The King of Threadneedle Street Page 10

  “One must question what effects these recent events will have on the rumored betrothal of Lord P. and Miss E. — who, perhaps not coincidentally, is noticeably missing from Almack’s as of late. One can only guess where our favorite on-dits have gone to play.”

  Lady Chauncey set the paper on the table. “It is not only this one, Miss Villier. Le Monde ran a similar piece. But I trust you get the idea.”

  Andrew wandered into the room, barefooted, a model of fashionable dishabille. He had been lounging all week and never bothered to dress properly. Alysia remembered he always did agitate poor Marsden, his valet. Since their arrival at Jardinet Street, Andrew had been busy receiving and sending mountains of messages and letters. And reading, nearly constantly; newspapers, periodicals, books. He sat next to Alysia wearing only his trousers and half-buttoned shirt, holding a folded newspaper.

  The first day at Lady Chauncey’s house he had asked Alysia not to throw tantrums. “I will sort it all out. Let us enjoy some time together,” he begged, and she couldn’t refuse, not with his voice in a low purr and his bloodshot eyes evidence of the trouble he’d gone to on her behalf.

  He often sat near her with his book while she sketched, with an arm around her shoulders, his hand on hers, and sometimes he toyed with her hair. If the world didn’t seem upside down, it might have been like old times. Lady Chauncey went out at night, leaving them alone in the house. That worried Alysia at first, but each night Andrew escorted her to her door, kissed her once on the forehead and went to his own room. In a way it felt like how an elderly married couple might pass time together.

  “I suppose you know what is being said?” she asked him.

  “Hmm. Yes, but it is to be expected.”

  “You don’t seem overly concerned.” The irritation in her voice must have caught his attention; he finally looked up from his paper.

  “Should I be?”

  Lady Chauncey answered for him, “Lord Preston is often in the papers, Miss Villier. Perhaps he has become like me; either inured or amused by the gossip.”

  He chuckled. “No one is quite like you, Lady Chauncey. But it is as you say; I couldn’t care less what some idiot writes in the papers. Besides, none of what they have printed this time is untrue, for a change.” He smiled broadly and Lady Chauncey joined in, then he puzzled over Alysia’s expression.

  “And you are looking as pleased as a wet cat because…”

  “Well, only that I am ruined, and your fiancée will surely not have you now that this story is out. Should I be pleased with something?”

  Lady Chauncey spoke first, “Miss Villier, you were ruined the moment you set out for Paris alone. Involving yourself with Mme. Desmarais, the theater company, and striking out as an independent artist were all nails in the coffin.”

  Andrew scoffed and looked at the ceiling. “I can always count on you, my lady, for a direct assessment.” He said more affectionately, “It is true nonetheless, Alysia. Appearance is gospel, as far as society is concerned.”

  “But Lady Chauncey has been our chaperone. Surely—”

  Alysia was cut off by laughter from the other two.

  “Miss Villier, I am the last soul on earth who could serve as a chaperone,” Lady Chauncey chided, still chuckling. “The gossipmongers know you two are holed up somewhere and haven’t been seen in public for over a week. Personally I don’t know why you won’t take advantage of my absence. Clearly you are each hopelessly besotted with the other. Everyone assumes you have been doing nothing else anyway.”

  Alysia felt herself heat, and Andrew waved off Lady Chauncey’s speech. “You bring us to the important point. I have ruined Alysia, but it plays into my plan. I think it’s time we went out. What would you say to attending the opera this evening, Alysia?”

  When she hesitated he went on, “Let me make one thing clear. I am not engaged, or whatever the deuce that paper called it. That is my mother hard at work again. I think I know what she is up to, but we will preempt her.”

  “You make it sound like battle stratagem,” Alysia said, trying not to sound sarcastic.

  “Just as ‘the law is an ass,’ so is society a jungle. I intend to match blow for blow.”

  Alysia shook her head. “I don’t follow.”

  “I am going to keep you, like a mistress. For your own protection. Don’t attempt to deny that you need it, Lisa. You have a choice, however. You could stay here in Paris, or you may go to London. I will set you up in a house so I can watch over you. In two years’ time you will be twenty and one, and my father must relinquish guardianship over you. At that point you will have your inheritance, and you can then choose either to live independently as you please, or you can accept my standing offer of marriage.”

  He took her hand and brushed her fingertips across his lips, his eyes boring into hers. “I will always love you, Lisa. I still want you. For my wife, if you will have me.”

  Lady Chauncey sighed appreciatively, a swoon befitting a young maiden with a romantic imagination. “You are a fool, Miss Villier, if you turn him away.”

  “So, please answer me; do you wish to remain with the theater?”

  “No,” Alysia answered pointedly.

  “Are you particularly attached to Paris?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “What do you want? Other than myself, obviously,” he added with a crooked smile.

  “My wish is to paint and draw, and not spend my energy navigating society.”

  “Done. So then you might prefer a house in London, or—” he conferred wordlessly with Lady Chauncey. “There is another option.”

  Lady Chauncey explained, “My daughter, Sophia, is due to give birth to her third child in late winter. She could use your assistance at her country estate with her young ward, Madeline, who is an avid student of art. Sophia has already expressed her desire to host you at Rougemont, in Devonshire.”

  “The Montegues? You mean Lady Devon?” Alysia tried not to look mortified.

  “The same,” Lady Chauncey answered cheerily.

  Alysia knew the Tilmores were close friends with the Montegues, and had met them once years ago, before they were married. Ah yes, now she remembered; Andrew had offered to create a distraction in the press to hide a scandal Lord Devon worried would harm the future lady Devon. It seemed unwise to put the group of friends in a position of choosing sides. “I… doubt that is such a good idea. Lord Courtenay—”

  “My father will know nothing about it,” Andrew interrupted. “Lord and Lady Devon are already aware of our situation. In fact, it was Wilhelm who found you for me. He has been helping me this past year. I assure you of their discretion.”

  Andrew ignored Alysia’s bewilderment.

  “And that will make it easy for me to visit you. I’ve been restoring the estate in Somerset and plan to stay there until spring.”

  She said numbly, “It sounds as though everything is planned already.”

  “Indeed. It only remains for you to agree.”

  Alysia thought for a long moment. Where else could she go before coming into her inheritance? She couldn’t stay in Paris, she knew no one in London. She shouldn’t accept Andrew’s help, but it seemed there was little point in resisting.

  Except for one caveat. He had thrown in as a matter of course that he expected them to marry. He wasn’t thinking it through to conclusion. A Byronic hero; all valor and no sense. She knew Andrew thrived on being the champion of his arena, and only thought he could bear being cut by society. In time he would despise her for it. That would be worse than never having him at all.

  “Very well, and thank you,” she spoke at last, and Andrew and Lady Chauncey each exhaled in relief. It would have been comical if Alysia was in the mood to be amused. “However, you must remove the assumption of our marriage, Andrew. You must also promise not to discount any opportunity to form an attachment with an eligible lady.” She added with a smirk, “Since Lady Courtenay has been searching so diligently on your behalf, Drew, you shou
ld at least hear her out.”

  He scowled, and she lifted a finger in protest. “I am unmovable in this.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” blurted Lady Chauncey. “You two are driving me mad!” She stood and walked to the door. “I have seen your drawings of Lord Preston, Miss Villier. Oh, don’t appear so doe-eyed, it is unbecoming for one so bold with her pen. You left your book out, and I presumed to browse it. A masterpiece, mademoiselle, in every way.” She winked. “You know the one I mean.”

  From the doorway she paused to add, “I wish you would just have each other and be done with it! You — Andrew, don’t be such a dratted gentleman and take her! I daresay she wouldn’t put up much of a fight and would thank you for it in the end.”

  ****

  Andrew didn’t take her to the opera. Alysia was only half-dressed and looking for her lorgnette and fan when the housekeeper announced unexpected guests: Lord and Lady Courtenay, with The Honourable Miss Francine Everett. The latter wasted no time before sharpening her claws on Alysia.

  “Strange I should meet you — I had the honor of attending King Amadeus’ unveiling of his latest commission. And of course I recognized you the moment I saw you, from the painting, of course. How exciting it must be, and daring, to work as an artist’s model.”

  “Not so exciting. One has only to sit still. And not so independent either, as one merely follows the artist’s instructions.” Alysia pretended Andrew’s parents were not trying to melt her with their accusing scowls. Considering she had expected never to see them again, being trapped in a drawing room with them seemed tantamount to being tossed in the lion’s den. Rather, she would take her chances with the lions.

  “But to be so exposed, for the world to see… I suppose you are accustomed to it, Miss Villier, considering who your mother was. Now who was she, precisely, anyway?” Miss Everett smiled sweetly, and Alysia imagined fangs.

  Andrew shot up out of his seat. She nudged him on the back of his knee, reminding him to stay calm. “It’s art, Miss Everett. It is what it is. And my mother, Lady Mercoeur, was a widowed countess and later a courtesan.”

  At Alysia’s unapologetically direct answer, Miss Everett actually blushed, her haughty smirk wiped from her face.

  Andrew glared at Miss Everett, fists clenched at his sides, ready to go to war. He drew a deep breath, no doubt in preparation to eviscerate Miss Everett, so Alysia blurted, “Lord Preston, did you not have an appointment?”

  He glared a long awkward moment at his guests, and Alysia bumped the back of his knee again, silently begging him not to make a scene.

  Finally he answered, brusquely, “Oh, yes. Let us not be late.” He pulled her to her feet, and before she could object to his use of the word us, he dragged her from the room. Ignoring her protests, he handed over her gloves and hat, and pushed her through the front entrance before she had a chance to put them on.

  Once again, she had been completely mown over by him. “Where are we going?”

  “Any place my parents are not.”

  Wandering was what he wanted, as it turned out, his curiosity greater than his concern for the quality of the neighborhood. He stopped at a cabaret with lively music and raucous laughter coming from the windows. He opened the door, smiled at what he saw, and pulled Alysia inside.

  Alysia recognized what was going on; a parody of popular theater and opera from productions at grand halls such as Théâtre du Châtelet, her former place of employment. Andrew found a table in a corner, and they sipped sour wine.

  A buxom actress flitted on stage wearing fairy wings and a brown wig, spouting Titania’s lines from A Midsummer Night’s Dream in a ridiculously sultry voice. Her every gesture drew attention to her nearly exposed bosom. The male actors on stage made a variety of crass gestures, ogling the incarnation of what could only be the infamous Alysia Villier.

  The actor she assumed was Shakespeare’s Puck conspicuously adjusted his trousers before diving into his lines with an affected tight-throated tone. Whistles and phallic gestures came from the orchestra, which goaded the audience into the same raucous behavior. Alysia shrank in her seat, feeling flames creep from her ears and engulf her face. She shut her eyes against the humiliating scene and wished she could cover her ears. If only she could disappear…

  Andrew grabbed her wrist as she started to rise from the chair. “If you leave now, everyone will recognize you.” She leaned deeper into the shadows and watched the actress mock her with unnerving accuracy. If she hadn’t already decided to give up life in the public light, this would have been adequate motivation.

  She slid the chair back and struck opposition. A waiter, carrying a tray. Glasses tumbled into her lap and shattered on the floor. Cold wet seeped through her clothes and trickled down her back. The show continued onstage, the performers likely accustomed to racket from the audience, but everyone around her turned to look. She heard her name whispered then shouted by dozens of voices.

  She felt her surprised expression freeze on her face, but Andrew bolted into action. He tucked her under his arm and shoved through the crowd like a rugby player. She heard people cursing and felt grabbing hands, but Andrew was more aggressive. He ducked through the doorway, picked her up like a sack of flour, and ran.

  He cut down a narrow alley and came out on Place Saint Sulplice, where he hailed a cab to take them back to rue de Jardinet. “A shame you didn’t take a bow, prima donna,” he chuckled, passing his handkerchief for her to wipe the sticky wine from her collar.

  “I had no idea I was so famous. Or is infamous the word?” She was glad he found it amusing; it kept her from having to admit she’d been frightened. “Well, you said you wanted to go out, to make a statement. The papers will be head over ears about this.”

  “We will be gone from the continent before the story hits, and forgotten soon after.”

  Perhaps someday she would grow skin as thick as his. Her face still felt like it was on fire, and her hands still shook. She was simply not cut out to be a celebrity.

  Andrew directed the driver to deliver them in back of the house, through the servant’s entrance. “In case The Wardens and their pet peacock missed the hint to take their leave,” he explained as he paid the cab.

  “Unkind. Your parents only meant to rescue you from the clutches of a conniving Delilah. And I thought Miss Everett quite lovely. Very fashionable.”

  He herded her through the kitchen and up the service passageway toward their guest rooms. She heard no sound at all in the house, not even noise from the staff.

  “Yes, her Turkish silk jacket matched the avarice in her eyes.”

  “Your fiancée doesn’t gaze at you in affection?”

  Andrew’s jaw clenched, and she wondered if she had touched a nerve. “Her father is broke — a foolhardy investment in a non-existent Texas railroad. She is desperate to make a match before the news spreads.”

  Alysia had never thought about women hunting Andrew for his money. Silly of her, failing to update her estimation of him, no longer the prankish adolescent who hid croaking frogs in the village church organ. Sophisticated Threadneedle-Street-mogul Andrew was comfortable in his own skin, but she was a little frightened of him.

  He opened the door to her dressing room. She went behind the screen to wash and failed to notice he had followed her inside until she saw his hands in the basin beside hers. Large, masculine hands with the roughened look of an equestrian, except for the ink-stained callus on his index finger from the near-constant use of a pen.

  Before she could protest his presence in her rooms, he stole the toweling out of her hands, turned her by the shoulders, and made quick work of the hooks on the back of her dress. Right. The upstairs staff had all gone, and her gown was doused in sour wine. She tried not to gasp every time a hook popped free.

  Andrew is undressing you, her subconscious warned, as though the chilly air across her back wasn’t shocking enough. She considered making a stern speech on propriety, then decided to make a run for the bedcham
ber and lock the door, but when he finished with the hooks on her dress, he left it modestly in place and reached for the cord lacing her corset.

  He worked the laces free and tugged the steel-seamed corset out of her dress. “I hate these.” Alysia dared look over her shoulder and saw him wrap the string around his hand and drop it.

  “You seem to know your way around women’s clothing. Outright deft.”

  “I should make a joke of it, but in truth I am not proud of my past behavior.” He pushed her hair back over her shoulder, and even the casual brush of his fingers on her skin made her breath catch. “Immature, short-sighted indulgences of vanity.”

  She tried to swallow but couldn’t manage it. Too often she had wondered what he was doing the past few years. He had not been studying the entire time. Of course not. Alysia had long prepared herself for the moment she must smile and curtsey to his wife. Judging by the rush of jealousy as he confessed his affairs, she would probably have to settle for not scratching out the future Lady Preston’s eyes.

  He added, “Substitutes,” at the same moment she said, “Saints help me.”

  Neither explained their comment. Alysia waited pensively, and finally she felt him trace his hands down her sides from ribs to hip.

  “Where is the rest of you, Lisa?” Apparently he had stepped closer, because now she could feel his breath on her neck.

  “The rest of me?”

  “You are too thin. So you live in the gourmet cuisine capital of the world, and you drop two stone in weight?”

  “Not that much, Drew,” she matched his teasing tone of voice but felt unsteady.

  “Your figure was different last year.”

  “I hardly know what to say.”

  “What? You are embarrassed I notice you? All of you?” He wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled her ear, and she lost her clever reply. She couldn’t recall her own name at the moment.