The King of Threadneedle Street

by Moriah Densley

  Then she wasted several precious minutes pacing the room, fisting and stretching her hands, feeling stupid. All right. The first order of business? Air out the dank room. It smelled like death, and she couldn’t stand it. She ordered a kettle of water to boil on the fire, both for the steam to treat Christian’s lungs and to brew medicine. Infuriating, the bottle of “medicine” the country doctor had left for Christian. It reeked of alcohol and laudanum. No wonder he had gotten worse.

  She sent a runner to the village with a list of herbs to fetch. “Drag the apothecary out of bed at gunpoint if necessary,” she had ordered. His eyes went wide when he saw she wasn’t joking.

  Keeping busy held the panic at bay. Christian wouldn’t speak, but sometimes moaned in response to her voice. The first time he convulsed in a horrible coughing fit, she thought it was the end.

  Alysia felt frighteningly helpless. She was no doctor. She wasn’t even a nurse. She only knew what she had gleaned from books — mostly fiction — and helping Lord Courtenay’s tenants. She tried a few of the tricks she had seen other doctors do; pungent compresses on the neck and chest to ease breathing, honey and lemon tea to soothe the throat, and cold towels to counter the fever.

  To pass the time, Alysia chatted with Christian, hoping he could hear. She recited Shakespeare until she ran out of lines, then decided against reading from the Bible, fearing he would think she had given up and was praying his soul into the next world. She bathed his limbs and kept the linens fresh while she prayed, begging God to spare her little brother.

  She ignored the suspicion that Christian grew steadily worse. Alysia forced water down his throat, sometimes herbal tea or broth but had to clean up again when he vomited most of it. She wished he would put up a fight; when he relaxed between fits, it seemed he lost the will to struggle for breath.

  The footman returned with supplies from the village, reporting dozens of locals infected and nine already dead, an elderly couple and seven children. Christian’s wheezing and moaning nearly sent her shrieking.

  In between treatments, Alysia sat next to Christian on his bed, held his hand, her coaxing now angry scolding. “You’re the only brother I have, Chris. Andrew needs you. Keep that knucklehead in line, will you?” She reminded him of the experiments and excursions he had planned. “The Sudan. The Galapagos. You haven’t even seen the wildlife in Boston yet.”

  She pled with him to fight for his future as a husband and father. She asked him to do it for Andrew, who loved him best of all. She might as well have talked to the kettle in the fireplace for all the response she got from him.

  The minute hand seemed heavy on the clock, but somehow minutes blurred into hours. Sometime after two o’clock in the morning, Alysia had a revelation. Every time she applied the hot compress of mustard, camphor, and garlic, Christian coughed violently for a while, bringing up the infection from his lungs. Perhaps if she encouraged him to cough, he might clear his lungs well enough to breathe freely. And perhaps if his lungs were better, the fever would break. A wise idea, or dangerous?

  She decided to ask Andrew and sent for him. He dragged himself through the doorway minutes later, grasping the doorjamb to keep from swaying. She regretted disturbing him — he looked like the walking dead. He looked like he would rather be dead.

  She explained what she wanted to do. “Do you think it would help or harm him if I induced coughing? Do you think it could help clear his lungs?” She wrung her hands and resisted pacing the floor.

  He groaned, obviously swallowing panic as well. “Alysia, I don’t know the first thing about doctoring. Shall I send for Dr. Seymour?”

  “No!” she nearly shouted. “His idea of medicine is whiskey diluted in laudanum. I won’t let him near Christian.”

  “What do you think, Lisa?”

  “I am not sure, that is why I sent for you before attempting it. I wish your surgeon was here!”

  “Should I wire Lord Devon? He might know.”

  “How long would that take?”

  “A few hours to get a response. A rider must be sent from the Torquay dispatch to Rougemont.”

  Alysia whimpered and looked anxiously at Christian, his lips and fingers tinged blue. Despite her treatments, his body still burned with fever. Worse, if she didn’t keep close watch, he simply quit breathing, and she had to jostle him into fighting. She didn’t tell Andrew that.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know if we can wait. Yet, I hardly dare experiment—”

  “But what do you believe is best?”

  “I believe he cannot remain this way. And since he is not coughing up blood, it might help break the fever if he can expel the infection,” she said like a question.

  “Then do it, Lisa. I will watch with you.” Andrew made his way to a chair and dropped into it, then swooned. He miserably eyed a bowl on the table and tucked it into his lap. “Proceed. Don’t mind me.”

  With his head resting against the wing of the chair, he watched with hooded eyes as she prepared the compress without diluting any of the ingredients. He snorted and gagged in protest at the smell, which was indisputably horrible, then retched. She traded him for a clean bowl.

  Alysia stoked the fire and closed the window. She left the pot boiling on the fire to keep steam in the air. The compress worked instantly. Christian coughed and wheezed, tossing his head as he tried to breathe. Alysia turned him on his side and struck his back between the shoulders. At first she wondered if she had made a mistake; Christian’s entire frame shook, the coughing racking his poor body. Just when she thought he might get a clear breath, he gagged and choked. It became a frantic battle of helping Christian clear his lungs then his throat.

  She had no idea how long it lasted, but finally the coughing abated and Christian lay shaking and wheezing on his side. She stroked his hair and murmured in a low voice until he calmed. Alysia went to change the linen under his head and was relieved and satisfied to see that he had coughed up what she knew was infected mucus, thankfully not tinged with much blood. His breathing already sounded better. The rattling sound was gone.

  Andrew smiled weakly from the chair and she returned a victorious smile. Then she noticed he had grown worse. His skin was damp and deathly pale. His hands trembled, his whole body shivered, and he moved slowly as though the slightest motion pained him. She brewed another concoction, this time for Andrew.

  He turned his head when she put the cup to his lips, insisting, “Mmm fine.”

  “Darling, you look like death.”

  “Stinks.”

  “I know. Would you do it for a kiss?”

  He closed his eyes and over-puckered. Ridiculous. She sighed, in no mood to laugh, but that silly face was straight out of her memories, and she couldn’t help but smile. She pecked him on the cheek. He grunted in protest.

  Straddling his lap, she gripped his jaw, pinching his lips apart. “Don’t be a coward, Drew. It’s only honey, lemon, camphor, and a finger of whiskey for the pain.” She omitted telling him the other herbs in the brew. “Down the hatch, darling.” He finally drank it.

  A quarter hour later, his stomach quit heaving, his shaking stopped, and best of all, he quit protesting her nursing.

  Christian needed two more of the foul-smelling treatments for his lungs, but when he finally slipped into a quiet slumber just before dawn, Alysia nearly fainted with relief; the fever broke, and he was breathing. It sounded nearly normal. Andrew fell asleep in his chair. She gathered the soiled linen and burned it, washed the room, then collapsed at the bottom of the bed in time to see dawn break.

  She blinked awake to the sound of an unfamiliar male voice, and — Christian’s raspy chattering? She startled and sat up. Christian reclined against the pillows. He looked terrible, but he was conscious and he was alive.

  “Chris!” She reached to cradle his face in her hand. He smiled back but seemed sheepish. Andrew, looking marginally better, was also awake and watching them, along with another man who could only be Mr. Greyes the surgeon.


  “Lady Alysia, I presume,” he said kindly with a nod as she rose from the bed and smoothed her rumpled skirt. Her eyelids hurt, and she struggled to keep them open.

  “Alysia, Mr. Greyes. Mr. Greyes, Lady Alysia Villier,” Andrew introduced in a gravelly voice. She glanced around the room, unsure of what to say, feeling like she had woken in the middle of a Siamese market instead of a quiet bedroom.

  “Lord Preston explained it all, including your heroics. You did well, my lady.”

  She resisted the urge to sigh in relief.

  “Surely Lord and Lady Courtenay will want to thank you themselves, but I am also grateful to arrive and find my patient in tolerable condition.”

  She stole a look sideways at Andrew. It wouldn’t be a good idea for her to be here when his parents arrived. “On the contrary, Mr. Greyes, it is best to omit the detail of my presence to Lord and Lady Courtenay, if you don’t mind. I will be going now that you have arrived.”

  Mr. Greyes traded glances with Andrew, who turned to scowl at her. “Nonsense, Lisa. We must determine you won’t fall ill yourself. And I wish for you to stay.”

  She wished he hadn’t said it that way, so obviously sentimental, because now Mr. Greyes looked between her and Andrew. Good heavens. Was it so obvious? The surgeon’s pursed lips and raised eyebrows said that indeed it was.

  Once she excused herself from the room, it wasn’t so simple to find any of Andrew’s staff in the myriad stairways, towers, and galleries, let alone anyone who knew where her valise had been placed. Alysia finally found her room and collapsed on the bed, still fully dressed, with the intention of waking sometime in the next month.

  ****

  Alysia blinked awake. Andrew’s hushed voice sounded inches from her ear. Her hand flew to her throat as she choked on a startled shout. She sat up in the dark. Faint light from the waning moon cast the room in dull silver. The crisp air and dead silence in the house meant it was the middle of the night.

  Andrew’s hand closed over her shoulder. “Lisa. Come out with me.”

  She cleared her groggy head and noticed the rhythm of steady rain on the windows. “Andrew? What are you doing in here?”

  “The last storm of the summer is here. Come out in the rain with me.”

  “Drew, you shouldn’t be in my room.” She pulled the counterpane to her shoulders and scowled at him in the dark.

  His hand slid from her shoulder, trailing down her arm until he took her hand, making her shudder.

  “It’s a warm rain, no wind. You have been cooped up for three days.” He pulled on her hand, and she tugged back. “If you are not ill by now the risk has passed. So come.”

  “No.”

  “Difficult woman.” He leaned forward and scooped her up in his arms. Alysia stifled a gasp as he draped her over his shoulder and strode from the room like a pirate making off with a wench. If she made a fuss it would alert the household. She couldn’t decide if that was worse than being alone with Andrew.

  She protested with a hard pinch on his back. He complained with a grunt and swatted her backside. She twisted and bucked, and must have put up a fair fight. Andrew teetered, cursing, then turned her to cradle in his arms, clutching her against his chest.

  “I followed you to Paris and Austria. I would follow you to the ends of the earth. Finally you came to me, and I am not letting you go.”

  “I thought you were dying.”

  “Must I do it again?”

  “Andrew, I can’t stay. If Phi— Captain Cavendish doesn’t arrive by noon to fetch me, I shall go by post.”

  He reached the west door and opened the latch one-handed. Outside it was as he said — no wind, only gentle rain. He set Alysia on her feet but kept her hand, sliding his fingers in between hers.

  He looked out over the expanse of his property. Alysia thought it was a lovely and grand estate, or at least showed the promise of becoming so. A wistful twinge reminded her it was partly her fault this was all Andrew had left.

  “Cavendish will not come. I confess I intercepted your letter, Lisa. None of my staff will aid your escape, either. I suppose that makes you my prisoner.” He smiled and bounced his brows, his opaque eyes glinting.

  Andrew’s manipulations had ceased to surprise her. She kept her reaction inward, closing her eyes and sighing. He pulled her away from the cover of the eave and into the rain. He looked up at the dark sky and shook the hair away from his forehead.

  “If I must walk back to Rougemont, I will do it, Andrew. I refuse to be present when your parents arrive.”

  “No, I don’t think so. It is too close.” With his face upturned and his arms held out, he looked wild and magical, as though he communed with the forces of nature. He retained his firm grip on her hand.

  “Too close?”

  He led her out past the bailey and along a wooded path. He had already paved it with river stone.

  “Hmm, yes,” he answered belatedly. He examined the bough of a fir tree, which she found odd considering the dark. “It is coming together after all.”

  “Must I strangle it out of you? What is going on, Andrew?”

  He strolled farther down the path, pulling her along. “You are the reason for the scheme, so I might as well tell you.” He chuckled, a delighted boyish sound.

  “Scheme?” Alysia groaned. “Andrew, no more, please. It is over. You are ruined, I am ruined. What about that is not plain to you?”

  “It was convincing, was it not? And for a while I worried I had gone too far. But you came back to me.”

  She sensed a near-maniacal edge to him; he simmered with energy but his manner was so subdued it left her puzzled. The path rounded a corner to reveal the old guest house. Lit lamp posts lined the drive, the warm light blurring in the drizzled rain. Alysia was surprised to see the plaster restored and the windows replaced. The old growth had been cleared out of the courtyard, and neat rows of rose bushes and young ivy framed the house.

  Andrew opened the courtyard gate and led her through. Their clothes clung to their skin and water dripped from their faces. He pulled her into a closed dance position and rested his chin at her temple. His thigh brushed the inside of hers in a step backward, beginning a silent waltz. Only Andrew would be impervious to her soaked nightgown and bare feet.

  “Do you remember waking together in Paris? I could smell you on my skin all day.” He buried his nose in her hair and sighed.

  “I think I like this scent even better, mixed with the rain. It reminds me of the first time I kissed you, in our cave. Do you remember it, Lisa?”

  “Oh that? I had forgotten until you reminded me.”

  He spanked her backside again, hard enough to smart. “Liar.”

  Andrew nudged her on the back, sending her into a twirl, then paused. His mood abruptly serious, he reached for her jaw and held her face. His deeply set eyes were onyx reflecting flames from the lamps. He backed her into the courtyard wall, trapping her. His mouth claimed hers, all the tumult in his eyes a moment ago now communicated in his kiss. It was far from gentlemanly and the opposite of tender. Possessive. Soul-felt.

  At her shudder, he broke away, seeing tears she couldn’t control mingling with the rain. It was pent-up worry over his and Christian’s illnesses, and a bone-deep weariness from three years of longing and regret. He pressed the palm of his hand to her throat, feeling her pulse.

  His fingers stroked her neck from ear to collar, coaxing her to be calm although he held her pinned against the wall with his body. She didn’t understand why he turned his head and looked up toward the second floor windows until she caught sight of a woman with loose honey-colored hair and a frilly robe turning away from the curtains.

  Alysia’s heart sank as she realized Andrew’s fiancée had been watching them from her room in the guest house. She would have seen their impromptu waltz and Andrew’s passionate, indecent kiss. That he had glanced up at that moment meant it was all on purpose — he had staged it.

  The rain waned to a gentle patter, a
s though the moisture evaporated in the sudden heat of her temper.

  “I must confess to you now, Alysia, and I beg you to consider all of it before passing judgment. You must first know that every part of it was for you.”

  Alysia shook her head slowly, resigned.

  “Lisa, if I found a way, would you marry me without a penny to my name? Live in an old house as a painter while I work as a farmer? Would you do it?”

  “Andrew.” She shut her eyes against his too-intense gaze. “Whatever scheme you are hatching, stop.”

  “Lady Langton is quite out of the picture, Lisa. Forget her. I already have.” Andrew smoothed stray stands of hair out of her face and stroked her cheekbones with his thumbs. “Please answer me. Would you have me if I were a poor farmer?”

  “Yes. No. Andrew, what is this about?”

  “Answer me! I need to know.”

  “I don’t care about your stupid money, and I don’t like how it has changed you. But if you were to abase yourself on my behalf, I would never forgive you.” She reached for his face, and he leaned into her hand. “That isn’t love, Andrew. That is selfishness.”

  She wasn’t prepared when he pinned her against the wall with another rough kiss, his arms cushioning her against the stone. Then he broke the kiss to toss his head back and laugh into the sprinkling of rain. “Again you please me, Alysia. Very much.”

  His eyes flashed, and he blurted, “It was a hoax, the funds collapsing.” He gave a short laugh. “It’s all there, every farthing. Always was. More of it in fact, after the profit with the shipping company materialized. In the forty percents, if you can believe it.”

  “What?” Alysia nearly shrieked. Her reaction was an impulse to beat him hard in the chest, but he still had her caged.

  “Wil and Cavendish and a few of the others agreed to let me liquidate the funds and cover them in the shipping company. We knew it would be reported as a collapse when such large sums went missing, and they agreed to let it play out in the papers.”

  Alysia shoved hard against his chest, and he let her escape. “You mean…” She heaved, feeling her blood heat to boiling. “You were never ruined? And you didn’t lose the six hundred fifty thousand pounds?”