The River of No Return by Bee Ridgway (best novels of all time txt) 📕

“That is why all the other girls go flying off the shelf and I am left behind, gathering dust in the shop window.”

“You just said you were a valuable commodity.”

“Ah. Do I contradict myself?” Bella wiggled her toes and squeezed Julia’s fingers. But her expression was thoughtful. “I wonder if Count Lebedev knows this Altukhov?”

“Ask him during dinner.”

Bella flopped her feet apart and then together. “Wouldn’t it be thrilling if the count were involved in some infant-smuggling scheme, and we were the ones to expose it to the eyes of the world? But we cannot ask him. He is gone.”

“What?” Julia sat up straight in her chair, pulling her hand from her friend’s.

“Yes. The footman said so. I told him to alert the count about the maniac, in case he did know anything about an Altukhov who might be hiding a baby. But Lebedev is gone. And not just for the day. He loaded up the second-best coach and drove off this morning, early.” She put the back of her hand over her brow. “‘Of joys departed, not to return, how painful the remembrance!’”

“Oh, Bella, be serious! Where is he gone? Is he ever coming back?”

“How should I know?”

Julia had to will herself to remain in her seat and not climb the walls. Devon. That was the answer. Julia knew it. Lebedev was gone to Devon to investigate Eamon. To find out if he was Ofan. When he got there it would take the Russian five seconds to realize that Eamon was a buffoon, with no more power over time than a broken pocket watch. And when the count knew that, he would start wondering: Who else had been at Castle Dar that day?

Bella was eyeing her with some trepidation. “Are you well, Julia? I know you are chafing after all this isolation, but please don’t start talking about lepers.”

Julia forced herself to smile. “I’m fine.” She placed her shoulders back against the chair in a semblance of relaxation and turned a rigid smile on her friend. “Tell me more about Greenwich. With whom did you dance?”

Bella shook her head. “You can’t fool me, Julia. It is high time that you kicked over your traces and I’m the one to help you.”

“Oh, no!” Julia curled her feet up under her and held on to her chair’s arms with both her hands. “You are far too corky, Arabella Falcott, and I won’t be led astray by you.”

“But, my dear,” Bella said, with real concern in her hazel eyes. “You would do the same for me, were I in your shoes. And take it from me: You are curling up at the edges.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

At eight thirty the following morning, Nick set out for Soho Square without a pang of guilt, although he had just sold his mother a bag of moonshine about how he was going again to the House of Lords. He was sorry to lie to her, but she had cornered him in the breakfast room and ranted about some gentleman who had the misfortune to look strangely at her upon her return from Greenwich. She had even set the coachman on the poor man.

Alva had told him to find her in Soho Square—no address, no description of the house. He supposed he would just turn up and wait. Kicking his heels in the square seemed as reasonable a way as any other to escape one’s whinging mother on the one hand, and the House of Lords on the other.

He had survived yesterday’s ignominious ceremony by remembering Julia crammed into a chair with him, sending paper airplanes into the fire. He was able to keep a private smile on his face all through the parading and hat doffing and bobbing up and down. The smile slipped when he had to get down on his knees to present his Writ of Summons to the Lord High Chancellor, but he had soldiered on, reading the oath of allegiance and signing the test rolls. Finally he was conducted by Black Rod to his seat among the other marquesses. They had welcomed him with a collective “woof,” much like the simultaneous sneezing of a row of bulldogs.

He had been allowed out of his ceremonial robes after that, but the day was just beginning.

The corn bill would clearly pass; nearly everyone was in support. And yet it was as if they knew that history would prove them wrong. Each peer wanted to go on record explaining himself, and for each the explanation was nearly identical: I must keep hold of my wealth, yes—but in addition and more important, England must remain the same. The future threatens. The past is safe.

It had all sounded uncannily familiar.

Kirklaw, sitting with the other dukes, kept staring at him, willing him to get up and make his speech. Nick turned in his seat so that he couldn’t see him. But there was Delbun with the earls, and Blessing with the barons. Nick stopped looking at faces and began counting types of knots in neck cloths.

Just when he had thought he would slide from his seat and expire from boredom, Baronet Burdett had presented the House with forty thousand and more signatures from Westminster in opposition to the bill. England, Burdett had argued, must meet the future by making everyone free and equal, without restriction. His speech was met with jeers, and really, Nick thought with sympathy for the poor, kindly-looking man, it was like asking a pack of hyenas to voluntarily knock out their own teeth. Burdett’s speech so enraged one viscount that he had leapt to his feet, declaring that he wanted to strangle the baron right there in front of everyone. The viscount said they might as well roll England up like a scroll, and go home and wait for the mob to level the city. This was good stuff, and Nick leaned forward, hoping that something energizing might happen now, but it all simmered down