The King of Threadneedle Street (23 page)

Alysia thought of Lady Devon’s lovely Oriental carpet and decided to go for help.

Philip darted at Andrew again in a low tackle. They toppled a marble statue as each wrestled to gain a chokehold on the other. She left the room with them both grasping the others’ neck. She heard a crash behind her and suspected the buffet with a tray of bottles and glass snifters had met its end.

Men are positively ridiculous.

In the hallway she passed a maid carrying an ewer of water. Alysia snatched it and breathed her thanks as she ran back to the sitting room. She found Andrew and Philip still locked in struggle, writhing on the floor. Andrew’s lip was cut and bleeding. She chased after them then dumped the full pitcher of hot water on their heads.

They shouted in surprise, sputtered, and thankfully broke apart. She placed herself between them while they scrambled to their feet, literally steaming.

Mary and Rose appeared in the doorway, followed by Lord Devon and Martin, the butler. They stared wordlessly at the spectacle of Andrew and Philip, heaving and bloodied, riled like bulls before a matador. Each sported disheveled hair dripping water while curls of steam rose from their shoulders in a sight that would have been comical if not for their hostility.

Alysia turned to the company and smiled, still holding the dripping pitcher.

“Is… everything all right, miss?” Martin finally offered, with admirable disinterest.

“I believe it is under control now, Martin, thank you. I have a few words to say to these
gentlemen,
if you don’t mind.” She smiled warmly to the company but could see by their reactions that her anger made it rather frightening.

Lord Devon apparently struggled to hold back a smile, and he nudged the girls away from the doors before Martin closed them.

Once they were alone, Alysia scolded, “You idiotic, overgrown
boys!
” She threw her hands up in resignation.

Philip said with a sharp nod, “I will not stand for any man to dishonor you, Alysia!”

Andrew’s voice lowered in a threatening tone, “That is
Miss Villier
to you.”

“Oh, but we
are
on such familiar terms, Preston,” Philip taunted.

“
Poacher
!” Andrew lunged at Philip, but Alysia caught him with her palm on his chest.

“
Barbarian
!”

Andrew jerked again but restrained himself against Alysia’s hand. He huffed in frustration then seemed calmed by her touch. Philip snorted, and Andrew gave him a triumphant smirk. She sensed another outbreak and pushed harder, urging Andrew back.

“Philip. I appreciate your loyalty, but I am afraid you misunderstood Lord Preston.” How bizarre that these two men stood on either side of her in such a state, their handsome faces sneering and jealous. She should never have gotten out of bed this morning.

“Did I, or did I not hear him call you a harlot?” Philip skewered Andrew with steely gray eyes. It would have intimidated anyone else.

“You interrupted a private discussion between myself and
my future wife
.” Andrew leered in satisfaction as Philip bristled. “You should beg my pardon, Cavendish,”

“Not until you apologize to Alysia.”

“I have much to say to her,
in private.
Now if you will excuse us, Captain,” Andrew said mockingly and gestured toward the doors.

Philip shot a sailor-inspired obscenity at Andrew then apologized to Alysia without breaking his stare with Andrew.

Alysia intervened. “Stop this, both of you. This is outrageous. Listen well, Andrew, Philip.” She faced them in turn to demand their attention. “I belong to
no one.
” She paused to let her icy words settle.

“I will not stand to see two gentlemen I regard so highly behaving like animals. Shake hands,” she ordered. They scoffed, incredulous. “I demand it.”

She took Andrew’s hand, then Philip’s, and pulled against their combined resistance to join them. “Andrew, Philip did as he thought necessary at the time. He is honorable and a faithful friend to me.”

She removed her hand, leaving the two men locked in an unwilling handshake. “Philip, I have known Andrew since I was a young girl. I assure you he meant me no dishonor. He can become animated when we argue, but I admit I did provoke him. You had no way of knowing he would never hurt me.”

“Of
course
I would never,” Andrew complained as his grip on Philip’s hand tightened.

“You had better not,
ever
,” threatened Philip as he squeezed harder in response.

Alysia looked down and saw their knuckles white with strain, their arms trembling with the competing force of their tense handshake. She sighed and closed her eyes. “You are both in trouble with Lady Devon. Look what you have done to this room! I suggest you concern yourselves with
that
problem, gentlemen.”

She strode from the room without another word but could feel the heat of both their stares on her back.

****

Taking the back staircase seemed like a good idea. She had no desire to explain Andrew and Philip’s idiotic brawl to the family. If she had to speak the words aloud,
I am leaving Rougemont
, she thought she might burst into tears. No more tutoring. No more babies, music, sea cliffs, and the blissful farce of belonging to a family. Good heavens —
Austria.
She hadn’t spoken German in years. As confusing as it was to feel affection for both Andrew and Philip, the thought of being far from either of them made her feel desolate already.

A chambermaid carrying stacks of folded linen startled as she met Alysia in the passageway. Alysia realized she had been wiping tears and muttering curses, so she stopped to explain, “Oh, Betsy, I don’t mean you,” then stormed off again. As she passed the hall connecting to the west service entrance, she ran headlong into Madeline and Christian, who came through the doorway just as Alysia passed it. They stumbled back and flailed, yelping in surprise. Neither wore their spectacles. Both had pieces of straw sticking out of their hair and clinging to their disheveled clothes.

“What have you been doing?” Alysia asked with her hands on her hips, assuming the proper stance of a scolding mother. She knew full well what they had been doing, even if their exchange of guilty glances hadn’t given them away. “Well? You look ghastly. What on earth happened?”

“We were, ah…” Christian faltered as he instinctively raised a hand to adjust his spectacles, which were not sitting on the bridge of his nose. Without them, Alysia noticed how closely he resembled Andrew in everything but his sand-colored hair, and that he was quickly growing into manhood.

“Observing the chickens,” finished Madeline, who held her hands behind her back to avoid fidgeting.

“Oh?” Alysia answered, making a deep scoop with her voice to demonstrate her suspicion. She looked back and forth between them and let the silence settle, making them nervous. What would their parents say?

“Yes. Quite,” explained Christian, finally in command of himself. “We were curious about the societal instincts of domesticated poultry and have been documenting their behavioral patterns.” Alysia smirked to show that his bluffing with an elaborate vocabulary didn’t work on her.

Madeline chimed, “We took notes on the interactions of the birds within their natural environment: the hens with the other hens, hens with the chicks, the rooster with the hens—” She stopped at Alysia’s raised eyebrow then blushed. Christian shifted his weight.

“Hmm. Interesting.” They had been watching chickens copulate? That didn’t seem like a romantic setting to Alysia, but then, she didn’t share their academic mindset.

Before she turned to leave them alone, Alysia said in a lowered voice, “Next time pluck the straw from your hair. You should enter through the main door, but not together — that is suspicious. If I were you, I would say I stumbled while out walking, to explain the crumpled clothes. Sorry, but I have no suggestions for disguising swollen lips.”

They gasped as she turned and went up the stairs, leaving them dumbfounded.

Madeline and Christian were respectively fourteen and fifteen, not too young to be curious. Alysia hadn’t foreseen this, but she should have. They were perfectly suited for each other. Their parents would be delighted if their adolescent romance resulted in a marriage eventually. The two children likely had no comprehension of what a tremendous blessing they had at their disposal.

Chapter Fifteen

Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself.

King Henry VIII,
William Shakespeare

January of 1873, London, England

Andrew tossed the paper to his desk in satisfaction. It was a testament to either his prowess or the undying stupidity of the ton that they reacted precisely the way he knew they would. It was simple to play the
Times
against itself. The financial section reported the sudden dive in value of the importing fund, the editorials picked up on his connection to it, and the society columns blew him to kingdom come.

Headlines spread like wildfire:
PRESTON LOSES ₤650,000 ON THREADNEEDLE STREET!

Before noon London buzzed with the news.
Andrew Tilmore sank the entire family fortune! The Earl of Preston gambled liquid collateral sponsoring an American shipping company, and it has collapsed!

The facts were there: The share value for Higgins, Higgins, and Squires suddenly plummeted to negative digits. On the books, the balance was in the red. There was no word from the American shipping company. Riots broke out on the docks in Dover and Plymouth.

Lord Preston declined comment, but the ton did the rest of the work spreading speculation:
He did it for his mistress; it was her inheritance he tried to increase, and now he has lost her money as well as his own. Now that Lord Preston is ruined, he sent his mistress away to Austria in shame.

Not only did he obliterate his own fortune, but lost tens of thousands of pounds contributed by Lord Devon and Sir Cavendish, then had the gall to buy up the worthless shares — he must be insane!

The uncertainty wreaked havoc on Threadneedle Street. Share prices fluctuated out of control. Investors bought and sold stocks out of sheer panic, tumbling the market into chaos. Merchants raised prices on wholesales, shopkeepers hoarded merchandise thought to become scarce, and consumers ransacked shops in fear of shortages. On Monday the British Empire was in perfect regulation, and by Tuesday it seemed on the verge of war — all because of a rumor.

Still Lord Preston declined comment.

Andrew remained in London another week while the crisis reached its peak. Marsden fielded mobs of journalists, angry clerks, and curious onlookers. Crowds gathered on the doorstep of his townhouse, some yelling angry epithets and pinning signs bearing curses and rude slogans to his door. He received threats of bodily harm in the post by the dozen. Several prestigious families formally gave him the cut, while most others simply withdrew their society.

He knew he had accomplished his purpose when he had to dodge rotten fruit. Not that the beau monde would stoop to rioting, but they weren’t above hiring others to do it. He was less amused the day he found a hanging in effigy at his front stoop; the culprits had been so silent his staff hadn’t heard them string up the dummy.

There was a public outcry for his arrest, but no charges could be brought. Lord Preston had committed no crime.

Speaking of crime… Lady Langton dropped her gloves on the table, atop his typewriter. Irritation raked down his spine, but he said nothing, unwilling to give her ammunition. She sauntered over to him — no other word for that strut, as though her hips were out of joint — and scraped a fingernail across his shoulders. He tried not to shudder.

She waved a document in his face. “Just sign it, Preston.”

“I am dead broke, Priscilla. I assume you heard the news? Or did you miss the rotten eggs smeared on my front door?”

“Ian let me in through the back. And what a constant, noble girl I am, to stand beside you in your time of trial.” She flashed a flirty smile which barely masked the venom behind it. Disconcerting on her angelic face. A face he had once been enamored with but now loathed.

“A cheap ploy. Do you think the papers will buy it?”

She batted her eyelashes. “They always do. And your poor mama—”

He silenced her with a scowl, daring her to mention how Lady Courtenay had reacted to the news of his ruin, apparently a public spectacle. He had tried to warn her, but she refused to listen, sulking about the legal battle over defamation between her son and the Lord High Chancellor, Lady Langton’s father. Andrew’s mother could not understand why he wouldn’t simply marry Lady Langton and put the scandal to rest. He found it odd the two women expected him to fall merrily into their trap.

Andrew lifted the marriage contract sent by her solicitor and her father — the man poised to become the next prime minister, whom Andrew frequently butted heads with in Parliament over tariffs — and tore it in two. Priscilla bristled, and he crumpled the paper, wishing for a fire in the grate. “Regrettably I find myself an unsuitable candidate and unable to fulfill the terms.”

“Read the terms, Preston. It includes assets as well as holdings, present and future. I have no concerns on that account.”

He laughed, satisfied it emerged a cold, humorless sound. “Then you are greedy
and
a fool. I am ruined, Priscilla.
Long term.
Now be a good girl and cry off.”

“But we are already living in sin. How else are we to salvage our reputations?” She put her face in his — ungainly height for a woman, made worse by her heeled shoes — and licked his chin. He forced a placid expression, depriving her of the pleasure of his reaction. “I don’t believe you. Papa will figure out where you have hidden it all—”

“Be sure he looks in the devil’s own pocket.”

She flinched, her bright blue eyes casting over before she shielded herself with her slithery Lilith demeanor again. “Cruel, Preston. I will accept your apology, but only if it is delivered on bended knee.”