Alana jumped when she heard approaching footsteps. She disappeared into her room just as the chambermaids came to straighten the master’s suite. Alone in her room, she was desperate to talk to someone, anyone who wasn’t related to Trevor Sheridan. As she had so many times in the past three years, she surrendered to her instinctive need to be with her sister. Without another wasted moment, she summoned a carriage to take her to Brooklyn.
“She’s taking the carriage, sir. Shall I have someone look after her?” Whittaker stood like a statue at Trevor’s side while the master glanced at the morning Chronicle at his desk in the library.
Trevor looked up, a frustrated glint in his eye. He appeared as if he wanted to stop her himself, but thinking of past promises, he glared down at his newspaper and bit out, “No.”
Whittaker bowed, obviously not understanding his master’s restraint but accepting it. He held out a silver salver that overflowed with calling cards. “These were left this morning. Shall you look at them, sir, or shall I give them to the mistress?”
Trevor appeared as if he were about to dismiss them but then thought better of it. He waved them over and didn’t even have to shuffle through them. The card was right on top, the name Mr. Anson Vanbrugh-Stevens handsomely engraved across it, its top right-hand corner turned down, conveying a silent message that everyone knew: I must speak with you.
“You may go.” Trevor picked up the card and crushed it vengefully in his hand.
Whittaker hastily departed. Alone, Trevor stood and went to the window. Below, Alana was just starting out in the carriage and Trevor again watched his wife depart for places unknown. When she was gone, he turned and looked at the crushed calling card in his fist, his expression rock-hard.
If Wall Streeters were betting he wouldn’t tolerate another trip to Brooklyn for his wife, it’d be a very bull market.
Seige
A mhúirnín dílis geal mo chroí.
For, still imagination warm,
Presents thee at the moontide beam,
And sleep gives back thy angel form,
To clasp thee in the midnight dream.
—Old Irish Verse
22
Alana arrived back from Brooklyn with barely enough time to change for Delmonico’s. Mrs. Astor had made the request that she attend because the Duke of Granville had finally arrived in New York and was to make his first appearance that night. Alana was less than enthusiastic. She would have preferred to have tea and toast in her room and go to bed early, but that was out of the question. Everyone would be there at Delmonico’s tonight. This was too grand an opportunity for Mara to miss.
Strengthened by her visit with Christabel, Alana dressed quickly and waited in the drawing room for the others. She steeled herself for her first meeting with Trevor, but she didn’t expect the painful tug of longing in her heart when he entered the room. Cautiously they nodded to each other, and if Alana hadn’t had a clear head, she might have blushed, remembering what had happened the last time they were together. But she didn’t blush. The ice princess was back, frost covering her vulnerable, terrified heart.
“Mara will be right down.” He stepped toward the fire, the flames glinting off his gold-headed cane. Without changing his tone, he said, “Enjoy your trip?”
Unsettled by his question and his insidious knowledge of her comings and goings, she tore her gaze away and stared at the fire. “Yes” was all she offered.
“When are you going again?”
Her eyes snapped with annoyance. “You know my whereabouts better than I. Why don’t you tell me?”
The only answer was ominous smoldering silence.
Taking a breath, she said, “Are the servants spying for you? Is that how you know I went today? Is it Whittaker?”
“It’s my business to know what goes on in me—” he calmed himself, “in my own house.”
“Yes, of course. All right, you know it. I went to Brooklyn today.” She turned and faced him, that note from Daisy Dumont bitter on her mind. “But I couldn’t have been the only one out on the town, now could I? You were up early this morning, I see.”
“How did you know that?” His gaze locked with hers.
A lump came to her throat when she thought of the hope she had had that morning and how cruelly it was crushed by that letter. “Perhaps I have my spies in this household too.”
He paused, obviously not trusting her. “You missed me at breakfast. Is that what this is about? Well, I had some business to take care of. I didn’t have time for breakfast.”
At least not here, she thought.
“Did you come looking for me this morning?” His voice was softer than she’d ever heard it. But even its coaxing quality couldn’t take away her shame. Of all the humiliations she could imagine, the worst was having to share her husband with another woman.
“I’ve learned never to go looking for you again.” Coldly, she looked away.
“Indeed” was his frigid comment. There was nothing more between them until they left in the carriage.
Mara, as usual, was brimming with excitement over the evening’s activities. She was so wound-up that both Alana and Trevor allowed her to chat away, letting her prattle falsely alleviate the oppressive atmosphere between them. But Mara finally seemed to notice their animosity and without warning quieted.
This made Alana nervous, so she began to talk. “You look very nice tonight, Mara. Are you anxious to meet the duke?”
“I’ve never met a duke before. Will he be frightening?” Mara looked at her brother’s scowling silhouette, then shot Alana a worried glance.
Alana tried to laugh. She wanted to say Not as much as your brother but answered, “Oh no, he’ll probably be elderly and quite deaf. I don’t think you should worry. We won’t see him much anyway. Mrs. Astor, no doubt, has lots of plans for him.”
“That’s good.” Mara smiled sheepishly and clutched her fan.
Her movement made Alana look down at Mara’s hands. “That’s a pretty bracelet. I’ve never seen it before, have I?”
“It’s new,” Mara answered, fingering the square-cut sapphires. “Trevor brought it back for me from Boston.”
“It suits you, Mara.” Alana did her best to smile, but it was painful. After all she had been through with Trevor, she didn’t know why this little fact hurt her so, yet it did. Her husband had gone to Boston during their honeymoon, bringing an expensive trinket for his sister and nothing for his new wife. She’d already shown a distaste for his ostentatious jewelry, but the fact that her husband had given her no thought during his trip wounded her. Surely he had brought something for Daisy. Daisy could not go without, as the note proved. It was more than likely Trevor had bought a piece of jewelry for his mistress that could have paid for half the Confederate army, but if he had simply picked a four-leaf clover along the railroad and given that to Daisy, pressed in his coat pocket, Alana would have hated it just as much. It wasn’t the cost. It was the emotions, emotions she despaired of ever being able to stir in him.
Delmonico’s was fairly glittering with important personages: the Four Hundred, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with representatives from Washington and the mayor’s office—all to meet this wildly prestigious duke from England. No one really knew too much about the Granvilles, except that they held a huge estate near the Scottish border, that the first duke had been knighted by Henry V, and that they were so illustrious that Victoria and Albeit were said to have honeymooned in Granville Castle.
When the arrival of the duke was announced, a hush fell over the crowd. Alana stood with Mara near the back of the ballroom, Mara less interested in the old duke than the fresh young lads that flocked around them like pigeons. The real shock came when the duke appeared in the doorway—not the aged rotund whiskered gentleman most believed he would be but a fine-looking young man about Eagan’s age.
“That’s the Duke of Granville?” Alana blurted out in a rather unseemly manner.
“That lad couldn’t be more than tw
enty-four,” Trevor commented, getting a much better look at the man from his great height.
“He’s so handsome,” Mara whispered.
“He’s British,” Trevor said.
“He is handsome,” Alana confirmed, ignoring her husband’s remark.
“Do you think we’ll be presented?” Mara asked.
“Oh yes, definitely.” Alana took Mara’s arm and began to lead her to the receiving line.
Trevor stopped them and pulled Alana to the side for a moment of privacy. “Fair warning, Alana. The Duke of Granville is British, and I don’t want Mara getting mixed up with some damned limey.”
Alana looked up at him, her mouth open in shock. “I understand the Irish have some animosity toward England, but really, Trevor, this is ridiculous. You don’t even know this man.”
“He’s British. That’s all I need to know. He’s not going to be carrying on with my sister.”
“How convenient prejudice is. We could take that very sentence, transposing Irish for English, and hear it from any number of people here tonight.”
He twisted his lips in a sarcastic smile. “You’ve a point there, but nonetheless, Mara isn’t going to no Brit. That’s just the way they work, you know. They see the family coffers dwindling, and they send themselves over to America to fetch home a nice young girl who can pretty up the castle along with her fat American dowry. I can tell you right this very minute, the Sheridan money ain’t gonna go for fixing up some damned castle in Northumberland.”
Alana listened, knowing that Trevor wasn’t aware of how his accent was slipping into his speech. She said, “Mara hasn’t even met this duke, and you have her married and begetting his children. Don’t you think we should see if they even take to each other?”
“Oh, he’ll take to Mara. Look at her—she’s sweet and pretty and one of the richest here. She ain’t goin’ ta no Brit, an’ t’a’s final.”
Alana artfully hid her smile behind a satin-gloved hand. She knew she was playing with fire, but after thinking all evening about Mara’s bracelet, she felt it was time for a little revenge. “Come along, Trevor, surely you—Mr. Stock Exchange, Mr. Railroad, Mr. I-Own-Everything-in-Manhattan, Mr. I-Always-Get-My-Way—would like this duke. I’d think you of all people would admire a man whose relations have been able to subjugate a country for over two hundred years, even if that country is your own. After all, isn’t that your modus operandi?”
He looked at her, at first shocked, but then he released an unexpected laugh. “Fine. You introduce her to Granville. But all bets are off if he wants to marry her. Our agreement does not stand.”
“Of all the papers that I signed when I married you, I don’t remember ever seeing the stipulation that Mara was not permitted to marry a Brit.”
“I can’t foresee every possibility.”
“No, you can’t. All bets are on, Mr. Sheridan. British or not.”
Tight-lipped, he watched her saunter back into the crowd and take Mara to the receiving line.
Like an artist working with a favored medium, Alana made her way through the line. She was pleased to see the duke looking bored as he spoke with Mrs. Van Dam, an aged matron of Washington Square. It would be all the more sweet to capture his attention with Mara.
Through the crowd Alana gave Trevor a rather bold look, then grasped Mara’s hand and said to the duke, “Your Grace, I’m Mrs. Trevor Sheridan.”
The duke kissed her hand. There was a surprised twinkle in his eye. “Ah yes, I’ve heard a lot about you, Mrs. Sheridan. Your maiden name was Van Alen, was it not?”
Alana smiled, not caring that there was gossip about her. She had had no doubts there would be. “Indeed it was Van Alen, but my name is Sheridan now.” From the corner of her eye she spied Trevor. He was almost scowling at her. She spoke loudly enough for him to hear. “And you’ll be hearing more of the Sheridan name, Your Grace, because I’d like to introduce to you my sister-in-law, Miss Mara Sheridan.”
The duke bent to kiss Mara’s hand. As he straightened, his blue eyes met Mara’s, and suddenly his air of ennui was gone. “How nice it is to meet you,” he said, looking down at the blushing girl.
“Miss Sheridan is a native New Yorker,” Alana interjected, “and quite fond of our lovely new park. Do you ride, Your Grace?”
“Of course, of course,” he answered absent-mindedly, his gaze caught in Mara’s.
Alana smiled. Everything was going quite well. The duke was struck dumb. How easy it had been. She batted her fan to regain his attention. “Miss Sheridan was just telling me that soon we must go for a ride in the park. One morning, I imagine, right after breakfast.”
“That’s when I like to ride.”
“It is?” Alana put her hand to her chest as if she were astounded by such a coincidence. She turned to look at Trevor, who’d heard the entire exchange. He frowned, and she had to stifle a giggle behind her fan.
From his place in the crowd, Trevor watched his wife work her magic on the duke. She was polite, witty, and charming—all the things she’d been bred to be. If one looked closely, one might have seen pride and admiration for her in his eyes, and a healthy dose of fear.
And if one listened well, one would have heard him whisper under his breath what was most on his mind. “No, all bets are off, Mrs. Sheridan. Starting with your next bloody trip to Brooklyn.”
“Wasn’t he handsome? Wasn’t he charming? I felt so clumsy when he asked me to waltz. I must have stepped on his toes four times!” Mara chattered on during the carriage ride up Fifth Avenue when the ball was over.
“Young Granville was quite a gentleman, don’t you agree, Trevor?” In the golden lamplight Alana turned to her brooding husband and gave him her most dazzling vengeful smile. “I told him Mara and I would be riding in the park Thursday morning. You don’t think he’d believe I was so brazen as to be dropping hints of our whereabouts so that he might ‘accidently’ bump into us, do you?”
Trevor scowled and said to Mara, “You needn’t waste your time thinking about that lad. Caroline Astor will keep him so busy he won’t have time to be calling on you.”
“Oh, you’re right.” Mara’s exuberance wilted like an overblown rose.
“Nonsense!” Alana reached over and squeezed Mara’s hand. “He’ll be in the park Thursday, love, I’ll bet on it. And I’ll make it clear he’s more than welcome to call on you.”
“You will?” Mara exclaimed, the joy back in her face.
“Of course I will. After all”—she gave Trevor a meaningful look as he sat stiffly in the shadows—“that’s what I’m here for.”
“I wish to speak to you, wife, when we arrive home,” Trevor said through clenched teeth.
“Certainly, husband dear,” Alana answered, having too much fun to be ruffled by his menacing tone.
When they arrived at the mansion, Trevor said good night to Mara, then proceeded to the library. Alana loved the room. She should have hated it because that was where she had made her bargain with this Irish devil so many weeks ago, but it was her favorite room in the mansion. It was like Trevor’s bedroom. There wasn’t a curved line to be found. This modern style was promoted by a man named Charles Lock Eastlake, and she decided if she and Christal ever had a home of their own, it would be decorated according to his Hints on Household Taste.
“You’re encouraging this courtship just to taunt me, and I don’t like it.” Trevor crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her.
She breezed by a horsehair sofa and wandered to the built-in bookcases where she perused the titles. “We can’t stand in the way of true love, Trevor.”
“This is your exit, isn’t it? You’re going to get Mara into this boy-duke’s clutches, and when she’s married, you think you’ll be able to wave good-bye, job done. But I won’t let you off that easily.”
She giggled. “Good heavens, Trevor, you’re jumping the gun. Granville likes Mara, and I see no reason to discourage him. He seems like a fine young man who, surprisingly, lacks the pre
judice that has kept a lot of Knickerbockers away. I’d think you’d be ecstatic such an illustrious young fellow has taken to our Mara.”
Angered, Trevor turned away. He bit out, “Fine. Let Granville see Mara. I can deal with him should the need arise. But don’t think your annulment is looming on the horizon. The man who marries my sister will have to prove his love five times to please me. Not an easy task.”
Alana had had a retort on the tip of her tongue until Trevor said the word annulment. It wasn’t going to be very long before they would get one. Mara had not yet found her mate, but it was only a matter of time. She’d proven as easy to bring out as Alana had suspected she’d be. It wouldn’t be more than a couple of months at most before someone would offer for her hand.
A couple of months. Alana stared at her husband. She thought of his mistress, Daisy, and wanted to hate him. But the vile truth was she didn’t hate him. Her feelings were very much to the contrary, and that was why he’d been able to hurt her so. She looked to the future, a future without the handsome angry man who stood before her. So much of it was built on dreams—dreams of white houses, freeing Christal, and shadow men who were going to one day save her—dreams as sturdy as cobwebs.
Suddenly everything she wanted to deny overwhelmed her. Her dream ran through her mind’s eye with astonishing clarity—to the moment her shadow man turned around and she could finally see his face. Then, like a daguerreotype, the picture of his face froze in her mind, and all she saw was Trevor as he was now, turning to face her, his features burned into the shadows of her memory until she knew she would never forget them.
“You’re not going to be off the hook that easily,” he went on smugly. “Mark my words, you’ll have to work a lot harder than you have been to find a man good enough for Mara.”
He implied that their marriage was destined to be longer than expected, but she could only wish that that was going to be true. From what she had seen of Granville, she wouldn’t be surprised to find Mara married within months, even weeks.
Lions and Lace Page 27
