He stopped in front of a three-story gray brick building and looked up at the finely scrolled lettering above its double doors. VAN CLEVE ENTERPRISES and below: 11 Grayson Lane.
A young man approached him in a tomblike lobby that echoed his footsteps. He was directed to the second floor. Everything was old in London, he thought as he climbed the wide marble stairs, old and stolid, fairly reeking of English respectability. He pushed open a double set of thick oak doors and found himself in an elegantly appointed outer office. A young man, this one with bushy side whiskers and glasses, rose to greet him.
“Mr. Saxton?”
At Alex’s nod, the young man said, “My name is Drew Mortesson, Mrs. Van Cleve’s assistant. Welcome to London, sir. Mr. Ffalkes, your solicitor, Mr. Hardesty, Mrs. Van Cleve’s partner, and Mr. Hammett Engles, your London associate, are in the conference room. If you will follow me, sir.”
“And Mrs. Van Cleve?” Alex inquired, arching a thick black brow. From all he had heard, the lady dragon always saw to her own business.
Drew paused but an instant before replying, “ Unfortunately, Mrs. Van Cleve has fallen ill with the influenza. Her daughter, Georgiana Van Cleve, will be conducting the meeting.”
Not another woman. Although he knew a good deal about the mother, Alex hadn’t bothered to check up on the daughter. He must have betrayed his thoughts, because Drew Mortesson said quietly, “I believe you will find Miss Van Cleve to be as capable as her mother. Although she is young, she has been completely involved in all the Van Cleve interests for the past four years, and is qualified to discuss every aspect of the proposed merger.”
“I am certain that she is,” Alex said with ill-disguised sarcasm. Now he was to do business with a damned girl, or perhaps a spinster of uncertain years. He supposed, in all fairness, that he would have been equally put off if it were Aurora Van Cleve’s son. He had endured quite enough of puffed-up sons in their father’s businesses.
A bell sounded, and Drew cast a harried look back toward his office. “If you will excuse me for a moment, sir,” he said, and hurried away.
Alex strolled down a thickly carpeted corridor that swallowed the sound of his steps. Stolid and depressingly quiet, he thought, like a well-kept mausoleum. He much preferred the chaotic activity of South Street, with its tightly packed row of tall-masted ships, and their passengers mingling with porters, carmen, and drays, and, of course, the frenetic high-hatted clerks from the offices across the street. He had torn down a large countinghouse that had dominated South Street in the 1820’s, and built in its stead a stately three-story edifice. Because he had had fond feelings for his deceased father-in-law, he had named the building A. Saxton & F. Nielson. His huge office occupied half the top floor, and whenever he wished, he could swivel about in his chair and gaze out the huge glass windows onto the bustling street.
He paused a moment to study the row of paintings on the corridor walls above the rich wainscoting. Portraits of ships under full sail with their names in gold script. The Netherlands, the Cornucopia, the Alaistair, all famous ships built in the early years of the century. There were later pictures, daguerreotypes, showing several Van Cleve ships in the Plymouth shipyard. The Hunter, a huge cargo vessal with enough white canvas rigging to cover a building, had docked in New York the week before he had left, carrying cases of wine from the Van Cleve vineyards in Bordeaux.
Alex continued down the corridor toward a richly carved set of double doors that looked to be the thickness of his forearm. He looked to see if Drew Mortesson was coming, but he was nowhere in sight. He shrugged and opened the doors. He strode into another antechamber, impressively furnished with heavy mahogany chairs and a black leather Bentington sofa, this one, he supposed, the waiting room outside Aurora Van Cleve’s throne room.
To his surprise, he saw a curtained glass window on the far wall that gave into the next room. He wondered if he would be able to see whom he was to do business with, without he himself having to undergo their scrutiny. He stepped quietly to the window and drew the curtain. It was a splendidly decorated room, every inch of it showing subdued good taste. At the far end, set near the floor-to-ceiling windows, was a huge mahogany desk. He wondered somewhat cynically why the heavy velvet draperies were open, for there was nothing to see save thick fog. A long oak table with heavy comfortable chairs around it was set in the middle of the room. A decanter on a silver tray with crystal glasses grouped about it was readied at its center. He saw Mr. Ffalkes, standing by the window, looking like a plump fop, mopping his wide brow with a handkerchief. His business associate, Hammett Engles, was seated near the desk, looking somewhat like a mournful undertaker in his stark black, shuffling papers in his lap. He supposed the other man was Thomas Hardesty, Aurora Van Cleve’s partner. He was pouring himself a cup of tea, Alex suspected, from a pot on the edge of the desk. His thin mouth had a look of bored amusement, and his gray eyes seemed vague. He was not, Alex decided, a man to underestimate. Perhaps Aurora Van Cleve’s success was the work of that mild-looking, likely very astute man. He saw a woman standing with her back to the men, facing the window. She was dressed fashionably enough, but her silk gown was a subdued gray, and the corset she undoubtedly wore managed quite well to conceal any curves beneath her bodice. Her hair was inky black and coiled into a thick chignon at the nape of her neck. She turned at something Ffalkes said, laughing lightly, and he saw a very young profile, not at all unpleasing. Thomas Hardesty walked toward the long table and she turned to follow him. When he saw her full face, he felt an instant of vague puzzlement, and then a blighting shock of recognition. He had to be mistaken. He felt a knot of fury clutch his belly as he studied her. It was she—he would never forget that face. The vivid dark blue eyes, the elegant arched brows, the raven-black hair. But it made no sense. Helen, Molly, Georgiana Van Cleve—Giana, the odd name he remembered hearing that night four years ago in Rome. Georgiana Van Cleve, the famous Aurora Van Cleve’s daughter, had played a cheap little harlot to bilk him of two thousand dollars, and arranged to have him bashed over the head for good measure. He had been insane to buy her in the first place, but what had truly galled him, galled him still, was that he had been played for a fool, an utter ass, who had rushed headlong into the trap she had set. He remembered quite clearly how she had sought him out in the room of gentlemen at Signora Lamponni’s Flower Auction, how she had managed to gain his interest. A marvelous actress, that one. He had tried to find the little bitch, even postponed his trip to Paris, but with no success. She seemed to have vanished, and that stiff-lipped madam, Signora Lamponni, had told him that all she knew about the girl was that she had come from Paris, highly recommended, of course. He had known she was lying, but there was no changing her story. She quickly offered to refund his two thousand dollars, but he had slammed out of her presence, so infuriated that he could scarcely think straight. He supposed it was best that he hadn’t found the little slut, for if he had, he might have strangled her.
Dammit, how could this girl be Aurora Van Cleve’s daughter—the harlot he had bought as a virgin in Rome four years ago? Virgin. That was a laugh. He intended to find out. But first he would show her she was playing in his world now.
Drew Mortesson appeared at his elbow. “Excuse me, Mr. Saxton, for leaving you. If you will accompany me, sir, we can proceed.”
Alex nodded at him, drew in his breath, and schooled his features. He followed Drew into the conference room, which was suddenly quiet at his entrance. He purposefully set his gaze away from Georgiana Van Cleve.
“Gentlemen,” he said, acknowledging Ffalkes’s and Engles’s presence. “You, sir, must be Thomas Hardesty. It is a pleasure.”
“I assure you, Mr. Saxton, that it is also our pleasure,” Thomas said. “It is gratifying to have a bit of migration to this side of the world, even though it is for but a short time. I suppose that Drew has told you of Mrs. Van Cleve’s indisposition,” he continued. “Her daughter, however, is most worthy to take her place. Miss Van Cleve, sir.�
�
Alex turned dark mocking eyes toward the girl. As he had listened gravely to Mr. Hardesty’s greeting, he had thought he heard a small gasp. Now he saw that her eyes were wide upon him, her face as pale as the white lace on her gown. He was immensely pleased that she recognized him. The little rich girl who had played out her games in Rome knew well who he was.
Giana felt her heart plummet to her toes. She saw his dark eyes sweep over her, just as they had that long-ago night—confident, even insolent—and now, oh, God, he knew. She felt a shock of remembered terror and humiliation of that night. Her eyes were drawn to his hands, large with long blunt fingers, fingers that had caressed her. She remembered her nails raking over his face in her fear, and the black pain when he had hit her jaw.
She wanted to run, but instead she sagged in her chair. Never, Aurora had preached to her, never let a man rile you—and believe me, Giana, some of them will try. They will be condescending, arrogant, even stupidly flattering. Men like that you must treat like wooden sticks. You can laugh at them; it makes their tongues stick to the roofs of their mouths. Or, if you prefer, be indifferent; it makes them question their manhood and their confidence. Even as Giana remembered her mother’s words, her mind screamed at the man: what are you going to do? Will you accuse me of being a whore in front of all these men? She knew that her complexion had turned sickly white. She felt a morbid sense of the inevitable, but she refused to let him see her discomfort.
She said from her chair in a creditably calm voice, “You must be Mr. . . .” She stumbled on his name. “Saxton, is it not? How do you do?” She started to offer him her hand, and quickly withdrew it when she saw he did not move to take it.
A thick black brow rose a good inch at the calm indifference in her voice. His eyes held hers for a moment, and he admitted to being impressed with her bravado.
“Forgive me for being somewhat late,” he said. “I should leave that prerogative to the ladies, who so richly deserve it.”
So that was the course he was going to follow, at least for the time being. “Forgive me, Mr. Saxton, for forgetting your name—a fault that is certainly more grave than being a mere ten minutes late. But men in business—” She shrugged elaborately. “You seem to look so much alike—it is difficult sometimes to keep names and faces straight.”
“Then I shall have to be sufficiently memorable so that you won’t forget my name again, won’t I, Giana?”
God in heaven, where had he heard her nickname? The cold-blooded bastard.
Thomas Hardesty observed their interchange with incredulity. What kind of perverse game were they playing? And why was Saxton deliberately insulting her?
Hammett Engles was staring at Alex as if he had lost his mind. He turned nervously to Raymond Ffalkes, and motioned him to be seated. He said to Alex, “Please, Alex, sit down. It is time to get to business.”
“Business?” Alex said, flicking his eyes toward Giana. “Certainly it is always pleasant to while away a morning with a lovely lady, or an evening. But business, my dear fellow?”
Giana felt a rush of rage. He was clearly going to continue toying with her, hoping, undoubtedly, that her composure would shatter. Dammit, she would not give him the pleasure.
She saw that of all the gentlemen only Drew wasn’t flustered. He was staring at Alex Saxton with narrowed, assessing eyes.
Giana said quickly, “Do not, I beg you, be offended, Drew. Mr. Saxton is, after all, an American, and doubtless he is unused to dealing with women.”
But quite used to dealing with harlots, Alex’s narrowed eyes said to her. Surely, she thought wildly, she could explain everything to him, make him understand that it had all been a mistake, a ghastly mistake.
“Business it is,” Alex said aloud. “I have no other plans for the morning.” He eased his powerful body down into a chair, crossed his long legs, managing to look insolently bored. “Well,” he said to Ffalkes, “let’s get on with it, man.”
Raymond Ffalkes tugged briefly at his cravat, noticing as he did so that Saxton was not wearing a cravat, but rather the thin black tie newly in fashion. “As you know, gentlemen, ma’am,” he began in a pompous tone, “this merger will be of ultimate benefit to both parties, and a particular boon to the Van Cleve interests.” Giana stiffened at his condescension, wishing she but had her mother’s poise and her wit. But her tongue lay dead in her mouth.
“Under Mr. Saxton’s direction, I have prepared a summary of the gains to be realized by Van Cleve, gains, I might add, that render Mr. Saxton’s offer more than generous.” He looked down at the papers in a neat stack on the table, and extracted one of them. “If you will allow me to enumerate the profitability projections, based upon the active control to be exercised by Mr. Saxton’s management.”
Thomas Hardesty said calmly, “It is, of course, a point of negotiation, Mr. Ffalkes, as to the control such a merger would bring to Mr. Saxton.” He looked toward Giana, and to his relief, she seemed perfectly in control of herself again.
She said in response to his look, “Please continue, Mr. Ffalkes, with your discourse. I am certain we will find it most enlightening.”
Despite herself, Giana looked warily toward Alex Saxton. She stiffened for he was regarding her as if he expected nothing she could possibly say to be of any importance. We shall shortly see, she thought, forcing her eyes back toward Mr. Ffalkes. “Let poor Raymond have all the rope he wants,” her mother had said. “It is you, Giana, who have all you need to spring the trapdoor when he has wrapped it about his neck.”
Mr. Ffalkes beamed. He had let Hammett Engles convince him that Miss Van Cleve, the little chit, was as sharp as a tack. He thought of his wife, Lenore, commiserating with him but that morning, shaking her gray head. “My poor dear, to be forced to sit through a meeting with a young woman. It is unheard of, and quite improper. I but hope that you can flatter her enough to please Mr. Saxton.”
Giana let him drone on, citing his figures.
“. . . and with the stowage of the twelve Van Cleve ships, and of course, taking into consideration the loss of the Constant, it would appear that—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Ffalkes,” Giana said. “You have not accounted the present total cargo stowage of the twelve Van Cleve ships, merely projected an increase to eight thousand tons. Would you please tell me how you developed that figure?”
Raymond Ffalkes was mildly annoyed. “Just a moment, Miss Van Cleve, and I will give you the information.” He shuffled through the papers and withdrew the ledger a clerk had prepared for him the previous week. “The stowage is currently thirty-eight hundred tons.”
“How very odd, Mr. Ffalkes,” Giana continued, as if perplexed. “I find it most gratifying that with a simple change in management, and the eventual addition of six ships, cargo space can be so impressively increased. Perhaps Mr. Saxton has developed a special technique to stretch a ship’s hold?”
“No, Miss Van Cleve,” Ffalkes snapped. “There must be an error here, yes, I’m afraid there has been an error.”
“We can deal with your error later, Mr. Ffalkes,” Giana said sweetly. “Pray continue.”
Raymond Ffalkes faltered a moment, but gathered confidence again when Miss Van Cleve did not interrupt him. “—and the projected profit increase, based upon the expanded trade routes, falls in the range of thirty percent, or roughly one hundred thousand pounds per annum.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Ffalkes,” Giana said. “It is our understanding that we can reasonably expect to expand our current shipping to China, not the more profitable India trade. I believe if you will but recheck your figures with that in mind, you will find that the projected increase is closer to fifteen percent, or fifty thousand pounds per annum, accounting, of course, for any improvements Mr. Saxton’s management may make.”
Raymond Ffalkes turned a mottled red. Thomas Hardesty hid his smile behind a quickly pulled handkerchief, wishing Aurora were present to hear her daughter carry out her part. A look of unholy glee lit Drew’s sensitive
face.
“Indeed, Mr. Ffalkes, I believe that if we are to begin our negotiations in earnest,” Giana continued, laying her hands palm down on the table, “I must request that you work with Mr. Engles or Mr. Saxton to correct your estimates. I suggest we adjourn until you have amended your reports. I bid you good morning, gentlemen.”
“Miss Van Cleve.”
Giana drew to a halt at the sound of Alex Saxton’s voice behind her. She turned to look at him, her heart pounding too loudly.
“I believe,” Alex said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “that you and I should discuss this merger over dinner this evening. I will fetch you at eight o’clock.”
To Drew and Thomas’s absolute astonishment, Giana nodded.
“Very astute of you, my dear,” he said, drawing close to her. “There is much, is there not, for us to discuss?”
Chapter 11
Aurora set aside the afternoon edition of the Times and smiled a welcome to her daughter.
Giana forced a smile in return. “You look miraculously recovered, Mama,” she said. She thought her mother looked stunning, in fact, in her tea gown of soft yellow silk, her long hair braided in a coronet atop her head.
“It is fortunate for us the influenza is so very unpredictable, isn’t it, Giana?” Aurora laughed. “Sit down, my love, and tell me all about the meeting and Mr. Saxton.”
Giana walked to a spindle French chair and clutched at its back. She gazed abstractedly for a moment at a vase of exquisite red roses, sent, she knew, by his grace earlier in the day, before looking back at her mother. “The light guns performed well, I think. Another meeting with me, and the gentlemen should be ready for your entrance.”
Evening Star Page 16
