Veiled in Blue (8 page)

“I believe the Mertons were here before,” Julius said, not wishing to talk about life in London for fear he might give something away.

Miss Simpson made a face. “Miss Merton was much indulged by her father, or so I heard, although I was a babe in arms when she made her come-out. However, there she is, still single. She quite fancied herself the belle of the district when she lived here. She was of course much reduced in circumstances, but gossip had it that she was none too particular about her friends.”

“Really?” Julius’s acquaintances might have taken the hint when they heard the frozen tone of that one word, but Miss Simpson took no notice.

“A man such as you, sir, aware of the traps of the world, must realize what dangers a woman faces when presented with a handsome man.” Her fanning grew more vigorous.

“Must I? Miss Merton has never behaved with anything but the greatest propriety.” And may the gods spare cutting his tongue out for speaking such lies. However, Julius had vastly enjoyed her relatively mild impropriety, and he did not intend to share his delight with anyone else.

“She is playing fast and loose with Sir Henry. Surely you have noticed?”

Had this child not noticed Julius’s own interest in Miss Merton, or was she willfully blind? The truth hit Julius as the little madam moved closer to him, giving him an unwanted view of her immature breasts. He raised his attention to her face. “Miss Merton is a woman of great sense, far too much to flirt with a man who is already at her feet. Most men are, you know, but it isn’t merely a matter of her looks. She has intelligence and grace.”

Miss Simpson smiled archly. “She is not alone in that.”

Was she suggesting that she had similar qualities? Miss Simpson could be a pretty miss, like some of the others here tonight, but she needed more appropriate clothes and style, and she should definitely not wear face paint at her age. While paint had its place, and Julius had employed the art himself on occasion, it appeared grotesque on the face of a seventeen-year-old, particularly the more artificial look utilized by older ladies of his acquaintance.

He would dearly love to give her parents a piece of his mind, but of course he would not.

She tilted her head and flicked her eyelids closed and then open in a strange parody of flirtatiousness. Julius swallowed his sharp comment. He had not shown such restraint for a long time, and he was fully aware why he did it. He didn’t want to make affairs difficult for Eve. This young lady had power over Eve, of a slightly superior standing, and parents willing to indulge her.

To his immense relief, the bell clanged, and in a moment Eve and her mother came in. Julius had eyes only for Eve. Her burgundy-colored gown was adorned with a deep hem of summer flowers that Julius strongly suspected Eve had done herself, since he’d come across no commercial pattern like it, and her plain ivory petticoat had been turned, but was a restful relief to the finery of Miss Simpson and her mama.

His smile was genuine when he made his bow. Meeting Eve’s eyes for a bare moment, he noted the slight arch of her brow when she glanced at Miss Simpson and was hard put not to burst into laughter. Their understanding was becoming far too profound for him to remain dignified in public, and he looked forward to her no doubt perceptive comments about the young woman when he accompanied her on her walk.

Sir Henry Fulworth and Mr. King arrived shortly after, and they went into dinner. Julius was far too wily a hand to allow himself to be maneuvered into taking Miss Simpson in. That honor belonged to Sir Henry, who showed himself adept at suppressing the young woman’s over-bright conversation. She could do a lot worse than Sir Henry, who despite his staidness showed a deal of common sense.

Mr. King watched. He might just be an observer by nature, but Julius wondered about that. He took the bull by the horns. “You must tell us about your travels, Mr. King. You told me that you had visited Rome. Did you enjoy the Eternal City?”

Mr. King sent him a smile as he helped himself to creamed asparagus and offered it to Mrs. Simpson. That had given him time to marshal his thoughts, damn him. “Indeed, sir, although the odors are those of any large city in Europe.”

“I am accustomed to London. I cannot imagine anything more…pungent.” He would not go into details at the dining table. The food showed a tendency to over-elaboration, but was palatable. He would have preferred the lamb a little rarer, the pork better cooked, and a few less rich sauces, but that might just be his personal taste. “Of course it depends on the part of the city one wishes to go.”

“I cannot say I have ventured into the more noisome parts of London,” Mr. King said. “Only the squares and the parks, in general.”

“Which squares would that be?” Julius asked. The Dankworths lived in St. James’s Square. Would King mention it?

But King did not answer him directly. “Most of my business is conducted in the City. The Cocoa-Tree, for example.”

Julius seized on the snippet with savage delight. At last, something he could use. “Where the Jacobites congregate?”

King paused, lifting a forkful of food to his mouth. When he had finished eating and taken a sip of wine, he answered Julius. “And not a few Tories from the countryside.”

Jacobite ones, certainly. “I see. What is your line of business, sir?”

“Oh, this and that.” Mr. King met Julius’s gaze directly, his eyes sparkling with barely concealed anger. “I could ask you the same.”

“Property,” Julius said smoothly. “That is my business.”

Their eyes dueled in a moment of pure animosity before Mr. King turned his attention to Eve and toasted her, lifting his glass slightly before putting it to his lips. “You are, as always, exquisite, ma’am. I wish I knew your mantua-maker.”

Eve laughed, a ripple of pure merriment. “Her name is Eve Merton, sir, as well you know.”

“You should have the services of the best dressmaker in London.”

At least they could agree on that.

Being so close to Eve and yet unable to talk to her properly proved frustrating to Julius. So much that at the end of the evening, he offered to escort Eve and her mother back to their home across the green. Mr. King had said nothing Julius could positively act on, and he seethed with annoyance.

“You do not like Mr. King, do you, sir?” Eve asked him. She had her gloved hand tucked into his arm. It felt perfect there.

“No, I do not. I do not trust the man. He is far too cautious about the information he imparts. He says he comes from the north, but his accent is southern.”

“He has been here for six months, but I feel I know you better than I know him.”

All Julius’s ill-temper dissipated at the sound of her voice and the pressure of her hand on his arm. Her touch soothed him. “I have been trying to understand you. Perhaps he is too busy learning to fit in the neighborhood.” And being a close-mouthed bastard.

But Eve preferred him. She had chosen him as her escort instead of Sir Henry’s carriage or Mr. King’s. That made Julius inordinately, foolishly proud.

Tactfully, Mrs. Merton quickened her pace, moving ahead of them.

Julius lowered his voice. “I can blame neither of the gentlemen. You are temptation itself, Eve. Your parents named you well.”

She sighed. “I had hoped you would not mention that. My parents named me because I was the first daughter. Had there been a brother for me, I have no doubt his name would have been Adam.”

“And the next daughter? Would she have become Lilith?”

They were moving under the shelter of one of the large oak trees that adorned the village green. Acting swiftly, Julius spun her around and claimed a kiss. Far too brief, but it served to take the edge off his frustration and desire for her. She flushed rosily, but when he steered her back, she walked to her house sedately enough and waited until he had bowed over her mother’s hand and her own.

Every time he saw her, he wanted her more. He had tried so hard to rein in his feelings and made an effort not to act decisively on it, but already he knew that when he left Appleton, he would not be leaving Eve behind.

It remained to be seen whether she would be there in spirit, in his heart, or in person.

Sir Henry held his ball the Thursday after the dinner at the vicarage.

He owned a tidy country house, about the same size as the Dower House in the grounds of Julius’s father’s country home. Perhaps six or seven bedrooms, Julius assessed, as he rode up the drive to the main doors.

He was relieved to find a groom waiting. Stabling his own horse didn’t feature in his usual plans for a ball. For that matter, neither did arriving on horseback.

He’d retained the services of the nag he’d hired at the Appleton inn, livelier than the horse he’d previously used. He would still vastly prefer one of his own. The carriages he owned were becoming fond memories. Accustomed to being waited on, he’d nevertheless taken care to ensure he could look after himself if he needed to, and now he was glad of it. His father couldn’t even shave himself. When his valet had fallen ill, his father had grown a beard until the man had recovered rather than undertake the task or employ someone he didn’t know to do it.

Sir Henry lived five miles from the village, and Julius had enjoyed the ride past green fields and flourishing hedgerows. Life was so much simpler like this. He could live this way for some time, in bucolic ease—except for the rope bed and the raucous sounds in the taproom of an evening. Julius handed the reins and a half-crown to the groom, who seemed pleased with the gratuity. The boy led the nag away.

Of course he could not live like this much longer, but the illusion had been pleasant while it lasted. He had work to do, and he must never forget he was here doing it and not for his own amusement.

His rustic paradise would not have been half as enjoyable without Eve. He visited her house regularly, chafing at the demands of society which meant he could not see her privately again.

His impressions had only been confirmed, the more he got to know her. Eve was beautiful, intelligent, and gracious. She would make a charming countess. Those stray thoughts alarmed him more than he would admit to himself, but they kept happening.

He longed to hold her, to kiss her, to feel the delicate, soft skin of her breast in his palm. At night he dreamed of it. He shifted, his erection making itself uncomfortably apparent. Damnation, when had he become a randy boy again? Even thinking of her had him rampantly ready for her. He waited, thinking of other things—anything—until it subsided. The thought of her in the hands of the Jacobites did the trick.

At the sound of a fiddler scraping a tune, he smiled, although his senses screeched when the musician did the same thing.

He entered the hall to the scent of his childhood—cloves mixed with oranges. He’d helped his nurse stud whole oranges with the spice to freshen the air in the rooms of Edensor Abbey. His memories spun back to those times, before strife had riven his life, before ambition and worldliness had entered his perfect childhood world and torn it apart.

Shaking off the reminiscent mood, he took in his surroundings. He saw plain floorboards, highly polished, worn in places where the foot traffic was heaviest, portraits of stiff-necked people in their Sunday best. Fresh flowers in vases decorated the hall in its holiday mood.

The carved, twisted balusters were smooth with age and polishing. As he ascended them to the floor above, every tread creaked. He was obliged to duck his head as he turned on the landing to avoid a particularly insistent beam, but he carried on without further surprises and followed the sound of the music. A fiddler was scraping away in a room at the end of the narrow corridor, where the double doors lay invitingly open.

Although dusk was only just falling, the candles in the chandelier overhead were already lit. The room was of moderate size and heaving to its full capacity, the people not dancing in the central area standing around the edges gossiping. The smell of camphor was heavy in the air, and as the dancers swirled and turned, the waves of the aroma made him blink to clear his watering eyes. The clothes would have been stored that way, to preserve them, only brought out on festive occasions like this.

Obviously someone else had been similarly affected, because more than one window stood open, the casements letting in the pleasant evening breeze, the candles attracting the occasional insect. No doubt the odor would disappear in an hour or so. Or he would become accustomed to it. Either would suit him. The light cast a soft glow over the couples engaging in a minuet, their steps measured, slower and less fluent than he was used to.

Country balls often took place earlier than those in town because the participants could have some way to go when they were finished. This was no exception, and by the indecently early hour of eight o’clock the ball was in full swing. People were dancing, some more vigorously than others. Others stood around gossiping. The clothes were less extravagant than those worn by Julius’s peers, the jewels not as grand, and fewer candles blazed in the chandeliers. Nevertheless, this sight struck Julius as familiar. The talk that happened in these gatherings was not always trivial, and the participants not all set on enjoying themselves. Business would be conducted here, as everywhere else, of all kinds. Arrangements for clandestine affairs, agreements to invest in a ship or a mine, and political alliances were all made in places like this. The gathering drew him, as they always did. Power resided here, even though it was of a local, not national, nature.

Once the camphor smell receded, a mingled aroma of perfumes and burning wax, together with the faint promise of supper, came to him. He smiled and glanced around for people he knew. He was in his element.

“Good evening, sir.” Mr. King approached him, snuffbox in hand. “Would you take a pinch?”

Julius shook his head. “I don’t count snuff amongst my vices, but I thank you for the civility.”

Mr. King tucked his box into his coat pocket. His clothes were fashioned in the latest style, unlike those worn by most of the people present, including Julius. He was careful to retain a few garments that did not pander to fashion in case he found himself in places like this. Mr. King evidently did not consider such small subterfuges necessary, a matter of interest to Julius, who studied the small indications that could add up to a greater whole. “We have several things in common, sir. I venture to assume we are the only people in this room tonight who have an intimate knowledge of London, for instance.”