Page 57 of The Lady is Trouble
“He wasn’t angry to find you there?”
“He was relieved, I think. He cast a blaze in the hearth with a flick of his fingers. He just bowed his head andpoof! The earl’s crystal has kept him from burning down the city, although we don’t understand the power it possesses. More investigation is needed. As a child, he dreamed of flames engulfing him, then one day they started rolling off his fingertips. Firestarters, the earl called them.”
“And?”
“He’s arriving next week.”
Humphrey jumped to his feet, bumping his head on the carriage roof. “What?”
“Hard for him to enjoy the benefits of our merry club if he’s not asked to join. Plus, reflect on this, my cautious friend. The Duke is a former soldier and surrounded by a small band of loyal mercenaries. And they’re coming with him. That’s protection we can use. Not to mention how much this expands our world. You may hate it, but he has influence and power we may someday need.”
Humphrey threw himself into the seat with an exasperated gust.
Julian pitched the flask back to him, then tugged his coat off. He was starting to overheat in the confined space. Maybe the reason for his cow-teat complexion. “Consider it a symbiotic relationship. We help him control his gift; he shares his contacts. And his army. We’ll have entry into every gaming hell, every public house, every drawing room in a way no mere viscount would.”
“He can take the West End, and we’ll take the East. Don’t want him to dirty his velvet slippers tramping through the muck.”
Julian dropped his head to his hands, minutes from asking the coachman to stop the carriage. Scotch on an empty stomach had been a ghastly idea. “No velvet slippers this one. Trained for combat when we only trained on the street.”
“Fireball trained as a soldier? What, in a drawing room?” Humphrey snorted. “I could stomp his wee arse.”
Julian counted until he caught a full breath. “I think that’s an excellent…start to your friendship.”
“Hope the village fire brigade is prepared if the flaming bastard’s coming here.”
“Laundry cottage. By the lake,” Julian whispered, his composure slipping. He should have taken an extra night in London to sleep this off. He’d drained his reserves with the visions—and he wasn’t recovering quickly. Not as quickly as he used to. But he’d been frantic to make it back to Harbingdon. Back to Piper.
“Made of stone, which is fireproof. And near the lake, should we need water quickly.”
Julian bounded to his feet, rapping on the trap with a closed fist. “Halt!”
He was out of the conveyance before it rolled to a stop. Flinging himself to the ground, he sunk his fingers knuckle-deep in the mud. The scent of rain and earth rose to him on a rip of air that was a moist blessing washing over his skin. It almost eradicated the smell of lavender gliding from the carriage’s interior and into the night.
Minutes passed before he was able to climb to his feet and lumber back into his transport. He sank to the seat, avoiding the censure he knew would be lingering in Humphrey’s eyes.
Maybe his friend was right.
Maybe hewaskilling himself.
Before she touched him, Piper reminded herself of her mission.
Because anything connected to Julian was a snarled morass of conflicted reasoning and always had been. Love, rage, admiration, jealousy.Possession. She’d never used her gift in an organic way for his benefit: with only the thought to mend.
But this day, thismoment, she would touch him as a healer. Not a lover, not even as a friend.
When Humphrey had woken her in a mild panic—unusual enough an occurrence to bring life to her own—he’d demanded she direct her focus toward Julian in one way and one wayonly. Part of her ‘growing up process,’ he issued beneath his breath in the event she’d misconstrued his meaning.
She was to separate what had happened in the lodge, in Ashcroft’s townhouse, the way Julian had consumed her in both settings with devout fervor, from what she was set to do in a bedchamber located a floor beneath hers, one Julian rarely used from the look of it. No unfinished canvases, no spattered rags, not even the pungent suggestion of turpentine and paint. Just ancestral paintings and random relics that had likely come with the house. The viscount owned this room, the artist the lodge.
She preferred the lodge. She preferred the artist.
Oh, Julian, she thought when she reached the massive tester bed. He was as pale as the creamy counterpane they’d laid him upon, his skin flushed, his hair an absolute snarl about his head. His aura alternated between restorative indigo and a blinding cherry hinting at extreme unrest. She placed the back of her hand against his brow—no fever—then snatched it away.
A healer must heal. And only heal.
Avoiding letting her gaze travel the length of his body, she glanced over her shoulder to find that Humphrey and Minnie had retreated to the hallway, thankfully taking their apprehension with them. If Julian knew how many people depended upon him, how many loved him, maybe he would take better care.
Or maybe it would only add to his burden.