The Romantic (9 page)

A theatrical light. A superficial happiness. She had been playing a role there, much like the ones she took as a girl when she and her brothers acted out Julian’s medieval epics on the grounds of Laclere Park.

No. Those childhood games had been more honest ….

A wave’s edge chilled her feet, and she had to scurry close to the cliff to avoid it. She looked around and realized that she had walked farther than she thought.

Her isolation rang into her awareness like a bell. Not another soul could be seen. The cottage was not even visible.

Another wave heralded the incoming tide. Already there were strips of beach threatening to be submerged.

Turning on her heel, she quickly headed back toward the cottage.

She almost did not see the man. The day was so gray, and he was just a smudge of a figure against the overcast sky. He stood on the cliff path above, his back to her, not moving, as if he watched something.

The cottage was the only thing visible up the coast. It was the only thing for that man to be looking at.

Fear scurried up her back. She told herself that she was being too suspicious. Soon, surely, he would walk on and appear very normal and not the least bit furtive.

Finally, he did move. He simply disappeared.

The fear shivered all through her. Someone just walking from one place to another along that path would not disappear. He would continue on.

She looked up and down the beach. Far to the south she could see the cottages of a fishing village. Perhaps he had come from there, but she did not think so. Smudge though he had been, it seemed to her he had worn a frock coat, not a fisherman’s garments.

She moved close to the rocks dotting the inner edge of the beach, away from the surf, so anyone looking down from the cliff path or house might not see her.

She slid along the cliff face toward the cottage. A hundred yards from the cottage it jutted out in a little point. Hiding behind that shallow barrier, she peered around and looked up at her sanctuary.

A movement caught her eyes. A darkness, like a shadow, moved along the edge of the terrace.

Someone was at the cottage.

Her heart pounded so hard she felt it in her ears. Panicked thoughts poured into her head in a jumble.

She and Julian must have been followed this morning. That man was from the earl. He was looking for her, she felt certain of it. Maybe he had entered the house and seen her trunks. Maybe now he was going to use the boat to search the beach.

Cold water sloshed against her ankles. The shock of the sensation restored some of her senses. Hitching up her skirt and petticoats, she turned and ran back down the coast, frantically looking for a place to hide.

She stayed close to the rock face, praying she could not be seen from the terrace.

The wind whipped around her, carrying the evening’s cold. It permeated right to her bones, aided by the chill of terror.

Swallowing a bile that threatened to make her sick, she darted her gaze along the rocks as she ran. Two large boulders beckoned.

She squeezed between them. She wrapped her cloak tightly around her and sat on a little bed of sand behind them.

Teeth clenched and heart beating with the dreadful hysteria of a hunted animal, she waited for discovery even as she prayed for salvation.

“You do not favor her, I think.”

The soft, feminine voice barely penetrated Julian’s thoughts. His body might be at this gathering but his mind was in a cottage on the coast, sitting by the fire with Penelope.

The revelation of her parting words continued repeating in his head.

She had thought she was ruined by Glasbury. For years she had believed it.

But that had changed. Eventually a man had resurrected what the earl had killed. A man who knew nothing of why she left the earl, and who did not have scruples about adultery, and who thought nothing of risking her independence, which was contingent upon no scandal surrounding her.

How did she remember that affair now? Were her memories kind to her lover, despite what had happened?

She probably still loved the man. If she had been reborn in that affair, she could probably forgive Witherby anything.

“Mrs. Morrison. You do not favor her, do you?” Diane St. John repeated.

He turned to his hostess. She had abundant chestnut hair and warm, soulful eyes, and possessed the kind of delicate beauty that grows more interesting with the years. Her natural grace would conquer time no matter how her face fared in the battle, however.

Normally he would have welcomed attending one of the St. Johns’ gatherings. This one, however, had become a burden. It would have raised questions if he had begged off so late, however, since there was to be a brief business meeting in the library soon.

“She is very lovely and charming,” Julian said. Mrs. Morrison stood nearby. Her mouth kept moving. “Was she your choice, or do I have Lady Laclere to thank for the introduction?”

Diane laughed. “I told them that you would be onto the game very quickly. Were we so obvious?”

“I concluded a month ago that certain ladies have turned their attention to finding me a wife.”

“Not necessarily a wife. There is some concern that you may be lonely, that is all.”

No, not necessarily a wife. He glanced to a corner of the drawing room where Señora Perez sat on a sofa, surrounded by men who laughed and hovered. Twice now she had caught his eye and favored him with long, smoldering looks.

He did not think she had been included tonight for his sake. Her vivacious personality ensured many invitations because she enlivened any gathering. She had caused a sensation in society, and by the beginning of the season would undoubtedly be a fixture at even the most elite parties.

Diane noticed his attention. “Daniel does not believe she is from Venezuela,” she confided lowly. “He says her accent is quite different from Señor Perez’s. He thinks she is from Guyana, perhaps.”

“Since your husband has spent some time in that area of the world, he is probably correct.”

“He also is not convinced that she is the legal wife of Raoul Perez. He does not think Señor Perez would permit a wife the freedom to flirt as this woman does. Also, it is obvious she has very little European ancestry. Raoul is a son of the
criollo
elite and would be meticulous about the bloodlines of his legitimate children.”

“A mistress?”

“Possibly. What do you think? Is my husband correct?”

“I think that the parties in London promise to get very
theatrical during the next months if he is, but that the real dramas will play out in private, if we are fortunate.”

Diane’s gaze did a slow hostess scan of the drawing room, to make sure she was not needed. “Do you think it too intrusive for us to wonder about your happiness, let alone seek to influence it?”

“I am honored. If I do not cooperate, it is not for lack of understanding the kindness intended. I may not seek a wife, but I am grateful to have friends.”

“I told Bianca and Sophia that I did not think you would cooperate,” she confided. “I told them that I think you are a man who waits for something other than what we can arrange.”

Julian had no idea how to respond to that, so he said nothing. Neither did his hostess. She remained beside him, however, as if they continued the conversation. That was one of the things he had noticed about Diane St. John from the start. She did not always feel obliged to fill the silence.

This time, however, he sensed an agitation in her, as if she would like to speak but held back.

Finally, she sidled one step closer. “Charlotte told me about Glasbury. I never liked the man. I remember when I first came to this country and Penelope befriended me. She had recently left him and he did all he could to see that their old circles cut and dropped her. He even insinuated himself among the new friends she made, so that his presence would make hers unacceptable.”

“The countess knew that would happen.”

“Pen is one of my dearest friends. It would give me great comfort to know that she is safe and unharmed and that Glasbury has not found her.”

“I have no reason to believe that she is not safe.”

Her expression cleared. “Please come with me, then. I have something to give you.”

Julian followed her out of the drawing room and into the expansive quiet of the library. She walked to a writing table and extracted a sealed letter from its drawer.

“Please take this, Mr. Hampton. Daniel owns properties throughout England and Scotland. This letter contains information regarding some of their locations, and instructions to the people who care for them to welcome you in the event you ever visit. These are lovely but isolated houses that you may wish to visit someday.”

Julian accepted the letter. “I do not anticipate visiting, but I am grateful for the invitation.”

“You may decide that some country air has appeal one day. With that letter you can indulge yourself at once, on an impulse.”

“You are too generous.”

Just then the library door opened and the master of the house strolled in. Daniel St. John usually appeared either very distracted or very intense. Tonight it was the latter. His sharp dark eyes took in the two of them and his hard mouth smiled in its naturally sardonic way.

A shipper and financier of immense wealth, St. John was French born, although most of the world did not know that. His past was shrouded in mystery to all but his closest friends. One had only to see his attention focus on one like this to hope he would never be an enemy. Even when distracted or indifferent, his slightly cruel countenance warned that he was not a man to trifle with.

Julian suspected St. John’s aura of potential ruthless-ness ensured his success in business as much as any brilliance
with numbers or strategies. Only a fool, upon meeting St. John, would consider engaging him with lies or fraud.

“There you are, Hampton. The others will join us shortly. Please excuse us, Diane. This meeting on Dante and Fleur’s Durham project will be brief, I promise. Our guests will be none the wiser.”

Diane departed. Julian slid the letter into his coat.

“It is a good thing that I know you to be a good friend, Hampton, and that I trust my wife completely. Another husband would be very curious about that letter and its contents.”

“I suspect that I will find your writing should I ever open it, and not hers.”

“Yes. Well, she worries about the countess. Now that we have made an attempt to help, she will be less distressed.” St. John went to the desk and removed a sealed packet. “She does not know about this, however, so I require your discretion. If she were aware I felt the need to take such a step, she would only worry more.”

Julian took the letter. “What is this?”

“A list of my ships, their ports of call in Britain and France, and anticipated dates of sailing. Also a letter from me to be given to any of the captains, with orders that passage be provided to the person who presents it.”

Julian fingered the letter’s edge thoughtfully. “How much do you know?”

“No more than anyone but you. However, the countess is a woman bred to a sense of duty. If she left Glasbury, it was for good reasons. It is not too difficult to surmise what some of those reasons might be.” Steps could be heard approaching the library door. “I trust that you
know that I am available, should you ever require my aid in any way.”

Julian knew that. It was becoming clear, however, that his closest friends were convinced that Penelope was indeed back in England, and that Julian Hampton was helping her to hide.

Unfortunately, Glasbury had concluded the same thing.

chapter
7

J
ulian headed back to the coast before dawn the next morning. He rode his horse so he could make good time. The night was rainy, but the weather turned fair once the day broke.

As he approached the cottage he permitted himself a little fantasy, of Pen greeting his return. He pulled his horse up near the stable and surveyed the house.

No face showed at the door or window. No call or wave hailed him.

Of course not. She had more on her mind than the return of the faithful solicitor.

He took care of his horse, then walked to the house. Its silence seemed to grow as he approached. The mood was familiar but out of place this day. Someone dwelled in the cottage now.

As soon as he stepped inside he knew that was no longer true.

She was gone. The chambers echoed with emptiness. He
looked on the terrace, expecting the vacancy he found. He went up the stairs, knowing she would not be there.

Her trunks still were. Their presence chilled him for a moment. Fear that she had been snatched during his absence made his blood prickle.

No, it had not been that. She had walked away. She had tucked her valuables on her person, left the trunks, and disappeared. No other choice guaranteed her freedom, so she was headed into obscurity, where she would feel safe.

Considering his meeting with Glasbury, he wasn’t entirely sure she had made a bad decision.

His soul emptied anyway, until it was as vacant as the cottage. He went back down, resenting the house’s silence as he never had before.