The Legend of Lyon Redmond (3 page)

“Perhaps we can find a new print or two for our town house in Ackermann's. I should like you to impose your taste upon it, since I haven't any of my own.”

Our
. They were going to be an
our
, too.

She'd have a new home. New furnishings.

A new . . . bed.

A new life.

“Nonsense. Your taste is excellent, if a trifle subdued. Be careful what you wish for—you may find yourself up to your ears in embroidered pillows.”

“It sounds comfortable. I'll never fear stumbling in the house if I can anticipate a soft landing.”

She laughed. “Call for me in two hours? I should have been sufficiently tortured by the seamstresses by then.”

“Until we meet again, my dear,” he said, with a quirk of one brow, and bowed.

As he turned to go he tripped over the beggar's foot, which was suddenly and inconveniently thrust outward.

Landsdowne swore softly and recovered aplomb neatly, and he was on his way.

Olivia bit back a smile and stepped into the shop at last.

Madame Marceau, whose name was French and purely fictional, and her long, pleasingly homely face pure Plantagenet, clasped her hands in delight when she saw Olivia, and then curtsied, and then wrung the very same hands in despair.

“Oh, Miss Eversea, I am so thrilled we'll be pinning you into your wedding gown today. It will rival even Princess Charlotte's! But you see, we have a bit of a predicament. The girl who assisted me, Mademoiselle Marie-Anne, has abandoned me suddenly—she came into some money and moved to the country like that!” Madame Marceau snapped her fingers. “And I have been called to see to an urgent matter in my other shop on Bond Street. Fortunately Providence has seen fit to provide me with the very competent new assistant just when my need is greatest. I am so sorry to be unable to see to you personally today!”

“Think nothing of it, Madame. I trust your judgment implicitly, and I'm sure your new assistant, Mademoiselle . . .”

“Lilette.”

Lilette?
Olivia almost rolled her eyes. “. . . Mademoiselle Lilette will acquit herself admirably, as I know you would only employ the best.”

Madame Marceau beamed gratefully at this, and the mademoiselle in question appeared from behind her. She was small, pale, pleasingly round girl with soulful dark eyes and dark hair, which was scraped away from her face into a tight, sensible knot. Her severe, high-necked, exquisitely tailored dress implied only the clientele were allowed to shine.

“Mademoiselle Lilette, if you would be so kind as to assist Miss Eversea? I shall return as quickly as possible.”

“
Mais bien sûr
, Madame Marceau. If you would follow me, Miss Eversea.”

Olivia followed her and divested herself of her pelisse and dress behind a screen and slipped into what would be her wedding gown when she finally decided on the proper trim and all the millions of
measurements were concluded. Mademoiselle Lilette dropped to her knees at Olivia's feet with the torture instruments of her trade, pins and measure tape.

A shilling clearly hadn't bought enough distance. The bloody song started up again outside.

Eight verses wouldn't come close to addressing the millions of things she'd imagined happening to Lyon Redmond over the years. She wondered whether there were any verses about Lyon Redmond dying in a ditch. Certainly a good many things rhymed with “ditch.”

They were on the “. . . did he take to the wide open sea?” line, the least painful of the lines for Olivia to imagine, when Mademoiselle Lilette spoke.

“Miss Eversea, if you would hold still, like so, or your hem will be wavy and not even. Interesting,
non
, but wavy is not the style?”

“My apologies, Mademoiselle Lilette.” Olivia obediently froze.

“Such exquisite taste you have, Miss Eversea.”

Mademoiselle Lilette's accent was authentically French and her flattery unsurprisingly rote.

“Thank you,” Olivia said, in a tone that meant
Please stop talking
.

“So fortunate you are to be marrying such a grand man,
n'est-ce pas
? A handsome viscount,
oui
?”

“
Oui
,” Olivia said tautly.

The song appeared to be rounding on the second verse now.

Would that her last name was . . . oh, Silver, perhaps, instead. Nothing rhymed with Silver.

Would that nothing had ever happened in her life that warranted a
song
.

Would that Lyon was here, because she could think of no one else who would have laughed with
her over that song until tears poured down their cheeks and they gasped for air.

She closed her eyes against an onslaught of fury and yearning so painful it made her nauseous and she nearly swayed.

She held herself very, very still, and the pain washed out again.

She'd learned over the years this was how to manage it. With stillness.

“You must be very, how you say, very in love weez your fiancé?”

Weez?
Olivia frowned. What the devil was . . .

Oh—
with
.

The bloody French. They were always on about love love love love love. Suddenly the question made her head ache as if she'd been presented with an algebra problem.

Love. The word had once felt infinite, magical. A word like “Heaven” or “universe.”

And now it felt barbed and foolish. She knew an impulse to shrug away from it as if something multilegged had landed on her skin.

“I wish there was a way to disperse the
choir
out there permanently,” she muttered irritably.

Mademoiselle Lilette stopped moving and was quiet for a merciful moment.

“Surely we can, how you say, exploit them instead, Miss Eversea,” she said mildly.

“Exploit!” Despite herself, Olivia was intrigued. “Go on.”

“Perhaps to give all of them, how do you say,
une
pamphlet about the rights and needs of the poor? They will become educated or they will be driven away, perhaps both.”

Olivia laughed, genuinely surprised and delighted. “Ah, I do like how you think, Mademoiselle Lilette. You seem a resourceful woman.”

Mademoiselle Lilette gave a little modest grunt. “One does not rise from the slums to work for the
magnifique
Madame Marceau if one is not resourceful.
You
must remain still, however, while I pin, for I do not wish to draw blood.”

Imperiousness was the province of dressmakers everywhere, it seemed, and for the sake of vanity, well-bred women everywhere obeyed.

“Sorry. The slums, was it?”

“
Mais oui
.” Impressively, Mademoiselle Lilette said this around a mouthful of pins. “The darkest of slums.”

“An admirable achievement.”

“
Merci
.” She paused to shrug. “But one need only be, how do you say,
tetu comme an anu
, to survive and thrive.”

“Stubborn as a mule?”

“
Oui
. And I am.”

“I think perhaps we have that in common, Mademoiselle Lilette.”

“And they do like to call us the gentle sex. The poor things.”

“If only they knew.”

They giggled together.

Though Olivia often wished she truly was as strong as everyone seemed to think she was. As strong as she
wanted
everyone to think she was.

“
Oui, c'est vrai
. I, too, admire you, Miss Eversea. I have heard of your work, you see, with the poor and against the Triangle Trade.”

Olivia froze, astonished. She craned her head down toward the seamstress. “How on earth did you hear about
that
?”

Mademoiselle Lilette squeaked. “Do not move, Miss Eversea! I am sympathetic, shall we say, to such efforts, and your name is so often mentioned with great respect as someone who supports the cause of
slavery abolition. You give to people the pamphlets,
oui
? And attend lectures and ask clever questions? Our paths perhaps may have crossed there. And so much is better now, thanks to the likes of Mrs. Hannah More and Mr. Wilberforce.”

“Oh, I scarcely feel worthy of mention in association with Mrs. More and Mr. Wilberforce! And if my small efforts have made any sort of difference, I am gratified. But I suspect those of us who deplore slavery have Le Chat to thank for decimating the illegal Triangle Trade more than my pamphlets,” she said dryly. “Everyone has become afraid to sail.”

Le Chat was the rather melodramatic name given a pirate who had for a time been the scourge of the sea and the talk of ballrooms and salons. No one knew his true identity—his name might be Edgar, for all anyone knew—but he'd been rather quiet lately, as befit his slinky, enigmatic namesake. Some time ago, the Earl of Ardmay, also known as Captain Asher Flint, and his first mate, Lord Lavay, had been charged by the king to bring him to justice. They had failed to do it, and had thereby forfeited an enormous reward.

Instead, the earl had married Violet Redmond, and Lord Lavay had just married his housekeeper, Mrs. Elise Fountain.

Olivia wasn't certain whether she would categorize these events as rewards or as punishments.

“Oh, but Le Chat is a lawless pirate!” Mademoiselle Lilette exclaimed. “
Oui?
Surely not a hero?”

“Nevertheless, I would like to shake his hand. For he seems to have found the only thing that vanquishes immorality and greed: fear.”

“But 'e might ravish you if you shake his hand. It is what pirates do,
non
?”

“Well, I couldn't say for certain, as I do not move in the same circles with pirates.”

Ravish
. Another very French word.

Another word that belonged to her past.

Though the ravishing had been rather mutual, then.

She only realized she'd stirred restlessly when Mademoiselle Lilette implored, “
Please
be still, Miss Eversea.”

“Sorry, sorry. I haven't heard of any new Le Chat attacks. Though I haven't kept up on the news during wedding preparations, which have lasted nearly my entire life, by my calculations. Worth it, of course,” she added hurriedly, lest she wound any delicate dressmaker feelings. Ever conscious of how very fortunate she was.

Mademoiselle Lilette clucked soothingly. “You will be so happy when the talk is of how beautiful you look in your dress. Perhaps Le Chat, the pirate, 'e is dead.”

“Seems likely. I imagine most pirates go into pirating with the full awareness they likely won't expire in their beds from old age.”

“Still, if Le Chat is dead, your work is needed. For every woman should have passions. I am certain your fiancé the viscount admires this quality a great deal and feels himself fortunate indeed.”

It was another particularly, irritatingly French thing to say.
Passion.

Another word that Olivia had managed to dodge for some years now.

Passion was now synonymous with pain and she wanted none of it.

“I don't think my fiancé would consider it a . . . passion,” she said carefully.

“No? But surely such a thing is important to you? Your work weez ze poor, and such?”

Mademoiselle Lilette sounded genuinely confused.

“Well, certainly. But I suspect he categorizes it along with embroidery and pianoforte playing. He minds it as much as those things—that is to say, pays little notice. To him, it's just . . . something I do.”

“Ah. Rather than something you are?”

The dressmaker made this startling, incisive observation as casually as she'd pinned the next inch of hem.

“
Oui
,” Olivia said finally.

“O
LIVIA . . .
I
THINK THOSE
are your brothers.”

Colin and Ian Eversea were, indeed, standing in front of Ackermann's Repository of Arts, looking conspicuous, both because they were so tall and handsome and so alike, and because they were having what appeared like an earnest discussion, perhaps even an argument, complete with emphatic hand gestures.

Pedestrians eddied around them, heads turning to admire them as they passed. Her brothers would be turning heads well into their nineties, Olivia suspected. Her heart squeezed a little. She was so very proud of both of them. Both had been a bit wild when they returned from the war, and now both were happily married, Colin to the lovely Madeline of whom he was tenderly protective, Ian to the startling and very pretty American heiress who had caused an uproar in Pennyroyal Green and had, in fact, given even Olivia pause, which was very difficult to do, as Olivia's social supremacy had remained unchallenged for a very long time.

“Yes. Well, it's two of them, anyway.” Olivia thought their appearance was a little too coincidental. “You didn't happen to mention to them that we
might be going to Ackermann's, did you? When you stopped in at St. James Square.”

She knew they were worried about her. They had watched the house fill with flowers every day from suitors who hadn't a prayer of getting her attention. They had seen the betting books at White's fill with wager after wager, making a game of her presumed heartbreak. Presumed, because no one had ever said a word to her overtly about it, and she'd certainly never confessed to such a thing.

Only Olivia and Lyon knew the truth.

Her brothers wanted, above all, for her to be happy.

They liked Landsdowne very much, and she wished they wouldn't tread so gingerly about him, as if they were afraid he would vanish if they made any sudden moves. For God's sake, she honestly did intend to marry the man.

They had married the women they loved.

“They weren't in when I stopped at your town house,” Landsdowne mused. “It must be a fortunate coincidence.”

She wondered just how “fortunate” it might be.

“Well! Good afternoon, Olivia, Landsdowne!” Ian enthused, when they moved forward to meet them. “What a lovely coincidence.”

“Is it?” Olivia said suspiciously.

Hats came off and bows were exchanged.

“Fine weather we're having.” This came from Ian.

Colin was standing unusually still and he was uncharacteristically silent. Rather, in fact, like a sentry.

“I suppose,” she said, still suspiciously.

“Have you a complaint about it, sister dear?”

“Ian, may I point something out to you?”

“Since when have you ever asked permission to point something out to me, Olivia? Would it be to impress your husband-to-be?”

“Her husband-to-be is already thoroughly impressed,” Landsdowne said with charming loyalty.

“I don't think we've ever exchanged banalities about the weather in our entire lives,” Olivia said calmly. “Nor have you ever called me ‘sister dear.'”

She locked eyes with Ian for a challenging moment.

“Then I have been remiss, for you are a dear sister, and I should tell you so more often,” he said smoothly. “We were just inside, and it's an uninspiring lot of prints in there today, wouldn't you say, Colin?”

“Uninspiring,” Colin parroted. “Why don't the four of us stop in at Twining's for something hot?”

Her brothers were offering to drink
tea
with her?

“We'd like to take our tea in
Ackermann's
tearoom,” she said firmly, and she looped her arm in Landsdowne's and feinted to the right.

In tandem, her brothers gracefully, ever so subtly shifted to the right and blocked her.

“How were the fittings at Madame Marceau's?” Ian tried. “I'm sure your dress is beautiful.”

This made her snort in derision. The day Ian was interested in her dress fittings was the day he'd
wear
a dress.

She tried a quick slide to the left, startling Landsdowne, who came along with her just in time.

Her brothers, neatly and in tandem, subtly shifted at the same time.

“Care to share what might be the trouble, gentlemen?” Lansdowne asked, with deceptive mildness.

Which she was beginning to realize was his way of disguising temper.

Her brothers exchanged a glance. Some silent brotherly conversation took place during that glance.

“Olivia.” And then Colin said very, very slowly,
as though willing her to understand something, “I genuinely think you don't want to go in today.”

It was a tactical mistake. This was Olivia, after all. Telling her what not to do was tantamount to inviting her to do it.

Colin realized this too late. Her brothers, after exchanging another rather fatalistic glance, stepped aside with grim resignation.

She all but burst inside.

Then paused as she took in the space with a swift, sweeping glance.

Nothing was out of the ordinary. Everything seemed splendidly as it should be. She inhaled deeply. Ah, but she loved Ackermann's the way she loved Tingle's Bookshop—for the gentle rustling of fine paper, the pungent scent of fine paper and ink. It was cheerful and airy and brilliantly illuminated by a band of large high windows that poured flattering light down on all the art and art lovers alike.

Her brothers remained silent.

She shot them a triumphant glance.

She gravitated to a wall where a new, dazzlingly colorful print hung in a place of honor.

“Oh, I believe it's meant to be Le Chat.” Olivia said this to Landsdowne, who was trailing her protectively and planted himself at her side. “Funny, but I was just discussing him with my modiste.”

They paused to admire it.

The infamous pirate was standing triumphantly on the deck of a ship, one booted foot on the chest of a man who appeared to be weeping with fear. His hair waved like a black flag in an apparent breeze, and his penetrating blue gaze was apparent even through his black mask. He was holding a sword to his victim's throat with his left hand. These were the only three things the whole of Europe could agree
about with regards to Le Chat: that he had blue eyes (“the very color of evil!” one survivor had declared, which had always struck Olivia as funny, as her own were blue), so vivid they could even be seen in the dark, which was the only time Le Chat attacked; that he spoke like a gentleman when he spoke at all; and that he was left-handed. Or at least used his left hand when he wielded a sword. One merchant claimed to have shot him, but since Le Chat had gone on to attack again, he clearly hadn't managed to kill him.

“That's a handsome print,” Landsdowne allowed. “But
he's
a scourge.”

“Yes, but a scourge who has all but eliminated the illegal Triangle Trade, from what I understand.”

“I suppose even vermin have their uses,” Landsdowne said, and she shot him a wry glance. “He hasn't been heard from in a while. Perhaps someone finally aimed into his black little heart when they shot him.”

“Seems an inevitable fate for a pirate,” she allowed, echoing what she'd told Mademoiselle Lilette. She frowned faintly at the masked pirate.

It was amusingly lurid, but she could see nothing alarming in it, so clearly this wasn't what was troubling her brothers.

“Shall we go now, Olivia?” Colin suggested brightly from behind her.

She turned to scowl at him, and then continued in a slow, suspicious pivot.

She saw nothing but other well-dressed shoppers and couples murmuring to each other as they leafed through merchandise.

And then her questing gaze snagged on a row of vivid prints arrayed side by side along the top of a shelf. The artist was obvious even from where she stood.

“Oh! A new set of Rowlandson prints!”

New Rowlandson work was always a delightful surprise. He had a gift for capturing London's microcosm with scathing wit and acuity.

That was when her brothers went absolutely motionless and silent. Rather as if they were about to witness an execution.

She understood why when she was close enough to read the titles.

The Illustrated Legend of Lyon Redmond

Which rather leaped out at her from the bottom of the prints.

It seemed Mr. Pickles had already been more enterprising than she'd ever suspected, if Rowlandson had been commissioned to do such work.

She drew closer, helpless not to. Landsdowne followed.

In the first print, a man, who she expected was meant to be Lyon—he had a dashing swoop of dark hair over one brow and snapping black eyes, and his outrageously muscular, nankeen-clad thighs gripped a saddled and rearing crocodile, whose tiny legs flailed the air like a stallion. One knew it was the Nile because the artist had thoughtfully drawn little pyramids off in the distance.

Lyon was wielding a riding crop and wearing a beaver hat and a very determined expression.

The funny part was that the expression was really rather similar to Lyon's when he was determined. Which was all the time. Or had been all the time.

“Olivia . . .” Landsdowne's voice was next to her. It was a plea.

She held up a hand. Slowly, as if she had no choice, as though nudged up the gallows stairs, she moved on to the next one.

In blues and pinks and reds, Lyon was depicted lolling—which was indeed a rather lyrical word—on a heap of tasseled pillows, surrounded by voluptuous—the cartoonist had spared no ink and had truly unleashed his imagination—and scantily clad women. Lyon appeared to be smoking a hookah and his boots were tossed carelessly aside.

They all stared at it in helpless, horrified thrall.

“He looks comfortable, doesn't he?”

Her voice was a sort of ironic, distant hush that had the three men exchanging looks of grave concern.

Lyon would never smoke a hookah. Or be so very careless with his boots.

He'd been so extraordinarily disciplined.

“Olivia . . .”

Likely one of her brothers had said her name. She heard it distantly, as if it were merely noise drifting in from the street.

The truth was she was cleaved in three distinct emotions.

Hilarity.

Horror.

Fury.

Rather like the elm tree she used to meet Lyon by, which had been split by lightning but had gone on growing as if hadn't noticed.

The emotions circulated through her like three different drugs, and she felt strangely very separate from her body, rather the way one did when one took laudanum.

But the fury was mostly because
no
one would have enjoyed these more than Lyon, and he wasn't here to bloody enjoy them.

Fury was always the safest emotion when it came to Lyon.

She moved on to the next print.

The next must be the Garden of Eden, because in the center was a lush tree with an apple and a snake in it, and Adam and Eve, both clad in modesty-protecting fig leaves, were flanking Lyon below it. Oddly,
he
was wearing a full set of clothes, as if he'd just stepped out of White's, and his hands were saucily planted on his hips. They were all beaming at each other, even the snake, as if they were celebrating a birthday.

In the center of the next panel a great bulbous black kettle was perched atop a roaring fire, which was rendered in satanic swoops of orange. Lyon was sitting in the kettle, his arms strapped to his sides with vines, and, quite understandably, his mouth was open in a little “O” of distress. What was clearly meant to be a cannibal was sprinkling salt on his head. Another cannibal sat nearby holding a knife and fork, which struck her as incongruous, because surely cannibals ate with their hands?

“And now he looks rather
un
comfortable,” she murmured.

Which, ironically, perfectly described all the appalled, silent men behind her.

Ian cleared his throat. “Olivia, we—”

She abruptly held up a quelling hand without turning around.

The next panel featured Lyon standing on the deck of a ship, and he was shading his eyes with a hand, leaning forward, both shirt and the sails of the ship billowing in what appeared to be gale force winds. It was an ironic echo of the Le Chat print. And it was the only scenario of any of them Olivia could imagine being true.

One panel remained. She drew in a surreptitious bracing breath, exhaled softly, and moved on to it.

It featured a lone figure of a woman.

Dread suffused her, but curiosity compelled her. She leaned forward gingerly, as if the print were a wild boar she'd shot but was unsure she'd actually killed.

She was relieved to discover the woman was really rather pretty. Her hair poured in a dramatic black river down her back and she was wearing a fine blue dress, as if the artist had somehow known it was Olivia's best color. Her bosom, unsurprisingly, given the artist's predilections, greatly taxed the dress's bodice.

Something lacy appeared to be trailing from her head to the ground.

“Oh, am I wearing a . . .”

She was about to say “veil.”

And then she realized it was cobwebs.

“Mother of
God
,” Landsdowne muttered viciously. “These are abominations. I insist that we leave.”

“Oh, they're just cartoons,” she said almost gently, her voice still rather drifty. Like someone lying in state of grace on her deathbed, beyond caring about earthly things.

The rapt attention four well-dressed visitors were aiming at the prints drew the notice of Ackermann's clerk. He bustled cheerily over.

“Aren't they charming?” he said brightly. “‘The Legend of Lyon Redmond' is an illustrated ballad about a famous young heir who disappeared after a woman broke his heart, and now she's moldering away. I imagine every home in London will have one soon at the rate they're selling. The artist is the eminently gifted Thomas Rowlandson.” He pointed at the signature at the bottom.