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‘If you would be so good, sir…Miss Elizabeth has been having so many nightmares lately and I am sure she will sleep better if you tuck her up.’
Down in the hall Mrs Lane was still watching him with a look of cupidity in her sharp grey eyes. Her expression reminded Martin of a hunting cat closing in on the kill. He felt anger and helplessness in equal measure. He turned away deliberately, pressing a kiss on Daisy’s tumbled fair curls.
‘Come along then, sweetheart. I will tell you the story about the Princess and the Pea.’
Daisy snuggled up to him. Her warmth comforted him. When the terrible news of their parents’ death had reached him the previous year, he had been stunned and appalled. The late Mr and Mrs Davencourt lived for most of the time in a state of armed neutrality towards each other, barely spending any time together. It had been ironic in the extreme that they had died together in a fire at their London house. Philip Davencourt had been a staunch Tory who had deplored his son’s Whiggish tendencies, but for all their political disagreements, father and son had had a healthy respect for each other and Martin knew that his father had been proud of him when he had been appointed to Castlereagh’s delegation at the Congress of Vienna. The only thing that his father had disapproved of was Martin’s failure to marry.
Perhaps his father had had a point, Martin thought ruefully, as he carried Daisy back to the nursery. A man who had seven younger half-brothers and half-sisters to care for needed help and a far more permanent relationship than the transient affairs that he had been accustomed to in the past. Not only that, but in future he would need a wife to act as political hostess as well.
He held Daisy close. His sister Araminta, the only other child of his father’s first marriage, had argued that the younger girls should go to live with her when their parents had died. Martin had been tempted, but in the end he had decided against it. He might only be thirty-one years old, he might have no wife to support him, but that was as nothing compared to the powerful sympathy he felt towards his younger siblings. They had endured enough misery over the death of their parents and he would not be responsible for separating them now. They stayed with him and he did the best he could for them. But he needed a wife.
Juliana lay in her huge canopied bed and watched the play of shadows across the wall. The house was completely silent. Even in the daytime there were no children to spoil the peace and nothing to disrupt the almost sepulchral silence. Juliana lived entirely alone, with no companion to give her countenance and to quell the tongues of the gossips. She had chosen it that way, declaring that to live with some tedious poor relation would make her run mad.
Juliana rolled over on to her side and pressed her cheek against the cool pillow. She felt hot with the effort of repressing her tears and angry because she did not understand why she wanted to cry, except that it had something to do with Martin Davencourt. She thumped her pillow. How maudlin could a person be? She had everything she could possibly want, so there was no reason to be sad.
Remembering a game she had played when she was a child, Juliana tried to enumerate the reasons why she should be happy.
One. She had money—enough money to buy anything she wanted and to gamble the rest away. Her father, whilst deploring her behaviour, was quick enough to spare her financial embarrassment, so she need never worry that she would go without.
Two. Tomorrow Andrew Brookes was marrying Eustacia Havard and she was invited to the wedding. That gave her a purpose, something to do, a reason to get out of bed. She would not be bored tomorrow. She would not even be lonely, for she would be surrounded by people. Juliana felt slightly better at the thought. Her misery receded slightly. This was a good game.
Three. She was beautiful and she could have any man that she wanted. Juliana frowned. Instead of making her feel better, the thought engendered a slight chill. Firstly she had not met any man that she genuinely wanted. Armitage, Brookes, Colling…they were at her beck and call, as were countless others. But the truth was that she did not want to call them. Since the end of her disastrous marriage to Clive Massingham, she had been wary of love. She would not let it make a fool of her again.
Then there was Martin Davencourt. His stern face was before her still. Severe, upright, steady. She was not sure why she had wanted him. She did not even like him. He was everything that she usually dismissed in a man. Perhaps that was why she had decided to try to attract him. She had wanted to see if he was really as sternly honourable as he seemed. She had wanted to see if she could corrupt virtue.
Juliana rolled over on to her stomach and propped herself up on her elbows. She hoped that that was the reason. God forbid that she should suddenly and inexplicably be attracted to an honest man. That would ruin her bad reputation once and for all.
‘We met at Ashby Tallant, by the pool under the willows on those long hot summer days. You were fourteen years old and a very sweet and unspoilt child…’
Martin Davencourt’s words had struck a vague chord of memory. Generally Juliana tried not to remember her childhood because it had not been a particularly happy time. Now, however, she deliberately tried to recall that summer. There had been a pool under the willows, where she would sometimes run away and hide from her governess when the days glowed with sunlight and the schoolroom was intolerably stuffy. She had lain in the long grass and watched the sky through the shifting branches of the trees, and listened to the splash of the ducks on the still water. It had been her secret place, but one day—one summer when she had been about fourteen or so—there had been someone else there; a boy, all straw-coloured hair and gangling limbs, reading some dry tome of philosophy…
Juliana sat bolt upright. Martin Davencourt. Of course. He always seemed to have his nose in a book, or to be fiddling with some sort of mechanical invention. He had had no interest in her girlish chatter about the Season and balls and parties and the eligible gentlemen that she would meet when she made her debut…
They had made some childish pact that summer. Juliana wrinkled up her nose, trying to remember. She had been fretting that she would never meet a man to marry and Martin had looked up from trying to fix the arm of a catapult or some such tiresome invention, and had said that he would marry her himself if they were both still unwed at thirty. She had laughed at him and his chivalrous impulses.
Juliana had laughed then and she laughed now. It had been very sweet of Martin, but of course she had gone to London and had fallen head over heels in love with Edwin Myfleet and had married him instead. She had not seen Martin Davencourt from that day to this.
Juliana pulled her knees up to her chest and sat there, curled against her pillows. It had been a sunlit summer even though Martin, with his bumbling ways and obsession with his books, had been a bit of a bore. She smiled. Some things did not change. He had been dull then and he was dreary now. His looks had improved considerably, but that was the best thing that she could say for him.
Juliana paused. She knew that that was not strictly true. Somehow—and Juliana was not quite sure how it had happened—Martin Davencourt had managed to get under her skin like a sharp thorn. His observations were acute, his gaze far too perceptive. There was something decidedly disturbing about him, and about the treacherous sense of familiarity she felt in his company.
Juliana realised that Martin would be at Andrew Brookes’s wedding on the following day and her heart missed a beat with a mixture of anticipation and something approaching shame. She felt vaguely embarrassed about confronting him again after their encounter that evening. She did not understand why. Her exploits at Emma’s party had only been in jest and it was not for Martin Davencourt to approve or disapprove.
Juliana lay down, and then sat up in bed again. She knew she would not sleep, for her mind was too active. But if she did not sleep, she would look like a hag at the wedding and no one would admire her. That was inconceivable. She reached over to light her candle, then trod barefoot across to the wooden chest in the corner of the room. The box of pills was at the back of the top drawer, beneath her silk stockings. She took two laudanum tablets quickly, washing them down with a draught of water from the jug on the nightstand. That was better. She could almost feel the tiredness creeping up on her already. Now she would sleep and when she woke it would be the morning and there would be things to do and people to see, and everything would be well. Within five minutes she was asleep.
Chapter Two
‘We are relying on you, Martin.’ Davinia Havard, mother of the bride, fixed her nephew with a menacing look. Over her shoulder, Martin could see his sister Araminta, pulling an apologetic face at him. Now Araminta was gesturing widely to indicate that she had tried to calm their aunt, but to no avail. Martin grinned back sympathetically. He and Araminta had always been close. The only children of Philip Davencourt’s first marriage, they had been natural allies, and Martin was grateful for Araminta’s uncomplicated support and affection.
They were in church and there were only ten minutes to go before Eustacia’s wedding service began. The conversation was therefore being conducted in discreet hisses from Mrs Havard and polite whispers from Martin in reply. Mrs Havard had penned her nephew in a pew and was leaning over him, keeping him in his place by her sheer bulk and force of personality. Martin shifted, crossing one leg over the other in an assumption of ease and wishing his aunt would back away a little. She smelled very strongly of camphor and it always made his nose itch.
‘I am at your service, of course, Aunt Davinia,’ he whispered politely, ‘but I am a little at a loss. Precisely what task do you wish me to perform?’
Davinia Havard gave a long sigh. ‘I am depending on you, Martin—’ she stabbed him in the chest with one stubby finger in emphasis ‘—depending on you to prevent that appalling woman Juliana Myfleet from ruining Eustacia’s wedding. I knew it was a mistake to permit her to attend! Lady Lestrange has just told me what she did last night at the dinner given for Andrew Brookes. Have you heard?’
‘Heard?’ Martin murmured. He gave her a rueful smile. ‘I fear I saw what happened rather than merely heard about it!’
There was a sharp intake of breath from both his listeners. Araminta, his staunch supporter, looked both reproachful and amused. She leaned forward and added her own hissing whisper to the conversation.
‘Martin! Surely you were not at one of Emma Wren’s orgies? How could you have had such poor taste?’
‘I left before the actual orgy,’ Martin whispered, giving his sister the ghost of a grin. ‘I merely stayed for the hors d’oeuvres. I made the mistake of thinking that “stimulating”, when applied to Mrs Wren’s dinners, meant that the conversation would be good.’
Araminta stifled a laugh. Davinia Havard looked disgusted. Martin immediately regretted the impulse that had led him to joke. Unlike Araminta, their aunt had no sense of humour.
‘Then you know what that Myfleet creature is capable of, Martin! I am sure that she will do something unspeakably vulgar and my poor little Eustacia will be humiliated on her wedding day!’
Martin grimaced. To his surprise he felt a strong surge of irritation to hear Juliana referred to as ‘that Myfleet creature’ in so disparaging a way. He struggled with his annoyance.
‘I am sure that you are letting your imagination run away with you, Aunt Davinia,’ he said coolly. ‘I am persuaded Lady Juliana intends no such thing.’
His aunt gave him a darkling look. ‘I will remind you of that when she disrupts the proceedings and makes us a laughing-stock! Martin…’ Her voice dropped even further in an attempt at conciliation. ‘Perhaps it is fortunate that you are a man of the world. I know I can rely on you to deal with the creature, should anything untoward arise.’
By now almost every member of the congregation was studying them with ill-concealed curiosity as they craned their necks to try and eavesdrop the conversation. Andrew Brookes was sitting across the aisle, looking thoroughly sick and jaded, and Martin felt a sharp stab of anger followed by resignation. At least the man had turned up for the wedding, even if he was still warm from a courtesan’s bed.
Martin took his aunt’s arm and shepherded her firmly into her own pew. He bent close to her ear.
‘It may be that your fears are all for nothing, Aunt Davinia, for I do not see Lady Juliana amongst the congregation. Nevertheless, should the situation arise, I shall do what I can.’
Mrs Havard collapsed nervelessly into her seat. ‘Thank you, Martin dear. There is so much to worry about at a time like this.’
Martin pressed her hand, feeling a rush of affection. ‘Do not worry. Eustacia will be here in a moment and then everything will progress smoothly, I have no doubt.’
Mrs Havard groped in her reticule for her smelling salts. Somewhere in the congregation, someone tittered at the sight of the mother of the bride in such a state. Martin, deploring the fashionable and malicious crowd who had gathered to see his cousin wed, made a mental note that if and when he married, it would be in the most private ceremony imaginable. This public show was a sick mockery. Most of the people there cared little for Eustacia’s happiness and were only present for the entertainment. He strode back to his sister’s side, a heavy frown on his face.
‘I cannot believe that any of Aunt Davinia’s fears are like to materialise, Minta,’ he complained.
Araminta put a soothing hand on his arm. ‘Martin, surely you know that with Aunt Davinia, it is simply easier to agree? Then, in the unlikely event of Lady Juliana Myfleet…um…unveiling herself in the church, we shall all be confident that you will handle the situation!’
Martin groaned, resisting the temptation to put his head in his hands and garner even more public attention. For a moment, his mind boggled at the thought of Lady Juliana Myfleet slowly peeling off her clothes before the altar. He boggled even more at the idea of physically grappling with a nude woman in a place of worship. If she chose to display herself as she had done the previous night, the entire congregation would be riveted…
‘Martin!’ Araminta said sharply.
Martin sighed. ‘Minta, I have four children here to keep an eye on. It is asking too much to expect me to act as nursemaid to Lady Juliana Myfleet as well. I do not know why she was even invited if she is Andrew Brookes’s mistress. It seems the most shocking insult to Eustacia.’
Araminta sighed and edged closer to him along the pew. ‘I suspect that tells us what sort of a man Andrew Brookes is.’
‘Surely you knew that already!’
‘I knew, but Aunt Davinia did not.’ Araminta sighed again. ‘For all her bluster she is quite naïve in the ways of the world, Martin. Apparently Brookes put forward the names of his guests and Aunt Davinia accepted them at face value. She almost had an apoplexy when she discovered the truth!’
Martin shook his head. ‘If they had not had the folly to marry Eustacia off to Brookes in the first place…’
‘I know.’ Araminta made a slight gesture. ‘He is sadly unsteady, but he is the son of a Marquis and Eustacia cares for him.’
‘And which of those factors weighed most heavily with Havard when he was agreeing the match?’ Martin asked sarcastically. He had little time for his uncle, who was an inveterate social climber. Martin had always believed that Justin Havard had married into the Davencourt family to further his social ambitions and now he was selling his daughter off in the same manner. A fortune here, a title there…it was the manner in which a man like Havard might make himself influential.
Araminta was looking at him with resignation. ‘You are too principled, Martin.’
‘I beg your pardon. I was not aware that that was possible.’
Araminta gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Everyone has to bend a little. As a future Member of Parliament, you should know that.’
Martin did know. He just did not like it. He heaved a sigh.
‘In the unlikely event of Lady Juliana Myfleet causing a disturbance, I promise to carry her bodily from the church. But in return, you must promise to keep an eye on Daisy.’
Araminta bent over to kiss his cheek. ‘And Maria and all the rest of the brood. I promise. Thank you, Martin! You are truly kind.’
‘Let us hope I am not called upon to fulfil my pledge,’ her brother said darkly.
Lady Juliana Myfleet slid into a pew at the back of the church and bent a brilliant smile on the young groomsman who had offered his escort. She was not sitting at the back in order to be discreet but simply because she was late. The decision of what to wear, demure green or shocking scarlet, had been a difficult one. In the end she had chosen the low-cut scarlet, embellished by the silver crescent moon necklace that she always wore and a matching silver bracelet.
Her obscure position at the back of the church did not prevent her from being recognised by her acquaintance. She had chosen to sit alone, but there were people she knew in the congregation, both friendly faces and those less so. She could see her brother Joss and his wife Amy sitting next to Adam Ashwick, his new wife Annis and his brother Edward. Edward Ashwick smiled at her and sketched a bow. Juliana felt her heart unfreeze a little. Dearest Ned. He was always so kind to her, despite the fact that he was a vicar and she was such a fallen angel.
Other members of her acquaintance were less kind. Already several heads were turning and bonnets nodding as the members of the ton passed on the delicious gossip about her activities at the party the previous night. Juliana smiled slightly. No doubt the tale had grown as it was whispered around the clubs and passed from there to the houses of the nobility. It was amazing how quickly a story could travel. Now the staid dowagers would have another reason to tut when she passed by, another story to add to the shocking list. Her father had heard of them all—the outrageous tricks, the extravagant gambles, the parade of supposed lovers. There were many who thought that Juliana and Andrew Brookes had had a love affair, but Juliana knew better. He had squired her about town for a few months, but there had been nothing more to it than convenience and entertainment. It meant that she had an escort and Brookes had a beautiful woman on his arm, and neither of them saw any reason to complain at that.
Juliana found it amusing that Brookes now looked supremely uncomfortable as he waited for his bride. His fair, florid face was flushed, as though he had imbibed too freely to give him the Dutch courage to go through with the wedding. He was running a finger around the inside of his neck cloth as though he found its constricting folds stifling. Juliana cynically reflected that Brookes probably found the whole idea of marriage oppressive, even with a fortune of fifty thousand pounds to sweeten the pill. Still, the marriage bed would not be cold before he was returning to his latest inamorata.
As Juliana settled the skirts of her exquisite scarlet silk dress about her and tilted her bonnet to a demure angle, she reflected that money would never be enough to hold a man of Brookes’s stamp. She almost felt sorry for Miss Havard. A small, sneaking feeling of sympathy touched Juliana’s heart, then fled as swiftly as it had come. One made one’s bed—and then one lay in it. There was no place for sentiment in modern marriage.
A man was watching her. He was standing in the shadow of the open door, where the sun cast a blinding arc of light on to the flagstone floor. Juliana was attuned to male admiration and she could tell that this man was studying her intently. She flicked him a glance from under the brim of her hat, then felt her stomach drop. It was Martin Davencourt.
She met his eyes. They were very dark blue and contained a look of cold dislike as they swept over her from the feather in her hat to the tips of her bright red pumps. It was easy to read his thoughts. He was deploring her deliberate choice of scarlet and the attention she was drawing to herself. Juliana conceded that it had not been subtle, but then she had not intended it so. It was only now, confronted with Martin Davencourt’s disgust, that she wished she had chosen the green and faded into the background.
For a frozen moment they stared at each other and then Juliana dragged her gaze away with a little jerk and fixed it on the carved angel high on the organ screen. She was trembling with surprise and anger, and she knew that her colour had risen. She was blushing. That rarely happened to her. How dared he have that effect on her? Normally disapproval only made her behave all the more outrageously.
The bride had arrived, a winsome little girl with blonde curls. Juliana grimaced. She hated these milk-and-water misses. The Season was full of them these days, with their simpering manners and their giggles and their innocence. The bride was dressed simply in white muslin, with a white shawl over her gown. The hem of the gown and the edge of the shawl were embossed with white satin flowers and the shawl was shot through with primrose yellow thread. She looked pretty and excited. Six small bridesmaids in white dresses with white ribbons on their straw bonnets, jostled and milled about in the doorway. Out of the corner of her eye—for she was certainly not looking at him—Juliana saw Martin Davencourt bend down with a smile and touch the cheek of the smallest bridesmaid. She remembered that Emma had said he had several younger sisters. Juliana gave a small, unconscious sigh.
The bride began her progress up the aisle and Juliana admired the look of pure terror that came and went on Andrew Brookes’s face. This is it, she thought. Brookes is caught in parson’s mousetrap at last. It happened to all the eligible rakes eventually. There was only Joss’s friend Sebastian Fleet left, if one discounted utterly ineligible libertines like Jasper Colling. Soon she would have no one to escort her about town. At least Brookes had made no bones about the fact that he was marrying for money. Both Joss and Adam had been odiously mawkish and had actually fallen in love with their brides. Juliana had no time for such sentiment. She had tried that and found it wanting.
She shifted a little on the pew, wishing that she had not come. It was one thing to cause a stir by attending the wedding of a supposed lover, but it was quite another to be obliged to sit quietly during the tedious proceedings. No one was looking at her now, for their attention was on the bride and groom. Juliana tried not to sneeze. For several minutes she had been aware of a large urn full of lilies that was placed on a plinth to her right. The lolling stamens were loaded with rich, orange pollen and looked vulgarly fecund. Juliana wondered if Eustacia would prove similarly blessed. Brookes had never wanted children. He had said that they were a tedious interruption to pleasure. Juliana had agreed with him, but when she had seen Martin’s tiny sister she had felt a pang…
Juliana sneezed and buried her nose in her handkerchief. Her throat felt thick with the pollen and her eyes had started to water. It was undignified. She was afraid that she would start to look ugly soon. She sneezed again, twice. Several people turned to hush her. The vicar was droning on about the reasons for marriage. Juliana’s memory suddenly presented her with the image of herself standing before the altar, a young débutante of eighteen, fathoms deep in love. Edwin had gripped her hand in his so tightly and she had smiled at him with a radiance that paled the sun. Eleven years ago…If only he had not left her…
The obstruction in Juliana’s throat suddenly seemed like a huge lump of stone and her eyes were streaming so much that she could not see properly. She knew that she had to escape.
She got to her feet and started to edge out of the pew towards the main door, treading on peoples’ toes as she went. She could not really see where she was going, and when she tripped over the end of the pew and someone caught her arm and steadied her, she was grateful.
‘This way, Lady Juliana,’ a low voice said in her ear. Her arm was seized in a firm grip and she was guided towards the door.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Juliana said.
She knew that she was outside when she felt the sun on her face and a soft breeze caressing her skin. Her eyes were still streaming and she was tolerably certain that she would be left looking red and watery, like a rabbit she had once owned as a child. It could not be helped. She had suffered from the hay fever for years, but it was unfortunate that she had had to experience an attack in public.
She felt her nose run and groped desperately for her handkerchief. One large blow was all the delicate cambric could take. It simply was not up to the task. As Juliana hesitated between the twin shame of wiping her nose on her sleeve or leaving it to drip, a large, white gentleman’s kerchief was pressed into her hand. Juliana grabbed it gratefully.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said again.
‘This way, Lady Juliana,’ the gentleman repeated. His grip on her arm increased as he urged her down the church steps. Juliana stumbled a little and felt one of his arms go about her. She drew breath to protest, for this was downright improper, but it was already too late. Through streaming eyes she saw a carriage draw up before them, then the door was thrown open and the gentleman bundled her inside. She did not have time to scream. She barely had time to breathe before the gentleman had leaped in beside her and the coachman gave the horses the office to move off. Tumbled on the seat, out of breath, her skirt rucked up about her knees, her eyes still blinded by tears, Juliana strove to regain her balance and her dignity.
‘What in God’s name do you think you are doing?’
‘Calm yourself, Lady Juliana.’ The gentleman sounded amused. ‘I am abducting you. Surely that is all par for the course for a lady of your reputation? Or do you prefer to do the kidnapping yourself?’
Juliana sat up straighter. She recognised that voice with its undertone of mockery. Now that her vision was clearing she could see her companion’s face. She sat up straighter.
‘Mr Davencourt! I did not request your escort anywhere! Kindly instruct your coachman to halt the horses so that I may get down.’
‘I regret that I cannot do that,’ Martin Davencourt said imperturbably. He had taken the seat across from Juliana and now sat negligently at ease, watching her with casual indifference. Juliana felt her blood fizz with irritation.
‘Pray, why not? It seems a simple enough request.’
Martin Davencourt shrugged. ‘Did you ever hear of an abduction ending so tamely? I do not think so. I cannot let you go, Lady Juliana.’
Juliana felt as though she was going to explode with annoyance. Her eyes were still streaming, her head ached and this insufferable man was acting as though one of them was mad and she knew which one. She tried to speak calmly.
‘Then the least that you can offer me in all courtesy is an explanation. I can scarce believe that you make a habit of abducting ladies like this, Mr Davencourt. You would be in Newgate if you did, and besides, you are far too respectable to do such a thing!’
Martin tilted his head to look at her. ‘Is that a challenge?’
‘No!’ Juliana turned her face away haughtily. ‘It is an insult!’
She diverted her gaze to the window, where the London streets were slipping past. She briefly considered jumping from the carriage, but rejected the idea as foolhardy. They were not travelling quickly—London traffic seldom did—but it was still a reckless idea and she would end up looking untidy or, worse, twisting her ankle.
She glanced back at Martin Davencourt. Perhaps he had conceived a hopeless passion for her the previous night and thought to carry her off to press his attentions on her. Juliana had a certain vanity, but she also had common sense and she knew this was unlikely. Only a half-hour earlier, Martin had looked at her with contempt, not appreciation. He was looking at her again now. His gaze moved over her thoughtfully as though he was making an inventory of her features. Juliana raised her chin.
‘Well?’
A smile twitched Martin Davencourt’s firm mouth. There were sunburned lines about his eyes that suggested that he laughed often. There were also two long grooves down his cheeks that deepened when he smiled. With a jolt of memory, Juliana recalled the curious pull of attraction she had felt for that smile when she was a girl. It was very appealing. He was very attractive. Juliana was irritated to realise that she found him so.
‘Well what?’ Martin said.
His coolness set Juliana back a little. She cleared her throat.
‘Well…I am still awaiting your explanation, sir. I realise that you have been absent from London for a long time, but it is not customary to behave in such a manner, you know. Even I seldom get abducted these days.’
Martin laughed. ‘Hence the need to create a stir in other ways, I suppose. I do feel that disrupting your lover’s wedding is particularly bad ton, Lady Juliana.’
