Page 165 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

Julia followed him upstairs to the morning room. The curtains were drawn shut, and the remains of a fire crackled in the hearth. Papa must have been in earlier to meet with someone. Hicks, possibly. Or else he’d had a consultation with someone from his new firm of solicitors.

The thought of it put steel in Julia’s spine.

“What is your name, sir?” she asked the footman.

“Jenkins, ma’am.”

“Your real name.”

He tugged at his collar. “It’s, er, Cedric.”

“Cedric,” she said, “you may tell my parents that, if they wish to see me, they can do so here in the morning room.”

“Ma’am?”

“Here,” she repeated. “Not in their bedchambers.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The footman beat a hasty retreat.

Julia stood a moment in the darkness and suffocating heat before impatience spurred her into action. She first removed her bonnet and her gloves, and then one by one, pulled the curtains back from the tall windows, letting the sun shine fully into the room.

Whether her parents would agree to bestir themselves, she didn’t know. Part of her hoped they would, and the other part—a remnant of the girl who had grown up here, shy and frightened—prayed they would not. She didn’t relish a confrontation with them.

But there was more at stake than her own fears.

She waited by the window as the clock ticked down the minutes. At length, a familiar tread sounded outside the door.

“Oh ho!” Her father’s thin voice rang with vindictive glee as he entered the room. “Look who’s come crawling back.” He was in his banyan and house slippers, with a muffler at his throat. “Didn’t I tell you she would soon repent her recklessness?”

Her mother was behind him. She wore a quilted dressing gown, her hair covered by a muslin cap bordered in guipure lace. She clutched a handkerchief in her hand. “And for this I must be summoned from my bed?” Her watery eyes squinted into the sunlight. “Who opened these curtains?”

“I did,” Julia said. “We’re going to speak candidly, and I’d rather the conversation not be had in darkness.”

“We’re going to speak candidly?” Mama echoed. “What about, pray?” She sank onto the settee. “Coming here and making demands, as if you were in any position to do so. Were I stronger, I’d slap your face for such impertinence.”

Papa sat down in a chair, drawing a blanket over his knees. “Your poor dear mama would be within her rights to chastise you. No one would dare stop her.”

“I would stop her,” Julia said quietly.

“You what?” Papa looked up with a start. “What did she say?”

“She says she would stop me.” Mama’s eyes kindled. “You’ve no right to put on airs, my girl. You’ve shamed us, and made Lord Gresham a laughingstock. He’s turned his attentions to Bingham’s daughter—the silly little chit. She’ll be his countess now. And you, wed to an ex-soldier of dubious fame, with no money or connections to recommend him. An alliance doomed from the start. I could have told you it wouldn’t last. Count yourself lucky we’re willing to have you back.”

Julia sat down, facing her parents. “You’ve mistaken me,” she said. “I haven’t come back.”

Papa chuckled. “I expect Captain Blunt will have something to say about that. He knows my terms. He won’t get a penny if he doesn’t relinquish you to us.”

“My husband has no intention of relinquishing me. Not ever.” Julia felt the truth of it to her marrow. Jasper would never let her go. He’d scarcely been willing to allow her to leave Yorkshire with Anne. Only his guilt had kept him from forbidding her departure.

“We’ll see about that,” Papa said. “With your money tangled up for years on end, he’ll soon—”

“He has no interest in my fortune. You must know that. You told him he wouldn’t get a farthing. Yet still he married me.” Julia managed a smile. “We’re doing very well together, by the way. The air in Yorkshire is exceedingly fresh. I’ve been riding and walking and have even gone swimming.”

“Foolish child,” Mama said. “Dr. Cordingley warned you about exerting yourself.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Julia said. “Except that I’ve been miserable for more years than I can count.”

“Bah,” Papa said. “You don’t know misery. If you’d suffered what I suffer—”