Lady Midnight (36 page)

Chapter 19

"Julian, my dearest brother. Do come and have some tea. I am sure it will do you some good. I have never seen you look so very pale."

Julian stayed at the window, staring out at the rain-soaked square, his back to the sumptuous chinoiserie fantasy of his sister's drawing room. It always rained in blasted London. The people moved about in a haze of cold grayness, scurrying like mice under dark umbrellas and enveloping cloaks. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the hot sun of Italy on his face again, see the vibrant colors....

"Charlotte, my darling," he said. "I am your dearest brother because I am your only brother."

She laughed softly, and he heard the rustle of her silk gown as she rose from her settee and crossed the dragon-laced expanse of the room to his side. He opened his eyes when he felt her gentle touch on his arm, and he smiled down at her. In all his time away, wandering the Continent in a never-ending search for perfection, his older sister had not aged a day. Through marriage to Viscount Stoke, the births of two sons, and a rise to a position of social prominence, she maintained her auburn hair and milk white skin, her lithe horsewoman's figure, and the gray eyes they shared as a legacy of their French grandmother.

Eyes that were now tinged with concern as she stared at him. "Even if I had a hundred brothers, Julian, you would be the dearest," she said. "When I heard you were lost at sea, I nearly went mad." Her words broke off on a choked sob, and she buried her face in his shoulder.

"Sh," he murmured, patting her back gently. That concern had been there ever since his arrival in London. Charlotte would follow him about, proffering tea and lap robes as if he were an elderly invalid in Bath. She covered her eyes with her handkerchief every time she thought of his near death, and was always reaching out to touch his sleeve or hand, as if to assure herself he was there before her, alive and whole.

Or nearly whole. Part of him was lost forever under those cold waves—the part that could have been the best. After all those years of searching, he had at last found perfection, only to lose it. But he could not tell that to his sister. She could never understand the wild, bitter rush of longing that overcame him when he first saw Katerina Bruni in the Piazza San Marco, laughing in the sunlight, as beautiful and distant as Dante's Beatrice. Or the terrible pain of losing her, and not being able to grieve for his loss. He loved his sister, loved seeing her again and meeting his nephews for the first time. He even loved rainy old London. It was part of his heritage. Yet he mourned so deeply for the beauty that was gone.

"It is all right now, Charlotte," he said, holding his sister in his arms. "I am home with you, and we will never be apart again."

She nodded against his shoulder, her tears and flakes of her rice powder leaving a faint trail of dampness against the bottle green superfine of his coat. Once, such a desecration would have driven him into anger. Now he felt only vague bemusement.

"I give thanks daily to God for bringing you back, Julian," she said, brushing at the stain with her manicured fingertips.

"You never struck me as a particularly religious lady, Charlotte."

"I wasn't, before. Our parents, rest their souls, never paid much attention to our spiritual lives, did they?"

"No." Nor much else. Sir Nigel Kirkwood and Marjorie, Lady Kirkwood, had not cared much for children. They had spent most of their time traveling from one watering spot to another, in search of the perfect horse race, the perfect gaming hell, the perfect mistress or lover. One or two times a year, they would pop back into Kirkwood Manor to criticize their offspring's progress, belittle their physical appearance, hold some long, brandy-soaked house parties for their wild friends. Then they would be off again. Julian's best escape had been into his beloved books: poetry and stories of Italy and the glorious Renaissance. School had almost been a relief, except that it parted him from Charlotte.

Now
he
was the baronet. It was all his—the title, the manor, the social position. The yearning to wander, the aching dissatisfaction.

"They have been gone a long time, Charlotte, dearest," he said. "And you have made a fine life here."

She gave him a rather watery smile, and nodded her pretty auburn head. "You are right, of course. I am said to be one of the finest hostesses in Town. I just wish..."

"Wish what?"

"That
you
could enjoy this life I have made. We are invited everywhere—balls, suppers, breakfasts, the theater, salons. But you are so solemn, brother. Can nothing amuse you now?"

Julian had to laugh at her pout, and he bent his head to kiss her creased brow. Only Charlotte could take his lack of a social calendar as a personal affront. "I have not been in Town very long, Charlotte. You must give me time."

She laughed, too, leaning her head on his shoulder. "Quite right, Julian. You have been so ill. I'm silly to expect you to be immediately chipper and cheerful. You need to rest, not go dancing and card playing every night. I just want you to be happy, and I see such sadness in your eyes."

"I will be better soon, I vow." He would hide his grief ever deeper, away from Charlotte's sharp gaze and hovering concern.

"Yes. But you know, Julian, darling, there is yet another reason you should go out in Society more."

Julian stifled a sigh. He knew what was coming now. He had been expecting it ever since he arrived in London. "And what might that be?"

"Finding a suitable bride, of course! The Season is half over, but there are still many young ladies on the marriage mart. Miss King, Lady Veronica Steel-Haddon. And I hear that the Earl of Darcy's sister is soon to arrive in Town. She is still quite young, but such a fine family."

"I have only just arrived myself, Charlotte. It is much too early for such a serious matter."

"It is never too early! You have been away from England for so long. It's important that you have an heir."

"And I will. Someday." When he could forget about the dark eyes of his Renaissance princess, and bear to take a pale English rose in her place.

Charlotte nodded, pouting again. "I suppose I will have to be content with that. In the meantime, I know just the thing to cheer you."

"What is that? Another tea party? A musicale?"

"Not at all. An old school friend of mine, Elizabeth Hollingsworth, is back from Italy, and is holding a salon in a few days. She is a great artist, you know, and many very interesting people flock to her house. I don't understand art myself, but it is quite the place to be seen.
You
like art and such, Julian. I'm sure you would enjoy it."

"I met the Hollingsworths in Venice," Julian answered quietly. He remembered a portrait Elizabeth Hollingsworth had painted, beauty draped in violet satin, sapphires, and amethysts. What had happened to that portrait of Lucrezia Bruni, to all the lovely things in her house?

"Wonderful!" Charlotte said. "Then I know you will enjoy seeing them again."

Julian shook his head, pulling himself back into the present. Into a rainy city far from an elegant Venetian palazzo. "Very well, Charlotte. I will go to this salon with you."

"You won't be sorry, Julian. It will be a very fine evening, I'm sure."

Chapter 20

"Oh, Mrs. Brown! Isn't it the most beautiful place ever? I'm sure princesses must live here." Amelia clambered over Kate's lap in the carriage, staring openmouthed out the window as they drew near London.

Kate put her arm around the child to steady her, watching the city approach over her little golden head. The first time Kate came to London, she had been tired and scared, not sure what was waiting for her in the teeming streets. She had seen only the moderately respectable lanes where her room was located, the crowds of busy people hurrying about their business in their drab brown and gray clothes. Brown cloth against gray stones, wet, grimy streets, cramped shops.

The route the Lindleys' carriage took after the outskirts of town were behind them was completely different. The streets were wider, quieter, cleaner, lined with tall, cream-colored houses shuttered in glossy black or dark green, confined in black iron gates. A few maidservants scrubbed at front steps or washed windows. Carriages and handsome horses bearing handsome riders rattled past. There were a few pedestrians, beautifully dressed ladies trailed by maids bearing packages. The parks were manicured and shady, inviting spots for a stroll or a quiet conversation beneath the trees.

Even Lady Darcy, who had been watching Kate and Christina with a vaguely disapproving, pinched air for hours, was distracted by the scenery. The coral-colored feathers in her bonnet bobbed and wavered as she turned to watch the houses. Christina had at last put her book down to examine the squares.

"It is a great shame to cut trees into such artificial shapes," she said, her voice as stern as any elderly schoolmistress, as she examined a row of topiaries. "The leaves bruise so easily."

Amelia leaned against Kate's shoulder with a happy sigh. "There are children walking in that park, Mrs. Brown. Will
we
be able to walk there?"

"Of course," Kate answered. "Every day, if you like."

And all the while, Kate tried to forget that Michael sat across from her, watching her. He was very subtle, but she knew he was glancing at her whenever he thought no one was paying attention. For she glanced at him just the same.

They had had no moments alone since her revelations in the innyard, no chance to speak of them. No opportunity for her to gauge his feelings about her true past, her lies. His manner had not changed toward her in the least. He was unfailingly polite, always making light conversation and little jokes to make the long journey easier. He would take her hand to help her into and out of the carriage, and though she thought—hoped—his grasp lingered slightly longer than was strictly proper, she was not sure. His lips never brushed her hair as she passed; he never took her in his arms when they met in dim corridors.

But here, in London, things would be different. Their world would expand beyond the close confines of carriages and inns; there would be gardens and houses where they could speak quietly together. If that was what he wanted.

Or perhaps he was just waiting for them to reach their destination before he dismissed her.

The carriage turned a corner onto a quieter street and slowed to a halt before one of the houses. It was not one of the grandest homes, but it was impressive and attractive, a tall expanse of pale brick with narrow, draped windows. The Prices were obviously a very respectable, well-to-do family—their botanist son would be a fine match for Christina. If Christina could eventually be brought to see that.

"Is this
our
house, Mrs. Brown?" Amelia asked, wide-eyed with wonder. "It isn't much like Thorn Hill, is it?"

Kate had to laugh. "It is not as large, to be sure, Amelia. But we don't need as much space in Town, do we?"

Christina critically examined the blossoms in the window boxes. "Someone is overwatering the petunias."

"Christina, dear," Lady Darcy said, with a soft sigh. "It hardly matters about the flowers. We are in London! You will have shops to visit, new gowns to order. So much more interesting than plants, as I'm sure you'll find."

Christina just rolled her eyes, and tucked her book away in a travel valise as a footman came out of the house to open the carriage door.

In the neat, marble-floored foyer, it became clear that they were not the first to arrive at the house. The double doors leading to the drawing room were thrown open, and at the commotion of arrival a lady appeared there. Kate, staying at the back of the crowd of family and servants, holding Amelia firmly by the hand, had to stifle a gasp at the sight of her.