Lions and Lace (29 page)

"Sapphires, then?
I've another bracelet, this one, of course, more elaborate.
Quite appropriate for a married woman."

Sheridan shook his head and looked around. Ignoring the jewels, there was nothing in the shop but a collection of gold picture frames and several small music boxes set on a lace-covered table in the middle of the shop.

"I've just the thing, Mr. Sheridan." Weymouth rubbed his hands. "Mrs. Sheridan must have something special. There's a young jeweler in Russia—St. Petersburg, I think
—making endless amusements out of gold and diamonds and such. You must see it."

The man went to his safe and returned with what looked like an egg encrusted with lilies of the valley. But the egg was enameled gold, and the flowers were artfully cascading pearls. When he opened it, it contained a series of seven miniature icons, each a masterpiece unto itself. "I've just gotten this from Monsieur Faberge—what do you think?"

Sheridan folded his arms across his chest as if he didn't know what to think.

"She'll be the only one to have something like it."

Sheridan snorted. "Well, I agree with you there." His scowl deepened. "None of this is right. I'll just take the bracelet for Mara and be done with it."

Weymouth snapped the egg closed and
nodded,
a decided slump to his shoulders. In a minute the young man appeared, the bracelet now nestled in a silver embossed box tied with a blue velvet bow. He rushed across the room, obviously not wanting to keep such an important customer waiting, and he bumped the edge of the table that displayed the music boxes. One fell, and as it lay on its side, the strains of "The Beautiful Blue Danube Waltz" began to fill the store.

"Let me see that," Sheridan commanded as the hapless young man fumbled to set it right. He promptly brought it to him, and Sheridan turned it over in his hands.

The music box was hardly worthy of the store's reputation for being costly and exclusive. It was a humble little piece painted with blue forget-me-nots and ivy. But for some reason, the notion struck Sheridan that it was what he'd been looking for. He turned to Weymouth and said, "I'll take this back to Mrs. Sheridan. That's her favorite waltz. Wrap it up."

"Of course," said Weymouth. "But you know
,
this piece is only twenty-five dollars. Are you sure Mrs. Sheridan wouldn't like something more . . .
substantial?"

"If she's with me on my next trip up here, she can buy
the whole damned store if she likes. But right now, all I want is the music box."

"Of course, Mr. Sheridan."
Weymouth snapped his fingers to have his man wrap the item. He wasn't about to risk future sales just to enlarge this one.

The music box wrapped, Sheridan took his two packages and told Weymouth to bill him. Weymouth bowed and held the door. Unable to help himself, he called to Sheridan, "I do hope we meet Mrs. Sheridan soon! On your next trip north, perhaps?"

Sheridan only laughed. It was the first time in days.

His greatness weighed, his will is not his own. [For
he
himself is subject to his birth.]

—Shakespeare,

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

It was a week from the day Trevor left for Boston before Alana saw him again. She and Mara and Eagan were in the drawing room of the Manhattan chateau having their after-dinner cordials. As was becoming the custom, Mara played the harp while Eagan sang in a clear Irish tenor. He'd tried to lift Alana's spirits with several bawdy tunes, but finally he surrendered to her melancholy and began a haunting love song. He sang it in Gaelic with such dark
emotion,
it brought tears to her eyes.

He finished, and even Mara seemed moved. No one spoke for several moments until Alana said, "What's that song called, Eagan? It's so beautiful. What do the words mean?"

He shrugged and flashed
her his
irreverent smile. "Haven't a clue. Trevor taught me that one. He knows what the words mean. He learned it from Father."

"It's '
Bríg
Og
Ní
Máille
,' 'Bridget O'Malley," and the words meant nothing with Eagan's poor pronunciation."

Alana took a sharp breath and jerked her head around. No one could mistake Trevor's deep resonant voice.

All eyes turned to the drawing room entrance. Trevor stood there, stick in hand, looking cool, collected, angry. His green-gold eyes surveyed the room with detachment, but when they found her, an emotion glittered like a jewel in them, with facets of resentment and desire.

Eagan was the first to speak. He shot Alana a concerned look,
then
said, "Brother. You've come back." He couldn't hide the sarcasm in his voice when he added, "All that pressing business taken care of, I see."

Trevor didn't answer. He glanced briefly at Mara's disapproving frown, noted Eagan's hostility,
then
returned his gaze to Alana.

She wanted desperately to look cold and uncaring, but she wasn't sure how she appeared when all she felt was hurt and despair.

"I take it, wife, that you were anxious to come here, but don't you think it would have been more appropriate for me, your husband, to show you our home . . . than my brother and sister?" There was no mistaking the contempt in his voice.

Alana put away her needlework and stood. With as much polite defiance as she could muster, she said, "You'll forgive me, but I found the waiting tedious."

Eagan laughed. "There you go, Trevor! What a prize of a wife Alana is.
How brilliant of you to marry a woman with a mind of her own."

Trevor shot his brother a glance that should have knocked him dead. "Alana," he
began,
his voice low and ominous, "I want to speak to you. You can imagine my surprise when I returned to Newport and found my wife gone."

She put aside her hurt to say calmly, "No, I can't imagine. In truth, I hardly thought you'd notice at all."

His gaze slid to Mara. The tension in his body doubled. She could see he didn't want Mara to see their argument, and for once she and Trevor Sheridan had reached an agreement. Smiling at both Eagan and Mara, she decided to end their conversation. "I'm suddenly very tired. I believe I'll say good night."

"Good night," Mara replied, her eyes full of worry.

Eagan
bowed,
a small gleeful smile still on his lips.

Alana nodded to her husband in passing. She walked into the foyer, and only when they were out of sight of Eagan and Mara did Trevor
halt
her. "Alana, I said I want to speak to you."

All the feelings she so desperately tried to hide surfaced. Still aching from his abandonment, she answered without looking at him. "Then do what any other gentleman would do, Mr. Sheridan. Leave your card with the butler. In the morning I'll consider it."

Stunned, he watched her ascend the marble staircase, a thunderous expression frozen on his face. He gasped something in Gaelic, and this time she didn't need Eagan to translate. She knew he'd just cursed.

Whittaker stood before his master's bedroom door, silver breakfast tray in hand. He knocked, remaining unruffled at the gruff "Enter" from behind those heavy doors.

Once inside, Whittaker placed the tray on the master's desk and laid out his linens. Trevor watched him from the shield-shaped shaving mirror perched atop his bureau. When Whittaker paused, Trevor put down his straight razor and wiped his face with a hot towel. "So what is it?" he asked, his tone indicating he knew it wasn't good news.

"You've two letters, sir. Shall I place them here on your desk?"

Trevor folded his arms across his bare chest and nodded.

Whittaker did as he was told but did not go.

Trevor raised an eyebrow as if to say
So
now
what is it?

His butler answered promptly. "She's going out today, sir. I thought you'd like to know. She's taking the carriage as we speak."

Immediately, Trevor turned to a window, unmindful of his limp. He threw open the enormous mahogany sash and two stories below, past the turrets and gargoyles of the Hunt architecture, Alana was being helped into the carriage.

"Shall I send someone
with
her, sir?"

Trevor faced him, an awe-inspiring sight. The wind from the open window blew at his hair; his eyes snapped with anger. A battle played across his face as he considered his answer.

"Shall I?" Whittaker prompted.

"No," said Trevor, and turned back to the window. Furious, he watched the Sheridan carriage roll down Fifth Avenue. When he couldn't see it any longer, he slammed down the sash and vengefully pulled the curtains.

"Shall there be anything else, sir?"

"Wait here. I might need to send a reply."

Trevor snatched up the letters and ripped open the first.

Mr. Sheridan,

I'm taking Mara to the Academy of Music tonight to see Strauss's
Indigo and the Forty Thieves.
Needless to say, we won't be at home for dinner. I pray this won't cause inconvenience.

Mrs. Sheridan

With a wry, almost nasty twist of his lips, he crumpled the paper in his hand and tossed it onto his leather-topped desk. Turning to the next letter, he only had to look at the handwriting on the envelope to know whom it was from and to guess what it was about. Without reading it, he placed it with other correspondence on his desk and turned a grim expression to Whitaker. "I've got to go to Miss Dumont's hotel. Bring another carriage around, will you?"

That implacable British facade almost faltered. A brief look of distaste passed across his features, but he quickly resumed his butler manner.
"Very good, sir."

Trevor turned pensive. He rubbed his jaw, grimacing at every place he'd missed while shaving. "And send a note to
Ebel's
Florist. I want two dozen red roses delivered to her hotel before I leave the house."

"Right away, sir."

There was a long pause. Trevor's gaze fairly snapped with irritation. "I don't see your feet moving, Whittaker."

"No, sir."

"Why aren't they?"

"Pardon me, sir. They suddenly seem stricken, sir. I remember this happened once before. I am sorry."

"This happened the time I told you to send a note to Tammany Hall, and as I recall, Tweed never did get my message."

"And there went the Irish vote."

Trevor gave Whittaker a jaundiced glance. "We're not discussing my politics."

"No, sir.
Of course not.
The Sheridan name's been kept from Thomas Nast and the
New York Times."

Trevor choked. "Are you blackmailing me, Whittaker?"

"Of course not, sir.
I knew your father. And a good man he was. We spent many a fine night in our cups back at the old pub in Connacht."

"That's right," Trevor answered ominously.

"And of course, sir, your politics are your business."

"What do you want, Whittaker? Name your price, if that's what you're getting at."

"Oh no, sir.
I don't know what you're talking about."

"Then deliver this note.
Now."

"I'll do my best, sir. However, this affliction seems worse than the last one."

Trevor towered over the small elderly man and said loudly enough for a deaf man to hear, "You
meddlin
',
connivin
' old Brit, get your feet to
workin
', or
more's
the pity you were me father's friend."

"Yes, sir."

Trevor stared him down, but to no avail. Whittaker remained implacable, immovable. Finally, with anger tautening his cheeks, he warned in his full brogue, "Ye get involved in affairs o'
mine,
I'll have you to know I've brought a bigger man than you down."

"You're entirely correct, sir." Whittaker didn't move an inch.

Trevor raked his hand through his hair and heaved a great sigh. He glanced at the butler one more time before conceding a tie. "You want an explanation? Is that it?"

"Of course not, sir.
That is not my place."

Trevor snorted with contempt. "Well, this explanation should work miracles on that health of yours. If you must know, I've decided to allow Miss Dumont to pursue her dreams of the theater. After giving this some thought, I think it best for everyone that I send Daisy to Paris and find her a handsome, virile tutor to keep her occupied. Though I expect her vanity will soar at my artful compliments and brave show of self-deprivation in order that she may achieve greatness on the stage, I assume she'll also pout.
Hence, the roses.
Now have you recovered?"

Whittaker gave him an imperious glance.
"Quite, sir."

With that, Trevor became so angry he forgot himself and let his Irish show. "
Ye're
a bloody old woman, ye are. If ye
hadn
't
been a friend to me father's, I'd have left ye
workin
' for the Ascendency—'til
ye'd
met
yer
maker."

"Very good, sir."
Whittaker bowed. When he left, it wasn't quite clear, but there was something like a smile on his lined face.

Alone, Trevor shoved his arms into a freshly starched shirt and fastened the stiff collar. From the corner of his eye a silver flash caught his attention, and he stared at the mantel where two silver boxes wrapped in blue velvet ribbon rested. A thought occurred to him, and he picked up the larger one and headed to the adjoining suite. He threw open the double doors, and the expression froze on his face when he saw that the room had not been occupied.

There were no perfumes on the dressing table, no cashmere throws on the chaise longue,
no
slippers by the bed. Astonished, he limped farther into the room, looking like a man duped. A noise in the hallway turned his head, and through an opened door he watched his wife's personal maid pass by. He pointed and said, "You!"

Margaret stopped, the booming voice freezing her in her tracks. She peered through the opened door, not bothering to hide the shock on her face when she saw the master of the house pointing directly at her.

"Me,
sar
?" she whispered faintly.

"You.
Where is your mistress?"

"Miss Alana? She's gone out. I don't know where."

"Wrong, on both accounts. She's
Mrs. Sheridan
now, and I'm not inquiring where she is at this moment. I want to know why she's not staying in this room."

Margaret peered into the lush gold-and-ivory room and shrugged. "When we came down from Newport, the butler showed her this room, but she preferred another."

"Well, she has no choice in the matter. This is where the mistress of this house sleeps."