Three Redeemable Rogues

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “No, no, darling,” she assured him. “But I need to see it. Can you show me, Christopher?”

  He nodded.

  “Show me,” she demanded once more. “Show me that book!”

  Chapter 31

  Peter climbed the stairs at Fifth Avenue and Thirteenth Street, taking the steps two at a time in his haste.

  Ruth had delivered to him a letter from a very irate Cile, claiming he had missed yet another meeting with August Belmont, and that he could “go straight to proverbial hell.”

  Damn, but if he had, he didn’t know it. He didn’t remember scheduling one, nor agreeing to a meeting at all. He was certainly preoccupied of late, but he damned sure would have remembered that. Mr. Belmont’s was not a name he’d easily forget, not even with Sarah as a distraction.

  He rapped on the door at the Morgan estate and waited impatiently for Cile’s doorman to answer. It took him longer to respond than Peter had patience to wait.

  “Mr. Holland, sir.” He opened the door wide and stepped aside. “Shall I tell Mrs. Morgan you wish to see her?”

  Peter stepped into the foyer and glanced into the parlor. “Please.”

  “She has been indisposed most of the day, sir, but I know she will wish to speak with you. Please make yourself at home and I shall tell her you are here.”

  “Thank you, Simon.”

  “Of course, sir,” he replied. He bowed and stepped away, and Peter moved into the parlor to wait. He was far too tense to sit and so he wandered the room, pausing at the piano to clink a few keys. He wondered idly if Christopher would enjoy learning to play. His ear for language was certainly remarkable enough. Peter thought perhaps the same skills were required for music as well. And Christopher didn’t have any sort of hobby to amuse him.

  He plucked a few more discordant notes and decided his own ear was quite lacking.

  Did Sarah play? He wondered.

  And what had she said to Christopher?

  He hoped his son had softened her a little because he damned well intended to ask her again himself. Peter could scarcely think of anything that would please him more than to crawl into his bed each night and wrap his arms around his sleeping wife—Sarah.

  He didn’t want anyone else—couldn’t imagine ever wanting anyone else. The sweet taste of her lingered on his lips, and the scent of her in his lungs... the sound of her voice upon his heart.

  Even now, she was all he could think of.

  He glanced out into the foyer.

  Damn... he wished Cile would hurry because he wanted to go home. He’d left without even telling Sarah good-bye, or where he was going. Though he’d looked for her and Christopher both, he hadn’t found either one and he’d had to hie out the door. Judging by Cile’s mood the last time he had seen her, Peter hadn’t wished to anger her further by making her wait. Nor did he wish to hurt her, and in truth, he owed it to her to tell her about Sarah before someone else chanced to.

  “Well, well,” Cile said.

  Peter turned to find her standing in the doorway.

  “Hello, Cile.”

  She tilted her head coyly. “If it isn’t our front page headliner himself.”

  “Christ!” Peter sucked in a breath. “The Times.”

  She lifted her brows. “You mean to say you’ve not seen the papers yet?”

  “No, I’ve not.”

  “I see,” she said. And then lifted one brow higher. “Preoccupied?”

  “A bit,” Peter admitted.

  “You don’t seem to like things quiet, do you? I leave you alone for ten minutes, and you embroil yourself in another murder.” She made a clucking sound with her tongue.

  “Cile... I know you’re angry with me...”

  “Not at all,” she denied. “I am quite well, Peter.” She sauntered into the room and went directly to her bar to pour herself a glass of sherry. “In case you haven’t noticed through our years together, I am quite resilient.”

  “Dispense with the sarcasm, Cile.”

  She turned around and leaned against the bar, sipping at her glass and eyeing him over the rim. “I suppose I am pouting a bit,” she said honestly.

  Peter lifted a brow.

  “You have completely ignored me,” she protested.

  Peter nodded, and sighed. “I’m sorry.”

  She averted her gaze. “I know.”

  “There were never any promises between us, Cile.”

  She turned to look at him again, and her eyes were glazed a bit with unshed tears. “I know that too.”

  Silence fell between them.

  “I never told you,” she began, “all those years ago ... because of Mary... and then, well, because I sensed you didn’t wish to hear it, but I loved you, Peter. I love you still. I want you to be happy.”

  He didn’t know what to say. “Cile ...”

  She lifted her fingers to her lips. “Shhh.”

  He hated hurting her.

  “Do you love her, Peter?”

  He met her gaze directly. “Yes, I do.”

  “You know what, then?” she said, moving away from the bar and walking toward him. She smiled softly. “That’s all that matters.” She was obviously trying not to cry.

  She stopped when she stood before him and lifted her fingers to his face, giving him a fond look. It was the first time he had spied anything at all in her eyes, the first bit of warmth she had ever allowed him to see. “I have watched you withdraw more and more, Peter darling. And I was never able to draw you back. Please believe me when I say I am happy for you if only you are happy.”

  He smiled at her. “You’ve always been a good friend to me, Cile.”

  “And I shall continue to be so,” she promised without hesitation, dropping her hand at her side. She winked then and said, “If only you would stay out of the papers, darling. You are quite terrible for my reputation, you know!”

  He chuckled. “Cile, you are quite terrible for your own reputation.”

  She giggled. “True.” She tilted him a glance. “But gad, you are a cad even to say so!”

  Peter laughed, and then winced and shook his head. “I suppose the papers were brutal?”

  “Oh, God!” she exclaimed. “Quite! I cannot believe you haven’t seen them yet.”

  He sighed. “So I am a murderer again?”

  She shook her head. “Uh, not quite.” She laughed. “But speculation abounds, my dear. You are involved, I think, in an array of questionable activities, none of which are quite respectable, and yet neither are they illegal, thank God!” She laughed again. “And you are a despoiler of innocent young girls as well.” She winked at him. “Just the sort of slightly dangerous man women seem to adore.” She sipped at her sherry. “Oh! And Belmont sent a messenger this morning, you might as well know. He isn’t withdrawing his investments, but he did wish to know my feelings on the reports.”

  “Belmont!” Peter shook his head. “Cile, I don’t remember receiving any requests for a meeting. I’m sorry that I missed another with him.”

  Cile’s brows lifted. “You haven’t really missed any at all. I’m sorry to say that I lied the last time.” She tilted her head a bit and gave him a coy little glance. “Forgive me?”

  Peter narrowed his eyes at her. “You mean to tell me that we didn’t have a meeting this morning?”

  Cile made a bewildered face. “No. Why ever did you think so?”

  “Because...” Peter blinked. The note. Who had sent him the note if not Cile? “You didn’t send a messenger this morning?”

  She shook her head, denying it. He knew she wouldn’t lie to him again. Why should she?

  “Peter?”

  Peter’s brows drew together. He glanced down at the floor, and then into her eyes once more. “No meeting this morning with August Belmont?”

  She shook her head.

  “And you didn’t send a messenger telling me to come posthaste?”

  She shook her head once more. “I’ve been abed all morning, darling. Why do you think
it took me so long to receive you? I had to dress, you know.”

  Peter wasn’t listening. Who the hell would have sent him the note? A very uneasy feeling slithered through him. Ruth had handed him a note... from Cile... penned in what looked to be Cile’s elegant scrawl. His brows collided as he studied Cile’s face. She wasn’t lying... he knew her too damned well. Something wasn’t right here.

  Someone had wanted him out of the house.

  “I have to go,” he told her.

  “Now? So soon!”

  “Emergency,” he said, and turned and rushed toward the door.

  Chapter 32

  Christopher led Sarah to the wardrobe in his room.

  He opened the doors and fell to his knees at her feet and crawled at once into the curtain of clothing. Two tiers of his clothing hung in perfect array, and the closet seemed unremarkable until he began to toss out the collection of mementoes and toys he had hidden within the wardrobe.

  He tossed out an old shoe—one of his own, she thought, judging by the size, but its mate never appeared. He tossed out a handkerchief—what appeared to be his mother’s—and a wooden horse, and a soldier, too. After that came an assortment of items, some of them recognizable, some of them not, though it was clear each item had been well used and cherished. He paused, and backed out of the closet, dragging with him a small leather-bound book. He brought it to his nostrils, making a disgusted face, and then thrust it toward Sarah.

  Sarah took it from his hands, examining it. “How did you discover it there, Christopher?”

  “Just found it,” he said. “These are my toys,” he explained. “I save ’em there so Caitlin won’t throw ’em away when she cleans my room.”

  “I see.”

  “They feel good,” he told her, groping for an item—the handkerchief—and exploring it with his hands. “This one is soft,” he explained, pulling it through his hands. “I think it was my gramma’s, my daddy said it was.”

  Sarah could see that it had an initial embroidered on one corner and she made a mental note to check it later. This instant, however, all she could think of was the journal in her hands.

  Ruth’s journal? There wasn’t any identification, except for the distinctive odor even she recognized as Ruth’s—a strong, sickeningly sweet floral scent. It was a blend of scents, actually, none of them the least harmonious, and it was only in that instant she recalled the scent in her room the night of the fire.

  Taking the journal with her, Sarah sat on Christopher’s bed.

  “I think the boogeyman musta lost it, do you think?”

  “Perhaps,” Sarah agreed, shuddering.

  “I think that was why he was crying,” Christopher proposed.

  With trembling hands, Sarah opened the journal to its very first page.

  The date was December 5, 1878...

  Damn Peter.

  He’s never wanted for anything. Not ever!

  From Father he received his due respect. From his whore of a mother he received love! What have I ever had but silence and time to dream—time to plan!

  Bloody man’s world, this is—I've no choices available to me at all, have I, but to depend upon a man! It isn’t fair! Isn‘t right! Simply because I’ve not been blessed with a face that draws men to my side, I have nothing at all, nothing! Not even the assurance of a place to rest my head at night! I hate men! Hate them all!

  Sarah blinked at the vehemence of the entry, stunned by the anger apparent in every word written.

  “I wanted to show him where it was,” Christopher said, distracting her, “but I was afraid.”

  Patting the bed beside her, Sarah called him to join her. “Everything will be all right, sweetheart. I promise,” she told him, and swore to herself he would never have to lie there another night listening to the boogeyman in his room.

  She skipped a few pages... scanning the entries. They were mostly short ones, hardly a sentence, and judging by the dates, they were not kept every day. The very next entry, for instance, was dated January 16, 1879. Sarah skipped that one and turned a few pages, stopping at a particularly long entry marked

  January 19, 1879

  Peter met a woman today—Mary Cavanaugh. Ridiculous the way he follows her about. One might think him a dog the way he drools after her!

  What fickle pigs men are!

  Well, Mary will not win with her silly little doll face and her childish giggles. Her face will droop one day, and then what will she have?

  Father abandoned Mother, left her to wither and die once her looks no longer appealed to him! He’d found himself some young harlot to replace her within a month of her burial. I wondered even that he might have hurried her to the grave—morbid as that thought might be, I have always suspected it to be so. So he’d gone and married his younger woman—and then had expected me to raise their son! How just was that? To expect me to devote myself to a little boy who would simply grow to leave me someday—just as my father did to my mother—just as he then did to me!

  Mother gave him the best years of her life—cooked and cleaned for him, doted upon him—and for what thanks?

  Women such as Mary Cavanaugh don’t have a care in this world. For me, nothing comes easily—nothing is ever certain! I must rely upon myself and no other, because there is no one I can count on—not even Peter!

  Sarah took a deep breath and turned another page. Such anger in Ruth’s words. How terrible to feel so alone and bitter.

  The next entry she stopped at was dated June 10, 1879.

  He’s going to marry the bitch!

  Sarah sucked in a breath at the malevolence of those words. This had been Mary Ruth had been speaking of, her cousin! Anger suffused her. Why couldn’t she have been there at Mary’s side to stand beside her? She swallowed the knot of emotions that rose to choke her breath away, and turned to look at Christopher, who was standing silently before her now.

  “Will you read it to me?” he asked her innocently, as though sensing her gaze upon him.

  Sarah shook her head, though he couldn’t see her, unable to speak for an instant. She reached out to touch his cheek, patting it gently. “I don’t think you would like this,” she assured him, her voice trembling just a little. She patted the bed once more. “Come here and sit by me, Christopher.”

  He climbed on the bed and sat beside her.

  Sarah put her arm about him, drawing him nearer. She took a breath when he leaned against her, and she dared to turn another page.

  September 25, 1879

  How dare Peter come to me and say to my face that Mary’s beauty has been a terrible burden all her life! So the rich little brat isn’t certain she wishes to marry him because it frightens her. Poor thing... she cannot be certain whether it is her face or her heart he loves her for! How dare Peter in the same breath console me by telling me I should never have to wonder that a man might love me for my heart instead of my face!

  How dare he!

  I hate him, and I hate his little society darling!

  “Miss Sarah,” Christopher whispered at her side, but she didn’t hear his words, only the drone of his voice as she forced herself to read another entry, not quite ready to believe what her instinct was whispering to her.

  January 28, 1880

  I am not feeling very welcome.

  I’ve given Peter everything, and what do I get in return? A battle at every turn! I live every day of my life in fear that he will push me out of his life and his house! Simply discard me... as our father did so easily.

  My head aches at the mere thought. Laudanum does not dim the pain.

  Peter’s marriage is laughable. He has gone so far as to admit to me that he doesn't even love her! How can he be so willing to give a stranger so much—everything? His wife does not bear his blood as I do—and me, he discards without a thought! I live on what little he gives me when it pleases him—when he remembers! And to her he gives everything!

  Why should it surprise me ? My own father never cared enough to leave me a mea
sly portion of his assets, meager though they were. He left everything to his namesake, his pride, his joy, his son! He left everything to his one child who hadn’t needed anything at all—his one child who could easily make his way in this fool world without any help—and nothing at all to the child who had no means to survive, unless she had a man in her life—shallow, vain creatures!

  The unfairness of it all makes me long to spit in the face of every man!

  And what has Peter done with Father’s inheritance? He's driving his business into the ground, that’s what he’s doing. If it weren’t for me—that I’d introduced him to Cile—Peter would be a bloody pauper today.

  He owes everything to me!

  Everything!

  His house is my house, his money my money. Everything is mine! I loathe having to go to him and beg for every scrap of clothing I place upon my back. Loathe him for making me come to him crawling—for not thinking enough to come to me instead! He takes my sacrifices in vain, and never thinks how humiliating it might be for me to come to him every time I need something... anything.

  He’s no different from any other man—swayed by a pretty face. Mary Cavanaugh is all that is loathsome in women, and damn Peter for wanting her anyway!

  Well, I’m not going to be left once more with nothing!

  Not if I can help it!

  My head hurts! I am not going to be run out of my own home because suddenly I am no longer needed here.

  Mary will go before I do!

  Sarah blinked in horror at what she was reading. She flipped pages in shock, stopping at the date of her cousin’s murder ...

  April 15, 1880

  By now it is done!

  Wish I could be there—anxious to know how all fared. But tomorrow will be soon enough. I do not wish to draw suspicion.

  I cannot see this as death—no, I refuse! It is rather a birth! My own! I think I shall not even sleep tonight, waiting for the morning to discover the news! So long I have waited! Only a few short hours more...