Pure Sin

by Susan Johnson

  “—when we first talked of Siberia. I wasn’t going to touch a woman that night. Not after my recent nasty wrangling with Isolde.”

  “But I changed your mind.”

  “Without a doubt, bia.” He smiled. “I’ve often thought of buying that landau from the judge and enshrining it.”

  “It does have fond memories,” she noted with a lingering smile.

  “Are we agreed, then, my sweet seductress?” Adam murmured, holding her close. “Marriage as soon as my annulment is obtained. The absolute moment we receive word. I’ll have a preacher or parson or shaman standing by.”

  “Agreed,” Flora cheerfully replied. “Papa will be ecstatic too. He practically pushed me on the train. In the meantime, apropos our nameless wager, because you know how I love to win, I say fifty thousand for the Vatican, no less than two hundred thousand for Isolde, and another hundred thousand for her ducal family. I’m within pennies on this, darling, you don’t stand a chance.”

  “James is very tightfisted. I think you’re high. I’ll go ten thousand less for the Vatican, half your estimate for Isolde—he hates her thoroughly—and nothing for her family. Isolde’s father ordered James to take his coat once, mistaking him for a servant. That impertinence will cost him dearly.”

  “But, then, they know you’re in a hurry. Which will adjust the price accordingly.”

  “I don’t care what it costs. I only care about you,” he said, taking simple pleasure in the words. “Isolde is gone, and I mean to see she’s permanently out of my life. Whatever the price.”

  “I’m so happy I found you that night at Judge Parkman’s,” Flora merrily declared.

  “And I mean to keep you happy,” Adam murmured, nibbling on her earlobe.

  “You can eat that later, Adam,” George Crum called out, leading a procession of his wives down the length of the porch, all bearing trays of food. “Give this a try first.”

  Adam invited their hosts to join them, and after pulling over another table, they all enjoyed breakfast alfresco, overlooking the peaceful shores of Lake Saratoga. Fresh trout, fried to crisp perfection, bass boiled with wine and herbs, woodcock, snipe, quail in subtle, pale sauces were arranged on white china platters. George’s signature Saratoga chips, potatoes sliced paper thin, fried and salted, piled high in a large glass bowl, disappeared with predictable speed. His delectable invention was already on menus around the world. A luscious variety of fruits completed the meal: pineapples, tamarinds, pomegranates, peaches, apricots, and grapes. The whole washed down with sparkling champagne.

  It was a perfect morning in a perfect world. Good food, pleasant company, Flora and Adam’s future sweetly assured.

  As figurative frosting on the cake of their happiness, they stopped at Tiffany’s when they returned to Saratoga. Flora bought herself a small brooch of pearls and emeralds, a reproduction of a Renaissance piece depicted in one of Raphael’s portraits. And Adam insisted on buying her a ring. “An engagement ring,” he whispered.

  She shook her head and nervously glanced at the clerk, who might have heard. “Hush. What will Sarah say if we’re in the Herald’s gossip columns tomorrow?” James Gordon Bennett, who owned the New York Herald, took special interest in reporting the indiscretions of the wealthy at Saratoga. Every day brought new scandal in the morning paper.

  “A friendship ring, then, a pearl or an emerald to match your pin,” he murmured, and before she could respond, Adam said to the clerk in a normal tone of voice, “Show us your emerald rings.”

  Ignoring her quiet protests, Adam selected a large oval emerald surrounded by diamonds, slipped it on the fourth finger of her left hand, kissed her in front of the prudently expressionless clerk, and said, “I’ll take it.”

  All the employees at Tiffany’s understood that the wealthy lived by different standards from the normal populace, and if the Comte de Chastellux, whose horses outran the best in the country, and who also happened to be married, chose to engage himself to a beautiful young woman with a ring priced at thirty thousand dollars, it wasn’t a lowly clerk’s place to take public notice of a nobleman’s eccentric whims.

  The clerk did, however, offer the tidbit of information to the Herald reporter who regularly paid him for his insight into the lives of the rich and famous, and the young Tiffany employee added twenty dollars to his income that day.

  Lucie and Cook thought the new brooch and ring beautiful, although Lucie preferred her gold mechanical parrot bank with diamond eyes that flapped its wings and opened its beak for the coins. After their picnic that afternoon, when Flora returned home, Sarah admired the new jewelry with a more personal interest in its significance.

  “Adam calls it an engagement ring,” Flora said, smiling. “A quaint term under the circumstances.”

  “But very lovely. How long do you plan on being engaged?” Sarah placidly asked.

  “Until his annulment is secured.”

  “That can be a lengthy process.”

  “In the meantime we’re going back to Montana.”

  “Are you happy?” It was a rhetorical question, for Flora was so obviously in love, her eyes shone with joy.

  “Extremely.” Flora spread her arms wide and smiled. “Immeasurably.”

  Her aunt beamed, pleased with her part in the matchmaking. “All my best wishes, darling. Your papa will be pleased, and now that all is reconciled, I don’t imagine you’ll need me to entertain you this evening.”

  “We’re going to dinner and then a play.”

  “An improvement over the piano pieces last night,” Sarah said with a smile.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Edwin Booth was performing a scene from Hamlet first, followed by lighter fare: a comedy of manners lately imported from London. The theater, although of a lesser size, had the same magnificence as Europe’s finest: red velvet seats; muraled ceiling; magnificent crystal chandeliers; gilt and ormolu-trimmed boxes; an audience elegantly dressed and ablaze with jewels.

  Edwin Booth, returned to the stage after a year’s retirement following his brother’s assassination of President Lincoln, was in top form. The slight, dark-haired actor gave a stirring rendition of Hamlet’s most famous soliloquy.

  Flora and Adam viewed the performance from a well-placed box, enjoying their first night out. They drew the eye, but, then, the Comte de Chastellux always did, and the beautiful lady on his arm tonight, rumor had it, might be replacing his wife. Although the Herald’s gossip column, being printed even as Mr. Booth emoted, wouldn’t appear until morning, the few short blocks of fashionable Broadway had been abuzz with the tantalizing news since afternoon.

  The Herald reporter had mentioned the Tiffany’s anecdote only discreetly to a few friends, who of course mentioned it discreetly to a few more, and so it went.…

  During the short break between performances, the houselights came on, and several members of the audience trained their opera glasses on Flora and Adam and openly gawked. Familiar with being stared at, Flora decided American audiences were simply more overt in their curiosity; Adam had long ago learned to ignore the interest his looks and profligacy inspired. But when several members of the audience actually pointed and then whispered to their companions, Flora leaned over and murmured, “It can’t be my jewels; there are dozens with more diamonds on, including several men. Why the acute fascination?”

  “You’re dazzling, dear, or maybe Hamlet bored them,” Adam casually said, surveying the audience, his gaze sweeping the floor, the box seats. “I’m looking forward to the next”—his pause was infinitesimal—“performance,” he finished. But his glance returned to the boxes stage right, where his brain had registered an ominous image. Blond hair, a familiar crescent hairpiece of large diamonds—a woman leaning flirtatiously over the shoulder of the man in front of her.

  She was laughing now, her head thrown back, the expensive diadem purchased with his money catching the light from the chandeliers in sparkling brilliance.

  His wife.

  Adam’
s stomach tightened. She had that effect on him, like an evil demon reentering his life.

  She had to have seen them, with so many glasses trained on them. When had she arrived in Saratoga? Why had she come? Were there no country-house parties of interest this year; had Cowes lost its appeal? Why was she back?

  He made excuses during intermission, not wishing to join the crowd in the lobby in the event Isolde was there. Knowing Isolde’s malignant tongue, he didn’t want to risk his wife meeting Flora. “Why don’t I go out and bring us back a champagne?” he suggested. “It’s such a milling mob out there, you’re bound to be crushed.”

  And it was. Pushing and weaving his way to the bar set up under two enormous potted palms in the lobby, he asked for a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

  There was no question who the woman was when she entered the box. Winterhalter’s portrait had done her justice, Flora thought. She was the graceful ideal of his stylistic female image: delicate; fair-skinned; a heart-shaped face with large doe eyes; and a dainty nymphet body perfect for the frothy, full-skirted styles of the Second Empire. But he’d painted out the malice in her eyes.

  “I hear rumor my husband has promised to marry you,” the Comtesse de Chastellux coolly said, moving down the carpeted stairs. “I thought I’d come over to disabuse you of that notion.” She sat down in full view of everyone and smiled at Flora as though she’d not brutally demolished her future.

  Isolde’s sudden appearance, when she was supposed to be in Europe, had a disconcerting effect, but long familiar with aristocratic cattiness, Flora replied with a studied calm, “I suppose I can’t exactly say it’s none of your affair, but in truth, I think you’re years too late to influence Adam’s plans.”

  “My, how cool a tart you are,” Isolde murmured, her smile a shade tighter. “I hear you’re quite an attraction in Mayfair; Adam always did have an eye for experienced women.”

  “You speak from personal knowledge, no doubt. Is the baron here with you?”

  Isolde’s porcelain complexion took on faint color, and when she replied, the coolness had disappeared from her voice. “Adam won’t be able to marry you because he’s married to me and France doesn’t allow divorce. I just thought I’d make that plain.”

  Although Flora knew Isolde had no intention of cooperating with Adam, the blunt denial dispelled any illusions. “Apparently you couldn’t bring the baron up to the mark,” Flora said, a fine insolence in her voice. “Adam will be disappointed to hear the news.”

  “What a little bitch.” Isolde’s pale-blue eyes took on a haughty air. “For your information, my life is no concern of yours.”

  “Nor is mine remotely within your sphere of influence. I suggest you attempt to bully those more easily intimidated,” Flora answered, familiar with arrogance. “I’ve held off bedouin tribesmen and Chinese bandits armed with more than your vicious intent. You’ve picked the wrong person to terrorize.”

  “I can make your life hell.” Isolde sat very straight, her voice no more than a whisper.

  You already have, Flora thought. “You can’t anymore,” she said instead. “You arrived too late.”

  “Actually, I rather think it’s too late for you.” Isolde’s smile reappeared. “Why don’t I let Adam explain everything to you tomorrow?”

  It was a lengthy interval before Adam worked his way back through the crowd and up the stairs to the second floor.

  Striding down the corridor fronting the boxes, he heard Isolde’s voice before he saw her, and in that split second he debated a score of options, none ethical or legal. He wasn’t smiling when he lifted the velvet curtain at the back of their box. He was grim-faced as a hanging judge.

  Both women turned at his entrance, Flora’s expression relieved, Isolde’s veiled wickedness as he remembered.

  “Good evening, darling,” his wife cooed. “I came to see the engagement ring you bought for this sweet woman. It’s the latest gossip in town. Didn’t you know?” she innocently inquired as his brows drew together in a fierce scowl. “He’s such a generous man,” she added, turning to Flora with a mocking smile.

  “What are you doing here?” Adam harshly said, standing dark and forbidding at the back of the box.

  “I’m just being sociable. I’ve heard so much about your newest paramour, I simply wanted to meet the darling girl.”

  “You don’t know how to be sociable, Isolde. Kindly leave.”

  “Not even a welcome-home kiss, darling? I’m so looking forward to the healthy air of Montana.”

  “We changed the locks the last time you left, Isolde. Save the train fare.”

  “And I suppose you’re planning for this woman to become your new chatelaine?”

  “My plans are none of your concern.”

  Her brows rose. “My, my—I think she said the same thing.”

  “Twice warned, then, Isolde. If you don’t want to leave, we will. I have no interest in talking to you.”

  “What of our daughter?”

  “What of her?” But his voice held a new caution.

  “I came back to spend some time with dear Lucie.”

  “What the hell are you conniving?” Adam growled. “You haven’t spent five minutes alone with her since she was born.”

  “I find I miss her dreadfully.”

  “If the baron didn’t contribute enough to your bank account, Isolde, I’d be happy to help you out. But leave Lucie out of your plans. I don’t want her life disrupted any more than it already has been.”

  “What of my mother love, my need to nurture my daughter?” Isolde gazed at Adam with soulful eyes. “You can’t deny me that.”

  “You should consider the stage as a new avocation,” Adam sarcastically drawled. “Since I’m not as good an actor,” he went on in a level, carefully modulated voice, “I’ll state my position simply. Stay away from Lucie. I don’t want her hurt again.”

  “Apparently you’re not in a reasonable frame of mind,” Isolde pleasantly declared, rising from her chair in a shimmer of diamonds.

  “If being reasonable means giving you what you want,” Adam quietly said, motionless, watchful, “no, I’m not. Not ever again.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend buying your trousseau,” Isolde tranquilly said to Flora as she turned to ascend the shallow bank of stairs. “You certainly found big tits this time, darling,” she mockingly said, advancing up the stairs toward Adam.

  “Jesus, Isolde. What the hell’s wrong with you?” he growled.

  “She’s going to be a cow when she gets pregnant,” his wife gibed as she swept by him in a cloud of perfume and a rustle of peach-colored tulle, her smile cold as ice.

  “I’m sorry,” Adam said with a sigh as he came down to join Flora, setting the bottle and glasses on a chair. “I wish I could have spared you her crudeness and malice.”

  “I’ve met other fine ladies like her,” Flora sardonically replied, her sympathy for Adam more marked since meeting Isolde in person. She was more vicious than she’d expected. “Don’t worry, darling, I’m relatively unscathed. But what of Lucie?” she gently asked. “How dangerous will Isolde be to Lucie’s peace?”

  Sitting down beside her, Adam sprawled low in the chair, stretched his legs out, leaned his head against the padded back, and briefly shut his eyes. “Her talk of mothering Lucie sets off alarm signals,” he murmured. “She might as well have said she planned on becoming a nun.” Turning his head, he gazed at Flora. “I think we should leave tomorrow. Whatever Isolde wants can be negotiated with Lucie out of range. Isolde in a nurturing pose makes me want to check my ammunition.”

  “Montana sounds like paradise after my few short days back in fashionable society.” And after five minutes with Isolde, she thought. “I can be packed in fifteen minutes.” Flora smiled. “Since I only came here to find you, and now I have, my mission is complete.”

  Adam grinned. “A plainspoken woman.”

  “Subterfuge isn’t my forte.”

  “A decided blessing after Iso
lde. Do you want some champagne?”

  Flora shook her head. “You’d better check on Lucie.”

  “My thought too. I’ll see you home and come for you in the morning. I’d like to leave early.”

  After saying good night to Flora, Adam returned to the Clarendon and found Lucie peacefully sleeping. He explained to Cook that they’d be departing earlier than anticipated and under no circumstances was she to allow Isolde into the suite. Next he had his driver take him out to the track to make arrangements with his grooms for the transportation of the horses. If it was too difficult to prepare everything by morning, Adam told them, they could follow later.

  Joseph convinced him the horses could be ready by dawn, so Adam made arrangements next at the station to have the stable car brought up with his traveling car. Both would be waiting on a spur rail, he was assured, by five-thirty, ready to be hooked up to the train scheduled to depart at eight o’ clock for Chicago.

  Adam stopped at Morrissey’s last to say farewell to his friends. They’d been expecting him later that night for a few hands of poker and, having also heard the Tiffany’s anecdote, greeted him with ribald congratulations on his marriage plans. After cheerfully accepting the crude teasing over a last drink, Adam described the incident with Isolde at the theater and advised them of his abrupt departure.

  “Sensible thing to do,” Caldwell remarked, taking a cigar from the humidor on the table. “Gonna cost you a pretty penny to buy her off, ain’t it?”

  “Worth every cent, believe me,” Adam said.

  “Should have done it before,” a banker from Atlanta asserted. “Now that you’ve found someone else, she’s going to ream you.”

  “Talking from experience, Grant,” a millionaire iron-rail manufacturer facetiously remarked. Everyone knew how much Grant Putnum’s new young wife had cost him.

  “I don’t mind a million or so one way or another, but Winnie was damned greedy, I’d say, for a lady from the Natchez Trace country. I’m supporting everyone of her deadbeat relatives in high style.”