Evening Star

by Catherine Coulter

Randall Bennett rose shakily to his feet. She was looking down her nose at him as if he were some sort of insignificant bug. He gazed at her white throat above a delicate row of lace, and wanted for one long moment to strangle her until she was on her knees before him, begging him.

  “You cannot do this to me.” He was so beside himself with anger and disappointment that he could think of nothing else to say.

  Giana shrugged and drew her cloak about her shoulders. “Good-bye, Randall.”

  As she turned to go, he grabbed her arm and whirled her about to face him. “No woman casts me off, particularly a spoiled, vain little bitch like you.”

  “Let me go, Randall.”

  “Let the lady go, sir.”

  Randall dropped his hands out of sheer surprise. He whipped about to see the Van Cleve coachman.

  “Thank you, Abel,” Giana said. “I am ready to leave now.”

  “You will pay for this,” Randall Bennett growled after her.

  When Abel assisted her into the brougham, she turned and asked him, “How did you know that I might need you?”

  “’Twas not me, Miss Giana, ’twas your mother. Said to me, she did, that even though Mr. Bennett was all smiles and oozing charm, he had the look of a man who could turn nasty.”

  Giana stared at him. She had not told her mother what she intended to do about Randall—perhaps, she thought now, to punish her. But her mother had known anyway, and had protected her. She said dryly to Abel, “Let us go home. I want to ask my mother if she is ever wrong about anything.”

  “You do not look happy, Giana,” Aurora said carefully as she handed her daughter a cup of tea.

  “No? Well, I suppose that I’m not. Seeing the man one believed a prince of men for the first time as he really is is not a particularly happy experience.” She sighed. “But I am relieved, Mother, very relieved that it’s all over.”

  There was silence between them, an uncomfortable silence. Giana said suddenly, “The medicine was bitter, Mama, so bitter that I still believe I may choke on it.”

  “I’m sorry, Giana.”

  “Mother,” Giana said, interrupting her with a raised hand, “my bitterness, such as it is, has nothing to do with you.”

  What in God’s name did Daniele do? “Will you tell me what happened, Giana?”

  Giana did not want her mother to know that her valued friend, her trusted friend, had done everything to her daughter save stake her to a bed. “I cannot, Mother, really,” she said at last, shaking her head. “I wish only to forget and to carry on with my life, such as it is now.”

  Aurora searched her daughter’s face. “The prostitutes you met and spoke with—were they so very awful?”

  To her surprise, Giana smiled. “No, they were not awful.”

  “Please try to understand, and forgive me, Giana. I could think of nothing else that would allow you to see Randall Bennett as he really is, no way to make you understand that marrying him would be the worst mistake of your life. I intended merely that you see with your own eyes the underside of people, the kind of men who use their wives, and condemn them and their daughters to unutterably empty lives.”

  “I know, Mother.” She wondered whether Daniele had told her mother anything of what occurred, then realized that it would be ridiculous to imagine him doing such a thing. No, what had happened had been between the two of them. She devoutly prayed that she would never see Daniele again, for just to see him would bring it all back.

  “It is odd, you know,” Giana continued to still her mother’s questions, “but now I can see my father quite clearly as one of those men. And I can see you, Mother, how you must have suffered under his negligent cruelty.” She remembered a paunchy, mustached man from Germany who had not been content with one of Madame Lucienne’s girls. No, he had demanded to be pleasured by three. A pig of a man.

  Aurora struggled with her startling words, and suddenly gaped at her. Giana’s eyes were clouded, as if there were too many unhappy images, too many painful memories vying for possession. They still held innocence, but it wasn’t the innocence of a young girl’s romantic dreams, it was a dark innocence. She said slowly, “I made the decision after your father’s death that I wanted no more of living with a man. That is not to say I have not had men become dear friends. Nor must you think, my love, that you will not meet a man who will be much more to you, a man you can trust, and respect, and love.”

  Giana gave her mother a twisted smile. “I think, Mother, that after Rome, I cannot imagine ever trusting a man like that.” Before Aurora could contradict her, Giana rushed on. “I was really quite good in mathematics, you know, despite all my letters to the contrary. And though I am abominably ignorant of finance and commerce, I do not think I am precisely stupid. Will you teach me, Mother?”

  Aurora looked at her daughter sadly. What price had Giana paid for her victory? If only, she thought, she had not shut her out, had not left her to governesses, and to that ridiculous girls’ seminary.

  “Yes,” she said quietly, “I will teach you, Giana.”

  “Excellent.” Giana rose from her chair and twitched out the wrinkles from her gown. “You see before you a pupil who intends to excel.”

  “Giana, will you not tell me about Rome?”

  “No, Mother, I will not.” She smiled. “It is best forgotten, by both of us.”

  Chapter 9

  London, 1851

  Russell Street was nearly bare of shoppers in the late afternoon. Aurora looked only cursorily about before dropping her eyes to the cobblestones and lifting her heavy taffeta skirts to cross the street to the colorful display window of Mademoiselle Blanchette’s, the fashionable milliner’s in London. She was thinking about the cargo hold of the Orion, picturing it empty of its wooden crates and fitted with temporary bunks and dividers for human cargo. She and Daniele had outfitted four ships in the past three years to carry passengers to America, and now even more were needed for the exodus to the newly discovered gold fields in California. She did not hear the rumbling carriage wheels until the wild snorting of a horse caught her horrified attention. She jerked about to see a huge bay stallion pulling a smart brougham bearing down on her. The horse veered miraculously to the side, nearly tipping the brougham before the driver brought him to a jolting halt.

  Aurora, her heart in her throat, could only stare at the passenger who jumped down from his seat and strode over to her, yelling toward his liveried driver to hold the horse steady.

  “Madam,” the man bellowed at her, “what the devil are you doing woolgathering in the middle of the street?” He grasped her arms to steady her, and pulled her to the sidewalk. He did not release his hold on her, guessing aright that her legs were weak as water from the shock.

  “I’m sorry,” Aurora said, leaning against him

  “Are you all right?” he asked her, not bellowing this time.

  “It was stupid of me,” Aurora said. She forced her legs to support her and looked up into the face of an uncommonly handsome man. He was tall and slender, and dressed in the height of fashion. His black frock coat was molded nicely to his shoulders over a waistcoat of rich maroon silk, and his broad-striped trousers were elegantly tapered over his long legs. No man of business. His eyes were a pale gray, nearly silver, heavily hooded with the longest black lashes she had ever seen, and his hair, black as her own, was winged with white at his temples.

  “You have the most beautiful eyelashes,” she said.

  His silver eyes twinkled at her.

  “I am sorry,” she repeated, shaking her head. “You are quite right to be angry, for I wasn’t paying attention. Thank you for not hitting me.”

  The strong hands on her arms eased. “Are you married?” the man asked.

  Aurora blinked up at him.

  “Are you married?” he repeated.

  She shook her head. “I’m a widow.”

  “Excellent,” he said. She felt his long fingers touch her cheeks as he straightened her capote hat. “What is your name?” />
  “Aurora.”

  He grinned down at her as he retied the blue taffeta bow under her chin. “What a relief that is. I am delighted that it is not Mary or Prudence, names I cannot abide.”

  “Why ever not?” she asked, looking up at him with a bemused eye.

  “The names of my nurses when I was a tot. Dragons, the both of them. If you were endowed with a name like that, it would try my soul, I assure you, ma’am.”

  Aurora laughed; she couldn’t seem to help herself. “And what is your name, sir?”

  “I am Arlington, you know,” he said. “All Arlingtons have long eyelashes. I say, Aurora, where do you live?”

  “Belgrave Square,” she said, aware that his hands had somehow moved from her bow to her elbows.

  “Nice area, that,” he said. “Come along, Aurora, I will take you home now. You’ve had a nasty shock, bad for your nerves, and mine.”

  “But I—”

  He gave her that engaging grin again, and despite herself, the corners of her mouth curved up in answer.

  “Good girl.”

  “I am not a girl, Mr. Arlington. I am forty-four years old.”

  “Then you should be mortified, my dear. A lady of your advanced years standing in the middle of the street, her mind filled with daydreams.” She wanted to protest that there was rarely a daydream in her mind, but he was already pulling her toward the waiting brougham.

  “Incidentally,” he said as he handed her up, “you may call me Damien. I’ve never been a ‘mister.”’

  “Then what are you?”

  “My dear girl, I am the gentleman who is taking you to lunch tomorrow.”

  “Lunch?” Aurora repeated. He was a total stranger, and here he was calling her, Aurora Van Cleve, by her first name and ever so confidently settling her in his brougham.

  “Yes, my dear, Should you like that?”

  She should have told him that he was impertinent, but instead, she nodded. “Yes,” she said, “I should like that.”

  “Excellent. I will come for you at precisely ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Ten o’clock for lunch?”

  He gazed at her, a black brow winging up in surprise. “Why, yes, Aurora. You see, my dear girl, my favorite restaurant, the Iron Horse, is in Windsor.” He lightly patted her hand, told his driver their direction, and settled back beside her.

  “But I did not buy my bonnet,” she said, pointing helplessly toward Mademoiselle Blanchette’s shop.

  Damien Arlington turned to smile at her. “We will buy any number of bonnets, after we return from Windsor tomorrow. I have excellent taste, you know.”

  “But I don’t even know you.”

  “We must begin to remedy that tomorrow at lunch, my dear. I am quite a respectable fellow, you need have no worry for your virtue or your reputation. I say, you aren’t thinking of bringing a chaperon, are you? That would be a deuced nuisance.”

  “Her name is Faith,” Aurora said.

  “I knew you were a clever minx.” Damien smiled and patted her hand again.

  “Surely, sir,” Aurora said, “you have better things to do with your time than help me buy bonnets?”

  “Well, of course,” he said, “but that must wait until we know each other a bit better.”

  “I am not a a loose female, sir.”

  His silver eyes glinted down at her. “Neither am I a loose gentleman, Aurora. Now hush, my dear. Although Ned is an excellent driver, I like to keep my eye on old Spartan here—he is not terribly fond of city traffic.”

  Aurora settled back against the soft leather squabs, unable in any case to think of anything further to say to him.

  When they arrived at Belgrave Square, she directed him to the Van Cleve mansion. It was on the tip of her tongue to inform this impossible man that she was occupied on the morrow, but his hands were suddenly strong about her waist, lifting her down to the flagway.

  “How very beautiful you are, Aurora,” he said, his silver eyes locked on her upturned face. To her horror, Aurora blushed like a schoolgirl. He touched the tips of his long fingers to her cheek. “You go inside now, my dear, and rest. You are doubtless possessed of an exquisite calm, and I wish you to regain it.” He took her arm and walked with her to the deep steps at the front door.

  “Until tomorrow morning, Aurora,” he said. He turned about and strode away from her, his step jaunty.

  Aurora gazed after him. He waved to her as the brougham turned down the street, and without precisely deciding to, she raised her arm in answer.

  “Madam,” Lanson said as she stepped into the entrance hall, “Miss Giana awaits you in the salon.”

  Aurora murmured a faint thank-you to Lanson and passed into the drawing room.

  “Mother,” Giana said, picking up the silver teapot, “we have time for a cup of tea before we meet Thomas and Drew. Mother?”

  “Yes, love?”

  “Are you all right?”

  Aurora walked toward the front windows, pulled aside the heavy draperies, and stared out. “I hope it doesn’t rain tomorrow,” she said.

  “It does not look like rain,” Giana said, eyeing her mother. “Why does it matter in any case?”

  “I am going to Windsor for lunch,” Aurora said, and walked past her daughter out of the drawing room, her tea unnoticed.

  “To lunch? With whom?”

  Aurora turned at the foot of the stairs. “With Damien,” she said.

  Giana stared after her mother, too confounded to question her further. She turned an astonished eye toward Lanson. “Who is Damien?”

  “A gentleman who drives a very smart brougham, Miss Giana.”

  “Mother,” Giana called after Aurora. “We must leave in an hour.”

  Giana cocked her head to one side and tugged on her left earlobe, as she always did when she was concentrating. Drew smoothed his bushy side whiskers, the one extravagance he allowed himself as the head assistant to Mrs. Van Cleve, and waited for her reply to Thomas Hardesty, her mother’s partner. “I do not understand, Thomas,” Giana said, frowning down at the stack of papers in front of her, “why you are not even considering the proposal from Pierre LeClerc. Believe me, I can answer any questions you may have. I’ve had the wretched offer under my nose for nearly a week now—even under my pillow.”

  “You have prepared a thorough assessment of his proposal, Giana, and I agree that the numbers look more than gratifying. But have you discovered anything about LeClerc’s reputation and business practices?”

  “So far I know only what his business representatives say of him here in London, and that, of course, is positive. I have assigned Draber to check into his financial position, and Draber is reporting that he is worth a great deal of money.”

  “Do you remember that French ship Alliance that sank in a storm off Ceylon last year?” Aurora asked her daughter.

  “Yes, of course. It is in my report.”

  “All hands were lost, and the two dozen passengers whose misfortune it was to be on the ship,” Thomas continued for her. “It was insured to the hilt through Lloyd’s. In fact, Oran Dinwitty handled it. He discovered that the Alliance was a solid ship and the storm that sank her was not all that severe. He suspected mischief, but could not prove anything.”

  “Certainly Oran Dinwitty knows what he’s about,” Giana said.

  “There is more,” Aurora said. “We discovered through our Captain Mareaux, who was in Colombo at the time the Alliance was in port, that she had already dropped her cargo, contrary to what LeClerc purported, and money had changed hands, money that was probably not on the Alliance when she was lost, but snug on an English ship.”

  “There was one survivor, the second mate,” Thomas said. “A man called Jacques Lambeau. Oddly enough, he was found murdered some six months ago in Marseilles. His style of living until his death was rather splendid, from what Captain Mareaux could find out from a former crew member in France.”

  “You mean,” Giana said, gazing from her mother t
o Thomas Hardesty, “that LeClerc paid this Jacques Lambeau to sink the Alliance with everyone aboard? And then had the man killed?”

  “It would appear so,” Thomas said. “ Unfortunately, there isn’t proof, but suffice it to say that Lloyd’s will not touch another LeClerc ship. That is why LeClerc has made us such a grand proposal for a share of the Van Cleve shipping line. His aim is to merge with us as a silent partner, throwing all his ships under the Van Cleve umbrella and name. As a partner, he would have the good name of Van Cleve to cover him, and the right to retain his own crews. And he would be a partner in one of the largest shipping lines in Europe.”

  Aurora shrugged. “Doubtless LeClerc believed we wouldn’t find out about his troubles with Lloyd’s. But we have found out. Were we to accept LeClerc’s offer, we would likely find ourselves as uninsurable as he is.”

  “Then there is certainly no profit to be made there,” Giana said.

  “No indeed,” Thomas agreed. “Now, if you two agree, I will see to it that LeClerc is informed that we have no interest in pursuing any business relation with him. As to the additional evidence we have uncovered—” He turned to Drew. “Would you see to it, Drew, that the French authorities are informed? There is nothing very substantial, but perhaps it will interest them.”

  Giana sat back for moment in her tall leatherbacked chair, a smile about her mouth. She had just learned a valuable lesson, one, obviously, that her mother and Thomas had prepared for her. “Now that you two have left me spinning in the wind, I presume you have an alternative to LeClerc.”

  Thomas grinned at her and picked up a sheaf of papers. “Indeed we do, Giana. We’ve received a proposal we think worthy of serious consideration. It comes to us from America—New York, to be precise—from a wealthy shipbuilder, Alexander Saxton. You will see that his offer encompasses far more than does LeClerc’s.”

  “But first, Thomas,” Giana said, amusement in her voice, “you must tell me all about Mr. Saxton’s cook. Have you discovered that she has a fondness for poisoned mushrooms?”

  “Well, I don’t know about the cook or the mushrooms, but Saxton is third-generation shipping. His grandfather, George Saxton, founded a small shipyard in Boston before the turn of the century, and his grandson learned the business from him and from his own father, Nicholas, from the time he could walk. Mrs. Amelia Saxton, his mother, died when he was fourteen, his father some four years later. He has one younger brother, Delaney Saxton, something of a dark horse. All we know about him is that he is somewhere in California, caught up in the gold rush. It appears the elder Saxton is possessed of several qualities his father did not have: he is extraordinarily ambitious and he has both cunning and imagination. When he was twenty-two, he married Laura Nielson, the daughter of Franklin Nielson, a Quaker gentleman who owned one of the largest whaler yards in northeastern America. With one stroke, Saxton gained a good deal of capital from his early marriage, and used it to expand his father’s shipyard.”