by Laura Parker
From the moment he had first seen her he had been beguiled by an innocent girl’s beauty and courage. Guilt had prompted him to help her. But now it was the woman who fascinated him and the charade they played was only an invention to keep her near him. Yet how could he tell her the truth, that his act of revenge had driven her father to suicide. He was locked in inaction by his own duplicity, and the knowledge was slowly tearing him apart. “Do you love him?”
It was a chance to lie to him again, and the lie would hurt him. Philadelphia recognized that fact in frank surprise. Why should he care whether or not she married, or even whom she loved? What was the cause of this new vulnerability in his eyes?
She looked away, not wanting to see his face as the words came reluctantly from her. “No. I don’t love Henry Wharton.”
He was glad that she bowed her head with her final words. He couldn’t have remained silent had she looked up and seen the relief and sympathy and joy on his face. Yet he had to do something or go mad. He turned abruptly away and with purposeful strides headed for the door.
Philadelphia looked up at the sound of his footsteps. “Where are you going?”
He turned as he reached for the door handle. “To visit this Marquis d’Edas.”
“What will you do? What will you say?”
He smiled broadly. “Enough.”
Philadelphia stared at the unopened letters on her dressing table. She was dressing for an evening out but she knew that she couldn’t put the moment off any longer. Eduardo had not found the marquis at home when he went calling but had seconded Mrs. Ormstead’s insistence that Philadelphia go out tonight.
She bit the inside of her lip. Going out meant that she would probably run into the marquis. If he publicly denounced her as a fraud, she would be disgraced and forced to leave New York immediately. Going back to Chicago would be futile, yet staying with Senhor Tavares would be equally impossible. The moment had come for her to read her father’s letters carefully and from the clues she gathered to decide what action she would take next.
She hadn’t been able to bring herself to read them in over two months, not since the night of her father’s death. For the first time she noted that one was postmarked New York, and wondered why she hadn’t realized that before. She glanced down at the others. One was postmarked New Orleans. The other was unmarked. Had it been delivered by hand? She picked up the New York letter, slipped the single sheet of paper out of its envelope, and unfolded it. She scanned it quickly, feeling with repugnance its link with her father’s death and yet compelled to know the contents.
The tone of the letter was one of fear. It spoke of old alliances and warned of the dishonor that would follow discovery. It hinted at a divine retribution for past sins and damned the day they’d met. Yet the writer didn’t mention the sins by name nor the suspected source of the retribution he feared. It was as though those things were already known to the person for whom the letter was intended. It was signed: John Lancaster.
She laid it quickly aside. She’d never heard her father speak of a John Lancaster, therefore he must have been a business partner rather than a personal friend. Her heart began to pound. Could he have been one of the secret partners in her father’s banking investments? If Lancaster were an investor, then he might be wealthy enough to be known in New York society circles. But who could she ask about him? And where would she start when she didn’t know anything about him at all?
As she lowered her gaze to the letter once more the hair lifted on the back of her neck. Was this letter a warning about the impending failure of her father’s bank?
The knock at her door brought Philadelphia to her feet with a start. “Your carriage is come, miss,” the maid said from the other side of the door.
“Thank you. I’ll be down in a moment.” She looked at the other unopened letters. There wasn’t time to read them. With regret she swept them up and put them away. Finally, she picked up her gloves and purse, dreading the evening’s ordeal.
“I just love chocolate, don’t you, Miss Ronsard?”
Philadelphia turned her head toward the woman who spoke to her, but she hadn’t really heard what she said. “Pardon?”
“The dessert,” Prudence Booker prompted. “Don’t you just love chocolate desserts?”
“Oui. It is most delicious.” Philadelphia absently added a chocolate bonbon to her plate of goodies but the buffet table, laden with assorted delicacies, held little fascination for her. The heat of the June evening weighed her down in spite of the icy glass of lemonade she had just consumed.
She glanced at Prudence as she tucked a mouthful of chocolate into her mouth. She was soft and pretty with a round forehead and chin that made her appear nearly half her twenty-six years. As the youngest matron of Hedda Ormstead’s acquaintance, Prudence had been recruited to accompany Philadelphia to this soiree that Hedda had decided not to attend.
“I’m no longer able to stuff scrimped shrimps and myself into a corset on a regular basis,” is how Hedda had explained her decision to remain at home on this particular evening. “Go along. Prudence is a goose—then, most women are, so I don’t hold that against her, and neither should you.”
Philadelphia smiled to herself. She had always thought of her father as a man of strong opinion and will, but she believed he would have met his match in Hedda Ormstead.
Prudence’s constant chatter about her two young daughters and the rewards of married life were agreeable but Philadelphia couldn’t enjoy a single moment of the outing while waiting for the arrival of the Marquis d’Edas. Akbar had accompanied her and stood in the hallway just outside the salon but his presence didn’t embolden her. Be brave, he’d said with maddening high spirit. It was all very well for him to treat the outing as a diversion, he wasn’t locked in a struggle with doubts and the anxiety of not knowing what to expect next.
Her gaze kept wandering back to the salon entrance. Every masculine profile that crossed the threshold gave her an unhappy jolt until she saw that it wasn’t the marquis’s.
“I know I said so before but I will say it again,” Prudence remarked, “that yellow silk gown looks quite splendid on you, Miss de Ronsard. You’ve an eye for colors. I would never have attempted the shade myself.” With a sweep of her small hand, she dismissed several thousand dollars’ worth of monthly shopping with the words, “I never know what to buy, so I buy everything!”
Reluctantly, Philadelphia turned away from her surveillance of the door. “You would look exquisite in blue, Mrs. Booker. And sea green, and rose.”
“Now I told you, you’re to call me Prudence. Everyone does, excepting, of course, a—a certain someone who still calls me Prue.”
Philadelphia smiled and in an attempt to better hold up her end of the conversation asked, “But who is this certain someone?”
Flustered, Prudence blushed as her lids drooped over her china-blue eyes. “Oh, only a companion from my childhood years. I can’t think why I even mentioned it.”
Preoccupied, Philadelphia nodded as her gaze again strayed toward the entry. This time she saw someone enter whom she knew. With relief she recognized Henry Wharton. He was with another gentleman. She lifted her hand to draw his attention, but he had already spied her and the warmth of his smile was all she could have hoped for in a friendly face.
“Good evening, ladies,” Henry said, but his smile was for Philadelphia. “Aunt Hedda said you were out for the evening but she didn’t say with whom.” The slight vexation in his voice hinted that he thought his aunt had deliberately chosen to withhold the information in order to needle him.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me, Henry, old man?” his companion said impatiently.
“Yes, of course.” Henry’s manner was faultlessly polite but Philadelphia sensed beneath it a vague unhappiness. “Mam’zelle de Ronsard, may I present Mr. Edward Gregory.”
“Call me Teddy,” the handsome young man answered. “Henry and I go back to nappers, don’
t we, old man? Best of friends always. Harvard, class of ’75. Roommates all four years. Of course, we don’t share everything. For instance, he hasn’t said a word about you.”
“You just returned to town yesterday,” Henry said quietly.
“That’s true enough. Been abroad. Paris. London. Rome. The lot.” He eyed Philadelphia a little more closely than was strictly proper. “De Ronsard. French, by any chance?”
“Oui. I am French by all chance,” she returned politely, but her smile was reserved.
“Imagine that. Me fresh off the boat from your country and you newly arrived in mine. You’re new to the city?”
“Oui.”
Unabashed by her single-syllable reply, he went on. “That’s swell. There must be a dozen things you haven’t seen. Henry’s something of a dull stick when it comes to showing a lady a rare good time.” He winked at Henry and received a pained smile in reply. “But now that I’m back, you’ll see everything. How about a ride in Central Park tomorrow afternoon? No—better! Roller skating. Do you skate, mademoiselle?”
“No.” Philadelphia smiled to take the sting from her reply for, after all, he was an old friend of Henry’s but, really, the man was too forward. His cocky smile made a strong counterpoint to Henry’s quiet seriousness, making her wonder if Teddy often outmaneuvered his best friend when he wanted something Henry had.
“I skate.”
The peevish sound of Prudence Booker’s tone brought Edward’s attention to her. She looked at him and said, “Hello, Teddy. You might have informed your friends of your return.”
“Now, Prue, you heard it yourself. I only returned yesterday. Went round first thing this morning to collect Henry. We were going to pay our respects tomorrow, weren’t we, Henry?”
Prudence felt Philadelphia’s speculative gaze on her and said, “Teddy and Henry and I grew up together, Miss de Ronsard. Don’t allow our familiar ways to embarrass you.”
“I understand,” Philadelphia replied. Yet, as the two fell into easy conversation about mutual friends, she saw Prudence’s rapt attention to Teddy’s every word, and the thought struck her that Prudence Booker was a little in love with Teddy Gregory, and probably had been since childhood. Did he know? She doubted it.
“Will you be attending the soiree at the Riverstons’ tomorrow evening?”
She turned to find Henry bending close so that he might not be overheard. “Perhaps.”
He smiled at her and the passion in his clear bright gaze made her heart sink. She didn’t want him to love her. She’d only taunted Eduardo with the idea because, well, for reasons she didn’t have time to sort out just now. To distract him from mooning over her she suddenly asked, “Do you know a banker by the name of Lancaster?”
He frowned thoughtfully. “Can’t say that I do. But if you’re looking for a reputable bank, I suggest you try mine.”
“No, it is the man I wish to find.” She gave him an appealing glance. “I met a friend of his daughter’s during my travels, and she asked me to look up her friend while I was in town but I lost the full name and the address and …” She made a helpless gesture with her hands. “All I remember is the name Lancaster, and that her father is in banking.”
Henry stroked his chin. “That presents a puzzle, doesn’t it? I imagine a conversation with my banker might turn up a clue or two. He knows just about everybody in New York worth knowing, or so he says. Would you like me to question him for you?”
“I would so much appreciate it. Yet, you will be discreet?”
As Henry pledged to do his best to help her find Lancaster, from the corner of her eye Philadelphia saw Akbar enter the salon. General conversation ceased as the exotic stranger made his way through the room, but she didn’t care. Without a word to Henry, she moved to intercept him. When she reached him, she rested a hand lightly on his arm. “Is everything all right?”
Eduardo looked past her to where Henry Wharton stood, before allowing his gaze to come back to her with distinct censure. “I see memsahib has not been idle.”
Philadelphia threw an impatient look over her shoulder. “I do as you instructed,” she murmured, “I’m modeling your jewels.” He glanced at the brilliant wreath of diamonds circling her neck. He was both a miner and collector of jewels but the mad lust that drove some men to lie, steal, and even murder for the icy fire trapped within the depths of perfect stones had never infected him. What did stir his blood was the woman standing before him. He found himself mesmerized by the pulse beating at the base of her throat just above her jewels. Had they been alone, he might have placed a kiss on that pulse point.
“Why are you here?” she prompted, aware that all eyes remained inquisitively upon them.
Eduardo lifted his gaze to hers. “Your countryman arrived more than an hour ago. Why have you said nothing about it to me?”
“The marquis is here?” she whispered as her heart began to thud painfully. “I’ve not seen him.”
His black eyes held her steadily. “Perhaps if you were less attentive to nephew Henry …”
She drew herself up and stepped back from him. “I want to return home,” she said loudly. “I am tired and will make my excuses.”
Eduardo bowed and said equally loudly, “Memsahib commands and Akbar obeys.” Only as she turned away did he add under his breath, “But she had better stay away from nephew Henry if she hopes for a pleasant journey home!”
A scream, sudden and piercing, interrupted Philadelphia as she was about to reply. Even before she could react the cry came again. All heads swung toward the front hall and the source of the cry as a woman burst through the entrance into the salon, clutching her bosom and sobbing. She was dressed in the height of fashion, but that didn’t stop her from staggering through the group of elegantly dressed guests to accost their host. “Mister Dogget!” she cried. “You must do something! It’s gone! Stolen, I tell you! He took it!”
She swung about, her wild-eyed gaze searching the assembly until she spied the foreigner in white. She pointed at Akbar. “That’s him! That’s the thief who stole my pearls!”
Then, to the astonishment of the entire assembly, she swooned at her host’s feet.
8
Everything seemed to happen at once. Several of the female guests rushed to the aid of the lady who lay sprawled on the carpet while several of the male guests turned to confront Akbar with the intention of detaining him.
Eduardo didn’t move but he tensed in anticipation of a struggle. In fact, he almost hoped it would come to that. He’d been cooped up in drawing rooms for far too long to suit his temperament.
After a moment of hesitation, one of the men stepped forward. He was a big man with a large head and thick brown mustache, who carried the solid bulk of well-to-do middle age well. He stuck his fingers in the pockets of his waistcoat and reared back his head to look at Akbar through half-closed lids. “You have been accused of stealing, I say, stealing a lady’s pearls,” he boomed. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“He has nothing to say,” Philadelphia answered and stepped between Eduardo and the man accosting him. “My servant would no more steal than I would. How dare you accuse him!”
“Mrs. Oliphant accused him, not us,” the man answered in the full volume of the hard-of-hearing, “And I say she should know!”
“Fiddle-faddle!” Philadelphia rejoined, her French accent forsaking her as it often did in moments of stress. Instantly she felt the prod of Eduardo’s finger in her back. “C’est incroyable! Impossible!”
The spokesman took Akbar’s measure in a long searching glance. “Your employer is, of course, within her rights to expect sound morals from the man she employs but I will have a look at the contents of your pockets just the same.”
Eduardo smiled as he moved his feet farther apart for better balance. “With memsahib’s permission, you may make the attempt.”
“I’d be careful, Mr. Broughton,” Henry Wharton advised from the
edge of the semicircle of men. “There are rumors that this fellow committed murder in his own country.”
“Thanks to memsahib,” Eduardo murmured so softly only Philadelphia heard him. Until that moment she’d forgotten about her wild fabrications for the concierge at the Fifth Avenue hotel about how her Indian servant had executed recalcitrant servants.
She tossed Henry a dark look. “You, sir, I supposed to be my friend. I regret to learn I am mistaken in my confidence.”
She almost felt sorry for him as he reddened to his ears. “I have every confidence in you, Miss de Ronsard.” It was Akbar he didn’t trust, but he could scarcely say that to her. He looked sheepishly about, weighing lifelong associations against taking the side of a near stranger, even if he was in love with her. “The lady says her servant is innocent of the crime and I, for one, believe her.”
A gleam of humorous sympathy for the young man’s plight brightened Mr. Broughton’s eyes. “Well I regret, I say, regret having to say, young Henry Wharton, that when a clear cut identification’s been made, the matter must be taken up by the authorities. We’ll send for the police and allow them to proceed.”
“Send a servant for the police,” one of the men called.
“Yes, that’s it,” agreed another. “The police!”
Philadelphia blanched. She didn’t need to hear Eduardo’s muttered invective to realize that the last thing either of them could afford was to be interrogated by the police. Why, if they peered closely at him, they might discover his disguise and if that happened …
“… one can never be too careful. Strangers. Unknown to society. I, myself, have never heard …”