Chapter Thirteen
Julian was exhaustedfrom horse racing. Not that he had anything to do with the horses. Or the racing, for that matter. But following two horse-crazy lords as they traipsed about Wales was more than he could handle. Fairport would have been in heaven. After three weeks of being at the beck and call of Lords Bordsterth and Costovin, with the hopes of obtaining that coveted commission for Argentinian silver mines, Julian would be happy to not look at a horse for at least a month.
He was hungover, which had been a perpetual state until he became slightly inebriated in the early afternoons. The men were drinkers of fine spirits, owners of horses, and gamblers of the first order. Which was likely why they were investing in developing more mining operations. More gemstones were arriving from various areas of the continent, and these men were betting on more. Silver was the money to be made, and accidental gemstone lodes were the ambition.
Which he could do for them. Surveys of the mountains were not for the sake of elevations, they were to determine composition, and likelihood of ore deposits. The boisterous lords made it seem like Julian had the job, now that he’d imbibed and gambled with them, but formal letters would be forthcoming. As of now, however, he was expected to be ready to depart London in June. He had two months left in the country of his birth.
He didn’t know why it felt like he was never returning, but it did. As if there was nothing for him to come home to. Without Ophelia, there really wasn’t. These men were merely walking coin purses, not mentors in thought and exploration as the last Lord Rascomb had been. And he had no family, no land. Nothing. A bank account, and a meager one at that. His eyelids felt heavy. He’d slept on the train, but he wouldn’t feel right until the brandy that had replaced his bloodstream had cycled through him.
“I thought coffee might be best, from the look of you,” Nicholas said, coming into the flat.
“Nicholas,” Julian said, grateful for the man’s clairvoyance. He snatched the cup up as soon as the valet placed the tray on the table. “You are saving my life.”
“Looked a bit worse for wear when you came in.” Nicholas stood back, his hands folded, giving Julian a look of sympathy.
The dark bitter liquid went down his throat, coursing into his system in welcome relief. It wasn’t a fine roast like he drank in Ecuador, but it was coffee when he’d had nothing but brandy and whisky. “I never want to see another horse race for as long as I live.”
“Did you not enjoy yourself?” Nicholas asked, taking it upon himself to open Julian’s one meager trunk to unpack.
“One day, maybe two, would have been enjoyable. Three weeks of talking about horses, breeding schedules, lineages...” Julian trailed off, his brain still foggy. He sighed. “And drinking. Always a spirit in one hand, a cigar in the other. I won’t breathe right ever again.”
Nicholas tutted sympathetically. “I’ve put your post there on the tray. Something from Miss Ophelia Bridewell, if I may be so bold as to bring your attention to it.”
Julian shot a look to the valet, to see if the man was teasing him or in some way meddling, but Nicholas went about his business, inspecting Julian’s clothes for stains. Before he could read anything, he finished his coffee. His stomach roiled under the weight of non-alcoholic liquid. The pile of post seemed unusually tall.
“A good slice of mutton ought to clear that right up,” Nicholas said. “Old cure that my da’ swore by.”
“Unless you have some in your pockets, that is not going to happen any time soon.” Julian pawed through the stack, noting that it was in chronological order, with the oldest on top, for ease of sorting. The top one was from Ophelia.
He opened the missive, a short thing, really, that invited him to call on her again, since she’d missed his visit due to the arrival of baby Agatha. He had a letter from a friend in Ecuador, which he put to the side to linger and read later. And then, near the bottom, another letter from Ophelia, thicker than the last.
Curious, he unfolded the letter to find that it was two pages long. She made no mention of Paris, nor emotions of any kind. Rather, this was a letter from an expedition leader to one of the mission’s members. It contained a packing list, train schedules, rendezvous points, addresses, and weather expectations. “What on earth?”
Ophelia really did believe he was meeting her in Switzerland. But it had been months since they’d spoken! How could she not know? Julian went to swing his jacket back on, but then, after re-examining the dates, realized she’d already left London. He winced. This was terrible. He felt like an utter cad. She would be so disappointed. According to her letter, her brother and sister-in-law were no longer joining, and neither were Mr. and Mrs. Moon, taking the expedition number down to only four of them: Mr. and Mrs. Vogel, Ophelia, and himself.
He preferred climbing in a smaller group than a bigger one. Less could go wrong. Fewer chances were taken. And in a dynamic of two obvious couples, it made the unspoken decisions all that much easier.
He shook his head. The weight of the past months crumbled on his head, covering him in an ash of shame. “I’m a terrible person.”
She was so naïve and he’d been a coward. At nearly forty, he ought to have learned how to gracefully back out of an invitation. The idea had been his, an impulse in a wild moment of wanting to see pleasure on a beautiful woman’s face. No, not any beautiful woman. Ophelia’s.
And then he’d fallen in love with her—well, metaphorically speaking. Because he couldn’t actually be in love with her. She was barely more than a child, and he was a disgusting wretch for wanting her so badly. He felt old—incredibly old compared to her—and hated himself for ignoring the voice that kept him from taking her to bed.
But he’d done so. Willingly. Happily. And being with her had been better than he ever could have imagined. No virginal tears—that wasn’t Ophelia. Just a complete giving over of herself. She had trusted him so completely with her body and her heart.
Yet, when she’d asked for a story of his past, he had shut that door as fast as he could. He could see now that they’d made love, and she’d wanted to become closer to him, only, Julian couldn’t, because he didn’t want to talk about his failures. He didn’t want to show her whatever nameless part of him that wasn’t good enough for Maria. The part that caused Delphine to be jealous and rude. Could she not just accept him as he was? With his smattering of gray chest hairs and salt-and-pepper beard?
But she didn’t understand that because she didn’t have a past. At least, not then. Now he was her past. And Lord Fairport, that limpid liar, was her future. A man who wanted her for her money, and not for her unusual, incredible self. Ophelia hadn’t mentioned a wedding date in her letter, so perhaps Fairport had let her postpone the ceremony?
Julian would write to her—it looked as if she’d still be in Augsburg. He could post a letter to both Augsburg and Zermatt to catch her. Which should be enough. This wasn’t something he needed to go in person to explain, was it? No. That was foolishness. No one travelled across Europe just to say he was not pursuing further contact. Height of absurdity.
While he stayed at his flat the rest of that day, berating himself for his willingness to hurt a perfectly lovely girl, the next morning he found himself drawn to Tristan Bridewell’s outfitter as soon as it opened.
“Sir Julian!” Tristan announced, his eyes lighting up when they found him.
Julian bowed and greeted his friend. He was glad to see he received a warm salutation. After his abandonment of the Bridewell family for so many months, he wasn’t sure how he would be received.
From a curtained-off area, a woman’s head appeared. “Sir Julian?”
