With This Kiss (29 page)

She wandered a bit more, beginning to feel as ignored and adrift as Lord Attmark’s yacht. Just as she had abandoned hope of finding her husband among the teeming crowds, she caught a glimpse of a man and woman standing beneath the shade of a massive willow. Something about the man’s form — or perhaps just the intimacy of the scene — struck a familiar chord. Looking again, she recognized Morgan and the woman with him: Isabelle Cartwright. Julia was not accustomed to dealing with fits of insecurity, but the sight caused a tight knot of nervous dread to curl within her belly. They looked so undeniably intimate, so very blind to anyone but themselves. It was almost as if—

“Lady Barlowe?”

Julia spun around, feeling as though she had been caught peeking through a bedroom window. She looked up to see Jonathan Derrick, the Earl of Bedford, standing a mere two feet away.

He sent her a small, apologetic smile. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Not at all,” she assured him. “I was just… enjoying the exhibits.” Her words sounded stumbling and forced even to her own ears. Attempting to cover her flustered gaffe with an overly bright smile, she repeated, “You didn’t startle me at all.”

The earl looked past her, following her former line of sight to the spot where Morgan and Isabelle stood. He quickly looked away, his embarrassment obvious. “Yes, well… it is quite a spectacle, isn’t it? The exhibits, I mean.”

“Yes.”

“Indeed.”

Although he had obviously approached her with some objective in mind, that purpose evidently escaped him. Jonathan Derrick rocked back and forth on his heels, staring about the grounds as though her presence were forgotten entirely. Unfortunately, that was in keeping with Julia’s initial impression of the man. Large and somewhat bumbling in manner, he exuded an air of a perpetual distraction. His bushy blond hair and mustache were slightly damp with perspiration, his normally florid complexion was even redder due to the heat.

Abruptly recalling himself, he said at last, “I was about to take some refreshment. I wonder if you would care to join me?”

She managed a gracious smile. “That would be lovely, Lord Bedford.” Anything was better than standing beneath the sweltering sun watching her husband flirt with his former mistress.

Jonathan Derrick looked momentarily surprised, then a beaming smile curved his lips as he offered her his arm. “It is my honor, Lady Barlowe.”

They moved across the lush lawn toward the colorful tents under which the guests mingled. On another day the setting might have been lovely, but the heat seemed to affect everything. The floral arrangements wilted and drooped. Lord Attmark’s servants rushed between the kitchens and the tents, their faces flushed and damp with perspiration.

Trays of exquisitely prepared dishes had been set out for the guests. Although the menu might be considered the height of culinary fashion, evidently the chef had not considered the weather or the nature of the gathering. The fare was mired in rich overabundance. Everything was fried or stuffed, drenched in a heavy sauce or coated with a thin film of grease. The desserts were creamy and gooey. Even the wines were dark and heavy. If the heat alone didn’t suffice to make one’s temples throb, the food surely would.

The Earl of Bedford chose a secluded table away from the other diners. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said as he seated Julia. “But there is something I would like to discuss with you — something of a rather personal nature.”

“Of course,” she returned politely. As a servant set a plate before her, she listlessly lifted her fork, wondering which of the steaming dishes might be least offensive.

Like her, Jonathan Derrick studied his plate with a thoughtful frown. “Interesting,” he murmured after a moment.

“Yes?”

He poked a sodden lump in the center of his plate. “A chef once instructed me as to the proper way to boil a frog. Apparently if one throws it directly into a pot of boiling water, it will quite naturally leap out. If, however, one puts a frog in a pail of cold water and slowly raises the temperature, it will sit complacently until it is boiled to death.”

Julia hastily set down her fork. “Really?” she managed.

“I found it quite enlightening — illustrative of mankind as well, wouldn’t you say?”

“You said there was something of a personal nature you wanted to discuss with me?”

“Oh, yes.” He hesitated, then said with a small, apologetic smile, “Forgive me. I’m not very good at this sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?”

“Marriage,” he replied. “I should have taken care of the chore years ago, but I simply kept putting it off. Now I find myself somewhat at a loss, particularly given my age and the fact that I have never married.”

Neither of which posed an insurmountable problem in Julia’s estimation. She guessed the earl to be in his early to midforties. While not young, neither was he too old to take a bride. “There are several beautiful young women making their debut this Season,” she pointed out. “I imagine any of them would be flattered by your attentions.”

A hint of a smile showed beneath his shaggy mustache. “May I speak bluntly?”

“Of course.”

“I am not unaware that my wealth and title might serve to make up for some of my personal shortcomings. It might even serve to make me attractive to a budding young beauty of eighteen. But the thought of taking a precocious child-bride strikes me as a rather trying prospect. I am rather settled in my ways and would much prefer a woman of some maturity and experience — yet one who is still young enough to beget an heir. Furthermore, I seek a woman who has been properly reared and who would not disturb the peace and quiet of my household. That’s why I thought you might be of assistance.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Miss Theresa Prentisse and Miss Marianne Prentisse are your cousins, are they not?”

Of course, she thought. Her cousins. Both of whom were now in their midtwenties. Both of whom had been raised by their father to be the picture of dutiful, obedient wives.

“It was my understanding that your uncle is currently considering suitors for their hands,” Jonathan Derrick pressed.

“I regret that Uncle Cyrus is making that fact painfully obvious, is he not?”

“Surely one should not hold that against your cousins.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“I have given the matter a considerable deal of thought,” he replied with a light shrug. “If it is not too much to ask, would you consider presenting me to your family? I realize that our acquaintance has been of a rather brief nature, but I believe your husband would be willing to vouch for my good character.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” she assured him.

“Your uncle might consider me?”

An earl? Julia thought. Her uncle would do handstands. “If you like, I’ll arrange an introduction this afternoon.”

Jonathan Derrick beamed. “I’m forever in your debt, Lady Barlowe.” He picked up his fork and dug lustily into his boiled frog.

Lazarus, Was that you? Flame.

Yes, my love, it was me. But you knew it, didn’t you? You tease. You vixen. Whore.

He rolled the paper into a tight wand and employed it to swat away a bothersome gnat, then he tapped it absently against his thigh. He had been so pleased earlier in the day to see her private message to him. Now that exquisite thrill was ruined entirely.

Lord Attmark’s gala was winding down at last. Shielding his eyes against the setting sun, he watched as the guests flooded the lawn and headed toward the culmination of the day’s events, that idiotic beheading. Even Flame —
his
Flame — was intent on witnessing that foolish spectacle. He watched her moving across the fields with her arm locked through that of Morgan St. James.

Lazarus regarded her with acute displeasure. Although he had given her several opportunities to acknowledge him, she had not sent him one single sign that his presence pleased her. Even the gown she wore was wrong. Pale, insipid blue. Adequate on another woman, perhaps, but not her. Flame should always wear the colors of fire. Hadn’t he told her so on more than one occasion?

The gown had been Morgan St. James’s idea, no doubt. He was controlling her, ruining her. In time she would be nothing — just an empty receptacle for St. James’s lust. Had he bedded her already? Possibly. Lazarus imagined that scarred skin touching her pristine flesh, climbing atop her, and emptying his seed into her body. The thought sickened his stomach. For a moment he thought he might be physically ill.

No, not her. It couldn’t be. Not his Flame. She wouldn’t allow it. Surely he was confusing her with that other woman. The woman who moaned and slithered beneath the crimson satin sheets like a rutting sow. The woman who writhed in the flames, screaming for mercy. Mercy that had never come.

He clenched his fist tightly around the paper he held, trying to shut the image out. But he was too late. His father’s enraged voice filled his mind. The woman had been taught a lesson. Now it was his turn. Spare the rod, spoil the child. As the lash of his whip had stung his back, Lazarus had cowered in terror, so overcome by fear and pain he had soiled his pants. Shame coursed through him at the memory. His father had been right to punish him. He had been a foul, dirty boy. Undeserving of everything he had been given.

He could feel the ugliness taking over him. Festering. Seething anger and rage spreading through his body, shooting up his veins like a disease. Desperately he tried to block it. A passage from Ezekiel drifted through his mind. Just as silver, bronze, iron, lead, and tin are gathered into a furnace and smelted in the roaring flames, so I will gather you together in my furious wrath, put you in, and smelt you.

There. That was the answer. Such magnificent words. It was up to him to carry out the Lord’s work. That was why he needed the fires. To cleanse the filth. To establish purity and order once again. Just as his father had done. It was his duty to find the guilty and expose them to the world.

He knew exactly where.

Exactly who should be punished next.

He could already smell the sulfur and kerosene. He could already see the flames licking and crawling and blistering. Such raw beauty and perfection. Relaxing his grip, he ran his fingers over Flame’s column once again. The Tattler. She herself had told him where to strike. This time she would know it had been him. This time there would be no doubt.

All for you, my love. All for you.

The sound of sharply clanging bells woke Julia from a deep sleep. Assuming they were church bells ringing to gather parishioners together for a dawn mass, she rolled over in sleepy irritation and tried to shut them out. But the sound only intensified. The bells rang louder and louder, tolling with ugly urgency.

Succumbing at last to their call, she sat up in bed and opened her eyes. No rosy dawn glow greeted her. Nor did silver beams of moonlight illuminate her chamber. It was the dead of night. She was surrounded by nothing but varying depths of darkness and shadow, filling her room with inky purples, indigo, and ebony.

And the bells, ringing and ringing, clamoring for attention. She frowned in cloudy confusion, turning her head in the direction of the sound. At last grim understanding dawned. She threw back her linens and left her bed, moving across the room to her balcony. Seeking confirmation of her worst fears, she stepped outside, only to be rewarded with a vista of the neighborhood estates. The bells echoed from behind her, away from Mayfair and Grosvenor Square.

Morgan’s windows, she knew, faced east, affording a view of nearly the entire city. Although the house was silent, surely the bells would have awakened him as well. With that in mind she drew on a robe and padded softly down the hallway to his chamber. She rapped softly on his door. “Morgan?”

No sound greeted her from within. She boldly turned the handle and poked her head inside. It was too dim to see much. Gazing about the space, she was able to perceive only shadows and looming shapes of furniture. Her focus centered on the large four-poster. Empty. The white linen sheets cast an eerie glow in the moonlight. Searching the room, Julia finally recognized a lone figure silhouetted on the balcony, his back to her.

“Morgan?” she called again.

When he didn’t reply, she stepped inside and moved across the room. She reached his balcony and joined him outside in the warm night air. Although she knew he was aware of her presence, he didn’t acknowledge her. He stood silent and motionless, his hands tucked into the pockets of his dressing robe, his eyes fastened on a distant spot on the horizon. She shifted her gaze to the same place.

A ball of brilliant fiery red smoldered against the dark skyline of the city, as though a piece of the sun had tumbled down to scorch the earth. Directly above it thick charcoal clouds billowed against the ebony sky. When Julia had been a child and had accompanied her father on long voyages, he had often drawn her aside and told her that if she listened hard enough, she could hear the sun hissing and spitting flame as it struck the horizon. And so it was now. She could almost hear those flames licking and cracking, greedily devouring everything in their path.

“Charing Cross?” she said after a moment.

“Yes.”

Morgan offered no more, nor did he turn to look at her. His eyes were dark and grim, watching and yet unseeing, as though he were locked in memories of his own. He wore the same chilling expression she had seen weeks ago, when she had found him watching the rubbish burn. Although she longed to breach the silence between them with a consoling word, she knew that nothing she might say would possibly be adequate. Yet retreating to her own chamber was not an option either.

The sound of a soft cough pierced the stillness of the night. She suddenly recognized that she and Morgan were not alone. The entire household was awake. The servants had gathered on the balconies that fronted the east wing, locked together in brutal camaraderie as they watched the conflagration. Most of them had been in Morgan’s employ at the time of his fire. The chambermaid who had lost her daughter. The groomsman whose face still bore the damage of the flame. The butler who walked with a pained limp, the result of his leap from a third-floor window. They stood together in solemn acknowledgment, watching the blaze in the distance.