Prince of Ravenscar (Sherbrooke Brides 11)

He said easily, “I must say the two of you look much better than the last time I saw you—both of you were filthy, your clothes torn, nearly drowned in that deluge. I see you are married and appear quite content with each other, my felicitations to you both.” And he gave them a charming smile. He touched his fingers to his throat. “A sharp knee you have, my lady.”

They stared at him. Obviously they’d never expected him to simply spit it right out. Corrie said finally, “We thought we recognized your voice, but it’s difficult to believe that you—Lord Julian Monroe—are that wretched smuggler who would have dragged us to Plymouth if we hadn’t bested you. Of course, we did just that, didn’t we?” And up went her chin.

Julian laughed. “Yes, I am the wretched smuggler who couldn’t take the chance you’d report me to the excisemen. Smuggling has been a hobby I’ve enjoyed for many years.”

“But you don’t have many years!”

He grinned at Corrie. “I am tempted to say smuggling runs in the blood, but alas, my sire died when I was a mere babe, so I do not know if he ever indulged.” There was no need to tell them soldiers in Wellington’s army had taught him all about the joys of smuggling. “Now, I would ask that the two of you contrive to forget it.”

Corrie was outraged. “Forget it? Forget that you would have kidnapped us? Forget that you might have shot us dead if you’d wished to, or had your gnarly men beat us into the ground?”

James couldn’t help it, he laughed. He laughed even more at her red-faced outrage. Corrie shook her fist in his face and sputtered. She looked from Julian to her husband, and her sputter turned into a laugh. Soon all three of them were laughing like the best of friends. Guests began turning to look at them.

When Julian caught his breath, he said to James, “I understand you are an astronomer, that you presented a paper to the Royal Astronomical Society on what you called the silver cascade phenomena on Titan. A fascinating description you gave, so my friend told me, since he knows I have always been interested in Saturn’s moons—”

Corrie couldn’t believe it when James leaned closed to this man who’d held them at gunpoint, this man who’d planned to kidnap them, and now look at him—hooked like a channel bass. She said loudly, “I understand your mama wants you to marry Sophie Wilkie.”

Julian said, “Alas, my nuptials to Sophie are not meant to be. I am far too old for her. My mama will survive her disappointment.”

Corrie said, “James is seven years older than I. Do you believe him too old for me?”

“Seven years is, I should say, the perfect age difference. However, I am twelve years Sophie’s senior.”

Corrie said, “Isn’t seven years about the age difference between you and Roxanne Radcliffe, Sophie’s aunt? Perhaps your mama should pursue her for you instead.”

“There are only five years between Roxanne and me—not enough, I fancy, to give me any sort of advantage in the marital ring.”

“You do have ready answers, don’t you, sir? I imagine many would believe your smart replies quite amusing. Perhaps, as Devlin’s uncle, you can answer me this. Is Devlin really a vampire?”

He leaned close and said into her lovely little ear with its pearl drop earring, “He carries my blood and my lineage. My father, my mother has told me, hated the sunlight, avoided it at all costs. I shall let you draw your own conclusions, my lady,” and then Julian left them, humming, until he heard one of the Milanese tenors clear his throat. The evening’s torture was about to begin. He saw Roxanne walking toward Sophie, his mother in tow, and moved to join them. He looked back once to see

James and Corrie Sherbrooke looking after him. He didn’t believe they would inform on him at Bow Street.

19

Rexford Square

Julian refolded the letter, stared off at nothing in particular, and began tapping his fingers on his desktop. This was unexpected. What the devil should he do?

He opened the letter and read yet again:

Julian, it would relieve me greatly were you to visit me here at Hardcross Manor. In short, I wish to end the antipathy between us. I bear you no more ill will. If you wish to escort your mother, I should be pleased. Perhaps this upcoming Saturday would be convenient?

Your obedient servant,

Rupert Langworth, Baron Purley

Julian sent the letter and a note to his mother, and took himself off to the stables to ride Cannon. He joined up with military friends who’d befriended him at Waterloo.

Lord Alfred Ponsonby, an older gentleman with a wealth of gray frizzled hair and thick whiskers, had jerked him up by his collar at Waterloo to avoid an onrushing French soldier, his bayonet at the ready. He looked him up and down. “Fine horseflesh, my lad.”

“Cannon could beat that nag you’re riding, my lord.”

“I’ll grant you he could give it a good try.” Lord Alfred turned to the other three gentlemen. “I remember the grand old man himself give Julian that name; he said Julian here was so fast he looked shot from a cannon—one that worked and didn’t fall limp on the ground. And now you have transferred your name to your horse.”

Everyone laughed.

Major Ramey said, “Our poor Iron Duke—beset on all sides. I fear the end is in sight for him, with the Whigs and Earl Grey waiting in the wings, but that is politics, something I abhor. When I saw Arthur at the ministry last week, he told me he’d heard you’d finally returned to England.”