Shenandoah Home (Sinclair Legacy Book 1)

by Sara Mitchell

  “Of course.” Dry-mouthed, she watched his lips brush her gloved knuckles before tucking her hand inside his arm. He cut a dashing figure in his formal blacks and blinding white shirtfront. Dashing . . . yet dangerous. Dangerous? “So are you.”

  “Lots of shades of meaning in that expression, aren’t there? Too bad our perspectives are in opposite corners.”

  Meredith stopped. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You can think about it, while Mr. Clarke and I . . . discourse . . . over the meal.” He continued walking, forcing her to join him or trip over the hem of her gown.

  “I take it you prefer that I play the part of a charming but silent fixture? Something to soften the atmosphere?”

  His quiet chuckle raised goose bumps along with her hackles. “You don’t need to play at the charm. Silence, on the other hand, might be too big a stretch. Tell you what, Miss Sinclair. I’ll let you decide. Use your womanly instincts, and we’ll see what happens.”

  “Use my ‘womanly instincts? How . . . ungentlemanly of you, Mr. Walker. Especially when I’ve spent the last hours making sure my appearance evokes the soul of professional discretion.”

  Meredith looked up into the freshly shaved face, to the firm line of his jaw and the unyielding slant of cheekbone. A shiver danced down her spine. Three days earlier, his unexpected visit to Sinclair Run had forced her to see Benjamin Walker as a man, not merely her employer. In the ensuing days, however, she had convinced herself that fundamentally nothing had changed: Over the last year she’d enjoyed working for Mr. Walker, enjoyed his easygoing smile and affable charm. Their relationship was based on nothing beyond mutual respect. Meredith saw no reason to alter her perception just because he’d been clever enough to locate the secret compartment in her heartwood chest.

  Anybody who examined it closely enough could locate it—she’d never understood why her father placed such significance in a childhood keepsake. Mr. Walker’s behavior that day was just a momentary aberration. The kiss he’d brushed against her knuckles had been nothing beyond a courtly gesture, in keeping with his sophistication.

  He’d never given her cause to regard him in any other way.

  Until now.

  Meredith squared her shoulders. Fluttering her eyelashes, she curved her lips in what an effusive suitor once dubbed the “alluring smile of DaVinci’s Mona Lisa.” “If I understand you correctly, you’re wanting me to play the part of coquette.”

  Off to their right, a doorman opened the massive oak door. J. Preston Clarke swept in, his black evening cloak swirling, then settling about his shoulders. He removed his top hat and handed it and the cloak to the doorman. Light from the crystal chandelier overhead gleamed on the neat part of his hair. Like Benjamin Walker, he was dressed to the nines in formal dinner attire.

  Mr. Walker leaned down, forcing Meredith’s attention. “Will you merely be playing the part, Miss Sinclair?”

  Then he straightened, leading her across the lobby toward Mr. Clarke, whose rapt gaze fastened on to Meredith as though the man beside her were invisible. Such unconcealed admiration dispelled much of the queer sensation of hurt weighing Meredith’s limbs and allowed her to pull her arm free. She smiled.

  “Mr. Clarke! It’s a pleasure to see you again. I’ve been looking forward to this occasion. Allow me to present my employer, Mr. Benjamin Walker.”

  Ben lifted the crystal goblet, sipping sparkling water while he watched Preston Clarke and Meredith. A cigar-store Indian could see that Meredith was smitten; what young woman wouldn’t be, with the man drowning her in deference intensified by a charisma women no doubt found irresistible. Ben wondered cynically how much Clarke’s money and pedigreed background added to the allure.

  The deference seemed patronizing, the charisma calculated . . . but Ben gave the fellow full marks for the consistency of his performance. By the end of the evening, Ben himself was almost convinced that Preston Clarke might prove to be a useful professional asset. Almost.

  “I confess to amazement that your chef was able to procure my favorite bottled water.” Clarke lifted his own goblet. “Since it’s imported from France and frightfully expensive, I’m left to conclude that you and I enjoy not only similar tastes, but the ability to indulge them.” He drained the goblet. “A surprise for both of us, hmm? Hopefully, a pleasant one. Might be an indication of other similar tastes.”

  Egotistical peacock. If Preston ever demanded an exact inventory of his private cellars, one of those surprises would be the absence of a case of his favorite mineral water. Two days earlier, Hominy had persuaded Clarke’s butler to donate the case “for the sake of comparison of local mineral waters.” Hominy had declined to tell the butler precisely how the comparison would be achieved or by whom. Ben’s and Hominy’s subterfuge was perhaps less than honorable, but Ben decided the mild astonishment on Clarke’s face upon taking his first sip was worth the momentary discomfort of a tweaking conscience.

  “Life is full of surprises,” he replied with a bland smile. He glanced at Meredith. “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Sinclair?”

  “Life would be boring without the occasional surprise.”

  She launched into a lighthearted tale to illustrate the point, her lively face tinted a delectable apricot color. Clarke responded with a gallant riposte. They both laughed, then Clarke regaled her with a story of his own.

  “And of course I couldn’t refuse,” he eventually concluded with a wry smile. “One simply can’t afford to offend one’s relatives, especially when it’s a charming elderly aunt. Do you agree, Mr. Walker?”

  From the corner of his eye Ben caught Meredith’s tiny flinch. “I certainly do,” he said. “As I recently told Miss Sinclair, jobs can always be replaced. Family members cannot.”

  “Ah. I detect an undercurrent here. You’ve lost family then?”

  Ben dropped his napkin on the table and leaned back. “I’m sure you’ve had me investigated as thoroughly as I’ve had you investigated. You know I have no close family members left.”

  A sore point, he admitted to himself, since somehow the bulk of Preston’s family had survived the War intact. Clarkes proliferated from Winchester to Washington, secure as sultans in the profits that followed the war.

  “Of course,” Preston said. “You’re quite right. Forgive me.” Ben grudgingly gave him credit for aplomb. “My family has lived here for over a hundred years, and I tend toward—I admit it—a rather feudal cast of mind. People look to us for support, for economic stability. You may have discovered that for yourself, in your own investigation. When an outsider attains a certain level of influence . . .” He smiled and shrugged.

  “Ah yes. The letter to the editor.” Ben quirked a brow, returning his guest’s bland smile.

  “Let’s just say that letter was the first move in a chess game. A game, I confess, that I’ve begun to thoroughly enjoy.”

  “Some might question your tactics, though Miss Sinclair assures me that your motives were pure.”

  Preston threw his head back and laughed. “Hardly that. Where did you find this gem, Mr. Walker? I might have to steal her away from you.” He bestowed upon Meredith a smile that had every one of Ben’s muscles clenching in protest.

  The apricot tint deepened in Meredith’s cheeks. Her worried gaze darted between Ben and his dinner guest.

  “Shall we adjourn?” Ben kept his voice carefully neutral as he signaled to his headwaiter, Henry. “I’ve always considered it poor manners to discuss business over a meal.”

  “Were we discussing business?” Preston inquired, his expression as congenial as Ben’s. “If so, I’m intrigued by your inclusion of Miss Sinclair. Women and business shouldn’t mix, my father always told me. Not only is it rude, but women are much smarter than men. If we ever invited them into our domain, we’d lose control altogether.”

  This time all three of them laughed, though doubtless only Ben’s was forced. Meredith rose, and the men followed suit. She looked incredibly fetching in her mauve g
own. Incredibly . . . tempting. He wanted to crush the puffy, flirtatious short sleeves beneath his hands, caress the strip of bare skin between sleeve and gloves with his fingertips.

  The inexpensive locket around her white throat caged his sensual impulses, however—a poignant reminder that Meredith was not like most of the women with whom he’d associated over the last decade.

  Or was she?

  Now, as he watched Preston offer her his arm and Meredith’s graceful acceptance, Ben found himself wondering which of the two was the cat and which the helpless mouse.

  Thirty-Seven

  Through subsequent meetings, a business association developed between Benjamin Walker and J. Preston Clarke, though Meredith was not privy to many of the details. At first she was confused, because she had received the strong impression that—regardless of her own personal feelings—Mr. Walker neither liked nor trusted J. Preston Clarke. Eventually, however, she concluded that her first impression was faulty, based no doubt on her own emotional vulnerabilities.

  As the weeks passed, her office duties grew to include the role of liaison between the two, delivering papers, messages, and bulging reports when Mr. Walker’s secretary Lowell was occupied with other tasks. Delighted with any opportunity for contact with Preston Clarke, Meredith decided to consider this new role an indication of God’s blessing.

  One afternoon Mr. Walker called her into his office to ask if she minded running some more papers over to Mr. Clarke’s lawyer. When she arrived, Mr. Clarke himself was just leaving. He insisted on accompanying her inside to introduce her to Ellis York, his lawyer, then giving her a lift back to the hotel in his carriage.

  On the way to the hotel he invited her to dinner. Meredith refused.

  “Are you worried about my reputation or your own?” he asked.

  “Both.” Meredith watched the buildings flash past in a blur. “It’s a bit awkward with you and Mr. Walker discussing a partnership venture. I do work for him.”

  “It would only be awkward if you worked for me.” He leaned forward, hands stacked on the ivory handle of his walking stick, which he began tapping on the floor of the carriage. “Then of course, I’d have to dismiss you in order to invite you to dinner. Are you in need of a chaperone? My aunt is visiting. Did I mention that?”

  “Mr. Clarke, I’ll join you for dinner—if you tell me why you’re inviting me.”

  “Why, Miss Sinclair, for the pleasure of your company, of course. Beyond that, a gentleman must be careful never to commit himself.” He sat back, smiling. “Say yes. It’s only dinner—my driver will pick you up and return you home early enough that you won’t be yawning at work the next day.”

  Meredith was unable to resist.

  At first she did try to convince herself that she could keep her distance, that the vast social differences between them prohibited the development of a serious relationship. She didn’t want to jeopardize her job, of course, but when she queried Mr. Walker about the matter, his indifferent response was that what she did with her personal life was none of his affair. It was as though his visit to Sinclair Run had never happened.

  Nonplussed, Meredith obliged by treating him with the same detachment, which wasn’t difficult as the weeks passed and Preston Clarke dominated both her spare time as well as her thoughts. Unlike Benjamin Walker, Preston was attentive yet . . . courtly. He made her feel cherished, as though she were the most important person in his life.

  Once, as she readied herself for bed after an evening with Preston at a garden party, Meredith found herself reaching for her heartwood chest and extracting the cookie cutter. But the impulse disturbed her, and she hastily shoved the cookie cutter back inside when the memory of Benjamin Walker’s face intruded itself over Preston’s.

  After that she ignored the chest.

  Garnet and Sloan disapproved of Preston of course, but since they confined their disapproval to the occasional letter, Meredith was able to ignore the tone, dismissing it as the natural overprotectiveness of family. Leah’s only comment, in the one letter she’d dashed off, was that she’d given up counseling her oldest sister in matters of the heart.

  It was harder to ignore her father, so Meredith avoided returning home. In truth, she was kept so busy she had little spare time. Thankfully he had recovered completely from his bout with the ulcer, though Mrs. Willowby was firmly ensconced as housekeeper now. Meredith soothed her guilty conscience by reminding herself that her father was no longer alone, and that Leah would return from Mary Baldwin in May. Meredith contented herself with writing cheerful weekly epistles that didn’t mention Preston at all.

  “You’re looking mighty pretty today, Miss Sinclair.”

  With a start Meredith looked up from the stack of reservation requests she’d been going through. “Morning, Hominy. You’re looking mighty—” she thought for a moment—“elegant yourself.”

  “Elegant,” he quoted in stentorian dignity, “is an adjective vulgarized by misuse.”

  They beamed at each other, enjoying the opportunity to banter about some of Miss Arbuckle’s choices in etiquette books for her pupil. “Actually,” Meredith said, “you do look very elegant. Is that a new suit?”

  Hominy smoothed the lapels of his brown-and-tan tweed suit. “Bought it last week when Mr. Walker and I were in Washington.”

  Some of Meredith’s good mood faded. The trip to Washington was a sore point with her, because she had no idea why it had taken place. Mr. Walker had refused to divulge any details, except that he and Hominy would be gone the entire week. They had returned only the previous night; this morning Mr. Walker was already in his office when Meredith arrived, with the Do Not Disturb sign posted on the doorknob.

  Nobody—including Hominy—knocked on Mr. Walker’s door when that sign was displayed. Ignoring the order had cost Meredith’s predecessor his job. Meredith did not plan to repeat his mistake.

  “Well,” she observed brightly to Hominy, “I’m glad to see your trip was productive. I hope Mr. Walker enjoyed an equal measure of success.”

  Hominy’s round face sobered, and the coffee-colored eyes flickered. “Depends on your notion of success, Miss Meredith. Mr. Ben, now, he’s got a lot—”

  “I’m ready to go if you are, Hominy.” Mr. Walker’s lazy drawl had an edge to it, but when Meredith twisted to look at him, nothing showed on his face. “It’s already ten. I’d like to be back by this afternoon.”

  “Where—” Meredith started to ask, then hesitated.

  “The site of the new hotel.”

  He crossed from the door of his office to stand beside Hominy. “You find something amusing about that, Miss Sinclair?”

  “Of course not.” She pressed her lips together to try and contain the smile. “It’s just that when Hominy’s not around, you seem much larger, Mr. Walker. But standing side by side . . .” Belatedly she buried her nose in the stack of correspondence. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Mine, Hominy’s—or both?” Mr. Walker’s ungloved hand suddenly planted itself on top of the letters.

  Meredith’s head jerked up, relieved to note the twinkle in his eye even as his proximity disconcerted her. She edged back in her chair. “Perhaps I should come along with you,” she said. “As penance, I’ll take whatever notes you require.”

  “That would be more like punishment for me. The last time you filled in for Lowell, I spent more time answering your questions about what I wanted you to write down than I did on what I needed for you to write down.”

  Relieved, Meredith’s smile broadened to a grin. “I know. I was incorrigible. But I’d never been to an architect’s office. It was fascinating.”

  For a moment their gazes held, and a strange tightness began to wrap her in its coils.

  “When does Mr. Kingston return?” Hominy’s rumbling voice broke the spell. “Mrs. Biggs told me the extra work’s causing her eyes to cross.”

  “She only says that because you sympathize with her. You’re too soft-hearted, Hominy. Sometimes a soft hea
rt doesn’t get the job done.” He stepped back, and Meredith blinked, wondering if she’d imagined the undertone of bitterness. “Let’s go. Time’s a precious commodity, and it seems as though I never have enough of it.”

  Long after they left and Meredith returned to her work, she found her concentration fractured because her mind kept playing over the expression on Benjamin Walker’s face just before he turned away.

  The regulator clock had just struck the half-hour when Hominy’s massive form filled the doorway. “Miss Meredith,” the deep bass rumble echoed in the quiet room, “you’s to come with me at once.”

  Meredith had been helping Mrs. Biggs search the files on previous guests who had made reservations for the coming summer season, to see if any special arrangements needed to be made. She and the older woman exchanged concerned glances over Hominy’s grammatical lapse—an infallible barometer of ill tidings.

  “What’s the matter?” Meredith asked.

  “Come with me. Bring your wrap and hat. You won’t be returning.” He folded his arms, looking stolid and unmovable.

  “I’ll come,” Meredith promised, and took a quick calming breath. “But not until you tell me where I’m going. Is it—has something happened to Mr. Walker?”

  Hominy’s chest swelled to the point that Meredith wondered if the buttons would pop off his new suit. It was only then that she noticed his rumpled appearance. Smudges of dirt marred one sleeve, dust and pollen coated his shoulders. His boots were coated with drying mud.

  “Hominy, what has happened?” Meredith rushed to his side. “You’re frightening me. Please, I’ll go with you, but I need to know—”

  “Mr. Walker ordered me to fetch you,” he finally said. “It is his place to explain.”

  “Go along, dear.” Mrs. Biggs had come up beside Meredith, her matronly bulk reassuring. She patted Meredith, then handed her her shawl and hat. “Mustn’t keep Mr. Walker waiting, after all. Whatever it is, ’tis his place to handle, not ours. Here”—she rummaged around the waist of her basque and produced several of the lemon drops she loved—“take along a few of these. Settles your nerves.”