Three Redeemable Rogues

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  When Mary had begun to sleep in the nursery not long after Christopher’s birth, Peter had begun to feel like a failure in all aspects of his life.

  And yet it had been that decision of Mary’s that had propelled him back into his business affairs with a vengeance. He had applied himself with vigor to his work and had salvaged it, though not with Mary’s inheritance as he was well aware people were so willing to believe. Mary’s inheritance remained untouched to this day, and would continue to be so. She’d intended it for their son, and Peter had every intention of honoring her wishes.

  It was the least he could do, as he’d failed her in every other way.

  A knock sounded upon his door, drawing his attention. “This came for you, sir, while you were seeing Miss Hopkins to her room.”

  Peter glanced up to find Gunther standing in the doorway, holding a folded note in his hand. As he brought it nearer, the handwriting became familiar. Cile Morgan.

  Heir to the Morgan estate, Cile was not only one of his biggest investors, but a confidante, and sometimes lover. During the worst time after his wife’s death, Cile had stood by him. She had been the first to reinvest funds with his firm—and hardly a pittance. Her own husband had died a mere three months before Mary had, and the two of them had naturally banded together. In thanks for his support and friendship, Cile had brought him some of her dearest friends and his biggest clients. For his part, it felt a little like whoring at times, but Cile was hardly a child at thirty-two, and Peter was hardly a saint. The two of them seemed to feed well off each other. Nor was it as though they weren’t friends in truth, because they were. All in all, as friends went, she was probably his closest—though what that said about his personal state of affairs, he wasn’t entirely certain.

  He shook his head as Gunther handed him the note. “Who brought it?”

  “A carrier, sir. I don’t know.”

  “Thank you, Gunther,” Peter said, dismissing him as he unfolded the note.

  Darling, it said, drinks this afternoon at Delmonico’s. I’ve something yummy for you. Four P.M. sharp. Don’t be late!

  The something yummy was no doubt an introduction to a new client.

  Anything else would have been presented to him over dinner or even a nightcap. Cile wasn’t the sort to dally.

  He had no choice but to go, and felt a stab of regret that his own dinner plans were to be preempted. He had been quite looking forward to dinner with Sarah Hopkins. He drew a watch from his pocket. Half past three.

  If he hurried, perhaps he could make drinks with Cile and still return before dinner was over.

  He hoped Sarah wasn’t one to retire early.

  And with that in mind, he set out to meet Cile. His thoughts, however, remained somewhere in the vicinity of the nursery at the corner of University Place and Twelfth Street.

  From the journals of Mary Holland:

  December 20, 1880

  I think he must be having an affair.

  He has ignored all of our guests tonight... all except Cile. And he ensconced himself within his office... with her... and I wanted so much to go and see... but didn’t dare. What reason would I have given? What should I have said: Excuse me, Cile, but are you sleeping with my husband?

  I can’t seem to stop crying tonight. What a child I am! It’s not as though he ever lied to me, is it? It’s not as though he promised me his heart. How I wish I could speak with Sarah! How I wish I did not love him so much!

  Why must he turn to Cile instead of me? I know something is going on, and yet I cannot put my finger upon it. Ruth has implied so much. I know what I am going to do. It is my last chance, I think, to win him back. If he sees that I have withdrawn... if he loves me just a bit... he will urge me to come back. Won’t he?

  I’m going to move into—

  “Am I disturbing you?”

  Sarah started at the voice, hiding the timeworn newspaper clipping into the pocket of her skirt at once. Thank God her dark glasses shielded her surprise at the unannounced intrusion. “Not at all,” she said, her heart hammering.

  The woman standing at her door was not so much unattractive as she was dour. Her dark eyes were narrowed on Sarah, assessing, and her spectacles fell low upon the bridge of a nose that seemed too large for the thin face she bore. It might have been an attractive feature, Sarah thought, on a man, but on her it was less than appealing. Her rich blue-black hair was caught back a bit too severely, and she stood tall, almost as tall as Peter Holland.

  “I’m Ruth Holland,” the woman offered, and suddenly the voice was familiar. “We met briefly at your interview.”

  As with their first meeting, her tone was disapproving.

  “Yes, I remember,” Sarah replied, and Ruth entered the room without invitation, looking idly about, though her stride seemed to hold a particular purpose. She circled Sarah, hardly sparing her a glance, her attention drawn about the room.

  Sarah felt a bit like a hare being stalked by a hungry wolf.

  “It has been quite some time since I’ve stepped foot into this room. It still manages to make me ill,” she said finally, though without emotion.

  “This room?” Sarah replied, trying to seem oblivious to her meaning. She was not, however, and her heart began to beat a little faster.

  Peter had spoken briefly of Mary, but Sarah hadn’t dared to ask intrusive questions so soon. She was eager now for every little bit of information she could glean.

  “Yes,” Ruth answered. “This is the room, I’m afraid.”

  “What room?” Sarah persisted. “I’m certain I don’t understand.”

  Ruth cocked her head a little in disbelief. “Do you not read the papers?” she began, and then at once reprimanded herself. “Oh, yes, silly me! What a goose I am! You wouldn’t be able to read now, would you?”

  Her tiny smirk, the one Sarah wasn’t supposed to see, provoked her ire.

  “Forgive me,” she said, studying Sarah.

  Her obvious condemnation, and her lack of regard for Sarah’s supposed condition, were shocking. Was this how she treated her nephew?

  Or was there another reason she seemed so determined to prick Sarah’s temper?

  Watching Peter’s sister out of the corner of her eye, Sarah braced herself. Her hands fell to her sides and she consciously flattened them upon her skirt, willing her annoyance to ease. It wouldn’t do to become angered, she knew. This was Ruth Holland’s home, not hers. She was the guest with the precarious position. If Ruth didn’t want her about, Sarah was certain she had some say in the matter.

  “In any case,” Ruth continued, “this room leaves me ill at ease.” She was watching Sarah carefully. “You did know that Christopher’s mother was murdered here, did you not?”

  Interesting choice of words, Sarah thought. Christopher’s mother? Not Peter’s wife?

  It was as though she denied Mary that rightful title. Had she not liked Mary?

  “I wasn’t aware,” Sarah said. “Murdered?”

  “Yes. Nasty business, that. The papers accused my brother,” she said and didn’t elaborate. Sarah wondered that she did not at once defend her brother.

  Was he guilty, then?

  Did Ruth know the truth?

  “She was discovered just about where you are standing, in fact.”

  What a morbid fact to impart to a guest!

  Again she seemed to be watching Sarah’s reaction carefully. What was it precisely that she was after with this discourse?

  Sarah restrained herself from peering down where she stood... at the floor where her cousin’s body had lain...

  “That is certainly not, however, why I came to speak to you.”

  Sarah tried to compose herself, tried not to think of Mary’s final moments. She blinked, and shook her head, and then forced herself to ask, “Why... why did you?”

  “I came to tell you that if you have the least decency at all, Miss Hopkins, you will leave this house at once and leave that poor child alone. He has suffered enough in this, an
d I shall not stand by to see him hurt anymore.”

  The attack came so suddenly that it took Sarah aback. “I beg your pardon!” she exclaimed. “I am not here to harm the child. In fact, it is my fervent wish that I might be able to help him!”

  And God help her, if it was the last thing she did, she would indeed. How dare she be accused without reason. Thinking Ruth must surely be expressing doubts concerning the legitimacy of the Braille system, Sarah tried to reassure her. “It is true that Braille is not so widely supported as yet, but it is a valid and effective system, Miss Holland. If you need reassurances, I would be most pleased to provide—”

  “This has absolutely nothing to do with your silly alphabet!”

  Sarah blinked behind her spectacles, taken aback by the woman’s vehemence.

  “It has everything to do with Christopher,” she continued angrily. “That child is merely six years old,” she pointed out, “and I am deeply troubled to see him treated as though he were an adult. He is not—he is but six years old!”

  Sarah had been so eager to use this opportunity that she’d never even considered the things Ruth was suddenly spouting at her.

  “Why can he not be allowed to be a child? Why must he become a man so soon?”

  Sarah didn’t have the answers to her questions, but she suddenly felt conscience-stricken for the accusations thrown at her.

  Ruth seemed to realize her words were registering, because she calmed and said, “As I said, Miss Hopkins, if you have any decency at all, you will leave here at once. You will hand my brother your notice and you will leave that poor child in peace.”

  Sarah shook her head. She couldn’t. She just couldn’t leave without finding out the truth. She couldn’t simply walk out the door—and even less now that such an implication had been made concerning Christopher. If what Ruth said was true, then Christopher needed her.

  She straightened. “I am quite sorry if you disagree with your brother’s decision, Miss Holland, but no, I cannot agree to leave here. And furthermore,” Sarah pointed out, “If I do go, who is to say your brother will not hire someone else to take my place?”

  “And why would that concern you?” Ruth Holland asked bitterly.

  Sarah refused to be cowed by threats or intimidation, no matter the validity of her reasoning.

  “This is not something I chose to do, Miss Holland. This profession chose me. If I can help that child, then my own loss is not so great. I suppose you might say I am doing this for me, as well.” And for Mary, she wanted to shout.

  Ruth’s face paled with anger. Her lips thinned, and her hands shook at her side. “I am not powerless in this, you realize. I am not! And so understand me when I tell you, Miss Hopkins, that if I feel you are a threat—to that child—I swear to God you will be removed from this house at once!”

  Sarah stood there, her own anger fading in the face of Ruth’s fury. She had nothing to say in response. Ruth Holland clearly loved her nephew and would protect him at all cost. And knowing that, how could Sarah truly be angry? She wanted so much suddenly to reassure Ruth, but dared not, and so she simply stood there.

  “If you have a complaint with the way I perform my duties,” Sarah replied finally, “I suggest you take it up with your brother.”

  “I shall be watching you,” she apprised Sarah, her eyes narrowing with open condemnation.

  “I understand.”

  “My brother will not be available for the evening meal, Miss Hopkins. I suggest you order dinner served in your room.”

  And with that, she spun on her heels and left the room, her message perfectly clear: Sarah was not welcome in her home. She had no allies here, but she hadn’t expected any. She had Mel, and she had justice behind her—and she wasn’t going to leave until she learned the truth.

  Peter and Ruth Holland be damned!

  Chapter 7

  Cile Morgan was accustomed to things going her way.

  The fact that Peter had attempted to excuse himself at least three times since their client had departed didn’t seem to be fazing her in the least.

  And despite the fact that she hadn’t made a single attempt to seduce him before he’d called it a night, she was suddenly adamant that he stay with her.

  “Since when do you rush home?” she asked, and gave him that little half smile that promised rewards if only he played her way.

  And he always did; he knew which buttons to push, knew how to tease her.

  “Christopher has long been in bed, darling.”

  It was true, normally he didn’t find himself in a hurry. But tonight was different. Tonight he was anxious. “It’s been a long day, Cile,” he said, and reached into his pocket, withdrawing his watch. He checked the time: 8:20 p.m. He wondered if Sarah was already abed.

  Was she an early riser?

  Did she awake full of energy?

  Or was she slow to stir... her body stretching lazily against the sheets... her hair spilling upon her pillow...

  His body stirred at the images that came to mind.

  Cile protested with a familiar whine, a low, throaty purr that normally managed to tighten his loins and make him hungry for a more fleshly sort of dessert. Tonight, however, it only managed to annoy him.

  Her ice blue eyes narrowed slightly and her beautifully painted lips formed a sensual pout. “You are no fun tonight,” she complained. “Whatever has gotten into you? You have been sitting there the entire eve looking for all the world as though you were ready to leap up any moment and fly.” A few strands of the hair in her coif came free and fell into her face. She blew them away, and turned her expectant gaze upon Peter once more.

  The truth was, Peter had no blasted notion what had gotten into him. His thoughts kept returning to his houseguest.

  Something about Sarah struck him as odd.

  Something about her attracted the hell out of him as well.

  He stared at his glass of wine and then returned his attention to his companion, meeting her sultry gaze. Cile’s eyes were quite beautiful, and yet they lacked the warmth Mary’s had had when first he’d met her. Cile was hardly the sort one imagined rocking a baby to sleep. Nor could he envision her lying upon the floor surrounded with toy soldiers and blocks.

  Damn, he’d let so much slip away.

  Reaching out, he fingered the glass of wine, and wondered what color Sarah Hopkins’ eyes were.

  His mind embraced a picture of his wife, his lover, the two of them gazing into one another’s eyes... and it was Sarah he saw.

  He had been able to see into Mary’s heart when he’d looked into her eyes. He had recognized both her love and then her hate for him, and though her withdrawal had been painful, he’d never had to guess at her feelings. That was the problem with Cile; he had never guessed at any of her thoughts. Her beautiful eyes were rarely windows into her heart, merely reflections of her mood.

  And yet Cile had never done anything but look after his best interest; if she had anything other than genuine concern for him, he wouldn’t know it. He didn’t sense in her any sort of agenda. She had money enough, and he doubted she even wanted a new husband in her life. If she had any selfish motive at all, it was simply that she was greedy for his company. She didn’t seem to appreciate his taking an interest in other women.

  Until now, that hadn’t been a problem.

  He lifted the glass of merlot and tilted it toward him, swirling the fragrant liquid until it eddied against the fine crystal, but he didn’t lift it to his lips.

  What was it about Sarah that drew him?

  “I appreciate the introduction tonight,” he told Cile. “An account with August Belmont is nothing to sneeze at.”

  Her disappointment was palpable. She retreated a bit, sitting straighter in her chair. “Of course, Peter,” she said, and sighed. “I know you do, and it was my pleasure to introduce you. At any rate, he has entirely too much money to invest with one firm, and I have every faith you will serve him well. He knows it, too, or I’d never have talked h
im into this meeting tonight. I really didn’t do you any favors, you know.”

  “You do me entirely too many,” Peter countered. “I shall never be able to repay you.”

  Cile cocked her head with an expression of annoyance and leaned all the way back in her chair. “I have never asked you to… have I?”

  It was true.

  She never had.

  And yet he’d never been able to get beyond a sense of indebtedness to her. He stared at her a moment, and then looked away.

  “Good lord!” she exclaimed when he didn’t reply. “I don’t think I like what I am sensing!”

  He hadn’t meant to offend her with his silence. He stopped swirling the glass’ contents a bit too abruptly and spilled a deep red droplet upon the table. It soaked into the white cloth until only a deep shade of mauve remained.

  “What in blazes is wrong with you?”

  Peter shook his head. “Not a thing,” he assured, and scratched at the spot upon the tablecloth. “I’ve merely a few things on my mind.”

  “Oh? And what is her name?” Cile demanded at once.

  Startled by the question, Peter looked into her eyes. “Her?”

  “I am not stupid, Peter!”

  “I hardly said you were, Cile.”

  “I cannot remember a time when you have seemed less interested,” she said, pouting. “You sat here even with Mr. Belmont and seemed wholly lost in your own thoughts, and I cannot imagine anything that should capture a man’s attention so fully but another woman.”

  Peter didn’t know what to say.

  “Who is she, Peter?”

  He glanced once more at his watch, and then shoved it into his pocket. “You are being ridiculous, Cile.”

  “Am I?”

  “I’m merely tired,’'‘ he assured her, and made to rise. “It’s been quite a long day. I’ll see you home now, I think.”

  “Humph!” she said, and rose from her chair. “We shall see, shall we not?” She gave him a narrow-eyed glare and reached across the table to seize his glass of wine. Without a word, she drank it down and then clunked the glass upon the table, giving him a pointed glance. “No need to waste good wine. And no need to see me home, darling. I’ll go just the way I came. I’ll call myself a cab.”