Chapter 1
“Marriage is the tomb of love”
Giacomo Casanova
Julius had enjoyed the past ten days in Abbott’s company, though he would never admit it outright.
The heir to Viscount Moreland was an athletic but academic fellow, wound tighter than a military drumhead stretched for inspection.
Much like his own father, the infamously rigid Lord Snarling.
Which was why Julius had taken such unrepentant delight in prodding the young man’s composure until it squeaked.
If Abbott only knew I am doing him a great favor, Julius mused, shifting the set of his immaculate evening coat. The gold jacquard was expertly tailored to emphasize the narrowness of his waist, the buttons gleaming softly in the moonlight as if to punctuate his pretensions of foppishness.
They had been seen together across the breadth of Mayfair these past evenings—attending dinners with stiff-backed dowagers, lingering in candlelit soirées fragrant with imported roses, and even enduring a musicale that had offered nothing but ear-punishing trills and shrieking violins.
Julius had worn a serene expression throughout, despite the cacophony, relishing Abbott’s silent misery.
All the while, Abbott had been forced to put up with Julius’s antics. The devil had taken Julius to be so relentless in pushing the man beyond his limits. He reasoned that, eventually, Abbott was bound to break into helpless, unguarded laughter. One simply had to wait for the right moment.
Tonight they lingered at the corner of a graveled drive, observing the well-lit home of Mr. Frederick Smythe.
Carriages rattled and jostled over the paving stones in the street behind them, lanterns swinging and casting ghostly light over their glossy black panels.
Smythe was at the top of their suspect list, but they had yet to find an acceptable way to speak with him without raising eyebrows.
Above them, the night sky spread in heavy indigo, punctuated with feathery clouds parting to reveal a pale full moon.
The lamp-lit windows of Smythe’s house spilled golden rectangles onto the tidy garden beds, which had been carefully raked free of autumn leaves by diligent servants.
Abbott, who topped Julius by a couple of inches, appeared torn between admiring the view and calculating a means of infiltration.
“How do you plan to get in without an invitation?”
Julius waved a gloved hand in airy dismissal, the subtle perfume of bergamot and sandalwood clinging to the fine leather.
He contemplated the line of arriving guests with the focus of a general surveying his enemy’s ranks.
There was no time for idle conversation.
He must identify someone whose good graces they could exploit to gain entry to the ball.
Abbott let out a low growl of irritation, which Julius had to suppress a smile at.
His companion might consider him a preening, feather-brained Corinthian, but appearances were always deceiving.
Julius understood precisely how to use them to his advantage—a calculated performance he had refined under Lord Snarling’s exacting eye, just as he had watched his father manipulate foreign envoys with subtle half-truths and smiles over brandy.
Not to mention, it is entertaining to discern others’ reactions to the facade, he thought, tapping the silver knob of his cane against his boot heel in a silent rhythm.
Abbott stepped back, allowing Julius the space he had insisted upon, though his posture remained one of bristling impatience.
Julius pretended not to notice, returning his attention to the swirl of guests.
Elegant carriages offloaded couples wrapped in fine woolen cloaks, jewels catching and scattering lamplight like falling stars.
He felt a fresh wave of determination. Someone had wronged his good friend Brendan, and Julius would see that wrong set to rights, even if it meant playing the part of the idle young buck to perfection.
Abbott cracked his knuckles, pacing in the cold glow of the gas lamps while awaiting direction. Julius ignored him with studious resolve. Inevitably, the other heir would become accustomed to his methods and recognize he was no bacon-brained simpleton after all.
A few minutes later, Julius was rewarded. “I see my great-aunt Gertrude, with her husband.”
Without a backward glance, he strode swiftly toward the Smythe home, the cobblestones hard beneath the polished leather of his Hessians.
Abbott followed reluctantly, his steps heavy and resentful on the churned gravel.
Julius wove through the line of carriages and liveried footmen in the rounded drive, lifting his chin with theatrical flourish as he approached an elderly couple carefully descending with the help of their servant.
He grinned broadly, throwing his arms up in dramatic emphasis. “Aunty!”
Aunty Gertrude, a wizened old lady with stooped shoulders draped in rich blue silk trimmed with darker velvet piping, squinted up at her great-nephew before clapping her hands in obvious delight. “Julius, my boy!”
Julius bent with practiced elegance, the stiff folds of his cutaway coat brushing against his trousers as he moved.
A trembling, ring-heavy hand emerged from beneath an embroidered shawl, its once-vivid needlework now faded by years of use.
She pinched his cheek between arthritic fingers with surprising force, beaming up at him with unabashed pleasure.
Behind her loomed his great-uncle, an ancient peer whose coat was cut in the style of the previous century.
Old-fashioned breeches sagging slightly at the knees, gleaming white stockings pulled tight over knobbly calves, and black buckled shoes polished to a funeral sheen.
The man had the pallor of a corpse spirited from the family vault and dressed in finery by an undertaker.
Yet one must respect that he persisted in attending such events at his advanced years, his narrow chest laboring with shallow breaths.
Aunty Gertrude blinked those aging, moss-colored eyes at him, tiny brown motes of color barely perceptible to anyone without Julius’s sharp gaze. “What are you doing here, boy?”
Beside him, Abbott stood at rigid attention, his polished boots sinking slightly into the damp gravel drive.
“I was just walking by with my friend.” Julius gestured grandly in Abbott’s direction.
Abbott’s jaw tightened until his pearly teeth might crack.
Julius could all but read the man’s thoughts as though they were inked on the crisp cream page of an account book.
They were on private property, a small but elegant estate just beyond the Thames embankment, lined with neat brick walls and well-trimmed yews—hardly a place two gentlemen would wander accidentally.
Julius pressed his lips together to suppress a delighted smile.
Abbott was far too honest for polite society’s gentle deceits.
Julius knew better. Obfuscation delivered in warm tones and gracious airs was an excellent distraction when pursuing one’s goals.
Aunty Gertrude, charmed by his confident delivery, would never think to question the truth of his claim.
“Are you attending an event?”
“It is the Smythe ball. Frederick has a daughter he has been attempting to marry off for years. She is a dear girl, but the boys do not like her, I am afraid.”
“That is a pity. I was hoping to catch up, but if you are otherwise occupied …” Julius trailed off with deliberate artifice, letting the silence bait his great-aunt into the expected offer.
“Come with us, Julius! Frederick will be delighted to have such strapping young men in attendance.”
Julius’s grin widened into genuine affection as he linked arms with his beloved relation, assisting her carefully up the broad stone steps, the chill of the autumn evening drawing the scent of turned earth and damp leaves from the hedges flanking the walkway.
The heavy oak doors stood open ahead of them, a welcoming blaze of candlelight spilling out to the drive.
Abbott puffed along behind, exhaling through his nose as he followed with the frail husband, resisting the temptation to offer his arm while the gentleman shuffled upward with careful, halting steps.
Soon, they found themselves in the long receiving line in the grand entrance hall, the black-and-white marble floor polished to a gleam under chandeliers heavy with wax tapers. Julius chattered amiably with his great-aunt, ensuring she had no time to reflect on his earlier evasions.
Abbott loomed beside him, peering over the powdered heads of gathered nobles and the swooping feathers of ladies’ turbans, his gaze scanning the space with the intense focus of a military scout on the march.
Julius noted the flicker of interest in Abbott’s eyes as he fixed on something beyond the throng, but chose to keep his own attention on charming Aunty Gertrude with reminiscences of country summer fêtes and mutual acquaintances.
At last, they reached a shadowed side corridor leading away from the bustle of the main hall. Julius gently transferred Aunty Gertrude’s fragile arm to that of her husband with courtly precision, murmuring an excuse while bowing slightly.
“It is time to go.”
Abbott, who was still staring toward the head of the receiving line, seemed slow to comprehend that the statement was directed at him.
Julius studied him in mild impatience, tapping the gilt handle of his cane against the polished marble floor with a muted click.
He wondered what spectacle had so riveted Abbott’s attention—some fluttering silk skirts, no doubt—but he refrained from glancing in the same direction, lest he draw notice to their impending, rather unceremonious, departure.