Prince of Hearts (6 page)

It seemed Charlie paused for a few seconds behind her before rushing to catch up with her.

“I haven’t the foggiest, my dear. Perhaps it was because of the mention of the dirigible. Genoa is a notorious port for pirate dirigibles.”

She threw him a scolding look. “You see, you
have
been reading the newspapers! Though I hadn’t read that about Genoa. I don’t know why you would doubt my assessment of the Professor’s conveyance.”

“Perhaps I was just teasing you, my dear.”

Now the look that she sent him was one of incredulity. Charlie never teased her. She didn’t think he knew how.

She
still
didn’t think so.

“Well, if that was your attempt at teasing me, it was most unsuccessful.”

Charlie looked contrite. “So sorry, my dear. But we were speaking of the Professor. I proposed a month ago. It is difficult to understand why you’ve not told him yet.”

For some reason, Aline felt guilty. “I
have
tried.” Well, she’d tried yesterday.

“We need to begin to make plans for the wedding. Did he say when he’d be back?”

“Two weeks. After that, I’ll be free, Charlie. I’d marry you today, but I could hardly let poor Madame Kristeva handle these two mongrels all alone.”

“Two weeks, you say?” Charlie said, brightening a little. “Shall we go ahead and have the Banns read? That takes around two weeks, doesn’t it? We can be married right when the Professor returns.”

Aline smiled a little uneasily at Charlie’s enthusiasm, though she knew she had no reason to be apprehensive. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? “Perhaps we might wait,” she said. “I … want to do this properly, Charlie. And I can’t do that until I’m completely free of the Professor.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Charlie said with clear disappointment.

She patted his arm. “It’s just a fortnight, Charlie. I promise.”

THREE weeks later, Romanov's latest choice in bed partner was proving to be an exceptionally tenacious case. Aline had been putting off the task Romanov had set for her in regards to The Luclair for as long as possible, but the odious opera singer had stormed Romanov's townhouse, and Aline had no choice but to deal with her.

Aline could imagine why the Professor had chosen Luciana. The Luclair was breathtakingly beautiful. Her lustrous ebony curls were artfully arranged around a visage of alabaster skin and large, luminous sapphire eyes.

Even the Welded mantle that enhanced her voice, covering The Luclair from her neck to décolletage, had been done by a master. Its iron shell had been gilded in gold and set with jewels.

In short, Luciana made Aline feel like a dowdy girl in pinafores.

Luciana's beauty was tempered, however, by her inability to leave her characters behind when she was not on stage. To Aline's immense annoyance, the soprano was currently playing Desdemona in
Otello
, so when she read the letter from Romanov that Aline handed her at the beginning of the interview, she used the bad news therein as an excuse to practice for the night's performance.

Aline tried her best not to roll her eyes as the soprano dabbed invisible tears away with the edge of a lace handkerchief, playing the scorned lover to perfection. Aline half-expected a pit orchestra to rise up from the floor and Madame to break into an aria. She dearly hoped not.

With The Luclair’s enhancement, one high C would break every window and chandelier in the entire townhouse.

"How could he do this to me?" Luciana cried, clutching the remains of Romanov's letter against her bosom, which was every bit as spectacular as the mantle above it. "I am singing Desdemona tonight! My nerves cannot take it, Miss Finch. He is cruel and uncaring to abandon me in my hour of need!"

Aline was quite certain The Luclair had not seen Romanov in at least two months, so she didn't add abandonment to the list of Romanov's manifold sins. Poor judgment and bad taste came to mind, however. Aline had to admit that Romanov had outdone himself this time. What was he thinking, to have liaisons with women of The Luclair’s ilk?

Perhaps because it makes leaving them so easy
, she thought to herself.

Aline glanced across the room where Madame Kristeva, Professor Romanov's Russian housekeeper, stood, rolling her eyes. Apparently Madame Kristeva didn't care for the opera singer either –
and
she understood English better than she let on.

"I am
ruined
! How can I live another day when I'll never love again?" The Luclair sobbed.

As Aline was quite convinced that no hearts had been broken at any time during this particular relationship, and that The Luclair would doubtless live an irritatingly long time, she counted to ten, summoning up the last reserves of her patience, before answering.

"I know this must be a difficult moment for you, but give it time,” she choked out half-heartedly.

Luciana dropped her handkerchief and narrowed her suspiciously dry eyes at Aline. She gave an irritated huff. "And what would
you
know about a broken
affaire
,
Miss
Finch? What could
you
possibly know of broken hearts? Of
passione
?"

Gritting her teeth, Aline started to count to ten again. The exaggeratedly Continental way Madame pronounced her name, “Meez Feench”, was worse than fingernails on chalkboard. Plus Madame was right. What did she know about
passione
? A great deal in terms of second-hand accounts. Very little in the way of actual experience.

But she did know a thing or two about the Professor and his mistresses, and the way these little tête-à-têtes always went. It was the time in the interview that the scorned lover decided to take out her frustrations on the secretary, a common refrain. Aline sometimes wondered if these women all read the same script beforehand.

Not wishing to extend the interview any longer, she wrenched open the top drawer of Romanov's desk, pulling out the satin-covered case from the jewelers.

Madame eagerly opened the case, but her face fell as she peered at its contents. "What is
this
?" she demanded, holding up the garnet brooch Aline had spent hours picking out.

Clearly, Madame was not impressed. She was looking at it as one would look at a dirty stocking.

Aline bit her bottom lip to physically suppress a groan. She didn’t see what there wasn’t to like about the brooch. The gold filigree setting was exquisite, fashioned in the nouveau style, and the garnet insets were of the first quality.

“It’s a garnet brooch,” she explained, with a dryness Madame did not appreciate.

“I know what it is. It’s
brown
,” The Luclair huffed. “Like your hideous gown.”

“It’s quite a unique piece…”

Madame dropped it back in the case. “I don’t want unique. I want
diamonds
.”

Of
course
Madame wanted diamonds. She should have gone with the gaudiest diamond necklace at the jewelers, as had been her first instinct, but she’d been in too foul a mood over the Professor’s continued absence and failure to respond to the thousand tickertexts she’d sent him.

A fortnight indeed!

So she’d purchased the brooch instead, something
she’d
liked – something she perhaps unconsciously knew Madame wouldn’t – even though she didn’t think The Luclair had much use for necklaces, with the giant one permanently attached to her chest.

Aline reached for the brooch, as if to take it away. “If you don’t want it…”

Madame’s eyes grew wide, and she snatched the brooch back, tucking it into her bosom.

Aline rose from her seat, and Madame did the same, but it seemed Madame was not as eager to end their delightful interview. She glared down her nose at Aline, all righteous indignation. "I know all about
you
, Miss Finch. Sasha’s loyal little lapdog. You pant after your master's heels like those two beasts of his."

Luciana was right about the dogs. They were beasts. But Aline took offense at the comparison of herself to those two mongrels. She did not pant. She’d never panted in her life.

And certainly not after Professor Romanov.

"You English women are so dreary, without an ounce of
passione
in your blood. The women like you are the worst. Bluestockings who insist on working like men and being treated like men, while secretly you are in love with your handsome employers."

"I assure you, Madame Luclair, I am not in love with the Professor. I leave such an onerous task to beautiful ladies such as yourself."

Madame didn't believe her. "Who would
not
be in love with Sasha? You are not blind. You are not a man. Unless you are one of those women who prefer the company of other women..." Madame's tone grew speculative, her gaze assessing.

Then, gasping dramatically, she clasped her hands over her mantle and cleavage as if she had discovered her modesty. Apparently she was seeing Aline's ugly brown frock coat in a new light.

Aline bristled. She tried counting again, but only got to three before her patience expired. “My preference is none of your concern, Madame. But should you like to know, I have gentlemen callers aplenty."

Madame looked incredulous at the blatant fable. Aline obviously didn't have gentlemen callers aplenty. But she did have one, thank you very much. One very reliable, entirely respectable, and genuinely attractive gentleman caller. One Charles Netherfield, and she planned to marry him, just as soon as her damned employer returned.

But that was neither here nor there at the moment. What was pertinent was Madame’s swift departure from the premises. Abandoning courtesy, she stalked over to the French doors leading out into the back garden and opened it. She stood aside and watched Ilya and Ikaterina lope inside, straight for Madame’s skirts.

It had rained, so the hellhounds were quite muddy.

So was Madame by the time she managed to extricate herself.

SHORTLY after Madame had departed in tears – real for a change – and the dogs were brought in line, Aline snatched up her reticule and stormed towards the door, telling Madame Kristeva to expect her back in a few hours. She had an errand of her own to run in St. Giles – a distasteful one at that.

She was not going to let the opera singer’s tirade dampen her mood, which was already low. The afternoon spent enduring insults had almost been worth it, however, when she saw the look on The Luclair’s face when the hellhounds had pounced with half of London’s muck on their paws.

What was she thinking? Of course it had been worth it. Aline hadn’t felt so perversely satisfied in some time.

Her spirits fell, however, as she exited Romanov’s townhouse on Berkeley Square and began trudging towards Piccadilly. It was quite a hike to the East End, her destination, but she was too strapped at the moment to afford a steam hack and had barely scraped together enough coins for the air car that traveled between Piccadilly Circus and Covent Garden, a mode of conveyance that she loathed. Pitching about on the bumpy public transport coaches surrounded by unwashed bodies – as she was always so lucky as to encounter the filthiest Londoners in transit – made her green about the gills just thinking about it.

And just thinking about her upcoming task sent a shudder of mingled shame and apprehension through her. She did not know how she would be received down at Witwicky and Sons, Bookmakers, even though she came prepared to finally settle her debt.

The last time she’d been there, she’d only narrowly escaped being thrown to Witwicky’s brutish henchmen. The only reason he’d extended her a grace period had been out of respect for her late uncle, a friend to many in the St. Giles underworld, to whom Witwicky still felt indebted. She couldn’t remember ever being so terrified.

Or so humiliated at having sunk so low as to be in debt up to her eyeballs with a St. Giles bookmaker. She’d never thought herself one of those sad cases who haunted the dodgy alleyways outside of a betting house, having lost everything to their addiction, yet still hungering for a few sovereigns and a roll of the dice, a fever in their eyes. She’d not lost everything quite yet, but she’d come perilously close over the last few months, unable to resist the siren call.

Usually she had some restraint. But she’d come to find her life so unsatisfactory on so many levels that misery, pure and simple, had driven her to wager more often and in larger quantities. She gambled to feel the thrill of victory, but when she did not win, she kept on playing until she did.

Even when the money ran out.

“Never again,” she told herself as she boarded the air car.

Upon reaching Covent Garden, Aline alighted from the conveyance, then crossed to the eastern edge of the piazza until she reached the turn onto Bow Street, crushed with traffic both shod and airborne. She made her way southward, towards the Strand, the street growing shabbier, the people growing louder and less respectable by increments.

Even so little as ten years ago, when she’d lived with her eccentric uncle in this neighborhood after she’d outgrown boarding schools, Aline wouldn’t have dared to wander these streets alone. But since the days of Jack the Ripper and his successors, the London constabulary, led by Inspector Drexler, had gained a foothold over the Cockney stews, despite the Black Market’s attempts to keep the police out.

Indeed, many still believed St. Giles was not a place for gently bred ladies to explore even with an armed guard. Fortunately for herself, Aline had no missish sensibilities or reputation to damage in rubbing elbows with the inhabitants of the East End. As a somewhat anomalous being herself – educated, employed, independent and single in a society that deplored every one of these adjectives conjoined to one of female persuasion – she enjoyed a great deal more latitude than women both far above her station and far beneath.

She turned off a side street, and the noxious fumes arising from the effulgence of the general environment, mingled with the raw tang of the costermongers’ wares, hit her like a brick wall. The poverty of the area kept out most of the technological advancements that pervaded the richer sections of the city. So despite the occasional glimpse of an unfortunate Machinist – victim of the early, unregulated post-War factories, whose limbs had been replaced with machine parts – and the militant Luddite preachers – with their eerie white robes and scars, who ranted to the market crowds against the government – life here continued much as it had before the Great Exhibition of 1851 had ushered in the Steam Age.