Three Redeemable Rogues

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Suddenly there was a hand wedged between them. Startled by the abruptness of it, both Ben and Jessie gazed upward to spy Christian’s scowling face.

  “Good God, man,” Ben exclaimed, “but you are as jealous a husband as they come! She’s my cousin!” he protested lamely.

  Jean Paul laughed, his eyes gleaming still.

  “Aye,” Christian admitted without qualm. “That I am, and don’t you go forgetting it!”

  “Does that mean I cannot congratulate my new daughter?” Jean Paul dared.

  “If you mean to embrace her, it does,” Christian told him without hesitation. “Father or nay, you’re a man first, and I’ll not have her embraced by any but me. At least not tonight,” he added, and having declared it so, he swept Jessie up into his arms. She squealed, part in laughter, part in protest.

  “If you’ll excuse us,” he said, winking at his wife. “There’s a matter of some compensation to be had for my troubles this eve.” His smile deepened when Jessie blushed, and he bore her quickly up the stairs, leaving two mouths agape behind them. He didn’t bother to offer Ben or his father so much as a by-your-leave.

  “But we have guests!” Jessie protested.

  “Aye, well, devil hang them both!” her husband proclaimed, and even as he ascended the stairwell, he managed to kiss her soundly, silencing any further protests.

  The sight of them brought a hearty chuckle from the pair below.

  “Have you ever seen the like!” Ben exclaimed, shaking his head in wonder as he watched the two disappear from the landing above.

  “Mais oui,” Jean Paul said softly. “But of course.” And his look was wistful and distant as he stared up at the empty landing above. Voices could be heard faintly from the corridor, giggles, and then a door slammed shut in the distance, echoing throughout the grand house.

  There was a deep hush and an air of profound contentment in its wake.

  Tears filled Jean Paul’s eyes, but he seemed unaware of them until one slid conspicuously down his weathered old cheek. He swiped at it quickly and turned to see that Ben was staring. “Pardonnez-moi,” he said, his voice catching strangely, “but I am an old man, and sometimes I find myself weakened by paltry emotions.”

  His dark eyes twinkling, Ben assured, “I saw nothing, my friend.”

  Jean Paul nodded. “And so you’ve not,” he agreed. He placed a hand to Ben’s shoulder. “So you’ve not.”

  Perfect In My Sight

  Prologue

  “You are the only one I would let read this, Sarah—not even Papa has seen it!”

  Dressed in their pajamas and ready for bed, both girls lay upon their bellies on the bed in the room they shared, staring down at the little book that lay between them.

  Sarah Woodard gazed down at her cousin’s neat penmanship and relived through her cousin’s words the events of the day. The wedding had been an elaborate affair, though hardly something Sarah ever cared to experience. At seventeen, she didn’t feel particularly keen on the notion of abandoning her goals and dreams simply to serve a man—not any man! If Diana Halloway wished to give away her freedom and her life to that end, far be it from Sarah to condemn her for it. She and Mary, however, would never be so small-minded!

  Placing a finger at the center of the page, upon a particular passage, Sarah agreed, “That was so very funny. I cannot believe he sneezed in the middle of their vows!”

  Mary giggled, and Sarah did as well, remembering the moment with her best friend and confidante, her cousin Mary.

  “I thought Diana would swoon!” Mary exclaimed. “Did you see the look on her face when the pastor asked him a third time and he sneezed yet again rather than say ‘I do?’ How horrifying!”

  Sarah’s giggles intensified. “How dreadfully embarrassing,” she said, and rolled upon her back. She reached out and seized a pillow, clutching it to her breast, laughing.

  Mary did too, leaving the diary on the bed between them. “Gawd!” she said, and ceased laughing abruptly, reaching up to plug her nose, imitating the pastor. “Do you, Donald Alfred Salinger, take this woman, Diana Marie Halloway, to be your lawful wedded wife...”

  Sarah giggled and clutched the pillow tighter, answering, “Achoo!”

  Mary pursed her lips, trying not to laugh as she continued with her imitation. “To have and to hold,” she persisted, as seriously as she was able, “to love and to cherish, for better or for worse, until death do you part?”

  “Achoo!” Sarah replied, and burst into even more giggles.

  Mary’s imitation deteriorated into laughter. “How terribly funny!” she exclaimed. “How dreadfully embarrassing, but how funny. Good Lord, I should never ever, ever wish to marry at all!”

  “Me either,” Sarah agreed.

  The two cousins shared a look.

  Sarah didn’t know what she’d do without her cousin and her uncle. They were all she had in life. Her own mother and father had died too young to leave her even with memories. When she had been orphaned, her uncle Frank had taken her in hand and had raised her as his own, despite the fact that she had not been a blood relation, per se. Her mother and Mary’s mother had been cousins, but Mary’s mother had long been dead, and Mary’s father had upon his own decided to take Sarah into his home and his heart. He’d taught both girls to be strong. He’d inspired in them a love for academia, and he’d encouraged them to follow their dreams and to cow before no man. Sarah and Mary both had embraced his ideals and his teachings with a grateful heart. “Promise you’ll not marry,” Sarah said.

  “I do,” Mary swore, and then demanded, “You swear it too. Swear you will never marry!”

  “Ugh!” Sarah exclaimed. “Why should I wish to give up my life to a man who only wants to use me for a breeding vessel? Please!”

  “Why, indeed?” Mary affirmed.

  “Silly creatures,” Sarah muttered beneath her breath in reference to the male gender. She peered at Mary. “Except for Uncle, of course.”

  Mary smiled. “Did you hear what Papa said to Mrs. Brighton, when she inquired with concern over our lack of marital prospects?”

  Sarah grinned and flipped over upon her belly, an expression of glee upon her face.

  “He told her we were not allowed to marry a man unless he cooked and cleaned and bore children as well.”

  “How scandalous!” Mary declared, applauding her father.

  Sarah did as well, grinning. “Did you see her face? I thought Mrs. Brighton would just die of apoplexy.”

  “She has no sense of humor at all,” Mary decreed.

  “I don’t ever wish to be like that,” Sarah countered. “I want so much else in life ... I want to paint, and I want to visit Paris. And I want to visit the Louvre someday.”

  Mary turned on her side, reaching out to caress her journal reverently, as she spoke of her own dreams. “Yes, and I want to be a news reporter, I think,” she revealed, somewhat hesitantly. “I know it seems a lowly job, Sarah, but I should love to write about people. I love to watch them, don’t you know.”

  “You would make a fine reporter, Mary,” Sarah assured, watching her cousin’s uncertain expression. “I would proudly tell everyone I know.”

  “Would you?” Mary asked her, lifting her brows in surprise.

  “Of course! And Uncle would too.”

  Mary smiled softly, reassured. Her eyes shone over the prospect. “He has always, always said we should do what makes us happy inside.”

  “Yes, he has,” Sarah agreed. “We are the luckiest women.”

  Mary nodded.

  “You’re my very best friend, Mary. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

  “And you are mine,” Mary swore, “and it shall always be so.”

  “I will never leave you,” Sarah said.

  “Let us make a vow, then,” Mary proposed. “No man shall ever come between us—not ever!”

  “Never,” Sarah promised fervently. “We shall grow old together.” She grinned. “And we shall be the two happi
est old women upon the face of the earth, doing whatever we please.”

  “Yes we will,” Mary agreed. “And don’t you dare go and fall in love, Sarah Woodard!”

  Sarah grimaced. “Don’t be silly. I shall never. Anyway, it would be you first, Mary.”

  “Not I!” Mary denied vehemently. “And just to be certain ... we should seal this vow somehow.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know...”

  “I know! What would you most regret losing?” Sarah asked.

  “That’s easy, my hands, lest I am unable to write,” Mary replied.

  Sarah cast her a glance. “I cannot lop off your hands,” she told her cousin. “That’s no good. It will not do.”

  Mary giggled. “No, I don’t suppose you can. I should need my hands for more than to write with.”

  “What besides that?” Sarah prompted.

  “How about my hair? It is my one true vanity, I fear.”

  Sarah gave her cousin a nod and a knowing smile. “Your hair, then... If you marry, then you must cut off your hair.”

  Mary shrieked, her hand going to her hair. “Gawd! I shall truly never wed, then. Not ever!”

  Sarah giggled. “Good.”

  “And you?” Mary prodded. “What shall you give up?”

  Sarah had to think about it a long while. There was only one thing she held at such high value and she never wished to lose that ever in her life—her family, her uncle and her cousin. Besides that, little compared. “How about... my painting,” she proposed. “If I marry, then I shall never again lift up another brush to paint.”

  “Then we’ve a bargain?”

  Sarah smiled and nodded. “That we do.”

  “But we needn’t worry,” Mary added, “because we have each other. We don’t need some silly husband to lock himself away with his fellows in some stuffy library and smoke cigars until he goes bald.”

  Sarah grinned at Mary’s unflattering description. “Yeah... who needs them!”

  “Not I!” Mary declared once more, and both girls fell again into fits of giggles, swearing upon their very souls that nothing would ever, ever separate them.

  They laughed until they cried, and then grew sleepy.

  “It’s been a very, very long day,” Sarah said wearily, and Mary agreed, closing her eyes.

  Sarah reached out and clasped her cousin’s hand. “You’re my very best friend,” she said again, and sighed.

  “And you are mine.” Mary reached out to place a hand upon her journal. “G’nite, Sarah,” she mumbled sleepily.

  “G’nite, Mary.”

  They fell asleep together, holding hands.

  Chapter 1

  New York City, 1886

  Somehow the daily never seemed to arrive as expected.

  Sarah’s pique was only magnified by the condescending attitudes of those men who’d stood ogling her rudely while she’d procured her paper from the corner boy—something she should never have to do, mind you, as her daily was scheduled to be delivered into her hands each day. Confound it all, despite the fact that she paid her own bills and kept her own house, someone had obviously taken it upon himself to decide her reading material for her. Well, she was not the sort to sit at her embroidery like some good little maid, and she would certainly read whatever she chose! Despotic men, all of them!

  Flinging off her coat, she hung it upon the rack to dry, swiping her hand down the length of it in annoyance. Another cold, drizzly March morn, and the filth of the city hung upon the air like a black mood. Good grief! A body could freeze to death simply walking down the street. Frowning at the trace of ash that remained upon her fingers, she shook her head and made her way into the study. All those smoking chimneys could make a person ill.

  “Shall I bring you tea, Miss Woodard?”

  Sarah started at the voice, halting abruptly. She slid the paper to her side, hiding it behind her skirts. “Yes, thank you, please.”

  Somehow he always managed to appear, even when she thought she entered as quietly as a church mouse. She smiled as she watched him pivot and go, wondering if he employed little spies to inform him. For a butler, he wasn’t particularly amiable either—not at all, to her experience. Not at all. Perhaps he was that way because she was a woman alone in the city. Not many approved of her status; no doubt it was expected of her to flaunt her wares at some idiotic soiree, instead, trying to snare herself a wealthy man to care for her. That, of course, would be so much more acceptable than enjoying one’s own company and minding one’s own affairs. The very notion outraged her.

  Only her cousin Mary had shared her convictions. Her uncle Frank had taught his daughter better. Poor sweet Mary.

  Cradling the morning edition of the Times beneath her arm, Sarah closed the door to her study and made her way to her favorite chair. Opening the paper first, as always, to the society page, she assured herself as she did so that most of what she would read there would be absolute drivel. Only one name interested her.

  Peter Holland.

  Mary’s husband.

  Was he her murderer, as well?

  Sarah had to know. And someday she bloody well would. If she spent her dying breath in pursuit of the truth, then so be it. Mary’s son, whom she had never set eyes upon as yet, deserved better than to be raised by a murdering papa. If Sarah discovered that Peter Holland was in truth responsible for Mary’s death… she would not leave Christopher in the care of a man who would have his wife murdered for the sake of her money.

  Money was evil, Sarah believed, but not as evil as Peter Holland, if the rumors were true.

  It was said that his wife’s death was entirely too coincidental. It was said he’d been on the brink of financial ruin before her death. And then miraculously, his finances had recovered.

  A bit too miraculously.

  It was Mary’s money that had saved him. Unfortunately, only Mary knew the truth of the matter, and Mary had died that night protecting her son while her loving husband had sat in a drunken stupor at the other end of the house.

  How could he not have heard the intruder?

  Why hadn’t he been there to protect his wife and son?

  Sarah wanted to know these things and more.

  Mary might yet be able to give her the answers: Her cousin had kept a journal from the time she’d learned to scribble her first words. It had been Mary’s passion—her writing. And her prose had stirred both Sarah’s heart and mind. After the murder, much of her writing had been leaked to and exploited by the press, at whose prompting, Sarah had no idea. But the unhappy details of her cousin’s marriage had been printed in excerpts by thoughtless idiots more concerned with selling papers than respecting a dead woman’s memories. The journal entries, however, had ended abruptly about three months before her death, and no one had been able to produce the final three months of her life.

  Without Mary’s journals, Sarah only knew what the papers had reported—that poor Christopher, not more than six months old that awful night, had been blinded by the glass breaking in the window above his crib.

  The intruder had entered, the Times had said, startling the sleeping mother from her bed. The screaming infant he’d abandoned as he’d escaped through the broken window, leaving the mother lying in a pool of her own blood.

  The very thought left Sarah ill.

  She hadn’t been able to sleep for months afterward, thinking of Mary, wondering if she had suffered much and regretting forevermore her own behavior toward her beloved cousin.

  Sarah’s eyes stung with tears. She had been so furious over her cousin’s perceived betrayal, she’d not even attended Mary’s wedding. In retrospect, Sarah knew she was the one at fault—not Mary. She understood that now. She should have stood by Mary’s decision—whether it was right or wrong. Good grief, it had been Mary’s right to decide. Such foolishness on her part!

  And yet… it had bereaved Sarah so much to see her cousin, her best friend, married to a man who admittedly wed her only for the heir she cou
ld produce for his name and fortune. Such ideas were positively medieval, though she knew it to be common still. Sarah had been abroad at the time, otherwise she might have, in her outraged youth, gone and dragged Mary away from the altar by her hair! Peter Holland hadn’t loved her cousin; he’d been forthright about that, at least. And still Mary had been willing to wed him, because her foolish heart had lost its way. Sarah thanked God she wasn’t so inclined!

  And yet… she had been wrong to turn away from one of the only two people in her life who had stood beside her through every ordeal.

  Sarah had gone to France with her uncle to study painting, and Mary had remained, intending to join them later. She’d never arrived to meet them, instead had sent a messenger to her papa with a profession of love for this man who had not cared a whit for her. Her uncle had taken the news quite well. With his good and kind heart he had stood behind Mary and had returned dutifully to watch his daughter take her vows. Sarah had not been so benevolent. She’d refused to watch her cousin throw her life away and had remained in France.

  She’d lived to regret it.

  For more reasons than one.

  Her uncle fell ill a year after Mary’s nuptials, and he’d passed away so quickly that Sarah had received news of his illness only days before the news of his death. She’d written to Mary with her wishes to join her, but Mary’s response had been full of anger and bitterness. In a return note, she’d informed Sarah that she was no longer welcome in her home. And so Sarah had remained in France to grieve alone. Less than six months later came the news of Mary’s death. She’d not even learned of Christopher’s birth until she’d read the report in the papers.

  Sitting blindly with the paper clutched in hand, Sarah relived the anguish of those moments.