by Gayle Eden
Jo waved her hand. “At the time Archard spoke of it, I was too bitter to do more than make some cutting remark.” She looked around, saying through her teeth, “Just when I have finally made some decision about my life, he comes back into it.”
“Perhaps not. There is no hint that he intends to join society or remain in London. He still has that estate, and I think…”
“I could strangle Edmund. Just a hint would have helped.” Jo sat back and sighed. Her stomach was too tight, her lungs the same, and her head was really pounding.
After a few moments, Sonja suggested, “Just because he is here, does not mean the both of you haven’t changed so much that there will be nothing of those old feelings left over.”
“I hope—not.” Jo got up restlessly and went over to the French doors. The noise from the street was filtering in. “I want you to help me find a lover. A sophisticated man. Someone you think will suit me.”
“Me?”
“Yes. I know you used to have your own house here in Regent Street. A sophisticated circle and you knew people—”
“Jo.”
“I’m serious.” Jo glanced over her shoulder, then back out the windows.
“And what—will the Marquis think about it?”
Jo winced. “All right. I will not involve you. I swore I would not do that anymore. Didn’t I? I am sure I can find my own.”
“Do you really think that’s going to make a difference?”
“It has to,” Jo whispered. “I won’t care a damn for Sascha Auttenburg. If he came to me on his knees, I’d turn and walk away.”
Lady Summerton studied her, likely reading all the signs, Jo thought, that she could not hide. Sonja offered quietly, “If I believed you would gain something from it, it would not bother me to introduce you, despite your father, or anyone else. I understand a woman needing to control her own destiny. If…you still feel this way, a month or so from now, I will do so.”
Johanna sighed, turned and went to her and hugged her. “No. I am terrible, aren’t I? I will not put you in the middle of this. You’re Edmund’s sister, a friend to us all—and father…” Jo straightened and winced, having almost blurted out how mad the Marquis was for her.
For a poised and sophisticated woman, which the duchess was, to her fingertips, her face was a bit flushed when she stood and passed Jo, making her own way to the sideboard. Pouring a drink, she murmured, “I care for you all, very much.”
Jo was tempted to ask how much the woman cared for the Marquis, but she had her own bloody problems.
After drinking, Sonja added, “There was only Edmund and myself growing up, and I have told you how that was. My years with the Duke were hell on earth. My life here in London afterwards—what I could make of it, considering the hostility I faced.” She turned and rested her well-shaped hips against the carved piece, her elegant fingers on a crystal glass filled with port. Those sienna eyes held Jo’s. “I was never around females with any warmth or friendship, and what I have gained through the generosity of your family….”
“Oh, lord. Yes. We feel the same,” Jo rushed. “You’ve been there for us all.”
Those lush lips pulled into a small smile. “It has been my pleasure.”
“Bloody hell.” Jo sighed, staring at her. “I am used to making my own mistakes. I will deal with this. I’m certainly old enough.”
The duchess nodded, and sipped again.
Before she left, Jo kissed her cheek, a hand on her arm, she uttered, “Although I hate to foist any more of us on you—I think you will find Megan refreshingly normal.” She laughed. “Do accept when father invites you to join us for the opera or some social thing. You are much better the influence on Megan than I am.”
“I’ve met her at Hawksmoor.”
“Yes. That’s right.”
“I like her. She’s not a bit jaded, but by no means unsophisticated in her way.”
“Yes. And you will not recognize her. Father has picked the most dashing wardrobe for her.”
“Jo?”
“Yes?”
Lady Summerton squeezed her hand. “You’ll be fine.”
Jo nodded and clung to those words as she made her way home. She clung to them—each hour and day, she expected to suddenly see him.
* * * *
One Week Later
Sascha Auttenburg, Viscount Whitford, arrived in London on a fog-laden dawn. In the noisy shipyards, he made his way around the chaos, having paid a brawny lad to take his trunks to Durrants Hotel. His ankle length was coat undone, and his unfashionable long hair dampening, the oak hued waves darkened from the mist.
He was just about to hire a hack when a lad who’d just passed him at a sprint, came running back from the ship. He thrust a note into his hand.
“From the Duchess of Summerton, m’lor.”
He gave the lad coin and unfolded it, reading about Edmund’s absence from London with the heir and Alexandria. Sascha tucked it into his pocket and looked around at dockworkers, passengers, pimps, and beggars—amid animals, cadges and crates and bales of goods. Ironically enough, the dock scene was more familiar to him now than any society ballroom, or opera house.
He hailed the hack and went on to the hotel, having his room reserved. It was not long before he was in a large high ceiling suite, stripping out of his suede coat, linen shirt, and leather breeches, boots.
He eased down into a steaming bath, scratching at the scruff on his face he would have to shave off. The entire wall in front of him was mirrored; some elaborate scrollwork outlined it. Like the lobby below, everything from ceilings to walls, were elegant and rich. The sitting area and bed chamber of the suite, done in rich cream and gold brocades and velvets, with lush carpets on the floors. It was a far cry from a cargo ships, raw frontier hotels, lean to’s, or the loamy forest floor under a tent.
Washing and scrubbing, he then sat watching the bubbles dissolve while his more swarthy skin showed through the water. The fact that he had nearly killed himself, worked and pushed himself to the limit, was marked on him. He could have made a good purse clerking, even using his knowledge of the law for Archard’s Cousin, Lorn, who’d given him a room at his house and introduced him into their various enterprises. Nevertheless, it would have taken a good five years to make enough to clear his debts, his estate, and start accumulating wealth, behind a desk.
Van Wyc’s relatives thought him a little misguided when he had gone to work timbering. It was not for the faint of heart. It was not what they had expected of an English Viscount. Not only that, he had learned the shipping end, offering to sail to America and set up their business there too. The men were tough, worked hard, sometimes 18 plus hours a day. From the time he had arrived, Sascha put in the same. He could look down at his body and see the scars, the sinew and hardness from labor. There were few soft edges left to the Viscount who sailed away some 20 months past.
There were times he did not see a bed for days and slept rolled in oilcloth on the ground. Times—when he had gathered a crew, traveled to the work sites, and set up mills, pushing himself to oversee every aspect. In between, he had to arrange the return trade, overseeing cargo and working with the captain’s scheduled runs. Times his legs felt like led, his back ached, and his mind was too numb to hold a thought. They had a few nicknames for him during his green, learning and honing stage, but in the end, they respected him.
Pausing in his thoughts, Sascha lathered his face and reached for the razor and mirror on the stool. He shaved off a beard and mustache he had worn on and off. He rinsed and looked again at the wet, too dark face, a little hard-edged, a lot more seasoned, even with the beard gone.
His hand swiped over his mouth, chin, and then shoved his wet hair back against his skull. It was wavy and likely too long. For the time being, he would tie it back.
Eventually he arose and stepped out, drying on linen that looked stark white against his flesh. Done, he padded over and opened the trunk, setting out plain black trousers, a white silk
shirt, a black dress coat to the thigh, and his carefully wrapped polished boots.
He dressed with an ear hearing those muffled street sounds unique to London. When at last he stood and walked to the mirror, Sascha tied his still damp hair back and then smoothed the jacket. He would need a wardrobe. The clothing still fit him; snug as fashion dictated, yet one needed formal clothing for Town and most of what he’d left England with had been traded or sold for sturdy worker’s ware.
After fetching his cheroot case and extracting one, lighting it, he tucked it back inside his jacket and released smoke thick enough to wreath over his face, his lime eyes were still gazing into that same mirror.
Very well, ole man, you will have to do.
Some aspects of himself would be a stranger to those who knew him before. A great part of his image was altered. His chosen way had not been the easy road. But then, he would not change a thing about it.
A knock on his door drew him away, and Sascha opened it to find Aric Van Wyc standing there, with a rather flamboyant looking male, lounging against the wall.
“Aric.” Sascha held the door wide in welcome.
Raising the brandy bottle and glasses he held, the deep copper-haired giant, grinned, “We’re your welcome home committee. You’ve met Roth?”
“No.” Sascha shook the raven-haired man’s hand.
“Leuthold Rothstein.” The gent grinned as they made their way to comfortable chairs. “But everyone calls me Roth.”
Sascha wore a dry grin of his own whilst he looked him over and Aric poured. They were two opposites. Archard Van Wyc, who had wed Valerie, the daughter of the Marquis of Hawksmoor, was head of his family branch. Aric being the man dubbed the Viking’s youngest and only brother—looked more like most of those Van Wyc’s Sascha had lived and worked with. Even though Archard was blond, with pale blue eyes, and Aric had a copper mane and gray eyes. But, Roth? He had flowing long black hair, curly almost, and a goatee. He was dressed in a deep blue velvet coat, a silk ruffled shirt and black trousers and boots, built lean, deceptively so, since there was sinew on him. He was not as tall as his cousin—not quite a dandy, more copying the Spanish styles, which was interesting.
Aric said, when they had their glasses and poured, raised in toast, “Don’t let the cousin’s looks fool you. He has Van Wyc blood. His mind is as shrewd as his sword and pistol skills are sharp.”
“I never underestimate a Van Wyc.” Sascha retorted dryly, drank heartily, and then asked of Roth, “You’re overseeing Archard’s businesses?”
“Along with Aric, yes.” Roth took a long drink.
“He has his spates of brilliance, in between bedding females,” Aric muttered amused.
Sascha’s brow rose, he teased, “I thought I detected a bit of smugness in him.”
“I’m not one to brag,” Roth fingered a ruffle on his cuff, his smile in the spirit of their teasing. “However—from the time I arrived in England, I did have to start scheduling them in.”
The men laughed.
Aric contributed, “Archard is so meticulous and organized, that he would not have left without having everything in perfect order. Even with our overseeing day to day, his detailed notes and such, make it seem too easy. About the only thing we do other than meet with the lawyers, check over shipments, and keep the account books clean, is in the wine merchant department. That’s his latest venture.”
“And one I particularly enjoy,” Roth quipped.
Sascha propped his boots up on the low table, listening as Aric teased a bit more. Musing, that Archard’s brother dressed more casual like Archard, mostly in brown and dun hues aside from the wine boots and white linen shirt. When they had met briefly in Stockholm, Aric had looked more like a Swiss peasant, and was bearded. The young man was friendly enough and they had spent several hours in a tavern talking. Nevertheless, Sascha had soon learned that the age of him was deceptive. Like Archard, he had lived much of a man’s life before he had reached twenty.
After discussing the fact that Edmund was out of London, and the heirs, including the daughter that Valerie had given Archard, they inevitably circled around to the only remaining daughter of the Rakehell Marquis.
Sascha knew without asking that both were aware of some previous connection between himself and Johanna. As non-committed as they had been— there was still a silent acknowledgement that neither man wanted to be the one to broach the subject.
What Aric said was, “The Marquis will expect you to call. He respects you a great deal, you know. He made a point of asking of you and stating that he admired your decision to take your future in your hands and mold it...”
“It’s mutual, the respect. My regard for him is without question. He is a man who is more than a title, and not just the former Rakehell. A more intelligent man than society will ever see.” Sascha returned, though his mind was drifting to what sort of conversation it may turn out to be. “I’ll catch up with him at Whites. I’ve a wardrobe to purchase and some business to see to.”
“Will you stay here?” Roth asked. “In England.”
“I may.” Sascha met his blue eyes, and then looked across the way. “I’ve been offered, in a manner, to go into business with Archard.”
“He’s in need of experienced partners,” Aric put in. “I’ve purchased land, an estate that was auctioned near the border, good grazing land and stock. Once Archard is back, I can do a more thorough tour of it. Wool is the trade to be in.”
“Yes. It has made rich men of paupers and Merchants out of shepherds. Although, my contributions will still be timber—and glass.”
“Factories,” Roth snorted. “They’ll soon replace every artisan and craftsman production wise.”
“That is the way, when supply and demand mean more than quality. However, I am for open trade, obviously. We have a massive population to sustain.” Sascha commented, “There are still craftsmen who cannot be replaced, nor will they be.”
They talked business and drank half the bottle before making their way to the open windows, looking down at noon traffic whilst they enjoyed their cheroots. It was a constant stream and parade of people, carts, horses, and every sort of transport from coaches to hacks and high-perched Phaetons, Barouches, Landaus and sedan chairs. Between the Hotel and other buildings, service wagons and delivery boys went about their daily routines.
Later, as the two were leaving, having dinner plans, Aric delayed a moment by the door, his gray eyes meeting Sascha’s. “Is there anything you want to ask?”
“Is she still in Scotland?”
Shaking his head, Aric said, “No. She arrived in London a few days ago with her father and her cousin, Megan.”
“Is she—?”
“Still beautiful, still spirited, still independent?” Aric grinned, nodding. “Or do you mean—attached?”
Sascha did not answer.
He did not need to apparently. Aric offered quietly, “She had a thing with Adam, Lord Auvary for a while. I am sure Edmund or Archard told you, he is now engaged to marry my cousin, Ingrid. He is clearly in love with her and she is…well, Ingrid is my cousin, but she is an exceptional woman aside from being pretty. The Marquis did not share any confidences with me. To be honest, there was much going on at the time.”
Yes. Sascha had been informed about Leland; Val’s cruel ex-husband kidnapping her after she wed Archard and, about Aric killing him. He said, as he absorbed the fact that Johanna had a relationship with Auvary—a mature man, with some skill with the ladies, a man he had known for many years, “They parted, Johanna and Auvary, before she went to Scotland?”
“Yes. Although, there was never any notion that their relationship was more than a flirtation—or rather Lady Jo’s usual…” Aric paused and winced.
“Yes.” Sascha was all too aware of Johanna’s flirtations with men. She drove him mad with it.
“In any event. That is history. There is no strain or residue, I take it. Moreover, Hawksmoor, Lord Ramsey, has the same ability to keep his frien
dships separate from all else, as he does to being a father to his daughters and appearing to let them make their own mistakes and decisions. Ingrid and Jo hit it off well from the beginning. All the women, as I understand it, are quite happy for her.
From what I gather, I rather think Lord Auvary was a bit blindsided when Ingrid came on the scene—he was, Lord Edmund says, a bit of a stand in for Alex at one time, and then the thing with Jo. However, the Marquis hinted that Avery’s heart was not engaged. A bit of a rake, a bit of a brooder, he called him. Something about Avery’s brother dying young…”
Sascha offered, “Yes. We all lived in the same neighborhood. Jamie would have been heir. His death was something Adam blamed himself for.”
“I see.”
As he left, Sascha told him, “My thanks for the brandy.”
Still walking, Aric threw up his hand, “If you tire of the hotel, come dwell with Roth and myself. We’re living at Archard’s.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Sometime later, Sascha left, heading for the shopping district. He saw the boot maker and tailor, ignoring their disdain at his swarthy and calloused hands. Murmuring some reply to their questions about where he had been and what he had done.
He had not been able to afford much before, having entangled himself with a scheming older, duchess from the moment he’d came to town after University. Although Edith “gifted” him with fine shirts and such, certainly by the time he had met Johanna, he had not so much as a spare pair of boots.
His style was understated and less fussy than what was pushed at him. He was impatient with their personal comments about his hard muscled body. They were meant as flatteries since no padding was required, but Sascha was not paying coin for that, he needed his wardrobe done yesterday.
It had its more amusing moments, though. In one the curtained dressing areas, he stood in light linen drawers that hit mid-thigh—ones provided by the tailor since Sascha went without. They had a drawstring front, and may as well have been sheer because of dark hue of his skin. He was trying not to burst out laughing as the young male assistant measured everything from his ankles to his arse, all the while trying not to notice the bulge in front.