Free The Secret Life of Lady Julia by Lecia Cornwall

was starting to enjoy this life. He liked stealing from the rich who had been his masters all his life. For Thomas, it was a matter of survival and nothing more, but Donovan was in danger.
    “Once we are done in Vienna, we’ll both find a quieter life,” Thomas said firmly. He would take just enough to send Donovan home, then he’d gather the last shreds of his honor and dignity and face what was left of the ruins of his own life, make some decisions.
    Vienna was simply one last, great chance to make his fortune by stealing it. He tried to see it as revenge—since that’s what made it necessary for him to stoop to stealing in the first place—revenge on his brother, his duplicitous sister-in-law, the society that shunned him without bothering to ask for his side of the tale. But revenge didn’t make this life any more palatable. Of course, if his brother were here at this very moment, with their father’s gold watch in hand, the familiar ruby pin in his cravat, his signet ring on his finger, and his duplicitous wife with him, draped in his mother’s jewels, Thomas knew he wouldn’t blink, wouldn’t hesitate. He’d take it all, leave them naked and bleeding, the way they’d left him.
    He knocked again, more forcefully this time, and the coach lurched grudgingly on, the driver’s gaze torn from the fireworks as the last one fizzled over the silver ribbon of the Seine.
    “Then are we to have no fun at all?” Donovan grumbled.
    “Later,” Thomas replied. “First, we make our fortune.”

 
    Chapter 7

    Vienna, September 14, 1814
    “L ook, Dorothea, it’s Vienna at last,” Julia cried, struggling with the latch on the coach’s dust-dimmed window.
    But Dorothea was asleep, worn out by hours—weeks—of jolting over rough roads. She was pale and sweat had pasted her hair to her forehead. The dust kicked up by the horses had folded itself into creases in her skin, left a coating on her skirt and bonnet. Julia knew she looked every bit as travel-worn herself, and wished for a moment she had a mirror.
    “Almost there,” she murmured, and turned to stick her head out the window. They had been through five countries in a month, including France, Switzerland, Germany, Bavaria, and Austria. As much as Dorothea had hated the long hours of travel and the hardships of the road, Julia had loved them. She didn’t miss England at all, while Dorothea constantly bemoaned the lack of English comforts, manners, and food. Julia had hidden her enthusiasm for Dorothea’s sake, but she adored the dark forests of Germany, the glorious peaks of the Swiss Alps, and the ripe golden fields of France. The signs of twenty years of war had been visible too—deep scars across the landscape, burned villages, ruined manors. The people they passed on the road and met at the inns showed the ravages of war as well, their gazes narrow and suspicious as they watched the strangers pass.
    The wayside inns had been rough places, the food coarse and unfamiliar, but the British ambassador, Lord Castlereagh, had been in a hurry to reach Geneva, where his wife Emily was waiting to join the delegation. Then, he wished to get to Vienna as quickly as possible, to set up his embassy and take the measure of the place before the conference officially began.
    Dorothea had been terrified by the rumors of bandits on the roads, and insisted that Stephen give her a pistol, which he refused to do. He gave it to Julia instead, discreetly and out of Dorothea’s sight, and she kept it in her reticule under the seat.
    He showed her how to use the weapon while Dorothea napped one afternoon. “Not that we aren’t as safe as could be, with a detachment of troops riding with us,” he said. “I just don’t want Doe to get so frightened she shoots a farmer, or Lord Castlereagh’s valet.”
    “Aren’t you worried that I might shoot someone by accident?” she’d asked.
    “You hardly strike me as the nervous sort, Miss Leighton. Still, handle it with care,