Marriage Made in Rebellion Page 12

  And suddenly Lucien knew. Right there and then with the sound of drunken voices in his ears and the smell of cheap red wine all around. Alejandra was alive. Breathing. Somewhere. The inscription inside the ring was confirmed by the words of these men here.

  He put down his glass and stood, leaving two gold coins for father and son as he departed. Then he went up into the high road past the last cottage and into the hills.

  He felt Alejandra with him, in the stillness and the smell of earth. He touched the rough bark of an oak and then sat beneath it, the news of her safety so very new he felt dislocated. The dark enveloped him like a blanket as he thought of her smile and her softness and her honesty.

  He would find her if it took the rest of his life to do so, but first he needed to return to England for he had good contacts in military intelligence and with the British Service. Aye, he would need all the help he could get to find a woman who had never once written to him and yet who had inscribed the words only now into gold.

  * * *

  ‘Word has it you are going to Spain again to look for your Spanish rescuer?’ Daniel asked the question as they walked along Regent Street after seeing a wine merchant who traded just off it.

  ‘Who told you this?’

  ‘Gabriel. He still holds contacts in places one would not think him to have. He said you had already been in at the British Service and that you were certain she was still alive.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I hope you will not be disappointed in what you find out, Luce. If she had wanted to see you again...’ He stopped.

  ‘I am relatively easy to contact,’ Lucien finished off the thought for Daniel. ‘I know this, but there is something that is wrong...’

  ‘Clara Higham-Browne’s sister was asking of you, too, the other day. I saw her in the park riding and she stopped me. I do not think that family will ever forgive you calling off your betrothal at such a late notice.’

  ‘Clara wanted things I could never have given her. One day she will probably thank me for it.’

  ‘I warned you off her right from the start, if you remember. She would have tied you in knots and fastened on to the side of you for ever without conversation or cleverness. Boredom would have killed you when her beauty wore off.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Lucien had asked Clara Higham-Browne to be his wife for all the wrong reasons. For loneliness and for a place in the world. Even to please his mother, he thought, if he were honest. Nothing of lust or love or plain damn want. The hitch in his heart made him swallow.

  Alejandra.

  Her hair down and her shirt open and her hands finding the places in him that melted at her touch.

  ‘How long will you be gone? When do I need to start worrying that you might not be back?’

  Daniel’s query brought a smile to Lucien’s face. ‘A month at the least and two at the most. I will be in Madrid.’

  ‘Does your mother know why you are going?’

  ‘No. She was the one who was most taken with Clara Higham-Browne and her family. Mama thought the viscount’s daughter would settle me down, make me stay here in England, keep me taking part in the politics of London and the affairs of society. She does not want me back in Spain at least, for a fortune teller once told her I would die there and she is convinced it will come true seeing as I very nearly did. I never gave her the story of Alejandra or the aftermath of A Coruña for she is a woman who likes her children to be near and has a need for the order of her world to be in place. Anyone who challenges that is a threat she wants no part of and she worries until she is sick with it.’

  ‘You truly think you can locate this woman after so many years? In all of Spain?’

  ‘In Madrid. Someone might know something and all it takes is one piece of luck.’

  ‘Good or bad, Luce. Margarita van Hessenberg asked if I had spoken with you. She seemed to think you would visit her again soon. Unfinished business, she said, and I gained the distinct impression she was speaking in the currency of lust as well as the gentler one of hope.’

  Lucien turned his head to the sky and felt the sun on his face. ‘It is entirely my fault that I let her down. I thought we could be more than friends, but...’ He stopped and lowered his voice. ‘I need to find Alejandra, Daniel, even if it is just to understand what was between us in order to move on.’

  ‘What of the manufacturing businesses you are so heavily involved in now? Who will look after those while you are away?’

  ‘They will run themselves, Daniel, for I pay the managers I employ well.’

  ‘They seem damned lucrative.’

  ‘They are, though my mother still has her doubts about dealing in trade despite the accrued wealth.’

  ‘Beggars cannot be choosers, Luce.’

  At that they both laughed.

  * * *

  Lucien leant back on the balcony of the generous room he had been allotted by the Duke of Palma at his country seat on the outskirts of Madrid.

  He had arrived four days ago and walked about the town, feeling the warmth, exploring the central barrios and the palace and the marketplaces in the Plaza la Cebada and San Andres Square, and all the time asking questions that might lead him to Alejandra.

  An acquired military intelligence had led him to a man in the district of Puerta Bonita in Carabanchel and this meeting had resulted in the name of a woman who was helping the British cause by sending sensitive information through the closed channels of intelligence.

  Señora Antonia Herrera y Salazar was a prostitute in a brothel on Segovia Street in the barrio of La Latina. He had had a discreet servant of the Duke make an appointment with her in two days’ time under the false name of Señor Mateo, hoping to procure enough privacy to further his questioning.

  If Alejandra was here, she would be helping Spain and its cause of independence, he knew she would be. She would be in hiding, too, for those who had killed her father were dangerous and she would not wish for them to find her here.

  Perhaps this woman might have seen her or knew of her. He had to be careful with any physical descriptions because the work was sensitive and dangerous and he did not wish for her to be hurt because of such questioning.

  He would tread lightly and hope for some further clue to follow. He glanced down at his newly returned signet ring and felt the hollow ache of loss.

  Chapter Ten

  Señora Antonia Herrera y Salazar briskly tied the ribbons of her new bonnet beneath her chin and bent to reassure the old woman before her, tucked warmly into a large bed.

  ‘I will only be gone for an hour, Maria. My appointment is at two.’

  The lined face lightened. ‘You have the papers regarding the loans?’

  ‘I do.’ Her fingers touched the soft leather of her bag. ‘The numbers in the ledgers are heartening, as well. I looked at them all last night and compared them to our takings at this time four years ago.’

  ‘We have come a long way, then. You and I.’

  Kissing the offered cheek, Antonia stood. She could hear the carriage slow at their doorstep and did not wish for any tardiness.

  ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Beautiful. But then you always did, my dear. A companion fit for a king. The younger Señor Morales shall agree to all our requests, I am certain of it. He shall be smitten by you.’

  Outside, the driver’s eyes widened as she let herself into the hired hack. She had dressed today in the most sombre of all her clothes and yet still she felt exposed somehow, back in the ordinary world of the lives of others.

  ‘I wish to go to the Calle de Alcala.’

  They needed a loan because there was no way of expanding their premises without more money and without some form of enlargement and modernisation the Santa Maria burdel was doomed to failure.

  Other establishments had come to the streets around the port in the past few years and they had not all been fair, the quest for riches in the trade of flesh speaking a language that held no moral scruples. Competito
rs had tried to poach the women who worked for her and frighten her customers. They had spread rumours and threatened her with retribution.

  But Antonia had not buckled and she had never let anyone in close.

  Not one. Not even Maria.

  She had been good at the details and possibilities that came with running a business. Already she had paid back her first loans and saved a good bit besides. Alberto Morales, the manager of the loan company, had been a helpful and valued friend, but the old man had died suddenly a month ago and she had heard it said his only son was nowhere near as generous with his lending. Smoothing down the heavy fabric of her skirt, she swore beneath her breath. ‘Only now,’ she whispered to herself and liked the calm that seemed to emanate from the two simple words.

  Her mantra. The way she lived. Her pathway through difficulty and disappointment. No future and no past. This moment. This second. This heartbeat of hope and ambition.

  Pushing away anything else, she paid the driver and alighted, the stairs leading to the front entrance of the stone building steep and solid.

  * * *

  After introducing himself to her, Señor Mateo Morales got straight down to business.

  ‘Your way of life is rather a chancy one, Señora Herrera y Salazar. I should have imagined my father must have told you that many times.’

  ‘He did not, señor. He looked most favourably at my substantial line of credit and often said that if all his customers were as honest as I—’

  A well-manicured hand waved in the air and cut her off. ‘You are a woman without a husband and one of dubious reputation and residency.’ He flipped open the pages of a thin book before him. ‘Twice you have not paid on time, and once it was a good month until we received any redress. I am not certain whether I wish to continue my father’s arrangements at all.’

  Antonia felt as if she had been kicked in the stomach, hard and unexpected. Right from the first day of coming to Madrid, from the first hours of uncertainty and dread, she had known she would survive. But this...?

  ‘Our credit is good, sir. More than good.’

  ‘Our?’ He leant forward to read through a page, thin glasses balanced on his nose. ‘Oh, yes. I see Señora Maria Aguila is one of those who sing your praises. She, of course, has her own detractors.’

  Antonia remained silent, wishing now that the younger Morales might simply say yes and then she could leave, but the atmosphere in the room had changed somewhat and it changed again as he came to stand beside her. Too close. She could smell the brandy on his breath and the lavender imbued in the fabric of his clothes.

  ‘There is a way in which you might make me consider your application a little more favourably if you will, madam.’

  She knew what he might say before he said it, the thin grey voice expressing his idea of a good deal without waver.

  ‘If I could visit you, say, once a week for...services, I might be persuaded to look at your request differently.’

  ‘Visit?’ She needed to make sure she knew exactly what it was he meant.

  ‘Become a patron of your brothel, madam, and a good paying one, too. I shall be discreet and polite. I am unmarried, you see, and most upstanding, but sometimes...well, sometimes I have the need of relief. I would require all this to be most confidential.’

  ‘And we could well accommodate those desires, Señor Morales. I have a number of girls and women who...’

  ‘No. It is you I want.’

  Antonia swallowed. ‘You do not know me, sir. At all.’

  ‘But I have seen you for years coming here in the company of my father and I have admired you.’

  ‘I do not think...’ She stopped as he leant back to shut the book on his desk with a bang, a frown covering his brow.

  ‘Send me a message when you have considered my request, señora. Perhaps when you have had longer to think about it you would be more willing.’

  Antonia nodded in order to buy herself some time. Maria was old and sick and the twenty or so girls she employed depended on her for their livelihoods.

  ‘There are other places I could go for a loan, señor.’

  ‘Other places that will not touch your business proposition without word from me, señora.’

  Blackmail. That was how the world ran. I give you this and you give me that. Moneylenders by nature were narcissistic and vain.

  Only now.

  ‘Good day to you, sir.’

  Without a promise she turned for the door and walked through it, making certain it slammed hard as she left. The man outside sitting at a desk looked up in surprise at her, but she made herself smile. She had learnt the important lesson of putting a bright face over adversity a long time ago.

  * * *

  ‘How did it go, my dear? Did we get the loan?’

  ‘The son of Alberto Morales is a charlatan and a cheat and he had the temerity to say that he would only lend me the money if I...’ Antonia stopped and brought out the carafe of red wine from the cabinet to one side of the room, pouring herself a generous libation.

  Maria’s laughter was as honest as it was surprising. ‘You are a brothel owner, my dear, not a high-born lady. What did you expect?’

  ‘A business meeting,’ she returned with feeling. ‘A man who may have acted with more professionalism.’

  ‘I built this place up on consensual favours, Antonia. When I started my body was all I had in the world to barter with and it was a good commodity. Do not be too prideful.’

  ‘I am not for sale, Maria.’

  ‘Not yet, perhaps. But the world in which we live is changing and if you want to continue on here in the capacity that you have been, then a sacrifice is often worth the payment. It is work we have all done, after all, and in the safety of this place it need not be as bad as you think it. A quick tumble with a man who is wealthy, harmless and clean. I can think of worse ways to spend an evening.’

  Turning to the window, Antonia looked out. There were beggars across the street, a woman and two children who looked as though they had not eaten in a week. Madrid took in such fallen souls on a regular basis, from the poorer urban outskirts and from other towns on the rural plains and hills when the rains failed and the crops did not come in.

  This was the truth of poverty, the line between life and death blurred and thin. Once under another name she might have had choices and options, but here in the old city of Madrid they had narrowed. Oh, granted, she could sell off some furniture and other personal belongings, but the rental on the building was high and nothing would cover the refurbishment costs other than a loan.

  She was a brothel owner and soon, very soon, she would be a whore, as well. She knew it would have to come to this eventually, knew that the old ways and beliefs would one day become impossible.

  ‘Very well.’ Antonia heard the words come from her mouth as if at a distance. ‘Arrange the meeting for the day after tomorrow with Señor Mateo Morales and I will make certain we get a renewal of the contract.’

  As she turned, her eyes caught her reflection in the mirror above the mantel, a woman who looked stern and cold, the dyed red of her hair harsh against her face. She could not see what would possibly attract any man to her.

  ‘I want for you to be happy, Antonia, but that cannot happen if we are forced on to the streets.’

  ‘There are more important things in life than being happy, Maria.’

  ‘Important things like the secrets you take from the French, you mean.’

  ‘You know of this?’

  ‘I know of the way you go through the bags and jackets of the French soldiers who come here. I see you watching them, too, and there are rumours...’

  ‘Rumours?’

  ‘It is being said that a beautiful aristocrat is aiding the cause of Spanish freedom on the city streets of Madrid. With Joseph Bonaparte installed in place of the Bourbons and the large portion of Spanish lands under the jurisdiction of the French there is great danger, Antonia. And well you know of it.’

  Antonia
was struck dumb. She had always been so careful in her clandestine activities. She had worn a blonde wig and talked in the old High Castilian, her face hidden beneath a large hat and dressed in the clothes she had left the north of Spain wearing all those years before.

  Capitán Lucien Howard.

  He came to her more often now in dreams, which was an odd thing given she had cried for him for at least eighteen months after the fire. It was the days then that were hardest to get through. Now it was the nights.

  ‘Who else knows...here?’ The admission was whispered and she was pleased to see Maria shake her head.

  ‘No one. I am old and I sleep badly. I see things that others would not and I worry for you. So alone. So bitter. Is there anyone at all whom you might turn to for help?’

  Once, there had been. In the first months of losing her father, her lands and her heritage she had sent three letters to the Earl of Ross. She had kept the ring, though, safe and sound in the pocket of her only jacket, because she could not truly trust another with it.

  And she had waited in the hills above the small port of Pontevedra for him to arrive. Month after month until it was too dangerous to tarry further and she had sickened from living in the damp.

  He had not come then and he had not come later in Madrid when the fourth letter had gone, paid for in the pawning of her favoured knife so that the postage was secure and the missive had the best of all chances of being delivered.

  She had written of her pregnancy and of her need for help. She had put her heart into the words of entreaty even though she knew her English was poor.

  The returned mail had been short and to the point, the crest of the Ross title embossed on to the thick paper.

  Do not write again. I shall receive no further mail from you. If you persist in these false claims, I will have my legal team draw up a case against you.

  The signature had been Lucien Howard’s and the wax seal had been exactly the same as that in the gold of his signet ring.

  Then a few months later in the reading room of the library in Madrid she had seen a story of him in an English newspaper. The Earl of Ross was to be married to a woman called Lady Clara Higham-Browne, the daughter of a viscount and reputedly very beautiful. The article had made much of stating that both sets of parents were old family friends and that everyone concerned was most pleased. Alejandra had read it through a number of times, memorising each and every word and understanding that the union would protect the old solid lines of aristocrats who had marched, heedless of any lesser beings, through the centuries.