Dangerous to Love (30 page)

There was more to his reluctance than this. Once again, he was thinking of Serena. He did not wish for an investigation, fearing that she might be implicated. That he could still wish to protect her after what he had suffered at her hands filled him with bitter self-contempt.

Observing Julian’s look, his lordship observed, “You know what people are saying about you?”

“That I’m either a Jacobite agitator or a government agent, and that my escape was engineered by my friends?” Julian’s tone was amused. “Oh yes, I’ve heard.”

Lord Kirkland was unsmiling. “I know for a f-fact,” he said, “that you were not a government agent.”

There was a pause, a silence that conveyed a faint threat. “Neither,” said Julian, “am I now, nor ever was, a Jacobite agitator.”

“I’m very g-glad to hear you say so, my boy, for if you were involved in p-plots against His Majesty, I would not h-hesitate to use the full force of my authority against you.”

“It’s no more, no less that I would expect,” said Julian.

“As long as w-we understand each other.”

“I thought,” said Julian gently, “that I was summoned to your office to receive an official apology?”

The earl grinned. “Umm, more in the nature of an ‘unofficial’ apology. To be f-frank, the Crown never admits, you see, to making mistakes. We are not even sure that the soldiers who arrested you were g-genuine.”

Julian was almost certain that they were not. “How did you hear about my arrest? You said you came into the affair late in the day, yet from what I have been told by my servants, you were quick off the mark. Your militia were out looking for me the following morning, only hours after my arrest.”

His lordship replied vaguely. He could not remember the details. With the passage of time, events ran together in his mind and became blurred. And with this, Julian had to be content.

Lord Kirkland’s last words to Julian were in the nature of a warning or a threat. “Have a care, my boy. We wouldn’t w-want the same thing to happen to you again.”

   When Lord Kirkland arrived home, he found her ladyship in her dressing room, reclining on a sofa, reading a letter that had arrived by the afternoon post. The contents of the letter had obviously not found favor with the countess. Her lips were pressed in a thin line. Her pale blue eyes were narrowed in dislike.

“From Dorothea,” she told her husband, holding her cheek up for his perfunctory kiss.

“Ah.”

Dorothea, Countess of Trenton, was her ladyship’s particular friend. Lord Kirkland had never been able to understand the bonds of this long-standing friendship which gave neither lady much pleasure. His countess and her
friend seemed to him to be rivals, forever trying to outdo each other.

“She writes,” said her ladyship in her precise way, “that Trenton has decided to completely refurbish their place in Hampshire. Isn’t that just like Dorothea? In my last letter, I happened to mention that we were debating whether or not to do as much for Bagley. She has done this to spite me. There is no other explanation for it. Well, I have no intention of letting her steal a march on me.”

She slanted her husband a considering look. “Do you know what I think, James?”

“What do you think, my d-dear?” The earl carefully disposed himself on a spindly, gilt-edged chair.

“I think I should like to invite that Mr. Raynor of yours to a house party at Bagley. He is all the rage at present, is he not? His name is on everyone’s lips.” She absently tapped a finger to her chin. “Yes, a house party with your Mr. Raynor as the guest of honor might be just the thing.”

His lordship did not quite groan, but the sound he made was not far off it. “I have no objection to inviting Julian as the g-guest of honor to one of your parties, Esther, but couldn’t we make it a small d-dinner party? You know how I 1-loathe these g-grand affairs.”

She came to him in a rustle of skirts, her finely drawn face close to his, one hand resting appealingly on his chest. He caught the faint scent of lemon and verbena from her graying brown hair. She had a look of delicacy that, he well knew, masked an unshakable resolve. Should he refuse her, the delicate air would vanish, and she would turn into a virago.

“What fustian, James. You are too modest for your own good. You must have more confidence in yourself. If you don’t, no one else will.”

Lord Kirkland loved his wife. He had often debated with himself why this should be so, and had come to the conclusion that his love was based on gratitude. Esther loved him. Though there was nothing worth loving in him, his wife loved him. She had become as necessary to him as his weekly visits to the Temple of Venus in King’s Place.

He gave in gracefully. He always did. “A house party? I shall mention it to Julian. I can’t promise more than that.”

R
efreshed from his bath and resplendent in burgundy velvet coat and white satin breeches, Julian made a leisurely descent of the main staircase in his gaming house. It was an hour before midnight, the hour when members of the fashionable set began their round of parties and dos. The rooms on the ground floor were therefore fairly quiet. Julian was glad of it, for in the week since he had taken up residence in his club, whenever he showed his face, which he did rarely, he was practically mobbed by the crush.

Blackie was right to say that he had become a person of celebrity. People seemed to regard him as if he were a romantic figure, like a character out of a novel, imbuing him with God only knew what heroic attributes. According to Blackie, they’d woven fancies around him, some saying that he was a secret Jacobite and others that he was a patriot. He was a victim, that was all he knew for certain, but whose victim remained to be seen.

One of the first things he had done on arriving in London had been to call on his good friend, Constable Loukas. Loukas was looking into the matter for him. If anybody could find anything out, it would be Loukas. He had connections and sources unavailable to the ordinary citizen. He also had an uncanny knack for gleaning the significance of inconsequential details and facts. Even though he was retired, his services were still in demand by former colleagues when difficult cases came their way. This wasn’t a particularly difficult case. It had to be Serena who was behind it all. What he wanted were the
names of her accomplices. It shouldn’t be too difficult to persuade her to give him their names. He held all the cards, including the trump. He was the one who had the certificate of marriage, and Serena was desperate to get her hands on it.

His erstwhile wife had already sent Flynn to him, requesting that he meet with her at a time and place to suit himself. It suited him to let her wait and stew. He wasn’t vicious; he wasn’t devious; but this time around he was resolved that the shoe was going to be on the other foot.

Tonight, according to Flynn, Serena was engaged to go with a party of friends, including her suitor, to Ranelagh Gardens in Chelsea. She wasn’t expecting her husband to put in an appearance. Her brother, Sir Jeremy, had reserved a box close by the Rotunda where they would sit down to supper after the fireworks display. Julian meant to run into her quite by “accident,” if only to gauge her unguarded reaction to him. Perhaps he was devious after all. His next thought had him laughing. A husband and a suitor? He wondered if she was equal to it.

In the marble entrance hall, Lady Amelia’s coachman was already waiting for him. Quickening his pace, oblivious to the girls and croupiers who were hovering about, eyeing him covertly, Julian quit the premises.

The front doors had hardly closed before a bevy of girls, all employees of the house, made as one for the cloakroom, a small anteroom off the front entrance. Here they crowded around the long sash windows, trying to get a better view of Julian. There was nothing new in this. They’d watched his comings and goings for nearly a week.

Anastasia, the new girl, was the first to break the silence. “What has Lady Amelia Lawrence got that I haven’t got?”

The girls tittered. Emerald, the most senior girl there, answered the question. “I presume you mean in addition
to ravishing good looks, impeccable bloodlines, and more money than she knows what to do with?”

“No need to say more,” drawled Anastasia, pretending to be crestfallen.

Emerald smiled. “Oh, that’s not it,” she said, “at least, not all of it.” Her voice dropped to a confiding whisper. “Lady Amelia sets no store in her virtue.”

Anastasia’s eyes went round. “Is that all? For
him,
I’d be willing to make the sacrifice.”

More laughter.

Emerald said, “You wouldn’t be the first to try. And it wouldn’t do you a bit of good. Julian Raynor has a cardinal rule about the girls who work for him. He is our employer, and he never steps outside that role.”

Anastasia’s nose wrinkled. “Rules can always be broken.”

As the carriage outside the window moved off, the girls began to file out of the anteroom.

“Well?” said Anastasia. “What do you say to that?”

Emerald answered with a question. “What do you know of Lady Amelia?”

“Not very much. Why?”

“My advice to you is don’t tangle with her. She may have the face of an angel, but she has the disposition of a cobra, as more than one poor lady has discovered to her cost.”

“Who, for instance?”

“Oh, Mary Harvey, for one, if you must know.”

Anastasia was by now seething with curiosity. A bell rang, and the girls moved to various tables in the card-room. “Lord Harvey’s sister?” asked Anastasia in a soft undertone.

Emerald nodded. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it later.”

*  *  *

Inside Lady Amelia’s well-sprung chaise, Julian was holding off the amorous attack of the worldly-wise widow.

“Shameless,” he murmured, caught between amusement and “exasperation. He wrenched Lady Amelia’s roaming hand from his groin and straightened his clothes a moment before the coachman flung the door wide and let down the steps.

“Damnation,” said the lady, her magnificent eyes glaring at the coachman. “Who told you to stop the carriage, Hawkins?”

“But ma’am,” stammered Hawkins, looking about him helplessly, “we’ve arrived.”

Tipping her head back, with eyes narrowed on Julian, and her lips curved in a frankly salacious smile, she said, “Now that, Hawkins, is where you are in error. I haven’t arrived. And I warrant that Major Raynor hasn’t arrived either.” Her eyes dropped deliberately to Julian’s bulging groin.

“Baggage,” admonished Julian, chuckling. He quickly brushed by the blushing coachman to descend to the pavement.

As he made to assist Lady Amelia from the coach, she hung back for a moment. Her eyes holding his, she said softly, “I say to blazes with Ranelagh Gardens and its boring walks and entertainments. The pleasure to be had at my house is more to my taste and yours, if I have not misread you, Julian. It’s not too late to turn the coach around. What do you say? Is it to be Ranelagh for your delectation this evening or, quite simply, me?”

Julian was tempted. He had yet to break the period of celibacy that the long sea voyage had enforced upon him. But after a moment of consideration he shook his head. “Patience isn’t one of your virtues, is it, my sweet?”

Resigning herself to the inevitable, she descended the
steps. “I have no virtue,” she whispered huskily, her lips almost brushing his ear. “No more than you do. Don’t try to persuade me that you wish to change me, Julian?”

No. He didn’t wish to change her, and it showed in the sensual slant of his mouth. He’d had many women in his time, and for sheer sensual pleasuring, there wasn’t a woman to match her. She was unashamedly carnal as well as insatiable, and that suited Julian just fine. Just watching the swift rise and fall of her breasts and the way her eyelids drooped in arousal sent powerful messages thundering through his blood.

Julian took a small breath, and let it out carefully. He was here for a purpose. Serena Ward. A cold gust of air seemed to blow through him, cooling his ardor. Serena. One day he would tell her that the thought of her was the perfect antidote to a man’s passion. As his equilibrium returned, he gave a light laugh. Taking Amelia by the arm, shaking his head, he started forward.

   As she nibbled on stale cake and looked out at the lights of the Rotunda from the booth that was reserved for their party, Serena reflected that her hopes for the evening had not been realized. What she’d had in mind was a small intimate family gathering where her beau, Mr. Hadley, would have a chance to shine. Well, perhaps not “shine” exactly. Trevor was not one to put himself forward in company, but in a small group of people, he could hold his own. She’d wanted her family to see that their opinion of Trevor was grossly unjust. He wasn’t stodgy and as dull as ditch-water. He was as straight as a die.

No sooner had they arrived, however, than Jeremy had excused himself to go and speak to acquaintances he had caught sight of in the hordes of people who strolled the tree-lined walks. Shortly after, Clive had followed his example,
leaving the three Ward ladies and Mr. Hadley alone in the box. But not for long. Catherine’s most constant admirer had come calling, and Lord Charles had carried Catherine off on his arm. Only three people remained in the booth, Serena, Letty, and Trevor Hadley, and since Letty and Trevor could never see eye to eye on any subject under the sun, Serena was racking her brains for some neutral topic she might introduce to ease the silence that had fallen.