He’d gladly hand it back, if it meant his father could live again.
The butler paused a moment, seeming to reconsider their destination. He cleared his throat and then returned down a few more stairs. “This way, Dr. Fraser.”
Paul hid any reaction. Likely the man had originally intended to house him in an attic garret as a sleeping place. Instead, he was shown to a modest bedroom adjoining the nursery.
“Thank you.” The room had not been aired out, nor were there fresh bed linens. Even so, he recognized the room as one that must have belonged to the daughters of Lord Lanfordshire. The rose wallpaper and gilt chairs made that evident enough. Juliette herself might have slept in this room, as a young girl.
“I will send up a scullery maid to prepare the room for you.” With that, the butler left him alone.
Paul set down his belongings and went to open the window. The grim streets, the harsh odors, and the bustle of people made him yearn for the green hills of Scotland. He couldn’t imagine what had brought Juliette back here. Did she truly want to live in London?
He didn’t belong in a place like this, a city of strangers. He ran a hand over the roughened stubble on his cheeks. After nearly two weeks of traveling, he looked terrible. Over and over, he questioned why he was here.
Everything Juliette had done was a contradiction. With her words, she’d told him that she would never consider marriage to any man. And yet, with her actions, she’d sought him out. She’d allowed him to embrace her.
He wanted to believe that there could be something between them once more. That he could heal the invisible wounds that haunted her, those that made her believe she could not marry.
He would not press her; he would only offer his friendship. And perhaps, in time, it would grow into something more. If that meant finding his way about all the rules of London society, taking on the identity of his uncle’s heir, well, he’d do whatever was necessary.
He opened up the writing desk with the intent of penning a note, when he spied a sheaf of crumpled paper scraps. They were written in Juliette’s hand, and each appeared to be an unfinished letter. All were addressed to him.
The first said only:Dear Paul.The second note had a single sentence:I miss you.The third letter began with a greeting and the words:I don’t know how to say this to you.The ink was blurred, as if she’d been crying. It was dated October of 1810, after the attack.
A rush of anger welled up inside him, along with the desire to kill the man who had done this to an innocent young woman. He was furious with himself that he hadn’t been there to save her.
She had supported him, when he’d lost his father. He should have been there for her.
Paul shut the desk, resting his hands upon the wood. God help him, he didn’t know what to do. If he investigated more, it would only draw attention to Juliette in a way that would hurt her. Few people knew of the attack, and he understood her need for secrecy.
It complicated his plans to win her over, but he intended to convince her that the past would not change his feelings. If anything, it made him more determined.
First, he had to make his way into her world. Physicians did not mingle with the ton—but a viscount’s heir could.
“They see what they want to believe,” his uncle Donald Fraser had told him, a year ago. “Become a viscount in the way you dress, in the way you speak, and in the way you behave. Tell them the lies they want to hear.”
Paul stood before his uncle, wearing a fine linen shirt, buff breeches, and a black waistcoat. His jacket was bottle green, and he’d worn his hair cropped short. Although he’d agreed to wear the clothes his uncle had purchased, they felt unfamiliar, as if he were trying to be someone he wasn’t.
“Stand up straighter,” Donald commanded. “Behave as if you are above them all. Look bored.”
Paul attempted to feign indifference, but no matter how he tried to mask himself behind the finery, he knew what he was. A poor crofter’s son, trying to behave like a prince. It would never work, not in a thousand years.
“There’s nae point to this,” he argued. “I’ll ne’er be one of them.”
“Not if you keep saying nae, that’s true enough. But to know your enemy, you must walk within his world. You must know what is important to him.”
“Strathland’s a greedy bastard who wants land and money. I willna wear clothing like this, nor walk among the gentlemen as if I’m one of them.”
“You’re afraid,” Fraser predicted. “You’re afraid they’ll see past your clothes to the worthless man beneath.”
“I’m no’ worthless.”
His uncle’s face grew taut. “Then prove it. You may be my heir at the moment, but I’ve many years left to live. I’ll not hand over an allowance to a man who can’t even speak properly.”
“I havena asked anything of you,” Paul interrupted. “All I want is my vengeance on Strathland. Make someone else your heir.”
“I’m not too old to marry and beget a son,” Donald retorted, though Paul doubted if any woman would wed such a surly man. His uncle shook his head with irritation. “But if I die tomorrow, it will come to you, whether you will it or not. The estates are entailed, and damned if I’ll let you squander them away. You have no appreciation of what I’m giving to you. You have so much to learn and—”
“Help me bring him down,” Paul said quietly. “If becoming a viscount will help me end Strathland, I’ll do what I must.”
