Vanquished (31 page)

Callie, he had to warn her but before he could he had to find her. Backing away, he had one foot off the stoop when Lottie Rivers appeared in the doorway, calling him back. "Mr. St. Claire, do come in. Callie isn't here at present, but we two can have a nice cozy chat while we wait."

Myriad excuses came to mind but when she assured him that his showing up on her doorstep had saved her from calling on him there was nothing to do but accept as graciously as possible. Besides, if anyone knew where Callie was, it would be her aunt.

He'd no sooner crossed the entrance threshold than the little maid was stepping behind him, pulling the coat from his shoulders and whisking away his hat. Feeling very much like the lone fly caught in a spider's web, he relinquished his outerwear and followed Lottie Rivers into her snug little parlor.

"I am so very glad you called, Mr. Rivers," she said once they were alone. "I was just about to have a spot of sherry and I abhor drinking by myself. You will join me, won't you?"

He nodded. "Yes, thank you." The dram of scotch he'd knocked back at Gavin's had worn off long ago, leaving him solidly sober and taut as a bowstring on the brink of snapping.

She moved to the marble-topped wine table where a crystal decanter and glasses set out on a silver tray. Over her shoulder, she said, "I'm afraid I can't say when Callie will be back. She's a private meeting with Lord Stonevale, and Heaven only knows how long that will last."

The meeting with Stonevale, of course! Mired as he was in his problems, he'd as good as forgotten Callie's triumph of the night before, the invitation to tea at the Stonevales. Were he alone, he would have smacked his hand against his forehead, not once but several times.

Lottie's voice called him back to the present. Back to him as she poured out the wine, she said, "I do so appreciate your bringing her home last night. These sudden headaches can be trying, and I know she was loath to ask me to end the evening early as well."

Rather than be put in the position of having to lie, he crossed over to the fireplace under pretense of warming his hands. A pair of silver-framed tintypes flanked either side of the cream-colored mantel shelf, sundry bric-a-brac sandwiched between. With nothing else to occupy himself, professional curiosity had him picking up the nearest one. A younger Charlotte Rivers smiled back at him, her arm linked with that of a tall, gaunt-looking gentleman of late middle years. Behind them, a gondola glided along crystalline water, the arrested motion causing the background to blur.

Coming up beside him, she said, "My late husband Edward, God rest his soul. That photograph was taken in Venice along the canal the year before he passed. His physician thought the dry Italian air might benefit his lungs. Knowing it was likely the last trip abroad we would ever undertake together made it a bittersweet moment for us both."

He turned to accept the glass of sherry she held out. "Ill though he was, I'm sure he counted himself the most fortunate of men to spend his final days with you."

She took a sip from her glass, her profiled face wistful if not exactly sad. "I count myself the fortunate one, Mr. Rivers. To love and be loved in return is a wondrous state of being. Whether that love lasts for decades or but a single day, it is a precious gift all the same." She turned to face him, knowing gaze meeting his full-on. "It saddens me to think that there are those who let life slip by without ever reaching out for that sort of happiness."

Uncomfortable under her scrutiny--if she had a clue as to whom or rather what he was, surely she'd send him bouncing out her door--he picked up the remaining photograph, this one of a very young couple. The woman, scarcely more than a girl, sat stiffly in a high-backed chair, her flounced skirts festooned with lace and a great many bows. The man, bull-necked and bandy-legged, stood beside her, one hand resting on the back of her chair, the other concealed inside his coat pocket. Hadrian glanced back to the girl's face, thinking she looked familiar indeed when it struck him. Callie! Her chin in the portrait was more rounded than squared, the lovely high cheekbones present but less pronounced, the full mouth pulled into a tight, almost pained smile, and yet still it was her. He could only imagine the torture she'd endured to transform her thick, straight locks into that silly confection of corkscrew curls and yet somehow he very much doubted that her coiffure accounted for the unmistakable sadness in her eyes.

Next to him, Lottie said, "That was taken a few weeks before her twentieth birthday."

"I take it the man was her fiance?" Again, he felt that irrational surge of jealousy that had him all but slamming the photograph down on the mantel shelf.

Her eyes widened. "She told you she'd been engaged?" At his mute nod, she shook her head and sighed. "They never would have suited, a blind man could have seen that straightaway, but her parents pushed her into it, too afraid they'd have an old maid on their hands to give a fig for her happiness. I only set it out because it's the one photograph I have of her. Until Mrs. Fawcett commissioned you, she was adamant never to come near a camera lens again."

Poor Callie. No wonder she had such a poor opinion of men and marriage, as well as such a keen dislike for posing for photographs. The latter must have been nothing short of torture for her. Now that he understood all she'd been through, the humiliation she'd endured not only from her scapegrace fiance but her family, he would be the last to blame her.

Lottie took the picture from him and gave it a long look. "Gerald Dandridge was only a younger son, but the family is considered if not exactly top-drawer then the nearest thing to it. Even so, she is well rid of him. Well rid."

Hadrian nearly choked on the swallow of sherry he'd just taken. "Did you say Gerald
Dandridge?"
At her nod, he pressed, "What relation, if any, is he to Josiah Dandridge?"

Gaze trained on his face, she replied, "Why, they are father and son. By all accounts, Gerald will stand for his father's seat in the next election."

He'd always thought the MP's hatred for Callie went beyond the political and now he understood why. To Dandridge's way of thinking, Callie had jilted his son, an affront that an overly proud man such as he would take very personally indeed.

Not yet sure how he might use this latest information to his advantage, or more properly to Callie's, he knew he had to get away if only to think. He set his glass down atop the mantel and turned to go. "I'm afraid I must be on my way, Mrs. Rivers. You'll tell Callie I called?"

"Of course, but Mr. St. Claire wherever are you dashing off to now?" She glanced down to his glass, still more than half full. "Why, you've hardly touched your drink."

"The three of us will have a toast in celebration shortly, I dare say. For now, though, I have to see a man about crying off a business deal."

He shot out into the hallway, nearly barreling into the maid who'd been standing outside the door, ear cocked. Heading out into the main hallway, he snatched up his things. He was hurrying down the steps and buttoning his coat when the screech of the front gate had him looking up.

The slender dandy in a bottle green coat and handlebar mustache entering the yard looked vaguely familiar though where Hadrian had seen him before he couldn't immediately say. He didn't think he'd ever photographed him. Even so, he never forgot a face.

He was about to continue on his way with a nod when the man stepped in front of him. "I say, you're that photographer chap, aren't you? The one Callie's been sitting for."

His narrowing gaze had Hadrian hesitating before answering, "Yes, I'm St. Claire, what of it?"

"I'm Theodore Cavendish though my friends all call me Teddy."

Looking the man up and down, Hadrian heartily doubted he would find himself among their number. Temper short, he almost said as much but bit back the caustic reply in time. Whoever this man was, he was obviously a friend or acquaintance of Callie or her aunt, perhaps both. Despite his haste, there was nothing to be gained by being rude.

Beneath the waxed mustache, a pink tongue darted out to moisten cracked lips. "If you'll pardon my asking, what is your given name?"

Wondering if this was some sort of trick question--if this was Dandridge's snitch, his loud clothing hardly had him blending into the backdrop--he answered, "Hadrian, though I don't know what the devil my name should mean to you."

"Hadrian St. Claire." The man's too friendly smile dimmed and his narrow shoulders drooped. "That would make your initials H.S. H.S.," he mumbled under his breath, his watery eyes making him appear close to tears.

Placing him finally, Hadrian recalled seeing him once or twice before at suffrage functions. Being one of the few other men present as well as having a proclivity toward brightly colored jackets and bold prints had made him stand out from the crowd.

"Oh, right. You're Callie's friend from the rally in Parliament Square."

"Quite." The two men eyed one another and then Teddy stepped closer to confide, "Actually Callie and I are a great deal more than friends if you take my meaning." He punctuated the statement with a wink.

"I'm afraid I don't. Perhaps you'd care to explain."

A sly smile, a glance from side to side to see if anyone was about to overhear, and then, "We're to be married shortly."

Hadrian suddenly felt as if the paving stones beneath his feet had caved in, sending him hurtling toward oblivion. Callie to be married! Keeping his tone even, he said, "But I've just come from visiting her aunt, who said nothing of a wedding."

Theodore--Teddy--dismissed that statement with a shrug of his narrow shoulders. "We've had an understanding for months now but what with the press dogging her every movement, Callie understandably wanted to hold off on making any announcement. As soon as this whole bloody business with the bill is resolved, though, we'll be proclaiming our happy news to all and sundry. Until then, though mum's the word."

Hadrian felt numb in a way that had nothing to do with the chill seeping through his clothing. Standing there with hands stuffed into his coat pockets if only to keep from wrapping them about Callie's "fiance's" scrawny neck, he struggled to instead wrap his mind about this latest news. Callie to wed this popinjay of all persons! Then again, perhaps after her past experience with Dandridge's brutish whelp, the effete Theodore held some bizarre appeal.

"In that case, allow me to be the first to wish you happy." Manners dictated that he offer his hand, but as he still didn't entirely trust himself, he held back.

Leaning forward, Theodore slapped Hadrian on the shoulder as though they were old friends. "Thanks, old man. I do appreciate it. If those pictures you've taken of Callie turn out to be any good, I may just commission you to make our wedding portrait. There'll be a nice tip in it for you, too, no worries there."

"I'm afraid I can't take on any more commission work at this time." Indeed, were he down to his last crust of bread, photographing Callie in bridal white, her arm intertwined with that of her "Teddy" would be beyond him.

Feeling ill, he turned to go. If Callie's fiance had a mind to stop him a second time, he wouldn't hesitate to knock the stripling to the ground. He must have looked ferocious indeed because this time the other man stepped quickly out of his way. Too bloody bad. Stalking toward the street, it occurred to him that stepping over a prostrate "Teddy" would have been a short-lived satisfaction but satisfaction all the same.

Leaving the Stonevales' residence, Callie was hard-pressed not to skip down the street. The interview had gone even better than she'd dared to hope, setting her up for success on the morrow when she met with Lord Salisbury. Millicent would be ecstatic. Eager to share the good news with her mentor, she almost stopped off at a telegraph office but superstition held her back. Counting her goslings before they were hatched, what better way to tempt Fate than that? Superstition aside, if there was one thing political life had taught her was that there were any number of hidden variables that could surface to alter an outcome in your opponent's favor--or yours. Far more prudent to keep her good news to herself, or at least not transmit it across the Atlantic, until victory was reasonably assured.

Lottie, of course, could be trusted implicitly, although the person with whom she most wanted to share her day was Hadrian. After just one night in his arms, already she was weaving schoolgirl fantasies that had them strolling hand in hand through the years, finally holed up in a cozy library not unlike the one from which she'd just come, pets and knitting and children and grandchildren's photographs ranged about.