In Pursuit of a Scandalous Lady by Gayle Callen Page B

a grateful smile, dazzling him. He held the tray one-handed while he stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him. And then he stopped, his ear to the door.
    She seemed to be moving around, for her footsteps tapped regularly. Then he heard something squeak, and wood being dragged across the floor.
    He set the tray on the hall floor, then opened their door, only to find her standing on a stool, head and shoulders out the window.

Chapter 8
    W hen she felt big hands around her waist, Rebecca gasped and tried to kick, but Julian eluded her blows, hauling her back inside. To her mortification, she slid down his body, her backside to his front. She fought his restraining hands and he let her go. Over her head, he slammed the shutters closed, even as she stumbled away from him and caught herself on the bedpost.
    â€œWhat was the meaning of that?” he demanded.
    She faced him, hands on her hips. “Why ever would I trust you? I told you I was leaving London, and suddenly men are following me—including you!”
    â€œAccording to you, the thief was in your carriage at Lady Thurlow’s. I didn’t even know you were leaving before that.”
    â€œBut you have an unscrupulous wager about me. And you saw the diamond in the painting.”
    â€œAnd around your neck at a ball, before I saw the painting,” he added grimly.
    She narrowed her eyes. “The thief said that his master saw the jewel in both places, too.”
    â€œMany men could have seen the same thing. You cannot be accusing me of hiring a man to terrorize you.”
    He seemed outraged as he drew himself up, but that only reminded Rebecca how very large he was, how he seemed to dwarf the tiny room—the tiny bed. With his clothing dirty, his hair windblown, whiskers darkening his face, he seemed far too dangerous, not like a civilized earl.
    â€œWhy shouldn’t I accuse you?” she demanded. “I left the thief in my carriage, and he turns up at the railway station at the same time as you!”
    â€œWe were both following you—separately.”
    â€œAnd why should I believe you?” she demanded, feeling frustrated. “How am I supposed to know the truth?”
    He took a deep breath, as if he were trying to control his temper. She had seen no evidence of an unruly one—but she didn’t know him at all.
    â€œI’ll tell you what you need to know.”
    That could mean many things, but she refrained from pointing that out. “Please do.”
    She thought he would pace the room to work off his anger, but he remained utterly still as he spoke.
    â€œThe name of the diamond is the Scandalous Lady.”
    Whatever she’d thought he would say to excuse himself, it wasn’t that. “You know the name?”
    â€œIt was my father’s. It had been missing for almost ten years—and then I saw you wearing it at the ball.”
    She sank down slowly on the bed. “Your father’s?” She couldn’t even make a connection between the painting, Roger Eastfield the artist, and the last earl of Parkhurst.
    Julian nodded. “It was a gift to my father from an Indian maharajah who was visiting London. My father served as his official escort on behalf of the king.”
    â€œWhen I wore it, I thought it was paste,” she said lamely.
    â€œMy father was honored to accept it, but when the maharajah died, his heirs tried to say that my father had coerced an old man out of a precious heirloom.”
    She held her breath in surprise. Julian looked toward the hearth, his heavy brows lowered, his gray eyes focused far away. She sensed…something within him, an old pain he kept buried. It was close to the surface now; he yet struggled with it. He was a proud man, and she imagined his father had been the same.
    â€œThat must have been terrible for the earl,” she said softly. “What happened?”
    â€œMy father disagreed, and he kept the jewel. Society being