Surprised by Love

by Julie Lessman

  Tsking on her way to the door, she glanced behind with a finger to her lips. “Shhh . . . it’s the secret to our happy home—he just doesn’t know it.” She tossed an impish grin over her shoulder that gave her the air of a little girl despite the silver hair. “Good night, son.”

  “Good night, Mom.” He smiled as she tiptoed up the stairs, nightgown hiked to her ankles while her long silver braid bobbed back and forth. Closing the front door with enough noise to alert his father, he locked and bolted it with a deep inhale, uttering a prayer for strength. He strode into the parlour and stopped, love welling at the sight of Jeremiah Hughes asleep in his well-worn leather chair, stockinged feet crossed on his paper-strewn desk. Their silver tabby, Mortimer, lay curled in a ball beneath his father’s neck, looking like a beard that matched the neatly trimmed moustache. Bram smiled when Mort’s ears twitched with his father’s every deafening snore, vibrating both the man’s sagging jowls and the poor cat.

  Shaking his head, Bram made his way to the desk and carefully lifted Mort from his father’s chest, grinning outright when the man jerked awake with a noisy flail of limbs.

  “Thunderation, wh-what’s going on?” his father stammered, obviously in a groggy state.

  “It’s me, Pop,” Bram said quietly, heart twisting over the betrayal that had cost his father nearly all of his sight. “You fell asleep in your chair.”

  “Well, blue blazes, son, less chance of a heart attack with a soft word, you know.” Feet thudding to the floor, he kneaded his temple, his bottle-thick eyeglasses askew on his face. “How was your evening?”

  Bram stroked the tabby with a smile meant to mask his concern over the pallor of his father’s face. “Good. Andrew Turner knows how to throw a party, that’s for sure. Meg was bashfully aglow with the attention and having a good time, I think.” He paused, noting dark circles and deep lines of fatigue. “What are you still doing up? Trouble sleeping?”

  His father struggled to rise, and it took everything Bram had not to toss Mort aside and assist him. The husky chuckle that rumbled from his father’s throat did little to deflect the weary bent of his back or the sag of his shoulders. A rusty wheeze followed that stabbed Bram like a knife. “Apparently not, since Mort and I were both sprawled out like sots in a side alley.”

  “You sound congested,” Bram said, tone casual in deference to his mother’s request. “Not feeling well?”

  “Oh, pish-posh—never better,” he groused. Pushing his heavy-lensed eyeglasses back on his nose, he steadied himself with a weathered hand to his desk, straightening to his full six-foot height to meet his son eye to eye. “Amelia’s home,” he whispered, as if divulging a secret.

  “Is she, now?” Bram turned to place Morty on his favorite chair, heart taking off in a sprint. “I thought she was to spend the year in Europe with her aunt.”

  A grunt rolled from his father’s lips. “That’s what Amelia thought too, but some blackguard was sniffing around, apparently, so Henry yanked her home six months early. Which means, of course . . .” His father gave him a wink. “Courtship is in the air, my boy.”

  “Indeed.” Bram adjusted his jacket, smiling despite the churn of his gut. “Then I suppose I’ll be calling on the lady soon.”

  “Sooner than you think if Henry has his way,” his father said with a grin, snatching his walking cane, which was never far from his grasp. He slapped Bram on the back with more force than his weakened state warranted, breathing heavily as he shuffled toward the door. “He’s hoping you’ll honor her with an invitation to the Barrister Ball.”

  Bram halted midway, jaw gaping before he could stop it. “A week’s notice for an invitation to one of the social highlights of the year is hardly an honor, Pop.” He casually braced a stabilizing arm on his father’s shoulder with a smile that was more of a grunt. “Most ladies would consider it an affront, especially since guest names were required for place settings and printed programs weeks ago.”

  “Most ladies, yes.” His body rattled with a hacking cough that worried Bram so much, he shored him up at the waist, pausing until the spell passed. “But not the Darlingtons,” his father continued, seemingly oblivious to Bram’s protective hold. “Henry’s fortune is relatively new as you know, as is his foray into society.” He gave Bram’s shoulder a weak squeeze, his breathing becoming more labored. “Merging his small shipping business with mine will go a long way in elevating the Darlington name in Frisco society.” His hoarse chuckle carried the threat of another coughing fit. “He needs my name and influence, and I need his youth and vigor.”

  And his money. Bram’s heart twisted over the truth his father refused to tell his own son and probably his wife too. He suspected his mother—intuitive to a fault—harbored an uneasy feeling as well, no doubt suspicious as to why a stubborn shipping mogul would consent to share the helm of his empire. Especially one he’d built and managed himself for some thirty-odd years. Drawing in a quiet breath, Bram felt his rib cage constrict by the weight of the secrets he bore—both his own and now his father’s. There was no way he would worry his mother with the financial burdens that threatened her husband’s health, heavy burdens imposed by steep import tariffs and damaged ships. His mouth thinned as he supported his father through another bout of the croup. But . . . he could remedy them by meeting Darlington’s key term for the merger—acquisition of the Hughes name, both for his company and for his daughter.

  “I’d say Henry’s youth and vigor is essential the way you’re feeling tonight, Pop,” Bram said as he ushered him to the sweeping marble stairs. He infused a hint of humor into his tone to battle the guilt that endlessly circled his brain. “Especially given a high-falutin’ son who opted for a comfortable law school over learning the ropes of his father’s shipping business on the docks of Fisherman’s Wharf.”

  Jeremiah Hughes spun to face him with a speed and power that belied the hollow look of his face. “It was my decision to send you to Stanford, not yours, so you can just toss that load of guilt into the ocean where it belongs.” His father gripped his arm with a pressure born of a fierce love, the sheen of moisture in his eyes sparking tears in Bram’s own. “You fought me tooth and nail, you did, but you were meant for far more than life on the docks, son, far more than my humble beginnings. Seeing the man you’ve become is worth more to me than all the money I’ve ever made, all the dreams I’ve ever dreamed. All of it,” he whispered, the sound hoarse with emotion. “So no regrets when it comes to me, my boy—just put them all out of your mind, do you hear?”

  Bram nodded, his throat too thick with emotion to utter a single word. Yes, sir, I hear, and God help me, how I wish that I could.

  His father patted a veined hand to Bram’s cheek. “You’re our crowning achievement, son, and the only thing that could make us happier is to bounce your children upon our knees.” He tackled the first step, then turned to offer a wink. “And heaven knows you won’t oblige unless Mother and I give you a little nudge, eh?” He hesitated, his smile screwing into a squint. “You do favor Amelia, don’t you? That seems to be Mother’s biggest concern, you know, that I’m ‘railroading’ you into something you don’t want.”

  Bram kneaded his father’s shoulder with a reassuring grin. “Nobody’s railroading me into anything, Pop—Amelia’s a lovely girl.”

  “Then you’ll ask her to the Barrister Ball?” His father stilled on the bottom step, his breathing appearing to halt as well.

  Bram’s heart lurched at the hope in the eyes of his father, the same man who had slaved and sacrificed to give Bram everything he’d never had growing up. He fought the sting of more tears with a broad grin. “Yes, Pop, I will ask her tomorrow.”

  The furrows in his father’s face dissolved into a smile as he slowly mounted the steps with Bram close behind. “Good boy. She’s a pretty little thing, Bram, with a sweet way about her. Mother and I think she’ll make you very happy—the perfect wife and mother.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a moment, Pop,” he said, co
ncern wedging his brow at the slow pace with which his father lumbered up the stairs. Shadowing him closely, Bram managed a light tone, body poised to catch him should he falter. “After all, what more could a man possibly want?” He expelled a silent sigh.

  Except absolution . . .

  21

  Soooo . . .” With a touch of the imp, Meg bumped Bonnie’s hip with her own, snatching a coffee mug from the cabinet overhead. Flashing a grin, she slid her cup next to the one Bonnie was pouring for herself. “Were you able to get any sleep after Andrew’s party, Miss Roof, or did you spend the nights dreaming wide awake?”

  Color burned up the back of Bonnie’s slender neck, where wisps of ebony curls teased the lacy collar of Alli’s pretty hand-me-down suit. Coffee splattered the counter when Bonnie fumbled the pot with bright pink cheeks, casting a nervous peek over her shoulder. “Shhh!” She quickly poured Meg a cup before she clattered the pot back on the burner. “For mercy’s sake, Meg, he could walk in here at any moment,” she whispered while she cleaned up the spill. “And I’d die if he knew I had a crush on him.”

  Meg hooked her waist to give her a gentle squeeze. “He won’t know because he’s already in the conference room for the meeting. He passed me in the hall on his way in.”

  Bonnie’s lanky frame relaxed as a wobbly smile inched its way across full lips the color of berries from Meg’s lip rouge. “Oh, Meg, I had the most wonderful time of my life!” she breathed, nudging her new rimless eyeglasses back up her nose. “I could barely catch my breath for all the dancing with Teddy and Conor, and even Mr. Turner was kind enough to ask.”

  “And George?” Meg wiggled her brows.

  Bonnie’s teeth tugged at a shy smile. “Only once, but oh, Meg—he told me I looked pretty!”

  Meg laughed, the sound as joyous as the glow in Bonnie’s eyes. She gave her a tight hug and pulled back, gaze blurring with a sheen of emotion. “That’s because you are, my sweet friend, and don’t you ever forget it.” She glanced at the clock on the wall when voices filtered down the hall. “Uh-oh, I’m going to be late for the meeting.” Dousing her coffee with cream and sugar, she hurried to the door, then tossed a wink over her shoulder while locking her lips with an imaginary key. “Mum’s the word.”

  Ooomphf! Meg bounced off a brick wall in a brown suit, spilling coffee everywhere.

  A deep-throated chuckle broke her silent stun, sending heat pulsing into her cheeks when the “wall” actually winked. “Uh . . . nope, I think the word may be ‘damp,’ ” Devin said, brushing dribbles of coffee off of the front of his tan vest.

  Meg wanted to die. “Oh, Devin, I am so sorry—I wasn’t looking where I was going, and now I’ve ruined your vest.” She whirled around to retrieve a wet dishrag from the sink, but Bonnie beat her to it, handing it over with a sympathetic smile.

  Mortified at the mess she’d made, Meg never gave a thought to yanking Devin’s vest out and blotting it with the rag, rubbing frantically until the stains disappeared into soggy satin. “There,” she said with a shallow exhale, “a little wet, but good as new.” She peered up, brows peaked in apology. “Can I get you some coffee to make it up to you?”

  “Sure,” he said, grinning, “but in a cup this time, Miss McClare, if you don’t mind.” Flapping his vest, he sauntered into the conference room while Meg faced Bonnie with a low groan.

  “I can’t believe I did that,” she whispered, body suddenly as wilted as the rag in her hand.

  Bonnie chuckled and refilled two cups of coffee, doctoring them while Meg rubbed a few stains from the front of her blue blouse. “Mmm . . . maybe it’s subconscious retaliation for all the insults over the years.”

  Meg sighed and tossed the wet rag in the sink. “I hope not—he actually apologized the night of the party and gave me some insight as to why he picked at me like he did.”

  “Ooooo, I want details at lunch, but for now, here—you’re late for a meeting.” Bonnie handed her the two cups with a mischievous grin. “And when you give Devin his, resist the urge, okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Meg said with a chuckle, slipping into the conference room where Andrew was in deep discussion with George and the others. No one noticed her late arrival—for which she was most grateful—except for Devin who slid her a wink when she gave him his coffee. She took her seat across the table and sipped hers, gaze pinned to Andrew to avoid Devin, who was directly in her line of sight at Andrew’s right. When all cases had been reviewed, discussed, and new ones assigned, Andrew scanned the room with a slap of palms to the table. “That’s it for now, but I hope you enjoyed yourselves Saturday night at Meg’s party.” His eyes sought hers. “Meg and her family are very dear to me, so I appreciate you taking the time to come. Oh, and George, I forgot to tell you the O’Hara case has been moved up, so I’ll need recommendations by two.”

  “You got it, Boss.” George stood and pushed his chair in along with everyone else.

  Shuffling his papers on the table, Andrew remained seated, gaze flitting from Meg to Devin. “Meg, Devin—keep your seats because I need a word with you both, if you don’t mind. Teddy, close the door behind you, if you will.”

  “Yes, sir.” Teddy obliged while Meg and Devin exchanged glances.

  At the ominous click of the door, Andrew stretched back in his chair, arms folded while he eyed them with a pensive air. The muscles in Meg’s stomach stretched taut at his serious look. He finally snatched his pen to absently roll it between two fingers. “How much do you two know about the Progressive Movement?”

  Meg blinked, blood warming her cheeks over the mere mention of the crusade to close down the brothels and dance halls of the Barbary Coast. Although her mother chaired the Vigilance Committee that fought to put an end to the city’s red-light district, never had she divulged the full extent of debauchery to Meg, ever protective of her children. Despite her mother’s reticence, however, Meg had read every edition of The San Francisco Evening Bulletin since she’d returned home, soaking up Fremont Older’s editorials about the civic corruption that tainted the city. With a quiet intake of air, she chanced a peek at Devin, whose face matched the crimson tie he wore.

  Andrew’s mouth quirked in a sour smile. “I can see that both of you are well aware of what the movement is all about, but how much do you know about Father Terrence Caraher and the battle he waged against the Nymphia brothel?”

  Devin cleared his throat, the sound hoarse as he took a fast swig of coffee. “Not much, sir, I’m afraid, other than what I’ve heard from my father or read in the paper.”

  Andrew’s sharp gaze flicked to Meg, the intensity in his eyes telling her this was a passion he shared with her mother. “And you, Meg? Has your mother divulged anything of the political or spiritual battles we’ve encountered in our quest to clean up the Coast?”

  Meg sat up straight, chin high and voice firm. “Yes, Mr. Turner, some, although naturally Mother spares us the unsavory details. But I’ve been able to keep up by gleaning as much as I can from Mr. Fremont’s editorials.”

  The faintest of smiles edged Andrew’s mouth as he studied her with a look rimmed with pride. “You are so much like your mother, you know that, young lady?”

  A brief burst of pleasure warmed in her chest at the comparison, although she didn’t believe it for a moment. Her mother was everything she aspired to be, but Meg doubted a frumpy and insecure little girl could blossom into such beauty and grace. Formerly frumpy, she reminded herself, forgetting she was no longer that defeated creature who cringed over ridicule from her peers. She returned Andrew’s smile with a shy one of her own, uncomfortable with his praise in front of Devin. “Thank you, Mr. Turner—I pray to be half the woman my mother is someday.”

  “I’d say you’re well on your way, Miss McClare, given the stack of summaries you wrote this week, according to George.” Andrew’s approval fairly shone in eyes so startling blue, she wondered how she hadn’t noticed before. “Claims you prepared a record number, identifying laws and judicial decisions h
e didn’t even know existed, an astonishing feat for any member of the bar, Meg, much less an intern fresh out of high school.”

  Her cheeks flared hot. “Thank you, Mr. Turner,” she whispered, careful to avoid Devin’s gaze. “I suppose research has always been a love of mine, sir.”

  “Well, it certainly shows.” He laid the pen aside, his demeanor suddenly serious. “Which is why I’ve decided to assign you and Devin to work on a special project. One that is near and dear to my heart and far more critical than preparing motions and pleadings or writing summaries, as important as that may be.” He cocked his head to peer first at Devin and then Meg, his manner all business. “As both of you are aware, the district attorney’s office and the Vigilance Committee are now aligned with Father Terence Caraher, pastor of St. Francis of Assisi and chairman of the Committee on Morals of the North Beach Promotion Association.” Andrew paused, the note of respect in his voice hard to miss. “Father Caraher is a true man of God, so we are fortunate to be working in tandem with him. It was his relentless crusade that finally shut down the Nymphia last year, a near-impossible feat that brought great joy to a lot of souls, not the least of which are Megan’s mother and me.”

  He removed two documents from his portfolio and handed one to both Devin and Meg. Elbows propped on the table, he steepled hands in a somber pose, worry lines prominent as they fanned from his eyes. “These documents are highly confidential, so I ask for your utmost care and reticence regarding this project while at work. I suggest you lock them or any related documents in your desk drawer at night, understood?” He paused, his gaze fixing on Meg. “I don’t mind if your mother or family is aware of this project, Meg, because there will be nights we’ll be working late, so they’ll need to know why. But no details, please, and I ask the same of Devin with his family.”

  Both nodded while they scanned the paper before them.

  “This is the outline I’d like you to follow as far as the research required, and its points are self-explanatory. Meg, I want you to focus on the Twinkling Star Corporation, delving into every aspect of the company and every whoremonger affiliated with it.”