The King of Threadneedle Street (11 page)

READ ON! Sit down and un-crumple the paper, Andrew. Thankfully, Lady Chauncey is in Miss V’s confidence and assures us she will not allow it to happen. “The Three Fates,” as I dubbed them (my dear Ladies Chauncey, Lambrick and Devon, that is), are at this moment hatching a scheme to thwart Mme. Desmarais.

I intend to forward the information on Mme. Desmarais to Mr. Cox. I cannot believe he is aware of the danger, and I trust he will be enraged to learn of Mme. Desmarais’ duplicity. In his defense, Mme. D. is crafty and succeeded in fooling many a great deal wiser than ourselves.

I know by now you have ordered your fastest horse. May I remind you that you lack Miss Villier’s address? Please stop at Rougemont before sailing for the continent. I will provide you with the necessary information and assistance, along with some items of interest. While I can’t pledge I will defy the Lord Courtenay to the fullest extent, I cannot in good conscience abandon Miss Villier to a wolf in sheep’s clothing. You have my help, as well as the formidable “Three Fates.”

I presume to have the pleasure of your company shortly.

Wil

Chapter Seven

Fishes live in the sea, as men do a-land; the great ones eat up the little ones.

Pericles, Prince of Tyre
, William Shakespeare

November of 1871, Paris, France

“Miss Villier, do not look now, but one of the five wealthiest men in England walked through the entrance.” Madame Desmarais fanned herself and glanced past the crowd of dancers at the latest arrival. “
Diantre,
but surely he is the most beautiful!” She told Alysia to “keep court” while she investigated the newcomer.

Alysia opened her fan and obediently kept her back to the doorway. She gave a weak smile to Vicomte Evigny at her left as he prattled on in French about his vineyards in Bordeaux. She hadn’t known it was possible to merge the topics of wine production and the seduction of women. Alysia didn’t care for his innuendo about preferring a tart flavor to dry. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

A chevalier on her right by the name of Leduc held out a glass of champagne for her, ogling her décolletage, unaware she had caught him. Or perhaps he was unabashed. At any rate, Alysia began to question what manner of company Mme. Desmarais had introduced to her this evening. She knew Vicomte Evigny was married, as were a few others in her “court,” as Mme. Desmarais called it.

Granted, she was no expert on the ways of French society, but it didn’t stand to reason that this was respectable behavior in any country, and she didn’t like the attention. She was careful not to encourage them. Not that she pretended to be better than another member of the demimonde, but the men here this evening seemed to be under the impression that she was not
respectable.

“Why bother with the banalities of producing wine, when you can enjoy the finished work directly?” interrupted Lord Ramsgate, an English baron, as he put yet another champagne flute in her hand. His fingers grazed hers, lingering much longer than necessary. Alysia was obliged to at least taste from each drink offered her. At this rate she would be pickled by midnight.

Evigny butted his shoulder to oust Ramsgate, and Leduc looped his arm across the back of her waist, trying to turn her attention. She scanned the room for Geordy, her poet friend and perhaps the only sane man in the room. Both Mme. Desmarais and Lady Chauncey met her gaze, observing her.

Finally, she spied Geordy and caught his eye. She twirled her fan with her left hand:
We are being watched.
Then she touched one finger to the edge of the fan:
I need to speak with you.
She closed the fan and tapped it against her shoulder:
Now, please!
He understood, nodding once. He set his glass down and excused himself from his own court of ladies.

Geordy bowed in mock-formal greeting as he approached, his chestnut curls bobbing across his forehead. “
Voulez-vous danser,
Mademoiselle Villier?” He held one hand out for her while he plucked away the glasses with the other, leaving the competing men at her sides holding them.

“Geordy, you are a hero,” she murmured as he turned them on the dance floor. He only smiled. “I am glad you are here. It has been too long since I last saw you.”

“
Oui, ma
Lise.” She smiled at his pet name for her. “You are too busy for me,” he complained with a pout.

“Don’t blame me, Geordy. I only take orders.” She lifted their joined hands. “
Tiens!
And I see you put down your pen just in time to attend the
soirée
,” she teased, indicating the smudged ink on the side of his hand.

He shrugged in assent.

“Any progress with our project? I was looking forward to seeing how you would render my paintings to verse.”

Geordy made a low snorting sound in the back of his throat Alysia could only define as a French noise; it was equivalent to the English non-committal “Hmm.” Andrew used it when he was distracted or wished to delay a confession.

Andrew!

Her heart sank with a sharp pang at the mere thought of him. She imagined she could hear his luxurious bass voice, sending a shudder along her spine… but then it was Geordy’s French tenor voice which brought her back to the present.

She caught the middle of his apologetic speech, “
Alors
, it is not that I do not want to finish them, but it is,
en toute honnêteté
, that they are effecting me,
gravement
. When I am writing on your
Le Coût Élevé,
it renders me…
quel est le mot? Mélancolique. Qu’il est ça
. I am sad, you know. I do not like it.”

Oh. She shook off the memory and processed that Geordy was making his excuses on the grounds of her work being too depressing. That a poet thought so didn’t bode well for her career. “I thought you adore tragedy and suffering.”

“
Oui
, I do, for a subject.
Mais, il y a…
there is something personal in your paintings, and it affects me so. Do you understand? It is, euh, that I feel I am intruding on,
privé
, euh, your private grief?”

It was the most she had ever heard Geordy speak at once. The French phrased in questions when they felt apologetic or timid. He was clearly uncomfortable.

He added, “You have, euh,
perdu
— lost something? You are grieving?
En effet
, just a moment ago I see your face, you remembered something
douloureaux
, painful?”

“Everyone suffers, Geordy,” she dismissed. “You should turn your pen to Moreau’s
Orpheus.
A guaranteed publishing contract, there.”

Another French noise, the snort. “I do not treat beheadings, Lise.
Non,
merci
.”

At that she had to laugh, and he broke into an easy smile and twirled her around. He drew her a little nearer and gently kissed her head, in her hair by her temple. Geordy stood only an inch or so taller than she, so she saw his fond smile for her.

“Thank you, Geordy, for rescuing me so quickly.”

Apparently Geordy was finished pontificating. He nodded and winked.

“I am sorry I deprived your court of your company.” A few of the ladies he had left were still shooting her looks of displeasure.

“Euh. They will still be there later, or not.”

They danced a while longer, then Geordy said askance, “It is your innocence, you know, that
provoque
? Provokes them so.”

“Hmm. What?”

“See, you are
très belle, magnifique vraiment
, but you do not seem to know it. And you have never been with a man,
je crois
?”

Alysia rapped him on the shoulder with her fan. “Geordy! You are too bold!”

“Ah, I see it is so.
Je peux le sentir
, and they can smell it too, you know. It puts them on the hunt for you.”

“Absurd.”

“I think not. I am French.
Je sais.
I know these things.
Mais, n’ayez pas peur
. I will not hunt you,
compris
? I know you do not like me.”

She returned his teasing smile. “How do you know, Geordy? Maybe I
do
like you, and I am plotting your seduction as we speak.”

“Say the word,
ma belle
!” He twirled her around again with a short laugh. “
Je croi
s… but I believe you left your heart in England,
ma chérie
.”

“On the contrary I have no heart, only the blackened soul required of a woman in my circumstance.”

Geordy kissed her hair again. “You do not wish to claim any of these willing protectors?” He swept his eyes around the room as though any one of the men there were hers for the taking.

“Decidedly, no.”

“
Alors
, I supposed you were hunting for a situation. Mme. Desmarais indicates as much,
je crois
? And these unlucky gentlemen, they think they have a chance, no?”

“Madame Desmarais? What do you mean?”

“
Bien sûr
, madame helps ladies find
les bienfaiteurs
— benefactors. I supposed you will be
une courtesane
, like your famous mother?” He puzzled at her aghast expression, “That is not why you are the
protégé
of Mme. Desmarais?”

“No, Geordy! Not at all! I do not wish it in the least.”

“
Je m’excuse
, Lise. I meant no offense. I assume… euh,
compris
?” he trailed sheepishly.

“I am not cross with you. But I am distressed to hear you think I am seeking a career as a courtesan. You said Mme. Desmarais says I am?”

“
Bien, oui
. That is what she does. Many of
les
célèbres
courtesans in Paris began with Mme. Desmarais as a sponsor.”

“Oh?” Alysia hid her alarm. Why had Mme. Desmarais never said so?

“I imagine these men here think they are bidding for you
ce soir
.”

Bidding? Like a cattle auction? Or the slave block?
The waltz ended, and Geordy led her off the floor. Alysia grasped his arm to hold herself steady.

“You may like a drink?” He seemed amused by her clinging to his side for dear life while other men began to close in on her. She nodded, and Geordy led her to the refreshment table. Surely Mme. Desmarais would not set her up as a courtesan? Alysia had no recollection of ever discussing it. Had she not been aware of some protocol or custom that obliged her without her knowledge?

“Lise,
ma chére
, you are distressed?” He pried her fingers from his arm.

“Yes. No. I am fine, thank you. Only surprised I am the last to hear I am
on the market
, as you say.”

“
Peut-être
it is not so bad, euh?” Geordy gestured with his head toward the guests in the room. “You shall have your pick of them,
ma belle
. And you should be choosy. I hear talk of an important English lord
vient d’arriver
. They say he is very rich, and even more handsome. And unmarried,
toutefois
. Perhaps you may fall for him? ”

“I don’t want a man.”

Another French snort. “Do not want a man? You mean you like women?
Très intéressant. D’accord, c’est Paris
,” he said with a dismissive flourish of his hand.

Alysia rapped him again with her fan. “No, you scoundrel. Not that either. I have an inheritance; I have no need of a protector.”

“Ah, you think you will live without love? Money instead!” He scoffed. “
Tien
s! You are not French, and I cannot understand you!” He threw his hands up in a gesture of resignation, and Alysia smiled.

Evigny approached with a gentleman she hadn’t met, while Leduc and Ramsgate followed close behind. Alysia spied Mme. Desmarais trying to catch her attention from across the room. She pointed with her fan, and Alysia tried to look in that direction but couldn’t see through the crowd. Geordy apologized, saying Mme. Desmarais was shooing him away, then left her side.

Perhaps the people around her were speaking; she couldn’t say, for she was momentarily stunned and not sure why. Then she heard the voice again. A British, bass voice. “Excuse me, pardon.”

Was it her imagination? She shook her head.

Evigny and Ramsgate were pushed aside, and there stood Andrew, a head taller than the others and gloriously angry. Her heart stalled then kicked. She couldn’t breathe.

He gave her a low, formal bow. Pressed a slow kiss on the back of her gloved hand before turning it to press the palm to his face. Closed his eyes and inhaled deeply at her wrist. Grazed his nose along the inside of her forearm, as though hundreds of eyes were not observing.

One of the men nearby, probably Ramsgate, scoffed, “And
without
an introduction! Such
presumption!
Come now, who is—”

“We have met,” Andrew took her glass, and for the second time that evening, Leduc found himself holding it while another man cut in.

“Andrew.” Her voice caught, and her throat felt swollen. A dozen gasps sounded around her, seeming to echo.

She became aware of a chorus of lowered voices. “That is Lord Preston!” or jealously, “How does he know
Miss Villier
?” said as though her name meant horse manure.

“Lord Preston, The King of Threadneedle Street.”

“Lord Preston, youngest peer to sit in the House of Lords.”

All hail
Lord Preston, the demi-god. Who should not be here.

She was suddenly conscious of how she must look to him, no longer the plump, modest country maiden to whom he had bid farewell over a year before. After a year of Madame Desmarais’ strict diet of vegetable juices, sprouts, and deprivation of sweets, Alysia was a noticeable one or two stone lighter. She thought she was an inch taller, as well.