No, Julian had little fear that he'd be noticed by any peers, disguised as he was with bruises, a beard, and ten months' growth of his black hair. He would play Veronica's personal guard... and ferret out information about the murder of his family while doing so.
Julian had to admit it felt good to be doing something, to at last have a plan of sorts after so many months of nothing and nothingness. He'd been waiting for this very opportunity for a long, long while.
Back in the village, the many bonfires lit in celebration of Midsummer's Eve had seemed to light the night, pushing back the press of darkness and even the mist that had come threading into the village. Before he'd left Ripon, Julian had passed by a sea of faces, all of them smiling and happy—and long before he'd put his mount to a canter he'd had to pause along the lane for some revelers crossing in his path. A young girl had reached up, handing him a small almond cake and with it the magic of summer that lit her eyes.
She'd not drawn back in fear at the sight of Julian's bearded, beaten face and shagged hair, but had merely wished to share some of her youthful joy at staying up so late and being part of such revelry, and it had occurred to him at that moment—and as it had at Fountains when he'd first heard Veronica's voice and then kissed her—that life could perhaps hold some sweetness once again, that there might, somehow, be something good to be wrought of it all. But then the girl was gone... the moment lost—as though it had never been.
Julian had continued along the lane, and in the next instant was wondering if Nate and Scruggs were somewhere behind him, gathered round one of the fires, if they had seen him enter or exit the inn, or if they themselves had gone into the inn, in search of Veronica.
It was that last unanswered detail that bothered him most of all. However much or how little Veronica might know about the packet, about the explosion that had taken his family from him, Julian still found himself worrying over her welfare. She had bewitched him with her violet eyes, soft curves, and even softer mouth...
and gad,
but her sweetly eager response to his hungry kisses had near torn his soul asunder.
Earlier, when he'd first touched her, he'd had to fight for control. Her lips had tasted like nectar and her body, so lithe, had felt just right in his arms. Julian could well imagine what a night with Veronica would be like: 'Twould be heaven, he wagered, and would make him want another and another....
Julian rode on into the darkness, forcing away such lusty thoughts. He focused instead on the wind he could hear in his ears, on the steady, powerful beat of his horse's hooves atop the ground, and even the hoot of a far-off owl now and then.
He had a twenty-minute ride ahead of him, and twenty minutes back. It did not leave much time for all he had to say to the man he now sought... and no time,
absolutely none,
he told himself, for allowing his mind to drift back to those moments at the abbey when a too-beautiful, daring and determined female had come careening into his bleak existence.
The small, weather-beaten cottage with but a few outerbuildings stood huddled in the folds of a great sweep of sheep-cropped sod that flowed upward and beyond, stretching out far into the darkness. Candlelight glowed from the two small windows that faced in the direction of Ripon.
Julian was glad to see the light. The hour was growing late and he'd wondered if he would have to rouse the inhabitants from their beds.
He dismounted, but not before smoothing one opened palm along the neck of his trusty bay. The horse blew out a breath, seemingly as glad as Julian to finally be moving and going farther than just the lands of Fountains. During their ride here the horse had seemed to sense his master's mission and renewed strength, and as if he'd been storing up energy for the past many months the animal had flown over the earth as though he had wings.
In another moment, Julian stood before the door of the cottage. He rapped twice with his knuckles on its weathered wood. A shadow moved by one of the windows, peered out around a slight lift of a curtain, and then opened the portal.
"Hello, Garn," Julian said, seeing a brief flicker of surprise in those familiar blue eyes. He tipped a slow smile at the man, then said, "The owls are hooting tonight."
"Sweet mother of—you can
hear,
m'lord!"
"Aye. I can hear, Garn. And damn glorious it is to hear
your
voice, my friend."
"Ah, and yours, m'lord, and to see that grin on your face—which, by the way, looks like hell, m'lord, but a far sight better than when I first left you at Fountains."
Julian reached up and gingerly touched the skin near his battered eye. "That bad, eh?"
"Aye, m'lord. A shiner to beat all." Garn reached for his lordship's hand and drew him inside, quickly shutting the door and calling out as he did so. "Meg, girl, 'tis the Earl of Eve come t' pay a visit. Step lively, sis, and maybe warm some of that stew you fussed over all the day long."
Julian held up one hand. "No, no food, Garn. I'm heading to London. That's why I'm here. We've a lot to discuss."
"London? That can mean only one thing."
"Aye." Julian nodded. "I might have the barest lead to ferreting out the blackheart who murdered my family, Garn. But I'm going to need your help."
"And you'll have it, m'lord."
Just then, the door to one of the other two rooms of the cottage was whisked open, and Garn's sister, Meg, stepped out.
Julian smiled at the woman, who dropped a somewhat clumsy curtsy, given her big bones and sturdy weight, then smiled back at him. Meg was fifty years old. Widowed and childless, she'd lived in this cottage all of her days and appeared content to do so until her very last minute on this earth. She raised sheep and liked to knit—though how she ever managed a pair of needles with those big, manlike hands of hers, Julian would never know. She was a good woman, and she'd welcomed her brother, Garn, back home with wide arms and no questions asked.
And she asked no questions now, not even when she saw the marks of the beating on Julian's face. She merely moved to a side cupboard in the corner of the room, fished out a small jar of some kind of salve, pulled a threadbare but clean cloth from the cubbyhole as well, then set both on the small, scarred table around which four serviceable wooden chairs were pushed in.
"For your eye, m'lord," she said simply, then added, "And I hope whoever did this to you has two to match it."
Meg didn't linger to share idle talk.
"If you be changin' your mind about wantin' some food, m'lord, just give a holler."
With that, she headed back to her room, closing the door behind her. She'd never interfered in her brother's business with his lordship, and clearly never would. Julian had come to the conclusion that Meg probably didn't give a fig about tides or travels or anything that didn't have to do with her precious sheep and the land around her cottage, which she loved so much.
Garn pulled out a chair for Julian, waiting for him to be seated; then he hauled out a chair for himself and sat down. A short wax stub of a candle burned bright at the middle of the table, its flame dancing in the draft of air that whispered aloft with Meg's closing door.
Garn sat back and, like his sister, asked no questions. They were a family of few words but huge hearts. Garn clearly knew that when his lordship was ready to talk, he would talk and tell Garn what he needed to know.
Garn was fifteen years younger than his sister, of medium height, and well built, with muscles made strong by manual work. He was not at all the average sort of manservant known to tend to the gentlemen of the
ton
—which was exactly what Julian had wanted those many years ago when he'd gone searching for a servant.
Rawboned and tough as an ox, Garn had a sheaf of wheat-colored hair that continually flopped over his brow in a devil-may-care kind of way. His eyes were a bright, vivid blue, with creases at their sides, which were deepened by his time out of doors and his penchant to smile often.
Julian had met Garn ten years ago in the northernmost reaches of Yorkshire at some lowly tavern that stank of rot but held a lively, likable atmosphere. Julian was just about to be launched on his Grand Tour, but had decided to kick about the countryside for a week or two beforehand. He'd graduated University, and never much caring for the bother of London he had instead headed to his favorite area—the shires of Yorkshire.
Elbow to elbow, the heir to the Eve title had matched the brawny Garn drink for drink of the gut-burning grog the tavern was proud to serve. Within the hour, he and Garn had found a fast kinship, but hadn't yet bothered to share their names with each other. Within the second hour, they'd found themselves boxing partners when a pair of drunken locals had come in, treated the serving maid wretchedly, and seemed spoiling for a fight. Garn and Julian, thinking to help the maid out, had quickly obliged.
When it was all over, their opponents had left the tavern, and Julian and Garn, with their knuckles raw from punches, had finally shook hands and introduced themselves.
If Garn had been surprised to find he'd been fighting side by side with the son of a blueblood, he made no sign of it. He merely smiled that easy smile of his, which spread all the way into his clear blue eyes, and said, matter-of-factly, "You fight fair, sir. An honest man. I like that."
Julian knew then he'd made himself a true friend. The two went back inside the tavern, and over a shared platter of bacon rolls, which the maid heaped full with extra mustard and great hunks of bacon for their chivalry on her behalf, Julian learned about Garn's life.
The man hailed from a family of meager means, his parents had long since gone to their graves. He'd fallen in love—once and only once—had married the girl, who'd been three months pregnant when he'd met her, and then had buried her on the day he turned twenty. She'd died in childbirth, leaving him a babe that wasn't his own... and a heart, Julian suspected, that would never let another woman into its center.
His sister, Meg, a widow, took charge of rearing the boy he'd named Wil while Garn roved about the shire, finding odd jobs where he could. He had no particular skills to speak of, he was just a roaming kind of fellow with a soul made restless perhaps by the loss of his young wife. He put in a good day's work, he'd said, and Julian had known instantly that here was a man who would never complain about his lot in life, no matter how cruel it proved to be.
Julian's father, the sixth Earl of Eve, had been muttering that, while his son need not settle down just yet and get on with the business of preparing for the title he would one day ascend, he did, however, want Julian to find himself a proper valet or manservant to tend to him during his travels. Julian decided to offer the husky and amiable Garn the position. Julian had no need for a haughty valet, but instead wanted a man in his employ whom he could trust implicitly—not only with his business, but with his life.
He'd half expected Garn to laugh and decline the offer.
To Julian's amazement, Garn had looked at him, thought a moment, then nodded. "It'd be my honor, sir," he'd said. "You just show me how, and I'll be the best manservant a gentlemen could ever have."
Julian had never regretted the decision made in that ill-kempt tavern. Though the earl had questioned Julian's decision at first, he'd soon come to see for himself the good qualities in Garn that his son had recognized that first moment in meeting him.
Garn had gone with Julian on his tour—and for the ten years following had stayed with him through thick and thin as Julian, ever the explorer, travelled the world and sought to see every inch of it he possibly could.
And when, on that fateful night August last, Julian's world had been blown apart, it had been the brave, brawny Garn who'd faced the flames engulfing the house in Hanover Square, hefted Julian's weight onto his own broad shoulders, and borne him to safety.
And it had been Garn who'd left his battered and deaf master at the ruins of Fountains, seeing in his lordship's eyes a bottomless grief he himself knew all too well. Garn clearly hadn't wanted to leave him there, but Julian had been adamant. And always true, Garn had obliged, knowing that a man had to deal with his demons in his own way, and his grief in the same fashion.
Garn had gone to Meg's cottage, where Wil still lived. Though Julian had told Garn many times to send for the boy and have him with them on their trips abroad, Garn had refused. Julian, respecting Garn's privacy, hadn't pushed the matter, though he did insist that Garn allow him to see that the boy was taught to read and write. Hell, Julian would have sent the lad to the finest school possible if Garn would have agreed.
But the subject of Wil was one that he could not cross with Garn, and Julian often wondered if it was because the lad reminded Garn of the young wife he'd lost too soon—or if it was because the lad was a constant reminder that he had not been his wife's first love.
Julian knew for a fact that over the years Garn had sent a good portion of his wages back home to Meg. By the looks of the cottage, though clean and well kept, she'd done no more with the funds than clothe and feed the boy, using none of it for herself or her buildings. The bulk of that money was no doubt collecting interest in some bank Meg never bothered to contact.
Julian now dipped an end of the rag into the jar of salve Meg had left on the table. "How have you been, Garn?"