Chapter 16 #2
Still, he had written again. And again. Each letter more urgent, more pleading. But Lady Smiling did not return. With time, he had ceased writing and instead thrown himself into the distractions London provided. Fashion, gossip, terrible poetry. Widows. Anything to avoid the truth.
The slow unraveling of his parents’ marriage had shadowed much of his youth, simmering like a cracked kettle forever threatening to boil over.
He had hated it. He hated the way indifference could become a kind of cruelty.
But this final breach had broken something within him.
It had confirmed the fear he had long suspected.
Marriage is naught but an unhappy trap.
It was utterly ridiculous that he, a grown man of breeding and experience, could not board a ship to visit his own family.
He had tried—twice. On both occasions, he had barely made it past the gangplank before the gentle sway of the dock set his stomach churning.
He had disembarked in humiliation, swallowing bile and pride in equal measure.
Another crossing was simply not possible.
He had cast up his accounts too many times before.
Even the thought of embarking again left him with a cold sweat and a hollow roiling in the pit of his belly.
Perhaps Audrey knows of a remedy?
Julius growled aloud at the intrusive thought.
“Have you offered to marry her?” Brendan’s voice was casual, but his gaze was sharp from across the carriage.
“What?” Julius startled. His thoughts had been so private, so closely held, that the idea of another penetrating them was disconcerting.
“Miss Gideon,” Brendan clarified. “That is what you are chewing on, is it not?”
Julius frowned. He did not care to have his mind read. In fact, he had always taken pains to present an opaque front, hiding his true thoughts behind glibness and irreverence. He prided himself on being inscrutable.
“Why do you say that?”
Brendan shrugged. “I know what it looks like when a man is tangled in his thoughts about a woman. There is only one subject that stirs my own emotions to that degree—my wife. Her happiness. Her safety. And how she will react to some idiotic thing I have done.”
Julius did not respond.
Brendan waited a beat, then pressed. “Your expression was not typical. So. Have you?”
“I informed her we will wed,” Julius said shortly.
Brendan snorted. “And how did she respond to that proclamation?”
“Uh … she initially turned me down.”
His friend’s mouth twitched with suppressed amusement. “So you were forced to persuade her?”
Julius shifted in his seat, discomforted by the truth. “I was. And I did.”
The baron leaned forward slightly, narrowing his gaze with suspicion. “And what precisely did you offer the young lady?”
Julius dropped his gaze to his gloved hand. His fingers were still drumming on his knee, betraying tension he normally took care to conceal. He rolled his shoulders, trying to regain his usual mask of breezy detachment.
“Miss Gideon received a poisonous letter from that ghastly Lady Astley and was entirely distraught. I offered to marry her, which she declined. She did not wish to trap me and was even considering leaving the realm to escape the gossip.”
The last part burst from him with more emotion than he intended. Julius clenched his teeth, aware he had given away far too much in the frantic pitch of his voice.
Brendan cleared his throat delicately. “And her leaving the realm … that would be a bad thing?”
Julius raised his head to glare at him. “Yes.”
“Why?”
Julius continued to glare, but no words came.
“Because …” he began, but the sentence abandoned him midway.
Brendan arched an eyebrow, patient but merciless.
“Because I am responsible for the damage to her reputation,” Julius finally muttered.
Brendan gave a dry, hollow laugh and turned his face toward the carriage window. “I recall being a complete arse when I proposed to Lily. I even accused her of trapping me in marriage. It was not my finest hour.”
Julius winced, unable to suppress the reaction.
Brendan noticed. He turned sharply, fixing his friend with a look. “What did you do?” he asked, voice low and insistent.
Julius squirmed like a schoolboy caught passing notes in church. “I may have … told her it was to be a marriage in name only.”
Brendan blinked. “Which means what, exactly?”
Julius found his hand straying to the signet ring on his finger, awkwardly twisting it through the fabric of his glove in a fit of determined agitation.
“I told her I could not promise I would not pursue other women in the future.”
Brendan groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “You fool.”
“I do not know what might happen! It seemed better to be direct … to leave my options open.”
Another groan, more pained than the first. “Julius … it is time for you to grow up.”
“I never intended to marry.” Julius stiffened, defensiveness rising despite the quiet voice inside him that whispered he was botching everything. “At least I am offering her the protection of my name. She will have her independence. She may pursue her goals freely.”
He spoke the words as though they were generous.
Noble, even. But they tasted sour. Somewhere deep inside, Julius knew he was clinging to a tangle of excuses.
Brendan could not possibly understand. The very idea of marriage turned Julius cold with dread.
It had always seemed a trap, dignified on the surface, but beneath it, a prison of disappointment and withering expectation.
To explain that felt impossible. Worse, it felt like weakness.
The carriage drew to a halt.
Julius peered through the window and saw they had arrived at the vicarage.
Without waiting for the steps to be put in place, he flung the door open and jumped down to the street.
The dramatic exit gave him no satisfaction.
He needed to move, to walk away before he blurted something more foolish than he already had.
His thoughts were a muddle, and discussing any of it had been a mistake.
But the leap from the carriage, though satisfying in theory, proved impractical in practice.
He was left awkwardly waiting on the pavement while Brendan disembarked more sedately behind him.
They said nothing. Lips parted and brow furrowed, Brendan had the look of a man poised to speak, but whatever comment lingered on his tongue, he swallowed it as they approached the vicarage door.
Julius seized the knocker and rapped smartly. A minute or two passed before the door swung open, revealing a buxom housekeeper of advanced years whose face bore the weathered softness of one long in domestic service.
“May I help you, sir?” she asked.
Brendan offered a bow and extended his card with the ease of a man accustomed to polite infiltration. “Please inform Mr. Stone that Lord Filminster and Lord Trafford wish to wait upon him.”
The housekeeper’s pale eyes widened in surprise, and she dipped into a curtsy so low it was clear she was not accustomed to nobility at her doorstep. “Milords,” she murmured.
She disappeared down the hallway at a scurry and returned a few minutes later, somewhat breathless. “Please, milords, come this way.”
They were shown into a study that bore the scent of ink and aged parchment.
Books crammed the shelves in unruly abundance, and several overstuffed chairs crowded the small room.
Vestments hung behind the door, ceremonial and worn, while the man himself stood by the hearth.
Reverend Stone’s form was clad in a long dark gray coat with tails, his breeches a deeper charcoal, and his calves sheathed in well-stretched black stockings.
The vestments were, in Julius’s estimation, a kindness. They would forgive a portly girth.
Stone was a man in his early fifties with a wide, fleshy face, a bulbous nose, and a thick shock of white hair.
Julius studied him carefully, noting how the clergyman’s expression remained calm—perhaps puzzled, but not alarmed.
If the man had something to hide, particularly something as horrific as murder, he would be on his guard at the sight of two titled men arriving unannounced.
Instead, Stone bobbed a few short bows, polite if bemused. “Lord Filminster, Lord Trafford, welcome.”
“Reverend Stone,” Brendan replied, his tone amiable. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Julius studied the vicar as they settled into the stiff-backed chairs positioned before his desk.
The man was hearty, full-faced, and bore the contented look of someone who had accepted every biscuit and slice of cake offered on his parish rounds.
But more importantly, he showed no signs of discomfort at their visit.
No tension in the shoulders, no shiftiness of gaze. Just mild curiosity and easy geniality.
After several minutes of polite preamble about the architecture of the church and the weather, Julius leaned forward, folding his gloved hands with deliberate ease.
“We have been most impressed with what we hear about your parish. Lord Filminster and I are here to make a donation to your church.”
Brendan offered a warm smile. “Indeed. I have instructed my man of business to see to the particulars.”
Reverend Stone blinked in surprise before clapping his hands together in clear delight. “That is wonderful news, milords. The church is always in need of repairs. We are most grateful.”
Julius nodded, though his focus remained keen. “We hear you have a rather esteemed connection. Is it true that your brother is Lord Harlyn?”
Stone beamed, revealing a full set of slightly yellowed but well-kept teeth. “Indeed, Lord Harlyn is a loyal patron of our humble church here in London.”
Brendan allowed the conversation to meander through family origins and Cornish heritage before gently steering it to the matter at hand.
“Were you so fortunate as to attend the coronation in July with your brother?” he asked with an air of idle curiosity.