Lions and Lace (30 page)

He walked up to her, not bothering to hide his limp. Margaret's eyes nearly popped from her head.
If she had been frightened by the master before, now she was utterly terrified.
Even the way he walked exuded violence. "You're to remove her things to this room this instant, do you understand me?" He loomed above her.

"Yes,
sar
!
Right away, Mr. Sheridan!"

"
Deifir
!
Fly!"

"Yes, yes!" She curtsied and nearly dove headlong to the carpet. Recovering herself, she straightened, took one look at his face, and within the blink of an eye she was gone.

Heaving a great sigh, he wandered back to his room and shoved the silver box back on the mantel. Disgust crossed his features, a healthy dose of frustration in his eyes.

He finished dressing, but before he left, he glanced into his wife's room. Already an army of maids were busy carrying in her clothes and toiletries. Determination hardened his face. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his massive chest, viewing the scene like a predator. Trevor Sheridan was a creature who survived on instinct. Now instinct demanded that inch by inch, he reclaim his territory.

As was often the case, Alana returned from her visit to Christal tired, drained, and depressed. But this time her visit had had a new edge of fear whenever she wondered if Trevor had followed her.

Christal had been in an especially bright mood, but Alana could tell it was mostly for her benefit. There were circles around her sister's eyes, and she complained vaguely of bad dreams. Nurse
Steine
had been even more urgent about not prompting
Christal's
memory for the trauma it might cause. At the rate her sister was declining Alana didn't know how long Christal would last before she indeed descended into madness. And always Alana confronted the fact that there seemed no way to free her. Her options had long ago been played out, and now she was left with an empty hand.

With despair clinging to her like cobwebs, she allowed Whittaker to take her cloak, longing for the privacy of her bedroom.

But the butler stopped her. "Mr. Sheridan's gone out, madam, to take care of unfinished business. May
I
get you some tea?"

She threw him a preoccupied smile and wished she could summon the strength to be more gracious. She'd liked the dignified elderly man from the moment she arrived from Newport.
"I
'm sorry. No refreshments for me, Whittaker.
I
'd just like to rest a bit before
I
go out this evening."

"Very good, madam.
Mr. Sheridan has seen to it that your new room is prepared. May
I
show you to it now?"

Shocked out of her melancholy, she whipped around and pinned him with that leaf-green stare. "What do you
mean,
Mr. Sheridan's prepared me a new room?"

"I,
of course, told him your preference for the room you were in, but he seemed to think his wife's place was beside his own.
I
thought to point out the flaws in his logic. . . . However, as you can see,
I
could find none. A wife's place is indeed beside her husband."

She seethed, unable to believe Trevor's gall. When she'd arrived at the chateau alone, she'd found justice in the fact that she'd been able to choose her own bedroom, one far from his. Now all of that had been undone with one arrogant order.

"Please summon Margaret and have her move my things back into my old room."

"Very good, madam."
Whittaker bowed.

Alana nodded and waited for him to depart. He didn't move.

"Are you all right, Whittaker?"

"Yes, madam.
It's just an affliction of mine. It strikes at peculiar times."

She frowned, suddenly concerned. Whittaker wasn't a young man, after all. "Shall you sit down, then? Here, let me help you to a seat."

"Oh no, madam,
you
must not help
me.
I couldn't bear the shame." Whittaker put his hand up to stop her.

"Shall I fetch someone, then?" Her gaze searched every empty corner and nook of the large marble foyer, hoping to spy a footman or maid.

"Please, madam, go about your business. If you must have your things removed from the master's suite, it is imperative you do it promptly."

"Bother that. It's you who must be attended to."

"What did you say, madam?"

"I said bother moving my things. I'm concerned about you."

Whittaker bowed. "In that case, madam, I'm quite recovered. I couldn't have it upon my head that the lady of the household worried about me." He bowed again. "Now if you'll excuse me, I must hang up your cloak and see to it that the master is ready to escort you tonight."

Her jaw dropped, and he walked away, as spry as an old fox. It took a moment for her to realize what had just happened, but when she did, she could better understand Irish animosity to the English.

That little old butler was infuriating.

That night the old Academy of Music was crowded with the Four Hundred, and to their barely repressed delight, the real entertainment was more gazing at the Van
Alen
box than Strauss's operetta.

During the first half Alana sat stiffly next to her husband, displaying a forced interest in the stage until her arm ached from holding up her opera glasses. Trevor had invited himself along, to the delight of his sister and the astonishment of his wife. Mara was to the right, her eyes wide with awe as she gazed around the exalted yet shabby gilt-and-red velvet interior.

There were only eighteen boxes at the Academy; it was cramped and inconvenient, therefore brilliantly constructed to keep out those 'new' New Yorkers the Academy shunned. Commodore Vanderbilt, considered the patriarch of the nouveaux riches, had once offered almost forty thousand dollars for one of those illustrious boxes, and when refused he'd threatened to build his own metropolitan opera house just to spite them.

The Van
Alen
box was at one end of the stage. The Silent Power, Mrs. Astor, sat at the other end. The matron, as usual, appeared at nine o'clock, bewigged in black and dripping in diamonds. She raised her opera glasses to take a head count and nearly dropped them when she realized the Van
Alen
box was occupied. Alana didn't need to see her to know the matron's eyes must be bulging when Caroline Astor got an eyeful of who was in the box opposite hers.

The walls of Jericho had tumbled, the final bastion of society penetrated, the last safe harbor washed away.
Irishers
, some not away from their country long enough even to know English as their first language, were now sitting in the box opposite the Astor's as bold as brass, as if they'd always been allowed there. Alana didn't miss the agitated sawing of the matron's fan. Neither did the other illustrious eyes.

"They're watching us, aren't they,
á
mbúirníny

"Yes," she whispered to Trevor, unnerved that he'd used that endearment.

"Good."

She stared up at him in the darkness, his handsome profile taut with defiance. She was angry he'd moved her bedroom and irritated he'd invited himself along. There was nothing to do about it now, but Alana knew that before the night was out, she and this man she had married were going to clash.

Eagan, who was originally to have escorted them, now sat behind them with a companion, an actress improbably named Miss Evangeline de la Plume. Alana had been shocked by the woman's dress, a vulgar shiny-pink gown with the most revealing décolletage she'd ever seen. The woman was certainly pretty, in an overt, rather worn-out and overdone manner, but if she had any failings, Eagan couldn't see them for the woman's barely reined-in, all-too-voluptuous curves.

Alana had been taught never to stare, but once or twice during the carriage ride and their wait in the box, she'd caught herself doing so. To make matters worse, whenever the dazzling Miss de la Plume found Alana looking at her, she'd wiggle her fingers in a coy wave,
then
giggle obnoxiously into her purple ostrich-feather fan.

The intermission arrived, and Alana had no desire to mingle in the lobby. Mara went with Eagan, Miss de la Plume clinging happily to his arm. When the woman left, Alana discreetly watched her saunter away and wondered when that amazing dress would slip and the woman shame herself. She turned back to Trevor and found him staring. The gaslights were turned up, and she could see his cynical smile.

"Are you enjoying the operetta?" he asked.

She stared down into the theater, watching the milling crowd below them. "It's quite lovely," she answered perfunctorily.

"And how do you like Eagan's latest vision of lust?"

Alana glanced at him twice,
then
bit back an unwilling smile. "Miss de la Plume, you mean?"

"Yes."

She groped for the right answer. "Her taste in clothing is certainly . . . remarkable."

"Yes, it is." Trevor leaned back in his seat and perused her. "There are two things you should know about my brother, Alana. He likes to drink to excess. And he has abominable taste in women."

"I wouldn't call Miss de la Plume abominable."

"No?"

"No, she's just . . . just . . ."

"Just what?"

"Well . . ."

He leaned farther back in his chair. "In Connacht we've an expression for a girl like that. Perhaps that's what you're looking for."

"What is it?" she inquired politely, thinking it would be some long, drawn-out Gaelic term.

"Whore."

She hadn't meant to laugh, but she hadn't expected his answer. Overcome, she put her hand over her mouth and tried to hide her smile, but her shaking shoulders gave her away.

"Ah, I see the expression translates despite our cultural barriers."

She looked up at him, her eyes tearing with laughter. His hazel ones glittered with amusement. Never had she guessed he had such a wicked sense of humor. "You are not a gentleman, Mr. Sheridan, to say such things about a lady," she admonished, still unable to wipe the smile from her lips.

"But then, I've never claimed to be a gentleman, have I?" The mirth in his eyes died. The question suddenly turned deadly serious.

Her laughter died also. "No, you haven't," she whispered, her gaze riveted to his.

"Do you want me to be a gentleman?"

His words hung
over
them like a cat ready to pounce. The immediate response on her lips was yes, but she never spoke it, perhaps because the answer in her heart was something different and perhaps because for the first time, the longing to become
Trevor
Sheridan's wife in body, mind, and soul, blossomed within her until it became almost painful to conceal.

"Why do you look away from me?" he asked softly.

She couldn't answer. The desire to cast aside the charade
of
her marriage was overpowering. With a need that bordered on desperation, she suddenly wanted to see passion in his eyes, wanted him to hold her, kiss her, and tell her he loved her. She wanted to destroy this wall of ice that kept them formal and distant, and even if it had to be done in his bed, she would gladly do it for just one moment of intimacy and warmth.

"My God, sometimes you're a cold woman."

The harsh words scarred her fragile heart. She wanted to prove to him that they were untrue, but she couldn't bring herself to look at him because
if
she did, she knew she would lose whatever control she possessed and run crying from the box.

The houselights nickered, signaling that the second act was about to begin. Behind her she heard Eagan and his companion take their seats. Mara resumed hers and began talking rapidly to Trevor, creating a nonsensical background of chatter to silence Alana's grieving heart. She didn't look at him for the rest of the evening, and when they left the Academy, he had also ceased to look at her.

They returned to the mansion after dropping Eagan and Miss de la Plume at the Hoffman House, a most appropriate place considering
Bouguereau's
wicked painting,
Nymphs and Satyrs,
hung in the bar. Once home, Trevor tersely bid her good night in the foyer and ascended the grand marble staircase alone. Mara and Alana shared tea in the drawing room until Mara too bid her good night.

Not ready to retire, Alana sat in the vast drawing room staring into the flames in the fireplace. Her face was an emotionless mask, her eyes the only window to her deep melancholy. She didn't know how long she had been there when she heard the loud arrival in the foyer. She looked up just as Eagan wandered drunkenly into the drawing room.

"Alana, me
darlin
', what are ye
doin
' up?" he asked, grinning like a fool.

"I couldn't sleep." She smiled in spite of herself. Eagan disarmed her as no one else could. "You're home early. Was Miss de la Plume not as hospitable as I thought?"

"She done cracked me across the cheek." He grinned and showed her his reddened cheek. "Temperamental little
twa
—" He bit back this last word, giving her a sheepish glance.

She shook her head, in despair of his character. The more rakish he was feeling, the more he laid on that Irish accent. It was so thick now, she could hardly understand him. "She did more than slap you, judging by that lip rouge on your collar."

"She'll come around. They always do."

"That's your problem, Eagan."

"I know it. I'm never told no . . . and I always say yes." He chuckled, poured himself a drink from some decanters on a Louis XVI table, and sat opposite her. "So Trevor's ignoring you again. He needs a good knock upside the head if you ask me."

She smiled sadly, unable to comment for the lump in her throat.

He noted her reaction and gave her a wry, lopsided grin. "Perhaps he's just having a bad night. He gets sore, you know—the leg and all."

"Tell me what happened to him. He's never told me. Was he wounded in the war?"

Eagan took a long sip of his drink. "He didn't fight in the war. Yes, he was of age, but by then he had the three hundred dollars to avoid the draft, and they wouldn't have taken him anyway. He was crippled when he was fourteen."

"Tell me," she implored. "I know so little about him."

"It's not a noble story."

"Tell me," she repeated.

He seemed reluctant. "Trevor roved with a gang of boys on the East Side. One night they broke into a jeweler's. The police discovered them. Trevor ran away. He was shot. In the back"

A heavy silence descended upon them. "He was fourteen?" she asked, her voice solemn and low.

"You have to understand how poor we were. How desperate things were. I was too young to remember much"— Eagan's mouth turned into a grim line—"but I remember the tenement room we lived in. It was one room, Alana, and we shared it with another family. Trevor, being the man he is, left at an early age to be on his own and give us more room. He took up with the 'Captain'—Isaiah
Rynders
—and his gang of Dead Rabbits. It's really a very common story. He wanted to help us. He thought he
was
going to help us."

She felt like crying. Her heart went out to the boy who had gone so wrong. "So he was put in jail?"

He shook his head. "No. He somehow managed to escape the police. He lay in an alley of Bandit's Roost for over a day, bleeding until someone found him. They carried him back to my mother, and she cared for him. If we could have afforded a doctor, Trevor might not be limping today. It's the shot, you know. It's still in him, lodged in his hip. It's too late to remove it now. That's why he gets sore."

Alana closed her eyes, remembering that night in Delmonico's when Trevor had fallen. It must have been painful, yet he'd borne it so well, she almost thought she'd imagined the whole thing.

"So how did he get all this?" She waved her hand at the gilded drawing room.

"It took him a year to recover.
And God, what a year it was."
As if to wipe away the memory, Eagan threw back half his drink. "Everything went wrong from then on. Trevor couldn't find work with his limp. He couldn't go back to stealing, for how can you do that if you can't run away? He found a job as a newsboy for the
Chronicle.
The wages were a pittance, but he worked himself almost to death trying to give us pennies." He turned even more grim and stared into the fire. "Then Mara was born."

"Your mother died in childbirth?"

"Yes. I can still remember Trevor holding Mara. She was so tiny. Do you know what her name means?"

She shook her head.

"It means 'bitter.' "

He didn't continue, and Alana respected his pause. The moment was leaden until finally he confessed, "Trevor, of course, blames himself for Mara's illegitimacy. What he'd been bringing in wasn't enough. He blames himself for what Mother had to do."

"Oh no, he mustn't," she gasped, her voice trembling with unshed tears.

"He blames everything on himself. And from the day our mother died in that tenement, his anger has been an awesome thing."