Victorian Dream (8 page)

Lucien poured another round of drinks. The conversation waned, and the opium cigarette in her hand seemed to tingle and vie for her attention. Enticed by the urge for a smoke, and the forgetfulness it would bring, she made to leave. Then her brother spoke again.

“I’m itching to have another chance at the Captain,” he declared, toying with his glass of rum. “It’ll be my pleasure seeing to him. Any other plans on the agenda? You know I hate being idle and I loves counting money.”

“I need you to oversee the final opium shipment,” Lucien said.

“Piece a cake,” Bart assured, “I’m your man.” He stretched out his legs, and sipped at his drink.

Lucien’s gaze hardened into the frightful expression indicating something nasty was about to happen. He gave Bartholomew’s outstretched legs a solid well-placed kick.

“Listen up and listen good,” he snarled. “This is the largest investment I have ever made, and I want no mistakes. Not one. Do you hear me? If you slip up again, as you did in America, you won’t live long enough to regret it.”

Bartholomew sat up rubbing his bruised limb. “All right, gov’nor, no need to be so physical in your explanations.”

She wondered why Lucien seemed so nervous over a drug shipment. After all, it wasn’t illegal to buy and peddle opium. Even the upper class enjoyed their share. And having successfully avoided the associated pitfalls of robbery, double cross, and general underworld treachery, Lucien anonymously made a tidy profit in his side business.

“Although it isn’t a law yet,” Lucien said, “there’s been talk of restricting opium distribution to the apothecary shops. A black market trade will follow, of course, but it will make matters all the more complicated and risky. Another shipment after this one may be long in coming. Besides, I have special plans for the proceeds, and there is a large crated object onboard of particular interest to me.”

“What is it?” Barty leaned forward, replete with curiosity.

“It’s instrumental in accomplishing my most daring undertaking yet. For now, that’s all you need know.”

So, Beatrice thought, Lucien’s mind was teeming with new schemes. More danger and thrills for him to feed upon. That was his opium—that and sex. Having heard enough, her hand tightened around the cigarette, and she slid from her hiding place.

****

“I’ll take care of things proper this time,” Bartholomew promised. “It’s personal now between the Captain and me. Besides, who can you trust like you trust me? Who else has committed murder for you, eh? Our past deeds have made us brothers of the future.”

Lucien didn’t trust Bartholomew any more than he would trust a total stranger. In fact, he trusted him less. Grimsby literally knew where the bodies were buried. He couldn’t take a chance on cutting him loose just yet.

“Both jobs are yours,” he conceded. “Our ship is out of Cape Coast Castle, laden from stem to stern with Bombay Magic. It comes to port at Brighton, within the next few weeks. I’ll keep you posted. A few pounds in the usual pockets should assure our secrecy, and mollify the authorities regarding inspection and documentation.

“You are to reassign the cargo for distribution as usual, north by rail and to Paris by ship. The profits will be enormous. The special item onboard is to be warehoused here.

“And the Captain? I’ll not rest easy until that one’s gone under.”

“Once the shipment is secured, you may make him your top priority. You have free rein as to the details, just make sure the job gets done right this time.”

Deciding to stay the night, Lucien went to find Beatrice. She was sprawled across the mattress face up, fully clothed. Since he was the one who supplied those clothes, he felt no remorse as he rent her over-blouse to the waist. She wore no proper corset, and her ample breasts spilled over the top of her camisole.

In his mind he wanted another, but untamed desire hardened his body demanding release now, and Beatrice was here and wouldn’t refuse him. She never did. She never tried to help in his attempt to save himself for the woman he cherished.

Beatrice smiled and reached for him. She was a temptress. A siren leading him astray, knowingly corrupting him when he should remain pure. She thought to bind him with her willingness to please. Now she would have what she wanted so badly.

He shed his clothes, and slid onto the bed. Her smile faltered as he tore at her skirts and plundered her, first with his fingers then with the part of him driving him beyond control. With animal lust, he consummated the act, unleashing his vengeance against all that was unjust and unfair in his world.

Chapter Seven

Although it was long after dark, and the hour quite late, Trelayne squared her shoulders, blinked a few times to clear her vision, and referred again to her mother’s household ledger.

Tomorrow was Michaelmas, a day celebrated at Royston Hall since the 1200’s and every detail must be attended to. But her heart wasn’t truly in the undertaking. Without her parents, it wouldn’t be the same. Still, she was determined to make them proud, determined to conquer the responsibilities thrust upon her in their absence.

The families who lived in the surrounding areas anticipated Michaelmas with great expectation. It was one of the few days each year when they abandoned their cares and concerns. Therefore, the day must be as festive and exciting as it had ever been.

Michaelmas was a day of thanksgiving, hope, and happiness. She was thankful her parents were alive, and hopeful their recovery would be quickly forthcoming, but future happiness seemed an elusive butterfly just beyond reach. According to her novels, its capture could only be achieved with a special someone at one’s side. Was Captain Garrison such a man?

Worn out from helping to hang decorations, she slumped down onto a chair, and exhaled a weary sigh.

Her anger for his neglect regarding the accident had cooled. Originally, she needed someone to blame other than God, or the Fates, or whoever was in charge of these things. Now she wished she had invited him to the festivities, assuming he would be interested in attending. No doubt he fretted over her safety out of a sense of duty, nothing more. He might think their celebration old fashioned, even childish. Just because he took his responsibilities seriously didn’t mean he was interested in her personally.

She gained her feet and fussed with the bouquet of flowers on the side table. He probably had a woman waiting for him back in America. What a disturbing thought, why hadn’t it occurred to her before? She broke out in a sweat, and it wasn’t from her physical labors. What if he were married? They really knew very little about his private life.

As Aunt Abigail breezed into the room, her disturbing contemplations took flight. Her Aunt was an endless well of energy, and a stickler for keeping up the traditions she had known as a child.

“How are we coming with the to-do list?” she asked, peering over her shoulder.

“Thank goodness Cook is familiar with the routine,” Trelayne admitted. “She’s made hundreds of scones, pies, and pastries for the morning group of revelers.

“Using plenty of blackberries, I hope.”

“Bushels of them,” she grinned, “all in keeping with the legend.”

Apparently, when Satan was banished from Heaven on Michaelmas, he fell into a blackberry bush and cursed and spat upon the brambles, therefore none of the fruit could be picked after tomorrow. Why the plants were deemed usable again the following summer she didn’t know.

“Has she prepared a St. Michael’s bannock?” Aunt Abigail pressed.

“Indeed. Three cakes in all, as last year we nearly ran out. And she doubled the amount of charwardon and ginger caramels as well. So,” Trelayne added with satisfaction, “come the dawning, all that remains is to pick the Michaelmas daisies and prepare the stubble-goose in onion sauce.”

Her Aunt gave her a hug. “Fabulous darling. Oh, Millie,” she called, to one of the maids. “Adjust that bough of flowers over the window more to the right. That’s the ticket. The room looks very grandiloquent. Now hurry along,” she encouraged, shepherding the servants out the door, “we must begin on the decorations for the ballroom.”

The local tenants would arrive before noon on the morrow, and be escorted with pomp and circumstance into the great banqueting hall. There they would be bidden to help themselves to a resplendent array of food and drink. In turn, the guests would bring a token tithing of their harvest. Wheat or bread, fruits or vegetables, perhaps a precious length of tatted linen. Whatever they could afford without hardship.

More foodstuffs would be prepared than could possibly be eaten, the excess finding its way into pockets or hidden containers brought along by those attending. It was all according to Hoyle when it came to Michaelmas. While this gaiety ran its course, chaos would be in full swing in the kitchen where comestibles would be prepared for the second party to be held later in the evening. The neighboring gentry would attend this soirée, and along with delectable food, there would be music and dancing.

A haunting refrain from a Strauss waltz danced through her mind, wrapping itself around a vision of Captain Garrison. If he were to attend tomorrow, the evening would be complete.

When she thought of him, a river of emotion swept her along, and like a rudderless vessel, she was at the mercy of the current, a waterfall dead ahead, danger and excitement pounding in her chest as she anticipated dropping over the edge. What made one person so heart-stopping attractive, while another mightn’t turn her head? The books Penelope supplied failed dismally in explaining the phenomenon—the cause was generally attributed to celestial convergence, or the whim of Cupid, or some such nonsense. There seemed no answer for the intangible question of the ages. Whatever the reason, for her, Captain Garrison had the magic. She felt it whenever he was near.

His presence spurred her to impetuous behavior, such as her outburst upon leaving the phrenologist. The prediction about falling in love with a handsome foreign stranger had popped out of her mouth without due consideration. At the time, it seemed a lark, an innocent game, now she was embarrassed by her reckless action.

She gave a burst of laughter. Spotting him following behind them had been surprisingly easy. He may be an accomplished seaman, and was probably good at blending into his surroundings in the mountains, or on some prairie out west, but in London, he was like a towering oak in a field of dwarf pine. He was taller than nearly every man in the city, and that black American topper only served to increase his height. Such masculine gear—it lent him a dangerous no-nonsense air. And the confident manner in which he walked proclaimed he was a straightforward person, expecting the same from everyone he encountered.

What kind of life had he led, and what were his plans for the future? Snuggling the journal in her arms, she again rued not having invited Walker to the Michaelmas festivities.
Walker
, she supposed it was safe to use his Christian name in the confines of her mind. Like the man, it was a singularly unique name. But to say it out loud would make him too much a reality. A permanent part of her life. She mustn’t grow accustomed to having him around, to gazing upon his face, to wishing he would hold her in his arms or against his broad chest as they danced the night away.

“Trelayne, dear. Is everything all right? You look halfway to the moon.” Aunt Abigail crossed the room, carrying a tea service for two. Wynona followed, laden with a tray of cheese, fruit, and sliced ham,

“I thought tonight we would eat cozy by the fire,” her aunt suggested. “No sense bothering the others with anything formal. Besides, the tables are already set for tomorrow.”

Tired to the bone, Trelayne nodded and fought a big unladylike yawn. “It sounds perfect, Auntie. Thank you, Wynona, and thank the entire staff for their efforts. I know they worked hard all day and into the evening. I won’t forget what a splendid job they’ve done.”

“You did your share, missy,” Wynona reassured, chucking her lovingly under the chin as if she were a child. “Your parents would be proud.”

Tears bit at her eyes as she set the journal aside. “I hope so, Wynona. It’s very important to me that they are.”

“Don’t you doubt it for a moment, Miss Trelayne.” The older woman turned to leave, fatigue evident in her step. She was barely out of sight when a knock sounded at the door.

“I’ll see to it,” Trelayne called, before Wynona could respond. “You’d best go feed Merrick. Tell him the rest of the preparations can wait until morning.”

“Bless you, child. Although he never would complain nor admit to it, he must be near starved and ready to drop.”

The knock sounded again. Who could possibly be calling at this hour? Not Lucien, she prayed. She was tired, and too preoccupied to respond to his witty banter and fawning attention.

With a burst of strength fueled by irritation, she hauled open the heavy door, and came face to face with Captain Garrison. At the unexpected sight of him her heart lurched, then sped forward double-time. The chill night air rushed in around him, but a flush of heat swept over her from tousled hair to booted toe. He stood staring at her as if he’d never seen her before. Probably in regards to her disheveled appearance. She stared back, eventually finding the presence of mind to close her mouth.

Shadows of the night accentuated the planes of his face, turning his eyes more gray than blue. There was a lonesome quality about him tonight, one she hadn’t notice before. Or did her own loneliness simply seek familiar company?

“Pardon my intrusion,” he murmured, his gaze locked onto her face. “I realize the hour is unseemly late, but there is a matter that needs your immediate attention.”

She clutched one hand to her chest. “Is it Mother and Father? Have they taken a turn?”

Captain Garrison reached to steady her. “No, nothing like that. Dr. Robinson’s last report stated they’re doing just fine.” Taking charge, he gripped her arm, eased her backward into the room, and swung the door shut at his back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You gave me such a fright,” she declared, and tugged free of his grip. “Good news rarely arrives unannounced by the dark of night.”