The King of Threadneedle Street (19 page)

Ah, but she had gone quite ahead of herself. Philip had expressed no interest in her beyond gentlemanly regard and friendship. And although the Montegues likewise accepted her as a guest and friend, it didn’t mean they would sanction a match between her scandalous bastard self and one of their prestigious family.
He is a Cavendish and a baronet, for pity’s sake!

She lit a lantern and finally noticed an unopened telegram on her writing desk, from Lady Chauncey. It read,
Much confusion. Stop. Sorting it out. Stop. Do not leap off tower. Stop.
Alysia went nearly out of her mind wondering what it meant.

The hope dancing around her insides had to be an ill omen. Even if the gossip proved to be misconstrued, the damage to Andrew’s reputation — and “Lady L.’s” — had already been done. He was obliged now as a matter of honor, possibly in a legal regard. Andrew would marry some sparkling heiress sooner or later anyhow, so the brutal dose of reality she experienced today was a necessary adjustment.

Alysia vowed to avoid newspapers, survive Lord Courtenay’s matchmaking, and most importantly resist snaring poor Philip Cavendish. He was a kind, respectable man, a
bereaved
man, and she had no right to prey upon his weakness with her wiles.

Wiles?

Alysia was supposedly a vixen and a Jezebel yet lacked the requisite credentials. She scoffed in a poor attempt to convince herself of the humor, and packed her case for the journey to London.

Chapter Twelve

Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, for wise men say it is the wisest course.

King Henry VI,
William Shakespeare

Summer of 1872, London, England

Alysia allowed herself a smile. The sixth gentleman Lord Courtenay introduced her to that evening was stiffly polite then conspicuously absent. Despite his best efforts, Lord Courtenay’s eligible bachelors seemed to think she carried an infectious disease, which was fine by her.

Then came the infamous Lady Langton, Andrew’s supposed fiancée. She was elegant, witty, and even more ruthless than Miss Everett, who was Lady Courtenay’s previous choice for Andrew. Alysia found Lady Langton insidious; she appeared congenial and sweet, but the other side of her nature was frightening. At the rate Lady Courtenay chose potential brides for her son, the next hopeful might be demon spawn.

Philip ran himself ragged watching over Alysia and working reconnaissance. He had already discovered the prevailing rumor that Lady Langton had indeed stayed alone at Lord Preston’s house after a party and didn’t leave until dawn as reported, but it was all conspired by her. She wanted to be ruined by Lord Preston so he would be obliged to marry her or face defamation.

The great joke among her intimates was that Lady Langton was no lily-white. All rumors seemed to concur that she’d had an affair with Andrew a few years past and never forgave him when he moved on. Some thought her latest ploy must have worked, as she and Lord Preston were often seen together, and he hadn’t publicly refuted the rumors about the engagement. Others thought she walked a dangerous line, trifling with the formidable Lord Preston.

Lady Langton was indisputably magnificent, a vision of perfect English beauty in blond, blue and rose. Flamboyant and alluring. If she wasn’t also crafty and mean-spirited, Alysia would have wished for Andrew to fall in love with her. She only
appeared
to be perfect. She obviously had Lady Courtenay fooled.

Lady Langton sought out Alysia and seemed to consider her a threat. She said, a little too loudly, “Why,
you
could be none other than the
incomparable
Miss Villier! I quite recognized you, but from where?” She pretended to fish for the memory, and Alysia sipped her champagne with sincere carelessness.

The conversations around them fell silent and the guests turned to see the impending duel between Lord Preston’s fiancée and his mistress. It wasn’t the first time Alysia had been scrutinized by a jealous lady. She had been scandalous all her life; it was far too late to be mortified by it now.

Lady Langton tried to catch her eye, but Alysia let her wait a while then raised her eyebrows as if to say,
A bit dim, are we?

“Oh yes, it was the theater, in Paris. You were an actress, on the stage. I remember now. That is it, with the wings. Was it
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
, Miss Villier?”

“A shame for Mr. Shakespeare it failed to inspire you, but your memory for detail is admirable,” Alysia replied gravely.

Nervous twitters came from the guests. That would only anger Lady Langton.

She cocked her head, her jewels glinting an impressive halo. “Oh, and then it was regrettable you seemed to have disappeared from the Parisian scene. How unfortunate for your admirers. Tell us, Miss Villier, whatever took you away from Paris?”

Compared to Lady Langton’s pampered, nasal soprano voice, Alysia’s alto sounded like an angry viola to her own ears. Making an effort to come across as sincerely amused, she said, “One does enjoy a good disappearing act every now and then, my lady.”

“Mmm, yes. The rumor mill can be quite a bother, can it not, Miss Villier?”

“I suppose there are those who amuse themselves with rumors and those who fabricate them, and yet those who twist them to advantage.” She managed this without the slightest hint of accusation. Alysia added, “Personally, I prefer to ignore the institution altogether. I regret I am quite in the dark as to your exact meaning.”

Lady Langton’s perfect rosebud lips pursed in well-concealed menace.

Checkmate
. Lady Langton had only two choices: spell out her accusations or retreat. “Actually, I was rather wondering if you could tell me where Lord Preston has gone?” Her pointed tone implied she thought Alysia had been holed up with him somewhere.

Alysia was honestly surprised. “He doesn’t answer to me. I suppose he is wherever he pleases himself to be.” Alysia finished her glass of champagne, and blessedly, Philip arrived as if on cue and offered his arm. She excused herself from Lady Langton, and Philip took her into the ballroom.

He twirled her once then stepped into a waltz in one continuous motion. Philip looked formidable in full dress uniform, rustling and clinking with medals and ribbons. Nowhere to place her fingers on his shoulder without touching rows of gold stripes. His dashing mien proclaimed
Navy hero
! The men slapping him on the back and calling him
Pirate Slayer
was excess, in her opinion, as were the scorching jealous glares she had been fielding all evening. An eligible widower fresh out of mourning was a prime commodity in London. Adding her status as the designated pariah, she and Philip were a conspicuous pair.

Quite at ease in the London scene, suave Philip impacted her, supplanting his casual country-dwelling alter ego. She realized she had placated herself by imagining him harmless. He was humble — not meek. Not at all.

“And how do you find your assortment of potential husbands?”

“Reclusive,” she replied, and he chuckled. She saw Lord Courtenay watching them from the stairs, or scrutinizing them, rather. She wondered what he thought of Lord Devon’s nephew openly accepting her when he wouldn’t allow the same for his own son. He couldn’t possibly be pleased.

“I know why, but I doubt you would care to hear it.”

“You couldn’t possibly shock me or injure my feelings. Tell me, is it because I am a wicked Parisian courtesan, or have I been deceived in believing I have tolerably good looks?”

Philip lowered his voice, “Neither. I was recently asked by one of your eligibles if I didn’t fear being gunned down at dawn. When I asked him to explain, he said I am bold to court you, and that Lord Preston is certain to call me out. He wished me luck in the impending duel.”

“What?” Alysia made a great effort not to shout. If she appeared to be discussing anything more interesting than the weather, she would attract unwanted attention. Philip had been doing an admirable job of gossiping with a placid expression. “What on earth is that about?”

“Apparently, word has it that you belong to Lord Preston, and the gentlemen here don’t dare come near. They fear his wrath. Their words, not mine.”

Alysia laughed in spite of herself. She had failed to consider that these people wouldn’t bat an eye at a nobleman publicly keeping a mistress while engaging himself to a peeress. She likely caused all sorts of gossip for Philip.

“You may be amused to know the truth, Philip. I am not now, nor ever was Lord Preston’s mistress. Ironically I might possibly be the only virgin in the room.”

She did shock Philip, but then he smiled. He humored her, his eyes sweeping the room. “Knowing this crowd, I don’t doubt it.” He said soberly, “But you need not explain yourself to me, Miss Villier. I don’t judge you.”

“You will likely regret your loyalty, but I thank you for it nonetheless.”

She didn’t know why she confided in him. “If Lord Preston thinks he will marry his horrible heiress and keep me on the side, he is mistaken. He knows I refuse to come between any husband and wife. For that reason I am certain I couldn’t live as a courtesan. It is awful enough as a ruse.”

“Then what will you do?”

She explained how Lord Courtenay would release her inheritance when she came of age.

“Well, it seems you have escaped Lord Courtenay’s scheme.”

“Good. Then I shall collect a dozen cats and live in a country cottage, where I shall draw and paint to my heart’s content.” She was pleased with how convincing it sounded.

“Oh.” Philip said stiffly, and it took her a moment to realize his attention had gone elsewhere.

It was Andrew.

He marched down the stairs, adjusting his collar and straightening his sleeve cuffs, dressed in a perfectly tailored, black silk suit. His usually untamed hair was styled smartly in subtle waves, and his deeply set eyes seemed to flash with dark fire in the lamplight. He looked tired but riled, and his eyes had locked on Alysia before she had seen him.

“Breathe,” Philip prompted, followed by an indignant huff probably not directed at her. He twirled her in step with the waltz to help her recover herself. “What do you want me to do?” He seemed hostile. Indignant, at least.

She despised how her heart fluttered at the sight of Andrew, who pushed through the crowd toward her.

“Keep dancing,” she answered and tried not to watch Andrew, but it was nearly impossible to look away. He entered the ballroom in long strides but thankfully was accosted by a crowd of guests, Lady Langton among them. Alysia saw him watching her dance with Philip, rudely ignoring the conversation around him.

The crowd turned to watch, no doubt wondering if Lord Preston and Captain Cavendish would have it out. She suddenly felt remorseful for dragging Philip into the mess.

He was up to it. The waltz ended, and Philip led her from the floor and handed her a glass of punch, all the while standing guard, by the look of his posture. He exchanged bold glares of challenge with Andrew from across the room. They reminded Alysia of two bucks locking horns.

She was grateful when the next waltz sounded. “Philip, I hope you wouldn’t mind another waltz?”

“Not at all.” He shot her a charming dimpled smile mixed with cocksure triumph and held out his arm. They had nearly reached the floor when Andrew caught up, stopping them short. She was too late.

“Do be so generous as to allow me to cut in, Captain Cavendish,” Andrew said with a shallow bow and held out his hand for Alysia.

Philip kept his hand on her arm, holding her in place. “The lady asked for the dance and I must obey,” he replied genially but with the pointed tone of a Naval captain. “That is,” he amended, “for Miss Villier to decide, of course.” He turned his head expectantly for her answer.

“Lisa,” Andrew breathed. “It has been far too long. I am desperate to speak with you.”

Aggravating, how her heart leapt, and her expression surely betrayed her. She was in no mood to hear his explanation or apology, whichever it was, about his supposed fiancée. And she would rather die than humiliate either Andrew or Philip by publicly choosing one over the other.

“Thank you, Lord Preston, but I believe I will ask Captain Cavendish to take me home after all. Suddenly I feel exhausted.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Home? Where might that be, may I ask?” His brimstone eyes leveled at her, then icily at Philip, which meant he suspected she stayed with him, alone, as
his
mistress.

Alysia was frankly tired of being branded a strumpet. She nearly snapped, “It was a simple way of referring to Sir Mandley’s house in Belgravia. We are staying with Lord Devon’s aunt and her husband.”

He nodded, his relief thinly disguised. He shot another jealous glare at Philip.

“I am here at Lord Courtenay’s bidding,” she reminded Andrew. “And Captain Cavendish has been so kind as to accompany me. I didn’t wish to come alone.”

“Of course,” Andrew replied coldly. “My thanks, Cavendish, for taking care of her.”

“She takes care of herself, Preston.”

“Well, goodnight,” Alysia interrupted, pulling subtly on Philip’s elbow. The room simply wasn’t big enough for the two of them. London was too small for them both.

Before she could move away, Andrew took her hand and kissed it slowly. He held her palm to his face, closed his eyes, and inhaled at her wrist, grazing his nose on the sensitive skin there. Leaning to press his lips to her cheek, he not-quite-whispered, “You are
mine
, Lisa.” He kissed her again, inches from the corner of her mouth. “You must hear me out. Soon, my love.”

He stepped back and watched her with baleful eyes while Philip scoffed, no doubt offended by Andrew’s shameless public display. Andrew, looking both exhausted and furious, glanced around and seemed to concede it was neither the time nor place for a contest with Philip. He also saw his father’s livid, disapproving glare, which he unabashedly returned with a defiant one.

Probably to rankle his father, Andrew winked at Alysia and shot her a vainglorious, suggestive smile. It was so intimate, and so apparent what he was thinking, it made her heat. Philip made a sound like an agitated bull then muttered a terse formality as he led her away.