A Matter of Principle: Nicolas & Sydney: Book 3 (The Hansen Series: Nicolas & Sydney)

by Kris Tualla

  “So you’re a farmer from Cheltenham?”

  “I don’t farm, other than to meet the needs of my family.”

  “Tell us about your family!”

  “I am married and have two children, an eight year-old son and a two-year-old daughter.”

  “But she’s not your first wife?”

  Nicolas sucked a breath. “No. My first wife died birthing our son.”

  “When did you remarry?”

  “In December. Of… 1819.”

  “That’s but two years ago.” The tone was accusing.

  “There were extenuating circumstances that delayed my second wedding. But I was married before my daughter was born.”

  “When, exactly, was she born?”

  “January 12th in the year 1820.”

  “Wasn’t your wife married to someone else?”

  Nicolas felt sweat gather on his brow, but he refused to wipe it. He saw Lily standing against a wall with another woman. Why did her notice her now, of all times?

  He met the questioner’s’ eyes. “Yes. But her husband was unfaithful and she divorced him.”

  “Seems like she was the unfaithful one!” A titter swirled through the room. Lily and the other woman bent their heads together.

  “Are we here to discuss marital fidelity? Or my credentials as your representative?”

  “What are your credentials, Hansen?”

  With a sigh of relief, Nicolas launched into a brief recounting of his life in the Territory. He and his committee had decided to leave out the reason for his trip to Norway, and simply mention that he made a pilgrimage of sorts to his ancestral home.

  He focused on his education and experiences here, in the States. The tide turned then, and the questions lobbed his way were more civil.

  When his portion of the inquisition ended, he sat and focused on what Beckermann had to say. He took notes so that later he would remember what points he might work with or against. Occasionally he caught Rickard’s eye and sent silent communications to his closest friend. A slight nod acknowledged the receipt.

  ***

  “That was brutal!” the woman by her side whispered to Lily. “Do you know him?”

  “Yes, actually. I know him quite well. His first wife was my sister.” Lily watched for the expected response and was gratified to receive it.

  Her eyes rounded and she turned to face Lily. “Oh, my! So you know the details about the second wife?”

  “That hussy? I do, indeed. Nicolas and I were supposed to be married. And then she showed up out of nowhere.”

  “He broke your engagement?”

  Lily had not actually said they were engaged, but that detail was unimportant. “He did. I was heartbroken, as you might well imagine.”

  “Of course!” The blonde girl’s eyes trailed back to Nicolas. “He’s so handsome…”

  “Yes. Anyway. When Nicolas discovered she was married, he locked her husband up in his root cellar and sent my brother to procure her a divorce.”

  The girl’s gaze returned to Lily. “Are you teasing me?”

  Lily lifted one slender, lace-gloved hand. “I swear it’s true. And she was already enceinte.”

  “Was the baby his?”

  “He claims it was. I have my doubts. But what can I do?” Lily shrugged, displaying her best innocent expression.

  “The cad! And he got away with all of this?”

  “Barely. He was arrested in January of 1820 on charges of kidnapping, rape and adultery. He went to trial, right here in St. Louis.”

  “He did?” the girl’s voice cracked a little. She cleared her throat delicately. “What happened?”

  Lily heaved a large, suffering sigh. “He was found not guilty.”

  “Oh.”

  “I was so very destroyed by it all, that I quit the Territory and moved home to be with my mother in North Carolina. I married there. I married well. Very well.” Lily wiggled her fingers to show off the ring that she wore on the outside of her glove.

  “Good for you, darling!”

  Music began, cutting off their conversation. Lily turned back to the room, searching for Nicolas. She saw him, but Vincent Barr was headed in her direction, cutting off her path. Lily directed his attention to the pretty blonde she had been talking to.

  “Vincent, have you met—” Lily blinked. “I don’t know your name!”

  “Heather. Heather Green.” She curtsied and her gaze traveled over Vincent’s well-tailored clothing and trim muscularity.

  “Vincent Barr.” He bowed from the waist. “My pleasure, Miss.”

  “Perhaps she would care to dance?” Lily was already stepping away. Vincent looked at Heather.

  “I would be delighted,” she answered. Grinning, he led her to the dance floor.

  Lily moved quickly toward her prey, trying to reach him before another woman trapped him. He stood in a ring of men, discussing what, she didn’t care. Lily stepped right through the cluster and took Nicolas by the arm.

  “Would you submit to dancing with an old friend?” She batted her eyes and dimpled her cheeks, causing the men to stop their debate and laugh at her joke.

  “Good evening, Lily. Where is your husband?” He emphasized the last word.

  “The poor dear is not up to this sort of exertion, I’m afraid. He hoped you might entertain me in his stead?” More dimples, more fluttering. A squeeze of the elbows and a deepening of cleavage.

  Nicolas begged the other men’s leave, and took Lily to the floor. As he moved her around the room, she caught envious glances from other men, along with bits of conversation.

  “—the wife?”

  “Sister-in-law.”

  “—MY sister-in-law looked like that!”

  Lily held him, firm and close. She looked up into his eyes and laughed, even when he said nothing. And when the dance was over, she kissed him. Hard. On the mouth. In front of everyone.

  Chapter Eleven

  January 3, 1822

  St. Louis

  The Candidates’ Ball

  By Herbert Q. Percival

  What an evening for surprises! I assumed all along, that it would be the misdeeds of warehouse and dock owner, Mr. Winston Beckermann, which would provide the most salacious gossip for this year’s election.

  I was so very wrong.

  Certainly bribery, extortion and embezzlement have their place, and I promise to get to them in due time. But first, let us take a look at the deliciously unsavory tale of Nicolas Hansen. When pressed at the Ball, Mr. Hansen readily admitted that he was a bit pre-emptory in his relations with his current wife, she being divorced, and their daughter born a scant month following the nuptials.

  But he failed to mention a broken engagement with his first wife’s younger sister, who was thrown over in favor of the divorcee. He also left out the element where he locked her first husband in his root cellar, while dispatching a minion to procure her divorce.

  As one would hope, all of these misdeeds did land Mr. Hansen in jail right here in St. Louis, where he was charged with kidnapping, rape and adultery. The judge was inexplicably unmoved, however, and the charges dismissed.

  Do I smell bribery in this story as well?

  In any case, Mr. Hansen seemed to enjoy himself at the ball, dancing repeatedly with the sister-cum-displaced fiancée, the current wife being ‘indisposed’ for the evening.

  And I thought the bumpkin would be boring.

  Nicolas threw the paper across the room, scattering the pages.

  “Vincent!” he bellowed. The secretary appeared at the bedroom door. “Make me an appointment with Nelson Ivarsen immediately! I’ll provide him breakfast!”

  “Yes, sir.” The man disappeared behind the closed door.

  Sydney picked up the newspaper and attempted to re-assemble it. Nicolas tore it from her hands. He glared at her.

  “It’s nothing but muckraking! He’s trying to show me in the worst possible light!”

  She straightened and glared right back. “
Do I not have the right to see what is being said about my husband?”

  “No.”

  “No?” Sydney repeated, incredulous. “Methinks thou dost protest too much. What are you hiding from me?”

  “Nothing! It’s only the way he wrote it! It presents things in such a manner as to discredit me. And you,” he added, grudgingly.

  “Then I do have the right to know.”

  Nicolas considered her, jaw clenched, the white scar along his cheek startling against his furiously red face. He thrust the crumple of paper and ink towards her. “I warned you.”

  Sydney found the article and read it silently.

  Then she climbed back into the bed and pulled the covers to her shoulder. She lay still on her side, one hot tear leaking from the corner of her closed eye and dropping from the bridge of her nose onto the pillowcase.

  “Min presang?” Nicolas’s voice was soft and concerned.

  She opened her eyes. “Yes?”

  Nicolas walked around the bed and squatted beside it, his eyes on her level. His long blond hair fell in his face and he brushed it back. “Are you still unwell?”

  She reached one hand to him. “I’m unwell from my course, yes. The article didn’t help, to be sure, but I would much rather know.”

  “Are you angry with me?”

  “No, Nicolas. Perhaps annoyed, however, that you danced so often with Lily.”

  “I was only hoping to soften her claim against Rickard.”

  “Did you make any headway there?”

  Nicolas shook his head. “I doubt it.” He kissed her palm. “I hope to meet with Nelson and find what my best course of action is against such muckrakery.”

  Sydney smiled, in spite of her pains. “Did you just make up a word?”

  “Perhaps. Do you like it?”

  January 6, 1822

  Cheltenham

  Nicolas drove Stefan to school in the wagon. Snow had finally come, giving Missouri the sort of pristine look that artists romanticize on canvas. After dropping off his son, he pulled up in front of the post office, went inside and stomped the pristine beauty from his boots. The postmaster handed Nicolas his daily newspaper.

  “How is it going so far?” the man asked.

  Nicolas shrugged. “It’s not what I expected.”

  “Are you long at home?”

  Nicolas shook his head. “No. Vincent has me booked for a week of speeches in surrounding towns.” He unfolded the paper. The words of the headline jumped out and grabbed him.

  Candidate Hansen’s Financial Mystery

  Nicolas Reidar Hansen is running for state representative from St. Louis County. Not much is known about this man; he has no history in local politics. He has never held a recorded office. He is not a businessman, nor a plantation owner, nor does he hold a professional position. What does he do?

  He claims to breed horses. But there are no records of him holding an auction, or registering any purely bred horses. No one in St. Louis can recollect seeing him ever trade in any type of horseflesh.

  And yet, he lives well. He has rented apartments in St. Louis for use during the campaign. He wears the finest clothes, drinks the finest wines and brandies, and pays for services the common man would never consider.

  Is it coincidence, then, that a certain brothel on Elm Street is being purchased by one of its very own? Or that Nicolas Hansen is known to have frequented this particular brothel on a regular basis? Or that his current wife has been seen in the company of the adventuress who is purchasing the establishment?

  Could it be that Mr. Hansen is in actuality a ‘Madam’?

  Nicolas folded the paper and stared at the postman without seeing him.

  “Nick?”

  His eyes focused. “Yes?”

  “Is everything alright?”

  “No.” He turned and methodically opened the door, stepped outside, and pulled it shut. He drove the wagon home as quickly as he could in the slippery snow cover. He let Jeremy take care of the wagon while he saddled Fyrste. The huge stallion snorted and his flesh quivered at the reckless mood of his owner. Nicolas rode the animal to the house, and ran inside to tell Sydney where he was going.

  “St. Louis? Why? For how long?” she asked.

  Vincent appeared at Sydney’s elbow. “You have a speech tomorrow in Webster Grove.”

  “I shall be home tonight. The sooner I leave, the sooner I return.” Nicolas kissed Sydney soundly and handed her the newspaper. “I need to see about something.”

  Nicolas gave Fyrste his head and let him fly. The few inches of snow cover were no hindrance to the stallion’s huge iron-shod hooves, and his long legs chewed up the miles with exhilarating speed. Nicolas closed his eyes and let the rush of cold air calm him. Bits of snow hit his face, melting. Bits of mud hit his face, stinging. He breathed in the sweat and musk of the animal that strained beneath him, running, reaching, pushing.

  Nicolas let Fyrste set his own pace, and eventually the horse slowed to a trot, then a walk. When they entered St. Louis, Nicolas guided him to the Enquirer’s brick-faced building. He swung off the saddle in a seamless drop, and tied the reins to the hitching post out front. Jerking the door open, he strode inside.

  “Who is in command here?” His deep voice filled the office, though he did not raise its level.

  A man stood. “May I help you?”

  “You are?”

  “Ralston VanDoren, Chief Editor. And who might you be?”

  Nicolas straightened and filled his chest, glaring down at the older man. “Nicolas Reidar Hansen.”

  VanDoren stepped back and looked up. He swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Mister Hansen, won’t you come have a seat?”

  Nicolas followed VanDoren’s gesture to a chair, his eyes checking each desk for any familiar face.

  “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Who wrote this article?” Nicolas pointed to the front page splayed on Ralston’s desk.

  “One of my columnists.”

  “Which one of your columnists?”

  “He’s not here, at the moment.”

  “When do you expect him?” Nicolas hounded after the fox.

  “I’m not sure.”

  The front door opened and four eyes turned, expectant. The slender man pulled off his black felt hat, and turned to VanDoren. Then his eyes slid to Nicolas, who rose, stunned.

  “You? You are the snake in this newspaper’s grass?”

  Rodger stood rooted in place.

  “You filthy—”

  “Hansen!” Rodger barked.

  “You are acquainted, then?” VanDoren stepped between the men.

  “We are,” Nicolas grunted.

  “And not friends, I venture?”

  His gaze sliced back to the editor. “Not in the least.”

  “I must remind you both that we are standing in the office of a respectable business. We must be civilized.” VanDoren turned to Rodger. “Get to your desk.”

  Rodger walked slowly, his eyes locked into Nicolas’s. Then, he blinked. One side of Nicolas’s mouth curled slowly, malevolently. He nodded almost imperceptibly. “Watch yourself, boy.”

  “Is that a threat?” Rodger’s voice wavered.

  “It’s a promise.” Nicolas turned back to VanDoren. “What’s his full name?”

  “Uh, Rodger Merrick.”

  “And where is Herbert Q. Percival?”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Nicolas’s chest inflated, then he blew out long and hard. “Are we going to play that game again?”

  “I truly don’t know, Hansen. He writes sporadically, on consignment, and files his columns via messenger.” VanDoren slipped behind his desk.

  “And you pay him?” Nicolas did not hide his skepticism.

  “Also by messenger.”

  Nicolas rested the heels of his hands on the editor’s desk. He narrowed his eyes and stared at the older man. “Words are bei
ng written about me that are not true.”

  Ralston waved his hand. “If you can prove that, we are happy to print retractions.”

  “On the back page? Your lies are on the front.”

  “Are they lies?”

  “They are.”

  “Then prove it.”

  Nicolas straightened. His gaze slid sideways to Rodger, pale and breathing hard at his desk.

  “This game goes both ways,” Nicolas warned him. “Remember that.” Then he crossed to the door and threw it open. He untied Fyrste and was gone.

  ***

  Rodger gripped the bottom edge of his desk. His gut felt like jelly. Surges of conflicting reactions crashed in his chest. He stared at VanDoren, wide-eyed.

  “He’s a piece of work, isn’t he?” The editor wiped his face with both hands. “And he hopes to win an election?”

  Rodger didn’t respond.

  “Merrick?”

  “Yes?” The word clipped short.

  “Are you well?”

  Rodger nodded and shuffled papers on his desk.

  “What are you working on?”

  “I’ve an inkling concerning one of Beckermann’s misdeeds.”

  “Good! Off with you, boy!”

  “Yes. In a moment. I need to write a few reminders, first.” Rodger grabbed his quill and scribbled furiously. When he felt able to stand, he did so, stuffing the paper into his greatcoat pocket.

  Rodger pushed the office door open and stepped into the cold January air. He gulped deep breaths, his spectral exhalations blown behind him by his rapid pace. When he passed a sidewalk vendor, he pulled the crumpled paper from his pocket and dropped it on the man’s fire. Meaningless ink scratches bubbled. The paper shriveled to ash.

  “Merry?” Lesley stepped from the kitchen. With one look at Rodger, he hurried across the drawing room to take his coat. “What happened?”

  “Hansen.”

  “Again?” Lesley hung the greatcoat on a hook. “What now?”

  Rodger sat, elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling. “He came to the office. He was furious.”