Lord of the Masquerade by Erica Ridley

Chapter 17

Julian leapt from his carriage in front of The Cloven Hoof, a gaming hell perched at the very edge of respectability.

That was how Julian felt, too. Teetering on the edge, his final fall determined by the direction of the wind.

He should not have investigated Miss Thorne. Unity. He should not have investigated Unity. Or first-named her. What the devil had he been thinking?

Shewas the upstanding one of the two. If he had just waited, she would have told him the things he’d paid a third party to find out. Once she trusted him enough to share.

Which she would have, if left to her own devices. Unity made close connections every time she stepped out of her house. The staff at her cousin’s club adored her, the owner of that gaming hell, the actresses at the theatre. She’d made friends with Julian’s night butler from the first how-do-you-do.

It was not a skill Julian possessed, but a trait he very much admired. He could surround himself with scores of people, but Unity managed to belong wherever she went.

Julian wanted to deserve her trust. More than that, he wanted to deserve her. Which was precisely why he should not have invited her to use his first name. No one had called him that in years. Why start now? Knowing their friendship could go nowhere?

He nodded at the burly guard securing the entrance. “Vigo.”

“Your Grace.” Vigo opened the door to allow him in.

The interior was as Julian remembered. The tables busy, the bar crowded. He met the harried gaze of one of the serving girls, and began to thread his way through the pockets of whist and faro toward the considerably quieter dining parlor on the opposite side of the gambling salon.

He knew what he wanted. Julian always knew what he wanted.

It wasn’t Unity.

He needed a highborn, unobjectionable wife. A marriage of convenience to someone who wouldn’t wriggle under his defenses. A woman who would beget a pair of perfect heirs, who themselves would grow up to be well-respected, perfect lords, so wholly unobjectionable as to be untainted by the sins in their father’s past. Mostly because their mother had been such a high-ranking paragon since birth, overshadowing Julian’s peccadillos with her golden halo.

But first, he had to make it through this gaming den.

At last, he burst free from the dicing and wagering and groans of remorse, and strode into the calm of the dining area.

“Lambley!”

Only one cluster of gentlemen gathered about a table. Its inhabitants immediately made room for the new arrival and smiled in welcome.

Lord Wainwright, an earl renowned for his angelic countenance. Lord Hawkridge, a marquess who had married a boarding school instructor. Heath Grenville, discreet arranger for the ton’s little foibles. And Maxwell Gideon, the owner of the semi-respectable Cloven Hoof.

“I’ll summon your favorite sherry,” Max said.

“No need.” Julian took the armchair next to him. “Your servers saw me enter.”

Hawkridge raised his brows. “Then why the foul mood?”

Wainwright grinned. “It’s because of a woman.”

“What woman?” Julian growled.

“The one we’re not supposed to know about,” Wainwright answered, unrepentant.

Julian sent Grenville a deadly glare.

Grenville lifted his palms. “Not only did I say nothing, my friend—but by glowering in my direction, you’ve not only confirmed Wainwright’s wild suppositions, but implicated me in the matter as well.”

“This is supposed to be where I come to relax,” Julian grumbled.

“Trust me,” Max said wryly. “No one comes to a gaming hell to relax.”

“Trust me,” Hawkridge added. “Lambley has never relaxed in his life.”

“So tell us.” Wainwright fluttered his blond lashes. “Is it love?”

“No,” Julian said flatly.

He planned, so that he could control things. He controlled them, because he did not like risk. Nothing was riskier than love. The probability of being hurt made the experience not worth doing.

“I bet ten quid it’s love,” Wainwright stage-whispered to Hawkridge.

“Just because you four...” Julian began, then glowered at his friends. “You’re all recently married. It’s clouding your judgment.”

“We’re in love with our wives,” Max said with a shrug.

“I recommend it,” Wainwright added helpfully. “Love makes things easier.”

“Love has never made anything easier,” Julian said flatly.

“He’s got it bad,” Hawkridge whispered to Grenville. “Step three is denial.”

Julian glared at him. “What are steps one and two?”

Hawkridge counted them on his fingers. “Step one, meeting her. I’d wager another ten you suspected you were in trouble then. Step two, crossing the line. Step three, denial. Step four, parson’s trap.”

“Crossing what line?” asked Julian sourly.

“Everyone has a different line,” Wainwright answered. “But we all know it when we’ve crossed.”

“Rubbish,” Julian said. If that were the case, he possessed dozens of “lines.”

Never see the same woman twice.

Never allow anyone close.

Never reveal anything personal.

Never first-name a woman, for God’s sake.

And never, ever, ever—

“You can practically see him retracing his steps,” Wainwright whispered. “He knows exactly when he crossed the line.”

Hawkridge nodded. “Denial.”

Julian folded his arms over his chest. “Amusing. Tell me this, at least. Are your wives more docile and easily controlled now that you’ve married them?”

All four men burst into guffaws of laughter.

“Good lord,” said Max. “He is in denial if he thinks he has any chance of ‘controlling’ his marriage.”

“Especially if it’s to a woman worthy of being his match,” Wainwright added. “She must be twice as Lambley as Lambley! I can’t wait to meet her.”

“Twice as—” Julian sputtered. “What does that even mean?”

“And just wait until you sire heirs,” Hawkridge added. “I can attest that children are even less predictable than wives.”

“I assure you,” Julian said coldly, “my children will be the very pinnacle of—”

His sherry arrived, giving him the perfect opportunity to turn the subject to beverages, rather than Julian’s carefully guarded heart.

He had believed himself incapable of feeling emotions like love for so long, that at first he failed to recognize the warmth suffusing his chest as he toasted his incorrigible, unapologetic friends.

Very well, he could feel love, of the platonic kind. He was not a monster. He cared for his friends. But romantic love... now there was a folly he would not be committing.

“For the sake of argument,” said Hawkridge. “This woman that you don’t love and aren’t considering marrying. Do you like her?”

Julian glared at him. Of course he liked Unity. He wouldn’t be puppeteering wine-and-cheese picnics from the most prestigious fields in all of Europe if he didn’t like her.

“Because that’s a good start,” Hawkridge continued. “Grenville here married someone with whom he would never have dreamed of aligning himself, all because he liked her and one thing led to another.”

“Grenville’s case is different than mine,” Julian informed him curtly.

Wainwright leaned forward with interest. “Too wide of a social gap? Or not wide enough?”

Grenville had married the country-bred poor relation of a well-respected society matron. Not the aristocratic concept of a “good” match, but the pair had met in the refreshment line of a ballroom.

Hawkridge’s wife was a commoner as well, but an heiress. The ton could overlook almost any sin if the sinner were in possession of a sizable enough fortune.

In Wainwright’s case, he and his wife were both highborn. As for Max, he was the disreputable half of his union, but not insurmountably so. The Cloven Hoof did cater to a rougher crowd, but its clientele also boasted a fair number of lords.

Julian was the highest ranking of all five of them. And who was the woman who would not quit his mind? Not an heiress. Not the daughter of a lesser peer. Not even the distant cousin many times removed of a matron of polite society.

Unity Thorne, courtesan. Could she be any more beyond the pale?

Julian didn’t mind her profession or any other part of her past. That a woman worked as a courtesan or on stage or anything else she needed or chose to do with her life was the woman’s business, not his.

But Julian was a duke. His duchess would be the ton’s business. And they would not be kind.

“She works,” he said at last.

Lord Wainwright clasped his hands to his cravat and gasped dramatically.

Max rolled his eyes. “I ‘work.’”

“My wife is a headmistress,” Lord Hawkridge pointed out.

“And mine sold drawings because she didn’t have a farthing,” Grenville said.

“Once she’s betrothed to you, she certainly won’t have to keep working,” Wainwright put in. “Unless her name is on playbills. Is it the sort of employment the ton would hear about?”

Julian swirled his sherry. No, Unity’s name would not appear on playbills, despite her presence at the theatre.

And as to her other performances... Julian had not heard of her before she appeared on his doorstep, and he’d hosted many fashionable demimondaines at his parties over the years. For better or worse, Unity was not a popular enough courtesan to be recognized by the beau monde.

“They’ll know she’s different by looking at her,” he said tightly. It was unfair that the color of one’s skin should signify any more or less than the color of one’s eyes or the color of one’s hair. “She is of African descent.”

“So is Queen Charlotte,” Max said without hesitation.

“And people say horrid things about her,” Julian pointed out.

“And yet she’s queen, which is all that matters,” Wainwright said. “But it is not so dire. Many Black people have been accepted by polite society, going back decades. Distant royalty is always welcome. In lieu of a title, possessing enough coin would open a few more doors. Is your paramour an heiress?”

“She is not.”

“Could you say she was?” the earl suggested. “If no one knows the truth but you, she might seem acceptable to—”

“She is acceptable,” Julian exploded. “There’s nothing wrong with her! Not her trade, not her skin, not her ambition and independence. It is society’s rules that are rigid. I don’t care if they shun me. More money or a different heritage wouldn’t make me like Unity more. If the bucks and the biddies cannot accept her, then I am not interested in pandering to their useless opinions.”

All four friends stared at him.

“Er,” Wainwright said at last. “Wasn’t it you that always said you’d one day marry a paragon of society because you’d settle for nothing less than the very best?”

Best. What a stupid, subjective word.

“I do not and will not ‘settle’ in any aspect of my life.” Julian curled his lip. “I am simply saying that Beau Brummell’s or the patronesses’ idea of ‘best’ is unlikely to be the same as mine.”

“That’s very interesting,” Hawkridge said. “Given that ‘paragon of society’ is the patronesses idea of ‘best.’ It sounds like you might have changed your own definition.”

“Better yet,” said Wainwright, “it sounds like this not-very-paragon might have changed Lambley. Never say you have caught yourself—” He made a dramatic expression. “—unbending.”

“The gossip would be vicious.” Julian’s voice was bleak. “They would accuse her of social-climbing and find fault in every word or gesture. I won’t have my wife live a life of hurt or fear or slander. Even the title of duchess would not be enough to win a seat at their tables.”

Max lifted a sardonic brow. “Does she want a seat at those tables?”

Julian stared. Probably not. That was a very good point, but not the only aspect to consider. “My heirs—”

Max’s lips quirked.

Julian glared at him. “What.”

“You aren’t part of polite society. Right now. On purpose. What makes you think your children would be happier conforming to ‘values’ you hate, instead of being who they are?”

Julian set down his empty glass. “I...”

“Maybe they’ll never have an Almack’s voucher. But they’ll still be lords or ladies with all the privilege that offers.” Max refilled the sherry. “Didn’t we all agree that ‘polite society’ will overlook anything if one’s purse is heavy enough? And aren’t you one of the richest peers in all the peerage?”

Julian blinked at him.

“Then it sounds to me,” Max continued, “that your children will be fine, and the only opinion you should worry about courting is that of your intended bride. If she’s willing to put up with the snide comments of a ‘polite’ society she has no interest in mingling with, then what exactly is standing in your way?”

“You’re scandalous…” Hawkridge pointed out helpfully. “She’s scandalous… You’re both already not part of a society that disapproves of and disinterests you...”

“I heard him,” Julian growled. “I got it the first time.”

“Did you?” Grenville asked softly.

“It wouldn’t even be breaking new ground,” Wainwright put in. “You wouldn’t be the first peer to marry his mistress.”

“Or even the first duke to do so,” Hawkridge agreed. “Lavinia Fenton became the Duchess of Bolton—”

“That was seventy years ago,” Julian muttered.

“Common courtesan Sophia Dubochet married Lord Berwick seven years ago,” Wainwright said. “Is that recent enough for you?”

“He’s a baron, not a duke.”

“And a third choice at that,” Grenville pointed out. “Viscount Deerhurst and the Duke of Leinster pursued her first. Surely you cannot question His Grace’s pedigree.”

“What about Anne Parsons?” Wainwright lifted his sherry. “Lover to the first Prime Minister, the Duke of Grafton. Who she did not marry… because she threw him over for the Duke of Dorset, whom she did marry.”

Max refilled Julian’s glass. “You’d actually be the least scandalous of all of them. You’re not stealing her from some other duke. There’s no eyebrow-raising age difference. No one even knows she is your mistress—”

“She is not my mistress.”

“Then there you go. Your story is embarrassingly boring.” Max grinned at him. “What are the gossips supposed to talk about?”

Julian glared at his friends. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not easy,” Hawkridge admitted. “They will be vicious. She won’t be accepted everywhere. Her class, her history, her skin… You’re right about all of it. But should that stop you?”

“I would rather have my Nora than the approval of self-important prigs,” Grenville said softly. “You have to decide what matters most to you.”

There was only one answer to that question.

Julian stared at his glass of sherry then scrubbed his face with his hands. “What’s happening to me?”

“Feelings,” Max said with pity. “They’re the devil.”

Julian groaned and pushed away his goblet. They were right. The game wasn’t win the beau monde. The game was win Unity.

He rose to his feet. “I’m leaving before you four squidgy muffins make me any softer.”

“Too late,” Wainwright whispered to Hawkridge. “Lambley was lovesick before he walked through the door.”

Grenville caught up to Julian just outside the Cloven Hoof, before he could reach his carriage.

“I know you told me to stop investigating,” he began.

“I meant it,” Julian said quickly. “Even if she has dozens of scandalous secrets, she’ll tell me when she’s ready.”

“She might have fewer than you think,” Grenville replied. “She’s not a courtesan.”

Julian stopped walking. “What?”

“Miss Thorne isn’t a courtesan,” Grenville repeated. “She never was.”

She was an innocent? Then why did she—

But of course. She had wanted a moment of his time, and he was just as judgmental as the supercilious nobs he disdained, if in a different way. Presenting herself as a courtesan was no doubt how she’d convinced his butler to allow her through the door.

“Find out everything you can about Roger Thorne,” Julian commanded. He knew what it was like to have a guardian who only looked after his own interests. This was worse.

A man who tossed his young, penniless cousin into the gutter was no kind of man at all. Unity hadn’t had the legal or financial means to fight back, but Julian was not so limited. Mr. Thorne did not deserve the title of gentleman—or the rewards he’d reaped by exploiting an underage girl with no other options.

Grenville nodded. “I’ll report daily.”

Julian leapt into his carriage. That was it. No more masks. Unity should not have to be anyone but Unity. There was nothing she needed to prove. Julian liked her exactly as she was.

So what did he plan to do about it?