The Prince of Ravenscar (13 page)

She grinned. “I should prefer champagne, but I see no bubbles in my future. First, Julian, I would like you to meet Roxanne's sister, my aunt Leah, Lady Merrick. This is Lord Julian Monroe, Lady Merrick. Ah, and Mr. Langworth.”

If Richard noted the sudden coldness in Sophie's voice, he gave no sign. He watched Leah extend a graceful hand to Julian, watched him bend over her wrist but not kiss it. He watched Sophie Wilkie place her hand on Julian's arm, to draw him away. Since he wasn't blind, Richard also saw the banked threat in Julian's eyes.

He smiled. “My dear,” he said to Leah, “shall we take a stroll around the room before we are bolted to our seats for the musicale?”

She dimpled up at him. “I am so pleased you are here, Richard. I was beginning to wonder—”

“The moment I received your note, Leah, I changed my plans for the evening. You look delightful. Come.”

Sophie watched the two of them walk toward the huge buffet table at the far end of the large ballroom, weaving their way gracefully through the crowds of black-coated gentlemen and rainbow-gowned ladies.

“He seems so charming,” Sophie said. “Not showing on the outside what boils inside him.”
Why does he believe you murdered his sister?
But she said nothing.

Neither did Julian.

“You came to rescue me?”

“Consider yourself rescued. Since there is no champagne, would you like me to take you to Roxanne? She is speaking to a portly gentleman who is, I believe, a longtime friend of her father's.”

“Let us stroll for a bit, if you don't mind. I wish to consult my wise uncle.”

“I am at your service. Something bothers you, Sophie?”

She placed her hand on his arm again and drew close. “I'm thinking perhaps I can mask my face, lure my aunt Leah onto the balcony, tap her on the shoulder, and when she turns, smack my fist to her jaw, topple her over into the bushes. What do you think?”

“That could work, since the balcony railing isn't all that high. She is so very dreadful?”

“This evening, before we left, she told Roxanne to her face that she had aged, that Leah now looked like the younger sister. Then she mentioned that yellow wasn't the best color for her, as it made her look
sallow.
Can you imagine?”

“No, yellow doesn't make her look sallow at all, but I have seen a certain shade of blue she wears that does. What did Roxanne have to say to that?”

“Roxanne laughed. She said perhaps Leah could lend her one of her own beautiful gowns and then she would look just the thing.”

“That was well done of her,” he said.

“Roxanne said she'd been watching how I turned Leah's insults back to her with a smile and agreement, thus spiking her guns.” Sophie sighed. “However, this time it didn't work out. Leah said since Roxanne had vulgar red hair, wearing any of her stylish gowns would only make her look more slovenly. Roxanne laughed again, even though I saw her hands fisted at her sides. She acts like she doesn't care, but I know she does. Leah is not happy, Roxanne tells me, to excuse her, I suppose. Evidently, she never has been happy, even when she was a child. When I asked her what in heaven's name Leah had to be unhappy about—then and now—Roxanne couldn't think of a single thing. I think Leah was born mean.

“And now she is cooing over Richard Langworth. I really want to cosh her, Julian. Is the railing really low enough so I can heft her over it?”

“It is, my child, but your kindly wise uncle fears you must forgo retribution, as tasty as it might sound.”

“I am tall. I could come up behind her; she might believe she'd been smacked by a man, her lovely Richard Langworth, for example. Then I would run away, quickly.”

“It is Roxanne's decision how to deal with her sister.” He placed his finger on her mouth. “If you like, I will speak to Roxanne, give her my wise counsel.”

Sophie sighed. “I wonder what Roxanne would say to you if you did offer her counsel?”

“Surely she would be excessively grateful.” He paused for a moment, tapped his fingertips to his chin. “Do you know, Sophie, I have changed my mind. Maybe you should sneak up behind her.”

“I might,” Sophie said, leaned up and kissed his cheek, patted his arm, and danced away.

“Are you Lord Julian Monroe, sir?”

He turned to face James Sherbrooke. So he'd heard him speaking and recognized his voice, had he? Well, Julian had wondered when this would happen. He remembered so clearly the night last fall at Saint Osyth when he'd smuggled in tea and brandy from France, the only time he'd come back to England in three years. And it had been only for a fortnight, staying with Harlan in his rooms on Potwin Street, because he hadn't wanted anyone to know he was here, except for the gentlemen in the ministry who'd asked him to play diplomat for England to Rome, and, naturally, he had.

“Yes, I am.” He said nothing more, simply waited for James Sherbrooke to introduce himself and his wife.

Julian bowed to James but made no attempt to kiss Corrie's wrist, a good thing, since she kept her hands at her sides. She said, “You are Devlin's uncle, sir, are you not?”

“Yes, Lady Hammersmith, I am his ancient graybeard uncle.”

She tried to look fierce and condemning but couldn't manage it. He smiled down at this lovely young lady, seeing the tangle-haired ragamuffin on that wild night long ago. He remembered her knee against his neck. A heroine, she was, that was what Devlin had told him. More courage than brains, Devlin had added. Could he believe she'd actually ridden a horse into a cottage, a pitchfork in her hand, to rescue James?

No, Julian would never have believed such a tale until she'd had her knee pressed hard against his own throat.

Both husband and wife were studying his face. Trying to make certain he was indeed the smuggler? He realized they weren't quite certain what to say to him now that the evil villain was standing two feet in front of them.

He said easily, “I must say the two of you look much better than the last time I saw you—both of you were filthy, your clothes torn, nearly drowned in that deluge. I see you are married and appear quite content with each other, my felicitations to you both.” And he gave them a charming smile. He touched his fingers to his throat. “A sharp knee you have, my lady.”

They stared at him. Obviously they'd never expected him to simply spit it right out. Corrie said finally, “We thought we recognized your voice, but it's difficult to believe that you—Lord Julian Monroe—are that wretched smuggler who would have dragged us to Plymouth if we hadn't bested you. Of course, we did just that, didn't we?” And up went her chin.

Julian laughed. “Yes, I am the wretched smuggler who couldn't take the chance you'd report me to the excisemen. Smuggling has been a hobby I've enjoyed for many years.”

“But you don't have many years!”

He grinned at Corrie. “I am tempted to say smuggling runs in the blood, but alas, my sire died when I was a mere babe, so I do not know if he ever indulged.” There was no need to tell them soldiers in Wellington's army had taught him all about the joys of smuggling. “Now, I would ask that the two of you contrive to forget it.”

Corrie was outraged. “
Forget it?
Forget that you would have
kidnapped
us? Forget that you might have
shot
us dead if you'd wished to, or had your gnarly men
beat
us into the ground?”

James couldn't help it, he laughed. He laughed even more at her red-faced outrage. Corrie shook her fist in his face and sputtered. She looked from Julian to her husband, and her sputter turned into a laugh. Soon all three of them were laughing like the best of friends. Guests began turning to look at them.

When Julian caught his breath, he said to James, “I understand you are an astronomer, that you presented a paper to the Royal Astronomical Society on what you called the silver cascade phenomena on Titan. A fascinating description you gave, so my friend told me, since he knows I have always been interested in Saturn's moons—”

Corrie couldn't believe it when James leaned closed to this man who'd held them at gunpoint, this man who'd planned to kidnap them, and now look at him—hooked like a channel bass. She said loudly, “I understand your mama wants you to marry Sophie Wilkie.”

Julian said, “Alas, my nuptials to Sophie are not meant to be. I am far too old for her. My mama will survive her disappointment.”

Corrie said, “James is seven years older than I. Do you believe him too old for me?”

“Seven years is, I should say, the perfect age difference. However, I am twelve years Sophie's senior.”

Corrie said, “Isn't seven years about the age difference between you and Roxanne Radcliffe, Sophie's aunt? Perhaps your mama should pursue her for you instead.”

“There are only five years between Roxanne and me—not enough, I fancy, to give me any sort of advantage in the marital ring.”

“You do have ready answers, don't you, sir? I imagine many would believe your smart replies quite amusing. Perhaps, as Devlin's uncle, you can answer me this. Is Devlin really a vampire?”

He leaned close and said into her lovely little ear with its pearl drop earring, “He carries my blood and my lineage. My father, my mother has told me, hated the sunlight, avoided it at all costs. I shall let you draw your own conclusions, my lady,” and then Julian left them, humming, until he heard one of the Milanese tenors clear his throat. The evening's torture was about to begin. He saw Roxanne walking toward Sophie, his mother in tow, and moved to join them. He looked back once to see James and Corrie Sherbrooke looking after him. He didn't believe they would inform on him at Bow Street.

 

 

 

J
ulian refolded the letter, stared off at nothing in particular, and began tapping his fingers on his desktop. This was unexpected. What the devil should he do?

He opened the letter and read yet again:

Julian sent the letter and a note to his mother, and took himself off to the stables to ride Cannon. He joined up with military friends who'd befriended him at Waterloo.

Lord Alfred Ponsonby, an older gentleman with a wealth of gray frizzled hair and thick whiskers, had jerked him up by his collar at Waterloo to avoid an onrushing French soldier, his bayonet at the ready. He looked him up and down. “Fine horseflesh, my lad.”

“Cannon could beat that nag you're riding, my lord.”

“I'll grant you he could give it a good try.” Lord Alfred turned to the other three gentlemen. “I remember the grand old man himself give Julian that name; he said Julian here was so fast he looked shot from a cannon—one that worked and didn't fall limp on the ground. And now you have transferred your name to your horse.”

Everyone laughed.

Major Ramey said, “Our poor Iron Duke—beset on all sides. I fear the end is in sight for him, with the Whigs and Earl Grey waiting in the wings, but that is politics, something I abhor. When I saw Arthur at the ministry last week, he told me he'd heard you'd finally returned to England.”

“The speed of gossip astounds me. I returned from Italy only a month ago. Since Lord Arthur is still the leader of England and has endless demands, I doubt not that the only time he would have free to see the likes of me is in the water closet.”

H
is heart was lighter when he returned to his town house on Rexford Square, a lovely Georgian bequeathed to him by his sire, a house he quite liked because, he freely admitted, his sister-in-law, Lorelei Monroe, very much resented Julian's owning the town house and not her own dear husband, who wasn't a nobody like Julian, but rather
the Duke.
Tavish, his butler, wasn't to be seen. He strolled into the drawing room to find Roxanne Radcliffe planted in the middle of a small sofa, her beautiful pale pink skirts fanned out around her, Harlan Whittaker seated on the edge of his chair opposite her, his hands on his knees, looking anxious and smitten, both at the same time. A fine-looking man was Harlan, Julian thought, not very tall but wiry and strong, his hair a copper color that shone in the sun. Harlan was only two years older than Julian. He realized he was seeing his man of business as one would see a man who could possibly have interest in the fairer sex. Julian prayed he never looked so pathetic when he looked at a lady.