by Cheryl Holt
His laugh was cruel and snide. “Don’t you know, Miss Wells? I am the authority in this neighborhood. My word is law. Now go away and don’t come back.”
He vanished into his office.
She hovered on the top step, yearning to march back to him, to apprise him of what she truly thought, but she wasn’t a fighter. She was a problem solver and helper who never argued over any issue, which was why her personal life was such a mess.
She whipped away and kept on down the stairs.
CHAPTER TWO
“What happened to the furniture in the blue salon?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
Maggie glared at her sister, Pamela, and from how Pamela glanced away, it was clear she was about to lie. Pamela was two years older than Maggie, and at age twenty-seven she was no better at fibbing than she’d been as a young girl.
“We’ve been redecorating,” Pamela claimed.
“Redecorating?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard of it, Magdalena. It’s when you spruce up the décor.”
“Very funny.”
They were in the front parlor at Cliffside, the beautiful country mansion that had been in her family for two centuries. It was a lovely June evening, and the house was full of guests. Mostly they were neighbors, but there were also many people who’d traveled from London.
Her other sister, Rebecca, had just turned twenty-two, and she and Pamela had arranged a weeklong house party to celebrate Rebecca’s birthday. Normally Maggie would rather have gone to the barber to have a tooth pulled than visit Cliffside, but despite how she tried to distance herself, she couldn’t stay away entirely. Cliffside was home, and Rebecca and Pamela her only relatives in the world.
“I went to the bank the other day,” she said.
“How nice,” Pamela cooed, not really paying attention.
“I learned the oddest thing.”
“What was it?”
“My monthly stipend never arrived. I don’t suppose you have any information about it?”
Maggie had once had a fine dowry, but she hadn’t married, and the money was still sitting in a trust. Because of what had happened with Pamela—what their father had permitted to happen—her father had let Maggie draw the interest as an allowance.
During her seven years of living in London, she’d had funds to see her through the lean times at the mission. But suddenly there was no money. She wanted to believe it was a mistake, but she suspected that the truth was much grimmer than that.
When she was seventeen, she’d met Gaylord Farrow, a dashing rogue who had flirted and charmed her until she’d fallen madly in love. He’d proposed very quickly, and she hadn’t hesitated to accept, and her father—who’d been charmed too—had readily agreed to the match.
Yet a week before the wedding, it had all collapsed.
Pamela had fallen in love with Gaylord too, and Maggie had never been able to decide if it had been genuine fondness for Gaylord or whether she’d done it out of jealousy and spite for not having been wed yet herself.
Pamela and Gaylord had announced to Maggie’s father that they’d misbehaved and Pamela was ruined. Gaylord insisted his engagement to Maggie be severed because of what had occurred. Pamela had been their father’s favorite, and as the oldest daughter, she’d had a much larger dowry than Maggie.
Initially Maggie had tried to tell herself that Gaylord couldn’t have been that crass or greedy that he’d have switched his focus to Pamela merely because of the size of her dowry, but with how matters had played out, Maggie was certain it had been about the extra money. It didn’t hurt that he had an enormous ego, and Pamela was a weak person who worshipped Gaylord in a way Maggie never would have.
Pamela was also too timid to put her foot down over any of his misdeeds—and there had been plenty.
Their widowed father had been a rich gentleman who’d never sired any sons. Gaylord had flattered and cajoled until the poor man was blinded to any of Gaylord’s faults. But hadn’t they all been blinded?
With Gaylord promising to look after Pamela, Maggie, and Rebecca, their father had named Gaylord as his heir so that, after he’d died, Gaylord inherited the estate. Yet as they’d subsequently discovered, Gaylord was a profligate gambler who was swiftly pushing them to the edge of ruin, and they were at his mercy.
Had Gaylord gotten his hands on Maggie’s dowry? Had he spent it? If Maggie’s allowance was gone, how would she remain in London? How would she keep the charity mission open?
If she was forced to close it she’d have to move back to Cliffside, and the notion of living with Gaylord and Pamela was no more palatable than it had been on their wedding day when Maggie had watched her great love marry her duplicitous, conniving sister.
“You haven’t answered me,” Maggie said to Pamela.
“What was the question again?”
“My allowance wasn’t deposited in the bank this month. What happened to it?”
“How would I know? You’ll have to ask Gaylord.”
“Believe me, I will,” Maggie fumed, but Pamela had already sauntered away.
As she departed, Rebecca sidled up. She and her two sisters were the same height, and they’d previously been the same size, but over the years Pamela had gained a substantial bit of weight while Rebecca was still slender and shapely. They all had their father’s blue eyes, but Maggie had auburn hair while Pamela’s and Rebecca’s was a chestnut brown that they’d inherited from their mother, who’d passed away when they were girls.
“What did Pamela tell you about the blue salon?” Rebecca inquired.
“She claims she’s redecorating.”
Rebecca snickered. “It’s Gaylord’s gambling debts. He’s quietly selling our belongings.”
Maggie was aghast. Her visits to Cliffside were always contentious, so she’d arrived late to the party, the festivities in progress. She’d been too busy to notice many changes.
“He’s selling our furniture?” She was stunned and irate.
“Yes. Wait until you have more time to explore. Most of the upstairs rooms are empty.”
“Oh, my Lord! Why didn’t you write me?”
“What could you have done?”
That was a question for the ages, wasn’t it? What could any of them have done?
Gaylord had been a perfectly acceptable young man from a good family, so when he’d ingratiated himself, there’d been no reason to beware. He’d seduced them into thinking they couldn’t live without him, and he’d wound up taking everything they had.
Had any three women ever been so naïve? Why had they trusted him? Why hadn’t they seen him for the snake he was?
“If Gaylord and Pamela are desperate enough to sell the furniture,” Maggie said, “why are they hosting this lavish party?”
“Honestly, Maggie. It’s my birthday. What were we supposed to do? Ignore it?”
Rebecca gaped at Maggie, appearing truly perplexed by Maggie’s query. It would never have occurred to Rebecca that she couldn’t afford a party.
Maggie could have launched into a lecture about finances and budgeting, but what was the point?
They’d grown up prosperous, pampered, and spoiled, and reality hadn’t crashed down for Rebecca. Maggie was the only one who’d left Cliffside, the only one who’d ever had to pay a bill or water down the soup so it lasted a few more days. Rebecca and Pamela still deemed themselves to be wealthy, and they hadn’t the vaguest idea what it meant to be poor.
What would become of them? If Gaylord beggared them completely, where would they go?
Rebecca leaned in and whispered, “Guess what else?”
Maggie was almost too terrified to know. “What?”
“The man who holds Gaylord’s markers? He’s coming here tomorrow.”
Maggie gasped. “They’ll welcome him into our home?”
“Yes, and Gaylord wants me to charm the stupid oaf.”
“To what end?”
“Gaylord thinks he’ll be smitten and decide to marry me.” R
ebecca laughed and batted her lashes. “Isn’t that the most ridiculous news you’ve ever heard?”
“He hopes you’ll marry this…this gambler?”
“Yes. Apparently he assumes if I’m the man’s bride, the debt might be forgiven.”
“Gaylord would betroth you to square his gambling debts?”
“Can you believe it?” Rebecca laughed again. “As if I’d lift a finger to help him.”
Maggie gazed across the room to where Gaylord was regaling a group of neighbors with one of his humorous stories. It would be a ribald jest that would have them chuckling and murmuring about what a jolly chap he was.
He liked others to view him as smart, shrewd, and successful, but he was simply cruel and amoral.
When Maggie had first met him, she’d often stood on the edge of similar groups, yearning for him to notice her. She’d been seventeen, and he’d been a much older twenty-four. He’d seemed mature and sophisticated, and she’d been imprudently and rashly smitten.
With his blond hair and blue eyes, he was still handsome, but in a dodgy, deceitful fashion. At five-foot ten, he’d once been virile and fit, but as with Pamela, he’d thrived on the rich diet at Cliffside and now had a definite paunch.
She’d like to march over, pinch that paunch, and order him to stop gorging on the last of their food.
In an adjoining salon, a neighbor’s daughters banged out some chords on the harpsichord and violin, an indication that the dancing was about to commence.
Rebecca beamed with pleasure. “Let’s go in, Maggie. We have to snatch up the best partners before they’re all taken.”
“You start without me.”
“Don’t be silly. You can’t have danced in ages.”
“I’m tired. I’ll join in later.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
Rebecca flitted off, and Maggie was relieved that her sister hadn’t pressed. Rebecca was a frivolous girl who could dance all night and not worry for a second about hosting a party they couldn’t afford.
But they weren’t aristocrats and couldn’t ignore a creditor’s demand. As the bills came due, who would pay? Gaylord obviously, but after he’d sold all the furniture, what then?
Suddenly she felt as if she was choking, but then she always felt that way at Cliffside. There were too many painful memories in the place.
After Gaylord had jilted her, after he’d set Maggie aside to marry Pamela instead, Maggie had had to sit through their wedding, to mourn and fret while they flitted off on their honeymoon, to welcome them back as newlyweds, to watch them coo and snuggle as husband and wife.
She’d never previously understood how a person could be driven to homicide, but occasionally during those awful months, she’d suspected if she’d owned a pistol she might have murdered them both. She’d been that humiliated.
Her father and others had constantly told her to get over her woe, to be happy for her sister—for the good of the family.
She’d been friends with Vicar Sterns and his wife, and they were the only ones who’d comprehended Maggie’s anguish. When the vicar had inherited some money, the Sterns had decided to live out their dream of moving to London and starting their rescue mission. They’d asked Maggie to go along, and with a bit of coaxing her father had agreed. Their kindness had allowed her to escape Cliffside, and she would never forget the blessing they had bestowed by inviting her.
She slipped out of the parlor and stepped onto the verandah, gulping in the cool night air as she walked down the stairs into the garden. The groomed paths were lit with hanging lanterns, the moon up and brightly shining, so she could easily see the route. She headed for the lake to relax in the gazebo and stare out at the water.
With each stride, the sounds of the party faded away until she couldn’t hear the merriment. She arrived at the lake and was relishing the quiet, but as she climbed into the gazebo, she frowned. A man was already seated on her favorite bench, and he glanced at her over his shoulder.
“Hello,” he said.
“I beg your pardon,” Maggie mumbled. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You haven’t.” He gestured to the empty spot next to him. “There’s plenty of space if you’d like to join me.”
She hesitated, thinking it probably wasn’t appropriate to tarry with a strange man in the dark, but she shrugged off her reservations. Who would notice or care? Besides, he had to have been invited by Pamela, so she’d meet a new neighbor.
“I will join you,” she said. “Thank you.”
As she approached, he rose politely to greet her. The moonlight illuminated his features, and he recognized her the same moment she recognized him.
“You!” they charged in unison.
“What are you doing here?” Maggie inquired of Michael Scott.
“I could ask you the same.”
“I live here. What’s your excuse?”
“You live here? I could have sworn you lived at that wretched charity mission down the street from my club.”
“Usually but Cliffside is my home. It’s where I grew up. I’m visiting.”
“So Pamela Farrow is…what? Your sister?”
“Yes.”
“And Gaylord?”
“My brother-in-law.”
“Ah…”
His stunning blue eyes took a slow meander down her person. His perusal was so thorough and so seductive that she squirmed and could barely keep from crossing her arms over her chest to block the heightened assessment.
“You still haven’t explained why you’re here,” she said.
“I’m a guest.”
“Of Gaylord or Pamela?”
“Both, I suppose.”
“You suppose?” She snorted with disgust. “Don’t tell me you’re friends with them. I’ll never believe you.”
“Not friends, no.”
“Then why would they include you? You can’t have come for any innocent purpose. Are you about to rob us? Should I run inside and hide the silver?”
He smirked. “You still have silver?”
“What do you mean?”
“I heard Gaylord is in financial trouble. Hasn’t he sold it by now?”
“You heard wrong,” she staunchly lied. “Our finances are perfectly fine.”
“Are they?”
He stared at her, looking smug and certain—as if he knew secrets he would never reveal—and she yearned to slap that haughty leer off his handsome face.
“I don’t like the company in this gazebo,” she complained. “I’m returning to the party.”
She would have spun and stomped off, but he stopped her by saying, “What color is your dress?”
“My dress?”
“Yes. It’s difficult to tell in the moonlight.”
“Not that I feel it’s any of your business, but it’s blue.”
“Just like your eyes,” he murmured.
She scowled, not sure how to reply.
The fabric was the exact color of her eyes, and she’d specifically chosen it because it highlighted their merry effect. She’d once owned a flattering wardrobe, and of course Rebecca had dozens of gowns and always offered her cast-offs to Maggie. There were few occasions in London to wear pretty clothes though, so Maggie had given most of them away.
It was one of the joys of visiting Cliffside—the chance to prance about in Rebecca’s beautiful garments, to pretend circumstances hadn’t ruined Maggie’s life. But she wasn’t about to admit any of that to him.
“It’s just…blue,” she muttered. “The shade has naught to do with my eyes or anything else.”
She should have left as she’d intended, but she was frozen in place. He was gazing at her, the silver of the moonlight painting him in stark tones of white and black.
He was attired in very fine clothes again, but not casual ones this time. The items were suitable for a country party, elegant but understated, his wealth and style clearly displayed but not flaunted.
Though they’d me
t previously, her view of him being an ogre hadn’t changed. He was a brigand who’d grown up an orphan on the streets of London. Where would he have learned how to dress, how to comport himself?
He could have been standing in a room of the most pompous, arrogant aristocrats and he’d have fit right in.
“What are you looking at?” she grumbled, unnerved by his attention.
“You.”
“Why?”
“You’re very fetching tonight.”
“Well…thank you, I guess.”
“You should wear pretty gowns more often.”
“They don’t mix with my life and work.”
“Why are you working? When your family owns this large estate, why are you in London toiling away?”
She’d never confess what had happened with Gaylord and Pamela. She never talked about it to anyone. There was no point in dredging it all up, and she was certain if he discovered the truth, he’d use it to her detriment.
She stepped to move away, but he stopped her simply by placing his hand on her wrist. His skin felt so hot that he might have scalded her with boiling water. She leapt back, and he chuckled.
“Tell me,” he quietly said.
“Tell you what?”
“What drove you to London? Tell me why you’re there alone instead of here where any decent British girl would be.”
Even though she’d jumped away, he was much too close. She could smell the soap with which he’d bathed, could smell a hint of horses and tobacco in the fabric of his coat. There was another smell too, one that was masculine and delectable, and it lured her in, making her want to rub herself against him like a contented cat.
There was a strange current of energy flowing from him to her. It was electric and stimulating, and it enlivened her as nothing ever had.
He towered over her, and while she should probably have been afraid of him—they were sequestered in the gazebo and far from any other guests—she wasn’t worried. As had occurred in his office in London, she sensed no menace. Clearly he was the type of male who liked to bark and strut about, but he wouldn’t lash out unless provoked, and she had no intention of provoking him.
Yet as he took a step toward her, she took a step back. He took another, and she did too. Finally she was up against a post and he was in front of her, not blocking her exit precisely, but not letting her go either.
