Cheryl St. John

by The Mistaken Widow

  A muscle twitched in his cheek. He appeared decidedly uncomfortable with the subject. Or perhaps it was just her presence. Perhaps he resented her forwardness. After all, even though he recognized an obligation, he merely tolerated her in his home.

  It had been a bad idea to come to his office.

  She turned her attention to the fire.

  Nicholas watched her expressions with equal amounts of rancor, frustration and desire burning hotter than the brandy in his belly. The things she’d said drew on emotions he didn’t know how to deal with. “I have no use for your pity,” he said finally.

  She turned those somber blue eyes on him. “I’m not offering you pity.”

  “Beware of what you do offer. I’m not the same fool my brother was.”

  Her eyes widened with surprise. A moment later, her gaze hardened and she looked away. She moved her hands to the wheels of her chair, but he stopped her from leaving with an outstretched foot in the spokes. “You need help up the stairs,” he said.

  “I will find someone.” She tried to roll away.

  That was what he was afraid of. He’d been angry with himself at dinner, and in his haste to get her out of his mind, he’d fallen back in his duties. But he wouldn’t allow anyone else to assist her. Even though the only male besides himself in the house was Gruver, a happily married man, Claire was a temptress, and he couldn’t expose his people to her.

  He downed the last of his brandy and set the snifter aside, then rose and gladly wheeled her from his private domain. At the bottom of the stairs he paused, lifted her into his arms and started the climb.

  Her arms came around his neck, her rounded breast flattening against his shirt. Her soft hair touched his ear, his cheek. He resisted the insane impulse to turn and bury his lips in the curls. He hated himself for having these intense reactions to his brother’s wife. Falling for her charms made him feel like a callow boy.

  Perhaps she’d planned it. Perhaps she’d deliberately aimed for a vulnerable spot by offering sympathy. He was the stable one. He was the one who took care of others and did the comforting and handled what was unpleasant. No one else had comforted him. No one else had offered their concern and assistance. Even if there wasn’t a damned thing she could really do for or to him, she’d effectively searched out a weak spot in his armor.

  He reached the top of the stairs and proceeded to her room. “A chair or the bed?” he asked.

  “A chair,” she replied quickly. “Will you ring for Mrs. Trent, please?”

  He propped her foot on a stool and pulled one of the bell cords connected to the servants’ quarters and the kitchen. When he turned back, she was attempting to remove her slipper by using her other foot.

  “May I?”

  She blushed to the roots of her hair. “I’m sure Mrs. Trent will be along shortly. It’s just that my foot seems to have swollen, and the shoe is quite painfully snug.”

  He knelt before her extended leg and gently removed the shoe, noting her wince. It was ridiculous to allow her to suffer, so he reached beneath her skirts, found the stocking held up by her cast and gently rolled it down her ankle and from her foot, deliberating ignoring the rustle of petticoats and the feel of cool silk.

  Her delicate toes were several shades of green and another shade almost yellow. Mrs. Trent came through the doorway just then, and a look of disapproval immediately puckered her face. She placed the sleeping William in his crib and hurried to Claire’s side.

  “Fetch us some ice,” Nicholas ordered before she could take over the task of caring for Claire.

  “Sir, I—”

  “Now.”

  Hastily gathering her skirts, she did as he instructed and returned with the ice.

  “I’m going for her chair. After you’ve helped her with her nightclothes, prepare us some tea.”

  “You’ll be taking tea here?” she asked in a deprecating tone.

  “This is my home, Mrs. Trent. I’ll take tea wherever I see fit. And you’ll do well to keep your moral judgments to yourself.”

  The woman pursed her lips and remained silent.

  He returned with the chair to find Claire on the side of the bed and the nursemaid gone.

  “Let me help.” Nicholas turned Claire to get both of her feet on the bed. He propped a pillow beneath her left leg and placed an ice pack on her swollen toes.

  He noted her other foot, small and dainty, her ankle slim. The white nightdress exposed a curvaceous length of her calf.

  “Cover me, please,” she asked in a strained voice.

  He draped the counterpane over her legs, leaving only the foot he was treating exposed. “Do you have something to take for pain?”

  “I don’t want to take it. William wakes during the night.”

  He sat near her feet. “Mrs. Trent sleeps nearby. She can get him.”

  “Yes, but I must feed him.”

  “Perhaps we could find William a wet nurse.”

  “No!”

  Surprise brought his head up.

  She looked away quickly.

  “All right. I was thinking to make things easier for you.”

  “That’s taking him away from me. That would not be easier for me.”

  “You obviously have strong feelings about this.”

  “He’s my son. I have strong feelings for him, certainly.”

  “Certainly. He’s all you have left of Stephen. Besides a fortune in stock and investments Stephen left you in his will.”

  She met his eyes, and the anguish he thought he read there almost made him sorry he’d said it.

  Mrs. Trent returned with a tray, and placed it on the nightstand with a clatter that rattled the cups in their saucers.

  “That will be all,” he said to her. “You may retire.”

  Censure brought her brows together and she pursed her lips in a line.

  “Good night,” Nicholas said deliberately, then poured. “Cream or sugar?”

  “Honey, please,” Claire replied softly, with a sideways glance at Mrs. Trent.

  The woman slipped into the dressing room where she slept on a narrow bed so she could hear William.

  Nicholas stirred a spoonful of sweetener into Claire’s tea, handed her the cup and saucer and poured himself one.

  “Call me if you need me, Mrs. Halliday.”

  Mrs. Trent stood in the doorway in her robe, the front clenched tightly in her fist.

  “Mrs. Halliday will call if she needs you,” he affirmed. Did the senseless woman think he was going to ravish his sister-in-law right here with her son a few feet away and his busybody nursemaid straining to hear?

  She disappeared again, and he turned his gaze back to Claire. “You must have learned to favor honey in your tea from Stephen,” he said.

  “I’ve always taken my tea with honey.” Noncommittal. Safe. Neither admitting or denying she knew of Stephen’s preferences.

  “What were the qualities you appreciated most about Stephen?” he asked, leaving the side of her bed and carrying his cup to the nearby chair, where he sat and balanced it on the arm. He didn’t quite understand his need to press her about her relationship with his brother, but the desire to persist burned in him like a well-stoked fire.

  She stared into her tea. “His concern for others. He was a warm, generous man.”

  “Generous with Halliday money,” he agreed.

  Her lips flattened into a line of displeasure, and she looked up. “When we met, I had no idea that Stephen had resources.”

  “No idea, Claire?”

  “You didn’t have much respect for your brother, did you?” she asked, taking him by surprise.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You thought him foolish enough to marry a woman who was out for his fortune.”

  “Are you?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I denied it.”

  Nicholas held his cup by the rim, and considered the truth of her words. “Let’s just say my brother didn’t always make the wisest decisions.�
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  “The decisions you wanted him to make, in other words.”

  He set the cup down, glanced at the waning fire and got up to add a log that should burn most of the night. He was deliberately inciting her. He was grieving for his brother and her presence irritated him, so he baited her.

  “How does this new life compare to the one you had in New York?” he asked.

  “My life is nothing like it was before. Nor is it anything like I anticipated it being.”

  “In what way?”

  “In the obvious way. Stephen is gone.”

  “He took you to Europe before bringing you to meet his family. Didn’t you think that was odd?”

  “Not at all. If you treated him with as much disdain as you treat me, he wouldn’t have had a pleasant start for his honeymoon. Did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Treat him with disdain.”

  He didn’t like anyone turning the tables on him. “Didn’t he tell you all about his family?” he asked.

  “No. He didn’t. I didn’t know anything about you until I was almost here.”

  “So you just fell head over heels in love with my brother and married him without knowing his background or even whether or not he was capable of taking care of you. Didn’t you wonder how he earned a living? Or if he did?”

  “I knew about his plays. They were successful productions in the East.”

  “So you thought you were marrying a struggling playwright. Then lo and behold, it turns out his family has made a fortune in the iron industry.”

  “I never asked for a cent of your money,” she said, blue eyes flashing. “You’re the one who came for me—who carried me out of that hospital. You’re the one who brought me here. Leda insisted I have the clothing. I’ve accepted everything because she wanted me to have it.”

  And as Stephen’s wife, all that was due her. And more. Being rude to Claire wasn’t going to bring Stephen back, and holding her responsible was only a small comfort.

  At odds with his resentment was his appreciation of someone to keep his mother’s spirits up and to give her days purpose and pleasure. Claire had been nothing but a comfort and companion for Leda. A fact that ate at him.

  “You’re a Halliday now,” he said, turning back to her, “no matter what you were before. No matter why Stephen married you. And that makes you my responsibility. It also gives you responsibilities.”

  “And what would those responsibilities be?”

  “We’ll discuss that tomorrow. I have a few papers to go over tonight.”

  “And a bottle of brandy to finish.”

  “If I see fit.”

  “I’m sure you’ll see fit.”

  “Good night.” He left and closed the door, admiring her for holding her own while at the same he congratulated himself for being right. At last her true colors were bleeding through. She wasn’t the demure little flower she pretended.

  Weariness caught up to him. The days had to get easier after this one. He’d thought giving his mother the news of the train crash had been hard. He’d thought identifying Stephen’s body and shipping it home had been difficult. He thought finding Claire alive and making the arrangements for her and the baby had been tiring.

  Appearing today before friends and family had taken every last ounce of reserve he had left. Nothing could ever be this difficult again.

  Unless of course, it was fighting this sordid attraction to his sister-in-law and sorting through the feelings of betrayal that had come to haunt his nights.

  He was testing her, purely and simply. And she was failing miserably because of her total unpreparedness. She didn’t have a clue who Stephen or Claire Halliday were. And since it appeared her stay with the Hallidays was stretching into infinity, she’d better do something about her lack of information. Soon.

  She could learn about Stephen from Leda. The woman loved to talk about him, and it would seem only natural to discuss and share their loss.

  Claire, however, was another matter. The more Sarah thought about it, the more she became convinced that Nicholas would have had Claire investigated to protect the family’s interests. And if that were so, the results of the investigation were in his office somewhere, probably in that enormous, organized desk. If she could read the report she’d at least have an idea of who she was supposed to be playing. She’d know the same things that Nicholas knew.

  She learned from Leda and the servants that he went to the foundry each day, and she formulated a plan.

  The next day at supper she invited Leda to come to her room that evening, and when the woman arrived, they sipped tea and played cribbage by the fire.

  “Tell me all about Stephen when he was a boy,” Sarah begged.

  Leda smiled a forlorn smile. “He was as delightful as a boy as he was as a man,” she said. “He got into his share of mischief, mind you, but he was sweet and loving.”

  “What about when he was in school?”

  Leda told her story upon story, and as Sarah had hoped, she reflected on something in his adulthood from time to time. Sarah hung on every word, asking questions and joining her laughter and her tears. She felt close to Leda Halliday, closer than she had a right to, and she appreciated the time and the concern that the woman afforded her. Being there for solace and companionship was the least she could do.

  She dreaded that one day she would have to tell her the truth and see the anguish her masquerade had wrought.

  Once the hour grew late, Leda left for her own quarters, and Sarah prepared for bed.

  The doctor arrived early the next morning.

  “I think you’re well enough to walk on crutches. You haven’t had any dizzy spells or imbalance?”

  “No,” she replied. “I’m feeling well.”

  “I suggest you seek assistance on the stairs. We wouldn’t want you to take a tumble and break anything else.”

  The following morning Sarah discovered her bottom worked quite well to make her way down the stairs. Sliding her crutches ahead, she slowly, determinedly, made her way to Nicholas’s office. She had only William’s nap time to use. Someone would come looking for her if she wasn’t there when he woke.

  Nicholas’s filing cabinets were exceedingly neat and organized, but since she had no idea what Claire’s maiden name had been, the search proved tedious. The top drawers were especially difficult to reach because of the need to balance on one leg and rest often, but after nearly an hour she’d systematically gone through each file and folder without success.

  In frustration, she discovered his desk drawers locked, and searched the top of the desk and every nearby surface for a key. Of course it wouldn’t be in plain sight. What would be the point of locking something if the key were readily visible?

  William would be awake by now. She would have to discover the whereabouts of the key and return.

  Sarah grabbed her crutches and left, sliding the doors closed behind her.

  Leda and William took their naps about the same time each afternoon. She would risk less chance of discovery then than in the morning when the maids were cleaning. The following afternoon, Sarah left Mrs. Trent dozing in the rocker beside the crib and made her way along the upstairs hall, checking doors, and investigating rooms.

  She recognized Leda’s rooms by merely cracking the door. The scent of violets wafted into the hallway. Sarah closed the door silently and continued her search.

  The corridor turned into a separate wing. Sarah hobbled along the hallway, listening for servants, but hearing nothing save the steady muffled clump of her crutches on the carpeted floor.

  Massive double doors stood at the end of the hall. Leaning on one crutch, she tested one and it opened.

  Maneuvering herself as quickly as possible, she entered and closed the door behind her, noting the maid had already been there, for the bed was made and the chamber conspicuously clean.

  The enormous room held a heavy grouping of furniture before a fireplace on one side, a writing desk in the corner, a
nd a massive bed with ornately carved headboard and foot-board on a platform on the opposite side. A matching armoire stood against the wall, and one door led to a dressing room, another to a small, unfurnished room.

  Where to start? This was all a waste of time and a foolish risk, especially if Nicholas carried the key with him, which he probably did. But the papers she wanted might be here.

  The desk was the most likely place to begin her search. The drawers were unlocked, and unfruitful, occupied by neat stacks of writing paper, pens and ink and an assortment of letters.

  Sarah shuffled through them, finding they were all from Stephen. She opened the first one, dated several years previous, and read an account of his experiences at a production in London. The next one related a tale of an interesting woman he’d met in the East, and another the excitement of an opening night for a play he’d been wanting to see in New York.

  She replaced all but a few and slipped them into the deep pocket of her skirt. Nicholas wouldn’t miss these, and she would return the remaining missives after she’d learned more about Stephen. The knowledge would be useful when Nicholas tested her again.

  The other drawers held nothing of any interest and, disappointed, she headed to the armoire. The scent of freshly starched cotton and linens assailed her. The smell triggered the disturbing memory of being held close against his hard chest, and for a moment the recollection was so strong, she could have sworn he was right there. Guiltily, she looked around, but she was alone.

  A unique scent, perhaps something he used on his hair, combined with clean linen and a faint trace of tobacco to represent Nicholas.

  Quickly, Sarah went through the drawers, careful not to disturb anything and feeling criminal for going through his private things. The top of the cabinet held a wooden chest. A logical place to keep a key. In one compartment she discovered two roses, one dried, one looking as though he’d placed it there within the past few days. But why? Sarah pulled the dying flower to her nose.