At five, Kate ran upstairs to ask Emma to send down some sandwiches. The trays of food arrived and they cleared a space on the desk for the maids to set it all down. Then they took turns at the sink in the dank half bath midway down the corridor, each making an attempt to rinse off the dust.
Finally they pulled a few chairs out of the jumble of furniture and made themselves comfortable. The food tasted wonderful to Cord. He hadn’t eaten since those two croissants that morning. He was on his second sandwich, his mind, as it had been doing all day, wandering off to thoughts of Hannah, when Kate, who had perched on the corner of their father’s massive old desk, snagged her right trouser leg on a section of carved woodwork.
She let out a moan. “I love these pants. And now they’ll have a pull.”
Rafe lifted an eyebrow. “Should have changed into something more practical.”
Kate faked a haughty tone. “Practical? I don’t do practical. You know very well that fashion is my life.”
“Hold still.” Jack got up and set his plate on his chair.
“I’ll see if I can free it without making it worse.” Kneeling, he gently unsnagged the caught thread.
“You’re my hero, Jack.” Kate made a big show of putting her hand to her heart.
Jack wasn’t listening. “What’s this?”
Cord sat forward—and saw another drawer built into the outer edge of the desk, a drawer cleverly disguised by the ornate carving of the woodwork.
“Look at this,” said Jack, pushing aside a tiny flap.
“A keyhole.”
Kate slid out of his way and onto her feet. “Well, what do you know?”
Cord felt in his pocket for the key ring he’d found in his father’s desk upstairs. “Try one of these.” He tossed the keys to Jack.
The third one Jack tried was a match. He turned the tiny key and pulled open the drawer.
There were three yellowed envelopes inside, all addressed to Caine Stockwell. Jack carefully removed the contents of each envelope and smoothed the pages.
“What do they say?” Kate prompted eagerly.
“Just a minute…” Jack scanned each letter. It didn’t take him long.
“Well?” demanded Rafe.
Jack handed Rafe the short stack of brittle paper. “See for yourself.”
Rafe studied the first letter. “They’re from a Mr. Gabriel Johnson…”
Jack nodded. “Right. Gabriel Johnson of Rose Hill, Texas. He claims to be a direct descendant of Miles Johnson, who lost so much so mysteriously back around 1900. He insists, in each of the letters—and in each one he seems angrier than in the one before—that the Johnsons were robbed by the first Caine Stockwell. He demands some form of restitution, and he swears that he can show proof of his claim.”
“What kind of proof?” Cord stood and set his empty plate on one of the trays in the center of the desk.
Rafe was still reading. “He’s pretty vague about that.”
Cord looked over his twin’s shoulder. “That’s all? A claim, and a promise that there is proof.”
Rafe finished scanning the final page. “That’s right. There’s nothing solid here, other than the name and the address.”
Kate took the letters from him, refolded them, and put them back into their envelopes. “Okay, we’ve got these letters. And the mysterious checks made out to Clyde Carlyle. Let’s plow through the rest of this stuff and see if we can come up with anything else.”
By seven, they had searched every file and scoured every box. And they still had nothing more to go on than the three letters from Gabriel Johnson and the mysterious bank account with its large monthly payments to Clyde Carlyle.
“Looks like somebody needs to visit Caroline Carlyle,” Jack said. “And it will probably also be necessary to see if we can track down this Gabriel Johnson—or his children, if he’s no longer around.”
“I’ll talk to Caroline,” Rafe announced, sounding grim. “But it’ll have to wait a few days. I have to go out of state again first thing tomorrow. But I’ll get in touch with her as soon as I get back.”
“Fine,” said Jack. “And eventually, I’ll go looking for Gabriel Johnson. But I’d like to spend a few days down here in the basement first.”
“How exciting,” said Kate, her tone making it clear that she really thought it was anything but.
Jack shrugged. “I’ll go through all of this stuff again. You never know what I might find on a closer look.” He held up the key ring Cord had tossed him before. “Maybe I’ll find some more places to use these—and Cord, in the meantime…”
“I know, I know. Whatever information I can get out of the old man…”
“Anything could help.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
Cord swore he could smell the scent of roses drifting in the air when he reached his rooms about ten minutes later.
Had she liked the roses he’d sent? He wished he’d been there to see her face when they arrived.
But he’d done his duty first.
And now, he could seek his reward.
As soon as he cleaned up a little. He felt grimy—and he was—from the dusty work downstairs. His shirt was wrinkled and streaked with dirt, same for his slacks. He’d taken off his tie hours ago, left it somewhere downstairs draped over a chair or a box. Hell if he remembered exactly where.
He needed a shower before he went to Hannah, before he held his daughter in his arms. The doors to the nursery suite were all shut, which was fine with him. Hannah wouldn’t see him go by and wonder why he hadn’t sought her out immediately.
In his bedroom, all was in order. The maids had done their work, erasing every sign of the night before—except for the white nightgown. It was folded neatly, laid on the bed.
She had left it behind. Cord could see it just as it must have happened…
Becky had wakened her with a cry. She’d pulled on that green robe, skipping the nightgown, in a hurry to get to the baby.
He paused at the side of the bed, ran his hand over the snowy cotton. Soft. There was no one to see, so he indulged himself. He picked up the folded gown and pressed his face into it.
Flowers. Baby lotion. Incredible sweetness.
Hannah.
With great care, he set the gown back on the bed. He would return it to her tonight, ask her to wear it again, and soon, so that he could have the pleasure of taking it off of her—and he was wasting precious time. Time that could be spent with Hannah.
He headed for the bathroom, peeling his filthy clothes off as he went. It took him ten minutes, total, to shower and to dress again, this time in chinos and a polo shirt. He left his room and went down the hall to the nursery.
He tried Becky’s bedroom first, pushing the door open quietly. She lay in her crib, sound asleep as he’d suspected she might be. He stood over her for a moment, marveling again at how beautiful, how perfect, how incredible she was. Then he went out through the playroom, shutting the door soundlessly behind him.
He hesitated before he knocked at Hannah’s door.
Damn. All of a sudden, he was as nervous as a kid with a first crush. What if she—?
What if she what?
Didn’t answer? Wasn’t there?
Of course she was there. Where else would she be, with his daughter asleep in her bed a room away? He was glad he’d seen to it that she got a little extra sleep, because it would be a long night. He wanted to tell her everything that had happened that day, from the bizarrely lucid things his father had said to the hours in the basement, which had resulted in two more clues to the various family mysteries. He wanted to hear what she thought of all of it, to get her take on it.
And after that, he wanted to make love—slowly, deliciously, for a very long time. He raised his hand and knocked. A few seconds later, she pulled back the door. His heart stopped—and then resumed beating just a little too fast.
Something was wrong.
She looked…distant. Careful. Less than thrilled at the sight
of him.
His gaze tracked down her body, the body he had so thoroughly enjoyed the night before, now modestly covered with a cotton shirt, a simple A-line skirt.
And shoes.
Something wasn’t right.
Hannah never wore shoes in the privacy of her own room.
And where were the roses he’d sent? He scanned the space behind her. Not a damn perfect pink flower in sight. What the hell? Hadn’t they been delivered?
Someone was in big trouble. Someone was going to be very sorry about this particular mix-up.
She forced a smile. He hated that, watching her mouth stretch in such a stiff, unwilling fashion. “I…the roses were beautiful. But I couldn’t accept them.”
He tried to absorb what she was telling him. The roses had been delivered, but she had refused them?
She continued, “I had Mrs. Hightower take them downstairs to the library, the parlor…” she hesitated, gave a tiny, embarrassed shrug. “Wherever there was room for them. You know what I mean.”
“You didn’t want the roses?” he heard himself say, his voice slow, thick, like an idiot. He felt like an idiot. A dolt. A dunce. A stammering fool. He wasn’t accustomed to feeling like a fool. And he didn’t like it at all.
She put her hand to the base of her throat, the way she did when she was anxious. “Please. I didn’t say I didn’t want them.”
“You refused them. It’s the same damn thing.”
“I just…Cord, I really don’t think—”
“You don’t think what?”
“Well, I…”
“You what?”
“It doesn’t matter. Whatever. Thank you for the roses, but, well, I couldn’t keep them.”
“You couldn’t?”
“Oh, please. I couldn’t. I didn’t. It’s all the same. Just let it be, will you?”
“Let it be,” he repeated, still in village idiot mode.
“Right. Let it be. The fact is, I didn’t accept the roses.”
“Got that.” He wanted to reach out and shake her.
“Loud and clear.”
“And I…I have some news for you.”
He almost echoed her again, almost muttered, “You have news…” But somehow, he managed to keep his mouth shut.
“I’ve finally found the right nanny,” she said. “Oh, Cord, she’s really just perfect, warm and loving, extremely capable, with a great sense of humor and an impressive list of references. Her name is Bridget—Bridget O’Hara—and she’s willing to start work on Monday.”
Chapter Eighteen
Fool, Cord thought. Idiot. Dunce.
He’d spent his whole day anticipating, awaiting the moment he would see her again.
And what had she been doing?
Interviews. One after the other, until she came up with someone who would do as her replacement.
What had she told him last night? That for two weeks, she’d been turning away perfectly good candidates for the job, because deep in her heart she didn’t want to leave Becky—or him.
Well, she was certainly singing a different tune now.
She was just chockful of news. “I did want you to meet Bridget first, before I made the final decision. I kept her here for over an hour, thinking that you might come upstairs. I even called your office, but your secretary said you weren’t there right then.” She added on a rising inflection, “I left a message.” As if that proved something—what, he hadn’t a clue.
He thought of all he’d been waiting all day to tell her. He didn’t want to tell her a damn thing now. “Something came up,” he said. “I left the office early and never got back there. I didn’t get your message.”
“Oh.” She gave him a sheepish little smile. “I see. Well. Bridget will be here at eight Monday morning, ready to go. I just know you’re going to love her.”
“I’m sure I will.” He spoke without inflection. “It looks like you’ve got everything all worked out.”
“Yes, well…I did tell you, didn’t I, that I needed to be back at work on Monday? Well, I’ve called my office and told them I can make it in by noon. And I do have to get myself home one of these days,” she said. “I’ve got a lot of houseplants. My neighbor’s supposed to be watering them, but, well, they always suffer if I’m gone too long.” She coughed—an embarrassed sort of sound. As if it had just occurred to her that he probably didn’t give a good damn about her houseplants.
She kept on. “I’ll spend a few hours with Bridget, getting her moved in, showing her where everything is, and then, that’ll be it. I’ll have all my things packed and I’ll just…take off.”
For the first time in his life, he found himself thinking that his coldhearted SOB of a father was right. No woman should ever be allowed to get too close. Somehow—and he still wasn’t quite sure how it had happened—he’d let himself start to feel close to this woman.
And look at him now, standing here, feeling sucker-punched, as she explained oh-so-cheerfully how she was walking out of his life. “Monday, then,” he heard himself say. “You’ll be out of here before noon.”
Her fake smile trembled, the perky facade cracking just a little. “Oh, Cord. You know it really is best that I go.”
Did he know that? Hell. He didn’t know much of anything right at that moment. But he’d be damned if he’d make a bigger fool of himself than he already had. He wouldn’t be reduced to begging her to stay.
He shrugged. “You’re probably right. And I trust your judgment when it comes to the new nanny. I’m sure that this Bridget O’Hara will work out just fine.”
He turned and left her standing there.
When he got out into the hallway, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He was facing the central upper hall and the main staircase there, so he blindly kept moving that way. He went down, to the main hall.
Damned if there wasn’t a vase of pink roses on the marble-topped table near the front door. He wandered into the parlor. There were two vases of roses in there. And there were three, spaced at even intervals, on the long table in the dining room. He picked up the dining-room extension and buzzed Emma.
When she answered, he told her he wanted her to get rid of the roses. All of them. And he wanted her to do it now.
Emma was a rock, as always. She didn’t ask any questions, she didn’t give him any arguments. She simply replied, “Of course, Mr. Stockwell. I’ll take care of it immediately.”
The weekend was a nightmare.
Every time he visited the nursery, Hannah made herself scarce. It irritated the hell out of him, to watch those green eyes widen with distress at the sight of him.
Obviously just being in his presence was painful for her.
Well, it wasn’t the best time he’d ever had, either, to see her, and to know that all she wanted was to get away from him. If he’d only had himself to consider, he would have avoided the nursery altogether.
But he couldn’t do that. He was a father. A father couldn’t just stop seeing his child because the sight of her nanny made him utterly miserable. He forced himself to spend the same amount of time with Becky as he’d spent with her before he had become Ms. Hannah Miller’s least favorite person.
On Saturday morning, the starfish pin arrived from Tiffany’s. Emma signed for it and then had it sent up to his rooms. He tossed it into a drawer, thinking that eventually he’d get around to returning it.
And he still had the white nightgown. He’d tucked it away on a shelf in the closet. Saturday went by, and she never asked for it. He decided that if she wanted it, she could damn well ask him for it—which she would probably never do, since she practically ran from the nursery every time he entered it.
Saturday about six, Kate called from downstairs. She was with Emma, and wanted to know how many would be in the sunroom for dinner. Rafe hadn’t returned from out of state yet. But Jack was there. They could make a foursome, have that pinochle rematch.
“Sorry,” Cord told her. “Can’t make it. I’m going out tonight
.”
“Hannah, too?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?”
“Cord, is something the matter?”
“Not a thing. Listen, gotta go.”
The next day, Kate cornered him in the sunroom, where he was trying to relax with his Sunday paper. She marched right up to him. “Cord, something’s going on. I called Hannah last night right after I called you. I asked her to join Jack and me for dinner. She said she couldn’t.”
He resolutely did not lower the business section. “So?”
“So…what did that mean, she couldn’t? I don’t get it.”
“Kate. Stay out of it.”
“Stay out of what?”
“Hannah’s leaving. Monday morning.”
Kate was standing right over him—way too close for comfort. She loomed even closer, so that he couldn’t keep the paper high enough to blot out her face. “You can’t be serious.”
He reluctantly met her eyes. “I’m deadly serious. She’s leaving. And that’s all there is to it.”
“But—”
“I mean it, Kate.” He folded his newspaper and stood. “Leave it alone.”
Her eyes had that mutinous look she got now and then. Kate had a soft heart, but she was definitely a Stockwell. She liked things to go the way she wanted them to go.
He drilled his point home. “Do not—repeat, do not—get involved in this.”
She glared at him.
He glared right back.
She was the one who gave in—with a dramatic exhalation of breath. “Okay, okay. It’s your life. You have a right to ruin it your own way, I suppose.”
“Thank you.” He stuck the business section under his arm and got out of there before she could start in on him again.
The day crawled by. Cord took Becky out alone for a walk on the grounds. He stayed out for two hours. Becky was in model baby mode, cooing and waving her arms happily half the time, sleeping the other half. He went out to the pond and sat on the bench underneath the willow tree. Staring out over the glassy surface where his mother had most likely not drowned after all, he wondered why he wanted to break something, to hit something, to make someone pay.
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