A Matter of Principle (25 page)

“
Let me ask you this, Nick. Have you discussed any of this with Sydney?”

Nicolas retied his hair. “I have.”

“
And what is her opinion?”

“
She says I must do what I believe I must do.”

“
And she will support you, in either choice?”

“
She will.”

Rickard smiled. “She’s a strong woman, Nick.”

Nicolas chuckled. “That she is.”

“
Not easily cowed.”

“
Not at all.”

“
Is she frightened now?”

Nicolas paused. “Concerned. Careful. But she trusts me.”

“
So if you continue, you do so with the unquestioned help and support of a strong, trusting woman who is not easily cowed?”

Nicolas finished his brandy and pointed the crystal glass at Rickard. “I get your meaning.”

Rickard laughed and stretched. A last stream of orange winter sun frosted his hair, wreathing him in flames. “I have one last question for this inquisition.”

“
Then might I escape the whips and chains, after all?” Nicolas teased, both resolve and brandy warming his innards.

Rickard slapped his hands on his knees, shoulders forward, challenging. “If you did quit, how could you live with yourself?”

Nicolas nodded.
Good point.

“
Losing the election is one thing,” Rick continued. “But walking out before you finish? That, brother, is an entirely different animal!”

“
Well, as it appears now, that’s an animal I shall not hunt.” Nicolas held his fist in the air. “Onward to the goal!”

“
Here, here!” Rickard slapped Nick’s shoulder. “Do you suppose supper is close to ready?”



“
Tighter!” Lily gasped.

Her Negro maid pulled the corset strings. “You don’ want to hurt the baby, Miz Lily.”

“
This blasted child grows too fast!”

“
I can’t pull it anymore.”

“
Fine! Just tie them, then!” Lily snapped.

She let go of the bedpost and straightened in front of her mirror. She turned to the side, then back to the front. Straight on, she appeared as slender as always. It was only from the side that the swelling below her waist was noticeable.

Nicolas was downstairs, right now, talking to Rickard. She hadn’t known he was coming, and she had to get down there before it was too late. She must talk to him!

The maid held out a turquoise dress, one of her most flattering, and she stepped under the skirt. It fell over her shoulders, to her hips.

“
It—it won’t close,” the Negress whispered, tugging at the edges of fabric in back.

“
What?” Lily spun in front of the mirror to see the offending gap. “Damn!”

“
Shall I pick a different dress?”

Lily sneered at her maid. “Unless you can magically make this one larger, I would believe that an appropriate action! And be quick about it!”

The girl backed away and began digging through the wardrobe. Lily pulled the turquoise dress over her head and threw it to the floor. Her slave girl held up a green silk dress with a high waist.

“
Will this one do, ma’am?”

“
I suppose.” It wasn’t her favorite, but time was slipping away from her. “Hurry up. You still need to freshen my hair!”



“
I believe supper should be ready in half-an-hour or less,” Lily answered Rickard’s question as she glided into his study, shutting the door behind her. “Hello, Nick. It’s wonderful, as always, to see you again.” She was careful to face him directly, and not give him the condemning side view.

“
Hello, Lily.” Nicolas did not smile. “How are you feeling?”

“
I feel quite wonderful! Thank you for asking.”

“
When is your confinement expected?”

“
My confinement? Oh! That would be in the summer.” Lily smiled and batted her lashes. “Would you pour me a glass of wine?”

“
That’s rather a vague answer,” Nicolas pressed, handing her the requested beverage.

Irritating popinjay
. “It would depend on when I conceived, would it not?”

“
Usually!” Rickard scoffed. “Do you not know when that blessed event might have occurred?”

“
Or with whom?” Nicolas challenged.

Lily saw his empty brandy glass and the nearly empty decanter. They’d apparently drunk enough that Nick was not concerned with being polite. Very well, then.

“
With whom?” Lily sashayed around Nicolas, swirling the wine in her glass. “That’s a rather interesting question, is it not?”

Nicolas shrugged, silent.

“
Because I seem to have conceived soon after arriving in Cheltenham.” Lily stopped in front of Nicolas. She took a long sip of her wine, her eyes fixed on his cold, blue stare. She lifted her chin. “What do you make of that?”

“
Not one damned thing, Lily,” he said.

“
Well you should, Nick.” She looked at her brother. “Because I still don’t have what I came for.”

Rickard brushed her away. “And you never will!” he blurted recklessly.

“
So you say.” Lily grasped Nicolas’s cock through his breeches. He gasped, eyes round as dinner plates with the surprise. He could not back away; her grip was too tight. She watched his face flush. Was it pain? Or embarrassment? “But you are sensible as to what I shall claim regarding the child’s father, are you not?”

“
Good Lord, Lily!” Rickard cried. “Have you no shame?”

Lily looked at her brother over her shoulder. “I only want what is mine!” she growled.

“
Are you trying to arouse me, Lily?” Nicolas lifted one brow.

Her head jerked back to face him. “Why? Is it working?”

“
Does it seem so?”

“
Pah!” Lily dropped the limp handful. Nicolas did not back away.
Pompous stud
. A timid knock on the study door silenced them all.

“
Rickard?” Bronnie’s sweet voice called. “Supper is almost ready. Are you coming?”

Rickard shot a hard look at Lily. He crossed the study to open the door. “Yes, we’re coming.”

“
Ezra and I are in the drawing room. Would you care to join us?” Bronnie rested one hand on Rickard’s arm.

Lily saw his tension ease at the sound of her voice and the weight of her hand. Bronnie’s eyes met Rick’s and she smiled. Not a happy smile, a reassuring smile. The sort of smile that assures someone that they are not now, and never will be, alone.

For a moment, Lily envied that smile. No one had ever smiled at her that way. Her eyes shifted to Ezra, her husband. His smile was entirely different. Scheming. Sly.

Lily took Nicolas’s unyielding arm, pulling him to the doorway, and nodded at Ezra. She was determined to take what was rightfully hers, that was certain. And by whatever means were required.

February 12, 1822

Cheltenham

Sydney stepped into the bathing tub in the kitchen. Nicolas was at Rickard’s to talk about the campaign and the fire. He planned to stay through supper. Sydney expected he would return after she was in bed, if he returned tonight at all.

“
I’d rather you did not try to find your way home in a brandied stupor, should your conversation head in that direction,” she had told him.

“
Fyrste knows his way,” Nicolas had teased. “Rickard can have me tied to the saddle!” Sydney thumped him solidly in the chest, and he laughed. “Fine then! No drunken fool will try to find his way to you tonight.”

“
Promise? It’s mortally cold out,” Sydney insisted.

“
I promise.”

She sank under the hot water; it gave her gooseflesh. Tension melted away and left her boneless. And the nausea abated.

She was glad to be alone tonight. Hiding her intermittent and unpredictable discomfort from Nicolas was hard; he knew her well and noticed everything.

She was becoming expert at vomiting silently, holding her nose over a chamber pot or privy. And when the nausea arose, she nibbled on dry scones or biscuits. He had only caught her a very few times, and each time she was able to explain it away.

And in bed, she maintained her enthusiasm. That was a much easier task.

“
I’ve been unwell on and off for a month, now,” she muttered.

Yet she had no other symptoms. If she was indeed with child, it would not quicken for two more months at the soonest. Perhaps there was some other explanation? She examined her breasts, looking for telltale—and nonexistent—darkening around her nipples.

“
Perhaps it’s only the stress of the campaign. The constant change of location. The quality of food in so many establishments,” she rationalized. “That, and keeping odd hours, and sleeping in lumpy beds. Or perhaps it’s the endless travel over unpaved country roads in closed carriages?”

She sighed.

Or perhaps Nicolas is not so damaged after all
.

He would be dining with Lily tonight.

Sydney held her breath and disappeared under the water.

Chapter Nineteen

February 16, 1822

St. Louis

When is a Valet So Much More?

Herbert Q. Percival

Valet.

The very word, as it rolls softly off the tongue, conjures the exact response the word insinuates. Comfort. Service. Needs anticipated, and then met. An experienced touch. A steady hand. Baths drawn, clean clothes at the ready, hair combed, plaited, powdered or wigged.

Valet.

Most men hire their valets already trained. Usually raised in houses of elegance, these servants grow up under the tutelage of a father or uncle until sufficiently skilled. Then they are employed by gentlemen who appreciate their multiple talents.

Or, you might bring a bastard cousin ~ a child really ~ from a distant country and ensconce him in your private apartment.

Why would a gentleman of means make such a choice?

How sensible is it to try to train such a boy? Risk your coats not adequately cleaned, emitting a vaguely offensive odor as you greet men of power? Risk your boots looking poor, shabby for want of a decent shine, when you attempt to convince others of your fiscal responsibility? Decry the institution of slavery, and yet risk your very life’s blood with an unsure shave?

Yes, readers, we are speaking of that Nordic god, Mr. Nicolas Hansen.

Apparently, Mr. Hansen continues to operate above the level of mere human. His ‘valet’ is a thirteen-year-old from Norway, a cousin Hansen claims, and he risks all of the above, and probably much more, to keep the young man by his side.

Close by his side.

In fact, the youth now attends affairs with Hansen, hovering at his elbow, until even Hansen’s tolerance reaches its limit and he orders the boy away. But he always returns before the evening is over, and they leave together.

Always, together.

February 16, 1822

Cheltenham

Nicolas stood in his study and pulled his bow across the strings of his Hardanger fiddle, loosing a roomful of quick, strident tones. Music burst from the instrument and bounced off the walls in energetic, staccato notes.

He played the fiddle hard and sought to release his anger through the sound. When he read the article suggesting that he—well, it made him want to vomit.

“
Gud forbanner det all til helvete!
” he had shouted, and threw the newspaper toward the hearth. It unfolded and fluttered all over the floor of his study, a flock of printed sheets. “
Skitt!
”

That was when he got out the Hardanger.

So many times over the years he sought solace in its soothing vibrations. The music he made seemed to express his feelings more easily than any words he could string together.

But this was beyond his tolerance. The insinuations about him and Leif needed to be addressed. Unrelieved, he encased the abused fiddle.

“
But how to do so, without making it seem as though I ‘protest too much’?” Nicolas muttered, and kicked the newspaper pages. They rode his boot into the air, then drifted down, unconcerned.

He marched into the hallway. “Sydney?” he called.

A moment later, her head appeared at the top of the stairs, through their bedroom door. “Yes?”

“
Have you time to discuss something with me?”