Smuggler's Moon Page 4

  “Whatever for?” Julia wondered. Turning, she gasped aloud at the sight of Lord Sebastian Trevarre leaning against the mantelpiece with a glass of sherry in his elegantly masculine hand.

  He sketched a bow. “We meet again, Miss Faircloth.”

  Chapter 5

  Before Julia could speak, Mr. Bradstreet blessedly intervened.

  “Ah, I see that you two have been previously introduced, which of course should not surprise me! Miss Faircloth, I do not need to tell you that Lord Sebastian is a most original man. Perhaps you already know that he has just resigned his commission after several years as an officer in the Royal Navy?”

  “Fascinating,” Julia murmured. As she untied the gray silk ribbons of her bonnet, she felt a disquieting pang of curiosity. Truly, there was more to his lordship than met the eye. “Is he here to converse with you about his adventures fighting the French?”

  Sebastian brought her a small glass of sherry and took the chair beside hers. “No, Miss Faircloth. Do you mind if I listen to the reading of your father’s will?”

  “Do I have a choice?” Sensing danger from the powerful, sardonic man seated next to her, she flushed.

  “Not really,” Bradstreet murmured.

  “I suppose I must agree, then.” She found that she really did not want to know why Sebastian was there. She put her glass of sherry in his dark hand. “I do not care for sherry at this hour of the morning, thank you. You may have both glasses, my lord.”

  He smiled and set it on the desk. “I would remark upon the subtlety of your humor, but that would be inappropriate, given the circumstances. Rather, allow me to offer my condolences. I was saddened to hear of your father’s untimely death.”

  Something in his voice caused her to look at him closely. She almost believed that he meant it. “Thank you. Mr. Bradstreet, may we proceed?”

  “I should take your bonnet and pelisse, shouldn’t I.” Bradstreet stood by awkwardly while she handed them to him, then returned to the safety of his desk to read Graeme Faircloth’s will aloud in a numbing monotone. At the end, he looked up, blinked, and said, “There it is. All goes to young Frederick, of course, but since he is only twelve years of age, the situation will remain as it now exists. You and Mrs. Faircloth will continue to manage Turbans until Freddy attains his majority.”

  Feeling teary, Julia murmured, “Thank God for Turbans! What would become of us if Papa had not inherited from Cousin Archibald?”

  “Doubtless your father would still be laboring happily in his London bookshop,” Sebastian suggested.

  She stared at him. “My lord, I was trying to say that my family’s love for Turbans is the one bright spot in our lives today. We are fortunate to have the comfort of a wonderful home, and a secure income—”

  “Well,” Mr. Bradstreet interjected, “there isn’t quite the sum of money that was in place when Mr. Faircloth’s cousin died. There have been some recent—” he cleared his throat and glanced at Sebastian “—financial obligations that have…eroded the total…”

  Julia began to feel decidedly embarrassed about revealing even more of their private shame to this virtual stranger. “We needn’t delve into all that now. I must go.”

  When she began to rise, Sebastian put out a hand. “Please, sit down. I am here specifically because of your father’s will.” He paused, looked away for a long moment, and gave a harsh sigh. “I regret being the bearer of bad tidings, but I have come as a result of actions taken by your father during a recent game of piquet. I made every effort to dissuade him from betting against me; I repeatedly invited him to leave the table while his losses were still manageable, but he insisted.”

  “Insisted?” Julia repeated icily. “Insisted on doing what, my lord?” Across from them, William Bradstreet had begun to suck on his dead pipe as if he were struggling for breath.

  Sebastian reached for the extra glass of sherry she had passed to him, and drank it down. “Your father insisted on making a desperate last bet, in an effort to recoup all that he had already lost. As a result…” From his coat pocket, he withdrew a stack of notes that bore Faircloth’s familiar handwriting, and gave them to the solicitor.

  Mr. Bradstreet peered at them through smudged spectacles, growing paler by the moment. When he reached the last note, he gasped aloud. “Great God, this cannot be true! Miss Faircloth, I was already aware that your father had lost a large sum of money to Lord Sebastian. But I see here that…Mr. Faircloth lost Turbans, as well!”

  Julia felt as if she’d been slapped with such force that the room began to spin. She sat back in her chair, clenching her fists until her bearings returned, then turned on her enemy. “This is outrageous! How—how can you consider collecting such a despicable debt from the grieving family of a dead man? Have you no heart at all, sir?”

  “I am not certain I take your point.” A muscle moved in his jaw. “Do you mean to imply that I am to blame for your father’s debt?”

  She struggled to calm herself, to think of a way to outmaneuver this wily fox, this cunning rat, this bunny-snatching stoat in rake’s clothing! For her family’s sake, she would try to appeal to his protective male instincts. All men had them, didn’t they? Even wicked libertines?

  “Do I blame you, my lord? Of course not. But, I am befuddled. Do you really mean to come here at this lowest ebb in my family’s life, when we have lost our patriarch, and claim Turbans—our home?” Julia wanted to squeeze out a tear for effect, but her pride interfered. “Perhaps, in my grief, I have misunderstood your intentions.”

  His face was impassive. “Not at all. I might add that I am very sorry for your father’s actions, and sorry for your family’s resulting plight. However, I also strongly suspect that Mr. Faircloth meant to die, hoping that I would forget our card game, forget that I warned him against such stakes, forget that he insisted we continue the game and abide by the outcome!” Sebastian paused, eyes blazing. “Miss Faircloth, you are mistaken if you believe that I am responsible for the loss of your home and your income.”

  Before Julia could obey the impulse to strike him, William Bradstreet came around the desk. He poured a fresh glass of sherry for her, then leveled a cold stare at Sebastian.

  “I suggest that you take your leave, my lord. If you insist on pursuing this matter, I will meet with you privately, at a later date.”

  “As you wish.” Sebastian stood, towering over Julia. “I will go, but I must inform Miss Faircloth that she has not seen the last of me. Far from it.”

  “Of course, my lord,” she rejoined tartly. “No doubt you are eager to turn my grieving family out of our home!”

  * * *

  “I am excessively grateful to you for coming with me to the Pump Room so that I can see Charles,” Sarah said as she and Julia traversed the enclosed cobbled courtyard known as Abbey Churchyard. “He’s written a poem for me about grief, and in his note insisted that he give it to me personally.”

  “I am glad to do a good deed,” Julia assured her. “And I don’t see that it should damage our reputations if we’re seen taking the waters so soon after Papa’s death. The Pump Room, after all, is hardly a den of sin. Are we to lock ourselves in at Turbans?” She lowered her voice as a passing nobleman glanced toward them. “What would that serve? It won’t keep Lord Sebastian Trevarre from snatching it away from us!”

  Sarah paled. “I still cannot believe that it’s true…that Papa could have lost our home and our livelihood in a silly game of piquet!”

  “Papa didn’t lose it so much as Lord Satan stole it away from him. What chance did dear Papa have against such a villain?”

  “Is his lordship really so wicked?” Sarah shuddered. “There must be some remedy we can employ against him!”

  “Believe me,” Julia said grimly, “I am wracking my brain to think of one, and I shall.”

  There were sedan chairs, with and without roofs, lined up outside the Pump Room. Nearby, the burly chairmen dozed in the sunshine, waiting to be hired by invalids who were
either drinking the waters or soaking in the King’s Baths.

  The sisters entered the Pump Room to the strains of music spilling from a balcony in the middle of the grand interior. Julia led the way to the counter, where people were purchasing glasses of water from the pumper.

  “I have heard that it tastes like warm old eggs,” whispered Sarah. “Can it really be so good for us?”

  “I doubt it,” Julia allowed. “But at least we are having a bit of diversion from our predicament at Turbans.”

  Armed with their glasses of hot water, they shared dubious glances before joining the other visitors who were pacing up and down the room, socializing as they drank their potions. Gouty old men in chairs watched from the fringes of the crowd.

  Soon, nosy dowagers began to stop the Faircloth sisters and offer their condolences.

  “Such a pity about your father,” murmured the Countess of Bunthaven. “I suppose he simply wasn’t able to cope with the change in his circumstances, hmm?” Peering at Julia through her quizzing-glass, she scolded, “Dear child, you must drink your water! It’s best to take it while it’s as hot as possible.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” She took hold of Sarah’s arm and led her away. “I see Mr. Whimple in the doorway. Why don’t you go and have a word with him in private, and then I’ll come along to get you in a few minutes.”

  They set down their glasses, tipped the pumper, and Sarah hurried through the main doorway that opened onto York Street. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes sparkled as she approached a thin young man with haunted eyes. Charles Whimple’s entire expression was transformed to one of adoration when he caught sight of his lady-love.

  Julia, meanwhile, moved along the fringes of the crowd in an effort to avoid any more elderly acquaintances. She just couldn’t bear to hear another piece of well-meaning advice.

  Musicians struck up a Haydn concerto in the balcony overhead. Spying another dowager, she ducked behind a conveniently placed column, only to bump against another person who was already standing there.

  “Ah, Miss Faircloth. Were you looking for me?”

  The familiar masculine voice sent a chill down her spine. “Lord Sebastian!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing lurking about here?”

  “Hiding from inquisitive dowagers, the same as you. If you call that ‘lurking,’ then I’m in good company.” He lifted both brows with a knowing smile. “I’m rather surprised to see you out in society so soon.”

  “I accompanied my sister on an errand of some urgency.”

  “I see. Is that she with that very earnest-looking dark-eyed fellow?”

  Julia nodded, flushing slightly under his interested regard. “Mr. Whimple writes poetry.”

  “I’m sure he must be very gifted. Miss Faircloth, you must think that I am a villain, and perhaps I am. However, I would like to meet your family and see Turbans for myself. Will you allow me to visit on Thursday next?”

  She found herself staring at the angles of his tanned face. He really was a dangerously attractive man, and the instinctive response she felt in his presence made her like him even less. “Since Mr. Bradstreet confirms that Turbans is actually your house now, I suppose that we must receive you whenever you choose to visit, my lord.”

  “Shall we say four o’clock?”

  Nodding as he sketched a bow, Julia bade him goodbye and went off to fetch her sister, seething with impotent frustration.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Whimple, but we must take our leave,” she told the poet, who was still holding his latest effort in one thin hand.

  Sarah looked dreamy as Julia took her arm and they set off, nearly colliding outside with one of the new Bath chairs that were replacing sedan chairs in fine weather. The contraption, invented to cater to the city’s large population of gouty old men and dowagers, was propelled along on three wheels.

  “Look out, ye foolish lassies!” shouted the elderly occupant. He shook his cane at them as they stood aside to make way for the chair, its wheels rumbling on the cobbles.

  “Perhaps Turbans was not so dull after all,” said Julia.

  “I am ready to go home,” her sister agreed.

  “Yes. I shall have to round up the house maids and begin dusting.” She sighed and tears threatened. “On Thursday next, Lord Satan will arrive to inspect his winnings!”

  Chapter 6

  “I have it all planned,” Freddy announced darkly. “I’m going to smile and offer Lord Satan sugar for his tea, but I’ll have soaked his sugar lump in arsenic.”

  “Frederick Faircloth!” Sarah gasped. “Where do you get such ideas?”

  “From my books. And Shakespeare plays. Don’t you approve of Shakespeare?”

  “Thank heaven Mama can’t hear you. This is one time I’m grateful that she’s still in her room.”

  Julia, who was lying on a chaise in the sunlit conservatory, couldn’t suppress her laughter any longer. “Don’t worry, Freddy, you won’t have to poison his lordship. I’ve been studying that creature and I think I have hit upon a method to make Lord Satan go away and leave us alone.”

  Sarah, who had been looking very pale, hurried to her sister’s side. “Oh, Julia, I knew that you would think of a plan. But, I do wish you hadn’t shared your naughty name for Lord Sebastian with Freddy. He’s bound to accidentally call him ‘Lord Satan’ to his face!”

  The clock in the entry hall struck four and the trio jumped a little in surprise. Freddy said, “Since Lord Satan’s due at this very moment, you’d better be quick with the plan, Jule. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to resort to the arsenic!”

  “I implore you to stop saying those things!” cried Sarah.

  “Calm down, both of you,” Julia soothed them. Sitting up, she straightened her shoulders. “His lordship doesn’t strike me as a punctual person. Now then, when he does deign to arrive, we must present a united front. Although it’s tempting to mount a counter-attack, that would only undermine our cause. There’s nothing for it but to arouse his sympathies.” Seeing the worried faces of her siblings, Julia didn’t add that she doubted whether Lord Satan even possessed sympathies. “We must grieve openly in his presence and allow him to see that we are crushed by Papa’s death and our own impending fate.”

  “I hear a carriage!” shouted Freddy. He went running from the conservatory.

  Sarah followed him, pausing only to remark to her sister, “His lordship would seem to be punctual after all.”

  Before Julia could even draw a breath, Freddy came dashing back through the entry hall, his brown eyes wide and his face flushed. “I saw him! I saw him climb down from the finest high-perch phaeton ever! There’s another fellow, but it’s easy enough to tell who’s the lordship. He’s wearing an excellent greatcoat and very tight pantaloons the color of champagne and one notices the intricacy of his cravat even from a distance, and his hair unpowdered, of course, and windblown!”

  “What does any of that signify if he is an evil villain?” asked Sarah. “Tell us, what sort of person does he appear to be?”

  “His lordship looks positively terrifying! He has the look of Ali Baba himself!”

  There was a knock at the door and Abby opened it and immediately the air inside the house changed, as if a storm had silently come in. The little maid crossed to the sitting room, followed by two male figures, and blushed while announcing, “Lord Sebastian Trevarre is here, accompanied by his manservant, Mr. Keswick.”

  Julia felt a shocking urge to look at herself in a mirror, to fix her hair properly and pinch her cheeks and smooth her muslin gown. Instead, she went to meet Lord Sebastian, smiling with all the humility she could feign. “We are honored to have you in our home…or, should I say your home? We hope you will forgive us if we need a bit of time to adjust to this turn of events.” She looked at Mr. Keswick, a thin, white-wigged fellow with dark brows that made peaks. “It’s very good to meet you, Mr. Keswick. I hope you will feel at ease in your employer’s new home.”

  He had the good grace to look abashed. “We
are honored to make the acquaintance of your family, Miss Faircloth. His lordship speaks of you only in tones of admiration.”

  Although momentarily perplexed by Keswick’s use of the plural “we,” Julia moved smoothly ahead with her plan and invited Lord Sebastian to accompany her on a tour of Turbans. “After all, that is the real reason for your visit today. We do not delude ourselves that you wanted to see us, my lord!” She paused, and her siblings joined in her polite laughter with its undercurrent of sadness.

  “Miss Faircloth, are you trying to tell me that you secretly hoped my motive for coming here was of a personal nature?” His eyes were agleam, like those of a cat who has quickly cornered his prey.

  She backed away. “You are wicked, my lord.”

  “Surely not wicked. Charming, I would hope.” Sebastian glanced over at Keswick, who was nodding in sober agreement, and flashed a smile. “I am ready for our tour if you are, Miss Faircloth.”

  Sarah and Freddy excused themselves to go outside, while Keswick picked up a volume of poetry and took a seat near the garden window. “We will be right here, waiting, my lord,” he said to Sebastian.

  As she showed his lordship around Turbans, Julia pointed out every nook and cranny that might appear unstable, or need repairing. “You’ll notice that Turbans has exquisitely decorated ceilings, even if they do show a great deal of peeling paint. No doubt it’s nothing to worry about, except after the winter rains. Although you might soon need to replace the roof, and perhaps a few of the intricately plastered walls, there are excellent craftsmen for hire here in Bath.”

  “How fortunate that the exterior is stone,” came his dry rejoinder. “It’s an extraordinary house; I think that its charming eccentricities more than make up for the defects you’ve pointed out so conscientiously.”

  She felt his eyes on her, but she wouldn’t meet them. Instead, Julia squeezed out a sigh. “I suppose you can afford to make all the necessary repairs.”

  “You might have as well if—” He broke off, as if suddenly remembering that her father was dead, and his character flaws were no longer fit topics for conversation. “I beg your pardon. I nearly misspoke.”