Stunned by this realization, she looked across the table to the master’s empty place. Was she falling in love with her husband only to see him driven further and further away from her? He hadn’t even lasted the honeymoon. How could she convince him to stay for the marriage, especially with Daisy Dumont waiting in the wings? The thought sent tears down her cheeks.
“No more tears.” This time he handed her his napkin and let her dab at her eyes herself. Very gently he changed tack. “Come, Alana, it’s such a beautiful day, let’s forget about Trevor and my bad behavior. We’ll fetch Mara and the crew and take the Colleen out into the sound. We’ll have so much fun, we won’t think about anything else.”
She looked down at her hands clutching the tear-soaked napkin. Eagan’s pleasure seeking might soothe his worries, but experience had told her it would do nothing for hers. “Would you mind very much if I declined?” she asked gently.
“Is there something else you’d like to do, then? Can I escort you into town? Take a ride in the country?”
“You know what I really want, Eagan? I want to return to New York. I don’t want to stay here and wait for Trevor. Do you understand?”
He nodded. “I’ll make the arrangements right away. Mara and I will go back with you. Trevor may not consider you part of the family, but we do. We’ll stick by you, á mhúirnín, never fear.”
“A mhúirnín—what does that mean?” Trevor had called her that before, and she’d assumed it was some kind of Irish profanity. She didn’t expect Eagan’s answer.
“It’s a Gaelic endearment. It means, literally, ‘my love.’”
She was stunned. “Is it used rather freely, then?”
“Well … yes. Why do you ask?”
Disappointed, she lowered her eyes, unwilling to let him see how this depressed her. She answered glumly, “No reason. I heard the servants use it once, and I was just curious about it. Now, if you’ll be so good as to excuse me, I must tell Margaret to start packing my things.”
“Certainly.” He stood and watched her go. But upon the last glimpse of her retreating back, hope sparked again in those vivid emerald eyes. “Liar,” was all he said.
The Federal architecture of Brattle Street had not been sacrificed to cast-iron modernity as in Manhattan, but Trevor Sheridan was hardly the type to notice or care about such subtleties. He’d been in Boston four days, and every bit of business he could even think of had been performed twice. He’d read the morning ticker tape and in only a few hours he’d amassed a small fortune in Hudson stock. His warehouses in Boston were immensely profitable, his steamships fully booked. In short, there was ostensibly nothing that could account for the scowl on his face. But as his hired carriage rolled down the old cobbled lane, the scowl only grew blacker the more he sank into his thoughts.
According to direction, the carriage turned and soon halted in front of a brick colonial building. The tasteful gilt sign read: Weymouth Jewelers. Trevor left the carriage and entered with little fanfare.
When the mustachioed proprietor saw him, however, he abruptly left the customer he was attending and rushed to his side. “Mr. Sheridan! How good of you to visit us. Do tell me your lovely sister is in town. I’ve a pretty sapphire bracelet that’s a perfect trinket for one so pure and young.”
“Mara’s not with me this time, Weymouth, but I want to bring her something. Show me the bracelet.”
Weymouth unlocked the case, looking like a cat with cream on his whiskers. He placed the heavy gold-and-sapphire bracelet on a velvet pillow and presented it to the Irishman. “Five hundred dollars buys a priceless amount of good taste, don’t you agree?”
Sheridan handled the expensive piece as if he were picking through bad lettuce. He tossed it back on the pillow and said, “Fine. Wrap it up.”
“Most definitely, sir.” Weymouth snapped his fingers, and a youth in an expensive suit immediately appeared to take it away. “Now”—the jeweler brushed his whiskers with his finger, wiping away the imaginary cream—“is there anything else I might get you, perhaps for that lovely Miss Dumont I’ve only had the pleasure to meet, regrettably, once?”
Sheridan looked the man in the eye. “I’ve married since that trip with Miss Dumont. I see you did not hear of it up here.”
Weymouth skittered away from the subject of Miss Dumont like a cat running from a rabid hound. But a man well-versed in the art of the deal, his hopes still ran high. If the Irisher dropped a fortune on his mistress, what heavenly price would he pay to keep his wife adorned? “I congratulate you, sir,” he announced. “Your wife is undoubtably a paragon of virtue and a great beauty. A discriminating man such as yourself could have it no other way.”
Sheridan nodded, immune to the man’s fawning.
Getting down to business, Weymouth wandered to another cabinet and began to unlock it. “Is Mrs. Sheridan fond of diamonds? I’ve got a—”
“No,” Sheridan interrupted, his scowl growing darker. “Diamonds aren’t for her.”
“Sapphires, then? I’ve another bracelet, this one, of course, more elaborate. Quite appropriate for a married woman.”
Sheridan shook his head and looked around. Ignoring the jewels, there was nothing in the shop but a collection of gold picture frames and several small music boxes set on a lace-covered table in the middle of the shop.
“I’ve just the thing, Mr. Sheridan.” Weymouth rubbed his hands. “Mrs. Sheridan must have something special. There’s a young jeweler in Russia—St. Petersburg, I think—making endless amusements out of gold and diamonds and such. You must see it.”
The man went to his safe and returned with what looked like an egg encrusted with lilies of the valley. But the egg was enameled gold, and the flowers were artfully cascading pearls. When he opened it, it contained a series of seven miniature icons, each a masterpiece unto itself. “I’ve just gotten this from Monsieur Fabergé—what do you think?”
Sheridan folded his arms across his chest as if he didn’t know what to think.
“She’ll be the only one to have something like it.”
Sheridan snorted. “Well, I agree with you there.” His scowl deepened. “None of this is right. I’ll just take the bracelet for Mara and be done with it.”
Weymouth snapped the egg closed and nodded, a decided slump to his shoulders. In a minute the young man appeared, the bracelet now nestled in a silver embossed box tied with a blue velvet bow. He rushed across the room, obviously not wanting to keep such an important customer waiting, and he bumped the edge of the table that displayed the music boxes. One fell, and as it lay on its side, the strains of “The Beautiful Blue Danube Waltz” began to fill the store.
“Let me see that,” Sheridan commanded as the hapless young man fumbled to set it right. He promptly brought it to him, and Sheridan turned it over in his hands.
The music box was hardly worthy of the store’s reputation for being costly and exclusive. It was a humble little piece painted with blue forget-me-nots and ivy. But for some reason, the notion struck Sheridan that it was what he’d been looking for. He turned to Weymouth and said, “I’ll take this back to Mrs. Sheridan. That’s her favorite waltz. Wrap it up.”
“Of course,” said Weymouth. “But you know, this piece is only twenty-five dollars. Are you sure Mrs. Sheridan wouldn’t like something more … substantial?”
“If she’s with me on my next trip up here, she can buy the whole damned store if she likes. But right now, all I want is the music box.”
“Of course, Mr. Sheridan.” Weymouth snapped his fingers to have his man wrap the item. He wasn’t about to risk future sales just to enlarge this one.
The music box wrapped, Sheridan took his two packages and told Weymouth to bill him. Weymouth bowed and held the door. Unable to help himself, he called to Sheridan, “I do hope we meet Mrs. Sheridan soon! On your next trip north, perhaps?”
Sheridan only laughed. It was the first time in days.
Truce
His greatness weighed, his will i
s not his own. [For he himself is subject to his birth.]
—Shakespeare,
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark
19
It was a week from the day Trevor left for Boston before Alana saw him again. She and Mara and Eagan were in the drawing room of the Manhattan chateau having their after-dinner cordials. As was becoming the custom, Mara played the harp while Eagan sang in a clear Irish tenor. He’d tried to lift Alana’s spirits with several bawdy tunes, but finally he surrendered to her melancholy and began a haunting love song. He sang it in Gaelic with such dark emotion, it brought tears to her eyes.
He finished, and even Mara seemed moved. No one spoke for several moments until Alana said, “What’s that song called, Eagan? It’s so beautiful. What do the words mean?”
He shrugged and flashed her his irreverent smile. “Haven’t a clue. Trevor taught me that one. He knows what the words mean. He learned it from Father.”
“It’s ‘Bríg Óg Ní Máille,’ ‘Bridget O’Malley,” and the words meant nothing with Eagan’s poor pronunciation.”
Alana took a sharp breath and jerked her head around. No one could mistake Trevor’s deep resonant voice.
All eyes turned to the drawing room entrance. Trevor stood there, stick in hand, looking cool, collected, angry. His green-gold eyes surveyed the room with detachment, but when they found her, an emotion glittered like a jewel in them, with facets of resentment and desire.
Eagan was the first to speak. He shot Alana a concerned look, then said, “Brother. You’ve come back.” He couldn’t hide the sarcasm in his voice when he added, “All that pressing business taken care of, I see.”
Trevor didn’t answer. He glanced briefly at Mara’s disapproving frown, noted Eagan’s hostility, then returned his gaze to Alana.
She wanted desperately to look cold and uncaring, but she wasn’t sure how she appeared when all she felt was hurt and despair.
“I take it, wife, that you were anxious to come here, but don’t you think it would have been more appropriate for me, your husband, to show you our home … than my brother and sister?” There was no mistaking the contempt in his voice.
Alana put away her needlework and stood. With as much polite defiance as she could muster, she said, “You’ll forgive me, but I found the waiting tedious.”
Eagan laughed. “There you go, Trevor! What a prize of a wife Alana is. How brilliant of you to marry a woman with a mind of her own.”
Trevor shot his brother a glance that should have knocked him dead. “Alana,” he began, his voice low and ominous, “I want to speak to you. You can imagine my surprise when I returned to Newport and found my wife gone.”
She put aside her hurt to say calmly, “No, I can’t imagine. In truth, I hardly thought you’d notice at all.”
His gaze slid to Mara. The tension in his body doubled. She could see he didn’t want Mara to see their argument, and for once she and Trevor Sheridan had reached an agreement. Smiling at both Eagan and Mara, she decided to end their conversation. “I’m suddenly very tired. I believe I’ll say good night.”
“Good night,” Mara replied, her eyes full of worry.
Eagan bowed, a small gleeful smile still on his lips.
Alana nodded to her husband in passing. She walked into the foyer, and only when they were out of sight of Eagan and Mara did Trevor halt her. “Alana, I said I want to speak to you.”
All the feelings she so desperately tried to hide surfaced. Still aching from his abandonment, she answered without looking at him. “Then do what any other gentleman would do, Mr. Sheridan. Leave your card with the butler. In the morning I’ll consider it.”
Stunned, he watched her ascend the marble staircase, a thunderous expression frozen on his face. He gasped something in Gaelic, and this time she didn’t need Eagan to translate. She knew he’d just cursed.
Whittaker stood before his master’s bedroom door, silver breakfast tray in hand. He knocked, remaining unruffled at the gruff “Enter” from behind those heavy doors.
Once inside, Whittaker placed the tray on the master’s desk and laid out his linens. Trevor watched him from the shield-shaped shaving mirror perched atop his bureau. When Whittaker paused, Trevor put down his straight razor and wiped his face with a hot towel. “So what is it?” he asked, his tone indicating he knew it wasn’t good news.
“You’ve two letters, sir. Shall I place them here on your desk?”
Trevor folded his arms across his bare chest and nodded.
Whittaker did as he was told but did not go.
Trevor raised an eyebrow as if to say So now what is it?
His butler answered promptly. “She’s going out today, sir. I thought you’d like to know. She’s taking the carriage as we speak.”
Immediately, Trevor turned to a window, unmindful of his limp. He threw open the enormous mahogany sash and two stories below, past the turrets and gargoyles of the Hunt architecture, Alana was being helped into the carriage.
“Shall I send someone with her, sir?”
Trevor faced him, an awe-inspiring sight. The wind from the open window blew at his hair; his eyes snapped with anger. A battle played across his face as he considered his answer.
“Shall I?” Whittaker prompted.
“No,” said Trevor, and turned back to the window. Furious, he watched the Sheridan carriage roll down Fifth Avenue. When he couldn’t see it any longer, he slammed down the sash and vengefully pulled the curtains.
“Shall there be anything else, sir?”
“Wait here. I might need to send a reply.”
Trevor snatched up the letters and ripped open the first.
Mr. Sheridan,
I’m taking Mara to the Academy of Music tonight to see Strauss’s Indigo and the Forty Thieves. Needless to say, we won’t be at home for dinner. I pray this won’t cause inconvenience.
Mrs. Sheridan
With a wry, almost nasty twist of his lips, he crumpled the paper in his hand and tossed it onto his leather-topped desk. Turning to the next letter, he only had to look at the handwriting on the envelope to know whom it was from and to guess what it was about. Without reading it, he placed it with other correspondence on his desk and turned a grim expression to Whitaker. “I’ve got to go to Miss Dumont’s hotel. Bring another carriage around, will you?”
That implacable British facade almost faltered. A brief look of distaste passed across his features, but he quickly resumed his butler manner. “Very good, sir.”
Trevor turned pensive. He rubbed his jaw, grimacing at every place he’d missed while shaving. “And send a note to Ebel’s Florist. I want two dozen red roses delivered to her hotel before I leave the house.”
“Right away, sir.”
There was a long pause. Trevor’s gaze fairly snapped with irritation. “I don’t see your feet moving, Whittaker.”
“No, sir.”
“Why aren’t they?”
“Pardon me, sir. They suddenly seem stricken, sir. I remember this happened once before. I am sorry.”
“This happened the time I told you to send a note to Tammany Hall, and as I recall, Tweed never did get my message.”
“And there went the Irish vote.”
Trevor gave Whittaker a jaundiced glance. “We’re not discussing my politics.”
“No, sir. Of course not. The Sheridan name’s been kept from Thomas Nast and the New York Times.”
Trevor choked. “Are you blackmailing me, Whittaker?”
“Of course not, sir. I knew your father. And a good man he was. We spent many a fine night in our cups back at the old pub in Connacht.”
“That’s right,” Trevor answered ominously.
“And of course, sir, your politics are your business.”
“What do you want, Whittaker? Name your price, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Oh no, sir. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then deliver this note. Now.”
“I’ll do my b
est, sir. However, this affliction seems worse than the last one.”
Trevor towered over the small elderly man and said loudly enough for a deaf man to hear, “You meddlin’, connivin’ old Brit, get your feet to workin’, or more’s the pity you were me father’s friend.”
“Yes, sir.”
Trevor stared him down, but to no avail. Whittaker remained implacable, immovable. Finally, with anger tautening his cheeks, he warned in his full brogue, “Ye get involved in affairs o’ mine, I’ll have you to know I’ve brought a bigger man than you down.”
“You’re entirely correct, sir.” Whittaker didn’t move an inch.
Trevor raked his hand through his hair and heaved a great sigh. He glanced at the butler one more time before conceding a tie. “You want an explanation? Is that it?”
“Of course not, sir. That is not my place.”
Trevor snorted with contempt. “Well, this explanation should work miracles on that health of yours. If you must know, I’ve decided to allow Miss Dumont to pursue her dreams of the theater. After giving this some thought, I think it best for everyone that I send Daisy to Paris and find her a handsome, virile tutor to keep her occupied. Though I expect her vanity will soar at my artful compliments and brave show of self-deprivation in order that she may achieve greatness on the stage, I assume she’ll also pout. Hence, the roses. Now have you recovered?”
Whittaker gave him an imperious glance. “Quite, sir.”
With that, Trevor became so angry he forgot himself and let his Irish show. “Ye’re a bloody old woman, ye are. If ye hadn’t been a friend to me father’s, I’d have left ye workin’ for the Ascendency—’til ye’d met yer maker.”
“Very good, sir.” Whittaker bowed. When he left, it wasn’t quite clear, but there was something like a smile on his lined face.
Alone, Trevor shoved his arms into a freshly starched shirt and fastened the stiff collar. From the corner of his eye a silver flash caught his attention, and he stared at the mantel where two silver boxes wrapped in blue velvet ribbon rested. A thought occurred to him, and he picked up the larger one and headed to the adjoining suite. He threw open the double doors, and the expression froze on his face when he saw that the room had not been occupied.
Lions and Lace Page 24