Evening Star

by Catherine Coulter

  Aurora frowned at Giana’s subdued voice. Thomas had told her that Giana’s performance had been sterling, and she had expected her to be elated with her success. She noticed Giana was pale, too pale, and her eyes were overly bright. “Did something happen to upset you, Giana?”

  “Upset me, Mother? Why, no.” You need not know any of it, Mother, until I know what he wants. “ Raymond Ffalkes hung himself with a bit of assistance from me, just as we knew he would. I adjourned the meeting with queenly scorn, much to Thomas and Drew’s amusement.”

  “I would have liked to see Raymond’s reaction to being bested by a twenty-one-year-old girl. And what of Mr. Saxton? What is he like?”

  “I believe,” she said carefully, “that he was rather peeved with Ffalkes, but he did not interfere when I adjourned. Actually, everything happened just as we planned, even down to the figures we knew Mr. Ffalkes would use.” She raised wary eyes to her mother’s face. “I am having dinner with Mr. Saxton this evening.”

  “You are dining with him,” Aurora repeated, staring at her daughter.

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Aurora was uncertain how she should respond to this bald announcement. In the past four years, she had watched Giana blossom into a beautiful young lady—the picture of herself, she thought without conceit, when she had been her daughter’s age. But she had refused any social entanglements at all with gentlemen, preferring older men, like Thomas, for her escorts.

  “I see,” she said at last. “You like Mr. Saxton, then.”

  “We are dining together to discuss American commerce, that is all.”

  “I see,” Aurora said again, not seeing at all. “Where are you dining?”

  “I don’t know. We did not discuss it.”

  “You must have a care, then, Giana. Since Mr. Saxton is not familiar with London, why do you not recommend the Albion or London Taverns? It is ridiculous that a lady may not dine anywhere she pleases in the company of a gentleman, but so it is.”

  He would likely take her to Soho, Giana thought, paling. After all, he believed her a whore—why would he not treat her like one?

  “I should like to meet Mr. Saxton when he comes for you this evening,” Aurora continued.

  “He is really nothing out of the ordinary, Mother. Somewhat boring, actually.”

  “Still, if you would not mind. I promise not to talk business.” Her eyes twinkled. “In fact, I will have to arrange to appear a trifle pale. After all, am I not a victim of the influenza?” As Giana did not answer her, Aurora continued lightly, “I have found that much headway can be made in private, say, over a dinner. That is perhaps why Mr. Saxton has invited you. I know you will keep your wits about you, Giana. Remember, the Van Cleves must retain control. Our merger with Mr. Saxton can exceed no more than forty percent, total value.”

  “Yes, Mother, I know.” Giana looked away from her mother again, at the vase of roses. She wanted nothing more than to escape her mother’s penetrating eye, to be alone to think about what she was to do.

  “They are from Damien’s hothouse at Graffton Manor,” Aurora said, following her daughter’s eyes. “Lovely, are they not? The duke will be dining here this evening. He will be sorry to miss you.”

  “Yes, certainly.” Giana fidgeted with the brocade on the chair back. She had been worried for weeks about her mother’s flirtation with the duke, and now her unease about the coming evening fashioned itself into anger. “You have seen a great deal of the duke in the past weeks, Mother. You have not told me if you are planning to marry him.”

  Aurora rose from her chair and drew her daughter to her, hugging her gently. “You did not seem to wish to speak of it, my love. He has asked me. Perhaps I have been carried away by that impossible man. I never know what he will say next, but what he does say is invariably charming. Perhaps I am in my dotage. I feel like I’ve known him for years.”

  “I don’t understand you, Mother. Surely you, of all women, would not give up all you have to marry again. He would be your husband, just as was my father. You cannot do it, knowing what you know about men and marriage.”

  “He is not at all like your father, Giana, of that I am certain. Have you ever desired a man, Giana, physically?”

  Images of men, grunting and heaving over the girls at Madame Lucienne’s brothel, careened through Giana’s mind. All of them were repellent, all save one. The man who had bought her at the Flower Auction. “Yes, Mama,” she said finally, “one man. It was not Randall Bennett.”

  “A man in Rome?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you will understand me when I tell you that I desire Damien as a woman desires a man. I had not realized how inward I had become over the years. I want Damien’s voice, his touch, his caring. I want those things, Giana, for myself.”

  Giana shook away the memory of Alex Saxton in Rome, the memory of wanting him even in her fear. It frightened her.

  “How can you give up all you have gained in the past fifteen years, Mother, all because of a ridiculous man who makes you blush like a schoolgirl?”

  “Giana, I have told you that I am certain about him. He is honorable and loving. I trust him.”

  “That is like trusting one of the lions at the exhibition. He may toy with you for a time, for his amusement, but when he tires of you, he can tear you apart. I grant you that the duke is charming, wiser, perhaps, than other gentlemen. But you cannot believe that he treated his first wife with anything like mutual respect. She was a brood mare, a possession, and you know it. Did she not breed five or six children for him?”

  Aurora heard the anger behind her daughter’s words, anger that suddenly seemed too strong, too wrenching. She said gently, “Giana, we are raised to believe certain things, behave in certain ways. It is unfortunate that the laws give men such power over women—”

  “Men made the bloody laws.”

  “My marriage to Damien would probably mean that I would work all the harder,” Aurora said lightly. “Damien fully intends that I conduct his affairs. I expect his man of business will have a fit when he discovers how things will be after I become the Duchess of Graffton. I love you, Giana, more than anyone else in the world. We would continue to be close, continue to work together. The only difference would be Damien, and I know that he would add to our lives, not take anything from us.”

  “Obviously, Mother, I cannot call upon Daniele to carry you off to Rome.”

  “Nor do you need to, Giana. I am forty-four years old and know what I want.” She lightly touched her fingers to her daughter’s hand. “I hope you too will find such a man as he, a man who will not try to subjugate you or own you.”

  Alex Saxton’s dark face rose before her. “Not I, Mother,” she said in a broken voice. “Forgive me, Mama. I doubt there is such a man as you describe for me. I do want you to be happy, you must believe me.” She managed a crooked smile. “If the duke ever upsets you, I will run him through with a rapier.”

  Aurora had seen the myriad expressions flit across her daughter’s face before she replied with such forced lightness. She sensed they had nothing to do with her marriage to the Duke of Graffton.

  “I shall dutifully warn him.”

  “I pray, Mother,” Giana said, keeping her voice even, “that the duke will be what you want. And you needn’t worry about me. I must change now, Mother.”

  “I too, my love. Giana—”

  “Yes, Mother?”

  Aurora shook her head. “Nothing, my love, it will keep.”

  “Mr. Saxton, Miss Giana.”

  Giana rose quickly and stood with her back pressed against the mantelpiece. Alexander Saxton, dressed quite correctly in formal black evening wear, strode into the drawing room. She had not realized he was so large. Even Lanson, who was built like a bruiser, seemed dwarfed beside him.

  “Mr. Saxton,” she said in a cool voice.

  He walked slowly across the room to her, his lips tightening as he took in her attire. She thrust up her chin at him. If it was his int
ention to treat her like a harlot, she had decided she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her dressed like anything but a dowd. She felt her spectacles slip down on her nose, and pushed them back up.

  “Miss Van Cleve,” Alex said, coming to a halt before her. “How delightful you look.” His eyes swept from the severe spinsterish chignon at the top of her head, past the glasses perched on her nose, and down the expanse of mustard-brown silk to the slippers that peeped from below her hem, the only fashionable piece of apparel she wore. But he saw her too as she had looked four years before, her soft breasts bared to his eyes, her sooty black lashes fanned against her white cheeks.

  “My mother has requested to meet you, Mr. Saxton,” she said. “Would you care to follow me?”

  “In a moment, Miss Van Cleve.” Before she knew what he was about, he pulled the glasses from her nose. He ignored her gasp, and raised them to his eyes. “Clear glass,” he said aloud, and calmly tossed them through the grate into the fireplace. “I recall well what you look like, Giana,” he said, quite conversationally. “The memory is vivid, in fact. Now, I will give you thirty minutes to take yourself upstairs, gown yourself appropriately, and rid yourself of the ridiculous hairdo.”

  “I will do no such thing, Mr. Saxton. How dare you give me orders.”

  “Ah, you approve your appearance, then? It fits your image of yourself?”

  “It is none of your affair, sir.”

  “I beg to differ with you, Miss Van Cleve, but it is very much my affair.” He saw that she was rigid with anger, and said in a voice of dangerous calm, “If you do not do as I say, Giana, you will regret it, I promise you.”

  Giana grasped her full skirts in her hands, and walked, head high, from the salon.

  “Thirty minutes. It would be unwise of you to keep me waiting.”

  When Giana appeared precisely half an hour later, Alex was seated quite at his ease, a snifter of brandy in his hand. “Ah,” he said, “much better. How very innocent you look, my dear, every inch the young lady.”

  Abigail, Giana’s maid, had expertly brushed out the thick chignon and braided her hair into a coronet atop her head. She had tugged wisps of curling black hair to fall over her forehead and tumble over her ears, a style, she had informed Giana tartly, that went with her young years. She had planted a diamond-and-emerald necklace about her neck, and fitted her with a gown of pale yellow taffeta that hugged her waist and fell in graceful folds over her petticoats.

  “Now, my dear, let us not keep your mother waiting longer. I trust she is feeling better?”

  “Yes, much better.” Giana felt herself pale under his insolent gaze. “You will not,” she said, “that is—”

  He cut her off. “Tell Mrs. Van Cleve that her charming, innocent daughter enjoys playing the harlot? I am relieved that she doesn’t know. If you do as I tell you, there is no reason for you to worry.”

  He walked beside her up the wide staircase. “Or does your mother know all about your little games? Perhaps she is even proud of you, or like you?”

  Giana jerked around to face him and struck the flat of her hand against his cheek. He caught her wrist and bore it back to her side so roughly that she gasped aloud. “I will add that to your bill,” he said.

  One of the most imposing men Aurora had ever seen opened the door to her sitting room for her daughter. She quickly took in his broad shoulders beneath his elegant evening wear, the lithe grace of his hips and long, muscular legs. His black hair was as inky as Giana’s, but his eyes were vivid and long-lashed, dark brown, almost black, and at the moment, regarding her as openly as she was him. Was this why Giana agreed to spend the evening with him? Was she taken with him despite herself? But Giana had said he was nothing out of the ordinary, that he was boring, in fact.

  “Mrs. Van Cleve,” he said in a deep, pleasant voice.

  “Pray come no closer, Mr. Saxton,” Aurora said from her reclining pose on her daybed. “I would not want you to come down with my stupid complaint. Giana, my love, you look charming.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” Giana said in a flat voice.

  “Giana tells me, Mr. Saxton, that Raymond Ffalkes was somewhat remiss in his presentation at your meeting this morning. I have never believed it wise to leave such details to solicitors and accountants. They seem to underestimate people.”

  Alex’s rich laughter made Aurora start. She glanced quickly at Giana. My Lord, she thought, he is a splendid animal.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Alex said, his dark eyes crinkled in amusement. “I have told him firmly that I do not pay him to think or to judge my business opponents, merely to provide accurate information. I trust you will find him more worthy at our next meeting. Indeed, ma’am, you look very nearly healthy. Perhaps you will be present?”

  Aurora smiled pleasantly. “That remains to be seen. But surely you do not consider the Van Cleves opponents, sir. We both want the same things, I am sure. A merger that will benefit us all. This is your first trip to England, Mr. Saxton?”

  “Indeed it is, ma’am. I hope to have our business complete by the end of the week, and then enjoy myself.”

  “It will be up to your associates, I believe, to expedite our dealings. Is your daughter traveling with you, Mr. Saxton?”

  “No, Mrs. Van Cleve, Leah is safely ensconced in New York with her governess. The child is too young as yet to appreciate the delights of travel.”

  Aurora coughed, as if on cue, and Giana said suddenly, “You have had enough tiring conversation for one evening, Mother.”

  “I trust,” Alex said smoothly, “that you do not equate tiring with boring, Miss Van Cleve.”

  “My mother is ill, sir.”

  “I begin to think myself the daughter being scolded by a fond mother,” Aurora said, filling in the naked gap left by her daughter’s outburst. “Where will you go to dinner?”

  “To the Albion,” Giana said, gazing stone-faced toward Alex.

  “Indeed, I had decided upon the London Taverns, but no matter. It has been a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Van Cleve. I hope for your speedy recovery.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Saxton. I hope you will not be too late, Giana. Tomorrow is a full day, is it not?”

  “I am relieved you have dressed like a young lady,” he said as he assisted Giana into the hired carriage outside. “I was half-afraid you would change into something more suited to your profession.” He ignored her gasp. “Or is business so good that you can play at being a lady with the gentlemen you deal with? There must be many men,” he continued, as if musing loud, “to choose from in the world of business.”

  “You are an insufferable jackass. London will not miss your like when you take your leave.”

  “But I will be well remembered, Giana, you may count on that, at least by you.”

  He was answered with stark silence. He grinned into the darkness and sat back comfortably.

  Dark rain clouds hung low in the sky and the air was damp and chilly. Giana hugged herself against the carriage door and concentrated on the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves over the cobblestones until the carriage turned onto Great Russell Street and came to a halt before the elegantly facaded Albion.

  “I was delighted at your selection of restaurants. I was rather afraid I would be thrust willy-nilly into the more unsavory side of London. There are so few places, are there not, where a lady may take a gentleman to dine without destroying his reputation?”

  He assisted her to step down from the carriage, paid the driver, and escorted her, his hand cupping her elbow, into the Albion.

  “Ah, Mr. Saxton,” Henri, the maître d’ said as he expertly divested Giana of her shawl and Alex of his hat and cane. “Mr. Engles told me to expect you, sir. Do follow me, monsieur, mademoiselle, I have arranged your private room, as you requested. And the turtle, it is divinity itself this evening.”

  “I thought you made plans at the London Taverns,” Giana said through her teeth as they followed the debonair Henri into their magnific
ent private room.

  “I told you that it mattered little to me, Giana. Are you disappointed that Henri dashed your hopes and accorded me a royal welcome? Wealth and power grant many privileges, even to brash Americans.”

  Giana sat stiffly in her chair as Alexander Saxton ordered a claret, Château Margaux, 1844, from their waiter. When the claret arrived, Saxton described the full-bodied wine in fluent detail to the beaming waiter, all in flawless French.

  “To our renewed acquaintance,” Alex said.

  Giana didn’t say anything to that, nor did she touch her glass.

  Alex ordered for both of them, without even asking her what she preferred, and sat back, regarding her thoughtfully. Giana waited until their waiter was at the door, and coolly called him back. “I do not care for the salmon Indienne, nor the new potatoes.”

  The waiter cast an uncertain eye toward Alex.

  “What would you prefer, Miss Van Cleve?” Alex asked, smiling just a bit.

  “The mutton soubise, if you please and the asparagus. The St. Cloud pudding and the sparkling champagne, iced. I do not care for the claret. It is too heavy.”

  Alex nodded toward the harassed waiter, and sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “I was not aware you had even tasted the claret, but no matter. You did indeed make quite an ass of Ffalkes this morning. He thought it was premeditated, of course, called you a cold-blooded bitch and the like, which we both know is anything but the truth.” He saw her blue eyes flash. “Had you been a man, he would of course have admired your cunning. I gather Mr. Ffalkes is not one of your customers.”

  Giana’s eyes fell to her dinner knife, and she found herself clutching it like a weapon. He laughed. “Do not, I beg you, stab me here. It is you who could not afford the scandal, Giana.” He added thoughtfully, “It will be quite interesting to find out how you managed it. I even find myself wondering if your mother was really ill.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”