made on her behalf. She would call for the carriage and tell her aunt and uncle that she wanted to share the good news of her betrothal with her friend, Elise Farraday. Hmm. She’d better make sure of the weather first.
Julia drew aside the curtains at the window and peered outside. Good. The morning fog was clearing away to reveal a blue sky of late spring. The driver would believe her if she asked to be dropped a few streets from Elise’s home in order to walk and enjoy the lovely day. Then she would make her escape and wend her way through the streets to Covent Garden and from there to the finer brothels of London where she’d make her plea. By morning she would be ruined.
By a stranger.
In humiliating circumstances.
From which there would be no turning back.
It was a plan.
It was her only choice.
Only?
The word gave Julia pause. As a rule, she did not believe in dichotomous thinking. Life was far too complicated to narrow the world’s complexities into a mere two categories of black and white, yes and no, true or false, do or do not.
Was there another way? A more private way? Julia felt cowardly to even consider it, but perhaps there was a way to be ruined and to preserve discovery unless forced to reveal her fate beyond the confines of her uncle’s contract? If so, she’d much prefer it to the public exposure of an auction and the risk of someone recognising her, the risk of being revealed before the deed could be accomplished. The spark of a counter-plan flickered to life in the back of her mind and gathered impetus.
Another way.
Another man.
None of the young bucks that peopled her débutante’s court would qualify. Unbidden, there came to mind a blurred image of a man she had encountered once—she couldn’t use the word ‘met’ for she’d only seen him from a distance at a crowded rout one of her first nights out in London. But whispers about his presence had made the rounds of the ballroom readily enough and for once no one thought about editing their words in front of débutantes. Indeed, the opposite was nearly true. Mothers apparently felt their pristine daughters needed to know about the dangers this man posed.
He was Paine Ramsden, third son of an earl, known in less charitable circles as a dark rake with a reputation so black he could not be countenanced in polite society. Julia had learned quickly that he attended the rout solely as a favour to his aunt, the Dowager Marchioness of Bridgerton, Lily Branbourne, who insisted he was her favourite nephew, regardless of the public outcry against his morals.
Julia smiled to herself. By repute, Paine Ramsden was an irresponsible charmer who was loose with his affections and his finances. There were other reports, too, circling the ballroom that night—darker rumours that went beyond the usual complaints of womanising and wastrel tendencies—rumours of time abroad in foreign lands as penance for his involvement in a duel over a woman. The rumours didn’t end there. It was quietly reported that since his return he’d been living hedonistically on the shadowy fringes of the demimonde, having bought a tumbledown gambling hell of his own to support himself.
Julia didn’t care two figs for his proclivities. The more debauched he was, the less likely he would be smitten with a case of misplaced honour in the morning. Paine Ramsden it would be. She was sure of her course now. She had only to find him and convince him to ruin her. For the latter, she had her pearl earbobs tucked in a small bag to provide any additional financial inducement he would need to see the deed done. A gambler like him would know where to pawn them. Yes, the latter would be easy. Based on his poor social standing, it would be harder to do the former.
She might not know where he’d be, but she had a good idea of where he wouldn’t be. He wouldn’t be at any of the soirées or musicales scheduled for the evening. He wouldn’t be at any of the fancy gentleman’s clubs or gaming establishments on St James’s. The gossip she’d heard maintained that he took rooms on Jermyn Street. There was little chance he’d be there at the time she planned to seek him out, but that was where she would start. A landlady or a neighbour might know his direction for the evening or be able to guide her to one of his favorite haunts. True, she didn’t know which of the bachelor establishments he lived at, but if she had to go door to door asking landlords, then that’s what she’d do. That time of night, the bachelor tenants would most likely all be out carousing and there would be few home to note her presence.
Julia cast another glance at the clock. Eight hours until dark. Eight hours to convince her aunt and uncle of her acceptance of their decision and that she wanted to stay home that evening to work on her trousseau. No. That sounded too suspicious, given that she despised needlework. Better to go with them and give them the slip at the rout tonight. Lady Moffat’s entertainment was bound to be a crush and her aunt and uncle were not vigilant chaperons once her dance card was full.
It should be easy to clandestinely slip away through a back-garden gate without being missed for some time. Her uncle would be in the card room, oblivious to what was happening in the ballroom, and her aunt would be caught up in conversation with her friends. Her aunt would assume she was with the Farradays, who often acted as her stand-in chaperons at such events.
Determined to follow through with her decisions, Julia gave her attention to the massive oak wardrobe standing in the corner. She strode to it and threw open the door, revealing dozens of gowns made of the finest silks and fabrics. She eyed the gowns with a new cynicism. Her uncle had not spared any expense when it came to outfitting his niece for her Season. The reasons for such extravagance were horribly clear.
Now, for the last decision. Julia tapped a long finger against her chin, considering the array of finery spread before her. What did a girl wear to her ruination?
Chapter Two
‘I never guessed you held aces!’ Gaylord Beaton, the young man seated across the card table from Paine Ramsden, threw down his cards in disgust. ‘You’ve the luck of the devil tonight, Ram.’
The others at the table in the dimly lit gambling hell laughed and threw in their hands. ‘What do you mean “tonight”? Ram has the devil’s luck every night!’ another exclaimed.
‘Have you considered I might have something more than luck?’ Paine Ramsden gathered his winnings with a swift, practised move of his arm.
‘What would that be? A fifth ace?’ The table broke into guffaws at Gaylord’s bold jest.
‘Skill,’ Paine replied drily, giving them each a piercing stare before he began to deal. He’d heard the underlying anger in young Beaton’s jest.
This was the second night these bucks had been in to play and the second night they’d lost heavily. In his experience, an angry gambler was a dangerous gambler. He’d have to keep his eye on the young man. He’d hoped Beaton had learned his lesson last night and taken steps to preserve the remainder of his quarterly allowance. But apparently Beaton thought those steps involved trying to win back his losses, a common enough mistake and one Paine had made during his own misguided youth.
The five of them were playing high-stakes Commerce. He was winning thoroughly, having won a hundred pounds from each of the four young bucks at the table. Paine should have been enjoying it. Instead, he was bored. No, he was beyond bored. He had been bored three nights ago. Now, he was apathetic.
Paine discarded one of his three cards and drew the queen of hearts. With the addition of the queen, he held three of a kind. They were all going to lose again.
