Chapter 13
“My errors will point to thinking men the various roads, and will teach them the great art of treading on the brink of the precipice without falling into it.”
Giacomo Casanova
Julius was confused. Thoroughly, maddeningly confused.
The desire to tuck Audrey close, to bury his face in the silken spill of her hair, to breathe in the subtle herbal notes that clung to her—these were fresh, unbidden impulses he had not anticipated. What began as instinctive gratitude for her saving his life had taken an unexpected turn.
This is what comes of embracing a woman you admire.
A light snore informed him that Audrey had fallen asleep. And now, with her head nestled beneath his chin, her breath soft against his chest as she slumbered, Julius was overwhelmed by something perilously close to contentment.
Patrick and Rose had kept their distance, but he knew it would not escape notice. Too much time spent alone, too much scandal already brewing.
And still, he had no regrets.
Holding her now, he resisted the temptation to press a kiss to her silky hair. She had given him a trust no woman ever had before.
How far he had strayed from his usual path.
His conquests, such as they were, had always been pragmatic—worldly widows or married women who knew the rules and bore no illusions.
He had never sought more. Never shared more than polite conversation.
Admiration, mutual fondness, even affection were not luxuries he had permitted himself.
But Audrey? She was unlike anyone he had known. Intelligent. Bold. Soft where it mattered, yet made of steel beneath the surface. He admired her. Liked her. Wanted to talk with her, to learn her thoughts, to share his own in return.
This is a catastrophe.
He had known from the start that crossing that boundary would change everything. And it had. Her reputation was no longer intact, even if she had taken the risk willingly. He had implicated her in more than intrigue. He had tethered her to himself in the eyes of society.
And there was no undoing it now.
She might believe there were no expectations between them. But Audrey was a lady. And she deserved protection. Security. A future unmarred by cruel whispers and judgment.
Which meant only one course remained.
He would marry her.
The very thought sent a tremor through his chest. Not because he did not want to. But because he feared he would fail her. Audrey was not a woman who would abide a marriage in name only, or a life left to loneliness while her husband gallivanted elsewhere.
And yet, what other path was there?
No, there is no alternative.
Truth be told, Julius did not care for the image of Audrey married to another.
As selfish as it might be to want her for himself while imagining a future lived apart, he could not deny the possessiveness that had rooted itself in his chest. Audrey was his. Dash it all. She belonged to no man, certainly not to him, but his thoughts resisted any other possibility.
He was not accustomed to such a riot of conflicting emotions in the wake of one of his many escapades. Regret had never lingered long. He had always prided himself on keeping things simple. No promises. No entanglements.
Yet here he was, holding a young woman who had saved his life and been irrevocably ruined in the process, and his conscience warred with his independence.
And still … no regret.
He brushed a lock of golden hair from her cheek. Her slumber was peaceful, her breathing steady. Somehow, amidst the chaos of recent weeks, she had become his anchor. She saw through his wit and bravado, past his reputation, and had chosen to stay. To help. To fight.
What a tangle.
Perhaps they could spend a few quiet weeks together at the start of their marriage.
Perhaps he could ensure her future was secured, perhaps even grant her a child to keep her company when he returned her to Stirling.
Surely, she would be less discontent if she had purpose.
It would be a practical arrangement. She deserved far more than to be tied to a man like him, but a babe might offer comfort in his absence.
Julius groaned into the pillow.
What nonsense was this? He was not one for elaborate planning, let alone long-term emotional strategies.
The idea of orchestrating her entire future as though she were a pawn in some well-meaning scheme made him queasy.
Audrey was not a woman to be managed, and heaven forfend, he did not want to be parted from her.
This is a bleeding disaster.
Slipping his arm out from beneath her with practiced care, Julius rose from the bed. The room was cool, the fire now embers. He pulled on his linen shirt and lit the oil lamp from the bedside, his stockinged feet making no sound as he crossed the floor. He did not look back.
He could not.
It was time to focus. Time to clear his head. There were greater dangers afoot than the mess he had made of his heart. There was still the small matter of murder.
Julius made his way downstairs, the flickering lamplight throwing shadows across the corridor. As he entered the library, a sense of purpose returned. The scent of old paper and beeswax was oddly grounding. The room had become his haven over the past few days, a place of study and reflection.
He set the lamp down, its golden light illuminating the familiar spines on the shelves and a portrait that caught his eye.
Aunt Gertrude.
This one was a more recent work. Her silver hair was tucked into a fashionable turban, her gown of muted mulberry silk. She peered down with a expression of thin-lipped disapproval, as though she might speak at any moment.
Julius sighed, shoving a hand through his disheveled hair.
“I will wed her,” he muttered under his breath. “She shall have my name. My protection.”
It was a start, at least. And for now, it had to be enough.
Lady Hays continued to stare.
“I swear it,” Julius whispered into the lamplight, his voice tinged with a boyish earnestness that surprised even himself. “I will take care of the young lady. She shall not want for anything.”
He glanced up at the portrait again, half-expecting a quirked brow or a dry retort to be painted across her lips. Instead, Lady Hays’s moss-green gaze remained fixed and unmoved, reproach etched in every precise brushstroke.
It might have been his imagination, but Julius fancied she looked disgusted.
Egad. The woman would flay him alive if she knew the full extent of his disgrace. That he had spent time alone with a young lady of good birth, under her very roof, and without even the decency of a betrothal contract in place. Not even a proposal. What manner of scoundrel did that make him?
The worst kind, he admitted grimly.
Julius dragged a hand through his hair, the gesture more penance than habit. This was getting him nowhere. He could stew in his guilt for days, but it would not help Audrey—not now. He needed to focus.
Crossing the room, he reached for the worn, calf-bound volume that had served so many generations of the nobility, Debrett’s Peerage. He heaved it off the shelf with a grunt and set it down on the table, the sound echoing like a gavel through the quiet room.
“Right,” he muttered, sitting down. “Let us make sense of this mess.”
He bent over the pages, flicking through the fine cotton-rag paper, the familiar musty scent rising with each turn. Lineages, marriages, ancient estates—he scanned the names and titles with increasing speed until he reached the one that sparked his memory.
He and Abbott had spent weeks observing the suspects, attending a wearying string of dinners, soirées, and musicales. He had taken note of every careless word, every guarded glance, every discarded invitation or gesture.
And now … now he recalled it.
One evening, at a soirée somewhere off Mount Street.
He had been leaning in the archway, nursing a glass of claret, trying to endure the caterwauling of a soprano whose ambition far exceeded her talent.
Out of the corner of his eye, he had noticed the footmen.
Their livery had caught his attention, not the colors themselves, which were the usual deep blue and gold, but the linings.
When one of the servants had rounded the corner, the tails of his coat had flicked upward, catching the light and revealing something unusual, a flash of green and blue in a distinct checkered pattern.
It had struck him then, but without context, he had filed it away. Now, with Audrey’s recent observation of the tartan fabric worn by the assailant …
He turned the page and paused, tapping the paper lightly.
There it was.
The entry was detailed, unassuming at first glance. But the family’s heritage? Tied to a Scottish viscounty.
Julius sat back, whistling low between his teeth.
It fit.
Everything fit.
He looked again to Lady Hays’s portrait.
“I think we found our man, Aunty.”
Audrey stirred, the coolness beside her rousing her more than any morning light. She blinked into the darkness, frowning as her fingers met only a hollow in the sheets where Julius had lain.
The air was still, the faint scent of soap and spice lingering on the pillow—him, but not him. The lamp had been extinguished, leaving only the soft outline of shadows across the chamber.
She sat up slowly, brushing the tousled fall of hair from her face.
He had gone.
Of course he had.
Audrey had always known this was temporary, an interlude on the edge of danger and duty.
But part of her, the part that dared to hope, had imagined waking to the brush of his lips once more.
Just once. A farewell kiss. Something she could carry back with her to Stirling. A memory softened with tenderness.
She pressed her fingers to her eyes, willing away the sting.
Did he regret it? Allowing her to fall asleep in his arms?
Would there ever be another chance to feel the safety of his embrace?