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"Tell him to wait another forty points, then sell. Tell him, also, I'll be dressed and down to the trading floor in fifteen minutes." In regard to his last statement, the Duc locked the door behind him to avoid any temperamental interruptions in his very tight schedule. Turning back around, he continued, "Have Guillaume ready out front. He is?" The Duc's grin was warm and gracious. "What would I do without you. The Comtesse will need a carriage brought round too." At Louis's faint smile, Etienne said with amusement, "I suppose her mount has been seen to as well." Another answering nod. "Need I ask that a lady's maid be sent up to her?"
"I think she prefers Augustine, Your Grace, which might account for the current state of calm in your bedroom."
"In your efficiency, Louis," the Duc said in teasing response, "why couldn't you take care of my
Bourse
trading as well and I wouldn't have had to lose my Cleopatra."
"I was tempted to, but you know Legere… a martinet for protocol. And your orders were specific, sir. I was to see you were up again and dressed by ten. But forgive me for interfering in the Countess's morning—er—visit," he apologized.
Etienne shrugged and smiled, conscious of the overriding urgency of a railway acquisition over Isme's lush body. Well, at least intellectually conscious. Isme did have considerable ingenuity in the art of inflaming a man's senses, although he was becoming impatient with her pouting demands. Today was simply another instance of her intruding into his private life without invitation. She'd surprised him by appearing in the
Bois de Boulogne
that morning as he rode with his son and friends in their customary fashion. Although not adverse to Isme's exquisite brand of sensuality, he preferred taking the initiative with women; he disliked being pressed. He particularly disliked intimations of permanence in a relationship—those initial small demands on his time, the possessive tones of censure, the inevitable claims of exclusivity.
As heiress to estates in the Département du Nord, which happened to incorporate the largest coal reserves in
France
, Isme was familiar with having her wishes fulfilled. He didn't relish becoming the object of those wishes beyond a certain casual dalliance. And if she desired more than their unrestrained relationship of the past months, he did not.
"When the Comtesse calls again, Louis," the Duc said in swift decision based on notorious experience, "I'm not at home."
"For how long, sir?"
"For the foreseeable future, Louis. Have the Chigi Cassétta she admired at Roussel's—the one painted by Raphael—sent to her with my compliments."
"Yes, sir."
"Put a necklace of those pink diamonds Chaumet delivered last week in the Cassétta with one of my cards."
"Very good, sir." Louis's response was without a shade of expression. The Duc meant, of course, the cards signed for anonymous recipients in advance: Affectionately, Etienne. Since Roussel had proudly pointed out at a private snowing for the Duc last week that the Renaissance cassétta was one of a kind, Raphael had designed for his patron, the Sienese financier, Agostina Chigi, the lavishness of the Duc de Vec's gift indicated a definite conclusion to his affair with the Comtesse.
The Duc's green gaze contemplated the sunshine-bright morning visible beyond the bank of windows illuminating his dressing room. "The sun came out," he mildly said, as if disposing of a mistress in a significantly expensive fashion was as prosaic an occurrence as his comment on the weather.
"Yes, sir, about an hour ago."
He hadn't noticed, preoccupied as he was with profligate sensation. "The ground should be drying out then." Walking the few steps over to the gold-footed tub ensconced on a museum-quality
Shiraz
carpet in the center of the room, he turned the taps wide open. Straightening, he asked, "Has Valentin called?"
"Twice, sir. I told him you were still… busy."
The Duc smiled. "Don't forget the pink diamonds now." Over the past weeks, Isme had given him considerable pleasure.
Louis showed the smallest affront at the reminder.
"Sorry." Etienne softly apologized for his gaffe. Louis was and always had been the epitome of efficiency. "Has Mr. Bouchart called yet?"
"No, sir."
Etienne frowned slightly. Bouchart was to have called at half-past nine with news of Germain Frères's selling price. Another brief look at the clock—
Monte Carlo
immediately seized him. He knew who it was, just as he knew before the dealer dealt him a card in baccarat he had a winning number.
"I'll take it," the Duc crisply said.
Reaching the phone set on a small table near the windows in three rapid strides, he answered, "de Vec here." His deep voice was softly muted, as if he knew Bouchart calling late was nervous and high-strung, needing to be steadied.
Standing with the light from the window limning his broad-shouldered frame, his dark hair touched with iridescence, he spoke softly into the receiver. "Yes. Yes. No, that won't be necessary. Tomorrow? Yes. Thank you." He didn't move; even his breathing seemed in abeyance as he briefly acknowledged the information being given him. "They're selling at 275," he said, setting the receiver back into the cradle delicately, his fine nostrils flaring in a deep, satisfying inhalation of air. Experience and instinct were essential in dealing with the market, but it never hurt to have a disgruntled employee in your camp. He hadn't known if he could trust Bouchart; he still didn't completely. But… The Duc's mouth curved into a grin. "Tell Legere to wait until 273 before selling," he instructed, moving over to the tub and stepping into the rising water.
Sitting down, he stretched out his long legs and lay back against the cool marble. "Mr. Bouchart will be round to the apartment here tomorrow for his fee." Submerging briefly, he came up out of the warm water, sleekly wet and smiling. "Set poor Legere's mind at ease now, Louis," he suggested, reaching for the unscented soap he preferred. "I'll dress myself."
Within the hour, the Duc de Vec had gained control of his newest railroad line. He'd also divested himself—with a suitably memorable gift—from his latest paramour—a not unfamiliar circumstance in the life and times of Etienne Martel. After lunch at his club, he was being driven now at a leisurely pace to one of the nearer Parisian suburbs to play his daily polo match. The dulcet spring air drifting in through the open windows of his carriage matched the tranquility of his disposition.
He was in extremely fine spirits.
Half a world away a scant day later, Daisy Black, ayoung Absarokee woman and one of only fifty female lawyers in America,
1
stood in a courtroom in Helena, Montana, her expression composed, thinking for the countless thousandth time since trying this case before Judge Nott how the world would be a better place if he could be put out of his miserable ignorance and shot.
It was not a facetious thought.
Although two years ago Montana law had permitted women attorneys to practice in the state, Judge Ryan Nott, personally opposed to the new statute, had convened this trial by looking Daisy over with disapproval and saying, "Miss, what are you doing in my courtroom?"
2
When Daisy had attempted to answer, Nott had sharply cut her off: "Miss Black, if you dare speak, I shall hold you in contempt."
Webster Drake, the opposing counsel, had had the grace to swiftly rise and intervene, pointing out the substance of the law as well as Daisy's substantial experience in court. Even then, overlooking Daisy's formidable record of successes in the courtroom, Judge Nott had discourteously suggested Braddock-Black Ltd. would be better served by a "capable" lawyer.
Red-faced and frustrated he couldn't legally eject her from his court, he'd insisted on presenting his views on women in an inflammatory, avowedly antifeminist, tirade.
"We cannot but think," he'd expostulated, ignoring the intent of the state law as incidental to his personal attitude, "the common law wise in excluding women from the profession of law. The law of nature destines and qualifies the female sex for the bearing and nurture of the children of our race" (at which point, his disapproval of Daisy's race was openly evident in his bitter, piercing gaze) "and for the custody of the homes of the world, and their maintenance in love and honor. And all lifelong calling of women…" His voice was beginning to thunder, his jowls quivering in sympathy. "… inconsistent with these social duties of their sex, as-is-the-profession-of-law…" A hint of purple tinged his cheeks, so rabid were his emotions. "… are departures from the order of nature, and when voluntary,
treason
against it!"
3
From that unpropitious beginning, his obstructive motives had never wavered. Throughout the course of the trial, Daisy had been reprimanded unnecessarily, spoken to with indifference or discourtesy, ignored and overruled countless times—an effort in futility, since the presentation of her witnesses and cross examination were brilliantly effective in citing the illegalities of Hanna Mining's incursions into Braddock-Black copper deposits. Regardless of Judge Nott's prejudices, the jury was being offered her evidence with skillful adept coolness. Daisy Black rarely showed her temper in court or otherwise. She'd accomplished the rare feat of sisterhood in a select minority of women lawyers in
America
by hard work and willful control of her emotions. Unlike whitemen, who were often viewed as emotional, loud, and rude, her Absarokee heritage nurtured restraint and courtesy. And she conducted herself with a composure and self-possession that had earned her the sobriquet "Iron-pants."
Furiously provoked by the judge's last comment, her brother Trey was on his feet, leaning forward belligerently across the table reserved for Braddock-Black personnel, looking as though he were about to leap over the littered tabletop. His silver eyes were hot with anger, the set of his spine rigid, and only their father's hand on his sleeve restrained him.
"Whether I'm married or not, Judge Nott," Daisy was reply-ing with equanimity to the judge's rude allusion she was
single
because she lacked the gentler graces of her sex, "has nothing to do with the intelligent presentation of this case or the fact that my speciality in mining law will make it difficult for Hanna Mining to profit by taking ore from Braddock-Black Limited. And as far as the gentler graces of my sex, I've seen too many married women of Montana ploughing and planting and driving wagon teams to consider languid femininity and delicate tea ceremonies a requisite for marriage."
The jury guffawed, Trey sat back down with a smile on his face, and Hazard Black, father to the outspoken woman putting Judge Nott in his place, murmured to his son and the two other Braddock-Black lawyers seated at their table, "Nott just lost his appointment to the federal court." Hazard Black's enormous wealth made him a potent political force in Montana despite his Indian heritage. Judge Nott had seriously erred in insulting his daughter.
Although born into a warrior culture and trained in warfare as a young man, in the decades since the whiteman had moved into Montana, Hazard Black had learned to deal with his enemies in a manner commensurate with the law. Fortunately, frontier justice was often not only moot, but informal and swiftly dispensed in a sparsely settled state where the nearest authorities were hours or days away. But-regardless of the whiteman's idiosyncrasies and restrictions imposed on the traditional modes of Absarokee justice, Hazard Black always paid his debts.
Which point Daisy took issue with on the way back to the office later that afternoon, after court had been recessed for the day. "Just a friendly warning, Father. I don't need any vengeful retaliation for the judge's allusion to my being single. It was uncalled-for and more personal than his other forms of rudeness, but he's a simpleminded bigot I can handle myself." Daisy spoke in a moderate tone, as though she weren't warning off her father from some resolute masculine sense of affront. She understood the Absarokee operating rules on vengeance as well as he.