"This will be the perfect opportunity to start the research you spoke of, Christian. If it weren't for interested historians like you, we wouldn't have history, would we? An admirable hobby, I think. Rosalyn will be a wonderful guide, I'm sure."
Rosalyn watched them walk away, her mouth agape. She felt a windstorm building inside her, racing out of control. Clenching her suddenly icy hands, she pivoted, nearly bumping into Christian. Her voice rivaled the bitter cold outside. “Historian?” It was all she could manage. She waited, itching to claw an expression on his face. Finally, a mocking smile curved his mouth, but his eyes remained hard. When he shrugged, Rosalyn wanted to scream.
"Historian,” he drawled softly. “That's what she said. It's a little hobby of mine, and I'm very interested in this valentine business."
Fury threatened to choke her. The constant murmur of conversation flowed around them, but Rosalyn wasn't aware of anyone in the room save one person—one blackguard. She marveled that she could keep her voice to a hissing, outraged whisper. “How dare you! How dare you trick Miss Howland this way. What you did to me was despicable, but I won't allow you to play your games with her—"
Christian moved closer, until she felt his warm breath when he whispered back just as fiercely, “And you're so innocent? What about the ruby valentine, Miss Mitchell? You knew I searched for those rubies and you had them all along."
"I told you, or I tried to tell you. This isn't about the rubies, so don't change the subject.” She narrowed her eyes, her tone thick with contempt. “If you had asked me the first time we met, I would have told you about the valentine. Why did you have to play your games, Christian? And what game are you playing now with my employer? She has nothing to do with this!"
Christian's smile made her shiver.
"I say she does. If it wasn't for her, I'd still be a fool. In that regard, she has my utmost thanks for kindly pointing out to me that the rubies are now gracing a cursed valentine—something you failed to mention when you had the chance."
Somehow, Rosalyn refrained from stamping her foot. If they hadn't been surrounded by people, she would have. Oh, he was the most frustrating man she'd ever met! She took a deep breath, but it did nothing to calm her. “Is this one of your double standards, Christian? You can lie through your teeth by pretending to be someone you are obviously not, then expect me to be truthful? You've got some nerve, Mister."
"If you had told me the truth, I would have let you keep the rubies."
Ha! Rosalyn laughed low in her throat; she didn't want to attract attention by cackling wildly, which is exactly what she felt like doing. “I'm so honored.” She was rewarded when his mouth tightened in annoyance. Finally, she'd gotten a reaction. “You still think I stole them from Callie, don't you?"
He met her challenging gaze without hesitation. “I don't know. Did you?"
Rosalyn lifted her arm, then caught herself before she did something she knew she would regret. Instead, she curled her fingers into her palm until she felt the pain. Physical pain was preferable to the pain in her heart. “If the rubies really belong to your grandmother, as you say,” and her tone clearly indicated she did not believe it, “then bring me proof. Then and only then will you get your rubies."
He studied her for an electrifying moment before nodding. “Fair enough. Meanwhile, I think I'll work on my research by documenting the delivering of valentines by Worcester's very own Cupid."
"Why?” Why, why, why did he insist on torturing her this way? She had to know.
He shrugged, his expression as smooth as glass. “You have a tendency to lose things, Miss Mitchell, and I don't want you to lose those rubies until I can send for the document of ownership."
Rosalyn felt the blood rush to her face. How dare he—! “I didn't lose those pearls. You took them.” Oh, why was she bothering to talk to him at all? He knew he took the pearls, he knew she hadn't lost them. It was all a flimsy excuse. Was this the best the talented weasel could come up with? Was he running out of schemes?
"Maybe so, but I think I'll stick close to you anyway."
"Fine. You stick close, but don't expect conversation,” Rosalyn lowered her voice to a warning hiss, “Or anything else!"
His mocking laughter followed her as she turned and stalked from the room.
Heartless, cruel ... Everything she'd believed Christian Garret to be had turned out to be true.
How she wished she had been wrong!
Chapter Twelve
I Look Away So You Won't See
Just What it Is You've Done to Me
A Love this Sure Can Only One Time Be
This I Know...
Christian followed Boots and Merl into the dimly lit Club and Grub, looking around him with interest. It was cleaner than most taverns, he noted, sniffing the smoke-stale air. A dozen or so small tables were scattered around the room, nearly all of them filled with laughing, talking men. They all seemed more interested in talking than drinking from the frothy mugs of beer before them.
Merl greeted several, exchanging hearty back slaps as he led the way to one of the two empty tables remaining near the center of the room.
As they settled themselves around the table, the bar maid arrived with three mugs of beer balanced on a tray, plopping them down before sashaying away. Christian took an experimental taste of his beer, his brows lifting in surprise to find it smooth and refreshing. As the others took a thirsty swallow, his gaze swept the room, pausing on a lone man seated at the bar.
Observing his line of vision, Boots leaned forward and said, “That's Tiber, the one Merl was telling you about."
The gambler. Christian frowned, his gaze sliding over the man slouching on the wooden bar stool. His overcoat was ragged and thin, and one sole of his boot flopped open, revealing a dirty bare foot. He was a big man, with long, unkempt hair and beard. “He always drink alone?"
Merl wiped his hand across his mouth and shook his head. “Mostly. Lots of folks resent him, you see. Since the mill shut down. Over a hundred men outta work—that don't sit too well, considering it's partly his fault."
Christian recalled the long line of shanties, all of them replicas of the one Jamy lived in. The image disturbed him greatly. “I still don't understand why the city doesn't open the mill again.” How could they lose? Paper was always in demand.
"Don't have anyone to run it,” Merl said. “Tiber can't be trusted, and the only other man who knows the business is Patrick."
Jamy's father. Christian swallowed a snarl of disgust. If he could get his hands on that man ... “Have any idea where Patrick might have gone?"
His question was followed by a loud burst of laughter at a nearby table. Everyone waited patiently for the man to contain his mirth. When he did, Boots said, “Some folks claim they see him around now and then. I reckon he's hoping someone will open the mill again."
"He should be taking care of his family,” Christian growled.
Both men nodded in total agreement. The door opened and two men came in on a blast of cold air. Christian recognized the two drivers, following their progress across the room to the last empty table.
Before they could seat themselves, Merl lifted his mug and bellowed, “Willis! Michael! Come join us."
They did, scraping their chairs along with them. As they seated themselves, they saw Christian. Michael poked Willis with his elbow and grinned.
Willis grinned back, his eyes on Christian. “Mr. Brown! How's Miss Mitchell?"
Christian tried to scowl and found himself grinning instead. They were a harmless bunch, and good men. This type of ribbing he could handle. His grin faded as he realized he should tell them who he really was. He wasn't looking forward to the task at all, but he couldn't let them continue calling him Mr. Brown. He'd told Miss Howland his real name, and before long it would be known.
Better they hear it straight from the horses mouth—and right now Christian felt like the rear of a horse. He cleared his throat, then wished he hadn't. Apparently, he
had their undivided attention, but it wasn't Rosalyn he was about to speak of, as he was sure they anticipated. “The name's Christian Garret. I apologize for misleading—"
"What?” Boots brought his chair down on all four legs with a heavy thump. His face mirrored the other three men's shock. “What was that?"
"Did you say your name is Garret?"
Merl sloshed his beer onto the table as he leaned forward. “Any kin to Henry Garret?"
Willis laughed uncomfortably. “Of course he's not! Nobody would admit being kin to that...” His voice died away as Christian regarded him with a grim smile. “What I mean is—you're not kin to him, right?"
Merl glared at Willis. “What other reason would he have for lying to us about who he was?” The baker shook his head sadly.
They all stared at him as if he'd just announced he was the devil himself.
Christian hated being in the dark, and that's exactly how he felt. He knew nothing about his father, what he had done for a living, how he was regarded by his peers—nothing. Pride had kept him from questioning Mr. Toombs, and the few times he had visited Worcester, he hadn't hung around long enough to find out.
But he knew something now—the people of Worcester didn't remember his father with fondness. With great effort, Christian remained impassive. “Yes, Henry Garret was my father, but we weren't close.” And that was an understatement. “Is there something I should know?” He looked directly into each face, hiding nothing because he had nothing to hide. It wasn't his name he was ashamed of, just his father. He feared he was about to have other reasons, too.
Apparently, by silent election, Boots was nominated to answer his questions. The shoemaker looked as if he'd rather be on the moon. “Well, Henry—your father—was the man who got Tiber started with his gambling, you see."
Christian stiffened, his gaze going to the tramp at the bar. His father caused the closing of the mill? But wait, Tiber was a grown man, and all men had to be responsible for their own actions. He never thought to be defending his father, but something wasn't right. “So Henry forced Tiber to gamble?"
His softly voiced question caused a soft murmur to rise from the group. They looked at each other uneasily.
"Well? Nobody has an answer? Shall I draw my own conclusions?” A hard ball of tension formed in Christian's stomach. He pushed back his chair, thinking he'd outworn his welcome. He was a Garret, and obviously still paying for the privilege.
Merl stopped him before he could clear his seat. “Wait. You got a right to know, I reckon. Like you said, you didn't know him too well, and it ain't your fault.” He cast a hesitant glance at the old man at the bar. Tiber hunched over his beer, unmoving and apparently not listening. “Henry was going over to this river boat in Springfield, a gambling boat. Kept bragging to Tiber about how much money he was winning playing cards."
Christian didn't want to hear this. His father, a gambler? His mother had never mentioned ... but then, his mother rarely talked of him after he left. As for his grandmother, she was tight-lipped about him as well. Christian grew weary of asking questions he never got answers to.
But he was getting them now, and from strangers.
"What's his connection with Tiber?” Christian asked. He was amazed at how casual he sounded, as if he were talking of someone else, someone not his father. Later, there would be time for rage and humiliation. Right now he wanted to know it all so he could forget.
Merl thumped the table. “They met right here in this bar. Hit it off right away, with Tiber being a big shot, and Henry thinking he—beggin’ your pardon, Christian."
Christian grit his teeth and managed a cool smile. He would not take his fury out on Merl, or Willis, or anyone. “Go on."
Flushing, Merl continued. “They got to talkin’ about money, and one thing led to another. Tiber went with him the next time he went to Springfield, and many times after that. It was about a year later that Tiber announced he was closing the mill."
Boots twisted his mug around on the table, watching with great interest the trail of moisture the glass left behind on the scarred table. “We overheard them talking, is the reason we know. This table is our table, and Tiber and Henry sat next to us, and we couldn't help but overhear. We even tried talking to Tiber a time or two, but he wouldn't listen. And we ain't saying it was all Henry's fault. Like you said, he didn't make Tiber go along, but he ... he—"
"Taunted him?” Christian supplied tightly.
Boots nodded. “Yeah, he made him sound like a chicken if he didn't go, and you'd have to know how Tiber was back then, all full of himself. He wasn't a bad sort, just..."
"Cocky?” Looking at Tiber now, Christian found it hard to believe. A gambler, his father was a gambler. It wasn't enough he left them. It wasn't enough he divorced his mother and shamed her. He had to go and be a damned gambler, and causing the ruin of a once good man!
Make that two, because Henry Garret had also been indirectly responsible for Patrick losing his job. And how many others? Hundreds?
Had Callie known? Instinctively, Christian knew she hadn't. Just as Rosalyn didn't know. These people protected their own, so no one had told Callie, just as they didn't tell Rosalyn now. They protected their women, even when those women weren't their wives or kin.
Christian felt sick to his stomach. For the first time in his life, he wished he really was someone else.
Someone like Chris Brown.
* * * *
"Hmm, it's delicious! Where did you get it?” Rosalyn savored the chocolate confection in her mouth. Beside her on the sofa, Alice did the same.
Miss Howland smiled with pleasure. “From a gentleman by the name of Milton Hershey. I met him while I was in New York. We talked briefly about combining his chocolates with my valentines, but nothing ever came of it.” She held out the box of chocolates again and Alice nearly shoved Rosalyn from the couch in her haste to grab another of the delicious confections.
Rosalyn declined another, laughing at Alice. She suspected anything that tasted that good would surely plump her up. “Mrs. Dillon will think she's died and gone to Heaven! But—are you sure they're not expensive? I didn't want to say anything in front of Chris—Mr. Garret, but Mr. Dillon didn't have a lot of money."
Miss Howland shook her head, sitting on the parlor sofa to arrange a dozen or so of the chocolates inside a heart-shaped box. “Mr. Hershey sent them as a gift.” She flushed delicately, and Rosalyn exchanged a knowing look with Alice. “I can't eat them all, and I'm sure Mrs. Dillon will appreciate them."
Both girls nodded. At Miss Howland's signal, Rosalyn handed her the sturdy basket decorated with satin bows in pink and blue. Inside lay a folded baby quilt. On the blanket, Miss Howland settled the heart-shaped box of candies and covered this with a silver-hued, delicate lace scarf.
Such generosity brought tears to Rosalyn's eyes.
"Now, the carriage should be here any moment, Rosy,” Miss Howland said. “Mr. Garret will ask a lot of questions, I'm sure."
Rosalyn bit back a snide retort just in time. She was certain he would, but she doubted they concerned the factory or the delivery of valentines!
"Just be patient, and if you're unsure of the answer, tell him to ask me."
Rosalyn looked at Alice, who gaped at Miss Howland. Before the young girl could ask questions, Rosalyn hurriedly grabbed her hand and jerked her to her feet. “Come along, Alice. You can help me search for my thick gloves. It's frigid out there and I can't go without them."
"But—"
She literally pulled Alice across to the stairs. “We'll be back down shortly, Miss Howland."
"Good, I'm sure the carriage will be arriving soon."
Once in Rosalyn's room, Alice burst out, “What did she mean, Mr. Garret would be asking questions? That—that cad is going with you out to the Dillon place? Oh, Rosy, how could you associate with him after—"
"I'm not. I didn't. And it's not just to the Dillons, it's everywhere I go until Valentine's Day! Mr. Garret convin
ced Miss Howland he is a historian, of all the bare-faced lies!” Rosalyn got mad all over again. No, she'd really never gotten over being mad. She had just pushed it from her mind so Miss Howland wouldn't become suspicious. “She believes he's really interested in how we run things, particularly around Valentine's Day."
Alice's face mirrored Rosalyn's dismay. “Oh, you poor dear! And Miss Howland knows nothing of his awful doings, does she? Why don't you tell her? I'm sure she'd understand that you want nothing to do with a blackheart like Christian Garret!"
Rosalyn sighed and leaned her forehead against the closed door. She wished it were as simple as Alice made it sound. “I can't tell her, Alice. She and Callie were friends, and this is between myself and Christian. It wouldn't be fair to put Miss Howland in the middle.” Or lawful to shoot Christian in his black heart.
Stamping her foot, Alice growled, “Well, he's not being fair either, forcing his company on you this way! How will you stand it?"
"By ignoring him.” And she would if it killed her. Or better yet, bore him senseless with the history he claimed to want. Yes, there was her answer. Freeze him and bore him. She could manage that, couldn't she? If she forgot, she had only to remind herself that he believed she was a thief, or to remember how he'd lied so despicably.
Miss Howland's call ended their discussion. The carriage had arrived.
The carriage and Christian Garret. He thought to break her, to force her to confess to stealing the rubies, but it wouldn't work. Rosalyn straightened her shoulders and prepared for battle. Let him try his badgering. Let him try anything and she'd give him a tongue-lashing he wouldn't soon forget.
They descended the stairs arm in arm. Rosalyn mentally prepared herself for the coming confrontation with Christian. She was determined, by golly, to ignore him and forget the silly feelings she had harbored for him.
Had, being the operative word.
With Alice's pitying whispers of good luck in her ear, Rosalyn took Mr. Dillon's basket from Miss Howland and prayed she didn't look as reluctant as she felt.
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