“Good for you.” Julian stripped off his nightshirt, poured hot water from the jug his valet had left him into the matching bowl, and vigorously washed his face and upper torso. “Did she respond?”
“Not yet. It is still early.” Aragon started on the remains of the eggs. “It occurred to me that you know her quite well.”
“I knew her deceased husband. We were at school together.” Julian put on his shirt and stepped into his breeches. “My acquaintance with the lady herself is of no consequence.”
“You’ll still come with me, though, when I take her riding.” Aragon looked up at him. A sizable amount of toast crumbs adhered to his mustache. “You’re very accomplished at this chitchat nonsense.”
“As I mentioned yesterday, you just need practice, brother. Hiding behind me will not further your suit with the lady in question.”
Aragon drank the remains of Julian’s coffee and then added more to the cup from the pot. “Mother said you’d say that.”
“And yet again, she was correct.”
“She said you wouldn’t choose to oblige me because you lack”—Aragon paused as if trying to recollect her exact words—“filial obligations.”
“As I recently paid for Anton’s promotion, she has a very short memory.” Julian turned to the mirror and tried to concentrate on the arrangement of his cravat. “When are you supposed to go riding with Lady Carenza?”
“Idon’t know.” His brother’s mirrored reflection shrugged. “She hasn’t responded yet, and you know what ladies are like. Their social engagements are legion.”
“When she does respond, send me a note, and if I am free, I will accompany you.”
“Excellent.” Aragon stood up, dusted down his waistcoat, and strode toward the door. “I knew you’d do the right thing in the end.”
Julian pinned his cravat in place and picked up the black coat Proctor had left out for him. It had occurred to him that assisting his brother with his current flirtation with Carenza worked in his favor. It would give him a perfectly legitimate reason to call more regularly on her, and as his mother would never dream of letting Aragon marry anyone for at least the next ten years, no harm would be done to all concerned.
He put on his rings, stowed his watch and purse in his pockets, and went down the stairs, filled with unusual optimism. From the odd hint Hector had dropped about Carenza, Julian had assumed she’d tolerated her husband’s advances with the usual lack of enthusiasm of most society wives. The single kiss Julian had shared with her had dispelled that notion in an instant.
Her response also explained her decision to look for a new bed partner. He was intrigued by the idea of having a lover who told him what to do. He’d never been very biddable. Only time would tell if he would succeed in following Carenza’s orders.
He made his way to the mews behind his house, where his groom had his horse ready to go.
“Thank you, Bert.” Julian mounted his horse and headed out.
It was a clear spring morning, which he was grateful for as he made the familiar ride into an area where the buildings were close enough together to block out the sunlight, and the population increased until he was surrounded by a multitude of people. He was always relieved that his destination was directly on the London Road and not down one of the infamous back alleys from which some unfortunates never returned.
He reined in his horse at the front of an austere, stone-faced building, and the porter who managed the courtyard gate recognized Julian and let him in with a nod and a smile. There was a small stable yard to the side of the building where he was able to leave his horse in relative comfort and with the knowledge that it would still be there when he returned.
He approached the open kitchen door, through which the smell of porridge scented the steamy air. Someone was shouting—someone was always shouting here—and he recognized the voice of the cook and fought a smile.
Mrs. Bellingham was a tall woman who commanded her kitchen staff as though she were the Duke of Wellington. Everyone was terrified of her, but they also knew she had a kind heart and would protect the orphans with everything in her power.
“Come ’ere, you little rascal, I—” She paused midtirade, her soup ladle in the air, as she saw Julian. “Morning, sir.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Bellingham. Is Miss Cartwright in?”
“Where else would she be at this time in the morning?” Mrs. Bellingham gave him a bemused look. “Some of us have jobs to do.”
“Yeah, we’re not toffs like you,” the small boy who had raised the housekeeper’s ire piped up. “Swanning around all fancy like.”
“You keep your mouth shut, Tommy, and have some respect in front of Mr. Laurent,” Mrs. Bellingham said. “And get out of my kitchen, you thieving little devil.”
“Where is he supposed to be, ma’am?” Julian asked. “I can escort him back, if you like.”
“In the hall with the other boys having his breakfast.” Mrs. Bellingham glared at the boy. “Not in ’ere under me feet.”
“Come along.” Julian put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Let’s leave Mrs. Bellingham in peace.”
Tommy sighed and allowed Julian to escort him out of the kitchen. “I was just a bit hungry.”
