Page 47

For now, she closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.

But her heart would not quiet. Not with thoughts of the dashing gentleman who had so thoroughly unsettled it.

At the prearranged time from Lady Abbott’s letter, Julius unbolted the door to the alley and opened it just wide enough to admit two waiting grooms. They stepped in quickly, glancing up and down the passage behind them to ensure no curious eyes observed their arrival.

Without a word, the trio slipped into the mews, Julius leading them into the tack room. The scent of leather and polish lingered in the cool air, and orderly straps and glinting bits lined the walls, though a few hooks sat empty after Aunty Gertrude and Lord Hays had departed for the country.

Julius shut the door firmly behind them, sealing them in the quiet of the low-lit space. Only then did the two men remove their outer garments, revealing Lord Brendan Ridley and Lord Aidan Abbott beneath their borrowed wraps.

Brendan gave his head a shake, his chestnut hair tumbling over his brow as he looked Julius up and down. “It is good to see you, old chap.”

“I missed you, too, Ridley,” Julius replied with a smile.

Lord Aidan Abbott, whom Julius had met only a few weeks earlier when his sister had married Brendan, crossed his arms, his brown eyes narrowing in stern disapproval. “Not this nonsense again. He is Filminster now, a baron of the realm! Still behaving like a … clown!”

Julius’s grin broadened deliberately. Teasing the rather serious young peer was something of a personal delight. If anyone needed a touch of levity, it was Abbott, and Julius considered himself the perfect man for the task.

“Better a clown than a fool,” he quipped.

Abbott’s jaw clenched as Brendan gave a quiet chuckle, clearly well used to Julius’s methods of entertainment.

“We received your note,” Brendan said. “What happened, Trafford? How were you injured? And how, precisely, did you settle on those three as your suspects?”

Julius turned away slightly, clasping his hands behind his back. He resisted the urge to twist the signet ring on his finger—gloves made that impossible. Admitting to what had led to his wounding felt rather mortifying. Audrey had already scolded him with honest brutality. These two would be worse.

“I may have sent each of the suspects a blackmail letter,” he began with exaggerated casualness, “to see which of them might take the bait.”

“Thunder and turf!” Brendan muttered. “You bird-witted chucklehead!”

A moment of stunned silence followed, broken by Abbott’s bark of disbelief. “And which one did it?”

Julius winced and studied the wall, reluctant to confess the next part.

“That is the part where it all rather came apart. I do not know. Each letter directed the recipient to a different location, all of which I visited on the same morning. Someone followed me from one of those addresses and attacked me later that day, outside my father’s home. Fortunately, Miss Gideon ran out with a sword and frightened the blackguard off. I was wounded in the scuffle, but she saved me.”

A beat of silence passed before Abbott exploded. “You fool! You could have been left bleeding in the street!”

Julius exhaled in dismissal of the idea. He was not rejecting the criticism, merely the thought of death itself.

“Better a fool than a clown,” he replied dryly.

The inane remark had slipped from Julius without thought. A habit of his, designed to provoke Abbott into loosening the rigid grip of his proper behavior. Abbott’s response was a low snarl. When Julius turned back around, he found Brendan raking his fingers through his hair in agitation, while Abbott had stalked over to glare furiously at the polished tack, his shoulders drawn taut with fury.

No one spoke for several moments. The silence stretched as they each wrestled for composure.

Then, abruptly, Abbott spun on his heel and strode toward Julius with purposeful strides. Julius took a step back, alarmed. He could scarcely credit that the very correct Lord Abbott might strike a fellow, especially one who had only just recovered from being stabbed.

He stepped back again, his body slow to respond under the lingering drag of recovery, just as Abbott reached him and, rather unexpectedly, wrapped him in a powerful embrace. Julius was lifted clean off his feet.

Ye gods … what is this?

As his boots dangled in the air, lungs flattened against Abbott’s broad chest and his sutures twinged in sharp protest, Julius made a curious observation—Abbott was strong. Surprisingly strong.

Julius did not consider himself a weakling, far from it, but no one had ever managed to hoist him off the ground like a sack of oats. The indignity was softened only by the sentiment.

“I am glad you are well, Trafford,” Abbott muttered into his shoulder, voice gruff with restrained emotion.

Julius glanced toward Brendan, who offered a helpless shrug, as if this bizarre demonstration had caught him equally off guard. Trapped in the fierce grip, Julius managed an awkward pat on Abbott’s back.