The Fictitious Marquis Read online

  He soon discovered that nothing disarmed a proper, middle-class young woman more than a man claiming to be aristocracy. Not very major aristocracy, of course. Surely nothing as grand as a marquis or even a duke. The highest title Jamie ever bestowed upon himself—and he did it back then without benefit of a duel, thank you—was that of a baron.

  Nevertheless, despite Jamie's success at fooling the middle classes into believing him a peer, never in his wildest dreams would he have presumed to pass himself off as one in front of actual members of the ton.

  No, Jamie was perfectly content to move from countryside to countryside. A vicar's daughter here, a schoolmistress there. Small dowries, but they added up. And, as long as he never actually legally married any one of them, Jamie could still feel more or less like a simple rogue, rather than a true scoundrel.

  His only mistake came in wooing a young woman who, he found out a hare's breath too late, turned out to be the sister of a London Bow Street runner, who made it his life's goal to see Jamie dragged before a magistrate's bench, and charged with a docket full of crimes half of which Jamie had never even heard of, much less committed. He could no longer remember which—or maybe it was cumulative—of them he had been sentenced to hang for.

  Which all went to prove Jamie's stand, that he hadn't treated Julia Highsmith half as badly as he had some others.

  So, why then, did her silent refusal to deny Salome's charges continue to haunt Jamie through the night, leaving him to pace the floor, and to wonder.

  11

  When Julia was younger and angry, she threw things.

  Now that she were older and angry, she . . . still threw things.

  The only difference was, as a child, Julia had smashed breakable objects against the floor for the sheer audible pleasure of hearing them break into a million pieces. At twenty, she understood that such behavior would be considered inappropriate. And so Julia, when infuriated, now consoled herself with the wholly unsatisfactory act of flinging, one by one, an entire shelf of books at her pillow. But they only made a muffled thump upon impact and then just lay there, pages flapping, leaving Julia to seethe in infuriating silence.

  The only problem was, she hadn't the faintest idea whom she was angry at.

  Jamie for enticing her into that scandalous, silent waltz, or Salome for stopping it?

  Salome for accusing him of only toying with her affections, or Jamie for refusing to vehemently deny it?

  Befuddled, Julia sank down on the bed, sliding a pillow onto her lap, and mindlessly tugging at both corners until the white cloth started to tear at the seams.

  Or was she angry at herself, for the excited trembling that shot through her in response to Salome's question about Jamie's true intentions, and for the pictures that leapt into her mind, making it impossible for Julia to so much as meet Jamie's gaze.

  Strange how Julia and Gavin had done little more than hold hands and exchange secret glances across the room, and she had believed herself in love with him. But years of knowing the young lord hadn't managed to ignite in Julia an ounce of the passionate sensations that had so overwhelmed her after a brief moment in Jamie's arms.

  It was all so puzzling. Julia noted the hole she had started in her pillowcase, and hooked one finger over the edge, tearing it further and enjoying the sound that it made.

  Julia didn't love Jamie. She felt certain of that. And yet, obviously, a great many women before her had.

  Admittedly, he was handsome. Especially when scrubbed and combed and dressed in some of the best men's clothes money could buy. And he was smart. Maybe not terribly learned, and certainly grossly undereducated, but undeniably in possession of a keen mind. In only a few short weeks he'd committed to memory everything Julia had taught him, sometimes surprising even her with his uncanny ability to recite, word for word, an order she'd given him as far back as half a month ago. And he was terribly witty. He made Julia laugh. And fume. Sometimes at the same time. He was charming. He could be sweet. He could even, she knew, be gentle.

  The sooner they got married the better.

  Once Julia collected her money, traveled to France, appraised Miriam and Alexia's situation and performed whatever task necessary to set it all right again, then Jamie would be free to go on his way and she would never have to set eyes on the rake again.

  Yes, Julia decided, tomorrow morning they would set a wedding date, and move towards bringing this farce of a betrothal to an end once and for all.

  "Sunday."

  Jamie looked up from his breakfast of fried eggs and sausage to agree, "It is the day following Saturday, and preceding Monday. What of it?"

  "You and I." She settled across the table from him and poured a cup of tea. "We are to be married. Three Sundays from now."

  "Very well." He hardly bothered to look up from his plate.

  The complete nonchalance startled her. Julia was not accustomed to Jamie's accepting her words without argument. "Did you hear what I said, Mr. Lowell?"

  "Sunday. Wedding. You and I. Yes, I heard every word."

  "And?"

  "And, what of it? What do you wish me to say? It's no less than what I have been waiting for. After all, marriage was the primary objective of our little charade, was it not? I knew it was coming eventually. Now it is here. Don't chastise me for refusing to act like the traditional nervous groom."

  He possessed a definite point. What was it that Julia wanted for him to say?

  Nothing, really.

  Then why was she finding the few phrases that he did deem worth uttering so completely unsatisfactory?

  "Don't you—wouldn't you like to know anything of the arrangements?" The moment she said it, Julia knew that the last had been a most unfortunate choice of words.

  Jamie slowly lifted his head, one eyebrow raised in obvious disparagement. "Why, no, Miss Highsmith, I thought that I would leave all the arrangements up to you."

  She resolved not to allow him to make her as angry this morning as he had managed to last night. That was the last thing she needed. If Jamie knew he had the power to manipulate her emotions, he would become thoroughly unbearable. So, avoiding his sardonic expression, Julia prattled on, "We shall have to order you a wedding suit, I suppose."

  "Very well."

  "I'll send for a tailor from town."

  Julia tapped her fingernails atop the dining room table. Jamie returned to his breakfast, making a great show out of cutting his eggs in an exaggeration of perfectly proper behavior.

  Knowing that she were treading into a potentially deadly trap of quicksand, Julia hesitated before asking him, "And what religion is it that you practice, Mr. Lowell?"

  This at least managed to capture his attention away from the apparently fascinating slices of sausage.

  Jamie shrugged, "Why, the Church of England, of course. At least, that's what I remember from the few Sunday mornings my mum proved able to catch me running out the door before services. Why do you ask? What else could I possibly be?"

  She forced herself to sound neutral. "It is only that we will be having an Anglican service. I just thought that I would inquire, in case that you were a practicing Catholic or, or a Mason, or some such thing."

  "Rest assured, m'lady, an Anglican service is well and good. I am neither Catholic nor Mason nor Hindu nor Muslim nor Jew."

  Once again, his extensive knowledge of matters Julia hardly suspected to be common fodder on the streets of St. Giles, took her by surprise. She said, "You were merely pretending, weren't you?"

  He did not know what she was referring to, but, nevertheless, answered, "Most likely. I would have to go back quite a few years to find a time when I wasn't pretending something or other."

  "While I was teaching you manners and such, you were only pretending not to know them. Confess, Mr. Lowell, no man could be as ignorant as you claim in the doings of proper society, and yet be able to rattle of a list of world religions as if fresh from a schoolroom lesson in geography."

  Jamie raised both arms i
n the air, capitulating. "Very well, Miss Highsmith. I surrender. You have found me out."

  "What?" She leaned forward across the table, sincerely intrigued. "What have I found out?"

  "You are right. I was playing the fool to gibe you just a bit. You are most attractive when patronizing. The truth of the matter is, I already received all the education in manners that I needed, from women intimately acquainted with ton etiquette."

  She exclaimed, "Surely, Jamie, you haven't been plying your trade on ladies of the aristocracy? The magistrate assured me that it was only ladies of the service-class that you beguiled. Don't you realize what sort of a quagmire that places me in? What if someone were to recognize you?"

  He shook his head and waved one hand from side to side in denial. "Calm yourself, Miss Highsmith. I said that I were taught by ladies merely acquainted with ton etiquette. Maids, cooks, seamstresses, dressers. All of them close enough to high society to understand their rules and habits, yet far enough away to insure my continuing to live unrecognized."

  "But what if a lady's maid were to spot you, and what if she tells her mistress?"

  "In such matters, just who do you think will be believed by the ton, lady's maid, or the future marquis of Martyn?"

  "I suppose you are right . . ."

  "Actually, Miss Highsmith"—now it was Jamie's turn to lean forward with a question—"it would seem to me that a much greater threat to my charade being uncovered rests not with the company I've kept in the past, but rather with a few of your own more recent acquaintances."

  "My acquaintances?"

  "If anyone can recognize me for the fraud, it would be the magistrate who sentenced me, and the hangman whose work you compelled to go unfinished. Now, granted, executioners rarely travel in society's finest circles, but I have heard of the presence of a magistrate or two."

  "Your magistrate received adequate financial remuneration for remaining silent, as did the hangman. Furthermore, I can sometimes barely recognize the future marquis of Martyn as the same man whom I dragged out of Newgate covered in filth. I doubt that those who remember you from your months in prison would do much better."

  "So everything is in order, then?"

  "I do believe that I have taken care of everything. All that remains now is for us to marry. My uncle will be signing my inheritance over to me immediately after the wedding ceremony."

  "Congratulations," Jamie said.

  "We leave for France the evening of the marriage. Isaac will drive us down to Brighton, and then a ship across the Channel to Le Havre. I hired a carriage there to take us to Nogent-le-Rotrou."

  "And where may that be?"

  "Two provinces outside of Paris."

  "Rather odd spot for a honeymoon, don't you think?"

  "No, Mr. Lowell, I do not."

  "And what shall we do there, upon our arrival in . . . where?"

  "Nogent-le-Rotrou."

  "Yes, correct. What shall we do when we get there?"

  "That is singularly my concern."

  Jamie finished eating and pushed his plate away in disgust. "Do you ever get the feeling, Miss Highsmith, that every conversation we start inevitably twists itself into a perpetual circle, until we are literally parroting the same sequence of sparring questions and answers, day after day into infinity?"

  "If you stop asking, I will gladly refrain from answering."

  "But that is just my meaning. You do not answer. You stall. You hedge. I daresay, on many an occasion, you simply out and out lie. Why is that? What could be so damning that you have to expound the bulk of your energy just keeping it from coming into the light?" His voice softened. "I know what all that is like. I am hardly a stranger to subterfuge. It is very difficult. It sucks the life out of you, until you find it impossible to decipher where the lie ends, and where the actual person begins again. It can be soul-destroying, Julia."

  Julia barely saw Jamie in the weeks leading up to their wedding. There were simply too many details to take care of. She still needed to send out invitations, order a wedding gown, arrange for a church and minister for the ceremony, and meet twice with Uncle Collin to insure a smooth transfer of money into her name.

  Or rather, as Julia discovered much to her shock, into the Marquis Jeremy Lowell's name.

  Her uncle had explained, "It is the provision of your father's estate. He did not trust a woman's ability to manage a fortune of such magnitude alone, and thus insisted that it only be bestowed upon you once you were married. And that your husband shall then take charge of your affairs."

  "Does that mean I will be forced to go to Jamie whenever I need to purchase the smallest item? Why, that is almost as bad as needing to seek your permission," she had retorted bitterly.

  At least handling her guest list proved a much simpler affair. Julia was stunned by how many people who'd met Jamie at the ball were terribly eager to come to their wedding.

  She had to hand the rascal credit. He had done exactly what Julia demanded of him, and then some. Practically all of London was talking about what a charming, handsome, and delightful match Julia Highsmith had made for herself. A few mothers with daughters at home of debut age had even whispered behind cupped hands to Julia, "Where in the world did you find such a man?"

  Wisely, she refrained from telling them everything.

  The night before the wedding, Julia sat at her writing desk, penning a letter to Miriam. She wrote quickly, head so filled with everything she wanted to say that her hand moved hardly fast enough across the paper.

  My darling Miriam;

  Do not despair. I am coming soon, and bringing with me money enough to insure saving both you and Alexia from your dreadful situation. I have written to you before of the steps I felt obligated to take to acquire these funds. I beg, do not think too poorly of me for having taken them. I, myself, try to view them not as a sacrilege or a betrayal, but as a necessity.

  The man I am to marry knows nothing of my plan, only that it includes travel to France.

  Julia hesitated, then slowly she added:

  He is a good man. With, I suspect, a finer heart than he allows seen, and possessing a depth of understanding of the human soul that I have never before encountered in such abundance.

  For the remainder of the night, Julia wrote to Miriam about Jamie, unaware of the hours sweeping by her.

  It wasn't until Moses respectfully knocked on Julia's door, that she sat up with a start, and realized, with a combination of horror and a most peculiar anticipation, that her wedding day to Jamie Lowell had finally arrived.

  12

  Considering how many times he had talked of marriage, promised to marry, and come frighteningly close to actually being married, Jamie hadn't expected that finally participating in the ceremony would so greatly affect him. In that, he were mistaken.

  It was one thing to discuss the institution in abstract. It were quite another to don the appropriate clothes, stand at attention while being fussed over by a quartet of valets, and then be driven to the church, where, if nothing else, the splendor and solemnity of the surroundings was enough to overwhelm any man.

  Jamie's first view of the cathedral came the morning of his wedding. He stepped out from his decorated carriage, only to come face-to-steps with possibly the tallest steeple in England. Why, even the bell in the belfry had to weigh in at ten stone. But even the sheer size of the building quickly paled in comparison to the two-hundred-year-old stained glass window that was the pride and joy of this particular church.

  Titled "Jonah Window," it featured a man dressed in a blue robe and red cape, resting beneath a tree made heavy by dozens of ripe golden apples, while at his feet, a brook bubbles joyously over time-worn rocks, and a thriving town of brown and white buildings peeks over the hills in the distance.

  As far as Jamie could see, the art's only flaw came in that the leading holding together the hundred or so square sheets of glass produced an effect of looking at the picture as if it were set behind a rectangular grid.

&nbs
p; Still under the impression of the window, Jamie could only gape once he was led inside the church itself. Everywhere he turned his head, gold trim sparkled like the sunlight. A pipe organ dominated one entire wall, each glistening tube the size of a fully grown man. Yet, for Jamie, the church's grandest feature had to be the fact that each of the pews facing the altar came with a sturdy back against which to lean, in case the minister felt particularly long winded. After a childhood spent trying to glorify God while sitting on hard, splintery, wooden benches; benches where one leg, inevitably, proved shorter than its twin, Jamie and his aching back sincerely thanked the Almighty for at last providing them with this splendid reprieve.

  He could not even begin to guess at how much money had been spent to erect such a fine structure. Obviously more than he would ever encounter in a lifetime.

  Which was a shame really, since money, truly, was such a convenient thing to possess. After all, look at all it had done for Julia. Not only had her wealth bought her a convict from the gallows, but it also enabled her to afford the twenty-eight guinea special marriage license from the archbishop of Canterbury, enabling them to get married any place they wished, any time they wished, without the pesky paperwork—such as, say, a birth certificate—demanded of less financially fortunate couples.

  Publicly, they claimed the reason for the extra expense, instead of Jamie and Julia's simply acquiring a regular license from the Doctors' Commons, was due to the difficulties of sending for Jamie's birth certificate from Australia.

  Inside the church, Jamie asked Moses, "Where might Miss Highsmith be?"

  "Upstairs, I believe," the butler replied and reluctantly added, "sir."

  Jamie slapped him heartily on the shoulder. "Don't strain yourself with all that civility now, Moses."

  "I shall try not to, sir. Thank you."

  Smiling less at the man's discomfort, and more at himself for provoking such a reaction from a person who, only a month earlier, might have arguably been considered his social superior, Jamie repeated, "Miss Highsmith is upstairs, you say?" And turned towards the door leading to the second level.