Celesta glared first at Damon’s overalled backside and then at the blue-eyed blond before her, wondering who to throttle first. Of course Frye had passed the burden of guilt to her—and now Patrick was acting all solicitous and protective while his flushed neck betrayed his anger. All his life he’d been a sweet-talker, when it suited his purpose, and she wasn’t falling for this change of heart.
“I’m fine, thank you,” she replied stiffly. “Now, if you’ll let me pick up the rest of my—”
“It’s the least Frye can do for you, under the circumstances.” Patrick’s gaze roamed over her face, and he squeezed her elbow. “Stay here. After I send him on his way, we’ll talk.”
His proprietary tone didn’t improve her mood, and as she watched Damon Frye stack the last of her papers in the basket, she quailed suddenly. What would he say about that packet of sugar she’d hidden? Surely it had slipped out with Aunt Katherine’s yarns, and if he asked her about it, she’d have to confess her main reason for stopping by earlier.
Damon, however, placed the colorful skeins of worsted on top of her papers and then presented her with the wicker basket, unruffled. “I enjoyed our stroll, Miss Montgomery,” he said with a subtle smile, “and any time you’d care to see more of the Cruikshank mansion, I’d be pleased to show you around.”
Frye winked at her, and then faced Patrick Perkins with his stoniest expression. The lumber heir sported a fashionable suit and freshly cut golden waves—the essence of breeding and acceptability, as always—but he was at a disadvantage now, and they both knew it. “Is there nothing you wish to say before you send me away?” he mocked. “After all we shared while growing up, I’m puzzled by your hostility.”
Patrick struggled against a retort that would make him look foolish—or worse—to Celesta. “I suppose you have a legitimate reason for being back?”
“I’m the new consultant supervising the finishing of John Cruikshank’s house. The ultimate confirmation of the expertise I’ve acquired, through diligent study and on-the-job experience.”
Perkins gripped his suspenders to keep from strangling this brazen intruder, who dared to parade his bronzed body and career achievements. He couldn’t help it he’d inherited his father’s lucrative lumber business, any more than Frye had chosen a humbler background to be born into. But damn it, he would not be slighted on his own back porch!
“Am I supposed to congratulate you?” he asked archly. “The house was well under way before you showed up. All I’ve seen so far is your blatant disregard for proper conduct—and for Celesta’s grief. Haven’t you ruined enough lives in this town?”
With a sly glance toward his conquest, who was following their exchange with wary eyes, Damon smiled. “Au contraire,” he replied in a silken voice, “I was paying my respects to Celesta’s indomitable spirit and her rare beauty. Perhaps having lived with them all these years, you don’t appreciate her attributes the way I do.”
Perkins stepped forward, his nostrils pinched. “Lucy had spirit and beauty, too—or have you forgotten?” he demanded in a terse whisper. “We all know how she ended up, and I won’t have you disgracing Celesta the same way.”
The men glowered at each other, brown eyes challenging blue, and Celesta wanted to disappear between the floorboards. She resented being the object of their conflicting desires, but all she could do was watch them at war and wonder what had caused these animosities. Before Damon’s return, Patrick had regarded her as part of the furniture, and now....
Frye crossed his muscled arms with leisurely self-assurance. The little rich boy bristling at him had always relied upon changing the subject and wheedling his way out of trouble, which worked with his mother and most females, but that tactic was about to defeat him now.
“You, and everyone else, are quick to remind me that my fiancée died in my absence,” he said in a low voice, “I didn’t suggest she take that potion, and I would’ve married her anyway, given a little time to consider the consequences of her condition.”
“Her condition?” Patrick blurted. “As though you had nothing to do with it! Her father was a hotheaded mill worker, and her mother stayed drunk and out of his way. How long did you think Lucy’d last under that roof, pregnant and abandoned?”
Frye chuckled wryly. “Bates worked for your father, Patrick, and your mother’s a director at the Home for the Friendless. If you were so concerned, why didn’t you take care of her? Or, since we were once close friends, why didn’t you talk her out of that trip to the other side of the tracks, and notify me about how desperate she truly was? Two days after I returned to school, understandably shaken by her announcement, she was gone.”
As his temper rose, Patrick felt his collar choking off what remained of his reasoning power. “I will not take the blame for any of that! Get out of here, Frye. If you come around again, or if I learn you’ve been meddling with Celesta, I’ll notify the police. Perhaps their memories need refreshing about the sort of man you are.”
Chuckling, Damon smiled at Celesta. “Miss Montgomery doesn’t seem to mind my meddling,” he said, his tone more pointed now, “and she’s certainly old enough to decide who she’ll be seen with. Take care that you don’t overstep any bounds with her, either, Perkins. A gentleman remembers his station in life. He learns from the past rather than repeating it.”
Frye descended the steps, and with a last sultry glance at Celesta he swaggered around the side of the house as though he intended to see her again at the earliest opportunity. She was watching after him, her knuckles a white, ridged ring around the basket handle and the vein above her collar pulsing visibly. So damned pretty—how had he not truly seen her all these years?
Patrick cleared his throat to break a silence as stifling as the noonday heat, knowing he couldn’t compensate for his past lack of attention but determined to anyway. “I—I’m sorry if our unpleasantness upset you,” he began quietly. “Frye has an irritating habit of placing his own wishes—and his limited version of the truth—above everyone else’s.”
“You’re right,” Celesta replied, “but I have to be getting back. Aunt Katherine sent me for this yarn hours ago and—”
“Stay. We need to talk.”
Even as he said it, he realized he’d have to change his attitude if he expected to win her affections. He took the heavy basket, smiling at Celesta’s resistance before she relinquished it, and led her to the porch railing. Its ornate white gingerbread was the symbol of Perkins wealth and status, and as he leaned against the post, lifting a hip onto the broad railing, he hoped it was also a suitable place to declare himself.
His palms felt damp as he drew her near, into an intimate stance that immediately made Celesta brace herself. One more step and she’d be leaning against his leg, among other things, and such a position compromised everything Mama and Eula had drilled into her about proper decorum, about knowing her place. “Patrick, we really shouldn’t—what if your mother—”
“I want you back, Celesta.”
She stared, unable to respond. His crystal blue eyes delved into hers, highlighting his fervent expression. His grip tightened. Patrick Perkins was sought after by ambitious mothers and aspiring brides alike, the most desirable catch in town, so he had no business flirting with her! And Celesta had no reason to assume their lifelong association was anything other than a financial necessity, a choice her mother made shortly after she was born. “You . . . you make it sound as though I’ve left you, personally, rather than the housekeeping position.”
He forced his gaze to remain steady. She was eight years younger but always smarter, this dark-haired waif, and he had to overcome her acuity without overlooking it. “You have left me,” he pleaded softly. “These few days without you have shown me how much your presence means to me ... and how blind I’ve been not to see you as more than a household fixture. Frye’s right about one thing: you’re a lovely young woman, Celesta.”
Damon’s name broke the spell he was weaving with his honeyed voice, remind
ing her that she was caught between the two rivals and didn’t want to be. “It’s not as though I were yours to—”
“But you could be.” Patrick closed his eyes, keenly aware of his thundering pulse and the dreams she was picking apart with her damned questions. He’d wanted to woo her slowly, allow her and Mother time to get used to this idea, but Frye was forcing his hand. “We’ve known each other all our lives, Celesta. This has always been your home, and it still could be, with you as its mistress rather than its maid. I’ve always envisioned you in fine clothes, decked out with jewelry—”
“How well did you know Lucy Bates?”
He nearly toppled backward off the railing. The young woman he held so tightly by the hands wasn’t falling for his sweet allusions—and she wouldn’t, until he drove all other distractions from her mind. Celesta was known for her dogged persistence and her unwavering pursuit of the truth . . . and he’d give it to her, after a fashion.
“You didn’t have to know Lucy to sympathize with her situation,” he hedged. “Poor girl lived with a demanding, self-righteous father and a doormat of a mother, and then along comes Frye with his promises. Which turned out to be hollow, after he let nature take its course and let her take the blame for it.”
Celesta regarded him closely, noting his heightened color as he repeated the usual rumors. There was something deeper here, infinitely more interesting than letting him paint her into pretty pictures after discovering her in Damon’s arms. “I was only nine or ten when all this came about,” she continued, “but as I recall, Mr. Frye came from a respectable family that was fairly well off. What did he see in Lucy?”
Why did she insist on discussing Frye when he was trying to propose? Damn her, she was flustering him on purpose! “Lucinda Bates was an attractive, vivacious woman who certainly turned other heads than Damon’s,” he replied impatiently. “And any one of them would’ve treated her better than he did.”
He was sounding like a broken record. Celesta smiled coyly, teasing Patrick with the wide-eyed innocence he’d always detested. “Then, why didn’t one of them take her in?”
“What man in his right mind would saddle himself with—that was ten years ago, Celesta!” he protested, moving his grip to her elbows. “I only challenged Frye about his behavior to save you from the same fate. Don’t fall for his silver-tongued stories, honey. He’s only using you to perturb me—”
“And why would he do that?”
Patrick let out an exasperated sigh. “Because I adored you, even when we were children, and even then he wanted to play the spoiler.” In desperation he drew her closer, until her maddening, adorable grin was only inches away. “That’s why I told him never to bother you again. You were too young then—and too naive now—to defend yourself against him. Forget him, Celesta. He’ll only break your heart.”
Before she could rebut, Celesta was pulled into an embrace that stunned her. Patrick’s kiss was urgent and demanding. He smelled of fine cologne, laundry starch, and linen warmed by the afternoon sun. His hands found the base of her spine and her nape, damply urging her against his body. He was undeniably handsome and unquestionably male . . . but the fluttering of his blond lashes against her cheeks told her his flowery phrases were every bit as bogus as Damon Frye’s. Sickened, she pulled away.
Patrick’s eyes flew open. “Celesta—honey, I—”
Shushing him with a firm finger, she shook her head. “This’ll never work and you know it. Goodbye, Patrick.”
He watched her grab her basket and hurry down the steps, disgusted—with himself, mostly. She was quick and comely, and he should’ve gotten her into bed long ago, to establish his superiority in at least one aspect of their relationship. But Frye was forcing him to play catch-up, and he’d bungled it.
Not one to bow to defeat for long, he followed her shapely form around the corner of the house, already planning their Saturday rendezvous. Ransom Manor had several hideaways where they’d be safe from prying eyes while his mother chatted with Katherine, probably for hours. He’d be ready this time. He’d yet to meet a young lady who wouldn’t get weak-kneed and naked after he plied her with words and a trinket or two, and Celesta, sheltered as she was, would be no exception.
A rustling in the nearby bushes made him blink and suck in his breath. His mother, in her broad-brimmed straw bonnet, was coming in from the side yard, garden shears in one hand and a bouquet of daisies in the other.
“How long have you been out here?” he blurted.
She started up the stairs, cocking a pale eyebrow at him. “Long enough, son. Long enough.”
Chapter 5
When Frye reached his hotel room that night, he closed the door behind him with a grin of anticipation. He reached into the deep pockets of his carpenter’s overalls and pulled out a small, folded paper packet and then a fat envelope addressed to Beadle and Adams in New York. Thanks to Perkins, he’d been able to slide these items into his pants while Celesta was distracted by the blond’s lecture. Not the most honorable way to satisfy his curiosity about Miss Montgomery, but it was a trick he couldn’t resist as he’d picked up her papers.
He sat down at his small dining table and carefully unfolded the packet. Tiny white granules trickled around his fingers and onto the tabletop. Why would she be hiding ordinary salt or sugar beneath her aunt’s yarn? Damon sniffed at the white mound in the paper, and then a taste from his moistened fingertip confirmed it to be sugar. She wouldn’t have carried it from Ransom Manor, so she must’ve taken it from the Perkins pantry. But why?
Frowning, he set the sugar aside to study the thick envelope. The name Beadle and Adams sounded familiar, yet when he pulled out a stack of neatly written pages and read the top one, his mouth dropped open: SALLY SHARPE, GIRL DETECTIVE, in “THE PEN IS MIGHTIER”—An Adventure by Montgomery C. Lester.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” he whispered as his eyes raced over the page. Sally Sharpe was the heroine of a weekly dime novel series, a character whose sleuthing adventures he’d enjoyed for quite some time. And Montgomery C. Lester was none other than Celesta herself! Why hadn’t he picked up on the name switch, after all the times he’d read these stories? Who would ever guess this housekeeper’s daughter was a popular author?
Chuckling, Damon scanned the entire story. In this episode, the only clues to the victim’s demise were two odd puncture wounds near his jugular, similar to those left by a vampire. Since the publication of Bram Stoker’s Dracula two years ago, bloodsuckers had appeared in numerous fictional tales, but Celesta’s practical-minded Sally had discovered an ingenious mode of murder rather than evidence of those nasty fangs: the victim was poisoned, and the weapon was a fountain pen, of all things!
Frye sat back in his chair, smiling. Celesta intrigued him before, but now that he knew what a clever brain she had beneath her beauty, he admired her even more. And it’d been a damn long time since he felt that way about a woman.
Did Perkins realize she was a writer? As he recalled the lumber heir’s red-faced blustering this noon, he doubted it. Celesta had looked very uncomfortable when Patrick played up to her, as though startled by his advances. A few minutes of eavesdropping around the corner of the house had convinced him the blond Romeo’s pleas were falling on properly deaf ears . . . which made the game more interesting. He and Perkins were both accustomed to getting what they wanted from a woman, and Damon now had the perfect ploy for making Celesta his own—and for paying Patrick back at the same time.
He closed his eyes to envision her as she’d been this morning, her hair curling damply at her nape, her dark dress clinging to curves no man had ever explored. The memory of her soft, sweet lips answering his aroused him even now . . . the feel of her yielding to him, as mesmerized as a victim-to-be of the vampire Count’s, made him chuckle and rise from his chair. It was time to make his move.
Celesta pawed frantically through her basket, swearing under her breath. “Damn him! What could he possibly want with that packet of sugar,” she rasped.
“And God only knows what he’ll do with that story—and my pen!”
She slammed her fist against Grandfather’s desk and then paced over to the little window. The third floor was hot and airless, and after the uphill walk from town her clothing clung to her like a second skin. She should’ve known he had a devious motive for picking her things up from the porch, and he was probably laughing at her this very moment, thinking how she’d beg for the return of her possessions.
With a disgusted grunt she returned to the desk and began placing her writing supplies in two drawers she’d emptied. She’d intended to take the sugar to the druggist, but now her investigation into Mama’s death was at a standstill. It would serve Frye right to be poisoned himself if he sampled that packet!
And how could she ask for her story back without admitting she was its author? He would’ve figured that out by now, would’ve read “The Pen is Mightier” and realized it was to appear on the stands sometime soon. She’d completed the story in the wee hours of the morning Mama died, and in the shock and confusion of the past few days she hadn’t gotten it to the post office. Now it seemed too gruesome a tale to publish, and seeing it displayed in Sally Sharpe’s usual space among the other dime novels would certainly upset her.
She’d fetched her supplies so that she could dash off another Sally Sharpe adventure—but Frye had also stolen her favorite pen! Celesta settled herself at the desk and stared at the small stack of blank paper before her, another fountain pen poised in her hand.
But the ideas wouldn’t come. As always, she wrote SALLY SHARPE, GIRL DETECTIVE, in—and then stalled out. The pen’s point scratched across the paper, the barrel felt foreign to her hand, and instead of a title for a new story, tears were all she could produce.
Her black fountain pen, edged in gold, had been a gift from Mama. Ink and ideas had flowed from it for hours on end, those late nights she spent penning her detective’s bold exploits. Mama had saved for weeks to present her with such an expensive instrument on her twentieth birthday, and it had immediately become a talisman—a symbol of her mother’s pride in the writing no one else knew about. Not even her editor suspected that Montgomery C. Lester was a girl in a third-floor bedroom who wrote to fill the hours most young ladies spent trying to catch a husband.
Missouri Magic Page 5