Frail Read online

  Frail

  Susanna Ives

  Copyright © 2016 by Susanna Ives

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations or excerpts for the purpose of critical reviews or articles—without permission in writing from Susanna Ives, author and publisher of the work.

  Cover design by Susanna Ives

  Digital image courtesy of the Getty's Open Content Program.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Acknowledgments

  Dear Reader

  One

  December 1860

  I should have taken the first train out of London.

  Music thundered in Theo’s ears. His hands shook. Sweat poured down his back, drenching the shirt beneath his evening coat.

  On the chalked dance floor, couples swept to a waltz being played by a chamber orchestra of violins, flutes, and a harp. The light of the gas flames in the chandeliers glistened on the silk and taffeta skirts as they swished to the lift and fall of the dance. The young ladies’ cheeks were flushed from the heat, and their hair was styled into stiff waves and spirals and adorned with beads and flowers. The scent of perfumes and men’s hair oils burned Theo’s nose. He balled and flexed his hands, taking long breaths to slow his racing heart. The last five years tending his gardens and living like a monk in the Snowdonia mountains of North Wales hadn’t managed to lessen his angst at coming back to the city.

  “Pray, Theo, it's but a dance, not a parliamentary debate,” Theo’s stepmother Marie, the Countess of Staswick, said. She scanned the ballroom with her shiny cocoa eyes. “You are going to scare off the ladies with that glower you wear.”

  He forced a smile. Before him, another season's fresh crop of debutantes whirled—one of whom, his stepmother had assured him, would make a lovely bride. Marie had never surrendered her belief that the soft arms of a loving wife could “cure” Theo where quack doctors and opiates had failed.

  “Much better.” Marie inspected Theo’s smile from under her long lashes and then glanced at her husband. “All the ladies are peeking at your son—wanting to dance with such a handsome man. He resembles his father, of course.” She laughed.

  “You look fine this evening.” The words sounded stiff on his father’s lips. It was the same compliment he had given Theo when he had entered the parlor dressed in a black coat and white cravat.

  Over the last year, the two men had reached a raw, uncomfortable truce. When Theo and his brothers were growing up, the earl never lavished praise on his sons. His voice boomed in the House of Lords, but, at home, he preferred to communicate with a curt word or a hard look of disapproval. Now he was nervous and awkward around his middle son, repeatedly asking him how he was feeling, about his home in Wales, or his opinion on political matters. Both flailed for the right words, inevitably choosing the wrong ones. A simple sorry couldn’t wipe away the pain Theo had inflicted on his family after returning from Crimea. In those months, he hadn’t been able to sleep for the racing of his mind, which he tried to numb with alcohol, opium, flesh, and violence. He had passed his nights stalking alone through the streets, his eyes darting from side to side, constantly watching, his muscles flexed, on a razor’s edge, and ready to reach for the rifle no longer at his side.

  “I know one of these pretty ladies is going to fall in love with you,” the earl said, straining to sound casual. He looked at his wife as if to ask, Did I say the right thing?

  Theo heard a burst of tingling female laughter rise above the music. Several couples quickly stepped aside for a young lady who had forgotten all rhythm of the dance and was spinning wildly under her partner’s arm. Her pastel blue gown was cut so low the ruffle of lace running across her breasts and shoulders barely covered her nipples. Black spiraling curls lifted in the air around her white porcelain face. A reckless grin hiked her high cheekbones and sparkled in her arresting eyes. They weren’t the dark brown or deep gray eyes he would have expected with her coloring, but a light silvery blue, matching her diamond necklace.

  “Who is that?” he asked, although in his gut he already knew the answer. She fit all the descriptions he had read in the papers: exotically beautiful and wild.

  “That is Miss Helena Gillingham,” his stepmother answered, confirming his assumptions. She leaned closer until her mouth was near his ear. “If you won her, you could turn Grosvenor Square into your private garden. No need to traipse off to Wales anymore.”

  His throat burned. His poor parents had no inkling Helena’s father, John Gillingham, was the reason he had torn himself away from Wales for the first time in five years.

  “I think even Petruchio would draw the line at her,” he quipped dryly. “Is her father in attendance?”

  Marie shook her head. “I rarely see the man at parties. But your father converses with him at the club almost every day.”

  Theo replied with a terse hmm and edged along the wall to get a better view of the human whirlwind as she slipped from her partner’s grasp and spun like a top into an aging couple. They shot her a hot glare.

  “I’m so terribly, terribly sorry,” she said, appearing anything but contrite as she pressed her hand to her mouth to stem the flow of giggles.

  So this was the daughter of the man who was bilking hundreds of his fellow men.

  She turned as if she knew he was thinking about her, her unsettlingly pale eyes locking on his. Her gaze swept over his person, returning to his face. An odd combination of heat and cold spread over his skin. He couldn’t deny her allure. She had the type of sparkling gaze that trapped a man like an insect pinned to a board. She studied him a moment more, then her lips formed a moue, and she gave a saucy toss of her head.

  Was she flirting with him? A grave error.

  A number of men who had served with him in Crimea had recommended he place his savings in her father’s bank. They trusted the banker with large parts of their modest savings, dependent on his five percent return. Theo first became suspicious of the banker when his neighbor, Emily, casually mentioned she had repeatedly written to her cousin Gillingham in London for help when her husband and son were first sick. She received no reply. What began as mere curiosity about the wealthy man turned into Theo’s two year-long investigation into his fictional board members, dubious stock trades and holdings, and doctored financial statements. That morning, Theo had disembarked the train from Chester and met with a Scotland Yard officer named Charles Wilson who had agreed to keep Theo’s name in confidence.

  “Gillingham has set up a phony board of directors for his bank and is siphoning money to himself by giving loans to suspicious companies,” Theo had told the officer. He pointed to Sheffield Metalworks of which Gillingham owned a majority of shares and sat on the board with several of his cronies. The machinery was outdated, and the company received perhaps one or two small railroad contracts a year. Why would Gillingham have this firm and others like it except to hide money?

  “I estimate about seven hundred thousand pounds has been intentionally taken from his bank’s capital,” Theo had continued. “He is stealing. He is going to run and leave his customers—my soldiers—with the full extent of his li
ability.”

  And now Gillingham’s daughter flirted and twirled in a shining silk gown financed by the same men who were sent to war in ridiculous uniforms, and made to contend with flimsy tents and no food. Theo may have left the army when he stepped onto the London docks after two years in Crimea, insisting on being called a plain mister again, no longer Colonel Mallory, but that primal need to take care of his men remained.

  “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” a voice said, jerking him from his thoughts.

  Theo turned. Beside him stood a young man with bristle-like, blonde whiskers and a squared dimpled chin. “Eliot,” Theo whispered.

  “Pardon?” The man blinked.

  Damn. Eliot was dead. One of a dozen that day who were still reeking of dysentery when he was lined in a ditch beside his dead comrades and covered with dirt.

  “I’m sorry,” Theo muttered. “I’m confused.”

  The gentleman laughed. “Miss Gillingham does that to a fellow.”

  Theo made no response and continued along the edge of the dance floor. He knew he should square away a partner for the next set to appease Marie. Instead, he motioned to a servant to bring him some wine. He lingered in a corner, sipped from his glass, and observed Miss Gillingham.

  She had traipsed back to her partner. Her lips curved in a childish pout that, no doubt, her admirers found adorable. As she lifted and fell in the 1-2-3 rhythm, her gaze kept drifting in Theo’s direction. When the song at last ended, she clasped her partner’s arm, allowing him to escort her from the floor, then peeked over her shoulder at Theo—with an invitation in her eyes.

  But he had seen enough to satisfy his curiosity about the woman. She was a spoiled, oblivious child, and he wasn’t going to let her sit on his conscience. And yet he continued to study the graceful curve of her back as she crossed the threshold into the parlor where the refreshments were laid out. Again, she tossed her curls, casting him a beckoning glance before disappearing into the room.

  He finished his wine and signaled for another glass, which he gulped down. He knew he shouldn’t drink so much so quickly, but the people and noise were crowding his senses. He sleeked his palms down his face, smoothing the bristles of his beard. His hands were rough and wrinkled, belonging to a man of sixty, not thirty. Under his nails were tiny rims of dirt he couldn’t scrub away. He closed his eyes, for a moment letting his mind wander through the memory of his gardens at Castell Bach yr Anwylyd. When he had left, the grounds were dormant in the winter. Deep in the soil, the bulbs and roots waited out the cold, and all the seeds to be planted were germinating in the green house. Against the enormous sky and vaulting mountains, the oak tree branches were still, stark bones.

  ∞∞∞

  People crowded Helena in the parlor. She muttered the appropriate just darling and oh, how clever to their chatter as she strained to look over the crush of shoulders, searching for him. Her fingers holding her champagne shook; her nerves were electrified. She waited and waited, staring at the threshold as her friends babbled on. Who was that gentleman?

  The violins began thrumming a new song. A strong hand gripped her arm. “My turn,” a voice whispered and began tugging her towards the dance floor.

  “No!” she cried, ripping herself free, splashing her drink. She covered her outburst with a smile. “I-I haven’t finished my cham...” Her voice faded as the stranger stepped into the room.

  His gaze darted about as he raked his fingers through his chestnut hair, lifting it from his forehead, leaving a few stubborn strands over his brow. Slight hollows formed below the ridges of his cheekbones. Although his lips were full, he kept his mouth tight and his jaw clenched beneath his beard. His evening clothes weren’t as crisp as the other men’s and appeared a size too small, the coat gaping at his chest and his biceps straining the seams of his sleeves.

  She stepped forward, putting space between herself and her circle of acquaintances.

  He did not approach, but remained planted a few feet before her. She knew he was as aware of her as she was of him. His gaze had made her self-conscious for the entire dance.

  Why did he not come?

  When he didn’t respond, she strode toward him, her crinoline swaying with the motion of her hips. People turned to watch her performance. His eyes widened and his chest rose, but not with anticipation. Some emotion she couldn’t decipher. Her confidence faltered. Something about this man made her feel beyond naked, as though her very skin had been stripped away. She immediately reached for something outrageous to do to hide her lapse. She had to keep everyone enthralled with her bright glow, distracted from the despondency below.

  So she raised the glass to her lips, took a long sip, then wiped the side of her lip with her finger, watching his reaction. His expression didn’t change except for a deepening in his eyes.

  “I saw you watching me.” She smiled, tilting her head. “I hoped you would care to dance.”

  She could hear the gasps and feel the shocked stares of others in the room. The attention gave her a goosy, heady sensation, emboldening her further. She was determined to make the man adore her like the others.

  “Is your father not here?” he asked.

  “Why would you care to see my father? Are you going to ask for my hand in marriage?” She raised her shoulders, making a silvery little laugh that worked its charm on the gentlemen around her. Yet the stranger remained rigid.

  “Come now, I was jesting. A little joke.” She touched his arm. Beneath the sleeve, she could feel him tense. “My father would never attend such a party. There are no stacks of ledgers or tiny numbers scribbled about—all the things he adores.”

  His nostrils flared with a harsh exhalation, and he wiped his hand across his mouth.

  “Are—are you well?” she asked.

  His lips moved, but no words came out. Then he surprised her, taking her hand still resting on his arm and pulling her forward. “You said you wanted to dance.”

  His hands, rough like a laborer’s, sent a hot current through her skin. “Please hold this,” she said, shoving her glass at her friend Emmagard.

  She let him lead her through the web of dancers, finding a clear space near the center of the floor. She wrapped her fingers around his and rested her other hand on his shoulder. He stiffened and swayed on his feet as if he suddenly didn’t know what to do. She must be making the poor boy nervous.

  “I’m Helena,” she said, gently nudging him into the rhythm of the dance. “But I suppose you must call me drab ‘Miss Gillingham.’ And you are?”

  “Theodotus Mallory.”

  “Theodotus!” She laughed. “That’s quite a name.” She slowly enunciated each syllable with a slight pucker to her lips. “The—o—do—tus.”

  “Well, I suppose you must call me drab ‘Mr. Mallory,’” he replied flatly.

  “Oh, I detest drabness,” she cried loud enough for her audience to hear. “No, no, you shall be ‘Mr. Theodotus’ to me. Why have I not seen you before? Are you visiting from some exotic place? I would find that fascinating.”

  He studied her, not with the enamored look she was accustomed to getting from men, but something reserved and calculating. What was his game? All men had some game to try and catch her. Some pretended to be friends, some feigned bored aloofness, and others became her pet. She couldn’t find this man’s level.

  “Wales,” he replied after several beats.

  “Wales!” she exclaimed. “I adore Wales. I visited when I was four.”

  “Four? Well, it must have made a lasting impression on you.” He hiked the edge of his mouth in a wry smile—or was that a sneer? His guarded eyes offered no translation.

  She surprised him by lifting his arm and turning under it. He faltered.

  “You must practice if you are to dance with me,” she teased. “We stayed in Conwy.”

  His head jerked up, his cheeks reddened. “What?”

  She smiled to herself. He wasn’t impervious to her, after all. “Conwy in Wales. Remember, we were tal
king about Wales. My cousin took me to see the castle—the lovely one by the sea,” she continued. “I nearly caused her apoplexy, for I ran away and climbed a crumbling wall, nearly falling to my death.”

  In truth, her cousin had been flirting with a local boy and hadn’t noticed Helena slipping away. She had scampered along the old fortress, going higher and higher up the narrow towers until she could see the shining water flowing in from the sea.

  She remembered a crumbling sound and then the stinging burn of falling down the stone, the sharp edges cutting through her clothes. Her head and spine slammed the pavers of the courtyard. The next sensation she remembered was the cool breeze that blew her collar over her chin and then pain burst in every fiber of her body. For several long seconds she couldn’t move. Her cousin never came for her. A childish terror had seized her that no one would notice she was missing. She would be lost forever. At length, her body began to recover from the shock. She had scrambled to her feet and raced up the steep street to her cousin’s house, screaming, saliva flying from the corners of her mouth. She found her mother in the parlor, having tea, and pressed her wet face into her lap and wailed.

  “My dress,” her mother had cried and yanked Helena away from the delicate fabric.

  Helena shook her head, casting off the old memory. Why was she thinking about such a ridiculous thing at a ball?

  “I was a very naughty child,” she told Mr. Mallory with an arch in her voice, trying to provoke her serious dance partner into some semblance of flirting.

  “Were you visiting your cousin Emily in Wales?” he asked. “She is an acquaintance of mine.”

  “Cousin Emily?” she said. In her mind flashed various cards received through the Christmases and Easters from a Mrs. Emily Pengwern, who lived at one of those odd-looking Welsh addresses. She wrote tiresomely on and on about her daughter and son. “I suppose. I don’t really remember much.”

  “Come now, I thought you adored Wales.” He halted and her foot crunched down on his toes, but his face didn’t register any pain. “The reason I inquire about your cousin is because she is infirm and poor.”