Scarlet Lies (Author's Cut Edition): Historical Romance

by Jo Goodman

  Inclining her head forward, in an attitude of listening and deep concern, Brooklyn nodded in response to her uncle's comment. Her thoughts were scattered. She wondered where Ryland was now. She wondered how she would protect herself without a gun. Bile rose in her throat and she forced it down.

  David Pendleton rambled on, oblivious to Brooklyn's fear; quite pleased in fact that everything was going so well.

  "I heard him," Gabriel said to his older brother, his voice filled with the awe. He was dancing with excitement and the need to relieve himself.

  "You're making it up," John scoffed. Gabby was always trying to scare him. John, with wisdom gleaned by virtue of the one year separating him from his brother, knew better than to believe this story.

  Gabby grabbed John's hand and began pulling him in the direction of the creek that bordered the eastern end of the property. "I did hear him! Come on! It's just like Papa said. The ghost of that Reb soldier is in the hidey hole."

  John dug in his heels and both boys skidded to a halt. "Gabriel," John drawled patiently. "Papa only told us that story because he doesn't want us near the dirt cellar. If there ever was a wounded soldier hidden there, then he probably walked away after the Yankees passed over the land. Don't you know anything? Papa's afraid we'll get locked inside. No one ever died in there."

  Gabriel considered that a moment, but then he remembered what he had heard as he and his dog Sam were walking along the creek bank. "No! It's true. Me and Sam heard him hollerin'. Sam's ears perked right up. I came running here as fast as I could! Sam right behind me. There ain't nothing but a ghost that could scare Sam like that. I'm telling you the Reb ghost is in there!"

  John was impressed by the news that Sam had been scared. "All right," he said. "I'll go with you. But if this is a trick I'm telling Papa and Mama that you were peeking up Sally Ann's dress last Sunday."

  "It's no trick." He crossed himself. "I swear it." Gabby started running across the lawn. "And I wasn't peekin'!" he called over his shoulder.

  The boys approached the dirt cellar, which had indeed been built to hide retreating Confederate soldiers who sought refuge at Brighton Oaks. Constructed on the side of the only hill that graced Pendleton property, the opening was difficult to find even though the boys knew approximately where to look. The door was cleverly concealed by a thick carpet of grass that could be removed one square foot at a time. It occurred to neither of them that the clods of grass should have grown together a long time ago. They didn't understand how recently the cellar had been used.

  "I don't hear nothin'," John said stubbornly as he marched back and forth in front of the entrance.

  "Then why are you whispering?" Gabriel taunted, his own voice a mere thread of sound in reverence to the poor soul trapped inside all these long years. "Afraid he'll hear you?"

  John shouted. "I'm not afraid!" And to prove it he laid on his back against the sloping door, hands cupped beneath his head in an attitude of perfect contentment. His bravado was short-lived. He leaped to his feet, eyes round, as the ghost thumped on the door.

  "Told you it was true!" Gabriel said, crossing his arms on his chest. He wasn't so frightened now. He had been expecting something like this. He was feeling infinitely superior to his older brother. Gabriel liked that feeling.

  When John saw that Gabriel wasn't getting excited he calmed down. The thumping came again. He approached the covered door cautiously and kicked at one of the clods, then retreated a few steps.

  "Hey!" Gabby demanded. "What are you doing? You don't want to let the ghost out, do you? We should fetch Papa."

  "Papa went to N'Orleans with cousin Brook, silly. Anyway, if it was a ghost he could just slip through the cracks anytime he wanted."

  "But there weren't any cracks before you started kicking at the grass." Clearly his brother wasn't thinking. Gabby was losing his confidence quickly.

  Ryland's ear was pressed to the door. He could hear the boys' voices and caught the remark about the ghost. Had his situation been less serious he would have smiled. He wondered if they would know him if he identified himself. They hadn't met yet. Or would his voice frighten them away? "It's Ryland!" He called as loud as his raw throat permitted. "I'm Ryland North! I'm not a ghost!" The boys were arguing with one another, and he didn't think he was heard. He pounded again. This time the sound was hollower and he realized they were pulling away whatever covered the door. Bless their adventurous hearts!

  "You sure you're not a ghost, mister?" they called together.

  "I swear it." There was silence in reply. "Damn it! Unlock the door!" Ryland thought about how that sounded. "Please."

  John and Gabby struggled with the metal bar. They lifted it out but couldn't budge the door. "You got to push, mister. We can't get it open."

  Ryland pushed. The door flew open, sending both boys back on their seats. Light blinded him. He squinted, shading his eyes with his hand, and stepped out of the cellar.

  Brooklyn stood facing a dress shop window, pretending to admire the new spring fashions from Paris. It was not the gowns that held her attention, however. She was using the window as a mirror to see reflections on the street. Some twenty minutes after she had been dropped off she saw David Pendleton's carriage pass. She caught a brief glimpse of Sarah beside him. Rose was no longer in the open buggy.

  Brooklyn remained indecisive for several minutes. There was a great deal she didn't understand. Once she had become aware that her uncle was lying to her she had tried to divine his purpose. At first she had thought David would have the carriage pulled over sometime during the journey from Brighton Oaks. She had never really expected to make it to New Orleans alive. Yet here she was, and the original plan, except for Ryland's absence, appeared to be proceeding as outlined. Perhaps it was the presence of Rose and the driver that kept her out of harm's way during the journey. Or perhaps she had completely misread the situation.

  She turned away from the window and began walking slowly toward Abby's home. The sense of unease stayed with her, but she continued to place one foot in front of the other as a sleepwalker might.

  Brooklyn did not approach the main gate. Instead she turned the corner before the house, walked along a side street, and surveyed the house through the back entrance to the courtyard. She had no clear idea of what she might do until she saw the elaborate ironwork lattice reaching from the ground to the second floor. There were five separate balconies on the second floor. She supposed each led from one of the bedrooms. The balcony on the far right could be reached by climbing the lattice. Rose was expecting her to come to the front entrance. So was anyone else who might be waiting for her. More and more she was forming the impression that her uncle was delivering her. But delivering her to what? To whom?

  And Miss Abby. Brooklyn frowned. What was happening to her grandmother?

  It was broad daylight. There was every chance that someone would see her climbing the lattice. Brooklyn hesitated. Was the front door the better way? Her doubts returned. What if she had misjudged the situation? What if Ryland really had meant for her to go on alone?

  Brooklyn shook her head to clear it. She opened the servants' and drummers' entrance to the rear courtyard and walked steadily toward the latticework.

  Ryland let the boys lead him out of the wooded area. They chattered excitedly but he heard nothing they said. When he reached the house he still did not realize that Brooklyn had already left with her uncle. He had hopes he could confront David Pendleton directly.

  Ryland charged down the hallway, heard someone speaking in the library, and entered the room unannounced. Dorothea was addressing one of the servants. They turned as one and Dorothea raised a hand to cover her gasp when she saw Ryland's wild-eyed, disheveled appearance. The round-faced maid didn't bother to quell her fear. She screamed.

  Ryland had not yet met Dorothea, but he felt safe in assuming she was David's wife because of her manner of dress and because of the sharp look she sent the maid. He cut through the amenities and demanded to know w
here David and Brooklyn were.

  "My husband left with your wife an hour ago."

  Dorothea said, bewildered. Her lashes fluttered and she tapped at her generous bosom, stilling her pounding heart. "I understood you were to meet them."

  "Did they go alone?"

  The maid spoke up. Her scream had been cut short by Ryland's narrow look of disgust, and there was still the suggestion of a blush beneath her coffee-colored skin. "My sister went with them. That be Rose, sir."

  "A driver?"

  "Oh, yes. Billy took out the buggy."

  Ryland rubbed the back of his head. Winced.

  Dorothea stepped forward, all concern. "You're hurt. What happened?"

  "It's not important." He started to leave when he caught sight of the chessboard out of the corner of his eyes. Frowning, he stared at it. Something was different. He addressed the maid curtly. "Did you dust this? Move any of the pieces?"

  "No, sir."

  He moved closer. "Was my wife in here earlier today?"

  "She was," Dorothea said. "This is where I sent David when he was looking for her, immediately before they left."

  Ryland reviewed last evening's moves. He was certain Brooklyn had moved her queen since then. Though she often made mistakes with her queen, none were as amateurish as this effort. He could capture the queen and place her in check in a single move. The queen was in serious trouble. Could she have possibly done it on purpose? A sign that she recognized some danger? Hoping he was correct and not merely reaching for assurance that she was on her guard, he palmed the queen as a talisman.

  "You can't take that," the maid objected.

  Dorothea silenced and dismissed her. When the maid was gone she asked anxiously, "Is there some problem, Mr. North? My husband? He's not in any danger, is he? We talked over this matter concerning Preston and Chandler for a long time last night. They could cause us a great deal of difficulty."

  "I'm aware of that, Mrs. Pendleton. Set your mind at ease. Your husband is in no danger from either of the brothers." It was the truth as far as it went, and Ryland left the room before he said anything that would give himself away.

  He took the stairs two and three at time to get to the guest bedroom. A quick search told him that Brooklyn did not have her derringer. He pocketed it. When he came downstairs, Dorothea and her sons were waiting for him in the foyer.

  "Gabby tells me you were locked in the abandoned cellar," Dorothea said. She had one arm about each boy's shoulder, and her statement was less accusing than it was fearful.

  She knows something, Ryland thought, or at least she thinks she knows something. She's afraid for her husband. "That's right," he said. "But I don't have time to explain what happened now. I need a gun. Where does David keep them?"

  Dorothea reluctantly told him and provided the key when Ryland told her bluntly that he would have to break the glass case if she didn't. She and the boys stood nervously to one side while Ryland loaded a revolver and took a box of bullets.

  Ryland was on the steps of the veranda, Dorothea and the boys following, when she found the courage to ask the question that was uppermost in her mind. "You won't hurt him, will you?"

  Ryland paused, regarded her searchingly, and said nothing.

  "You don't understand. It's because he loves the Oaks so much. He can't bear the thought of losing it."

  "Losing it to whom, madam? Preston and Chandler Brookes or my wife? Isn't it true that Brighton Oaks was Michael Pendleton's inheritance, not his brother's?" There was nothing more to say. Dorothea would be able to understand that it was Brooklyn, as Michael's daughter, who was the rightful owner of the Oaks. Ryland left.

  Brooklyn found her grandmother in the second bedroom. Alone. The balcony doors were not shut tightly, and Brook pushed them open and entered the chamber cautiously. Abby was lying on the bed, several heavy blankets covering her nearly to her chin. There was a fire in the grate even though it was quite warm outside. The heat in the room was actually oppressive.

  Brook approached the bed, looking for the similarities that Ryland had remarked upon. She found them in the clear profile, the high cheekbones, and the slender stem of Abby's neck. When she was less than a foot away her grandmother sensed her presence and turned her head, giving Brook a vacant, dull-eyed stare.

  Brooklyn had seen that look too many times in her own mother's eyes to mistake it now. Abby was being drugged.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, Brook gently pulled back the covers. Abby made no protest. Brooklyn swallowed her gasp as she looked at her grandmother's emaciated body clad only in a thin linen nightshift. Abby's arms were bare and virtually fleshless. Her neck did not look so slender now. It looked fragile, as if a gust of air could separate her head from her shoulders.

  Brooklyn bent her head and placed a kiss on her grandmother's sunken cheek. "I have to get you out of here," she whispered against Abby's ear. "I don't want to leave you alone even long enough to get help."

  She knew from experience there was no sense in asking Abby questions. The answers, if there were any, weren't likely to make sense. Brooklyn rifled Abby's wardrobe, treading across the floor lightly so as not to rouse anyone's attention below stairs. She found a thick quilted robe and a pair of slippers. There was no resistance on Abby's part as Brooklyn dressed her.

  Abby's weight had dropped nearly twenty pounds, but she was still too heavy a burden for Brooklyn to carry. Brook drew Abby's arm about her shoulders, pushing, pulling, and dragging until she had Abby on her feet. Supporting her by the arm and waist, Brooklyn managed to get her out into the hallway without incident. She looked up and down the hallway and her heart sunk. The only avenue of escape was the main staircase. There were no servants' stairs that she could see and no time to explore.

  At the top of the steps Brooklyn stopped and surveyed the hallway and front entrance below. The foyer was deserted but the drawing room doors were open. Brooklyn thought she heard someone moving toward the rear of the house, perhaps in the kitchen area. It could be Rose preparing something. Or it could be anyone.

  Now or never, she thought, and took the first step.

  Preston Brookes lighted another cigar and drew deeply. Exhaling, he waved aside the smoke that settled about his head. He pushed himself out of his chair and strode over to the window that looked out on the front street. The wall surrounding the house hid most of the street from his view, but he concentrated on the area exposed by the wrought-iron gate. People passed back and forth in front of the gate, but none of them bore the least resemblance to Brooklyn.

  Preston hadn't seen his cousin in over four years, but he hadn't forgotten how she looked on that occasion. He would have liked to have seen her last night at the hotel but it hadn't worked out. Not that it mattered. According to the description Sarah had given him, she hadn't changed all that much. David Pendleton verified it when he stopped by the bank shortly after it opened, warning Preston about Ryland's intention of going to the police and where that had led. Preston regretted that David hadn't killed Ryland. Locking him in the dirt cellar was in no way as permanent a measure as killing the bastard. But that could be taken care of later. Ryland was out of the way for now, and that was all that was important.

  Preston considered himself fortunate that Ryland had thought of David Pendleton and had run to him. That was a stroke of unexpected luck. Preston grimaced, imagining David's very near apoplectic fit when Ryland North showed up on his doorstep. In spite of his own fears it seemed that David had comported himself well. Another bit of luck, for Preston had known all along that David was an unwilling partner at best.

  Preston's bulky form threw a dark shadow across the carpet. He leaned closer to the window, trying to get a better angle on his limited view of the street. So where was she now? David had assured him that she would arrive shortly after Sarah and he left. Preston had departed the bank some hours earlier on the pretext of a business engagement. He had been waiting at the house ever since. Rose, whose only purpose was to answer the door
for Brooklyn, was in the kitchen where Preston had ordered her. He had no intention of letting her care for his grandmother. The fewer people who saw Abby, the better. It was at Preston's urging that Chandler had dismissed some of the servants, pointing out how their presence merely confused Abby. Once Sarah was in residence it was simple to get rid of the last of those who lived in the house. Still, Chandler was forever wanting to call in more doctors. It had taken all of Preston's persuasive powers to stop him, convincing him that there was nothing that could be done for Abby's failing health. As good fortune would have it, the earliest doctors to see Abby had said much the same thing. It was something of a miracle the old woman had held on this long. He was beginning to doubt the efficacy of the drugs Sarah had begun to use.

  Brooklyn faltered on the last step. She sniffed the air. A beam of sunlight coming from the drawing room angled across the entrance hall. Smoke swirled within the beam, giving it substance. With a terrible sense of dread clawing at her stomach, Brooklyn knew Preston Brookes was in that room.

  Opting to exit from the rear of the house, Brook turned Abby slowly at the foot of the stairs and started toward where she thought the kitchen might be. She was halfway to her destination when Rose walked out of the kitchen carrying a large tray filled with covered dishes. The maid was so surprised by Brooklyn's presence in the hallway that she recoiled instinctively and dropped the tray. Not wasting any time now that she had been discovered, Brook tried to get past the maid quickly.

  "I think you've gone far enough," Preston said calmly.

  Brooklyn stopped. Abby sagged heavily against her, making it difficult for her to keep her balance. She looked to Rose for assistance and saw instantly there would be no help from that quarter. Rose was already retreating into the kitchen, probably in response to some gesture Preston had made. A moment later Brooklyn heard the back door open and close. She adjusted Abby's weight again and turned to face her cousin.