It was a question that could only answer itself.
“I am acquainted with men, Philip. I have known many, a few quite well indeed. I can judge for myself who will suit. I can perceive hazards for myself—or declare them to be no such thing.”
She dropped onto the sofa and saw that her left stocking was spiraled hastily up her calf. She crossed her legs, hoping Philip wouldn’t notice. But he would. No one had a keener eye. And even a child could see she’d had a disastrous night. She’d lost her hat to the Half-Shell’s hellish heat, and her crumpled frock no doubt reeked of perspiration and cigarettes. She couldn’t bear to face his wry teasing about her failed evening.
But he said nothing. He looked rough too. Barefoot, he wore loose trousers under a black dressing gown. His hair fell into his eyes, despite frequent swipes to push it away. He too had not slept, or only badly. They were a fine pair, and yes, she realized, however unlikely and uncertainly, they were friends.
“I am an adult,” she repeated, temper mostly spent. “Why is it so hard to trust a woman to choose her own company? I might choose badly, as anyone might. But let me choose for myself. I can survive mistakes. I have survived plenty already.”
“No doubt. It’s this particular mistake I cannot swallow. I’m sorry, but I can’t say more than that.”
As he spoke, his eyes rested on the large oil portrait of Lillian Vancill hanging over the mantel, beside that of his putative parents, Milo and Charlotte, with him as an infant. The sisters had always struck Julia as two versions of the same brunette beauty. Lillian glowed with a robust energy, glinting with defiance as if daring the painter to capture her unladylike forward tilt and slightly parted knees beneath a bright-red dress. In contrast, Charlotte was almost ethereal, a guttering flame (she’d be dead seven years later) to Lillian’s blazing torch.
“It must be terrible to grieve in secret,” Julia said quietly, not sure if this was a subject she was allowed to broach. They’d never really spoken of his true parentage.
Philip nodded so slowly she might have imagined it. “She claimed to be a hussy, you know, at least in her diaries. She brandished the word like a trophy. I can only imagine how she earned it.”
“By speaking her mind,” Julia said, remembering the sharp-tongued old woman. “Breaking the rules. Even the biggest rule of all—the one you saw fit to remind me of just now.”
“Celibacy, you mean?” Philip colored slightly. “You know that’s not my concern.” Julia marveled: the man who could stare down most social conventions blushing at the delicate subject.
“But yes,” he went on, “she broke the rules.” He dipped his head to acknowledge himself as living proof. “And with considerable relish, it seems.”
Julia hesitated. This was fragile territory; did she have the right to nudge into his privacy? No—if he wished to say more, he would. She would welcome his thoughts but not prompt them.
“She was a wily thing, sly no end.” He contemplated the glowing tip of his cigarette. “What secrets the old gal had. And like a puffed-up young strut, I never thought to ask about them. ‘Spinster aunt,’ my eye. What rubbish to assume she led a dull life.”
His expression was solemn but not guarded. The usual hank of black hair hung down his forehead like a stiletto grazing his right eyebrow. His cheekbones cast sharp shadows in the low light. It struck her again that with a slick of oil he could pass for Nijinsky himself.
“You might be the son of a sheik,” Julia said.
Philip’s eyes widened at the teasing speculation. “Old Milo would turn in his grave. Imagine leaving his fortune to an Arab urchin.” He coughed through a wry smile. “Pardon me. Half his fortune.”
Julia smiled too. They’d come a long way, to speak lightly of their old battle. “Reason enough for her silence. Just think of the scandal.” And the swooning, she added silently.
He gave a soft chuckle. “No end of wagging tongues. Though with a bit of a Valentino swagger, my stock might go up, not down. At least with the ladies.”
A frisson of interest sharpened Julia’s ears. Philip was intensely reticent about his private affairs. Apart from the enigmatic Mrs. Macready, she had no clue about his romantic interests. They were either exceptionally discreet or quite laissez faire, or possibly both. “Your stock there is blue chip already, I’d imagine,” she said.
He quirked one cheek and said nothing. He’d seen the bait and spurned it. The subject was not one he wished to discuss.
How easily he drew the curtain across his private life. Yet she was not allowed to do the same? The injustice of it stung afresh, reviving her original grievance. “It’s unfair, Philip. Why should I be denied the same freedom Lillian sought, to enjoy love and intimacy wherever I may find it?”
He studied her, saying nothing. They both understood it was a rhetorical lament. He had never challenged her right to form liaisons, though for maddeningly opaque reasons he objected to Martin Wallace in particular. Even so, she chafed at society’s double standard. For him such liaisons burnished his social mystique; they threatened to tarnish hers.
“It’s not unreasonable,” she said. “I simply want to find someone. Not a husband and not forever, but someone, for a while. That’s all.” She gave a despairing laugh at her twisted stocking and ruined frock. A fine speech for a woman in her state, her proud confidence of eight hours ago now a disheveled mess. She’d regroup tomorrow, but at the moment a good wallow was in order. “As if it were so simple. Look at me. Would you look twice at such a creature? A woman’s charms are precarious enough”—she lifted her shin to display its laddered silk—“without a hovering brother.”
Philip smiled. “You’re tired and have had
