Lions and Lace (10 page)

Alana stared at her, suddenly imagining what this tall, stately woman would do if she ever heard about
Christabel
. One response she was sure of: The fact of Mrs. Astor's relation to their mother would be buried so deeply, a well digger wouldn't find it.

"Now, is this clear, Alana?"

Alana hardly heard her. She was pondering Sheridan's offer. If he let her keep her secret, it became very simple, really. She would have the
wherewithall
to take care of her sister without prying questions. He would have entree into this vile society in which even she could find no redeeming value.

"You won't be marrying that Irishman on Saturday, now will you?"

And it really might not take that long to get Mara well entrenched. She was Irish, and she was young, but she was fetching and uncommonly pretty. And the Knickerbocker men were so much less obsessed about family lines than the women.

"You're touched, child, if you think any good can come of being such an upstart."

After a season or two, she and Sheridan would have a quiet annulment. She could move to a country house in Brooklyn just like the one in her dream. She could be near her sister and escape all this unhappiness.

"You aren't going to marry him. I forbid it!"

Alana looked up, her face as pale and beautiful as alabaster. She paused, hardly able to believe the decision she had finally come to. Slowly she said, "You must know, Mrs.
Astor, that
I've thought this out and I think there may be no other way for me but to marry Mr. Sheridan."

"This is madness! You will not do this!"

Alana smiled bitterly. "Madness must run in the family, then."

The reference was lost on Caroline Astor. Astounded, the matron gave her a no-one-uses-that-tone-to-me look and without another word departed. Watching her, Alana was left with only one thought: Now she'd gone and done it. This was most definitely war.

Late suppers . . . rich wines . . . low voices

 
. . .
are
dangerous.

—
Junius
Browne,
The
Great Metropolis:

A Mirror of New York
(1869)

Pumphrey
entered the parlor not ten minutes after Mrs. Astor departed with the news that Sheridan had sent over a few necessities for the wedding. Alana was beginning to fear the Irishman could read thoughts. She hardly had time to take a deep breath before an army of delivery boys trooped through her foyer laden with purchases from Ladies Mile on Broadway. There were yards of creamy white satin from Arnold Constable and Lyons lace from the Lace Room at A. T. Stewart's, all chosen for her wedding gown. The
trouseau
"A" was delivered from Lord and Taylor, consisting of fifty-one pieces of undergarments and silk negligees; there was a complete suite of emeralds from
Dreicer
on Fifth Avenue; and to add insult to injury, her diamond engagement ring from Mr. Tiffany's store on Union Square was delivered not by her fiancé but armed courier.

Alana stood mutely by as the boys were instructed by
Pumphrey
where to deposit their goods. But as soon as they were taken care of, the door chimes rang again, and
Pumphrey
announced the appearance of Madame
LaBoeuve
, the couturiere from James
McCreery
who was to make her wedding gown. And right at this lady's heels was a footman in the Sheridan green and black livery with a note from the Irishman himself.

Alana took the letter from
Pumphrey
and closed herself off in the parlor. She wanted no one to see her face while she read it. It was bound to be upsetting. Slowly she thumbed open the envelope and read:

Miss Van
Alen
,

I want you to dine with me at Delmonico's this evening. Lorenzo Delmonico will show you my table. Be there at 6pm. We have much to discuss.

Trevor Sheridan

PostScript—wear my
ring.

She closed her eyes, infuriated. So she'd received her marching orders, she thought bitterly as she crumpled the note in her hand. The postscript was enough to make her rip the thing into tiny bits and crush them beneath her slippers. The cad was referring to the engagement diamond, of course, the one so lovingly delivered by the last messenger. How coldly logical he was to ask that she wear it in public. She would then be branded as Sheridan's chattel, pure and simple.

Her idea to marry him began to wear away. Caroline Astor was no longer around to get Alana's back up, and suddenly the thought of tying herself to this man seemed impossibly stupid. The speed and control with which he tried to manipulate her was daunting. Though she had seen some reason in this absurd plan before, when she thought of that postscript, all she could see was red.

"
Pumphrey
," she said as she crossed the parcel-laden foyer, "have the coupé brought around at five thirty. I must go out tonight."

"Very good, madam."
Pumphrey
bowed,
his face professionally clear of expression.

Alana dismissed him with a nod and ascended the stairs to her bedroom. She wouldn't be late for this dinner—especially when she was not going to be wearing that vulgar ring.

*
 
*
  
*

The Van
Alen
brown coupé made the short trip up Fifth Avenue in quiet Knickerbocker style. Tucked inside the cab, Alana watched the cast-iron storefronts and marble palaces roll by, awash in the lavenders of
a cool
spring twilight. The ride was pleasant, this part of Fifth Avenue still unmanned by the relentless web of telegraph lines that plagued Broadway, but Alana hardly noticed as the carriage turned right at Fourteenth Street toward Union Square. Her mind was very much on the Irishman.

The coupé halted at the old Grinnell mansion where the former owner of the famous clipper ship
Flying Cloud
had once lived. Delmonico's, with its distinct white-and-scarlet-striped awnings, now operated there as New York's unrivaled eating establishment. The restaurant had become the ultimate rendezvous of society where the Family Circle and Assembly Balls were held, even Ward McAlister's brainchild, the Patriarchs' Ball. A steady stream of celebrities passed through its doors, and Alana had dined there many times, but always in the company of an escort. This time she was alone, and she couldn't help an uncontrollable shiver as her driver assisted her from the carriage.

Once inside, the owner and maitre d’hôtel, Lorenzo, immediately recognized her. He was a pleasant balding man with a fine set of
muttonchop
whiskers. With a polite bow, he said, "How very good of you to join us this evening, Miss Van
Alen
. Please allow me to take your cape and show you to your table."

Alana smiled and nodded. She would have greeted the man more personally, but for some reason, once she'd stepped inside Delmonico's, anxiety had taken control of her voice.

Lorenzo removed her coffee-colored evening cape without further ceremony and handed it to a nearby servant. "I beg you to allow me to escort you, Miss Van
Alen
. Mr. Sheridan is waiting in the private saloon."

"A private saloon?" she
asked,
her heart stopping in her chest. She hadn't counted on this. At the very least she'd expected a public table where he could show off that ring that was supposed to be encircling her finger.

Once again he'd pulled the rug from beneath her. Perhaps it was only logical that he take a private room. He was no doubt prepared for a refusal. They had much to discuss, and to do it in the main dining room would be difficult, but her rationalization sounded false even to her ears. There definitely was logic in this plan, but knowing Sheridan, she wouldn't know what it was until after the fact. The only thing she knew for sure was that the thought of being alone with Sheridan in one of those luxurious, well-couched decadent rooms, rooms she'd heard whispered about behind fans, made her want to retrieve her cloak and flee.

"I know Mr. Sheridan awaits your arrival with great anticipation." Lorenzo smiled a handsome Continental smile that would have comforted her if she hadn't noticed his gaze on her hands. He was obviously searching for a ring, some
telltale sign
that all the gossips, all the newspaper articles, were correct and that indeed a Knickerbocker was going to lower herself to marry a common Irishman. When he didn't find one, he seemed disappointed, as if he had an army of relatives in his kitchens just waiting for his exclusive report.

Unnerved, Alana hid her hands in the folds of her dinner dress and stared at him. Lorenzo Delmonico, in the grand tradition of restaurateurs, remembered himself at once and suavely offered his arm. She almost didn't take it, but knowing she would have to face the Irishman here or in an even more public place, she reluctantly did.

They walked through the main saloon filled with diners, cigar smoke, and laughter. Their footsteps echoed through the enormous empty ballroom, its
Saracenic
splendor now ghostly without other inhabitants. Lorenzo took her up a flight of stairs carpeted in ruby wool. He opened an ornately carved walnut door, and its occupant, the infamous Trevor Sheridan, stood to greet them.

His gaze met hers, and again she was struck by his eyes, an uncommonly dark hazel. They seemed even more stern than usual, and, panicked, Alana looked behind her, as if Lorenzo might offer her reassurance. But sensing the tension, Lorenzo had already departed, closing the door behind him.

She took a deep breath and turned back to Sheridan. Dressed in a black evening swallowtail coat and trousers, he looked more handsome than any other man she had ever seen. The starched turned-down points of his shirt collar accented the masculine contours of his face to perfection, while the white barrel-knotted bow tie was just enough out of fashion to be tasteful. If this had been any other meeting on any other occasion, Alana could have almost enjoyed being in the company of such a magnificent example of manhood. But she couldn't escape the fact that he was a terrible force to reckon
with,
and staring at him now, his face lean and determined, she could see why William Astor had always referred to him by his Wall Street nickname, the Predator.

"You look beautiful tonight if I may say so, Miss Van
Alen
" were his first words. His gaze flickered over her attire, but in that brief glance he seemed to catalog everything: her evening gown of brilliant arsenic-green taffeta; her bodice done in the Elizabethan taste, outlined with chains of tiny black chenille balls; her bosom, discreetly adorned with a necklace of jet set in Etruscan gold—an odd piece, especially since she was no longer in mourning.

His eyes fixed on the necklace until she felt forced to cover it with her hand. When she had dressed for this evening, she felt it was the most appropriate piece of jewelry, considering her situation. He seemed to find the irony in it too, but he didn't smile, especially when he looked at her left hand. Predictably, his next words were "Where's your ring, my dear betrothed?"

She opened her purple-beaded purse and dug inside it.

When she retrieved his ring, she stepped forward and laid it upon the white linen tablecloth.

A scowl marred his fine Irish features. "Why aren't you wearing it?"

"I think that's obvious."

Anger began to simmer beneath his calm facade. "I see."

"Is our business concluded, then?" She looked around the intimate saloon, anxious to depart. In Sheridan's company the room only seemed to grow smaller.

"You're already here, Miss Van
Alen
. Why not
have dinner
?" He smiled, and a tingle of warning went down her spine.

"I really don't think—" "Where's the harm?"

She looked at him, remembering similar words. "Where's the sacrifice?" he'd said with just the slightest hint of accent, allowing her a brief peek into his real self. But he wasn't letting her peek now. She heard no trace of an accent.

"No, really.
I've imposed upon you enough." She closed her purse and looked to the door.

"Perhaps I might contemplate the return of your fortune. Would you dine with me then?"

She looked up and found him standing next to her. The thick ruby carpet had muffled the sound of the walking stick he never seemed to be without. "Shall you give it back to me?" she asked, stepping back, his height again intimidating her.

"Perhaps.
Let's discuss it."

He held the rosewood-and-velvet dining chair for her. She paused, a warning bell sounding in her mind. But the lure of the return of her money was too much. She slowly sat, being careful not to wrinkle her train or crush her bustle.

He seated himself on the burgundy moiré banquette at the opposite side of the small table. The banquette ran along the entire perimeter of the room. There were also
several gold-fringed ottomans, and she could finally understand why Mrs.
Varick
had once likened the private rooms at Delmonico's to small brothels. This little saloon was suitable for any kind of intimate activity.

"You do look bewitching tonight.
I
don't lie when I say that." His voice interrupted her thoughts. She looked at him, the corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. "I can finally understand why the Knickerbockers prize you so much, Miss Van
Alen
. You're everything they aspire to be. You're lovely to look upon, intelligent, and scrupulously well bred.
What more could they desire in a young woman?"

"Money, I'm afraid, and alas, because of you, I now have none."

"You could have more than you ever dreamed about if you married me. I've a fortune few can equal."

"Your wealth is notorious in New York, Mr. Sheridan."

"Trevor. My name is Trevor."

She hesitated, but for some reason, perhaps because of the seductiveness of his dark gaze, she complied. "Trevor," she said softly.

The use of his Christian name seemed to please him. The shadow of a smile crossed his face, and satisfied, he placed his napkin on his lap.

His confidence annoyed her. Once and for all, she decided to nip his aspirations in the bud. "I won't marry you," she said, looking him straight in the eye. "You've caused me a lot of trouble, Mr.
Sher
—
Trevor.
" To make her point, she picked up the enormous Tiffany diamond ring and dropped it onto the gold charger at his place. It made a metallic sound as it fell.

He smiled down at it, but his eyes had turned cold. "The ring doesn't suit you? I paid five thousand for it."