Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine (3 page)

She left the safety of her boudoir and descended the regal central staircase. Her London home was in one of the half-hidden cul-de-sacs off Pall Mall, as agreeable an address as any. Her husband’s fortune had brought them many a fine bauble, until the appalling news had arrived that his investments in Portugal had been lost. All lost. Every penny he had and more. Considerably older than his young wife, Grantlyn’s heart had not withstood the shock of learning that he was soon to be destitute. For Lillian, one sorrow had been followed by another. Then, just nine days earlier, had arrived the worst blow of all.

The banker now waiting for her in the front parlor was dressed in black. He always wore black save for some absurd trifle. Today his somber form descended to gray silk stockings and matching shoes buttoned up the side. They were polished to a mirror sheen, such that she could see herself approaching. “Good evening, Mr. Bartholomew. I trust you are well?”

“Seeing you again, my lady, would be sufficient to revive me from any ill health.” He offered a modest bow. “And yourself ?”

“Other than being plagued by matters which are not of my own making, quite well, thank you.” Pointedly she did not offer Simon Bartholomew a seat as she lowered herself into the chamber’s most ornate armchair. She leaned back slightly, a lady of power settling into her throne. “You wished to speak with me about some matter?”

“Indeed so.” He flipped back the tails of his coat and settled himself into the chair opposite. “I find myself in need of your assistance.”

“Forgive me.” She approved the frosty note in her voice. There was nothing to be gained by having this man know the fear he generated. In the sixteen years she had been wed to the count, she had learned many a lesson about letting others know their proper place. “I thought your occupation of my late husband’s country estate was all the assistance I should ever be expected to offer.”

“Were that only so, my lady.” Simon Bartholomew was head of Bartholomew’s Merchant Bank, which managed the finances of many at Court. At first glance, he did not cut an altogether repellent figure. Smallish in stature and narrow faced, his age was impossible to determine, for he looked both old and timeless. His fingers were long with oddly flattened cuticles. His nose ended in a rather blunt fashion, as though he had poked his attention in one too many hidden crevices and someone had cut off the tip. His dark hair was laced with silver, somewhat like that of a wild fox entering its winter’s cave. His voice was mild like the breath of a killing freeze.

“I fear you have come for no good reason, sir. No matter—”

“Permit me to continue, my lady?”

She bridled at being interrupted. But she had little choice save to respond “Pray make it swift, then. I am due elsewhere within the hour.”

“I am indeed grateful for the smallest portion of my lady’s valuable time.” He settled further into his seat. “As you are no doubt aware, relations between our king and his opposition in Parliament have reached a crisis point.”

“I fear I have no interest in politics, sir.”

“Were it only possible for me to share your distance, my lady. The opposition is led by one William Wilberforce—you have heard of him?”

“The name, perhaps. But I know him not.”

“Be glad of that, my lady. A most contemptible gentleman. He leads the drive to abolish the slave trade.”

Despite herself, Lillian found herself becoming fascinated. She had made it her business to learn as much as she could about this man who had become her greatest foe. Bartholomew’s Merchant Bank was heavily invested in the slave trade. Although slavery had been banished from England itself for twenty years, British vessels still trafficked in human misery. Some of the empire’s richest men, and the king’s staunchest supporters, lived off of vast estates in the Caribbean colonies and South America. These men stood to lose massive fortunes if slavery was completely abolished. Bartholomew’s could be wiped out entirely—not an unhappy circumstance since that would mean her own problems would evaporate.

But Lillian held to the languid tone of one who could scarcely be bothered to hear the man out. “How anyone could be so despicable as to profit from such a wretched commerce is utterly beyond me.”

Simon Bartholomew flushed mightily as he sought to control his anger. “Those in power see things differently, my lady. And tonight it is their opinion which holds sway.”

“I fail to see how this should interest me.”

“Indulge me a moment longer. One of the opposition’s allies and principal financiers is an American by the name of Samuel Aldridge. This is most certainly a name with which you are familiar.”

“How would you be knowing this?”

“I have made it my business to know.”

“And why, might I ask?” Lillian felt a growing sense of alarm that she took pains to conceal.

“For just such a moment as this.” He leaned forward. “I wish for you to use your connection with Lavinia Aldridge and her daughter—forgive me, I seem to have forgotten the daughter’s name.”

“Abigail,” she said before she could stop herself.

“Thank you. Mother and daughter are bound to know what the former ambassador is about. And through him, we seek to know the schemings of William Wilberforce and his cadre of troublemakers.”

“But why not focus your efforts directly at Wilberforce himself ?”

“The Aldridge family and I share a bit of history. I seek to redress a past error, as it were.”

Something in the banker’s demeanor left Lillian shifting uncomfortably in her seat, as though a certain foulness had invaded her parlor. “Yet I still fail to understand precisely what it is you wish for me to find.”

“A chink in the family’s honor. A weakness through which I might insert the dagger of public disgrace.” A fevered flame rose upon his features and just as swiftly vanished. He smiled at her. “There. You see how we have come to trust each other with our darkest secrets?”

She repressed a shudder. “And if I refuse?”

“Oh, Countess.” The eyes gleamed dark as midwinter night. “I do so very much hope you would not entertain such perilous thoughts. Think of your son’s good name.”

Lillian resisted the urge to press at the spot in her chest where her heart seemed ready to burst from its confines. Fear filled her being, and she clasped trembling fingers together in her lap. “And if I do as you wish?”

“You would no doubt gain the undying gratitude of my humble self.”

“I want more than that,” she stated flatly. “I want you off my country estate and out of my life.”

Eleven months earlier, Simon Bartholomew, a man she had only known superficially, had inserted himself into her life. While still in mourning over her husband’s untimely passage, this despicable character, who formerly had done little more than shuffle letters of credit before her husband’s pen, had announced himself in the boldest of manners. He had acquired a list of all her husband’s outstanding debts. He had walked her through precisely what her husband owed. He had demanded that she lease to him her beloved country estate or the bank would foreclose.

Then, only nine days ago, Bartholomew disclosed that he had obtained knowledge of her deepest secret. A secret that, if revealed to the world, would destroy what remained of her cherished life.

“I want this matter buried and ended,” Lillian repeated.

She might as well not have spoken. The banker rose to his rather short height. Yet from where she sat he loomed as huge and menacing as anything she could imagine. “Your assistance would be most certainly appreciated by all concerned. No, do not rise, my lady,” he continued, though she had made no movement to do so. “I can see myself out.”

Lillian sat in her lovely chamber for almost an hour after, staring at her hands and imagining them caught in chains fashioned by secrets and rumors and scandals yet unmasked. Every moment of this latest confrontation played out before her unseeing eyes. Simon Bartholomew had relished her anger. He had lashed her with his silken words, pleasuring in her helplessness. She was trapped, she was humiliated, she was left with no choice.

Oh, the shame of it all!

It was only after the third turning down another unmarked alley that Abigail realized Derrick Aimes had a specific goal in mind. The young minister had a fighter’s bearing, with his great shoulders and a waist to nearly match her own. When he waved a pamphlet before someone’s face, the person took it, no questions asked. His cry was loud enough to fill the street from one end to the other, lifting his call to Jesus above the hawkers and the singers and the good-time lads spilling boisterously from the taverns. Derrick led his well-intentioned little group with purpose.

Their course paralleled Shaftesbury Avenue, which formed the border between Soho and the more fashionable West End. Soho’s streets were far from straight. Abigail was being led down lanes and alleys she had never seen before. Recent rains had left their glistening imprint upon the buildings and the cobblestones. Torches flickered at the entranceways to music halls and taverns. Along darker lanes the lanterns carried by two of their members offered their only light. She found this all an exciting glimpse into a very different world.

All manner of people filled the cramped ways. The so-called fancy ladies, with their garish outfits and brash voices, strolled with cutpurses and princes alike. Hawkers sold wares from shadowy booths, claiming they had perfumes from Paris and gold baubles from Constantinople. Pamphleteers and beggars vied for space on the street corners. The night was noisy, crowded, smelly—and thrilling. Every breath Abigail took smelled of untold adventure. Every sight revealed mysteries her mother tried so hard to keep from her.

They entered Cambridge Circus, a far smaller and more dreary affair than the better-known Piccadilly Circus further west. Two new theatres had recently opened. One sought to emulate the West End halls with their grand performances. The other, however, was something else entirely.

It was toward this second hall that Derrick now headed.

For the first time, Abigail hesitated. She had heard whispered tales of this place. Word of Cambridge Theatre’s rank reputation reached even into the most respectable of drawing rooms. How could it not, when the king’s own cronies consorted there? It was rumored the royal highness himself attended on occasion, masquerading as one of his own staff. The place held to a vile reputation. The term
music hall
was a mere guise for acts no decent person would ever care to witness.

Jack, her appointed escort, leaned down. “Leicester Square is but a stone’s throw from here, Miss Aldridge.”

Well did she know it. Abigail stared at the side street beckoning her back to the world she knew. She felt a tug of fear.

“None would think the worse of you for leaving us here, you know,” he encouraged.

She glanced ahead. Derrick was already marching down the alley leading to the hall’s side entrance. “N-no, I’ll accompany you.”

Jack started to say more, then subsided. “Stay close, then.”

Chapter 3

As fate would have it, the first person Lillian saw at that evening’s dinner party was none other than Lavinia Aldridge. They knew one another in the casual manner of ladies who occasionally attended the same events. The former U.S. deputy minister plenipotentiary’s wife was slipping from her outer wrap, revealing a modest high-necked frock of taffeta and cream lace. Lillian was filled with a pressing desire to return home, bolt the doors, and wait for all the world to disappear. But her son’s face swam there before her eyes, as did the promise she had made to her late husband on his deathbed to do her best by the boy. She had never truly loved Grantlyn, not in the manner described by all the novels she so enjoyed reading. There had never been any great sense of bonding with the man. Grantlyn had been more than twice her age and showed all the mottled signs of hard-lived years. But Grantlyn had been direct and honest with her, what they would term a thoroughly straight man. He had made Lillian an offer and stuck to his side of the bargain. And she would do the same by him, even though it turned out he had left her penniless and chained to the despicable Simon Bartholomew.

“Countess?” Lavinia Aldridge walked over and touched Lillian lightly upon the arm. “Are you quite all right? You look as though you’ve taken a chill.”

The unexpected gift of sympathy was almost enough to shatter her internal barriers. But Lillian must not speak of her secrets. For the sake of her son, she must not. “Life,” she replied, hearing the hoarse tremble to her own voice, “is not what it should be, I fear.”

Almost any other woman and certainly all the men would have taken this as their cue to recite all the wondrous advantages held by the lovely young dowager countess, even considering her widowed state. But Lavinia examined her with a face of deepest sympathy. “I am sure this must be a difficult time, just over a year since your late husband’s demise. I do so hope you haven’t received an additional shock.”

“Of the worst possible sort.”

“Would it do some good to talk it through?”

“Thank you, but none whatsoever.”

“Then I will say no more about it, except for one question, which I fear will plague me all night unless I speak it aloud. Nothing has happened to your child?”