Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)

Her uneasiness dissipated as he made a dashing bow in retreat. His spirits must be improved, if he was meeting with his tailors.

Julian was known for having the smartest clothes, setting the current fashion. The young men of his set had their tailors and valets working day and night to copy the cut of his coats, the jet-black color of his hair. But no matter how faithfully they reproduced his look, they remained pale imitations of the original. It wasn’t Julian’s clothes they coveted; it was his devilish appeal, his incisive wit. His shoulders filled out a topcoat quite nicely, but his presence filled rooms.

He would know that feeling again soon—the admiration of a crowd. And if her gamble worked, it just might be his saving grace.

Lily hurried across the square, then the street, and up the steps of Harcliffe House. She stopped in the entry to address the butler. “I’d like the carriage readied, Swift. Quickly, please. I intend to pay a call.”

Swift masked his surprise quite well. Normally, she never paid calls, not on her own. But this was life after Leo—a series of tiny, halting steps toward independence.

While she waited for the carriage, she went back to Leo’s study. Just thinking of her conversation with Julian, not to mention the urgent pleas she must make to Amelia … her mind was awhirl. She sat down at the desk and flipped open the ledger she’d abandoned, hoping to gather some composure from the orderly columns and rows. Leo had never possessed any head for sums or figures, and he couldn’t be bothered to keep watch over the various estate accounts. Rather than trust it all to the stewards, Lily had gladly assumed the responsibility. She adored ledgers. Loved the precise, elegant pen strokes they required, the neat rows of columns and tables, the satisfaction of balancing a month’s expenses and income to the last penny.

Just as she and Leo had balanced each other. From childhood, it had always been this way. Where one of them was weak, the other was strong. His personality was affable and outgoing, while hers was reserved, reflective. After her fever and resulting deafness, they’d settled even further into those roles. Leo handled the social obligations of the marquessate, while she kept the accounts and papers in line. Lily had always been proud of how well they worked as a team. Two halves of a whole; the sum greater than its parts.

But now Leo had died. And she was left with only half a life. She hadn’t cultivated her social side for many years, having apportioned that duty to her brother. His acquaintances were hers; his social circle defined her own. Lily’s own friendships—such as the one she’d shared with Amelia—had withered from neglect.

As for Leo … who could imagine what regrets he might have had? Their lives might have unfolded very differently, had they not depended on each other so much.

From the corner of her eye, she caught the gleam of curving brass. The handle of the topmost desk drawer taunted her.

With impulsive speed, she rose from her chair and closed the door. Retaking her seat, she fished a small, flat key from her chatelaine and unlocked the drawer. She tugged it open, stared into it for a moment. After a pause to draw breath and gather her courage, she removed the packet of letters.

Even though she’d just shut the door not a minute ago, she cast another glance at it now to assure herself of her privacy. It had been a close call, earlier, when Julian had interrupted her. Fortunately, she’d been able to cache the letters and her emotions away without drawing his comment or concern.

She made no attempt to hide those emotions now. With trembling fingers and a hammering pulse, she opened the time-faded paper and read.

Salutations are forbidden me. Closing words are a thing I refuse to contemplate, let alone pen. This is therefore a letter without beginning, without end. A fitting reflection of my love.

My love, my love.

Come soon. I am in torment.

* * *

Julian did indeed have an appointment with his tailors—just not the ones Lily might have supposed, and he took a circuitous route to meet with them.

He bypassed the corners of Bond and Regent Streets, with their many mercers and haberdashers and tailors. On another day he might have stopped in to order a new waistcoat with contrasting embroidery, or a coat with an extra button on the cuff. These small modifications to accepted style were the way he’d harnessed the allegiance of England’s young aristocrats. He now pulled them along on a worsted thread, to the point that the bucks of the ton would wear undyed homespun, if Julian Bellamy declared it the latest thing.