For years, Lady Julia Barrowby has acted the part of an
old man’s ornamental bride, never revealing that she has
secretly helped the ailing Lord Barrowby in his work with
the Royal Four. Now that her husband has died, Julia
believes his place in the Four is hers by right. But
convincing the remaining members will not be easy,
especially with Marcus Ramsay, Lord Dryden, distracting
her at every turn. Somehow, the mysterious Marcus seems to
see into her very soul, effortlessly satisfying all her
secret, forbidden longings… Marcus stood next in line to be chosen for the Four, and
he is not willing to be displaced by a woman, no matter
how intriguing or beautiful she may be. Under orders to
investigate Julia, Marcus discovers her diary, overflowing
with years of loneliness and yearning. Fulfilling Julia’s
fantasies is the perfect way to get closer to her, but
seducing this fascinating creature is fast becoming more
than a means to an end—it is his soul’s deepest desire…
Excerpt
England, 1813 Three years later Husbands came and husbands went, but dreadful hair lasted
forever. Julia, now the widowed Lady Barrowby, forced one last
curling strand back into her severely restrained hairstyle
and settled the black veil over it all. Her beloved Aldus
had lingered for three long years in his efforts to stay
with her after his initial collapse and although he’d been
more mentor than husband, she had sworn to mourn him for
one entire day before she took on the task he had set her. Just as he’d wished, she had buried him today with no more
fanfare than the baker of the nearby village of
Middlebarrow might have received. Now, she must pull
herself together and dry her tears, for the moment had
come. With a sigh, she saw that another pale wisp had come
loose. Her hair refused to adapt to the role of highborn
lady, a last holdout from the common Jilly Boots she’d
once been. She shoved the blasted thing into submission once again,
using her customary excess of pins. At last, she was ready
to face down the three intimidating lords who had gathered
uninvited in her front parlor. She pressed her fingertips
to the locket about her neck for a moment, then she turned
and walked calmly from her bedchamber. All about Marcus there was chaos in the yard of the
coaching inn. The impromptu visit from the Prince Regent
of England had sent the innkeeper into fits of near-
fainting and the people of this anonymous village into
goggle-eyed ineptitude. There was noise and madness
everywhere as he tried to get his highness back on the
road, but deep inside him, there was a place of suspended
silence. Marcus Ramsay, Lord Dryden, was waiting. Outwardly, he seemed well enough occupied by his duties
protecting the Prince Regent and securing his prince’s
safe journey from Kirkall Hall in Scotland to Brighton---
George IV’s preferred winter destination. There was the
prince’s new mistress to consider, and there were more
servants and staff and Royal Minions of the Midnight
Kitchen Foray than any one man could possibly need, and
yet somehow Prince George still overworked them all. Marcus’s duties to his demanding monarch aside, there
still remained a portion of Marcus’s mind that sat in that
still, frozen moment of anticipation. He’d been waiting all his life, it seemed. The second son
of a marquess, one boy child too many to hope for more
than Ravencliff, the minor estate left to him by his
mother’s dowry, he’d spent his youth wondering what the
world would have left for him. He’d spent his years in the army, hoping for the answers
there, but mere combat didn’t hold any thrill but the
unpleasant one of danger itself. Marcus didn’t want to be
the man taking the hill, he wanted to be the man to choose
the hill. His vision seemed to extend beyond that of his general, as
if he could see the field of battle from an eagle’s view,
as if he could outthink the enemy, and his own commanders.
He’d waited for them to see what he saw, until he’d not
been able to wait any longer. He’d been so frustrated by
the useless waste of life perpetrated by shortsighted men--
-the men who chose the hills. Finally, unable to bear one more day of slaughter for
slaughter’s sake, he’d salted his commander’s meal with a
powerful emetic and left the man puking out his ignorance
and stubbornness in the company’s latrine. Taking command
through lies and persuasion, though he was a mere major,
Marcus led his command through the gaping weakness in the
side of the French army that somehow he’d been the only
one to see. They’d taken the hill without a single loss. He’d been accused, tried, and acquitted---for no one could
quite prove he’d done what he’d done, nor could they deny
its effectiveness. He’d been ordered from the army with a
black mark on his record and a furtive, fervent thank-you
from his men. The next day, he’d been tapped by the Royal Four. A blond
giant of a man had appeared at his doorstep and offered
him the chance of a lifetime. Someday. Someday he would take over as the Lion, someday he would
assume a seat on the council of analysts and spies who
held the reins of England in their hands---the Cobra, the
Lion, the Fox, and the Falcon. Men whose deathless loyalty
to England superseded even their loyalty to their king. Someday---provided his youthful and very lively mentor
died before him. Nor did Marcus wish Dane Calwell dead. The man was more
brother than teacher, more friend than superior. But the
Viscount Greenleigh had given Marcus the taste of a future
full of promise and power---not to glorify himself, but to
change the world. To be a man who ruled kings---to be able to use the vision
he had, the mind he’d been given, the strength in his
spirit for something more meaningful than spending his
inheritance and waiting for his brother to kill himself
with overindulgence? Now that was a future he could
scarcely wait for. “Be patient,” Dane had advised him, seemingly for the
hundredth time. “You’re almost ready, but not quite.
You’re too impulsive yet, too reckless. Yes, you saved the
lives of potentially hundreds of soldiers---but you did it
rashly, without thorough deliberation. You might have
killed more than you saved. Take this time to cultivate
some restraint---for you’ll need more than you know.” Wait. Always wait. Marcus had bitten his tongue, he’d beaten down his
ambitions, he’d settled into his role as protégé of the
Lion. Or so he’d thought. Marcus closed his eyes against the chaos of the inn yard.
He should not allow himself to savor the excitement and
satisfaction rising within him, yet he could not contain
it. The waiting was nearly done. Even now, the Cobra, the Lion, and the Falcon journeyed to
Barrowby, home of the Fox. All Marcus need do now was
reach for a last bit of patience in a life filled
with “wait.” In a matter of days, he would have his dream--
-a seat in the ring of power. A seat on the Royal Four. For the unthinkable had happened. The Fox had died without
apprentice. And the Royal Four were only Three. In the most formal and luxurious parlor of Barrowby,
consternation reigned. For the first time in the history of that elite and
powerful cabal that steered the course of England’s past,
present, and future, one of the Royal Four had neglected
his most sacred duty. The three lords, most concerned, accompanied by a very
edge Prime Minister, had set themselves the task of
discovering which deserving gentleman had been selected by
their venerable peer before his death. At that moment,
this task seemed futile. He had not trained a replacement. More vital than an heir to a mere title, more important
than even an heir to the Crown---for when had England ever
had any shortage of those lying about?---the lacking heir
to the seat of the Fox left the Four vulnerable to defeat
from within. Lady Barrowby was counting on just that. Lady Barrowby, “Jilly” to her long-dead mother, “Julia” to
her recently deceased husband, stood in the front hallway
of Barrowby and listened without shame to the conversation
being had in the first parlor. It was her house, after all---at least until the distant
heir to Barrowby could be found. And, although the four
men in the parlor knew it not, their conversation
concerned her greatly. The crisp, slightly nasal voice of Lord Liverpool, the
Prime Minister of England, was unmistakable. “I cannot
believe Aldus could have been so careless! He had nearly
forty years as the Fox to select a protégé---it is not
possible. There must be someone---perhaps someone who
tired of waiting and went about his business.” Not bloody likely, Julia thought. A deep and powerful rumble disagreed with Lord Liverpool.
That would be the blond giant, Lord Greenleigh, who held
the seat of the Lion. “I have never heard of someone choosing not to serve once
selected---and don’t give me Etheridge as an example. He
still serves as spymaster.” “Barrowby cannot have believed he still had time,” said a
smoother voice thoughtfully. Julia guessed at Lord
Reardon, the new Cobra. “He was over seventy years of age!” The fourth man, Lord Wyndham, had not said much at all.
Nor would he. Julia was well aware of the Falcon’s cool,
watchful nature. Aldus had prepared her well. “You’d not have had a chance among the old roosters I
served with,” Aldus had told her, back when he’d been
lucid nearly all of the time. “This new crop of
fellows . . . perhaps they are of a more modern bent.”
Yet, he’d not truly believed it, she had known even then.
Hoping was not the same as believing. Julia believed. She had based the last five years of her
life on believing. Now the time had come to put that
belief to the test. She straightened, patted her hair once more just in case,
then knocked briskly on the parlor door. With luck, the
carved oak had left no discernible impression upon her
cheek. At the curt invitation---obviously Lord Liverpool had
thought her to be a servant---she entered the parlor. The
four men looked up in surprise and hastily stood. “Lady Barrowby!” Lord Reardon bowed. He was easily
recognizable from his appearances in Sir Thorogood’s
political cartoons. The other three bowed as well,
although their expressions were less welcoming. Julia decided at once that she approved of Reardon. She
was not so sure about Greenleigh and Wyndham. Liverpool
she knew too well to approve of. She curtsied. “My lords.” Liverpool stepped forward. Julia noticed that he did not
come close to her. Perhaps he came close to no one---or
perhaps he was unwilling to draw attention to the fact
that she stood inches above him. Not vanity, she knew.
Liverpool’s motives were ever rooted in power. How odd to see them all in person at last. Liverpool cleared his throat. “Lady Barrowby, if you’ll
excuse my thoughtlessness in your time of grief---” He
didn’t sound any too penitent to Julia. “I wonder if you
could tell us of any particular companion your husband
might have had in his last years. A younger man, perhaps---
a member of the aristocracy?” Julia could answer that question with complete
honesty. “No, my lord, I could not. Aldus has---had not
seen anyone outside of our household in years.” Still, there was no point in keeping them in distress.
Breathe in, breathe out. “Gentlemen, the fellow you seek
does not exist. There is no younger man. There is only me.” She paused. Swallowed. Met their confused gazes with a
serenity that did not truly exist. “I am the Fox.” The uproar was immediate and unpleasant. Julia maintained
her composure until the four men had sputtered and
exclaimed and denied enough. She cleared her throat. They fell more or less silent,
although if Liverpool did not cease swearing beneath his
breath, someone might think him better off in Bedlam. “My lords, I am not requesting that you allow me to be the
Fox. I am informing you that I am the Fox, and have been
for the past three years. I know everything that my
husband knew, and considerably more than any of you,
excepting the Prime Minister, of course.” Liverpool sputtered. “Rampant falsehoods, all of it! I
have been dealing with Barrowby for years! We came into
the Four within a few years of each other. When I stepped
down to become Prime Minister last year, it was after
extensive correspondence with Aldus. I would have known
had I not been dealing with him!” She folded her arms. “You have been corresponding with me,
Robert. I could prove it, but I do not think you would
wish me to. I know more about you than merely the gossip
one might read in the newssheets.” Liverpool went entirely still. “You tread dangerous
ground, my girl.” She tilted her head. “I believe the correct address would
be ‘my lady,’ but I shall let that familiarity pass for
such an intimate acquaintance.” Liverpool did not respond. It was obvious that he was
thinking very hard, and even more obvious that one would
not like to know what he was thinking. Not that she
required a map. She knew these men, even the most recent
member, Lord Reardon, better than their mothers could. Julia turned to the other Three. “May I congratulate you
on your recent marriage, Lord Greenleigh? I wish you and
your intrepid lady the best.” Dane Calwell nodded graciously, but his eyes were
narrowed. “You seem rather well informed, my lady, for
being isolated at Barrowby for so long.” Julia nodded. “Indeed, I have found it necessary to set up
my own network of informants. I could hardly take my case
to the Liar’s Club, could I?” “So you admit to hiding the truth from us?” Liverpool was
quick to sniff out discrepancies. Aldus had warned her of
that. Julia lifted her chin. “I imagined your response and acted
accordingly. Aldus wished to remain the Fox until he could
no longer function as thus. He entrusted me to decide for
him when that time was.” She was unable to hold back a
sigh. “It came so much sooner than we’d feared.” There was not a flicker of sympathy in the granite
expressions before her. Never mind. She would not fail
Aldus. He had believed in her ability to hold the Fox’s
position, even to preparing her for this moment. “They’ll test your mettle,” Aldus had told her. “You won’t
know where it will come from or when, but you can count on
being set with some sort of trial.” He’d patted her
hand. “No sense in worrying over it yet. Not a thing you
can do but prove to the lot of them that you’re made of
good stern stuff.” So far, only her carpets were being tested by Liverpool’s
pacing. “She is too young!” The Prime Minister was not going to
give up easily. Julia smiled gently at him. “There is a precedent. The
eleventh Falcon assumed his seat at the age of nineteen in
the reign of King Henry VI. I was all of twenty when I did
so.” The Falcon nodded slightly. “That is so.” His eyes gave
away nothing. Julia nodded respectfully in reply. “I realize that this
is a shock to you all. You will require some time to
adjust to the notion of a woman in the Royal Four.” She
curtsied and turned to leave the room. “Yet, pray do not
forget this.” She stopped and looked at them over her
shoulder. “There is no one else.” She left, closing the door behind her. She made it around
the corner of the hallway before the stiffening left her
knees and they began to shake uncontrollably. She’d done
it. She’d faced down the four most powerful men in the
land---some might say the world. Nothing she had done so
far as the Fox compared to this moment. She felt terrified
and exhilarated and calm, all at the same moment. She knew they would do their best to deny her. Liverpool
was particularly dangerous, for he’d not taken kindly to
her dig about the gossip. Then again, she doubted any of
the others would stop at eliminating her if they truly
believed her to be a danger. It was up to her to convince
them that she knew what she was about. Being female had no
influence on her mind or her loyalty. “Oh, Aldus,” she whispered, tipping her forehead against
the cool wall. “You should have seen their expressions.” A
small, rusty breathless laugh broke through her
reserve. “I wish I could see it again, myself.” Beppo rounded the corner, obviously looking for her. Julia
straightened and nodded at the small wiry butler, her
practiced composure instantly back in place. “Yes, Beppo?” “Their lordships wish you to wait on them in the parlor,
my lady. At your convenience, of course.” Beppo, who had come late in life to the serving of
the “Quality,” had added that last bit on himself, she was
sure. “Their lordships” hadn’t seemed too terribly
concerned with her convenience. She lifted her chin and
closed her eyes for a long moment. Grace under fire. She returned to the parlor to find the four men ranged
like a firing squad, facing her. Fire, indeed. From the
glare in Lord Liverpool’s eyes, she rather thought
brimstone might also be in her future. “Gentlemen, have you come to the obvious conclusion?”
Careful. She might have the upper hand, but they’d never
work with her if she alienated them completely. Lord Reardon bowed. “My lady, I fear the only conclusion
we have come to is that we cannot currently come to a
conclusion. We request a fortnight to deliberate upon it.” A thrill went through Julia. A tie vote, then? Who might
be voting on her side---Reardon and Greenleigh? The two
were reportedly very happily wed. They would likely have a
higher opinion of a lady’s abilities. So . . . it was the Prime Minister, of course, and the
sharply handsome Lord Wyndham. She curtsied low in return. “Then I shall remain here at
Barrowby to await your verdict, my lords.” If someone had been watching---and someone was---they
would have seen four very thoughtful men leaving the grand
house of Barrowby. Now what in that house might have brought about such
pensive brows? The afternoon sun glanced off shining golden hair, drawing
the watcher’s attention to the woman standing at the top
of the grand steps, watching her guests leave. His gaze
passed over her, then was drawn sharply back. No. There was an unfamiliar sensation in the watcher’s
midsection. He spared a moment to analyze the feeling,
only to determine that it was deep and bone-chilling shock. He slipped silently through the trees, moving closer than
was truly wise, but he must know . . . She turned slightly, lifting her face to the day and
letting her shoulders droop wearily for a moment. He could
see her clearly now---the same eyes, the same chin, the
same shimmering hair. It was impossible. How could this be? More to the point, what had she to do with the men who
were now riding away? After he’d followed them thus far
the truth seemed no clearer. She was obviously the lady of
the house and she wore black, so she must be in mourning.
Had they been merely consoling the widow of a peer? No, it could not be. It was merely a chance resemblance,
some trick of the light, a similarity in bearing--- Then he saw the locket gleaming in the hollow of her
throat. He knew that locket well, for he’d ordered the
jeweler to make it just so, with the design of the golden
serpent’s coils cradling an emerald. Ah, so it was true. When there was no other explanation
for the impossible, one must accept it as possible. His eyes narrowed as the woman turned to reenter the grand
house. Then one must consider how to turn it to one’s advantage. A new plan, a perfect new plan, blossomed in his mind. He
would take her back with him---but he must take care that
she went more or less willingly. He could merely steal her away, but how to control her? He
was a bit short of treasonous minions at the moment, nor
did he have the gold to bribe the mercenary sorts. On the other hand, she obviously possessed a plenty from
her generous, elderly husband. He almost smiled, for he
did appreciate such ruthless ambition. She could afford
two passages on a fine, if highly illegal, ship. If he could convince her to come away voluntarily, at
least until he could imprison her aboard a ship and keep
her drugged for the journey to Paris, then his long
arduous penance might come to a close at last. He could see the difficulties already. She would want to
stay, for although he could promise much, who would leave
such luxury unless they were forced to? Then again, if the burden of playing lady of the manor
became too much--- He would begin immediately, then, to make sure she would
have no reason to stay. Julia stayed where she was for a long moment as the four
men on horseback rounded the turn in the long drive. In moments, they were gone. She’d not been surprised when
they’d refused the hospitality of Barrowby. They must have
realized that every word they’d uttered would have been
reported by her faithful staff. Three large men, one slight. All handsome in different
ways. All waxing territorial, their hackles raised. She’d
not been around that much heady virility in a very long
time. It would be enough to make a sillier woman giddy. Luckily, she simply wasn’t that sort.
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