"I hope you don't mind that I made these arrangements without consulting you," Meagan said. "I couldn't imagine that you'd object, though. How often do any of us receive recognition for our talents? If you're going to be famous, you may as well wade in and enjoy it!"
"I'll do my best," Natalya agreed, with a game smile.
Moments later she was sitting at the desk, inscribing books to old friends and people she pretended to remember. Mr. Thomas conducted his business discreetly, merely making note of each person who selected a book so that he could present his bill later, in less conspicuous surroundings.
The line that quickly formed was made up mainly of friends of the Beauvisage family who were anxious to offer congratulations and anecdotes related to some event from her childhood that proved her talent had been evident all along. Natalya knew the old society families. She recognized her parents' friends, and most of their children as well, for they had been at school together and later attended the select dancing assemblies that often served to launch young ladies into society and, in some cases, act as a breeding ground for proper marriages. The assemblies had been part of the reason Natalya had fled Philadelphia for Europe; rigid, suffocating affairs, they had left her resentful and determined to escape.
Perhaps she wasn't happier than the couples who had married, produced babies, and now spent their time at country homes and city clubs, but at least she had been able to pursue her dreams in her own way....
Natalya found that she was quite entertained by these chats with old friends. It was fun to learn which suitor had been chosen and how many children had since been born, but after a while she noticed that more and more unattached men were standing near the back of the line. Emboldened after a glass or two of Madeira, they were eyeing her with appreciative curiosity.
Soon she was chatting with Raphael and Rembrandt Peale, sons of the great painter Charles Willson Peale. They were older than Natalya, but she had danced with them at assemblies and visited the stimulating Peale home, which was always filled with children, inventions, stuffed animals being prepared for exhibit in the elder Peale's museum, and paintings by members of the family in various stages of completion. Now, after exchanging information and news, Raphael and Rembrandt drew a younger man forward.
"This is Thomas Sully," Rembrandt informed her. "He came to Philadelphia just four years ago, while you were in France. He's studied with Gilbert Stuart in Boston, and with our own Benjamin West in London."
"I've heard of you, Mr. Sully," exclaimed Natalya, extending her hand. "You're the portrait painter whom everyone is talking about. Papa has mentioned having me sit for you, if you can fit me into your schedule."
"I like your father very much," he said, with a smile. "And it would be a great honor to paint a woman as beautiful as you."
At that moment Grey St. James was just entering the parlor, blocked from Natalya's view by the Peale brothers and Thomas Sully. Meagan came forward to greet him and introduce herself.
"I'm so pleased that you could attend, Mr. St. James. Everyone is talking about the dashing Englishman who brought Natalya safely home, but few have met you save our dear Stringfellow." Noticing that his gray eyes were surveying the crowd as she spoke, Meagan added, "You'll doubtless want to speak to Natalya, but she is rather occupied at the moment, inscribing books for her many admirers. It's so exciting to have a woman author in Philadelphia!"
One side of Grey's mouth turned up in a grim smile. "And who better to play such a role than Natalya Beauvisage?"
"I beg your pardon?" Meagan replied, momentarily nonplussed. Was that a note of sarcasm in his voice? An incurable matchmaker, she had been intensely curious to meet the man who had aroused such strong reactions from the Beauvisage ladies. She had heard rumors of Grey's chiseled good looks, which had led her to imagine various possibilities for the relationship between him and Natalya. How romantic it would be if he had fallen in love with Natalya at sea and remained in Philadelphia to woo her! Now, as Meagan watched him observe Natalya laughing with Thomas Sully and the Peale brothers, she wondered at his caustic retort. Was he being unkind—or did he perhaps care more than he would admit?...
"Miss Beauvisage has a flair for the dramatic," Grey explained. "And, she is beautiful. A much more satisfactory candidate for the role of female author than a timid, plain bluestocking, don't you agree?" He had softened the edge in his voice with an effort, just as he had forced back the unnerving surge of jealousy that had come over him at the sight of Natalya holding court. Grey could not allow his feelings for her to interfere with today's real business.
"Point taken, Mr. St. James." Meagan nodded. "Won't you come out to the garden? My husband is eager to meet you, and all the refreshments are there."
Natalya saw him then as he walked with Meagan Hampshire toward the garden doors, seemingly oblivious to her place of honor at the party. Her eyes devoured him, taking in every detail from his proud bronzed profile to the polished toes of his black boots. He wore a smoke-colored frock coat that fit perfectly against his broad shoulders and tapering back, a white shirt with high collarpoints and an expertly tied cravat, a Prussian blue and dove-gray striped waistcoat, and snug pantaloons so pale a shade of gray that they were almost white. Natalya's heart began to ache with longing to speak to him, to touch his strong hand, to feel the heat of his smile...
"Natalya?"
It was Rembrandt Peale, looking expectantly toward the book she had been inscribing for him.
"I'm sorry!" she exclaimed. "I just saw—an old friend, and was momentarily distracted." She finished writing her name as Raphael smiled and murmured:
"A fortunate man indeed—and, by the look in your eyes, considerably more than a friend!"
Natalya felt a maddening blush spread over her cheeks and glanced involuntarily toward the garden door. Grey had disappeared into the crush outside, where she knew Krissie was waiting eagerly. Where was Hollis Gladstone? Suddenly she had no heart for the task at hand; but people continued to gather around the desk, peering at her as if she were somehow different from them simply because her name was engraved on the spine of a book.
"You look as if you'd like to join your party," Thomas Sully said kindly.
"Perhaps I shall, in a few minutes," she said. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Sully."
"I hope to see you again soon," he replied, moving away from the desk.
"Father is out there somewhere," Raphael told her. "He has no patience with queues like this, but I know he's eager to see you. No doubt you'll find him near the Madeira!"
"I'll join you shortly in the garden," Natalya called in parting, then looked up with a smile to greet the next person in line. Standing before her was a woman, a very beautiful, slender woman with sparkling green eyes that slanted upward exotically. Her glossy auburn hair was braided into a crown high on her head, and she was blessed with elegant cheekbones and sensuously full lips.
"So, you are Philadelphia's celebrated new author," the woman said, her voice rich with a cultured English accent. "How charming. I've decided not to purchase a book, for I never read novels, but I did want to meet you." She held out a slim, pale hand. "My name is Frances Wellbeloved."
Inexplicably a chill ran down Natalya's back as she took the woman's hand. Even though she was certain they had never met, Natalya felt an eerie foreboding, as though somehow their fortunes, their very lives, were inextricably bound together...
Chapter 24
May 15, 1814
In the Hampshires' garden, Kristin bided her time, watching Grey converse with Lion Hampshire, his booted foot propped on a stone bench in the midst of a secluded drift of daffodils, violets, and ribbon grass. On his knee he balanced a blue-and-white china plate and partook of shrimp and rye bread as they talked. Everything he did looked appealingly effortless to Kristin.
When a stout man in a brown suit waved to Lion, he excused himself, and Kristin seized her opportunity. Grey remained at the bench but appeared distinctly preoccupied, gazing ove
r the crowd, when she approached.
"Good afternoon, Mr. St. James," Kristin greeted him. "You're looking very... well today."
"Oh—good afternoon, Miss Beauvisage." He seemed not to notice the coquettish smile she bestowed upon him, nor did he think to return her compliment. A lacy willow branch partially concealed Grey's face as he continued to sort through the crush of guests with his eyes.
Kristin tried again. "I had hoped that you might visit us at Belle Maison earlier this month."
"Ah, well—I've been busy." He gave her the briefest glance, accompanied by a distracted smile. "Settling into a new city can take up a great deal of time."
This was not going at all the way Kristin had envisioned through all the days and nights leading up to the party. In fact, she had imagined that Grey would approach her, overwhelmed by her beauty and a desire to be near her. Now she suppressed an urge to pull on his sleeve in an effort to gain his attention. Instead she drained her glass of champagne and inquired recklessly, "How do you like my gown? You're the only man here who hasn't given me a compliment."
"Perhaps that's just as well," he replied, with cool irony. "Another flattering word might inflate your vanity to unbecoming proportions, and we wouldn't want that, would we? Now then, if you don't mind, Miss Beauvisage, there is another matter to which I must attend...."
Her cheeks burned and tears stung her eyes as she turned away from Grey, mumbling, "Excuse me, sir. I can see I've misjudged you."
Near the garden doors, Natalya stood with Hollis Gladstone. Freed at last from her station behind the Queen Anne desk, she had rushed to seize his arm and guide him into battle. "There, you see? She is with Grey St. James over behind the willow tree. Hollis, he is a wicked man in his dealings with ladies, and Krissie has no sense of such things. You must go over there and assert yourself."
"Good Lord, how beautiful she is," he murmured.
"Yes, she's beautiful, and you understand her as no one else ever can. For her own good, you must make her see that you are the man she needs." She gave him a little shove just as Kristin appeared again on the edge of the crowd, blinking back tears.
Hollis took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and strode toward his ladylove. "Kristin," he said in forceful tones, "I've had enough of this nonsense. It's time that you and I had a serious talk!"
He tucked her hand through his arm just at the moment her step had begun to falter. As he led her away from the house toward a grove of blossoming dogwood trees, Kristin found that his rumpled, bearlike presence was oddly comforting and warmly familiar. She liked the way he was taking charge while still gazing at her with adoration. "Yes, Hollis." She leaned her head against his shoulder for a moment as they walked. "I believe you're right. I'm ready to listen to you now."
Natalya, meanwhile, remained in the doorway to the parlor, trying to decide what to do. Frances Wellbeloved slipped past her, murmuring, "Pardon me," en route to the table of refreshments manned by James Stringfellow. Grey remained on the other side of the garden, still shielded by the willow tree. Like her sister, Natalya had imagined quite a different scene for her meeting with Grey today. She could not understand why he hadn't come up to greet her when she'd been surrounded by men at her desk in the Hampshires' parlor. Perhaps, she thought, he hadn't wanted to intrude—or even better, perhaps he'd been jealous! Still, she wanted him to come to her. Now, as fashionably garbed guests milled around her, Natalya stared at his distant figure. When she caught his eye, a spark of hope flared in her heart, then died as he glanced away. Suddenly she remembered how he had accused her of snubbing him when they'd quarreled at the Spruce Street house, and Natalya's disappointment was supplanted by anger. How dare he ignore her? Balling her hands into fists, she started toward him—then stopped when someone touched her back.
"Talya?"
She turned to see her grandmother, tiny and radiant in a gown of pale green watered silk. Emeralds and diamonds sparkled at her throat, and soft green plumes adorned her white hair. "Grandmama! How lovely you look! I'm so glad that you were able to come today."
"My darling girl, I am exceedingly proud of you! Your wonderful, witty book is all anyone can talk about, and I must be forgiven for claiming some credit for its author." Antonia embraced her, laughing lightly, then looked back at a slim, balding man of medium height who stood behind her. "Barton, step forward and greet my granddaughter. I know that you have met before, but that was years ago and memories need refreshing from time to time."
Natalya knew immediately what was afoot between Barton Saunders and her beloved grandmother; there was no mistaking the light in Antonia's emerald green eyes, nor the answering warmth in Barton's smile. As they chattered politely Natalya felt numb, horrified to see her grandmother looking at another man the way she had looked at Jean-Philippe. It was even more horrifying to see this person touch Antonia's back and gaze lovingly into her eyes. Furthermore, Barton Saunders was nothing like her grandfather—he was an American by birth, quite possibly younger than Antonia, and his looks were altogether unprepossessing. What right had he to lay claim to the affections of so extraordinary a woman, a woman who had given all of herself for more than sixty years in marriage to an equally extraordinary man! Poor Grandpapa, Natalya thought dimly. What would he say if he could see his loyal bride now?
She realized that there was something inherently wrong with the case she was building, but she couldn't help herself. It was a mistake to judge Antonia Beauvisage by a set of standards entirely different from that which she would impose on any other woman, but surely that was the way of the world with grandmothers. As a child, Natalya had placed Antonia on a pedestal with Jean-Philippe, and she didn't know how to change that now....
Grey had very nearly let down his guard and gone to Natalya when he saw her in the garden, so intense was his longing to be near her. During the past weeks of his self-imposed confinement, he had found himself daydreaming about her more often than he cared to admit—remembering the radiance of her smiles, the feel of her skin, the sound of her laughter....
Then, just as he'd made up his mind to go to her, he'd caught sight of Stringfellow waving from his post at the refreshments table.
Francesca... She had turned in profile, her auburn curls gleaming in the sunlight as she drank most of a glass of champagne. A cold chill swept over Grey, followed immediately by a surge of energy. His hands made fists of steel as he recognized the necklace and earrings she wore; they made up the parure his great-grandmother had received as a wedding gift. Grey heard a voice whisper, "Bitch," and realized that it was his own.
Silently, with the power and purpose of a stalking panther, he made his way through the crowd. Francesca had turned back to Stringfellow to have her glass refilled when Grey came up behind her and clamped lean fingers around her arm.
"I beg your par—" she began to protest, glancing back in annoyance. Her voice died the moment she saw Grey, and she feared her heart might stop, too. Yet even as the blood drained from her face, she began to marshal her wits. This was just one more scene in the game, she told herself, and it was imperative that she be the victor.
"Surprised to see me?" he murmured harshly.
Forcing herself to meet his deadly gaze, she smiled. "A trifle shocked, I'll own, but not surprised. How are you, Grey? I gather that you came safely through the war after all. Knowing your penchant for danger, I did not expect to see you again."
"Spare me your polite inquiries after my health, and especially your analysis of my character," Grey ground out.
Stringfellow was watching them with concern. "Sir?" he said in hushed tones, leaning across the bowl of champagne punch. "Might I remind you again of the summerhouse beyond the garden? If you and the lady would prefer to converse freely-"
"A splendid idea." His grip tightened on Francesca's arm as he said with heavy irony, "Come along, Mrs. Wellbeloved. I feel certain that you are even less eager to create a scene than I. The scene itself may be unavoidable, but an audience is not."
Upon reaching the summerhouse, Grey opened the door and swept his arm before him in a gesture of mock gallantry. "After you."
Francesca entered, disengaged her arm from Grey's hold, and seated herself gracefully on one of the upholstered benches that followed the window-lined walls. She was glad for the walk and the time it had given her to formulate her plan of attack. Obviously Grey was expecting a spectacular confrontation. He would demand the Hartford jewels as well as divorce, and leave her with nothing. If she fought back in kind, he would surely win.
"It was very thoughtful of you to seek solitude for us," Francesca said in a quiet voice. "I could not have let my feelings show if we had been forced to talk in that crowd."
Caught slightly off-guard, he stared at her with narrowed eyes. "If indeed you do have feelings, they are of no consequence to me. What is of consequence is your abandonment of our marriage and the theft of my mother's jewels."
"Theft?" She laughed shakily. "That's putting it rather strongly, isn't it, darling?" Grey had crossed to stand over her, and she found that she was thrilled by the angry strength of his presence. Her nipples grew taut as she looked up at him and continued, "But, you must let me explain all. I realize that it must be tempting to paint me as a villainess in this piece, but—"
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