“You know nothing about me. You—”
“Learning all about you would likely take more years than I have left to me. I am forty-seven, Aurora. Will you have me?”
The ever-lingering waiter appeared again with their lunch. Damien shot him a frustrated look and waved him away. “Stay gone this time, Cranshaw,” he shouted after him.
Aurora looked down at her chicken breast bathed in bechamel sauce, and giggled. “The wine is making me light-headed,” she said. She clasped her hands in front of her. “I am not a lady to sit about dispensing tea, Damien. Indeed, I am a woman of strong character, and I cannot abide the useless lives ladies of fashion lead.”
“A railroad line is being completed to Bradford, a small village just to the west of Graffton Manor. I am thinking of purchasing my own private car. Will you advise me?”
Aurora shook her head, not at him, but at herself. “Yes,” she said, “I will advise you.”
“And will you kiss me? I cannot think of my lunch looking at your beautiful mouth.” He rose from his chair, cupped her chin in his long fingers, and raised her face to him.
“You are the woman of my hear
t,” he said and kissed her.
Chapter 10
It was a struggle to see through the thick gray veil of early-morning London fog. Alexander Saxton turned down Court Street, thankful he could make out the sign above the fog line. He regretted he hadn’t taken a hansom cab to the Van Cleve building on Grayson Lane from his hotel. Jesus, how could these people stand to be shivering in the middle of July? A man nearly ran into him as he rushed by, likely a clerk on his way to work, and late at that. Not so very different from New York, he thought. As he crossed the street, he heard an offended yell. “Eh, gov’nor, mind where yer going.” A cart filled with beer kegs rumbled by, the driver shaking his head at Alex. No, Alex thought, not much different at all from New York.
He rehearsed the coming meeting in his mind, reviewing the points on which he planned to give and those on which he would not bend. Why his London associate, Hammett Engles, could not have handled the early negotiations was beyond him. He had insisted that Alex come to London and conduct the entire matter himself, writing that Aurora Van Cleve was not a woman to be taken lightly. Still, he would have sent Anesley O’Leary, his assistant in New York, had not his London solicitor, Raymond Ffalkes, agreed that he himself should be in London for the duration. Although Alex hadn’t much cared for the pompous Ffalkes when he dined with him and Hammett the night before, the man appeared to know his business. Alex needed a holiday, and he had never visited London. He did look forward to seeing the exhibition in Paxton’s incredible Crystal Palace and partaking of London’s other pleasures. He would deal with the wily Mrs. Van Cleve in his spare time and take himself to Paris by the end of the week.
He stopped in front of a three-story gray brick building and looked up at the finely scrolled lettering above its double doors. VAN CLEVE ENTERPRISES and below: 11 Grayson Lane.
A young man approached him in a tomblike lobby that echoed his footsteps. He was directed to the second floor. Everything was old in London, he thought as he climbed the wide marble stairs, old and stolid, fairly reeking of English respectability. He pushed open a double set of thick oak doors and found himself in an elegantly appointed outer office. A young man, this one with bushy side whiskers and glasses, rose to greet him.
“Mr. Saxton?”
At Alex’s nod, the young man said, “My name is Drew Mortesson, Mrs. Van Cleve’s assistant. Welcome to London, sir. Mr. Ffalkes, your solicitor, Mr. Hardesty, Mrs. Van Cleve’s partner, and Mr. Hammett Engles, your London associate, are in the conference room. If you will follow me, sir.”
“And Mrs. Van Cleve?” Alex inquired, arching a thick black brow. From all he had heard, the lady dragon always saw to her own business.
Drew paused but an instant before replying, “ Unfortunately, Mrs. Van Cleve has fallen ill with the influenza. Her daughter, Georgiana Van Cleve, will be conducting the meeting.”
Not another woman. Although he knew a good deal about the mother, Alex hadn’t bothered to check up on the daughter. He must have betrayed his thoughts, because Drew Mortesson said quietly, “I believe you will find Miss Van Cleve to be as capable as her mother. Although she is young, she has been completely involved in all the Van Cleve interests for the past four years, and is qualified to discuss every aspect of the proposed merger.”
“I am certain that she is,” Alex said with ill-disguised sarcasm. Now he was to do business with a damned girl, or perhaps a spinster of uncertain years. He supposed, in all fairness, that he would have been equally put off if it were Aurora Van Cleve’s son. He had endured quite enough of puffed-up sons in their father’s businesses.
A bell sounded, and Drew cast a harried look back toward his office. “If you will excuse me for a moment, sir,” he said, and hurried away.
Alex strolled down a thickly carpeted corridor that swallowed the sound of his steps. Stolid and depressingly quiet, he thought, like a well-kept mausoleum. He much preferred the chaotic activity of South Street, with its tightly packed row of tall-masted ships, and their passengers mingling with porters, carmen, and drays, and, of course, the frenetic high-hatted clerks from the offices across the street. He had torn down a large countinghouse that had dominated South Street in the 1820’s, and built in its stead a stately three-story edifice. Because he had had fond feelings for his deceased father-in-law, he had named the building A. Saxton & F. Nielson. His huge office occupied half the top floor, and whenever he wished, he could swivel about in his chair and gaze out the huge glass windows onto the bustling street.
He paused a moment to study the row of paintings on the corridor walls above the rich wainscoting. Portraits of ships under full sail with their names in gold script. The Netherlands, the Cornucopia, the Alaistair, all famous ships built in the early years of the century. There were later pictures, daguerreotypes, showing several Van Cleve ships in the Plymouth shipyard. The Hunter, a huge cargo vessal with enough white canvas rigging to cover a building, had docked in New York the week before he had left, carrying cases of wine from the Van Cleve vineyards in Bordeaux.
Alex continued down the corridor toward a richly carved set of double doors that looked to be the thickness of his forearm. He looked to see if Drew Mortesson was coming, but he was nowhere in sight. He shrugged and opened the doors. He strode into another antechamber, impressively furnished with heavy mahogany chairs and a black leather Bentington sofa, this one, he supposed, the waiting room outside Aurora Van Cleve’s throne room.
To his surprise, he saw a curtained glass window on the far wall that gave into the next room. He wondered if he would be able to see whom he was to do business with, without he himself having to undergo their scrutiny. He stepped quietly to the window and drew the curtain. It was a splendidly decorated room, every inch of it showing subdued good taste. At the far end, set near the floor-to-ceiling windows, was a huge mahogany desk. He wondered somewhat cynically why the heavy velvet draperies were open, for there was nothing to see save thick fog. A long oak table with heavy comfortable chairs around it was set in the middle of the room. A decanter on a silver tray with crystal glasses grouped about it was readied at its center. He saw Mr. Ffalkes, standing by the window, looking like a plump fop, mopping his wide brow with a handkerchief. His business associate, Hammett Engles, was seated near the desk, looking somewhat like a mournful undertaker in his stark black, shuffling papers in his lap. He supposed the other man was Thomas Hardesty, Aurora Van Cleve’s partner. He was pouring himself a cup of tea, Alex suspected, from a pot on the edge of the desk. His thin mouth had a look of bored amusement, and his gray eyes seemed vague. He was not, Alex decided, a man to underestimate. Perhaps Aurora Van Cleve’s success was the work of that mild-looking, likely very astute man. He saw a woman standing with her back to the men, facing the window. She was dressed fashionably enough, but her silk gown was a subdued gray, and the corset she undoubtedly wore managed quite well to conceal any curves beneath her bodice. Her hair was inky black and coiled into a thick chignon at the nape of her neck. She turned at something Ffalkes said, laughing lightly, and he saw a very young profile, not at all unpleasing. Thomas Hardesty walked toward the long table and she turned to follow him. When he saw her full face, he felt an instant of vague puzzlement, and then a blighting shock of recognition. He had to be mistaken. He felt a knot of fury clutch his belly as he studied her. It was she—he would never forget that face. The vivid dark blue eyes, the elegant arched brows, the raven-black hair. But it made no sense. Helen, Molly, Georgiana Van Cleve—Giana, the odd name he remembered hearing that night four years ago in Rome. Georgiana Van Cleve, the famous Aurora Van Cleve’s daughter, had played a cheap little harlot to bilk him of two thousand dollars, and arranged to have him bashed over the head for good measure. He had been insane to buy her in the first place, but what had truly galled him, galled him still, was that he had been played for a fool, an utter ass, who had rushed headlong into the trap she had set. He remembered quite clearly how she had sought him out in the room of gentlemen at Signora Lamponni’s Flower Auction, how she had managed to gain his interest. A marvelous actress, that one. He had tried to find the little bitch, even postponed his trip to Paris, but with no success. She seemed to have vanished, and that stiff-lipped madam, Signora Lamponni, had told him that all she knew about the girl was that she had come from Paris, highly recommended, of course. He had known she was lying, but there was no changing her story. She quickly offered to refund his two thousand dollars, but he had slammed out of her presence, so infuriated that he could scarcely think straight. He supposed it was best that he hadn’t found the little slut, for if he had, he might have strangled her.
Dammit, how could this girl be Aurora Van Cleve’s daughter—the harlot he had bought as a virgin in Rome four years ago? Virgin. That was a laugh. He intended to find out. But first he would show her she was playing in his world now.
Drew Mortesson appeared at his elbow. “Excuse me, Mr. Saxton, for leaving you. If you will accompany me, sir, we can proceed.”
Alex nodded at him, drew in his breath, and schooled his features. He followed Drew into the conference room, which was suddenly quiet at his entrance. He purposefully set his gaze away from Georgiana Van Cleve.
“Gentlemen,” he said, acknowledging Ffalkes’s and Engles’s presence. “You, sir, must be Thomas Hardesty. It is a pleasure.”
“I assure you, Mr. Saxton, that it is also our pleasure,” Thomas said. “It is gratifying to have a bit of migration to this side of the world, even though it is for but a short time. I suppose that Drew has told you of Mrs. Van Cleve’s indisposition,” he continued. “Her daughter, however, is most worthy to take her place. Miss Van Cleve, sir.?