Romney Marsh Trilogy: A Gentleman by Any Other Name / The Dangerous Debutante / Beware of Virtuous Women. Kasey Michaels

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      “Shut up, Morgan,” Spencer ordered in the way brothers speak to annoying sisters as he retrieved his sling and tossed it to the floor. Then he turned to place a kiss on Julia’s cheek. “Morgan’s right, though. That was brilliant, and I was an idiot. I should have known Chance wouldn’t let his heart cloud his judgment.”

      Now it was Julia’s turn to go pale, a moment before she felt color running into her cheeks. “Yes…thank you, Spence.”

      Alice tugged on her sleeve. “Are you sure you aren’t hurt, Julia?”

      “Positive, darling,” she said, hugging the girl close as she looked at Eleanor, who had yet to say anything.

      Eleanor just looked at her, as Julia held her breath, then nodded in that ladylike, regal way of hers and went back to her soup.

      Julia exhaled and picked up her own spoon.

      “Spence?”

      “No more, Morgan,” he growled.

      “Very well then, suit yourself. See if I care a snap if you bleed to death.”

      Spencer looked at his left sleeve and uttered a soft curse. Clearly his violent show of no longer needing his sling had reopened his wound.

      “If you’ll allow me to be excused, Elly?” he said, getting to his feet to bow to Eleanor. Julia could now see both the dark wet patch on his sleeve and the trickle of fresh red blood running down over the back of his hand.

      Spencer made it halfway out of the dining room before slowly crumpling to the carpet in a faint.

      And that fairly well put paid to the Becket’s evening meal.

      THE NEXT MORNING Julia and Morgan donned heavier capes, as the weather had turned damp and misty, and made their way along the shoreline to the village, Chance’s ring tucked up in Julia’s pocket.

      “Do you know how Spencer is this morning?”

      “Spence is fine. Odette took care of him, but she was angry. Couldn’t even remember her English, but just kept railing at him in that mix of French and whatever it is she speaks when she’s upset.”

      Julia shivered. “I don’t think I’d like to be on the receiving end of Odette’s anger. But Spencer really worried me last night.”

      “Spence is much too headstrong,” Morgan said dismissingly, neatly hopping from the shale and sand up onto the wooden flagway that was wide enough for she and Julia to walk side by side. “Hot-blooded. Always wanting to play the hero. Papa should simply buy him a commission and let him trot off to war. It’s all Spence wants. All Rian wants, too. They’re both terrified the war will be over before they can get there.”

      “And this worries you?” Julia asked, carefully picking her way on the wet, slippery flagway.

      “No. Not a bit. A person should do what a person wants to do. And it’s even worse for us women.” She stopped, turned to smile at Julia, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Don’t you ever wish to just do something? Forget about your skirts and your fragile nature and just do something? Be somebody?”

      Julia frowned, truly not understanding whatever it was Morgan was trying to say. “I am somebody, Morgan, and so are you. And Mr. Becket is wonderfully lenient. You won’t find such freedom of behavior in London.”

      “Then that’s decided. I won’t go. You tell Chance for me, would you? Tell him I most humbly decline his kind invitation—or something of that sort.”

      “Chance invited you to come to London for a season?”

      “Uh-huh, but I won’t go now, not if there are going to be a multitude of rules Chance would expect me to obey, because we’d both end up being very disappointed,” Morgan said, turning to peer into the small, dusty shop window. “Oh, Ollie’s waving me in. I suppose the leather has arrived for my new riding boots. Italian leather, you know. The very finest.”

      “But aren’t we—never mind,” Julia said, smiling at her own naiveté. From Florence to Spain to the French coast to Romney Marsh. “Shall we go inside?”

      “No, no, I’ll take forever. Ollie insists on new measurements each time.” Morgan leaned closer. “I think he likes holding my feet and looking at my legs, but he’s an old man now, and I don’t see the harm, do you? I giggle and tell him my feet are ticklish, and he smiles and blushes.”

      “You’re incorrigible, you know,” Julia told her. “And I think I like you very much. Where is the blacksmith located?”

      “At the end of the village and then another few steps along, in case the forge catches fire. I’ll join you when I’m done or you can just walk back here, if you don’t mind? Waylon’s probably waiting for you.”

      “Will I have to giggle as I let him hold my hand to measure my finger?”

      “Only if you want his wife to take a pitchfork to you,” Morgan said, winking, and Julia headed toward the blacksmith shop, now able to see the smoke rising from the forge.

      She couldn’t help but notice people stopping, staring at her, so she lifted her chin and smiled, nodded to the ladies and kept moving, her pace increasing as she passed by the larger building displaying a burned-wood overhead sign, Last Voyage.

      By the time she reached the smithy, Julia wondered if she had grown a second head, for all the curious looks she was getting, which possibly explained why she hadn’t noticed she was being followed.

      She’d pulled open one of the remarkably heavy doors and taken no more than two steps into the dark, overheated shop smelling of hot iron, where a leather-aproned man the size of a door himself yelled at the young boy working the bellows on a nearly white-hot fire, when a voice behind her said, “Guard the door, Gautier.”

      Julia instantly froze in place, then turned about to see Jacko. Looming over her, smiling that delighted, deadly smile. Just the sort of smile Julia imagined the devil wearing as he welcomed newcomers to hell.

      “Good morrow, Miss Carruthers,” he said, gifting her with a rather insolent salute. “Gautier? I said, guard the door.”

      “Oui, Jacko.”

      Julia stepped back several paces, then peered around Jacko’s heavy-shouldered bulk to see a small man in a tight-fitting red-and-white-striped seaman’s jersey and rather ragged, definitely baggy drawers. Gautier smiled at her.

      “From the outside, Gautier,” Jacko said, still smiling at Julia, and the little Frenchman hit the palm of his hand against the side of his head, said, “Mon Dieu, naturellement. Pardon,” and scrambled through the doorway, closing the door behind him.

      Silly as all this melodrama seemed to her, Julia was becoming rather uneasy. “Precisely what do you think you’re doing, Jacko?”

      “I think that’s obvious, don’t you?” He turned and lowered the bar onto the hooks attached to the door, then called out, “Waylon! Take the boy and leave. Use the back door.”

      Waylon, who was possibly СКАЧАТЬ