Chapter Two
There had been a time, not so very long ago, when Julian had counted few regrets in his life. The night of Leo’s murder, those “few” regrets multiplied to “many.”
And he faced today with the unhappy knowledge that at some point overnight, “many” had been revised to “innumerable.”
From the tangled nest of bed linens, he peered at the mantel clock. His head throbbed with pain as he struggled to focus. Noon already. He’d lost half the day.
Bugger half the day, his pounding brain insisted. You’ve lost your wits. You kissed Lily, you unmitigated ass. And you didn’t even do it well.
God. He couldn’t conceive of how to remedy the circumstance now. If it could be remedied at all. He had to get out of here.
Taking care with his wounded arm, he rose from the bed and staggered to the washstand. Unwilling to wait for a proper bath to be drawn, he made good use of the pitcher of water and cake of soap. After he’d sponged his face and torso clean, he dried his body with a small towel and cast about for something to wear. To the side, a set of clean garments was laid out. Crisp shirt and cravat, dun trousers, dark blue coat.
Julian didn’t recognize the clothes as his own. Which meant they were likely Leo’s.
Suppressing a morbid shudder, he rang for a servant. “I want my own clothing,” he said to the footman who promptly appeared.
“But sir, they’re soiled. The laundress hasn’t yet—”
“I don’t care. Just bring them.”
The liveried youth bowed. “Yes, sir.”
While he waited, Julian turned his attention to a tray of covered dishes on the side table. He lifted a silver dome to find an array of food: cold meats, cheeses, pickle, bread and butter, a dish of grapes and apricots. His stomach churned. Much as he hated to admit it, Lily had been right in this respect. He needed to make more effort to take sustenance, even when he didn’t feel like eating. Brandy and fury could only fuel a man for so long.
He forced himself to choke down some cold ham, a small hunk of bread, and a wedge of hard cheese. By the time he’d washed the food down with a cup of tea, the footman had reappeared with his clothing.
The shirt and cravat had been washed out and hastily ironed. The left sleeve still showed a jagged rent, of course, and some faded bloodstains spotted the fabric. But the unstarched linen felt warm and fresh against his skin. The silk front of his waistcoat was largely unblemished.
His topcoat, however … the thing was beyond saving, but someone had made a valiant attempt. The garment had been carefully hung and brushed, and, he judged with a sniff, steamed with a light perfume. The tear on the sleeve was not so obvious to the observer, but inside, the lining was streaked with dried blood.
Julian’s nose wrinkled as he slid his arms into the sleeves. He would have to burn the thing as soon as he returned home. Underneath that misting of eau de cologne, the wool retained the faint odor of filth.
Much the same, his detractors would doubtless say, as Julian Bellamy himself.
Tugging violently on his cuffs, he cursed his stupidity. Of all the places to collapse—on the street in front of Harcliffe House? He was no stranger to the gutter, but he’d sworn he would never return. And for Lily to see him like that …
He rubbed his temples. Time to make his escape.
“If you please, sir.” Swift, the butler, appeared in the doorway. “Lady Lily requests that you join her downstairs, once you are feeling quite”—the silver-haired man gave him an assaying look—“restored.” He bowed and left.
Restored. Julian mused on the word. Was he feeling quite restored? With a full belly and a bandaged arm, perhaps he approached that definition. But feeling restored was a different matter from feeling redeemed. The latter sensation would continue to elude him, he feared.
Couldn’t he just sneak out of the house? Send her a note of apology later, perhaps with a flower arrangement of outrageous size?
He sighed heavily. No, he couldn’t.
He took the stairs slowly, then ducked his head into each open room in turn, searching for Lily. She wasn’t in the salon. Nor the morning room, nor the parlor. The music room seemed an unlikely spot, but he crossed the corridor and tried it anyway.
No Lily.
Leo’s library was next. He breezed by it, not expecting to find her there. When he glimpsed a flash of muslin inside, he pulled up short, stumbling against the doorjamb and banging his injured arm.
“Blast. Bugger. Bloody hell.”
The string of oaths—even so violently uttered—was spoken without consequence, swallowed whole by the stillness of the room.
Lily sat at the desk, quill in hand, her dark head bent over an open ledger. From the doorway, Julian observed her closely. The plume of her quill continued its slow, stately promenade across the page. He could just make out the gentle scratch of her script over the fierce drumming of his heart.
He leaned against the doorframe—on his good shoulder this time. “I’ve mucked it right well this time, haven’t I? Tell me, Lily. How do I make this right?”
The pen stilled. Her slender, elegant hand slowly replaced the quill in the inkwell. She raised her head a few degrees, giving him her exquisite profile. Midday sunlight streamed in from the window behind her, gilding the soft features of her face and dusting her eyelashes with bronze. She had the loveliest ears he’d ever seen, each one a delicate porcelain spiral, like the handle of a teacup. So perfect.
So fragile.
“Do you know,” he said, “there are men who would like very much to see me dead. Powerful men. Obscenely wealthy men. Men who can afford to be patient and engage the services of large, ruthless brutes. I’ve managed to evade them all. But you … God’s truth, I think you’ll be the very death of me.”
She frowned at the ledger, then flipped it closed. Sliding the book aside with a graceful turn of her wrist, she withdrew a neat stack of letters from a drawer.
While she unfolded the topmost missive, Julian reached for the mirror. As was the case in every room of the Chatwicks’ graciously appointed Mayfair town house, a small mirror dangled from the doorjamb, affixed there by means of a length of ribbon and a tack. He twisted it, angling the reflective surface to face the window. Catching a ray of sunlight, he flicked his wrist back and forth until the flutter of bright flashes drew her attention.
Blinking with surprise, Lily lifted her face to the doorway. As she took in his appearance, her lips curved in a welcoming smile. “Oh, Julian. Forgive me, I didn’t notice you there.”
“Good afternoon.” He made a gallant bow, crossed the room to her, and took her outstretched hand in his, giving it a light squeeze, nothing more. When he released her fingers, her expression was puzzled, perhaps even hurt. But today he didn’t trust himself with a kiss.
She gave the cuff of his sleeve a smart twist. “You needn’t use the mirrors. They’re for servants, not friends or family. You’re both.”
“I didn’t want to startle you.”
Julian wondered if it would ever cease to startle him, the boundless generosity of the Chatwicks. Ever since he’d formed an acquaintance with Lily’s twin brother, Leo, the late Marquess of Harcliffe, Julian had been welcomed into this house. First as a friend, then as honorary family. They knew nothing of him. Not his ancestry, not his origins. Not even his true name. But never once had they treated him like one who ought to use the mirrors rather than tap a noblewoman’s shoulder to draw her attention.
Leo and Lily Chatwick were, without question, a singular example of goodness among the social elite. Now Leo was dead, and it was Julian’s fault. And Lily was left alone, and that was his fault, too.
“You look lovely,” he told her, as if a feeble compliment could make everything right.
“Thank you. You look dreadful.” Her dark brown eyes scanned his appearance. “Just look at that coat. Once it fit you to perfection, and now it hangs loose on your frame.”
“I’m making it the new fashion. Next Season, they’ll all be wearing ill-fitting coats with ripped sleeves. The tailors will despise me.”
Lily gave him a chastening look. “We need to talk.”
Here it was. The moment he’d been dreading. “Very well.” He took a straight-backed armchair and placed it just a few feet from hers, positioning it to facilitate lipreading. “Let’s talk.”
“No, not here.” She replaced the bundle of letters in the drawer, then shut and locked it with a small key. Reaching for her gloves, she said, “Let’s go out to the square. It’s a lovely afternoon.”
Julian hesitated. “Really, I’m not fit for public view. And I ought to be—”
Ignoring his protest, she threaded her arm through his. He promptly misplaced any will to argue.
It truly was a lovely afternoon, Julian thought as they stepped out into the crisp late October air. This was that rare time of year when the London air could actually be crisp, rather than wavy with humidity or fuzzy with soot. A clear sky capped the rows of lavish town homes and the square they framed. The sun floated bright and yellow overhead, and the world was sharp beneath it. Every edge glinted; each pane of glass reflected blue. And he had Lily on his arm.
Yes, indeed. A lovely afternoon. Goddamned heartbreakingly beautiful.
As they crossed into the square, Julian decided to face the matter head-on. They found a vacant bench and sat on opposite ends, turning to face one another.
“I’m sorry for last night,” he began. “Or rather, for this morning.”
“You should be.”
“What I did was … unconscionable. You have my word it will never happen again.”
“I should hope not.”
In some other circumstance, with some other lady, his pride might have taken a knock or two, simply from the sheer alacrity of her agreement. But then, they were often of one mind, he and Lily. He told himself this quick consensus was a good thing. A humbling thing, but a good thing.
He went on, “I don’t know what possessed me to take such liberties. I can only blame the sleeping powder, combined with my state of extreme exhaustion, and I—”
She held up a hand. “Wait. What are you talking about?”
He paused, suddenly unsure. “What are you talking about?”
“You can’t possibly be apologizing for that kiss?”
“I … I can’t?” Did she not want him to apologize for that kiss? She couldn’t possibly have desired it. Much less enjoyed it. Could she have? The mere possibility sent stupid, irrational hope blazing through him.
She made a dismissive gesture. “It was scarcely worth mentioning, let alone deserving of apology.”
Right. Just to confirm: The hope was both stupid and irrational.
After briefly pressing his lips together to seal his humiliation, he said, “I apologize for my behavior nonetheless. It was wrong of me.”
“You weren’t yourself. You were drugged and barely conscious.” Smiling, she added, “And considering you swooned again in the middle of it, I’m not certain that kiss reflected favorably on me, either.”
“For the last time, I did not swoon.”
“You did.” Her eyes went grave. “You fainted dead away, Julian. And you do owe me an apology. Can you imagine what you put me through? Roused from bed in the dark of night, summoned to the door to view your senseless body in a heap? It was like Leo all over again. I can’t endure another scene like that.”
Guilt twisted his heart. “Lily …”
“How much time has passed since Leo died?”
He gave her a look, one that spoke without words. You, of all people, should not have to ask.
And she didn’t. Leo had been loved by many, but by no one so much as the two of them. They shared a moment of silent grief.
“Five months,” she said. “Almost.”
“Four months, three weeks, and a day.”
“As you say. And to look at you, one would think five years have passed. Haunting the streets at all hours, developing a sudden fascination with blood sport, chasing shadows down dark alleyways. And you’ve grown so thin and pale.”
She suddenly tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at him. “I’ve just formed a suspicion. I think I know who … or rather, what, you truly are.”
His pulse quickened. Sweat beaded at the back of his neck. Despite the mad upheaval in his chest, he strove to look bored. “Oh yes?”
With a glance to either side, she inched closer. Her eyes gleamed with humor. “You’re a vampire. Aren’t you?”
A relieved chuckle escaped him. He made a show of stretching his arm along the back of the bench—not coincidentally toward her—and defiantly tilting his face to the sun. After a long moment, he cocked an eyebrow. “Here I am, sitting in broad daylight. I haven’t disintegrated to ashes yet.”
“No. Not yet.” Her voice went serious. “You must stop. You must give up this search before it kills you, too.”
Julian rubbed his eyes briefly, then dropped his hand. “Impossible.”
“Not impossible. Merely difficult. Believe me, I do understand. I’ve buried myself in ledgers and papers, putting things in order for the transfer of the estate. I could leave the duty to others, but I don’t. Because as much effort as it is, I need the distraction. Grieving is work in its own right. A harsh, relentless sort of labor.”
He would not have thought to phrase it so, but she was right. Julian felt as though he’d been spending recent months digging trenches with a teaspoon. But there was more to this than Lily supposed.
“It’s not just a distraction,” he said, trying to explain as best he could without revealing details. “I need answers. Leo deserves answers.”
“Sometimes there are no answers.”
Before he could argue back, a pair of beribboned young girls in white pinafores bounced past, hand in hand. A round-faced nursemaid followed them, tugging a miniature terrier by the leash. The dog gave Julian’s boot a low growl.
Lily cleared her throat. “I had an unexpected caller the other day. Lady Norwich. You remember her.”
The abrupt change of subject set his brain spinning. “Do I?”
“I should hope so. You had an affair with her two summers ago. Before her husband passed away.”
“Oh.” An awkward pause. “That Lady Norwich.” With false nonchalance, he asked, “And what did she have to say?”
“She wants me to marry her brother, Mr. Burton.”
He sputtered. Damn that Maria Norwich. She wasn’t supposed to be so obvious. But then, subtlety never had been Maria’s forte. “She said that?”
“No, of course she didn’t say it. But there is no other reason she should have called, except to pave the way for her brother. She had nothing whatsoever to talk about. Just sat there like a stick, sipping tea.”
“I didn’t know sticks could sip tea.”
She cut him a stern look. He could tell she meant that glare to have teeth. The problem was, when Lily was near, Julian’s thoughts fixated on lips and tongue.
“Stop making fun,” she said. “I know you sent her, or at least put the thought in her head. You’re matchmaking again.”
“Burton will inherit an earldom.”
“I am not interested in Mr. Burton, or his earldom.”
Leaning forward, he reached into her lap and took her hands in his. She cast an apprehensive glance to the side, and he ignored it. Etiquette be damned, he had to convince her of this.
He squeezed her gloved fingers tight. “You must marry, and soon.”
“I don’t intend to marry at all.”
“Leo’s heir will arrive from Egypt in a matter of weeks.”
“Yes, and the new marquess is my cousin. We haven’t seen one another since childhood, but I doubt the man will cast me out of my home. He may be perfectly happy for me to manage the household until he marries, as I did for Leo. And if such an arrangement is not agreeable to us both, I will find living quarters of my own.”
“Alone? You cannot live alone.”
“I most certainly can. I am a single woman in possession of good fortune. Why should I be in want of a husband?”
“Lily …” He released her hands. There was no way to talk around it. “You cannot hear.”
“I am deaf, yes, and have been so these past nine years. And …?”
And there were innumerable obstacles for a deaf single woman setting up a household of her own, and well she knew it. She was simply being difficult. “The merchants will cheat you, for one.”
“Holling and Swift look out for me. And I can hire a companion.”
He made an exasperated gesture. “The companion will cheat you.”
“I’m safer in the hands of a cheating companion than saddled with a grasping fortune-hunter husband. Even if a servant siphons ten percent of my fortune, I still retain the greater part. If I marry, I lose control of everything. And really, Julian. Malachi Burton?” A laugh caught in her throat. “When we were younger, he lacked the temerity to ask me for a dance. Now marriage? He must presume me desperate indeed.”
Her gaze wandered to the center of the square. A little smile touched the corners of her lips. “You never knew me before my illness. I had so many suitors in my first season.”
Julian blinked at her. Unbelievable. She spoke the words as though they should come as a surprise. “As many as there were eligible gentlemen in London, I’d wager. You could have just as many now. Show your face at a party now and then, and the men would flock to you.”
“Please.” Her cheeks flushed. “I’m eight-and-twenty, not a debutante.”
“Were you eight-and-forty, any man would be lucky to marry you.”
“Any man would be lucky to attach himself to my money and connections, do you mean?”
He tsked. “Don’t fish for compliments, Lily. It’s unbecoming.”
“I’m not fishing for anything. I’m stating facts. Even ignoring my impairment—which most find difficult to ignore—by the ton’s standards, I’m a dried-up spinster.”
“Nonsense.” He brushed her cheek, then held up his thumb to mock inspection and pronounced, “Glistening with the dew of youth.”
With another woman, he might have put that same thumb in his mouth, lightly sucked it in lascivious suggestion. He would not do that with Lily. He would not. No matter how much he wished to savor the sweet essence of her skin.
She gave him an arch look, one eyebrow rising in reproof.
He returned the expression, mirroring her primness with such success that she laughed despite herself. He loved the sound of her laugh. It wasn’t musical or affected, just honest and real.
“I’ve missed this,” she said suddenly. “I’ve missed our friendship so much.”
Julian didn’t know what to say. Of course he’d missed her friendship, too. But did she have to graze his wrist when she said that, sit forward on the bench … tugging his eyes down the bodice of her dress, giving rise to desires that strayed well beyond the bounds of friendly discourse?
She said, “The house is so empty with Leo gone.”
God, yes. Speak of Leo. Help me smother this inappropriate yearning under a thick blanket of guilt and grief.
“I haven’t bothered with parties in years. The house was always full of his friends. I never felt deprived of companionship, but now …”—she straightened her glove—“those friends don’t come around so often as they might.”
He was unable to look at her for a moment. “I’ve been busy.”
In just how many ways was it possible to betray a friend? Julian had lied to Leo for the duration of their acquaintance, lusted after his sister for almost as long, and then sent the man alone to a violent death that had been meant for him instead. It galled and shamed him, to look back on the record of this “friendship” and feel how acutely, how catastrophically he’d failed. He’d vowed to prove a truer friend now, even as the poor man shivered in the grave. Justice for Leo’s murder and a suitable husband for Lily: These were now his guiding aims in life.
She noted his solemnity. “I know how hard it will be for you to let this investigation go. The senseless nature of it all offends you deeply. You’re so like Leo that way. He never could tolerate injustice. That’s why the two of you were such fast friends.” She framed his jaw with one hand, lifting his face until his eyes met hers. “He knew, as I do, that beneath all that scandal and devilry … you’re a good man, Julian Bellamy.”
A good man? Good Lord. She had no idea.
Just that slight, innocent touch—the curve of her palm, the scattered pressure of three fingertips against his cheek. Sensation rioted in his blood, incited by multiplying possibilities. They all started with a kiss. He wanted to kiss her again, right now, and do a proper job of it. Slide down the bench until their bodies met, steady her with a light touch, tilt her face to his … This time he would learn the taste of her.
This constant war between his base male instincts and what remained of his conscience—he’d been waging it for years. And by the gods, it was an epic struggle. Worthy of lutes and Homeric poetry. More. He deserved his own damned constellation.
You’re a good man, Julian Bellamy.
No, he really wasn’t a good man. Nor was he even Julian Bellamy. But he would pretend to be both, for a little bit longer.
“Leo was a good man.” He cleared his throat. “And you’re right. It’s the injustice I can’t abide. Good men should not be killed in alleyways. Brutal murders should not go unpunished. And,” he said with a meaningful look, “bright, beautiful ladies of marriageable age should not live vulnerable and alone.”
Her eyes went serious, unblinking. She leaned closer still. The epic battle, it would seem, was only beginning.
“Then don’t leave me.”