The King of Threadneedle Street Page 8

Delicate stars of white fiber floated down from the cottonwood tree like snow, making time seem surreal. Her eyes, a deep aubergine in the dim light, held an apology she didn’t offer aloud. Finally he asked the same question he had the first time he kissed her. “May I?” He sounded as desperate as he felt.

  She threw her arms around his neck and dove into a hungry kiss. He thought he understood what she wanted to say. The impatient, angry caress of her lips meant, Why are you making this difficult? The invasion of her tongue meeting his in silky strokes said, I cannot deny that I love you. Deep kisses with her hands stroking his face meant, I am glad you gave me a chance to say goodbye.

  The feel of her lips along his jaw stunned him. Her open mouth dragging down his neck made his heart pound. “Forgive me. Nothing is as it seems.”

  They had survived the death of a loved one before, and this felt much like it; shocking, stinging, crushing. He unwillingly wondered if it was worse to lose her to death or to another man, and ultimately a series of undeserving men. Unbearable!

  Which of his frantic thoughts would he say?

  Run away with me now! Impractical.

  Don’t be alarmed if I come to kidnap you in the night? Absurd.

  Anything is better than being Belmont’s whore! Hardly persuasive, however correct.

  He was relieved by what he actually did say, “Never forget, Lisa. You can always come to me, and I will always have you.” He kissed her gently, trying to express what he couldn’t find words for.

  He drew an envelope from inside his jacket. He had prepared it with this moment in mind. “Please examine this when you get the chance.” Through the branches he saw his father speaking to a footman, who pointed in their direction. They had only a few moments left.

  “I love you, Lisa.” He righted her on her feet and kissed her temple. “You will come back to me.” He pressed her hands once more then turned to confront Lord Courtenay.

  It was war now.

  Chapter Six

  O thou who dost inhabit in my breast;

  Leave not the mansion so long tenantless;

  Lest growing ruinous the building fall,

  And leave no memory of what it was.

  Two Gentlemen of Verona, William Shakespeare

  February 13, 1871

  Paris, France

  Dear Mr. Cox,

  Bon souhaite de Paris! Thank you for warning me — you were right to assume I wish to avoid the Duke and Duchess of Belmont during their stay in Paris. If Her Grace knew why I could not accompany her on the honeymoon, no doubt she would thank me.

  I am quite settled with Mme. Desmarais, a most dedicated mentor. She persuaded Msr. Gustave Moreau to take me as a pupil. Apparently I owe this honor to the memory of my mother, whom he called friend. He and Mme. Desmarais will soon host my drawing room debut featuring a collection of six oils titled “The Ironies,” a farce on mythological characters.

  To answer your question: yes, I am managing a sufficient living. I am told to expect commissions will replace the income I receive now modeling for the few artists in Paris approved by Mme. Desmarais.

  You have been most obliging and a most capable guardian of my interests, for which I sincerely thank you.

  Yours truly,

  Alysia Villier

  ****

  April 8, 1871

  Rougemont Park, Devon, England

  My Dear Lord Preston,

  Do I remember you? Dear boy, it is impossible to forget you, the source of commotion here at Rougemont for some weeks following your introduction to my nieces. I don’t fault you for these romantic episodes, but if you are wise, you will stay far away from my infatuated females. Of course this does not supplant your welcome, should you desire subjecting yourself to it.

  Your reputation on Threadneedle Street makes you quite a celebrity in your own right. Your skill with the funds is commendable. I would like to personally thank you for your efforts with Sir Cardwell on behalf of the United Soldier’s Fund. I assure you this means a great deal to me.

  Suffice it to say, I impart to you the same regard I have for your great father. Lord Courtenay was indeed my comrade in the Russian war and has also acted on my behalf in matters of grave importance. I consider myself greatly in his debt, and I understand I owe thanks to you as well, regarding the events leading to my marriage four years past.

  You are correct; Mr. Conrad Cox once assisted my family. He served as Lady Devon’s solicitor. She reports he is trustworthy, and that he should not be underestimated.

  With your permission I propose sharing your predicament with Lady Devon. I assure you of her confidence as well as her adroit capability in such matters. As to the possibility of helping you locate Miss Villier, I am at your service, so far as I am able.

  I am often accused of being too frank, so I hope you will forgive my asking for an explanation of your intentions toward Miss Villier and your family’s position on the matter. I pledge my loyalty, and in return ask for your honesty.

  I eagerly await your response,

  Devon

  P.S. While I appreciate your irreproachable manners, you are welcome to address me as Wilhelm, or Wil, as my friends do. I expect we shall be friends.

  ****

  May 20, 1871

  Paris, France

  Dear Mr. Cox,

  I am indeed aware that my mother placed an age contingency on my inheritance and that she left it in the care of Lord Courtenay. I confess utter surprise at the amount. I suppose my mother intended to protect me from fortune hunters, but she could not have foreseen these circumstances.

  Do not persist in attempting to release my funds if Lord Courtenay is averse. As I am managing a sufficient living, I can wait for my twenty-first birthday. Let us not waste our resources in court battles.

  I am surprised you mentioned “Le Coût Élevé, Portraits de La Souffrance,” (translation: Portraits of Suffering) from the Annual Paris Salon. I am flattered there is talk of my work in London. I did decide against studying at the Académie des Beaux-Arts, at the advice of Mme. Desmarais. She arranged for me to join Msr. Neville’s theater company for a season of Shakespeare. Imagine — me, an actress.

  Now to answer the question at the bottom of your letter, about my dear friend, Lord Preston. If he is anxious I am sorry, but send him no word from me. Perhaps he failed to mention that when we parted, he gave me a bundle of travel vouchers, bank notes — anything I might need should I desire to go to him.

  Lord Courtenay likely views attempts to access my inheritance as a ploy for Lord Preston’s attentions. If you wish to convey that I remain obedient to his designs you may do so.

  While one may not help what is in one’s heart, one’s actions must be answered for. I swear in all honesty it was never my intention to lure Lord Preston into any sort of attachment, nor did I ever pursue it. He remains free from the threat of me. I hope this serves to settle your concerns in that regard.

  Yours truly,

  Alysia Villier

  ****

  June 5, 1871

  Rougemont Park, Devon, England

  Dear Andrew,

  Do not despair. Mr. Cox is only fulfilling his duty. If you were a raving lunatic, he would be performing a service by withholding information regarding Miss Villier. It would seem that she does not intend to come to you; at least not yet.

  I have good news for you. My network of investigators found Miss Villier. It was easy. She is in Paris, working as an artist and actress. She is sponsored by a Madame Desmarais, a well-connected society matron. (I have a few matters of interest to pursue regarding her, of which I will inform you when I receive the information.)

  Apparently my wife’s mother, Lady Chauncey, was a dear friend of Lady Mercoeur, Miss Villier’s mother, and has vowed to befriend and watch over your Alysia. This is good news, despite Lady Chauncey’s frivolous nature. She will act as our spy, of sorts.

  Miss Villier studies with Gustave Moreau, a successful and famously independent painter, a symbolis
t as he is called. She is seen socializing with Moreau and a Georges Rivard. Don’t panic, Andrew, but I must disclose he is reportedly young, handsome, and a poet.

  You will be pleased to hear Miss Villier is considered the premier upcoming talent in Paris. She was recently recognized at the Annual Salon. Her collection drew the highest price but narrowly missed earning the Prix de Rome, which caused some sort of scandal. Rumor has it grown men wept upon viewing her paintings. Granted, these are Frenchmen, but we must see for ourselves. I have sent for prints of her work and will forward them to you.

  Lastly, I have learned of your recent maneuvering in foreign industrial stocks; a departure from your typical attention to the import business. I wonder what you find so interesting in South America. May I ask what you are up to, Preston? I do so because it has also come to my attention that Courtenay and Belmont both have significant holdings there. Since you have asked for my help, do not be surprised if I take it upon myself to investigate every relevant aspect.

  I will be away for a few days but will write again soon.

  Your friend and servant,

  Wilhelm

  ****

  October 26, 1871

  Kent, England

  Dearest Miss Villier,

  I know it must be difficult for you to believe, but I did not send the jewels. I assure you I did as you asked the past August ‘70 and used them to finance your journey. I regret I can offer no explanation but am glad to hear a Good Samaritan has recovered your mother’s amethysts. It would seem you have an admirer, Miss Villier.

  You will notice on the statement I forwarded, thanks to a most timely investment of your funds in industrial stocks — mining operations in South America — the July quarterlies of your fortune increased from 40,000 pounds to an unheard-of profit now totaling 122,000 pounds. Lord Courtenay’s solicitor seems to be quite a talent with investing.

  Your mother left you wealthy, my dear, but now you are as rich as a king. Not that it does you any good now, but I thought you would be pleased to hear it. If all remains the same, your settlement less than two years hence shall yield ₤6,100 a year. Do not spread the word, my dear, and now you know not to make decisions out of concern for your support.

  I was pleased to hear you have made the acquaintance of Lady Chauncey. Indeed I do know her quite well; I have been her solicitor for many years, as well as her daughter’s, Lady Devon. They are both remarkable ladies — albeit colorful — and entirely trustworthy. For my part, I would encourage the connection.

  Your humble servant,

  Conrad Cox, esquire

  ****

  November 13, 1871

  Rougemont Park, Devon, England

  Andrew,

  What in blazes did you do to Cox? Why does he seem afraid of you, and how on earth did you convince him to forward copies of Miss Villier’s correspondence to me? You are not blackmailing Mr. Cox, are you? Preston, if you mean to—

  Since I began this letter, I received yours by express. Indeed I wish it had arrived first as you planned. I swear you will drive me to drinking again. Yes, I read her letters, and felt like a cad doing it. And yes, I now have her address. I am only somewhat placated by your explanation.

  The good news first: Yes, she loves you and misses you. Sophia read the letters as you requested, and she agrees, in her indisputable womanly intuition.

  I have finally received prints of her work. You will want to see these, Andrew. I will offer no further explanation. We (myself and Sophia) think she is not as happy as her society thinks she is. Our best spy, Lady Chauncey concurs: “In private she is withdrawn and melancholy,” I quote.

  I told you Lady Devon knew Miss Villier’s mother. Lady Chauncey reportedly also knew Violet Villier quite well, and has sent some interesting information we should investigate in all haste. It would seem she knows who Miss Villier’s father is. (Is, not was, implying he is yet living.) If the information proves to be true, you will be astounded.

  Sit down while I tell you my most recent news. I have learned that Mme. Desmarais is not merely a society matron; she is also known in more sordid avenues as a sort of madam. Wealthy men employ her services in acquiring the most desirable and expensive courtesans. Lady Chauncey discovered Mme. Desmarais has been grooming Miss V. for this purpose and is engaged in a sort of bidding war over her.

  READ ON! Sit down and un-crumple the paper, Andrew. Thankfully, Lady Chauncey is in Miss V’s confidence and assures us she will not allow it to happen. “The Three Fates,” as I dubbed them (my dear Ladies Chauncey, Lambrick and Devon, that is), are at this moment hatching a scheme to thwart Mme. Desmarais.

  I intend to forward the information on Mme. Desmarais to Mr. Cox. I cannot believe he is aware of the danger, and I trust he will be enraged to learn of Mme. Desmarais’ duplicity. In his defense, Mme. D. is crafty and succeeded in fooling many a great deal wiser than ourselves.

  I know by now you have ordered your fastest horse. May I remind you that you lack Miss Villier’s address? Please stop at Rougemont before sailing for the continent. I will provide you with the necessary information and assistance, along with some items of interest. While I can’t pledge I will defy the Lord Courtenay to the fullest extent, I cannot in good conscience abandon Miss Villier to a wolf in sheep’s clothing. You have my help, as well as the formidable “Three Fates.”

  I presume to have the pleasure of your company shortly.

  Wil

  Chapter Seven

  Fishes live in the sea, as men do a-land; the great ones eat up the little ones.

  Pericles, Prince of Tyre, William Shakespeare

  November of 1871, Paris, France

  “Miss Villier, do not look now, but one of the five wealthiest men in England walked through the entrance.” Madame Desmarais fanned herself and glanced past the crowd of dancers at the latest arrival. “Diantre, but surely he is the most beautiful!” She told Alysia to “keep court” while she investigated the newcomer.

  Alysia opened her fan and obediently kept her back to the doorway. She gave a weak smile to Vicomte Evigny at her left as he prattled on in French about his vineyards in Bordeaux. She hadn’t known it was possible to merge the topics of wine production and the seduction of women. Alysia didn’t care for his innuendo about preferring a tart flavor to dry. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

  A chevalier on her right by the name of Leduc held out a glass of champagne for her, ogling her décolletage, unaware she had caught him. Or perhaps he was unabashed. At any rate, Alysia began to question what manner of company Mme. Desmarais had introduced to her this evening. She knew Vicomte Evigny was married, as were a few others in her “court,” as Mme. Desmarais called it.

  Granted, she was no expert on the ways of French society, but it didn’t stand to reason that this was respectable behavior in any country, and she didn’t like the attention. She was careful not to encourage them. Not that she pretended to be better than another member of the demimonde, but the men here this evening seemed to be under the impression that she was not respectable.

  “Why bother with the banalities of producing wine, when you can enjoy the finished work directly?” interrupted Lord Ramsgate, an English baron, as he put yet another champagne flute in her hand. His fingers grazed hers, lingering much longer than necessary. Alysia was obliged to at least taste from each drink offered her. At this rate she would be pickled by midnight.

  Evigny butted his shoulder to oust Ramsgate, and Leduc looped his arm across the back of her waist, trying to turn her attention. She scanned the room for Geordy, her poet friend and perhaps the only sane man in the room. Both Mme. Desmarais and Lady Chauncey met her gaze, observing her.

  Finally, she spied Geordy and caught his eye. She twirled her fan with her left hand: We are being watched. Then she touched one finger to the edge of the fan: I need to speak with you. She closed the fan and tapped it against her shoulder: Now, please! He understood, nodding once. He set his glass down and excused himself from his o
wn court of ladies.

  Geordy bowed in mock-formal greeting as he approached, his chestnut curls bobbing across his forehead. “Voulez-vous danser, Mademoiselle Villier?” He held one hand out for her while he plucked away the glasses with the other, leaving the competing men at her sides holding them.

  “Geordy, you are a hero,” she murmured as he turned them on the dance floor. He only smiled. “I am glad you are here. It has been too long since I last saw you.”

  “Oui, ma Lise.” She smiled at his pet name for her. “You are too busy for me,” he complained with a pout.

  “Don’t blame me, Geordy. I only take orders.” She lifted their joined hands. “Tiens! And I see you put down your pen just in time to attend the soirée,” she teased, indicating the smudged ink on the side of his hand.

  He shrugged in assent.

  “Any progress with our project? I was looking forward to seeing how you would render my paintings to verse.”

  Geordy made a low snorting sound in the back of his throat Alysia could only define as a French noise; it was equivalent to the English non-committal “Hmm.” Andrew used it when he was distracted or wished to delay a confession.

  Andrew!

  Her heart sank with a sharp pang at the mere thought of him. She imagined she could hear his luxurious bass voice, sending a shudder along her spine… but then it was Geordy’s French tenor voice which brought her back to the present.

  She caught the middle of his apologetic speech, “Alors, it is not that I do not want to finish them, but it is, en toute honnêteté, that they are effecting me, gravement. When I am writing on your Le Coût Élevé, it renders me… quel est le mot? Mélancolique. Qu’il est ça. I am sad, you know. I do not like it.”

  Oh. She shook off the memory and processed that Geordy was making his excuses on the grounds of her work being too depressing. That a poet thought so didn’t bode well for her career. “I thought you adore tragedy and suffering.”