again.”

“What other kind is there?”

“I’ve never seen red velvet seats.”

“I like all my carriages to match my book bindings.” He reached forward and tugged on a handle under the seat in front of them. A panel opened up to reveal a hidden compartment. “May I offer you a bite to eat? Or a glass of brandy, if it isn’t too early.”

By the time they reached Andover the evening was well advanced. They might have spent the night at Basingstoke, where they’d stopped to dine, but Cain appeared as eager as she to press on. They’d spent hours of the journey discussing recent events and the light Frederick Fitterbourne might be able to cast on them. Between the two of them there were plenty of theories, but their speculations only left them in
desperate need of more information. The sooner they reached Salisbury the better.

Juliana had barely considered that she was about to spend the night with Cain in an obscure inn, chosen because it didn’t cater to the gentry.

“A room for myself and my wife. The name is John Johnson.”

Unable to disagree with the statement without causing a scandal, Juliana simmered her way upstairs in the landlord’s wake.

When planning the journey they’d agreed to present Cain to Frederick Fitterbourne as her betrothed, though not under his true name. It was far more likely that Frederick would agree to reveal the truth to her future husband than to Juliana herself. Cain hadn’t broken the news of their changed marital status on the road.

Once alone with him in a small but clean room, Juliana folded her arms and glared. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to tell the landlord we’re married?”

“I thought you’d object.”

“Wrong question,” she said through gritted teeth. “
Why
did you say we’re married?”

“You need help with your buttons. Probably your stays too.” Trust him to have noticed that.

“I can call for a chambermaid,” she said frostily.

Yet a nagging voice in her mind asked what she was making such a fuss about. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t already shared a bed with Cain, and enjoyed it.

The slightly shabby coat and breeches he wore detracted not one whit from his appeal. He looked just as good as he did in fashionable pantaloons and figure-fitting tailoring. He still held himself like a great, sleek cat: slender, strong, and flexible as a whip. She knew with what pleasure that body could affect her own.

She’d thought him in one of his teasing moods, the blue eyes dancing with laughter. Then his gaze darkened. It wasn’t the color that altered, but the mood.

“We may have been followed,” he said. “I thought you were safe out of London but I’m not taking any chances. You can argue all you like but you are not staying alone in this room.”

She began to speak.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he interrupted, “and that’s my best offer.”

She’d been about to give in, to agree to sleep with him. But that was not, apparently, what he wanted. He hadn’t even asked. She felt a little foolish. She’d believed he’d come up with an elaborate excuse to get her back into bed, but apparently he was only concerned for her safety.

Which was gratifying.

Highly gratifying.

Of course, being a man he’d probably lie with her if she offered. But regardless of what had happened, no matter that she was hugely grateful for his assistance, all the arguments that made her refuse to be his mistress still applied. As for his continuing whim
about marrying her? The notion wasn’t worth serious consideration.

It was a very good thing he wasn’t really interested.

What a fool he was! He could have had her.

He could now be drifting into sleep, pleasurably tired. Juliana could be curled up in his arms, her sighs of satisfaction fading to the deeper breath of slumber.

She was enjoying slumber all right. And he was miserable, his body wound up after a day in the carriage, longing for movement and exercise.

He didn’t understand his restraint where Juliana was concerned. Why the hell didn’t he just seduce her, as he had countless women? He knew he could and he knew she’d enjoy it. She already had. Even now he could slide into bed beside her, caress her to wakefulness, and arouse her to passion.

He cursed his own scruples and tried to find a soft spot on the rough wooden floor. A pillow, a single blanket, his topcoat, and Juliana’s cloak were not enough to make an acceptable bed. The room wasn’t warm either. Damn it, unselfishness went only so far. If he had to control himself, let him at least do it in comfort.

She murmured but didn’t awaken when he joined her in the bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. He lay on his back for a while, staring at nothing in the dark room, Juliana’s warmth and light violet scent tickling his senses.

A rustle of bedclothes, movement, then the warmth
was no longer two feet away but tucked against his body. It was just as well he was clothed. He turned onto his side and gathered the sleeping woman close, nestling her head under his chin.

Cain smiled to himself ruefully. One of London’s most noted libertines in bed with a beautiful woman, and letting her sleep. He hugged her a little tighter.

Strangely enough, he felt quite content.

T
he following afternoon Cain visited the village of Fernley. Since Juliana would be recognized by the local people, Cain went alone to discover what he could about Frederick Fitterbourne’s current circumstances before they called on him.

It didn’t take many minutes in the public house to learn that George Fitterbourne hadn’t been highly regarded among his neighbors and tenants. The application of Cain’s purse to the beer supply turned polite but reserved conversation into freely expressed opinion.

The landlord and a couple of elderly rustics, who formed the afternoon population of the taproom, regarded the late Mr. Fitterbourne as at best quite mad, at worst criminal.

“Spent everything on books, he did,” said one old fellow, whose perfectly bald pate contrasted comically with a bushy white beard.

All three of them shook their heads in disbelief.

“Not a penny piece went to the land or the cottages,” said the other customer, mumbling through
the one remaining tooth that could be seen in the front of his mouth. “Those were bad times in Fernley.”

“What of his family? His wife?” Cain asked. “Did he not have a daughter?”

“His lady died when the girl was but a child,” said the landlord. “Miss Cassandra, a pretty young lady. She died too, must be she was twenty-two, twenty-three years old.”

“Did she marry?”

The landlord avoided meeting Cain’s eye. “No,” he said without elaboration.

“So Mr. Fitterbourne lost his family. That’s hard on a man.”

Cain’s companions were unimpressed. “Made no difference, far as I could see,” said One Tooth. “He were no better before.”

“There was the girl,” contributed the bearded bald one.

The other two looked embarrassed. “We don’t talk about that,” the landlord said. But White Beard merely drained his tankard and gave Cain an expectant look. Cain nodded, and not a man refused his refill.

“The girl?” he asked.

“Aye. Came to live at the Court.” A significant pause.

“Who was she?”

“That’s what we don’t rightly know.” The man winked, waggling an eyebrow as bushy as his beard. “Came just after
Miss Cassandra
died. Only a babe she were. Never saw her much save on Sundays at St. Peter’s.”

“Kept her out of sight of decent people,” the land
lord said, “except in church. Don’t know why the vicar allowed it.”

Cain swore there and then he would apologize to Juliana for ever doubting her. There was no question the local people of Fernley had the same interpretation of her parentage as she. He also felt like hitting the publican. He’d better move on to the real reason for his inquiries, before he lost his temper at the cruelty of men who would despise a helpless child for the accident of her birth.

“What of the new Mr. Fitterbourne? What manner of man is he?”

His informant snorted, sending flecks of beer into his beard. “Turned the little bastard out of the house right away. Powerful proper gentleman, he be.”

Cain gritted his teeth and kept his hands at his side. “Is he a good landlord?”

The three of them, after some discussion, allowed that Mr. Frederick Fitterbourne was an improvement on his predecessor. After three years the Fernley estate showed signs of renewed prosperity.

“A close man with a shilling, but fair.” The publican’s final comment expressed the unanimous opinion.

He was also, Cain established, now in residence, along with his wife and family of five promising children.

It was odd to be in Salisbury again, a scant five miles from where she’d passed most of her life. Not that Juliana knew the city well. It hadn’t been her own
choice, but she’d grown up as much of a recluse as her grandfather.

Yet there was something in the air of the cathedral town that was familiar and homelike. And her husband had lived here for several years before they married and moved to London. Joseph’s family came from the North of England, otherwise he wouldn’t have been staying in an inn when he made that last visit.

She and Cain occupied a comfortable suite of rooms at the White Hart, close to the cathedral. Cain had left her behind under strict orders to stay in the room and lock the door.

He was slightly irrational on the subject. If someone wanted to cause her physical harm there had been numerous opportunities, even since she acquired the dubious protection of the bulldog Quarto. Hiding the stolen book in her shop, then spreading a rumor to send eager book collectors to find it, was the work of a subtle schemer, not the kind of man to attack her in the street. Besides, all that had happened in London and she was in Salisbury.

So she decided to go out.

The soaring spire was a constant presence even before she reached the close and was treated to the full effect of the great cathedral. She’d been confirmed there; even Mr. Fitterbourne’s eccentricity didn’t extend to ignoring the forms of religious observance.

Passing through the medieval High Street Gate, she spared a glance at Mr. Birch’s bookshop. Her old friend was dead and his sister’s son now ran the business. Joseph had had ambitions to take over when his em
ployer retired, but the nephew wanted it. That’s why Joseph had married her and her thousand pounds.

The High Street was lined with shops, including a drapery she remembered as a treasure trove of wonders. She’d had a governess for a few years. As she approached womanhood Miss Beeston attempted to teach her some of the more conventional skills of young ladies, such as how to dress attractively. The bolts of silk and muslin, spools of ribbon in every conceivable color, marvelous buttons in silver, ivory, and pearl, fascinated the fourteen-year-old Juliana and, for a time, replaced her passion for printed pages. For a very short time.

When Mr. Fitterbourne discovered how much these fripperies cost he’d remonstrated with her. Surely, he demanded, she’d rather have a first edition of Locke than a new gown? Meekly she agreed and won back her guardian’s approval. Miss Beeston departed, and that was the end of Juliana’s formal education and her brief flirtation with vanity.

The trouble was, it occurred to her now, she never got the first edition of Locke. Like every book on which her grandfather had lavished his fortune, it was sold to Tarleton.

The medieval Poultry Cross lay ahead of her. Beyond it stood a largish building, its half timbers and irregular construction proclaiming its vintage. The Haunch of Venison was Salisbury’s most venerable hostelry, perhaps as old as the cathedral itself. Without consciously knowing it, Juliana had decided to visit the spot where her husband met his demise, exactly one year ago from tomorrow.

The landlord, Mr. Phillips, greeted her with deference, sympathy, and a touch of defensiveness. She supposed he’d sooner forget the anniversary of an ugly crime on his premises. Since it was currently unoccupied, he agreed to show her the room.

The narrow stairs and corridors of the ancient building wound up to the third floor. Mr. Phillips used a key and opened a door to reveal an attic room with a narrow dormer window overlooking the market square. Not much of a place to end your time on earth, but Joseph had always been frugal and would have taken one of the cheapest rooms available.

“It must have been hard carrying all those books upstairs,” she mused.

“Didn’t have to,” Phillips replied. “Miss Combe’s servant carried them in for him. I remember because she died the same day. Or maybe the next. I don’t rightly recall. She was an old lady, and ailing.”

So the old woman hadn’t even lived to enjoy the proceeds of selling her wretched books.

Juliana tried to imagine her husband’s last hours. She didn’t know when he’d been killed, only that it was nighttime and he’d been found in the morning.

“Was it market day?” she asked.

“Aye.”

“It would have been noisy.”

“That it was,” agreed the landlord. “We’re always busy on market days.”

“Did my husband dine in the tavern that evening? But perhaps you don’t remember.”

“Well, normally I wouldn’t, but I had to answer a whole lot of questions the next day. So I can tell you
we served a nice steak and kidney pudding, and Mr. Merton enjoyed a good meal.”

“I’m glad. That was his favorite dinner.” Joseph wasn’t particularly interested in food but sometimes, to celebrate a particularly profitable sale, they dined at a chophouse in Leicester Square. That was the dish he always ordered.

“Did he linger in the taproom after dinner?” She asked.

“Not late. He told me he wanted to catch the early mail coach to London, asked me how early he could break his fast. That’s how I came to find him. I went to his room the next morning. Reckoned he’d slept longer than he meant and I’d better give him a call.”

“That was good of you.”

“Well,” said the landlord gruffly, “we take care of our customers.” He seemed to be struggling with a long-held resentment. “The magistrate, he wanted to know how I’d let a villain in to do murder. How am I supposed to know every soul that comes in with the inn full to bursting? Not to mention them that come in just to wet their whistles. Twenty-five years I’ve run this inn, and my father before me just as long. And we’ve never had such a thing happen. A bit of a brawl or fisticuffs in the taproom, that’s one thing. But murder and robbery? Never! There was blood all over the room.”

Juliana felt sick. Her own feelings threatened to overset her composure. Extracting herself from the landlord’s indignation at the insult to his house, she fled back onto the street.

She’d never properly mourned Joseph. Shock at his death had been rapidly superseded by the necessity of working for her own survival. And when she’d discovered how hard it was to make a living on her own, her resentment toward the world had extended to her late husband. She’d always felt he hadn’t appreciated her own knowledge and talent but married her for her money. Finding that most of the book world she wished to inhabit regarded her as of little account without him only increased her anger.

Anger. Yes, she realized, as she strode along at the fastest pace her annoyingly short legs would carry her. She’d been angry with Joseph.

Yet their two years of marriage hadn’t been all bad. They’d endlessly talked about books, their mutual passion. They’d shared triumphs and failures. They’d lived together. They’d shared a bed.

He hadn’t loved her and she hadn’t loved him, but Joseph Merton and she had been partners and friends. Like any human being he deserved to have his passing mourned.

So Juliana walked through the streets of Salisbury with her eyes blinded by tears. She wept for Joseph’s short life, for the waste of his youth and knowledge and ambition, for his sordid, painful death in a cheap, noisy room.

She cried until there were no more tears to fall, and it seemed entirely fitting that, as she approached the White Hart Inn, the heavens themselves opened. She stopped and loosened her bonnet strings, pushing the headgear back and ignoring those who looked
at her askance as they rushed to reach shelter. She raised her face to the sky and let the cool rain rinse away her grief.

Cain was still angry when he returned to Salisbury and the rooms at the White Hart taken by “Mr. and Mrs. Johnson.” Little wonder that Juliana could be a little prickly at times. Beyond taking care not to add to their number, Cain had never given a great deal of thought to the lives of those born out of wedlock. The scorn shown by a trio of rustics toward a young child, just because her parents hadn’t been married, shocked him. Living as he had among the demimonde and those sunk even lower, he thought he’d seen meaningless hardship and brutality. But the cruelties of life in London’s rougher areas had, at least, the excuse of poverty and desperation.

Juliana had grown up the ward and unacknowledged granddaughter of a man of property. Cain had failed to appreciate just how much her shadowy birth placed her outside of the range of society’s tolerance.

She’d understood of course. She’d lived with it. And seen at once why she couldn’t marry him.

Cain should know better than anyone that noble birth and great wealth didn’t guarantee happiness. His own family history was stark proof of that. He had, he supposed, thought it peculiar, imagined that every other prosperous, wellborn family was a happy one. But when it came down to it, his own grievances were nothing compared to Juliana’s, for he had the hope and possibility of redress. Nothing could correct
the stigma of illegitimacy. Except proving her birth otherwise.

Cain swore there and then he’d leave no stone unturned, no parish register unscrutinized. If Cassandra Fitterbourne had married her beloved Julian, Cain would find the proof.

And he’d take personal pleasure in forcing it down the throat of every inhabitant of the village of Fernley in Wiltshire, starting with Mr. Frederick Fitterbourne.

The sitting room of their suite of rooms was empty. Juliana must be taking a nap. He knocked softly on the door of the bedchamber.

No answer.

He knocked louder.

She couldn’t be sleeping that deeply at four in the afternoon. He banged on the door.

My God, he thought. Her husband had been murdered in the room of an inn in Salisbury. Not the same inn, but still. He should never have left her alone.

Abandoning niceties, he wrenched open the door. Their portmanteaux stood undisturbed on the floor. Of Juliana herself there was no sign. Gripped by panic, Cain rushed into the dressing room, empty save for a washstand and a small bed.

Why had she gone out? He should never have left her alone when some murderous villain, perhaps the same one who’d killed Joseph Merton, was at large. He was trying to think calmly about where to begin a search, when he heard someone enter the bedchamber.

Her pelisse exuded the scent of damp wool. She’d removed her bonnet, which she now dropped onto the floor, and her tawny golden hair hung in damp hanks about her shoulders. Her face shone with water.

She looked better than a five-course meal to a starving man.

“Where have you been?” he shouted, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her.

“I went for a walk.”