Chapter 14 #2
A marriage in name only would, in many ways, serve Audrey’s ambitions.
As a married woman, she would face fewer barriers to practicing her calling.
Society, while rarely reasonable, often softened its censure toward married women, especially those of means and respectable alliances.
It would shield her, give her space to continue as a healer.
And yet, the idea of sending her back to Stirling as his wife in title alone while he remained in London or roamed at leisure sat ill with him.
More than uneasily. It chafed.
Worse still, he was not ready to let her go.
He had grown too accustomed to her presence—her clever insights, the calm confidence in her voice, her bright observations, and her wit.
Her company soothed and challenged in equal measure.
And last night, when she had lain in his arms, warm and trusting, her head resting over his heart, it had awakened something deeper than anything he had shared with a woman before this.
Julius sighed, resting his head against the cool stone wall.
Marriage leads to indifference.
So he had always believed. Had seen it with his own eyes. His parents’ unhappiness had colored his every view on the matter. But with Audrey … he was not sure.
Would marriage to her mean the end of their friendship? The end of the easy camaraderie they had developed? That thought unnerved him more than he cared to admit.
But what was the alternative? Letting her go? Retreating from this moment and letting the matter lie? They would part as friends, yes, but he doubted he would ever cease wondering what might have been. The very idea of her returning to Stirling alone, left an ache he had not expected.
He glanced at his timepiece. His friends would arrive soon. The moment for action was nearing.
Julius drummed his fingers against his thigh. It was unlike him to dither. Typically, he made his decisions swiftly and did not look back. But Audrey Gideon had turned his world on its head, and he was not entirely certain how to make it right-side-up again.
He did not want marriage, but he wanted to marry her.
He did not want to answer to anyone, but Audrey had never demanded he change, merely that he think. And he had. Constantly. About her. About them.
Above all, he did not want to cause her pain. She had saved his life, given freely of her care, her companionship, her trust. It would be a poor return to allow her name to be sullied without offering her the protection of his own.
I must do right by her.
But first, he needed to determine what right truly meant.
His wound gave a dull throb, a persistent reminder of all he owed Audrey.
Was that what plagued him? The pressing weight of obligation to the avenging angel who had chased away his would-be assassin?
Perhaps this muddle in his head was naught but a cloud of gratitude and guilt.
If so, the clearest course might be to offer marriage with the stipulation they live apart, an arrangement that would allow both duty and distance.
With such lines drawn, he could sort through the confusion at his leisure.
A brisk knock sounded against the painted wood, the rapping distinct against the hushed murmur of the awakening mews.
Julius turned the handle and admitted Abbott, the rising sun casting long gold-edged shadows across the flagstones behind him.
He shut the door with a soft click, the iron latch catching with a resolute finality.
They waited in the narrow alley, the muffled clop of hooves in the far distance and the rustle of leaves the only sounds to accompany the early hour.
Julius leaned against the brickwork, the cool stone at his back grounding him.
Morning scents drifted past—horsehair, old hay, a faint tang of metal.
Neither gentleman spoke, well aware the brick walls of Aunt Gertrude’s property were as porous as paper to anyone passing by.
He used the moment of silence to impose order upon his thoughts.
The mere presence of Audrey in the townhouse had tangled his mind in knots.
He knew they must marry. He would take her to Stirling, see her settled.
Then, perhaps then, he could find clarity.
Abstain from other liaisons. Return to his pursuits.
Once he understood his own path, they might forge a practical accord, an agreement that would protect them both and allow for discreet liberties.
Resolved, he shifted his stance. A decision had been formed. He required only time to regain his equilibrium.
“Are you going to let Filminster in?”
Abbott’s low hiss broke through the reverie. Julius blinked, startled to find himself still adrift in thought. He nodded sharply, motioning Abbott aside as he opened the door.
Brendan stepped through in the garb of a groom, his cap tugged low and a glower firmly fixed in place. He entered without a word, the tread of his boots muffled on the straw-scattered cobbles.
Once the door was secured, the three men crossed into the tack room, the faint tang of oiled leather and horse liniment clinging to the air. Brendan turned on his heel, expression thunderous with inquiry.
“My apologies. I was woolgathering,” Julius muttered, brushing dust from his sleeve as though it might dispel the lingering fog in his mind.
Brendan’s chestnut brows rose, eyes narrowing with suspicion as he exchanged a glance with Abbott. “About a certain young woman?” he asked, voice dry.
The insinuation hit like a slap. Julius straightened, shoulders snapping back. “Certainly not! I just … have news to impart!”
The fact that Brendan had guessed so readily needled him. Just because those two had tripped over their boots to marry did not mean he would do the same. He was no lovestruck greenhorn. He was different. Independent.
That he could still feel the imprint of Audrey against him, remember the way her dainty fingers had rested on his shoulder, was irrelevant. Mere distraction. Once everything was resolved, he would be himself again.
“We need to finish this. I believe I know who murdered the baron.”
The announcement rang through the room. Both men drew sharp breaths, their attention fixed on him.
Brendan’s arms folded. “How? I thought you were resting yesterday?”
“I was,” Julius replied, withdrawing two leather-bound volumes from the deep pockets of his coat. The covers bore the scuffs of use, the gilt-lettered spines dulled with age. “That is when Miss Gideon recollected a detail from the day of my attack.”
He held up one of the books, thumb marking a page. “She recalled that the scoundrel who stabbed me wore a coat lined in tartan—Campbell tartan, to be precise.”
Brendan furrowed his brow, fingers combing absently through his thick chestnut hair as he stared off in contemplation. “One of the fellows we marked … did he not have a Scottish connection? A mother—?”
“Scott,” Julius interjected with relish. “Simon Scott. His mother is a Campbell. A viscountess in her own right, descended from a Highland branch of the family.”
Abbott let out a low grunt of skepticism. “That could be mere coincidence.”
Julius issued a soft click of his tongue, the sound sharp in the still air. “I thought as much until I recalled the livery of Scott’s household. The footmen wear coats lined with Campbell tartan. Miss Gideon identified the pattern from one my great uncle’s catalogs.”
Brendan let out a long whistle, eyebrows lifting as realization dawned. “Saints preserve us. This might be the missing link.”
“I believe it is,” Julius affirmed, his voice rising with excitement. “I am all but certain.”
Abbott, ever pragmatic, crossed to the window slit and peered out at the silent alley beyond. “We must have proof. There has to be a way to confirm it.”
Julius inclined his head. “Indeed. I propose we question Stone and Montague directly. If they possess solid alibis for the coronation night, we can dismiss them and shift our focus entirely to Scott. Also, if Peter Scott’s married a woman from the Continent …
if we can unearth the parish records, we may find something that ties into the case. ”
Brendan rubbed at the back of his neck, his boots scuffing lightly against the sawdust-strewn floor. “You are certain enough to wager everything on this?”
Julius’s grin spread wide across his face, the first real smile he had worn in days. His voice brimmed with satisfaction as he spread his arms with theatrical flourish.
“Gentlemen, I am coming home.”
Much later, after the sun had set and London had cloaked itself in shadow, Audrey and Julius sat together in the uppermost drawing room, the grand chamber at the top of the stairs that overlooked the street and faced the columned entrance of Lord Stirling’s townhouse across the way.
Neither had spoken since entering ten minutes prior. Julius was more subdued than she had ever known him to be, though Audrey could scarcely mark it over the muffling weight of her own melancholy. A hush had settled between them, too thick and brittle to break.
Her modest valise rested at her feet beside the empty birdcage, Flapper’s absence a keen ache in her heart.
The little starling, free now in the skies above London, seemed a symbol of all she had lost. Audrey tucked her gloved fingers together in her lap, hiding the motion as she crossed them tightly.
Please let me return to Stirling unscathed. Please let this all pass.
It was her final opportunity to flee. If she lingered much longer in Town, she feared her resolve might unravel.
Once they crossed the street to Lord Stirling’s house, all would be altered.
She and Julius would no longer be alone, no longer cocooned in the strange sanctuary they had carved in the shadows of scandal and danger.
They would become strangers again. Polite, distant, unconnected.
It would rend her heart to pass him in the hallway with a cool nod or share a dinner table and pretend nothing had ever happened.
That she did not carry the imprint of his lips pressed against hers.
That he had not drawn her from the dark grave of mourning to breathe life into her soul.
Audrey’s throat ached with unshed tears as she stared out at the glimmering street, fog pooling in the corners like breath held too long.
The distant echo of horseshoes clattered on the cobbles, a stark reminder that time would not wait.
Her fingers fidgeted at the hem of her gown, agitated and tense.
“Miss Gideon,” Julius said, his voice rough with intent.
She turned from the window, startled to find him gazing at her with an expression she could not quite name—serious, conflicted, almost reverent.
“I … wish to inform you—”
But before he could finish, the rumble of carriage wheels intruded, interrupting him. Both turned swiftly to the window.
Two carriages had drawn up before Stirling’s residence. Liveried footmen emerged from the shadows, their silhouettes stretched by the glow of the gaslight.
Audrey’s brow furrowed. There was something amiss.
“They are not matched,” she murmured.
Indeed, the footmen were a curious assortment, varying in height and build, lacking the uniformity typical of noble households. Several looked too short to be liveried men. Their movements were careful but lacked the trained grace of professional staff.
Julius leaned closer to the glass. “The Johns are here.”
Audrey’s brow furrowed, and she glanced toward Julius, a question in her eyes.
“The guards from Markham House,” he explained, his tone low. “They each call themselves John, for reasons of secrecy, I presume. A habit amongst their sort to obscure identities.”
She drew in a slow breath, letting it fill her lungs before rising from the settee. Her limbs felt heavy, the weight of anticipation as real as the iron latch on the birdcage. Stooping, she gathered both it and her modest valise, her movements precise, controlled.
“It would seem,” she murmured, “we are ready to depart.”
Julius stepped forward, a sudden intensity in his gaze. “We need to speak. About the future. The plan I mentioned.”
Audrey paused, then offered a small nod, though the muscles of her face barely moved.
Her mind was in no fit state for practical conversation.
She was overwrought, her heart bruised and tender as if it had been physically pummeled.
Discussing scandal and consequences was more than she could bear at that moment.
All she wanted was solitude. To be allowed the silence in which to mourn.
“In the morning, perhaps,” she said softly. “It has been a long day.”
It was all she could manage by way of explanation.
Julius’s gaze softened. He reached out, his hand hovering near hers. “May I assist you with that?”
But she pulled back, clutching the birdcage more firmly. “I can manage,” she said, not unkindly. She needed to reacquaint herself with solitude. Papa was gone, and Julius would soon return to his London diversions without her. “Shall we?”
He inclined his head in assent, though a shadow passed behind his eyes. He lifted a hand to tuck an errant lock of hair behind her ear, the gentle sweep of his fingers sending a tremor through her spine. Audrey steadied herself, refusing to allow tenderness to unravel her composure.
Together, they descended the wide staircase. Each footstep echoed against the marbled silence of the house. A hush lingered between them, thick with unspoken thoughts.
Audrey cast a sidelong glance at Julius, noting the pensive set of his jaw. But she was too occupied with her own sadness to wonder at the cause.
At the base of the stairs, Patrick appeared as if summoned, already reaching for the great oak door.
Audrey halted in the threshold. Outside, the lamplight caught the honey-toned facade of Lord Stirling’s townhouse.
The street shimmered with the hush of night, slick with dew and silence.
The sight pierced her, so familiar and yet foreign, as though she were waking from an exquisite dream to the cold reality of morning.
She gripped the valise and birdcage tightly, anchoring herself in the present. The weight steadied her. It gave her something to feel besides despair.
This moment mirrored the night she had arrived in London—still grieving, still hollow. But now, she was not merely a daughter in mourning. She was a woman forever changed. A woman who had given her heart and must now leave it behind.
Audrey squared her shoulders and stepped into the night, not glancing back at the man beside her. Let him return to his adventures. Let her return to Stirling and the solitude that awaited. The glorious dream was over, and it was time to wake.