“Oh, but we are on such familiar terms, Preston,” Philip taunted.
“Poacher!” Andrew lunged at Philip, but Alysia caught him with her palm on his chest.
“Barbarian!”
Andrew jerked again but restrained himself against Alysia’s hand. He huffed in frustration then seemed calmed by her touch. Philip snorted, and Andrew gave him a triumphant smirk. She sensed another outbreak and pushed harder, urging Andrew back.
“Philip. I appreciate your loyalty, but I am afraid you misunderstood Lord Preston.” How bizarre that these two men stood on either side of her in such a state, their handsome faces sneering and jealous. She should never have gotten out of bed this morning.
“Did I, or did I not hear him call you a harlot?” Philip skewered Andrew with steely gray eyes. It would have intimidated anyone else.
“You interrupted a private discussion between myself and my future wife.” Andrew leered in satisfaction as Philip bristled. “You should beg my pardon, Cavendish,”
“Not until you apologize to Alysia.”
“I have much to say to her, in private. Now if you will excuse us, Captain,” Andrew said mockingly and gestured toward the doors.
Philip shot a sailor-inspired obscenity at Andrew then apologized to Alysia without breaking his stare with Andrew.
Alysia intervened. “Stop this, both of you. This is outrageous. Listen well, Andrew, Philip.” She faced them in turn to demand their attention. “I belong to no one.” She paused to let her icy words settle.
“I will not stand to see two gentlemen I regard so highly behaving like animals. Shake hands,” she ordered. They scoffed, incredulous. “I demand it.”
She took Andrew’s hand, then Philip’s, and pulled against their combined resistance to join them. “Andrew, Philip did as he thought necessary at the time. He is honorable and a faithful friend to me.”
She removed her hand, leaving the two men locked in an unwilling handshake. “Philip, I have known Andrew since I was a young girl. I assure you he meant me no dishonor. He can become animated when we argue, but I admit I did provoke him. You had no way of knowing he would never hurt me.”
“Of course I would never,” Andrew complained as his grip on Philip’s hand tightened.
“You had better not, ever,” threatened Philip as he squeezed harder in response.
Alysia looked down and saw their knuckles white with strain, their arms trembling with the competing force of their tense handshake. She sighed and closed her eyes. “You are both in trouble with Lady Devon. Look what you have done to this room! I suggest you concern yourselves with that problem, gentlemen.”
She strode from the room without another word but could feel the heat of both their stares on her back.
****
Taking the back staircase seemed like a good idea. She had no desire to explain Andrew and Philip’s idiotic brawl to the family. If she had to speak the words aloud, I am leaving Rougemont, she thought she might burst into tears. No more tutoring. No more babies, music, sea cliffs, and the blissful farce of belonging to a family. Good heavens — Austria. She hadn’t spoken German in years. As confusing as it was to feel affection for both Andrew and Philip, the thought of being far from either of them made her feel desolate already.
A chambermaid carrying stacks of folded linen startled as she met Alysia in the passageway. Alysia realized she had been wiping tears and muttering curses, so she stopped to explain, “Oh, Betsy, I don’t mean you,” then stormed off again. As she passed the hall connecting to the west service entrance, she ran headlong into Madeline and Christian, who came through the doorway just as Alysia passed it. They stumbled back and flailed, yelping in surprise. Neither wore their spectacles. Both had pieces of straw sticking out of their hair and clinging to their disheveled clothes.
“What have you been doing?” Alysia asked with her hands on her hips, assuming the proper stance of a scolding mother. She knew full well what they had been doing, even if their exchange of guilty glances hadn’t given them away. “Well? You look ghastly. What on earth happened?”
“We were, ah…” Christian faltered as he instinctively raised a hand to adjust his spectacles, which were not sitting on the bridge of his nose. Without them, Alysia noticed how closely he resembled Andrew in everything but his sand-colored hair, and that he was quickly growing into manhood.
“Observing the chickens,” finished Madeline, who held her hands behind her back to avoid fidgeting.
“Oh?” Alysia answered, making a deep scoop with her voice to demonstrate her suspicion. She looked back and forth between them and let the silence settle, making them nervous. What would their parents say?
“Yes. Quite,” explained Christian, finally in command of himself. “We were curious about the societal instincts of domesticated poultry and have been documenting their behavioral patterns.” Alysia smirked to show that his bluffing with an elaborate vocabulary didn’t work on her.
Madeline chimed, “We took notes on the interactions of the birds within their natural environment: the hens with the other hens, hens with the chicks, the rooster with the hens—” She stopped at Alysia’s raised eyebrow then blushed. Christian shifted his weight.
“Hmm. Interesting.” They had been watching chickens copulate? That didn’t seem like a romantic setting to Alysia, but then, she didn’t share their academic mindset.
Before she turned to leave them alone, Alysia said in a lowered voice, “Next time pluck the straw from your hair. You should enter through the main door, but not together — that is suspicious. If I were you, I would say I stumbled while out walking, to explain the crumpled clothes. Sorry, but I have no suggestions for disguising swollen lips.”
They gasped as she turned and went up the stairs, leaving them dumbfounded.
Madeline and Christian were respectively fourteen and fifteen, not too young to be curious. Alysia hadn’t foreseen this, but she should have. They were perfectly suited for each other. Their parents would be delighted if their adolescent romance resulted in a marriage eventually. The two children likely had no comprehension of what a tremendous blessing they had at their disposal.
Chapter Fifteen
Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself.
King Henry VIII, William Shakespeare
January of 1873, London, England
Andrew tossed the paper to his desk in satisfaction. It was a testament to either his prowess or the undying stupidity of the ton that they reacted precisely the way he knew they would. It was simple to play the Times against itself. The financial section reported the sudden dive in value of the importing fund, the editorials picked up on his connection to it, and the society columns blew him to kingdom come.
Headlines spread like wildfire: PRESTON LOSES ₤650,000 ON THREADNEEDLE STREET!
Before noon London buzzed with the news. Andrew Tilmore sank the entire family fortune! The Earl of Preston gambled liquid collateral sponsoring an American shipping company, and it has collapsed!
The facts were there: The share value for Higgins, Higgins, and Squires suddenly plummeted to negative digits. On the books, the balance was in the red. There was no word from the American shipping company. Riots broke out on the docks in Dover and Plymouth.
Lord Preston declined comment, but the ton did the rest of the work spreading speculation: He did it for his mistress; it was her inheritance he tried to increase, and now he has lost her money as well as his own. Now that Lord Preston is ruined, he sent his mistress away to Austria in shame.
Not only did he obliterate his own fortune, but lost tens of thousands of pounds contributed by Lord Devon and Sir Cavendish, then had the gall to buy up the worthless shares — he must be insane!
The uncertainty wreaked havoc on Threadneedle Street. Share prices fluctuated out of control. Investors bought and sold stocks out of sheer panic, tumbling the market into chaos. Merchants raised prices on wholesales, shopkeepers hoarded merchandise thought to become s
carce, and consumers ransacked shops in fear of shortages. On Monday the British Empire was in perfect regulation, and by Tuesday it seemed on the verge of war — all because of a rumor.
Still Lord Preston declined comment.
Andrew remained in London another week while the crisis reached its peak. Marsden fielded mobs of journalists, angry clerks, and curious onlookers. Crowds gathered on the doorstep of his townhouse, some yelling angry epithets and pinning signs bearing curses and rude slogans to his door. He received threats of bodily harm in the post by the dozen. Several prestigious families formally gave him the cut, while most others simply withdrew their society.
He knew he had accomplished his purpose when he had to dodge rotten fruit. Not that the beau monde would stoop to rioting, but they weren’t above hiring others to do it. He was less amused the day he found a hanging in effigy at his front stoop; the culprits had been so silent his staff hadn’t heard them string up the dummy.
There was a public outcry for his arrest, but no charges could be brought. Lord Preston had committed no crime.
Speaking of crime… Lady Langton dropped her gloves on the table, atop his typewriter. Irritation raked down his spine, but he said nothing, unwilling to give her ammunition. She sauntered over to him — no other word for that strut, as though her hips were out of joint — and scraped a fingernail across his shoulders. He tried not to shudder.
She waved a document in his face. “Just sign it, Preston.”
“I am dead broke, Priscilla. I assume you heard the news? Or did you miss the rotten eggs smeared on my front door?”
“Ian let me in through the back. And what a constant, noble girl I am, to stand beside you in your time of trial.” She flashed a flirty smile which barely masked the venom behind it. Disconcerting on her angelic face. A face he had once been enamored with but now loathed.
“A cheap ploy. Do you think the papers will buy it?”
She batted her eyelashes. “They always do. And your poor mama—”
He silenced her with a scowl, daring her to mention how Lady Courtenay had reacted to the news of his ruin, apparently a public spectacle. He had tried to warn her, but she refused to listen, sulking about the legal battle over defamation between her son and the Lord High Chancellor, Lady Langton’s father. Andrew’s mother could not understand why he wouldn’t simply marry Lady Langton and put the scandal to rest. He found it odd the two women expected him to fall merrily into their trap.
Andrew lifted the marriage contract sent by her solicitor and her father — the man poised to become the next prime minister, whom Andrew frequently butted heads with in Parliament over tariffs — and tore it in two. Priscilla bristled, and he crumpled the paper, wishing for a fire in the grate. “Regrettably I find myself an unsuitable candidate and unable to fulfill the terms.”
“Read the terms, Preston. It includes assets as well as holdings, present and future. I have no concerns on that account.”
He laughed, satisfied it emerged a cold, humorless sound. “Then you are greedy and a fool. I am ruined, Priscilla. Long term. Now be a good girl and cry off.”
“But we are already living in sin. How else are we to salvage our reputations?” She put her face in his — ungainly height for a woman, made worse by her heeled shoes — and licked his chin. He forced a placid expression, depriving her of the pleasure of his reaction. “I don’t believe you. Papa will figure out where you have hidden it all—”
“Be sure he looks in the devil’s own pocket.”
She flinched, her bright blue eyes casting over before she shielded herself with her slithery Lilith demeanor again. “Cruel, Preston. I will accept your apology, but only if it is delivered on bended knee.”
“Certainly. Now hold your breath and wait.” He turned, gathered the stack of telegrams on the corner of his desk, and left without a word.
Lady Langton had made a brazen gamble by cornering him, gathering public then legal support against him like a vise. All smoke and mirrors, based on her so-called reputation, which came and went to suit her whim. Andrew had called her bluff, through albeit extreme measures. Without his money, and with his newly awful reputation, Andrew was as good as a leper to her father. At least the lawsuit would default when they learned he was well and truly broke, buying him some time.
Victory tasted bland, mixed with the rancid flavor of humiliation. He grew weary of pretending it didn’t bother him.
The next day, Ian, his butler, put out a fire on the front stoop, thankfully before it spread to the eaves. Andrew decided he had overstayed his welcome in London and fled in disguise by night to his Somerset estate.
Ungracious in defeat, Lady Langton followed, spewing threats in a sugary tone of voice while the ton sealed his fate. He had to marry her, should be grateful to, or so they said. Andrew waited for it blow over, funneling all his energy into the work at Dunsbury since his other option was to pace the floor, waiting for word from Marsden. Difficult to stay back and let his plan run its course. It would work — it had to.
He prepared himself for the long stretch of empty months ahead. Eight months, to be precise. His only satisfaction was that he had gotten Alysia out of England in time. She was safely passing her days, painting at her leisure in an Austrian palace. He didn’t want her to see him like this — it had been as ugly as expected.
Words Cavendish had accused him with still rang in his head, “You greedy coward. All you care about is money; you couldn’t possibly love Alysia half so well.” Andrew could serve the sparkling heroic Captain Philip Cavendish his words on a platter with a silver spoon. The King of Threadneedle Street had dived headlong into bankruptcy, smiling all the way.
****
February of 1873, Schönbrunn Palace in Vienna, Austria
The only boon Alysia cherished more than letters from Rougemont and Andrew’s monthly box of chocolates was her one indulgence: English newspapers. She never admitted to anyone at court that she followed Andrew — she barely admitted it to herself. Following Andrew in the papers was the only indulgence she allowed herself, for the sake of their friendship. Otherwise, she used the distance between them and her new life as a courtier of sorts to attempt to recover from her weakness — dependence, addiction, to Andrew.
“Bizarre, unseemly business,” her father — The Emperor of Austria, how strange still! — had said, without seeming particularly bothered by the news of the devastating failure of Lord Preston’s American shipping company. Difficult to read the facial expressions of a Germanic royal, but she thought he seemed skeptical.
She had refused to believe it until she could confirm the truth from both Mr. Cox and Lady Devon, then she had to recount it to everyone who stopped her to ask. “Unerhört!” Incredible, unheard of, she was tired of hearing from people with more curiosity than sympathy. After the first few days, she quit reading the editorials and society columns. The news articles were scathing enough. The cartoons were positively frightening.
One would have thought Andrew was Judas Iscariot for all the hostility aimed at him. It seemed no one listened to the few reasonable voices suggesting the economy would stabilize once the public hysteria abated, and the only real harm Lord Preston had done was to his own finances — he couldn’t be blamed for the folly of others.
Ruined, was the war cry. The great King of Threadneedle Street had fallen.
Even months later, it was still a favorite topic in the papers; like an alley mutt guarding a bone, they wouldn’t give it up. Lord Preston was conspicuously absent from the Red Chamber, and the Season’s session of Parliament seemed chaotic without his expertise in commerce.
Andrew was the national whipping boy. Even members of the House of Lords joined the general public in blaming Andrew for all sorts of economic failures. Difficult to tell whether the vitriol came from that, or his inexplicable delay in marrying Lady Langton. Her father, the Lord High Chancellor, seemed determined to string him up for defamation if not fraud. Why was he so vocal against Andrew if he wan
ted him for a son-in-law?
Andrew was away in Somerset, ignoring them all, which seemed to make it worse.
Her heart bled for him, and she longed to go to him, but she knew that would be the worst possible move she could make. However unwitting, she was the vehicle of his ruin and not exactly popular in England herself. She was called Jezebel, Delilah, and worse. She had known it would take an event of this magnitude to sever her tie to him. He had no choice but to marry an heiress.
Yet his presents arrived every month, a purple rose and chocolate truffles. Not a letter, just the gift. Considering the circumstances, Alysia couldn’t condemn his sentimental gesture. It meant that regardless of what had occurred, he still cared for her in some way. She knew it was unhealthy to cling to the memory of him, but still each month the simple token from Andrew was the breath of life.
****
March of 1873, Dunsbury Castle in Somerset, England
Andrew cursed under his breath. Of course nothing was in order, nothing as it should be. Heaven forbid saving the day should come easily. Anxious, he drummed his fingers on the pile of newspapers printed in German, French, and English strewn across his desk. The pages appeared to have been tossed there carelessly, but in truth Andrew had arranged them in order of cause and effect, a connection of seemingly unrelated events which would soon give birth to the next.
His scrawls in the margins would have looked like gibberish to anyone else. Articles and reports which supported his conjectures stuck out at odd angles between the sheets. It was a brilliant mess, but to Andrew it was a crystal ball, a heavenly messenger; because what it proclaimed, no one else in the world likely knew.
A cold shiver traveled down his spine and raised the hair on the back of his neck. It was one thing to spy a profitable investment opportunity, to preempt a movement and make a killing on speculation; it was another to translate the language of world economics and discover an impending disaster. In Austria.
The King of Threadneedle Street Page 18