a dozen times in the soldiers’ patent leather boots and plumed shako hats. The last time Eliza had seen so many colorful ostrich plumes in one place, the Dowager Marchioness of Montcrief had donned them for a musicale in Kent.
Eliza explained at the desk that she was Julian Sheringham’s younger brother, come to London to visit him. To her dismay, she discovered Julian was not in. She looked around and realized she would surely end up being discovered if she sat waiting among the soldiers. She could hear enough of their conversations from where she stood to know she did not have a large enough vocabulary of oaths.
“Is it possible for me to wait for my brother in his rooms?” she asked.
“I dunno, sir,” the narrow-faced clerk said, appraising her down a very long nose. “Major Sheringham didn’t say nothin’ ’bout a brother.”
“As you can see, I am here,” Eliza said, taking care to keep her gravelly voice low. “I have not seen my—” She caught herself before she could say cousin. “Brother in two years. I want to surprise him.”
“Guess that’d be all right. Major Sheringham can throw you out as well as I can, if you ain’t who you say.”
A porter let her into Julian’s suite of rooms and set her traveling bag on the floor. When he held out his hand, she shook it and said, “Thank you.”
He scowled, muttered, “Clutch-fisted gentry,” set the key on a table inside the door, and left, closing the door behind him.
By the time Eliza realized the porter had been waiting for a coin, it was too late to call him back. She clasped her hands behind her and strode around the suite of rooms, looking for signs of Julian.
His hairbrush sat on the washstand, along with his shaving equipment. His beaver shaving brush was still damp, and she could see a puddle of water on his—she sniffed—sandalwood shaving soap. Perhaps he had only gone somewhere for breakfast and would be back soon.
The bed was unmade, the sheets tousled as though he had not slept well. She started to turn away, uncomfortable intruding on his privacy. And noticed that both pillows bore the indentation of a head.
She crossed to the foot of the brass bed and grasped the bars with white-knuckled hands, staring hard at the pillows. Maybe he had slept on both pillows. She crossed to the pillow on one side, leaned over and sniffed the coverlet. Sandalwood. Julian had laid his head there. She stroked the pillow lovingly.
Eliza paused, then leaned across the bed and sniffed the other pillow. She rose abruptly, as the cloying smell of cheap rosewater assaulted her nose.
“He has had a woman here!”
Astonishment, anger, and hurt laced her voice. She knew men had their fancy pieces, but she had notthought Julian … How stupid of her! She had seen the sort of females in the hotel parlor and overheard the soldiers’ ribald comments. The soldiers must be inviting the ladies of the demimonde to join them in their rooms. As Julian had obviously done.
She let out a breath she had been holding too long. That did nothing to relieve the ache in her chest.
Eliza fought back a surge of jealous anger. Only a nodcock would anguish over a single gentleman’s rendezvous with a paid-for paramour. She had no right to criticize Julian’s behavior until he was hers. She had no doubt that when he married, he would be a faithful husband. All the same, it hurt to know Julian had not come home to her at Ravenwood. That he had stayed in London to make love to another woman.
She hastened out of his bedroom, collapsed into a padded wooden chair close to the open window of the sitting room, and took several deep, calming breaths. Her nose was assailed by the stench of the gutters, while the strident sounds from the cobble-stoned street below jangled her nerves. She rose and fled toward the door but was not halfway there before she realized she had nowhere else to go.
Eliza returned to the chair by the window, pulled it far enough away to avoid the
Eliza explained at the desk that she was Julian Sheringham’s younger brother, come to London to visit him. To her dismay, she discovered Julian was not in. She looked around and realized she would surely end up being discovered if she sat waiting among the soldiers. She could hear enough of their conversations from where she stood to know she did not have a large enough vocabulary of oaths.
“Is it possible for me to wait for my brother in his rooms?” she asked.
“I dunno, sir,” the narrow-faced clerk said, appraising her down a very long nose. “Major Sheringham didn’t say nothin’ ’bout a brother.”
“As you can see, I am here,” Eliza said, taking care to keep her gravelly voice low. “I have not seen my—” She caught herself before she could say cousin. “Brother in two years. I want to surprise him.”
“Guess that’d be all right. Major Sheringham can throw you out as well as I can, if you ain’t who you say.”
A porter let her into Julian’s suite of rooms and set her traveling bag on the floor. When he held out his hand, she shook it and said, “Thank you.”
He scowled, muttered, “Clutch-fisted gentry,” set the key on a table inside the door, and left, closing the door behind him.
By the time Eliza realized the porter had been waiting for a coin, it was too late to call him back. She clasped her hands behind her and strode around the suite of rooms, looking for signs of Julian.
His hairbrush sat on the washstand, along with his shaving equipment. His beaver shaving brush was still damp, and she could see a puddle of water on his—she sniffed—sandalwood shaving soap. Perhaps he had only gone somewhere for breakfast and would be back soon.
The bed was unmade, the sheets tousled as though he had not slept well. She started to turn away, uncomfortable intruding on his privacy. And noticed that both pillows bore the indentation of a head.
She crossed to the foot of the brass bed and grasped the bars with white-knuckled hands, staring hard at the pillows. Maybe he had slept on both pillows. She crossed to the pillow on one side, leaned over and sniffed the coverlet. Sandalwood. Julian had laid his head there. She stroked the pillow lovingly.
Eliza paused, then leaned across the bed and sniffed the other pillow. She rose abruptly, as the cloying smell of cheap rosewater assaulted her nose.
“He has had a woman here!”
Astonishment, anger, and hurt laced her voice. She knew men had their fancy pieces, but she had notthought Julian … How stupid of her! She had seen the sort of females in the hotel parlor and overheard the soldiers’ ribald comments. The soldiers must be inviting the ladies of the demimonde to join them in their rooms. As Julian had obviously done.
She let out a breath she had been holding too long. That did nothing to relieve the ache in her chest.
Eliza fought back a surge of jealous anger. Only a nodcock would anguish over a single gentleman’s rendezvous with a paid-for paramour. She had no right to criticize Julian’s behavior until he was hers. She had no doubt that when he married, he would be a faithful husband. All the same, it hurt to know Julian had not come home to her at Ravenwood. That he had stayed in London to make love to another woman.
She hastened out of his bedroom, collapsed into a padded wooden chair close to the open window of the sitting room, and took several deep, calming breaths. Her nose was assailed by the stench of the gutters, while the strident sounds from the cobble-stoned street below jangled her nerves. She rose and fled toward the door but was not halfway there before she realized she had nowhere else to go.
Eliza returned to the chair by the window, pulled it far enough away to avoid the
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