Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
“So, what, if anything, do you have to tell us?” Julian prompted his visitors as he paced up and down the carpet in the formal salon decorated in green and gold. He was too restless to sit down.
The six of them had come here to talk while the two guest bedchambers and baths were prepared for the Dukes and Duchesses of St. Albans and Hellsmere. Dalton had brought tea and biscuits, and now that Georgiana had poured and dispensed those, it was time for them to talk.
He rarely used these formal rooms anymore, having a dislike for the overly ornate gold filigree work on the cream walls and around the painted frescoes of cherubs and angels on the ceiling. All of which Annabel had insisted there should be in a house belonging to a duke.
To Julian, the room now appeared gaudy and ostentatious.
Georgiana’s horrified expression when they first entered the salon said she had not been in this room before, and now that she had, she obviously echoed his sentiments toward it.
Having carried out the niceties of welcoming their guests with a cup of hot tea, she now sat primly on the edge of one of the three—three!
—couches upholstered in a rich gold brocade on a thick green Aubusson carpet.
St. Albans and his duchess occupied another.
Hellsmere and his duchess were seated together on the third one.
“Well, we have looked into all the matters you requested,” St. Albans began.
“Our ladies have searched diligently for any word of the whereabouts of the duchess’s maid, with no success.
The same has been done in regard to the duchess’s aunt whom you said resided in Bloomsbury.
There is no record of the maid, Mary Jones, or the aunt, Clara Mayweather, ever having been born in or having lived in London.
Indeed, we could find no evidence that either of those ladies has ever existed anywhere,” he announced happily.
“What!” Julian stared at them in disbelief. “Of course they existed. I met them!”
Georgiana stood to cross the room to his side and lay her hand upon the sleeve of his jacket. “Think further on the matter, my love.”
The endearment was enough to break Julian out of the circle of chaotic thoughts. Thoughts that seemed to have no beginning and no end. Now that they had, he truly hoped that he was, and would remain, Georgiana’s love.
“How much further?” he echoed gruffly.
She smiled at him. “If the aunt and maid did not exist, then it is likely that Annabel did not either.”
He recoiled. “I married her.”
“And here we come to the crux of the matter,” St. Albans said with satisfaction.
“Which is?” Julian could barely contain his impatience, even with Georgiana’s steadying hand still gripping his arm.
“That if Annabel Mayweather does not exist,” St. Albans stated, “it invalidates the marriage which took place between her and Julian Sotherby at Gretna Green three years ago.”
* * *
“Steady,” Georgiana soothed as Julian staggered slightly. She kept hold of his arm until he was seated on the empty couch before sitting beside him.
All the while, her thoughts raced, hopped, and skipped, as she hoped that the information the St. Albanses and Hellsmeres related was correct.
Could it really be true?
Because if it was, then it meant Julian would be free of the yoke of unhappiness that had held him frozen in time for two years.
It would leave the way free for them to be together…
No!
She must not jump too far ahead in her surmising. They could all still be wrong—
“We aren’t,” Lily assured her, alerting Georgiana to the fact that she had spoken her words of self-caution out loud. “Dear Georgiana, whoever those three women were, they were not named Annabel Mayweather, Clara Mayweather, or Mary Jones.”
She was aware of Julian’s increased tension beneath her hand. “Then who were they?”
“I believe I might have an explanation for that,” St. Albans said softly. “One that will be confirmed when my men return from France.”
“France?” Julian echoed gruffly.
St. Albans nodded. “Following Napoleon’s defeat and incarceration, the Prince Regent had several of us looking for any French spies that might still be in England.
Their purpose was to garner enough information to assist in their emperor’s escape from Elba,” he explained.
“As you all know, this escape was facilitated several months later. But try as we might, we never managed to find the people responsible for passing the necessary information to Napoleon’s loyal followers. ”
“We now firmly believe that Annabel Mayweather, Clara Mayweather, and even Mary Jones were all working for and with those loyal French followers,” Hellsmere interjected.
“That the reason they all appeared and then disappeared so abruptly a year later was because they returned to France in order to take up their real identity and welcome Napoleon’s triumphant march back into Paris.
That triumph was short-lived, of course, because he is now incarcerated on St. Helena, with no chance of escape,” he added with satisfaction.
There was an expression of disbelief, followed by one of horror, on Julian’s face. “Are you saying that I aided—married—a French spy and by doing so helped in the effort to free Napoleon from Elba?”
Georgiana’s heart broke for the look of defeat upon her beloved’s face.
“You could not possibly have known she was not at all what she pretended to be.” It seemed that Meggie, with her description of Annabel being “the mean bad lady” had, as Georgiana had suspected might be the case, been the closest to the truth.
Meggie.
Meggie’s opinion of the Duchess of Moreland had been totally correct. Was it possible that Meggie knew even more than she had so far revealed?
“Julian, exactly when did Annabel disappear?” Georgiana prompted.
“Annabel—or whoever the hell her real name is”—anger was starting to take precedence in Julian’s expression and tone—“had decided that she’d had enough of the Season’s entertainments that year and insisted we remain in Norfolk for the summer.”
“Yes, but when did she decide that?” Georgiana prompted impatiently.
“It was only a few weeks before the Season ended…” Julian shrugged. “About two years ago.”
“It was not about two years ago,” St. Albans corrected. “It was exactly two years ago that this woman went for a walk on the beach and then disappeared without a trace.”
Georgiana lifted her chin, having now realized that there might be a different explanation for Meggie’s description of Annabel having gone away.
“Or she simply sailed across the ocean to France,” she suggested.
“Think, Julian,” she added when he looked confused.
“This mystery woman went for a walk along the beach and has never been seen again since. The easiest way for that to happen would be if she boarded a ship and was transported back to France.”
“Yarmouth harbor—”
“No, not Yarmouth, but from the bay right here.”
“But how—”
“I now suspect Meggie knows exactly what happened to the duchess,” Georgiana stated emphatically.
“And the only reason she has not said as much is because no one has known to specifically ask her. She fell and broke her arm two years ago—coincidentally at the same time as Annabel disappeared,” she realized.
“Since then, she has had nightmares for several nights at this same time of year. I suspect that the broken arm and Meggie’s nightmares are all the work of this false duchess. ”
“I have no idea who Meggie is, but do you think that dreadful woman could have attacked her before boarding a boat and sailing away to France?” Chloe looked horrified at the suggestion.
“I believe that to be a distinct possibility, yes.” Georgiana nodded.
“This woman was vindictive and spiteful, and it was well known that she disliked Meggie intensely. We will need to speak to Meggie to confirm it, of course. But I believe this to be the explanation we have all been searching for. Annabel is not dead or buried on the fenland, but has been alive and living safely in France for this past two years.”
“Where she is no doubt finding great amusement in thinking of the cloud of suspicion she left me to suffer under here in England.” Julian stood abruptly. “I— This— I am— I need to get out of here!” he bit out before striding from the room.
“I believe that is your cue to follow him,” St. Albans told Georgiana. “He is not angry with you, or with us, but with himself. He feels…humiliated.”
“Three years ago, he was an emotionally wounded man, returning from years of battle, presented with what he has admitted appeared to him to be a golden-haired angel,” Georgiana defended.
“We are not the ones who need convincing of that,” St. Albans reminded. “We will know more once my men return from France.”
She nodded. “In the meantime, I will talk to Meggie.” The matter was now too urgent for her to leave until tomorrow.
“Take Julian with you.” St. Albans rose to his booted feet as Dalton appeared in the open doorway. “The four of us are going up to our bedchambers, where hopefully, a bath is waiting for us?”
“One in each bedchamber, Your Grace,” the butler confirmed.
“Good man,” he appreciated, waiting until Lily was standing beside him before turning to Georgiana. “I believe you may rest assured that Julian is not, nor was he ever, a married man.”
Georgiana felt as if a weight had been lifted from her chest.
She did not care one way or the other for herself. She loved Julian anyway and wanted to be with him. No, this search for what had really happened to Julian’s “wife” was only for him. Georgiana would continue to love and adore him no matter what.
* * *
Could Julian feel any more humiliated than he now did?
Doubtful.
“What a bloody fool I was,” he shouted up to the sky as he paced the golden sand of Moreland Bay. “I was a na?ve, infatuated fool ever to have fallen for the seduction and manipulation of what now appears to have been a French spy.”
God in heaven. He had been so stupid. So very, very stupid—
“You were just being human, my love,” Georgiana’s beloved voice soothed from behind him.
“Not foolish, not na?ve, but simply human.” She was smiling when Julian turned to look at her.
“I have heard it said that one should feel angry and vengeful, not sad or self-blaming, after being dealt this sort of blow to one’s pride. Because that’s all it amounts to.”
Julian had stepped outside without his cloak or hat, but he was pleased to see Georgiana had had the foresight to don a pelisse and bonnet to ward off the worst of the cool easterly wind. “I should have seen. Should have known.” He ran an agitated hand through his hair.
Georgiana chuckled. “You are dwelling too much on a past that is now unimportant, instead of realizing what this means for our future.”
Julian eyed her uncertainly. “Do we have a future?”
“I certainly hope so,” she answered honestly as she stepped closer to him. “No matter what the outcome of these investigations, I wish you to know that I love you. So very much.”
Julian’s chest felt too small to contain all the emotions suddenly bursting to be free. “I love you too, Georgiana. I adore you. Worship you.”
She gave a self-derisive smile. “I am not sure I am worthy of being worshipped—”
“Yes, you are.” Julian clasped both her hands in his. “To me, you are perfect. I love you so much, Georgiana. I know I always will.”
She stood on tiptoe to brush her lips lightly against his. “I will always love you too,” she assured softly. “No matter what happens next, I love you and want to be with you.”
Julian knew that she was referring to whether they found further proof of Annabel’s true purpose in “marrying” him before disappearing once her task was completed.
Not that Julian had personally supplied her with any of that information if that were the case, because he knew he had not.
But Annabel’s position in Society as his wife had given her entrée into the company of those who could.
No doubt her so-called innocent charm had worked on those gentlemen too!
“Let the past remain in the past, my love.” Georgiana reached up to smooth the frown from his brow. “It is gone and cannot be altered. Let it go,” she repeated. “Now there is only the future to look forward to. Together, no matter what else we discover.”
A future with Georgiana was all that he wanted.