Heart's Delight

by Cheryl Holt

  “Then I’ll have you jailed for fraud.”

  “Jailed! Are you insane?”

  “Yes.” Mr. Scott grinned a wicked, evil grin. “Everyone has always thought so, and I never deny it.”

  Gaylord remembered how Michael Scott had doted on Maggie, how smitten he’d seemed, and he said, “Maggie would be very angry if you were cruel to me.”

  “Maggie will never know.”

  “She will!” Gaylord warned. “She’ll find out.”

  “Not from where you’re going.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you heard what Lady Felicia did to Maggie?”

  “No.”

  “You weren’t a conspirator? You didn’t participate?”

  “Heavens no,” Gaylord insisted. “The wretched girl and I haven’t…conspired on any subject.”

  “She had Maggie arrested on a false pretense. Maggie was ordered to pay a substantial sum of money—that she didn’t have. She was jailed, but booked under a fake name so if anyone ever searched for her, there would be no record.” Mr. Scott’s smile grew even more ghastly. “Since you set the whole thing in motion, I decided you should suffer a similar fate.”

  “What fate? You’re being absurd.”

  “Your name is Gaylord Farrow, but Gregory Fishburn will suit you in prison.”

  “Now see here!” Gaylord was absolutely alarmed. “You can’t just…just snatch a fellow off the street and have him carted off to gaol.”

  “I’m not snatching you anywhere. I have a hundred judgments against you. As opposed to what happened to Maggie, I actually have a reason to have you detained.”

  “Lady Felicia is the guilty party. You’re mad to blame me.”

  “Yes, we’ve already established that I am.” Mr. Scott turned to Ramsey Scott. “The debt collectors are nearby. Take him to them.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” Ramsey Scott said.

  “Make sure he’s bound and gagged.”

  “Bound and gagged?” Ramsey Scott asked.

  “Yes, I’m sick of listening to his excuses.”

  Ramsey Scott grabbed Gaylord’s arm and dragged him away. Gaylord wrestled and fought, but couldn’t halt their forward progress.

  “Mr. Scott! Mr. Scott!” he pleaded, and he glanced over his shoulder.

  Michael Scott was stoically watching him from the dark shadows of the alley.

  “What?”

  “Don’t do this. You can’t want to.”

  “Yes, I do. I want to very, very much.”

  “But…when will I be released? When will I be able to go home?”

  “How about never?”

  Mr. Scott shrugged and laughed, and when Gaylord cried out to him again, the wicked beast, Ramsey Scott, stuffed a kerchief into Gaylord’s mouth so he could only mumble and groan from that point on.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Maggie and Rebecca sat in the front parlor in Rebecca’s new house. It was a fine residence, with big glass windows, bright, airy rooms, and comfortable furniture. Apparently Ramsey Scott had picked it out himself with no help from Rebecca, and Maggie was stunned by his good choice.

  Rebecca appeared happily married, and Maggie couldn’t fathom why her sister would be. If anyone had sought Maggie’s opinion, she would have pronounced Ramsey to be an awful matrimonial prospect. But in light of Maggie’s experiences with men, she had to admit she probably wasn’t the best judge.

  “My head is still spinning over my decision to sell,” Maggie said.

  “It will pass, and once it does you’ll realize you’re lucky. An opportunity arose and you seized it.”

  “I suppose I’ll eventually look at it that way, but if I don’t own a rescue mission anymore, what will I do with myself? I’m not exactly a lady of leisure. I have no idea how to be idle.”

  Rebecca shrugged. “You’ll find something that interests you.”

  “You make it sound easy.”

  A few days after Maggie had arrived home from her ordeal at Newgate Prison, an attorney had shown up at the mission. He represented a consortium that was buying property in the area, and he’d wanted to purchase Maggie’s building.

  Her initial reaction had been to decline, but when she was apprised of the amount he was offering for the decrepit place, it would have been silly to refuse. She’d spent an agonizing evening fretting and stewing, and it had dawned on her that there was no reason to stay in the neighborhood. Why not sell?

  Vicar Sterns had started the charity with high hopes and grand expectations, but they hadn’t improved the lives of the downtrodden they served. The task seemed fruitless, and with her recent trials and tribulations, she’d been altered and no longer viewed the effort as personally fulfilling.

  And if she was honest, she was afraid to remain in the area. Mr. Blaylock, Gaylord, and Lady Felicia were all aware of where the mission was located. Any one of them could abuse Maggie again, and as had been proved in their initial attempt, she had no ability to protect herself.

  Every time she heard a noise, she’d jump and peek over her shoulder, wondering if Blaylock might have arrived to finish the job he’d begun at Lady Felicia’s behest. Gradually her nerves would calm, but for the moment she was a mess.

  Michael Scott had rescued her the first time, but in the future she couldn’t count on his assistance. In fact, she knew she couldn’t. After how bitterly they’d parted, she was sure she’d never see him again.

  His commanding presence on her street was another reason she’d agreed to the sale. People were acquainted with him. People talked about him and discussed his antics. Carriages loaded with his notorious customers generated a steady stream of traffic as rich gamblers traveled to his disreputable establishment.

  With how deeply she’d loved him, each mention of his name was like the prick of a knife in her heart. She couldn’t bear the constant reminders of him and what he’d once meant to her. She’d been so foolish, so pointlessly naïve.

  She’d visited the lawyer, and in a matter of hours the deal had been complete. Yet it had transpired so rapidly, her prior life ending so abruptly that she was still convincing herself she’d made the correct choice.

  Wasn’t it better to move away? To move on? But to where? And to what? After so many years of being poor, she couldn’t wrap her head around the notion that she wasn’t in dire fiscal straits.

  She didn’t possess a fortune, but the sale had provided a small nest egg. It was a relief to have options, but she had too many options. When she could live anywhere and try her hand at any venture, she was having trouble whittling it down.

  “Pamela wrote me.” Rebecca yanked Maggie out of her morose reverie.

  “What did she say?” Maggie asked, not really caring.

  “There’s been no word as to Gaylord’s whereabouts.”

  “I can understand why Pamela would worry, but if you want my opinion, he probably fled to America with creditors at his heels.”

  “Probably. Or maybe he found a wealthy heiress and glommed on to her. He’ll bleed some other family dry instead of ours.”

  “They have my greatest sympathies.” Maggie snorted with disgust. “Where is Pamela? Is she at Cliffside?”

  “Yes, she’s there, but she’s moved to the old dowager house.”

  “Why?”

  “Mr. Scott opened it for her and forced her over there.”

  “She can’t be happy about it.”

  “No. He’s letting her stay there for six months, then she has to be out.”

  “Where will she go after six months?”

  “If she can locate Gaylord she’ll live with him, but if not, I can’t guess.”

  “Watch out, Rebecca, or she’ll show up here and beg you to take her in.”

  “As if I would!” Rebecca scoffed. “Once you’re settled, you’d better not send her your new address either. She’ll show up at your house rather than mine. You’re much more of a pushover than I am.”

  Maggie scowled. Was she a pus
hover? Was she malleable and easily manipulated?

  Ultimately she had to accept there was validity to the remark, so she had to make some changes. She was finished with being used and abused by everyone she’d ever loved. It wouldn’t happen again.

  “Do you suppose Mr. Scott did something to Gaylord,” Rebecca asked, “and that’s why he’s missing?”

  “It’s entirely possible. That last day when I spoke to him, he swore Gaylord would never bother us again. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if he paid someone to…”

  Maggie’s voice trailed off as she envisioned what sort of heinous act Mr. Scott might have perpetrated. Surely he wouldn’t have murdered Gaylord. Would he have?

  “You wouldn’t be surprised if he…what?” Rebecca pressed.

  “Don’t listen to me. I haven’t a clue how Mr. Scott might behave.”

  “You may have a low view of Mr. Scott, but I’m growing to love him.”

  “Which one?” Maggie inquired. “As far as I’m concerned, there are too many Scotts in this family now. You. Ramsey. Michael Scott. Are you talking about Ramsey or Michael?”

  “Michael. If it wasn’t for him and how he’s looked after Ramsey, I can’t imagine where I’d be.”

  “You’re giving him more credit than he deserves,” Maggie sourly retorted, refusing to imbue Michael Scott with any positive traits.

  “Everything Ramsey has is because of Mr. Scott.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes. They met in that orphanage, and according to Ramsey, Mr. Scott took Ramsey under his wing and taught him all he knows.”

  “About what? Crime? Theft? Violence? Intimidation?”

  “Don’t disparage their skills. It’s made them obscenely rich.”

  “They may be rich, but I wouldn’t brag about the source of their income.”

  “Well, I’m certainly not protesting. Not when I’ve ended up with so much more than I ever thought I’d have. Ramsey saved me from Gaylord and Pamela, so I didn’t go down with their sinking ship. I’ll always be grateful.”

  Maggie forced a smile and told herself she should be grateful for her sister too. She’d been at Rebecca’s for several days, her apartment at the charity mission lost when she’d sold the building. So she’d had a chance to closely observe Rebecca and her husband, and evidently Maggie was very petty and envious.

  Rebecca—who’d grown up cosseted and spoiled—was becoming even more pampered. Ramsey Scott doted on her, and Maggie could barely stand to watch them together. When she saw how much Rebecca suddenly seemed to have in her life, it only underscored how little Maggie had. Would she ever be happy?

  “By the way,” Rebecca continued, “as to your complaint that there are too many Scotts in the family—”

  “It wasn’t a complaint. I was just stating the facts.”

  “There’s about to be one less.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Michael Scott plans to change his surname to Blair, so he’ll be Michael Blair from this point on.”

  “But…why?”

  “He and Ramsey used Scott, because it was given to them at that orphanage. But he’s always had some papers that list his true identity.”

  “And it’s Michael Blair?”

  “Yes.”

  Maggie was inordinately hurt by the news. During her many intimate conversations with Michael Scott, he’d claimed he hadn’t had any information about his past or his parents, and it wounded her to learn that Rebecca had discovered details about him that Maggie hadn’t.

  Her upset was ridiculous and absurd. What did it matter how Michael Scott chose to be addressed? She didn’t care about him and would never cross paths with him again. His name—and every other aspect—was irrelevant.

  A knock sounded on the front door and Rebecca rose to answer it, which was odd. She had a dozen servants who waited on her hand and foot. She never answered her own door.

  “Are you expecting someone important?” Maggie asked.

  “No, I’m not expecting anyone,” Rebecca said, but she hurried out.

  Maggie dawdled and was finishing a cup of tea when Rebecca returned.

  “Maggie, you have a visitor.”

  “I have a visitor?”

  Maggie frowned. She’d moved out of the mission in such a rush that very few people knew where she’d gone. Who would have bothered to track her down?

  Rebecca stepped aside, and Maggie was aghast to see Michael Scott enter the room.

  “Why is he here?” Maggie demanded of her sister. “Did you tell him where I was?”

  “Ramsey told him.”

  “Traitor,” Maggie muttered, not having the slightest idea why Mr. Scott would show his sorry face in Rebecca’s parlor. Maggie was quite sure they’d said everything that needed to be said. What could be left?

  “I’ll just give you two some privacy.” Rebecca slipped out and shut the door, leaving Maggie alone with him.

  He remained where he was, and he looked around, taking in the furnishings and décor. With him studying his surroundings she had her own opportunity to study him, and she was aggravated to note that he appeared hale and fit and very, very grand.

  His color was high as if he’d been out riding, and his long hair was untied and brushing his shoulders. Dressed in a flowing white shirt, tan breeches, and knee-high black boots, he exuded vigor and good health, and his obvious vitality irked her immensely.

  She felt wan and exhausted, pummeled and worn down by events, and he’d caused much of her woe. Yet he didn’t seem affected in the least by what had occurred, and it wasn’t fair that she should be suffering so horridly while he was more wonderful and imposing by the second.

  There was a sideboard in the corner, and he went over and poured himself a tall glass of liquor. She was seated on a sofa, and he came over and eased into the chair across. He sipped his drink, grinning as if he had a secret, as if he might share it if she begged prettily enough.

  “I’m so amazed by this house,” he said.

  She hadn’t intended to comment, but caught herself asking, “Why would you be?”

  “I’ve been acquainted with Ramsey for maybe twenty-five years, and he never once mentioned that he’d like to live like this. I didn’t even realize he hoped to marry someday. I assumed he was happy with his life the way it was.”

  “I suppose that’s what love will do to a person,” she facetiously retorted.

  “I suppose it is,” he amiably agreed. “I heard you had a bit of financial good luck.”

  “I’d tell you about it—if I thought it was any of your business.”

  “Can you actually imagine an incident could happen on my street and I wouldn’t know?”

  “You talk as if you rule that part of the world.”

  “It’s my own little kingdom.”

  “Are you aware that Gaylord is missing?”

  “Yes.”

  He flashed such a wily smile that she was certain he was guilty of something.

  “What did you do to him?”

  “Me? What makes you think I did anything?”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t have any idea, and that’s the God’s honest truth.”

  “Don’t bring the Lord into this. You might get struck by lightning.”

  “I might.”

  “My sister, Pamela, hasn’t seen him. She’s worried.”

  “I predict that—after awhile—she’ll be glad to have him gone. She’s set at the dowager house for as long as she’d like to stay there.”

  “Not six months?”

  “No, she can live there forever if she wants—just not with her husband.”

  “You seem awfully sure he’s not coming back.”

  “He might come back. Who knows?”

  He shrugged and downed his liquor. Then he went to the sideboard and poured himself another. He opened a decanter of wine and poured a glass. He carried them over, and as he sat down again, he offered her the wine.

  She refused to
grab it, and he placed the glass on the table between them.

  “Why are you drinking?” she said. “And why would you expect me to drink with you?”

  “We’re celebrating.”

  “Celebrating what?”

  “My cancelled betrothal and you selling your building.”

  “Yes, last time we spoke you told me you’d cried off. How did your fiancée take the news?”

  “She was ecstatic.”

  “I’ll just bet she was,” Maggie grumbled.

  Lady Felicia had been raised in the loftiest echelons of society, and he’d been keen to move into the circles that Lady Felicia inhabited. He was vain and proud and should have been chafing, but he didn’t look disconcerted. He looked more proud and vain than ever.

  “Aren’t you disappointed over losing your aristocratic bride?” she asked. “Or have you already found another one? Have you ruined some other father or brother who handed over his female relative?”

  “You have such a sharp tongue. I can’t decide why I keep bothering with you.”

  “Neither can I.”

  “I’ve never won anything those rich idiots didn’t intentionally and eagerly gamble away, but I suppose it would be a waste of breath to mention it.”

  “It would,” she concurred. “Since you’re not giving Cliffside to Lady Felicia, what is your plan for it?”

  “I have some other tenants in mind.”

  “Do you?” she fumed.

  She’d been angry enough to picture him living at Cliffside with Lady Felicia. But now he’d blithely give it to someone else? The prospect enraged her, but before she could vent her fury, he slyly said, “Guess who bought your mission?”

  “The lawyer wouldn’t provide me with their names.”

  “I bought it.”

  “You?”

  Her shoulders sagged with defeat. She was so stupid. The notion had never occurred to her, and if it had she would never have sold it.

  “Why would you buy it?”

  “I wanted you out of that horrid neighborhood, and you were too stubborn to leave on your own.”

  “So you yanked it out from under me.”

  “Yes, and I coughed up an exorbitant amount too, so don’t you dare complain.”

  “I don’t want the money. Give me my property back.”