The King of Threadneedle Street (3 page)

He remembered another time he had sat in this spot in the dark; it still whispered with the memory.

“Lisa.” He had rested a hand on her shoulder, her entire body stiff with tension. “I am so sorry.” He wished she would turn around and let him hold her. He would let her yell at him or hit him — anything was better than her sitting still as a statue.

He rubbed a hand across the back of her shoulders, waiting for her to respond. Despite his limited experience with grieving, he didn’t think her stoic silence was healthy. Alysia became an orphan that day. She was probably scared out of her wits on top of her devastation. What would it be like to have no one at all in the world?

“You belong here at Ashton. You won’t be sent away. You do know that?” He peeked over her shoulder. “Right, Little Sister?” She should have reacted to their secret joke — he only called her that in front of his parents to disguise their romance. “You have me, Lisa. I will take care of you. Always.” Still nothing from her.

Andrew had waited several long minutes, staring at the piano keys. He picked out a melody familiar to them both, Lady Mercoeur’s favorite piece. She had taught him to play. She had taught all of them to play, sing, and draw. Alysia’s mother had laughed with them, disciplined them; she answered questions he wouldn’t dare ask anyone else, had been the mother he wished he had. And now she was gone. Consumption was an ugly disease, and Alysia had suffered as much as her mother, trying in vain to save her.

A tear rolled down his nose and splashed onto the keys. The simple Mendelssohn piece had always seemed romantic to him, but now he only heard melancholy tones. Alysia dropped her head onto the back of his shoulder. He turned and gathered her in his arms, tucking her into his lap. He rested his forehead on hers and found that she had been weeping silently as well.

They both lost control, sobbing and clutching each other. Alysia gasped and clawed at the skin over her heart as though she had just heard the news and couldn’t bear the sudden pain, then crumpled in his arms, wailing as she struck his chest and cursed. Then she burrowed her face in his shoulder and shook her head as she wept softly. That was the worst — her resigned, pitiful weeping. He had never heard a more terrible sound in all his life.

Finally Andrew had the presence of mind to comfort her. He stroked her back and talked in a low voice. Brushed his fingers through her hair. Smoothed his hands over her face and wiped her tears with his handkerchief. He would never forget the vulnerable, trusting expression she wore as long as he lived. He was her hero, and they both knew it.

He lifted her, stepped back into the window seat and reclined against the cushions. He laid Alysia on his chest and held her until she wept herself into exhaustion. Once she had drifted into an uneasy slumber, he closed his eyes and let the gradual slowing of her pulse against his throat lull him to sleep as well.

****

Alysia knocked quietly and entered through twelve-foot tall, gilt-trimmed double doors into Lord Courtenay’s study, preoccupied with her lists.

“But I am
not
you.”

Her head shot up at the sound of Andrew’s voice. He sat across from Lord Courtenay’s desk, his posture lazy.

“Precisely, Preston. Do not make the same mistake I did! And by Jove do not make a
worse
one—” Lord Courtenay stopped short as he glanced her way.

She muttered an apology and turned back toward the door. Their startled, guilty expressions left no doubt they were speaking of her. Their argument was an old one. The
mistake
was her mother, long-time mistress to Lord Courtenay, and Alysia being left as his ward.

She heard the men at the desk exchange low comments before Lord Courtenay called her back. She didn’t allow her gaze to stray to Andrew, though she felt his eyes boring into her. She was still shaken from his horridly inappropriate kiss the past day, and she feared it would be obvious if she dared look at him.

“Shall I return another time, my lord?”

“No. Please sit, Miss Villier.” Lord Courtenay took up a pen and opened a ledger. He impatiently waved her into the seat opposite the imposing mahogany desk then glared at Andrew, clearly dismissing him.

Andrew vacated the chair so Alysia could have it but didn’t leave the room. He leaned against the bookcase and folded his arms across his chest.

The close comparison of sire and son made it apparent from whom Andrew had inherited his dark Gallic looks. The marquess had the same deeply set chocolate eyes and pepper-black hair, though streaked with silver. The sharp masculine chisel of his features, and his hale, elegant build belonged to a man two decades younger.

He cleared his throat, so she began. Alysia made an effort to disguise her self-consciousness. The tall, echoing ceilings did nothing to help. She began with the news from his steward. “Heyer expects to return from the Hampshire estate by the weekend, my lord. The flooding was not severe. He replaced the wood paneling and rugs in the gallery and sent the expense reports.”

She set the top paper aside and pretended to discern her notes, Andrew’s silent disapproval embarrassing her.

“Garver overheard the upstairs staff discussing their wages; it is now known that some are pensioned while others are not. Since it is contrary to their terms of employment, I agreed to relay the information to his lordship.”

She set the second sheet down. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Andrew bristle. His fingers squeezed and released his arm, as if restraining himself.

“The wine steward has arrived from London. He wants to see the cellar. If you wish, I will delegate it to the Ashton steward—”

“Oh. So my father
has
a steward?” Andrew interrupted. “Fascinating.”

Lord Courtenay ignored him. “Ask Belmont to do it. His Grace should enjoy that, I think.”

Alysia evaded the accusing stare she knew Andrew leveled at her, but that did nothing to help the prickling sensation on the back of her neck. “The rest is correspondence that needs sorting for acceptance or decline. I will send the replies this afternoon. The missives from Parliament are unopened in this bundle.”

Lord Courtenay noticed her clasped hands. “You have something to add, Miss Villier?”

“A personal observation. I thought his lordship would wish to know.”

“Go on.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord, but it has come to my attention that the quarter’s rent was collected, but work on the drainage canal has not yet begun. The low fields south of the village are still bogged from the May storms. The fetid water is being blamed for illness in the village, and there is—” she glanced at Lord Courtenay, who listened passively. She bit her lip. “Unrest among the tenants. They disparage his lordship, and they fear a cholera epidemic. I will make visits this week to ascertain whether it is indeed cholera or a common malaise.”

“Over my cold, dead body!” Andrew exploded. He stormed to her side and gripped the back of her chair. She shook her head in warning. He glared back, then turned his ire on his father. “Where is the steward? Who is the mistress of the house? Is my mother so addle-brained that Alysia must manage your estate?”

Lord Courtenay was thoughtful for a moment then addressed Alysia, “Arrange to send doctors to the affected families, and double the charities this month and next. I must know right away if I have an epidemic on my hands. Inform Dr. Smythe I request he investigate the illness and report to me. You may continue your visits to unaffected tenants as usual.”

Andrew scoffed and raked a hand through his hair. Lord Courtenay turned to him. “Make yourself useful, Preston. Ride out with Donner today and decide what must be done in the south fields. That expensive Oxford brain of yours should be able to manage the engineering, and Donner will hire the labor. Inform him that I want the canal finished by the end of next month.” He looked at his son and his ward. “You are dismissed.”

Alysia stood to leave.

Andrew leaned, planting his clenched fists on the desk. “A word, if I may, sir.”

She was relieved they waited for her to shut the door before they began shouting.

****

In her desire to escape Andrew’s wrath, Alysia changed into her riding habit and sneaked out to the stables. The groom had nearly finished with the tackle on her roan mare when she heard Andrew’s voice, calling impatiently for his black gelding. Frantically she secured the saddlebags and led the mare out the opposite end of the stable.

She had nearly passed the gate when Andrew caught up. He circled in front of her and reined a halt, blocking her way. His tense riding posture and fearsome expression conjured again the impression of a wild Gallic warrior.

Unbidden she recalled that the ferocious Gauls, Andrew’s ancestors, reportedly went to battle wearing only their swords and shields. Men in their prime with legendary physique, their bold nakedness was venerated second only to their bravery. She really should quit reading sensational novels.

He shouted in steel-edged bass, “You are
not
wallowing in disease-ridden huts!”

“As you say, my lord. I am visiting the widows in the parish, and the milliner about Lady Elizabeth’s trousseau. Now if you will excuse me…”

His warm brown eyes turned to flint. “How long have you been performing my mother’s duties?”

“Years, in varying degrees.”

He scoffed, and it came out like a growl, agitating his gelding, who danced a circle and tossed his head.

Her mare skirted back. “Andrew, please! If I am unseated, I will hold you responsible.”

“Precisely what you need is a bruised rear. Perhaps it would knock some sense into your other end.”

Alysia rolled her eyes and tried to nudge her horse around the gelding, but the mare was too skittish to obey. Andrew’s shocking temper had faded from her memory, but she remembered how his chivalrous veneer wore thin when he perceived even trivial injustice. Always the crusader.

“Do you mean to detain me at the gate all day, my lord?”

He turned his mount alongside hers. “Fine. But I am going with you. If any of them so much as sneezes, I am taking you home.”

“I don’t think you should be seen riding with me.”

“Why? I am visiting my future tenants with my father’s
steward.
”

“Honestly, Andrew. Everyone knows Lady Remington is a guest at Ashton. How interesting for the gossip-mongers that Lord Preston rides unchaperoned with a girl of dubious character. You must enjoy being broiled in the papers.”

A pinecone bounced off the side of her head.

“Very mature, Lord Preston.” She scowled at him, and he returned the sour look.

“Why do you address me formally? Ridiculous. And if I wanted to be harassed by a woman, my mother could garrote me like a master.” He insisted, “Besides, you shouldn’t go out unprotected. My reputation is my own concern — unless it’s yours you fear for?”

“I have none to speak of.”

“Then it’s settled. I am due to meet Marsden this afternoon at the station, anyway. Meanwhile, you have much to answer for.” He squared his shoulders and shot her the same stubborn look he had used as a spoiled adolescent.

Alysia couldn’t help it; she grimaced and stuck her tongue out at him. Andrew rewarded her with boyish velvety laughter.

Then he sobered. “This is a bad situation, Alysia. I want you to stop working for him.”

“I will.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“In two weeks,” she amended.

“After the wedding? Fair enough.” He turned to look her squarely in the eye. “And now you will explain that business of being
not precisely engaged
.”

“I am not engaged, of course.”

“But you are, not precisely… what? Don’t make me drag it out of you!”

Alysia closed her eyes and exhaled. “Andrew, I am weary.” Heartsick, more like. “Can we discuss it another time? I would much rather hear of your adventures. And tell me your latest scheme.”

“You assume I have adventures and schemes?”

“You always do.”

He chuckled then told how a recent trip to Boston inspired new investments. “I predict soon not only the largest cities will have electrical wiring, but the whole of England. The whole world.”

She could only pretend to follow his litany on the patent race for gasoline-powered engines, imports from the Orient and Caribbean, and domestic stocks versus the world market. So long since she had listened to him talk; she loved seeing the side of him who was a dreamer. Easy to forget he was only twenty and one years old. His sense of vision she found intellectually seductive as always.

“I plan to ask my father for the Somerset estate.”

“So far away?” she asked.

“It’s as far as I can go from my parents without fleeing to the continent. I am ready to settle down.”

“Settle down? In the country, as a bachelor?”

“I want a project. No, I
need
a project.”

“Juggling world markets is a project.”

“That is sport. A project is turning a pile of rubble into a home worthy of a lord’s family.”

“Impressive. I suppose by the time you finish the old castle, you will have a family to put in it.” Saints, had she sounded as jealous and gloomy as she felt?

Over the course of half a dozen visits to the tenants, her jealousy turned into unwise longing. Lord Preston held a baby, sang drinking songs, lost a fencing duel to a six-year-old, and re-shod an old mare. He was the Andrew she remembered; dutiful, kind, and playful. His future tenants adored him like Robin Hood. Alysia should know better.

The vicar’s wife had thought the spreading illness was influenza. They turned onto the road to the village, and Andrew said, “If the Old Man wants the drainage canal done in six weeks, I will personally see to it that it’s done in two.”

“Oh, no.”

“What?”

She nodded to the bend ahead on the road. “Mrs. Jennings. Too late to hide.”

The insufferable neighborhood busybody had already spied them from her barouche. She thumped the poor driver on the head with the handle of her parasol to make him stop.

With ruffles of lace on her bonnet bobbing like the wattles of a rooster, she shook her head at Alysia but addressed Lord Preston. “Out for a ride, my lord?” Before either could answer she went on, “I saw you coming from Mrs. Marris’ house, and Mrs. Bronston tells me Lady Remington has just arrived at Ashton?” Her cold glare added silently,
Why are you out alone with a courtesan’s daughter?