Page 57 of Better Love Next Time
Julian slapped a crown to the worn table. “Love, I’m exhausted. How about you fetch us two whiskeys.”
Angel’s eyes widened at the coin. “You willing to pay for a bed?”
“I’m willing to let you have the rest of that coin if you get us the whiskeys. Please.” With a pat on her plump hip, he eased her to her feet.
Julian was also angry. His father’s letter from a fortnight ago had caused him to further doubt himself. It was more of the same. A litany of Julian’s faults, reasons why he would never succeed. The earl had offered Julian ten thousand to walk away from trade, marry, and, as Oliver had only daughters, get tothe urgent business of getting sons on his wife to ensure the succession.
How his father knew he had returned to England, Julian didn’t care. What he cared about was his father calling him a worthless spawn and then demanding his worthless seed impregnate the future line of St. Clairs.
Your sole task, the earl had written,if you can manage to do even that properly.
His father’s sole task was to get under his skin. When would the bastard give up?
He slipped the crown in Angel’s bodice when she returned with the whiskeys and considered the sailors and ship workers who caroused without a care. They had cares, the base kind like food and clothing, hungry mouths to feed, and two-room homes to heat. He offered three pence more a day and still, they wouldn’t work for St. Clair Shipwrights.
“Is that Childers’s man there, eyein’ us?” Sam asked.
“Let him eye away.” Julian kicked a leg to a chair. “Davy Burke’s his name.”
Five years ago, Childers, a master with four yards, had contracted three cutters and a schooner from St. Clair Shipwrights. Julian had delivered the schooner and one cutter. Since Julian’s return, Childers had let all those working in and around the Solent know that Julian St. Clair was never to be trusted again. Childers had gone a step further and had Davy Burke deliver a letter to their yard threatening action if Julian took his skilled laborers.
Davy Burke came off his chair. Shorter than Julian, his wide, muscled shoulders were ready for a fight as he walked to their table.
“You get him from the left,” Sam said under his breath. “I’ll take ’im from the right.”
Julian should have laid Davy out on the slipway when he’d had the chance. He waved to a chair which would go along with Sam’s plan of attack. “Have a seat, Davy.”
“No one’s gonna work for ye in yer hen-frigate yard,” Davy said.
“Davy, my boy,” Sam said in a tired tone. “Don’t be a bleedin’ lobcock.”
Julian stretched his aching shoulders, now pulsing with fury. Hen-frigate was a term for a ship bossed by the captain’s wife. Kitty hadn’t bossed anyone. But her presence had been noted by the men he attempted to recruit. One who had toured the yard had called Kitty a fine piece. Another, Simon Cooper, a master carpenter who had also roughed Julian up as a young apprentice, had mused on what a comely Frenchwidowwas doing keeping books. Julian had been too furious to reveal Kitty was his wife and had shoved Simon Cooper off his property.
Davy was a proud, hard-living lobcock used to the easy opportunities afforded by drinking and dark, narrow streets. Julian didn’t doubt the man’s abilities here but Julian unfurled from his chair anyway. He was tall, more lean than hulking, but Davy appraised Julian’s height, and for a second, doubt dimmed the fight in his eyes.
“I’ll give you a chance to apologize,” Julian said.
Davy spit at Julian’s feet. Before the glob hit the floor, Julian drove his left fist into the man’s front teeth. Chairs stuttered, and a deafening roar filled the room as Davy stumbled back, spit blood, and whipped out a knife aiming for Julian’s chest. Julian seized the knife and the blade sliced through his palm. He shoved Davy down to the filthy floor, and in one yank, the knife was his. One pivot, the knife point was at Davy’s scalp.
A fist slammed into Julian’s left jaw, sending him sprawling backward and the knife out of his reach. Leaping to his feet, whowas fighting who wasn’t clear in the smoke and mayhem of flying fists and broken glass.
A sailor swung a broken chair leg at his head. Ducking, Julian came up and leveled him with a left. He took a blow to his stomach, grabbed the man by his hair, and yanked him down into his knee. He threw him aside. A bottle crashed into his arm, slicing through his sleeve as he worked his way to the door. He flattened a man coming at Sam with a knife, and together they stumbled out onto the street as the night guards swarmed in.
They threaded through an alley. Sam laughed while Julian tested his jaw. He hoped Kitty was fast asleep. How disappointed would she be when she learned he had failed again and started an out-and-out brawl?
Kitty hadn’t planned on snooping. She had avoided Julian’s room, the memories of her attempt at being the wanton, of taking him in hand and failing to gain anything past his criticism, too painful. But she had gone into her husband’s room to refresh her ink pot and answer Father Dunlevy’s letter. She had been out of sorts, unsure how to be, since she had read Father’s apology for having to relay the sad news via letter.
Sir Jeffrey Babbington was dead. So she would never again have to face the man she had grudgingly called her father. She felt nothing except relief. Not even guilt for the relief.
In Julian’s writing desk, she reached for the ink and instead, traced a finger over a small, cut-glass bottle with a pink ribbon tied below the stopper. Perfume? In Julian’s desk? What woman had he purchased it for?
She reminded herself she was not to be jealous, if the sick weight in her stomach was jealousy. They had an agreement.Julian had made it clear she was intolerable to his base desires. Her husband was free to buy a woman perfume. And free to do other things.
She withdrew the stopper and sniffed. The scent of cherries plummeted her into childhood memories and the candies she had loved. The color pink she had adored. She traced along the seam of her unsmiling lips. What had become of her? Self-serving to wonder, because she knew. Forsaking Julian had been the only way to protect Father Dunlevy.
What a horrid choice to have to make.
She returned the perfume to the drawer and picked up a letter. A love letter? She really must cease this pitiful line of thought. But she hoped it was a love letter, something to plunge her into the cold hard reality of her decision to stand by while Julian satisfied his needs with other women. Yes, once she knew, she would feel better or at least get on with her life.
