Three Nights with a Scoundrel: A Novel (26 page)

He walked some more. Through the straggling whores still haunting Covent Garden, by the cheap gin houses in the rookery of St. Giles, passing back along the Strand. He walked streets he normally wouldn’t walk alone at night, for any reason. No one in his right mind would. But he walked them anyway, daring his unknown enemies to strike. Or if those enemies eluded him, simply tempting fate.

The hours passed. His feet went from sore to aching to numb in his boots. But Julian kept walking.

He found himself in St. James’s Park at the first glimmer of daybreak, in the meadow that was the site of so many illegal, infamous duels. Here, in this field, a gentleman’s honor could be redeemed by the firing of a single shot into the air. Julian had never understood it. Duels seldom amounted to more than a show of false courage. One ball sent whizzing skyward, and everyone went home mollified. England’s “best” men were preserved to live another day, clutch their gold more tightly to their breasts, and get more children on their wives and chambermaids. Sounded rather nice, didn’t it?

But no one came to duel with Julian, and he’d lost his pistol anyhow. He would find no satisfaction here.

He could find satisfaction with Lily, a sly voice inside him whispered.

Not now
, he told it. Not now.

So he walked some more, pondering other things. What did it mean, when a man planned his own funeral and no one came?

Lily and Morland had insisted from the beginning that Leo’s murder was a senseless, random act. Could it be that they were right? Perhaps he’d missed his opportunity due to Lily’s interruption, or he’d simply failed to lure his enemy to action. But the other possibility was equally strong: that there was no enemy to lure. No would-be murderer, at any rate.

It would have been easier to accept, if he didn’t want to believe it so damn much.

Julian didn’t have his destination in mind—rather, it seemed to draw him like a lodestone. Before he knew it, he was there—in Whitechapel, navigating a cramped district stacked high with warehouses until he stood in the alley where Leo had died. He’d walked here at night, several times. It was full daylight now, and the place looked narrow and dirty, not threatening. It smelled of filth and rotting fish.

Julian stared around him, wondering what the hell he was doing. He’d come to pay respects to Leo, he supposed, but any respect was wasted here. Leo had mercifully left this place behind, in body and spirit. Julian should do the same.

So he turned north and walked to Spitalfields. He traveled against the flow of the working poor, who streamed
en masse
toward better neighborhoods, on their way to work as scullery maids, chimney sweeps, rat catchers, and the like. Perhaps he would meet with one of his errand boys if he looked sharp.

The bells of Christ Church greeted him, ringing in the new day with familiar peals.
Welcome home
, he could imagine them to say. He’d spent his first nine years of life within earshot of these bells.

For the first time in decades, he entered the church. The devout were at their morning prayers, and Julian had no wish to disturb them. He lingered at the rear. Tilting his head to view the arcade, he was transported back to his boyhood, when these soaring arches and stately white columns made this the grandest building he could imagine ever being permitted inside.

And now, with stern-faced saints to chaperone, he loosed the reins on his thoughts. They went straight to her.

Lily
. Just her name inspired in him more breathless awe than any psalm or choir could do. He might never learn who killed Leo, and whether or not that same person wished to kill him. But he knew that Lily loved him. And he knew that made him the luckiest bastard in England. Assuming she would even speak to him this morning, that was. He wanted to believe she was too generous to hold true to her ultimatum, but he couldn’t be sure. Her will was strong. But perhaps her love was stronger.

What would it take, to make a real future with a woman like that? Not just a night of stolen passion, but a life worthy of her?

He would have to commit a small murder of his own. Mr. James Bell would need to die a quiet, sudden death, and Julian would have to sell off the business concerns discreetly. A lady of Lily’s rank could not have a husband who dirtied his hands with trade. Julian would mourn the loss, no question. He’d been working for years toward the new mercantile scheme, and this would mean abandoning the idea entirely. And then, there were his employees … hundreds of mill workers and their families depended on his wages for their livelihood. Unlike most other owners, he paid them enough to live well. If he sold the mills, who could say what their fate would be?

But this was so much more than a business decision.

To be with Lily, he would have to
be
with Lily. Live in her aristocratic world, with no daily escape into his offices and no anonymous walks through the city at night. He would have to comport himself with dignity—no more wild antics or bacchanal evenings at the club. The
affaires
—those, he would never miss. They hadn’t been about pleasure in the first place, but merely revenge. So disgusting and degrading. It was a wonder he could stand in this holy place and not burst into flames.

Damn, there was no way around it. He was completely unworthy of her. If he did go to Lily, he would have to live with the knowledge that he’d betrayed Leo’s friendship by taking his sister for himself.

And he would have to accept uncertainty, where Leo’s murder was concerned. He would never know whether he’d unwittingly had a hand in his friend’s death, or whether someone had wished to kill
him
. He would always worry. Always feel that little prickle of fear as he walked down the street, fearing that one day someone would recognize him, and Lily would suffer as a result.

What would he be forced to give up, to be with Lily? Only his trade, his principles, his possessions, his identity, his loyalty to Leo, and his very peace of mind. Only everything, forever.

Right. There really was no choice.

Before he left the church, Julian bent his head. He said a prayer for his mother and a prayer for Leo. And then a prayer of forgiveness for what he was about to do.

Lily’s sitting room boasted a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, filled with volumes she’d collected from her girlhood on. Since Leo’s death, she’d spent many a sleepless night rearranging its contents. She might pass one evening alphabetizing the books by the author’s last name. Then the next night, by the author’s first name. Another night, she would sort them by genre: poems, plays, novels, essays. She’d invented dozens of ways to organize these books. Chronologically, by date of publication. Chronologically, in the order she’d acquired them. Chronologically, in the order she’d read them. By size. By color of the binding. By the number of pages.

One particularly melancholy night, she’d ranked them by how many characters died in each.

Last night, after Julian so heartlessly left her crying on the doorstep, Lily had marched upstairs, removed all the books from the shelf, and packed them away in trunks. When dawn came, she greeted it with fresh resolve. That was the last night she spent rearranging bookshelves. She’d only just emerged from months of mourning her brother. She would not lapse back into helpless grief today.

She took a light breakfast in her chambers. With her maid’s assistance, she dressed in a cheery pink day dress and adorned her neck with a single strand of pearls. As the maid twisted her hair, Lily stared at herself in the mirror. Weary, red-rimmed eyes stared back at her from a pale, drawn face. She looked horrid, no question. But she couldn’t improve her aspect by sitting about the house moping.

She dismissed the maid and considered the possible activities. She could pay calls, Lily supposed. But then, whom would she visit? Amelia would want to hear all about last night, and Lily didn’t feel up to discussing it. As for others … it might be best to wait and see the scandal sheets today. She and Julian had departed the assembly abruptly, then vanished together into a coach. Who knew what the gossips might have concluded? She didn’t especially care, but neither did she wish to face the rumors unprepared.

Shopping? Maybe it would boost her spirits to purchase something frivolous and pretty. Several somethings, at that. On credit. But while she knew such a strategy worked for other ladies, Lily had never experienced similar success. Her mathematical bent would not allow her to stop mentally tallying expenditures and balancing them against the pleasure accrued. Quite spoiled the whole exercise.

Exercise. Now there was an idea. Perhaps the park should be her destination. Yes, a nice long stroll along the Serpentine would be just the thing. She could ask Holling to accompany her. The housekeeper would appreciate a chance to show off her new winter cloak.

“Oh. That cloak.” Lily sniffed back a tear, thinking of that lovely, luxurious garment. It was just like Julian, to be so inappropriate and so thoughtful at once. “Even Holling has a cloak to remember him by, and what has he left me? Two ruined gowns and an intact maidenhead.”

A bright flutter caught her attention.

“I’m sorry, Tartuffe. I didn’t mean to discount you.” She crossed to his cage and put one finger through the bars. The parrot nipped it playfully. “You’re right. I suppose I can’t say he didn’t leave me anything.”

But the bird would not be soothed. He bounced about his cage, flapping with agitation. Something must be happening downstairs.

Lily left her suite and padded down the corridor. She descended the front stairs and stopped three risers from the bottom. There was Julian, standing in the entrance hall, dressed in morning attire and clutching a rolled paper in his hand. His face was unnaturally pale. She thought he looked like he might swoon again.

“Good morning,” he said.

“No,” she replied. “No, it’s not. It’s a wretched morning, as you well know. I thought I told you if you deserted me last night, I didn’t want to see you again.”

“You did.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I’m hoping you’ll reconsider. Obviously.”

She gripped the banister, trying to steel herself. Yes, she was relieved beyond measure to see him alive, if not completely well. But she couldn’t go through this same torment, over and over again. The books had already been packed away. “Julian, I don’t—”

“Wait.” He approached, coming to stand at the bottom of the staircase. “Let me have my say. Please.”

Lily held her ground. If she was going to make it through this conversation without losing her nerve, she needed some space between them. Not to mention, the advantage of an extra eighteen inches’ height.

“I’m sorry for leaving you last night,” he said. “But I just couldn’t do it. All threats and mysteries aside … You’re a woman of remarkable character, Lily. Your brother was my very good friend. I couldn’t soil your reputation and disrespect Leo’s memory by taking your virtue that way.”

This?
This was the reason he’d come here? Just to reject her to her face, all over again? Lily couldn’t believe it.

“However …” He made a beckoning motion to the side. A man emerged from the drawing room. He was youngish, with thin brown hair and an earnest mien. Tucked beneath his arm, he carried a formidable tome. Swift and Holling followed close behind.

“However what?” Surely Julian didn’t mean to present this poor fellow as a substitute? There was matchmaking, and then there was … well, she didn’t even know the word, that’s how unthinkable it was.

“I mean to do this properly. The way you deserve.” Julian gestured toward the man and said, “Curate.” With a nod in Swift and Holling’s direction, he added, “Witnesses.” He unrolled the paper he’d been holding and raised it for her inspection. “Special license.”

“Julian, what are you on about?”

He went down on one knee.

The room made a sudden twirl. She clutched the banister. “Julian, do get up.”

“Marry me.”

She stared at him. “What did you say?” She couldn’t rush to conclusions. She had to be sure. Although, there weren’t many other phrases that resembled “marry me.” Except “bury me,” perhaps. But given his sickly pallor—and the fact that the presence of a curate might be required for that activity, too—she thought it best to make absolutely certain.

“Lily Elizabeth Chatwick,” he said, slowly and solemnly, “I am asking you to become my wife.”

Oh. There was no mistaking that word,
wife
.

“Here?” she finally managed to ask. “Now? This very morning?”

“Yes.”

That extra eighteen inches of altitude was suddenly a dizzying height. She sank to the stairs, landing on her bottom with a jarring thud. Now she understood why he looked so pale.

“I’m no marquess, but I have the means to support you. I swear to be faithful, all my days. You may rely upon it.” He leaned forward and took her hand. His fingers were so chilled.

“What about Leo’s murderers?”

“They’re still out there, somewhere. I wish to God they weren’t. But if I have to choose between finding the killers and holding on to you, there is no contest. I choose you. I choose us.”

The words sent hope spiraling through her. “You’re done with it then? The searching?”

“Yes.”

“Truly? You’ll leave off all the late-night walks, the blood sport, the suspicion?”

“Yes.” He gripped her fingers tight. “I see the skepticism in your eyes, and I know I’ve earned it. But believe me, Lily. Leaving you last night was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I doubt I have it in me to ever do it again.”

His assurances should have been enough, but he just looked so miserable about the whole thing. “Tell me this isn’t because you think I’m ruined now, and no one else will ever have me. I can’t bear to think you’re here just because you feel obligated.”

“You don’t want me to feel obligated? Well, I’m sorry, Lily. I
am
here because I feel obligated.” He brought her hand to his chest, pressing her palm flat against his rapidly thumping pulse. “I’m obligated by my heart. It’s decided you’re essential to my existence, you see. And it’s threatening to go out on labor strike if I don’t make you mine this very day. So yes. I am here on bended knee, acting from a deep, undeniable sense of obligation. I am, quite simply, yours.” He swallowed hard. “If you’ll have me.”