The Secret Life of Lady Julia (10 page)

He straightened his cuffs—new, and of the best linen this time, and pushed the thoughts of Julia out of his mind, concentrating on the swirling crowd, looking for a place to dive in, a friendly face, a lonely lady, but the room spun in an impenetrable wall of gaiety. He took a glass of champagne from a passing footman, then another, and stood back to watch. Faces blurred. Every woman was Julia, smiling and lovely, and every gentleman became his brother, sour and superior. He set his glass down on the nearest table and turned away. Perhaps he had made a mistake in coming here tonight.

“Not in the mood to dance?” a thick German accent asked, not unpleasantly, at his elbow, and Thomas turned. The man bowed stiffly, clicking his heels as he extended a hand. “Captain Franz von Jurgen. Bohemia.”

Thomas found his hand captured in a firm grip. “Viscount Merritton. English,” he said.

“Ah, then you are with the British delegation, perhaps?” von Jurgen asked.

“I’m just a tourist,” Thomas replied, taking another glass of champagne from a footman’s tray—how did such skinny lads manage to carry the heavy trays so gracefully through the crowds without dropping them, or spilling the golden liquid over naked shoulders and silk gowns?

“There are a great many tourists here,” von Jurgen said. “Did you know that Vienna currently holds twenty times her usual population? Everyone wants to see how the peace will play out. I myself am here to see to family interests. Petty in the grand scheme of things, perhaps, but Napoleon’s
grande armée
marched through my fields, burned my home, and stole nearly everything. Then the Prussians came and took the rest.”

Far from bitter, the man was smiling, tapping his foot in time to the music. Thomas frowned, and von Jurgen chuckled. “I will petition the Congress for compensation, but if that fails, maybe I will find a wealthy wife. Plenty of pretty ladies here, eh?” He pressed an elbow into Thomas’s ribs. “I should be choosing one I like and wooing her, yet I find the task daunting in such a crush. I understand there is a card room, with cigars and schnapps, which I far prefer to champagne. If you are of the same mind, shall we go and find this room and leave the delegates here to strut?”

That suited Thomas well enough. Within an hour he had won enough money to pay for a month’s lodging, a new coat and boots, and enough good meals to keep even Donovan happy. He looked at the pile of coins—an exotic mix of florins, francs, zlotys, and pfennigs, and smiled. He hadn’t stolen a thing. Between the winnings and the schnapps, he felt happier than he had in months.

“One last bet,” a wild-eyed gentleman from Venice begged. The man had lost everything, even his cuff links. Von Jurgen had those, and Thomas held his last handful of coins.

Von Jurgen leaned forward. “Have you anything left to bet with,
mein herr
?”

“This.” The man laid a gold watch on the table, a lady’s watch, engraved, delicate, expensive, with a single diamond set in the center of the case. Thomas picked it up and opened it. The tinny notes of a familiar English lullaby played. Behind the time piece itself there were a pair of miniature portraits, a gentleman and a child, also very English, though the owner—if he was the owner—was obviously Italian.

“A family heirloom,” the man said with a sly smile, and Thomas knew he was lying.

He laid down his cards, and the delicate little timepiece was his.

Chapter 14

S
tephen stirred his tea with a flourish the next morning, wide-awake, though he hadn’t been able to sleep a wink.

She’d been magnificent. Even Charles Stewart had looked impressed, though he hadn’t actually said so.

Julia had charmed the Prince de Ligne and a dozen other people who’d had the luck to make her acquaintance. When the time came to leave in the wee hours of the morning, she had a dozen invitations to tea and lunch, which she neither accepted nor declined. When gentlemen asked to call upon her, she merely smiled politely and changed the subject. He’d led her out of the ballroom on his arm while another aide escorted Dorothea, and felt envious glares like daggers in his back.

He’d yet to figure out how she had done it, and he’d been watching her all evening—just to make sure she didn’t get into any trouble. She listened more than she spoke, smiled charmingly, and made witty comments at precisely the right moments, always in English. Was that all there was to it, or was there something extraordinary about Julia Leighton? Her upbringing, of course, had a great deal to do with her social skills. If only she were not . . . He frowned.

He wasn’t married, mainly because he had never found a woman who interested him enough. Until now.

He sighed as he took a forkful of eggs and sausage, grinning like a fool as he chewed. The footman, a proper English chap, shifted uncomfortably as he watched.

Once they arrived home after the ball, Stephen had taken Julia in to see Lord Castlereagh. She perched on the edge of a settee and advised him that a number of delegates were feeling slighted by the accommodations provided to them by the Austrians, or at the order of precedence they’d been assigned in meetings and assemblies. She had not said it outright, since it was not her place, but she hinted with the utmost delicacy that a kind word or offer of assistance from Britain’s envoys might sway lesser delegates to side with England on contentious issues in return.

Castlereagh had put Stephen in charge of seeing what might be done, then thanked Julia and bid her good-night. “Perhaps,” he had suggested, “you might encourage Lady Dorothea to cultivate the friendship of Prince Talleyrand’s niece. She is serving as his official hostess.”

Stephen chuckled out loud over his breakfast, remembering how Julia had curtsied to his lordship and told him she would see what she could do in that regard. The footman looked sideways at him again.

“More tea, Major?”

He nodded absently.

If Julia could charm the wily old French ambassador, it would be a coup indeed. Talleyrand held the lion’s share of secrets.

Stephen dug a spoon into a frothy cheese soufflé and considered the matter again. No, he was quite certain he had never met a woman like Julia Leighton. He’d put his plans to seek a wife on hold when he joined the army, then again when Dorothea needed him, but those were simply convenient excuses. He was beginning to think he was a confirmed bachelor, the kind of man who would dandle his nieces and nephews on his knees and tell them stories of long ago wars, his glory days. No heirs, no cares. Yet now—

He put his spoon down and frowned.

“Something wrong with the soufflé, Major?” the footman asked.

“No, not at all,” Stephen said, looking at the dish. It was almost empty, but he didn’t remember tasting a single bite.

What the devil had gotten into him? He could never
marry
Julia Leighton. He added a spoonful of sugar to his teacup, unsure if he’d already done so or not, then grimaced at the oversweetness of the tea.

One thing was certain—Julia Leighton would have been wasted on Temberlay. He’d met David Temberlay on several occasions and found him as dull and stolid as his brother, Nicholas, was flamboyant and bold. He recalled now that Nicholas had actually proposed to Julia after his brother was killed. He’d returned from war to assume his brother’s title and discovered Julia with child, disowned by her family. Stephen had wondered why any man would do such a foolishly honorable, reckless thing, but that was before he met Julia. She had refused Nicholas, determined to make her own way in the world.

He poured thick yellow cream over a bowl of late blackberries and let the sweetness of the berries fill his mouth.

Did Julia regret her actions, miss her old life? She could have been a duchess, yet she carried the role of companion like a queen. He smiled again, and a cream-covered berry rolled off his spoon onto the pristine tablecloth. He and the footman both stared at it for a moment.

Julia looked to be enjoying herself immensely last night, her face glowing, her eyes bright. He’d been enchanted, even though he knew the truth about her.

He could see now that the truth was that she was beautiful, charming, elegant, and smart.

Of course she was passionate too. She’d proven that in her folly, but also in her devotion to Dorothea, her son, and the new tasks they’d given her.

He felt a stir of desire, and swallowed a blackberry whole. It stuck in his throat for a moment. Perhaps there was another way.

He’d never had a mistress. He never had time, or found a woman who attracted him enough, or who was equal to his intellect in the drawing room as well as good in bed. He imagined taking Julia to bed, then waking up and actually enjoying
talking
to her.

He shifted in his chair and added another spoonful of sugar to his tea.

A diplomat could never travel with his mistress. It would be scandalous.

He set the spoon down. Yet if Doe continued to travel with him, and brought Julia as her companion, everything would look quite proper. Dorothea had been remarkably happy last night on the ride home, her eyes bright as she chattered about fashions, food, and music. She’d hugged him when he asked her if she enjoyed the ball, and bid him good-night with a kiss on the cheek. Perhaps she might enjoy travel with him on future missions—and that meant Julia would be there.

The door of the breakfast room opened and he looked up as Julia hurried into the room. He rose to his feet with a genuine smile, his heart missing a beat as she hurried across the room.

She was wearing the same blue muslin gown she’d worn last night to the ball, wrinkled now, and stained. Her eyes were red-rimmed, shiny with tears. She looked as if she’d been through a battle. His smile faltered.

“What’s happened?” he asked, throwing down his napkin.

“My lord, Dorothea has taken an overdose of laudanum.”

Chapter 15

T
he curtains actually shrieked as Donovan opened them with a flourish, letting the afternoon sun stream into the room. “ ’Morning, my lord, or rather, good afternoon,” he said with jaunty sarcasm. The light pierced Thomas’s aching head like a bolt of lightning, and he shut his eyes and rolled over, cursing his valet with every colorful phrase he could think of. His stomach heaved and he swallowed bile.

Donovan whistled and nudged the chamber pot nearer to the side of the bed with his foot. “Must have been some party. You came home drunk as a lord—well, a lad who used to be a lord—and you’re as green as the damned wallpaper now.”

“Go ’way,” Thomas managed. What the hell had he been drinking last night? He hadn’t been this drunk in years. He’d learned to be careful, canny, let other men do the drinking while he stayed sober and alert.

He cracked his eyes open when Donovan picked up his coat and breeches from the floor and began going through the pockets, and chuckled as he scooped three handfuls of coin onto the table with an ungodly clatter.

“What have we here? Is this a souvenir?” Donovan said when he found the watch. “I thought you stuck to earrings to remember your conquests.” He opened the watch and the lullaby played. “I hope you didn’t go to a lot of effort to get this. It’s too personal to be of any value. Someone’s bound to recognize the portraits, and we’ll never be able to sell it. It’s the kind of thing people go looking for when they lose it.”

“It’s not for sale,” Thomas muttered thickly. “Get me something to drink, water, tea, I don’t care.” But Donovan had noticed the diamond embedded in the case. He examined it, letting the jewel catch the light and throw it into Thomas’s eyes like a handful of needles. Donovan whistled again, the thin, high sound every bit as painful as the light.

“This stone should fetch a few quid. Maybe more.” He took a knife out of his pocket.

“Don’t—” Thomas began, but it was too late. The diamond popped out and Donovan held it up, murmuring praise.

Thomas wrapped the sheet around his waist and rose, managing to cross the room and snatch up the watch from where it lay on the table. He collapsed into a chair, shielding it in his hand against further damage. He didn’t need to look at the portraits again. He knew them by heart, having stared at them for hours last night before he passed out, trying to conjure an image of the lady who owned the watch. The dainty timepiece had been a gift from her husband, perhaps—the man in the portrait—and the child was doubtless their son. The perfect English family.

He envied them. Were they in love, happy? Did the lady hum the lullaby to her child as he slept? The gentleman’s painted face reeked of starchy nobility, but there was something else in his expression as well, a gentleness, a look of love that Thomas had almost forgotten existed.

By the time his coach had rolled to a stop outside his door at dawn, he’d decided he would try and find the owner and return it. No doubt the lady was here in Vienna. How else could such a personal treasure have ended up here, in his hands?

He sat on the edge of the bed now and stared down at the scratched case, at the gouge where the diamond had been. Would she—whoever she might be, and if he ever found her—still be glad to have the watch back again, even without the diamond?

He thought of his own family. They were not the kind to give each other portraits of loved ones. The Earls of Brecon married for position, profit, and power, but never for love. They lived grand lives and painted grand portraits of themselves to hang in the hallowed halls of Brecon Park, or they had their likenesses carved in marble, which was fitting, given the hard, proud, unfeeling nature of his kin.

There would be no portrait of himself in Brecon’s hallowed halls. His brother Edward had promised to strike his name from the family records, remove all trace of him from their lives.

To Edward, or even their mother, the diamond would have been the most important aspect of the watch, an expensive gift that conveyed the giver’s wealth, and consequence, one that she would have preferred untainted by cumbersome emotions and fond portraits.

This watch, with its sentimental pictures, sweet music, and tender engraving,
Ever and always,
spoke of a family that treasured each other. His gut tensed with a wave of longing for that kind of connection with a woman, a family. Try as he might to picture someone else, when he imagined the owner’s face, he could see only one woman’s face in his mind. Julia . . .

He snapped the case shut. Yes, he decided, whoever the lady was, she would definitely want her watch back. The parts she would find most precious were still intact, and whether it had been lost or stolen, she would be most glad of its return.

All he had to do was find her. He stared at the wall, his aching head spinning, and wondered how to begin.

“H
ow is this possible? Where did she get the laudanum?” Stephen demanded as they hurried through the corridors to Dorothea’s room. His harsh whisper echoed off the walls, his anger emphasized by the ring of his boot heels.

He wasn’t really angry with Julia, just angry he had forgotten that her prime responsibility was to take care of Dorothea. How must it have looked to Doe, Julia dancing and flirting at a ball, while he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her? Doe was astute and would have noticed that. Was this his fault? He had decided once they left London that Dorothea would not be allowed any more laudanum. He thought her strong enough to face life without it, especially with Julia by her side and himself to protect her. He’d thought that enough time had passed to dull the pain of her grief without the drug. He was wrong about everything. His throat closed, thickened at the thought of losing her.

“I don’t know how she got it,” Julia said. “The doctor is with her now.”

Dorothea’s door was ahead, and he stared at the blue and white panels, the brass latch. He stopped, unable to go on, to enter the room, if—

He stood in the middle of the hall, his fists clenched, his jaw tight. Breakfast roiled in his belly, and he had the same feeling of dread he got before a battle.

Julia stopped by his side and waited. “My lord?” she asked.

“Will she live?” he asked tightly, unable to look at her. He was a man used to death, a soldier. He knew how fragile the human body was, how easily it shattered, fell prey to disease. One day a man might be whole and healthy, the next— He swallowed. His sister wasn’t a soldier. She’d been a fragile creature already when she lost Matthew and her child. He shut his eyes, ready for bad news.

Julia squeezed his arm. “The worst has passed. I didn’t want to fetch you until the doctor was certain.” He met her gaze, seeing the truth there. She was tired, bewildered, but she gave the last of her fragile strength to him.

“When did . . . ?” he asked, the rest of the sentence stuck behind the lump in his throat.

“Dorothea dismissed her maid when she returned from the ball, said she was tired and wished to go straight to sleep. Fortunately, she left the window open, and the maid felt the cold air and came to shut it. She noticed the vial on the floor by the bed. She came to get me, and I sent her for the doctor. I’ve been with her ever since. She
will
live, my lord,” Julia said fervently, as if she could feel the fear in him.

He searched her eyes, read compassion in the hazel depths, determination. He felt the shame of the situation, his own weakness, his inability to help Dorothea past her grief.

Julia should have been watching Dorothea, protecting her. But she’d been playing games, spying. They both had.

Stephen closed his eyes, imagined the scandal this would cause. Was it wrong, wanting to protect his own reputation now that he knew Doe would survive? His career was everything to him.

Angry at the whole situation, he shook Julia’s hand off his arm and walked on, grasping the brass latch and twisting it, throwing the door open, leaving her to follow.

Dorothea lay on the pillow, her eyes half shut, as pale as the linen beneath her. The doctor rose from a chair beside the bed.

“Good morning, Major. I’m Dr. Bowen,” he said.

“You’re English,” Stephen said, surprised.

“I’m part of the delegation, here to tend anyone who might fall ill. I’m Lady Castlereagh’s physician in London.”

Stephen felt his skin heat. Surely when her ladyship heard, she would insist that he be sent home in disgrace. He ran a hand through his hair, seeing disaster.

Dorothea moaned and her head lolled on the pillow, and Stephen stared down at her. The physician patted her hand, gently tucked it under the blanket. “You needn’t fear, sir. Lady Dorothea is out of danger.”

The ache in Stephen’s chest didn’t ease. He sat on the edge of the bed and touched her cheek. It was cold as ice.

“Doe,” he said, more sharply than he intended.

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. “Stephen—I’m sorry, Stephen. Dear, dear Stephen.”

“Who gave you the laudanum?” he asked.

She smiled weakly. “No one you know. You needn’t call anyone out or fire anyone on staff. There was a man at the ball last night. He had some laudanum in his pocket. I traded my watch for it.”

He felt his stomach clench. “The watch Matthew gave you?” he asked. She hadn’t let the timepiece out of her sight since her husband’s death. She listened to the lullaby a hundred times a day, kissed the painted faces good-night, whispered to them when she thought no one was looking.

“I thought I wouldn’t need it anymore, you see,” she murmured. “The laudanum lets me see them just as clearly as I see you. I thought if I had enough—or a little more than just enough—I’d never have to let them go at all and I could be with them again.” Her face crumpled, and he gathered her into his arms as sobs shook her and tears slid over her cheeks, wetting his face too, and glistened silver on her gray skin in the mid-morning light.

He’d been wrong. The grief had not passed at all. How could it ever pass, the horror of such a loss?
He
wasn’t enough to ease the pain. He looked up at the doctor, the question in his eyes.

“She’ll need watching,” Dr. Bowen murmured.

“I’ll stay with her,” Julia said at once, stepping out of the shadows.

“Not today, my lady. You need rest yourself,” Bowen objected. “You’ve been a great help, but perhaps her maid—”

Stephen looked up at Julia. Her hair was disheveled, long dark locks drooping over her shoulder. There were deep hollows under her eyes, though her mouth was set in a determined line, her eyes bright. She stood by the bed like a sentry, ready to object to the doctor’s refusal of her help. Her continued help, rather. He noted the stains on her gown, and knew she’d stayed with Dorothea through the worst of it, held her while they made her sick, forced her to expel the drug from her body. He felt a frisson of admiration pass through him.

“Who knows about this?” he asked, still aware that disaster loomed, even if his sister had survived her attempt to take her own life. It would mean gossip and scandal for the entire British delegation when word got out, and most especially for himself. Bowen would have to make a full report, of course. It was protocol. They lived and died by protocol.

The doctor glanced at Julia. “No one knows, sir. Just myself, Miss Leighton, and Lady Dorothea’s maid.”

“I didn’t think there was any point in waking Lord Castlereagh, especially once the crisis had passed,” Julia said. “This is a family matter, and Dr. Bowen agrees that it should remain so.”

Stephen stared at her for a moment. Of course Julia understood all this. She had faced her own scandal, must have tried to keep that secret too.

“These are important times, my lord, for England, for you, and for Lady Dorothea,” Dr. Bowen said. “I don’t see any need to report this officially. It would only distract Lord Castlereagh, which is obviously unnecessary now. Lady Dorothea will need a few days to rest and recover. I will tell Lady Castlereagh that she has a head cold and must remain in her rooms.” He turned and smiled at Julia, admiration clear in his eyes, as if they were meeting in a salon. “Lady Julia makes a fine nurse, but we shall take turns watching Lady Dorothea. It will be good for her to wake up and find people she knows by her side.”

Stephen undid the top button of his tunic and sat down. “I will take the first watch,” he said, and turned to Julia, meeting her eyes, unable to speak, to thank her. “Go and rest,” he said gruffly.

She nodded and moved toward the door. The doctor went to pack his equipment into his bag.

“Julia?” Stephen said, stopping her. She turned to look at him, her hand on the door latch. “I owe you my thanks.”

“Not at all,” she murmured. “I am only glad—” Tears formed in her eyes, and her mouth crumpled. She fled before the first drop could fall.

He watched her go. In that moment Julia Leighton ceased to be notorious. She was perfect.