by Renee Ryan
Concerned by her fanciful reaction to this house, Caroline frowned. This wasn’t the first grand home she’d entered since arriving in New York. Yet this one possessed a haunting beauty that made her breath hitch in her throat.
A chill traveled through her followed by a wave of deep-rooted regret. Why had her mother not tried harder to return home? Why had she not journeyed back to America and demanded her father listen to her side of the story?
Anger, longing, a brief moment of defeat, those were only a few of the emotions warring for supremacy in Caroline’s heart. At the moment, she didn’t know whom she was angrier with, her grandfather for abandoning his own daughter, or her mother for running off with a man for the ridiculous notion of love.
Love. What a pointless emotion, fraught with dangerous pitfalls. Caroline would never fall in love. Never. She’d seen the devastation left in its wake, knew the pain that resulted when love was lost or stolen away.
Enough.
Lifting her chin, she mounted the first step. And then took the next. Too many stairs in this country. She’d never had to navigate so many in her life. Her own humble dwelling in Whitechapel had been ground level, dirty, small—the complete opposite of this grand home.
Anger sprinted through her again, followed by frustration and then sorrow, bone-deep sorrow.
This house, this mansion, was where her mother had lived the first eighteen years of her life. The reality of how far her mother had fallen made Caroline’s breath come in hard, quick snatches.
Enough.
She navigated the next three steps, her gaze shifting left to right, right to left. The three-story brownstone was a mammoth structure, filling half a city block. Gaslights from the street bathed the exterior in a golden, welcoming glow. Row upon row of windows sparkled like diamonds in the inky night. A fairy-tale palace come to life, promising safety, comfort, and happily ever after.
Caroline sighed. Happy endings didn’t exist for people like her.
Her mother had believed otherwise, and that false thinking had contributed as much to her death as Richard St. James’s abandonment.
Swallowing hard, Caroline continued up the final two steps. She lifted her hand to knock, but her knuckles met empty air as the door swung open on its own. A stiff-backed man dressed in a black servant’s uniform ushered her inside with a curt nod of his head. Remembering Sally’s instructions, Caroline barely made eye contact with him.
Pretending she was above this man’s station went against everything her mother had taught her. Libby had been a proponent of the biblical precept: Consider others better than yourself; look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others. It would seem the lesson had stayed with Caroline. She couldn’t take for granted someone else’s hard work.
Except for tonight. Tonight she was one of the wealthy. And all that that implied.
Another servant came up behind Caroline and grasped her cape. Although prepared for the move, she had to resist the urge to spin around and slap his hand away.
He is not a street thug trying to steal your property, she reminded herself.
“The others are in the blue drawing room at the top of the stairs.”
She gave a brief nod, squared her shoulders, and made her way toward yet another set of stairs. This particular staircase extended upward in a long, sweeping arc. Made of the finest marble, these steps were far superior to the wooden ones at Ellis Island, but just as intimidating.
Caroline’s fingers twined in the fabric of her skirt. Don’t fidget. Sally’s instructions from earlier in the day swept through Caroline’s mind. A lady holds her head aloft, eyes cast forward, her spine ramrod straight.
Caroline dropped her hand to her side and placed a serene look on her face, the one Sally had taught her and she’d practiced in the mirror all afternoon. The new strategy they’d designed was exceedingly different from the one Caroline had originally adopted.
Could she pull this off?
Not if she stayed rooted to the spot. She began the climb.
Halfway to the top, a voice drifted from behind her. “Miss Harding, I see you have arrived a full half hour early this evening.”
Caroline froze. A prickling, sharp as knifepoints, skidded down her spine.
The voice grew nearer. “I have to wonder at your eagerness.”
A pleasant sensation shot through her, followed by a moment of alarm. She would not—could not—allow herself to be thrown off her guard by a man, any man, and certainly not this one.
She swallowed once, twice, then turned to look over her shoulder. “Mr. Montgomery.” She flashed a wry smile. “I see you are an early arrival as well.”
“I had business I needed to discuss with the family.” He didn’t elaborate, not that she’d expected him to. He was a frequent guest in this home, as much a part of the St. James inner circle as if he’d been born into the family. She was the interloper.
A touch of cold dread moved through her. She held Montgomery’s stare, well aware that beneath the perfectly tailored evening clothes was a dangerous man, all hard muscle and coiled power, a predator capable of striking at any moment.
He came to a stop on the stair just below hers, bringing them eye-to-eye. Only a tiny tic in his jaw marred the aura of complete control he exuded.
A heartbeat passed. And another. Trapped, that was the word that flickered in her mind. But, oddly enough, she wasn’t afraid. She was intrigued despite herself. There was a hidden wildness in him she doubted others saw. Perhaps even he didn’t acknowledge that part of himself.
Fascinating.
Frightening.
Something about the man made her forget to remain coldly distant. Beware, Caroline. Beware.
Montgomery offered his arm. “Shall we conquer the rest of the way together?”
“Certainly.”
Stomach in knots, she took his arm, suddenly glad for his support as well as the physical barrier of his sleeve and her glove. It wouldn’t do for her to get too comfortable around the man.
They climbed the stairs as one, their steps perfectly in tune with one another. Caroline might have found that odd had she had time to consider the matter in depth. For now, her mind was already inside the blue drawing room. Centered on the man she’d come to meet for the first time.
Richard St. James was in for the shock of his life.
At the top of the stairs, two servants dressed in identical black uniforms and starched white shirts opened a pair of double doors in unison. Most likely a move they’d perfected through years of practice.
Caroline hesitated at the threshold, her skin growing hot, then frigid. Her family awaited mere feet from her. People who shared her blood. Caroline closed her eyes tightly, drew in a slow breath of air.
“Problem, Miss Harding?”
“No, I . . .” She tapped into the trace of stubbornness that had kept her strong through the leanest, most difficult times. “I am ready.”
His eyes narrowed. “Interesting choice of words.”
Oh, he was a clever one. Taking out her frustration on him, she fixed the infuriating man with a quelling stare.
That earned her a dry chuckle. “I don’t know quite what to think of you, Miss Harding.”
“Perhaps thinking is precisely your problem.”
Dropping his head close to hers, he hovered near her upturned face. For a dreadful moment, she thought he was going to kiss her.
In the next instant, he snapped back to attention. “Perhaps thinking too much is my biggest failing of all.”
She doubted that.
Without another word, he led her past the open doors. The room was so grand and sophisticated and dripping with sparkling light that Caroline found herself dazzled. And stunned speechless.
An unanticipated, dangerous reaction. This was not the way she’d planned to enter her grandfather’s world. Clutching Mr. Montgomery’s arm, she blinked several times, then focused her gaze. She counted a total of three other occupants in the ro
om, her cousin, Elizabeth, and Elizabeth’s parents—a middle-aged couple Caroline knew to be her Uncle Marcus and her Aunt Katherine.
She’d seen them before, at the opera and the theater, but they had not seen her. She’d made sure of that.
Montgomery cleared his throat.
All heads turned.
Elizabeth smiled at them both, started forward, then stopped as a collective gasp rose from her parents. She returned to their side.
“Mother? Father?” Frowning in confusion, Elizabeth angled her head and studied the older pair. “Whatever is wrong with you?”
Katherine St. James ignored her daughter’s question, her gaze widening with each breath she took. “It can’t be. It just can’t be.”
A glass slipped from her hand and crashed to the floor, the sound reverberating against the ornately decorated walls.
Out of nowhere, a servant rushed forward to clean up the broken shards. Caroline’s uncle jumped to his feet and started for Caroline but was tugged back by his wife. “Marcus, wait.”
Silence hung in the room like a thick wool blanket.
“I say, Miss Harding.” Montgomery drawled the words in a low tone meant only for her ears. “You certainly know how to make an entrance.”
She didn’t respond to his goading. She couldn’t. Her gaze was fixed on her uncle. He appeared shocked by her appearance, and . . . oddly—somehow—pleased to see her.
Caroline hadn’t expected that reaction.
But then she remembered that her mother had always spoken fondly of her older brother, even though ten years had separated them in age. If Libby were to be believed, Marcus had loved his little sister to distraction, spoiling her beyond reason. Caroline hadn’t believed that. Such a devoted brother would have come looking for his sister when she’d disappeared all those years ago.
Marcus St. James had never crossed the Atlantic Ocean. Not once. Her mother had been clear on this subject, heartbreakingly clear.
Caroline broke eye contact with her uncle, the hair on the back of her neck rising. Another person had entered the room.
She slowly turned and, finally, after all the planning and scheming, locked gazes with Richard St. James.
Heart in her throat, Caroline took a step forward, froze. She hadn’t expected to feel this rush of homecoming, this sense of hope mixed with utter confusion. Her grandfather was supposed to be an old man, a frail scrooge showing his age, not this strong, handsome man with broad shoulders, a kind face, and . . . her eyes.
She’d thought she’d inherited her eyes from her mother but hadn’t suspected her mother had inherited them from this man.
The color drained from her grandfather’s face. “Libby?” His eyes blinked rapidly. “Is, is that you?”
“No. Not Libby. Caroline. My name is Caroline.” Her voice came out far too unsteady for her liking. “Libby was my mother.”
Jackson viewed the unfolding drama as if through a tank of murky water. Half his mind focused on the shock racing across Richard’s face and the other half on the fact that Caroline Harding was still holding on to his arm. With a death grip.
He realized he should probably peel away her fingers and extricate himself at once. But something about her carefully contained behavior, the way she tried to still her shaking, the vulnerability in her eyes, got to him. It seemed appropriate to suspect her of something underhanded, but an inexplicable need to protect her suddenly shot through him.
She wasn’t what she seemed; he knew that now. She’d come to this house with an ulterior motive. Until he knew what she had in mind—precisely—Jackson wouldn’t abandon her.
Richard moved toward them, his gaze drifting from one to the other, confusion evident in his eyes. “Jackson, you know this young woman?”
The question was a valid one, especially with their arms linked so tightly together. “Elizabeth introduced us last evening.”
As if gathering her courage, Caroline drew in a harsh breath, released his arm, and faced Richard directly. “Do you deny me? Do you deny who I am?”
Her eyes were filled with a mixture of pain and anger, big shining eyes full of fight and spirit. Eyes that were so similar to Richard’s there could be no question they were related.
Was she his love child?
No, Richard was an honorable man. By all accounts, he’d loved only one woman, his wife, Constance. When she’d died, he’d vowed never to love again. Thirty years later Richard had never once broken that vow.
Or had he? Who was this Libby?
“Everyone out.” Richard’s eyes never left Caroline’s face. “Everyone but you.”
Even though Caroline’s breath came in quick, hard bursts, she nodded at the command. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“But we are.” Marcus rose to his feet. Amidst protests from his wife, he calmly escorted her and Elizabeth toward the exit.
Elizabeth pulled free of her father’s grip, her eyes wide with curiosity as she looked from Caroline to her grandfather and back again. “Perhaps I could stay a moment longer?”
“No, my dear, you will not stay a moment longer.” Marcus readjusted his hold on her arm. “Come along, Elizabeth. Katherine, you as well.”
A sound of dismay slipped from both women’s lips. Marcus remained impassive. Before exiting the room completely, he stopped next to Caroline and whispered something in her ear. Jackson thought he heard, “Welcome, my dear,” but he couldn’t be certain.
The doors snapped closed, leaving Jackson alone with Richard and Caroline.
Richard looked pointedly at him. “You will leave us as well.”
Not a chance. “I’m staying.”
“This matter is none of your concern—”
“Perhaps not. But we don’t know what this woman really wants from you.” He dropped a meaningful glance at Caroline. “She could mean to do you harm.” He doubted that but wasn’t about to risk the possibility.
As if to punctuate his point, Caroline flashed her teeth at him. “I knew you were the one to watch.”
Having had her say, she turned her back on him.
Jackson clenched his jaw, baffled at the spurt of anger he experienced from her dismissal. “Are you carrying a weapon on your person?”
“I am not.” She released an impatient sigh. “And, no, you won’t be searching my person to see if I’m lying.”
At her saucy remark, Richard made a sound deep in his throat that could have been a snort or a laugh. Either response would have been understandable, given her outrageous behavior.
Jackson’s mood darkened as he studied the woman he’d first met near the Bowery and then at the Griffin ball. She was an accomplished liar, that much he knew, but what else was she?
Who was she?
“Caroline.” Richard reached out to her, then retreated when she glowered at his outstretched hand. “Where is your mother? Where is Libby?”
Caroline went very still at the question, her eyes unblinking, her tone ruthlessly flat and void of emotion. “She is dead.”
“Dead? My Libby is dead?” Richard’s renowned calm crumpled, and his knees buckled beneath him. He reached out to steady himself on a nearby chair. “When? When did she die?”
“A year ago, in a filthy, rat-infested hovel in the East End of London.” Caroline’s voice changed then, the cultured, educated accent completely gone, replaced by a strong cockney inflection.
“So recent.” Tears sprang to the older man’s eyes, grief etched around his mouth, making him look every bit of his seventy years. “If only I had known she was in trouble, maybe I could have—”
“What? You could have what? Saved her?” Caroline practically spat the words. “Is that what you were going to say? You think you could have saved her? When you were the one who destroyed her?”
“No.”
“Yes. You abandoned your own daughter to a life of poverty and despair.”
Daughter. Libby had been Richard’s daughter?
That made Caroline his granddaughter.<
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“No.” Richard’s hand shook as he wiped it across his mouth. “I never abandoned her. She disappeared without a word. I searched for her. For years, I searched.”
“You lie!”
At the bold outburst, the two stared at one another, neither moving, both breathing hard. The silence stretched between them, thickening by the second, stealing the air.
The doors suddenly burst open, and Luke Griffin sauntered into the room, his easy gait indicating he had no idea a family drama was unfolding right before his eyes. His next words confirmed his complete lack of awareness of the ever-increasing tension. “What did I miss?”
Chapter Eleven
Caroline ignored Lucian Griffin, her eyes trained on her grandfather. The evening was not progressing as she’d hoped. Not by half. When she’d first contrived her plan for Richard St. James’s downfall, she’d expected to face an unfeeling man, one who was both greedy and concerned with his own selfish ambitions. This broken, grief-stricken version didn’t fit with her preconceived notion.
Her grandfather seemed to have aged twenty years in the matter of so many minutes. His eyes had taken on a world-weary sheen, while anguish etched creases on either side of his mouth.
Baffled, she tugged her bottom lip between her teeth. Her revelation wasn’t supposed to affect him this way. He was supposed to be showing his derision at this very moment, perhaps even tossing her out of his home.
He was not supposed to be so obviously . . . devastated.
For all intents and purposes, she’d won. Before the battle had even begun.
Why wasn’t she feeling more triumphant? Perhaps because she’d come prepared for a fight, not . . . this. This pain-filled misery.
Of its own volition her hand lifted to her face. A patina of tears wet her cheek. Tears of sorrow, of remorse. Guilt.
This wasn’t fair. She was supposed to feel hate. Only hate. Instead, the hole in her soul seemed to widen. She wanted . . . so much, so many things she had no name for.
Her trembling hand dropped to her side.
“Miss Harding.” Montgomery shifted in front of her, the sudden move breaking the trance she’d fallen into. “You will leave this home at once. You have nothing more to say to—”