The Bride Wore Pearls

by Liz Carlyle

  Lucan hung his head another notch lower. “Just a loan, Nish, until Midsummer’s Day?” he pleaded. “Just enough to—”

  “To what?” she snapped. “To pay off your bookmaker? Your haberdasher? Your mistress? Let me remind you that in the last year or better, you have frittered away every penny of your allowance and once even landed yourself in a sponging house. And but for my mercy, there you would still likely be.”

  “No, I’d have graduated to debtor’s prison as Raju intended,” he said glumly.

  “As I’m painfully aware.” Anisha shoved away her tea with the back of her hand. “So I got you out. And at extortionate terms, too. And I suffered Raju’s wrath for my efforts. So yes, pray do not let it come to that again. Well, go on. What is it this time?”

  “Baccarat,” he muttered into his plate. “At the Quartermaine Club. And now there’s nothing else for it. I must behave as a gentleman ought, and you know it as well as I. The nabob stench is still near enough to draw flies.” His voice turned grim. “And I will not have it said, Anisha. Not of me, and certainly not of you.”

  It was Anisha’s turn to look away—not that she was ashamed of what she was. She was inordinately proud of it. And yet she was weary of thinking about it.

  Absently, she picked at the pleated silk of her gold and turquoise skirts, her thin gold bracelets faintly tinkling as she did so. It was true some might have called their father a nabob, for like so many of his ilk, he’d gone off to India merely comfortable and come back shockingly rich. Half diplomat and all business, Anisha’s father had left his children very well provided for indeed. But that did not give Lucan cause to live like a wastrel.

  Unlike Anisha and Raju, Lucan was the product of her father’s second marriage; a marriage made out of love, not politics, as his first had been. Pamela had been as pure as an English rose. She had been kind, too, and doting. Too much so, perhaps, for she had spoiled Lucan beyond reason. And yet Anisha loved Lucan; loved him as much as, and in some ways more than, she loved Raju, for Pamela had died too young, leaving Lucan to need his sister in a way that her elder never had.

  Just as he needed her now.

  And she would help him, of course. But she was not about to make it easy on him. Anisha bit her lip, trying to think what was best done.

  “Nish,” Lucan’s wary tone cut into her thoughts. “Nish, you’re chewing your lip again. Now promise me you aren’t thinking of speaking to Ned Quartermaine. I should simply die of embarrassment.”

  Her mind suddenly made up, Anisha pushed back her chair with a harsh scrape. “I cannot loan you money again, Luc,” she said firmly. “I cannot, for you never learn anything from it. Nor will I speak with Mr. Quartermaine on your behalf. I can, however, be persuaded to bargain—and bargain like a good Scot, be warned.”

  “Aye, hard and relentless, you mean.” Lucan sighed and dragged a hand through a shock of what had been, until that moment, flawlessly pomaded gold curls. “But please, Nish, I beg you. Don’t make me play nanny again! Tom and Teddy—they are—good God! They are beyond me! If they aren’t jumping half-naked into the Serpentine or darting through traffic in Piccadilly Circus, then the day holds no challenge for them.”

  “Oh no, I don’t want you buying yourself out of indentured servitude again.” Anisha eyed him assessingly across the mahogany table, then slid her bracelets pensively back up her arm. “So I think neither a loan nor a bargain will do this time.”

  Lucan exhaled and fell back against his chair.

  “No, this time,” she said, ignoring his sigh of relief, “we shall have a clean, outright transaction.”

  “A transaction?” Lucan jerked upright again, eyes narrowing warily. “Of what sort?”

  Anisha’s wide, amiable mouth curled slowly into a smile. “Your new curricle,” she murmured. “The high-perch phaeton, I mean, with the pretty red wheels? I confess, it does catch one’s eye.”

  “My phaeton?” His eyes widened in horror. “Surely you cannot mean it! Whatever would you do with—”

  “And the horses,” Anisha continued, undeterred. “Those lovely, prancing blacks? Yes, I think I should like to have them, too.”

  But Lucan had begun to sputter. “My matched blacks? You must be mad. Why, I spent two days straight at hazard to win those off Frankie Fitzwater! Besides, no lady of fashion would dare drive such a team.”

  “Do you suggest I cannot?” Anisha arched one eyebrow.

  “Well, no, you’re a fine whip—for a woman—but . . .”

  “And do you suddenly take me for a lady of fashion?”

  “I—well, what I meant was—”

  “Come now, Lucan.” Anisha stood, drawing herself up to her full height—which was something less than five feet. “I think we both know that London’s fashionable set scarcely spares me a second glance.”

  Lucan’s eyes glittered. “But Lord Bessett’s mother does,” he warned.

  But Anisha would not be cowed. “Lady Madeleine is neither here nor there,” she replied, tossing down her napkin. “She’s a good friend to me, no more.”

  “Ha!” Lucan threw his arms over his chest. “So you are not in love with him?”

  “Good Lord, Luc! Do not be ridiculous.”

  “But you are going to marry him.” Lucan lifted his chin almost challengingly.

  “I might,” she said coolly. “Or I might not. I have not yet consulted the stars.”

  Lucan gave a dismissive grunt. “Stars or no, Raju told Aunt Pernicia you were, just before he left on his wedding trip—specifically, that as soon as Lord Bessett returned from his Fraternitas business in Brussels, our family would have ‘a happy event’ to announce.”

  Inwardly, Anisha cursed her own stupidity, as well as Raju’s big mouth. Lucan’s Aunt Pernicia was Pamela’s much-elder sister, a venerated member of the ton, and a gossiping old tabby. And Bessett was one of London’s most eligible bachelors.

  But Anisha maintained her cool posture. “Well, Raju isn’t here now, is he?” she said, setting both hands on the table and leaning into him. “So the only happy event you’d better be anticipating is the payment of your gaming debts—before either Claytor writes Raju or Aunt Pernicia catches wind of it.”

  Lucan’s cheeks flushed bright crimson.

  Anisha forced a sugary smile. “Now what is it to be, my dear? Social ruin? A fraternal flogging? Or that shiny new phaeton?”

  Lucan threw up his hands, but any comment he might have made was forestalled by the entrance of their butler.

  Higgenthorpe gave a tight bow at the neck. “I beg your pardon, my lady,” he said, “but Claytor is in his lordship’s study with some papers which require your signature.”

  Claytor, her brother’s secretary, handled all the family’s business affairs. Lady Anisha sighed and glanced down at her attire. As no guests had been expected, she was dressed for the privacy of her home, and in the comfort of the traditional clothing she often favored.

  Today Anisha had thrown on an old lehenga cholis, a diaphanous skirt and short tunic that had been her mother’s, both heavily embroidered with fine gold thread. To ward off the English chill, however, she’d tossed over it a plain cashmere shawl such as any English lady might have worn. Like her odd collection of jewelry, the combination was a metaphor, she supposed, for the whole of her life.

  She folded her hands serenely in front of her. “I should go up to change,” she replied. “Kindly ask him to wait.”

  The butler bowed again and turned as if to go.

  At the last instant, however, Anisha frowned. “Higgenthorpe, you’ve dark smudges under your eyes,” she said. “You are struggling to sleep again?”

  The butler’s smile was wan. “I fear so, ma’am.”

  “Your vata dosha,” she murmured. “You have an imbalance again. I will make a mustard oil for your feet, but you must rub it on each night before bed. Will you?”

  “Of course,” he said swiftly. “And the powder, ma’am? For my milk?”

  “You
have run out?” she said. “Higgenthorpe, you must speak up.”

  “One hates to be a bother,” he said quietly.

  Anisha shook her finger at him. “You are no bother,” she said. “Have Cook set out fresh gingerroot in the stillroom, then fetch some cardamom pods from that odd little fellow in Shepherd’s Market—and mind he doesn’t sell you the green, for it isn’t at all the same. I will make it tonight after dinner.”

  Higgenthorpe looked relieved. “I would be most grateful, ma’am.”

  “And you will remember to spend a few moments focusing on your breath?” she suggested. “Do you wish me to show you how again?”

  “Oh, no, my lady,” he said. “I do it every night without fail.”

  “Excellent,” said Anisha. “Oh, by the way—I mean to go down to the St. James Society at two o’clock. Will you please have the red-and-black phaeton brought round?”

  “The phaeton?” Alarm sketched over the butler’s face but was quickly veiled. “Yes, my lady.”

  Anisha moved to follow him out, but Lucan caught her arm as she passed. “A word of warning, Nish?”

  Higgenthorpe forgotten, she stiffened. “Warning?” she said, turning to face him. “Of what sort?”

  But for once, Lucan looked serious. “Do you think it entirely wise to go down to St. James again?” he murmured. “Bessett may be none too pleased to return from Belgium and find his chosen bride is haring about London with Lord Lazonby—not to mention the fact that the fellow still drops by at least once a week.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” she gritted. “Rance is like family, and you know it. Besides, I am not betrothed, and I am certainly not haring about.” It was guilt, perhaps, which drove her to speak so sharply. “I took Lazonby to the theater at Bessett’s mother’s request—not that it’s any of your business. And I went to Whitehall with him to see Assistant Commissioner Napier at his request. Moreover, the man calls here because Raju told him to keep an eye on us whilst he was away. Now I am going to St. James to pay a call on Miss Belkadi. Have you a problem with that?”

  Lucan flashed a skeptical smile, one corner of his mouth turning up. “Dear little Saffy, hmm?” he said. “I didn’t know she had a social life.”

  “Have you a problem with that?” she repeated, more harshly.

  But Lucan just gazed at her through his somnolent, knowing eyes.

  Anisha stalked out, stewing in her own guilt.

  Samir Belkadi was a striking young man of little patience. Possessed of hard, dark eyes which had seen much and gave nothing back, Monsieur Belkadi was also blessed with innate good taste, courtesy of his French father. From his mother, however, he had inherited talents far more useful: the ability to adapt and to change and to overcome incalculable odds; in short, the ability to survive. He was also secretive, cynical, and, if circumstance required it, utterly without conscience.

  Belkadi was employed, nominally speaking, as club manager of the St. James Society, a position for which these diverse talents made him uniquely suited. The society itself was an island of elegance in an ocean of sophistication—which was to say that, in its rarefied little corner of London, the house scarcely stood out.

  This was precisely as its founders had intended, for the true purpose of the St. James Society was not one which wanted advertising. The purpose was, however, marked on its pediment if one knew what to look for: a Latin cross above a crossed quill and sword. To those who understood the significance of this symbol, the house provided safe harbor and solidarity to any member of the Fraternitas who might find himself traveling through—or fleeing to—Britain.

  The house sat in a dead-end street near the Carlton Club, just a stone’s throw from those bastions of clubland, White’s and Brooks’s. Indeed, at first glance, there was no appreciable difference between any of them; all large buildings with impressive entrances manned by impeccably attired doormen who spent their days bowing before a constant stream of England’s most affluent and most noble.

  But none was quite like the St. James Society. And none was managed by anyone half so Machiavellian as Belkadi. Moreover, in this particular establishment, everyone involved in its direction was also a member, which left Belkadi in the unenviable position of having no one to complain to when things went wrong.

  Today, things were going wrong.

  This was partly due to the fact that two of the house’s three founders, Lord Ruthveyn and Lord Bessett, had gone abroad; the former for love, the latter to defuse a dangerous situation in Brussels. This, alas, left only the offhanded Lord Lazonby in residence.

  Quite literally in residence.

  And it would not do.

  “Again, Lazonby, we’ve only the two suites,” Belkadi repeated, setting away his tea. “Herr Dr. Schwartz is a handsome enough fellow, but unless I misinterpret his inclinations, I doubt he will wish to sleep with Mr. Oakdale.”

  At that, Lazonby tried to smile, but it came out as more of a wince, one hand going to shade his eyes. “Could you just draw the damned drapes?” he grumbled.

  “Drink more coffee,” Belkadi suggested. “Or, better yet, stop drinking altogether, and we won’t have this nonsense to deal with.”

  Lazonby eyed him a little nastily across the coffee room table. “Ever the upstart, aren’t you, Sam?”

  Belkadi ignored the remark. “Do you want to know what I think about all this?” he continued, waving a languid hand to indicate the whole of the house.

  “No, but you are bloody well going to tell me,” Lazonby grumbled.

  “Oui,” said Belkadi, “for you are the man who had me hauled over here and given the management of it. And what I think is that this is not your home—nor was it ever intended to be.”

  “I bought a house,” said the earl darkly. “Don’t start ragging on again.”

  “You bought a house,” Belkadi agreed. “In Ebury Street. A fine new house with every modern convenience. You even hired a servant or two. Yet you never stay there. But from now on, you must. You will.”

  “You sound very sure of yourself.”

  “Very sure.” Belkadi flipped open the ledger he’d been carrying when he’d run Lazonby to ground. “Safiyah has the footmen upstairs packing you even as we speak.”

  Lazonby looked wounded. “Really? After all I’ve done for you, Samir? This is like a knife to my heart, you know.”

  “Save your breath to cool your porridge,” said Belkadi almost absently. “Isn’t that a Scottish expression?”

  “For a chap who once spoke not a word of the King’s English, you’ve managed to get the sayings down in a hurry,” Lazonby said dryly. “The more mean-spirited ones, at any rate.”

  “I find malice has its uses, oui.” But Belkadi was consulting his baize ledger with total equanimity, ticking off a row of numbers. “Now—do you wish me to resign my position here, Sergent-Chef-Major?”

  The use of his former rank was done with a purpose, Lazonby knew. “Of course not,” he grumbled. “How can you even ask it?”

  “Then pray let me do my job,” Belkadi returned. “I’ve got Ruthveyn out at last, and you need to follow his good example. Your things will be carted back to Belgravia by dinnertime. Now, I’m to update you on matters in Saxony.”

  Lazonby yawned hugely.

  Belkadi pinned him with his dark, cold eyes. “Saxony,” he said again. “It’s serious. The King has allowed Prussian troops into Dresden. There’s been a bloodbath, and the court has withdrawn to Königstein.”

  At this, Lazonby bestirred himself, and sat more upright. “Damned quarrelsome Continentals,” he muttered. “Did Curran get out?”

  “Three days ago,” said Belkadi. “He’s taking Frau Meyer and her children to van de Velde in Rotterdam. He means to leave her there for the time being.”

  Lazonby relaxed. “Then in all seriousness,” he said pointedly, “there’s nothing for me to do about Saxony, is there?”

  Belkadi shrugged. “With everyone else away, it falls to you to be aware of our goings-on
in the greater world,” he said. “And to deal with the annoying day-to-day minutiae as well. So, back to the claret. The ’44 Quinsac can be had more cheaply than—”

  “Ask Sir Greville,” Lazonby interjected.

  Samir lifted his hard eyes from the ledger. “That’s your answer? Ask someone else?”

  “No, ask Sir Greville,” Lazonby repeated. “If you wish to send me to Saxony to beat back the Prussians, I’ll give it a go and draw their blood doing it. But if you want to know about wine, ask a barrister. To chaps like me there’s just the red kind, the yellow kind, and that watery pinkish swill. Every good field officer must know, however, how to delegate. If I’ve taught you nothing else these many years, Samir, I hope I’ve taught you that.”

  “It sounds like evasion to me.” Belkadi slapped the ledger shut. “Très bien. I’ll just get the ’42 and hang the money. Ruthveyn has the good taste to prefer it, and with any luck he’ll be back before it empties out again.”

  At that, the clock struck half past two. Abruptly, Lazonby jerked from his chair. “Your pardon,” he said. “I just remembered I’m wanted across the street at Ned Quartermaine’s.”

  He was out and down the elegant marble staircase before Belkadi could form a sufficiently scathing reply.

  Lazonby was bloody tired of decisions. He knew how to act, damn it. Thinking had never been his strong suit—which was, admittedly, the source of much of his trouble in life. And just now, he needed air, he decided, his hand seizing the massive brass doorknob. He needed Westmorland. The damned North African desert. Anyplace with some bloody space. London was going to choke him. He wanted only one thing from this godforsaken place.

  He wanted his life—and his honor—back.

  Yes, he believed in the Fraternitas—believed in everything they stood for, and had very nearly given his life for it on a couple of occasions. He understood, too, that the house—the St. James Society—was a critical front for the organization. He knew that some with the true Gift needed protection, especially the women and children, and particularly so when revolution was rife across Europe. But he hadn’t much use for ceremony or science. And he certainly didn’t give a damn about politics.