Mark of Distinction (Price of Privilege) (32 page)

“Don’t be. It’s entirely her fault.” Forrester dove forward in an attempt to grab my arm. “Stop misbehaving, Julia.”

I evaded his grasp, hitting the back of my head against the cold iron of a streetlamp. For a second I only saw light, as if I’d looked directly at the sun. When my vision cleared, perspiration streaked down Forrester’s brow as his mouth twisted in anger. It was satisfying to see him flustered for once.

“May I be of any service?” The young man dusted his hat on his sleeve, sounding puzzled by our strange behavior.

“No, we’re fine, thank you.” Forrester gritted his teeth. “Julia, you will come here this instant.”

A throng of pedestrians, carriages, and street sellers separated me from my father’s barouche, which shone in the morning sun. Everyone else seemed to thread their way through the busy streets. “I will not.” I lifted my skirt, stepping over a pile of manure, intending to make a dash for my father’s carriage.

I took two steps before feeling Forrester’s fingers grab the neck of my collar. He yanked me backwards so hard, I fell against him. A curricle, whose path I’d almost stepped into, sped by. In the bombilation of London, I’d not even heard the hooves.

“Are you trying to kill yourself?” Forrester shouted.

The young man tugged his hat into place and gave us both an indignant stare as punishment for our uncouth behavior.

“Take my arm and stop acting like a Macy girl,” Forrester hissed in a low voice. “Or at the very least, use some intelligence.”

I elbowed him hard in the ribs and pulled away again. All this time I’d tried to please my father, remaining locked indoors, only to be yelled at about the emerald mines. I was finished cooperating. I felt a storm of tears rising.

“You!” A Gypsy woman appeared out of nowhere, putting me in mind of a mother hen as she flapped her arms. She brought her leering face near Forrester’s. “You stole my amulet. You are trying to curse me.” In a loud banshee voice, she wailed, “You put a curse on me!”

It drew a circle of hard stares.

I stepped backwards, away from her. Dirt crusted the bottom of her orange skirt, and she wore a stained green chemise. A sapphire-colored shawl cast a blue tinge upon her wrinkled face. “You curse my family; you curse my children and their children’s children.”

Two Gypsy men, wearing blue jerkins and red boots, stepped on either side of her, glowering at Forrester.

“Here now.” A man whose armband and embroidered collar identified him as a bobby stepped into the midst of us, sticking his baton between the woman and Forrester. “Back away from the gentleman.”

“He has stolen my amulet, forever cursing my family!”

“I said step away,” the bobby commanded.

“Our family line will dry up if it’s taken. He snatched it from my neck and placed it in his waistcoat. He’s a thief, no gentleman.”

“It’s true,” I cried out. The idea formed, and I took action before determining whether I should. “I saw him place his hand in his waistcoat; then he tried to force me to come with him, but I don’t even know him.”

“I saw her struggling with him, sir,” the young gentleman offered, giving Forrester an angry stare.

Forrester looked ready to kill me, but I didn’t care. Let him for once suffer being misunderstood. I glanced at Mr. Daniels’s office, where I knew my father was screaming at Isaac. “My name is Julia Pierson,” I said, then blushed at the response it drew from the crowd. I pointed to my carriage. “See, there’s my father’s crest. This man is no gentleman, I assure you.”

If Forrester distrusted me before, he hated me now. “I’ll show you,” he said with decided calmness, glaring in my direction. He unbuttoned his frock coat and opened it.

A silver necklace with an amethyst-colored stone fell to the pavement. Even in the din of London I heard its clink.

For half a second, nothing happened.

Then Gypsies pressed about me, yelling and furiously waving their hands. Gentlemen hastened their ladies into buildings; commoners pressed toward the fray, jostling me away.

“Here you are.” A dry voice sounded behind me, and I felt a death grip on my shoulder. “Come easily, because I assure you, whether you struggle or not, I’m not leaving without you.”

CLUTCHING MY PURSE, I turned to view a lanky gentleman I’d not seen since the night I wed Macy. Mr. Rooke’s cheeks appeared gaunter, and his face tan, as though he’d recently spent many hours outdoors. Two men stepped in front of me and another two stepped on either side, closing me in a circle.

“He said you knew better than to go with someone unfamiliar to you,” Rooke said, not looking directly at me, but at Forrester surrounded by a screaming crowd. “Come along now. Macy requires an audience.”

Fear snaked through my limbs, but with prodding from one of the men, my feet managed to shuffle behind Rooke’s steps. Daylight deepened into cold shadow as I was directed into an alley, where Macy’s black landau was lodged. I stopped, balking at the thought of being forced into the carriage.

“Relax,” Rooke said in a bored tone. “He’s not there. He’s not even aware we’ve made contact.”

I turned to glance at the mouth of the alley. Boys in rags ran by, doubtlessly joining the fray surrounding Forrester.

Behind me, a man with a black eye patch and a thin scar streaming over his cheek studied me with unabashed curiosity.

“They’re going to start a riot,” one of the men said to Rooke.

“Get inside,” Rooke said to me, then withdrew a silver flask and turned to the man who had spoken. “They’re smarter than that. Just make sure you pay them well for their assistance.” He returned his gaze to me and stared as he took a swig. “Send a street runner to tell him I’ve picked her up and she’s on her way. Make sure he’s fully aware our carriage is going to be stuck in the aggregation of this row. I don’t need him impatient with me when we arrive.”

The man with the scar gave me a shove. “Move.”

“Mind yourself,” Rooke warned. “That’s his wife you’re handling.”

“Wife?” The man stepped away, fear rising in his eyes.

“Best hope she don’t complain,” was Rooke’s response.

My body felt like ice as I climbed inside the landau. The black velvet seats and polished nickel interior looked unused. Rooke joined me, and the man with the scar shut the door, enclosing us in a dark prison.

Rooke extended his flask.

I shook my head. “What does he want?”

Rooke shrugged while screwing the cap back on. “Orders were to bring you. I never ask why.”

He closed his eyes and leaned back, propping his feet on the seat next to me, as if assured I’d make no attempt to jump from the carriage. I stared at the door. Or perhaps he knew we were locked inside and I couldn’t escape.

As our carriage made one mysterious turn after another, my fear tingled into anxiety, and then anxiety into a manageable numbness. I removed my bonnet and gloves as the carriage grew warmer and mixed with the strong ale scent of Rooke’s flask.

Occasionally, Rooke opened an eye and peered at me, but for the most part he looked asleep. I closed my eyes, thinking of Isaac and my father. By then, they must have discovered I was missing. I felt
like crying. They wouldn’t know if I was just lost, kidnapped, or had orchestrated my break from them. Doubtless Forrester would rant and scream that I’d slipped away on purpose to be with Macy.

To my estimation, it was well over an hour before our carriage halted and the coachman jumped down, signalling we’d reached our destination. Rooke stretched, opened the door, and then slid out. Wind tousled my hair as I accepted his hand and exited.

Neoclassic houses lined the street, and I could have laughed with relief. The architecture looked very much like the stately homes near London House. Rooke took my arm and, keeping it in a firm grasp, opened the gate leading to the house before us. As I stumbled alongside him, I finally had my first glimpse of the outskirts of Hyde Park.

Rooke opened the door and pushed me inside. I expected something dark and sinister. Instead, we entered a foyer that felt more like a cathedral than a house. A shaft of sunlight fell from the high window, lighting trompe l’oeil walls and a ceiling painted to look as though columns and Gothic stonework surrounded us.

Hands reached around my shoulders and unfastened my cape. The scent of Mr. Macy’s cigars surrounded me. “Don’t grow attached to the house, dearest, for I’m not keeping it longer than it takes us to resolve our differences.” He lifted the curls that trailed beneath my chignon. “You needn’t stand so stiffly,” he whispered in his alluring, amused voice. “I’ll only tempt—not force—you to my bed.”

Heat rushed through my cheeks, for I’d forgotten how direct he was and how seductive his touch could be. A strange medley of haunting sensations, a twisting of all emotions, spiralled through me. I stood breathless as his fingers probed through my hair, finding the pins that held it. It wasn’t longing that held me in a trance, but survival. He had collected me; there might be no recourse. Only a fool would stir the wasps’ nest of his anger at the onset.

I swallowed, knowing I needed to keep my wits. My stomach grew tremulous as he kissed along the nape of my neck slowly and sensuously. I lifted my gaze to the trompe l’oeil ceiling. It wasn’t
a prayer, but it was a thought directed toward God. I wanted to believe someone cared that I was here.

“How your heart flutters,” Mr. Macy murmured, nuzzling his raspy chin along the slope of my shoulders. He slowly started circling me, studying me.

I could only steal tiny glances, but I saw enough. His hair was unkempt, and instead of formal attire he wore an untucked shirt with the top buttons open. His feet were bare. Dark eyes watched me with their usual amusement. Every time I lost sight of him, it heightened how sensitive my skin felt as I anticipated his touch.

“Well,” he finally concluded, “there’s no bloom in your cheeks, but at least you’re not as thin as before. A little fresh air will cure your paleness. Forgive me, dearest.” He drew my right palm to his mouth and kissed it. “I had no intentions of driving you permanently indoors with that demonstration at Lady Northrum’s. Come.”

I glanced at the door, dreading to follow him. Intuition told me that obedience would serve me better than attempting to run. To my surprise, I was able to move my feet though I felt no sensation in my legs. Step after step, I padded behind him, my heart hammering.

Deep within the house, he slid open a pair of pocket doors, revealing a parlor stuffed with dark leather furniture, an oversized desk, and a low fire, reminding me of his private study in Eastbourne.

“Now isn’t the time to lie to me,” Mr. Macy said. I smelled his brandy-laced breath as the warmth of his body neared mine. “I want honest answers from my wife, starting with why you fled from me that night.”

I glanced at the closet, wondering if he’d planted witnesses to spy on this conversation, to prove I wasn’t Julia Pierson. “Sir,” I managed in a whisper, prepared to play my alias at all cost, “I have no knowledge of why you brought me here. I am not your wife. Please, I beg you to contact my father, Lord Pierson. He’ll confirm my identity.”

Unbeknownst to me, I’d stared at the closet door the entire time I spoke. Macy’s brows rose with amusement before he sauntered to the door and opened it, revealing an empty space. “Allow me to assure you . . .” He then proceeded to open every door in the chamber, proving them harmless. “There is no need to perform. Our conversation is private. Should I persuade you quickly, I daresay, neither one of us would desire an audience for what follows.”

I felt my cheeks burn. “Why must you always mock me?”

“Mock you?” He stepped away and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Here I thought I was being rather direct. Sit, dearest, and no more games. You have an exceedingly tolerant husband, one who is more interested in resolving why you keep fleeing him, rather than lording over you.”

As I sat on the leather sofa, I studied the layout of the room. When he’d opened the doors, I’d noted they only led deeper into the house. Heavy velvet curtains hung over the windows, but it was ridiculous to hope for escape through one of them.

Macy crouched at my feet, sitting on his heels, managing to make his odd position look dignified. “Now tell me. Why did you flee?”

My stomach tightened as I recalled that night.

“Be very careful,” Macy warned. “I shall not be angry as long as you speak truth.”

“We both know why.” I lowered my chin. “You . . . you . . .” I forced myself to say the words aloud again. “You killed Mama.”

“Look at me!”

I flinched at his ruthless expression as I obeyed.

“Someday I intend to see John Greenham writhing at your feet, ready to suffer the consequences of murdering your mother. On that day I shall also have the satisfaction of hearing him confess to you that I am innocent in this matter. But until then, give me one acceptable reason why you refuse to believe I had no involvement in her death.”

I pressed my hand over my mouth and squeezed my eyes
shut to hold back the sobs. I couldn’t do this much longer. When in his presence, I felt tempted to believe differently than when I was away from him. How did he always manage to intoxicate my surroundings and infect my thoughts? I wouldn’t bend again. I wouldn’t. Wanting something he couldn’t escape, I cried, “You killed Churchill then!”