Brogan snorted but said nothing.
“Surely you cannot disagree with the ideals of reform.” She prodded his leg. “It is aimed to help men such as yourself.”
He stared at her flatly. “It is men like me who are the ones to fight and die in revolutions. The world can change without suchreforms. It is changing now. Fifty years ago, a man born to a woodworker would never have had the chance to sit at a desk working as an investigator.”
“But still, our society doesn’t treat you as equal.” She swallowed. She hated that he could be looked down upon by anyone, especially by those she considered friends. But he would be. And it wasn’t fair. He was a good man, honorable, hard-working. That was all that should matter.
“No.” He clenched and released his fist. “In society’s eyes, we will never be equal.” He looked out the window.
The silence was a heavy, oppressive thing. A vise wrapped its tentacles around Juliana’s chest and squeezed. Brogan already saw the end for them. He’d seen the end before they’d even begun.
She inhaled deeply, let it out. Again and again until her mind had calmed along with her breathing. She’d already known his objections. She’d broken through many of them. Against his better judgment, they were having a relationship. She couldn’t hope to alleviate all his misgivings at once, but she would keep working on him. And she was determined to succeed.
She changed the subject. “After seeing your relationship with your sister, you must think mine with Snow awfully superficial.” And perverse. For what else could her jealousy of her brother be called?
Brogan nudged her hip with the toe of his boot. “You can’t make people listen. Or see the truth. Your brother is no different than many people.”
“Yes.” She chewed on her bottom lip. Her brother was as obstinate and foolhardy as most other people.
The threat against their father wasn’t like what most other people had to face, however. “But an inability to see the truth doesn’t usually risk someone getting killed.”
Chapter Nineteen
“No, absolutely not.” Brogan widened his stance and crossed his arms over his chest. Of all the foolish ideas Juliana had, this might top them all.
“Brogan, it's an evening of music and conversation. What are you concerned about?” The light from the window caught Juliana’s hair, lighting her head up like a halo. Thankfully, the woman was far from angelic, though in this instance Brogan could wish her more tractable. They were back in the agency's offices, ostensibly to make plans for the future of the investigation, but more because he wanted a safe place to stow Juliana.
He grimaced. Even if the event hadn't had the potential to pose a threat to her life, an evening of music and conversation sounded interminable. Luckily, her safety was a good excuse.
“Someone tried to take your head off with a stone, not two days ago,” he said. “Need I remind you that putting yourself in a room full of people is not the smart way to stay unharmed.”
“But these are my friends,” she argued. “It's at Hyacinth’s house. You’ve been there before. It’s safe.”
“You suspect one of your father's friends might want him dead. This event at Miss Butters’s home will be full of his contemporaries. You might be walking into a pool of suspects. You don't know it’s safe.”
She sighed, her bosom rising and falling most becomingly.
He leaned closer. “If we skip the musicale, I promise you much more enjoyable entertainments this evening.”
She drew her fingertip down his sleeve. “Or, we could go to the musicale and then enjoy those entertainments on our return to your apartments. The best of both worlds.”
He ran his hand up the back of his head. He didn’t know if he was more annoyed that she didn’t go calf-eyed at the idea of an evening spent in his bed or that she could so easily out argue him. His talents had never lain in debate. He usually settled arguments nonverbally.
For instance, if Brogan ran his own investigative agency, he would have taken Juliana’s brother outside and learned everything he’d known quite quickly. The conversation this afternoon at Miss Lynn’s sat uneasily in his gut.
Juliana seemed to think nothing of it, but something had struck him as amiss. That lot seemed too fond of bloodshed. Or at least too indifferent. Among the intellectual class, that romanticism of The Terror seemed more and more common.
For people with such revolutionary leanings, what lengths might one go to in order to affect change? Murder an earl? He couldn’t believe Snowdon would kill his father. He was too disinterested in becoming earl. His father provided for all his needs so there was no gain for him.
But he had shown himself to be a weak man. Easily manipulated. His associates could use such a man as a pawn, be scheming right under his very nose. And with Miss Lynn ready to step in as the next countess…
Unfortunately for his theory, Lord Withington had little power in the House of Lords. Less influence among his peers. If the son stepped into his place, not much could change. Surely Snowdon’s friends knew this.
Still, something about that lot unsettled him.
“I understand Mrs. Joanna Bergen is going to be playing the harp this evening,” she said. “She's supposed to be marvelously talented. Please, Brogan. I do so want to hear her.”
Juliana gave him a most bewitching look, all big eyes and pouting lips.
