Victorian Dream (7 page)

“When did he say that?” Abigail asked.

“Right before he requested payment.”

“Surely you misheard him, dear. He’s not a palmist or a gypsy. Too bad they outlawed fortunetelling. I do know a woman who dabbles in the black arts…”

Trelayne shifted her packages all to one arm, and slipped the other around her Aunt’s waist, giving her a hug. “Of course you do. But we’ve no time for that today if I’m to have my final fitting for my new dress. Lucien is ever so persistent about taking me to the Crystal Palace. How sad Mother and Father aren’t here to attend.

“Regardless of their cheerful letters, I know they must be lonely and suffering terribly from their injuries. I feel guilty taking in amusement when I know they are in pain and bored to tears in dreary dull America.”

“You must stop fretting. They’re safe and on the mend, and your father is giving Dr. Robison a run for his money at the chess board.”

“And Mother promised to send each of us a pair of those shocking bloomers all the rage there. Penelope will be over the moon when she learns there is to be a set included for her.”

“Precisely,” Abigail encouraged. “They want us to soldier on, and not mope about on their account.”

“The after-hour gala at the Palace would be a boon to my sensibilities,” Trelayne admitted. “How romantic to see it at night—the stars and moon shining through all that glass-work But it’s very select, by invitation only.”

“I can’t believe the Queen is to make an appearance just to bestow her royal sanction on some Amazonian flower named for her,” Abigail mused.

“But it isn’t just another water lily,” Trelayne countered. “It’s very rare and blooms only after sunset. What a thrill to be part of such an entourage.”

Walker smiled. Here was the perfect gift for Trelayne. One Lanteen couldn’t match.

Chapter Six

Leaves of russet and gold pirouetted across the floor of the ancient ruin. Overhead a string of snow geese cheerfully honked their way south. Autumnal delights did not serve to brighten Lucien’s world.

In this section of Amberley Abbey, the roof was missing and glancing up, he shielded his eyes against the glare of the fierce blue sky. Where the hell was Bartholomew? He’d been waiting here for two days, and still the man had yet to arrive.

In a huff of impatience, he shifted about and leaned one shoulder against the crumbling wall of the medieval structure. A woman sat upon a heap of nearby stones. His gaze raked the familiar contours of her form. Beatrice’s face was far from comely, but she was well endowed, kept fastidiously clean, and was wanton as a Lime Street harlot.

When he was bored, such as now, he concocted scenarios for severing their relationship, for surely one day it was wont to come to pass. Or perhaps, after he was married, he could keep her on the side. Either way, it never hurt to be prepared. Unfortunately, she was Bartholomew’s sister, so eliminating Beatrice from his life would mean terminating a perfectly good business relationship with Old Barty.

At present, things were best left as they were. A bottle of gin and a few opium cigarettes, and he could do as he willed with Beatrice. She was a cheap enough diversion.

Early in life, he realized people would do his bidding—no question asked—if his request was accompanied by money, blackmail, or brute force. Of course, people would also respond out of earned loyalty and respect, but those methods took too long. He was not a patient man. He favored plotting and strategizing, not waiting.

Tall and slight of build, he emanated a pale stricken nature reminiscent of a poet, or so he’d been told. And the Percy Shelley approach could be quite effective with women. They were all foolish romantics.

In business and in life, his forte was cleverness and inciting other people to action. Having successfully eliminated the nuisance of conscience and guilt from his psyche, regret and concern for others did not accompany his propensity for taking advantage where and when he could.

A raven landed on a ledge, dislodging a slew of pebbles. The cascading noise interrupted his reflections and he ambled toward Beatrice. She hunkered down with the wariness of a frightened rabbit, trembling as he reached to touch her face. Was she expecting a gentle caress, or the sting of a slap? He liked to keep her guessing.

Roughly, he grabbed a handful of mouse-brown hair at the nape of her neck. Yanking her head back, he stared into her wide-eyed face. Sometimes he hated her—her and all women. You could never fully trust a female. They lived by their emotions, and would betray a man in an instant to save themselves.

As he held Beatrice captive, his prurient desire rose, then waned. What he wanted was to fulfill his fantasies with Trelayne. How many nights had he tossed and turned, fevered by his passions, reliving their imagined lovemaking repeatedly in his mind? He was trying to beunderstanding, had devised his plans well, and set them in motion years ago. Yet Trelayne remained out of reach.

She toyed with his affections and rebuked his advances, not taking him seriously. Marriage seemed the furthest thing from her mind. But someday that would all change. And as his wife, she would bend to his will. Then he would live out what so far had been only a dream.

Beatrice squirmed in his grasp, and he jerked his hand aside. She half fell, half slid away from him.

“Go prepare something for us to eat,” he ordered. “Maybe your fool of a brother will have shown up by the time the food is ready.”

“Yes, Lucien. He’ll be here soon,” she reassured, scrambling to her feet. “I’ve never known him to miss payment for services rendered.”

****

Beatrice hurried toward the inner rooms of the Abbey. She wasn’t hungry, but disobeying Lucien in his present mood would only court trouble.

Thankful she didn’t have to cook over an open fire, she puttered around the updated kitchen area, daydreaming about who might have lived in this ancient pile of stone. Did royalty, or even a princess, stay within the walls of this fortress? Who had called it home?

What she wouldn’t give for a little house of her own, with a garden, and an apple tree. She slammed a bowl down on the table. What use did it serve to think about what might have been and what never could be? Why imagine a world she would never know?

With a sigh of resignation, she added more sticks of wood to the cook stove then poured herself a jigger of gin. Stirring the kettle of soup, a bittersweet smile played crossed her lips. Old man gin was her friend, and opium her comfort. That’s what she cared about now, thanks to Lucien.

She must be gone ’round the bend to stay with him. Yet he was handsome in a terrifying way. All that long blonde hair, and those mesmerizing eyes. Pale blue eyes—the color of winter ice. Eyes that could look straight through a person, and make you feel afraid as they pierced your soul and sought out your weakness. The only time she remembered seeing tenderness in Lucien’s face was when he was asleep. Yet, as frightening as Lucien could be, Beatrice knew she wouldn’t leave him. And it wasn’t just because she loved him. Where else could she go? She had no education. True, he didn’t love her, using her only for his own satisfaction. But he kept her in pretty clothes, gin, and opium—and occasionally she was shown a small token of human kindness.

She rubbed at the back of her neck. It still burned where he had twisted her hair. Lucien’s sexual appetite was what scared her most. Sometimes it was like being taken by Satan himself. That’s why he plied her with drugs, to make her more compliant to his demands and desire. That’s how her opium habit started. Later he would call her slut and worse, blaming her for not refusing, not preventing him from following through with his wayward compulsions. No doubt it was easier to hate her than himself.

She should run away—far, far away—but she never would. She needed the drugs and a full bottle of flash lightning. And she wanted Lucien, no matter how much he hurt her.

****

Keeping to the dense woods near the Abbey, Bartholomew guided his horse in a circuitous route then gave the agreed-upon call. When Lucien stepped into view and issued the obligatory “all’s clear” wave, he urged the animal into the open and cut across the short expanse of meadow.

To keep their association private, they often met at the Abbey, cooking up nefarious plans and business schemes, or just passing time unobserved. Not looking forward to the upcoming encounter, he took his time to dismount, loosen the girth on the saddle, and turn the animal out to graze. Tired and covered with road dust, he ambled closer. Lucien appeared to be in one of his notorious temperamental moods. It would no doubt escalate to roaring ugly when he heard how things had gone wrong in America.

“Where the hell have you been?” Lucien began, before Bartholomew could even catch his breath.

“Don’t be gettin’ in a lather,” he snapped back. “I left the ship at Weymouth when they made port to unload the mail packets. Then I come overland so’s it took me a while longer than expected.”

“Why the need for such an elaborate itinerary?”

“Because a certain Captain Garrison was also aboard ship, and I didn’t want him seein’ me make for London.”

“Yes, I heard you bungled the job from tip to tail. What the deuce happened?”

Bloody hell. The cove had already found out. “Well now, Lucien, I’m trail weary and a might hungry,” he pointed out, hoping to forestall the abuse he knew was coming.

“You deserve a flogging rather than food,” Lucien railed, “but come along to the kitchen.”

Grimsby followed meekly, although what he wanted was to punch Lucien in the head. The puff didn’t have enough guts or muscle to do his own dirty work, and if things happened to go wrong, he bitched and moaned as if he could have done any better. It weren’t a perfect world, a body had to expect a setback now and again.

****

Hearing their approach, Beatrice hid the glass of gin and jumped to busy herself at the stove.

“Beatsie, old nub.” Bartholomew gave her a thwack on the rump. “How are you, girl? You got some decent victuals for your dear brother? My stomach’s near rubbin’ my backbone.”

Beatrice couldn’t help but be pleased to see her brother. He was her only kin, and in his own way looked after her.

“Hello, Barty.” She gave him a smile. “I’ve got a roasted chicken, veggie soup, and white bread. And there’s a pot o’ tea already on the table.”

“Praise be. That bow wow mutton they served wayside, gave me the mullygrubs.”

She watched Lucien take down the jug of rum and two glasses. If the drink mellowed his mood, they might spend another afternoon and evening in the country before returning to the crowded smog-filled streets of London. Maybe even stay overnight.

She was about to join the men at the table, but Lucien caught her by the arm. “Here love,” he said, handing her an opium cigarette. “Why don’t you go relax in the afternoon sun? You fixed us a fine bit of lunch. You deserve a sit down.”

The smile on Lucien’s face was innocent, but his painful grip on her wrist told her not to disobey. She grabbed the offering—it was better than food. When he released her, she ambled down the corridor and turned right as if to go to the courtyard. Lucien was watching, she could feel his gaze on her backside. Once beyond his view, she crept around the back hallway to the larder.

The kitchen and pantry shared a common wall. Pulling down a bag of sugar and shifting a sack of potatoes revealed a small hole through which she could see and hear the men sitting by the stove.

“Now, what the hell happened?” Lucien growled. “Why is this Garrison fellow still walking upright?”

“Things went a wee bit awry,” her brother hedged.

“A wee bit? You botched the whole job, you cretin.”

“It weren’t my fault. And I had extra work on account of a sailor what got in the way at a crucial moment. Don’t worry,” he soothed, with a raised hand. “That one won’t talk. He’s boxed up pretty as you please. But I was hopin’ for a bonus for the extra effort.”

“I’m debating on paying you at all, and you’ve the gall to ask for extra?” The heated glare accompanying Lucien’s words could have melted block ice.

“You weren’t there, you don’t know how hard it was to pull off what you wanted, especially with all them people millin’ about. And I’m getting older,” Barty admitted. “I need the money for my retiring years. Much as I’d like to, I can’t afford to do work for free out of the goodness of me heart.”

“Do stop carrying on. You’re a necessary evil in my scheme of things. I’ll make it worth your while. You could have at least made sure the partnership papers went unsigned. Or at least retrieved them.”

“But I saw the documents blow off the dock into the bay.”

“They were ceremonial, just for show. The real ones were signed the night before.”

“I’ll be damned.”

“No doubt you will be. Now spill the particulars,” Lucien ordered.

Spellbound, Beatrice listened as Barty explained about the crate he’d rigged and the poor sailor who had tried to interfere.

“At the last minute,” he said, lighting his pipe and blowing a cloud, “some little squeaker ran up distracting the Captain. And what with the wind a-blowin’ as it were, the crate missed the mark, injuring the girl’s parents instead. That Garrison fellow, he’s got the luck of a cat. Didn’t even suffer a scratch.”

“Yes,” Lucien agreed, “I met the good Captain a few days ago at Royston Hall. Imagine my surprise. He’s poking his American nose into the company business and offering aid and comfort to Trelayne.”

“You’re a solicitor, ain’t there nothing legal you can do?”

“Philip’s power of attorney is indisputable, only the girl can act as proxy in the shipping line. Unfortunately, she’s deferring to the Yankee for advice—not me. The man must be dealt with, and Trelayne’s dependence upon him eliminated.”

Beatrice fumed. Lucien was always running off to see that rich piece of baggage. She hated Trelayne St.Christopher. The silly woman had everything—beauty, money, a proper education. Never bought a dress off the peg or worked a day in her life. She hoped Trelayne’s parents died. She hoped Lucien never won her heart. But it sounded like he wanted the trollop now more than ever.