If this were any lesser issue, she would have smiled that her father knew her so well. “I will stay for one year.”
“One year?” he asked with skepticism.
“To the day.”
“And during that time?”
She stood on the precipice of her freedom. “I will entertain any man you deem fit for me to consider as my husband. I’ll keep an open mind and an open heart.” She swallowed hard and fought to speak the words of her next condition.
He waggled his fingers at her. “Yes, yes, come on. The rest of it.”
“But you will not influence me to one man over another. You will not meddle. And you will not buy me a husband.”
“And if I refrain, what then?”
“If I find a man I can love, I will tell you and you will approve. No matter who he is, his wealth or lack thereof, or his connections.”
He cleared his throat. “I see. And your threat, should I not abide by your condition?”
She had pin money she’d saved. Frugal all her life, she had accumulated more than five thousand dollars of her own. Before she’d left Baltimore, she’d arranged with a bank to extend her a line of credit in Paris and London, should she ever need it. If the banker had ever told her father of this, she didn’t know.
But she was ready to reveal the depth of her commitment to directing her own destiny. “I will return home on the first ship I can book passage.”
He flexed his square jaw. “And do you think to return to your status as my daughter in my home?”
She had always known how hard Black Killian Hanniford played to achieve his own ends. In business, he was ruthless, driven. But not merciless to his children. His forgiveness of Pierce’s folly years ago was her best proof that his love for his family was his Achilles heel. Lily had seen how to hinder him by attacking him there.
She shook back her long dark ringlets over her shoulders. “I would return not to Baltimore but to Texas. Open the ranch that my mother left to me, rebuild the house and live there.”
“Alone?”
She considered her clasped hands. “I’d hire a foreman and vaqueros. Take my maid. Raise longhorns and quarter horses.”
“You wouldn’t return to Corpus Christi to marry that doctor you both worked for?”
Marianne and she had volunteered in a small hospital in the small town on the Gulf of Mexico and nursed poor workers afflicted with cholera and all sorts of infections. But their tenure had been short-lived when Hanniford learned of their actions and demanded they come with him to Baltimore and on to Europe.
“No, sir,” Lily told him. She didn’t love the man.
“Or you?” He turned to Marianne.
It was her cousin who favored nursing and who had mourned the injunction not to aid the doctor and his patients, even as she seized the opportunity to move to Baltimore and live with the Hannifords in style and comfort.
Marianne shook her head in resignation. “I won’t return, sir.”
And Lily understood that. Marianne was many things. A widow of thirty, a genteel lady of education and breeding, a former mistress of a four-hundred-acre farm near Spotsylvania, a caring nurse of Confederate soldiers wounded on her land, she was all that. But Marianne was also a woman who wanted to laugh again, a lady who yearned to forget the wounded and dying whom she’d tended, and a very accomplished artist who longed to sketch and paint far away from the turmoil of war and pestilence. She did not like conflict of any kind. And she appreciated that her maternal uncle had welcomed her into his family and into his home when she was without hope or hearth. He had given her an annual income in honor of her mother, the dead sister whom he’d loved dearly. Banking the money, she spent little of it and could count herself wealthy in her own right. She owed her Uncle Killian her own allegiance and cooperation and would not risk his disfavor.
“Thank you for that,” he said.
Her cousin nodded.
He was silent for a long moment while he examined them. “Very well. We have a deal. One year for you, Lily. And for you, Marianne, my largesse, for as long as you behave discreetly.”
His lips spread in a strained smile. “Now go. I understand from Foster you have a fitting at Worth’s.”
Lily breathed in relief. “We do.”
“Well, then spend my money. Buy everything you love. Buy some of what you hate. I told Worth’s assistant weeks ago that the sky was no limit. You’re both to have everything you need for the Season.” He nodded toward the door. “I have an appointment in an hour. I must prepare. So the two of you must get out.”
“Thank you, Papa.” Lily beamed at him, giddy at the reprieve, delighted she hadn’t had to use her father’s own indiscretion here in Paris against him to win her case.
“I am grateful, sir,” said Marianne.
“Good. Go.” He waved them off. “And prove it to me.”
They hastened to leave him.
“We must have our coats. Our hats. Where is the comtesse?” Lily was rattling on, nerves jumping inside her as she surveyed the hall. “She should be here by now to accompany us to Worth’s.”
The Comtesse de Chaumont was an impoverished comely widow whom her father paid handsomely to introduce them to Paris customs and the cream of French society.
But the vast foyer was empty, save for Foster who awaited them with a frown.
Lily’s heart was pounding like a mad thing. She’d survived. Bargained. Won! The prize far off, but nonetheless a victory. But soon they’d go to London where men by the droves would dance upon her and kiss her hand. Aside from her sizable dowry, she hated to think why they’d bother. She had never thought of herself as a beauty. She saw herself as attractive, good looking with ink-black hair, a firm figure and pale blue eyes with rather thick lashes, but she’d seen much lovelier girls. More stunning women.
Yet other aspects of her life had preceded her appearance in any London drawing room. Those were not flattering. ‘The Blockade Runner’s Daughter with a Dowry Fit for a King’ declared one English gossip sheet, describing ‘Black’ Hanniford’s business interests in the City. Another called her ‘The Millionaire Cowgirl’ and ran a sketch of her riding a bull, her hand in the air as if she were busting a bronco. She was no porcelain doll to pour their tea and smile like a simpleton in their parlors. She had intelligence and health and a desire to spend her days doing something useful. That might not be nursing, but it definitely was not acting like an aimless, spoiled creature with feathers for brains.
“I can’t believe he agreed to my condition,” she said to her cousin as Foster fetched their coats and parasols from the hall closet. “I know you think I’m mad, but I had to try again.”
“And you won!” Marianne smiled at her with twinkling green eyes. “Amazing.”
“I always feared I’d walk down the aisle with a bouquet comprised of my newly beloved’s tailor’s bills.” The smile on Lily’s face disappeared as she leaned over to whisper. “Now I bet the publisher will not dare put in a cartoon of Papa with his French mistress.”
Marianne smoothed the skirts of her day dress. “How right you are.”
Foster approached. The butler’s long face was a cipher. He’d been recommended to them by the Jeromes, whose daughter Jennie had married the second son of the duke of the Marlborough a few years ago. Mister Jerome had said that Benjamin Foster excelled at smoothing the path for American families in Europe. The servant understood the challenges of etiquette, but he was also discreet, a vital asset to those attempting legitimacy among the old aristocracies.
Marianne turned toward the mirror and checked her hat and her long platinum curls dangling from her elaborate coiffure. “I plan on telling anyone who’ll listen how he earned his money.”
Lily fingered a ribbon hanging from her red velvet toque. “It’s not the kind of story they’re used to.”
“Definitely not,” Marianne said, her forest-green eyes wide with pride. “They’re for those who claim supremacy by an accident of birth. Men who r
ise to power by packing others off to the guillotine. They don’t understand men who rise from poverty to wield a fortune. Isn’t that right, Foster?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Lily sighed. “Nor do they understand women who don’t want to be the doyennes of high society.”
“Quite so,” said Marianne with a tip of her head. “I personally prefer to become an expert in chocolate macarons.”
“And increase the width of your corsets,” Lily teased.
“Precisely. Speaking of clothes, where is the comtesse, anyway?”
“She would harp at us for a moment’s delay for our showing,” Lily complained. Clemence Bernier, the countess of Chaumont, was never late for a fitting, claiming it the height of incivility. “Foster, do we not have any messages from her?”
“I’m afraid not, Miss.” He held up Lily’s coat. “This is unlike her.”
Lily sniffed. “Very.”
“Might she regret and apologize?” Marianne asked with a wry smile.
Lily lifted a finger in imitation of their tutor. “‘Regard! It is forbidden to be late for your appointments with your designer, your milliner or your jeweler. However, enter a ball an hour later than the invitation. And for the opera, arrive at midnight.’”
Marianne chuckled. “‘And two hours late for a rendezvous with your lover.’”
Lily made a face at Marianne. “As if you and I shall ever have lovers.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Marianne said as she let Foster help her on with her coat.
“You wouldn’t!” Lily was laughing.
Marianne met her gaze with serious eyes. “I can dream, can’t I?”
“No. You can’t. Papa would have you for breakfast.”
“Foster,” Marianne said to the servant, “you are listening to none of this.”
“No, madam. I am quite deaf,” he said, but his mouth twitched with a rare smile.
“Shall we go on without the comtesse?” Marianne asked Lily.
“Let’s.” She considered her cousin’s quick change of subject. Marianne had become a widow when her husband had died on the battlefield at Gettysburg more than thirteen years ago. Never, to Lily’s knowledge, had she been attracted to another man. Beautiful as she was with a wealth of shining white-blonde hair and eyes green as a glade, Marianne could attract any man she wished. But she had never received anyone in Galveston or Baltimore. None in Paris, either. Yet. “I’m certain she’ll meet us there.”
Lily allowed Foster to assist her with her coat. “She wouldn’t want to miss the ability to gossip about us to her friends.”
“Oh, you have a dastardly view of our dear poor Chaumont.”
“Don’t you?”
Marianne lifted a shoulder. “She’s so eager to please. A little like a pampered hound. When she’s not barking orders at you, she reaches for approval.”
Marianne stared at herself in the mirror. “I would bet she has a lover.”
“Whom she supports on Papa’s money.”
“Oh, you are bad,” Marianne reprimanded her with a grin.
“Foster, do you know any of this? Is our comtesse enamored with a gentleman?”
“Miss, even if I knew, I could not say.”
She took her gloves and parasol from him. “I long to hear her explanation. And in the meantime, we can sip Monsieur Worth’s white wine and eat his marvelous French cheese.”
“The better to grow fat.”
“And spill over our corsets.” Marianne hooked her arm through Lily’s. “All the better to lounge in our morning gowns in flagrant dishabille.”
“Outrageous, Madam Roland.” Lily had never heard Marianne desire anything. She seemed content living with the Hannifords without a home, husband, or children of her own. So this outré declaration was so deliciously flamboyant of her. Lily chuckled as Foster opened the front door and their coachman doffed his hat. “It’s time to order the most expensive silk and satin Papa’s money can buy.”
Chapter Two
“Remy, I say. I cannot go on.” Julian Ash, the Marquess of Chelton, tugged at his linen cuffs as his friend’s town coach sped up the Rue de la Paix. “I must sleep. It’s two in the afternoon! I’m dead as a rat in a trap.”
“If we nap now, we’ll never awaken and miss supper with Vicomtesse du Valerie and opening night of the opera.” Julian’s friend gave him a searing look. With a flourish of a large hand, Andrè Claude Marceau, the Duc de Remy, drew aside the coach’s elaborate damask window hangings. “Regard. The day is young.”
“And bright.” Flinching, Julian jerked away.
“We’re dressed for it,” Remy said as he picked at the lapel of his evening coat, his sky-blue eyes merry.
“Oui?” Julian shook his head in derision. “Might I point out, however, no one would appreciate our attire?”
The big Frenchman laughed as he always did, deep in his throat, enjoying life to the fullest. “At Mimi’s, they don’t care how you look.”
“Perhaps not. But they will care how we smell.” Julian lifted his arm to inhale the aromas wafting up from the sleeve of his own black wool evening coat. The acrid odors of smoke, whiskey and very cheap perfume made his eyes water. “I need a hot bath.”
“Come to my house. I’ll have Pierre draw one for you.”
“Your valet has odd tastes, Remy. Last week when I flopped at your house, the bath he prepared reeked of camellias.” Julian fixed a wary eye on his huge Norman friend. “I went to the Rothschilds’ ball and smelled like a debutante.”
Remy shrugged. “The ladies flocked to you, did they not?”
Julian scowled. “Chickens and hens. A damn silly gaggle.”
“All after your title.”
“And after you for your mystery.”
“That’s called charm, old boy.” Remy winked and smoothed a nonexistent moustache.
Julian burst out laughing. He shrugged into his coat, but a flash of pain in his head cut his haste. “I must go home. I’m up to nothing but sleep.”
The two of them had spent the evening in the card room of the Marquis de Tourelane where every vice was on offer from the finest Sancerre and the purest opium to the prettiest Solange. After such a night, Remy’s tawny hair stood askew and his large blue eyes sagged with the night’s indulgences. Uncharacteristically disheveled, he looked like a horse had run over him. Julian wagered he himself appeared no better. Flexing his shoulders, he winced. Had a herd of beasts trampled him as he had played cards?
Screams and shouts cut the air. The normal sounds of the boulevard filled with the finest carriages and smartest horses carrying their passengers to and from the extravagant shops along the Rue de la Paix were gone. Chaos reigned and in a rising crescendo, too.
“What’s the problem?” Julian asked Remy who had shifted to take up the full of the window. “A riot?”
“A crowd.”
“Someone’s crying.”
Julian pulled back the window shade. The throng along the pavement, mostly well-dressed ladies in walking suits and lavish hats, buzzed among themselves and craned their necks to see above those in front of them. One woman grabbed another’s arm and urged her inside a shop. “I don’t see any gendarmes.”
Remy opened the overhead hatch to his coachman’s box. In rapid French, he asked if the man could see the problem.
He responded but both Remy and Julian looked at each other and shrugged, unable to discern his words in the rising din.
“Stop, Valmont. Stop!” Remy rapped on the coachman’s box. “Shall we?”
“Let’s.” Julian was out his side and Remy out his in the same moment.
The two of them ran up the middle of the broad avenue, darting hither and yon among the melee.
“A cab.” Julian spied a black hackney and pointed.
He and Remy swung around a cluster of ladies, one wringing her hands, another standing still, tears sliding down her cheeks.
“Overturned?” Remy craned his neck above the melee.
&nbs
p; “Not yet. But the horse is out of control. Come on.”
The two broke into a run at the same time, weaving and darting among the shocked pedestrians.
“Let us through,” Julian shouted, skirting bystanders.
“Pardon. Pardon.” Remy grabbed one lady’s shoulders, picked her up and put her aside.
Confronted by chaos, Julian and Remy halted in their tracks. The small black hackney swished back and forth along the cobbled street as the horse charged this way and that among the throng. Atop the swaying perch sat the driver, wide-eyed and yelling at the animal. He struggled to keep the reins from slipping from his hands.
A doleful cry came from inside.
“A woman’s in there!” Remy shouted.
“The horse,” Julian yelled, as he ripped off his coat and ran toward the animal. He was a sturdy Breton, his chestnut coat dull, his flaxen mane gray, his long teeth bared in abject fright.
Julian understood spooked horses. He’d calmed many who’d been scared by lightning, an errant cat or the sudden snap of a broken harness.
“All of you, get back. Go in the shops,” he said in English and began in French when Remy barked at them to do as he said.
The crowd parted. Cleared.
Julian saw Remy had managed to climb up on the box. His extra weight slowed the animal. The horse whinnied, changed direction and headed into the alley between two buildings.
Julian ran alongside him, pleased when he realized the alley was blind. This horse had cornered himself.
“All right, all right, old man.” He soothed the animal, one hand out to ward him off in case he’d take an idea to rear up in the air. The alley was narrow and if the animal decided to attack him, he’d not survive. “You’ve nowhere to go. Honestly. Nowhere. Look what you did here. Made a scene. What will all the lovely mademoiselles think of you, eh? And your master here, what will he do without you? You must settle. Must settle.”
As he spoke, the horse snorted and thrashed his head to and fro. But he gave up the crazed prancing and slowed.
Julian shrugged out of his coat, spread it between his hands then glanced at the box.
Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1) Page 2
