SoundsofLove (26 page)

Julian’s
protection
might very well ruin her. If he
hadn’t attacked Percival, the man would have stayed put in Oxford. If he hadn’t
sent a dozen useless, and apparently ravenous, helpers to guard her home, she’d
not be stuck with enormous bills she couldn’t possibly cover. He’d promised to
do her no harm, but she felt deeply injured by her brief association with him.

Noel stared at Julian as the mammoth coach began the slow
journey out of London. “You were passionate about this girl two days
past—whatever happened?”

“She cuckolded Sibley during his last days.”

Noel tsked. “Damned shame. I thought you’d finally found a
suitable bride.”

Julian closed his eyes at the burst of pain the statement
brought. “No,” he said through gritted teeth. “My search for the perfect wife
continues.”

“I’m certain your mother will assist you.”

A groan escaped. “Our tastes rarely mesh.”

The marquis withdrew a deck of cards from his jacket pocket.
“Perfection is unattainable. Agatha taught me that in two days.” His tone was
flat, and Julian wondered vaguely about his experience, but not enough to
pursue the matter. Noel held up the cards. “German whist. Penny a point?”

Julian was relieved to have something to think about besides
how nearly perfect Cathryn Sibley had been.

“She might cost you the Philological Society election. How
will you recover from that blow?”

Imagining the stories circulating in London drawing rooms,
Julian cringed.

By the time the marquis’ finely sprung carriage left the
main roads two days later, Noel was drinking heavily. Julian’s only defense
today was the pretense of sleep, and Noel continued his drunken ramblings to a
silent audience. “Women are wicked creatures, fickle and mean-spirited,
silk-stockinged sirens who lure us with sexual favors, then pounce on us when
we bare our souls.”

Julian couldn’t argue with that, and his good humor was
depleted. Even the sight of his ancestral home at the end of a tree-lined drive
only served to remind him of the last summer he spent in the massive structure,
his season of obsession with Fiona.

Outside his mother’s chambers, Julian was greeted by a drab
young woman. “The marchioness would like you to cut your hair before tomorrow’s
ball, my lord. You’re to meet Miss Draper, and the marchioness wants to impress
her and her brother, the Duke of Iverly.”

Apparently he wasn’t to see Mother until he was coiffed to
her satisfaction. How like her.

The woman curtsied and turned to go back into the parlor. “There’s
a barber in the village open until dark, my lord.”

He wanted to twist her skinny neck and wondered if she knew
how far she was pushing him. “Perhaps he’ll have a short wig I can purchase.”

Fuming over the woman’s disrespect, he made his way to the
stables. A young boy was the first to spot his arrival, and his eyes widened to
saucers as he stumbled over his words. “My lord…we weren’t expecting you…someone
will bring your mount to the door.”

A booming voice from inside a stall called out, “What are
you saying, Winston?”

“The lord is here, Mr. Griffin,” the boy cried, with more
than a hint of alarm.

“Indeed, His presence is everywhere,” Stoney Griffin emerged
with a broad smile, setting down a pitchfork outside the stall gate before
glancing at the boy. His clear blue eyes followed the boy’s line of sight to
Julian and he burst into greeting. “Lord Ahlquist! Good to see you.” His bow
was brief.

“Mr. Griffin,” Julian acknowledged, amused by the
interaction between his old friend and the lad. Quite likely, the man knew
exactly what the boy had meant.

“I’d heard you were coming but didn’t expect to see you in
the stables so soon.” He waved to the general area. “Are you needing a ride?”

Julian nodded as he looked at the boy. “Would you saddle me
a fine-spirited mount to take into town?”

Winston burst into action. “Lady Hightower?” he asked
Stoney, already making his way to a far stall.

“Excellent choice. And a nice broken-in saddle—use one of
mine, if need be.” Griffin faced Julian with a heartwarming grin. “The lord’s
been living in London for several years.” Under his breath, he added so the boy
wouldn’t hear, “I’ll wager your backside’s gone soft.”

Julian roared with laughter for the first time in four days.
“Join me in the village, Stoney. I can use the company.” As youths, they had
promised to treat one another as equals when they were alone. Clearly, Griffin
remembered the vow, and his honest humor promised to be a salve for Julian’s battered
soul.

Fifteen minutes later, the two men started along the
shortcut into town. The path was broad enough for two, and they rode side by
side at a slow walk.

Stoney broke the silence. “I read about you in the
papers—you and the lady and the baron. What brings you and your father to York
in the thick of so much action?”

“The baron died, and I was a witness.”

Stoney whistled. “And the lady…?”

“The lady is no longer my concern.”
Liar!

A disbelieving silence followed him for twenty yards. “From
her writings, I thought you two well-suited.”

“We were.” Enough about Cathryn. “The marchioness ordered me
to cut my hair.”

A shrug said Stoney agreed with Mother. “Do they wear it
like that in the city?”

“Not many, but I prefer the longer style.”

“Women love it, eh?”

“Some.” Cathryn favored it, or said she did. Lilith claimed
to, until that last day, when she’d screamed her distaste over everything
related to him. “Do you know Miss Draper?” Julian watched for the truth and his
friend’s grimace told the story.

“Perhaps a bath would help, but the woman smells like old
cheese.”

Julian barked a laugh. “I came to the right person for an
opinion. No one else at Literell would have said such a thing.” A wash of
relief eased his muscles. “I’ll avoid the pungent Miss Draper.”

They rode in silence until the main road appeared ahead. “What’s
your father’s story?”

“He’s done with Fiona.”

“She’s available?” Griffin’s eyes narrowed. He was one of
the few people on earth who knew almost the entirety of the saga. “Is she still
a beauty?” Julian nodded reluctantly, seeing where the conversation was
leading. “Would you consider her as your countess?”

“No.” It came out a simple statement, but the truth of it
hit Julian like a pail of frigid water. Fiona had nearly forced herself on him
when he lay sedated in her guestbed. Her version of honor did not mesh with
his, and he finally saw that as unacceptable.

Moreover, Fiona knew him better than most. How could she
have questioned his word, even for an instant? Fiona and Melina, two tricksters
he would do well to keep at arm’s length.

“No, I don’t want her.”
I want Cathryn.
He shook the
dangerous thought and tried to set it free, but it clung like a barnacle to the
bottom of his brain.

“The Sibley woman’s still in your blood. I’ll ask a comely
girl to turn down your covers tonight—I can think of two on the estate who
would fight to bed you. Blonde or brunette?”

Julian had no desire for a woman, but he was damned tired of
his own grim company, and he had a rakish reputation to uphold. “Send them
both.”

Griffin roared his approval. “Aye, Althea and Bertha will
like that.” His voice deepened. “I had them that way once—best picnic ever.”

Julian’s cock swelled for the first time in days, and he was
glad for the familiar discomfort as he followed Griffin onto the main road.
Obviously, Cathryn hadn’t killed his desire for other women. He was relieved to
see that. Perhaps he’d best empty his balls before he returned to London. He
did get cranky when he denied himself, and he needed to be his best for the
Philological Society election. That gave him two weeks to enjoy Althea and
Bertha’s company.

As they entered the shopping district of Gransville, Julian
took note of men’s hairstyles and saw that none had shoulder-length hair. It
was a pity in this cold weather, but short-cropped hair was the current
fashion. Giles frequently urged him to shorten his, but he enjoyed the
notoriety of being distinctive in a crowd and felt the style suited his
character and features.

Nonetheless, after he and Stoney stabled their horses, they
made their way to the barber. “I could use a shave and a trim.”

Horace the barber had cut Julian’s hair as a toddler, and a
group of village elders soon surrounded the shaving chair. Julian was relieved
to see three wigs on display in the back of the shop, and he considered whether
he could go through with such a ruse.

Horace saw him glance at the hairpieces and smiled. “Those
are women’s wigs, of fine quality.” Julian drew the line at donning women’s
attire of any sort. A man invariably lost stature with such a prank. Horace
paused in lathering Julian’s face with warm foam and gestured to Julian’s hair.
“You have all the makings of a fine man’s wig here.”

“Your nephew in Levittown needs a wig—imagine him having an
earl’s hair on his head.” A voice came from behind him—the baker, perhaps?

“That would make his days easier,” agreed the florist.

“What happened to your nephew?” Julian asked, dreading the
answer.

“He lost his hair to mercury treatments he was taking for a
blood disease. Pale as a corpse, poor dear. “

Julian’s broken heart sank.

Horace stropped his razor before continuing, “He’s the
sweetest boy you ever met.” Murmurs of agreement circled the room.

“How old?” His hair was beginning to feel like a deadweight
of excessive vanity.

“Six.” The barber wiped away a tear before he lifted his
razor and Julian closed his eyes to the agitated mutterings in the small space.
There were a dozen men or more, all known to him in some intimate way—the
blacksmith, the miller, the florist, the baker, all beholden to his family. The
Ahlquists were poor landlords in being absent, with only a melancholy Elenora
to represent the title. Perhaps it was time he gave them a nobler story to pass
along.

When he opened his eyes, Horace was gazing into them from an
alarmingly close distance. Julian backed him off with a smile. “I’ve been
thinking of trying a style similar to Lord Byron’s. Would that leave enough for
a wig for the boy?”

A round of cheers deafened him to Horace’s exact response,
but the toothy grin spoke for itself. Julian heaved a sigh of resignation. It
was only hair, after all.

He stared at his reflection as the barber busied himself,
and he thought about how proud Cathryn would be of him. He wished another
thought filled his heart, but none came. He wanted to make Cathryn proud.

Dammit, in spite of her treachery, he still wanted Cathryn
Sibley.

* * * * *

Cathryn was rummaging through the pantry when she heard the
front door bang shut. She froze with her hand on a jar of pickles. Glancing
about the dark closet, she saw only foodstuff and pottery. The pickles would
have to suffice for weaponry—not a bad choice for bumping an intruder on the
head.

“Is someone there? Lewin?” Violet’s sweet voice called out.

Relief flooded her. “It’s only me, Vi. I’m in the kitchen.” She
replaced the jar before she headed to greet her friend.

Clattering footsteps in the dining room were grating after
days of deep silence. The kitchen door burst open and Violet swept in. “Whatever
are you doing here?”

This moment came sooner than Cathryn had expected, and she
struggled to keep her composure. “You heard about Percival?”

“I’ve come to retrieve my mourning gowns before the service.”
Violet set her enormous reticule on the kitchen table with a thud. “Is that why
you’re here?”

“I have no plans to attend the funeral.” Tears welled in her
eyes, just when she’d thought herself completely dry. “Julian and I had a
terrible row…at Gorham House.”

Lavender arms surrounded her, and Cathryn allowed herself
the comfort of a knowing friend’s embrace. “Percival’s death must have been an
awful shock, but the inquest proved Lord Ahlquist innocent.”

“Thank heavens.” Cathryn backed away and reached for her
handkerchief.

“The Burns likely have a magistrate in their pocket to move
so fast.” Vi opened her bag and reached inside. “Have you seen today’s papers?”

She didn’t want to think of the scandal waging outside her
doorstep. Coming to terms with her loss was enough. “I haven’t left the house
in two days. I know there’s a reporter crouched in Mrs. Lang’s stairwell.”

“And another at the Edisons’. I was approached as soon as my
coach stopped.” She set a stack of papers on the table. “No one seems to know
you’re here.”

“We can’t stay here long. The entire house will be an icebox
in another day, if no coal comes. I thought to go to my father’s until we
secure new staff.”

“Pardon my saying so, but you don’t resemble a baroness at
the moment. Let’s take the back alley to the corner for a warm bite.” Cathryn’s
hand flew to her loose hair. It needed a brushing, and her swollen eyes must
look horrid. Perhaps this wasn’t a bad disguise.

Full of beef stew and a hot pot of tea, Cathryn was better
prepared when Violet asked the inevitable, “What did you fight about?”

Clutching her cup, Cat confessed. “You remember Dr. Kinsley?”

Violet dabbed her mouth with a napkin before answering
flatly. “What of him?”

A chill swept though their cozy booth. “I had one
brief…encounter with him, a few days before Geoffrey passed.” She shuddered at
the unwelcome memory.

The gaping look on Violet’s face was unreadable. Shock, but
not disgust.

“I lied about it to Julian.” The whole truth. “Twice. The
first time I forgot. I know that sounds horrid, but…the timing was off.” Mustn’t
give too many details. “The second time my mind was in a tangle over his
intimate questions, and I told half a story to save my pride. But Percival had
his revenge in the end.”

“He told Julian?”

“With his dying breath.” She finished her cup and sat in silence,
still unable to fathom her sister-in-law’s true feelings from her blank
expression. “Now you’ve heard all the details. I hope you don’t think me too
terrible.”