Wayward Widow

The dining-room door closed behind her and Juliana could hear the roar of conversation swell to a new, excited level as everyone started to pick over her latest, outrageous exploit. A little smile curved her lips. That would give them something to talk about in the clubs! No matter how tasteful the wedding on the morrow, Brookes’s marriage would be remembered for the disgraceful exploits the night before. Once again, society matrons would exclaim over the shocking behaviour of Lady Juliana Myfleet, the Marquis of Tallant’s daughter, who had once been one of their own and had fallen from grace so spectacularly.

‘This way, my lady.’ The maid was gesturing her towards the curved staircase. She was very young and she looked plain. Juliana reflected that Emma always chose plain maids, being unable to stand any competition. The girl ushered Juliana through a doorway on the landing and into the room that Juliana had used earlier when she changed out of her clothes. Another door led into a smaller room, where another maid was pouring steaming water into the bathtub. She looked up as Juliana came in and her perspiring face flushed a deeper red. She emptied her jug of water, dropped Juliana a flustered curtsy and fled, as though just being in the same room as the ton’s most wicked widow might put her in danger.

Juliana turned her bewitching smile on the first girl, slipped off her wrap, bent to remove the garter from her leg and stepped into the water.

‘Thank you. You may leave me now.’

The maid gave her a tight-lipped smile in return and took the soiled robe in her hand. She too dropped a curtsy, disapproving and not over-awed, and left the room. Juliana laughed.

The icing sugar was turning sticky in the water and Juliana reached for the long, wooden-handled brush to give her skin a good scrub. She preferred to do it for herself. The thought of some ham-fisted maid attacking her tender flesh made her wince. The remains of the cream were floating on the top of the water like some unpleasant scum and there was a sliver of apple swirling around in the brew. Juliana grimaced. The after-effects of her outrageous behaviour were proving a deal less pleasant than the trick itself. At this rate she would require a second bath to wash away the residue of the first.

She lay back and closed her eyes, recapturing the moment when the footmen had whipped the lid off the silver salver and exposed her in all her glory. To cause such an uproar had been such fun. The women had looked furious and the men had looked like little boys in a sweetshop. Juliana smiled with satisfaction. It was so very pleasant to be able to arouse such emotions. Admiration, desire…and contempt.

She sat up abruptly, remembering the expression on the face of the fair-haired stranger.

‘I thank you, ma’am, but I have never liked dessert.’

Infernal impudence! How dared he be so disdainful? It had only been a joke. And what was such a puritan doing at one of Emma’s debauched suppers anyway? Perhaps he had been looking for a church meeting and had taken the wrong turning.

For a moment Juliana remembered the look in the man’s blue eyes and felt disturbed all over again. She had been so certain that she knew him, with a bone deep recognition that she had never felt before. Yet it seemed that she was wrong.

She stood up, slopping water over the side of the bath on to the floor, and reached for the towel. The diamond tiara snagged on the material as she drew it about her shoulders and with a quick impatient movement Juliana pulled it from her hair and cast it on the dressing table. Suddenly she was anxious to be gone. She padded across the bedroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the carpet. Her clothes were all laid out on the bed. She need only ring the bell to summon the disapproving little maid to help her dress, but she did not want to wait. She had left Hattie, her own maid, at home in Portman Square. Hattie invariably disapproved too, to the point where Juliana’s friends enquired why she did not find herself a new maid rather than tolerate Hattie’s censure. Juliana never answered. The truth was that she rather liked having a strict maid. It made up in part for the mother she could not remember.

On impulse Juliana started to dress herself, getting into a tangle as she tried to fasten her silk stockings to her garters, casting her stays aside and slipping into her chemise. The evening dress she had chosen was deceptively simple, a wrap of aquamarine gauze. Even so, she found it surprisingly difficult to fasten it without help. The diaphanous material was intended to cling and drape seductively and it was almost transparent. Juliana frowned at her reflection. The dress was gaping inelegantly like that of a blowsy, drunken trollop and looked not so much seductive as ridiculous. Clearly there was more to this business of dressing oneself than met the eye. She would not try it again. She could not bear to look unkempt.

She sat down at the dressing table and studied her reflection. She had not the first idea of what to do with her hair, which, now that the tiara was removed, tumbled down her back in auburn profusion. To have her hair loose about her face softened the breathtaking angles of her cheekbones and made her look younger. The sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose only added to the youthful impression. Those freckles had withstood years of forceful scrubbing and all her attempts at removal with Dr Jinks’s Lemon Ointment. Juliana leaned closer. There was a hint of vulnerability in her eyes that she did not wish to acknowledge. It made her feel strange, just as she had when the unknown man had looked at her.

The door opened and Emma Wren rustled in. Juliana could immediately tell that Emma was a little the worse for drink. Her colour was high, the rouge on her cheeks smeared, and her hairpiece slightly askew.

‘Juliana, my dear!’ Emma was high with excitement. ‘You were utterly magnificent! Why, the gentlemen can talk of little else! They are all waiting for you, my dear. Are you ready to go down?’

Juliana turned back to the mirror. She was aware of making excuses. ‘Not quite. I need some help with my gown and my hair.’

Emma tutted. ‘You should have called my maid. Dessie will fix it in a trice. Although…’ she stood back and considered Juliana’s appearance ‘…you do look quite charmingly rumpled and wanton like that, my dear. I am sure the gentlemen will appreciate it. Tumbled curls are quite the thing, you know, and make you look so young and innocent.’ She gave a peal of laughter. ‘You will quite sweep them away!’

Not for the first time, Juliana reflected that Emma was wasted as the wife of a junior government minister and would have been most successful as the madam of a bawdy house. There was, in fact, very little difference between Mrs Wren’s elegantly appointed town house and a Covent Garden bordello. Or a rookery in a less salubrious part of Town, for that matter. Juliana turned her shoulder. She might connive at some of Emma’s more outrageous games for her own amusement, but she had no intention of playing to someone else’s rules. The trick played on Brookes had alleviated her boredom for at least an hour, but now she did not propose to go downstairs and act the harlot.

‘Sir Jasper Colling is asking for you,’ Emma said meaningfully, putting her painted face close to Juliana’s, so that Juliana could smell the stale wine on her breath. ‘And Simon Armitage. He is a sweet boy, Ju—and so very young and eager. Think what fun it might be to initiate him…’

Juliana felt a wave of repulsion. There was something sweet about Simon Armitage’s untried adoration and it would be a gross betrayal to take that adoration and use it for her own gratification. She was hardly so steeped in dissipation, whatever the gossips might say. She was determined to refuse Emma’s blandishments, but before she disappointed her hostess’s expectations and drew her ire, there was something that she wanted to know. She tried to make her voice sound casual.

‘That gentleman, Emma—the one who looks like a rake but behaves like a priest—who is he?’

Emma’s expression cleared. ‘Oh, I see! You prefer someone new! There is nothing so intriguing as a stranger, is there, my dear?’ She frowned. ‘A few hours ago I should have said that you could not have chosen better, but now I am not so sure…’ She flung herself down on the end of the bed. ‘That is Martin Davencourt. One of the Somersetshire Davencourts, you know. No title, but rich as Croesus and connected to half the families in the land. He is back in London following the death of his father last year.’

‘Davencourt,’ Juliana repeated. The name rang a very faint bell, but the memory escaped her.

Emma’s voice had taken on a petulant note. ‘Yes, Martin Davencourt. I was told that he was amusing—indeed, he should be amusing, for he has knocked about the capitals of Europe for several years.’ Juliana, watching in the mirror, saw her pull a face. ‘I invited him because I thought he would be fun, but he seems the most prosy bore. Perhaps it is because he wants to be a Member of Parliament now and seems to take himself so seriously. Some MPs do, you know. Or perhaps it is having those seven tiresome half-brothers and half-sisters to care for. Whatever the case, he declines to enter into the spirit of things tonight, but perhaps you could change his mind for him.’

‘Martin Davencourt…’ Juliana frowned. ‘The name is familiar, but I do not believe we have met. I am sure I would have remembered him. I could almost swear that we had met, yet I cannot think when…’

Emma arched a knowing eyebrow. ‘I believe his diplomatic work has kept him out of the country for a good while. Still, even if you do not really know him, you can always pretend. Come downstairs and persuade him to renew old acquaintance, Ju.’

Juliana hesitated, then shook her head. She stood up, scooping her cloak from the bed where it rested beside Mrs Wren’s elaborate coiffure.

‘I do not think so, Emma. Mr Davencourt is proof against my charms. And I fear I must decline your offer of entertainment tonight. I have the headache and think I will have an early night.’

Emma sprang to her feet, looking affronted.

‘But, Juliana, the gentlemen are waiting. They are all expecting you! I promised them—’

‘What?’ Juliana stared. There had been a note of panic in Emma Wren’s voice and with a sudden insight she realised what had happened. She had been promised as part of the entertainment—not simply offered on a tray, as it were, but to be thrown to the guests afterwards at the orgy, along with the Haymarket ware that Emma had imported for the occasion. The thought made her furious. Emma knew perfectly well that Juliana might indulge in risqué tricks to entertain herself and her friends, but to promise her services to the guests was another matter.

‘I am not going downstairs to play the Cyprian for Simon Armitage, Jasper Colling or indeed anyone else,’ she said, as calmly as she could. ‘I am tired and I wish to go home.’

Mrs Wren’s painted mouth thinned to an obstinate line. There was a knowledge in her eyes that was as old as the hills and it made Juliana, for all her experience, feel very naïve.

‘I fail to see why titillating their appetites by appearing naked on a tray is more acceptable than spending a little time with my gentleman—’

‘It is not merely my time you wish me to give,’ Juliana said stiffly. She could feel her colour mounting as she stared at Emma’s contemptuous face. She knew there was an element of truth in her erstwhile friend’s assertion. She had deliberately set out to shock and provoke and now she wanted to retreat from the consequences of her actions. She took a breath.

‘I agreed to play the trick on Brookes because it was fun, a joke to tease and shock your guests! Anything else is out of the question.’

Emma made a noise of disgust. ‘At least the lightskirts are honest in what they do!’

Juliana flushed. ‘They are doing their job. As for me, I have no taste for masculine company tonight.’

‘You seldom do.’ Emma’s eyes had narrowed to a glare. ‘You think that I have not observed that? How you flirt and flaunt and tease, yet never deliver on what you promise? I do believe, my dear—’ she thrust her face in Juliana’s, reaching up, for she did not have Juliana’s height ‘—that your reputation for wickedness is nothing but a sham!’

Juliana laughed. It was best to ignore Emma when she was in her cups, for if she answered in kind their friendship would be lost. Juliana needed that friendship.

‘And I believe that you are a little castaway, Emma. Perhaps you should return to your guests. I will see you tomorrow at the wedding.’

‘I’ll see you in hell!’ Emma shrieked, picking the silver-backed hairbrush from the dressing table and throwing it inaccurately at Juliana’s departing back. ‘You’re nothing but a milk-and-water miss who hasn’t the stomach for the games you play. Run away, little girl! I’ll never forgive you for spoiling my party.’

‘You will forgive me soon enough when you want to take money off me at whist,’ Juliana said coldly.

She hurried down the curving staircase. Behind her she could hear the crash of objects bouncing off the walls as Emma devastated the bedroom. She had always known that Emma had a bad temper, had seen it turned against luckless servants and shopkeepers, but it had never been directed at her before. For a second, the image of her father rose before her. She could well imagine his disapproving expression, his cold, cutting words: ‘You count this woman your friend, Juliana? An ill-bred fishwife who has neither taste nor quality? Upon my word, how did you come to this?’

Juliana shivered violently. It was no secret that the Marquis of Tallant disapproved heartily of his only daughter—no secret that he doubted she was actually his child and deplored the fact that she had apparently followed in her mother’s immoral footsteps. Whilst he sat in cold judgement in his house at Ashby Tallant, Juliana ran riot in town, playing for high stakes and keeping low company. Since her brother Joss’s marriage two years before, she had inherited the mantle of family black sheep and had played up to it with a vengeance.

The entrance hall was in darkness but for one tall stand of candles by the front door. From the dining room came the sounds of masculine laughter, the tinkle of music and roars of encouragement. Evidently one of the Cyprians—or perhaps one of Emma’s guests—was performing the dance of the seven veils. Juliana reflected that the party was progressing well without either its hostess or herself to add to the entertainment.

She espied a footman standing like a sentinel by one of the pillars and beckoned him over. She wondered if it was one of the men who had carried her into the dining room earlier. Certainly he was avoiding her eyes, as though he had not quite recovered from gazing at other parts of her anatomy.

‘Summon my carriage, if you please,’ Juliana said imperiously. It would do no harm to show some authority.

‘Certainly, my lady.’ The man shot away like a scalded cat and Juliana turned towards the door. Her coachman knew better than to keep her waiting. In a few minutes she would be free of this house and an evening turned sour. All the fun that she had derived from the trick on Brookes had evaporated with Emma’s tantrum. Juliana sighed. She should have known better, known that her friend’s licentiousness went far beyond the playing of a simple joke, known that there would have been another side to the evening.

She had reached the steps up to the main entrance and was looking around for the butler to open the door for her when a man stepped from the candlelit shadows.

‘Running away, Lady Juliana? Are you not intending to finish what you started?’

The deep voice made Juliana jump. She had not seen the figure until the last minute and his sudden appearance had startled her. He was dressed for the outdoors and was drawing on his gloves, and now he gave her a glimmer of a smile that for some strange reason set her pulse awry. Juliana recognised Martin Davencourt and felt an unfamiliar lack of self-assurance. He was watching her steadily and there was something in his gaze that made her feel vulnerable. Something about this man made her sophistication feel parchment thin. Juliana would have said that her brother Joss was the only one who knew her well, was the only one who was allowed close to her, yet she had the strangest feeling that Martin Davencourt’s searching blue gaze saw far more than she wanted him to see. She raised her chin, instinctively on the defensive.

‘I am going home.’ She allowed her gaze to scan him from head to foot. ‘It seems that the entertainment is not to your taste either, Mr Davencourt.’

‘Indeed, it is not.’ There was a note of grim amusement in Martin Davencourt’s voice. ‘I am cousin to Eustacia Havard, Lady Juliana—the lady who is marrying Lord Andrew tomorrow. I had not realised that this was his…’ he paused, finishing ironically ‘…his bachelor swansong, I suppose it could be called.’

Juliana smiled sweetly. Cold disapproval was something that she could easily deal with. She had encountered it often enough.

‘I see that you do not approve of our little entertainments, Mr Davencourt,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you should try Almack’s, or the débutante balls in future. I hear that they even serve lemonade there. That might be more to your taste if this is too stimulating for you.’

‘Perhaps I shall take your advice,’ Martin Davencourt said slowly. He was watching her thoughtfully and now he gestured towards the closed door of the dining room. ‘I am surprised to see you leave so prematurely, Lady Juliana. The party is only just starting, and after your performance earlier I would have thought that you had plenty to contribute to the rest of the evening.’

Juliana laughed. No matter how dull Martin Davencourt’s tastes, his wit was still sharp. She was enjoying crossing swords with such a man.

‘I apologise for confounding your expectations, Mr Davencourt,’ she said. ‘Emma’s entertainments are not to my taste tonight.’ She narrowed her gaze on him thoughtfully. ‘Though if you were inclined to join me I might be persuaded to change my mind.’

Martin Davencourt gave her a smile—and a look from those sleepy dark blue eyes that made her feel hot and very bothered. He spoke gently.

‘Are you always this persistent, Lady Juliana? I would have thought that one refusal would be enough for you.’

Juliana raised a haughty brow. ‘I am not accustomed to rejection.’

‘Ah. Well, it happens to us all at some point.’ Martin Davencourt gave her a rueful smile. ‘Accept it.’

Juliana felt a hot rush of annoyance, mainly with herself for inviting a rebuff a second time. It had been her pride that had spoken—she had wanted Martin Davencourt to regret his previous indifference towards her. She had wanted him to want her, and then she could have played her usual game, leading him on a little but not too much, his admiration balm to her soul. She had played the game so often, first encouraging a suitor and then dropping him before his attentions became too pressing. She was an expert at the art. Except that Martin Davencourt did not want to play her games…

Juliana ran her fingers over the wooden edge of the doorframe and looked at him thoughtfully from under her lashes. He gave her back look for look, direct and clear. Juliana thought she could distinguish a flicker of cool amusement in that blue gaze.

‘I had heard that you were a man of experience, Mr Davencourt,’ she said coldly, ‘yet you behave more like an Evangelical. You are sadly out of place in this house.’

She saw him frown and felt a skip of excitement, like a naughty child provoking the adults. She imagined that it might be exciting to provoke Martin Davencourt and to see how deep that calm self-control actually went. Or perhaps not. There was something about him that suggested it might actually be rather dangerous to push him too far.

He smiled at her gently. ‘I realise that I am in the wrong place,’ he said, ‘but perhaps you are, too. Take my advice, Lady Juliana, and cut loose of all this. Everyone has to grow up some time. Even a lady rakehell, such as you profess to be.’

Juliana laughed. ‘Is that what you think me? That I am a rake?’

‘The role is not necessarily confined to the male of the species. Is it not the reputation that you cultivate?’

Juliana shrugged. ‘Reputations may be exaggerated.’

Martin Davencourt inclined his head. ‘True. They may also be encouraged.’

A crash from upstairs made both of them jump. Emma Wren’s voice rose to a crescendo. The door to the servants’ quarters thudded open and a couple of frightened-looking maids scurried up the stairs.

‘Time to leave,’ Juliana said. ‘I fear that Emma is cross with me tonight. A refusal to join in the game so often offends, does it not?’ She smiled. ‘But I do not need to tell you that, do I, Mr Davencourt? You strike me as a man quite happy to cause offence by refusing to conform.’

‘I play by my own rules,’ Martin Davencourt said. ‘One cannot allow someone else to dictate the game.’ He threw her an appraising glance. ‘In that sense I do believe we are two of a kind, Lady Juliana.’

Juliana laughed. ‘If that is so, then I think it must be the only thing we have in common, sir.’

Martin Davencourt tilted his head enquiringly. ‘Are you sure of that?’

Juliana raised her brows. ‘How could it be otherwise? You are staid and orthodox and ever so slightly shocked at the company you find yourself in.’

Martin laughed. ‘You have divined a great deal about me in a short acquaintance.’

Juliana shrugged. ‘I can read a man at thirty paces.’

‘I see. And yourself? You were about to make some observation about your own character, I infer.’

‘Oh, well, I am unorthodox and rebellious and—’

‘Wild?’ There was an ironic inflection in Martin Davencourt’s voice, as if such qualities were scarcely admirable. Juliana shrugged carelessly.

‘We are chalk and cheese, Mr Davencourt. No, on second thoughts, not. Cheese can be quite delicious. Wine and water? You remind me of flat champagne. So much potential wasted.’

She heard Martin take a careful breath. She could not see him clearly but she could hear the repressed amusement in his voice.

‘Lady Juliana, are you always so rude to chance acquaintances?’

‘Invariably,’ Juliana said. ‘But this is nothing to how I can be, I assure you. I am being nice to you.’

‘I believe you.’ Martin’s tone changed. ‘You should think twice before you indulge in these games, Lady Juliana. One day you will take on more than you can deal with.’

There was a pause.

‘I do not think so,’ Juliana said coldly. ‘I can take care of myself.’

She saw a smile touch the corner of Martin Davencourt’s mouth. His gaze swept over her slowly, thoughtfully, from head to toe. It lingered on the tumbled auburn curls that framed her face and on the freckles across the bridge of her nose. It considered the curve of her waist and the dainty slippers that peeped from under the hem of her gown. He did not make any move towards her and yet Juliana felt strangely vulnerable. A deep, disturbing sense of awareness swept over her, leaving her breathless. She wrapped the cloak closer about her, her fingers clenching at her neck in an attempt to conceal the flimsy aquamarine dress. Ridiculous, when Martin Davencourt and many others had seen her stark naked only an hour before, and yet she suddenly had an intense desire to shroud herself in as many layers as possible.

‘Are you sure?’ Martin Davencourt spoke softly and his searching blue gaze held hers relentlessly. ‘Are you sure you can take care of yourself?’

Juliana cleared her throat, her fingers tightening unconsciously on the cloak. ‘Of course I am sure! I live alone and do as I please, and have been doing so since I was three and twenty.’

Martin Davencourt straightened up. He was smiling. ‘That sounds like a mantra, Lady Juliana. The sort of thing that if you repeat it often enough you start to believe it. So if it is true that you are a…hardened lady rakehell, it is strange that on occasion you should look like a frightened schoolgirl.’