Or a pet.
Rose fumed. Then a dreadful thought entered her brain. Since even the Boston constabulary also knew about Finn Bennet, she had no choice but to tell William.
***
“I’ve caught you at last,” Finn said to Liam as his friend alighted from a carriage and started up his own front walk.
Liam froze, then came forward with a smile. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve dropped by a couple times only to be told you’re out.”
“I do still work at the shipyard. You know that. Moreover, I have social engagements as well.”
Finn couldn’t shake the feeling that Liam had been dodging him. The only reason he was seeing him now was because Liam had been dropped off in front by someone else rather than driving around back in his own carriage and disappearing inside through the back entrance. “I have left a message or two.”
“Really?” Liam’s brows drew together. “I didn’t see them. I’ll have to ask my servants. Someone will be fired.”
“That’s not necessary,” Finn said. “I’m talking to you now.”
“Shall we go in? I could use a drink.”
Finn considered. “No. I can be brief.”
“Is something wrong?” Liam faced him squarely.
“You lied to me. About your fortune.”
Liam continued to look him in the eyes, his nostrils flared, and then he blinked. “Yes, I did.”
“Why?” Finn shot back.
“Because if you knew how I got the money, you’d think poorly of me.”
“Why would that matter?” Finn watched Liam carefully.
He shrugged. “I don’t want you to blame me for the Garrard. We both had friends on board who died. I didn’t want that to happen. I hope you believe me.”
“You stayed behind. Why?”
Liam looked at the paving stones under their feet. “You know as well as I do that ship wasn’t built right.”
“It was built exactly as designed,” Finn shot back. “The men built it right. It wasn’t their fault. It was designed wrong.”
“Agreed. I knew that, maybe more than most. The wooden version I made — Christ! It wouldn’t stay afloat in a barrel of water if you dropped in a pebble beside it.”
“So you—”
“I didn’t want to die,” Liam stated plainly. “I’m a coward. Is that what you want to hear?”
“Maybe you’re a murderer,” Finn said softly.
“No!”
Finn took a step closer. “You did know better than most, didn’t you? Enough to take out an insurance policy on the Garrard.”
Liam looked around. “Shall we go inside?” he asked again.
“I’m done here. You go into your comfortable home bought and paid for with blood money.”
Liam paled, and Finn added, “As for me, I wouldn’t be able to spend another moment under your roof.”
Finn started to turn away, then he asked, “With all that money, why do you still work at the yard?”
The color leached from Liam’s face. “It’s my job.”
“Strange answer for a wealthy man. Here’s another question, are you behind the threats telling me to keep my mouth closed?”
“No,” he said, but Finn could tell by his demeanor that Liam was hiding something.
Whoever threw the brick knew about Rose. Liam hadn’t known about her before Finn’s last visit, though he could have found out somehow. After all, Finn himself had told Liam where he was staying, then all he had to do was watch the restaurant.
“Just so you know, I’ve been to the police department.”
Could Liam have possibly gone a shade whiter? Finn hoped his statement would cause Liam, or someone else involved, to leave Rose alone at the very least.
“That makes no difference to me,” Liam said. Turning on his heel, he rushed up his own front steps and disappeared quickly inside.
***
Franklin had set things up perfectly. Or so it seemed. Except Claire was not cooperating, and Rose was beside herself with frustration. All her friend had to do was show up at the Boston Theatre, not far from the Bijou where Rose had met with him. Franklin had chosen the right venue. It would hold 3,000 of Boston’s finest patrons, and the theatre itself was rather magical, declared more than once to be “the finest theatre in the world.”
Rose was certain she could fit her entire home into the lobby, which was all graceful arches and colonnades. However, the interior mattered not a whit, nor the people inside the theatre, not if Claire wasn’t one of them.
Franklin’s grandfather had helped with the building of this second Boston Theatre and thus, the owner had seen his way clear to grant Franklin a favor of epic proportion — front row seats for a sold out show of Bulwer-Lytton’s The Lady of Lyons. More importantly, an advert in the evening’s playbill would be the crowning glory of his plan.
If only Claire was not sitting in her room moping.
If only she would put on the gorgeous dress that Rose had helped her choose for the splendid night.
If only time was not trickling away at an alarming rate.
“I simply do not feel like going out tonight,” Claire stated. “Particularly to such a public place, and more importantly, as a horse’s third leg. Unnecessary and awkward for you and William.”
Rose thought she had already overcome all these objections.
“This is a special occasion. These tickets were procured as a gift, and it would be an insult to the giver if we were not to go. You and I are the ones going, and William has kindly agreed to escort us. If anyone is the third leg, it is him.”
Claire merely flounced across the room, though doing it better than anyone had every flounced before, and Rose was ready to throttle her.
“Please, dear friend, let me help you into the gown. We don’t want to miss the opening. I believe it’s a ventriloquist. Also, besides the play, there will be lovely music.”
“And everyone who was at the dragon’s party will no doubt be there as well.”
Rose ignored the remark and began to undress and dress Claire.
“If one of those wretched creatures so much as looks sideways at me,” Claire continued, “I will bop them on the top of the head with my reticule. My most heavily beaded one, at that.”
“Yes, of course,” Rose murmured, making Claire stand still as she eased the gown up over her undergarments, turned her friend, and proceeded to button her up the back.
“You look gorgeous.”
Thank God Claire had her hair done earlier, or they would have been late for sure. It was set in a most becoming style, up at the front, with glorious golden follow-me-boys curls at the back.
“What matter if I look gorgeous?” Claire protested.
Rose thought a moment. “Because if any of those twits from the party are there, they must see that you are the absolute best young lady in Boston and that soon, you will be snagged by the best young man.”
She was careful not to mention Franklin’s name as that resulted in tears despite Claire’s attempt to keep up a state of indifference only mitigated by an occasional outburst of fury. Both conditions were preferable to despair and tears. Moreover, Rose definitely did not want Claire to have red eyes on this momentous evening.
A tap at the door drew their attention.
“Come,” Claire said.
“Mr. Woodsom is here,” Claire’s maid informed them and disappeared.
“How kind of him to pick us up at my house.” Claire seemed to rally. She checked herself in the mirror, added sparkling diamond ear bobs, and grabbed her beaded evening satin cape with fur trim. And her heavy reticule.
Rose watched her. “William is, indeed, very kind,” she agreed, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. How kind would he be when he learned of Finn?
“Well,” Claire said, “you’re the one who wanted to get moving. Don’t stand there like a stone statue.”
Chapter Twenty
Twenty minutes
later, William helped them down from his carriage and escorted the two friends inside the large theatre. They barely had to wait to check their capes and coat, and then made their way to the bar. People were still drinking rum snowballs and champagne as the house lights started to flicker, calling everyone to take their seats.
As expected, the usher led the three of them down the left aisle to the front row where four seats were empty.
“I actually prefer the first row of the balcony,” Claire said, turning briefly to look at the mass of humanity at their backs. “You can watch everyone and still have a good view of the stage, though this is rather exciting, too. I do hope none of the actors sneeze or are particularly slobbery speakers.”
She giggled, and Rose knew the frothy snowball they’d shared had gone straight to her friend’s head.
Claire always was a light imbiber. Fortunately, the alcohol-induced contentment meant that Claire had missed the loud whispers that had occurred, as well as the sudden silences when they’d walked down the aisle. Boston’s finest were talking and, no doubt, passing judgment on Miss Appleton.
However, Claire did not miss the fact that there was an empty seat on the other side of her. In fact, she moaned a little loudly.
“It’s terrible. It looks as if I had an arranged date who has changed his mind. No one will look at that seat and not think of Franklin Brewster. Please,” she beseeched, grabbing Rose’s hand, “let’s all move over one, and let the empty seat be on the other side of William.”
“As you wish,” Rose said, glancing back at William. Soon, it wouldn’t matter and they could rearrange themselves again if all went according to plan and Franklin joined them in the front row. She had one last thing to do.
“Quick, your playbill.” She opened hers and nudged Claire with her elbow to do the same. “Let’s take a look. I always like to see what we’re in for.”
“Go ahead,” Claire said, “tell me if there’s anything interesting,” and she tucked hers away under her right leg, rearranging her gown on top of it.
Rose rolled her eyes. Claire was supposed to see the “ad” from Franklin nestled amongst those for soft hats and stiff corsets, bottled beer, blanket wraps, and chewing gum, as well as the ever-present treatment for sore feet and corns!
Rose found it almost immediately. In boldfaced type, with a sketch of a church steeple and two hands clasped, was the message:
Claire Olivia Appleton, loveliest, sweetest, and purest woman in all of New England if not the world, I ask the honor of your hand in marriage so everyone will know the high esteem in which I hold you. That you could help a friend in need at risk to your own reputation, that you could love a man such as me, who does not deserve you, that you could entertain my proposal of marriage, it is all that I can ask.
Franklin M. Brewster
Rose’s mouth opened. The fake advertisement was a tad long and must have cost a pretty penny. Did Franklin really have to mention a “friend in need”? Everyone knew that Claire and she were the best of friends! It was almost as if he had put “Rose Malloy” in large type.
On the other hand, it would go a long way to softening Claire’s resentment and pain.
“Take a look at this page,” Rose began, and the house lights went down. “Sweet mother,” she muttered.
“What was it?” Claire whispered.
Rose wasn’t sure what was going to happen next. Franklin hadn’t told her. Suddenly, a bright light shone directly in her face, blinding her.
She couldn’t see what was going on, yet everyone started to clap.
They should never have switched seats. Obviously, a stagehand was supposed to turn the light onto Claire.
What was everyone clapping for?
Then she heard Claire exclaim in surprise.
“What is going on?” Rose asked. If only the stupid light wasn’t in her eyes.
Claire said nothing, sitting still and silent.
“It’s Franklin,” William said. “He’s come out on stage with a bloody armload of roses. It looks like a hundred.”
“This woman you see bathed in heavenly light,” Franklin started and then paused. “Um, actually, the woman beside her,” he added, and blissfully, the spotlight moved off of Rose’s face and onto Claire’s.
Still, Rose blinked and tried to make out anything besides ghostly white spots before her eyes.
Claire must have looked equally uncomfortable for in a loud voice, Franklin suggested, “Perhaps you could simply turn the house lights back up.”
In a moment, they flickered and then came up full strength. Everyone clapped again.
“This woman seated before you is my heart’s desire.” Standing at the edge of the stage, he spoke directly to Claire. “You have read the playbill, my dearest?”
Staying silent, no doubt in a state of shock, Claire shook her head, and Rose could make out a panicked expression on her friend’s face. Panicked and bewildered!
Oh dear!
Rose thrust the program into Claire’s hands, and she started to page through it.
“Never mind, I’ll read it,” Franklin announced, and he did so.
Rose thought the words sounded far better coming from Franklin than they had in print.
When he finished speaking, the orchestra in the pit began to play quietly, softly, and the pure strains of Paines’ “A Romance of Springtime” floated through the theatre.
Franklin, quite dashingly, jumped off the stage to land at Claire’s feet. He took her hand and pulled her to stand in front of him.
Then, still in his loud stage voice so all could hear, he said, “Miss Appleton, will you marry me?”
Rose had a moment’s fear that Claire was going to deny him, but her expression was neither one of discontentment nor rejection. Rather, it was merely discomfort at the closeness and loudness of her beloved’s voice, blaring at her. Nevertheless, her face broke out into a beaming smile, so becoming that Rose was once more overtaken by her friend’s beauty.
Then quite softly so only Rose, Franklin, and maybe William could hear, Claire said, “Yes.”
Nothing happened. Rose started to clap, but the rest of the audience remained silent and still — because no one had heard her reply.
“She said yes,” Franklin announced to the audience. “By God, she said yes!”
The theatre erupted in thunderous applause at last, whereupon he thrust the massive bouquet into Claire’s arms and then seemed at a loss. His performance was over, and apparently, he hadn’t thought what to do next.
Rose and William quickly moved over so the two newly engaged could take their seats, and the house lights went down again.
“Well done,” William muttered to Rose, who suddenly wanted to laugh as her spirit felt lighter than it had in weeks. Franklin’s “performance” had not been without its issues, but it had worked. The evening was a resounding success.
Claire set the flowers and the playbill at her feet, keeping one gorgeous red rose on her lap, and let Franklin hold her hand as the orchestra stopped playing and the first act began.
Well done, indeed!
At the intermission, William and Rose left Claire and Franklin alone to digest that they were now quite publicly a couple.
“Do you want some refreshment?” William asked.
So happy for her friend, Rose felt as if she’d drunk twelve glasses of champagne already. However, there was always room for one more.
“Burnt champagne, please,” she asked him, “and if they have one—”
“I know,” he interrupted. “A strawberry in the glass. Where will I find you?”
“I’ll go to the powder room, and most likely be back here before you.” She glanced around her. “Second arch on the right.”
“Second arch,” William repeated, offered her a smile, and wandered off.
Rose watched him, unable to keep from smiling if she’d wanted. Sweet man!
No doubt there would be a line in the ladies’ room, though probably not as long as the on
e in which William would be waiting. In a few minutes, she had checked her hair in a massive gilded mirror, adjusted her corset, smoothed her stockings, and pinched her cheeks. As she exited the powder room, three things happened in quick succession.
A man she’d never seen before appeared at her elbow.
“Mrs. Bennet?”
His words were enough to stop her feet while her heart instantly began to race. Then the second thing happened: another man took her arm from the other side and started to steer her toward the theatre’s exit.
“Scream and I’ll shoot you,” the first man said, and he seemed to be pressing a pointed object in her side.
A pistol? How utterly absurd! In the middle of a crowded lobby! Absurd or not, Rose could barely breathe for fear at what was happening.
In a moment, they were on the staircase above the main entrance when the third astonishing thing happened: Finn appeared before them.
“Gentleman, make a scene here in front of all of Boston and you’ll hang for sure.” He looked them up and down. “I wouldn’t worry too much. A standard drop won’t break your neck, that’s true, but hopefully it will knock you out before you start the unpleasant business of suffocating at the end of a rope.”
Immediately, Rose felt the man on her right release her arm, and in another instant, they disappeared into the crowd.
“Are you hurt?” Finn asked.
“Dear Lord. Dear Lord.” It was all she could say. She couldn’t even breathe properly, only able to take shallow quick breaths. Terror mixed with relief, and the next moment, she was in Finn’s arms, leaning her face on his chest, feeling his strength envelop her.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured against her hair, and she nodded. It wasn’t his fault.
“They know who I am,” Rose told him.
“What?”
She lifted her head and stopped speaking into his jacket, which she noted was a well-made evening suit. “I said that they know who I am. They called me Mrs. Bennet.”
His jaw clenched, and she rested her head against him once again because it felt right and the familiar scent of him calmed her galloping heartbeat. She finally took as deep a breath as her corset would allow, and some of the terror dissipated.
An Inconceivable Deception Page 22