My Fair Mistress (45 page)

“Ye think he done him in, then?”

“Undoubtedly. After what Hurst wrote in those journals of his, I’m surprised St. George didn’t kill him ages ago.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t know about the journals.”

Rafe ate a slice of orange, the fruit bursting sweet and tangy on his tongue. He swallowed and wiped his sticky fingers on a napkin. “Oh, he knows. It has to be the reason Hurst is dead. Weak hearts, as I recall, have never run in Hurst’s family. He was far more likely to die of jaundice and a failing liver than from a heart disorder.”

“Well, if St. George knows, then he’ll be wantin’ those journals back.”

“Good thing, isn’t it then, that I took the liberty of copying the salient pages and forwarding them to poor Eleanor Winthrop’s father? Anonymously, of course. No doubt the marquis will find the account of his daughter’s death quite enlightening.”

Rafe drank some coffee, then returned the china cup to its saucer. “Considering the marquis’s position in Parliament, this evidence will allow him to put pressure on the right people and see St. George brought to justice. I would pursue it myself, but considering my connection with St. George, his former father-in-law will be a far more effective advocate than I.”

“Murdering bastard ought to be hanged twice,” Hannibal said. “Once fer his wife and once for our poor Pammy. Won’t say he ought to swing fer Hurst. That poxmonger deserved whatever it was he got. Guess he’s down in Hell by now with the devil warming his feet but good.”

“Let us hope so, Hannibal. Let us hope so.”

Rafe paused, waiting silently for some kind of satisfaction to sweep over him. Three of Pamela’s tormentors had now received their punishment, two of them dead. And the last one—the worst one—would soon receive his comeuppance if everything went as it ought. Eleanor Winthrop’s father would be out for blood and if Rafe could arrange it, he would give the authorities reason to rethink not only her death but Hurst’s as well. With the journals, it wouldn’t be difficult to turn their inquiring eyes in St. George’s direction.

Instead of pleasure, though, Rafe felt nothing but a lingering sadness. Pamela was dead, and nothing he did would ever change that fact. Revenge, he realized, was no longer his goal. Only justice would serve now. Justice and a freedom from the threat St. George still posed to himself and his family.

His stomach muscles tightened at the thought that Julianna might be in more danger now than ever. St. George certainly must have learned about her marriage to him, and if he found out Rafe was behind the disappearance of the journals…

No longer hungry, he pushed aside the half-eaten orange. “I want you to personally watch Julianna until this is over. She is to be guarded at every moment, is that clear?”

“Completely. But it might not be easy to watch her that close and not be seen.”

Rafe shrugged. “Then let her see you. Follow straight on her heels and if she confronts you about it, have her come to me.”

A twinkle sparked in Hannibal’s gaze. “She won’t like it a bit. You’d best polish up your strongest armor.”

“Very amusing.”

“Weren’t meant to be amusin’. Just givin’ you fair warning, is all.”

“So noted.” Rafe lifted his cup to his mouth again and drained the last of the coffee. “I believe you should also tell Appleby to pack his things and lie low for a while. Obviously Hurst has no further need of his services as a footman, so his sudden disappearance from the city won’t look odd. Chances are good St. George won’t peg him as the man who liberated the journals from Hurst, but if he does, then Appleby’s life is in grave jeopardy. Tell him I’ll take care of his expenses until St. George is firmly under lock and key.”

“Man’s got family over in Margate. I’ll suggest he pay ’em a nice, long visit fer the spring and summer. He’ll be right happy with that, I’m certain.”

“Good. Now you’d best be going; you’ve got work to do.”

Julianna rushed into the townhouse.

Or rather she waddled fast, since she didn’t “rush” anywhere these days. At the moment, however, her current physical limitations were not uppermost in her thoughts—Rafe was.

I have a few choice words for him,
she mused,
and I’m going to say them. What does he think he’s doing, anyway? Having me followed, and by Hannibal no less!

Over the past three days, she’d started noticing the man anytime she came within the vicinity of the front door. At first she hadn’t thought a great deal about it but this morning there’d been no mistaking the matter when she’d ordered the coach for a trip to Bond Street to visit some shops.

Bold as you please, there he’d come, the big behemoth following her out of the house, only to climb up next to the coachman with the obvious intent of going along for the ride.

After arriving at her destination, she’d said nothing as he’d trailed her down the street. But when he’d actually had the nerve to walk into the linen drapers and stand behind her, well, she knew she’d had more than enough. Turning, she had confronted him with every intention of sending him on his way. But he’d stunned her, first by openly admitting that he was following her, and then again by telling her he was doing so at Rafe’s behest.

“If you’ve a problem, my lady, you’re to take it up with The Dragon,” he told her. “Otherwise, I’ve orders to be your new shadow.”

When she demanded to know why she was being trailed, Hannibal crossed his beefy arms over his chest and shook his head. “Talk to Rafe.”

Oh, I’ll talk to him all right,
she vowed as she quick-waddled her way across the main foyer and down the hall to Rafe’s study. Even her longtime butler, Martin, had held his tongue as she’d come through the door, no doubt glimpsing the martial glint in her eye.

As she approached the study she heard voices, but she didn’t care. Whoever he had in there with him could wait. Her business took precedence.

Rapping her knuckles in a fast staccato against the door, she shoved it open, not waiting to receive permission to enter. “Pardon the interruption, my lord,” she declared as she crossed into the room, “but I must speak with you. Now, if you please.”

The room grew abruptly quiet, Rafe and his guest turning their heads to look at her. With her attention focused squarely upon her husband, she didn’t at first pay heed to the individual seated across from him.

Her breath caught on a surprised inhale, however, when she did, taking in the woman’s ethereal blond beauty and lithesome figure—so slender compared to her own body, now heavily rounded with pregnancy.

From his seat behind his desk, Rafe rose to his feet.

“Julianna, is something wrong?”

Her gaze darted between him and the woman.

Who is she?
she wondered.
What’s more, why is Rafe having a private conversation with her?

“No. Well, yes. We need to talk,” she repeated.

Rafe’s dark brows twisted. “Can this wait a few minutes?”

She stared again at the woman, who gave her a small, conciliatory smile.

Highly aware of their audience, she nearly backed down and agreed to wait. Instead, she straightened her shoulders. “I would prefer that it not.”

Who is she?
Julianna wondered again.
Dear God, surely not his mistress? But Rafe wouldn’t invite such a woman to his home—to
our
home—would he?

The blood drained from her cheeks at the idea.

He crossed to her and took her elbow in his hand. “You look pale. You are not unwell, are you?”

Recovering slightly, she pulled away from his grasp. “I am fine.”

He tossed the blond a quick glance. “Excuse us, will you?”

“Oh, but of course,” she answered, her French-accented voice every bit as pretty as the rest of her.

Julianna preceeded Rafe out of the room, cognizant of the fact that he had made no effort to introduce her to the other woman.
Are my suppositions correct
?
Has Rafe taken a mistress and is she even now sitting only in the next room?

Opening her mouth, she nearly voiced the question, part of her desperate to confront him. Then she stopped.

What if the answer is yes,
she asked herself.
If it is, do I really want to know
?

“So what is this about, Julianna?”

Letting the sense of affront over her original complaint return, she lifted her chin and met his gaze. “As if you do not know. Hannibal is following me around Town, and on your orders, I am given to understand. I want him to stop.”

He tucked a hand into his trouser pocket. “Oh, that.”

“Yes, that. Call off your dog, Rafe.”

“Sorry, but I’m afraid I cannot comply. I suggest you learn to ignore him.”

Her lips parted. “Ignore a giant? Impossible. Everyone will be whispering, wanting to know why I suddenly have a bodyguard trailing my every step. Frankly, it’s mortifying.”

“I don’t see why. Women often have servants accompany them.”

“Ladies take footmen and maids with them. No one will mistake Hannibal for either one of those.”

“You aren’t keeping an active social schedule this Season, and with your confinement all but upon you, you’ll scarcely be out in company enough to be noticed. I fail to see the difficulty.”

“The difficulty is trust, and your lack of it in me. Why is Hannibal following me?”

An inscrutable expression settled over his face. “I have my reasons.”

“And pray tell what are those? Surely this is not because Lord Summersfield has returned to Town?”

A scowl lowered across his brow. “No, but you are to stay away from him nevertheless.”

Her mouth firmed. “I told you once before that I choose my own friends.”

“And I’ve told you to have a care in your choices.”

And what of yours?
she wanted to ask.
What of the woman waiting just beyond your closed study door?

She straightened her shoulders. “So if not Summersfield, then what? I deserve an explanation at least.”

A long moment of silence descended, as if Rafe were debating how to respond. “He is there for your protection, yours and the baby’s.”

“The baby and I are fine. We have no need of a guard. Or would jailer be a more apt description?”

For an instant, an expression of hurt strained his features. “You are free to come and go as you like, but Hannibal will remain.”

“So you will not call him off?”

Rafe gave her an inscrutable look. “No. Now, are we done?”

Tears pricked behind her eyes. Blinking quickly, she willed them away, sorrow settling like a chunk of ice in her breast.

He turned, wrapping his fingers around the doorknob.

“God above, I wish I’d never met you,” she murmured under her breath.

He paused. “Of that, madam, I am well aware.”

Turning as fast as her figure would allow, Julianna sped away.

Rafe stood motionless, the brass knob forgotten beneath his fingers. Closing his eyes, he fought to steady his emotions. He supposed he could have handled the situation differently, explained his concerns about St. George to her. But he hadn’t wanted to frighten her, not with the baby’s arrival so close at hand. Better she be angry with him for a time than afraid to step foot outside the house. Or worse, that she dismiss his fears as groundless and take unnecessary risks.

She spoke of trust. What of her trust in him? She should know he had only her best interests at heart.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped back inside the study.

Yvette Beaulieu looked up at his entrance and smiled. “Is everything well with your wife?”

“Yes,” he lied, crossing to his chair and settling in. “Quite well.”

“I can see now why you wish me to make a portrait of her and the baby. She is exquisitely lovely, as I am sure your
petit enfant
will be when he comes. I cannot wait to return for the commission. But I will be careful not to say a word, since it is to be a secret.”

“Yes, just so.”

Rafe wasn’t sure there would be a commission. Once Julianna heard of his plan to have her and the baby’s likeness painted, she might not wish to proceed. But he couldn’t voice his concerns to Madame Beaulieu, not after he had contracted for the work.

The widow of an old friend, Yvette depended upon commissions, such as his own, to supplement her meager jointure and support her four children. Well aware she would not accept charity, he had thought the portrait a fine way to aid her, and at the same time do something nice for Julianna. He’d seen the expression on Julianna’s face when she had noticed Yvette, however, and wasn’t sure now that she would accept the gift.

Unlocking his top desk drawer, he counted out a stack of coins. “The first half down. I will pay the remainder upon completion of the work.”

He would have paid her the entire sum now, but knew her pride would not let her take the money.

“Oh, this is far too generous. A third would have sufficed.”

Yet as he watched, her small hand reached out and took the coins, trembling slightly as she dropped them in obvious relief inside her reticule.

“Well, I should take my leave, monsieur…oh,
pardonnez-moi,
my lord, it is now.”

He smiled. “‘Rafe’ will do fine, just as it always has done. Take care, Yvette. Give my best to the boys.”