Nell was free with her love, Hal thought with a smile, generous with it even for her brother in law who had enjoyed teasing Marcus by flirting with her. Perhaps that had helped his brother realize he loved her.
But Marcus was the sensible one, the steady son. He would kn
ow how to deal with the rumours in government circles—just so long as they did not reach their father’s ears.
And he sensed danger, did he? So did Hal, but it was not coming from the muzzle of a French gun.
‘Oh, for some real news!’ Mrs Tresilian exclaimed on the eighth of June as the last of her Thursday afternoon guests departed, sustained by tea, pastries and gossip. ‘No-one seems to know what is happening, but every one has a theory,’ she added irritably. ‘First we hear Napoleon is still in Paris, and then he is on the borders, and then the duke is going to invade. And then he is not.’
‘The Harringtons have packed up and left for Ostend,’ Julia said. ‘But the Wing fields—you recall they moved to Antwerp ten days ago?—they have come back. I do believe they are rather ashamed of their jittery nerves.’
‘I might be jittery myself, if it were not for the dear baron,’ her mother confided, sinking down in the most comfortable chair and putting her feet up. ‘The knowledge that we can get away when we want to is so reassuring.’
Thank you, Hal, Julia thought, breaking, yet again, her resolution to put him out of her mind. And what am I going to do about Mr Smyth? She could not convince herself that she was not in love with Hal, so was she wrong to encourage the clergyman’s advances? Many people married who were not in love with their spouses; she knew that. But it was different to agree to marry when one’s affections were already engaged, or so it seemed to her.
She sighed. If he did make an offer, then she was going to have to confess that she loved another. If Thomas Smyth still wanted her on those terms, then so be it. The prospect of possibly forty years of marriage to a nice, kind, dull man she did not love made her heart sink. Somehow she would have to learn to keep Hal locked away in her heart and not think about him, for to do that would be wrong. At least he would not be affected: she had fallen for an experienced man, not some youngster with a heart as vulnerable as her own.
‘Is something wrong, dear?’
‘I was just thinking about Mr Smyth,’ Julia admitted.
‘I am sure he is about to make you an offer any day,’ her mother said, plunging her deeper into gloom. ‘Which is why I asked the baron if he might offer Mr Smyth a place in his carriage when we go to the races on Tuesday.’
‘You did?’
‘Did I not tell you, dear?’ Mrs Tresilian said. Her attempt to look innocent would, under other circumstances, have been amusing. Julia had been looking forward to that trip as a distraction from the increasing intensity of Mr Smyth’s conversations as they took their daily walks in the Parc. If he would only get on with it! she found herself thinking in exasperation one moment and then dreading the inevitable proposal the next.
‘No, Mama, you did not,’ she said with a smile. ‘What a good idea.’
‘And I have been thinking,’ Mrs Tresilian added, looking a trifle uncomfortable, ‘that perhaps you should have a new outfit for the race day. And there is Lady Conynham’s party on the forteenth and the Duchess of Richmond’s ball the night after and I really feel a new gown would be best for that.’
‘But, Mama—the money,’ Julia pro tested. More expenditure, another link in the heavy chain of duty and expectation around her neck.
‘It is an investment; we have said so all along. And if it helps bring Mr Smyth up to the mark, it will have been well worth while.’
‘Even if I am fortunate enough to be invited to the ball,’ Julia pointed out, ‘Mr Smyth will not be.’ She did not want a man who needed the stimulus of a new gown or bonnet to be prompted to declare himself.
‘But the colonel will, and other gentlemen you have not yet met. It is as well not to neglect any opportunity, just in case Mr Smyth proves a disappointment.’
‘Yes, but the cost—’
‘That had been concerning me a little, I confess. But I received a note yesterday from a dealer in jewellery. Here.’ She took a letter from the table by her side and handed it across. Julia spread it open. The heavy cream paper had an impressive engraved heading: Hebden. Jewellery of Quality bought and sold. ‘He sounds most respectful—but you read it, dear, see what you think.’
…in Brussels for a short visit acquiring gems and jewellery for the London market…venture to approach ladies of quality as those most likely to have trifles of the nature in which I am interested…willing to give a fair price in sterling cash with the utmost discretion…
‘It seems straight for ward enough,’ Julia said, fingering the reassuringly thick paper. ‘And we have a good idea of the value of what we have, because of the valuation when Papa passed away.’
‘Obviously we would not wish to dispose of anything your dear father gave us, or family pieces,’ Mrs Tresilian mused. ‘But there are those ugly brooches old Miss Anderson left me and the chains from Cousin Maria. We never wear those.’
‘And that hideous tie pin that Papa never wore. I suppose there is no harm in seeing what this man would offer us, and making sure the money is paid at the bank so it can be checked,’ Julia added.
‘I will write to him at once,’ Mrs Tresilian decided. ‘It occurs to me that if Bonaparte does advance sooner than expected, there may be a flood of people trying to realize assets for cash. And the banks have closed at least twice in the past month in a panic.’
Mr Hebden called the next day. Julia sat demurely beside her mother, the pieces they had selected laid out on the table and her notes from the valuation folded under her hand. She was surprised and unwillingly impressed by him.
He was much younger than she had expected—not yet thirty she guessed—and quite un com fort ably attractive in a very physical way. Italian, she told herself, attempting to rationalise away the frisson of awareness that ran through her whenever he turned those dark, hypnotic eyes in her direction.
To her surprise, considering how very attractive he was, he made no attempt to flirt or to charm the two ladies. His manner was serious, his tone respectful, but there was something in the way he handled the jewellery with his long fingers, the way he used his voice with its lilting accent, that left her in no doubt that he was utterly aware of her as a woman and knew that she was looking at him, assessing him as a man.