scrape an acquaintance—they were usually gentlemen—but Martin Davencourt hardly struck her as the type. He had made it plain that he did not admire her. Yet if they had really met as children it might explain that peculiar sense of recognition that possessed her whenever he was nearby.
The touch of raindrops on her face recalled her to the present and she climbed up into the coach, leaning forward to draw the curtains against the dark. As she did so a movement across the other side of the square caught her eye. A man was standing in the shadows and now he stepped forward into the pool of light thrown by the lamps. Juliana stared. Her heart started to race. He was staring directly at her and the tilt of his head and the set of his shoulders was oddly familiar. It looked like her late, unlamented husband, Clive Massingham. Except that Massingham was dead, knifed in a brawl in an Italian jail.
The coach started with a jolt and the curtain fell back into place and Juliana relaxed back against the seat. It had been a trick of the light, that was all. That, and her memory playing tricks. There was no cause for alarm.
As for Martin Davencourt, it would be better to stop thinking about him and his stern disapproval. Except that Juliana had the strangest feeling that forgetting Martin Davencourt would not be easy at all.
Martin Davencourt breathed in the fresh night air with a sense of relief. The atmosphere in Emma Wren’s house had been stifling in more ways than one. He squared his shoulders, shaking off the niggling sense of irritation that had pursued him throughout the evening. It had been his own fault for thinking that Mrs Wren’s supposedly sophisticated supper would be a place for stimulating discussion. Clearly he had been out of London for too long. Either that, or he was getting too old.
The cheap lasciviousness of the whole evening had disgusted him. Martin shook his head. God knew, he was no plaster saint himself, but the pointless immorality of Emma Wren’s guests had been more depressing than anything else. Most depressing of all was that Andrew Brookes was marrying his cousin on the morrow. Martin did not know Eustacia Havard well—he had been out of the country for several years and had an affectionate but distant relationship with his aunt and her family—but nevertheless he did not like to think of his cousin marrying such a loose fish as Brookes. He had disliked Brookes on sight and he did not rate Eustacia’s prospects of marital bliss as any better than those of the Prince Regent.
He turned into Portman Square. The night was dark with an edge of rain on the breeze. It smelled fresh, like the country. A sudden, fierce ache to visit Davencourt possessed him. Once the Season was over, perhaps…It would be impossible to leave Town just now for, in addition to his work, his younger half-sisters were enjoying the novelty of their visit and would complain if he brought it to a premature end. It would also be unfair to their older siblings, especially Clara, whose début had already been delayed for a year because of their father’s death. She had caused quite a stir in society and might well make a dazzling match in her first season if only she could be persuaded to stay awake long enough to offer one of her suitors some encouragement.
If he could see her settled, and find a husband for Kitty as well…But Kitty was far more of an intractable problem.
Martin frowned. Kitty had shown no interest in any of the entertainments that London had to offer, other than the opportunity to lose endless sums of money at the gambling tables. Martin was aware that a deep unhappiness was driving his half-sister’s behaviour, but she would not speak to him about it. It was hardly surprising, for he was a good ten years older than she and they did not yet know each other well. And in the meantime, Kitty was gambling recklessly and people were talking.
Thinking of gamblers made Martin’s thoughts turn to Lady Juliana Myfleet. Juliana, trailing two marriages and a string of lovers behind her like a gaudy comet. He had heard much of her exploits—who had not—but it had been almost sixteen years since they had met. No wonder she had forgotten.
In the intervening time he had met plenty of women like Juliana Myfleet; bored wives whose beauty had hardened into dissatisfaction or widows who had the jaded shell of the society sophisticate. Martin pulled a face. The only difference between Juliana Myfleet and a whole host of other women was that she frequently went too far. He thought she did it deliberately, to test and provoke, a spoiled child grown into a spoiled woman.
Except that when their eyes had met for the first time that night, all he had seen was a vulnerable girl acting a part that was too grown-up for her, like a child in adult’s clothing. The impression had hit him with the force of a blow to the stomach, contrasting as it did with the provocative shamelessness of her pose on the silver salver. Whilst all the others had been burning with lascivious excitement he had been possessed by an astonishing urge to protect and cherish her, whilst at the same time feeling a sick disappointment to see what she had become. No doubt youthful infatuations always ended in disappointment.
Perhaps he had been mistaken in thinking her vulnerable. Martin’s steps quickened. Later she had shown nothing but the brittle boredom he would have expected, plus a malice that betrayed a certain unhappiness. At any rate, it was none of his business. She was none of his business. And he had too many other things to worry about.
He turned into Laverstock Gardens and went up the steps of his town house. All the lights were blazing, despite the fact that it was just past two. Martin recognised this as a bad sign.
Liddington, the butler, opened the door with an expression so blank that Martin’s heart sank even further.
‘That bad, Liddington?’ he murmured, as he divested himself of his coat.
‘Yes, sir.’ The butler was matter of fact. ‘Mrs Lane is awaiting you in the library. I did try to suggest that she should leave the matter until the morning, but she was most insistent—’
‘Mr Davencourt!’ The library door opened and Mrs Lane swept out in a swirl of draperies. She was a large woman with greying hair and a perpetually agonised expression. When Martin had first met her he had wondered if she was plagued by some medical complaint that kept her constantly in pain. These days he realised that it was apparently the effort of chaperoning his sisters that caused her misery.
‘Mr Davencourt, I simply must speak with you! That girl is quite hopeless, and does nothing that I tell her! You must speak to her. She is fit for Bedlam.’
‘I assume you refer to Miss Clara, Mrs Lane?’ Martin asked, catching the matron’s arm and steering her back into the library and away from the servants’ stifled amusement. ‘I know that she can be a trifle indolent—’
‘Indolent! The girl is a minx.’ Mrs Lane pulled her arm away huffily. ‘She pretends to fall asleep so that she may ignore her suitors! It is no wonder that she has yet to attract an offer from a gentleman. You must speak with her, Mr Davencourt.’
‘I shall do so, of course,’ Martin said. The last time he had tried to talk to Clara about her behaviour he had felt as though he was wrestling with a very slippery fish. She had looked innocent and puzzled and told him that she tried very hard to show an interest but she found the Season dreadfully fatiguing. There had been a stubborn look in her eyes and Martin had been uncomfortably aware that his half-sister was trying to hoodwink him, but he had not even scratched the surface of the reasons for her behaviour.
‘As for Miss Kitty…’ Mrs Lane swelled wrathfully. ‘That girl is getting into bad company, sir. How is she to catch a husband when she spends all her time at play? Gambling away her allowance, I have no doubt, though the chit will tell me nothing.’
‘I shall speak with Kitty as well,’ Martin said. He felt in desperate need of a drink. ‘May I offer you a glass of ratafia, Mrs Lane?’
‘No,
