DEFIANT
ROSE
COLLEEN QUINN
Copyright © 2012, Colleen Quinn
For Erin
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to my favorite CFO Rich Altus,
for all his help with all my projects
And to Connie and Linda, for the laughter
And to Marlene, who helps make each book special
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
“HEREDITY! Come now, Wharton, admit it. This time you’re dead wrong.” Percy Atwater sat back in his chair and sipped his brandy, swirling the amber liquid in his glass in anticipated triumph. His blue eyes gleamed naughtily from beneath silvered brows. “Achievement is not in the environment. It’s in the blood, and I can prove it.”
“Can you?” Michael Wharton leaned over the billiard table, eyed his shot, then plunked the ball into the left pocket. He rose, his lean muscular body fit and somehow dangerous. “I hope your theory is better than your game. You owe me twenty dollars.”
Percy put down the drink and withdrew a bill, holding it between his fingers as if loath to part with it. “It is. Now, take you, for example. You’re the picture of wealth and contentment. You are a talented banker. You’ve gone to the best schools, finished at Harvard, and made a success of the family business. You live in Rittenhouse Square, the most prestigious six blocks in the city, and you’re practically engaged to Melissa Caldwalder, the daughter of one of Philadelphia’s first families. But your father was no backwoods colonial. Jonathan Wharton was a brilliant man. The bloodlines show.”
“Unfortunately, you’ve chosen a bad example for your argument.” Michael stooped down and picked up the balls, then placed them neatly onto the table. “My father may have been brilliant, but he also nearly ran the business into the ground. When he died a few years ago and I took a look at his portfolio, we were on the verge of bankruptcy. The man was a fool, and you know it.”
Percy’s hand dropped, and he looked sadly at the handsome young man before him. Michael had changed so much. He had always been a serious boy, but he’d turned so cold since his father’s death. “I wish you wouldn’t speak of Jonathan that way. He was a good friend.”
“It wasn’t his friendship we were discussing.” Michael withdrew the rack and broke the balls neatly with a clean shot. “My father was well liked by all, but then again, I guess he would be. Everyone owed him money. As a physician, his medical practice should have been extremely lucrative, but over fifty percent of the monies due him were uncollectible. You should have seen his books. The Widow MacFarland, nine dollars. John Fitzhugh, fourteen. Mary Riesling, twenty. The list was endless.”
“But, my boy, these people were immigrants,” Percy explained patiently. “They had no money, and no way of earning any. Surely you didn’t expect your father to get blood from a stone?”
“No, of course not.” Michael strode around the table to get a better view of the shot. “But they must have had something he could have taken in trade. Since I’ve started cleaning up the books, I’ve managed to make some of those debts viable.”
“So I’ve heard.” Percy fingered the bill disdainfully. “You confiscated Fitzhugh’s wages and employed the widow’s daughters in your sweatshops. I daresay you should be paid back in full very shortly. Should I congratulate you?”
Michael leaned over the table and knocked another ball into the right pocket. When he straightened, he looked at Percy, his gaze betraying a glint of anger.
“Thank you. Without my business sense my own family would be out on the street. What you seem to be forgetting, Percy, is that these people accepted my father’s help and talent with no intent to pay. And that’s just the beginning.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Percy sat up with mock alarm. “Is there more debt to collect? More widows to foreclose? Have you missed one little shanty or Irish hovel?”
Michael appeared to consider that remark thoughtfully. He stepped neatly around the table, placed the cue behind him without any show of emotion, and put the last of the balls into the far left pocket.
“You know damned well that I haven’t foreclosed on any widows or orphans,” Michael said softly, the steely timbre in his voice betraying his outrage. “But I do intend to secure my family’s due. These immigrants should not expect to have services rendered without pay.”
“You’re right,” Percy agreed with a twinkle in his eye. “They should let their children die. The poor aren’t entitled to medical care. After all, they can’t pay for it. Laissez-faire politics. You are more English than Irish, and I don’t mean that as a compliment.”
Struggling with his anger, the young Wharton strode to the far window and stood there for several moments, his hands unconsciously clenched. Finally he turned back to the older man. “If you weren’t my father’s best friend, you wouldn’t get away with that. You know the result of his kindness.”
“He died of scarlet fever.” Percy nodded, rising from his seat and coming to place a comforting hand on Michael’s shoulder. “But that is how he wanted to live his life. He wanted to help the less fortunate. He is to be admired for that.”
“Well, I don’t admire him.” Michael stared out the window, his handsome face tense from the memory. “He’s dead now and left a mountain of debt. I’m determined to restructure the investments. I don’t want my mother to be a pauper.”
“No, I should say not,” Percy agreed. “But you are proving my point.” At Michael’s blank look the older man chuckled. “You have your father’s temper.”
Michael relaxed, then slowly turned back from the window. “Honestly, the investments are atrocious. Aside from the medical debts, do you know he lent money to every poor merchant with a bit of luck in his pocket and without a dime to his name? None of the stocks are paying. At this point I’m going to look into all of them and cut my losses or make them pay.”
“What kind of investments?”
“Everything, from a brewery to Carney’s Circus. Carney, for Christ’s sake. Some Irishman with a good sob story, I guarantee.”
Percy watched as Michael bent down to refill the rack. A small smile came to his face, but he immediately squelched it, lest his angry young friend see his expression. “Do you know, I think you’ve hit on a way to solve the argument.”
“How’s that?”
“The circus,” Percy said seriously, ignoring Michael’s expression of disbelief. “No, hear me out. You say you could have done a better job than your father, that you wouldn’t have been taken in by some erstwhile down-on-your-luck Irishman. I say you would have done exactly the same thing.”
“I see.” Percy waved the twenty-dollar bill in the air. “Then would you care to sweeten the bet? In memory of your father, I would like to see this settled.”
“How?”
“I want you to go to this circus…Carney’s, I believe? And see for yourself. If you can make money from that venture, or return with your investment intact, then I will grant you the argument.”
Michael stared at him in disbelief as he picked out a fresh cue. “Are you serious? That’s child’s play. I’ll foreclose on the damned thing if I have to. Either way, I can take your money.”
“Then if you’re so certain, let’s increase the wager. Say, one thousand dollars.”
Michael missed his shot, and the ball circled wildly around the green felt table before coming to an impotent stop. “A thousand dollars?” Suddenly he started to laugh, no longer angry. “All right, Percy, you’re on. You know, I almost feel bad taking your money when I haven’t done a thing to earn it.”
“You don’t have it yet, my boy.” Percy took the cue out of Michael’s hand and neatly knocked a ball into the corner pocket. “You have to win it first. Go to the circus and look into that investment. Then come back and prove to me that you’ve recouped your loss, and I’ll gladly pay.”
Michael shook the older man’s hand, chuckling to himself. He didn’t notice the twinkle in Percy’s eye, nor would he have cared. He was now being paid a thousand dollars to do what he’d intended anyhow, and he could prove himself right in the bargain. As a businessman, it was an offer he couldn’t resist.
CHAPTER ONE
“ALL RIGHT, let’s go.” A small redheaded clown moved with the speed of a fireball through the circus grounds, barking out orders in a beloved and familiar voice. “Get those bulls fed, the horses need exercise…Griggs, what’s the matter?”
The silent clown gestured wildly toward the field, then indicated an imaginary piece of paper with his hands. His painted frown deepened, and his eyes, daubed with triangles of blue, arched skyward as if in prayer.
“I see. The minister is fighting our permit for religious reasons. He thinks all circuses are run like Joey Boyle’s, full of freaks and game sharks. Did you tell him the truth?”
The older clown nodded, then shrugged and pulled out two enormous empty pockets.
“Ah.” Carney’s painted smile lifted higher. “You think he’s looking for a payoff?”
Griggs nodded again, relieved to have delivered such complicated information so quickly.
“I’ll take care of it. Tell him to meet me in my tent in about fifteen minutes.”
Griggs stared worriedly at the dynamic little clown, but Carney was already hurrying to the tent, shouting orders along the way. Griggs returned to the edge of the field where the disapproving minister stood, armed with a Bible and a righteous expression.
“I’ll not be subjecting the poor farmers of this town to charlatans and gamblers…”
Griggs held up one hand for silence, then gestured toward the tent.
“I take it Mr. Carney has decided to listen to reason.” The minister puffed, hooking his thumb into his coat. “A wise decision. Tell him I will meet with him. I’m sure two businessmen can come to an understanding.”
Carney entered the dim interior of the tent, annoyed at the distraction but not at all surprised. Rival circuses often spread derogatory literature about the competition. It was part of the game, just as the local ministry sought to uphold morals and to increase their coffers any way they could. While the cities of America held wealth, the farm towns did not, and everyone understood the rules.
The clown sat at a dressing table and slowly removed the bright red wig. Red-gold ringlets tumbled down the clown’s back, glinting in the dim lamplight. Carney shook the mane free, allowing the curls to fall past the awkward yellow clown suit to the round blue fasteners that paraded up the front and back of the costume. Methodically the jester reached for an old rag and dipped one corner into a vat of cold cream. The mask of clownwhite, a mixture of lard, tincture of benzoin, and oxide of zinc, was whisked away with the rag, and the smooth visage of a woman took its place.
Rosemary Carney stared into the mirror, silently inspecting her face. The reflection that looked back at her showed a woman of no great beauty but a wealth of character. Her chin was square cut, betraying her determination, her nose upturned, her cheeks sprinkled with a deluge of freckles. Her eyes were lit with mischief even in the dim light, and she grinned, mentally flexing her muscles like a fighter preparing to enter the boxing ring.
She knew what she had to do. It was an acting job, the same as any other, though calculated to provide a different result. Rosemary had grown up around circusmen, around paint and costumes, glitter and illusions. So it was with a practiced hand that she whipped the long red mane into a somber braid and stepped out of the clown suit and into a loose, demure dress. A jar of makeup provided a sallow base that deepened her skin and made her look older, and a darker shade gave her tired-looking circles under the eyes. By the time the minister stepped inside the tent, Rosemary had folded her hands at the dressing table and looked up with a blurry distraction as if he’d interrupted her prayers.
“Yes, Father?” Her eyes widened innocently as the preacher approached.
The minister gaped, shaking the firm white hand extended toward him. It was a woman, all right, as sober and practical as any of the farmwomen who cleaned his tiny chapel. His eyes took in the plain farm dress she wore and the tight braid that held back a rope of fiery hair.
“You…you’re Carney? Carney’s Circus?”
“Please join me. I am so glad that a man of the cloth is interested in our show. You know, I had some misgivings about coming to this town, but when a minister comes calling to give us his blessing, I am reassured. Praise the Lord.”
“But…but…”
“Do have some tea. I was just going to have some myself. I always do, after morning prayers.”
She had a lovely voice, Irish and deeper than most. Her expression was pious, and she glanced down modestly, shielding her eyes with her lashes. Dumbfounded, the minister reluctantly took a seat and nodded his acceptance of the tea.
“Good.” She smiled and poured out his cup. “I was just thinking how happy we are to be in a God-fearing town like this one. The last village we were in was full of prejudice and meanness, though I can understand why.” Rosemary leaned closer, as if imparting a secret. “We have been the subject of a dishonesty campaign!”
“No!” The minister forgot his mission, engrossed in a love for gossip.
“Yes.” Rosemary sank down into her chair, her hands folded in her lap. “Joey Boyle’s troupe has been trying to discredit us. He knows we run a clean show, and he’s circulating rumors that we don’t. Good heavens…” She stared at the minister in alarm, her eyes glistening. “You don’t suppose the people of this little hamlet are susceptible to such tales?”
“Why, not at all,” the minister said gruffly, rubbing his round chin. “The people of Mayfair will not listen to vile lies and deceit. I can tell that you are an honest Christian woman. Rest assured, dear lady, that Mayfair will welcome your troupe, provided it is a clean show.” Remembering his duty, the minister cleared his throat. “They have asked me to secure—”
“Permission for them to go?” Rosemary nodded sincerely. “I think since you are the father of this congregation, perhaps you should see the show yourself. Then you shall judge. Here is a free pass.” She indicated a brightly colored ticket.
“That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.” The minister looked embarrassed. “What I mean is, I wouldn’t ask for—”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Rosemary said brightly. “A man of your honest beliefs would never ask for charity. But please don’t look at it that way. Think of yourself as my guest. It is my way of thanking the Lord for all my good f
ortune.”
“Why, I suppose you’re right.” Completely befuddled, the minister took the pass and shoved it inside the worn lining of his frock coat. “Thank you.”
“You aren’t leaving?” Rosemary demurred. “I was just about to finish my prayers.”
“I really must.” He rose, and Rosemary lifted her face and looked directly at him. It was then he noticed a smear of red greasepaint on the left side of her cheek. Suddenly it all made sense. Carney was well known as a clown. Apparently, Miss Carney had several well-developed facets to her personality.
The minister tried to be outraged, but as he looked at Rosemary’s dancing green eyes and wild Irish smile, all he could do was grin back. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Carney. You drive a hard bargain.”
“Thank you, sir.” Rosemary curtsied prettily. “Me own father would have been delighted to hear it. And when you speak of me, sir, be kind.”
The minister chuckled, then withdrew, fondling his ticket. Carney played by the rules. No one, not even the minister, could begrudge her that.
The sun shone brightly on the red-shingled train station as Michael Wharton stepped onto the platform. Gripping a dusty valise, he glanced disdainfully at the sign boldly lettered “Mayfair, Kansas.” A sandy-haired boy, spotting the stranger’s elegant greatcoat and general air of wealth, sprang forward from his lounging position on the bench and reached for the case.
“Mayfair. The end of the earth.” Michael sneered, his face tightened in mockery. “Are there sleeping accommodations to be found?”
The boy’s nose wrinkled in confusion, and he indicated the hotel. “The Brass Bed is about the best. Ain’t much to look at, but my ma makes the best corn fritters you ever tasted.” He stared at the stranger’s sparkling white shirt, jeweled cuff links, and gold watch chain swinging from his waistcoat. “You staying here long?”
“Not if I can help it.” Wharton strode toward the indicated hotel, a much neglected Victorian cottage overrun with weeds and badly in need of a coat of paint. “I don’t suppose a bath or a drink might be had?”
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