The Fictitious Marquis Read online

  Reasoning that perhaps a more agreeable approach might quickly show Julia the impracticality of her actions, Salome swallowed her misgivings and, instead, reasonably pointed out, "He'll need new clothes, of course. Or is Newgate releasing prisoners with a full wardrobe these days?"

  Julia beamed, certain the worst of their squabble were finally over. "We can order some from town."

  "Oh, that I shall like to see. You and I marching into the beau's favorite outfitters and requesting a wardrobe of men's clothes. Why, of course, Julia, how could I have been so foolish? You are absolutely right. That, most certainly, will not inspire a syllable of gossip."

  Feeling very much like the mistress who purchased a horse in town, asked for it to be delivered, and now headed to the stables for a closer look at what exactly she had bought, Julia changed clothes, replacing the pink and white gown of that afternoon with a simpler, light blue satin summer frock, and headed towards the guest room Moses had set up for Mr. Lowell.

  Julia bit her lip, and, ever so slightly, inched the door forward a hairline crack, so that she might be able to peek in without being noticed.

  True to his word, Moses had seen to it that Jamie were washed and clothed appropriately. His skin, minus the layer of brownish grime that earlier had appeared part of his natural complexion, now glowed a freshly scrubbed, almost newborn pink, and the previously tangled shock of ruddy bangs that fell across his face lay sunset red and neatly combed above a pair of robin's-egg-blue eyes. He had discarded—and hopefully burned—his prison rags, trading them for a pair of faded breeches and a one-size-too-large white shirt, previously in the possession of one of Moses's sons. It could hardly be deemed the current fashion, but the too wide, flowing sleeves did give Jamie the appearance of a rather dapper gypsy. Or a pirate. Unfortunately, neither image was quite what Julia's plans required for him to be.

  Still unobserved, she watched Jamie move cautiously about the room, briefly running his fingers along the mahogany veneer, the walnut writing desk, and the brass inlay marquetry on the bed, before guiltily pulling back his arm, as if in fear of breaking something. Odd, Julia thought, how at the prison, he'd seemed so much older than she was, while now he reminded her more of a small child under strict orders never to touch his aunt's valuable Minton plates. As if to reinforce her mind's picture, Jamie snapped both arms behind his back, one hand holding the other, clearly terrified of touching the wrong object and inadvertently breaking it.

  Starting to feel more and more like a voyeur, Julia took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and, knocking loudly, pushed his door open the rest of the way.

  Jamie jumped, every muscle visibly tightening, and spun about. Stunned by the extremity of his reaction, Julia gasped and froze in her place, momentarily unsure of what to do or say.

  Recognizing that it were only she, Jamie dropped his arms and exhaled, brushing the once again loose bangs from his forehead. Noting Julia's disorientation, a faint, mocking smile bubbled to his features, and Jamie asked with mock formality, "Does protocol demand my bowing in your presence, Miss Highsmith?"

  Thankfully, his sarcasm was more than enough to shock Julia back into loquaciousness. Leaving the door open for the sake of a propriety she had certainly long surrendered after that afternoon's little excursion to Newgate Prison, Julia set her hands on hips, and coolly told Jamie, "A mere falling to your knees will do."

  He obeyed instantly. "Your wish is my command."

  But the smirk never for a moment left his eyes.

  "Oh, do get up, Mr. Lowell, you look positively cork-brained."

  "And how would you have me look, then? I assure you, I am capable of assuming any pose or dramatic temperament."

  "I know. That is precisely why, at this very moment, you are here, enjoying my hospitality, as opposed to listening for your neck to snap on the gallows."

  A shadow of fear passed across Jamie's face. Julia could almost hear him recalling that final moment of a hanging, when the executioner reached through the trap door to jerk the condemned man by his legs, thus breaking his neck.

  Jamie looked so sincerely green from the prospect that Julia felt a twinge of guilt at torturing him so.

  However, in a moment, he was springing to his feet and booming theatrically, "So what shall it be, m'lady? Whom shall I become? A hussar? A dragoon, perhaps?"

  Jamie stretched himself to full height, back military straight, eyes straight ahead, imaginary riding crop tucked under his arm, and proceeded to mock-march across the room in a manner identical to those of the beplumed and gold-laced officers Julia often saw fraternizing with the merchants of St. James Street.

  "Or would Miss Highsmith prefer a gentleman of leisure?"

  Instantly, the soldier of a moment before became a gambler at one of the many men's clubs—White's, Boodle's, Brooks'—that Julia had only heard about. Face set in immobile concentration, Jamie pantomimed tilting his hat over his eyes, and stooping in near exhaustion over the green baize tables for yet another game of whist, faro, or hazard.

  "How about a dandy, then?"

  Jamie stuck his nose up in the air and turned dramatically towards the mirror, making a great show of pretending to brush each hair on his head until it lay just right, then creasing down his starched cravat until every fold stood impeccable.

  The characterization was so perfect that Julia could not contain her merriment any longer, and burst out laughing in sincere appreciation of his talents.

  Encouraged, Jamie next offered, "The Jew money-lender on Clarges Street."

  Julia's heart skipped a beat in her chest.

  "Stop that." She had meant to shout the command, but, instead, it come out only as a whisper.

  Unable to hear her, he shriveled up, both hands turning into grotesque claws that reached out and snatched at the silver platters and diamond necklaces brought to him by well-to-do gamblers, eager for the loan of extra cash so that they might return to the tables.

  Only Julia was no longer laughing.

  Without a word of explanation, she seized Jamie by the shirt collar, yanking him upright.

  He stared at her queerly, unsure of the exact offense he'd committed, but, regardless, ready to loudly defend himself.

  Unfortunately, she had no intention of granting him such an opportunity. Refusing to even acknowledge Jamie's confusion, Julia shoved him aside, wiping her palm distastefully on the bodice of her dress, and, turning sharply, stormed out of his room.

  3

  She flew the length of the west wing hallway in a rage so blinding, Julia barely avoided barreling into the upstairs maid while rounding a corner.

  It took her two flights of stairs, and the length of one dining room, one ballroom, and the parlor, before Julia felt some confidence in getting her temper under control.

  Walking past the kitchen, she heard the faint murmur of Moses in conversation with Cook. The sole words clearly audible were "Gavin" and "Lady Emma." But even they stopped the moment Julia entered. Both Moses and Cook simultaneously tightened their lips, suddenly engrossed in chopping vegetables, a task that, on an average day, Moses would deem far below his station.

  Julia sighed.

  It was growing so tiresome, the way all conversation about Gavin and his new bride ceased the instant Julia strolled into hearing range. The habit might even have been amusing, if the mere thought of the young lord didn't still send a pain so searing through Julia's heart that she sometimes feared cracking in two.

  Julia forced her tone to sound light, determined never to show her true feelings, and risk being pitied. "Have Lord Gavin and Lady Emma returned from their . . . trip, then?" She wasn't yet feeling up to mouthing the word "honeymoon."

  Moses cleared his throat and avoided Julia's gaze. "Aye, that they have. This morning."

  Now it was Julia's turn to feign interest in the plate of scones resting by the stove. "I must remember to pay Gavin and his wife a proper visit in the near future. Welcome them home."

  "Of course, Miss Julia
." Cook refused to so much as glance in her mistress's direction, choosing instead to spoon a serving of parslied potatoes in cream sauce from her pot into a pair of plates, and follow that up with an equally generous portion of garden peas. She inquired, "I am ready to serve, miss. Will Mr. Lowell be joining you?"

  "You cannot be serious," Salome announced to Julia upon entering the dining room and seeing their dinner table set for three. "He is to eat with us?"

  Julia shrugged, "If I am to marry him, I suppose he shall have to, at some time."

  "I had hoped an hour of private contemplation might force you to reassess your rash decision of this morning. Really, Julia, this is most bizarre. The game is over, my pet, what say we hand the wretch a few pounds for his trouble and send him on his way?"

  "Then where does that leave Miriam and Alexia?"

  "You cannot be expected to sacrifice your life for theirs."

  "Miriam would do the same for me, I know it."

  Salome threw her hands up in the air, at last acknowledging the hopelessness of turning Julia from this silly plan, and now simply hoping that she might curb at least a bit of the damage this child seemed so set on inflicting upon her reputation.

  Wishing that the entire problem might somehow disappear, Salome reflected, "If only you had accepted Lord Neff's proposal. How much simpler everything would be."

  "Do you truly think so?" Julia plucked a rose petal from their table's centerpiece, and rubbed it between two fingers until pink juice soiled her hand. "After all, I could never have confessed to Gavin what it were I was rescuing Miriam from. If I married him, the situation might only have been more complicated. I don't think I could have borne lying to him." Julia turned to Salome. "Is that why you never married the marquis of Martyn? Mama told me how ever so much in love with you he was."

  Stiffly, Salome replied, "The marquis of Martyn is an old, dear friend, nothing more, nothing less."

  "But he did propose to you, did he not?"

  "As Lord Neff did to you."

  "And you turned him away. As I turned Gavin away." Julia paused before gently prying, "Was it for the very same reason?"

  Salome hesitated, unwilling to delve too deeply into the topic. For both their sakes. "A similar reason, yes."

  Seeing her aunt's discomfort, Julia tactfully attempted to back out of the awkwardness. Projecting a cheerfulness she truly could not feel, Julia enthused, "Well, I, for one, am happy that you did. From what I hear talked about, he is a horrid, bitter old man who rarely leaves his home. No wonder he never married."

  Softly, Salome reminisced, "But the marquis was not always the way he appears now. A long time ago, a very long time ago, before you were born, he was quite a different sort of fellow all together. Rather dashing, I'd say. And most charming."

  "Well, then," Julia exclaimed. "If the marquis of Martyn can go from charming to horrid, why are you so certain that I cannot tame Mr. Lowell from convict to gentleman?"

  "Because, my darling," Salome told her, knowing full well that anything she said most likely would float in one young ear and out the other, "as in all things, it is much simpler to slip-slide downwards, than it is to claw one's way back uphill."

  Unsure of what wisdom she were obligated to gather from such a cryptic statement, Julia requested an explanation. But Salome, worn out by the developments of the day, pleaded a headache, and, before retiring, only warned Julia to count the silverware both before and after sharing a meal with their houseguest.

  "Mr. Lowell, you are using," Julia corrected, "the inappropriate fork. That is a dessert fork. You are eating your chicken à la russe with a fork designated for the apricot tart."

  "Begging your pardon, Miss Highsmith. But we did not have many dessert forks in prison."

  Julia wanted to strangle him with her napkin. Already, she had twice explained to him what each utensil was for. But, from the moment they entered the dining room, Julia had felt forced to compete with the crystal chandelier and handcarved paneling for Jamie's attention. His head swiveled like a newborn bird's as he drank in the furnishings, the mahogany table built to seat thirty, the bronze figures in imitation of Greek marble, the hanging red damask, the vases of fresh flowers in every corner. Watching him gape so openly at objects which, to Julia, were as familiar as the back of her hand, unnerved her.

  What had she been thinking, boasting that, in the scant space of a few months, she could turn a street rodent into a gentleman so fine, he would withstand the eagle eye of her fastidious uncle?

  This wretch could barely differentiate among his silverware!

  Frustrated, Julia nevertheless refused to allow herself the pleasure of imagining how different her present circumstances might have been if she had accepted Gavin's proposal of six months past. Granted, such a match was impossible, Uncle Collin had made that point and the reason behind it perfectly clear. Still, since she could never confess the true reason behind her refusal, the pained look on Gavin's face when she rejected him without just cause often floated to the surface of Julia's mind at the most unexpected moments, scraping a fresh dagger into her already aching heart.

  And it was that pain that prompted Julia to tear into Jamie with an intensity that surprised even her. "The following, Mr. Lowell, are further conditions to our arrangement. I do suggest that you listen closely, for I have no intention of repeating myself into infinity."

  He blinked in sincere surprise at her outburst, and slowly lowered his fork. It clanked loudly against the plate, echoing from wall to wall.

  "Condition one. You are not to leave your room unless given permission by either myself or Moses. And you are certainly not to wander outside of the house, or onto the grounds."

  "Indeed, warden, I understand perfectly."

  "I will not compromise my reputation by your being seen. Who knows what the people would think, my housing a strange gentleman."

  "I suspect m'lady knows exactly what the people would think."

  Julia blushed furiously. Never in her life, had a man spoken to her in such a fashion. Obviously, this barbarian's lack of manners stretched from table etiquette to simple conversation.

  "I am not one of your Drury Lane whores, Mr. Lowell. I daresay you had best refrain from addressing me as such."

  She had hoped that the sternness in her voice might chasten him. Instead, it seemed only to amuse Jamie further. He leaned back in the chair, crossed his arms, and calmly proceeded to assess Julia from head to toe. "Now, then, Miss Highsmith, how does a fine lady such as yourself know of The Lane?"

  She could not understand how this kept happening to her. No matter how well Julia felt she had the situation in hand, somehow, Jamie would succeed in snatching it away from her. And the cockiness in his eyes as he deliberately tossed each baiting syllable in her direction made Julia want to personally return him to the gallows and open the trap door.

  "I do not know of it," Julia stammered, trying to make him understand. London was a man's world. No lady of good parentage who valued her reputation would ever allow herself to be seen walking down Bond or St. James unless accompanied by her maid or footman. The clubs, shops, and smart hotels that prospered in such areas were all dedicated to serving the men of the aristocracy. For ladies, the high life was restricted to weekly Wednesday night balls at Almack's Assembly Rooms on King Street. Julia's only knowledge of events taking place outside of those rooms came from eavesdropping on the conversations of oblivious gentlemen.

  But how would a man like Jamie Lowell, a man who, to all appearances had gone about doing what he wanted, when he wanted, until the law caught up with him, ever understand just how structured and sternly dictated her world truly was. And thus how intriguing every crumb from the outside seemed.

  Julia's mother, familiar with her child's penchant for hiding around corners hoping to overhear things, had warned the girl that such a trait could only get her into trouble. One day, she would inevitably blurt out something she had no business knowing, and then be forced to explain herself.r />
  Thankfully, Julia was spared continuing to verbally extricate herself by Moses's entering the dining room and announcing that Miss Highsmith had visitors.

  She turned to Jamie, meaning to dismiss him, but instead found that it was he who had decided to do the honors.

  Waving one arm in her direction, he urged, "Go on, then. We shall continue our discussion at a later time."

  Even Moses, known far and wide for his unchanging facial expression, was forced to raise an eyebrow at such impertinence.

  Julia stood up and pushed her chair in, smoothing down her hair, and the muslin of her dress. "Who is it, Moses?"

  He hesitated before revealing, once again with no expression, "Lord Gavin, miss. And Lady Emma."

  She swallowed hard and instinctively turned her back to Jamie, lest he see the rainbow of emotions streaking across her face. Julia forced her voice to remain neutral, but succeeded only in sounding stilted. "Show them to the parlor, Moses."

  "Very good, miss."

  "And as for you," Julia pivoted. "Kindly take the back stairs to your room and stay there until I say that you may leave."

  In an uncannily perfect imitation of Moses, he intoned, "Very good, miss."

  Proper young ladies, Julia had been lectured often enough, did not dash down hallways, skirts hiked up above their ankles, hair flying every which way. So she forced herself to take small, measured, ladylike steps all the way to the parlor.

  Gavin stood when she entered, and moved to take both her hands in his, smiling broadly. His presence filled the room like a blinding ray of morning sunshine in that first moment after drawing back the nighttime drapes.

  Was it Julia's imagination, or did Gavin grow more handsome every time they encountered each other? When he was still an unbreeched boy of three, clutching his nurse's hand and sucking on a sticky piece of bullseye candy, she had already considered him perfection itself. But now, the man Lord Gavin Neff grew up to be quite simply took Julia's breath away.

  He stood only a head taller than she, as sturdy and muscular as Jamie Lowell was gaunt, and with golden blond hair that, in childhood, had billowed in glorious curls past his shoulders, but now lay smartly cut to the base of the neck.