he faint strains of light emerged through the window dressing, piercing the depths of Clara’s slumber and forcing her to wake. She rolled over, stretching, her body singing still with pleasure. She fully expected to find her husband at her side. The bed was empty and cool to the touch, counterpane carefully drawn tight to the pillow as if to suggest he’d never even been there at all.
But he had been there, and a niggling sense of foreboding settled in her gut that he was not there any longer. Aware of an unprecedented amount of footsteps sounding in the hall outside and doors opening and closing, she rose with grim intent, determined to find out what was happening.
Her dressing gown awaited her, neatly laid out on a chair by the bed. Had he done that? It was difficult indeed to imagine the Earl of Ravenscroft collecting her dressing gown and laying it out for her like a lady’s maid. She threw it over herself, belting it with care, and made her way to the door joining their chambers.
The door had splintered from his effort to break it down the night before, and it no longer closed properly. She would need to see to its repair, of course. The abundance of footfalls in the halls and the broken door were the least of her concerns, however, and that much became apparent when she stepped over the threshold to find a most unexpected tableau unfolding before her.
No, nothing about the day was as troubling as what she saw now. What was troubling indeed was that a number of servants were currently engaged in packing up her personal effects. She stopped, mouth opening in shock.
The contents of her wardrobe were scattered over the chamber, her gowns and undergarments separately arranged, trunks laid out, some already closed. The maids working diligently to pack her belongings all stilled at her unexpected entrance. Where had they come from? She’d yet to select domestics from the characters she’d been reviewing the day before.
She found her lady’s maid in the crowd. “Anderson, what is the meaning of this?” she demanded.
“My lady.” Anderson curtsied and hastened to her side, her expression lined by worry. “His lordship instructed Osgood that we are to pack up all your things as you’ll be moving back to live with Mr. Whitney.”
Betrayal settled deep into her bones, cold as winter and just as merciless. He was sending her away. Sending her back to live with her father. And he hadn’t even had the nerve to inform her of his decision to her face. No, instead, he’d abandoned her in his bed as if she were no better than a harlot he’d paid for the night so that she could learn the truth from her lady’s maid and her own two eyes.
“Where is his lordship, Anderson?” she asked, trying to keep the violence of her emotions from coloring her voice. She would be calm. She would confront him, learn the meaning of this. She would not, by God, be sent away. Not like this.
Anderson blanched. “He’s not at home, my lady.”
Not at home. Her teeth ground together. “Where has he gone, if you please?”
“I’m sure I’m not privy to his lordship’s schedule for the day,” Anderson said faintly. “I’m so sorry, my lady, for what happened to you last night. It’s given the household quite a fright. Are you well today?”
“No,” she admitted, her gaze traveling back over the chamber once more. The other maids had continued their work, diligently sorting and folding. “I’m not well at all.”
“Let’s get you dressed, my lady. The doctor will be arriving soon at Lord Ravenscroft’s request.” The lady’s maid’s gaze dropped to Clara’s throat, her brow furrowing. “Begging your pardon my lady, but are you in much pain?”
Yes. She hurt everywhere. Most especially in the vicinity of her heart. “I’m not seeing a doctor,” she decided.
Julian could make as many high-handed decrees as he chose, but their issuance didn’t necessitate her submission. For never let it be said that Clara Elizabeth Ravenscroft had ever obeyed the edict of any man. If he thought he could simply pack her up and excise her from his life without putting up a fight, he was wrong.
“But my lady, surely you ought to see the doctor as his lordship wishes?” Anderson persisted gently. “You’ve a great deal of bruising, I’m afraid.”
Clara’s hand stole to her neck, absentmindedly stroking the reminder of the previous night’s horrors. “I’ll see no one other than the earl himself.”
A reckoning was in order.
The time to confront his past had arrived, though the act gave him no satisfaction. Indeed, he knew only a deep-seated tug of anger mingled with self-loathing in his gut as his carriage stopped on a familiar street.
He was no stranger to the Duke of Argylle’s Mayfair home. Indeed, he suspected he’d spent more time there than Argylle himself, who preferred rusticating in the country or staying in St. John’s Wood with his mistress when in the city. After Lottie had produced two healthy sons, she’d been free to pursue as many lovers as her heart desired. And as it turned out, her inconstant heart had desired a great many.
Julian had been only one of an endless procession, though he’d been witless enough to believe their affair was different than the others who’d gone before him. Fucking came easy to Lottie—she had a beautiful face and body, a husband who didn’t give a damn, and a voracious sexual appetite. As a favorite of Bertie’s, she enjoyed free reign of the Marlborough House set.
But she also had a reputation beyond her eagerness in the bedchamber, one that he’d ignored in his lust and her declarations of love. A reputation for vindictiveness. She had a history of cutting and ostracizing the wives of her lovers. There had been whispers that she’d had a helping hand in Lady Morehaven’s madness and subsequent incarceration in an asylum in Chiswick after Viscount Morehaven had very publicly flaunted their affair. That had been before Lottie and Julian became lovers and he hadn’t paid the gossip much mind at the time. Naturally, Lottie had dismissed such notions with the wave of an elegant, well-manicured hand.
Julian had simply accepted her word, for the Morehaven scandal wasn’t any of his affair and he had enough whispers darkening his own reputation not to give a damn for idle gossip. Now, however, he had every cause to wonder. There had been the troubling altercation at the Devonshire ball, after all. Not to mention the call Lottie had later paid upon Clara. It had left Clara with enough misgiving that she’d seen fit to share it with him.
He descended from his carriage and strode up the front walk in a fog of troubled thoughts. As Julian gave the butler his card and cooled his heels, his mind sifted feverishly through the facts. He didn’t want to believe Lottie capable of hiring a thug to commit murder on her behalf. She was frivolous, callous, and faithless, but he’d never for an instant before today believed her dangerous.
Sill, someone was responsible for the two acts of violence perpetrated upon his home, that much was certain. It seemed Lottie had the best motive of anyone he could countenance. And if she was behind the attacks, Lord have mercy on her soul, for he couldn’t be certain what he’d do to her.
The butler returned. “Her Grace is not at home.”
Of course he shouldn’t be surprised that she’d refuse his call. Anger boiled within him. “Kindly inform Her Grace that I’ll not leave until I receive an audience. It’s a matter of grave import.”
The servant’s brows snapped together but he did as he was asked, his distaste of Julian’s gauche refusal to accept polite pretense quite clear. Julian didn’t give a goddamn what the butler, the Duchess of Argylle, or anyone else thought of him. All he cared about was finding out who had dared to cause Clara harm.
The butler returned just when Julian had begun to contemplate storming into the home and finding her himself. “Her Grace will see you, my lord.”
Biting back a retort, he stalked to the big, cheerful drawing room where Lottie had always preferred to receive callers. As usual, it was bursting with flowers. He’d never known if she had such a surfeit of admirers or if she sent the bouquets to herself. Whatever the case, they were an omnipresent installation.
He found her sprawled elegantly on a settee, looking sated and relaxed. “Julian,” she greeted him throatily, extending a hand. “I hope you don’t mind if I don’t rise? I’m not accepting callers this morning, you see.”
He bowed but refused to take her hand, not wanting to so much as touch her. This near to her, he could see that her pupils were large and onyx in her eyes. Perhaps she’d once more taken to playing with opium. For Lottie there would never be a thrill great enough to cure her appetite.
“Thank you for accepting my call, Your Grace,” he said stiffly, careful to remain formal. “Do you know why I’m here?”
She raised an indolent brow before raking her gaze down the length of his body and lingering on his cock. “You’re not satisfied with that little American jezebel you married? What’s the matter, darling? Doesn’t she like to be tied up?”
His skin went hot at her allusion to the depraved romps they’d once shared. “Do not speak of my wife, madam.”
“She likes being tied up, then?” Lottie’s full lips curved into a feline smile. “Perhaps I do her discredit. You’ve come here to suggest an assignation between the three of us? Would you like me to taste her cunny while you watch, Julian?”
He struggled to maintain his composure. An unholy rage rattled through him, straight to his bones. How dare she speak of his wife as though she were no better than some tart he’d hired for the night? How dare she imagine for even a moment that he would consider subjecting Clara to such debauchery? That he would want it?
Jesus, he was disgusted. Disgusted with her, with himself. Disgusted he’d ever imagined he could care for such a vapid woman, whose only care in life was her own pleasure.
Just barely, he suppressed the urge to yank her from the settee. “Enough, Lottie. I’ll not hear another world of filth from you. I didn’t come here for that.”
Her lips formed a moue of disappointment. “Why are you here then? I’ll admit, when I first saw you I was reminded of how well we got on in bed. It made me miss you, darling.”
He ignored that. “Someone attacked my wife in her bed last night.” He studied her reaction for any sign that she knew more than she pretended.
Her face remained a delicate mask of lethargy, as though she hadn’t a care. Perhaps she didn’t. “Attacked her? Whatever do you mean?”
“Someone attempted to murder her,” he bit out. “He strangled her in her sleep.”
At long last, the words seemed to percolate the opium cloud she currently inhabited. “Good God, Julian, I don’t like the chit but that’s truly awful. How is she?”
Not the words he would expect from the person who had orchestrated such a violent crime. He swallowed. “As well as can be expected.”
“Why are you here telling me this when we haven’t spoken intimately in months?” Her gaze narrowed. “You think I had something to do with it?”
“Someone tried to kill me as well,” he said instead of answering her question. “Two such incidents in such a small span of time are very suspicious. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Of course they’re suspicious, you dolt. Someone is trying to kill the both of you by the sounds of it. But if you fancy that I care enough about you and that American bit of skirts you married to hire someone to do you both harm, you’re sorely mistaken, Ravenscroft.” Her smile faded. “When I heard you were marrying some green chit, I was jealous. I’ll own that. I tried to scare her away from you. That much is true. But you cannot believe I’m capable of murder. Not even I am that depraved.”
Julian stared at her, wishing he could see straight through her to the contents of her conscience. Of course, that was supposing she had one, and he was inclined to believe she didn’t. Even so, everything she said, her manner and affectation, the calmness of her tone, suggested that she spoke the truth.
“What of Ashburn?” he asked. “Has he anything to do with this?”
“Percy?” She wrinkled her nose. “The only thing Percy cares about is cunny, drink, and horses. He’s not the sort.”
He wondered where the duchess had gotten the mouth of a sailor. Perhaps it was the opium talking. Whatever the case, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d caught her with her guard down, in a state that would render it far more difficult for her to prevaricate. And everything she’d said held a glimmer of veracity.
“You swear that you know nothing of this, Lottie?” he demanded.
Not that he would take her at her word, damn it, but he was beginning to feel the fool for even having supposed that a woman more concerned with the next hard cock and vial of laudanum she could find than anything else would be capable of such a vicious plot. Looking at her now, pale and unaccountably relaxed by the potency of the opium she’d no doubt ingested, he couldn’t imagine her capable of much of anything, really.
She stretched her arms above her head and yawned like a sleepy cat. “I swear, Julian. If you want to find out who’s after you, perhaps you should look closer to home. Your brother doesn’t have many kind words to spare for you these days.”
“Edward?” His blood went cold at the unexpected mentioning of his brother. “He’s on the Continent. I haven’t had word from him in years.”
Hadn’t missed him either. Recalling the last time they’d spoken still filled him with acrimony. They had been young and stupid, Edward railing against him for the hedonistic lifestyle he’d adopted to save the estates from ruin. You’re a whore, Edward had sneered, just like our mother. Their mutual rancor had never been more poisonous, and it had led to an angry round of fisticuffs that day that ultimately resulted in his brother’s departure from the country.
“On the Continent? How strange.” Lottie attempted to flash him one of her rare smiles, but her ever growing stupor seemed to impede her. “I ran into him at the Duke of Rutherford’s soiree just the other day. Or was it the other week? Dear me, the days do seem to blend.”
Jesus. Edward was back in London? He hadn’t sent word. Not a single bloody word. A sharp surge of foreboding hit him then, starting at his spine and shooting straight through his body. He felt as if he were about to explode. “What did he say to you?”
But Lottie was fading. Her eyelids appeared to get heavier by the moment. “I don’t recall, darling. Only that it wasn’t pleasant. Have a care, won’t you? I shouldn’t like to see a man with such a beautiful face go to his rewards before his time. I always did love your face.” She yawned again. “Dear me. I do believe I’m due for my nap. See yourself out, won’t you?”
Before he could say another word, her eyes slid closed and she sighed, apparently succumbing to however much laudanum she’d consumed. For the first time since his entrance, he noted an empty vial and a drained teacup. Jesus, she must have drank it right before he’d entered. To hide a guilty conscience? He couldn’t be certain of anything or anyone, it seemed. Least of all his instincts.
Either way, further conversation with Lottie was a moot point. She had passed out on her settee. With a muttered curse, he fetched her butler, instructing the man to see to his mistress. He wouldn’t have her death on his shoulders, and he couldn’t be sure how much of the poison she’d taken.
He stalked back to his carriage, weighed down by more questions.
What the bloody hell was Edward doing back in London?
It seemed he would need to locate his brother and find out. But first, he needed to return to Clara. Before he did anything else, he needed to make certain that she was removed from all harm, by whatever means necessary.
Clara was waiting for Julian in his study when he returned. He strode in, his expression troubled, looking so unfairly virile and handsome that he made her ache despite the anger trapped inside her. She’d been pacing the threadbare carpet but halted at his entrance, every part of her body attuned to him with razor precision. The mere sight of him made heat sluice through her, pooling in a steady ache between her thighs.
But no. She mustn’t allow the way he made her feel to inhibit this audience. She wouldn’t allow him to send her away from his life. They could damn well face the danger together. She wanted to be by his side or nowhere else.
“My lady.” He came to her, taking her cold hands in his, that glacial blue gaze skating over her, lingering on the bruises that Anderson had taken pains to hide with a high-necked gown and some pearl powder. “How are you this morning?”
She knew he asked after her physical wellbeing, but bruises would heal far easier than hearts ever could. “Not well.”
His jaw tensed. “Are you in pain? What did Dr. Redcay say?”
“I didn’t see the doctor. My only interest was in seeing you.” Clara searched his gaze. “I’m not going back to my father’s house, Julian.”
“Yes, damn it, you are,” he growled. “You’re not safe here. That much was amply demonstrated last night.”
Her lips tightened. If he wanted to be stubborn, she could outmatch him any day. “I won’t leave you. Do whatever you must to ensure my safety here. I’ll keep my pistol beneath my pillow. Station a footman by my door. I don’t care. Only don’t send me away.”
“Listen to me.” His voice was low and intense, his face a mask of cold determination. “There is no way in hell I will allow you to be in further danger because of me. Someone is trying to kill me, and he’s so desperate to get to me that he targeted you as well. I’ve made arrangements with your father. You and my sisters will be going to him this afternoon. He’ll arrange passage for you to Virginia as soon as possible. And you’ll go, goddamn it. You’ll go and forget all about me.”
“Forget about you?” The anger swirling through her froze. Her stomach felt as if it bottomed out. “What are you saying, Julian?”
He released her hands and stalked away from her, going to a decanter and pouring himself an ample amount of whisky before tossing it back and pinning her with a dispassionate look. “It’s over, Clara. We’ll have the marriage annulled. You’ll be free to return to the land that you love unencumbered. I’ll transfer your dowry to you. You’ll want for nothing.”
His words tumbled through her, clawed at her insides along with the icy fingers of shock. It’s over. Annulled. Unencumbered. You’ll want for nothing. He didn’t just intend to send her to her father’s home for her safety. He meant to leave her. To force her to leave him.
She swallowed, her mouth suddenly going dry. “All that I want is you, Julian. I don’t want an annulment. I don’t even want to return to Virginia unless it’s with you by my side.”
He tossed back another swallow of liquor, staring at her. “I’m doing you a favor, little dove.” His tone gentled. “One day, you’ll thank me for it. You don’t belong here, and you don’t belong with someone like me. This is for the best.”
How utterly highhanded and wrong of him. She closed the distance between them, not liking the gulf it seemed to create, and didn’t stop until her skirts brushed his trousers and she could see the shadows beneath his eyes and the whiskers shading his cheeks. He wasn’t as unaffected as he pretended.
“You’re wrong,” she told him. “With you is precisely where I belong. I’m not going. Whatever danger there is lurking out there, we’ll face it together. We’ll find out who is responsible.”
He took another draught of whisky, draining the glass before depositing it on the side table with a loud clunk. “Ah, little dove. I warned you against mistaking lust for something more, did I not?”
It was as if the caring, passionate husband of last night had been replaced by a bloodless stranger. Her heart gave a pang in her chest. “Don’t do this, Julian.” She was not above begging, not when it came to this man, the man she loved. “Don’t try to push me away in some misplaced sense of keeping me safe.”
“Don’t you see?” He skimmed his fingers over her jaw, down her throat. “We will never suit. I can’t give you my heart because I don’t bloody well have one, and a woman like you deserves nothing less. I brought all this on myself, and I’ll face it as I must. I won’t allow my darkness to sully you or put you in danger for one moment more.”
“No.” She shook her head, refusing to listen, refusing to give a modicum of credence to his words. “It is you who doesn’t see, Julian. I love you.”
If her revelation affected him, he didn’t show it. His gaze became shuttered. “I was fourteen years old when Lady Esterly propositioned me. My mother had passed on earlier in the year after giving birth to Josephine and my father had just died. I was only sorry for the death in that it saddled me with all his debts. He loved gambling, whoring, and drinking almost as much as he loved beating me, you see. Not much to be missed. Lady Esterly approached me at the old bastard’s funeral. Her husband, Lord Esterly, was one of my father’s friends. She wanted me to fuck her. Offered me money. Do you know what I did, Clara?”
Her heart ached for the young man he must have been. So terribly young. To have had a father who beat him instead of loving him and left him swimming in debt, to have felt he had no recourse other than sacrificing himself. “You don’t need to tell me this, Julian. You were just a boy, and that awful woman preyed on you, abusing your innocence and vulnerability. Regardless, your past doesn’t change the way I feel about you.”
“But I do need to tell you.” His face came closer to hers as he took her chin in his thumb and forefinger and held her there, trapped as any butterfly pressed to a pin board. “You need to hear this, to understand what I am. Who I am. I fucked her, Clara. I accepted the money. I became a whore that day. And that’s how I’ve lived my life ever since, servicing widows and unhappy wives for money. I’ve fucked so many women I lost count. I haven’t a bloody clue how many enemies I’ve made over the years. It could be any cuckolded man in London trying to kill me. Do you understand?”
He felt responsible for the attack. That was what she understood. And fear was making him build walls between them that should never exist. Her hand closed over his. “I understand more than you know.”
He tore his hand from hers. Anger emanated from him in almost tangible waves. “Then for Christ’s sake, don’t throw your love away on a man like me. I’m not worth it, goddamn you. Go to Virginia. You’ll be safe there. Find a good man, one who’ll make you a decent husband, one who’s deserving of you.”
“I don’t want another man. I want you.” She placed a hand on his arm, feeling the tenseness of his muscled flesh even through his coat. “I love you, Julian.”
He shrugged away from her touch and clamped his hands on her waist, setting her away from him as if she were a flame that had burned too near. “But I don’t want you. I don’t love you. I’m not capable.”
She didn’t believe him. “Everyone is capable of love.”
“Not me.” With a muffled curse, he reached for his empty glass and hurled it against the wall. It shattered on impact, shards raining to the carpet. “Leave, Clara. Get the hell out of here while you still can.”
Stricken, Clara looked from the broken glass to her husband’s grim countenance. “Please, Julian. Don’t do this.”
“Go. I don’t want you here.” He spun her around so that she faced the door, his touch unusually rough. “Leave me now. And don’t come back.”
Tears threatening her vision, she found herself numbly obeying him, walking from his study. Leaving him. What could she say in the face of his anger? She’d laid her heart bare before him, and he’d turned it down before smashing it beneath his boot heel. Something inside her splintered, leaving her fragmented and hopelessly adrift.
Perhaps he didn’t love her after all, at least not enough to fight for her. To fight for them and what they’d only begun to build. I don’t love you. I’m not capable. Don’t come back. The awful words echoed through her mind, a mocking litany. Pressing a hand over her mouth to muffle the sobs she couldn’t suppress, she rushed over the threshold.
More breaking glass sounded behind her just before she closed the door.