The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(44)

“You traveled straight from Bath?” Dr. Cordingley crossed the room to her side, giving her his full attention. “I wouldn’t have advised it.”

“I but obeyed my husband’s command,” Mama said. “To my own detriment.” She opened the door to leave without sparing a look in Julia’s direction.

“You’re a dutiful wife, my lady, and a caring mother. Will you permit me to examine you? I may have something I can prescribe for your relief.” The doctor glanced back at Mary. “Attend to your mistress, girl. I’ll return in an hour for her next treatment.”

The door shut behind them both.

Julia felt the heavy air stir as Mary came to stand beside her.

“Oh, miss.” Mary’s usually no-nonsense voice quavered with uncertainty. “If you’re pretending, I swear I’ll—”

“Mary . . .” Julia looked at her maid. “Don’t let them.”

Mary all but threw up her hands. “What can I do? He’s a doctor. He must know what he’s about.” She fussed with the coverlet. “He’s right about those novels. I’ve told you so dozens of times, haven’t I?”

Julia couldn’t manage a reply. She was too tired. Too weary of it all.

The last time Dr. Cordingley had bled her, it had been taxing, but she’d got through it with aplomb. Within a few hours, she’d been tucked up in bed reading a delicious novel that featured a missing will, an honorable highwayman, and a courageous damsel on the run. Compared to the pleasure of the characters’ romance, her own loss of blood hadn’t mattered at all.

But she hadn’t reckoned for Dr. Cordingley.

She hadn’t known that, with subsequent bleedings, the amount of precious fluid taken would increase beyond all tolerable proportion.

What if she should succumb to the treatment? What if she should die?

In her bleary-headed state, she didn’t know how many of her fears were real and how many were a product of her excess imagination.

Perhaps she had read too many novels.

“Miss?” Mary said. “Didn’t you hear me?”

Julia opened her eyes, uncertain when she’d closed them. She felt as if she was waking from a fever dream. “What is it?”

“I said I found out about that toffee heiress for you. You asked how much she was worth. The answer’s forty thousand pounds. And I didn’t even have to leave the house to discover it.”

“How . . . ?”

“You’ll never credit it. Remember Florence? The maid Sir Eustace turned off last month? Her who used to be called Jane? She’s a parlor maid in Green Street now, at the very house Miss Throckmorton’s putting up at. Cook had tea with her not two days ago. It was she who told me.”

Of course Julia remembered their former maid. Jane Six, she’d been called. Papa had dismissed her for gossiping. But it wasn’t the information Mary had imparted that stuck in Julia’s head. It was the fact that the girl’s name was Florence. Julia hadn’t realized.

The knowledge provoked a swell of regret.

What right had Mama and Papa to steal the servants’ names? And why hadn’t Julia rebelled at the practice?

She hadn’t spoken up. She hadn’t taken a stand.

She’d gone along with her parents for the same reason she always went along with their edicts—part filial obedience and part fear. The world wasn’t a kind place for young ladies who were shy and vulnerable. Ladies who were often too anxious for company. Julia had always believed she was safest at home.

But she wasn’t.

Perhaps she’d never been.

And if she wasn’t safe here, where would she be safe? She had nowhere to go. No relations to take her in. Not even her friends could assist her. Not in any substantial way. Anne, Stella, and Evelyn had their own battles to fight.

Julia would have to fight her own battles, too. A daunting prospect. Though not an impossible one. She had a vague idea where she could begin.

“Forty thousand pounds,” she murmured. It was a generous sum for a dowry, but not as sizable as Julia had feared. Her eyes drifted shut, her pulse slowing to a crawl in the oppressive heat of the room. “I wonder if he knows . . .”





Fourteen





The day after the Claverings’ ball, Jasper made the hour-long journey to Richmond Park in company with Lord Ridgeway. Lady Desmond was hosting a picnic there, and guests were expected to arrive by noon. Most of fashionable society would be in attendance, Miss Throckmorton among them.

“The weather’s clear, thank God,” Ridgeway remarked as they disembarked from his carriage. “Last picnic I attended, we had all of thirty minutes to eat before the rain started. A dashed nuisance. And I’d brought my curricle, too.” He tapped the closed body of the coach with his silver-topped walking stick. “Lesson learned.”

Passing through the gates, the grounds of the park spread out before them. Formerly a royal hunting preserve, it was nearly ten miles in circumference, studded with ancient trees, glistening waterways, and antlered deer grazing peacefully on the grassy slopes.

Jasper settled his hat on his head. He’d worn a black suit, just as he always did. He was in the minority. Most of the gentlemen present had favored sack coats and garish plaid trousers. The ladies, by contrast, were in soft whites and pastels, with flowing skirts and wide bell-shaped sleeves. His gaze slid over them.