But because of Mr. Duffy, for the first time, she wished she had a bit more grace. More beauty. Something to stand out from being the plain daughter of a lessor earl.
“Are you planning on attending?” Bertie’s eyebrows drew together. “Your brother might be there.”
“Yes.” She pulled her slippers from under the bed and slid her feet inside. “I think it’s time to speak with Snow. He might think me mad, but in a room full of our acquaintances, he’s hardly likely to try to drag me home. I need to convince him that father is still in danger.”
And have him call off his dogs. She couldn’t very well investigate with Mr. Duffy one step behind.
Bertie rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh, do you want me to come with you? I will if you want me to, you know I will, it’s just that…”
“There is someone there you’d rather not face.” She stood. “Hiding from him isn’t the answer.”
“Neither is facing him and getting my heart broken. Again.”
“Bertie—”
He jumped to his feet and grabbed her coat. “I know you want me to face my problems head-on, Jules, but I can’t. Not now, not with him. The world doesn’t always provide the happy endings you think it does.”
She pressed her lips together. The world had plenty of happy endings, but they wouldn’t come unless a person worked for them. Sitting at home sulking would accomplish nothing.
But Bertie had to lead his own life. One thing she’d learned from her father and brother, no matter how much guidance she provided, men would make their own decisions. Poor as those decisions might be.
“Will you be coming back here after?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” She chewed on her lip. “It depends on Snow. If I can convince him, he might put me up at our normal London lodgings, if they’re available.” Unlike many of the aristocracy, her father didn’t own a home in the city. He preferred the country and Bluff Hall, and didn’t see the need for the added expense of a London residence.
That, and his banker wouldn’t give him a loan to purchase one.
She bussed Bertie’s cheek. “I will speak to you later, regardless. Save me a seat at the performance tonight?”
He grinned. “Always.”
She hustled out of his rooms and down the uneven staircase. The meeting of the Rose Salon was on the other side of town. The hansom cab dropped her in front of a neat row of townhouses, and she made her way to the one with the blue-checked awning.
She knocked, and the butler opened the door, nodding. “M’lady. Everyone is in the back sitting room.”
“Thank you, Mr. Watkins.” She handed him her hat and gloves. “Do you know if my brother is arrived?”
“Not yet, m’lady.”
She nodded and made her way to the back of the house. A group of fifteen or so attendees lounged on every available seat, glasses of liquor in many hands, lit cheroots in others.
She received a warm chorus of ‘Juliana’s!’ but no one seemed surprised to see her. Which meant Snow had kept her running away quiet. Or else this lot saw nothing remarkable about a daughter of an earl striking out on her own. As eclectic as this group was, either was equally possible.
She poured herself a small drink and sank onto a cleared side table, the tension in her shoulders easing.
This salon had become like a second home. Founded by Rodger Rose, he held monthly meetings discussing anything from his latest poem to politics to philosophy. Her father had encouraged her and Snow to join, wanting them to be exposed to unorthodox ideas and people.
A man with paint-stained fingertips and a glass of green liquid rolled onto his stomach on the carpet. “And I say it’s possible. Once we find a way to reach the asteroid, it will take us on a journey through the stars.”
Her father had certainly gotten his wish when it came to introducing her to unorthodox people.
She leaned over to the woman next to her and whispered, “What are we discussing?”
“We were talking about the Herschels and which sibling deserved the most credit for their astronomical discoveries, but the discussion has degraded into fantasy.”
Rodger Rose twirled his unlit cheroot between his fingers. “We were originally discussing the riots in Stanhope last year. I don’t know how we got to space.” He frowned. Juliana knew he didn’t like when discussions became disorderly. From his expression, this one bordered on being just that.
She bobbed her leg up and down. She’d sent Mr. Rose one of her essays, but he likely hadn’t received it yet. Would he enjoy it? Find it shallow and banal?
