Lions and Lace (9 page)

"Miss?"
Pumphrey
raised his eyebrows, waiting for her instructions.

"Send her in," she said.

Caroline Astor did not enter a room in a flurry of sable and diamonds, as one would expect of
the
Mrs. Astor. Instead, it was almost as
if
the room opened itself to her and bowed. Her omnipotent presence filled the space before her first gleaming black boot touched the Persian carpet. By her very height she threatened; what was worse, she knew it. And today she looked as tall as Alana had ever seen her. She was like a general who upon his first taste of great power had suddenly become a dictator. And Caroline Astor loved being dictator. A cut-direct from
her,
and one became social anathema.

"Mrs. Astor," Alana said evenly, rising from the ruby tasseled cushions in the window seat, "how good of you to call on me."

"Alice dear."
Caroline Astor took Alana's hands and squeezed them. She didn't smile.

"We've been having a dreadful bit of rain, haven't we? I'm so glad to see the sun finally out." The motions, well choreographed from the previous day of visitors, were mechanical. Alana showed the matron to a
Thonet
chair and began to count her fifteen minutes. But when Caroline Astor began removing her gloves, Alana's heart almost stopped beating.

When
her parents, who were close, personal friends of the Astor's, had died, Caroline Astor hadn't called long enough to necessitate
the
removal of her gloves. It was not done, except under very serious circumstances. This had to be a catastrophe.

"Darling
Alice,
we've a lot to discuss and not much time to do it. I don't want to be seen lingering here. It would not do." The matron removed a diamond hatpin the length of a saber. She took off her hat of handsome ochre-colored moiré and revealed a smooth dark brown coif. Caroline Astor had to be forty, yet she sported not one gray hair.

Wigs,
Alana thought in a moment of uncharacteristic ungraciousness.

Unable to read thoughts, Mrs. Astor placed her hat upon a table and like the commander she was, got right to the point. "Alice, the reason for your engagement eludes me. I must tell you what a shock it was to hear of it."

Alana lowered herself gingerly to the edge of the tufted Belter settee. She wanted to answer that she too was shocked to hear of it. Instead, she said uneasily, "It's quick, I grant you."

"Your mother was a
Schermerhorn
, my second cousin, I think, once removed. Am I correct?"

Alana nodded.

"That almost makes us relatives, then, doesn't it?" Mrs. Astor smiled.

Alana nodded.
No, that most definitely makes us relatives,
she thought, but in her mood she wasn't about to protest the distance Mrs. Astor had put between them.

"Alice—
Alana,"
the matron quickly corrected.
"That's what your mother called you, wasn't it?"

Alana nodded, hating this attempt at familiarity. She didn't want to be reminded of her mother. Not today. It had been almost three years, but the fire that had taken her parents and, in essence, her sister, was still vivid in her mind.

"She wouldn't want you to marry that . . .
Irisher
, Alana. You know that."

The question ripped into her very soul. No, her mother would not want her to marry Sheridan, and that was why she didn't want even to consider his offer. Her mother had married for love and surely expected her daughters to do the same.

But things had not turned out as expected. And first and foremost her mother would have wanted her to care for
Christabel
.

"My mother and father would not have forbidden me to marry Sheridan if I loved him." Alana gave her the most truthful and intentionally misleading answer she could. Mrs. Astor would not ask if she loved Sheridan. That was entirely beside the point.

The matron did not look pleased with Alana's answer. Like a general redirecting the troops, she took another course. Her face softened, and she grasped Alana's hands. "The Van
Alens
have such a grand history." Impetuously, with genuine feeling, she said, "There aren't many of us old New Yorkers left. You can't do anything foolish, Alana. There won't be any Knickerbockers at all if we don't preserve ourselves. You know our motto:
Nous
nous
soutenons
.
'We support ourselves.'
Ourselves,
" she emphasized.

Alana stared down at their clasped hands, all the emotional turmoil she'd suffered the past few days rising to the surface. Caroline Astor had caused her problems. This very attitude of self-preservation and exclusivity had thrust her into Sheridan's lion's den. And though the Irishman was the most ostensibly wicked soul in all of this, there were others.

With as much conviction as she had in her heart, Alana said, "These parvenus are going to get in—it's an inevitable eventuality.
All
this trouble—for what?
Something that's going to happen, no matter what you do.
Trevor Sheridan just wants to speed things up."

Mrs. Astor dropped her hands. Her eyes narrowed. "That man is . . .
crude,
Alana."

Alana wanted to nod her head in agreement. Sheridan was certainly that. Peeking out from beneath his stiff formality lurked a hedonistic spirit, born of the streets or born of Erin, she did not know. She only knew that it was there, pacing beneath his veneer like a giant cat in a cage. "What you mean
is,
that man is
Irish,
and you cannot accept that." Alana saw no point in avoiding the obvious.

Mrs. Astor closed her eyes as if praying for strength. "They're out there. Right now, Alana. Shall I show them to you?" The matron's eyes flew open, and she stared at her. "There are Irishmen right now working on the Nicholson pavement on Mercer Street. Shall we drive by them? Is that what you want for your husband, a man no better than a common laborer? A man most likely blessed with the manners of an animal, who strays from woman to woman, leaving evidence of his prurient behavior in the city's orphan asylums?"

The last thing Alana wanted was to defend the man. Sheridan was causing her so much
anxiety,
she wanted to curse him from the highest summit. But the fabric of her character would not allow her to do that in this instance. If the attack on Sheridan had been personal, she might have applauded it. That arrogant, manipulative devil deserved a good dressing-down. But when criticism of him was stated like this, simply because of his background, she couldn't abide it. "Trevor Sheridan is not a
shantyman
. You cannot compare him to the brawling, drunken louts you see paving the streets."

"He's not a
shantyman
now, but he was once," Mrs. Astor pointed out, annoyance coloring her pugnacious features.

"Even the
Astors
were poor once." Alana didn't want to get into this battle, but now that she had parried, she saw by Mrs. Astor's face that there was no turning back.

Anger created two cherry-colored spots on her cheeks. "The Irish drink," the matron snapped.

"Knickerbockers drink—some even too much," Alana answered, thinking of the night her uncle thrust her into this tangle.

Caroline Astor was not a woman to dally around the point. She looked Alana in the eye and said, "The girl Mara, Sheridan's sister, was born in New York. When the
Sheridans
immigrated through Castle Garden, they were listed as a widow and two young sons. There is only one conclusion to be drawn from that."

Alana didn't want to show it, but there was no hiding her shock. She could hardly believe it. Mara Sheridan, with her lovely piquant face and her stunning black hair, was nothing like the image of illegitimacy Alana had conjured. She thought back to that beautiful young girl she'd met in Olmsted and Vaux's Greensward months ago. Bastards didn't wear blue velvet cloaks that matched their eyes. Bastards were gangs of dirty boys forced to haunt the Lower East Side, picking pockets before supper and making it impossible for even a gentleman to roam the streets at night without a pistol. They certainly weren't sweet young girls taking buggy rides in Central Park with an army of
postilions
and grooms.

But one thing was now stunningly clear. She knew why the Irishman had been so insanely protective of his sibling. If
Christabel
had been born illegitimate, Alana knew she herself would have fought for her acceptance to the death. Strangely, she almost admired Sheridan now. Though he loomed a nearly unconquerable foe, as a brother, he was almost a saint.

"That bothers you, doesn't
it.
"

Mrs. Astor's words snaked into her thoughts. Alana looked up, the shock on her face replaced with anger. "Even a bastard has feelings," she said quietly. "Even Mara Sheridan, if she was indeed born on the wrong side of the blanket, deserved better treatment than she received from you at her debut." She had wanted to say those words to this woman for weeks. Now, even with everything going awry in her life, it felt good to say them.

"You
could have attended, my dear. But, alas, I know you did not, and I wonder if that didn't put you in the situation you're in now." Caroline Astor's next words were razor sharp. "Everyone knows the Van
Alen
fortune is only a million. Why, that's hardly respectable poverty. Oh yes indeed, I think Mr. Sheridan could do a lot of damage to you. If he took away your funds, I think you could be 'persuaded' to marry him."

Alana bit back a retort. After all, she was never going to convince anyone that she'd meant to go to Mara's debut, and the matron's assessment of her wealth, even delivered in that insulting tone, was absurdly generous. She had nowhere near a million to inherit, not now, with Didier's hands too long in the till. Also, Caroline Astor spoke the truth. Sheridan
was
doing a lot of damage to her. At wit's end, she stood and hoped the matron would take her cue.

Mrs. Astor remained seated. "Alana, dear, you must hear me out. I don't want you to ruin your life. You've always attended my annual January ball with the other Four Hundred. Why, I even wanted you to help entertain the Duke of Granville when he arrives. I've some regard for your mother, Alana. I feel I must save you."

"Please—" Alana began angrily.

"No, hear me out. If you've found yourself in a pinch, why can't you marry Anson Vanbrugh-Stevens? He's mad for you. His family's got sterling connections—why, he's even one of the Patriarchs, and he's filthy rich."

Alana wanted to laugh. Anson Stevens was the poorest choice for a husband she could imagine. It was true he'd been paying her calls for over a year now and had even escorted her to several soirees when her uncle could not attend. He was handsome and possessed all of the qualities Mrs. Astor spoke of, but he was untrustworthy. He cheated at cards, and there were even rumors that he'd been known to snip tendons in other men's trotters to win races. The idea of telling him on their wedding night that he had a mad sister-in-law in Brooklyn was ridiculous. The only reason she'd allowed his escort was that he never asked questions about her. In all the time she'd known Anson she couldn't once remember their conversation ever steering away from his favorite topic—himself. The world revolved around Anson Vanbrugh-Stevens, and while that was fine for a beau, it would never do for a husband. Alana almost smiled. Anson was so wrapped up and coddled by his wealth that if told he must tie his own shoelaces, he would no doubt faint. The shameful news of
Christabel
would probably kill him.

"I can't marry Mr. Stevens—" Alana began.

"You must. Why have you always been so cold to him? He loves you dearly."

Again Alana wanted to laugh. Anson Stevens loved her about as much as he loved the trotters he ran on the Boulevard. As bad as Sheridan's offer was, she at least had no illusions. She wouldn't be going into a marriage believing
herself
to be a wife when in fact she was in a caste somewhere below a set of matched bays.

"Alana, I want you to listen to reason." Mrs. Astor stood as if it were finally time to leave. "This wedding with this
Irisher
is ridiculous. You won't be marrying that man on Saturday, and that is final. If you need someone, I shall summon Mr. Stevens to your side this very day." She placed her ochre moiré hat at a discreet angle on her head and jabbed it with her diamond hatpin. "These people don't know their place. It's time we told them where it is. Our families have deep roots in Manhattan. We cannot taint them with impurities."