by Kris Tualla
“Barely!”
“What was the hold, Hansen?”
“She had an unfaithful husband. He needed to be found before a divorce could be procured,” Nicolas explained.
“But not before her bed could be procured!”
Sydney turned crimson and began to rethink her presence here.
“Did you find her in the brothel, Hansen?”
“I read where she cozied up to the new madam!”
“Was she reminiscing?” the refined voice asked. “Or advising?”
“If you’re not elected, will you send her back to work?”
Nicolas pounded his palm on the closest table. “Silence!” he roared. His deep voice bounced from the walls and filled the room with his indignation.
“Silence!” he bellowed a second time. “If you require straightforward answers, then shut the helvete up and listen to me!”
A roomful of eyes stared at him in silent, drop-jawed shock.
“My first wife was dead six years when I met my second wife. That is a long time to be alone. I did seek comfort, I’ve already confessed to that. My second wife is a beautiful woman,” Nicolas indicated Sydney, who stood rigid and flushed in the back of the room, “and I pressed her to me before it was seemly. But when the way was cleared, we married in the church, and our daughter is quite legitimate.”
A murmur of consideration rippled through the room.
“Now,” he continued, one brow lifted and navy eyes sweeping the room. “Are there any questions you wish to ask me which might actually pertain to my taking the office of Legislator?”
Chapter Thirteen
January 15, 1822
St. Louis
Sydney hated throwing up in the chamber pot. But oftentimes that was the only receptacle available. She emptied it before Nicolas saw, because she couldn’t let him know.
She wasn’t certain herself.
Her last course came on as usual, but stopped the next day. After that, she felt ill at unexpected moments, but not all the time. Though her breasts felt heavy, they were not unusually tender.
Sydney never expected to conceive a child again; if indeed she had. With her own brutal cycle so unpredictable, and Nicolas having been kicked so hard in the groin when he was arrested, she doubted they would ever be fertile again.
She did expect, without a whisper of misgiving, that Nicolas would not be pleased if she had.
Not pleased? He’d be livid.
So he must not know.
Not while he began his campaign. Not while he was finding his footing. Not while he was focused on his future. Not while he laid himself bare before the people of St. Louis County.
Sydney toweled her face and breathed deeply. She swallowed, her mouth dry and her throat sticky. Thankfully they would go home after tomorrow night, and she would remain there a while.
He must not even suspect. Until she could be certain.
“May I have this dance, Madam?”
Lily turned to the slender redhead who spoke to her. His warm brown eyes burned into hers, and the edges of his mustache lifted with his smile. She tilted her head toward her husband.
“Do you mind, dearest?” she warbled.
Sir Ezra’s eyes swept over the hopeful swain. “Not at all, my love. I believe he appears quite respectable. Enjoy yourself with my blessings.”
The code spoken and understood, Lily placed her gloved hand in the open palm of her suitor. She noted his long, slim fingers and neatly groomed nails. No lowly labor for this gentleman.
“My name is Oscar Brant.” He dipped his chin.
“Lady Lily Kensington.” She bent her knees in a slight curtsy.
“My pleasure, Madam.”
She allowed him to lead her onto the floor and take her in his arms.
“Have you met the candidate?” He glanced toward Nicolas, dancing nearby with Sydney.
“I’ve only known him since childhood,” Lily dropped the nugget neatly.
“Have you?” Oscar was duly impressed. “What’s he like?”
“He’s intelligent enough when it comes to worldly things, I suppose.” Lily shrugged.
“You strike me as rather cultured yourself, Lady Kensington.”
“Well…” Lily fluttered her lashes. “I have not spent my entire life in Missouri, after all.”
“And it shows, Madam.”
Oscar swirled her away in the waltz. She was caught up in the feel of his arms around her; stronger than her husband’s and a better fit than Nicolas, if she was honest with herself.
“Has he spent his entire life in Missouri?” Oscar asked, watching Nicolas as he and Sydney danced past them. He blinked his gaze back to Lily.
She was caught in the russet, chocolate and tan streaks of his eyes. “Yes.”
“That’s rather dull, don’t you think?”
“No! I mean, yes, it would be dull, but no, he has spent time abroad.” Lily was flustered by Oscar’s muscular thighs pressing against hers.
“Oh?”
“He’s Norwegian. He went to Norway. Twice.”
Oscar’s hand slid from her back to just below her waist. He tightened his grip. “Twice?”
“Yes. Once when he was nineteen.” She could feel his manhood against her hip. She swallowed, her throat inexplicably dry. “And then again for the last year.”
“Would you care for a glass of wine?” Oscar steered Lily toward a servant with a tray. Lifting two glasses, he handed one to Lily. “Shall we sit?” He guided her to a small settle at the side of the dance floor. A large fern hid them from view.
“Are your intentions honorable, Mister Brant?” Lily giggled, only halfway teasing.
“Always, Lady Kensington.” He brushed her neck with his lips. His mustache tickled and sent shivers skating up her spine.
“Have you been abroad?” Lily whispered.
“Not yet,” he answered in kind. “But when I go, I cannot imagine going to a place like Norway. I’d prefer the Continent, proper.”
“As would I.” Lily sipped her wine.
“So what was Mister Hansen’s purpose?”
“He’s royal.” Lily waved her hand dismissively.
“What?” Oscar blurted the clipped question.
“He’s the great-grandson of a king. There was some situation with Sweden gaining Norway after Napoleon, and the royal family wanting to reclaim the throne.”
“And Nicolas Hansen might have been king?”
“I suppose so.” Lily drained her wineglass and handed it to Oscar.
“Did he want to be?”
Lily made a face. “Why else would he go? Might you get me another?”
“It would be my pleasure, Lady.”
When Oscar returned, Lily slid farther behind the fern. She allowed Oscar’s hands to roam over her dress, and invited him to kiss her. His lukewarm kisses disappointed, however, and she wondered how quickly she might pass him off to someone else.
Sydney watched Lily slip behind the fern with a red-haired gentleman. Ever since Nicolas told her about Lily’s arrangement with Sir Ezra, she watched the younger woman flirt shamelessly, and disappear from gatherings for unseemly lengths of time. Sometimes, when she returned, Lily’s hair was changed, or her color high and lips swollen.
No one acknowledged her behavior, especially Sir Ezra. He smiled at her, offered her a glass of wine, and handed her off to another eager swain. Sydney wondered how long it would take Lily to accomplish her mission. Her hand dropped to her own belly.
Nicolas was called to the front of the room and asked to give an impromptu speech to the high-spirited crowd. He smiled, his navy eyes twinkling, and dipped his chin in a self-deprecating stance. At the applause—which grew around Vincent’s spot on the floor—Nicolas agreed. He launched into the short ‘spontaneous’ speech that he practiced in their apartment for most of the afternoon.
Sydney watched and listened, smiling at her amazing husband. His eyes landed
on her often, and he seemed to talk only to her. She nodded and applauded at all the right times, encouraging, supporting. She did not even notice Lily beside her until she spoke.
“I believe he is doing rather well.”
Sydney glanced at her, then back at Nicolas. “Yes, I believe he is.”
“I have news.”
Sydney applauded Nicolas’s next point, grinning broadly. She did not want to hear whatever it was that Lily wanted to tell her. Maybe if she ignored her, Lily would go away.
Lily leaned close, her lips brushing Sydney’s hair.
“I am with child,” she whispered.
Sydney froze. Her heart banged against her ribcage and her mouth went dry. The edges of her vision blurred.
“Don’t you have anything to say?” Lily pressed. “Or perhaps to ask?”
“Congratulations,” she said, both her voice and her countenance flat.
Lily leaned back and stared at her with a smug expression.
“What else did you expect me to say, Lily?” Sydney glanced around for something to hold onto.
Lily lifted one white shoulder. “I thought you might be curious as to the father,” she taunted.
“Your husband, of course.” Sydney felt the prickle of sweat on her skin, and an odd pressure inside her skull. She tried to work up enough spit to swallow.
Startled by the burst of sound around her, Sydney faced Nicolas and clapped again for his speech.
“Oh, yes. Sir Ezra. Of course.” Lily walked behind her and spoke in her other ear. “Unless it suits my purposes to name another.”
“You would not name Nicolas!” Sydney spoke over her shoulder, appalled.
“Why not? It would be quite believable. We have been seen together. And besides,” Lily stepped around her and faced her again, “how can you be so sure that it isn’t Nicolas?”
“Don’t be absurd!” she huffed.
“Absurd? Well consider this: I know about every single time you leave the house to attend a birth, because Leif comes for Taycie.”
Sydney’s gut clenched. She grew oddly warm.
“And,” Lily continued, “even if Nick wasn’t amenable to the idea, there are substances which can be administered to make a man unaware of his own actions.”
Vincent appeared at Sydney’s side. She felt the blood leave her head and was sure she would faint. Her breath came in bursts. Vincent took her elbow, but she wasn’t able to discern if he noticed. He spoke, his tone calm and compelling. “Come and be introduced, Sydney.”
Sydney’s gaze jerked to Nicolas. He stood at the front of the room, his hand out towards her, smiling with his teeth. But the concern in his eyes pierced her. Supported by Vincent’s grip, she moved toward her love, her reason.
“My beautiful wife, Siobhan Sydney Bell Hansen!” His relief was obvious, even to her.
Sydney was lifted on the swell of applause. Nicolas pulled her to his side and turned her to face the crowd. She knew she was smiling. She nodded to the people and kept her eyes away from Lily. Nicolas’s arm slipped around her waist and he held her up.
Once the music began again, Oscar watched Lily dance away with another man. He sighed and shrugged. His attention went to Vincent.
The young man never lacked for a partner. What did he have that Oscar lacked? He wasn’t taller. He wasn’t better dressed. Oscar didn’t see him as more handsome. What was it?
Oscar selected a glass of wine and sat beside a window. His gaze moved intently from Vincent’s polished shoes to his thinning hair. Maybe it was his smile. Oscar noticed that Vincent looked purposefully into the eyes of his partners and smiled. It seemed to melt them.
He drained the glass of wine and signaled for another.
“Might I join you?”
Oscar looked up at source of the voice. Black hair, tied back. Green eyes. Clear, olive skin. “Yes.” The man sat on the chair next to Oscar. He accepted a glass of wine from the tray brought by Oscar’s signal.
“Aren’t you employed by Winston Beckermann? The other candidate?” Oscar asked.
“I am.” He stuck out his free hand. “Sam Stafford.”
“Oscar Brant.”
“My utmost pleasure, sir.”
For some reason, Oscar believed him. “Are you here to commit espionage?” Oscar asked, teasing. Sam laughed.
“Do you know that man?” he asked Oscar, indicating Vincent.
“No,” Oscar’s gaze followed Sam’s. “I was merely observing his skill with the ladies.”
“Is it his appearance, do you think?” Sam swirled his wine glass and held it to the light.
Oscar shook his head. “He is attractive enough. But women tend to like their men, I don’t know, more full-bodied, I think.”
Sam’s gaze slid to Oscar. “He appears a pleasant person.”
“He smiles and looks into their eyes.” Oscar turned to Sam’s eyes and smiled. “How old do you believe him to be?”
Sam shrugged and inhaled the rich bouquet of the deep red wine. “Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?”
Oscar nodded. “Older than I am, then. Perchance it comes with age. Or experience.”
“Did you come here alone tonight?” Sam asked.
Oscar’s heart skipped. “Yes.”
“Hm.” Sam sipped his wine thoughtfully, and shifted his attention to Oscar. “An acceptable vintage. Not full-bodied, but very pleasant indeed. I shall enjoy it. And I expect a nice finish.”
“Are you well, min presang?” Nicolas could feel Sydney wobble in his grasp.
“Lily,” was all she could manage. His arm hardened.
“What mischief is she perpetrating now?”
Sydney glanced at the crowded ballroom and shook her head. She didn’t want to speak the words aloud and thereby make them real. She didn’t want to consider that possibility. Besides, Lily could easily be lying about her condition. It fit her character.
When the musical piece ended, Nicolas signaled Vincent to follow. Holding Sydney close, Nicolas pushed their way slowly toward the entrance. He slapped a back here, shook a hand there, and promised to arrange a meeting with another while Vincent noted it in a book.
Outside, Leif pulled the carriage forward and slid over so that Nicolas could drive. His breath was frosted by lamplight and he shivered visibly. The winter night was clear and very cold.
Nicolas handed Sydney inside. He helped her wrap her fur-lined cape around her legs and then closed the door. Vincent rested his hand on Nicolas’s arm, stopping him from climbing up to the driver’s seat.
“Would you mind, sir, if I was to remain here a while?” she heard him ask.
Nicolas considered the secretary. “Might you learn anything by doing so?”
“I believe that I might.”
Nicolas nodded. “Stay as long as you like, then. See me in the morning.”
Vincent bowed. “Thank you, sir.”
Nicolas closed the door. Alone in the carriage, Sydney laid back in the seat and closed her eyes. Lily’s declamation of her expected confinement took Sydney by such surprise, that she forgot to ask the younger woman how far along she was.
Then there were the insinuations about Nicolas. But Sydney knew that Nicolas would never, ever, succumb to Lily’s seduction.
Knowingly.
Was what she said true? Might a man be drugged to forget what he’d done?
And had she heard this rumor only a few weeks ago, she would have scoffed and informed Lily that Nicolas could no longer father children, thanks to Lily’s own vengeful actions.
But not now.
Not until she knew for sure.
Lily let out her breath as her maid removed her corset. Vertical red welts from the bones striped her body from breasts to pelvis. She rubbed her skin while she examined her shape in the mirror. The baby was growing too fast; she would lose her waist soon at this pace.
Earlier this evening, Ezra noticed.
While
Lily had her own room, Sir Ezra demanded that he have access to her at any time he desired. She was forbidden to lock her door against him. Though unable to complete the marital act, he still enjoyed watching his young wife in various stages of dishabille.
“You are growing fat, my love,” he had said, lounging across her bed as she dressed for the evening.
The Negress had tugged on Lily’s corset strings, pausing to wipe a rivulet of sweat from her brow with her forearm. Lily shot Ezzy an angry look over her two-handed grip on the bedpost.
“It seems you may get your wish yet, husband,” she grunted, exhaling as far as she could.
“Oh?” Ezra’s eye’s brightened. “Have you news?”
“My course has not come.”
The maid waited, holding the strings taut. Sir Ezra sat up. “How long?”
Lily shrugged. “A month. Or perhaps two. I don’t recall.”
Ezra slid from the bed and stood in front of Lily. His eyes fell to her swollen breasts and his hand pushed between her thighs to cup her. “Will I be pleased with the child?”
Lily swallowed. She didn’t know, in truth, which of her lovers had gotten her. “Yes. Of course. I am not a fool.”
“I hope not.” Ezra squeezed until she gasped and whimpered. “There is much at stake.”
Lily nodded, forcing a smile.
Ezra kissed her brusquely on the mouth then removed his hand. “Take good care of yourself, my love.” He left her room without a backward glance.
Rodger slipped into his darkened apartment and hung his greatcoat by the door. He turned up the wick on the oil lamp that Lesley always left burning for him. He set the red wig on Lesley’s desk so the valet could restyle it, and pried the mustache from his upper lip.
The night had turned out very well.
First, he had garnered the information about Hansen’s royalty and ties to Norway. He could easily portray this as ‘royalist sympathies.’ In a country a mere fifty years past its break from kingly oppression, this would be information of high interest indeed.