Julia London 4 Book Bundle (124 page)

“Lady Albright, may I introduce you to Mrs. McKinnon of Glenbaden, Scotland,” Arthur quickly interjected.

“Scotland!”
Lilliana’s face lit with her smile. “I thought I detected a bit of an accent! Ooh, how very lovely, Mrs. McKinnon! I have been desperate to travel to Scotland, and I have read all the beautiful poetry of Wordsworth. My husband promises to take me there once our children are a bit older.” Lilliana paused to peer at the gray sky through the open doorway, then at the
grimy red satchel before bestowing a warm smile on Kerry. “We must get you into some dry clothing,” she said, motioning for Max to close the door.

“No,” Kerry said instantly, “I wouldna impose—” “It is no imposition, Mrs. McKinnon. It is a wonderful treat for me to have a true Scot in my very own house. And Arthur,” Lilliana said firmly, “you are in need of a bath, if you will pardon my saying so. Max, do have two baths drawn at once, please,” she said as she extended her hand and wrapped it around Kerry’s, seemingly oblivious to the mud caked to her wrist. “Please come in, Mrs. McKinnon. You will catch your death.”

With a scowl for Arthur, Kerry allowed Lilliana to pull her deeper into the foyer. “Arthur, Max will attend you momentarily,” Lilliana called over her shoulder, and began a march up the spiraling staircase, dragging Kerry behind her.

Arthur could see why Adrian loved the woman so—she never once looked back to see how Kerry’s soiled skirts dragged the blue carpet of the stairs, nor did she look at her hair or stained clothing. She spoke to Kerry as if she were an equal, and for that alone, Arthur would adore Lilliana Spence for the rest of his days.

“What in God’s name has happened to your boots?” Arthur closed his eyes and prayed that the rest of his days would not include many like this. He opened them slowly, turned reluctantly to see Adrian leaning negligently against a wall, one ankle crossed over the other, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, observing Arthur with a very pointed look of amusement on his face. “If you don’t mind me saying, you look like hell.”

“Why thank you, Albright, for the kind compliment.” Adrian ignored that, and inclined his head to the floors above where Lilliana and Kerry had just disappeared. “I suppose you know that I am all aflutter with anticipation of the tale of how you have come to be here—looking like
that
, naturally—and with a new charge.”

Yes, Arthur rather imagined he was all aflutter, and
with an impatient sigh, he raked a dirty hand through his tangled hair. “I’d be right happy to oblige you in exchange for a hot bath and a bottle of your best whiskey.”

Adrian’s brows lifted. “A bottle, is it? Very well then, I shall have Max fetch our best—I shouldn’t want to hear what I am quite certain is a delightful tale with anything less than that.”

And he apparently meant to hear it at once, seeing as he followed Arthur into the bathing room when Max had announced his bath ready. Arthur ignored Adrian; he was too busy luxuriating in the steaming waters. With his eyes closed and his head propped lazily against the edge of the porcelain tub, he let the water seep beneath his skin and scald the grime of the last ten days from his body. Every now and again he would open one eye to see Adrian sprawled along a long, silk-covered window bench, one leg bent at the knee and heel propped against it without regard for the fine fabric. In one hand, he held his head; with the other he held a crystal glass from which he languidly sipped aged Scotch whiskey when he wasn’t peering intently at Arthur.

Arthur was just beginning to feel human again when Adrian at last asked, “Well then, let’s have it.”

Arthur merely snorted, kept his eyes closed.

“Ah, Christian, you don’t mean to taunt me, do you? Really, you must consider this from my point of view. You appear from nowhere after a strange foray into Scotland and a lengthy absence, inexplicably covered head to foot with mud and a Scottish woman on your arm to boot. And now you would play coy?
Tsk, tsk.
”

Arthur chuckled. “You act as if you never appeared at Mount Street under suspect circumstances, Albright. You can’t deny that you have and you must acknowledge that I did not insist on interrogating you on those occasions,” he responded, and sank lower into the water.

“Yes, well, perhaps. But you are
Arthur.
And besides, I never appeared with a strange woman on my arm—you surely have me confused with Kettering.”

That earned another chuckle—Julian had, indeed, appeared at his door on several occasions with unknown women on his arm … and some quite well known. “Nor did I interrogate Kettering, though God knows I should have.”

“Come on, then. Your brother has sent two letters asking if I have had occasion to see you. We were all beginning to fret a bit—so who is this woman, where in the hell have you been, and what have you done to those fine boots?”

Funny, but Arthur had not, until this very moment, imagined what words he might use to explain Kerry. Or his whereabouts the last few weeks. Or why he had risked his bloody neck to bring her here. He slowly opened his eyes and glanced at one of his oldest friends.

Adrian had righted himself, was leaning forward with his arms propped against his thighs, the glass dangling carelessly from one hand, watching Arthur closely. “Who is she, Arthur?”

God, if only he knew! He sank lower until his chin skimmed the surface of the hot water, contemplating that. What was he doing? What madness had overcome him, what demon had possessed him and allowed him to believe that he could bring Kerry here, no questions asked, no explanations?

“I can’t imagine what happened in Scotland, but I think she must be someone rather dear for you to have gone to such trouble,” Adrian said.

If only he knew.
“Dearer than my own life,” Arthur muttered. The admission surprised him far more than it seemed to surprise Adrian. He had not meant to say any such thing, but it had sprung involuntarily from his lips, had escaped him before he could pull them back.

“She is Scottish. And the widow of a poor, landless one at that. She is … no one.”

“I beg your pardon,” Adrian drawled, “she is clearly someone to you.”

Arthur looked at his friend then, searching his face
for any sign of condemnation, any hint that he would not accept her.

He saw none.

But he saw the lines of aristocracy in Adrian, the placid expression and years of practiced indifference in his voice. Undoubtedly, he was trying to be accepting of this strange situation, trying to understand, but how could he possibly make him see? How could he explain to Adrian that Kerry had taught him how to
live
?

“Do you recall,” he asked slowly, “the evening the four of us accompanied Alex to the opera? It was the night he unveiled his newly appointed box.”

Adrian stared at the whiskey in his glass for a moment. “I recall clearly,” he said, looking up from his glass. “Quite clearly. Phillip had drunk far too much brandy as usual.”

“You will surely recall, then, how he angered Alex beyond compare by bringing Miss Daphne into the box.”

Adrian nodded.

Arthur looked toward the fire. He could almost see Phillip there, his blond head bent over Daphne, explaining the opera to her. Alex—a duke, a man of propriety—had been livid. Daphne was one of Madame Farantino’s charges, a woman who pleasured men of the aristocracy in a discreet brothel behind the Tam O’Shanter. She was Phillip’s favorite, and indeed, he had developed quite an attachment to her in those days, one that almost rivaled his attachment to brandy.

Alex had invited the four Rogues of Regent Street to his box on the opening night of the opera. That was their era, the days when the
Times
hardly went to press without some mention of their exploits. Phillip had disappeared during the opening act, reappearing with Daphne on his arm at the most inopportune time of all—at intermission, when everyone was crowding the box to pay a call or request introductions. Alex was furious with Phillip and quite embarrassed, but there was nothing he could do without causing a scene.

“I was quite angry on Alex’s behalf,” Arthur continued. “When I later confronted Phillip about his reprehensible behavior, he looked at me as though I had disappointed him somehow. I remember thinking that it was a rather odd reaction to my anger. ‘You consort with women just like Daphne,’ he said to me. ‘Do you think the women you ride like a dog are so insignificant beyond your bed that you would deny them the very simple pleasure of music?’ ”

Arthur paused, remembering how the question had mortified him on many levels, not the least of which was the grain of truth in it. Adrian said nothing, remained very still, waiting for him to continue. “Of course I held more regard for the woman than that,” he said, silently questioning whether or not that was entirely true. “But Alex’s opera box? It was unimaginable, incomprehensible. I had to think of his reputation—a young duke, so much he was trying to accomplish, so many who would have delighted in seeing him fail. I said as much to Phillip, and reminded him that Daphne was not of suitable situation, that her very presence tainted the important work my brother was trying to accomplish in gaining the social reforms that would help women like her.”

“I’ve no doubt he responded with something terribly mocking,” Adrian muttered.

“He said, ‘Then your brother touts false reform, Arthur, if it is people like Daphne he professes to save, for Daphne is a living, breathing human being, as much God’s child as you or I. She is as deserving of his esteem as anyone, but if she is not good enough to sit in his box, then there is no hope that she can be saved from men like your brother.’ ”

Arthur looked at Adrian. “Kerry
is
someone to me—she is someone I never dreamed could touch me, someone not of my class, someone whose
situation
could taint my family’s good name. Yet she
did
touch me—she touched me in a way I can scarcely understand, much less describe to you. She is someone to me, all right. She
is everything to me—she is a living, breathing human being, as much God’s child as you or I, and as deserving of my esteem as anyone.”

Adrian blinked, held Arthur’s gaze for a long moment before suddenly tossing the last of his whiskey down his throat. “Well then, that makes her someone to me. Now I suggest you remove yourself from that pond before you drown and I am forced to think what to do with her.”

He flashed a droll smile at Arthur and stood, strolled to the door. “I’ve no doubt Max has fetched you the best of my clothing,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “We’ll gather in the gold salon before supper.” With that, he walked out of the room, and Arthur heard him tell Max to bring another bottle up from the cellar, as “Christian was going to be in desperate need of it.”

He chuckled to himself before submerging completely into the warm waters of his bath.

S
TANDING IN FRONT
of a full-length mirror, Kerry turned again, unable to believe her eyes. The transformation in her was … 
remarkable.

The gown she wore was finer than any she had ever seen or imagined. It was a pale blue silk trimmed in white satin—not black, not gray, or some other morosely drab widow color. Never had she looked so bloody elegant. Even her hair—Mrs. Dismuke, Lady Albright’s personal maid, had dressed her wet hair with her big hands, artfully rolling it into a thick chignon and fastening it with jewel-tipped pins to the back of her head.

Lady Albright had given her a pair of large pearl earrings to wear to supper and a matching necklace. It was odd, Kerry thought, that the pearls she had cherished as her most valued possession all these years would have looked so terribly small and ordinary compared to these. No wonder Mr. Abernathy had chuckled so when she had shown them to him and then carelessly tossed them into the safe box.

The memory of that interview had her suddenly feeling like a fraud, and she quickly glanced away from the mirror, unable to look at herself. What was she doing—pretending she was some sort of lady? She no more belonged in clothes this fine than she belonged in this
house! House? Lord God, it was a
palace
, with gold and marble and crystal everywhere she looked. For the past two hours she had felt she was living inside some dream, moving from one fantasy to another, afraid to move too fast or too suddenly lest it all evaporate.

“Oh, Mrs. McKinnon, how beautiful you look!”

Kerry forced a smile and glanced self-consciously at Lady Albright as she glided into the dressing room wearing a lavender gown even lovelier than the one Kerry wore. “I … I doona know how to thank you for the bath and … 
this
,” she said, motioning awkwardly to the gown.

Lady Albright gave the gown a dismissive flick of her wrist. “I haven’t worn that gown in ages. Actually, I haven’t worn
any
of my old gowns since my son was born. Unfortunately, I cannot fasten the silly things around my middle. It suits you so well! You must keep it.”

Kerry gasped at the suggestion. “Oh
no!
I canna keep anything as fine as this!”

“Posh!” muttered Mrs. Dismuke.

“I insist. No, no,” Lady Albright said cheerfully, throwing up a hand, “we’ll have no more discussion of it. If you don’t accept the gown as my gift, Polly will hang it in some wardrobe and feed a colony of moths.”

Kerry shifted her gaze to the mirror again, smoothing the embroidered fabric of the bodice. A dozen seamstresses must have labored over the intricate stitching.

“Ah, won’t our Arthur be quite surprised?” Lady Albright said from behind her.

Oh, he’d be surprised, all right. Would possibly fall over in a fit of apoplexy. But frankly, Kerry was quite anxious to know what Arthur would think of her now. She turned and smiled at her hostess. “I am indebted to you for your kindness.”

The woman laughed brightly and motioned her to follow. “You are too easily pleased, Mrs. McKinnon. Now then, if you are quite ready, the gentlemen await us in the gold salon.”

————

They descended the curving flight of stairs and moved down what seemed like an endless stretch of thick blue carpet in a corridor larger than Moncrieffe’s ballroom. Kerry gaped at the many portraits and porcelain vases and bouquets of fresh hothouse flowers as she hurried after Lady Albright. She was taken aback by the footman who flung open a pair of doors as they approached, and almost collided with Lady Albright when she stepped across the threshold and saw the enormous salon, dominated by a full-length portrait of her hostess wearing a gown encrusted with jewels and a coronet on her fair head.