Chapter 45 Jahleel—The True Strategist Has to Win
JAHLEEL—THE TRUE STRATEGIST HAS TO WIN
Lydia and I share whispers as we return to the ball.
The musicians wind down Sir Roger de Coverley’s furious tune.
The tempo makes me tap my feet. From the drawing room doors, I watch couples gathered across the chalked dance floor.
People switch partners, weaving in and out and sweeping under joined hands.
My barrister heads to me as Lydia goes safely to her mother. “Torrance, how did your appointment go?”
“My daughter had to hear.”
Wincing, Lord Ashbrook shakes his head. “Palmers is full of venom. But you didn’t hit him.”
“He’s alive, if that’s what you are asking. It’s one thing to take sneers. Another thing for my daughter to hear.”
“But he didn’t take the deal, Your Grace.”
“That’s correct, but now I know how much he wishes to injure Katherine and Lydia. He’s dangerous. I must contain him to protect my family.”
“It’s a tricky situation. You need your marriage to be valid for Lydia’s sake. As I’ve advised, Lord Hampton is dead, but his parents making a scene tonight could invite legal scrutiny. Lady Hampton could be fined or imprisoned.”
“This is why all threats must end while I’m healthy and can fight for her.”
Ashbrook nods. He’s a dashing figure in his court frills, but tonight, he’s dressed in an elegant tailcoat, the jet material sparkling with a subtle stripe.
“My wife and the Duke and Duchess of Repington have now left. His military colleague William St. Landon has also gone. They don’t need to be asked to witness what comes next. ”
“You sound prepared, Ashcroft.”
“My wife, Jemina, offered me her fan.” He flicks it with a one-two-three beat. “I’ll turn around like a doctor appearing at a duel. I’ll not be held to testify.”
“A fan, sir? That’s going to help?”
Ashbrook closes it up. “Don’t fret. My aunt, Lady Shrewsbury, gets me into a great many situations. She’ll help get Lady Hampton out of Bedlam if necessary.”
Chuckling, he looks over to where my mother and Katherine sip champagne. “My wife had a wonderful time. She said this felt like one of the few gatherings she remembered from Jamaica. She and the Repingtons enjoyed the festive mingling.”
“I’m glad Lady Ashbrook and your friends had a good time.”
“It’s more than that. Jemina sat with Lady Hampton and the Duchess of Repington. Those remarkable women will ensure she’s welcomed again into society. They and my aunt have a heart for women who’ve made mistakes or had the courts take their children.”
I turn to my friend. “All will be settled tonight. I love Katherine. I’ve always loved her. Now I will show her how much.”
He pats my shoulder. For a moment, his bronze hand catches on the braiding of my coat. “Then get to it.”
I look toward the door; Mr. Steele has the deputized servants ready for the blessings. One quick wave and it all begins.
A series of things happen all at once.
Lord Mark, on the pianoforte, begins playing God Save the King. Everyone stands and stills. I walk to the center of the room. Familiar faces smile. Others look on, but part like the Red Sea.
“I have a presentation for my daughter, Lady Lydia Jahleelovna Charles. Come forward, my child and my Lady Hampton; I need you two for the next part.”
My request draws a few gasps from the crowd. Everyone has heard something about Katherine, about us.
If Katherine is nervous, her confident posture gives nothing away.
The mums in her hair look like a crown, or the headpiece of a veil.
The dress’s detail—draping her bosom, teasing at the shape of her hips—looks perfect.
The silver and ivory material adorned with floral embroidery could be a wedding gown.
My Lidochka has worked her persuasive charm and ensured Katherine comes forward. She takes the spot next to me, leaving only enough room between us for Lydia.
“Khleb da sol. I call for the bread and salt.”
Mr. Steele leads servers into the drawing room.
Like these footmen, my steward wears traditional boots, glossed and shining.
The liveries are Russian-styled with frogging similar to the ones I wear, but the braids are silver over blue wool.
The combination should appeal to my very English guests.
The large woven trays made of Wongo cane from Logon, West Africa, the place of Gannibal’s birth, and banana leaves from Jamaica hold sliced rye bread and crystal bowls of salt.
Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Randolph stand to the side with Carew and Scarlett. I see them, pointing and smiling. They notice the brown and tan plaited trays, my attempt to blend cultures. I’m embracing all parts of my family.
Little Lada pulls a tiny wagon. It’s a sizable job, but Steele’s training is superb.
The kitten heads to Katherine, but I lift the small basket of rye and salt Lada ferried.
The sliced bread smells of molasses and crusty deliciousness.
Caraway seeds flit off in my fingers as I take a piece.
“The bread is dense and represents strength and resilience. Dip it in the cleansing salt. Then eat.”
I give a piece to Lydia. “This is a wish of respect.”
Turning to Katherine, I put a piece to her lips. “This is for peace.”
She covers my hand with hers to shield her mouth. Tears of pride are in her eyes, but for a second, only a second, my finger rests on her tongue.
Surprised, I have to blink and retreat. This is serious, reverent … no time for playful Katia. I rotate back to my guests. “Khleb da sol, na zdoróvye,” which is to say, Bread and salt, to your health.
Those familiar with the custom bow and say “spasibo,” which is Russian for thank you.
Lydia stoops for a moment to pat Lada, but Steele whistles and his orderly companion pulls her empty wagon back through the drawing room doors.
My child looks a little disappointed, but then she mimics her mother, donning a noble and peaceful countenance.
“And to my dear daughter, happy birthday. Your mother and I bless you.”
“But who is her mother?” The cranky voice sounds loud.
People turn and look.
I don’t have to. I know my enemies.
The Marquess of Prahmn applauds. His tone gets louder. “This ceremony is beautiful, but why do all this for an illegitimate daughter—and for her mother, a woman married to two men at once? I think that’s English for bigamist.”
The Marchioness of Prahmn leaves his side. She waves a fan, blocking her face. “I want no part of this, Prahmn. Thank you all for a lovely evening, Your Grace. I suggest everyone else who wants peace should leave as well.”
A few follow. Most stay.
Carew tries to get the aunties to leave, but they shake their fingers at him.
“No, Stephen. I want to see His Grace defend Lady Hampton,” Mrs. Smith says as she smooths her jeweled turban.
Mrs. Randolph crosses her arms. “Yes, nephew. I want to see how the other half feuds.” She’s not budging.
I step forward, out of the protective circle forming about Lydia and Katherine. “Prahmn, you’re back after your exile to Spain. Most neighbors would bring fruit or at least a cask of Jerez, that wonderful sherry from Frontera.”
“How did you know I’d … Oh no, Torrance. No distracting me from your comeuppance. Tell everyone why you’ve taken over the Court of Chancery and made them recognize an illegitimate child as a girl of society.”
“Make him stop saying that, Jahleel.” Katherine pulls Lydia behind her. She glares at the marquess with daggers in her eyes. “Or I will.”
“I’ll take care of this, Lady Hampton. Prahmn must admit to this being his fault.”
Waving his hands, the man steps closer. “You’re lying. Did you find the girl in a brothel? Is she just a by-blow?”
The crowd gasps. Someone yells, “What’s wrong with brothels?”
Noting that Lord Mark and Carew are now standing with my two loves, I charge forward, ready for battle.
“Prahmn, your hatred for me, for my parents, frightened all who cared for me. As I fought for my legacy, Katherine watched how you and your pack of jackals tortured me in the press. She knew if it had become public knowledge that I had a Blackamoor wife and that she was expecting, you’d defraud me.
My wife hid in secret, but the strain of what you and your colleagues put us through caused my wife to miscarry one of our twins. ”
The whispers in the crowd now become deafening, but I want them to chant with me, “The blood of Andrew Jahleelovich Charles, the Viscount Audben, is on your hands. Pregnancy is a difficult venture. It’s too often deadly. Your vileness and hate killed my heir.”
Fans flutter. Necks stretch to look at the spectacle.
Prahmn’s eyes widened. He has three living sons. I had one. The beast knows what a loss this is for me. He bites his lip. “Well, you’ve taken my son. Lord Mark stands over there, not even thinking to defend his father. He’s in league with you. Guess we’re even.”
“Even?” I take my cane and hit the lock button. The bottom falls away, and a shiny rapier is exposed. “What makes you think we are even? When you stand here breathing.”
My blade shimmers in the lights.
There are gasps. And cheers.
I draw the rapier to Prahmn. Only a few more steps and a solid thrust will separate him from the earth. “You’re not in the cold ground, hidden under a lifeless marble stone. That is when we are even.”
My deputized servers spread out around the center, keeping the crowds back. Nothing can stop me from permanently ending this threat.
Fans flutter. Ashbrook has his out, covering his legal spectacles.
“No. Jahleel.” Katherine moves toward me. “Stop.”
“All this for a liar, Torrance.”
My restraint dies. I take those steps and hold my rapier to the fat gullet on Prahmn’s throat.
“Jahleel.” Katherine’s voice wavers. “No. Think of Lydia.”
But others speak up. “She did vanish for a time, returning pregnant, didn’t she?”
These words have polished, smooth syllables. Others repeat the lies of Lydia’s paternity with accented voices.
A glass drops, shattering like a bell.
My hand shakes, but my rapier’s point presses Prahmn’s Adam’s apple.
“Jahleel, put the weapon down.” Katherine’s voice sounds distant. “Don’t do this for me. I’m not worth this.”
Prahmn tries to back away. “No scheming jezebel need fight for me.”
“Apologize to my wife, Prahmn. Don’t force me to prove how far I will go to defend my family.”
I step forward. The sharp tip again lodges against his skin. “I wouldn’t move. My hand trembles upon occasion. Hate to run you through accidentally as you voice an apology.”
My words draw laughter. I use this noise to whisper, “Every fear of my blood that you used to make men reject my family will come true. I’ll be that villain. I’ll hunt from the shadow to consume you. I know where you go. I know where you sleep. I’ll end you here or another place without witnesses.”
Prahmn’s sneer drops away. “You bluff, Torrance. You have a daughter to raise. She’s standing right there. You’ll not rot in prison for murder.”
It guts me that Lydia must see my worst, but I promised her Papen’ka would stop evil men. “Haven’t you heard, Prahmn?” I say, in a tone as menacing as the dark parts of my soul. “No one knows how long I have to live. It means nothing to kill you and die in peace.”
“Jahleel, what are you saying to him?” Katherine steps closer. She tries to put her palm on my shoulder. From the corner of my eye, I see my mother, Georgina, and Scarlett grab my daughter and take her toward the door.
“Wait, family. Lady Lydia needs to hear Prahmn apologize.” My voice booms.
A trickle of blood spills onto my villain’s snow-white cravat.
His face changes, sobers. He realizes I will kill for them. “I apologize. Lady Lydia. Lady Hampton. I apologize.”
I lower my rapier just enough to free the beast and restore my humanity.
Grabbing his throat, Prahmn backs up. I toss him a handkerchief. “Lidochka, you’ll leave with your aunts and the princess. Now.”
“Handle your business, Jasha,” my mother says, “for both Andrews.”
I hear footsteps, but they’re not leaving. They sound as if they’re coming in my direction. Lydia hugs my legs, then runs back to the door.
When I’m sure they have gone, I lower my rapier a little more. “Prahmn, leave. Perhaps you should retire to your country house. Maybe abandon society completely. We can’t have your kind running loose. You’ll not be spared if I see you again.”
Paler than a ghost, the man flinches and then backs out of the drawing room.
I flick my hand toward Lord Mark and Carew to tell them to go after him to ensure Prahmn’s not bleeding too much … on my floors.
Neither moves.
Perhaps they sense that things are not done.