From Ruin to Riches

And if that failed? She still did not know whether, if that happened she would have the courage to surrender herself and trust to a jury to believe she had acted in self-defence. But if she did not, could she spend her whole life running?

Whatever happened, she thought as she trod across the cobbled path through St Paul’s churchyard, Will could not be implicated. It was bad enough that he would be seen as a man deceived, but she would not allow him to become implicated as the scandalous baron who knew of his wife’s crime, but who did nothing.

There were the shops she had stared into so light-heartedly only a few days ago. There, busy now with the passage of lawyers, servants with their marketing baskets, bankers and tradesmen, was the opening into the Old Bailey. There were no hangings today and if it were not for the ominous bulk of the prison at the end of the street, and the stench in the air when the wind changed to blow from that direction, she would think it a pleasant enough district.

Opposite her was the King’s Head and Oak, its sign of the crowned oak tree that had sheltered Charles II swinging in the light breeze. No baying onlookers hung from the windows. It looked respectable and well kept, a suitable lodging for minor gentry come to the city.

There was a bay tree in a pot by the front door, she saw as she hesitated there. Perhaps this was the last time she would walk outside as a free woman. Julia reached out and broke off a twig, crushed the aromatic leaf between her fingers as she entered and summoned up the dregs of her courage.

‘Mr and Mrs Prior, if you please,’ she said to the man who came out of the taproom as she entered. ‘Tell them Lady…tell them Miss Prior is here.’

They kept her waiting only a few minutes, which was a mercy for she was not certain which would go first: her nerve, to send her fleeing down towards the Fleet, or her legs, to leave her huddled on the floor.

The man came back before either happened. ‘You’re to follow me, if you please, miss.’

The old wooden stairs were well waxed, she noted as she climbed. Every trivial detail was imprinted on her senses. The man’s apron was clean, but his shoes were dusty and he had been eating onions. That picture hanging on the wall at the head of the stairs, so dirty it was impossible to tell the subject, was crooked. They were boiling cabbage below in the kitchens. Her guide tapped on a door, opened it and she stepped into a small parlour. Her relatives regarded her with identical expressions of supercilious amusement as she tried to control both her breathing and her face.

‘I’ll not pretend I am not surprised to see you,’ Cousin Jane said, her over-plucked eyebrows lifting as she took in the sight in front of her. ‘Where’s his lordship?’

‘I am here on my own account.’ Julia looked at Arthur, who lounged in a carved chair before the empty hearth. He had not troubled to get to his feet as she entered and the deliberate insult somehow steadied both her nerve and voice. For three years she had been Lady Dereham, used to receiving respect and courtesy—she was no longer the poor, subservient, relation.

‘I am sure that, having thought this over, you cannot wish to betray me to the law, not when you know full well I was deceived and forced by Jonathan Dalfield.’ That was her first suggestion, the one she knew they would ignore.

‘There’s no evidence of force. No one else was in the room, were they? No witnesses.’ Arthur folded his hands over his small paunch and smiled benignly. ‘You’re all alone, Cousin. Left you, has he? The baron, I mean. Can’t stomach what you did, or just doesn’t like being tricked into marrying used goods?’

Julia ignored him. Jane, after all, was the one who always wanted to keep up appearances. She tried her next bargaining chip. ‘Do you want the scandal to attach to your name, Cousin Jane?’ she demanded.

‘We will appear as the poor, deceived relatives who took you into our home and were grossly imposed upon,’ Mrs Prior said, perfectly composed. ‘How were we to know that you were a vicious, immoral little slut who was capable of such things?’

Well, that seemed to dispose of both appeals to their good nature. Time for threats. ‘If you hand me over to the law, then my husband will not pay you a penny and I will tell the magistrates that you were accessories.’

Arthur shrugged. ‘Your husband will pay up, never fear. That sort will do anything to safeguard their honour and good name.’

That seemed to dispose of the one feeble threat she could make. Julia realised she was not surprised. Her stomach felt entirely hollow and yet she had passed beyond fear. ‘Very well. I shall go to Bow Street and surrender myself. And while I am at it I will report you both for extortion.’ Would I? She realised she simply did not know.

Then, as Arthur still smirked, Julia’s fragile hold on her nerves snapped into temper. ‘I mean it. I will not have you threatening and impoverishing the man I love and as the only way to avoid that seems to be to expose this whole dreadful situation I will do my damnedest to see you are dragged down with me. And I promise you, Lord Dereham will make your life hell on earth from now onwards.’

That got through. ‘Wait.’ Arthur rose to his feet. ‘Now there’s no need to be hasty.’ With a glimmer of hope she saw there was sweat beading his brow now.

‘You want to negotiate, do you?’ Julia said. ‘Unfortunately I do not deal with—’

The inner door opened and a man strolled out from the bedchamber beyond. Will, an irrational voice in her head said and her heart leapt. Then he stepped fully into the room and she saw his eyes were cold, unreadable blue, not hot amber fire. This was a tall, dark ghost with a streak of pure white slashing through the forelock that fell on to his brow.

‘Perhaps you would like to deal with me instead, Julia,’ Jonathan Dalfield said and smiled as the room swirled around her.

Chapter Twenty

I will not faint, Julia thought grimly and spun round to the door. Jonathan reached her before she could lift the latch, his strong hands turning her, dragging her up against him. He smelled as she remembered, of lime cologne and the Spanish snuff he favoured and the oil he used on his hair. It was a scent that had once made her head spin with desire.

‘You are alive.’ It was foolishly obvious, but it was hard to believe that this was a flesh-and-blood man. Not so hard to believe was the remembered pain of his grip on her wrist. So close she could see that the line of his jaw had softened, that there were pouches under his eyes. He looked more than three years older, more dissipated. If he had approached her now, she would have seen him for what he was.

‘Alive, but no thanks to you, my dear.’ His smile was feral, bitter with all semblance of charm vanished. Once she had thought herself in love with this man. She must have been desperate indeed.

How had he survived that blow to the head? There had been all that blood. But she did not believe in ghosts—her wrist hurt with an exquisite pain that told her she was not dreaming, so it must be true. ‘Then let me go. You’ll have no money for blackmail now, Jonathan. My husband knows I was no virgin when I came to him, he’ll give you not a penny for whatever feeble scandal you think you can stir up.’

‘So I will have to get my recompense for this some other way, Julia my dear.’ He pushed back the hair from his forehead and she saw the scar, a red, puckered dent two inches long. ‘Pretty, isn’t it? And the headaches are not pretty either.’

‘It is your fault, Jonathan Dalfield,’ Julia threw at him. She felt giddy with relief that she had not killed him, but she could feel no regrets now for having hurt him—the man was even worse than she had thought. ‘You deceived me, ravished me, tried to rape me. Do you believe I had no right to fight back?’