by Erin Satie
“You want something.”
“Of course I do.” Clive raised his eyebrows, unperturbed. “What if she is the orphan?”
“That makes no sense.”
“It would explain the laugh. Her ancestry couldn’t be more illustrious.” Clive picked up a little porcelain dish full of seashells from the low table that stood between them, set it down two inches to the right. For a moment, his long fingers hovered pincer-like over the dish, as though he were contemplating another relocation, but then he sighed and abandoned the project. “But it doesn’t take long for the idea to become absurd. What would the French want with Lady Lily?”
“That’s a good question.”
“I think so too.” Clive flicked a cool gray glance up at John. “Here’s another one. Why didn’t you come see me after making amends with her?”
John snorted.
“I realize it’s not work you relish,” Clive continued. “But I thought that, if concern for the future of our country couldn’t persuade you, a reward would. You used to be ambitious.”
“Perhaps I’ve been cured,” John said.
“Or perhaps you’re besotted.”
John shrugged.
“I thought so. And now you can’t bear the thought of sharing her secrets. Refreshing as it is to encounter this kernel of decency in your character, Ware, I do wish the fate of thousands didn’t hinge on the success of your courtship.”
“Don’t exaggerate.”
“If only I were. The situation has grown dire. Recent developments… But you’ve made your decision; I won’t bore you with the details.”
John groaned. “Clive.”
“Yes?”
“Do you think you’re being subtle?”
“No.”
John sighed.
“Holland doesn’t want to proceed without France, and he’s winning over the Cabinet,” Clive explained. “That means Mehmet Ali will keep southern Syria…”
“And leave the Ottomans to defend against Russia with much diminished strength,” John finished. “Don’t they know what will happen? The tsar has sent his troops to Constantinople in the past. He will strike.”
“We have few options, none of them ideal,” Clive replied. “Palmerston is no better. The more Holland urges reconciliation, the more hostile Palmerston is toward the French.”
“His pride is at stake.”
“There’s only one way out of this mess, and it hasn’t changed,” said Clive. “Preserve the balance of power. Pry the French loose from Mehmet Ali.”
“Perhaps I can reason with her,” said John. “If she understood what was at stake…”
“Lady Lily?”
John nodded.
“And in this best-case scenario, Lady Lily not only shares your political opinions exactly, she’s willing to defy one of the most powerful men in the country—her own father—in order to act upon them?”
John’s neck warmed; he had no reply.
“I’ll be on my way. Before I go, however—one last word of caution.”
“What now?”
“If you won’t listen to me, you might heed the lady herself. Would you like to know what Lady Lily did, all those years ago, to seal her reputation for wildness?”
No. He didn’t need to know. It didn’t matter. “Yes.”
“She caused a scandal at a themed masquerade ball. She attended as the first woman, Eve. Her costume consisted of a gown cut from fabric that matched the color of her skin so exactly that everyone who saw her believed, at least at first glance, that she was naked.”
John had to admit it sounded just like her.
“That is a warning, for anyone wise enough to heed it. She is a temptress.” Clive paused. “If you treat her fairly, what makes you think she’ll do the same in return?”
John waved Clive away, cursing his own susceptibility. All the while, an image of Lady Lily as Eve took shape in his mind—tendrils of cornsilk hair skimming her cheeks, bare of any jewelry, her defiance limned with fear. The visceral shock of catching a glimpse of her in a crowd, how the imagination would finish the work begun by her gown and make it impossible to think of anything else.
She had a magnificent figure. It was hard to master his thoughts under the best of circumstances.
The whole scene was much, much too easy to picture. And that, ultimately, was what troubled him. At some level, she hadn’t changed. And if she hadn’t changed, then Clive could be right.
Chapter Twelve
A young maid, plump and rosy-cheeked and full of bustle, knocked at the door to Lily’s room and announced, “Lord Bexley’s come to see you m’lady.”
Lily, lying on her bed with a book of fashion plates open in front of her, tossed the magazine aside and swiveled her feet onto the carpet. Half laughing, she asked, “Are you sure you have the name right?”
The woman stiffened. “I recognize my lord Bexley.”
“Of course you do,” Lily soothed. “Pardon my confusion. You can tell him I’ll be right down.”
She checked her hair in the mirror—a lopsided yellow snarl, alas, but her father might scare Adam away before she put it to rights—so she stuck her tongue out at the mirror and descended. In the great front hall, Ware’s white bouquet had been redistributed among vases formerly stocked exclusively with red roses. A small change, but it rendered the space coolly elegant rather than threatening and ominous.
Her father and brother bristled at one another at the base of the stairs. Gauging by her father’s white-knuckled grip on his cane and her brother’s puffed-up posture, they were in danger of causing a scene.
“A reunion!” Lily clapped her hands. “Isn’t this wonderful?”
They turned identical expressions of disgust on her.
“Now I know how Adam must have felt, always trying to smooth things over when we were children,” she teased. “Very instructive. I am almost inclined to stoic rectitude, just watching the two of you glare.”
“I thought you might take a turn around the square with me,” said Adam stiffly.
“Is the square neutral ground?”
“Don’t bait your brother,” snapped her father. He divided a scathing look equally between them and passed her on his way up the stairs.
“He’s so nice to you,” Adam observed sourly.
Lily laughed. “When did you start making jokes? One of the softening effects of marriage, I suppose?”
He shepherded her out the door. “Is that how marriage affected you, little sister?”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.” Lily butted her shoulder up against his. He didn’t budge, but she did coax a smile out of him. “Are you going to tell me what happened to put you and Papa at odds?”
“I made plans he didn’t like. You can guess how he went about convincing me to abandon them.”
“Oh, Adam. You never did understand. He hates people who do what they’re told.”
“I didn’t do what I was told.” He glanced back at Hastings House. “Hence the current state of affairs.”
“Good,” said Lily. “Then I support you unconditionally.”
“Now that I’ve answered your question, maybe you won’t mind answering one of mine.”
“Perhaps. I won’t make any promises.”
“How are you?” He ushered her into the park, away from the street bustle, and wheeled her around to face him. “You were always high-strung, but the way you ran off the other day… you seemed frantic. Hysterical, almost.”
“Well, that’s understandable, isn’t it? Given the circumstances.”
“I’m worried about you.”
“I’m worried about you.” She would serve him a bite of the dish he’d tried to feed her. She doubted he’d like it any better than she had. “Is it true that Alfie’s turned into some sort of rake?”
Adam didn’t reply.
“What sort of company are you keeping, big brother?”
His mouth tightened. “If I thought you’d listen, I’d tell you.�
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“So it’s true, then. He’s a seducer of innocents.”
“I don’t concern myself with his affairs.” Adam cleared his throat. “Not of that kind, in any case.”
“You’d rather worry about my hysteria.”
“Peace, Lily.” Adam held up his hands, palms out. “Alfie’s a lost cause. The only thing that might have—but it’s not going to happen. There’s nothing I can do for him. But if I can help you—if that would make a difference, I wanted to make sure you knew I was here.”
“I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath. “I shouldn’t be angry. You’re… not wrong. But I’m stuck here, until I’m officially alive again.”
“I can vouch for you. So could dozens of others.”
“It’s a simple legal procedure. Let’s not turn it into a circus.”
“Then remember what you just told me. Obedience isn’t always the best answer.”
“I promise I’m intractable as ever.”
After Adam had gone, Lily popped into her father’s study. He sat at his desk, pen in hand, bent—as ever—over a pile of papers.
“I think Adam’s open to a reconciliation.”
Her father fixed grave, gold eyes on her. “So am I.”
Lily blinked. “Well, then. Surely it will be done tomorrow.”
“Adam wants me to leave him alone. He has what he wants. He has asked for no further concessions, and so I have none to make.” He carefully set his pen against a pen rest and propped his forearms on the table, symmetrical and precise, fingers steepled. “In the end, it doesn’t matter if he wants to reconcile, or if I’d welcome it, so long as we each want other things that make reconciliation impossible. That’s life, Lily, and you’re no idealist.”
“You could apologize.”
“I’m not sorry.” He smiled faintly. “Nor, alas, is he. You see the problem.”
“I don’t, really,” said Lily. “You don’t like his wife?”
“I like her very much.”
Lily frowned. “Well, then—”
“We’re expected at Holland House tonight. And that doesn’t leave me much time to work. Did you need something?”
“I thought I’d wear mother’s pearls.”
“Ask my secretary to fetch them for you,” he said, dismissing her.
She wandered down the corridor to Vasari Jones’s room. Inside, the pinched redhead sat before a desk strewn with papers. He gave her his full attention the moment she entered, folding his hands neatly before him.
“Can I help you?”
“My father said you could fetch a set of jewelry for me. Pearls.”
He stood. “Of course. I’ll have them sent—”
“I can wait,” said Lily, and paced idly about the secretary’s office while he went down on one knee by the safe. She could tell by the stiff way he held himself that he was uncomfortable with her presence, which piqued her interest.
His papers were tidy. His handwriting legible. The only personal keepsake he’d added to his workspace was an engraved silver pocket watch, which sat open on a tiny velvet pillow, complete with tiny gold tassels.
He finished the combination sequence and the heavy metal door of the safe swung open. He rooted through the contents and then swung around with a large jewelry box in his palm.
But as he turned, she caught a glimpse of something surprising: he’d lined his dull drab brown jacket with lemon-yellow satin.
He flipped open the lid and she saw the bracelet, the ear drops, and part of the necklace. The bulk of the strand would be pooled underneath the velvet-lined insert.
“Are these the right pearls?”
“Yes, those are the ones I wanted.”
He flipped the box shut. She took it, headed for the door, then paused with her hand on the knob and looked back.
The secretary had returned to his seat. He was reaching for his pen, the ink pot open. Daylight wasting, work to be done. For the past month she’d watched him scurry about the house doing her father’s bidding. He was efficient, just the slightest bit unctuous, and utterly miserable. Perhaps he’d been able to hide it once, but the signs were increasingly obvious: a dull complexion, thinning hair, tightness about the mouth and eyes.
“Leave while you can,” she said suddenly.
The secretary looked up, startled. “Pardon?”
“Don’t wait until the damage can’t be undone,” she said. “If you can get this job, you can get another. Leave while you can.”
“Thank you for your kind attention, my lady.” Jones dipped his pen into the inkwell, tapped the nib against the glass with a bright clink. “But I am not in need of advice.”
Well. That was firm. And a little sharp, too. He still had some life in him.
Lily slipped out of the secretary’s office and into the corridor, holding the jewel case to her chest. She wondered, as she climbed the stairs on the way to her bedroom, how long it would take her father to crush that last spark of life out of the poor secretary.
A delivery from Mrs. Purse waited in her room—including a gown of heavy dark gray silk knit that had the soft drape of cashmere and the dull sheen of pewter. The wide neckline left her shoulders bare, their nakedness highlighted with swags of lace that could not be called sleeves. The bodice pulled her waist in, the skirts filled her hips out.
The effect was subdued—appropriate for half mourning, to which she’d begun transitioning—but more delicate than severe, and set off perfectly by her mother’s pearls. The necklace, released from its case, was long enough to loop twice around Lily’s neck, the bottom strand clicking and swaying over her bosom, the top strand circling her throat.
Lily stood in front of a full-length looking glass to put them on, and then couldn’t look away.
She’d asked for the pearls out of some perverse impulse, either confessional or ironic or… It didn’t matter. Both were dangerous. Smarter to leave them off and choose something else.
But the mirror reflected the room behind her. The elegant furniture, the rich wall hangings, and the portrait, just off-center, of her mother.
Her mother had died giving birth to her and her father never spoke of his wife, so the portrait very nearly represented the sum total of what Lily knew of the woman who had given birth to her.
It wasn’t much. The woman in the portrait was young—or seemed so, if only because Lily had already surpassed her mother’s lifespan. She was full-figured, fair, with a smooth broad forehead and small but sparkling eyes. She wore one of the high-waisted, straight-skirted gowns that had been popular in her day, hair curled and pinned high on her head, and a double rope of pearls around her neck.
The family resemblance was faint, the woman in the portrait a stranger. But the pearls were exactly the same.
She’d wear them.
Lily abandoned the portrait and descended to the front hall. Her father joined her, ushered her into the carriage. Holland House lay just outside London, in Kensington, a sprawling old building of red brick surrounded by vast gardens. The gravel drive wound its way around a large fountain, and white limestone colonnades framed the entrance.
A gathering at Holland House always attracted a glittering, eclectic crowd. Lady Holland being a divorcée, no unmarried women attended—but Lily didn’t hear any of the guests complain of their absence. Many grumbled about Lady Holland, in one way or another, but they showed up.
The Ottoman plenipotentiary, Chekib Effendi, was in attendance. He earnestly made the case for pushing Mehmet Ali out of Syria to anyone who would listen.
“Consider how far Mehmet Ali’s ambitions may stretch if he is allowed to continue unchecked,” said Chekib Effendi. “He looks to Europe as a model, yes, but did you know that he was born on the same day as Napoleon? He does, I assure you. The lessons Mehmet Ali has learned from Continental history are not those you would have assigned. Give him the opportunity, and he will set the world on fire.”
Lord Holland followed in his wake, with Francois Guizot at his side. They
countered the ambassador’s arguments with news from abroad that spread like wildfire through the crowd: the Sultan had dismissed his Grand Vizier, Khusrow Pasha, an inveterate enemy of Mehmet Ali.
“The moment Mehmet Ali heard the news, he sent his secretary to treat with the Sultan,” Guizot could be heard to repeat, again and again. “The Ottoman ambassador would have you believe that Mehmet Ali is a bloodthirsty tyrant—but who is standing in the way of peace?”
Her father kept Lily close, prodding her with questions. “The Ottoman Empire is weak, and a weak nation is never peaceful,” he said. “My daughter says the region where she lived was very nearly lawless—isn’t that so?”
“The Sultan’s reach is not what it once was,” Lily acknowledged.
“And so you abandon an ally?” asked one listener, Sir Simon Gagg. He was a robust man, deep into the prime of his life, firm and fit and very pleased with himself. “Forgive me, Your Grace. But it seems to me that an alliance which cracks so easily under pressure was never worthy of the name.”
“A noble sentiment,” said her father. “But what would it cost us to stand by the Ottomans? They will need our ships, our men—our blood. And that’s just to start. I have lived through a long war with France. I am not tender-hearted about our neighbor across the Channel. But would I sacrifice their friendship to maintain a relationship with an ailing Empire? We must draw a line somewhere.”
“I see John Tacitus Ware coming this way,” said Gagg. “He knows that region very well. Perhaps he’ll have an opinion.”
Gagg waved and Lily followed the gesture to find Ware cutting through the crowd. Evening clothes simplified his figure: the sharp taper from shoulder to waist, the powerful thighs. And yet it was impossible to look away from his face, his granite brow and inscrutable eyes, his cheeks malleable as putty.
He didn’t seem to notice the heads turned his way, paid no heed to the many hands raised to catch his attention. He had eyes only for her.
“Mr. Ware,” said her father, making room for him in their circle. “Perhaps you can give us the benefit of your expertise.”