Elizabeth Boyle (90 page)

From this day forth, she just knew, with the supreme confidence of youth, the life before her would be filled with nights such as this and days of unending excitement, sailing the seas at Julien’s side.

He stirred, nuzzling her neck and planting gentle kisses on her brow and lips. Then she murmured into his ear the words that sealed her fate, laid out her destiny.

“Julien, I love you.”

B
y the time Maureen arose and made her way downstairs, shaking off the unsettling dreams of Julien, she found the Johnston’s’ little morning room transformed into a bower of spring roses and lilies.

Lady Mary’s prediction of Maureen’s social success hadn’t been off the mark. The cards and notes had begun arriving early, and the steady stream of footmen and messengers had continued ever since, her beaming “godmother” announced.

Along with the invitations came flowers and boxes of confections from dandies and swains who hadn’t even been at Almack’s. All it had taken were a few words around White’s that Julien D’Artiers had uncovered a new sensation, and the fortune hunters and romantics followed like sheep.

Stationed at her desk, Lady Mary was going through the arduous task of opening and sorting the mountain of invitations, but from the smile on the woman’s face, it hardly looked as if she found the task anything but a delight.

“There you are, my dear. Come look! Didn’t I tell you?” Lady Mary sighed.

Before Maureen could respond, Lucy, the housemaid, came bustling into the parlor, an armload of flowers balanced on one hip, while teetering in her hand was a tray loaded with envelopes and cards.

“I’ll never be getting the dusting done, milady, with all this racket. Why, that bell is driving me mad.” Lucy dumped the flowers in Maureen’s arms and the notes in front of her mistress. “And don’t even think about seeing a shine on the silver before next Thursday.”

“Do your best, Lucy. These are trying times for all of us,” Lady Mary told her.

Maureen looked around for a place to put the flowers but discovered there wasn’t an open spot to be had, what with all the other bouquets and prettily wrapped boxes. So she perched herself on the corner of the sofa next to Lady Mary’s desk and sniffed at the sweet-scented blossoms.

The fresh, innocent fragrance of the violets did nothing to dispel her dour mood. She had a promise to keep this morning.

Even after a restless night of tossing and turning, she told herself it was no more than what anyone else would go through—it wasn’t every day she sent a man to his death.

But in the early-morning hours, when she’d finally drifted off to sleep, she dreamed of the last time she’d seen Julien, the last moment she’d heard his voice betray her, betray her father, and when she awakened it had been with a certain, clear vision of what needed to be done.

Lady Mary held out an open box of confections to her. “They are from a shop my father used to visit. He would bring us a box every time he came home from London. I haven’t had them in years. Try the ones with the almonds on top.”

Maureen settled her flowers on the floor at her feet and took one of the offered sweets. She’d never seen such a fancy-looking confection before. And once she’d popped it in her mouth, she understood Lady Mary’s rapturous expression.

The almond paste and sugar flowed over her tongue like rich silk. How could anything taste so tantalizingly?

“What do you think of your success now?” Lady Mary asked, taking one for herself and settling the box in her lap.

“All of this is for me?” Her gaze moved over the flowers, gloves, books, and tokens littering the room. Perhaps she would let Julien live to see nightfall. At least until she had a chance to enjoy her newfound treasures.

And your crew
, her conscience screamed.
What are they enjoying?

She should be ashamed of herself, and she was, heartily so. But as she looked over her bounty, she wondered if perhaps the Lord Admiral would let her keep some of her gifts.

At least the sweet ones. There were, after all, five more such boxes awaiting her.

“Yes, all of it but this box of confections,” Lady Mary said, patting the box in her lap. “The Earl of Hawksbury sent them to me.” Lady Mary offered her another one, which Maureen eagerly accepted. “The Marquess of Trahern’s heir, from what I gather, as well as Mr. D’Artiers’s nephew. The ingenuous lad addressed them to me instead of to you, hoping to curry my favor in allowing him the honor of the first dance with you at his aunt’s ball.”

Maureen had only been half-listening to the lady until Julien’s name came up. “This earl is related to Mr. D’Artiers?”

“Why, yes,” Lady Mary said, as if Julien’s relations were common knowledge.

Since he had never mentioned family, Maureen had always thought. . . well, she wasn’t too sure what she’d thought. But she’d never imagined him having family, least of all ones with fancy titles.

“And this Mr. D’Artiers has other family here in London?”

Lady Mary smiled. “Ah, so this is how it is. You were so uninterested in the man last night, but now I see you were just playing coy.”

“I am not playing coy,” Maureen protested. “I’m just surprised such a rake as Mr. D’Artiers has family— at least, ones who claim a connection. Especially given what you told me about him last night.”

Lady Mary nodded, though she looked unconvinced at Maureen’s explanation. “If you must know, my good friend, Lady Dearsley, is his aunt. And his connections don’t stop there. His eldest sister is the Marchioness of Trahern, while his other sister is married to Viscount Weston.” The lady sat back, her pen still poised in her hand. “If you really want to know, your Mr. D’Artiers isn’t the first member of that family to be embroiled in scandal. Why, even Lady Dearsley, bless her heart, has had her fair share of peccadilloes. She was a Ramsey before she married Lord Dearsley.” The lady pursed her lips, as if having Ramsey blood allowed one any number of transgressions. “Oh, that family is quite mischievous, but don’t think they aren’t completely respectable, mind you.”

Julien with a respectable family?

It seemed impossible. Now she’d have to add tearful, well-heeled mourners to her hanging scenario. Worse yet, with such influential relations behind him, he might well escape hanging altogether.

No wonder he’d walked out of Almack’s with such supreme confidence.

“You’ll meet all of Mr. D’Artiers’s family at his sister’s ball. The viscountess kindly sent an invitation this morning.” Lady Mary held up the gold-edged vellum. “Probably at the request of her nephew, Lord Hawksbury. That wily boy very likely means to out-court his uncle! Oh, how delicious to have the
two
of them vying for your attentions tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night?” Maureen asked. By then she planned on being hell-bent for the West Indies and as far from England as the
Retribution’s
sails could get her.

“Why, yes. Every one at Almack’s was talking about it last night,” Lady Mary told her. “And now we have our invitations as well.”

Maureen regarded the lady’s littered desk. “It looks like the viscountess isn’t the only one hosting a ball.”

“My dear, we’ve been invited to every social gathering. Balls, soirees, even a house party. I’ve been sorting through these invitations the better part of this morning. I think it is best if we accept only the most exclusive events through the end of the month.” She turned and patted a select pile of vellum and the whitest of stationery. “Now, be a dear and begin opening and reading to me this latest batch Lucy brought in.” She handed the collection of cards to Maureen and settled back into composing her replies.

“My lady,” Maureen said, glancing up from the stack in her hands, “my work here could easily be completed by tomorrow.”

“Nonsense,” Lady Mary said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It could take you most of the Season to find that devil de Ryes. Don’t you think?”

Maureen wished she could tell the hopeful lady it would, but her work was already done.

Yet Lady Mary, while exacting in her demands, had shown her nothing but kindness. Almost as if she were a treasured goddaughter, not the wayward criminal the Lord Admiral liked to remind them all she truly was.

There hadn’t been a day in the last month when Lady Mary hadn’t risen at the first hint of dawn to start their lessons or go over fashion plates and magazines she’d borrowed from Lady Dearsley. Hours and hours of lessons and patient corrections, all to ensure that Maureen’s arrival into London society was nothing short of brilliant.

The transformation hadn’t taken place only with Maureen. From the light in the lady’s eyes and the glow on her cheeks, it was obvious her renewed place in society—as fleeting as it might be—was a better tonic than any trip to the Brighton shore or waters at Bath.

What harm was there to let the lady live her dreams just a few hours longer? Maureen reasoned. At least until she could get a note to the Lord Admiral.

So Maureen set to work opening the invitations and discussing the merits of each one with Lady Mary. The acceptance pile had grown some, but it nowhere near matched the rejected engagements.

While Lady Mary composed an epistle of regrets to a Lady Osborne, Maureen looked at the next missive. Instead of being addressed to Lady Mary, as most of them were, this one was addressed to
Madame de Ryes
.

The cheeky devil, she thought, knowing only too well whom it was from.

Inside, the note read simply,
I have proof. Hatchards at three this afternoon.

There was no signature, but it held one other clue.

The pressed petals from a long-dead flower. Withered and brown, the blossom, found only in the West Indies, still held a faint hint of its exotic scent.

She crushed the flower in her fist, unwilling to consider where it had come from.

Such flowers had decorated the nosegay Julien had given her to carry at their wedding—flowers she’d left behind in his cabin when she’d fled his bed and his life the very next morning.

How dare he think I would fall prey to such false sentiments
, she fumed. As if he’d kept this blossom as some heartfelt memory of her.

But what if he did?
a small voice whispered, one calling out from the last vestiges of her innocence.
What if he still loves you?

“Lady Mary,” she said. “I think I would like to compose a response to this one myself.” Armed with a pen and paper, she addressed the note.

But not to Julien, rather to the Lord Admiral.

I have reason to believe our friend will be at Hatchards this afternoon. Meet me there at half past three.

M
aureen stepped through the doorway of Hatchards precisely at three o’clock. Right behind her bustled Lady Mary. Maureen didn’t need to look back to know the lady’s face was alert and alive, reflecting the activity within the busy shop.

It had taken only the smallest of lies to get the lady to agree to the outing. When Maureen casually suggested that she’d heard from the circles at Almack’s that Hatchards was
the
place to be seen, then Lady Mary declared they needed to visit the illustrious bookshop without further delay.

“It is not as if, my dear girl,” the lady announced, once they were in the carriage, “anyone would mistake
you
for a bluestocking.”

Lady Mary had the right of that, Maureen concluded, looking down at the dress Lucy and Lady Mary had chosen for her. With all the dainty blue ribbons and white lace, starting from the top of her bonnet and ending at the delicately edged hem of her gown, she looked like one of Aunt Pettigrew’s prized porcelain shepherdesses come to life rather than a woman used to climbing rigging and wearing tarred pants.

Truth be told, she looked like a bleedin’ bluebell.

Maureen brushed aside the annoying ribbons falling from her bonnet as she got out of the carriage. Eh, gads, how did women stand all this frippery and fuss?

Worst of all, in all the commotion of preparation and consultations just to get Lady Mary this far, there had been no time to stow her knife.

I might as well be naked
, she thought, trying to recall the last time she’d gone anywhere without her knife. A sharp poke in the ribs from Lady Mary’s parasol brought her attention back to the present, and when she looked up, her companion was holding up the edge of her own gown.

“You’re stalking,” the lady whispered. “Tiny steps, like a lady.” She demonstrated, her own delicately shod feet taking the prim steps she’d shown Maureen time and time again that all ladies used in private and public.

So Maureen gathered up every vestige of femininity she possessed and minced her way into the bookshop, ready to do battle.

But her progress was halted in the middle of the room when she realized she and Lady Mary were the only women in the shop. And right now she was drawing more attention than the books or the warm lingering scent of freshly brewed coffee.

The other customers, gentlemen and businessmen, made no attempts at hiding their interest in the latest arrival.

Probably wondering where I lost my sheep
, she thought, bemoaning her fate and wondering why she hadn’t protested Lady Mary’s choice of gowns a little more vigorously.

Gads, she must look horribly foolish.

Then Maureen really noticed the long approving looks slanted her way, saw how the gentlemen openly perused her from head to toe.

She realized, only too quickly, that she was the sheep rather than the shepherdess, and she’d just strolled into a den of well-dressed wolves.

Why, these
gentlemen
were giving her the same kind of looks that used to land drunken sailors in rough taverns a hard right hook and a few missing teeth for their trouble. But since no one said anything rude, just looked, Maureen realized she would have to live with the indignity of the situation.

Especially without her knife at hand.

She continued on, mincing and smiling demurely to her appreciative audience. If this was what it meant to be a lady, trussed up in ribbons and paraded before a pack of slathering wolves, then she’d take a hurricane any day of the week.