Evening Star (Star Quartet 1)

Aurora coughed, as if on cue, and Giana said suddenly, “You have had enough tiring conversation for one evening, Mother.”

“I trust,” Alex said smoothly, “that you do not equate tiring with boring, Miss Van Cleve.”

“My mother is ill, sir.”

“I begin to think myself the daughter being scolded by a fond mother,” Aurora said, filling in the naked gap left by her daughter’s outburst. “Where will you go to dinner?”

“To the Albion,” Giana said, gazing stone-faced toward Alex.

“Indeed, I had decided upon the London Taverns, but no matter. It has been a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Van Cleve. I hope for your speedy recovery.”

“Thank you for your concern, Mr. Saxton. I hope you will not be too late, Giana. Tomorrow is a full day, is it not?”

“I am relieved you have dressed like a young lady,” he said as he assisted Giana into the hired carriage outside. “I was half-afraid you would change into something more suited to your profession.” He ignored her gasp. “Or is business so good that you can play at being a lady with the gentlemen you deal with? There must be many men,” he continued, as if musing loud, “to choose from in the world of business.”

“You are an insufferable jackass. London will not miss your like when you take your leave.”

“But I will be well remembered, Giana, you may count on that, at least by you.”

He was answered with stark silence. He grinned into the darkness and sat back comfortably.

Dark rain clouds hung low in the sky and the air was damp and chilly. Giana hugged herself against the carriage door and concentrated on the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves over the cobblestones until the carriage turned onto Great Russell Street and came to a halt before the elegantly facaded Albion.

“I was delighted at your selection of restaurants. I was rather afraid I would be thrust willy-nilly into the more unsavory side of London. There are so few places, are there not, where a lady may take a gentleman to dine without destroying his reputation?”

He assisted her to step down from the carriage, paid the driver, and escorted her, his hand cupping her elbow, into the Albion.

“Ah, Mr. Saxton,” Henri, the maître d’ said as he expertly divested Giana of her shawl and Alex of his hat and cane. “Mr. Engles told me to expect you, sir. Do follow me, monsieur, mademoiselle, I have arranged your private room, as you requested. And the turtle, it is divinity itself this evening.”

“I thought you made plans at the London Taverns,” Giana said through her teeth as they followed the debonair Henri into their magnific

ent private room.

“I told you that it mattered little to me, Giana. Are you disappointed that Henri dashed your hopes and accorded me a royal welcome? Wealth and power grant many privileges, even to brash Americans.”

Giana sat stiffly in her chair as Alexander Saxton ordered a claret, Château Margaux, 1844, from their waiter. When the claret arrived, Saxton described the full-bodied wine in fluent detail to the beaming waiter, all in flawless French.

“To our renewed acquaintance,” Alex said.

Giana didn’t say anything to that, nor did she touch her glass.

Alex ordered for both of them, without even asking her what she preferred, and sat back, regarding her thoughtfully. Giana waited until their waiter was at the door, and coolly called him back. “I do not care for the salmon Indienne, nor the new potatoes.”

The waiter cast an uncertain eye toward Alex.

“What would you prefer, Miss Van Cleve?” Alex asked, smiling just a bit.

“The mutton soubise, if you please and the asparagus. The St. Cloud pudding and the sparkling champagne, iced. I do not care for the claret. It is too heavy.”

Alex nodded toward the harassed waiter, and sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I was not aware you had even tasted the claret, but no matter. You did indeed make quite an ass of Ffalkes this morning. He thought it was premeditated, of course, called you a cold-blooded bitch and the like, which we both know is anything but the truth.” He saw her blue eyes flash. “Had you been a man, he would of course have admired your cunning. I gather Mr. Ffalkes is not one of your customers.”

Giana’s eyes fell to her dinner knife, and she found herself clutching it like a weapon. He laughed. “Do not, I beg you, stab me here. It is you who could not afford the scandal, Giana.” He added thoughtfully, “It will be quite interesting to find out how you managed it. I even find myself wondering if your mother was really ill.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Really? The way Ffalkes was braying on, even I would not have grasped what he was saying and not saying if I had not had, shall we say, prior information. The others, Engles included, did not realize it. A clerk, I assume, who works for Mr. Ffalkes gave you a preview?”