&
nbsp; ‘I will come back,’ Julia promised, taking the note and gathering up her things. ‘But I must hurry now.’
The streets were crowded, and Julia was soon lost. Bloomsbury Square must be somewhere close to the British Museum, she supposed, although she had not visited this temple to learning. Hal had expressed himself forcibly on the subject of fusty holes when asked to accompany her.
But she could not think about Hal now; she must focus on convincing Stephen Hebden that his campaign of vengeance had missed its target. As the carriage drew up, Julia looked out at a terrace of pretty town houses with ornate iron balconies running right along at first-floor level. It seemed an improbable home for a half-Romany adventurer.
She paused on the edge of the pavement, her hand still resting on the footman’s arm. The clock of some nearby church struck three. ‘Richards, if I am not out by the time that clock strikes four you must go immediately to find Major Carlow, or, failing him, Lord Stanegate. Tell them where I am. And take no notice if anyone from the house comes out and says I will be longer. Do you under stand?’
‘Ma’am.’ The footman looked distinctly unhappy. ‘Should you be going in there? The Major won’t like it, not if it’s somewhere that isn’t safe, he won’t.’
‘One of Lady Mildenhall’s relatives lives here,’ Julia said lightly. ‘I am probably being over-cautious, but as I have never called on them before…’
‘Very well, ma’am.’ Still looking less than happy, he mounted the step and banged the knocker.
The door opened to reveal an impassive Indian in a green coat. Trust Hebden not to have a conventional butler like everyone else. ‘Good afternoon, I am here to see Mr Hebden,’ Julia said brightly, holding out her card.
‘You have the wrong address, Mem Sahib.’ The man did not glance at the card.
‘Mr Beshaley then.’
‘I am sorry, Mem Sahib.’ The door began to close.
Julia stuck her foot out, jarring her toe. ‘I have a note from Lady Mil den hall.’ She flourished it under his nose—which someone appeared to have recently broken—while rubbing the wounded toe on the back of the other calf.
Without a word of apology, the man stepped back, holding the door. It shut behind her the moment she was through. ‘Stephen Sahib is in his workshop.’ The Indian took her card, turned his back and moved silently across the hall. Julia followed, through the green baize door, down three stone steps and into the kitchen. The man kept going, pushed open a door at the far end of the kitchen and announced, ‘Carlow Mem Sahib, from Imo Mem Sahib.’
Julia stepped past him into what must once have been a long wash house. Now it looked like the workshop of aneccentrical chemist. Shelves and cup boards lined the walls; strange tools hung from hooks; jars and boxes were stacked every where; a sword was propped against a vast safe in one corner. A bench, covered in stretched leather that had been caught up to make a trough at the front, ran under the barred windows and in the middle stood a small brazier, glowing red despite the warmth of the day.
As Julia stared, the man bending over it dropped something into a crucible and a cloud of evil-smelling vapour puffed up. She choked, fanning herself with her hand.
‘My dear Julia!’ Hebden strode out of the cloud of smoke, put an arm around her shoulders and guided her to a high stool by the part-open window.
‘Let go.’ She coughed and batted at him with her hands, but he laughed, stooped and kissed her right on her parted lips.
The shock took what little breath she had left. Pressed against the high back of the stool, Julia fought her instinctive response. She was on the verge of kissing him back, she realized, outraged. His mouth was firm and he tasted spicy. Something in the smoke, she thought hazily, then found the strength to raise her right knee sharply, even as she jerked her head back.
He dodged with a fencer’s agility, laughing at her as he stepped out of range. ‘I thought you had come to say thank you for my gift of Byron’s verse,’ he said, dark eyes soulful. ‘I am wounded.’
‘But not wounded enough,’ she snapped. ‘Listen, Mr Hebden or Beshaley or whatever your name is—’
‘I have so many.’ He was still smiling. ‘Call me Stephano. If you have not come for my lovemaking, then how may I be of service?’
‘You can listen to the truth for once and stop these attacks on my family and their friends,’ she said, ignoring his question. If she took exception to all his outrageous remarks, she would never get through this.
He spread his hands in a gesture inviting her to proceed, hooked a foot through another stool, and pulled it close so that when he sat his knees were within six inches of her own. ‘I listen, beautiful Julia. And then we will go somewhere more…comfortable.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Hal rode slowly up Whitehall, his uniform uncomfortable after weeks in civilian clothes, the rigid stock chafing under his chin. So, report back in a month and they would tell him their decision. The West Indies, India or an English garrison.
He realized he had no appetite for an English posting. What would it be? Endless drills—or subduing rioting factory workers? That was not why he had joined up. And India or the West Indies were a hell of a long way away. A long way from Julia.
He did not notice the tall grey stone buildings as he passed, or the busy traffic. Max knew where he was going and walked steadily on.
Hal’s imagination was full of lush green Buckinghamshire meadows with soft-eyed brood mares nudging their spindly-legged foals into their first steps. And a small child laughing in a woman’s arms. Julia’s arms.
He could not take her with him as she asked: not to the heat and the disease. She was too precious to risk like that. And too precious to leave behind. But he had to choose. Somehow.