Shadow Dance (2 page)

“But I want the lad to wait on us,” Sir Neville announced in a peevish voice.

“Let him go, Neville,” the lady murmured. “You don’t need to debauch anyone today. Concentrate on me instead.”

“Lovely though you are, Valerie, you’re not my type,” Neville said, still casting a longing look at Julian.

“You might be surprised, dear Neville,” the lady cooed.

For a moment Julian couldn’t move. He had the strange notion that each person in the room, from the two serving girls who’d flirted with him mercilessly earlier in the evening to the lovely lady and the two disparate gentlemen, was viewing him with an unexpectedly sexual curiosity.

It was an absurd, irrational thought. The two gentlemen couldn’t be further apart, in looks, in temperament, and presumably in amatory interests. Nevertheless, Julian backed away, completely unnerved. No one made any move to stop him, but as he closed the door quietly behind him, he heard the young lady’s husky voice drawl in amusement:

“You know, Philip, maybe we should keep him instead of Neville.”

The door closed before Julian could hear the tall man’s reply. Only the sardonic tone of his voice carried through the thick oak door. Just as well, Julian told himself, moving down the narrow back stairs to the kitchen. Things were already getting too complicated.

Bessie took one look at him and shooed him upstairs to the loft over the kitchen. It was a hot, airless place, with a small, sagging bed near a window. Someone, probably
Bessie, had made an effort to make the place more homelike, and Julian stared at it in numb surprise, the soft coverlet on the thin mattress, the jug of water for washing. Even his small satchel had been left, untouched, at the foot of the bed.

At least he hoped it was untouched. He hated to think how people would react if they peeked inside at his only possessions.

They were little enough. A change of clothes, this one even more threadbare than the outfit he was wearing. Lace-trimmed, fine lawn undergarments. Another swath of linen. And a pair of diamond-and-pearl drop earrings worth a small fortune.

Julian glanced toward the window, at his reflection in the moonlight. The village of Hampton Regis was still on such a warm summer night, though he could hear the trill of laughter from the tavern below, the sound of the ocean in the distance. And he still marveled that it was Sir Neville who owned that light, feminine voice, not the lady.

He unfastened his jacket and leather waistcoat and took them off, folding them in a neat pile. He stepped out of his breeches and stockings, wiggling his toes in the evening air. Reaching up under the voluminous white shirt, he unwrapped the linen, breathing a sigh of relief.

And then Julian Smith, better known as Juliette MacGowan, daughter of the infamous Black Jack MacGowan, lay down on the pallet and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

“What do you mean, we’ll keep him instead of Neville?” the man called Philip asked.

“Now don’t quarrel,” Neville drawled. “You know I detest
arguments that aren’t of my own making. Besides, I saw him first.”

“But my interests in him aren’t perverse,” Valerie cooed.

“He’s about half your age, and doubtless a virgin,” Neville replied. “That’s perverse enough.”

“Oh, I thought I’d get him for Philip.”

“The two of you are giving me the headache,” the tall man said, dropping down into a chair with lazy elegance and reaching for the glass of brandy Agnes had already poured. “Leave the boy alone.”

“I suppose I should,” Valerie said with an exaggerated pout. “Still, he tickles my sense of the absurd.”

“Why?” Neville inquired, mystified.

Valerie shot him a naughty smile. “I’ll tell you when you’re older, darling.”

Sir Neville reached for her surprisingly strong hand, bringing it to his lips. “If I could ever love a woman,” he murmured, “you would be the one.”

“I’m immensely flattered,” she replied, batting her eyelashes. “I don’t know how my husband feels about it.”

“Follow your heart, dearest,” Philip said in a sardonic voice. “Don’t let me interfere with your little pleasures.”

Neville dropped her hand with unbecoming swiftness. “I said ‘if,’” he said hastily. “But, alas, we’ll simply have to stay friends. And speaking of friendship, I might suggest the most wonderful skin cream, made of champagne and sow’s milk. It will do wonders for your rough hands.”

“Too kind,” Valerie murmured.

And Philip only snorted, downing his glass of brandy.

Two hours later Sir Neville’s guests were safely ensconced in their carriage, heading back over the moonlit
road to their comfortable lodgings at Sutter’s Head. They traveled in silence for the most part, until the lady broke it.

“There are times, Phelan, when you have absolutely no sense of humor.”

“All I have to do is look at you, brother mine, and my sense of humor reasserts itself,” he replied with a mocking drawl.

Valerian kicked at his skirts. “God, did you see the way that little sodomite ogled me? I’m sure he’d be far happier if he knew what I really had under my skirts. As it is, he’s totally disgusted with himself for being attracted to a woman.”

“I’m pleased you find it amusing,” Phelan James Murdock Romney replied.

“Lord knows there’s little enough to keep me entertained,” Valerian said. “How much longer do I have to be cooped up in these damned skirts? Why in heaven’s name did we have to choose this of all masquerades? Couldn’t we have been sailors, or tradesmen, or even gypsies? I’m actually beginning to mince,” he said, his voice rich with disgust. “And do you realize how long it’s been since I’ve had even a mild flirtation? Not to mention a real flesh-and-blood woman?”

“You were flirting quite effectively tonight.”

Valerian shuddered. “That doesn’t count. I’m tired of this. Tired of being cooped up in that house, tired of wearing skirts, tired of celibacy and inaction. I tell you, Phelan, I’m going mad.”

“I doubt it,” Phelan drawled. “I hate to tell you this, Valerian, but with your blond hair you’d never pass for a gypsy.”

“You would have, curse your black soul,” Valerian muttered
without any real rancor. “If we had to go as man and wife, why couldn’t you have been the girl?”

“Not fitting for my dignity,” Phelan said. “Besides, it’s your own fault for being so bloody pretty.”

“I don’t know how much more of this I can stand. Lord Harry was killed more than a month ago, and what’s happened?”

“My mother is enjoying a very public mourning,” Phelan said in a bland voice.

“All the while accusing me of cold-blooded murder. Damn it, we need to go back.”

“You know as well as I do we can’t. My esteemed mother might be half mad, but she’s managed to convince a magistrate and the Bow Street runners that you’re a cold-blooded murderer. Our safest chance is to leave the country until this blows over.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Valerian said mutinously. “Who do you think killed him, Phelan?” he asked in a more subdued voice.

“If we knew that, we wouldn’t be hundreds of miles from Yorkshire. We’d be tracking the bloody bastard down and bringing him to justice.”

“And that’s my only hope, isn’t it? Finding who really killed him.”

“Our only hope. You’re forgetting, I’m in this, too. According to Hannigan, opinion is divided as to which of us actually did the old man in. Most people seem to think I’m the logical culprit and my mother’s lying to protect me. They know Lord Harry and I always hated each other, while you, in more ways than one, were his fair-haired boy. I didn’t even want to visit Yorkshire, much less step into an inheritance I’ve always despised.”

“No one would be daft enough to believe you could kill him.”

“No one would be daft enough to believe you’re a woman,” Phelan countered. “People believe what they want to believe. They’d rather believe the obvious than look beneath the surface.”

Valerian shrugged. “At least you’re allowing us out into society a bit. Even playacting is preferable to the damned solitude. Particularly when you won’t even let me ride in public. I never knew my black-sheep brother had such a repressive streak.”

“You may consider yourself to be completely convincing as a female,” Phelan said. “I, for one, am not so certain. We’re much better off keeping to ourselves.”

“Don’t you think people will question why we’re such recluses?”

“I simply put it about that you were in an interesting condition.”

Valerian stared at him blankly from beneath his long golden eyelashes. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that I told people you were expecting. In a family way. Smocked. Pregnant.”

“Oh, God,” Valerian moaned. “Was that strictly necessary? Surely I could have been spared that indignity!”

“It was very effective. It explained our keeping to ourselves. It also provided a good excuse for your less-than-dainty waist.”

“But will it explain my less-than-dainty feet?” Valerian countered, casting a frustrated glance out at the moonlit road. He shook his head. “Damnation,” he said wearily. “And that reminds me. What are we going to do about her, Phelan?”

“About whom? Margery? I don’t think there’s much we can do at this point.”

“Don’t be deliberately obtuse. I’m talking about the girl.”

Phelan leaned back and sighed, remembering. She’d had the most extraordinary eyes, set in that tanned face. Maybe she would have fooled most people, but not the Romney brothers. In the midst of their own absurd masquerade, it was child’s play to see through another, less polished one. “She’s not our concern, Val. We have our own heads to think about.”

“She’s only a child, Phelan. She must be in terrible trouble, to be out on her own …”

“She’s older than you think. Probably her early twenties. And I doubt her troubles are any worse than our own. We don’t need another lost soul, Val. We have too much to deal with as it is.”

Val shook his head, yanking at his artfully arranged ringlets. “I suppose you’re right. We might just make things worse. Still, did you notice those eyes, Phelan?”

Phelan Romney stared out at the moon-silvered landscape, keeping his face deliberately expressionless. “I noticed,” he said. And silence once more filled the carriage as the two brothers were left with their own troubled thoughts.

Juliette was dreaming again. On her third night in the old attic above the Fowl and Feathers, she lay beneath the scratchy wool cover, the fresh salt breeze dancing across her skin, and dreamed of her father. Black Jack MacGowan had been unconventional, a gruff, bluff charmer of a man, who’d loved his only daughter dearly. Loved her enough to take her with him during his travels, through wondrously strange climates and war-torn countries, on adventures that were both dangerous and fascinating. She’d been passionately devoted to him, following him everywhere, sharing in his enthusiasms, being a mother to his childlike nature, adoring him. Until he’d committed the ultimate betrayal, and died of a heart attack beneath the hot Egyptian sun, leaving her in the hands of Mark-David Lemur.

But she didn’t want to dream about that. About her father’s death, or the weeks and months afterward. That portion of her life was over, forever, and nothing would make her return to that existence. Or even relive it through dreams and memories.

Not that she wouldn’t have given anything to return to Egypt. Or Greece, or any of the warm, sunny countries
where she’d lived with her rapscallion father, clambering over ruins as soon as she could walk, drinking goat’s milk, and wearing boy’s clothes from the time she was four. She could still remember the first time she’d worn a dress. She’d been all of sixteen, and her father had traded for it with an ancient Syrian.

It had been made of silk, much too big for her slender, boyish frame, hot and stifling and decades out of fashion. And she’d put it on, and felt like a queen, like a creature out of a fairy story, listening to Black Jack’s extravagant and utterly sincere flattery. Until she’d looked up, into the eyes of MacGowan’s old friend Mark-David Lemur, and known the first tricklings of uneasiness.

She should have trusted her judgement. Black Jack should have trusted it as well. She’d tried to explain her misgivings to him, but her father had brushed off her concerns with his characteristic lightheartedness. He didn’t want to think his daughter was less than safe at his side. He didn’t want to consider the possibility that his good friend and cohort couldn’t be trusted.

Assuming people couldn’t look down from heaven and see the mess they had left behind, Black Jack MacGowan would never know what his actions had wrought. And Juliette, who still loved him dearly and missed him just as much, nine months after his death, as she had missed him the day he died, was content. As long as she never had to see Mark-David Lemur again.

She sat upright in bed, pulling the rough blanket around her, cold and sweating at the same time. The rope bed sagged beneath her weight, but she paid it no notice. She’d slept in more uncomfortable places than this hot, airless
attic on the south coast of England. Doubtless she’d sleep in worse places still.

She didn’t want to dream about the other man either. The tall, cynical man with the still face, the silver eyes, and the thin, sensual mouth. She didn’t like men, didn’t like their animal appetites and savage disregard of others. The fact that something completely irrational drew her to that man frightened her even more than the transparent threat of Sir Neville Pinworth, or the memory of Mark-David Lemur.

Juliette climbed out of bed, padding barefoot to the open window. She could see the sea from that vantage point, and she stared at it longingly. England was the land of her birth, yet she felt more of an alien here than she had in any of the diverse foreign countries she’d lived in with Black Jack. If she could, she would stow away on the next ship bound for the warmer climates and never look back.

But she didn’t dare. Her masquerade was already fraught with danger. On land she could find enough privacy to keep her secret intact. On board a ship it would be impossible. From what she remembered of the nightmarish journey back from Portugal with Lemur, there was no such thing as solitude or modesty. And a woman masquerading as a boy definitely counted both of those commodities essential.

She needed to wait until she’d found enough money to book passage to France. At least that would ensure a certain amount of privacy, and once out of the country, she could wear skirts again. If she wanted to. She’d miss the blessed freedom of breeches.

For the time being, she was better off staying where she was. The past three days had been full of hard work, but she was strong, stronger even than the two strapping serving maids who kept ogling her. Bessie was a motherly
soul and a wonderful cook, Mowbray was gruff and kind, and even the two silly girls usually found better things to chase after. In all, she was content to stay on in Hampton Regis until the proper opportunity came along.

But right now she couldn’t stand another moment in this stuffy attic. She wanted to run along the beach, barefoot, and feel the salt spray in her hair. She wanted to breathe in the air, lie in the sand, listen to the sound of the night birds. For a few short hours she wanted to feel free again.

She pulled on the brown breeches beneath her voluminous shirt, not bothering with the linen binding that flattened her small breasts. She left her hose and her shoes behind, rolling up the modestly laced sleeves to her tanned elbows and letting her hair flow free.

She’d learned to move silently in her years away from England. No one heard her as she tiptoed down the narrow, winding back stairs. The kitchen fire was banked, still sending out waves of stifling heat, and she paused long enough to cut herself a hunk of bread before she headed out into the moonlit night.

There were stars overhead in the inky-black sky, the same stars that looked down over Egypt. When she reached the sandy beach she shoved the bread into her pocket and took off at a run, racing barefoot along the wet sand, the wind tugging at her hair, plastering the white cambric shirt against her body. She leapt over rocks, danced along the edge of the water, took deep, cleansing breaths of the clear salt air, so intent on the sheer, mindless pleasure that she didn’t realize she wasn’t alone on the beach until she slammed full force into a tall, unyielding figure.

The tiny scream of shock that erupted from her throat was definitely girlish. She choked it back as hard, strong
hands caught her arms, holding tight, and she looked up, way up in the darkness, into the face of the man she’d been afraid to dream about.

She didn’t even know his name. Mowbray hadn’t mentioned it, and she’d been unwilling to ask. It didn’t matter. He was a member of the quality, and obviously not interested in a serving lad. Which didn’t explain why he held her arms so tightly, why his fingers seemed to caress her skin through the thin cambric shirt, why he stared down into her face so searchingly.

“What are you doing out here at this hour?” he demanded abruptly, his voice harsh in the still night air.

She didn’t bother to wonder why her comings and goings should interest him. “It was too hot to sleep,” she said, consciously deepening her voice. “Sir,” she added as an afterthought.

A ghost of a smile flitted across his face, but his grip on her arms didn’t loosen. “That’s a proper lad,” he said, his voice mocking. “Remember to do the pretty to your betters.”

Juliette wasn’t in the habit of considering anyone, particularly a man, her better, but she swallowed back her instinctive retort. She tried to squirm away, but his hands tightened painfully. “Might I go back to the inn?” She made her voice properly deferential, lowering her defiant gaze.

“I don’t think that would be a particularly wise idea.”

She glanced up at him again, not bothering to mask her surprise. “Why not?”

“I’ve just come from the Fowl and Feathers,” he said in a reasonable voice. “I’ve spent the past three hours trying to drink Sir Neville under the table, and so far I’ve had absolutely no success. I was hoping a walk on the beach might clear my head so that I could approach my task with renewed energy.”

“Why were you trying to drink him under the table?” she asked, forgetting for a moment that a proper young lad wouldn’t presume to question the quality. By the time she remembered, he was already answering her artless question.

“Because, my dear boy, he needed distraction from his primary goal.”

“And what was that? Sir,” she added hastily, wishing he’d release her arms.

He did, but the result was even more unnerving. He touched her face, pushing her dark brown hair back from her brow. “You, Julian Smith.”

She held herself very still beneath his suddenly gentle hand and his mocking gaze. He must have asked Mowbray her name, but why should he have bothered? And why should he want to protect her from a frivolous creature like Sir Neville?

“I believe I’m capable of looking after myself,” she said. “I’ve been on my own for the past five years.”

“Have you, indeed? And have you had much experience with gentlemen such as Sir Neville? Gentlemen with a preference for pretty young boys?”

She glanced up at him, taking a deliberate step backward. “Not until tonight.”

It took him a moment to realize what she was saying. She half expected rage to darken that cool, mocking face. Instead, he laughed. “Not me, lad. I find women to be vastly more entertaining. I just happen to have a soft spot in my heart for stray lambs.”

“I’m hardly a stray lamb,” she said frostily. “And I can protect myself from the likes of Sir Neville.”

The dark man didn’t deny it. He just looked at her from those mocking silver eyes, his thin mouth curved in a
faintly derisive smile. “Such a brave soul,” he said softly, and she shivered in the warm night air. “Sir Neville could make mincemeat out of you if he wanted to. He’s not quite as frivolous as he seems.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.” His voice was low, and curiously beguiling. Until Juliette remembered that she wasn’t the sort to be beguiled by a mysterious man on a moonlit beach.

She turned then and ran. She was half afraid he’d reach out those strong hands and capture her again, but he let her go, standing motionless in the moonlight, watching her as she ran up the strand. She didn’t dare glance behind her. For some reason, the man unnerved her with his cool, steady glance. She didn’t trust any man, including this dark, nameless one who’d deemed himself her savior.

She didn’t know what idiocy made her enter the front of the building, rather than sneaking in through the kitchen. She wanted to get back to the safety of her attic room, away from eyes that could see too clearly in the darkness, away from hands that were hard and gentle at the same time.

She’d forgotten whom he’d left behind. She no sooner had reached the stairs than she saw Sir Neville lounging near the fireplace, a dazed, bleary expression on his pale, powdered face. If the other man had planned to outdrink Sir Neville, it was clear he’d had more success than he’d realized. Pinworth seemed barely conscious. Until he looked up and saw her.

Sir Neville rose on unsteady feet, mincing toward Juliette as she paused at the foot of the stairs, momentarily transfixed. “There you are, lad,” he said in his soft, slurred voice. “Been looking for you. Came here hoping to find
you, but then Ramsey got in the way. Got a”—he hiccupped loudly—”a little proposition for you. Come back to Pinworth Manor with me. You’ll like it, I know you will. A pretty lad like you shouldn’t waste your time carrying slops and mucking out the stables. You’ll ruin your soft little hands.” He captured one of those hands in his, and his grip was surprisingly strong.

“Please, Sir Neville,” she said, trying to break free and squash down the desperation that filled her. She’d been too rash when she’d told the other man she could take care of herself. She was finding she was far from able to handle the amorous attentions of one drunken aristocrat.

“Oh, I do please, boy,” he said, reaching his other hand to pull her against him. “I do, indeed.”

“Take your hands off the boy, Pinworth.” The voice was low and chillingly pleasant. The dark man stood in the doorway, calm, unruffled, and absolutely implacable.

Sir Neville pouted, still clutching at her. “Why should I, Ramsey? I saw him first. It’s not as if I’m suggesting anything so unusual, and I know for a fact that you don’t share my tastes. Leave us alone and I’ll convince the lad.”

“I don’t think so.” Ramsey stepped into the room, and Sir Neville wasn’t so sotted that he didn’t recognize a threat when confronted with one. He released Juliette, albeit reluctantly, and she sank back against the stairs, rubbing her bruised wrist, wrapping her arms protectively around herself.

“Don’t be a spoilsport, Ramsey. He won’t be so hard to convince. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He could be persuaded to shower that attention on someone who’d be more appreciative of it.” Sir Neville’s voice had deteriorated into a slurred whine.

Ramsey’s mouth curved in a sardonic smile, but he didn’t even glance over at Juliette’s huddled figure. “You see what you want to see. As a matter of fact, Valerie was asking about the boy, and I promised to bring him back to Sutter’s Head. We could use the extra help.”

“So could I!” Sir Neville protested.

“Here now, what’s all this?” Mowbray appeared at the top of the stairs, his grizzled gray hair going every which way. “Oh, begging your pardon, Mr. Ramsey. I didn’t realize you and his lordship were still here. Where is that Agnes? I’ll give her a hiding …”

“We sent her off,” Ramsey said easily. “We had need of a bit of privacy.”

Mowbray looked startled. “You, Mr. Ramsey? I … er … hadn’t realized …” His glance fell on Juliette, and he looked even more troubled. “What’s the lad been up to?”

“I’m stealing him, Mowbray,” Ramsey said. “We have need of a young lad to help around the house, and Julian here seemed a likely sort. I assume you have no objections.”

“But I want him!” Sir Neville wailed.

Mowbray took all this in, a disturbed look on his face as he slowly descended the stairs until he came even with Juliette. She kept her arms wrapped around her, acutely aware that her breasts were unbound beneath the thin shirt. “What do you want to do, lad?” he asked kindly. “There’s no denying that Sir Neville would be generous, and a lad sometimes can’t afford to be too picky about how he’s to make his way in the world. But you’ve got choices. You can stay on here—we’ll find work for you somehow. Or you can go with Mr. Ramsey.”