by Bird, Peggy
With his new course of action in mind, he decided not to wait until the following day to see her, as had been agreed upon. He could read women well enough and sensed she had been intrigued by him. Surely, by now, she should have returned to the office—if not for business, to advance their flirtation. Each day, Henry entered the office convinced she’d show her face—with those beautiful gray eyes. And he’d once again bear witness to her tiny waist. He was certain he could span it with one hand. Yet each day, he returned to his private quarters above the office without having had the benefit of feasting his eyes on the lovely Miss Wyatt. He wanted to see her again. No, he needed to. So today was the day. He’d visit her at home.
Henry grinned as he thought of the expression on poor Miss Wyatt’s face when she answered the door. Not Miss Wyatt. Phoebe. A lovely name.
For a moment, he thought about his father. How would he react if Henry chose a working woman as a wife? He’d be livid. Despite Henry’s appearance, which betrayed his mother’s French heritage rather than his father’s Brahmin side, he was still the heir to his father’s fortune and publishing business. His mother may never have been accepted by Boston society, but Henry would have to be. Begrudgingly, he supposed, but nonetheless. And if he returned to Boston with someone less than a member of high society, his father, and the rest of the Boston Brahmins, would rise up in disgust. The idea intrigued him. His father had done much the same when he’d brought home a beautiful French girl as his wife. Like father, like son.
Henry pawed his way through the various documents in his filing cabinet until he found the folder for F.P. Elliott. He flung open the file and scanned the page, in search of an address. And found it.
Damnation! He hit the top of the cabinet with his hand. A post office box! That was all. No physical address. He could not show up unannounced. The element of surprise was removed from his arsenal. His plan was spoiled. What to do now? Well, then, he’d use the damned post office box number and send a missive to Miss Wyatt, informing her he needed an audience with Mr. Elliott tomorrow or the contract he was going to offer would become null and void.
His grin returned as he thought of how Miss Wyatt’s lovely gray eyes would widen as she read his directive. Or would they narrow in displeasure?
He’d have to wait and see if Mr. Elliott put in an appearance. He hoped Miss Wyatt would take heed of his warning and be able to get the reclusive author out of his office, which he imagined to be a garret in a home somewhere in the city. The thought of being in New York, mere blocks away from Phoebe, he was certain, and not able to see her didn’t sit well with him. He thought of the picture Levi was sketching right now, of Harry Hawk on the back of a giant bison, with one hand over his head. See, he did have news for Mr. Elliott. Only he had no way to get in touch, except the mail. It would have to do, then. He grabbed a sheet of paper, dipped his pen into the inkwell, and began writing.
CHAPTER SIX
The Indian hesitated, then shoved the girl at Harry. “Take her, then. But keep everyone off our land.”
“I can’t promise that, Screaming Eagle. You’re raising a stink with the railroad, when it should be with the government. Not these honest, hard-working men who are just trying to build a railroad.”
“So bring me your chief, and we’ll talk.”
Rosemary took the letter she’d received the previous afternoon to the breakfast table with her. If she had to present the case again to her father, breakfast was usually the best time to do so. She took her place at the table quietly and waited until the maid vacated the room. For a change, they were alone at the table.
“Where’s Mother? And Saffron?”
“They ate earlier, along with everyone else. Charlotte said something about shopping for some last-minute items for your debutante ball Friday evening. So it’s just you and me.”
“Oh, the pesky ball. I do wish Mother would let it drop. I have no interest in going through with it.”
Her father grinned. “You know, Ginger said something very similar to me before she went through her season. And you know how well that ended.”
Rosemary sighed. “But I have a career, which is far more important than finding a mate. The only merit I can find in a cotillion ball and a high season is they give Mother something to focus on. Which is good, especially today. I have something I need to discuss with you, and don’t need the rest of the family to interfere.
She took a bite of a bacon and cheddar biscuit before she continued the discussion. Closing her eyes for the briefest moment, she savored the cheesy goodness of the roll. But she could only afford herself one moment of luxury, as there was serious business to take care of.
“I received a letter from Mr. Cooper yesterday. No, I take it back. It was not a letter so much as a directive.” Rosemary could feel the stirrings of her anger at being told in no uncertain terms what to do. “He said if I don’t produce Mr. Elliott by this afternoon, he’s canceling the contract. And I’ve got one more Harry Hawk story that I haven’t even shown him!”
“So you still want me to play the part of Mr. Elliott for you? I could free myself up for a portion of the afternoon.”
Rosemary smiled the tiniest bit. “Do you think you could pull it off, Papa?”
“I will be the first to admit your mother is better at making people see things her way, but I believe I could pass for Mr. Elliott. After all, you had me check over the contracts before you signed them over the years, so I’m familiar with the legal end of your business. But you’ll have to tell me about your story line. What’s the hero’s name again? Henry? Henry Eagle?”
Rosemary groaned. “No, Papa. Henry is the villain in this case. That’s the name of the new publisher. Henry Cooper. My hero is Harry Hawk, a half-breed.” She placed a hand on either side of her face and shook her head. “Perhaps my plan won’t work after all. Henry Eagle. Indeed.”
Her father smiled and took one of her hands. “I was close, wasn’t I?”
“I’ve molded Harry Hawk after Joseph, and the stories I write are all based on tidbits I get from the letters sent to us from Ginger, Basil, and Heather.”
“I can pull it off then, since I read the same letters. Your sisters and brother do lead exciting lives on the wild frontier, don’t they?”
“And someday, I’ll get to join them in St. Louis. But for now, my source of income is about to dry up unless you can remember our hero’s name.”
“I got it. Harry Hawk. Now, tell me something about Mr. Cooper. Is he an old ogre with a hunchback?”
Rosemary smiled for the first time since she sat, as she pictured Henry’s face on a stooped-over body. “No, Papa, Mr. Cooper is a man in his mid-twenties, I would guess. Tall, dark, and handsome.”
Her father’s quick glance was not lost on her.
“And no, don’t get any ideas. You’re as bad as Mother. I have no interest in him, other than business.”
“All right then, daughter. What time is your meeting with the handsome Mr. Cooper?”
“It’s at two o’clock. I thought I’d come by the bank first and go with you to the meeting.”
“You have this all thought out, don’t you?”
Rosemary smiled, a true smile, finally. “Well, I have had an overnight to come up with a plan. And I am a writer. When someone says to find the man and bring him to them, I can usually figure out a plot device, given enough notice.”
“All right then. I must get to work and get my day started. I’ll see you at the bank around half past one then?”
“I’ll be there. Thank, you, Papa. Mr. Cooper will now have no reason to cancel my contract.”
• • •
Rosemary was straightening out her brown-and-white pinstriped muslin skirt when she caught the sound of the door to the outside opening downstairs and the ensuing soft conversation. She patted her chignon, and picked up her straw hat and her white gloves before she made her way to the first floor landing, a bit curious who would come calling in the middle of the day.
She found her father collapsed in a chair in the drawing room. He had sweat pouring from his face but was shivering, as if he were standing outside without a coat in mid-December.
“Papa? I told you I’d meet you at the bank. You didn’t need to come home. But you don’t appear to be well. Whatever is the matter?”
He took hold of her hand and pressed it to his forehead. He was burning up with fever.
“Oh, Papa, we must get you to bed. You’re ill.” Rosemary glanced around for a servant to help her.
“Never you mind, child. I’ve sent Smithers off to find another man to help me to bed. I can’t imagine what is wrong, but it came over me so suddenly. I nearly fainted in the bank before Halwyn got me into the carriage.”
“I’ll stay and take care of you, since Mother’s out at her abolitionist meeting.”
Her father gave her a long and steady gaze, albeit fevered. “You’ll do no such thing. I may have to miss your meeting with Mr. Cooper, but you mustn’t. You can explain that I came down with a sudden illness, which won’t be any stretch of the truth. I don’t see the need for such a charade anyway. Any man with sense today can realize the value of a woman in the work force.”
Rosemary brought a rose-colored afghan from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around her father, ignoring the fact the color made her handsome father look ridiculous. “Now, Papa, don’t go getting so riled up. You need some chicken soup and a doctor. Your concentration should be on getting well, not on my troubles with the worrisome Mr. Cooper. I’ll be fine. Can I get you some water?”
Her father nodded and closed his eyes. Rosemary returned to him with a glass just as Smithers returned with another manservant. Her father took a couple sips before he stood and allowed the men to steady him as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom, the rose afghan trailing behind him. The head housekeeper, Annie, came up from the basement with some hot broth. Rosemary decided her father was well taken care of before she gathered up her things and left the house.
How should she approach Mr. Cooper now? She had spent a lovely morning believing her problems were solved, and now they were dashed against the rocks again. The image of a ship being pummeled against a rocky coast made her mind drift. Perhaps she could put a pirate in her latest Harry Hawk story and have his ship run aground in a torrential downpour. Her mind drifted as she tried to devise a story line.
She shook her head, clearing away the new story idea and her new pirate. She had a dilemma of her own, in real life, to deal with. And only a few more blocks to figure out a plan.
What to do? Should she behave as her father suggested and plead illness on his behalf? Should she throw her fate to the wind and confess she was the real F.P. Elliott? Should she rush up to Henry before either of them could think and kiss him, thereby rendering him speechless?
She stopped on the sidewalk. Where had that last thought come from? Kiss Mr. Cooper, indeed. She admitted, if begrudgingly, she was attracted to his dark hair and eyes, and his tanned skin. So unlike the pale, bland features she had expected when she’d discovered he was from Boston’s elite society. And so unlike the old, concave, balding-man image her father had created. But physical attraction alone was not enough on which to base throwing all caution to the wind and kissing the man. And confessing to him she was the author on whom he was waiting.
Especially when she had no knowledge, at least not yet, of the mettle of the man. Without an understanding of his character, she would never allow herself to get close enough to him to even consider leaning in for a kiss. She flexed her gloved hands as she thought of his dark hair curling around her fingers. No, touching him was not going to happen. What nonsense, what bosh. Why, one would think she were the female character in her Harry Hawk novel, who to date was unnamed and hadn’t uttered a word. Merely whimpered.
Rosemary took a deep breath as she arrived at the entrance to the publishing house, placing one hand to her stomach to calm herself. Her hand brushed the chatelaine brooch with its timepiece, which was pinned to her waist. She glanced at the watch face. Only ten minutes late. He was here, one flight up. She glanced up at the window before she let herself in the doorway. Ready or not, Mr. Cooper, here I come.
• • •
They were already ten minutes late! How dare they! Henry prowled the office, automatically shifting into his fencing stance, right arm in front of him, wrist pronated, weapon down and to the inside, left arm raised behind him for balance. His mind raced in twenty directions at the same time, while his muscle memory led him through the various parry positions. What if Mr. Elliott came alone? What if Miss Wyatt didn’t show at all? Thinking her no-show was an attack, Henry took the parry #1 position. He took a few steps forward, imagining an épée in his hand as it sliced through the air. He could almost hear the swish of the blade. He had no way of contacting her, except the infuriating post office box mailing address that was used for all F.P. Elliott’s correspondence.
What if Phoebe Wyatt had decided she didn’t want to work with him, and encouraged Mr. Elliott to take his work elsewhere? The author was under contract for only one more story, after which time he’d be free to go his own way if he so wanted. And to take Harry Hawk with him. Henry thought of the cover of Harry on the bison’s back. If F.P. Elliott didn’t wish to continue his tenure with a new owner beyond the final story, Henry would not grace his final novel with such an extravagant cover. What if he had to use it on someone else’s story? What if he never had a chance to see Phoebe again? What if Mr. Elliott came to this meeting alone? Henry attacked with an opposition, controlling his opponent’s blade. His imaginary sparring partner was backed up against the door.
His eyes narrowed as he prepared to slice open his victim just as the door to his office opened, and Miss Wyatt walked into the room.
“Oh.” Phoebe’s lovely gray eyes were as round as her mouth. If he’d had an actual sword in his hand, she would have been injured. Or Henry would have dropped his blade. She lit up the room, which suddenly smelled of fresh air and sunshine.
Henry brought down his hand and came out of his en garde stance.
“Sorry, Miss Wyatt. I was merely practicing my swordplay while I waited for you.” He elongated the word “waited,” hoping she’d get the message he didn’t appreciate being thrown off schedule.
“I am only a few minutes late, sir.” He could tell her back was straightening as she spoke. It made him smile, which he sensed would only infuriate her more.
“And Mr. Elliott? I assume he is still making his way up the stairs, then?”
Phoebe Wyatt shifted from one foot to the other, her eyes pinned to the floor. “No, sir, he is not.”
Henry moved from the center of the room to take a seat behind his desk. He had to put some distance between them before he gave in to his impulse to touch her, to rip off that silly straw hat and bury his nose in her beautiful hair. To ravish her plump lips. A desk between them should do. He nodded at her and raised his hand to the seat in front of the desk. She sat, somewhat timidly, he thought, as she wrung her hands together in a true sign of desperation. He should say something to comfort her. To ease her mind.
Enough. F.P. Elliott and Phoebe Wyatt were no different from any of the other authors under contract with Page Books. Why the hell was he treating her as if she was a fine crystal object? His voice became rough. “I made it clear in my letter, did I not, that the elusive Mr. Elliott was to make an appearance today, otherwise the contract with him would be terminated. What about my message is so hard to understand?”
She finally raised her eyes, and sparks flew from them as she answered. All traces of timidity evaporated. Beautiful eyes, he noted, not for the first time. He loved the way they tilted up at the outer edge, giving her a slightly exotic appearance.
“Mr. Elliott was all set to come today, despite his reluctance to be seen in public. But he took ill quite suddenly, and was forced to take to his bed. You know there’s something going around right now, and I believe he caught it. I was goi
ng to send a note on his behalf begging off today, but decided to come and tell you in person. The last thing I want is for you to think he’s not serious about his future with your company.”
“I sincerely hope you are telling me the truth, Miss Wyatt. The Harry Hawk series is among our bestsellers, and I’d appreciate the opportunity to further it along. And I’ll tell Mr. Elliott that very thing when we do finally meet. Where did he get his inspiration for Harry anyway?”
She wiggled in her seat. “I, uh, I merely transcribe Mr. Elliott’s scribbles into legible copy. I have no idea where he got the idea of a half-breed hero. Or any of his other ideas, for that matter.” She turned her face away from him.
Hmmm. Something was off here. Something elusive. She was hiding something from him. He got the impression he was suddenly in passe arriere, moving back a step in this discussion.
“Tell me, what is Mr. Elliott’s first name?”
Her eyes darted back to him. She didn’t say a word.
“What I mean is, do you refer to him as Mr. Elliott when you’re working with him? I thought he was your uncle. Don’t you call him Uncle Festus, Fred, Felix, or whatever?”
She cleared her throat, her hand soothing her neck as she made the sound. “The family calls him, uh, Uncle Frank. Franklin.”
“Well, then. You may tell Uncle Frank I demand to see him soon. How he ‘caught’ something that’s going around mystifies me, if he never leaves the house. But if he’s still ill next week, I can always come to him, rather than have him be forced into the public eye. Would that better suit?”
Miss Wyatt’s eyes shot daggers at him. “Fine. I’ll bring him here as soon as he’s better.”
“As long as we’re clear, Miss Wyatt. F.P. Elliott must stop hiding behind your skirts. That will be all.”
