Glittering Promises

by Lisa T. Bergren

  “Merci, Mademoiselle Cora.”

  The sound of strings brought my head around. A trio had entered the terrace floor and sat in one corner, warming up. Will strode over to me. “Would you do me the honor of a dance, Miss Cora?”

  I gave him a wry grin. “If you don’t mind dancing with a one-armed stuffed pig.” Heavens! Had I said that aloud? When had I become so free with my speech around him? So ready to say whatever I thought?

  He laughed, a great belly laugh, even as he led me to the open space of the terrace directly in front of the musicians. “Even ‘full as a tick,’ as Uncle Stuart used to call it, you are nothing short of sublime.” He lifted his hand in order to take my good one, then wrapped his other arm around me. We waltzed through one song and then another, and still another, as darkness finally claimed the city and the footmen cleared the table and set out candles all about us.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have a ring for you yet, beloved,” Will said. “I wish to purchase one at home.”

  He wanted to use his own funds, I understood, purchase it once he received payment from Mr. Morgan for the summer’s duty. “Will,” I said, leaning my head against his chest, “I’ll be happy to receive it, whenever you find the right one. But I’d prefer a plain band.”

  “A plain band?” he repeated, leaning back to get a look at my face.

  “Yes. My mother had a plain band. It was good enough for her, and it shall be good enough for me.”

  “I must say,” he said with a dumbfounded sigh, “that you still manage to surprise me, even after being together all summer long.”

  “Maybe I’ll surprise you all our lives.”

  “I wouldn’t mind that,” he said.

  The longer I danced, the sleepier I became. The movement eased the ache in my belly, and by the time I walked downstairs with him, I thought I just might be able to sleep rather than stay up all night moaning.

  At my door, he hugged me gently. Downstairs we heard the foyer door open and the noise of the rest of our group returning. He lifted a finger to his lips, obviously intent on keeping this night our own treasured little secret, then he bent to kiss me. “Thank you for the most marvelous night of my life.”

  “Oh, Will. Thank you.”

  “One more thing,” he said. He reached inside his coat and pulled out a telegram. “Read this,” he said, “when you are alone.”

  I gave him a puzzled nod. “All right.”

  “See you in the morning, my future Mrs. McCabe,” he whispered in my ear, sending shivers down my neck and shoulder.

  “In the morning,” I agreed, then reluctantly pulled away from him and shut the door.

  “Well, you two had quite the evening,” Anna said from a corner chair, startling me out of my wits. “Oh, sorry!” she exclaimed, seeing my reaction. “Forgive me, Miss. I’d just come up, thinking I’d help you out of your gown and to bed, and then nodded off myself. I’m doing more and more of that of late. Perhaps my days of travel have come to an end. Best stay put in Butte next time your family decides to summer in Europe.”

  “Unless we stayed in England, yes? Then you could see your family.”

  “Yes, yes. If you decide to only go to England, I’d come along for that.”

  She attended me, and I soon locked the door behind her and slipped under the covers, telegram still unopened. He’d wanted me to be alone. And at last I was. I turned up the flame of my gas lamp and slowly unfolded the paper.

  It was from my papa, I saw, my heart skipping a beat. FROM ALAN DIEHL it said, right there at the top.

  MR. MCCABE – STOP – THANK YOU FOR DOING US THE HONOR OF REQUESTING PERMISSION TO MARRY OUR DAUGHTER – STOP – WE ARE CERTAIN THAT ANY MAN WHO MEETS CORAS APPROVAL IS GOOD ENOUGH FOR US – STOP – IF YOU WILL TRULY LOVE HONOR AND CHERISH HER YOU MAY PROCEED WITH OUR BLESSING – STOP –

  Tears ran down my face as I read and reread the words, hearing my papa’s gentle, firm tone, imagining Mama at the telegraph office, making certain it was all said right. I collapsed back against the goose-down pillows, thinking about how grand it was of God, to sort out the glittering promises of my life and make it clear what was truth and what was a lie. What I could cling to, count on, and what I could not.

  And Will, Father. Will! Thank You for bringing me a man I could count on from the start. A man who knows where I came from and can see where I’m going, a man who is willing to walk beside me forevermore. You’ve blessed me, Lord. Far more than I could’ve ever imagined. But most of all in the love of this man.

  I turned down the flame of my lamp until it was almost out, clutched the telegram to my chest like a hug from my folks, and in seconds, I slept.

  CHAPTER 37

  Cora

  “Wake up, Cora,” Viv was saying, shaking my shoulder. “Wake up.”

  “What? What is it?” I asked, sitting up, trying to get my bearings.

  “I’m sorry, but you need to get dressed.” Behind her, Anna bustled in, carrying my freshly pressed tan jacket and skirt.

  “What’s going on?”

  Viv leveled her no-nonsense gaze at me. “Pierre de Richelieu has been detained and brought to Rome.”

  “He has?” I said, scooting to the edge of the bed. “Is he all right?”

  “He’s all right,” she said, sniffing, “but when you hear what Nathan Hawke is now claiming as truth, you might not care.”

  I shook my head in confusion. “Why? What is he saying?” I asked, wrapping my dressing robe about me and moving to the chair to brush out my hair. Anna held out her hand for the brush and I assented, but I had to grip the table. “What is it?” I met my sister’s gaze in the mirror. “I trust Anna to keep confidences,” I assured. “Say what you need to!”

  Vivian stood over my left shoulder as Anna stood over my right. “Perhaps it’d be best if Will told you.”

  “Viv!” I frowned, turning toward her. Her neck was so stiff, her tendons stuck out. For the first time, I felt fear. “I’ve never known you to hold back a single word from me! Even those I wished you had! What is it? You’re frightening me!”

  She grimaced and then shook her head, flinging out the fingers on both hands. “All right!” She knelt and tried to gather herself, then took my hand even as Anna continued to brush madly. “Nathan’s story,” Viv said, “is that he was after you for some time.”

  “R-right. I knew that. We all knew that.” I winced as Anna tugged through a knot at my neck.

  “Cora,” she rushed on, “he says he was working for Pierre de Richelieu. That Pierre told him to meet him in Rome.”

  Anna stopped brushing. I stopped breathing. But in the corner of my mind, for a moment, I felt triumphant. I’d been right about the whistle!

  But then just as quickly, I crashed into confusion. What was this? How could it be true? How could Pierre have…sent Nathan after me? Were my worst fears true?

  I rose, and Viv hastily did too, stepping away from me but following me, wringing her hands. “Cora…”

  “Quickly,” I said to them both, having trouble focusing. “My skirt, my jacket, my hat.” I had to get ready quickly. Go and see these men, the police. Because if my suspicions were true, I wanted to witness the moment Nathan and Pierre were charged.

  William

  In the end, Cora wanted only Vivian and Will to come with her. Felix looked frustrated and Lil hurt, but Will knew the police wouldn’t allow the entire Kensington-Morgan crew in. Or at least close enough to hear anything, anyway. So he persuaded the rest to stay back, doing his best to distract and entice them with a visit to the great Roman Baths of Caracalla. Even Will doubted they’d listen to a single word Antonio uttered.

  As they drove in silence—each of them too preoccupied to chat—Will considered the marvel of the tour. How it could unite such disparate people as Vivian and Cora, women who had been so distant from each other in May, now as bonded as sisters raised together. Or was it God who deserved the credit?

  The driver pulled up the motorcar outside the po
lice station, and Will got out, assisting Viv and then Cora. Pascal had accompanied them, and he was last to come out, carefully scanning passersby for any sign of an enemy.

  But Will knew what Cora now knew. Her enemy was inside.

  He couldn’t believe what the detective had come to tell them.

  It was impossible. Pierre de Richelieu had loved her, right? Will had been as certain of it as Cora.

  They climbed the steps, and Will was glad the chauffeur had been able to leave the reporters behind. Undoubtedly, the press would soon learn of this delicious new angle of Cora’s story. But for now, they were in a bubble of blissful privacy.

  Introductions were made, they were shown into a small office heavy with wood, and Will began translating for the women. “Nathan kept up his silence for the last two days, refusing to say a word,” the officer said. “Until he heard that Pierre had been captured. That was when Nathan admitted he worked for him.”

  Will listened to the short, wide detective with a thick neck and bald pate go on for a while in Italian, then he turned to summarize. “They think that if they bring the two men together, and if you’re here, the whole story will spill out.” He narrowed his eyes at what the man said next. Reluctantly, he turned to Cora. “Whatever they say, they want you to go along with them.” He shrugged. “Play the part. Are you all right with that?”

  Cora looked at him, alarmed and a little afraid, then gave a tiny nod of her head.

  He took her hand. “We have to see this through. To find out the truth once and for all. And hopefully be free of any known danger. Agreed?”

  She nodded her head again. But he noticed that her face had grown paler. Vivian wrapped an arm around her shoulders. The sisters rose together and followed the detectives out into a bigger room with a long conference table in the center. Cora and Viv sat in the center, with Will between them and Pascal standing behind. The fat-necked detective sat next to Cora. A secretary came in to take notes and sat at the very end of the table.

  “May I have some water?” Cora asked, looking even more wan than before.

  “Of course,” Will said, pulling a sweating pewter pitcher nearer and pouring her a glass. “Are you feeling faint again?”

  “No. I think I’m only nervous, not sick.” She lifted the glass with a trembling hand, and it made Will angrier than he already was. Pierre had better deny any wrongdoing, or Will was liable to leap across the table and beat him senseless.

  At last the door opened, and Nathan Hawke and Pierre de Richelieu were both led into the room. Cora stiffened, and Will saw Viv take her good hand under the table. Only Nathan was chained, at the ankles. He shuffled forward, dragging the chain across the wooden floor.

  Pierre was simply attended by a broad-shouldered policeman, who kept a hand on his shoulder and pulled out his chair for him. “Merci,” Pierre said to him quietly. Will narrowed his eyes. Why the French when the man spoke reasonable Italian? Had he paid these policemen off? Was this all just a farce?

  Slowly, Pierre lifted his eyes to meet Cora’s. “I am glad you are well, mon ange.”

  “Are you?” she bit out, surprising all of them with her vicious tone.

  “Attendere,” said the lead detective. “Non parlare se non si ha chiesto una domanda diretta.”

  “He doesn’t want us to speak unless we’re asked a question,” Will translated.

  The door opened again, and a new detective entered, this one slim and elegant in his posture. He had a thick file that he tossed casually onto the table next to Nathan. They could all see clippings from newspapers peeking out the edge, as well as pages upon pages of notes. “I am Detective Bonaventure Beluzzi,” he said in heavily accented English, with a suave smile all around. “We shall continue on in English, but I ask you to speak slowly and clearly, so that our pretty secretary can take good notes.” He nodded down the table to the young woman, who looked like she might be blushing a little. “Her English is good, but not as good as mine.”

  “You still have not told me why I have been brought here,” Pierre said disdainfully.

  “That is what we are here to ascertain, Lord de Richelieu,” Beluzzi said, casually moving around the table. He walked with his head bowed and his hands together, touching at the fingertips. Will shifted back to watching Nathan and Pierre alone.

  “Do I need an attorney?” Pierre asked.

  “I don’t know,” Beluzzi said casually. “Do you?” He kept pacing. “Here is what we know so far. You and Miss Kensington were kidnapped from Tivoli. You were held by Mr. Nathan Hawke”—he gestured down to Nathan, continuing his slow circle—“and managed to escape. When you and Miss Kensington were in an abandoned store, she said that when it became clear that she did not return your…feelings of love…that you left, ostensibly to go for help. But she was under the impression that you were handing her off to Mr. Hawke again.”

  “That is ridiculous,” Pierre said with a shake of his head. He looked at Cora in horror. “I was going for help!”

  “It is not ridiculous if what Mr. Hawke has said is true. That he works for you. That he was your ‘last resort.’”

  “I’ve told you already. That is a blatant lie. I’ve only seen this man once before our kidnapping—at a ball in Vienna.”

  Hawke was rubbing his index finger over a groove in the wood of the table, reacting to none of the conversation.

  Beluzzi went on, unruffled, “Thankfully, Miss Kensington was able to escape Mr. Hawke again and was rescued by some shopkeepers. You”—he waved at Pierre— “clearly made it to safety.” He frowned and looked puzzled, lifting his hands in the air. “And yet you did not call the police. You did not send help back to the empty store for Miss Kensington as promised.”

  “I was afraid for my life. A man was following me. I thought I might be killed at any moment. My only thought was to return to France, where I knew I could find safety. I am responsible for a great number of—”

  “And Miss Kensington?”

  Pierre dragged his eyes over to meet Cora’s. “Miss Diehl Kensington always seems to find her way to her feet. I knew this time would be no different. And it was as you said… We’d parted ways.”

  “But that is hardly gentlemanly, Lord de Richelieu. To leave a woman, a woman clearly injured, traumatized, alone, with evil men about?”

  “I thought she was safe in that store. Far from them. And bound to see a policeman in time.”

  “Or you knew your partners were just around the corner. Is that why you whistled?”

  Pierre frowned, but Will thought he detected a brief shadow of guilt. Pierre’s eyes flicked to Cora’s again, and then he repeated, “Whistled?”

  “To tell them to come? Miss Kensington heard a whistle outside the door after you shut it.”

  “No,” Pierre said, shaking his head. “I don’t know of what you speak. And I do not know this man.”

  “You do,” Nathan said at last, looking up at him with deadly calm. “It was exactly as they say. If you hadn’t caught our attention, we might never have found Cora.”

  Pierre shook his head and lifted his hands. “He is lying. A liar and a cheat, trying to bring me into his game.”

  “We met in Geneva,” Nathan said. “He knew he was losing his hold on Cora. That McCabe was stealing her heart.” He seemed to relish saying that, tossing it at Pierre like a grenade. “By the time they reached Vienna, he was desperate to hold on to her. And when they reached Venice…” He shook his head and quirked an odd smile. “Men in love do mad things.” He sat back in his chair and stared at Pierre’s profile, then resumed tracing the groove. “When he reached Rome, Pierre discovered that Cora and Will were somewhat estranged. He hoped to widen the gap by making her doubt Will further.” He sniffed, mischievous pride in his eyes. “With only a couple of moves we’d sparked jealousies that erupted into an argument, just as we’d hoped.”

  Will thought of the night of the party in Rome—of Pierre’s arrival when he’d been in the city for days, on the exact nigh
t that he saw the drawing.

  “The sketch,” the detective said, obviously on the same track. “How did you get it from Miss Cora’s room? Shall we add thievery to your list of offenses?”

  Will could feel the muscle in his jaws tense.

  “I didn’t take it,” Nathan said, smiling without showing teeth. “It was given to me. Then I simply handed it along to another interested party.”

  Pierre scoffed. “I did not know this was story time for the children,” he said to Beluzzi, who was still pacing in a slow circle around them, now with chin in hand. “Fables! Lies! How much longer will you allow him to go on?”

  Beluzzi ignored him, eyes still on Nathan. “Are you telling us that you even went as far as to push Miss Cora over the edge of the pit in the Coliseum?”

  Nathan remained silent, but his tracing of the wood groove paused for a telltale second.

  “You were under a great deal of pressure,” Beluzzi went on, now turning to Pierre, “weren’t you, Lord de Richelieu? With your public pursuit of Miss Kensington. No one has ever spurned you. You’ve surely left a trail of broken hearts, but for a woman to leave you?” He shook his head. “Most men dislike such treatment, but the great Lord de Richelieu?” He paused behind Cora and looked over at Pierre. “It might have made you feel even…murderous.”

  Pierre’s eyebrows knit together, and he lifted a hand to the detective, palm up. “And now it is you who begins to knit a fable.”

  “It is not a fable as much as words from your own mouth. Did you not tell Miss Kensington that you would be a laughingstock if it got out that she had turned away from you?”

  Pierre looked at Cora, and Will saw a shadow of fury in his eyes. As if she had betrayed him! Will’s hands tightened to fists beneath the table, and he reminded himself to breathe.

  “Did you not wish to look like a hero to Miss Kensington, saving her from the kidnappers, just as Mr. McCabe had done for her in Venice? Were you not trying to level the playing field, as they say, Lord de Richelieu?”