Claudia squirmed. "That's really not necessary. I don't mind-"

"You shouldn't have to worry about financial matters, love. I'll take care of it."

Shouldn't worry about financial matters? What, did he think her too ignorant to balance her own blasted books? "Thank you, but I am really quite capable of doing the calculations. I did learn to add and subtract."

Julian laughed, stroked her cheek with one finger as if she was a precocious child, and pulled the open ledger across the desk so that he could peruse it. "Don't be ridiculous, love. Of course you are capable. But it. . ." His voice trailed off; he straightened, retrieved his spectacles from his coat pocket and donned them, then leaned over again, peering intently at the open book. "What have we here?"

Claudia glanced at the ledger page and knew instantly what he saw; the withdrawal of Lord Cheevers' donation. "Oh, that. Lord Cheevers withdrew his donation-"

"Why should he withdraw his donation?" Julian interrupted, yanking the spectacles from his nose.

Claudia felt the warmth of humiliation creep into her cheeks. "Because . . . because of the scandal," she muttered.

He looked at her, seemingly confused for a moment, then glanced again at the ledger. "And Montfort, the same thing?" he asked, not really needing an answer. "Nothing from Belton, either?"

"I never received many of the pledges that were made to me."

Julian said nothing as he stared down at her ledger. After a long moment he suddenly moved, strode around the desk to fetch a chair, and carried it around the desk, placing it next to Claudia with a decisive thump. He sat down, shoved his eyeglasses on his face and picked up the pen.

"Julian, please," Claudia implored him. "I can balance-"

He abruptly covered her hand with his. "Claudia. I know you can balance your ledgers and I rather imagine you could do it standing on your head. I only want a list of names."

"But why? What are you doing?" she asked, confused.

He smiled thinly. "I think that perhaps Lord Cheevers has forgotten a little debt owed to the Duke of Sutherland during a particularly nasty parliamentary debate. I rather imagine Alex might persuade Cheevers to reconsider his donation. As for Montfort, well, I shall spare you the ugly details of that debt, but rest assured, he should make a very generous donation once I have spoken to him."

"Do you mean to say that you would speak to them on behalf of the school?" she asked, incredulous.

Julian lifted one brow in puzzled amusement. "Of course I would speak to them! Claudia, if this school is something you want, then I shall gladly bring all my influence to bear on it. You need only ask me."

She blinked; Julian smiled, brought her hand to his lips, and kissed her knuckles. "I want to help you in any small way that you will allow me." With that, he turned his attention back to the ledger. "Belton," he mumbled, and idly scratched his chin. "Nothing to be said for him really, except that he is a consummate idiot." Julian continued to squint at the ledger, his brow creased with the frown of concentration as he mumbled similar sentiments about several of the other patrons listed.

Claudia watched him, surprised, fascinated, and even a bit heartened. Her father had never shown any interest in her charities, and neither had Julian, really, other than to inquire politely about her activities from time to time. It was not her experience that men were ever particularly interested in what they deemed a lady's pastime, and they most certainly were content to leave the charitable functions to the women. It had never occurred to her, not once, to ask her father or Julian for help. That he would offer, would take such an interest-and such detailed notes!-both confused and touched her and made her question for the thousandth time if perhaps she had misjudged this Rake, her husband.

Fifteen.

F ORTUNATELY, C LAUDIA DIDN'T have to lie to anyone when Sophie slipped out to meet Sir William the next day, as she discovered Julian had left early for Cambridge. Nor did she have to lie the day after that, when Sophie came home more in love than ever and peppered her with a hundred questions about men and love and the universe. As the weather was starting to turn, Claudia used that as an excuse to escape Sophie's delirious state and paid a call to the house on Upper Moreland Street before the rains came.

And as she stood in the small parlor on Upper Moreland Street, she felt the cold seep through her bones to her very marrow. Doreen Conner stood in front of the small fire, her bony hands on her hips, impassively watching Claudia, having just given her the news.

Ellie was dead, strangled by her lover.

Claudia had met Ellie only a handful of times. The young woman had worked as a "daily" servant until a few weeks ago, when some incident involving her current beau had gotten her ejected from her employment and her living situation. With no money and no family to whom she could turn, she had been brought to Upper Moreland Street by a woman who had once stayed at the little town house. Ellie was there only a few days before her beau discovered where she was and began to make himself known. Doreen said that Nigel Mansfield often came around after he'd been in the public houses, quite late at night, and far into his cups. On one occasion, he was so intoxicated and angry with Ellie over some slight that he had tried to break down the locked door. But the barrel of Doreen's gun, a rather huge thing Claudia had appropriated from her father's gun cabinet, had properly cowed him.

Ellie was trouble, everyone thought so, but Claudia had genuinely liked her nonetheless. Plump and cheerful and pretty, she was so very thankful that she had been given a place in the town house that she was eager to contribute in any way she could, most notably by doing a great amount of work around the place. "There must be something we can do," Claudia muttered helplessly, heartsick at the news of her death.

"There ain't nothing to be done for her now, miss," Doreen said stoically. "All of us, we tried to tell her that Nigel was a mean one, but she wouldn't listen."

"He must be brought to justice!" Claudia insisted, shivering unconsciously at the memory of Doreen's description of how they found Ellie-lying on the back stoop, her own scarf bound so tightly around her neck that it had cut the skin.

Doreen resolutely shook her head. "We've no evidence it was him. For all we know, Ellie found herself another bloke last night that done this to her. And besides, there ain't a magistrate who'd care enough about poor Ellie to go after the man. No, miss-he'd take one look where she come from, her lot in life, and he wouldn't waste one moment on her. No one gives a damn about our Ellie, save us."

Despair sank in around Claudia at the naked truth in Doreen's matter-of-fact reasoning. The injustice done to women was the very reason she had found this house, wasn't it? To protect them when the world turned a blind eye? Yet in spite of this house, she hadn't helped Ellie at all. She might have had a place to sleep, but nothing else had changed. In the end, she'd had nothing to fall back on but a drunk. "There is nothing we can do?"

"Ellie's in a better place now, miss. You done your best."

Then her best wasn't good enough.

Riding home, Claudia realized just how little the house on Upper Moreland Street really meant. Now, more than ever, she understood how important it was to build her school so that young women like Ellie would have some choices in life and not end up strangled on a stoop. But even the school hardly seemed enough-it certainly did not change the way the world thought, or how the law treated women. And it certainly didn't change men, for heaven's sake.

Claudia closed her eyes, laid a hand across her lower abdomen, cramping with the pain of her monthly cycle. Saddened by Elbe's death and feeling ill, she felt alone and vulnerable, wishing there was someone to whom she could turn for comfort.

She missed Julian.

The sentiment crept into her mind, surprising her. Gone to Cambridge, or so his terse note had said. She suddenly pressed her fist to her temple, trying to clear the ugly thought from her mind, not wanting to pursue the dull suspicion that he might have a mistress in town. He certainly wouldn't be the first man to take one and would hardly be the last. Claudia had reminded herself at least a dozen times that it was quite common among the ton; she could easily think of a half-dozen men rumored to have mistresses, kept in relative splendor. And those half-dozen men had a half-dozen wives who did not seem to care particularly. She told herself she didn't care, either.

Oh, but she did.

As hard as she had tried to be indifferent to him, unwelcome emotions kept bubbling to the surface and she just couldn't force them down any longer. She cared, Lord God, she cared! She wanted him all to herself, wanted his smile to be for her alone, his hands and his mouth . . .

Claudia closed her eyes, leaned her head against the squabs. Everything about her life was a mess, a vast jumble of confused emotions and longings and bitterness. One day she would think she had everything sorted out, had discovered that place inside her where she could survive. And in the very next breath she'd find herself rearranging her day just to catch a glimpse of him as he strode into his study or laughing with Arthur on his way out. As hard as she had fought it, she could not help herself-she loved him still, as much as she had as a girl and in spite of everything that had happened between them.

It was bewildering to be so smitten with The Rake. He confused her. There were moments he seemingly adored her, was interested in what she was about, eager to be helpful. But then there were the moments he would go off with Arthur and leave her to daily activities in which he appeared to have no interest. In those moments, she felt as if she did not quite succeed in measuring up to the expectations of a man like Julian, and that as there was nothing particularly unique or special about her, he apparently thought nothing of seeking his satisfaction in other quarters.

The irony of her situation was not lost on Claudia- she had long forgotten her indignation over Julian's advice that she wasn't good enough for Phillip.

Because it was Julian she wanted to love her.

It had always been him.

The rain came in the afternoon as expected, and Julian was chilled through to the bone by the time he reached St. James Square. Kettering House was awfully quiet, he thought, as he paused in the entry to hand his things to Tinley. "All is well, I trust?" he asked the old butler.

"There aren't any ladies about, if that is what you mean, my lord," he said wearily, and Julian gathered the old man was just as harassed by Claudia's activities as all the other men he knew.

"Where is her ladyship?" he asked.

Tinley missed the coat stand, dropping Julian's greatcoat onto the floor. "In her rooms, my lord."

"And Sophie?" Julian persisted, stooping to pick up the overcoat and hang it for the butler.

Tinley paused, looked at the mirror above the entry console, obviously thinking. "I wouldn't know, my lord," he said at last.

That hardly surprised him, but sick of the suspicions, he refused to allow himself to wonder exactly where his sister was.

Julian sighed wearily as he mounted the stairs, wondering if Claudia had even noticed he was gone this time. As he moved down the wide corridor of the first floor, he paused at the door leading to her rooms and stared at the brass knob, overwhelmed by the urge to see her. Hell, he always wanted to see her gorgeous face. Yet a few weeks of this forced marriage had trained him to leave her be, to ignore his gut instincts and pass her door when he wanted to go in. It was the way she wanted it.

But it was not the way he wanted it, and it never would be. A man ought to be allowed the company of his wife on occasion without feeling as if he were intruding. He had been gone two days, had thought of little else but her, and did not think it so very unreasonable to expect his wife to greet him.

Julian put his hand on the knob and turned it, pushing open the door before he allowed himself to change his mind.

"Good afternoon, my lord," said Brenda, looking up from her task of folding linens.

Blast it, but he felt like an awkward schoolboy, and quickly glanced about the small sitting room. "Good afternoon," he responded tightly. "Ah, where is your lady?"

The maid began folding a towel. "She's resting, my lord. Feeling a bit under the weather," she said, nodding toward the door of the bedchamber.

She was ill? An ancient fear rushed through his veins, and Julian forgot his clumsiness, walking quickly to her bedchamber and closed the door behind him.

Weak gray light filtered in from the window, filling the room with shadows. Fully clothed, Claudia was lying on her side, her back to him and her face to the windows, her knees curled to her chest. Her hair, unbound, spilled like dark ribbons behind her. Her gown, a deep rich blue, draped her body, and her stockinged feet peeked out from beneath the hem. Cautiously, he approached the side of the bed.

"Julian?"

Her soft voice curled around his heart, surprising him with the strength of its hold. "Yes," he responded quietly, and sat gingerly on the edge of her bed. "You are not well, sweetheart?"

She did not roll over, but shrugged her slender shoulders. "I'm all right. Just a bit of a stomachache," she murmured.

A stomachache. Living with four young women had taught Julian a thing or two about the root of such maladies-Claudia was suffering from her menses. Relieved, he quietly expelled his breath as he stroked her hair. "Let me rub your back," he murmured, and balancing himself with one arm across her body, began to massage her lower back. "Shall I fetch you some laudanum?" he asked after a moment. "It would help ease the pain."

Claudia tensed. "I, ah . . . Brenda gave me some."

"It hasn't helped?"

"Not terribly much," she admitted shyly.

The light behind a spindly tree outside cast shadows across her face; she was pale, her eyes red-rimmed as if she had been crying. Julian felt a tightness in his chest and despised his inability to make her better. He stroked a finger across her silken cheek, drawing a deep but silent breath when Claudia closed her eyes at his touch.

He resumed rubbing her back. "Is there nothing I can do for you?" he asked earnestly.

"Yes . . . talk to me," she murmured.

That startled him-Claudia never wanted conversation from him-if anything, she seemed to abhor it. What in God's name should he say? "All right," he said slowly. "I went to Cambridge, and while I was there, I visited the King's College Chapel. Have you ever been? It's magnificent," he continued at the small shake of her head. "The ceiling must arch three stories above one's head. A boys' choir was singing, and you can't imagine how the sound of it is lifted up before it settles down around the listener, as if it is actually coming from the heavens." He spoke softly, rhythmically rubbing the small of her back. Claudia's lashes fluttered against her pale skin, and she pillowed her head on her hands beneath her cheeks.

"There are tens, perhaps dozens of candles lit in the cathedral, and when the light flickers, it makes the figures in the stained glass look as if they are alive," he soothingly continued, and leaned over her. "There is much pageantry when the gnomes appear and dance along the top of the organ pipes; first on the bass, then the treble, then the highest tenor," he whispered.

He had no idea where that came from, other than an ancient habit of lulling little girls to sleep with fairy tales. But a faint smile appeared on Claudia's lips, so he continued. "After the gnomes, the priest begins his ballet with the fairies. He is quite large, mind you, but I vow that I have never seen one so light on his feet as he. He dances a particularly lovely ballet on the very tips of his toes. One would swear he was actually tripping through a meadow in pursuit of butterflies."

Claudia's faint smile broadened. "And what do the students do while the priest performs his ballet?"

"Ah, the students," he murmured. "They are generally quite appalled, you see, because the ballet interferes with their picnic." He smiled; but a shadow scudded across her face, and her smile faded in it. He started to move away, but Claudia suddenly rolled over and threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. Astonished, Julian quickly put his arms around her, held her close. She said nothing, just clung to him, hiding her face in his shoulder . . . crying?

His chin on top of her head, Julian soothed the loose curls of her hair, wincing with the sound of each muffled gasp into his coat. "What is it, my love? What is wrong?"

She shook her head, tightened her grip around his neck. "Nothing . . . I'm sorry. I don't know what is wrong with me. It's so unlike me to cry," she gasped, and another sob escaped her.

"It's all right," he said, stroking her hair.

"I was thinking how precious life is," she continued raggedly, "and how quickly and easily it can be ended. One moment someone is here and then the next they are gone, just like that."

Everything in Julian convulsed; the feeling of discomfort washed over him so quickly that he actually felt faint for a brief moment. How was it possible that Phillip could find him even now, in this single moment with Claudia? "Why would you be thinking such a thing?" he demanded, a little more roughly than he would have liked.

"I. . . I know someone who died, a woman, a young woman . . . she died so unexpectedly, and it's so unfair! I keep asking myself, why her and not me? Why should she be taken in her prime? What was the purpose of her life, then, if she was to die so young? It. . . it frightens me."

It sickened him. Phillip would never be gone from him.

"I'm sorry," she said again, her arms sliding from his neck. "I suppose I'm being ridiculously sentimental."

Silent, Julian let her pull away, fearful of what he might say if he opened his mouth. This . . . this mar-riage was his hell. He had known it for weeks now. Claudia leaned back, looked up at him with luminous blue-gray eyes shimmering with tears. His arms fell away from her, and he stood from the bed. "You aren't feeling well, that's all. Why don't you rest?" he said blandly, and turned toward the door, hardly thinking or feeling anything but the pain of his despair and guilt.

"Julian-"

"I'll have Tinley send up a tray, all right?"

That suggestion was met with a moment of silence, but Julian dared not turn back and look at her again for fear that he might shatter. "Yes. Thank you," she murmured, and he heard the creak of the bed as she lay down.

He walked blindly down the corridor, simply moving away from her, away from his fantasy that one day Phillip would be gone and Claudia would love him. He kept walking, down the great curving staircase, until he was standing in the foyer. "Have a mount saddled," he said to a footman, and still continued on, until he was standing out in the stone portico of his home, feeling the wet and cold seep into him, waking him from the slumber of his hell.

It occurred to him, as he stood there staring out at nothing, that perhaps he should maintain his distance from Claudia not because she wanted it so much, but because it was the only method of self-preservation he had left to him. If he wasn't near her, she couldn't make him feel the monster of guilt and regret that seemed to destroy everything in his path while vicars sang about the quality of love.

He moved to the corner of the portico, withdrawing one of his American cheroots from his pocket, and struck a match. Cupping his hand around the flame, he lit the cigar. When he lifted his head, he noticed a plain black gig on the curb just beyond the gates of his house.

That was curious. Julian leaned to one side to have a better look at it. It was a gig, all right, a two-wheeled, one-horse carriage-not something one saw very often in Mayfair or St. James, where phaetons and barouches and landaus symbolized the elite status of the residents there. A man and a woman were in the gig; he fumbled in his pocket for his spectacles and looked again.

His heart started badly-it was Sophie, engaged in a rather torrid kiss.

Julian inadvertently dropped the cheroot.

His first inclination was to yank her from that gig and throttle her then and there for such unseemly behavior. His second inclination was to wait and confirm his worst fear-that the man kissing her was Stanwood. Before he was forced to decide, however, Sophie stumbled out of the gig, awkwardly pushing her gloves up as she simultaneously tried to attach her bonnet to her head. Stanwood was talking to her; Sophie was nodding enthusiastically. She took several steps backward, bumped into the gate.

"Your mount, my lord," a young groom called.

Perfect timing. He would have his talk with Stanwood somewhere other than the front of his house, as he would hate to see the bastard's blood all over the walk. He marched to where the lad was holding his mount and vaulted up onto the roan's back. As he gathered the reins, Sophie walked through the gate, clearly entranced. "Sophie!"

The girl started so badly that she stumbled. "Julian!" The blood drained rapidly from her face. "I-I didn't know you had returned," she stammered.

"Where have you been?" he asked, dispensing with any greeting as he tightened his hold on the anxious roan.

"Ah, I. . . where have I been? Why, ah, with Aunt Violet."

Oh God, Sophie! "Go inside and wait for me," he snapped, and signaled the roan forward, riding through the gate the groom opened, veering sharply to the right in pursuit of the goddam gig.

It wasn't hard to find Stanwood; the gig was in front of a Piccadilly public house. Julian tethered his horse and strode inside, ignoring the barmaid who tried to greet him. He scanned the crowded room and spotted Stanwood as he sauntered toward a table in the back where two barmaids were entertaining a patron. Julian started after him, roughly pushing past one man who made the mistake of stepping into his path.