Chapter 2
Chapter
The drive leading up to Hawthorne Hall curved through a stand of trees newly green with the coming summer, their leaves still thin enough to let the light through in shifting patterns.
Lanterns had been hung along the approach, glass chimneys flickering with the dancing flames as dusk settled in earnest. The air smelled of damp earth and flowers in their earliest blooms, and Julianna could hear the tinkling sounds of music and laughter before she even saw the house.
“Well,” she said quietly, peering out the carriage window. “It certainly is beautiful. Even if my nerves are a bit overwrought.”
Fred squeezed her hand but he was still staring out the window, his brow creased. “We’ve done all we could to ensure this evening goes our way.”
“I know. But I worry.”
“So do I. Although skullduggery is much more fun when one is in charge of it instead of its victim. And no one deserves a comeuppance more than the Baroness Van Austerleigh.”
“Absolutely true.”
“And,” Fred went on, “you look exquisite.” His gloved hand reached down and brushed the folds of her sapphire gown. “Truly. Madame Tremaux has cut it exactly right.”
That did make her smile. “You’ve missed your calling as the next Henry Poole, my love.”
Fred only arched an eyebrow. “I believe if I were a tailor I could do a great deal better than establishing Savile Row.”
“Fred,” Julianna said, amused despite his slip back into the veneer of the snide aristocrat. “I refuse to spend the entire evening with Chester. I know he’ll be required for some of tonight’s entertainment but do put him away when he’s not needed, will you?”
He leaned over, his breath warm against her skin, and bit down on her earlobe, sending a shiver through her. “Of course. Now look lively, dearheart, we’re approaching.”
The carriage rolled to a stop beneath the portico, where footmen in Hawthorne livery moved about with practiced ease.
They looked rather like how she imagined the corps de ballet would.
Not that she’d ever been to the ballet but she would like to go, one day, when all this was behind them.
She’d like to sit in a darkened room, watching art and music made before her eyes, her husband’s hand clasped in hers.
And then she’d like to return home with him, to Dorset.
Good memories, she thought, awaiting them in the future, just like he’d said he wanted on the evening they’d decided to travel to London.
Fred descended from the carriage first, turning to offer her his hand. She reached down and grasped it, thinking only briefly of those early weeks in their marriage when he refused to touch her. And how far they’d come since those awful, cold, lonely days.
Her deep-blue gown rustled as she stepped down, the jewel-like color of it unmistakable against the pale stone of the house. She felt eyes turn as they approached the enormous double doors, the recognition of who they were rippling its way inevitably through the crowd.
Fred’s grip tightened on her fingers, just slightly. “You’re magnificent tonight, Jules,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.
She smiled up at him. “Onwards, my lord.”
Inside, Hawthorne Hall glittered.
The great entry hall was just as she remembered it from the last occasion when she’d been here. She hadn’t been more than a girl of ten when the Hawthornes had commissioned a piece of music from her father, and the family had been in attendance at the musicale where he’d played it for them.
Tonight, like then, the flowers had been arranged in abundance and there were candles everywhere.
But that long-ago evening had not seen the rugs rolled back in preparation for dancing.
Nor had the chandeliers blazed overhead, their light reflected in polished floors and jeweled bodices, with the heat of bodies and the scent of perfume hanging heavy in the air.
“Chester,” a voice called and Julianna felt her husband stiffen at her side as they glimpsed the evening’s host make his way toward them.
She and Fred turned together to face Lord Hawthorne.
He was as tall as Julianna remembered, but age had softened his frame, padding his middle and graying the dark hair at his temples.
Fred slipped his hand down to her lower back and left it there.
A warm reminder that tonight the two of them faced the very worst of Dorset Society together.
“He’s coming this way,” she whispered.
“Indeed.” Fred’s eyes scanned Hawthorne’s attire as he approached before he leaned down to whisper, “Too bad about the evening suit. That fabric is a tragedy.”
She hid her smile. Perhaps Chester did have more uses than just her husband’s prickly persona. He could be quite funny, too.
Her eyes fell on Lady Hawthorne, now walking a few paces behind her husband. “Perhaps that is why his wife chooses to trail behind him instead of standing at his side?”
Julianna had always thought the woman beautiful but tonight the ugliness of her character colored her features.
Julianna could no longer see the elegant planes of her face nor the confident glide of her walk.
She saw only the picture of haughtiness before her.
And a glint in her hostess’s eye that could only be read as malice.
Isobel Hawthorne must have been four-and-twenty or so when she married the Earl and moved to Dorset.
A year or two older than Julianna was now, but without the respite of Farrow Cottage or her vegetable gardens or, she felt Fred press closer to her, a husband who loved her.
Lord Hawthorne barely seemed to notice his wife’s presence at all.
This was a woman, Julianna thought, who had found herself stranded in the country in an unhappy marriage and had taken to amusing herself at the expense of other people’s lives.
Fred had told her that Lady Hawthorne had first introduced him to the Baroness.
She had, Julianna now suspected, pushed him into the Baroness’s arms purely for sport.
Why else would they have invited a young man of only ten and five years to dine with them, without his stepmother’s presence?
Why else ply him with wine and sherry and then push him into the gardens with the older woman after the meal concluded?
“My lord, my lady,” Lady Hawthorne said, her false smile fixed on her face. “We are so glad you could come. Truly.”
Julianna’s hand rested on Fred’s arm as he guided her forward. She wished she had a stone in her pocket. Isobel Hawthorne would make a much better target than Fred ever had.
“Thank you, my lady,” Julianna murmured and inclined her head as graciously as she could manage.
Lady Hawthorne’s smile lingered and she could tell it wasn’t admiration for her new gown that caused the older woman to stare. The look was far too calculating for that. And there was a flicker of anticipation in it that made her stomach clench with nerves.
Beside her she could feel Fred stiffen too. The hyenas were eager for a meal and Lady Hawthorne meant to serve the two of them up for supper.
Not if I have anything to do with it, Julianna thought stubbornly and tilted up her chin.
They moved deeper into the room as their host turned away to greet the next arrivals. “Go circulate, Fred,” she whispered to him.
They had planned for him to go and find the Baroness and confront her. Which would be impossible if he never left her side, but Fred only clutched her arm a little tighter.
“In a moment,” he said, and she found herself glad he didn’t want to leave her yet. Not here, where every glance slid in their direction and she could practically hear a slander on every pair of lips.
She couldn’t even say she didn’t mind it for herself, only for Fred, because that wasn’t true either.
It cut deeply to read such ugly things said about you in the papers—to know that every person she’d ever met had read them.
The more vicious The Poisoned Quill became about her the more she understood why Fred had retreated into himself.
Beside her, his eyes moved constantly—cataloguing faces and clusters of guests. Always looking for the Baroness.
“Would you like to dance?” Julianna asked him softly.
The orchestra was finishing its set and there would be a lull before the next one, when they could take their place on the floor amid the other guests.
Perhaps it would do them some good to take a turn.
And she found she wanted to dance with him, even here among all this dreadful company, the thought of being swept up in his arms and held close was appealing.
“I would,” he said quickly. When he turned to her and held out his hand, the warmth of his smile lit her up, despite their environs. That would probably be true no matter where they went, even to the polar caps.
She took his hand and watched as his big one enveloped hers and they took a step toward the dance floor.
How odd to be here at Hawthorne Hall with him.
There had been a time not so long ago when she would have given anything to be employed in this house, not standing in the center of its ballroom as a guest. And she would have laughed aloud, in equal parts anger and disbelief, if she’d known Fred would be her companion, her husband.
It was, she supposed, good to be wrong about the things you thought you wanted.
If you got them all you’d never know what it was you needed.
They had reached the edge of the floor when a footman passed with a silver tray of punch. Julianna paused, her hand still clasped in Fred’s.
“The orchestra is breaking,” she said, glancing over to where the musicians lowered their instruments. “Shall we toast first?”