Nigel was plotting something devious.
Sam strolled down Charles Street, feeling the same sense of foreboding he’d experienced when he and Nigel were boys.
Sam had been a lad of eight, sitting on a river bank with a fishing pole in his hands, when he suddenly turned wary. He knew Nigel was stalking him, and yet, he didn’t move. He supposed he was trying to prove something to his older brother—that he wasn’t afraid of him, wouldn’t be intimidated into putting down his rod.
But his foolish pride had made him a veritable sitting duck. Nigel crept up behind him, hoisted him by the collar, and tossed him into the frigid river. Sam plunged beneath the surface of the icy water, and his heart stopped. Or it felt as though it had. He thrashed frantically, certain he would drown.
He didn’t. But he did earn a stern scolding from his father for ruining a perfectly good pair of boots.
Nigel watched as their father administered several painful swats to Sam’s backside. He opened his mouth to explain that he hadn’t jumped into the river or even slipped, but Nigel’s glare made him clamp his lips together. He’d taken the blame.
Just as he had on several occasions after that. Somewhere along the way, he’d been labeled the wicked brother, and he’d started to believe it. Decided he may as well live up to the expectation.
Perhaps he’d gone a bit overboard with the gambling, womanizing, and drinking, but he knew he wasn’t truly evil. It only seemed that way.
That day on the riverbank had been the first incident in a long line of misdeeds he’d been accused of—some rightfully, and some unjustly.
But Sam didn’t fault his father for disciplining him as a boy of eight. He’d deserved it. Not for being thrown into the river, but for sitting there like a simpleton when he knew Nigel was up to no good. He shouldn’t have ignored his instincts.
Which was precisely what he was doing now.
Sam suspected Nigel was planning something equally nefarious—worse, if the note Sam had received earlier that morning was any indication. Both cryptic and intriguing, the missive had been delivered to his office. He pulled it out of his pocket and re-read it as he walked.
I’ve reason to believe Miss Lacey will be at Gunter’s this afternoon at approximately a quarter to four. Thought the information might be of interest.
—Nigel
Clearly, Nigel intended to draw Sam to Berkeley Square … but to what end?
He was through being a pawn in his brother’s maneuverings, damn it all. As much as Sam would have liked to reconcile with Nigel, he would not allow his brother to use him against Juliette, her uncle, or anyone else.
And yet, Sam couldn’t stay away from Berkeley Square. Partly because he longed to see her again—even if only from a distance. But also because he suspected Nigel was up to no good, and Sam couldn’t let her walk into danger.
Besides, if she truly was at Gunter’s this afternoon, maybe he’d have an opportunity to speak with her and see how she fared. Perhaps a look into her beautiful brown eyes would help him discern if she missed him in the slightest.
Because he’d never stopped thinking about her.
It didn’t matter that she vacillated between him and his brother or that she’d worn the extravagant earrings Nigel gave her. It didn’t even matter that she hadn’t refused to be Nigel’s mistress on the spot.
Sam needed to know she was safe—and happy. Even if that happiness didn’t include him.
He rounded the corner onto Berkeley Street and spied the confectioner’s shop in the distance. The mild weather was ideal for a shopping excursion or a jaunt to Gunter’s for ice cream. Ladies, gentlemen, and footmen laden with packages ambled down the pavement, occasionally pausing to greet passersby or admire a parasol or snuffbox in a store window.
But Sam saw no sign of Juliette.
Hands stuffed in his pockets, he walked along, feigning interest in a window display at a boot shop. Every so often, however, he glanced sideways and checked the entrance to Gunter’s. He considered going inside and taking a seat at the table, but his instincts—the same ones he’d ignored at the riverbank—told him he should remain outside.
He was probably still a little early in any event, he mused, and—
Wait. A petite woman holding a closed parasol paced to and fro outside the pastry shop. There was something familiar about her. She definitely wasn’t Juliette. Sam could have spotted her profile, with her smooth brow, pert nose, and elfish chin from a mile away.
And yet, he associated the woman on the pavement with Juliette. She was shorter than her friend Charlotte, and a bit older. Too plainly dressed.
He mentally snapped his fingers. Her lady’s maid, Lucy. Which meant Juliette must be nearby.
He remained several yards away, keeping an eye on the maid and the confectioner’s shop door. Perhaps Lucy was waiting out front while Juliette said good-bye to a friend inside. The maid glanced up and down the street fretfully as though she were late or … worried.
The skin on the back of his neck prickled. What if Juliette was in trouble?
He walked toward Lucy and raised his hand to capture her attention, but she was suddenly fixated on the dark blue carriage that rolled to a stop in front of the shop. There was nothing distinctive about the carriage, no way to see inside, but it looked vaguely like … Bloody hell.
Heart hammering in his chest, he waited and watched. A footman hopped down from his perch behind the carriage, scurried around to the side, and opened the cab door.
Juliette emerged, and his chest ached at the sight of her. A long brown curl at her nape caught in the warm breeze and floated over her shoulder. The skirt of her simple apple green gown billowed around her lithe legs. Her face was pale, her expression unreadable. She clung to Lucy and hurried off in the opposite direction without looking back.
Dear Jesus. Something was wrong. Sam started after her.
The maid hastily opened the parasol, and Juliette ducked underneath as though she were hiding. Not from him, certainly—she was completely unaware he was there. But she seemed almost … ashamed.
He didn’t want to think about why. Or who might be inside the carriage.
Juliette may have needed time to think through her options where Nigel was concerned, but she would never agree to be his mistress. She would never choose wealth and security over … love.
The wheels of the carriage slowly began to roll in the same direction Juliette was walking. As Sam watched, perplexed, the curtain at the back window of the cab shifted. Someone pushed it aside and turned to peer outside.
Shit. A face remarkably like his own stared back at him, sneering. Nigel raised a hand in a mock salute, then drew the curtain closed.
Sam’s blood turned cold. He was back in the river, thrashing. Fighting for breath. Drowning.
Nigel had done it again. But this time, he’d ruined more than a pair of boots. He’d obliterated any opportunity of a reconciliation between him and Sam.
Worse, he’d wrecked Sam’s one shot at redemption, his one chance at happiness—because neither was possible without Juliette.