Chapter 7 #2
He supposed, until that moment, he had thought that maturing meant inevitably becoming his father.
It had seemed the natural course, like a line drawn straight from boyhood through to duty.
But now that she had asked the question, his mind drifted to his friends and their relations.
The Earl of Saunton, brother to one of his closest companions, had inherited his title at barely eighteen.
Yet Saunton retained a lightness of spirit, an amiable disposition that made him welcome in drawing rooms and hunting parties alike.
He had expanded the influence of his estates without becoming remote or rigid, and if gossip were to be believed, he was genuinely content in his recent marriage.
Julius had never considered that a man might choose the manner in which he bore his title. That dignity and authority need not be chained to severity. That one might wield power and still be beloved.
The clink of porcelain disrupted his reverie. Audrey raised the thick-handled mug to her lips, sniffed experimentally, and took a cautious sip.
“Bah! This is horrible!”
He chuckled. “It is an acquired taste, young lad. The more you drink, the more you will like it.”
She set the mug back on the table with a decisive thud. Some of the liquid sloshed near the rim, releasing a pungent bitterness into the air. Audrey wrinkled her nose.
“Not likely. That is my last sip, I think.”
He burst out laughing. Her down-turned lips and disgusted expression—made more comical by the oversized coat collar swallowing her neck—were so irresistibly endearing, it swept away the weight of his reflections.
With the scent of coffee hanging between them and the morning’s tension softened by shared amusement, Julius felt a flicker of something close to contentment.
Audrey and Julius spent the morning and early part of the afternoon trailing Stone discreetly through the narrow streets of his neighborhood.
It was a curious delight to be out and about, moving as freely as any gentleman, the drab disguise of a youthful boy granting her a freedom she had not known since arriving in London.
The contrast struck her at every turn—the brisk nods of passing tradesmen, the unguarded chatter of shopkeepers, the way no one spared her a second glance.
It was exhilarating and a little humbling.
Julius existed in a world shaped to accommodate him.
Stone had left midmorning, presumably after working in his study.
They had watched from a discreet distance as he greeted a parish women’s group with practiced geniality, then paid a pastoral call on a young family who appeared to have recently welcomed a child into their home.
He had walked slowly, his gait relaxed, pausing often to offer handshakes and genial remarks before returning to the vicarage with his hands clasped behind his back, as though composing a sermon in his thoughts.
When Julius whispered that he wanted to attempt a closer look inside, Audrey remained behind as lookout.
Perched by the iron rail of a stoop across the street, she shifted her weight restlessly, her gaze flicking between the house and passing carts.
With too much time on her hands, her thoughts drifted to Lord Stirling’s household and the scandal surely blooming in her absence.
Lady Astley would have arrived two days ago to find only her trunk resting neatly in the hall.
Audrey bit the inside of her cheek and folded her arms tightly across her chest. Perhaps, if she returned quietly to her village, no one would question her brief disappearance, and the London gossips would move on to a new tale.
Julius reappeared with a wry smile tugging at his mouth.
“I could see them through a window. Stone is sharing tea with his wife and the curate.”
Audrey let out a soft sound of disappointment, her shoulders sagging beneath her oversized coat. They returned to the coffeehouse for a short while, where she stared at the dark liquid in her cup and refused once again to taste it. The acrid aroma had already offended her sensibilities once.
Eventually, they abandoned their watch and made their way back to the townhouse.
The late afternoon sunlight slanted across the kitchen floorboards, and the air inside was fragrant with warm yeast and flour.
Rose moved with efficiency between the worktable and hearth, her sleeves rolled above her elbows and her cheeks pink from the heat.
The scent of baking bread curled around Audrey like a comforting shawl, and her stomach gave an audible growl.
“I cannot see a situation in which Stone is the killer.” She sighed, settling heavily onto the bench beside the scrubbed table. She propped her elbows on the surface with little care for propriety and sipped her tea, letting the warmth steady her nerves.
The vicar, middle brother of five, was a man in his fifties with a ready smile and a respectable girth. He seemed content in his role, ministering to the faithful with jocular sermons and an air of fatherly calm. Those whom Julius had met with had spoken of Stone with affection, even reverence.
“He does not strike me as one desperate to inherit a title or amass excessive wealth.”
Julius exhaled heavily and nodded. “I agree. From what I have gathered, Stone is comfortably well off. His clothing is modest but well kept, his wife dresses with sensible elegance, and the vicarage is tastefully furnished without a single ostentatious flourish. He seems the sort who finds satisfaction in routine and service. The notion of him flying into a passionate rage to bludgeon a baron for power or coin …” He shook his head. “It strains credulity.”
The bell at the tradesman’s entrance rang sharply, slicing through the soft hum of the kitchen and causing both Julius and Audrey to flinch. They turned instinctively toward the front of the house, as if the sound might signal danger.
“Rose?” Julius’s voice was low, tight with concern.
The maid hurried over from the hearth, where she had just drawn a crusty brown loaf from the brick oven, its yeasty aroma still curling in the warm kitchen air.
Audrey felt a twinge of guilt. She and Julius had disrupted the household entirely, and now the caretakers were bearing the burden of their occupation—cooking extra meals, maintaining secrecy, and accommodating their comings and goings.
“Yes, Master Julius?”
“Are we expecting anyone?”
Rose shook her head just as the bell rang again, more insistently this time. From somewhere deeper in the house, footsteps echoed down the flagged hallway. It was Patrick, responding with his usual steadiness.
Audrey rose quickly, her boots thudding softly against the worn planks as she followed after him. Julius came close behind, moving with swift economy.
“Ahm ’fraid we ain’t expecting a delivery, miss,” Patrick muttered over his shoulder, his voice lined with suspicion.
A murmur of female speech floated in from the partially opened door, but Audrey could not distinguish the words.
Julius slipped past her, close enough for her to feel the heat of his arm through her borrowed coat, and leaned in beside Patrick at the crack of the doorway.
His jaw slackened in surprise, then tightened with urgency.
He whispered something inaudible to Patrick, who gave a slow blink and then stepped forward with theatrical calm.
“Ah just recalled we’re waitin’ on a delivery, miss. Ah’ll let ye in.”
With a stiff bow, he left through the tradesman’s door, and a moment later, the sound of the gate latch lifting reached their ears.
Julius spun on his heel, eyes wide as he returned to Audrey’s side. “It is Abbott’s bride.”
Audrey’s brow furrowed. “Who is Abbott?” she asked, but Julius was already distracted, eyes fixed on the door.
Patrick re-entered with a tall, cloaked figure beside him. A tradeswoman’s guise with basket-covered arm, heavy cloak, and head bowed. Yet there was grace in the step that belied the garb. Once the door was shut behind her, the visitor straightened with practiced elegance.
“Lady Abbott!” Julius’s voice was still low, but reverent now, laced with pleased astonishment.
Audrey blinked, startled. The woman reached up and pushed back her hood, revealing a cascade of deep red hair beneath.
She was statuesque and fine-boned, her pale features arrestingly lovely.
But it was the wash of freckles across her creamy skin that made her striking rather than untouchable.
The imperfection rendered her human. Approachable.
Audrey found herself warming to her at once.
She lifted a hand to her hair instinctively and then stilled.
Her fingers met loose strands instead of pins, and she recalled with dismay that she had only just removed the battered hat she had worn all day.
A glance downward confirmed her worst fear—her trousers were still rolled at the waist, her boots large and scuffed, her coat rumpled from hours of wear.
No lady would be caught meeting a peeress in such a state.
“Little Julius, I presume,” Lady Abbott said in a low voice, her lips quirking with amusement.
Julius gave a soft huff of laughter in reply, shoulders easing ever so slightly.
Patrick cleared his throat in gentle rebuke. “There be the servants’ hall if you wish to sit.”