With This Kiss (5 page)

“Letters,” she stated succinctly, refusing to be intimidated by his tone. “Letters very like the one you now hold. All sent to me and signed by the same man — Lazarus.” She turned back to the cabinet and withdrew a slim bundle of papers. “I received this the very day your servants’ quarters were set ablaze.” She passed him a parchment sheet and watched as he read,

Flame,

The time has come, my love. How glorious is the wrath of the righteous. At last he shall suffer as I have suffered. What ultimate joy. A flame shall wither him up in his early growth, and with the wind his blossoms shall disappear.

Lazarus

“Job, chapter fifteen, verse thirty,” she said as he finished reading, referring to the last line in the letter.

“Yes. I’m familiar with the passage.”

She waited for him to say more, but nothing came. The heavy silence that weighed between them was broken only by the distant echoes coming from the docks outside. He had shifted his body slightly as he read. A shadow now fell across his face, denying her any glimpse of his reaction. Nor had there been any clue in his voice as to the state of his emotions.

With little choice but to go on, she passed him the remaining letters. One she had received the day of the Earl of Chilton’s fire, the other the day of Lord Webster’s. Both were similar in content and style to the ones she had shown him. He skimmed them, and then passed them back.

“Flame?” he asked at last.

“I believe he’s alluding to the color of my hair.”

“I see.” He hesitated a moment, then continued coolly. “The letter referring to seeing you in Cheapside — when did you receive that?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“And between Lord Webster’s fire and the letter of two weeks ago…”

“Nothing. No word at all. Like everyone else, I assumed he had perished.”

“Do you know the identity of this… Lazarus?”

“I’m afraid I have no idea.”

“In that case, why you? Why would he send these letters to you?”

“That’s rather difficult to explain,” she hedged.

“Then skip the explanations. Just give me the facts.”

There was a curtness to his tone that immediately rankled. She was on the verge of reminding him that she was not one of his servants to be ordered about but held her tongue. Not yet. She knew better. This had to be handled delicately if she was to have any hope of success.

“Would you care for tea?” she asked.

“Tea?”
Although his face remained masked by shadow, raw incredulity was plain in his voice.

She drew her hands together, clenching them tightly against the pink satin of her gown in an effort to hide her nervousness. “The explanations — facts — are somewhat lengthy. Perhaps we would be more comfortable adjourning inside.”

Silence greeted her words. Then, after what seemed an interminable pause, Morgan stood. Once again Julia was struck by how large he seemed. How overwhelmingly masculine. The awareness did little to ease her nerves.

“By all means, princess, let us adjourn for tea.”

She forced a tight, polite smile, feigning a complete ignorance of his patronizing tone. Turning away, she led him through the maze of crates to an oak door. She paused to light the small lamp that stood by the entrance, then ushered him forward with a polite wave of her hand. She followed behind him, taking a moment to light a few more lamps that were scattered at various points throughout the room. Unfortunately the mellow, golden glow they provided did nothing to soften the ugliness of the space.

Julia glanced about the room, battling a surge of shame as she considered how it must appear to him. The quarters were little more than an empty corner that had been crudely partitioned off from the rest of the warehouse. The walls were bare, the floors nothing but wooden planks covered by rugs that had long since worn thin. The oversize furniture, once grand and elegant, looked ridiculously crowded and out of place, as did the damask drapery that covered the single window overlooking the docks. A thin film of grime, the result of constant exposure to a coal-burning furnace, covered everything.

To make matters even worse, each item in the room, from the smallest porcelain serving dish to the huge mahogany armoire, was conspicuously marked with a ticket from Pindler and Sons, announcing the opening bid that would be requested once the items went up for auction — an event scheduled for next Tuesday afternoon. In her haste to meet with Morgan St. James, Julia had completely forgotten to remove the tags. Now they seemed to blaze out at her, further evidence of her family’s fall from grace.

Unable to meet his eyes, she murmured an invitation for him to sit and bolted behind a bamboo screen that partitioned the kitchen from the rest of the quarters. Reveling in the temporary privacy, she hung her head and took a deep breath, battling the emotions that clogged her throat. If there had been a back door, she would have cowardly scooted out of it. Unfortunately, however, there wasn’t. She had no choice but to continue with her plan. With shaking hands she lifted a poker, stirred the oven ashes to spark a fire, and then went about the task of boiling water for tea.

By the time she returned to the front room a few minutes later, she felt somewhat composed. She found Morgan standing beside a curtain used to provide a modicum of privacy for the small space that served as the bedchamber. Her gowns hung in a neat row inside, all ticketed for sale. Like everything else, they were victims of a bygone era in her life. The tag that had marked the pink satin she now wore lay waiting atop the dresser, ready to be replaced as soon as she removed the gown. Five pounds, sixpence.

He turned at the sound of her setting down the tea tray, “You live here?” he asked curtly.

“No. I live with my aunt and uncle. This building belonged to my father.”

“What of your husband?”

She stared at him blankly. “My what?”

“Your husband. That elderly crane who accompanied you earlier tonight.”

“Oh, you mean Mr. Randolph. He is — was — my father’s solicitor. Now he is in my employ. At my request, he was kind enough to escort me to the Devonshire House tonight.” She sat, and then gestured at the settee across from her. “Please.”

She waited until he had made himself comfortable. “Sugar?”

“Black is fine, Miss…”

“Prentisse,” she supplied, passing him his tea. “Julia Prentisse.” She waited a beat, then gathered her courage and continued. “My father was Nathaniel Prentisse.”

“Ah.”

“Captain of the
Mystic.”

A slight pause, then, “Yes.”

Again, not the reaction she had been expecting. Cool and calm, markedly imperturbable. There was no shock, no appalled recognition. He sat with his cup and saucer balanced on one knee, the epitome of elegant, aristocratic ease. She searched his eyes but saw nothing within their gray depths but mild interest. He was merely waiting for her to continue.

Julia had prepared for this moment for over a week. But in that instant all her carefully rehearsed speeches abruptly evaporated, leaving her nothing but a collection of jumbled thoughts and worn-out phrases.

Finally she managed, “I know you’re interested in the facts surrounding these letters only as they pertain to you, but there are circumstances relating to the background that can’t be explained without further detail…” Aware how foolish she must sound, she stopped abruptly, sending him an apologetic smile. “If you’ll indulge me for just a moment?”

“By all means, Miss Prentisse, do continue.”

She hesitated, searching again for the right words. “There is just one additional issue that should be addressed, Lord Barlowe. What I am about to disclose is of a rather sensitive nature. I should like your word as a gentleman that the matters discussed here tonight — whatever the outcome of our talk — will remain entirely confidential.”

“Very well. I give you my word.”

Satisfied, she nodded and stiffened her spine, facing him squarely. “You are aware of my father’s background?”

“I am aware of what was printed in the papers.”

“Good. In that case, I’ll be brief. A year ago my father was convicted of smuggling. I won’t defend his actions here, except to say that following my mother’s death he began to drink excessively. I believe that clouded his judgment. Despite the rumors you may have heard to the contrary, he was a good man.” She began to expand on that sentiment, but thought better of it and continued briskly. “We lost everything. My father was reduced to selling our home and moving here; I was sent to live with my aunt and uncle. Shortly thereafter my father died.”

“My sympathies.”

The words had a perfunctory edge to them that Julia did not miss. She brought up her chin and coolly met his eyes. “I relate these events not to engage your sympathies but to adequately disclose my past. I believe it only fair that you know exactly with whom you are dealing.”

He bowed his head in a gesture of mild contrition. “In that case, may I say that I appreciate your excruciating honesty.”

This was not going well. Not at all. But she had no choice but to continue. “As I mentioned, I am presently living with my aunt and uncle. I’m afraid my presence is rather a burden on their household. You see, they have two daughters who are also of marriageable age. The fact that I have no dowry is compounded by the scandal that has been attached to my father’s name. As you might imagine, there is no legion of suitors waiting at the door to beg for my hand. It has made things rather difficult for us all.”

“In what sense?”

“The shame of my family’s disgrace has unfortunately tainted my cousins’ reputations. Naturally, my uncle is rather anxious to see me married off so that he may attend to securing the futures of his own daughters. To that end he has managed to uncover three suitors who have asked for my hand, despite my obvious shortcomings.”

“My sincerest felicitations.”

“I refused them all,” she returned flatly. She suppressed a shudder, pushing aside the memory of her uncle’s fury,
later.
If her plan failed tonight, she would deal with him later. “My uncle, however, has not conveyed my sentiments to the gentlemen involved. He has informed me that I must choose one, or…”

“Or?”

“Or he will choose for me.” She hesitated, fiddling for a moment with the scalloped edge of her saucer. “I am not being fickle, nor am I ungrateful. But I fear that in his haste to see me married off, my uncle does not have my best interests at heart.” Ashamed at the feelings she had expressed so freely, she glanced up at Morgan with a small, embarrassed smile. “It does me no honor to harbor thoughts like that, does it?”

He returned her smile with a look of glacial indifference. “You say you have no dowry. Yet you were gambling tonight as though you had money to squander.”

“That is exactly the point I was coming to. Contrary to what my uncle may believe, I am not without funds or resources. This warehouse, for example. It belonged to my father. Now Henry and I—”

“Henry?”

“Henry Maddox. My father’s former bosun. He rents the warehouse to ships in need of storage space for their cargo, and we split the profit between us. The enterprise has been quite successful.”

“I see.”

Julia drew a deep breath. Having dispensed with her background, it was time to address the issue at hand. “There is another matter with which I am involved,” she began, “one that has indirectly come to concern you. You see, for the past three years I’ve written an anonymous column for the
London
Review.
Perhaps you’ve seen it. ‘The Tattler’?”

“Good God.”

She set down her teacup. “I take it that’s a yes.”

He looked utterly appalled. Then after a moment a smile of cynical satisfaction touched his lips. “So that’s you, is it?” he said. “London’s foremost gossip — and thrower of stones — is hiding a dark past of her own.”

“I am not a gossip. Nor do I throw stones. The purpose of that column was, and still is, to educate London’s elite as to the social ills that infest this city. The workhouses, the slums, the factories where children labor from dawn to dusk, the fact that women are denied the right to vote, as well as the right to hold property in our own name, not to mention—”

“Indeed,” he interrupted dryly, “how very noble.”

“I would prefer not to include the gossip at all, but I found my column was neither read nor discussed without it. It has become, I’m afraid, a necessary evil.”

Refusing to debate the point, he stated simply, “I believe you were eventually going to come to the subject of Lazarus?”

“Yes. Of course.” She folded her hands in her lap and continued. “Shortly after I began the column, I started receiving letters from this Lazarus person. Initially they were merely praise and encouragement for my good work in exposing the evils of society. Then they began to grow darker, full of dire biblical references and vague threats of vengeance. Unfortunately I no longer have those early letters. They were so disturbing, I simply threw them away.”

“How did the letters come to you?”

“The same way all my correspondence with the paper is handled: through Mr. Randolph. He delivers my column once a week and picks up any letters that may have been sent to me in the interim. I’ve never set foot anywhere near the
Review’s
offices myself. As far as I’m aware, no one there has any knowledge of my identity.”

“Yet Lazarus was able to deduce who you are.”

“Apparently.” She drew her hands over her upper arms as though warding off a chill. Not only did he know who she was, but in recent weeks she had
felt
the man’s presence — watching, lurking, following her every movement. She did not say as much, however. No need to get overly dramatic.

“When the fires began,” she continued, “Mr. Randolph took the letters directly to Mr. Chivers, the Home Secretary at Scotland Yard. Unfortunately they proved to be of little use. And once the fires stopped…” Her voice trailed off as she lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrug.

“Yes. The matter was put aside.” Morgan nodded thoughtfully. “Have you shown this latest letter to anyone else?”