Once the wine had been poured, the servants began covering the table with soup tureens and domed platters.
“I hope no one minds if we dine en famille,” Amelia said. “It seems we are all close friends or family, in one way or another.”
From every corner of the table, the guests nodded their approval. But no one spoke. Lily worried that the commander’s “stand and declaim” order would quell all meaningful conversation.
As the footmen shook out the napkins and laid them in each guest’s lap, she screwed up her courage and turned to her dinner partner. “May I ask where your family resides, Commander?”
“In Somersetshire, my lady. My father is a baronet. I’m the third son. The ne’er-do-well, I’m afraid, sent off to the Navy at the tender age of seventeen.”
“You must have distinguished yourself very quickly, to have reached such an elevated rank.”
Michael said, “The commander is being modest. He proved his mettle during the action in Chesapeake Bay three years past. He was there for the burning of the city of Washington.”
“Is that so?”
But no answer was forthcoming. Amelia rose from her chair, and all the gentleman shot to their feet as well. This prompted a giddy ripple of laughter at the lieutenants’ end of the table, but as Lily watched, the amusement vacated their faces to make way for awe.
A darting glance toward the doorway confirmed her suspicion.
Julian had arrived. And arrived in style. He was always well-dressed, but tonight he’d outdone himself. Every detail of his appearance—each button, cuff, or twist of his cravat—had been arranged with such precision, the military uniforms in the room looked like paupers’ rags by comparison.
He bowed deeply to their hosts. “I apologize for my tardiness. I was”—he cast Lily a brief, cryptic look—“detained.”
The duke inclined his head with thinly veiled irritation. Amelia made hasty introductions, and everyone settled back to the table.
Lily indicated the empty seat next to her. “You’re just in time.”
So strange. Julian’s arrival ought to have heralded a deep surge of relief in her soul. If he was here, that meant he was not out chasing danger. And if he was here, it meant she had an ally to facilitate communication. She’d been waiting for him all night.
But when he approached, took her hand, and bowed over it—his intense blue eyes never leaving hers—it wasn’t relief she felt, but a prickling awareness that seemed some distant cousin to fear. The ground beneath her narrowed, coiled round and round on itself until she balanced on a taut, thin cable stretched between this moment and the next. Dizzying.
As Julian took his place at the table and the footman poured his wine, Lily found her attention drawn to parts of him she wasn’t in the habit of noticing. The neat, blunt edges of his fingernails. The freshly clipped fringe of hair just behind his ear. The red, razor-thin score on the underside of his jaw—the result of overzealous shaving, perhaps. The faint sandalwood aroma of shaving soap hovered about him, elusive and masculine, and with every breath her lungs expanded greedily, determined to catch more of it.
Had his earlobes always been that square-ish shape? Why had she never noticed it before?
Why was she noticing now?
Julian suddenly turned his head, and his gaze crashed straight into hers. She startled, embarrassed to have been caught staring. His eyebrow quirked in question. She didn’t have an answer.
“Commander,” she blurted out, swallowing hard as she turned. “You were telling us about the burning of Washington.”
“Yes,” the commander replied, his chest puffing a bit. “We occupied the American capitol for all of six-and-twenty hours before we were forced to retreat. But I was part of the group who burned the White House. When we entered, we found supper waiting on the table. Hospitable of them, wasn’t it?”
“Truly?” Amelia asked.
“Oh, yes. We walked in, and there was a meal laid for forty. So before we set fire to the house, we sat down and ate Madison’s supper.” He smiled. “But I must say, Your Grace, that meal was nothing to touch the feast you’ve laid before us tonight.” He gestured toward the array of roasts and delicately sauced vegetables.
Amelia blushed her thanks.
At the head of the table, the duke gave his wife a look of admiration and pride. He raised his glass. “A drink to her health. Her Grace, the Duchess of Morland.”
In unison, the lieutenants bolted to their feet with a chorus of “Hear, hear!” before sitting and gulping wine.
Julian’s brow creased with annoyance. “Such enthusiasm. Is that a naval tradition?”
Lily took it upon herself to explain. “The commander has requested his lieutenants stand when they speak, so that I may better follow the conversation. Isn’t that considerate of him?” With her eyes, she pleaded for his agreement.
She didn’t receive it.
“‘Considerate’ isn’t the word.”
The lieutenant in the middle rose from his chair. “If I may say it, Mr. Bellamy, it’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
Lily smiled at his earnestness. These officers were a perfect audience for Julian’s charm. Like so many men of their generation, they clearly idolized him.
As the first sat, the ginger one rose. “At sea, we’re always telling jokes and amusing stories. All the best ones trace back to you.”
“All the bawdiest, you mean.” With a riffle of his short dark hair, the youngest ignored the one-at-a-time proviso and fairly exploded from his seat. “Do Prinny! Or Byron, if you will.”
Lily knew Julian had dined for years on the popularity of his imitations. Supposedly, he had the uncanny ability to reproduce a voice faithfully after hearing it just once. Leo’s friends never tired of the amusement, but it was a talent wholly lost on her.
Reaching for the platter of broiled trout before him, Julian demurred with a shake of his head. “Not now.”
But the young lieutenant would not be deterred. He leapt to his feet again. “Please, sir. I saw you a year ago, when my uncle took me by Boodles before I shipped out. And I’ve been telling my mates about it ever since—”
“Sit down.” Julian leveled the fillet knife at him. “And stay seated. All of you. You’re insulting the lady.”
The youth’s face blazed crimson as he sank to his chair. Lily felt her own cheeks heat. Well. That was the last they’d hear from any of the lieutenants at this table. They would not disobey their commander by speaking without standing, and neither would they dare to cross Julian.
She passed a dish of potatoes in his direction, taking the opportunity to murmur, “What are you doing?”
“I”—he accepted the dish with an angry motion—“am truly standing up for you.”
She bit back a response.
For several minutes, they all busied themselves with eating rather than conversing. But even with Amelia’s excellent fare, the diversion could only last so long.
The commander touched her wrist. “Will you flee to the country soon, my lady? Or do you winter in Town?”
“I will remain here in London,” she told him. “I expect my cousin—the new marquess—to arrive from Egypt soon. And you? How long will your ship be in dock?”
“A few months at least.” He gave her a solicitous smile. “Perhaps we will cross paths again.”
“Perhaps.” She turned to Julian for agreement, only to find his gaze trained fiercely on the commander’s hand where it still touched Lily’s wrist.
Yes, it was rather a liberty on the commander’s part. But really, nothing to demand that level of outrage. Julian glared at the man’s hand as though he were planning to take it joint from joint, cleaving muscle from sinew with a butcher’s efficiency—and perhaps a butcher’s implements, as well.
Lily gently withdrew her hand and reached for her glass, taking a long, leisurely sip of wine as a means of changing the subject. As she drank, she felt a palpable tension radiating from Julian’s quarter. She wanted to weep for despair. Why was he so angry all the time? Would they never be able to simply be friends again?
After the dishes and plates had been cleared, Amelia asked, “Since we are so uneven in our numbers this evening, shall we all adjourn directly to the drawing room? The gentlemen may enjoy their port in mixed company without fear of offending any delicate feminine sensibilities. Don’t you agree, Lily?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Excellent. What a lively group we’ll have for parlor games.”
They all rose, the chastened lieutenants apparently buoyed by the prospect of quality port. And though the duke looked faintly horrified by the prospect of parlor games, Lily held out hope that the group’s general humor would improve.
Unfortunately, as they departed the dining room, the commander was hasty in offering his arm. Lily had no polite way to refuse. She cast a beseeching look at Julian.
“Go on,” he said, eschewing her company for the duke’s. “Morland and I need to chat. Privately.”
The duke nodded his agreement, no doubt eager to escape the parlor games. He and Julian fell behind, then ducked into a side room.
Lily sighed. She hoped that by “chat,” Julian meant … an actual discussion. Not an exchange of insults and blows. But no matter how much she wished for the former, she knew the latter was a distinct possibility.
One minute in Morland’s study, and Julian already wanted to hit the man.
“Well, Bellamy.” The duke unstopped a decanter of brandy, timing the loud pop for dramatic emphasis. “It’s been awhile.”
Julian endeavored to remain calm. He concentrated on the amber flow of brandy as it swirled and tumbled into his glass. “Not nearly long enough for me.”
“I would be inclined to agree”—the duke filled his own glass—“if you didn’t owe me a great many explanations.”
Julian clenched his jaw. He owed this man nothing. “I assume you refer to the search for Leo’s murderers?”
“I fronted the money for that investigation. Several thousand pounds. So yes, I think that entitles me to some explanations. But first”—Morland indicated two chairs, and they sat down—“let’s talk horses.”
“Oh, yes. Forget our murdered friend. Horses always come first with you.”
The duke ignored the remark. “When I returned to Town, I went first thing to look in on Osiris. Imagine my shock when I did not find him at the same mews.”
“I had him moved,” Julian said testily. “Wasn’t that what you wanted? You had such a litany of complaints about his stabling.”
“I did.”
“And …?”
“And the current arrangements are improved.” Before Julian could respond, the duke added, “But still not what they should be.”
Arrogant ass. No doubt Morland would watch a pint of blue blood let from his veins before he’d spare Julian a word of concession.
“I still want to take the stallion to Cambridgeshire,” Morland said. “This is a priceless racehorse we’re discussing. My stables are the best. Osiris belongs there.”
Julian tipped his brandy. Of course. The duke would never deem any barn fit for that horse, other than his own. The purebred man deserves the purebred horse—that was Morland’s thinking. Well, Julian despised the man and his air of aristocratic entitlement. This was the very reason he’d charmed his way into the ton. To personally see overblown lords of Morland’s ilk mocked, humbled, ruined. Or most enjoyably of all, cuckolded.
Luckily for Morland, even Julian wouldn’t sink so low as to seduce the good-natured Amelia. Even if he had the heart for seduction lately, which he hadn’t.