Bees in the Butterfly Garden (The Gilded Legacy)

by Maureen Lang

  Meg stood over her father’s body, no longer dizzy. For the first time she saw something familiar in him. Most of his face—the odd set to his jaw, the lifeless curve of his brow, the sallow color of his skin—belonged to someone, something, else. But his nose was the same, perfectly centered, neither too large nor too small. It was his, all right. Unchanged.

  “It doesn’t matter what they said about you loving me,” Meg whispered. She’d once convinced herself she’d outgrown her need for a father, but somehow seeing him this way reminded her of what she’d missed, and it pierced her soul.

  It was too late for him to hear what she had to say, but words spilled from an overfilled fountain deep inside. “I wanted so little from you, things you could never give. Never once did you tell me you loved me or that you were proud of me. Did you think the money would say it for you? I’d rather have had the words.”

  She wanted to touch him, his hands that were so peacefully folded across his chest. The single memory she had before living at the school was of him tossing her up into the air, catching her safely in his strong arms with those same hands. Where had that father gone, the one who’d rejoiced in having a daughter? What had she done to make him shut her away?

  She took a step back, still facing him, words she’d wanted to say for years now refusing to be stifled. “I’m finished being that perfect student, that perfect young lady. There’s no hope of pleasing you now, so I might as well do as I please. At last.”

  Meg turned away, shoulders so stiff they ached. Without looking back, she walked from his side, so fast and firm that the heels on her shoes tapped against the floor, no doubt hard enough to nick the wood.

  But she made it no farther than halfway across the room. It was as if her father called to her, using words Maguire and Kate had just spoken. He knew about her studies; he knew about her being Harvest Princess. He’d left the roses.

  “Why?”

  She hadn’t realized she’d nearly screamed the word until it came back to her in an echo.

  Meg fell into one of the nearby chairs, and tears pricked her eyes—tears that made way for the torrent that followed.

  She didn’t hear the light footsteps behind her until the edge of Kate’s skirt came into view. Perhaps Meg should resent this woman who’d been allowed to share her father’s life—at least as much as she resented Maguire—but when Kate took the seat next to Meg, drawing her into a gentle embrace, any desire to feel that resentment dwindled away.

  “I wanted him to love me.” Her voice, garbled with tears, was barely recognizable even to Meg herself.

  “Shh, now. He did, Meggie.” Meg felt Kate stroke her hair as if she were a child. “He loved you, and I can prove it to you.”

  Her words penetrated Meg’s tears, slowing the spigot inside.

  “You can’t.” Meg wiped her eyes with a handkerchief Kate supplied. This handkerchief was black, although a red one still peeked out from Kate’s pocket. “I don’t care if he knew every last thing I did. Nothing could convince me he loved me. It’s too late, don’t you see?”

  With a glance over Meg’s shoulder as if to make sure they were alone, Kate shook her head. “John didn’t think himself worthy to be your father.” Kate looked at the table now, at the box holding Meg’s father. The older woman seemed to fossilize before Meg as a frown set premature creases into place. “I suppose you already believe him unworthy, but that wasn’t his intention.”

  Meg spared only a glance her father’s way. “He never gave me the chance to see if he was unworthy or not! His absence proves he wasn’t a good father.”

  “He was a better father than you think, considering how he made his living. You cannot discount his protection of you.”

  “Protection from what? I know about the gambling, Miss Kane. Jamie mentioned it in the carriage. And while I’m sure a number of families sending their daughters to Madame Marisse’s would have been scandalized to learn such a thing about him, it’s hardly an illegal way to make a living. That was no reason to banish me from his life.”

  “You were to be raised a lady, like your mother. Someone he never thought himself worthy of, either, really. You never knew, Meggie, that she was from London, did you? The daughter of a gentleman, and your father wanted you to be just like her. He knew he couldn’t raise you properly, so he found the finest school in all of New England to do it for him. All he needed to do was supply the money, and he did.”

  “And so he gambled. Is that all?”

  Kate looked from Meg to her father, then to the door that led from the room. The hesitation lasted long enough to make Meg wonder if whatever she had to say was the truth or just being made up for Meg’s benefit.

  “His fortunes are . . . complicated, Meggie. They came from various sources.” She caught and held Meg’s gaze. “Not a single one, at least initially, was legal.”

  Meg nearly laughed. “What are you saying? That he was a thief?”

  Kate nodded.

  “That is what you’re saying? He was . . . he was a thief?”

  “Shh! Keep your voice down. He never wanted you to know—”

  “And I doubt he can hear you now.”

  “No, but Ian might, and he didn’t want me to tell you the truth. If it’s the only way to bring you some kind of peace with your father’s memory, then so be it. Your father wasn’t proud of the things he did, but it was the only thing he knew how to do and he did it well. You don’t remember—how could you?—when he partnered with his old friend Brewster. They conned their first mark together. It came too easily to both of them, but especially to your father because people have always been eager to trust him. With Brewster’s help, your father made enough money to present himself as a gentleman and pay Madame Marisse to keep you for years. He never stopped working. He had to earn enough to keep you there.”

  The words swirled in Meg’s head until they made no sense at all. Her father with the smiling, guileless blue eyes . . . a thief.

  She would have stood, paced, moved to relieve some of the nervous energy building inside her, but she had been left without a trace of strength. Her hand smoothed a small wrinkle on her gown, a gown made of the finest black silk money could buy.

  Purchased with money stolen from someone else.

  Something in her throat stabbed at her painfully—gall, anger. Shame.

  But just as instantly, another moment of realization exploded inside her. So much made sense now. No wonder she’d always lusted after what she should not have—not material things, but things outside the rules, freedom to do as she pleased. No wonder she’d had to stuff aside every rebellious thought, eke out the perfect behavior expected of her. Rebellion was in her blood! She was more her father’s daughter than her mother’s, after all.

  “How exactly did he get that money, then? What kind of ‘marks,’ as you call them?” Were people suffering because of her? Had he stolen from others who’d had to do without just so she could live a pampered life?

  “I don’t think he would’ve wanted you to know details, Meggie. Just know that he had a reason to keep his life separate—and a secret—from you.”

  Meg shook her head. “I need to know, Miss Kane. I need to know who he stole from, if he left anyone in desperate circumstances—because of me!”

  “Oh! No! No, no, Meggie, not at all. Your father was the kindest, most generous man I’ve ever known. He was more apt to give to someone in need than take, believe me!”

  “I’m sure whoever he stole from wouldn’t think so highly of him.”

  “He only outsmarted people who could well afford to lose. He’s never even had a warrant out for his arrest, he was so careful.”

  Another realization. “Is that why he refused to be seen at any of my concerts?” Meg whispered. “Because he cheated some of the same families I went to school with? Is that why he chose that school—because of the many marks connected to it?”

  “Never intentionally, my dear. He wouldn’t have wanted it to touch you in any way. Ther
e was only one family from your school he might have risked targeting, but he never had the opportunity.”

  “Which family was that?”

  “It doesn’t matter, does it? I hardly remember, anyway. The fact is your father loved you. Surely you believe that now?”

  Meg sighed. “I don’t know what to believe. I might have thought him an incompetent father, but at least I thought him an honest one.” That uncertain sigh was chased by a gasp. “You do know what this means, don’t you? If I thought I had few marital options before, they’ve narrowed all the more with what you say. What sort of future have I, except one my father forbade me to have? And, oh! If only I’d known all these years what a liability I’ve been to Madame Marisse’s. A whisper of this could mean the end of the school’s reputation. And it would be my fault!”

  She stood, anger fueling her now, and stared at her father’s body. “No! Not mine. It would all be your fault! How could you?”

  7

  The path to the scaffold can be approached from many angles. General poaching, pickpocketing, impersonation of another with the sole purpose of stealing his pension are just a few crimes that, along with murder itself, demand the death penalty.

  An Informal Look at the Penal Codes of London and New England

  Ian set his gaze on Brewster. Upon Brewster’s arrival, there had been a gradual but noticeable shift, as if by unspoken request the men took literal sides on the porch. One half was filled with men who sided with Brewster, the other with men behind Ian himself.

  He wondered if anyone else noticed that those who sided with Ian were the ones he knew still possessed a heart.

  “Skipjack never had a part in the venture I’m planning,” Ian began.

  “Then perhaps you ought to run the plans by me,” Brewster said, “if Skipjack didn’t have an eye on them.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary.” The words rippled in the silence from one end of the veranda to the other.

  “So it’s come to this already, has it?” The brogue Brewster took such pains to hide in the city sometimes showed itself among them. “The pooka wants to be me new partner; is that how it is now?”

  Ian refused to be irritated by the reference to childish stories of mischievous Irish fairies. Age had nothing to do with competence. “I have no plans to take Skipjack’s place as your partner.” Ian took a sip of the drink in his hand. Smooth and watered down to keep his head clear, but whiskey all the same. He’d skipped breakfast and lunch, so there was little left to stand in the whiskey’s path to Ian’s brain.

  “If you’ve no thought to take his place, then things will remain as they’ve always been. As such, you might tell me what you have in mind before the doing of it.”

  “Your partnership with Skipjack is dead, Brewster. It’ll be buried with him by this time tomorrow. And I’ve no plan to take up his half. What I do from now on I do of me own accord. I need no one’s approval.” Sometimes Ian’s own brogue had a way of surfacing.

  If anyone so much as swallowed, Ian would have heard it—it was that quiet. Even the birds in the nearby wood that a moment ago had whistled and cooed suddenly fell silent.

  Brewster swished the drink in his glass, a smooth movement that seemed to say Ian’s challenge hardly warranted a reply, let alone a counterchallenge.

  “What you do on your own is up to you, Maguire.” He consumed the last of what remained in the glass, then neared a table to discard it, bringing him two steps closer to Ian. “But if you do it without my help, you take the risk for yourself. None of my men will be involved—before or after, no matter the outcome. No protection from me. Is that clear to you now?”

  Ian’s lack of a response said enough.

  “I needn’t refresh your memory, do I, Ian?” Brewster fairly whispered now that he was nearer. “I could have saved those men, all three of them, had they only come to me before their last attempt.”

  No, Ian needn’t be reminded. The last time a handful of men had decided to break free of Brewster, they’d ended up ambushed by a competing gang; three of them hadn’t survived the street battle.

  If the reminder was meant as a subtle threat, Ian was willing to call his bluff. Brewster might shed more blood than either Ian or John ever had, but there was no questioning his loyalty to John. Ian was willing to wager Brewster would no more bring him harm than he would Meggie.

  There was only one real problem: how many men, without Brewster’s protection, would be willing to stray from his control?

  Brewster left the porch, going to the carriage that waited for anyone who wanted to be taken back to the station.

  As Ian expected, several other men left the porch as well. They wouldn’t all fit in the carriage with Brewster, and so they started to walk.

  Ian faced those who remained: six. Fewer than he’d hoped, but nothing to scoff at—until he saw that one man was missing upon whom he’d been counting. The cop who played a pivotal role in his plan.

  His gaze flew to the retreating men. All he saw was Keys’s back.

  Ian had to force himself to hold steady his glass. His mind already raced, ineffectively trying to reassure him. There was still time to convince the man back to Ian’s way, and convince him he would.

  Ian’s future depended on it.

  8

  To hearken one’s ear toward a conversation one hasn’t been invited to partake in is to prove oneself of the lowest moral character. If such a basic rule of manners might be compromised, what else might one do?

  Madame Marisse’s Handbook for Young Ladies

  Meg saw Maguire enter the large ballroom from the veranda, once again struck by his looks. His dark hair was in sharp contrast to the vivid blue of his eyes. Eyes so different from hers and her father’s, yet striking in their own way for their depth and darkness. And skin so healthy she wondered how it would feel to the touch—his wouldn’t be soft like hers, but surely it would not be rough, either.

  She snapped her eyes away.

  “You’d best allow me to handle telling him our plans,” Kate whispered before taking Meg’s hand in hers to lead her forward. “But not yet.”

  Together they met Maguire at the first row of chairs in front of her father’s body. “Meggie will of course be staying for the funeral tomorrow afternoon.”

  Maguire’s blue eyes showed a hint of surprise, then a bit of regret. The surprise was so fleeting she couldn’t be certain it had been there. He looked from Meg to her father, and once again his sadness was all she could see.

  “Very well. Supper will be served soon, if you would like to rest or freshen yourself for that. I’ll show you to a room upstairs.”

  “May I stay in my father’s room? Where he stayed while visiting here, that is?” Meg’s request surprised even herself. Yet she couldn’t deny a stubborn wish to know her father despite his failures, the same force that had brought her here to begin with. Somehow, learning he’d been a thief hadn’t quenched her thirst to know what her life might have been like had he allowed her even the slightest place in his.

  “If you wish.”

  “I’ll be staying as well, Ian,” Kate said, following them from the room. “But I’m sure you can accommodate both of us.”

  Maguire didn’t respond, just walked ahead without looking back. Meg looked at the back of his handsome head, at the way his hair followed a perfect pattern: wavy in some spots, straight in others. Thick and so long that it touched the collars of his shirt and jacket.

  Then she realized something she hadn’t considered before. He was her father’s partner, his protégé. That meant he could be only one thing: a thief.

  She placed her hand on the wooden railing once they reached the stairs on the other side of the impressive, three-story center hallway. She needed the aid to steady her step.

  How could she never have guessed, never even have suspected there was something nefarious in the way her father had withheld information about himself, about their family? Surely Madame Marisse had never suspected, o
r she wouldn’t have jeopardized her school by taking in Meg. Or had her father’s charm blinded Madame Marisse so much she didn’t care to know the truth?

  No wonder Maguire found it easy to follow her father’s footsteps. One glance from those eyes and women probably just opened their purse strings, no questions asked. When he stopped at a bedroom door, Meg walked around him, leaving plenty of room, refusing to look into those eyes that had no doubt fooled many women before her.

  The room that had been her father’s wasn’t as large as Maguire’s. Still, its accommodations were plush, with a generously sized bed . . . upon which lay that huge, slobbering dog. It greeted them with a whimper as it beat its tail against the bed.

  “Off you go, Roscoe,” Maguire greeted with a friendly tone. “That’s a good boy.” Though the dog jumped from the bed, he came immediately to Meg in another attempt to get to know her better. She took a tentative step back, unsure how to act around an animal so large, even one she suspected might be friendly.

  Maguire pulled Roscoe away and aimed him at the door. She was pleasantly surprised the dog did as directed, as if eager to be free of the bedroom.

  Then Ian turned to Meg. “The bathroom is through that door, and there is another bedroom beyond that. You can stay in there, Kate.”

  There was no reason for him to linger, yet he did. Rather than following the dog out, Maguire closed the gap between himself and Meg, stopping so close that she took another step back. Could he not tell she wished to keep a respectable distance between them?

  He took one of her hands in his. “I think it’s all still a bit of a shock to you, Meggie. In time you’ll grieve your father properly because you’ll realize he was a good man. One who would have welcomed your love above all else.”

  She pulled her hand from his, wanting to scoff at the pronouncement. A good man! Considering the source of the compliment, she disregarded it altogether.