A Tale of Two Lovers (8 page)

Chapter 11

The offices of
The London Weekly

53 Fleet Street, London

T
he mood at the next gathering of
The London Weekly
’s staff was more subdued than usual. A few days earlier the Man About Town had published that tittle-tattle tell-all with Jocelyn Kemble, thus upping the stakes in the ongoing battle between the two papers. It was the only thing London had been talking about.

Was he or wasn’t he? Who to believe—the Lady of Distinction or the Man About Town? Should Lord Roxbury be received or not? Should the word of an actress be believed or not?
The London Weekly
or
The London Times
?

People avoided Roxbury in droves, just in case. Jocelyn’s plays were sold out. Sales for both newspapers were stellar.

“You’ve seen the
other
column?” Eliza asked in a hushed, cautious whisper.

“Yes, of course,” Julianna said sadly. It had come out the other day, and she had read it. Often. But then she had waltzed with Roxbury and she had thought about that. A lot.

Between worrying about her writing and puzzling over her attraction to a man she despised and who was ruining her life, Julianna was exhausted.

Alistair made sad eyes at her, commiserating. “Poor darling,” he murmured.

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Annabelle said soothingly, but it was no consolation.

“I’m sure it will not be. Let me read it again,” Julianna said, reaching for the paper Eliza had brought.

“No!” they all shouted at once.

Eliza held the paper away from her.

“Oh, I already have it memorized,” Julianna said, and she began to recite the dreaded words from memory:
“This Man About Town has the pleasure to shed some light upon the proclivities of a certain scandalous rake—No, no, my readers, do not misunderstand me.”

And then another voice picked up the thread. It was Knightly arriving with a copy of
The London Times
in one hand—his other was still in a sling.

Julianna knew it was for his own reputation, and not for hers that he had fought. But she keenly felt it was all her fault—it could not be denied that it was—and the guilt at the sight of his injury, combined with the recent triumph of the Man About Town, made her want to cry.

She never cried.

Standing before his staff, Knightly read the dreaded words aloud.
“I will reveal the identity of Lord R—’s backstage paramour, and share her exclusive story with the readers of
The London Times.
The great actress ‘Mrs.’ J—K—renowned for her talent and her beauty, has confessed to being the lover of Lord R—. She tells me that he is everything a man ought to be, and everything a woman could desire in a man. She had no doubts of his inclinations.

Knightly set the paper upon the table. No one spoke. A dozen grave faces—none more so than Knightly’s—stared at her.

That column made her look like a liar or an idiot for what she had written about Roxbury. It was so foolish of her not to have approached Jocelyn first. But she had been too muddled with something like lust for Roxbury that the thought did not occur to her.

“I did not risk my life for this paper, for your writing, so that you could lose stories to our archrival.” Knightly spoke softly, but firmly. The controlled force of his words struck her more than if he had yelled, or hollered, or hit.

“Do not let it happen again.”

The London Residence of the Duke and Duchess of Hamilton and Brandon

A
few hours later, the Writing Girls had all gathered in Sophie’s private sitting room, lounging on sofas and settees, gossiping, perusing the latest issue of the ladies’ magazine
La
Belle Assemblée
, and drinking tea.

“I wanted to weep, Sophie, and you know how I never cry,” Julianna explained. She was sitting on a plush pink upholstered settee, enjoying tea and ginger biscuits but otherwise feeling sorry for herself.

“It was not good,” Eliza confirmed and Annabelle looked up from her magazine and shook her head in agreement. There was no denying that today’s meeting had been quite discomforting.

If she could go back to that night at Drury Lane, would she do anything differently? Julianna could still remember the shiver of anticipated triumph when she saw Roxbury backstage in that utterly compromising position. Who would have guessed it’d come to this—a battle between papers, with her integrity as a columnist having taken a hit?

“You did not
actually
shed a tear, though, did you?” Sophie asked from where she was lounging on pillows on the floor—so very unduchesslike.

“Absolutely not,” Julianna said proudly. To reward herself, she ate another biscuit.

“Well, that is something,” Sophie said, sipping her tea.

“Do you think Roxbury had anything to do with it?” Annabelle wondered innocently.

“Yes,” Julianna conceded. “I cannot believe Jocelyn would go to
The Times
with this! We are acquainted! It must have been Roxbury’s idea.”

Given her position, Julianna occasionally—and discretely—socialized with the demimonde. She and Jocelyn had often laughed and conversed together at soirees and salons.

“She’s an actress, courting admirers,” Sophie reasoned. “She probably has her reasons.”

“Being angry with her won’t help you,” Annabelle said wisely. Funny that wisdom was not at all comforting.

“But if I am not angry . . . Oh, nothing.” Julianna changed her mind about what she was going to say and took a sip of hot tea instead.

“Oh
nothing
?” Sophie queried with a lift of her eyebrow.

“Now that sounds interesting,” Eliza said with a mischievous smile. “It’s definitely not nothing.”

“I mentioned that Roxbury kissed me, did I not?”

“Ah, finally, the details! How was it?” Sophie asked, eagerly leaning forward.

“It was fine,” Julianna replied and Eliza snorted with laughter. “But that’s not the point. At a ball the other night, we waltzed together. He insisted.”

“How romantic,” Annabelle said, and Julianna was not sure if she was being sarcastic or not, because really, it could go either way.

“And now you can’t stop thinking about him, etcetera, etcetera,” Eliza supplied.

“And when you’re around him your thoughts are all muddled and your heart pounds,” Sophie added.

“And he haunts your dreams at night,” Annabelle added wistfully.

They had it exactly right. Unfortunately. Day or night, Roxbury was somehow, in some way on her mind. Even when he was not around, he vexed her.

“How can this be happening to me? With him?” Julianna asked. “And in the name of anything holy, how do I get this devilish man out of my thoughts?”

“Distraction,” Annabelle said confidently. There was a reason she was a professional advice-giver.

“Oh, that’s smart,” Eliza remarked, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

“It is, except then I think about the Man About Town, which makes me think about Knightly, who is angry with me. Which reminds me that I must discover something spectacular to print . . . before the Man About Town does so. I despise him,” Julianna said, and she allowed a sigh and then helped herself to another ginger biscuit.

“You have the seven sisters. They must know of something scandalous. Someone in London must be up to trouble,” Sophie said.

“I have the seven sisters, but he has his own vast network of informants, developed and cultivated over forty years.
And
he takes callers at St. Bride’s. I ought to take callers.”

“If only someone would elope,” Annabelle said wishfully.

“Or be caught in a compromising position,” Sophie added with a giggle.

“Or the Man About Town might be discovered,” Eliza added suggestively.

“Do you know what rankles the most?” Julianna carried on. “Because the Man About Town is a man, he can go places that I cannot. Anyone can bribe a housemaid but he can go to Gentleman Jack’s, or Harry Angelo’s or White’s.”

“Who says you can’t?” Eliza asked, with the lift of one brow. Roxbury did that, Julianna thought, much to her annoyance. But Eliza might be on to something. She was usually the one with the daring schemes. Julianna suspected this would be no exception.

“My dear Eliza, what
are
you suggesting?” Annabelle asked, with her blond curls bobbing as she tilted her head curiously.

“Dressing as a man, of course,” Eliza answered as if it were obvious.

“Oooh!” Annabelle exclaimed, her blue eyes widening with wonder.

“Oh yes, let’s!” Sophie cried happily. “We have plenty of gentlemen’s attire here! Brandon’s old things might work for you.”

“Brandon’s attire when he was my size will be woefully out of date,” Julianna pointed out.

“We’ll find something,” Sophie said brightly.

As soon as she began to ponder the possibilities of going out disguised as a man, Julianna’s heart pounded excitedly. Think of all the places she could go, like gaming hells and Harry Angelo’s (well, perhaps not, as she had no experience fencing)! But she could certainly go to White’s to lounge around and drink.

She could browse the infamous wager book. She could spy on high-stakes card games and eavesdrop on great matters of state. All she had to do was don a pair of breeches, stuff her hair under a cap, and find a chair in a dark corner from where she could watch all the action unfold before her, like a play at the theater.

Was it sheer madness? The risk of discovery was great. She would be utterly ruined if she were uncovered. High on the list of things that were just not done was dressing as the opposite sex and infiltrating a man’s haven. For all she knew, it was a hanging offense. But Julianna had come too far in life, propelled by her own wits and daring, to care what was or was not done.

Within an hour Julianna was dressed as a man. The first thing she noticed was that she had very long, very shapely legs. Boots were much more comfortable than slippers. And she could
move
in this attire.

Her lips curved into a smile.

They had done their best to make her chest appear flat. A dark green waistcoat helped, as did a dark gray coat. Her auburn hair was taken out of its elaborate arrangement of pins and pulled back into a short queue and stuffed unceremoniously under a wool felt cap.

Brandon’s valet, Jennings, had been enlisted to tie her cravat after neither Annabelle, Sophie, nor Eliza was able to do an even passably acceptable knot. The old man frowned deeply upon seeing her; he clearly did not approve, but dared not refuse the
look
from his duchess.

It was very clear that the duke would hear of this later, but that was not to be dwelt upon at present.

Julianna’s smile broadened. Only an hour ago, she had been a properly dressed lady taking tea. And now she was an intrepid reporter, disguised as a man with all of London open to her now.

One hour after that . . .

Chapter 12

White’s Gentlemen’s Club

St. James’s Street, London

“I
shall be penniless before long,” Roxbury mused to Brandon. “I will miss this place.” He spent an inordinate amount of time here—in the mornings he paid social calls, afternoons were passed leisurely at the club, evenings were idled away at parties, and nights were devoted to women. Or so it used to be.

“Fortunately you have wealthy friends who are members,” Brandon remarked and returned to reading his newspaper.

Roxbury appreciated the show of friendship. But his smile faded as he thought that he did not want to be dependent on Brandon for basic life necessities, like club membership and brandy. His mouth deepened into a frown as he thought about how he was, at the end of the day, reliant upon his father’s largesse. It was just how things were done with sons in the ton, but it nagged to discover one was not as free as one had previously assumed.

That ultimatum . . .

Lately, Roxbury was leaning toward marriage for a reason he would never dare admit aloud: he was lonely. Near complete social ostracism would do that to anyone. He ached for the company and the touch of a woman. He missed card games, and joyfully, drunken camaraderie amongst him and his peers—wealthy, powerful men (or the sons of such).

And no, he did not mean that as the Lady of Distinction would take it.

Roxbury had even sent a letter to one of his favored lovers. It had been returned unopened. So if Roxbury wanted a woman, and if he wanted his fortune, it would have to be Lady Hortensia Reeves. Bless her heart, he just couldn’t do it.

And his other option of poverty? Equally detestable, but attractive only because of the defiance and independence required.

He was down to just over a fortnight. Still undecided. Only one thing to do, he reckoned, and that was to have a drink and see what happened.

“What are you reading?” Roxbury asked. He did not want to be left alone with his thoughts. They depressed him.

“
The Times
.”

“I hope your wife doesn’t hear about that,” Roxbury said.

Brandon replied, “Me, too.”

“Is there anything about me?”

“Not today. I should think you’d be happy with your two mentions earlier in the week.”

“Ah, yes. The ones that had me consorting with women for a change.”

“A particular woman,” Brandon said pointedly. Roxbury knew that Lady Somerset was the bosom friend of Brandon’s wife. Which side would the duke take?

“It was quite sporting for Jocelyn to chat with the Man About Town,” Roxbury said, preferring to discuss that column.

“And the other one . . .” Brandon suggested.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about,” Roxbury answered, suddenly deeply interested in a scratch on the table.

“Being a man, I take no pleasure in listening about your heartsick feelings or romantic intrigues, so if you don’t care to talk about it I won’t make you,” Brandon remarked.

“You should know that being a man, I have no interest in discussing them,” Roxbury said. He took a sip of his brandy. “I’m convinced that Lady Somerset is the devil incarnate.”

“Because she is immune to your rakish charms?”

“No,” Roxbury scoffed, even though that was exactly it. She showed no sign of being affected by his kiss. Not one letter, nor a suggestive, well-placed rumor reached him informing that she would welcome his advances. Her glances in his direction at balls were either nonexistent or lethal.

Getting the woman to waltz with him had been a trial and a half. In his heyday, he needed only to offer his hand. Ladies were known to carry smelling salts to parties when he would be in attendance.

It was mildly remarkable. It was as if she believed the rumors she spread, when she knew them to be false.

Lady Somerset, the tempting wench, did not occupy his thoughts for a significant portion of the day and an unseemly portion of the evening. Or so he told himself. She had to be the devil, to bewitch him so whilst being so unaffected herself.

“She is the devil incarnate because she has a poisonous tongue and pen and because she delights in ruining the lives of innocent men and because . . .”

Unless he was going mad and experiencing hallucinations, he saw Lady Julianna Somerset.

Dressed as a man.

In
White’s.

“She’s here,” he said, awed.

“How much have you had to drink? There hasn’t been a woman in this establishment in three hundred years.”

“She’s a witch, and a woman disguised as a man and she is
here
.”

Reluctantly, Roxbury broke into a grin. She may be the bane of his existence and a plague upon men, but the lady had gumption and he had to admire that.

Brandon glanced around and didn’t see her, even though she was so obvious to Roxbury.

Those long, shapely legs could only belong to a woman, and for an instant he imagined her nude legs wrapped around his back while he buried himself inside her. His mouth went dry. Her own lips were too full and perfectly made for a woman’s coy, mysterious smile to belong to a man.

Like most of the gents in the room, Brandon was focused on a newspaper. Some were undoubtedly reading Julianna’s column, completely unaware that the authoress prowled among them, swaying her hips like a woman in skirts.

Roxbury sipped his drink and watched Julianna investigate the club. She was probably trying to act like the bored gentleman who had been here a thousand times. For the most part she succeeded, except that he could see her biting her lip as if to contain pure, outrageous joy at her own mischief and daring.

This was no longer the same stuffy old club with the same old blokes, but a new wonderland, ripe for exploration and, for a gossip columnist, akin to a sweetshop for a young brat.

Lady Somerset took a seat in a chair by the fireplace with the portrait of King George III, and stretched those long legs out before her. Roxbury watched her laugh softly and he knew that she had seen the words some drunken smart arse had carved into the mantle years before:
Sorry about that unfortunate incident in the colonies.

Good old practically blind Inchbald approached her. She ordered something. Wine? Water? Brandy?

He sipped his own drink, and settled in his chair, enjoying the show she was unwittingly putting on for him.

She picked up a copy of
The London Weekly
and pretended to read it. He knew she was only holding it above her face as a cover because he saw her eyes dart around the room—probably taking names and notes in her head.

He was half tempted to warn everyone that whatever they were doing was sure to become “Fashionable Intelligence.” Yet this same crowd had believed the lies and rubbish printed about him, so he’d keep his mouth shut and let the fools expose themselves. Lord Sheldon would want to think twice about placing that wager and Lord Borwick wouldn’t want to order that fifth drink. Lord Walpole would want to hide his scribbling and Lord Brookes and his friend might wish to lower their voices as they discussed a new business venture so close to the Lady of Distinction.

It was only a matter of time before their gazes met from across the room. When they did, he discretely raised his glass in cheers.