Two days had scarcely passed when Julian found a small note tucked into a volume of Horace on his library desk. His valet, Barnaby, would have sworn no one but Julian touched the desk, but there it was.
"Might I beg a moment of your time, Mr. Vance? The Conservatory, precisely an hour before the Duchess of Pemberley's soirée this evening."
Julian's brow furrowed. The elegant script, unfamiliar yet artfully penned, spoke of a certain refined hand. A secret assignation? The thought, fleeting and impertinent, was swiftly dismissed. This was London, not some provincial idyll, and Julian Vance was no naive country squire. A confession, perhaps, of a far less romantic nature—a wager, a debt, a clandestine plea for influence.
His engagements for the day were a carefully orchestrated waltz of calls and correspondences. Only as he adjusted his cravat, preparing for the Duchess's lavish evening, did the note resurface in his mind, an inconvenient ripple in his otherwise smooth schedule.
After instructing Barnaby on the carriage arrangements, Julian made his way towards the Conservatory. A faint curiosity pricked him; who could it be, and what matter required such discretion? He assumed nothing of consequence, merely a slight detour before the evening's main event.
However, the sender, a figure almost entirely obscured by a veritable jungle of potted palms and ferns, proved rather more surprising than expected. Lord Beaumont, his usually immaculate dark hair rather dishevelled, his timid face almost lost amidst the greenery, looked up as Julian approached.
“Lord Beaumont?”
Julian’s voice, a low murmur of surprise, seemed to startle the young lord. Beaumont’s head, previously bowed over hands that fretted with a loose thread on his cuff, snapped up. He offered a strained, almost pained smile, reminiscent of the forced cheer he’d displayed upon his initial, ill-fated entry into society. Julian felt an immediate tightening in his chest. That smile always promised trouble.
“What is it, pray tell? Why this sudden summons?” Julian inquired, his tone carefully neutral.
In response, Lord Beaumont merely twisted his plump fingers, his gaze darting around the glass-domed room as if seeking an escape. The air grew thick with a nervous silence.
Julian simply wished to depart. He disliked being alone with Beaumont, especially in such a secluded corner of his own home. Rumours, like insidious weeds, could sprout from the most innocent soil, and Julian was acutely aware of his precarious position. He had offered Beaumont gestures of propriety, never intimacy, merely enough to be deemed a gentleman of good conscience.
Oblivious, or perhaps indifferent, to Julian’s rising unease, Lord Beaumont continued to chew on his bottom lip, his small face a tableau of indecision and desperate resolve. Each time he seemed on the verge of speech, his mouth clamped shut, his eyes wide with unspoken torment.
A sigh, almost imperceptible, escaped Julian. He had never harboured much warmth for Beaumont, whose unyielding melancholy often felt more like an affectation than genuine sorrow. Every gesture, every hesitant breath, seemed to amplify Julian's growing irritation. He recognized, however, the sharpness of his own nerves; perhaps he was overly sensitive today. The previous evening’s encounter, Beaumont’s desperate kiss upon his hand, still haunted him.
“My apologies, Lord Beaumont, but time presses. The Duchess awaits. Could you not, perhaps, hasten to your point?”
Today, Julian's composure felt particularly fragile. His mind, usually a neatly ordered cabinet of thoughts, was a disarray of anxieties and frustrations.
His vexation, he knew, was not entirely directed at Beaumont. He merely sought an outlet, a target for the gnawing disquiet that had settled in his stomach like a persistent chill.
As Julian wrestled with these unspoken sentiments, Lord Beaumont finally seemed to gather his courage. His voice, a reedy stammer, barely carried above the gentle rustle of leaves.
“Mr. Vance… I… I must… you see, I…”
“Yes?” Julian prompted, a casual gesture to his cravat belying his internal impatience. The hour was indeed late. He yearned to simply force the words from the young man’s trembling lips.
At that unfortunate moment, the Conservatory door swung open with a muffled thud. Both Julian and Lord Beaumont turned, their gazes locking with Duke Alistair, who stood panting on the threshold. No, Alistair's eyes were not on Julian. They were fixed, with a terrifying intensity, upon Lord Beaumont.
Alistair’s heavy breathing, audible even across the expanse of the room, betrayed the haste of his arrival. Julian’s chest tightened, a suffocating ache, as he pictured the Duke scouring the house, perhaps even the grounds, for Beaumont.
A long, controlled exhalation escaped Alistair, then he strode purposefully into the Conservatory. Unconsciously, Julian dropped the hand he had been using to adjust his cravat. Alistair’s gaze flickered between Beaumont and Julian, his expression a storm of barely contained fury.
“What are you doing here with him?”
The question hung, sharp and accusatory, its target unclear. Alistair’s fists clenched, then slowly relaxed, then clenched again.
Behind Julian’s carefully composed facade, his very core felt pummelled. After a long, agonizing pause, Alistair’s eyes finally settled on Julian. Julian found the intensity of that stare unbearable, a violation.
“Alistair, what precisely is the meaning of this?”
Please, I beg you, do not look at me so. Julian’s silent plea was a desperate whisper. Lay the blame where it truly belongs; Beaumont summoned me. Why do you fix your gaze upon me, your esteemed acquaintance, with such venom? I am merely an unwilling party to this folly.
Even as these thoughts raced through his mind, Alistair’s burning eyes remained locked onto Julian. Those were not eyes of passion, Julian knew, nor of fervent devotion. They were the eyes of a man consumed by rage, by a jealousy so fierce it bordered on madness. It was the face of a man deranged by some twisted affection, a sight Julian found both pitiable and utterly despicable.
“Why are you here with him!”
You appear pathetic, Alistair. Utterly, tragically pathetic. Julian met the Duke’s glare, unflinching. Yet, a chilling realization slowly dawned: perhaps the pitiable one was not Alistair, but Julian himself.
Before Julian could fully process this thought, Alistair’s long strides had brought him directly before him. As Julian met the Duke’s gaze at close quarters, the world seemed to tilt.
—!
He could not quite comprehend what had transpired. His body staggered back, colliding with a heavy terracotta pot, sending it crashing to the marble floor. Only then did his mind replay the swift, brutal motion.
“No…”
Alistair had struck him.
Duke Alistair, the man whose very reputation commanded deference, had dared to strike Julian Vance.
Stunned, Julian’s trembling fingers rose to his cheek. A searing pain blossomed beneath his touch. He could not believe it. How could you… how could you possibly do this to me?
“Mr. Vance!”
“You infernal fool! Did I not warn you about meddling, Beaumont? Do not speak to him, do not even look at him, you impertinent wretch!”
Lord Beaumont, his face ashen with horror, stumbled forward, but Alistair roared, a sound wholly uncivilized, like a man driven to the brink. Seeing Alistair’s furious face, Beaumont’s expression grew increasingly pale, his terror palpable.
“I—I am sorry, my lord, truly sorry.”
“You swore! You swore to me, damn you!”
Lord Beaumont recoiled, tears glistening in his eyes. But no, Julian thought, he was not the one who ought to be weeping—it was Julian himself.
Tears, hot and stinging, welled behind Julian’s own eyes, threatening to spill. Mercifully, before his carefully constructed composure could shatter entirely, Alistair swore again, a low, guttural curse, and stormed from the Conservatory, dragging a terrified Lord Beaumont by the arm. The entire appalling episode had unfolded in a matter of seconds.
Left alone amidst the shattered terracotta and scattered potting soil, Julian stared at the half-open door. A shaft of late afternoon sun pierced the gloom, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Something within him, a dam holding back a torrent of emotion, finally gave way. The tears flowed, unchecked and burning.
He hated everything. Lord Beaumont, who had so foolishly drawn him into this sordid drama. Duke Alistair, who had dared to publicly humiliate him. He wished them both to simply vanish. Julian felt profoundly miserable, reduced to a mere casualty in their grotesque, twisted entanglement.
He staggered from the Conservatory, abandoning all thoughts of the Duchess's soirée. He had Barnaby send a discreet note to the Duchess's footman, claiming a sudden onset of the 'vapors.' His cheek, already beginning to swell and redden, offered a plausible, if humiliating, excuse. Barnaby, ever the soul of discretion, merely offered a concerned glance and a quiet nod.
---
Julian collapsed onto his bed when he arrived home, seeking oblivion in sleep. He awoke hours later, his face throbbing, undoubtedly puffy and bruised. Out of habit, or perhaps compulsion, he checked his pocket watch, then considered his correspondence. Among the invitations and bills, a message from Lord Ashworth caught his eye. They rarely exchanged personal notes, their contact usually constrained by their shared, if distant, association with Alistair. Damn it.
Were it anyone else, Julian might have consigned the missive to the waste bin. But Lord Ashworth was no mere acquaintance. He was Alistair’s right-hand man, a figure of considerable influence within their set, a man whose subtle opinions could sway the tides of society. Julian could ill afford to ignore him.
"Vance, when did you so cleverly abscond?"
Julian sighed, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He penned a belated reply to the implied scolding, a missive delivered hours ago.
"My dear Ashworth, felt rather indisposed, I'm afraid."
He deliberately kept the tone light, almost flippant. The thought of anyone discovering the truth—that Duke Alistair had struck him, and all over Lord Beaumont, no less—was an unbearable humiliation.
"Are you quite well?"
Lord Ashworth, feigning concern? A strange disquiet settled over Julian. He quickly sealed his reply and gave it to a footman to deliver.
Hours later, a wave of profound sadness washed over him. Even Ashworth’s unexpected solicitude felt suffocating. Other acquaintances had sent enquiries regarding his absence from the soirée, but none of it was what Julian truly craved.
No one, he realised with a pang, had sent a message of concern from Alistair. I must be utterly mad, he thought, to entertain such a delusion. Still, he offered himself a cruel consolation: this was merely the pathetic fate of one caught in a madman's orbit.
Even armed with this bitter truth, Julian lay there like an idiot, doing what he did best—closing his eyes, feigning ignorance to the harsh reality.
"...I am not alone in this."
Perhaps Lord Beaumont and Julian found themselves in similar straits. That strange, twisted, grotesque thought lingered. A selfish, wicked, childish hope intertwined with it. While lying on his bed, staring at the canopy, another note was delivered. It was from an unknown hand, sealed with an unfamiliar wax.
"Mr. Vance, are you in great distress?"
Julian frowned. Who among his peers would address him so intimately, yet without a proper salutation? Ashworth? But this was not his crest. Before he could ponder further, a follow-up missive arrived, relentless and infuriating.
"I am so very sorry. Truly sorry. It is all my fault."
"My deepest apologies."
"Please, grant me your forgiveness."
Be it three lines or four, the sentiments made Julian long to scream. He flung the note onto the polished floorboards in a fit of frustration. How had this impertinent wretch obtained his address? And how was someone who supposedly had no connections in society sending him messages with such ease?
Then it struck him. Ah. He had written to Beaumont before, hadn't he? A discreet note, offering the rare book.
Julian cursed his own idiocy, letting out an angry sigh. To vent his fury, he pounded his fist against his pillow for a while, until exhaustion claimed him and he drifted into a fitful slumber. Just before his thoughts completely faded, one last line from the crumpled note echoed in his mind.
"Pray, do not despise me."
How amusing. Julian thought, I have despised you for months.
The next morning, his face was swollen like a poorly risen soufflé.
---
Julian declared himself too indisposed for morning calls or any other social engagements. No matter how much of a model of decorum he generally was, he possessed insufficient passion for society to parade around with such a countenance.
His housekeeper, Mrs. Davies, brought a light luncheon to his chambers. As he ate, she could not resist offering a gentle caution to be more careful, her tone laced with concern. The luncheon itself was nothing remarkable—soft, unassuming gruel and bland, seasoned greens. Julian swallowed it all quickly, with little appetite.
As he set his spoon down and reached for a glass of spring water, Mrs. Davies returned to clear the dishes. With the tray balanced expertly in one hand, she offered,
“Mr. Vance, a caller awaits.”
“A caller?”
“Shall I admit them?”
A caller. Julian’s heart gave a strange, uncertain flutter. Before he could even identify the emotion, his mind had already begun to conjure an image of who might be standing at his door.
Could it be… Alistair?
It seemed a wild, improbable fancy, yet not entirely impossible. Few among his acquaintance ever called unbidden upon his private residence. Among his circle, only a select few even knew his precise address. If it were Alistair, then he must have come to offer a formal apology, his conscience finally pricked by his deplorable behaviour. Alistair had never struck Julian before, not once. Yes, he must be worried, upset even.
“Yes, Mrs. Davies, please, admit them at once.”
The fantasy solidified into a certainty. Even as Julian chastised himself for such naive hope, he could not help but feel a small, illicit surge of satisfaction. Despite everything, he was still important to Alistair, in some inexplicable way. The thought filled him with an inexplicable, dangerous warmth. He quickly turned towards the door to his chambers, his pace quickening with an ill-advised flicker of anticipation.
But the person Mrs. Davies ushered into the room was not the one he had so foolishly expected.
“Vance, you scoundrel, what mischief have you been about?”
Lord Ashworth, his sharp features etched with a playful smirk, stood framed in the doorway, a small, elegant box from Gunter’s in his hand. As soon as his gaze fell upon Julian’s bruised and swollen face, however, his light-hearted banter ceased. His tone, unusually grave, dropped to a low murmur.
“Good God, Vance, what on earth happened to your face?”
Julian’s knees almost buckled beneath him from the sudden, profound letdown. How, in heaven’s name, did Lord Ashworth even know where he resided?
“I… had an unfortunate mishap,” Julian replied, his voice flat, devoid of inflection.
Lord Ashworth’s brow furrowed, his lips twisting in that characteristic manner of his, a prelude to some cutting remark.
“An ‘unfortunate mishap’? You truly are a blockhead, aren’t you, Vance?”
Julian did not bother to offer a retort. He merely rubbed his throbbing cheek, a dull ache reverberating through him. Embarrassment surged, hot and humiliating, as he recalled his earlier, foolish hopes. He truly was an idiot. Alistair did not consider him important. And here he was, like some pathetic, hopeful cur, wagging his tail in anticipation.
“Here, take this. It might offer some small balm.”
Lord Ashworth extended the elegant Gunter’s box. Julian accepted it, immediately lifting the lid to inspect its contents.
“…It’s lemon ice.”
“Is it? I confess, I merely plucked the first available offering.”
“Figures. Why would you exert any more thought?”
“Damnation, Vance, that’s rather harsh, even for you.”
“What, pray tell, is your actual purpose in being here?”
“What do you imagine? I came to satisfy my curiosity regarding your sudden withdrawal from society. Now, mind if I join you?”
“Ashworth, wait!”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Ashworth’s long legs carried him further into Julian’s private chambers. He moved with an almost aggressive familiarity, his gaze sweeping over the books and furnishings.
“Where precisely are you bound?” Julian demanded, a tremor of exasperation in his voice.
“Where else? There is nowhere else to go in a gentleman’s private suite, is there?” Ashworth countered, his smirk returning.
Julian had no adequate response. Ashworth was, maddeningly, correct. A gentleman’s chambers were, for the most part, simply that: chambers. Feeling deeply awkward, Julian followed Lord Ashworth, who seemed intent on thoroughly inspecting the intimate confines of his private world.