The Gilded Cage (15 page)

It was a long walk to the western edge of Greenwich Village, but Lawrence welcomed the cold air and the darkness. He had a rendezvous which demanded a cool head. He had perhaps an hour or so, no more, before Columbine would miss him. He would have to tell her how wonderful she had been. For a strong woman, Columbine was terribly in need of reassurance.

He was tantalizing her. After that first kiss, he hadn't touched her. He'd merely looked. And she was teetering oh-so delicately on the edge of her resistance. In another week, she would fall. Until then …

Balancing carefully on the wooden board so as not to dirty his boots, Lawrence picked his way across the back yard toward the peeling maroon door. He knocked once, lightly. The door opened, and Fiona Devlin slipped out through a crack, adjusting a shawl over her head. Without a word, they started across the yard toward the street. But as soon as they reached the side of the house, Fiona pulled Lawrence to her passionately. Her rough, pale hands drew his face down toward hers. The callouses on her fingers excited him, as they always did.

“I was waiting,” she whispered. “Too long.”

Marguerite was bored. Now that she had Horatio, she didn't know if she wanted him so terribly much. Since that moment when Bell had seen them together, Horatio's sexual interest in her had waned. Marguerite could no longer tantalize him; she barely seemed to interest him. From the moment Bell had walked in that room, her fate had been sealed. Horatio would forever associate that escapade with Marguerite's irresponsibility, and, being an essentially serious man—she had not realized how very serious was Horatio's nature—he would recoil from her. Oh, he would continue to act in a gentlemanly fashion. He would squire her about, he would be solicitious for her comfort. But he would not slide any farther into love. And he would never marry her.

Marguerite sighed and dangled her empty champagne glass from a negligent hand. She had begged prettily for Horatio to bring her to Rector's champagne palace on Broadway, and finally, the lout had agreed. Horatio had wanted to attend Columbine's address at Cooper Union. But Marguerite had had enough of politics. Her work at the New Women Society would succeed in sending her to a madhouse. If Horatio didn't send her there first. Besides, it was better to avoid Bell these days, even if they were off the hook.

She had waited for days for the ax to fall, for Bell to denounce her, for Columbine to disown her. But Bell merely avoided her. When Marguerite's nerves threatened to crack, she'd had no choice but to seek out Bell herself. She had gone to Bell in her office—for she knew Bell's room would have rather unpleasant connotations—and confessed that she was beside herself with remorse. That she'd fallen quite helplessly in love with Horatio, and she was sorry. Bell had patted her shoulder and said in a expressionless voice, “I'm glad.”

So now that Marguerite could see Horatio without fear, the man fell apart on her. Lately, Horatio was a lump on a log. In the middle of glittering Rector's, full of actors, actresses, society folk, society climbers, gamblers, journalists, senators, charlatans, and fools, he was bored! He stared down into his wonderful food as though it were fit only for his dog.

At first, Marguerite had been thrilled just to be there. The headwaiter had bowed to them, and with an imperceptible glance at Marguerite's blue velvet gown and glowing skin, seated them at a prominent table. But she waited in vain to converse brilliantly with the scores of famous people Horatio knew. Horatio was so morose that after a few jovial remarks, people drifted away from their table. Marguerite had never been so frustrated, including when she had been in bed with Horatio earlier.

“Could I have a tiny bit more champagne?” she asked him, trying to hold on to a charming lilt while she wanted to screech at him.

Before Horatio could answer, someone else intruded. “Certainly, you must,” came a voice from behind her chair. A deep baritone voice, an interesting voice. “Allow me.”

She twisted in her seat to locate the source of that deep voice, and was immediately disappointed. The man had twinkling hazel eyes, true, and he was young, but he was too short. Not a very commanding presence. But at least he was a man. Marguerite flashed her dimples at him, hoping Horatio would be jealous.

“Allow me to present Miss Marguerite Corbeau,” Horatio said. “Miss Corbeau, this is Mr. Toby Wells.”

“Charmed.” He bent over her hand and kissed the air above it. Then he slid the champagne out of its silver bucket and refilled her glass with a flourish. “Not a drop spilled. Perhaps I missed my calling,” he said in an odd, mocking way. His eyes traveled over Marguerite with a rakishness that drove the boredom from her mind with a delicious, bracing shock.

“I'd love to join you for a drink,” Toby Wells went on, pulling a chair over and sitting next to Marguerite. “How kind of you to ask me, Horatio.”

Horatio looked annoyed. “Really, Wells.”

“Yes, really, I would love to,” Toby continued, still staring at Marguerite. Then he returned his attention to Horatio. “I must tell you, old man, Felix Bartholemew Dillon is over in the corner hiding behind a very large palm. He's wondering aloud why you haven't come over to greet him. And he's already consumed several bottles of champagne, and he's in a, shall we say, expansive mood.”

A spark of interest lit Horatio's eyes. Felix Dillon was highly placed in state politics, and was currently involved in a minor scandal involving an Italian opera singer. He'd been avoiding journalists for weeks. “I suppose I should speak to him,” Horatio said, rising. “Will you—”

“I'll watch over Miss Corbeau, never fear,” Toby answered with a gay smile. As soon as Horatio was out of earshot, he turned back to Marguerite. “He's an awfully dull fellow, your Horatio.”

“My Horatio?”

“Mmmm. So serious-minded. I'm surprised to see him here. And,” Toby added, after a sip of champagne, “I am especially surprised that he ordered such fine champagne. It must be a tribute to the lady at the table.”

“You're an awfully insolent gentleman,” Marguerite observed calmly.

“Ah, you're under the mistaken impression I'm a gentleman, then. We'll have to remedy that. But we'd need more champagne, and I doubt Horatio will spring for another bottle.” Toby looked sad.

Marguerite laughed. “What
is
it that you do, Mr. Wells?”

“I'm an actor, of course. Couldn't you tell?”

“I've never met an actor before. What are his general characteristics?”

“Well, let's see. John Booth aside, we're very placid creatures. Fond of comfort, very good company. And we love to invent ruses to get beautiful young ladies alone.”

“Was that a ruse then?” Marguerite asked. “Poor Mr. Jones. He'll be terribly embarrassed when Mr. Dillon refuses to acknowledge him.”

Toby poured them both more champagne. “Oh, I have more faith in Horatio than that, don't you? I'm hoping for ten minutes more with you, at least.”

“And what will you do with your ten minutes, sir?” Exhilaration pulsed through Marguerite. She felt flushed, lovely, and witty. So this was what
banter
was, she thought. Horatio never bantered. His jokes were usually over her head, for she never read the newpapers or anything much at all. But everything Toby Wells said seemed designed to let her know that he found her attractive. The words weren't important, it was the eyes that spoke. Marguerite found his manner delightful. And could there be more men like this, she wondered, who could make her feel so beautiful, so alive? Better looking than Toby, and certainly richer?

“Let me see. For the next ten minutes I will try to charm you completely, Miss Corbeau. I will try to intrigue you. And perhaps I will succeed in securing a promise from you that I may call on you again.”

He looked at her with dancing eyes, and she couldn't help smiling back. “Well?” she asked. “I'm waiting. Charm me.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “So I am not going to be indulged. I shall have to work for my pleasure.”

“Most of us do,” Marguerite said.

He stopped then, and moved closer to her. “That's where you are wrong, Miss Corbeau,” he said in a confiding tone. “Most of us do not. At least in my world. If one has to work for pleasure, how fully can pleasure be enjoyed?”

Suddenly, Marguerite grew vastly more interested in the dandy Toby Wells. “What is your world, Mr. Wells?” she asked, affecting unconcern as she smoothed the feathers on her fan.

“But how can I tell you with words? I'm an actor, Miss Corbeau, and I know words can confuse, can exaggerate, can lie. Let me show you,” Toby cried, as if with sudden inspiration. “A friend of mine is giving a party Wednesday night. I'd like you to come.”

“A dinner party?” She'd never been to a dinner party. She'd merely served at them.

“Yes, a dinner party. A very special dinner party.”

Marguerite thought it prudent to give a show of reluctance. “I hardly know you well enough, Mr. Wells,” she said primly.

“Would you like to introduce me to your mother?” he asked gaily. “I would be honored, of course.”

Marguerite's face changed. “She's no longer living.”

“Ah, I'm sorry,” he said, but he didn't seem sorry at all. “Perhaps I should explain about the party. Can you sing?”

“Can I—”

“Oh, bother, Horatio is coming back.” Toby quickly scribbled something on a small white card. “Here is the address. I'll send a carriage, and a note with the details. You must come, Miss Corbeau. And I'll show you a world,” he said earnestly, “where pleasure is not preceded by work. Only by more pleasure. Don't fail me, Miss Corbeau.” He slipped the card underneath her napkin.

He rose just as Horatio came up. He bent over her hand again. This time, he kissed it. His mustache tickled her knuckle. “
Adieu
, Miss Corbeau.”

Horatio frowned as he watched Toby walk away with his lithe, bouncing step. “I hope Mr. Wells didn't annoy you, Marguerite. He can be very impertinent.”

“He was impertinent,” she said slowly. “But I liked it.”

He looked at her sharply. “Did he say anything?”

“Nothing of importance,” Marguerite said. She slid the card from under her napkin and, underneath the tablecloth, slipped it into the tiny purse on her wrist. “Nothing at all.”

Lawrence made love to Fiona Devlin on an empty Hudson pier. There was no moon. Her back was against a piling, and her red hair was loose. Her face was taut and fierce; her thighs gripped his waist as he drove into her. She made no sound at all, but when she reached her climax her eyes flew open and looked into his. Pale green flecked with brown, a tiny triangle of yellow hovered in one corner. Her eyes had a customary wary look, but at that moment they looked preternatural, frightening. She was a woman who could do violence as easily as a man, he thought, and he came in a blinding flood.

He buttoned his trousers and she straightened her dark skirt. “I have to get back,” he said.

“Don't I know that,” she answered. She twisted her hair into a bun. “Don't worry, Larry, I won't be wanting any kisses from you.”

“Don't call me that,” he said, gripping her arm fiercely. Unfortunately, it was through her coat. It didn't hurt.

She shook him off like a child. “All right. Let's be going, then. At least I won't have to listen to your political lectures.”

A dark shadow passed in front of them; a rat. Lawrence flinched. Without breaking stride, Fiona picked up a heavy piece of wood and threw it, and the rat skittered away. Fiona noticed Lawrence's revulsion, and she laughed at him over her shoulder. “They're always with me, the rats.” Her green eyes glinted at him. “One of them even lifts my skirt occasionally.”

She laughed softly again. She loved nothing more than to torment Lawrence Birch. For a blackguard, he could be very stiff—and she didn't mean underneath his trousers. Fiona smiled with pleasure. It was more the dark moonless night that intoxicated her than the satisfying burn in her lower regions; more the freedom than the sex. Jimmy Devlin wasn't a bad man, but the accident had left him mean. And who wouldn't be, with only one arm? It was a sorry day, she thought, shivering, her pleasure suddenly gone, when a wife couldn't bear her husband's eyes.

“So where are you rushing off to tonight?” she asked, brushing the back of her coat.

“Mrs. Nash gave a speech at Cooper Union. I'm going to a reception afterward,” he said shortly.

“You'll drink a toast to the bitch who won't testify for me and Jimmy?” Fiona asked in a conversational tone. “She knows that Ambrose Hartley is a liar, and Lady Nash won't say it. Honor among the upper classes.”

“So instead of you listening to my lectures, I listen to yours,” Lawrence said dryly. “Mrs. Nash has her uses, which you'll soon see.” He slid a hand inside her open coat and squeezed her breast. “When will I see you again?”

“Not for a week, mind. I don't want Jimmy to be wondering.” Fiona batted away his hand and buttoned her coat with fingers red with cold. The sex had driven out the chill, but it was seeping in again.

“I thought you said since the arm came off he drinks himself into a stupor every day.”

“Jimmy in a stupor is sharper than most men,” Fiona said flatly. “So next week. Besides, I don't have need of it more than once a week.”

“How romantic you are, Fiona.”

She gave him a twisted smile. “And you are overcome with my charms, are you, boyo? We both know what this is. Now, I'll be going. Jimmy will be waking soon.”

“Fiona,” he said, stopping her. “Wouldn't you like to get back at him? Hartley?”

“Of course.” Fiona's teeth gleamed. “My dreams about murdering him put a smile on my face every morning.”

She drew her shawl over her head and walked quickly away from him, not looking back for a final farewell, a final glimpse of her lover. Lawrence would be surprised if she had. He didn't mind. He watched her straight back until she was swallowed up by the night.