A Calculated Risk by Katherine Neville (best time to read books .txt) 📗

Lionel saw Claude Westerby seated at the rear of the paneled room, arms folded and observing the bidding. Lionel let his eyes rest briefly upon the director’s son—long enough to convey the message that there was something wrong, and to ask for direction. Claude’s shrug said that he, too, was concerned over Lelia’s feverish bidding, but felt little could be done about it now. Short of stopping the auction, Lionel thought; that surely would be unprecedented.

But as the bidding continued a slight change in pace told him, through years of experience, that the property was about to close—and that Leila would take the bid. A peaceful sense of completion filled him, as if a weight had been lifted.

He tapped his gavel gently on the brass mount and said quietly, “Sold to Madame von Daimlisch for thirteen million dollars. Congratulations, Mrs. von Daimlisch—you’ve purchased a very fine piece of property.”

Lelia nodded and, with Pearl’s assistance, rose to leave the room. Among the several people who turned to watch her depart was Claude Westerby. Though it was irregular, when she’d first entered the auction gallery, he’d nodded to the guards to let her pass without seeing her invitation. He knew she had not received one, for he’d prepared the list himself. Now he rose to follow her.

“Where do we go from here?” Pearl was whispering as they went along the hallways.

“La caisse—the cashier,” Lelia replied. “When we finish the meal, we must pay l’addition.”

“This is the fun part,” Pearl said grimly. “How in hell do you plan to pick up this tab?”

“With a chèque, naturally!” Lelia laughed.

Nonetheless, she looked, at long last, really drained with exhaustion. Pearl was worried. After all, Lelia was no spring chicken.

“My congratulations, madame,” Claude Westerby said, coming up behind them in the hall.

He took her free arm and joined them in their progress to the cashier. If something went wrong, he wanted to handle it himself.

“Monsieur, we have never made the acquaintance formally,” Lelia began. “I am—”

“I know who you are, my dear—you’re Lelia von Daimlisch. Though I’m sure I’ve changed since you saw me last, you’re still the woman who was once considered the loveliest in New York.”

Lelia dazzled him with a smile.

“I’m Claude Westerby,” he went on. “You’ve received good value for your money today. I’m afraid the previous owner will be angry with me—we’d estimated that island to go for half again as much. Let’s hope all the rest fare better, for my sake! I’m pleased that it should have been you who bought it.”

And even more pleased, he thought, if you can pay for it. What a nightmare it would be for all, if she could not!

“Here is the cashier,” he said. “I shall leave you to do the unpleasant part alone, though I’ll be nearby if you should need help. May I say it’s been a great pleasure to have met you formally, after all these years.”

“Merci, monsieur,” said Lelia. Then she reached out and took his hand. Her voice trembled in what he found an alarmingly feminine way for a woman of her age. “And thank you for … in the past, you were very discreet about my bijoux—my jewels. I know it was you who made the little inquisitions for me. I am like the elephant; I have a long memory for my good fortunes. Again, merci, mon ami Claude.”

He looked at her in surprise, and felt a sudden clutching at his heart. She had such beauty still, the sort of beauty that was magnified from within. She was, he thought, even lovelier than he remembered her forty years ago. He was so pleased she’d bought the island that for the moment, he didn’t give a damn whether she could pay for it or not. He rather longed to buy it as a gift for her, himself.

Pressing her hand tightly, he took his leave abruptly, and walked briskly down the hall, back to the auction.

PART 3

FRANKFURT, GERMANY

JANUARY 1810

It was early in the year 1810, and Meyer Amschel Rothschild was still living in Frankfurt, though his children were grown and his favorite son, Nathan, had moved abroad.

“I had a dream last night,” Meyer Amschel told his wife, Gutle, as they sat eating a breakfast of dried bread soaked in milk.

“A dream?” inquired Gutle, her tone seeming to suggest she’d never before heard of such a thing.

Her hair, cut short in the Orthodox tradition, was covered with a thick unpowdered wig, which in turn was covered with an enormous headpiece made of stiff cotton, Dutch lace, and taffeta ribbons.

“And what was this dream?” she asked her husband, spooning some more milk over his bread. “A dream of more fortune? I think we have more fortune already than is good for us. Sometimes I think so much fortune will one day bring us bad luck.” She rapped on the table with her spoon to drive away the devils that might be listening.

“It was a strange dream,” said Meyer Amschel pensively. “I saw our house tested in fire and water, as the old book says mankind will one day be tested before God. Our sons fought together for a common cause, like Judas Maccabaeus, standing together like a force that defies nature—”

“We are all aware of your thoughts on this subject,” Gutle told him, “how one twig may be easily snapped between two hands—but a bunch of twigs standing together may not be broken.”

“I know from this dream that something great and magnificent is about to happen,” Meyer Amschel told his wife. “And because of it, the house of Rothschild will stand for a hundred, hundred years. You will see, my dear—it will begin quite soon.”

In the year 1810, as Meyer Amschel’s dream had predicted, his son Nathan was devising a plan so daring and fraught with risk that it might well cost the family not only its fortune, but its freedom, too.

Nathan had been in England for over twelve years, and he’d done