by Bird, Peggy
The woman Screaming Eagle had thrust into his arms fainted. Great, Harry thought as he slung her over his shoulder.
Rosemary reluctantly laid down her pen and removed the pinafore she had put on over her day dress. She hated to stop writing, because the story was just now getting to the good part, but she promised her mother she would take a nap, since her debut was this evening. She peered at her fingers. For the past few days, her mother had come up with all kinds of concoctions in an attempt to rid Rosemary of her ink stains. It would not do to have new ones form after her mother had been so diligent. The purple marks were still there, possibly a bit fainter than before, but thankfully, she hadn’t added to them. She picked up the ham and cheese sandwich the maid had brought to the room hours ago, and bit into it with relish. The salty sweetness of the meat calmed her rioting stomach. Harry Hawk would have to wait until tomorrow. She finished drinking her tea and, with a sigh, left the garret for her bedroom.
As she leaned back into her bed pillows, she allowed herself to think about the forthcoming evening. Did she dare to dream about finding the love of her life at the ball? Her best friend, Dorcas, thought it was possible, but Rosemary wasn’t so certain. Of all her sisters, only Ginger had met her soul mate at a Cotillion. And technically, she’d met him earlier that day on the streets of New York. Not a great showing, it would appear, yet for the past few years, the ball had been easily the most anticipated event of every young, highbred woman in New York. It seemed to Rosemary instant attraction only happened in literature. Take Pride and Prejudice, for example. Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy fought their desire for each other for months, yet in the end, there was no denying its existence. Could the same happen to her? Even by wearing the most beautiful gown her sister Jasmine had ever created, she doubted if a fairy-tale ending could happen tonight.
Rosemary removed a pillow from behind her head and punched it with her fist. No amount of daydreaming would make such nonsense happen, and there was no reason to pile on the expectations for the evening. She’d leave those dreams to her mother and Dorcas. Rosemary’s daydreams should be reserved for her dime novels’ plot lines. She would merely get through this evening, and whatever other inane events her mother had decided on for the season, and then get back to her writing. She had plans for Harry Hawk, but none for herself.
She pulled a soft blue, woolen afghan up over herself and began to relax as her fingers fondled the fabric. Images floated in her mind, not of her hero, Harry Hawk, but of an attractive, exotic-looking man with dark hair pulled back into a queue, a shirt with billowing sleeves, and breeches that fit as if they were a second skin, revealing his muscled thighs and calves. He had one arm raised in front of him as he advanced toward her. Rosemary had no knowledge of fencing, but if the feelings she’d experienced when she’d walked into the room were any indication, fencing could be a most exciting sport. Henry Cooper cut a most dashing figure. She wondered how his hair would feel as she laced her fingers through it, freeing it from its restraint, so it flowed around his face as he lay on top of her and kissed her senseless. She would welcome his weight as he held her down, kissing her lips, scorching a path down her neck, cradling her breast. Her body responded with a small moan, and the noise pulled her from her stupor.
Propping herself up on one elbow, Rosemary ran a hand over her face, her body still humming. It had to be the upcoming evening and her mother’s incessant talks about meeting the man of her dreams that were causing these feelings. But maybe she’d already met the man of her dreams. She shook herself. No, what a ridiculous notion. Henry Cooper was merely the only man she’d had contact with in months. Besides, he didn’t really know who she was. Even though her father was willing to step in and portray F.P. Elliott for her, it still rankled that she couldn’t allow it to be known she was the mastermind behind Harry Hawk. Life would be so much easier if she were a man.
She lay back down and pulled the cover up over herself again. Since she had dozed off so quickly, she obviously needed to heed her mother’s advice and take a nap. After all, the evening was going to be long and arduous, and she wouldn’t take to her bed again until the wee hours of the morning. Best get some sleep while she could. Behind her closed eyes, the image of Henry Cooper cropped up again, but this time she didn’t try to fight him off. She imagined him taking her body to previously unknown heights of pleasure. She sighed as she glided into a deeper sleep, wondering if real life could be as she imagined.
• • •
Henry finally closed the ledger books and glanced up at the darkening room. He’d been immersed in the accounting numbers for his new business for several hours, but still he was surprised to find night was closing in around him. He struck a match to the sandpaper surface on the matchbox and lit an oil lamp at his desk. The smell of the phosphorus assaulted his nose briefly before it dissipated into the air. Henry sat for a few moments, thinking about the figures he’d just pored over. He pinched the bridge of his nose as his eyes began to focus on his surroundings instead of row after row of numbers. Lord, he hated the financial side of the company.
The business model was sound. Mr. Page had made a smart move by buying the small printing press and producing his own works, becoming a publishing house as well as acting as an agent for the authors. Henry would continue to follow the example that had been set for him, and would possibly adopt Boston’s format of a monthly magazine by producing his own here in New York. He could include a chapter at a time of a new dime novel into the pages of the magazine, creating an installment series for people to follow. His plan would give him a faithful readership for his new magazine venture, as well as a ready audience once a complete version of the story appeared in printed form as a dime novel. Yes, he could see the wisdom in his plans.
But for now, his ideas for the business would need to be shelved. The big cotillion ball was this evening, and he needed time to get ready for it. Especially since he hadn’t yet hired a valet, and it was up to him to get his appearance right. He needed to make certain his best jacket with the tails was clean and pressed, his cravat tied properly, his hair washed and held in place with a fine strip of leather. He also needed to buff his dress shoes. He hadn’t worn them since his last dinner at the Cabots’, but New York streets were filthy, and he was certain there was at least a layer of dust on them, if not something worse.
The cotillion was New York’s biggest social event of spring, marking the beginning of the high social season that would extend into August. He’d attended enough of these same type of balls in New Orleans to know how tedious they could be. Especially as each young woman was announced and entered into the pool of eligible bachelors at the bottom of the staircase who swirled like sharks in the water. He was not going to take part in any of such nonsense, or join the swirl, but he had no wish to offend his benefactors, so he would put in an appearance at the ball. Briefly, he gave thought to his notion of finding a woman to occupy his time and take his mind off the winsome Phoebe Wyatt, but if the New York debutantes resembled in any way the ones he’d come across in New Orleans, tonight was not the night to further that objective.
He’d time his entrance to take place after all the introductions were over and the women claimed for the evening by prospective partners. He’d be able to circumvent the pushy mothers and their simpering daughters if he were not in the room. It was a sound plan of attack for the evening, but in order to accomplish it, he must get to his quarters right now and begin his preparations for the night. He’d procrastinated long enough.
CHAPTER NINE
Rosemary sat quietly beside Dorcas. Yes, she’d already had her moment at the top of the staircase, where she had been properly introduced to society, and then led down the stairs by her father and Halwyn. However, where other young ladies who went before her had a horde of young men vying for their attention at the bottom of the stairs, there had been an embarrassing lack of interest as she had descended into the crowd below. Only family and friends, and a few stragglers, had greeted her. N
o Prince Charming.
Her dress was the most beautiful gown of all the debutantes. Jasmine had done a masterful job creating an illusion of loveliness and purity. The white satin was embellished with tight-fitting lace sleeves and a matching lace inset at the bodice. The many hand-sewn crystals on the skirt made it sparkle in the glow of the thousands of candles adorning the room. But even with the dress, she failed to capture any young man’s interest for more than a moment.
While Rosemary’s dark hair and gray eyes were not enough to propel her into the same category as the most popular of the ladies, she could not understand why Dorcas was relegated to the sidelines along with her. Rosemary thought her friend was striking, with her blonde hair with its tint of red, and her large blue eyes. Perfect coloring for the heroine in her Harry Hawk story. Her mind began to hum with possibilities, and she wished the evening would come to an end so she could return to her garret and Harry.
Sitting up against the wall was pretty much the way she had played out the evening in her head. She and Dorcas would make up stories about each of the popular debutantes who had tons of men whirling about them, all vying for a modicum of attention from the chosen ones. Dorcas was good at inventing stories about the other girls they’d both grown up with, and with Rosemary’s gift for embellishment, they laughed as each story became more outrageous than the one before it.
The two ladies were wiping tears of enjoyment from their eyes with their handkerchiefs as Charlotte Fitzpatrick approached and joined them.
“I’m so glad to see you girls are enjoying yourselves.” She turned to Dorcas. “You would have thought Rosemary was being led to the gallows, the way she fussed and complained right up until she got into her beautiful gown.”
“Oh, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, Rosemary’s gown is truly a piece of art. But even if we do have the best gowns of the evening, the young men have barely taken notice of us. What are we to do?” Rosemary grimaced as Dorcas barely controlled the wail, which threatened to invade her voice. If her mother thought they were a desperate duo, she’d take action. Rosemary had hoped to get through the evening without her mother’s help.
She scanned the room along with her mother. Now that the rush of debutantes was over, people had paired off and were populating the dance floor as the musicians began playing. The crush of bodies was making dancing difficult, and the room, with its masses of people, along with the heat from the myriad of candles, made Rosemary very warm. She raised a hand to wipe her brow, relieved to see no one upon whom her mother could foist them.
Her mother grabbed her hand before it made its way to her face. “No! Don’t wipe your face in such a fashion. You mustn’t get your gloves dirty, as they have to cover your fingers all night. Use your handkerchief, if you must. But take care not to ruin your makeup. Blot, don’t rub.”
“Thank you, Mother. I’d almost forgotten that I daren’t remove my gloves tonight. I soaked my fingers until they pruned, but the ink stains would not budge.” Rosemary blotted her brow, and returned the hankie to her reticule. “Not that ink-stained fingers are going to matter to anyone tonight. Dorcas and I have already been designated the proverbial wallflowers at our Cotillion.”
Her mother stood, took each girl by the hand, and pulled them from their wallflower chairs. “Not if I have anything to say about the matter. The Cabots have just arrived, and I’ve been told they have a striking out-of-town visitor accompanying them this evening. My girls have always managed to impress men from out of town, and tonight will be no exception. Come along, my darlings. Let’s go meet the new dashing young man before another young woman can get her claws into him.”
With Charlotte in the lead, the trio made its way to the Cabots, who were surrounded by well-wishers. Charlotte embraced Mrs. Cabot and acknowledged Mr. Cabot.
“May I introduce two of tonight’s debutantes? My daughter, Rosemary, and her friend, Dorcas, just came down the stairs a few minutes ago.” She put her hands into the small of their backs and pushed each girl forward. They curtsied in unison to Mr. and Mrs. Cabot and murmured a greeting. Rosemary expelled a small breath when she realized the Cabots were alone. She would not have to be paraded in front of their out-of-town visitor as if she were a horse for sale. Or a slave. She could go back to her chair and sit for the remainder of this ghastly evening. And then get back to her garret.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spied a familiar head of long, dark hair tied into a stylish queue. The room began to tilt on its axis and she couldn’t catch her breath. There could not be another person in New York who wore his hair in such a fashion. Rosemary’s steps faltered, and she turned to run back to her chair.
Mrs. Cabot motioned to him. “And I’m pleased to introduce our company, recently moved here from Boston. Henry Cooper, please say hello to one of the finest families in New York. May I introduce you to Charlotte Fitzpatrick, her daughter, and a friend.”
Henry turned from the group of people he was talking to and faced the ladies, confusion overtaking his features. “Miss Wyatt? Phoebe?”
Rosemary’s stomach dropped as she stared at her publisher. Her hand came to her mouth, which gaped openly, as her surprise mounted. What was Henry doing here? And why, in the mad crush of people, did they have to come face to face? If she thought Henry seemed confused, it was nothing compared to her own reaction. Her carefully crafted world was crashing down around her. What should she do? Correct her mother? Correct Henry? How could she now conduct her business with him? The room began to spin uncontrollably, and her legs shook.
Charlotte seemed not to notice Rosemary’s reaction to the man. “I’m afraid you have the wrong woman, Mr. Cooper. This is my daughter, Rosemary Fitzpatrick. And the other young lovely is Rosemary’s best friend, Dorcas Winchester.”
Henry extended his hand to take Rosemary’s, just as she fainted and dropped into his arms.
• • •
“Great,” Henry muttered as he placed his hands under her knees and lifted her limp body. With Mrs. Fitzpatrick and Mrs. Cabot leading the way, Henry carried the unconscious woman into a private room off the ballroom and laid her on a couch, kneeling beside her. A doctor was being sought from the ball’s attendees, and the ladies and Henry attempted to bring what comfort they could to her in the meantime. Her friend, whose name he’d quite forgotten in the confusion, hovered around the group, reminding him of a hummingbird at a fragrant flower. The flower in this instance being Phoebe Wyatt, despite what anyone said. Henry had picked up right away on the scent of patchouli in the air around her.
Henry knelt beside the woman, holding her hand, and ran his eyes over her face. Same hair, same long eyelashes. If she were to open her eyes, he was positive he’d see the color gray. Yes, the woman before him was indeed Phoebe Wyatt. But why was she here posing as someone else? Posing as a highborn woman? He reluctantly turned his gaze from her to Mrs. Fitzpatrick as he stood.
“What is the explanation for this? You say she is your daughter, Rosemary?”
Mrs. Fitzpatrick nodded her head vigorously. “Yes, she is my daughter who had her debut tonight. Perhaps she resembles someone you know, but she is indeed my daughter.” Henry could see Mrs. Fitzpatrick pull herself erect, and could almost feel her bristling at his questions. She gained control of her emotions in a short moment and turned toward him as he rose. “I’m sorry, but in the confusion, I missed your name.”
“It’s Henry Cooper. I’ve recently moved here from Boston to take over Page Books.”
“Oh. Oh, dear.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick seemed unsettled, as her hands fluttered through the air, but she stood her ground beside her daughter.
Henry and Mrs. Fitzpatrick locked eyes for a long moment.
“I believe her to be someone else entirely. A secretary for an author. And her name is Phoebe Wyatt. If I were to remove her glove, would I not see ink stains on her fingers? There was an especially large stain on the second finger of her right hand the other day. Shall I remove her glove and see if there is a match?”
&nb
sp; He noticed Mrs. Fitzpatrick took a gulp at his words. And moved in front of the prostrate woman to protect her daughter, putting herself between Henry and Rosemary. Or was it Phoebe?
Henry finally extended his hand to Mrs. Fitzpatrick. “I’m sorry to have caused your daughter to faint. But I’m certain she is the same woman who has been coming to my office for weeks now masquerading as a working woman. A Miss Phoebe Wyatt. I’m the new publisher.”
“The villain.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick whispered the words under her breath as she allowed him to take her hand. As he bowed over her outstretched palm, his mind buzzed.
Villain? Surely, he was mistaken, and Mrs. Fitzpatrick hadn’t spoken those words. She seemed to be exactly what he expected of a friend of the Cabots—a petite, friendly, scintillating, highbred woman. Not someone who would abide subterfuge. But she offered no explanation as to why her daughter had posed as a secretary, either.
The young woman on the couch was beginning to stir, so Henry reached down and took her right hand again, peeling the glove off slowly, freeing one finger at a time. His gaze was fixed on Mrs. Fitzpatrick as he did so. Her eyes flitted from him to her daughter, to the doorway, and back again. Finally, the young lady’s hand was freed from the glove, and Henry held it up for inspection. The ink stains were perhaps a bit more faint than they had been a few days earlier when he’d last seen her, but they were evident. Still holding the soiled hand aloft, his gaze fixated on Mrs. Fitzpatrick, waiting for an explanation.
The silence in the room was deafening.
The doctor rushed in, finally, unfreezing the occupants. He was followed by another gentleman of middle age who put his arm around Mrs. Fitzpatrick. Henry stood a bit apart from the group around the prostrate woman and allowed the doctor to bring her around with smelling salts. He’d give the doctor room to work and allow her family to get close, but he wouldn’t leave the room without an explanation.
