Part 3
The Prestige
Fiat justitia, pereat coelum.
(Let justice be done, though heaven fall.)
—John Quincy Adams
Chapter 23
Water Tank
Ogden
Angle: Carnality
Priscilla Ogden’s lady’s maid rubs chamomile-scented lotion into Priscilla’s forearms before presenting her with the long gloves she’ll wear until dinner is served. Her husband finds her raised veins unsightly. He tries to hide his reaction—his good heart will not allow him to hurt his wife’s feelings—but Priscilla has noted it nonetheless and covers her legs, ankles, and arms as much as she possibly can. Thick, layered necklaces draped tight around her neck disguise the increasing crepe effect of her skin. Cosmetics do the rest. And prayer.
She was so beautiful once. Long and languid, like a painting of the pre-Raphaelite school. Artists once begged her to pose for them. Young men jostled across a crowded ball to secure dances with her, and she received no fewer than four proposals that first social season. There was no question whom she would choose. Brett Ogden was like aknight on a steed, just as beautiful and well mannered and wealthy, and he loved her ardently. He truly did. He still does and Priscilla knows it, even if he doesn’t visit her bedroom at night anymore. That’s to do with his grief over their lack of children, not her. He’s said as much.
No, Brett is the soul of faithfulness and honor. It is only that womankind is so treacherous! There are so many traps set throughout the city every day, women whose eyes turn to her husband, who intend to draw him away, to lure him into their bed and into ruin. Cruel creatures, these females.
Priscilla has even begun to wonder about her lady’s maid. She’d selected her precisely because she was the plainest of all the options her housekeeper presented to her, but there’s a certain blush to her cheeks now. A confident swing to her slim hips that was not once apparent. She’ll have to send her packing. But that’s a problem for tomorrow.
“That will be all,” Priscilla says coolly, as her (temporary) maid affixes a pearl comb into her piled graying hair.
She has one ally, at least, among the fairer and fouler sex. The duchess truly has no designs upon her husband. Priscilla can see that now. Her new friend’s mind is dispassionately and reassuringly affixed upon the fate of her nation.
Priscilla rises from her dressing table with a smile that sours quickly as she remembers the other guest tonight. She shall have to watch the young heiress closely.
“Fefu! Fritz!” She calls for her dogs and they rush to follow at her heels.
What a comfort they are. At least they still come when she beckons them.
“Spectacular,” Mr. Ogden breathes.
For once, he’s not looking at Alice.
The emerald, now loose from its setting, lays before them on a simple square of silk.
Mr. Ogden reaches for the stone, then pulls his hand back with visible effort. “May I?”
“Of course,” Alice replies softly. She glances past Ward, sipping his post-dinner madeira in the corner of the parlor, where Cora makes a fuss over Mrs. Ogden’s two terriers, to Priscilla’s grudging approval. If Cora isn’t in fact an animal lover, she’s putting on one hell of a performance. Even Mr. Ogden’s eyes dart over to her from time to time.
“I hope you don’t find this too forward,” he murmurs now, subtly adjusting his body so his shoulder grazes Alice’s. “But I should like to have this stone appraised.”
Alice affects a practiced bewilderment. “For what purpose?”
“Why, for yours alone,” he says, his voice an intense rumble as he holds the stone up to the lantern light, as if he has a keen enough eye to check for inclusions himself. “So that you know your worth at last.”
There are ways to feign a blush, Alice has learned. Not the color itself, but a tipped chin, averted eyes, lips lifting at the corners as if compelled to do so by a flood of unexpected emotion.
“McAllister here tells me there’s been interest in your family’s mining company,” Brett Ogden goes on. Ward raises his glass in acknowledgment. “I would not be a true friend to you if I didn’t do everything in my power to make sure your interests are fully looked after. In fact...”
He shoots her a rueful smile. No doubt, in his youth—perhaps even now—that plaintive expression coupled withhis roguishly handsome features would make some women weak at the knees.
He presses his hand to hers, his pinkie finger playing against the fabric on her knee. “If you were to get into bed with any New York businessman, I would hope it would be me. If you’ll forgive the expression.”
