My Fair Mistress (44 page)
Sighing, he dipped his head against the wind.
What a sorry pass,
he mused,
loving a woman who does not love me.
Perhaps he should have let her stay with Maris and William, since that had been her wish. But until his plans for St. George came to fruition and the man was rendered harmless, he could not risk Julianna’s safety. She might chafe under his restrictions, but she and their child must be protected at all costs.
Nor was he about to let her take their child and move away after the babe was born. He remembered how much he’d longed for his father when he’d been a boy, how he’d had to content himself with infrequent visits and moments together that never seemed long enough.
My child will know both his parents,
he vowed,
no matter the difficulties between Julianna and myself.
Gazing at her again, he sighed and rode on.
O
H, THOSE LOOK darling!” Julianna declared, taking a step back so she could get a better view of the cheery, sunshine-yellow draperies that a pair of housemaids had just finished hanging over the nursery windows.
With careful planning and patience, the new space was finally nearing completion. In the two months since her and Rafe’s return to Town, Julianna had devoted herself to converting the dark, musty third-floor attic into a haven for the baby who would soon enter their lives.
Having received Rafe’s blessing to make any changes she wished, she’d hired a crew of skilled carpenters, craftsmen, and painters to create a nursery, bedroom, and a playroom that any child would love. Following her direction, the men had done amazing work, literally transforming the old, drafty environs into a connecting trio of warm, sunny, yet infinitely cozy rooms.
Now, all that remained was seeing to the final details, little things such as hanging the last of the curtains and storing blankets, toys, clothes, and nappies. As for the furniture, a wide, exquisitely made rosewood cradle occupied a place just far enough from the fireplace to keep the baby warm without overheating him, while a walnut changing table and cane-back rocking chair were arranged atop a pair of nearby Aubusson carpets.
In the playroom, a huge hobby horse stood at the ready in one corner. When the toy had first arrived, she’d shaken her head at its impracticality, knowing it would be a pair of years at least before the baby was big enough to enjoy the gift. But Rafe insisted that his son or daughter would love looking at the horse, even if the child couldn’t ride it for a while. And in that, she knew he was right.
Laying a hand on her protruding belly, she surveyed the nursery with its soothing peach walls and wide, sun-filled windows. The baby kicked, tiny feet pummeling beneath her ribs for a long minute. Despite the discomfort, the baby’s increasingly frequent movements reassured her that all was well.
With less than a month of her pregnancy left, though, she found herself battling back worries about what was to come. After all, she’d watched her mother die in childbirth and knew all too well the terrible things that could occur.
But everything will be fine,
she told herself.
For me and my child.
She wished she had someone in whom she could confide, but she didn’t want to unnecessarily alarm her friends or her sister by voicing her fears. And talking to Rafe these days was out of the question.
Since their return to London after the new year their relationship had grown increasingly strained. Rafe had even stopped coming to her bed at night. He claimed he did not wish to disturb her sleep, but she knew her personal comfort had little to do with his withdrawal. After their disagreement about her remaining in the country, he’d become more and more distant, until they once again found themselves living as virtual strangers.
Part of her wished to go to him and repair the rift, but his threats had chilled her, had kept her silent when she might otherwise have lowered her pride enough to ask him to come back.
“
You may go,”
he’d said. “
But our child will remain with me.”
The words had stayed with her all these weeks, gnawing at her like a rat at a rope.
He cares naught for me,
she thought.
For all I know, he’s taken another mistress.
Nausea rose at the idea, scalding the delicate lining of her throat. Wrapping an arm around her heavy middle, she forced her thoughts back to the task at hand.
“Be careful,” she warned as the housemaids stepped down from their ladders.
Once again on solid ground, they curtseyed and smiled. “Yes, my lady, and thank you.”
Returning their smiles, Julianna watched as the two young women moved to another set of windows to hang more draperies.
At least Maris will arrive next week,
Julianna thought.
Of course, so would most of the Ton, returned from their country estates to partake in the frivolity of a brand-new Season. Yet while the nobility danced and drank and cavorted until all hours, she would be here inside the townhouse readying herself to give birth.
Another bone of contention between herself and Rafe.
Last month, she had gone to him and asked if they could travel to his country house in Yorkshire, explaining how she longed for a bit of peaceful solitude. After a brief pause, he’d refused, telling her he had too much business in the city for them to leave.
“Besides,” he said, “you will receive better medical care here in London.”
And that had been the end of that.
She sighed. As much as she loved the new nursery and had her every need seen to here at the townhouse, she would have much preferred a respite in the countryside. If she closed her eyes, she could almost smell the spring-sweet air in her nose, her shoes crushing the greening grass as she strolled through the fields, birdsong playing like a symphony on the wind.
But such was not to be.
If only there were somewhere to go, even for a few hours!
Of course, there was her townhouse on Upper Brook Street. She still owned it, even if it was locked up, the furniture shrouded in dust sheets.
But what was the point?
No, she decided, she would content herself by keeping busy with preparations for the baby. She had hats and booties to knit and embroidery to finish on the christening gown she was sewing from a length of delicate white moiré silk.
I will be fine,
she assured herself.
I have nothing whatsoever to fear.
Where has he hidden them?
Blood thundered in Burton’s temples, fury burning like a brand in his chest as he rifled through the contents of Hurst’s desk. He’d already been through the man’s bedroom, study, and library twice, searching every conceivable location for the fool’s journals.
Yet nothing.
In the past four hours he’d searched every room in the townhouse, to no avail. The blighted things simply weren’t here.
When he and Hurst arrived back in London earlier in the evening, Burton had set to questioning his old friend. Besotted as usual, Hurst had told him to look for the latest journal in his bedroom nightstand. The rest were stored in a trunk, he claimed. When they didn’t turn up there, he’d suggested his study.
By the time Hurst began to seriously question Burton’s interest in the diaries, it had been too late for him—the poison Burton put into his wine already beginning to paralyze his limbs and restrict his breathing. When Burton stopped by tomorrow and “discovered” his friend dead, the authorities would conclude Hurst had died of a heart seizure brought on by a life of excess and overindulgence.
Good thing for him Hurst didn’t keep staff in the house when he was away, Burton thought. Bad thing for Hurst. The dolt hadn’t even sent his valet ahead on this trip, he and Burton having traveled alone in Burton’s curricle despite the wet March weather.
The idea had been to dash into Town, then dash out again, no one the wiser. Then they were to have continued on to Devonshire for a bit of seaside air. At least that’s the plan Hurst had envisioned.
Privately, Burton had envisioned another scheme, one that included eliminating Hurst and destroying the written records the idiot had left behind. But his plan had contained a slight miscalculation. He’d already started Hurst drinking the poisoned wine before he realized the blasted journals were missing.
While Hurst was wheezing out his last few breaths, Burton had interrogated him again.
“Where are the journals?” he’d demanded, striking Hurst across his blue-tinged face.
“I d-don’t know,” his friend had sobbed. “Th-they ought to have been wh…where I left them. Hel…help me, pl…please.” Gasping hard, he began to claw at his own throat.
Moments later the convulsions set in, a wet stain forming on Hurst’s trousers as he lost control of his bladder. Burton crinkled his nose as the odor of fresh urine rose upward, creating a repulsive stink in the air. He left Hurst a twitching heap on the study floor and returned to the man’s bedroom to search one more time.
Yet he’d found nothing.
Nothing!
Now, once again in the study, he glared at his old friend, at the staring blue eyes that no longer saw anything. Walking close, he took out his frustration by giving the body a pair of swift, punishing kicks.
Useless drunkard!
Burton raged.
Bacon-brained lout! What has he done with those bloody journals?
More to the point, what had Hurst written inside them? If it was nothing incriminating, he could relax. On the other hand, if Hurst had written down enough detail about Eleanor’s death to be convincing, it could cause him trouble.
His late wife’s family had never truly believed his explanation that she’d fallen down the stairs while sleepwalking. Her father in particular had found the story suspect, but hadn’t possessed the evidence to refute him. With Hurst’s statement, he now just might.
I have to find those damned diaries,
Burton thought. Hurst had to have hidden them somewhere and gone to his grave refusing to reveal the truth. But remembering his last few minutes of life, and how he’d blubbered like an old woman, perhaps Hurst hadn’t been lying. And if he hadn’t been and the journals truly were not in the house, it could mean only one thing.
Someone else had taken them!
But who?
The thought made his stomach churn, his knuckles clenched into bone-popping fists at his sides. A scream bellowed from his lungs, shaking the walls and reverberating against the ceiling.
Whoever it is,
he vowed,
I’ll find him. And when I do, only God will be able to help the miserable bastard.
“St. George and Hurst ’er back in the city,” Hannibal announced without preamble as he crossed into the breakfast room where Rafe was eating a solitary meal. “But what’s really interesting is that Hurst turned up dead this morning. Heart seizure, or so it’s bein’ said. St. George found him and is—how did I hear it—most distressed.”
Hannibal pulled out a chair opposite Rafe and sat down.
Rafe quirked a sarcastic brow and set the fresh orange he’d been peeling onto a plate. “Oh, I’m sure he’s beside himself with grief. No doubt been that way ever since he stood over his old friend and watched him turn blue.”