Goodness. If not for his scarred face and his black reputation, he might almost have been handsome.
Almost.
But this wasn’t a novel. No adventure awaited her in the arms of a villain, only ruin, misery, and disgrace. If she was to find a husband this season, it must be among decent men. Men who weren’t bloodthirsty former soldiers, and who didn’t live in haunted Yorkshire estates with their brood of illegitimate children.
Strange, that. She couldn’t imagine Captain Blunt keeping a mistress. There was nothing of tenderness about him. Nothing terribly romantic. Although . . .
He had admitted to reading Lady Audley’s Secret.
She wondered what Anne would have to say about it.
Lady Anne Deveril, only daughter of the late Earl of Arundell, had been Julia’s best friend for as long as she could remember. They were opposites in every way—Anne was bold, confident, and opinionated where Julia was shy, uncertain, and often tongue-tied in company. Yet together they fit, each of them providing what the other lacked.
In many ways, Anne acted as Julia’s protector. It was a role that was almost mother-like, guarding Julia from impertinent men, and saving her from her own self-indulgences. Only recently, when Julia had been tucked in her bed with chocolates and a novel, pleading illness to avoid her social obligations, it had been Anne who had persuaded her to get up and face the London season.
Until two days ago, they’d been navigating it together, along with their bosom friends, Stella Hobhouse and Evelyn Maltravers. The four of them were excellent horsewomen, more comfortable in their sidesaddles than in a ballroom. Their rides in the park were the highlights of Julia’s days. As for the evenings, even dances were more fun with her friends in attendance.
Would that they were here now!
They’d all left London on the same day. Evelyn had accompanied Anne and Lady Arundell to Birmingham to see the child medium. And Stella had abruptly departed town with her clergyman brother, made his unwilling companion to an ecumenical conference in Exeter. Both Stella and Anne would be returning on Sunday. Evelyn would come a few weeks later, after a brief visit home to her village in Sussex.
Julia missed them dreadfully. In their absence, she didn’t know quite what to do with herself. As always, in such circumstances, the security of her bedchamber beckoned. The warmth of her bed and the temporary escape of a novel.
Rising from her chair, she rang the bell for the maid.
Moments later, a hard-faced young woman in a starched apron entered. Jane Seven, she was called—the seventh maid employed in her position. They were all of them called Jane, just as all the first footmen were called Jenkins, the second footmen were called George, and all the grooms were called Luke. Julia’s parents insisted it was easier that way. Though, it never seemed entirely right to Julia’s mind.
“You rang, miss?” Jane Seven inquired.
“Have the carriage readied,” Julia said. “And summon Mary. I have some shopping to do this morning.”
“Yes, miss.” Jane Seven wobbled a curtsy before turning to leave.
“Why are these curtains opened?” The thin, querulous voice of Julia’s father, Sir Eustace, preceded him into the room. He entered, still in his slippers, wearing a shawl-collared silk and velvet banyan over his loose shirt and trousers. A thick scarf was tucked in at the neck as protection against imagined drafts. “Draw them at once, Jane.”
Jane Seven hurried to the bank of windows on the opposite wall. Reaching up, she pulled the heavy curtains shut, moving from window to window, until the bright sun was once again blocked from the morning room.
Julia frowned. “It was I who ordered them opened, Papa.”
Her father gave her a long-suffering look. “You’ll be the death of me, child. And yourself, too, if you’re not careful. Up at dawn again? Riding that horse of yours?”
“I’m perfectly well,” she said. “And you? You must be feeling a little better to have emerged from your rooms.”
“Still poorly, as anyone can see.” He dropped into an overstuffed armchair with a weary sigh. “I must go over the quarterly accounts with Hicks, though the strain of it will probably put an end to me. You must summon Dr. Cordingley as a precaution.”
Julia went to her father. She sank down on the tufted ottoman at his feet, the full skirts of her day dress pooling around her in a spill of Clarence-blue cashmere. “Can’t Hicks manage without your assistance?”
“The man who doesn’t mind his own accounts deserves to have his servants rob him. And they will, mark my words.” He broke off to utter a hoarse bark at the maid as she exited the room. “Fetch me a tonic, girl! And bring a blanket, and a fresh pot of tea. And send in one of the footmen to lay a fire.”
“Yes, sir. At once, sir.” Jane Seven scurried out the door.
Papa rested his head against the cushioned back of the chair. His gray hair was thinning across his scalp, his whiskered face pale from lack of sunlight. If left to their own devices, he and Mama would spend all their days in darkness, nursing their various indispositions.
“Should you be up at all?” Julia wondered.
“How could I help it with all this noise? Have I not told you to tread quietly on the stairs? If you must insist on rising early to ride—” His eyes narrowed. “Mind you, I object to the activity. You know I’m sensitive to the smell of horses. The headaches I suffer on every occasion I travel in the carriage. And now, my own daughter stinking of the stables. One day I shall instruct Hicks to sell that horse of yours.”
It was an old threat. An idle one, too. She bristled at it nonetheless.
“Really, Papa. You know very well that Cossack belongs to me. I bought him with the money I inherited from Aunt Elinore. You haven’t the authority to sell him.”
“Oh, haven’t I? Try me and see, my girl. Your aunt may have left you a sizable portion, but I’m still master here—though I may be on my deathbed.”
“You’re not on your deathbed. And you wouldn’t rob me of my one joy in life. It’s bad enough you prevent me from having a dog or a cat to ease my loneliness. But to threaten me with losing Cossack—”
“Loneliness?” he wheezed. “Bah. What’s that compared to my health and the health of your poor dear mama? You can’t comprehend what we suffer.”
She didn’t wish to argue with him. Certainly not this ancient argument, one that had first arisen when she was in leading strings. From childhood, she’d loved animals. The fact that her parents had forbidden them was a source of lingering bitterness to her.
“If you attended to your duty, you’d have no time to be lonely,” Papa went on. “Your mother and I require looking after. What else is a daughter for?” At that, he fell into a coughing fit, the violent hacking muffling the long-standing lament with which he closed most of his complaints: “Would that I’d had a son!”