Three Nights with a Scoundrel: A Novel (30 page)

They would have no more money. They would have to leave this rented room, which, even without a hearth, had been a far sight warmer than huddling under the steps. And perhaps their place under the steps was taken now. It was a plum spot. This was all his fault. He hadn’t been listening, and now it was late, too late. Where would they go? What would they eat? The Italian butcher’s scraps would all be claimed by this hour, gone to feed the dogs of noblemen. He couldn’t risk nicking bread from the market again, not so soon after—

Something grabbed his arm. Julian lashed out in panic. He kicked, only to find his leg restrained, too.

He opened his eyes. Daylight blinded him momentarily before revealing his enemy … the tangled nest of bed linens. He was not in a barren, rat-infested rented room in Spitalfields, but a richly appointed bedchamber in Mayfair. He was, undoubtedly, late to wake his mother—by more than twenty years.

He took deep, rasping breaths, struggling to calm his racing heart.

“What is it?” His wife of two blissful days turned to him, rubbing her eyes and rising up on one elbow.

“Nothing but church bells.” He hastily wiped the sheen of sweat from his brow. “Go back to sleep, love.”

“Bells?” She smiled. “Perhaps they’re tolling in celebration of our wedding.”

A nervous laugh rattled free of his chest. “I doubt that.”

Her brow creased with worry, and Julian scrubbed his face with his palm. They’d sent a brief announcement of their marriage to the newspapers yesterday, thinking it best to get it over with before the gossips did it for them. Over dinner, they had joked and teased, imagining the shocked reaction of their friends and peers. They’d even devised an imaginary screed from Aunt Beatrice. Despite all their concerted effort at levity, however, Julian worried that
she
worried about public reaction. Hell, he was worried about it himself.

She put a hand against his rapidly thumping heart.

“A bad dream,” he admitted. “That’s all.”

She laid her cheek to his chest. “It’s Leo, isn’t it? Are you thinking of him? It’s five months today.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Evidently it wasn’t scandal weighing her brow this morning, but a much more serious concern. Reclining against the headboard, he pulled her to his chest and hugged her close, wrapping his arms around her willowy body and stroking her long, dark hair.

“I know it’s hard for you,” she said. “Giving up the search. But just because you haven’t found them, it doesn’t mean Leo’s killers will go unpunished. Men who are bad will end badly. I have to believe in that.”

Julian understood why that thought might comfort her. But he didn’t find it especially reassuring, since he knew he fell into the “men who are bad” category himself.

He stroked her back in a soothing rhythm, in time with the distant still-tolling bells.
Yes, darling. You believe in that. Just don’t stop to ask yourself why it is I’m here with you, and not jailed or worse
.

Holy Christ.

Jailed
.

The word was a blow to his skull, and his whole mind reverberated with the meaning. How stupid he’d been. How utterly, unbelievably dim. Where had Julian himself been, the one time in his life his friends and family had searched for him with no success? He’d been jailed, of course. Forced to spend a putrid, shivering month in Bridewell Prison, with all the other bad men—and boys—who had ended badly. Perhaps this was the reason his hunt for Leo’s killers remained fruitless all these months, even after an exhaustive search of London’s streets. Because they weren’t on the streets. They’d been incarcerated for some other crime.

God, it was all so clear to him now. So bloody obvious.

He would write to Levi Harris, reopen the investigation. Tell him to search every court record, every jail and prison log in England, and quickly. They may have been already released, or they may have gone to the gallows—who could say?

The prospect of answers dangled before him, shining and seductive.

But he’d promised Lily he’d stop looking. He’d done more than promise. He’d made
vows
.

“Justice is in God’s hands now,” she said, petting the line of dark hair down the center of his chest, “as it should be. We shall find retribution in sheer happiness. Don’t ever lose sleep over those men again.”

He gently dislodged her from his chest and sat up.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Those bells,” he said, frowning at the low, mournful peals. “So strange. It’s been minutes now, and they haven’t stopped.”

With those bells, married life was off to a rather unusual start.

Lily had steeled herself for a certain measure of scandal, once their marriage became common knowledge. Had either one of them married, it would have been a source of great excitement and gossip within the
ton
. For Lily and Julian to have married each other—and in such hasty, unexpected fashion—well, this would be a story responsible for many a tongue wagging over many a cup of cooled tea.

But on that morning, when the bells roused her husband from sleep and failed to cease tolling even after some time, Julian ventured downstairs to investigate and returned with shocking news.

Princess Charlotte had died in the night, some hours after giving birth to a stillborn babe.

With that, all England plunged into deep, formal mourning. The papers were filled with news of funeral arrangements and the relayed condolences of the world’s royalty. Parties were canceled, theaters closed. London emptied of laughter. No one paid any attention to the nuptials of a gently bred lady and an infamous rake.

It was all so very ironic. The world was too busy mourning to care about them, and behind the drawn shades of Harcliffe House, Lily and Julian were celebrating life.

Naturally, Lily shared the country’s shock and grief at Princess Charlotte’s untimely passing. After learning of the tragedy, she spent a stunned morning in her husband’s strong embrace. And as a vaguely connected relation of the royal family, she would of course attend the funeral. But she’d spent the past five months in mourning for Leo, and she seemed to have exhausted her reserve of melancholy. This was her honeymoon, and happiness would not be held at bay.

With every day—every hour—that passed, their bond strengthened. They talked of nothing new. Most of their conversations were reminiscences of old events, or a reprisal of some topic they’d discussed years before. But they went over them again with new perspective and a sense of serendipitous wonder. Like thieves who’d dug up a treasure chest by night and were only now examining its contents in the light of day. Their fingers worked constantly as they spoke, sifting through the precious gems and heavy strands of gold.

They mostly kept to the house, some days never even venturing downstairs. Julian’s valet had delivered his full wardrobe to Harcliffe House, but the dozens of topcoats and felted hats remained untouched in the closet. He lounged about in a silk banyan and loose trousers, when he dressed at all. No shirt beneath, to Lily’s infinite delight. She loved sitting across the breakfast table from him, letting her gaze stray to his unshaven throat and studying the muscular definition of his bared chest.

So she was shocked indeed to wake late one morning after a deliciously sleepless night and find him already starched and stuffed into a somber gray suit.

She blinked at him, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and he noted her confusion.

“It’s Sunday,” he said, pairing signs with his words. “Church.” He came to the bedside and offered a hand. “Out of bed with you, then. We’ll have to make haste.”

She accepted his help in rising from the bed. “I wasn’t aware that you attended church regularly.”

“
I
didn’t.” He emphasized the “I” with a jab to his chest. “
We
do.”

“Very well.”

So they did. They attended church, and they attended the royal funeral, and they did it all looking appropriately solemn and composed. She wasn’t certain Julian’s old friends even recognized him as the man sitting at her side. There was no cracking jokes. For heaven’s sake, he never so much as cracked a smile. No matter the wild cries he wrenched from her by night, by day he seemed determined to present an eminently civil face to the world. She didn’t want to complain, but neither did she want him feeling he must change his personality for her.

“Julian,” she said one evening at dinner, almost two weeks into their marriage, “you needn’t stay at home with me every night.”

He put down his fork. “Why would I want to be anywhere else?”

“I don’t know,” she said, blushing at the implied compliment and digging a furrow in her peas. “But if you did wish to visit your friends some evening, or go round to the club, I want you to know it’s perfectly fine with me.”

“Do you
wish
me to go out?”

“No, not at all. I mean … I wish for you to do as you please, that’s all. Simply because you’re married doesn’t mean you must give up all your fun. Other gentlemen don’t.”

He didn’t reply right away, but took his time finishing his roast duck and red wine. With thoughtful precision, he folded his linen napkin and set it aside.

“Do you know,” he said, “I think I will go by the club tonight.”

A few hours later, Lily sat up alone in her private sitting room with a roaring fire, a book, and a pot of coffee to keep her company. Well, all these and her regrets. Why had she ever suggested Julian spend an evening out? She missed him terribly.

Lifting her cup, she took a scalding sip of coffee and grimaced at the bitter aftertaste. She hated the brew, but she’d requested Holling to bring it especially for its stimulating properties. She wanted to be awake when Julian returned. Even if he stumbled in at half three, reeking of brandy.

Or cheap perfume.

She shook herself, feeling a twinge of dismay. That had been a jealous, spiteful thought unworthy of them both. After all his displays of tender devotion over the past weeks, did she really think one night at the gentlemen’s club would have him reverting to his old, rakish ways? Julian was her husband now, and he deserved her trust and good faith. But it was more pleasant to imagine him surrounded by bare-breasted opera dancers than skulking down dark, dangerous streets.

Lily tried to plant her nose firmly in her book, but her mind insisted on wandering, tracing through every gentleman’s haunt and shadowed alleyway in her mental map of London. She was still stuck on the first page of her novel—the first paragraph, really—when she looked up to check the mantel clock yet again. She saw that barely an hour had passed. And she saw that Julian had already returned.

He brought with him no odor of brandy or perfume. But he was festooned with several yards’ worth of vibrant ribbons and satins in every color of the rainbow, tied end to end and yoked about his shoulders.

So this was the infamous billiard-room garland.

If he noticed Lily reclining there on the sofa, feet curled under her dressing gown, he paid her no greeting. Instead, he went straight to the roaring fire and began feeding it the gaily colored garters, an arm’s length at a time. He paused every so often to take up the poker and prod an errant swatch of silk into the flames.

She looked on in silence as he methodically destroyed his colorful amatory past. The string of old lovers vanished into the flames, occasionally flaring in hot protest, but ultimately leaving behind no more lasting legacy than ashes and the acrid scent of singed fabric. When he was finished, he replaced the poker in its holder and brushed his hands clean of the task.

He shrugged out of his topcoat and came to sit at her side. After a pause, he asked, “What are you reading?”

“I don’t even know. I’ve spent the past hour staring stupidly at the first paragraph and wishing you were here. I’ve made no progress at all.”

“Good. I should hate to miss anything.” He swiveled sideways, then reclined backward, propping his boots on the arm of the sofa and laying his head in her lap. He closed his eyes and signed, “Carry on.”

Clearly he didn’t want to talk about what he’d just done, and Lily decided not to press. The actions spoke for themselves in this instance. Words were unnecessary.

Kisses, however, were imperative. She teased her fingers through his hair and pressed a lingering kiss to his brow. Then the tip of his nose. Then his mouth. “Julian, I love you.”

He exhaled deeply, then finger-spelled in response, “Can’t imagine why.”

“Can’t you?” Her heart squeezed, but she kept her words light. “I shall have to draw you a very explicit picture.”

Chapter Nineteen

Julian stared at the letter in his hand, reading it for the third time in as many minutes. His eyes raced over the preliminaries, then tripped to a halt when he reached the names.

“Horace Stone and Angus Macleod. Apprehended this seventh of June,” he read aloud. Somehow it seemed more real when read aloud. “Charged with drunkenness, vandalism, and breaking and entering with the intent to commit robbery. Sentenced to sixth months’ hard labor on the prison hulk
Jericho.”