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

by Kris Tualla

  “Will you talk to me now?” Sydney whispered to Nicolas. “Why do you believe it was arson?”

  Nicolas leaned up on one elbow. Sydney saw him clearly in the light of the fire set to warm the unoccupied room.

  “Have you ever seen a fire burn inside a house before?” he asked.

  “Yes—I had an uncle whose house nearly burned in Kentucky when I was a girl.”

  “Think on it, then. What burned first?”

  Sydney frowned. “The rug in front of the hearth, as I recall.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was closest to the flames, of course!”

  “Right.” Nicolas leaned closer. “In the drawing room, it was the door that burned first.”

  Sydney’s eyes widened. “The door? How could you tell?”

  “How did you know it was the rug?” Nicolas countered.

  Sydney concentrated on the mental picture. “Because the rug was destroyed. There was nothing left of it but black ash. And the destruction radiated out from there, in a big arc.”

  “Exactly correct.” Nicolas leaned back again. “In the drawing room, the fire spread from the door. It was easy to kick down because it was already far gone.”

  “I was so scared that I didn’t even notice…”

  “And, there were no flames by the hearth. Not to begin with, in any case.”

  Sydney’s heart pounded. The reality of the situation, and the danger, shook her world. She gripped Nicolas’s arm, her mouth dry.

  “Who?” she managed. “Beckermann?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Could he possibly believe that murdering his opponent was reasonable?” Sydney shuddered.

  Nicolas shook his head. “Murder was not the intent. It was only a warning. I must be stepping on some rather important toes.”

  “What sort of toes?”

  “If I were to hazard a guess, I reckon it would be my stance on slavery. My declamation that once a slave is freed, he or she should not be enslaved again.” Nicolas ran his hand through his hair. “All other attacks have been on my character, not my politics.”

  “Except that you’re a royalist who wants to be King of Missouri, of course.”

  “Yes, well, besides that minute detail.” Nicolas smiled, calming Sydney’s heart a bit.

  “Do you know Beckermann well enough to know if this could be his doing?”

  “Truthfully, no. But I do know that he has many powerful friends. It’s rumored that St. Louis business favors are traded as easily as whiskey with Indians.”

  Sydney touched Nicolas’s cheek, tracing the scar she could not see but knew was there. “And certainly he has promised them favors if he is elected.”

  “I would wager any amount of money on that.” Nicolas leaned against her hand. His eyes were black in the dim firelight.

  “What shall we do?” she whispered.

  Nicolas laid back and drew a deep sigh. His chest expanded, held, then deflated. “Go home. Talk to Rickard. Ask his advice.”

  Sydney leaned up on her elbow now, a sudden thought pushing her. “You won’t quit, will you?”

  Nicolas pushed her hair over her shoulder. “I don’t know. I never intended to put you, or my household, in any sort of danger.”

  Sydney laid her cheek on Nicolas’s blond-furred chest and looked up at his sensual mouth, now grim and hard. Another cause had come to her, one she scarce believed, but she needed to mention it. But hearing it aloud would give it credence, and that terrified her.

  She must have tensed, because Nicolas’s eyes dropped to hers. “What is it, min presang?”

  Sydney swallowed, her throat thickening. Tears welled and she blinked.

  “Sydney?”

  “Perhaps,” she began, then paused. “Perhaps the fire was not meant for you.”

  “No?” Nicolas frowned. “For what then?”

  “Me.”

  Nicolas scoffed. “You? What offense have you committed?”

  “Witchcraft. They burn witches, don’t they?”

  February 12, 1822

  Cheltenham

  Nicolas accepted a second brandy from Rickard and resettled into a leather-covered chair by the fire. Low afternoon sun nudged through the window; soft pinks and yellows, hazed by chimney smoke and mist.

  “That’s the situation, brother,” Nicolas stated.

  Rickard stretched his long legs toward the hearth. He retied his shoulder-length wavy auburn hair—Lara’s hair, Stefan’s hair—and pierced Nicolas with steady, hazel eyes.

  “Will you quit?”

  Nicolas pulled a face. “Is the question that easy?”

  “No. And yes.” Rickard shrugged. “You continue, or you quit. Those are the only options, as far as I can see.”

  “I came here for your advice, Rick. I don’t know the answer!”

  “Is that so?” Rickard stroked his chin. “Have you come to doubt your convictions?”

  “Well, no. Of course I haven’t.”

  “Still against the institution of slavery?”

  “Yes!”

  “Still wanting every man in the state to be able to fulfill his dreams?”

  “Yes.”

  “Still hoping to enable those things by creating or changing our laws?”

  “Yes, Rick. What is your meaning?” Nicolas frowned.

  Rickard sat forward, gesturing with his crystal glass of brandy. His eyes hardened to arrow points. “Do you still believe you can change the world?”

  Nicolas groaned in frustration. “Yes, I do. At least, I think I do.”

  “And does the world still require changing?” Rickard prodded.

  “What do you think!” Nicolas bellowed. He gulped his brandy and stood. He poured from the crystal decanter while he spoke, his voice edged with anger. “What are you attempting here, Rick? I’ve come to ask for your help and all you are doing is taunting me!”

  “Isn’t that what Beckermann is doing?”

  Nicolas jerked around to face Rickard. “What?”

  “Taunting you.” Rickard stood as well. “I’ve never known you to back down from a just fight, Nick. Not once.”

  Nicolas’s jaws clenched. Then, “He’s endangered my family, Rick.”

  “I have seen you fight with your bare hands, until they were raw and bloodied, to protect my sister. And you were only ten at the time.”

  Nicolas waved his hand dismissively. “Cecil wasn’t going to take her life! Only her slate and chalk…”

  “Did it matter in how you fought?”

  Nicolas’s mouth twitched at the memory; he had truly been berserk that day. But none of the older boys ever picked on Lara, or any of the younger girls again, for that matter. “No.”

  “Then fight now.”

  Nicolas didn’t move. The reality of the stakes held him still. “I might kill him.”

  “He is playing, quite literally, with fire. Liable to get burned,” Rickard whispered.

  Nicolas returned to his seat and lowered himself, slowly, into it. He needed to mention the other possibility, as much as he had dismissed it in his own consideration as ridiculous.

  “Speaking of fire, Sydney did bring up one other possibility.”

  “Oh?” Rickard refilled his own glass.

  “Have you heard the rumors of witchcraft?”

  Rickard nodded. “You refer to the ones centered on Sydney’s successfully calming the hysterical Renfrew brat and then delivering the mother of a healthy child?”

  “That would be correct.”

  Rickard frowned at Nicolas. “You don’t put any stock in that, do you?”

  “I don’t—of course not. But do others?” Nicolas narrowed his eyes. “How is the idea of witchcraft received?”

  “Well, to the slaves, it’s as real as you and me,” Rickard began. “And I suppose some of the more remote inhabitants might still dabble in spells and superstitions.”

  “More to the point, do you believe anyone would set a fire to dissuade Sydney from any supposed spe
ll-casting of her own?”

  Rickard paled. “I had not considered that.” He shook his head, frowning. “But in St. Louis? In a city such as that? Have the rumors gotten that much attention?”

  “I can’t say. I don’t know.” Nicolas untied his own hair and combed his hands through it. He had not cut it short in winter for two years, since he last hunted for a living. It hung below his shoulders, now. I should have it cut.

  “Let me ask you this, Nick. Have you discussed any of this with Sydney?”

  Nicolas retied his hair. “I have.”

  “And what is her opinion?”

  “She says I must do what I believe I must do.”

  “And she will support you, in either choice?”

  “She will.”

  Rickard smiled. “She’s a strong woman, Nick.”

  Nicolas chuckled. “That she is.”

  “Not easily cowed.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Is she frightened now?”

  Nicolas paused. “Concerned. Careful. But she trusts me.”

  “So if you continue, you do so with the unquestioned help and support of a strong, trusting woman who is not easily cowed?”

  Nicolas finished his brandy and pointed the crystal glass at Rickard. “I get your meaning.”

  Rickard laughed and stretched. A last stream of orange winter sun frosted his hair, wreathing him in flames. “I have one last question for this inquisition.”

  “Then might I escape the whips and chains, after all?” Nicolas teased, both resolve and brandy warming his innards.

  Rickard slapped his hands on his knees, shoulders forward, challenging. “If you did quit, how could you live with yourself?”

  Nicolas nodded. Good point.

  “Losing the election is one thing,” Rick continued. “But walking out before you finish? That, brother, is an entirely different animal!”

  “Well, as it appears now, that’s an animal I shall not hunt.” Nicolas held his fist in the air. “Onward to the goal!”

  “Here, here!” Rickard slapped Nick’s shoulder. “Do you suppose supper is close to ready?”

  ***

  “Tighter!” Lily gasped.

  Her Negro maid pulled the corset strings. “You don’ want to hurt the baby, Miz Lily.”

  “This blasted child grows too fast!”

  “I can’t pull it anymore.”

  “Fine! Just tie them, then!” Lily snapped.

  She let go of the bedpost and straightened in front of her mirror. She turned to the side, then back to the front. Straight on, she appeared as slender as always. It was only from the side that the swelling below her waist was noticeable.

  Nicolas was downstairs, right now, talking to Rickard. She hadn’t known he was coming, and she had to get down there before it was too late. She must talk to him!

  The maid held out a turquoise dress, one of her most flattering, and she stepped under the skirt. It fell over her shoulders, to her hips.

  “It—it won’t close,” the Negress whispered, tugging at the edges of fabric in back.

  “What?” Lily spun in front of the mirror to see the offending gap. “Damn!”

  “Shall I pick a different dress?”

  Lily sneered at her maid. “Unless you can magically make this one larger, I would believe that an appropriate action! And be quick about it!”

  The girl backed away and began digging through the wardrobe. Lily pulled the turquoise dress over her head and threw it to the floor. Her slave girl held up a green silk dress with a high waist.

  “Will this one do, ma’am?”

  “I suppose.” It wasn’t her favorite, but time was slipping away from her. “Hurry up. You still need to freshen my hair!”

  ***

  “I believe supper should be ready in half-an-hour or less,” Lily answered Rickard’s question as she glided into his study, shutting the door behind her. “Hello, Nick. It’s wonderful, as always, to see you again.” She was careful to face him directly, and not give him the condemning side view.

  “Hello, Lily.” Nicolas did not smile. “How are you feeling?”

  “I feel quite wonderful! Thank you for asking.”

  “When is your confinement expected?”

  “My confinement? Oh! That would be in the summer.” Lily smiled and batted her lashes. “Would you pour me a glass of wine?”

  “That’s rather a vague answer,” Nicolas pressed, handing her the requested beverage.

  Irritating popinjay. “It would depend on when I conceived, would it not?”

  “Usually!” Rickard scoffed. “Do you not know when that blessed event might have occurred?”

  “Or with whom?” Nicolas challenged.

  Lily saw his empty brandy glass and the nearly empty decanter. They’d apparently drunk enough that Nick was not concerned with being polite. Very well, then.

  “With whom?” Lily sashayed around Nicolas, swirling the wine in her glass. “That’s a rather interesting question, is it not?”

  Nicolas shrugged, silent.

  “Because I seem to have conceived soon after arriving in Cheltenham.” Lily stopped in front of Nicolas. She took a long sip of her wine, her eyes fixed on his cold, blue stare. She lifted her chin. “What do you make of that?”

  “Not one damned thing, Lily,” he said.

  “Well you should, Nick.” She looked at her brother. “Because I still don’t have what I came for.”

  Rickard brushed her away. “And you never will!” he blurted recklessly.

  “So you say.” Lily grasped Nicolas’s cock through his breeches. He gasped, eyes round as dinner plates with the surprise. He could not back away; her grip was too tight. She watched his face flush. Was it pain? Or embarrassment? “But you are sensible as to what I shall claim regarding the child’s father, are you not?”

  “Good Lord, Lily!” Rickard cried. “Have you no shame?”

  Lily looked at her brother over her shoulder. “I only want what is mine!” she growled.

  “Are you trying to arouse me, Lily?” Nicolas lifted one brow.

  Her head jerked back to face him. “Why? Is it working?”

  “Does it seem so?”

  “Pah!” Lily dropped the limp handful. Nicolas did not back away. Pompous stud. A timid knock on the study door silenced them all.

  “Rickard?” Bronnie’s sweet voice called. “Supper is almost ready. Are you coming?”

  Rickard shot a hard look at Lily. He crossed the study to open the door. “Yes, we’re coming.”

  “Ezra and I are in the drawing room. Would you care to join us?” Bronnie rested one hand on Rickard’s arm.

  Lily saw his tension ease at the sound of her voice and the weight of her hand. Bronnie’s eyes met Rick’s and she smiled. Not a happy smile, a reassuring smile. The sort of smile that assures someone that they are not now, and never will be, alone.

  For a moment, Lily envied that smile. No one had ever smiled at her that way. Her eyes shifted to Ezra, her husband. His smile was entirely different. Scheming. Sly.

  Lily took Nicolas’s unyielding arm, pulling him to the doorway, and nodded at Ezra. She was determined to take what was rightfully hers, that was certain. And by whatever means were required.

  February 12, 1822

  Cheltenham

  Sydney stepped into the bathing tub in the kitchen. Nicolas was at Rickard’s to talk about the campaign and the fire. He planned to stay through supper. Sydney expected he would return after she was in bed, if he returned tonight at all.

  “I’d rather you did not try to find your way home in a brandied stupor, should your conversation head in that direction,” she had told him.

  “Fyrste knows his way,” Nicolas had teased. “Rickard can have me tied to the saddle!” Sydney thumped him solidly in the chest, and he laughed. “Fine then! No drunken fool will try to find his way to you tonight.”

  “Promise? It’s mortally cold out,” Sydney insisted.

  “I promise.”<
br />
  She sank under the hot water; it gave her gooseflesh. Tension melted away and left her boneless. And the nausea abated.

  She was glad to be alone tonight. Hiding her intermittent and unpredictable discomfort from Nicolas was hard; he knew her well and noticed everything.

  She was becoming expert at vomiting silently, holding her nose over a chamber pot or privy. And when the nausea arose, she nibbled on dry scones or biscuits. He had only caught her a very few times, and each time she was able to explain it away.

  And in bed, she maintained her enthusiasm. That was a much easier task.

  “I’ve been unwell on and off for a month, now,” she muttered.

  Yet she had no other symptoms. If she was indeed with child, it would not quicken for two more months at the soonest. Perhaps there was some other explanation? She examined her breasts, looking for telltale—and nonexistent—darkening around her nipples.

  “Perhaps it’s only the stress of the campaign. The constant change of location. The quality of food in so many establishments,” she rationalized. “That, and keeping odd hours, and sleeping in lumpy beds. Or perhaps it’s the endless travel over unpaved country roads in closed carriages?”

  She sighed.

  Or perhaps Nicolas is not so damaged after all.

  He would be dining with Lily tonight.

  Sydney held her breath and disappeared under the water.

  Chapter Nineteen

  February 16, 1822

  St. Louis

  When is a Valet So Much More?

  Herbert Q. Percival

  Valet.

  The very word, as it rolls softly off the tongue, conjures the exact response the word insinuates. Comfort. Service. Needs anticipated, and then met. An experienced touch. A steady hand. Baths drawn, clean clothes at the ready, hair combed, plaited, powdered or wigged.

  Valet.

  Most men hire their valets already trained. Usually raised in houses of elegance, these servants grow up under the tutelage of a father or uncle until sufficiently skilled. Then they are employed by gentlemen who appreciate their multiple talents.