Chapter 1 #2
Instead, Julius tilted his head slightly—a silent command—and bobbed it toward the dimly lit side hall.
Chandeliers hung overhead, crystal droplets catching the candlelight and throwing soft glimmers onto the polished walls.
Abbott shifted uneasily, casting one last glance at the hall before following in reluctant obedience.
They slipped away into the corridor, the crowd’s chatter fading behind them.
And then they stood in the hush of the library, its tall mahogany shelves looming like silent sentinels.
A smoky scent of tallow candles mingled with the fusty perfume of old vellum and leather bindings.
The single lamp on a side table cast long shadows across the rich Aubusson carpet, which muffled their footsteps in plush detail.
“Do you have any notion how ridiculous you look in this …?” Abbott gestured broadly, fingers splaying to take in Julius’s entire ensemble of gold brocade and immaculate cravat.
“Now, now, Little Breeches. There is no need to tell Banbury stories … I am unduly handsome in my brocade, which we both well know.” Julius let his gloved fingers flick imaginary lint from his lapel, the gold thread catching the lamplight with a rich gleam.
Abbott snorted, the sound low and irritable, echoing faintly in the cavernous space.
Julius narrowed his eyes, amusement warming their green depths as he regarded the taller man.
Though Julius was hardly slight himself, Abbott’s broad shoulders and imposing stature made him appear like a statue in evening black.
“Did a certain young woman capture your eye out in the hall? You seemed rather bemused.”
Abbott looked away, the stiff line of his jaw betraying his refusal to discuss what, or who, had caught his attention. He examined the spines of nearby books instead, fingers twitching as if longing to pull one down and hide behind it.
“Is Aunty not surprised at our departure? I thought you were to catch up?” Abbott’s sneer was thin, an ill-fitted mask to deflect the conversation.
Julius merely grinned, leaning one hip against the heavy oak table cluttered with correspondence and an ivory-handled letter opener.
“Aunty will quite forget she saw me tonight by the time she reaches the head of the line. She and Uncle are easily distracted these days, especially with a full assembly of acquaintances to greet. I saw an opportunity to proceed with our plans.”
“What is the plan?” Abbott asked, folding his arms tightly over his broad chest, the wool of his coat straining across wide shoulders.
“I think I shall wander about and gather information while you search Smythe’s study.” Julius adjusted his signet ring thoughtfully, eyes glinting in the low light as he studied Abbott’s discomfort.
He could see Abbott struggling with the roles Julius had assigned. After all, sneaking through another gentleman’s private rooms was not the most honorable pursuit. Yet they both knew Julius was better suited to the arts of subtlety, misdirection, and carefully spun lies.
There were six men to investigate, but Smythe topped their list. As the heir to a barony, he was a promising suspect, given that the murdered Baron of Filminster had been seated with other barons on the day of his death.
Rumors in the clubs whispered of Smythe selling off family assets. Filminster himself had pointed out that a man with mounting debts could be driven to a passionate act—murder—if the late baron had threatened his hoped-for inheritance.
Abbott finally relented, his gaze flicking to the door as if already planning his route. “I shall meet you in the ballroom when I am done.”
Julius nodded, suppressing the urge to laugh outright, and offered a courtly bow that made the gold embroidery on his coat shimmer like captured firelight. “Have fun, Little Breeches. You may learn interesting things when you search through a man’s private belongings.”
Abbott frowned, lines deepening on his usually impassive face, but before he could respond, Julius left him to his own devices with a clipped turn of his polished heel.
He slipped back into the crowded ballroom, where warm candlelight glowed against gilt moldings and the press of dancers made the air thick with perfume and sweat.
Chandeliers shed flickering light over the sea of jewel-toned gowns and embroidered coats.
Julius forced a bland smile, circulating through dull conversations with peers whose powdered wigs and thin lips spoke of ancient family money.
All the while, his sharp gaze tracked Smythe, standing in a corner among older gentlemen with heads inclined in conspiratorial closeness. Not the moment to approach.
Julius scanned the crowd for someone more amenable to loose tongues.
Thirty feet away, Lord and Lady Astley and their set were drifting toward the terrace, feathered fans flicking as they laughed behind gloved hands.
The heat of so many bodies made the ballroom stifling, the scent of roses wilting in heavy air.
Excellent.
Astley would be easy to pump for information, especially given his connection to Lord Snarling.
Julius adjusted his gold-embroidered coat and moved swiftly after them, navigating around swirling skirts and nodding graciously to matrons he passed. He slipped through the tall glass doors, inhaling cooler air that smelled faintly of damp grass and distant river.
He stopped abruptly. The terrace had gone silent. Guests clustered in frozen surprise, all attention fixed on one scandalous tableau.
Bad show!
Abbott had his arms wrapped around a young woman in pale muslin, framed dramatically by the full moon overhead. Worse, he was kissing her, heedless of the assembled eyes.
This is what comes of being wound so tight! Julius’s heart sank as the couple jerked apart. Abbott shifted to block her from the shocked crowd, but it was too late. Julius’s gaze caught on the young lady’s distinctive height and coloring, and horror twisted in his gut. Smythe’s daughter.
Blasted idiot!
Abbott blinked, realization dawning as he noticed the gaping audience.
At the back, Julius stood appalled, mouth dry, dragging gloved fingers through his carefully styled curls. He let out an exasperated breath and lifted his hands in mute surrender. There was no fixing this.
“It’s Moreland’s heir!”
Lady Astley’s shrill exclamation shattered the hush, making nearby guests flinch.
“Is that Miss Smythe?” asked Lord Astley, peering with narrowed eyes.
Julius cleared his throat painfully. “I am sure it is not what we think. Lord Abbott is a nobleman of the highest order.”
Abbott shot him a furious, helpless glare. They both knew this was a disaster for the poor girl’s reputation.
Julius’s mind raced as they locked eyes across the stunned crowd. He shook his head in warning, hand flicking to stop Abbott’s next words—
But Abbott straightened and called out with determined dignity.
“I just offered for Miss Smythe’s hand in marriage … and she accepted.”
Blazes! Julius could already imagine Lord Snarling’s reaction.
AUGUST 14, 1821
Audrey Gideon lifted the colorful starling from the terrace paving, its iridescent feathers flashing green and blue in the bright afternoon light.
The warm sun shone steadily upon the secluded walled garden of Lord Stirling’s London townhouse, illuminating beds of carefully tended roses and low clipped boxwood hedges that released a faint, resinous scent in the heat.
The little bird had flown into one of the many gleaming windows that lined the garden front and now lay dazed on the sun-warmed masonry.
Wishing to assess its condition, Audrey folded the fragile creature carefully into her lace-edged handkerchief, its delicate fabric shielding the bird’s frantic wings from further harm.
She walked with measured steps toward a stone bench nestled against the terrace balustrade, where her small leather valise rested beside a narrow wrought-iron table. The bench felt cool beneath her light muslin gown as she settled onto it, skirts rustling softly.
Raising the injured starling to eye level, she gently loosened the folds of linen to reveal its sleek wing. Using the lightest touch of her gloved fingertip, she held the limb steady, studying the angle of the break.
It was as she had suspected—a fracture, but not badly splintered.
A careful splint would suffice. She exhaled slowly in relief.
Thankfully, she had brought her valise outside to take inventory.
Between its small store of linen bandage and the pliant twigs she could gather from the ivy and shrubbery climbing the terrace wall, she would have what she needed to treat the bird properly.
Audrey released another breath, this one tinged with satisfaction.
It felt good to have purpose. Since her father, Dr. John Gideon, had died, she had been living under the roof of Lord Stirling—her late father’s close friend and patron.
London life had proved unbearably dull to her country-reared senses, full of smoke, noise, and restless energy.
All she could think of was returning to Stirling itself once she reached her majority—to the quiet village lanes lined with hedgerows, to the familiarity of neighbors she had known since childhood, to the simple joy of assisting with fevers and sprained ankles.
In the meantime, stuck in this city of sooty facades and teeming crowds, it was a blessed comfort to focus on a small patient in need of her skill.
Cradling the trembling bird felt like a memory of better days spent beside her father’s worktable, pestle in hand, preparing liniments while he murmured instructions in his gentle voice.
But her peace was interrupted by terse voices that floated through the tall open doors of the nearby study. Audrey winced at the sound, realizing she had seated herself rather too close.
“Lady Hays has informed me of your antics last evening with Moreland’s heir.”