Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Fourteen Years Prior
London, England
It seemed an excellent idea at the time.
Julian knew he’d regret it if he didn’t take advantage: his family’s St. James home full of oldies, squeezed into their finest clothes, iced with powdered hair and wigs like human cakes, celebrating his brother Oliver’s engagement to a duke’s granddaughter.
The bride-to-be was a nervous, yellow-haired girl.
Julian couldn’t say if she was pretty. Anthony Philips, Julian’s partner in undignified sport—also called fun—said she was rum.
Which was another word for pretty, Julian had learned, and he took Anthony for his word, being nine months older than Julian.
Though Julian didn’t like girls, with their ribbons and giggles, who ran from dirt like it was the bogeyman and screamed at spiders.
Julian had never seen all of Oliver’s bride’s face until yesterday when she had fallen in a dead faint.
She had always had a handkerchief stuffed to it.
And Julian was sure Miss Sniffy Granddaughter of a Dead Duke had stolen his new cricket ball he had left in the morning room.
Right sure, because he had seen her do it, and when he had called her out, Miss Sniffy had bawled into her lacy hanky.
Julian had gotten a rousing lecture from his father entitled Accusing Ladies of Quality of Unseemly Acts Is Not Funny. Neither was making her cry.
The current week had been light on lectures, with only four.
Playing Dead in St. James Square Fountain Is Not Funny.
Seeking an Apprenticeship in Limehouse Shipyard Is Not Funny.
Tarring Your Classics Tutor’s Arse to His Seat Is Not Funny.
Wearing Your Sister’s Gown While Riding Your Horse in the Park Is Not Funny.
Actually, five. Cutting Your Mother’s Brocade Drapery for Your Damn Stupid Sailboat Is Not Funny.
No, six. Hiding Beneath the Dining Room Table in the Midst of a Dinner Party and Effecting Farting Noises Is Not Funny.
The record for lectures in a week was fourteen. So, all in all Julian expected the archbishop to announce him a Servant of God at any time—the dreaded first step on the road to sainthood. The engagement party had been the perfect setting for avoiding canonization.
Yesterday had been—to use his father’s favorite word—damn funny. The damnedest, funniest day of Julian’s long ten years on this earth covered with boring humans.
Presently Julian’s father, the Earl of Tindall, braced his strained fingers on his desk like he was about to play Bach.
Everyone should hate Bach, but they didn’t because some fellow years back had proclaimed him a genius, and so everyone after got in line like men eager to lift a leg on a rum-dell.
Anthony had translated lifting a leg on as fornication with a pretty virgin. Soon, per Anthony, Julian would be standing in line with the rest of the men.
His father broke through in his quiet voice, which wasn’t quiet. “Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, my lord father.”
“What did I say?”
What had he said? Best to just apologize.
“I am deeply sorry.” The earl cocked a brow. “For ruining my brother and Miss Snif—” What was her name? “Her celebration.”
He and Anthony had collected the insects, frogs, and toads over a fortnight. Keeping them alive was a feat for the fete. Julian grinned at the word play.
“Why are you smiling?”
Julian bowed his head. “I am mortified at my behavior.”
Mortified. That should work.
Because the collecting had been done largely at night, sleep had been minimal. And worth it. After Oliver had gushed over his betrothed, the crush of puffed-up humans had raised their champagne.
Anthony had released the plague of insects.
Julian had waited until the grumbles and swats and gasps had signaled that the prey had dispersed throughout the White Drawing Room. Then Julian had released five baskets of frogs and toads and shouted, “Dinner is served!”
The amphibians had leapt, sprung, hunted, and gulped their prey over mountains of silks and screams.
Nothing could best the sight. Anthony had boasted seeing twenty-two females’ bared knees and one quim. A duchess quim, Anthony had noted when a woman had flipped over the back of a settee, her skirts had fallen back, and her legs had stuck straight out like a dead bug.
What would Julian title this lecture?
Mixing Carnage and Cake Is Not Funny.
“You have tested my limits,” his father ground out. “You have shown yourself beyond reforming.”
“I am sor—”
“No, you are not sorry. But you will be, boy. You will be damn sorry you ever indulged in such reckless, ignoble folly!”
Behind Julian, a woman cried.
The earl dashed a hand toward the door. “Out with you, Jane, if you cannot tame your tears. This must be done.”
Julian turned to see his mother, her tears falling in silence. Behind her, his sister, Caroline, smirked. Oliver stood beside her, a pale cast to his cheeks.
“Father,” Oliver began, stepping forward, “my brother has apologized—”
“Eeee-nough!” His father flipped his index finger at Julian. “Your uncle has agreed to see to your reform.”
His mother sobbed. Julian straightened in his seat. Uncle William? He had been at the party. Julian couldn’t remember the man’s reaction, but his uncle made iron look like a feather pillow.
“Yes, indeed. Your uncle will see to it that you”—his father jabbed another finger at Julian in the event the you he spoke of wasn’t clear—“the monster created from my loins, beget by your sweet mother, whom she nurtured and loved and spoiled, will return to me a noble son fit to bear the name St. Clair.”
Bloody hell. If Julian said the words out loud, his father might cut off his head and send it to the countryside. He grit his teeth instead of begging for mercy.
The earl stood, his hand smoothing down his waistcoat, which had ridden up with the force of his anger. “You leave within the hour for Chedworth. Your trunks are being packed at this moment. Say goodbye to your mother. We shall see you at Christmas if my brother deems you worthy. Good morning.”
It seemed an excellent idea at the time, not begging his father.
Uncle William hadn’t spoken a word to Julian the entire coach ride to Huntingdonshire, but he had looked at Julian for hours, as if figuring out how to strip Julian’s soul from his body and sell it.
Well known for squeezing the last farthing out a man in business, his uncle would likely make gold out of Julian’s monster soul.
We shall see you at Christmas if my brother deems you worthy.
Julian would burn in hell before he let himself be deemed worthy to return to his family. So he could pretend he enjoyed singing carols on the joyous birth of Jesus Christ?
No, thank you.
As the coach turned right at the start of Chedworth’s drive, Julian decided he’d never spend Christmas with his family again until his father apologized for calling him a monster.
Which would never happen. Which meant he would never have to spend a penny of his allowance on gifts.
Especially for his sister, Caroline, who deserved nothing but coal.
A small piece, or else she might be able to warm herself.
A tree limb scratched the window at Julian’s right. He shut his book, The Farther Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, as the coach threaded through the gatehouse piers fixed like fortress guards. Except for the fountain with statues of three females in the center, Chedworth was a fortress.
Four stories of red brick and hundreds of windowpanes sucked the life out of its surroundings.
The sun had made its escape at the start of the drive.
The clouds swirled above the parapets lining the roofline as if they, too, wanted to flee.
A copper dome weathered to green topped the fortress like a wizard’s hat.
Below the dome, peering like a cyclops, was a clock.
Massive bowed windows jutted out from both ends of the main block like claws.
Quarter past five, Julian noted. The start of his imprisonment.
Julian was already figuring out his path to the copper dome from the outside.
The house brimmed with ghosts to chase and an evil leprechaun to avoid.
Not as grand as the Thames, the River Great Ouse flowed nearby, offering a safer place to hone his boating skills.
There was also his cousin, Georgiana, currently charging out from a nearby wood on a strapping chestnut.
Julian jumped down from the coach. Georgiana leapt out of the saddle, smacking his chest square in a hug he didn’t want. And wanted more than anything.
He slapped her back. Being that she was hardly a girl, he let her hang on him. She smelled like horse, sweat, and dirt. That is, perfect.
Georgiana leaned back, still holding tight.
Two years younger than Julian, she towered over him by three inches.
Her startling blue eyes looked him over.
Just as startling, her red hair had loosed from its braid, curling and swirling over her shoulders and back.
Instead of a gown, she wore leather breeches, a mourning band on her left sleeve for her mother departed a year past, and the finest black riding boots Julian had ever seen, anywhere. They were splattered with mud.
“You’ve grown,” Georgiana gushed like a girl. “And you’re so pretty.”
Julian extracted himself with a scowl. He needed a scar like a pirate, one that slashed across his eyebrow. When would his smooth cheeks start growing a beard? He’d never shave it.
Georgiana cuffed his arm. “Don’t look so angry. You are pretty.”
“And so are you.” Though as far as he could tell she was just Georgiana. Tall, strong, and smelly as a stable block.
Uncle William clamped a hand on Georgiana’s shoulder. “Let us show your cousin to his room.”
To Julian, she asked, “How long are staying?”
Julian shrugged. “Forever, I hope.”
“Wonderful!”
Uncle William jerked his head toward the house. “Andrew. Come along.”
Georgiana turned to Chedworth’s huge, arching double doors with her father.