When Love Commands Read online

  The hackney was still waiting. I gave him the address and climbed inside, my mind in a turmoil as we made our slow progress to Threadneedle Street. When I finally stepped inside the hushed, imposing main room of the Bank of England with its atmosphere of awesome wealth, I was due another surprise. I gave my name to the clerk who came to assist me and told him I wished to make a withdrawal. He looked perturbed when I told him I didn’t know the account number but was extremely polite as I explained that the account had been opened by a Mr. Jeremy Bond last month. Asking me to wait, he left. I gazed at the marble columns and brass fixtures and paneled walls, the subdued elegance infused with an air of restrained excitement as clerks scribbled industriously in ledgers and scurried swiftly, silently hither and yon about the room like self-important bees in a golden hive.

  Quite a long time elapsed before the clerk who had come to assist me returned. There was a worried look in his eyes as he asked me to follow him. I asked if there was a problem. He mumbled something deliberately unintelligible, leading the way down a long hall lined with windows looking out over the sunny, plant-filled central garden which, I knew, had once been the courtyard of the Church of St. Christopher le Stocks. The clerk paused, knocked lightly on a door and led me into a spacious office with honey-colored wood paneling and patterned tan and salmon pink rugs scattered over the parquet floor. The clerk nodded nervously and left, closing the door behind him, and I stood facing a handsome, friendly-looking man in his mid-fifties who had risen from behind his desk when we entered.

  “I’m Robert Bancroft, Miss Danver. I have the honor of being one of the presidents of this establishment. Won’t you sit down?”

  He had a pleasant voice and a relaxed manner that indicated he took neither himself nor his position too seriously, yet there was an air of strength and capability about him that immediately inspired confidence. His dark blond hair was streaked with silver, his face attractively lined, his deep brown eyes warm and amiable. Apprehensive, puzzled as to why I should have been shown into his office, I took the seat he indicated.

  “There seems to be a—uh—small problem, Miss Danver,” he said kindly. He appeared to be choosing his words very carefully.

  “What sort of problem?” I inquired.

  “It would—uh—it would appear the bank has no record of any transaction made in your name, neither an account opened nor deposit made.”

  “But—that’s impossible!” I exclaimed. “The account was opened less than a month ago, the money deposited by a Mr. Jeremy Bond. I gave the clerk that information.”

  Bancroft nodded, joining his hands behind his back and pacing slowly, his shoulders slightly hunched. My throat went dry. I wanted to leap out of the chair, yet I was frozen in place, an icy suspicion dawning. No, I told myself. No. There—there’s just been a misunderstanding. My money is in here, safe and sound. It has to be.

  “You authorized Mr. Bond to make this transaction for you?”

  The question seemed to come from the end of a long tunnel. The words didn’t register. I gripped the arms of the chair so tightly I could feel my nails digging tiny grooves into the varnished wood. Bancroft repeated the question.

  “Yes,” I said. My voice sounded hollow. “I gave Mr. Bond the authority to make the transaction in my name. I signed papers, filled out some kind of form.”

  “I see.”

  He looked at me with pitying eyes. The world is full of confidence men, they seemed to say, and you, poor lass, have been taken by one of the cleverest. I could feel the color leaving my face.

  “We have—uh—checked this out, of course,” Bancroft said. “Mr. Bond did indeed open an account and make a substantial deposit a few weeks ago.”

  “In his own name,” I said.

  “I fear so, Miss Danver.”

  “The son of a bitch!”

  Bancroft arched an eyebrow at my choice of words and straightened the lapels of his elegant plum-colored frock coat.

  “He withdrew more than half of it a short while later, requesting cash. I am not, of course, at liberty to mention specific figures.”

  “There’s no need to,” I retorted, standing.

  “If there’s been some sort of criminal action involved here, Miss Danver, the bank will of course make a report to Bow Street and have an investigation made on your behalf.”

  “Don’t bother,” I said crisply.

  “But—”

  “He can keep the bloody money. He earned it!”

  I have no memory of leaving the bank. One moment I was looking into Bancroft’s warm, sympathetic brown eyes, and the next I was walking briskly down the street, a hard, cold, tight feeling inside. My heels rang on the pavement with a sharp clatter. My skirts crackled with the sound of dry leaves. People swarmed all around me, dirty children chasing a spotted brown dog, dandies sauntering in dapper attire, plump matrons scrutinizing the wares displayed in dusty shop windows. I was scarcely aware of them. I crossed a street. A collier’s cart swerved violently, the driver cursing me loudly as he yanked on the reins. A barrel rolled off the cart, shattering on the cobbles. I marched on, grateful for the anger that held all the other emotions at bay.

  A rather handsome rake in a burnt-orange suit and brown velvet waistcoat was loitering in front of a clock-maker’s shop. Seeing me approach, he grinned and stepped into the middle of the pavement to block my path—any woman alone was prey for these audacious ne’er-do-wells. I glared at him, daring him to make a remark, and when he saw the murderous rage in my eyes he darted quickly out of the way. I moved past wooden arcades full of shops, the crowd greedily examining exotic green and turquoise birds in gilded cages, racks of colored ribbons and beads, cheap pottery, paper windmills, honey cakes. The odors of unwashed bodies mingled with those of dirt and animal dung and rotting fruit, assailing my nostrils.

  It took me almost an hour to reach The White Hart. I stopped in the courtyard, so weary I wondered how I could possibly find the strength to walk inside and climb the stairs to my room. The anger had abated, and now it vanished entirely, leaving me numb, depleted. Standing under the shade of a plum tree, I watched an indolent calico cat nursing three fat kittens in a pool of sunlight near the stables. A horse snorted. Pigeons cooed under the eaves. The bells of London began to chime again. It was one o’clock, just one, and it seemed an eternity ago that I had left for the shipping office.

  I went inside and went to my room. I sat down in the overstuffed chair and stared at the empty fireplace, and I was still sitting there when, shortly after five, Mrs. Patterson rapped sharply on my door and came in with a tray of food. She clucked her tongue, set the tray down on the table beside the chair and placed her hands on her hips, giving me her bossiest look.

  “You didn’t have dinner last night, lamb, and I know for a fact you didn’t have breakfast or lunch today, either. I’ve brought you a bacon roll and some cheese and grapes and Cook’s best popovers with a pot of strawberry jam. You’re going to eat every bite.”

  “I’m not hungry, Mrs. Patterson.”

  “You’re eatin’ anyway,” she told me.

  Pouring a cup of hot coffee, she handed it to me and looked bossy and adamant until I finally took a sip. She was wearing an ancient, gray, watered silk gown adorned with light blue ruffles, the skirt hitched up in front to show off the ruffled blue petticoat beneath. I suspected that Mrs. Patterson got all of her wardrobe from the old clothes bin at Market or else from a musty old trunk in the attic, but the garment somehow suited her, as did the heavy makeup and girlish wig.

  “It’s very likely I won’t be able to pay for this food,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “I went to the bank this morning. It seems I have no money there.”

  “Pulled a con job on you, didn’t he? A woman in love’s always a gullible dove. I’ve been swindled out of a few pounds myself in my day, and always by some charmer in tight breeches.”

  “I have only a few pounds left.”

  “We won’t worry about tha
t now. Eat your food.”

  “He didn’t book passage to America. I went down to the shipping office to check.”

  “I could have told you that, lamb. Go on, eat that bacon roll. Starvin’ yourself to death ain’t gonna help anything.”

  “You know something, don’t you? You’re keeping something from me.”

  “Didn’t feel it was my place to bring it up last night,” she said, patting one of the ringlets at the side of her face. “I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’ until you’ve had a proper meal.”

  I finished the cup of coffee, ate the bacon roll, some cheese, some grapes. Mrs. Patterson fussed about the room, tidying up, glancing at me every so often to make sure I was eating. Finally satisfied that I wasn’t going to expire from hunger, she spread strawberry jam over one of the buttered popovers and plopped it into her mouth, licking her fingers when she had finished. I stood and moved over to the window to gaze out. The bright afternoon sunshine had started to fade, and the spires and rooftops of London were now brushed with pale silver light. The sky was white with just the faintest tinge of blue. My bones ached. I still felt numb.

  “Have another cup of coffee, lamb,” Mrs. Patterson said. “It will do you good.”

  I took it from her and crossed over to stand in front of the wardrobe, sipping the strong, hot brew as Mrs. Patterson perched on the arm of the chair and devoured another jam-spread popover.

  “Well?” I said.

  “He hung around for three days after you left, lamb, lookin’ all dejected and broody, then she showed up. Oh, she was somethin’, that one, dressed to the nines in pale lime green satin and silver lace. Her eyes were blue as the sea, her hair so blonde it looked like silver, spillin’ in ringlets down her back.”

  “She would be a blonde,” I said bitterly.

  “She was a young thing, not more’n twenty, if that. He took her up to his room, and it was well over an hour ’fore they came down. He was all packed up, handin’ tips around, said he was off to Scotland.”

  “Scotland?”

  “That’s what he said, lamb. They left together a few minutes later, fancy coach waitin’ out in the yard. He had his arm around her, seemed to be comfortin’ her.”

  “He’s very good at that.”

  “Men’re bastards, lamb. Every last one of ’em.”

  “I’m beginning to find that out.”

  I set my cup down, careful not to make a clatter. My face was beautifully composed, my manner one of cool indifference. I seemed to be made of steel and ice, sheathed in an unnatural calm that belied the emotions seething inside. A long time ago I had vowed I would never again give any man the power to hurt me like this, and if my world had just crumbled, if my life no longer seemed worth living, it was my own bloody fault. God damn Jeremy Bond. Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.

  “I—I didn’t want to tell you, lamb,” Mrs. Patterson said.

  “I’m glad you did. It makes everything so much easier.”

  Mrs. Patterson took my cup and set it on the tray. She looked far more upset than I did.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked quietly.

  I opened the wardrobe door and took down the garnet velvet cloak lined with black silk, slipping it over my Shoulders and fastening it, pulling the hood up over my head.

  “At the moment I’m going out. I need a breath of fresh air. I’m going to take a stroll in the park across the way.”

  There were very few people in the park for, although the day had been sunny, there was a distinct chill in the air, and it was growing late. Shadows were lengthening across the silver-brushed lawns, hazy violet-gray nests beneath the trees. Although crowded during the day with strolling couples, with nursemaids and their charges, with well-dressed gentry taking a turn, the city parks were deserted by respectable folk as evening drew near, for then they became the domain of pickpockets and whores, cutthroats and vicious ruffians who would cheerfully commit murder for a pocket watch or pair of shiny shoe buckles. As I strolled past the neat flower beds, past the fountains and the ponds where brown ducklings splashed, I felt a coldness that had nothing to do with the cool breeze that lifted the hem of my cloak.

  What was I going to do? I would get some kind of work, for I was virtually moneyless, and even after I sold most of my fine clothes I would have barely enough to live on for more than a few weeks. I had worked before. I had worked like the slave I was in Carolina, cooking, keeping house, and I had run a gambling hall in New Orleans. I had worked here in London, too, serving as governess to the children of Sir Robert Mallory, another lovely specimen of mankind. I would find work—I would scrub floors if necessary—and eventually I would save enough money to pay my passage to America and I would make my way to Texas and my friend Em, dearer to me than any sister could have been, the one person on earth I could turn to and rely upon without question. Em would take me in. There would always be a place for me there on that spacious ranch with Em and Randolph and young Chris and the others who had shared our adventures.

  I would start all over again. Dear God, dear God, once more I would start all over again. How many times had my life been turned upside down? How many times had I been left alone, bereft, forced to cope? Would it never end? Must I always have to be strong? Must I always be stoic? I longed for oblivion now. I longed for it all to end. I couldn’t go on. I couldn’t. It was too much to ask. For one black moment, as I stood staring at the trees, I actually wanted to die, and then that innate stubborn streak came to the fore. Oh, no, I told myself, you’re not going to give way. You’re not going to let that bastard destroy your life. You’re going to be strong once more. Once more.

  The shadows were growing longer, thickening. The light had taken on a dim pink-gold hue, and the sky was beginning to darken to deep indigo-gray. I held my arms folded about my waist, as though to hold back the pain, and I told myself that I would get over Jeremy Bond. Someday, somehow, I would get over him and the pain wouldn’t be a live thing inside, tearing me asunder. My eyes felt hot and dry, but there were no tears. I was beyond tears.

  I turned and started back, and I really wasn’t surprised to see Count Gregory Orlov striding purposefully toward me, dressed all in tan, his cloak belling behind him. His face looked grave indeed, and I knew he must have gone to the inn, must have spoken to Mrs. Patterson. She would have told him everything. I stopped, waiting for him to come to me, and I felt no emotion at all as I watched him approach.

  What was I going to do? I was going to survive. I had had quite a lot of practice during the past seven years.

  Chapter Six

  Everyone agreed that Mrs. Perdita Robinson was an exquisite creature and a consummate actress despite her youth. Only twenty years old, the protégée of playwright Richard Brinsley Sheridan, she was enchanting as Jacintha in The Suspicious Husband, and the audience at The Haymarket clearly adored her. Lucie, sitting beside me in the front of our box, was completely enthralled by the bright colors, the dazzling footlights, the movement and magic taking place on the wooden stage below. This was her very first time to attend any theater, and she was like a child who has just spied a glittering Christmas tree. Leaning forward in her chair, her folded hands resting on the polished railing, she was all attention, relishing every word, every gesture, and she looked lovely in the new gold-and-white-striped satin gown that had just been delivered.

  Perdita cavorted before the painted backdrop in blue silk gown and powdered wig, a black beauty mark affixed to one cheek, her eyes sparkling flirtatiously as she fluttered her white lace fan and exchanged bright repartee with the handsome, bewigged hero. I tried to pay attention, but I was still too sick at heart to be diverted by the mannered, artificial scenes. I had been the Orlovs’ guest for two weeks now, and although both of them had done everything they could to make me comfortable and keep me amused, I could not shake the dead feeling inside. All joy, all light seemed to have gone out of my life, and the profusion of pleasure jaunts, shopping expeditions and elaborate dinners I had endured pr
imarily for Lucie’s sake hadn’t had any effect at all. The girl was so excited with the new wardrobe I had helped her select, so thrilled by the sights of the great city that I felt compelled to make an effort to be a pleasant companion, but the gloom continued to hang over me.

  On chairs behind us, hidden by the darkness of the box, Count Orlov and Sir Harry Lyman sat quietly, neither of them enjoying the play. Sir Harry was too concerned with business affairs to be amused by the drama, and Orlov’s command of the English language was too poor for him to understand much of what was going on. He sighed occasionally, shifting uncomfortably on the gilt chair that was too small for his size and weight. He had been a wonderful host these past two weeks, polite, attentive, restraining much of his natural exuberance out of respect for me. He knew I was desolate, knew the reasons why, and he had treated me with a quiet courtesy that showed the utmost tact. I appreciated it, and I felt guilty at being such a dull guest.

  He had insisted I come to stay with them, of course, had refused to take no for an answer. When he learned the full extent of Jeremy Bond’s perfidy, he was appalled, and he had promptly volunteered to give me enough money to get me to Texas. Naturally I had refused. Count Orlov informed me that I was stubborn and foolish and full of principles. I told him that I appreciated his offer but would earn the money somehow. I didn’t intend to be obligated to any man ever again, and I had agreed to be their house-guest only because he assured me I would be doing him a great service by providing companionship for Lucie. I performed that service to the best of my ability, and most of the past two weeks had been spent gadding about with her. Count Orlov was occupied with his business affairs most of the day, closed up in the library with Sir Harry. We rarely saw him until the evening meal, though he was lavish with funds and showed keen interest in everything we did, demanding details, beaming as Lucie described the glories of the Tower, of St. James Park and the Exchange and the plethora of exquisite shops where she spent vast sums.