Nan Ryan (15 page)

“Did you hear me?” Hunter raised himself on an elbow to look at Kathleen. “I said, I wish this would never end. I wish we could just stay right here for the rest of our lives, just you and me.”

“I do, too, Hunter,” Kathleen tried to sound convincing. “It’s been lovely, but you do have a practice, remember.”

“You’re right, of course. But for tonight, let’s forget about everything. You’ve made me so happy, Kathleen. I love you, darling,” Hunter kissed her lips.

“I’m happy, too, Hunter,” she said and let him slip his arms around her.

“Oh my darling,” he whispered, slowly kissing her neck and throat. “I want you more all the time, I cannot get enough of you.” His hands gently caressed her body as the champagne made it easier for Kathleen Alexander once again to make love to the husband she liked but did not love.

Eleven

When the carriage pulled up to the corner of Davis and Brook Streets in London, and Dawson Blakely stepped out into the rain, he was met immediately by a liveried footman rushing to hold a big black umbrella over the head of the arriving guest. “Welcome to Claridge’s, Mister Blakely,” he smiled, “you will enjoy your stay with us, I’m sure.”

“Thanks, I know I will,” Dawson answered in a flat voice.

Inside the inn, the manager of the hotel greeted Dawson warmly and told him the establishment was happy he had picked Claridge’s for his home away from America. “You will find, Mister Blakely, that you have made a very wise choice. This is the home of noblemen and royalty and we will cater to your every whim without delay.”

“All I want is to be left alone,” Dawson glared at the man.

“Fine, fine. We are very discreet and your presence here will be kept secret if you so desire.”

“I don’t care who knows I’m here. I just want to get to my rooms and then I want some whiskey sent up.”

The manager snapped his fingers and a bellman appeared and bowed to Dawson. “Welcome to Claridge’s,” he smiled and led his guest to his suite of rooms. Dawson found the apartment to his liking. An oversized bed had been moved into the spacious bedroom just as he’d requested. Dawson headed for the bed the minute his baggage was stacked in the room.

“Shall I unpack for you, sir?” the bellman asked, graciously.

“Later. Just leave it.” Dawson tipped the man generously. “There is something you can do for me, however.”

“Anything, sir.”

“Send me a bottle of bourbon, make it two.”

“Certainly,” the bellman bowed and left.

Dawson took off his gray cashmere cloak and tossed it on a chair. He went to the tall windows and looked out at the city. It was dark and gray, the rain coming down in a slow winter drizzle. Dawson sighed and unbuttoned his white ruffled shirt. The whiskey arrived and Dawson poured himself a tall glass of the hot amber liquid. He raised it to his lips and swallowed all of it, made a face, set the glass aside. He slowly undressed, picked up the bottle, and went to the bed. He climbed in among the soft pillows, poured himself another drink, and drank more slowly. “I am going to stay right here for the rest of the winter,” he said to himself and went about the task of drinking himself into a stupor. By nightfall, which was almost impossible to determine because of the gray sky, Dawson Blakely was sound asleep while the rain outside continued to fall.

Dawson awoke with a headache and a bad taste in his mouth. He made a face and got out of bed, walked to the windows and looked out. It was raining again. Or still. He had been at Claridge’s for over two weeks and in that time it had rained every day. Dawson had not been outside his apartment, had taken all his meals there, and had spent his time suspended somewhere between drunkenness and semi-sobriety. He was sober this morning and felt terrible. The weather did nothing to lift his sagging spirits. He knew it was time he snapped out of it, but found it almost impossible.

A knock on the door made Dawson reach for a robe before saying, “Come in.”

“Good morning, sir,” the waiter smiled and rolled in the breakfast table. Two bottles of whiskey sat on the tray along with the coffee and orange juice. He walked to Dawson and handed him a bundle of letters. “Sir, your mail has arrived by first post.”

Dawson hurriedly rifled through his mail. Brody, his overseer back in Natchez, had promised to forward everything to him, no matter how insignificant it was. Dawson saw nothing that interested him enough to even open the envelopes and he tossed the letters on the table unread. The
Natchez Courier
was rolled up in brown paper. This Dawson stripped away before unfolding the newspaper. It was dated January 14. Dawson glanced at the front page while he sipped black coffee from a china cup. He skimmed the articles, bored, and turned the page. On page three, he saw bold type that immediately made him sit up straight and pay attention. It read:

Kathleen Diana Beauregard, daughter of Louis and Abigail Beauregard of Natchez, became the bride of Doctor Hunter Alexander of Vicksburg, Mississippi, in a double ring ceremony today in St. Mary’s Cathedral. The bride, lovely in an antique white satin gown, was attended by …

Dawson lowered the paper with a shaking hand. He sat stunned, unbelieving, for several minutes. Then a wry smile came to his lips as he thought, “What a fool I am. I’ve been gone for two months and already she’s married. And I thought she loved me. She forgot about me the moment I was out of her sight.”

“Ah, Kathleen,” he said aloud, “here I’ve been so worried about what I did to you and already you’re in love with another. I’ve spent my nights in drunken agony trying to erase you from my brain while you’ve been in the arms of another man, your husband. Old Louis was right, he knew you better than I did. I meant nothing to you. Well, thanks, darling, for releasing me. I will see if I can’t forget about you as you forgot about me.” Sadly, he fingered the cameo hanging from a gold chain around his neck which she had left behind on the boat the last night he saw her. He had sentimentally had it put on a chain so it could always be near his heart. His fingers closed over the memento as he started to rip it from his neck. He couldn’t do it; his fingers refused to move. Dawson sighed and rose from his chair. He rang the bell beside his bed and when the eager bellman appeared, Dawson said, “I want a hot tub of soapy water and all my clothes pressed. I’ve decided to see a bit of London. And take the whiskey away, please. Send up some food, real food, I’m famished.”

“Yes, sir,” the man smiled and went about carrying out Dawson’s orders.

Dawson strolled through the lobby that night dressed in his evening clothes. Completely sober, he entered the dining room and glanced around. A lovely place of lights, flowers, and music, the aristocracy of Britain filled the spacious room. Noble lords and ladies from their big estates in Scotland, England, and Wales all made Claridge’s their home while in London for business or pleasure. Dukes and duchesses, earls, counts and countesses, all were engaged in taking their meals in an atmosphere of regal comfort. Generals, financiers, and wealthy Americans on holiday mixed and mingled or remained discreetly aloof as was their pleasure. Dawson was led to one of the most coveted tables in the narrow passage near the entrance. Here he could see and be seen, which was exactly what he wanted on this rainy Saturday.

Dawson ordered Beef Wellington and a bottle of wine. He relaxed in his chair and let his dark eyes slide around the room. The crowd was a mixture of young and old. His eyes didn’t travel far before they fell on a beautiful girl. She was small and blonde and she was lovely. She sat with a middle-aged couple Dawson took to be her parents. She looked up at the exact instant Dawson’s eyes reached her. She smiled at him. He held her look for a moment, studying the delicate features and the honey blond hair falling casually around her slender shoulders. He did not smile at her. She looked to be no more than eighteen or nineteen and Dawson dismissed her without a second look. He was in no mood for a sweet young thing, he had had enough of that. He continued to look around the room, leaning back in his chair, completely relaxed and only half-interested. A few tables away, another beautiful woman sat finishing her dinner. She was alone. She took a sip of wine and her eyes met Dawson’s. Her hair was as dark as his own and her eyes were green and wide-set. She wore a black satin gown that dropped low over her bosom, exposing ample, creamy flesh. On her small hands diamonds flashed and around her neck a diamond choker an inch wide caressed her. Dawson sat up and nodded to her over his wine glass. She was perfect. She was dark and seductive and she looked to be at least thirty years old. She was just what he wanted. She was nothing at all like Kathleen Beauregard.

Dawson ate slowly, enjoying his meal, looking from time to time at the attractive brunette still sitting at her table, though she had finished her meal by the time he was seated. He knew she was watching him, waiting for him to finish. Finally, he laid his napkin on the table and stood up. She rose at the same time and he walked to her table. She smiled warmly as he approached and when he took her arm she went out of the dining room with him. He still hadn’t said a word to her, but his eyes spoke for him and hers answered. They walked through the lobby of the hotel and Dawson asked the liveried doorman to summon a carriage for them.

“I don’t have my wrap,” she spoke at last and looked up at him.

“You won’t need one,” Dawson smiled and handed her into the carriage. He climbed in beside her and told the driver to take them to Crockford’s. “I hope you like to gamble. I’m Dawson Blakely, an American. I’ve been here two weeks and I’ve wasted all that time because I didn’t know you.” He smiled his lazy smile and looked at her with his hooded dark eyes.

“I love to gamble, Mister Blakely. I’m Victoria Hastings; I’m here on holiday from Scotland and I love Yanks.” Dawson laughed and put his arm around the creamy bare shoulder of this bewitching woman and pulled her against him.

They gambled and drank champagne at Crockford’s while the rain outside continued to fall. Victoria sat on a velvet stool at the roulette wheel. Dawson stood behind her and supplied her with chips to place on the numbers. She laughed and squealed when her number came up and happily scooped up the brightly colored chips the croupier pushed in front of her.

“It’s getting late, Victoria,” Dawson leaned down to whisper in her ear.

“You’re absolutely right, Dawson, cash me in.” She rose from the stool.

She willingly raised her lips to his in the back of the carriage on the way to Claridge’s and, when they arrived, she accompanied him to his rooms with no pretense of shock. Dawson ordered more champagne, poured them both a drink, and came to where she stood looking out at the rain. They touched glasses briefly, then set the champagne aside. Dawson took her in his arms and was delighted to find her as eager and willing as he. When he raised his fingers to the top of her dress in back and slowly unfastened it, she made no move to stop him. Within minutes, they were in his bed and he was kissing her with wild abandon. His kisses were met with respondent surrender from Victoria Hastings.

“Oh, Dawson,” she sighed and put her fingers into his thick black hair.

“Yes, darling,” he breathed against her mouth. She moved her hands to his back and pulled him down to her, his chest crushing against her.

“Ouch,” she said, pushing him away. Her fingers went to the cameo he wore around his neck. She jerked on the gold chain and said, “Darling, you must take this off, it’s hurting me.”

Dawson’s sultry eyes turned cold and his hand grabbed her fingers. “I never take this off. Let go.” He loosened her grip on the chain while the muscle in his hard jaw twitched.

“I don’t understand,” she said, looking up at him with questioning green eyes. Dawson moved away from her, laid back on his pillow, his arms folded behind his head, silent. “Dawson, what’s happened? What did I do?” She raised up to look at him.

“Nothing’s happened,” he answered coldly, “it’s getting late. Get dressed. I’ll take you to your room.”

“But, but,” she stammered, clutching the sheet to her chin. “I thought you, I mean …”

Dawson was already off the bed, dressing, not looking at her. Slowly, she rose and dressed, completely bewildered by the dark, brooding man standing at the window staring out at the empty street.

Victoria Hastings ran into Dawson Blakely again in the dining room, but he looked right through her and she never had any idea what had gone wrong.

Two days later, Dawson was in the lobby buying cigars when a tall red-haired lady checked into the hotel with an entourage of maids, butlers, secretaries, and at least twenty-five pieces of luggage. Dawson stood and watched, amused, as the staff of the hotel dropped everything to make her welcome. She wore a traveling suit of beige cashmere, her deep auburn hair pulled up on her head under a matching beige hat. She was tall and slender and she was beautiful. Well-preserved, she could have been any age between thirty and fifty. Dawson didn’t care which. He was attracted to her immediately and set out to find out who she was. It wasn’t easy. The staff at Claridge’s was discreet above all else and when he asked the room clerk who the red-headed lady was, the man looked distressed and said, “Oh, I’m sorry, Mister Blakely, I cannot disclose that information.”

“That’s no problem, I’ll find out,” Dawson smiled and walked away. He watched the entourage move through the grand lobby and, just when the lady reached the door, she turned and smiled at Dawson Blakely.

Dawson knew she would be looking for him that night in the dining room. So he didn’t go down for dinner, he ate in his room. After his meal, he sat smoking a thin, brown cigar. Then the knock came at the door. A uniformed hotel employee held out a small silver tray. On the tray, a lavender note read, “I missed you at dinner. Since there is no bar in this hotel, I hope you’ll join me for a drink in my apartment.” It was signed “The Baroness Le Poyferre. Suite 613.”

Dawson smiled, refolded the note, and drew on his waistcoat. He strolled to her apartment in no particular hurry. He was met by the baroness’ maid who bowed and smiled to him. “Come in, Mister Blakely,” she invited.