Victorian Dream (9 page)

“Again I apologize, but I needed to see you.”

He dragged his hat from his head and grasped it with both hands like a lad under reprimand, his expression contrite. But he was far from a boy, he was all man, so big and sturdy, emanating that special masculinity so lacking in some of the Englishmen with whom she was acquainted. She wanted to fling herself into his arms, and reassure him nothing he could ever do or say would long cause her to remain annoyed. Then his words sank in. Did his need to see her stem from the same burning desire fueling her delight in seeing him?

“Forgive my manners,” she pleaded. “Your arrival took me by surprise, but you’re welcome here any time, for any reason. Come in. Please. Aunt Abigail and I were just about to have a bite. Are you hungry? Are you cold? Come enjoy the fire we’ve got roaring.”

Ye gad, she wanted to slap a hand over her mouth to stop the flow of inane words pouring from it. Not waiting for his reply, as if he could have managed to squeeze one in, she turned and fled to the parlor.

“Miss Abigail.” He nodded a greeting as he trailed behind her. “A pleasure to see you again, Ma’am.

His voice, spoken in that drawling foreign accent, soothed her even as it stirred something deep inside.

“Always a delight,” her aunt replied.

“Perhaps you would care for a glass of port, Captain Garrison,” Trelayne offered.

Still speaking without thinking, she drifted over to the wine cabinet.

“You promised to call me Walker.”

He followed, and stood so close she could feel the heat from his body more assuredly than the heat from the fire.

“Did I?” She swallowed hard, and turned to face him.

“Yes. And you seemed the type of woman to keep a promise.”

A woman…she liked the sound of that. Although she was twenty-one years of age, everyone still sheltered her, treating her as if she were much younger. Ironically, to be recognized as full-grown and able to stand on her own made her knees weak. Of late, she definitely had womanly desires. Then her other promise, the one about keeping an emotional distance between the two of them, popped up in the back of her mind. She ignored it. Here was the excuse to cross the boundary so recklessly devised. Better to break the promise to herself, than the one she’d made to him.

“I’ve no choice then…Walker.” It felt daring to say his name with such abandon.

She glanced up at him through her lashes. Earlier today, she’d gathered her hair into an unflattering bun atop her head. Now a playful tendril maneuvered a wily escape, dipping down in front of her right eye and cheek. He gently brushed it aside and tucked it behind her ear. Although ever so slight, his touch sent a shockwave pounding through her body, the majority of the physical upheaval settling low in her belly.

His gaze drifted lower, taking in her attire. Previously overwhelmed by her labors, she had loosened a few buttons at the throat of her dress and pushed the sleeves up above her elbows.

“I’m sorry, I must look a fright.”

“On the contrary. You have a natural loveliness, the rarest kind of beauty. And the most desirable—at least in my humble opinion.”

At present, his opinion seemed the most important one in the world. How different Walker was from Lucien. On the rare occasions when he escorted her about, Lucien insisted she wear the latest fashion and hairstyles. And no amount of jewelry ever seemed overdone in his eyes. Did such things not matter to Walker?

Getting a grip, she poured the proffered drink and extended it toward him.

“Your port, Walker.”

Heaven help her. Now she couldn’t stop using his name. She wanted to shout it from the rooftop, and write it over and over on little scraps of paper like the one hidden in her match box. She liked the way it felt in her mouth and on her tongue. She had never experienced this reaction in the presence of any man; it was mesmerizing and quite pleasing, yet leaving her wanting more, much more.

Her gaze jumped to his face, searching his eyes, hoping to find a sign she was not acting as big a ninny as she feared. With no indication anything was wrong, he accepted the drink, his fingers grazing hers.

“We must invite Walker to our festivities tomorrow night.”

Aunt Abigail’s suggestion broke through the schoolgirl trance into which she had slipped—nay fallen. Could her aunt see metaphorical sparks shooting out from her in every direction?

“But of course. You must join us.” She pressed her lips together to stop herself from using his name yet again. “It’s fancy dress, a banquet, with music and dancing. Do you dance?”

“I’ve been known to try—on occasion. But I’m not familiar with the steps common here.”

“Surely the waltz has come ashore in America.”

His face brightened. “Ashore and thriving. I’m partial to waltzing.”

“Then you must attend. I shall save the first waltz for you.”

“A man would be a fool to refuse such an offer. I’ll be there.”

Afraid to put her joy at his acceptance into mere words, she glanced away. Then gathering her wits, she remembered to ask why he had come tonight. “What was it you wished to speak to us about? You said it was important.”

He set the glass of port aside, untouched, and his expression turned serious. “Are either of you ladies familiar with a man named Bartholomew Grimsby?”

Her aunt gained her feet, a thoughtful expression upon her face. “It doesn’t sound familiar. How about you, dear?”

“No, I don’t believe I’ve heard the name before.” She stiffened and sucked in a breath. “Is that the man responsible for my parents’ injuries?”

“It’s possible he had something to do with it.”

“How did you come by his name?” Aunt Abigail asked.

“When I checked the manifest for the
Alicia Elaine’
s maiden voyage, he was the only passenger onboard whose nationality was listed as British. All the others were American.”

“Is that significant?” Trelayne put in.

“Maybe not,” Walker conceded. “But it is curious.”

“Would you like us to make inquiries amongst the staff?” Aunt Abigail offered.

“No. We don’t want to stampede the herd…start him running,” he added at their apparent confusion. “Just keep his moniker in mind, and let me know if you come across any useful information.”

“Yes, of course. Is there anything else?” Her aunt placed a comforting arm around Trelayne. “It has been a rather long day, and tomorrow will no doubt follow suite.”

Walker shuffled his feet and tightened the grip on his hat. “I know you already have plans to see the Crystal Palace,” he began, “but I wrangled invitations for the Queen’s special evening celebration. I was wondering if you and Miss Abigail would do me the honor of attending with me.”

Trelayne clapped her hands, and levered up and down on her toes. Then remembering where she was, and that her womanly image, so recently hard won, was on the verge of ruination, she contained her excitement.

“How ever did you manage such a coveted prize,” she asked.

“A few of the vendors were granted invites to see the ceremony, and as Her Majesty has taken a shine to a friend of mine, Mr. Samuel Colt, and the Prince has apparently taken a shine to Sam’s pistols, we would be his guests.”

She glanced at her aunt who gave an enthusiastic nod of approval.

“Yes, yes. What a marvelous surprise. Thank you for thinking of us.” Trelayne could barely believe their good fortune. The Crystal Palace by moonlight, and a viewing of the botanical discovery of the century. More importantly, an opportunity to spend another evening with Walker.

Chapter Eight

Beatrice stormed across the front parlor of Lucien’s flat and flung herself into a chair.

“I suppose while you’re off with
her,
eating high off the hog and dancing the night away, I’m to sit here all alone with nofin’ to do and no one to talk to.”

“You’ll do as you are told,” Lucien growled. Being at odds with Beatrice was becoming tiresome, he was already late and not fashionably so. He mustn’t miss the first waltz with Trelayne. “You’ve had things fairly decent since I took you in. And don’t forget, I can put you back where you came from—or worse.”

He dangled the pocket watch and fob in front of her, the one he kept for just such occasions. The timepiece held only modest monetary value, its true worth being its ability to strike terror in Beatrice’s heart.

Her eyes grew wide, and she snapped her mouth shut stifling any further lamentation.

A rare twinge of guilt seized him, but quickly passed. She was much less haggard and worn than when he’d come across her whoring in a back alley. That was the night he’d discovered the gold watch on her person, obviously stolen from a previous client, his arrival interrupting her opportunity to bag the swag. After confronting her with the evidence, she’d flung herself at his feet, begging for mercy. Thievery could garner many dreadful years in Newgate. But he had not turned her in. And now, the watch was his perfect little bit of blackmail, its delicate golden chain binding her to him with the strength of iron.

“Need I say more?” He snatched the timepiece from in front of her face.

“I’m sorry, Lucien, I just want you to stay with me tonight. I know what you like.”

Gaining her feet, she rubbed her bubbies against his chest, and sought to wedge her hand down the front of his trousers. He grew rigid at the possibility of a quick buck and tussle, but there wasn’t time. Taking hold of her wrists, he set her aside, then strode over to the metal chest where he kept his valuables. Stowing the watch, he retrieved another item and replaced the lock.

“Don’t wait up,” he instructed, tossing the cheap bauble her way. “Play with this while I’m gone. There’s plenty of gin. What the hell more do you want?”

****

Trelayne fluttered her hand in front of her face then pressed a damp curl into place. Mother had made entertaining look so simple, but to remain gay and the center of attention hours on end was exhausting.

The evening Michaelmas celebration was in full swing, some of the guests having arrived over an hour ago. And with hundreds of candles burning, and so many people gathered together, it was overly warm in the ballroom. The French doors leading to the garden had been removed, but it didn’t help one wit. The languid breeze only stirred the heat about rather than relieving it. Still, everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves. At least she thought so until Penelope eased up beside her.

“Laynie,” her friend whispered, “the guests are weary and discontent dancing only the polka, mazurka, and schottische. I asked the orchestra to play a waltz, but they refused.”

“Oh, they mustn’t play a waltz until I give them permission. I’m saving the first one for Walker, and he’s yet to arrive.”

Did he remember? Would he even care if she drifted across the room with her dreams and her body cozened in the arms of another man? Dismay joined hands with her fatigue.

“Oh, Pen, what if he doesn’t attend?”

Her joy for the evening drained away more quickly than champagne from the flutes her guests tipped so eagerly. Then in a huff, she decided what Walker did or didn’t do shouldn’t matter. She had more important concerns. In fact, her mind was overrun with them. Her mother and father were still far from recovered, Lucien had been pressuring her to solidify their relationship, and although it was Merrick to whom most businessmen deferred, she was determined to properly oversee the shipping line. It was just all too much.

Emotions running wild, tears pricked at the backs of her eyes. This was ridiculous. She was simply overly tired and not thinking clearly. She must give Captain Garrison a little more time. Perhaps he was delayed in town for some reason.

“Please keep dancing, Pen, and reassure the others the waltz is soon to come. I need a moment to catch my breath and clear my head.”

Slipping away, she sought the library. The laughter and music faded to a less grating intensity, and she breathed a sigh of relief and roamed about the dimly lit room.

She and her father had passed many an hour together in this room—reading, playing chess, discussing literature and the theatre. She ambled past the huge globe and set it to spinning then grazed her fingers across the carefully framed maps hanging upon the walls. Together they had explored foreign lands, figuratively, of course. What fun it had been planning their imaginary trips. The timetable for passenger ships to Alexandria still lay upon his desk. In the margin a note indicated where one might obtain custom and secure a boat suitable for traveling down the Nile. What special moments they had shared.

She missed her parents so much it was a physical pain, and even with Aunt Abigail to lean upon, she felt horribly alone. To rely more heavily on Lucien was an option, but the idea gave her innards a twist. He was handsome and charming, and he certainly made it abundantly clear he would be at her service—in any capacity. But he was also very secretive and enigmatic at times, and in business, he could be ruthless. At present, it was probably best not to mix business with pleasure.

Then there was the other alternative, working side by side with Walker. That would be the business
of
pleasure, or a pleasurable business. Damn, she was doing it again, conjuring childish idioms at the mere thought of the man. She should never have allowed herself to think of him as anything other than the mysterious Captain Garrison. It was probably for the best if he didn’t attend tonight.

Blotting his image from her mind, she idled about the room turning down the lamps. She mustn’t burn oil unnecessarily—economizing was another of father’s favorite crusades. With a smile, she crossed the room, moving by sense of touch, circumventing the big desk and overstuffed leather chairs. As she drew near the door, the figure of a man blocked the opening. Cut off from the light in the hallway, it rendered him an ominous faceless shadow. Was it Spring Heeled Jack? She quickly dismissed the crazy notion. He’d not been known to accost people in their homes. She shouldn’t have read that gruesome article about him in the
Times
. It had to be one of her guests who stood before her.