Glittering Promises

by Lisa T. Bergren

  Sam Morgan came up to the window beside him. “They’ll be fine, Wallace. We can’t keep an eye on them every minute,” he said, biting down on an unlit cigar.

  Wallace gave him a rueful smile and then turned to sit heavily in a chair in front of the cold, unlit fireplace. “You’re right, of course. But if anything happened to any of the children…” He bit his lip and looked over to the wide, empty doorway that led to the hallway.

  “Perhaps it’s best if you switch tactics with Cora now,” Morgan said gently, taking the chair facing him.

  Wallace stared hard at his old friend and business partner. Morgan didn’t speak to him in such a direct manner often, but Wallace had learned it was wise to pay attention when he did. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning,” Morgan said carefully, stroking his short beard, “she is perhaps more like you than any of your other children. And the harder you press her, the more she’ll press back.”

  Wallace waved his hand in agitation, encouraging him to go on, even while a good part of him wanted the man to remain quiet.

  “She is naive in some ways, and yet wise to the ways of people. She understands what drives them, incites them. And she does not wish to be controlled.”

  Wallace studied him. “You think I’ve gone about it wrong. My desire to assert my authority as a father, guide her.”

  “She sees you more as a threat than a guide. When she did not come willingly, you tried to coerce her, which has only driven her further away.”

  Wallace sighed heavily and closed his eyes, rubbing them. “So? What do you suggest?”

  “Care for the girl. Why not give her her due? She and her parents have worked that land for years. Take forty-nine percent, give them controlling interest. You’ll still more than triple your fortune, and she’ll have no choice but to see it as the gift it is. She’ll have to come to you for advice. It’s been some years since Alan Diehl considered such sums. In time, perhaps you can forge the sort of relationship you’ve sought all along. At that point, perhaps you can point her in Pierre’s direction rather than William’s.”

  Wallace considered him. “She has no experience. She might make poor decisions, endanger what we are on the brink of claiming.”

  “She might,” Morgan allowed. “Or she might not. As I said, I believe she is more like you than any of the others. She is smart, Wallace. And if you give her free rein, I believe she’ll seek you out for guidance before things get too far out of line.” He leaned forward. “If you give her and her parents controlling interest, she has more incentive than ever to honor the gift. She’ll understand it’s work to manage a fortune, not simply an idle task.” He sat back again and threw up his hands, the cigar now pinched between two fingers. “Who knows? Perhaps she’ll inspire the other children to appreciate what they’ve been given and step up to some responsibility.”

  “Perhaps,” Wallace allowed. He thought about Vivian, looking so unhappy. The girl needed Andrew to commit and put a ring on her finger at last. And Felix… How Wallace wished the boy would concentrate on his education and claim any part of the Kensington business as Cora appeared to be attempting a claim with the mine. She was acting more a man than his one and only son, who seemed to have nothing on his mind other than finding the next diversion. Lillian? He would soon need to turn his attentions to finding her a proper suitor and getting her settled.

  But first…Cora. If he could simply find his way with her, perhaps the others would fall into line. And Morgan was right. There was no way to force Cora closer; she had to come to him on her own accord.

  He considered Morgan’s thoughts, testing them from one angle and then another. “I’ll do it,” he said quietly, feeling a little awestruck over such a momentous, instantaneous decision. “Make Cora and the Diehls more rich than they’ve ever dreamed.”

  “No strings attached,” Morgan pressed.

  “Well,” Wallace said, cocking his head and steepling his fingers. “Let’s just say no strings that are obvious. You and I both know that there are always strings. Always.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Cora

  We walked down the remaining stairs, and I forced my thoughts back to Pierre. For now, right now, on this languid summer afternoon on one of the prettiest waterways in the world, I needed to bid Pierre adieu once and for all. I took hold of the gondolier’s hand and stepped gingerly into the bottom of the long, thin boat, then sat primly on the red brocade-covered seat in the back. The gondolier helped Pierre in, then Pascal, then offered me a parasol. I’d forgotten mine.

  Pierre sat beside me, and I edged a couple of inches away, well aware that although Will had disappeared back inside, he likely watched from the windows. Pascal looked to his right, as if offering us privacy, even though his knees were but a foot away from ours.

  “Where to?” asked the gondolier.

  “Your normal route,” Pierre said with a soft flick of his fingers.

  “Pierre,” I said, giving him a warning look.

  “We won’t go far, mon ange,” he said, leaning back and giving me a catlike smile.

  “Pierre.”

  “What?” He frowned, but there was still laughter in his eyes. “Is not your loyal guard dog right here with us? What could happen?”

  I sighed and shook my head a little.

  A lot could happen when it came to Pierre de Richelieu.

  I saw what he was after when we turned one corner and then the next within the Rialto district, leaving one tiny canal for another. Here, in this passageway, there was no room for another boat to pass. The gondolier must’ve known that only one direction of traffic was allowed. Between the shadows of the buildings, the air cooled, a nice respite from the heat of the summer afternoon.

  I set aside the parasol and swatted away a mosquito, breathing deeply for the first time since Will and I had returned from our afternoon outing. It was quiet, peaceful here on the water. Away from the bustle of the Grand Canal, in among the narrow, residential passageways, with people just now rising from their afternoon naps. Italians favored long, restful afternoons, work into the evening, and late-night suppers spent huddled around dripping candles. It was a natural cadence of life, particularly during the heat of summer, that I longed to adopt.

  Pierre had been humming, and I leaned my head against the high back of our shared chair and looked at him, guardedly, not wanting him to mistake tenderness and companionability for second thoughts. Once I had entertained the idea of marrying him. But it had always been a fantasy, some other girl’s tale, not my own. Because my heart had always been tied to Will’s. But if I hadn’t met Will McCabe? Certainly, turning away Pierre de Richelieu would have been the hardest thing I’d ever done. It was already difficult, even with my love firmly settled in my heart. Because Pierre was terribly…dreamy, as Lil and Nell often said in a breathy tone that matched the word. Handsome. Clever. Amusing. Refined.

  “Is that a folk tune?” I asked.

  “What?” he said, turning to me from his reverie.

  “What you were humming. Is it a folk tune?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, giving me a soft smile. “Something my mother hummed to me as a child.” His eyebrows lifted. “I do not even know the words.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  His eyes moved from me to the third canal we entered. “There. Up ahead,” he said to the gondolier. “We’d like to pause for a bit.”

  “Certainly.”

  Pascal gave Pierre a long look.

  “Don’t worry, my friend, don’t worry,” Pierre said, trying to tamp down my guard’s concern. “If Nathan Hawke wishes to get to us here, he’ll have to come through you, no?” Pierre smiled at Pascal and then looked over at me. “I don’t know whom he fears most—Hawke or me.” He laughed under his breath. “He thinks I might try to run off with you,” he said, nodding toward Pascal.

  “Will you?” I asked with a sardonic smile.

  “If you gave me half a hope, I would.” He took my hand, and I stiffened. He paused,
and his light brows knit together. “Come now, Cora, you’ve more than made your feelings plain. Trust me, won’t you?”

  I took a breath, studying his guileless expression. “All right,” I said slowly.

  The gondolier edged alongside a small gate and called upward. An old man appeared on a small balcony, standing beside a table set for two right above the canal. They shared a word in Italian, and the man invited us up.

  I paused. “Pierre, I’m not really hungry.” The farther we got from the palazzo, the more I feared that this was a bad idea. A very bad idea. Not because of Hawke. But because of Pierre. This was clearly his last attempt to persuade me to return to him, to turn away from Will.

  “Nor am I,” he said soberly. “But come. Share one last glass of wine, a last moment with me. That’s all I ask.” He frowned. “Come now. Can you not give me at least this courtesy?”

  I sighed, guilt overcoming my concern, and then took his hand, ambling out of the gondola and onto an old rotting pier slick with green moss. “Careful,” Pierre said, even as he slipped a little himself.

  Pascal sought my eyes, silently asking me if I was all right. I gave him a firm nod. “We’ll only be a little while,” I said. Where could we go? I suspected what the men did—that the only way in and out of this tiny building was right here through this waterway entrance.

  We moved up stairs so narrow that I wondered if Pierre would have to scrunch or turn sideways to get through. At the top, the ceiling lifted, and we turned left, walking through a cozy kitchen rife with the smells of supper simmering on the stove—heavily laced with garlic and oregano—and out to the small patio, where our host awaited us, proudly gesturing toward the cloth-covered table. He pulled out my chair, then helped me sit down. I glanced over the stone rail to Pascal, and the man visibly relaxed now that we were again within sight. I supposed I couldn’t begrudge his tension—our guards had been put through the paces, watching us. But I hoped all that would be soon behind us.

  “You eat?” said our host, gesturing toward his mouth as if he was uncertain about the word.

  “No, no,” Pierre said with a wave of his hand. “It’s far too early. Solo un po’ di pane e vino, per favore,” he said. I guessed he’d asked for only wine and bread.

  Clearly disgruntled, the man looked to me, as if hoping I’d interrupt and demand a four-course dinner, even though it was only three in the afternoon. Then, hopes dashed, he left for a moment before returning with the bottle of wine and a basket of bread that he practically slammed on the table.

  Pierre grinned as he watched the man depart, then he looked over at me. “Perhaps I might have picked a more genteel locale,” he said, picking up the bottle and uncorking it. He poured me a glass and then one for himself.

  “No,” I said softly, looking out over the quiet canal, the water so still that there was hardly a ripple. Our gondolier had settled into our seat for a nap, his broad-brimmed hat tipped over his face, legs perched on the edge, even while Pascal steadily perused the area. “It’s actually perfect. A bit of respite after a very busy hour.”

  “Indeed,” Pierre said, leaning forward across the table. He took a breath. “As you might suspect, this parting tears at me in a thousand ways.”

  “Oh, Pierre, you’ve given me so much.” I impulsively reached for his hand and squeezed it. “I shall never forget you.”

  “But you are certain that our parting is the right decision for us?” he said, gazing from our entwined hands to my face. A shadow of sorrow in his eyes made me hesitate a moment.

  “I am,” I said, pulling my hand away. “If we’d met under different circumstances, Pierre, in a different time, a different place…”

  “If we’d been different people,” he said with a humorless grin.

  “No. And yes,” I said.

  “And if there hadn’t been a William McCabe.”

  “Most of all,” I said quietly, “if there hadn’t been him, too.”

  He gave me a lopsided grin, covering me with a tender gaze. “I never did have a chance against him. Who would have thought it? A pauper beating me.”

  I stiffened a little. “He’s far more than the amount he has in his bank account.”

  Pierre nodded and took a sip of his wine, savoring it a moment before swallowing. He lifted his glass, as if toasting me. “And there it is again—why I am so madly in love with you, Cora Diehl Kensington.”

  My mouth was suddenly dry, and it was my turn to take a sip. Never had he come out and said it. So matter-of-factly. Without flirtation. “Pierre, I—”

  He lifted his hand to shush me. “Never have I met a woman who was not first taken in by a man’s bank account, or at least swayed by it. I want to win a woman like you. A woman who will see me for more than what I have.”

  “You deserve such a woman.”

  He took another sip and studied me, swirling the wine idly around his glass. “Tell me. Is there not some small part of you that believes you’re that woman?”

  “Pierre…”

  “Truthfully,” he said, giving his head a small shake, “with no worry about my feelings. Tell me that I hold not one part of your heart—not one tiny part—and I will leave and never bother you again. You can rest assured I will continue my business deal with Montana Copper so that your father cannot hold it over your head.”

  My eyes met his, quickly.

  “Oh, yes. I understand that your father can be quite ruthless. But my dearest desire is for you to come to me, Cora, on your terms. Not as a dutiful daughter with an eye toward business holdings.”

  He reached across the table and took my hand again, lightly, in his. Something in his face, his demeanor, made me allow it.

  “Pierre, I’ve told you. You honor me by your attentions, your pursuit. But my heart belongs to Will McCabe.”

  “Understood. But you didn’t answer me,” he said, staring into my eyes. He covered my hand with his other one, again carefully, as if afraid I’d shy away. “I need to know that I have no chance whatsoever. That I don’t hold any portion of your heart, no matter how small.”

  I paused, considering. Looked across the narrow canal to the neighboring building, where I saw drapes moving back into place, as if somebody had just been there, then disappeared. I shoved away the paranoid thought of Nathan Hawke following us here, somehow. It was impossible. It was only a nosy neighbor… I focused again on Pierre. How was I to answer his question in all honesty—without giving him undue hope?

  “You pause,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “There is a chance for me.”

  “No,” I said, finally pulling my hand from his and firmly placing it in my lap. I shook my head slowly. “It is Will who holds my heart, Pierre. I’m sorry. I paused because I care for you. I do. But it is Will that I love.”

  He studied me, grief lacing his eyes. “I will honor your choice. But, mon ange…Cora. I must come to see you in Roma, before you leave for America again. I need to know then that nothing has changed and you are certain that—”

  “No. Don’t come. I am certain, Pierre.”

  “But does Will have it within him to withstand the pressures of your father? Of society? With your newfound wealth?”

  “My father still holds the purse strings. Unless he relents, or my attorney is successful in his suit—”

  “He will relent,” Pierre said. “Wallace Kensington is a gambler. He simply prefers to hold all the cards. You’ve dealt him a new hand he doesn’t care for. But more than anything, Cora, he wants you. To know you, and you, him. As a father knows a daughter.”

  I sighed. If only I were so certain of his intentions. “I had all the father I ever needed. Have,” I belatedly amended, wondering how Papa was faring this day in Minnesota. How Mama was…

  “Do you?” He sat back and twisted the stem of his goblet in his fingers in a slow circle. “In some ways, you seem to me a fine woman, grown. In others, but a girl. A girl in need of a father such as Wallace Kensington, particularly as you negot
iate the ways of society. As well as the press…”

  I frowned. “Will and I shall address those pressures. Together.”

  “Is that what you want? From a man? How much of your inheritance will go to pay off his debts?”

  “His uncle’s debts. Not his.”

  “How much for his remaining education?”

  “It matters not. Nor is it any of your concern.”

  “Perhaps not to you. But it does matter,” he pressed. “A man does not favor being kept.”

  I shook my head, my agitation rising. What he implied…that if I did come into wealth, that Will would somehow resent it… “We shall see it through. We’re strong, Will and I.”

  “Strong,” he said, nodding and taking a slow sip of his wine. “For now. But I will come to Roma and call on you. Just to make certain that Will, or you, have not had a change of heart. Before a ship carries you across the sea again, I must know. I must know, mon ange,” he said, leaning forward, his eyes filled with passion and concern.

  I shook my head, unable to stop my frustration. “You will not be welcome, Pierre.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “But Cora…you did not say it. You could not promise me that I did not still hold a tiny corner of your heart.”

  I stared at him. “You do not hold a piece of my heart, Pierre.” Suddenly I wanted to hurt him, to wipe out his smug, knowing tone. I was so tired, so very tired of men in my life thinking they knew more than I did about myself.

  He leaned back in his chair, his hand lifting to his chest. He stared at me. “That, Cora, wounds me. That you would lie to me.”

  I stared at him again, really angry now. “I…you…” But as I gathered my words, I knew I couldn’t lie again. He was right. While Will had my heart, while everything in me knew I belonged with him, there was still a tiny piece of me that acknowledged that if Will wasn’t in my life…if things were different…

  It’d be impossible to summarily send Pierre de Richelieu away. Forever.