Always the romantic. “They loved the Dungeon,” I retorted. “Henry was in ecstasy when he saw the executioner’s ax. Even Mary couldn’t tear herself away.”
“Nightmares,” he repeated. “And the zoo! Neither educational nor sanitary.”
“But so much fun.”
“What are your plans for tomorrow?” he asked warily.
“Hamleys toy store and the mummies at the British Museum. I’ll need your credit card again.”
“Of course you will,” he said resignedly. Then he hesitated. “Perhaps I’ll excuse myself from my meetings and join you.” Another pause. “If that would be agreeable?”
I smiled at him. “That would be brilliant.”
“Lunch at the Dorchester?” he suggested. “Shall I have the concierge book it?”
I cleared my throat.
“What?” he demanded.
“PizzaExpress. I promised the kids.”
“Lord save us,” John said devoutly.
— – — – —
At breakfast the next morning, Jane diffidently suggested that I take her to the National Portrait Gallery so we could continue our Lady Jane Grey research (for her school project, she carefully explained), while John took the younger children to Hamleys for more toy shopping. I was delighted to agree.
We walked up Piccadilly to the National Portrait Gallery, which stood in august splendor at one end of Trafalgar Square, dodging confused tourists, angry street people, and skateboarding teens along the way. Jane’s eyes were wide by the time we climbed the long flight of stone steps and entered the quiet majesty of the museum.
We stood together in silence before the Streatham portrait of Lady Jane Grey, discovered only a few years before and believed to be the only near-contemporary image of the ill-fated queen. Finally, Jane remarked, “She’s not very interesting-looking.”
I tried not to agree. The portrait, like most of those depicting women in the Tudor Gallery, showed a bland and somewhat anonymous pale face in the usual Tudor gown and finery. She was kind of boring.
I looked more intently. “Wait,” I said. “Look how different she is from Elizabeth. Look at this portrait of Queen Elizabeth the First—she’s just about the same age as Jane here, and in exactly the same pose. But look how different they are.”
Jane stepped closer and peered at the two portraits, her eyes moving back and forth. I held my breath. At length she said, “I see what you mean. Elizabeth is much prettier, isn’t she? Softer. And much grander.”
“Exactly! Do you see how they’re in the same exact pose, holding the prayer book and looking serious? But look at all of Elizabeth’s rings and jewelry.”
“And see how fancy her dress is! And her sleeves are so grand and billowy,” said Jane, getting excited. “But of course—” Her voice dropped again. “Elizabeth was queen, so of course she would be much fancier.”
“That’s just the point!” I cried. “Elizabeth was only around fifteen in this portrait, nowhere near being queen—just the bastard sister of a queen. Jane was probably much closer to the throne than Elizabeth. And yet Jane isn’t wearing any rings—”
“And her dress is much plainer, almost like a monk! Nun, I mean,” Jane interrupted.
“And see how much sterner her face is!” I added. “Elizabeth looks much softer and rounder.”
Jane nodded, and we stood shoulder to shoulder in rapt contemplation.
A quiet voice behind me commented, “Indeed, Jane and Elizabeth were rivals. Elizabeth was the better student, much to Jane’s dismay—but Jane was the better ascetic.”
We turned to see a small, neat gentleman with pure white hair and a soft white beard so fluffy that it seemed like cotton candy. Though he was barely taller than I was, I had the impression that I was looking up at him.
“Jane was much better at piety in an age when this was much prized among girls of the nobility. One suspects that Elizabeth never really believed in much at all—beyond Elizabeth, that is. She was a young lady who believed quite fervently in herself.”
Charmed, I held out my hand. “I’m Jordy Greene, from New York. And this is Jane Grey.”
His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Really? And I’m Henry Tudor. So pleased to meet you, Lady Jane.”
Jane actually laughed. “No, I really am. Lady Jane Grey of Bradgate Manor. My father is Lord John Grey, Member of Parliament, and I am—”
“Good God, so you are! I do apologize, but I had entirely forgotten that there is indeed a living Lady Jane Grey. I am Ian MacAlister, dean at St. Andrew’s University. What a treat to meet you, Lady Jane!”
Jane dipped her head in embarrassment.
I took up the reins. “What is your field, Dr. MacAlister?”
“Ian, please. It is the Tudor queens, of course. What else is there to interest one? Mary, Elizabeth, and our poor Jane.” He snorted. “Poor Jane, indeed!”
I snapped to attention. “What do you mean? Married against her will, forced to be queen, beheaded at age sixteen? Isn’t she poor Jane?”
Dr. MacAlister put a gentle hand on my back and steered me back to the portrait. Jane followed closely. “Look at those eyes,” he commanded. “Look at that face. Is that the face of a sweet, innocent victim?”
Jane shrugged but was studying the portrait even more closely than before. “No,” Jane said. “I think she looks like a monk.”
“Or a very clever politician,” I put in.
He beamed at us. “I’ve always believed our Jane was a conniving minx,” he said firmly. “Not a sweet, innocent girl but a master manipulator. Such a master that she manipulated history into believing this absurd tale!”
We gaped at him, and he looked delighted by our consternation.
Finally, Jane said tentatively, “I’ve always thought she was daft, really. And boring.”
“Not daft,” he said firmly. “And certainly not boring! Look at the set of her jaw. Look at her clothing. Do you know how unusual it was for a noble girl of her day to be painted without fine jewelry? In such a plain dress?”
“That’s what I said!” Jane exclaimed.
“Well, my lady, you are very observant,” he said. “One wonders how her mum—the Duchess of Suffolk, a very grand lady with a very high opinion of herself—could have permitted such a portrait. I envision battles royal between mother and daughter!”
I heard a low buzz, and he patted his pockets, for all the world like an absentminded professor, and pulled out an iPhone. “I’m very sorry to say that I must leave your delightful company. This little device has reminded me that I am meeting Lady Amanda Whosit shortly to beg for money. Boring and tedious, but—” He patted his pockets again and drew out a small cardboard card. “Please take my calling card, and come to visit me in Scotland. I should be honored to tell you the true story of Lady Jane Grey. Good day, Lady Jane Grey!”
Chapter 20
JOHN WAS APPALLED by everything at PizzaExpress, and although he tried manfully to avoid showing it, the rushed, sweating waiters, screaming children, and unwiped tabletop brought out the worst in him. Being John, he became more and more stuffy. “I suppose this establishment is very American?” he inquired, using a napkin to blot the grease from the top of his pizza slice.
“We have many pizza places in New York that are much better than this,” I replied calmly.
“Daddy, isn’t this brilliant?” Henry enthused. A long string of cheese dangled from his chin like a wispy goatee, and his cheeks wore smears of tomato sauce. He was having a marvelous time.
“Delightful,” John agreed politely. He forked up a piece of limp iceberg lettuce and eyed it dubiously. I had warned him against the “salad,” but he’d refused to listen.
Jane, more perceptive than her siblings, jumped into the fray. “Daddy, have you ever met the prime minister?” she asked with a show of interest.
&
nbsp; He unbent enough to smile at her. “Yes, darling, many times.”
“Is his wife pretty?” asked Katherine.
“Uh . . .”
I thought of the dowdy, frumpy wife currently ensconced at 10 Downing Street; she never appeared in public without her giant mastiff dog, whom she very closely resembled.
“One misses Cherie Blair,” John finally said.
Katherine looked blank. “Who?”
“Did you like Tony Blair, then?” I asked.
John made a rude sound. “New Labour? Ha!”
I had always found Tony Blair quite good-looking, but I held my tongue; John would think me as empty-headed as Katherine if I said so. Instead I said, “Doesn’t your mother live in London, John? Perhaps we should take the children to visit her.” After Jane’s confidences about the countess, I was keen to meet her and see if the resemblance to my mother held up in person.
John looked acutely uncomfortable, and Henry shifted uneasily. “She keeps a very busy schedule,” John said.
“But don’t you think she would like to see—?”
“She always tells me to straighten up and stop nattering,” said Katherine.
“She scares me,” said Mary.
“She practically genuflects to me,” said Jane, surprisingly. “Because I’m Lady bloody Jane Grey.”
I stifled a smile. John said wearily, “Jane, you mustn’t say that.”
“But—”
I interrupted, “So shall we go visit her?”
He shuddered. “I’d rather visit every public loo in London,” he murmured for me alone to hear.
Henry overheard and grinned widely.
As if to compensate for his momentary weakness, John launched into a tedious lecture on the decorative arts at the Victoria and Albert. At last Katherine interrupted. “I’m falling asleep here, and Henry’s head is in his pizza. Could we please go now?”
“Certainly,” John said. “Jordy and I can continue our discussion later. In private.”
He was careful not to look at me, but I felt a delicious little tingle anyway. Whatever we “discussed” in private, it certainly wouldn’t be the decorative arts.
— – — – —
John rarely engaged in pillow talk, either before or after sex. But that night in bed, he put his arm around me afterward and said, “Thanks for making this a good weekend for the kids.”
I told him he was welcome. Perhaps he was so awkward with them because of his own upbringing; I could certainly empathize with that. And it was fun to see the imperturbable John so flummoxed by four young children. Perhaps I should share my Evernotes files with him.
“I always think I have to make sure they’re educated and disciplined,” he continued. “Aline didn’t care if they went to school or not, if they washed or not. Once she even lost Katherine in Trafalgar Square.”
I understood now why he had assumed (so insultingly) that I wouldn’t care properly for the kittens, and I began to forgive him. In his own way, he was trying so hard—perhaps too hard—to be a good father.
“You might find it easier if you didn’t take it quite so seriously,” I suggested. “Children should be fun. Not just hard work.” At least that was what the websites told me.
“How do you know?” he asked, as if he really wanted to know. “And how did you know what they would enjoy here in London?”
“I just Googled ‘London with children.’ I always do my research.”
“I believe that,” said John. “I imagine you were quite good at your job.”
“I was,” I said. “Until I wasn’t.”
He looked at me in inquiry.
“We were taken over by AmCan, and then I was out sick for ages—I had meningitis—and then I made a mistake on a trade. Not a huge mistake, but it was bad timing with a new boss and . . .” I trailed off.
John shrugged. “Mistakes happen.”
In Lucian’s world, mistakes were unforgivable. You’d think I had single-handedly launched nuclear missiles at the White House, Microsoft, and most importantly, AmCan Bank.
“And that reminds me,” John said. He sat up and rummaged through the wallet he’d tossed on the bedside table. “My solicitor received this notice from a law firm in New York. It’s meant for you, but they were unable to reach you so they sent it in care of my solicitor, since I’m your landlord. It appears to be quite serious.” He handed me a thin envelope. I snapped on the discreet bedside lamp and sat up, too, pulling my discarded New York City Ballet T-shirt on over my head. I gazed at the envelope as if it were a snake.
“Legal troubles?” John asked.
I sighed. “Yes.”
“Serious?”
“Yes.”
“Avoiding communications from the solicitors is not sensible,” he advised helpfully.
I glared at him.
“Open the bloody envelope!”
— – — – —
John dragged the whole sorry story out of me, even about Lucian. When I stopped talking, there was a long silence.
Finally, he said, not unsympathetically, “Well. You have been through a bad time, haven’t you?”
For a moment, shockingly, I wanted to throw myself into his arms and sob, let him stroke my hair, tell me everything would be all right. But that would never do. I had been raised to despise that as weakness, and so, I suspected, had John.
“Yes,” I said. “But I’m fine now.”
“Indeed,” he said. “We will see to that.”
Chapter 21
MONDAY WAS A bank holiday, and we had planned on taking an early train home. But John refused to let me leave London without meeting with his solicitor. So he shepherded the children to the dreaded Victoria and Albert Museum while I, even more reluctantly, found myself in a gleaming Docklands office tower overlooking the Thames.
The solicitor, Reginald Bramstock, said as soon as we were seated, “I gather this is quite serious. Lord Grey insisted that we meet even though the office is closed.”
I half rose. “We can do this some other time. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”
“Sit down, young lady,” he said. “Lord Grey was quite adamant.” Mr. Bramstock took the letter from my hand and glanced over it briefly. “And why are you hiding out in Bradgate, ducking subpoenas?”
I wet my lips. “I was a hedge fund manager at AmCan Bank in New York,” I began.
“Yes, yes,” he cut me off impatiently. “Lord Grey gave me the background in our conversation this morning. At six o’clock, to be precise.”
I sat up taller, annoyed at his tone, and replied, “This action pertains to a series of fake trades supposedly done on behalf of one of our biggest clients, Asteroid Fund.”
Mr. Bramstock started to take notes.
“My supervisor, Lucian Fellowes—”
“How do you spell that?”
I spelled it.
“And what was his title?”
“His title was and still is executive vice president. I was a managing director. Several levels below him.”
“Go on.”
“Lucian—Mr. Fellowes—was in charge of the Asteroid Fund account. But he had engaged in some unauthorized trading, well above his limits. When those trades went sour—that is, when he lost money on them—he started booking false trades so it would look like the account was still profitable.”
“How many false trades?”
“About ten thousand.”
Mr. Bramstock’s frown deepened. “And what was the value of these false trades?”
“Seventy-two million dollars.”
“So he lost seventy-two million of your client’s money and sought to cover it up with false trades?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“What is your involvement in this mess?”
I shifte
d uncomfortably. “Lucian booked the trades in my name. He knew my passwords and made it look like I’d done the trades.”
“Why did you tell him your passwords?” At my silence, Mr. Bramstock glanced up. “You were intimately involved with him?”
I flinched. He must know already; John must have told him. Why did I have to repeat it? It had been bad enough pouring out the whole mess to John the night before.
He went back to his notes. “Did he coerce you into this relationship?”
John had asked me this, too, and I had looked away, humiliated. Had Lucian “coerced” me? I supposed not. Well, maybe. Sometimes, I had told John. His lips had tightened, and he had asked, “Why didn’t you end the relationship?”
I had been frightened of Lucian yet too ashamed of my behavior to expose my weakness. And it wasn’t as if I expected warmth and tenderness from anybody in my life. I expected relationships to be brusque and cool, about mutual advantage and need rather than loving kindness.
Still, I’d had a veiled conversation with a lawyer friend about a sexual harassment suit. “Forget about it,” he advised. “Those cases against Goldman Sachs and the Silicon Valley venture capital group crashed and burned. You’d never work in finance again, you’d throw away a lot of money, and you’d have to listen to a lot of people tearing you apart. At this level, those cases are lose/lose.”
So I hesitated and was lost.
With this solicitor, I hesitated again. I thought of Lucian’s painful grip, his greedy eyes, his lightly veiled threats, the tight and anxious knot in my stomach whenever he approached. And yet what had I done to stop him?
I was ashamed.
Finally, I said, “Not exactly coerce.”
“Was there any element of sexual harassment? Any hint that he would provide favorable treatment in return for sexual favors?”
I still couldn’t admit it. “It didn’t hurt my career to be involved with the EVP.”
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