In Pursuit of a Scandalous Lady (14 page)

At the inn that night, he decided to slow things down. They would be together for a few more days yet, and he enjoyed the sense of anticipation. He lay down at her
side, but did not continue where they'd left off. To his surprise, it was far more difficult than he'd imagined, and that annoyed him. He was used to not sleeping—his mind was always difficult to shut down each night, and this time with Rebecca proved no different. She seemed confused, even hurt, which he regretted, but she was yet too uncertain to question him.

The following night, they stayed in a small village, where the only room to rent was above an alehouse. Their fellow passengers had been local and didn't need lodgings, leaving the small cramped room to Julian and Rebecca. They could hear the shouts and singing from below them, and they shared a glance of understanding that they might not sleep well that night.

The room contained only a broken chest of drawers and a bed. He'd be next to her again all night.

There were no meals served to their room; he had to go down to the taproom to order food. He waited, seated in a wooden settle in the corner; it had a high back that he could lean his head on and appear to be dozing. But he never forgot that men were looking for them; his eyes constantly scanned the room.

Next to him, stew bubbled in a cauldron hung over the fire; the smell made his stomach growl. At several tables, men talked and laughed over their beer, and two others played darts at a board hung on the far wall.

With his eyes half closed, Julian watched it all. No
one came near him but the barmaid who brought his beer. At times like this, it was always good to look like he was the kind of man who started fights. Never had his size helped him more. He found he liked being anonymous, after years of people giving him second looks or talking in whispers about the scandals that had plagued his family.

A young lad came in from the hall, looking for his father perhaps, to drag him home after a day's work. Julian half smiled at the thought. The boy's eyes lingered over the crowd, then landed on him.

And then Julian recognized Rebecca. He didn't let himself stiffen or betray his sudden worry. He saw her take a breath and boldly stride toward him. Gone was the graceful walk of a lady. But he didn't care that she might look the part. She'd disobeyed him, and that was dangerous.

She stopped near the cauldron and sniffed. “I'm hungry, George. You were takin' too long.”

Boldly, she plopped herself down on the settle beside him and let her gaze roam the crowd with interest. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her, but she gave him no notice.

“So this is an alehouse,” she said quietly. “Not much different than the public dining room of that last inn we stayed at.”

“Women aren't allowed.”

She shrugged. “I don't look like a woman.”

He leaned toward her, trying to be menacing. “You know I told you—”

“I know what you told me. But you are not my master and—”

The barmaid approached, her curly hair coming undone down her back. She pushed a strand behind her ear and smiled tiredly at Rebecca. “Do ye want somethin', lad?”

Rebecca said, “A beer, please,” at the same time Julian said, “He'll take cider.”

Rebecca grimaced, but didn't contradict him.

“That's the last thing I need is you drunk,” Julian said quietly when the barmaid had left.

“Afraid I'll take advantage of you again?” she asked, giving him a sly smile from beneath the lowered brim of her cap.

He thought about her eager and yearning beneath him. But if she wanted to keep bringing the topic up, then he would oblige her and maybe learn something about her in the process. “Take advantage of me?” he echoed after drinking another swallow of beer. “Is that something you learned how to do with Roger Eastfield?”

He saw her smile falter. “I certainly did not take advantage of him. He asked me to pose and I did.”

He nodded, scratching his bristly chin as he studied her. She avoided meeting his eyes, but nodded to the barmaid when she set down the cider. Rebecca took a
gulp, then coughed. Cider served in an alehouse had its own punch, mild though it might be.

“I've been considering your reasons for doing the painting,” he said.

She frowned. “I told you my reasons.”

“I've come up with more.”

“If you feel the need to rehash this again, that must not be your first beer.”

He smiled. “I think you spent your whole life feeling frail. That painting—and Eastfield's interest—showed you as otherwise. And you liked it.”

She rolled her eyes and took a smaller sip of her cider.

“Did you feel angry at being frail?” he asked.

“What are you talking about?” she asked sharply.

“Or angry at your mother perhaps, for making you feel that way.”

“Nothing was my mother's fault. But if we're going to talk mothers, then I warn you, yours is fair game.”

“So you don't blame your mother?”

“Blame her? For my childhood? She doted on me, nursed me through everything.”

But she wasn't meeting his eyes until she narrowed hers to regard him. “So you seem fixated on my mother. Does that mean you blame yours for something, and think everyone should?”

“Blame my mother? Our reduced circumstances were hardly her fault.”

“No? Then what was?”

“You're changing the subject. I think you did the painting to prove something. And now you insist on traveling with me for the same reason.”

“I'm not quite sure how daring to pose nude and this journey are related.”

“‘Daring' being the operative word.” He lowered his voice even more. “You're daring a lot here, aren't you? Daring someone to catch us together, daring two villains to succeed against you, daring to wear that…item around your neck instead of allowing me to keep it safe.”

She met his gaze boldly, took a healthy swallow of her cider, and said, “I like to be daring—unlike you.”

R
ebecca knew she risked much—and not just by provoking Julian in an alehouse.

But he eyed her almost lazily and said, “I do not need to be daring. I think through every situation and make the proper response—unlike you.”

A proper response? She wanted
some
kind of response, after two days of being held at arm's length. He'd given her the most wondrous, transformational pleasure, but had denied himself, then denied her the chance to relive the moment. Had he wanted to escape her?

Or escape himself?

After her anger and hurt at his rejection had faded, she realized his feelings were more about him. He was not a man to lose control. Yet he'd lost almost every bit of it, holding on by a fingernail to reason, enough to push her away before the final act.

Did he regret their abrupt ending as much as she did? She had barely been able to sleep last night, thinking about what he'd done to her, how he'd made her feel—
and that was with their clothing on! She had fantasies night and day of nothing between them, just warm damp flesh sliding against each other.

Tonight he would sleep at her side again; she welcomed the challenge—the dare. She would not be so acquiescent to his mercurial decisions.

“You've lost the power of speech?” he said dryly. “I find that hard to believe.”

“We're in too public a place for me to tell you what I think of your claim that you always make the proper response,” she said sweetly.

With one glance, she could see his contemplative look, and knew that he, too, was remembering what had happened between them.

She swallowed another mouthful of cider, feeling braver by the moment. “But then again, perhaps kissing me
was
the proper response.”

He gave a faint smile. “Speak quietly.”

“Or was the proper response totally ignoring me, and it just took you a while to remember that?”

“I'm not ignoring you, I'm protecting you.”

“Protecting me from
you
?” she asked in disbelief. “Except for the wager over the painting, I've long since stopped fearing your motives.”

He downed his beer and nodded for another.

“Or do
you
worry over your motives, George?” she asked softly.

“You're speaking in riddles—Lionel.”

She chuckled.

He peered into her half-empty tankard. “We need to get some food into you.”

“I'm fine.” She looked about. “So what does one do in an alehouse besides drink?” She focused on the men grouped in a corner. “They must be playing darts. I've never watched a game.”

She flung herself away from the settle before he could stop her. He swore softly as he followed, forced to stand at her back while she studied the game. He was like a mountain of doom towering behind her, and she enjoyed every moment of it. She ate hot stew by the fire, drank more cider, and even convinced Julian to let her throw a few darts when no one was at the board. All in all, it was an enjoyable evening compared to sitting primly with needlework while the men had all the fun.

When they returned to their room at last, she fell back on the bed, even as the room seemed to whirl slowly about her. She laughed at the sensation.

“You're drunk,” he said as he came to stand above her.

Did his smile hide disappointment? She wondered why.

Flinging her arms wide, she said, “I've never been drunk before. I'm determined to experience everything—George. See, I remembered your name!” She giggled.

He rolled his eyes. “Go to sleep, Lionel.”

After pulling off her breeches and jacket, she pretended to sleep, because he must want that, but instead
she rolled on her side and watched him undress. He glanced over his shoulder at her once, but she closed her eyes and remained motionless. She didn't open them again until she heard water poured into a basin. She should feel guilty for watching such a private moment, but she didn't. Her mind felt strangely overheated, her conscience submerged.

Julian was wearing only his trousers as he washed himself, and she pouted with disappointment. How was she ever supposed to learn about men? But she could not be disappointed at the sight of his skin wetly gleaming by candlelight. He looked rough and dark and far too masculine with his face covered in several days' growth of beard. She felt restless and achy just looking at him. She wanted to experience even more of the passion she'd glimpsed, but she could not force him to show her.

At last he came to sit down on the edge of the bed to remove his trousers. Foolish man, he'd donned a shirt, but she still snuggled against his broad back.

“You're overdressed,” she murmured.

She could see his profile as he glanced back over his shoulder.

“You'll have an aching head in the morning,” he said.

“Don't sound so satisfied.”

“Believe me, I'm not.” He punched his pillow into shape beneath his head.

“I'm not so innocent that I don't know the double meaning of your words.”

He laughed.

She snaked her arm about his waist, surprised his body became tense, even as his laughter seemed choked. “Are you frightened of me, Julian?” she whispered, pressing herself against him.

“Go to sleep, Rebecca,” he said.

She gave an exaggerated sigh, even as she tucked her thighs behind his. “You're so warm,” she murmured.

He didn't answer.

She settled into a sulky silence, and at last fell asleep.

 

By late afternoon, they reached Manchester, and Julian felt a surge of satisfaction and anticipation. The town was much like London, large and sprawling, with a pall of smoke hanging over everything. The factories lined the canals and rivers, belching smoke and steam from their tall stacks. Seated beside him in the wagon, Rebecca, wearing a gown instead of breeches, thank God, looked solemnly at the crowds that teemed in the busy streets. Workers coming home from the factories watched out for desperate little boys picking pockets. Women filled their baskets with groceries from the market stalls.

Rebecca received more than one second glance from men walking or riding beside them. He saw her tug her
bonnet a little closer about her face. It was difficult to hide her beauty, even though she looked smudged and weary from the travel.

The public wagon deposited them at an inn near the Bridgewater Canal before supper. Julian was too eager to find what they'd come all this way to find: Roger Eastfield, and the mystery of how he'd acquired the Scandalous Lady. Julian thought Rebecca seemed a bit quiet through it all, which made him curious. But there would be time to discover why.

Or would there? If Eastfield answered the questions to Julian's satisfaction, and they didn't encounter the jewel thieves, he would have to return her to London. Would she go willingly?

And why did he feel as if his life would be so much…less, without her to amuse—and bedevil—him? He had so much more he wanted to show her, to prepare her for the not-so-proper life she'd chosen.

The innkeeper knew little of Manchester's art community, but did know of the Royal Manchester Institution on Mosley Street.

“Paintin' pictures is a waste of time,” the innkeeper told Julian and Rebecca, frowning at them from beneath his bald head, “and the Institution is a waste of taxpayer's hard-earned money.”

“I'm lookin' for my cousin,” Rebecca said apologetically. “He's an artist—how else can I begin to find him?”

The innkeeper snorted, but was persuaded to give them directions.

Out on the busy street, Julian said, “It's too far to walk. We'll have to hire a hackney. And that will leave us precious few coins for tonight.”

She slid her hand into his arm. “Should we wait until tomorrow? We can earn money then.”

He frowned at her. “
We
will be doing no such thing.” He looked down the street to where the wharves along the canal streamed with cargo. “I can't sit here and wait. Perhaps we can learn something at this institution.”

It took over an hour to reach the Royal Manchester Institution in heavy traffic, but they were in luck. Artists from all over the city sold their wares outside the impressive multi-columned building. With just a few questions, they found that many people wanted to talk about the growing fame of Manchester's native son, Roger Eastfield. Soon, they even learned the name of the street his mother lived on, and the fact that Roger was still in town.

“The directions put it only a half hour's walk from here,” Julian said, tamping down his eagerness.

“But if we're out after dark…”

He looked down, surprised by her hesitation. “Don't you want to know the truth at last?”

“I do, but we aren't the only ones who know I wore the diamond in the painting.”

“More than enough reason to get to Eastfield and
warn him,” he said grimly. “And I'll protect you along the way.” A growing feeling of urgency could not be denied.

She seemed unconvinced, but nodded her acceptance of his plan.

Twilight began to overtake the streets as they walked. At least they were in a more middle-class neighborhood, where little gardens lined alleys behind small houses.

Someone brushed by them on a run, and Julian braced himself to deal with a pickpocket, but it was a grown man, respectably dressed, clutching his hat to his head. Soon two children passed them as well, followed by a woman, who didn't yell at them to stop.

“What is going on?” Rebecca asked in confusion.

Before Julian could answer, someone shouted, “Fire!”

And then Julian's sense of unease changed into fatalism. “Hurry!” he said to Rebecca. As he gripped her arm, he forced her to increase her pace to match his.

To the north, the darkening sky began to give way to a pale, unnatural brightness.

“Oh my,” Rebecca breathed. “You don't think—”

She broke off, saying nothing else, even as they both began to run. At the end of the corner, they saw a growing crowd of people gathered across the street from a two-story home. Smoke poured out of the windows, but they could not yet see fire. The fire brigade hadn't yet arrived to combat it.

No one seemed to know if anyone was inside, but all agreed that this was the Eastfield home. Rebecca stared up at it in dismay.

“Follow me!” Julian said, pulling her away and down the next alley.

She didn't question him when he reached the garden behind the threatened home. The gate was unlocked, and they were able to approach the rear entrance. Julian flung the door back and dark smoke billowed out, rumbling like an old man's belch.

Rebecca grabbed his arm. “What do you think you're doing? You can't go in there!”

“I must.” He pulled the scarf from around his neck, dipped it in the small fountain, and tied it around his neck, ready to pull it up over his mouth and nose.

Her eyes were wide with terror. “You could be killed! We have the jewel—what more do you need?”

“People could be trapped, Rebecca.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out, even as she clutched her hands together. Frantically, she seemed to search the back of the house. “Look in the windows first!”

“No time.” He gripped her upper arms and gave her a little shake. “Stay here—promise me!”

Somewhere in the distance, they heard the clang of a fire engine, then the shouts of the crowd at the front of the building and the growing din of a house about to die.

“I—I promise,” she cried, then flung herself against him.

He cupped her head to tilt her face to his and kissed her roughly, passionately. The wetness of her tears touched him, created the first open wound of tenderness for her. And then he pushed her away, pulled the wet scarf over his lower face and ran inside.

Immediately he ducked low as the smoke rose in a haze, getting trapped up at the ceiling. Somewhere he could hear the crackle of flames, but he couldn't see fire yet. He almost wished he could, for the lack of light made maneuvering difficult. Blindly, he ran with his arms forward to protect himself from running into furniture.

“Eastfield!” he shouted, but his voice seemed swallowed by the dull roar of fire, closer and closer to him.

Then he stumbled over a body lying on the floor. Using his hands, he could tell it was a woman dressed in plain clothing, perhaps a servant. She was already unresponsive. Dead from the fire?

But he felt the stickiness of blood on her forehead. She'd been injured—but the house had not yet begun to come down around them, although it groaned in protest at the blazing siege.

Had this woman been deliberately harmed? If so, that meant the fire wasn't an accident.

He left her behind, heading to the front of the house, hoping that someone would be in the lower rooms, for he didn't know if he could make it up to the first floor.

When he reached the front hall, flames flickered around the edges of an open doorway. Heat wafted out at him in waves, making the skin of his hands and face feel seared. On the far wall, fiery draperies framed the front windows in which glass was starting to pop. The flames had traveled over the ceiling, licking toward the hall—and Julian—like the grasping hands of the devil.

There were two more bodies on the carpeted floor.

Hunched over, he raced into the room and dropped to his knees. The man stared sightless up at the ceiling, flames glistening in his lifeless eyes. He, too, had suffered a fatal wound to his head. There was nothing that Julian could do.

Next to the dead man lay a gray-haired woman, her body half covering his as if she'd clutched him in grief. Then she groaned, coughing feebly. Julian didn't hesitate—he scooped her into his arms and started to run back the way he'd come. The front entrance was surely closer, but the flames from the parlor had already reached it.

His eyes streamed tears, his lungs began to burn with the smoke that seeped through the wet scarf. He heard a crash behind him, felt a wave of blown heat, but he didn't look over his shoulder. He vaulted over the dead servant, his eyes straining for the rear entrance.