I can tell from his contracted pupils and drawn lips that my appearance is not quite as appealing to him. Granted, I am an odd-looking man, rather like a black mouse. Maybe for my own sake, I’ll add here that he’s not at all my type—were I even allowed a type these days. I steer clear of too-attractive men, always have. From my experience, they have indelible failings. They are either arrogantly overconfident, just plain conceited, or oblivious of other people’s feelings. That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a beautiful specimen when I see one, does it? Hm, no, especially not when one is rendered so like a living sculpture.
“St. Clair,” I mutter, absently. So, this is Edwina Carr’s nephew. I would never have guessed. For one thing, his aunt couldn’t be more than ten years older than him. Second, while not unattractive, Eddy looks nothing like her nephew. All translucent and pale, she might be a sprite, and he, Zeus, the God of gods. Over six feet tall and well-built, Mr. Carr exudes power, masculinity, as well as natural grace. He’s stunning, lovely. Yes, stunning and lovely. His overlong chestnut locks, as though streaked with honey and gold, his bronzed visage, and sculpted features were surely manifest by divine intervention. A small beauty mark above his mouth draws my attention to his lips again.
“Just so,” he drawls, smirking down at me.
It’s apparent he gets this sort of reaction often, and I’m immediately annoyed with myself for being so like every other simpering female. “Humph,” I huff. I scowl at him and focus my attention on some vague happening down the street. When I look back, I see a glint of humor light his eyes.
“My aunt advised I make your acquaintance,” he says, and without breaking eye contact with me, adds, “and everything is under control here, Mr. Lyle, I believe. Please, do see to your other patrons.”
My standby rescuer clears his throat. “Again, everythin’ all right there, St. Clair?”
“Hm?” I hum, cranking my head toward the sound of my friend’s voice. “Oh, uh, yes, Martin; I’ll pay a visit later in the week, say Thursday?”
“I’ll be seein’ you then. And a fine day to you, sir.” Before going back into the tavern, he gives Bert a shove. “Be off, you. Quit markin’ up my walk,” he growls. “And mind, I’ll tolerate none of your shenanigans no more. Hear me?”
“Shit. ’Course I do, man. I ain’t deaf. I also knows I ain’t done nuthin’ wrong. Tho’, whut’s really goin’ on is plain tuh see, now ain’t it? This one, in partic’lar, is a fav’rite of yours. Wonder why that is.” There’s a lecherous suggestiveness to his tone, and I can feel the burn of his glare on me. “Reg says—”
“Never mind what Reg says,” Martin interrupts. “Go on now, off my doorstep, and you’ll pass my missive on to your friend, won’t you, Bert Harris? Tell him, he’s not welcome around here either. If I even catch either of you within spittin’ range of my walk again, I’ll be makin’ you clean it up. You mark my words.” With a curt nod and a harrumph, he closes the door.
I turn my attention from Mr. Carr’s gold and deep-pink ruby cravat pin to his face and watch that beautiful upper lip curl at one corner as he eyes the gangly thug behind me. Bringing a manicured hand to the brim of his top hat, he coolly nudges it down as would a cowboy agreeing to an assignation at sundown. Another ruby, this one amidst a chunky eighteen-carat gold setting on the middle finger of his right hand, glints in the sunlight.
Coming around Mr. Carr, Bert continues to glower at me. “Jus’ take it back; that’s whut-all I gots to say,” he supplies in a coarse whisper in my ear, his breath and his person hot and foul-smelling. He finally sets off down the street after granting me one more contemptuous leer and then does an unsteady half-turn about ten paces away. As though Mr. Carr and I are on the other side of a large quad, Bert bellows through a black paint-streaked hand cupped over his mouth: “You jus’ take it back, Doc,” he repeats, and I frown. “Da curse, man, the god-damned curse you put on me and Reg.”
Ah. I can only assume that he or Reginald Marsh have been given a recent eye-opener of their impending descent into hell. “I’m afraid, there’s nothing anyone can do; the wheels have already been set in motion. By you, I might add.”
He wobbles involuntarily and collides into the wall, starting like a frightened scarecrow accosted from behind. “Jus’ do it. I’m askin’ nice-like, or … or who knows what’ll happen,” he says, re-puffing himself up.
“It’s no use threatening me, Mr. Harris. I’ll remind you, I’m but the messenger. The situation is out of my hands.”
When the drunk ambles away, mumbling under his breath, Mr. Carr says, “You cast curses, do you? I had no idea you shared something of my aunt’s special talents, Sinclair. Though your skills lean toward the darker side, I see.”
“Mm,” I murmur noncommittally, glancing down the street in one direction and then the other. What a topsy-turvy, okay-dreadful day this was turning out to be—not that what happened to Lulu was at all okay. But I’m satisfied with having arranged a little equal justice on her behalf, at least. And without a physical weapon or the brawn to wield it, it seemed I was on my way to earning a fear-inducing reputation of my own.
“Shall we walk and talk?”
Without waiting for my reply, and though we are facing the opposite direction, he gestures toward State Street, and I find myself suddenly wary again. “Enough. What is it you want from me, Mr. Carr?” I ask, surprised by my gall. “And what of your ride?”
“My driver will retrieve it later. As to my purpose, I mentioned, it is to make your acquaintance per my aunt’s advisement.” I eye him suspiciously, so he adds, “And one tends to heed Aggie. Although … at times, her sense of the actuality of things is off.” I don’t have a clue what that means, but the twinge of distaste written on his face is unmistakable. After another pause, he says, “Might I give you a piece of advice as well, Sinclair.”
“You’ve already been very forward, sir.” I’ll leave it at that. No need to mention that he’d scared me half to death with his groping. “But I suppose you feel you have me at a disadvantage and can, therefore, do as you please, so you might as well,” I remark with the exact bluntness I intended.
He actually laughs. “I see my aunt was right in some respects. You have a fire in you certainly. I was simply going to say that a full beard may serve your purpose better than the whiskers. Your brothers should have pointed out that leaving your rather delicate chin and jaw exposed might come off as confusing if not telling of something else, which you may not like. You’ve done a fair job of masking the slenderness of your neck, however.”
Archer and Allen had suggested as much, and I’d nixed the idea. My ensemble included the usual multilayered men’s attire except, where possible, my garments were padded to add to my slight frame. I also wore glasses to obscure the shape of my eyes and my lashes, makeup to matte down the unmanly flush to my complexion and lips, and much too much facial hair already: caterpillar-like eyebrows, a full butterfly mustache, and dense mutton-chop sideburns. I had even grown-out my pixie, as longish hair among men was fashionable these days. In the end, I had thought that the more dandified styling would play better with my “delicate” features and that my plan would surely fail of it looked like I was trying too hard.
“A prosthetic nose would not go amiss, also; yours is quite pert for a man. Well, I don’t suppose there is much you can do about it now. Good decision on the mustache, anyway. From what I can see of your bottom lip—”
“Thank you for your counsel, Mr. Carr,” I interject, fairly sure I don’t want him taking a closer look at my mouth. “And again, it is Saint Clair.”
“Of course, and you will excuse me, but I do believe that is what I said.” A flash of mirth glimmers in his tiger eyes, which makes the heat fairly bound up my throat, and my toes tingle inexplicably. What’s wrong with me? I’ll be inured to him soon enough; I only hope that happens before he notices. “I would ask that you call me Owen, but I doubt you will as you may not feel comfortable with such intimacy between us yet
,” he says.
Wow. It’s inevitable, is it? I recall what I think about too good-looking men and give him a vacuous smile while trying mentally to singe the wings of the creatures fluttering about in my belly. I would take him for one of those outer-beauty elitists, but he is apparently willing to befriend me despite my appearance, at least he is for his aunt’s sake.
Luckily, our conversation is interrupted by a gaggle of females alighting from a landau ahead. All three are clad to the nines in voluminous gowns in varying shades of pastel with matching bonnets, gloves, shawls, parasols, and even slippers. I envision them drowning in endless ruffles inside the carriage, provoking a chortle to escape from my throat. I just barely keep myself from laughing outright, my momentarily fluster forgotten. When I turn to Mr. Carr, he is watching me with unbridled curiosity.
Pausing now and then, we skirt around the group and the other traffic. My companion earns a coquettish glance from each woman in turns. I, on the other hand, am invisible, which is copacetic by me.
“Owen Kingsley Carr, girls,” the prettiest of the trio, decked in striped pale-pink and dusty-rose bombazine, says softly in passing.
“My goodness, he is handsome,” another declares from behind a pale minty-green kid glove. “And oh,” she further breathes, “he’s so tanned.”
Apparently, the ability to bronze well is a sign of sexual prowess. I did not know this.
Another chit counters, “Can you imagine what’s he’s been up to? Summer is yet months away.”
The voice of the pink one says, “I am sure we will learn all shortly. Father has invited him and his aunt to sup with us Monday next—” This announcement is met with appreciative gasps. “Mother tells that he’s recently arrived from …” Her voice trails off behind us amidst the crowd.
Finding my interest piqued by the blatant regard and also to learn where he’d come from so suddenly, I tilt my head to look up at the tall man beside me. And though his expression shows no outward sign of being affected, I think I hear him mutter, “Poor twits.” Then more audibly, he says, “It is a shame society should deem a lady acquire the skill of being vapid, do you not think?”
“Indeed, and starving the brain of adequate oxygen on a regular basis is a shame too,” I intend to say, warming slightly to the character beside me but opt instead for a silent nod.
“Perhaps it will set you at ease to know something of us, my aunt and myself?” he asks in an attempt to turn the insofar banal almost one-way conversation.
“I didn’t realize I was so apparently at unease, Mr. Carr,” I say, sounding for all the world unperturbed as I let my gaze wander to two small children speedily walking hand-in-hand behind a man and a woman.
“Quite.” He shoves his hands into his trouser pockets and looks off toward the bustle of the street to his left while I study our reflection in the storefront windows. We look slightly less peculiar walking side-by-side than Archer and I do simply because my current companion is leaner and more refined in manner than my brother, although Mr. Carr’s bearing is altogether more casual.
After a minute or two, he turns back but bows his head to concentrate his gaze on the few steps of pavement before him. “My aunt and I are all who remain of the Carrs, which will be remedied at some point I’m told.” His jaw tightens and the corners of his mouth dip for a flash of a moment. He clears his throat and averts his profile from my view. “My brother and his wife, and their two children all died within a month of each another fairly recently. Malaria. Aggie and I were touring the continent, or we may well have succumbed to the same fate.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur softly. I have always found polite condolences inadequate, but what more was there to say? I could tell him that I knew grief myself, though it would do nothing to lessen his. To lose a loved one is painful, to lose so many all at once is outright traumatic. This too, I knew well. I doubt it will ever be possible to feel whole again.
“Yes. Thank you.” After a long pause during which he or I bob our head occasionally at a passerby and take in our quietening surroundings, he resumes where he left off. “She and I arrived back from India only three weeks ago, where we have been for the past twenty-odd years, off and on. We consider it our home, though we visit the States often.” He inhales deeply, growing broader and taller though I could not have said he was slumping before. “We have several tea plantations in Darjeeling, West Bengal, which is an area of the Himalayan foothills.”
“That’s nice.” What a stupid thing to say. But really, I can’t help wondering what the point of this family history is. “And what was it that prompted your return to Chicago?”
“Two reasons—although ‘prompt’ is perhaps not the best of words to describe the circumstances. First of all, for lack of a more reasonable explanation, I will only say that … specifically, last summer Aggie began to receive otherworldly missives with regard to your arrival here two Octobers ago. And translating those visions into something comprehensible took some time, regardless that we have always known of my aunt’s ability. That is why we present ourselves to you only now. And the second reason is that once we connected a few pieces of the puzzle together, it became evident that the time for us all to become acquainted had come.”
I kick a stick in front of me on the path, remaining quietly attentive.
“You will have heard of my uncle, my mother’s brother—Francis Sinclair.”
The air whooshes from my lungs. Surely, he doesn’t mean Frank. Not Francis Maitland Pinckney St. Clair? And when my step falters, Mr. Carr reacts, cupping my elbow to steady me and placing a large hand on the small of my back.
I jerk my head once and sidestep away. “You can’t do that, Mr. Carr.” Fortunately, having crossed Pine, we’re now very much alone. The last of the bustling activity on Rush Street is behind us.
“And what is it I’ve done?”
“Behave like a man in the presence of a woman. I realize that for a gentleman, my costume is not enough of a reminder sometimes. My brother often makes the same mistake.”
“I would have assisted a man as well.”
“But not quite in the same way, yes? While I appreciate your concern, experience has taught me that a few minor scrapes are of lesser consequence than a long-term impression. And as you’re aware of my singular circumstances, though we are relative strangers, my ruse falls on you to maintain as well. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is.”
He drops his hands to his side and then self-consciously slides them into his pockets, glancing around and looking back at me with concern. “Maybe someday you will tell me why it is you put yourself through this farce?”
“Maybe. Did you not call the three ladies earlier ‘poor twits’?”
He chuckles. “I admit, my aunt is a bad influence on me, or I imagine you might say a good influence. For that is her pet name for those among the bauble-headed lot; which, by-the-by is another of her apt monikers. By definition, a bauble-headed individual is one whose belfry is filled with thoughts of baubles, empty bubbles, and not much else. Though Aggie insists that air must be given its due too.”
“Ha! I knew I liked your aunt. I like her immensely.”
He turns to look at me, his eyes falling to my smile or the half not hidden by my profuse mustache. He blinks, his pupils dilating as if what he sees has taken him completely by surprise. “I’m rather fond of her too,” he says seriously. Then he smiles a roguish smile, and I frown, which seems to annoy him a little.
I conclude that I’ve bruised his ego by overcoming the effect of his stunning good looks so quickly. And inspired to drive this point home, I say, “To better answer your question, Mr. Carr, suffice it to say, I think of being a woman in your world as so depressing an underachievement I can’t possibly hope for success.” He’s quick on the uptake; again, he laughs. “So, you were saying? About Francis St. Clair?”
“Yes. … I don’t know if that makes me a great uncle or a distant cousin, nor do we know how great or how distant,” he say
s and then adds as an afterthought, “a relation of your brothers’, not yours.”
“Mm. I’d already put that together. And I don’t know that I could do the math right now myself.”
“It’s true, then?”
“What is?”
“My aunt informed me only yesterday that you were taken in as a babe. That you and your brothers are not related by blood.”
“We’re related, though not as directly. They are my cousins.”
“It explains much.”
“Does it really? Like what?”
“My aunt seems to believe, … Never mind that for now. Aggie can certainly speak for herself if and when she chooses.”
“It’s Edwina, isn’t it, your aunt’s name?”
“Her Christian name, yes. She permits me to call her by her middle name, however, which is Agnes.”
“I see.”
“So, I only meant that were you to look past the coloring, there is a strong family resemblance amongst the Sinclair line—in our stature and bearing as well as in the structure of our features. I have seen Archer, albeit from afar, and he is built rather like myself. I presume Quinn shares a similar likeness. Whereas you are petite and slight by contrast, and your coloring, if you will allow, is strikingly light and dark. Your complexion is as fair as the English, and yet, your hair is darker even than the natives of India—theirs has a deep-chocolate brown undertone. Yours is unusually raven-black, blue-black in the sunlight. I’ve just observed. You do realize your whiskers do not match, correct?”
“I know. Unless I concede to wearing shoe polish on my cheeks, I will just have to hope no one finds call to study me as you have.” I grimace up at him thoughtfully. “And I don’t know that I would wholly agree with you. I’d hazard that I resemble my brothers somewhat still. My biological mother was their aunt, after all. I think if Willow and Marlowe, their parents, had had a girl, the familial connection might have been more apparent between her and me. At least on my mother’s side, the Caseys were of average height and as lean and small-boned as the St. Clairs are tall, broad, and big-boned.”
No Time Like the Present Page 12
