Sapphire turned to stare at Angel.
“It wouldn’t be such a bad life, you know,” she said playfully.
At some point during the past week, Angelique had decided to bestow her favors solely upon Lord Thomas, Portia Stillmore’s previous beau. She’d not moved out of the rented apartments she shared with Sapphire and Lucia, but she and Henry were making daily ventures into the city to search for the perfect place for them to reside together. Henry said his parents were threatening to cut off his inheritance if he didn’t cease his behavior, cut all ties with the Fabergine demimondaine at once and return to Miss Stillmore’s side. Angelique said her Henry was not the sort to take kindly to orders, even if his father was providing three hundred pounds a year in allowance, and paying his debts, besides.
“I can’t take a lover, Angel, and you know it.” Sapphire set the heavy velvet bag in her lap and reached out to take her friend’s hand in hers. “It’s not what I want. It’s not who I am.”
She shrugged. “So tell your suitors you’ve changed the price. Women do it all the time. Tell them you want one of them to marry you.”
“What?”
Angelique rose to pace in front of the bed. “If marriage is the price you want for your virginity, tell them so. Didn’t Lord Thomas ask you to marry him yesterday at the horse races?”
Sapphire rolled her eyes, then picked up the velvet bag to move it from one hand to the other. “He wasn’t serious. You saw him—he was quite tippled.”
Angelique snickered. “Weren’t they all?”
Sapphire smiled. She had enjoyed herself yesterday, first at a garden party where she had played croquet with half a dozen eligible men all vying for her attention, then at afternoon tea at the horse races where the gentlemen had overindulged in a rum punch. “I’m not in love with Charles,” she said. “I don’t want to marry him.”
“So what about Mr. Salmons or Mr. Cortez?” Angelique asked expectantly. “Lord Raleigh?”
Sapphire shook her head.
Angelique threw up her hands and returned to the stool at the vanity. “You and your silly notions of love. I thought you’d given them up for more reasonable desires—companionship, compatibility.” She glanced in the mirror, her eyes twinkling. “Lust.”
“Now you’re just making fun of me.” Sapphire walked to the window to look down on the street full of activity, with carriages and wagons and two-seater hackneys rolling in both directions, merchants and buyers hustling up and down. “Is it so wrong to want more than you have?” she mused aloud, thinking about Avena’s dreams and how they might just come true.
“Certainly not.” Angelique dropped the curling iron on the vanity. “Cold,” she muttered. “It will have to be heated in the coals again.” She spun around on the stool to face Sapphire. “It’s not wrong to want things, to dream, but it’s wrong not to enjoy life as it comes. It’s wrong to never take pleasure in today, in anticipation of what might happen better tomorrow.”
“It’s not that I never take pleasure in what I do.” Sapphire tossed the velvet pouch up and down with one hand. Suddenly, all she could think of was Mr. Thixton and her secret, one she hadn’t even shared with Angelique. Just thinking about it made her cheeks grow warm.
She had to admit, at least to herself, that a part of her had enjoyed his kiss that night in the tavern when he cornered her on the stairs. As on the night in the billiards room, he had frightened her, angered her, but he’d also…She didn’t know the right word for how he had made her feel, not just in the pit of her stomach, but deep inside.
Her breath caught in her throat and she turned her back to Angelique, covering her discomfort by making an event of returning the pouch to its place in the trunk. She didn’t want to talk about this with Angelique, not with anyone. Blake Thixton was the enemy. He was the one person who could give her what she needed and he would not even listen to her.
Maybe Angelique was right. Maybe she had to consider her options. Even if Mr. Stowe did find proof of her legal descent, it could take weeks, years even. The utterly dislikable Mr. Thixton would return to America with his new wife—and where would that leave Sapphire?
She hadn’t yet accepted anyone’s invitation to escort her to the ball on Saturday. Perhaps she should agree to Lord Thomas’s and seriously consider his marriage proposal. He was wealthy, his family was well-respected, he was a good man who would make a good husband and provider. Blake Thixton thought Sapphire was nothing but a penniless fortune seeker, a liar, a whore and a woman without a family name. If she married Thomas and became Lady Thomas, he’d certainly reconsider his assumptions, wouldn’t he?
“Lord Wessex, what you’re asking is unfeasible. The ship can’t possibly be ready to sail for another week. We’re still loading cargo and we’ve a shipment from China to transfer that isn’t even due in until tomorrow.”
Blake paced the tiny, sparse room above a warehouse on the London docks, only half listening to the shipping agent, Mr. Klaus, whom he’d been dealing with for weeks. Out a filthy, smoke-streaked window, Blake could see the Thames below and across the street. Along the dock beside the ship, men loaded the hold full of merchandise, new gowns of the latest Parisian fashion, coffee beans from the Caribbean and silks from the Middle East, in preparation for the voyage back to Boston.
He didn’t exclusively ship merchandise meant for wealthy Bostonians, of course; he was too good a businessman to count too heavily on one market. He imported sugar, molasses, bananas, tea, gypsum, chalk, sulfur, guano, soda, iron, wool, hemp, liquor, fur and flax among other goods. And on the return voyage, he would export fine New England timber, fabrics and whale oil, if he was lucky.
“Surely you’d be more comfortable on one of the new passenger steamer ships, my lord. They’re equipped with far better accommodations,” the tall, thin man with gray sideburns and a thick mustache implored.
“People.”
“My lord?”
Blake hooked his finger around his cigar and removed it from his mouth, beginning to pace in front of the desk again. As he walked the length of the room, he tried to remain patient. “Will there be people on board, Klaus?”
“Yes, of course, my lord. It’s a passenger ship, meant to transport people across the Atlantic. With the improvement in steam engines, my lord, we are able to—”
“I understand the advances we’re making in steam engines, Mr. Klaus,” Blake snapped. “It’s what I do for a living. What I’m saying is that I don’t wish to travel with any more people than necessary. The cabin you’ve had prepared is more than adequate. I just want a little peace!”
Mr. Klaus drew back, his slender fingers twitching on the desk. “Yes, my lord. As you wish, my lord.”
“I’ve seen the tide charts. We sail Sunday morning.”
“Lord Wessex, as I stated previously—” now his heavy mustache was twitching, as well “—I cannot possibly have the ship loaded properly and ready to sail by—”
“Sunday, six in the morning,” Blake reiterated, walking toward the door. “The ship leaves at six a.m., Mr. Klaus. Good day.”
Wisely, Mr. Klaus did not follow Blake to his carriage. Outside in the sunshine, Blake’s nostrils filled with the stench of the shipyard and he felt an odd twinge of nostalgia. He and his father, Josiah Thixton, had never gotten along, not when Blake was a child and certainly not when he was an adult. But one memory that Blake considered close to being a fond one was that of walking the Boston harbor docks with his father late in the afternoons. Ships loaded with America’s best timber and fibers bound for exotic lands would line up, ready to sail on the next tide. He would trot behind his father who was busy finalizing details, who spoke not only to the shippers, shipping agents and captain on the docks, but to the crewmen, as well. He had been a real bastard to his family, but to the men who worked for and with him, he was probably an entirely different man—the smiles, the inquiries as to how this new baby was doing or if that wife had recovered from an illness…His father’s feigned�
�or perhaps it was even real—interest in these men’s lives made them give him their very best, and thus improved his already booming business.
Too bad Josiah Thixton would return home to his mansion and beat his ten-year-old son with his fists.
The fine French cigar suddenly tasting sour in his mouth, Blake spat it out and ground the glowing end with the heel of his boot. Stepping up into the carriage, he called out an address to the driver and slammed the door shut.
Twenty minutes later, Blake was in Stowe’s lobby. “I don’t care if he’s presently occupied,” Blake told the clerk. “What I have to say will only take a moment.”
“A-an appointment c-c-can be m-made,” the clerk stuttered from behind his high desk.
“As much as I’m paying Mr. Stowe for as little I’m reaping, I think he can give me two minutes of his time.” Blake strode past the desk toward the hall that led to Stowe’s office.
The clerk leaped off his stool, hurried down the hall and somehow managed to put himself between Blake and the door to Stowe’s office. “M-my Lord Wessex, p-please, allow me to at l-least announce—”
Blake scowled at the distraught clerk. “He has a client in there?”
“Y-yes, well, n-no.”
“Which is it?” Blake demanded. “Either he has someone inside or he hasn’t.”
The door suddenly swung open, the knob resting in Mr. Stowe’s hand. “Lord Wessex,” he said sternly.
The clerk’s jaw worked up and down. “I…I…”
“It’s all right, Turnburry,” Stowe said. “Go back to work and I’ll see to Lord Wessex.”
Blake grasped the lapels of his fine black wool coat and tugged. “I told him you would see me. Whatever client you might have is surely able to wait the five minutes it will take for me to speak to you.”
“Actually, Lord Wessex—” Stowe blocked the door with his rounded body “—it’s not business. It’s personal.”
Blake lifted a brow, now amused. “A lady friend, is it?” He attempted to peer around the paneled walnut door. “Didn’t know you had it in you, Stowe. You Englishmen are a sly—”
“Jessup, have you a client, mon chèr?” The woman had an interesting accent, one that appeared French, but he recognized it as actually being French-Cajun out of New Orleans.
An American? Stowe had an American lady friend? Blake’s interest was definitely piqued now. His homesickness made him long for the sound of an American’s voice, even if it was an older woman’s.
“That’s quite all right, dear,” Mr. Stowe called over his shoulder, and then, returning his attention to Blake and still holding firmly to the door, he barred Blake’s entrance. “Lord Wessex can wait.”
“Lord Wessex?” she exclaimed. “Mon dieu!”
Her tone changed, intriguing Blake further. Apparently she knew him, even if he didn’t know her.
“Invite him in.”
“Really, dearest,” Stowe hedged. “I don’t think that—”
“The lady wishes to be introduced,” Blake insisted. “I never disappoint a lady.”
The moment he pushed past Stowe and met the mystery woman’s gaze, he knew who she was. They had not met, but he recognized her all the same. He had spotted her frequently in the past few weeks, at the theater, at balls, at the races. She was Sapphire Fabergine’s aunt, godmother, chaperone, something.
“Mademoiselle Lucia Toulouse,” Stowe said reluctantly as he followed Blake into his office. “Lord Wessex. Lord Wessex, the woman I hope to make my wife very soon if she’ll have me, Mademoiselle Lucia Toulouse.”
It didn’t get past Blake that Stowe first introduced him to the woman, an obvious fault in proper protocol—done intentionally, he was certain. The slight amused him. Mr. Stowe was obviously smitten.
Blake turned to Lucia and bowed, then offered his hand. She curtsied and allowed him to lift her gloved hand to his lips. “Mademoiselle Toulouse,” he said in perfectly accented French.
“Lord Wessex, a pleasure.”
He released her hand. She was a pretty woman for her age—stout and well-rounded with a relatively unlined face. He couldn’t guess how old she was. Forty-five? Fifty? Fifty-five? “A pleasure, indeed. I cannot help but notice your accent, madame. It’s not from France—New Orleans?”
She chuckled, seeming to know she was caught. “I was actually born right here in London, but I passed through New Orleans, once upon a time,” she said with a smile.
Blake was tempted to move the conversation right along and ask her what the hell her charge, Miss Sapphire Fabergine, was doing making claims to a dead man’s name, but he decided against it. In three short days he would be gone from London, gone from all this nonsense, and who she or Sapphire Fabergine was wouldn’t matter to him any longer.
“I apologize for barging in this way,” he told Stowe, who had taken his seat behind his desk. Mademoiselle Toulouse had returned to the red leather chair in front of the desk. “I only wanted to inform you that I’ll be sailing for Boston Sunday morning. Any paperwork you might require of me in order to give you full access to my properties, the right to sell in my stead, and whatever other business that needs to be transacted, you must have prepared by tomorrow.”
“You’re leaving London?” Madame Toulouse asked, sounding alarmed.
Blake looked at her sternly. “I’ve been here over two months dealing with some business matters as well as a personal affair, as you well know, but I can remain in London no longer. I must return to Boston, mademoiselle.”
She scowled, lifted her chin and made a show of looking away, dismissing him.
Stowe’s gaze darted from Blake to Madame Toulouse and back to Blake again.
“My Lord Wessex—”
“Stowe, I’ve made up my mind. I cannot possibly remain in England another week. I’ve one engagement I must fulfill, some ridiculous masquerade ball, but then I’m off and there will be no further discussion on the matter.” He started for the door. “I’ve work in Boston I’ve ignored too long.” He didn’t say he was leaving to get away from a redhead with one blue eye, one green. He hadn’t even realized the truth until he’d met her aunt, until the lie had come out of his mouth.
“Lord Wessex.” Stowe rose from his chair, hurrying after Blake. “We’ve matters to discuss and decisions to be made.”
“I trust you completely, Stowe.”
“But, my lord…” Stowe lowered his voice until Lucia could not possibly hear what he was saying. “I realize this is not my place to say, but what about the Dowager Lady Wessex’s situation? If I sell the homes, she’ll have no place to go.”
Blake scowled, knowing all too well he couldn’t just throw them out on the street. “You’re right, it isn’t your place to say. I inherited the damn house, but…” He hesitated. He just wanted to be gone. “Give them the place in the country,” he snapped, now impatient to be out of the barrister’s office.
“My lord?”
“You heard me. They don’t need the town house in London. It’s the least I can do to spare Londoners having to listen to what I’ve heard these past weeks, but they can go to the country. The cows can listen to them.”
“And the town house, my lord?” Stowe asked, looking at Blake as if he had taken leave of his senses. “You want me to sell it, or keep it for your next trip to England?”
“I don’t know. Let me think about it.” He replaced his top hat on his head. “Good day, Stowe.”
“Good day, my lord,” Stowe replied, standing at his office door as he watched Blake leave.
“And, Stowe…” Blake glanced over his shoulder. “Nice-looking woman you have there.” He winked. “I like redheads, too.”
Lucia was out of her chair by the time Jessup closed the door. “I’m terribly sorry about that, my dear. I don’t care who he is or what title he possesses, he had no right to barge in here like that.”
“Now, now,” Lucia said, looking at the door where Mr. Thixton had just made his exit. “He’s a blustery young man, obv
iously used to getting his own way. You probably behaved the very same way once upon a time when you were a young man, before you found your senses.”
“I don’t care. It’s inexcusable,” Jessup repeated, tugging on the hem of his waistcoat.
“Do you think he’ll really return to America without hearing my Sapphire out or waiting to see what you’ve uncovered?”
“My love.” Jessup sighed, reaching out to rest his hand on her shoulder. “I told you, it could take me months to find anything, if there is anything to prove that the late Lord Wessex was Sapphire’s father.”
“I know.” She gazed into his eyes. She and he were of equal height and she liked that—not being looked down upon by a man. “It’s just that—”
“I know. He was never willing to hear her out, and for that I’m sorry. But men like Lord Wessex, like Blake Thixton,” he said, “can be obstinate.” He hesitated. “That doesn’t mean they’re bad people.”
Lucia tried to think what he meant by that comment. “It’s not just that,” she said softly.
“Then what is it?”
She didn’t want to tell Jessup what she was truly worried about now, but if she was serious about wanting to spend the rest of her days with him, she knew she needed to trust him in a way she had never trusted another man, even dear Armand. “I’m concerned…that Sapphire may have feelings for Mr. Thixton.”
He raised a bushy eyebrow. “I see. Well, that could complicate matters, couldn’t it?”
“Perhaps.” Lucia smiled, reaching up to smooth the frown lines around Jessup’s mouth. “You know, mon chèr, you’re very handsome when you wear that concerned look on your face.”
“It’s only that I would not want to see her hurt if he doesn’t feel the same for her, which perhaps he does not,” he said gently, “since he obviously intends to make his departure shortly.”
“You never know what will transpire. You haven’t seen the way Thixton looks at my Sapphire,” she continued. “Across a ballroom, from across the theater. I don’t care what he says, I know men and I know he’s attracted to her. Fiercely, I suspect.”
Sapphire Page 15