A Heart Most Certain

by Melissa Jagears

  “I’ve told you some Christians live what they preach.” Nicholas shrugged. “Not that I know many of them.”

  “You’re the only one I respect.”

  “Pastor Wisely—”

  “A nice man, bookish, timid.” Henri waved his hand—whether to keep Nicholas from arguing or to indicate he wanted to slow down, Nicholas didn’t know. “The man’s not done a controversial thing in his life and is too afraid of upsetting his congregation. I’m not saying he’s terrible, just not . . . well . . . heroic.”

  Nicholas didn’t like the superiority in his friend’s eye. “We’re not heroes.”

  “If people knew what you did—”

  “I’m only doing what I should’ve been doing all along. And I dare say, you wouldn’t be so quick to play Robin Hood with me if it caused you hardship.”

  “No hard . . . ship.” Henri’s puffing garbled his response.

  Nicholas slowed his pace, allowing his friend to catch up.

  Just then, Miss King exited Reed’s department store and pulled on her gloves.

  Nicholas halted. Maybe she wouldn’t see them.

  Once her gloves were situated, she pivoted toward him, then stopped. Her brow furrowed.

  Henri’s shuffling feet slowed behind him.

  Nicholas suppressed a groan. He couldn’t avoid her, couldn’t walk past and say nothing. “Good afternoon, Miss King.”

  She tipped her head as he imagined a queen of England would, regal and dismissive—her gaze fastened on his forehead instead of his eyes. “Mr. Lowe.”

  Henri took the interlude as an excuse to drop his burdens and swipe at his face. “Must . . . rest.”

  Nicholas trailed his eyes down the black ribbons on Miss King’s pale purple gown. They had the audacity to follow the curves of her body until they reached the black insets of her skirts. Henri was right—he should’ve hired a cab.

  His friend slumped against the lamppost with a moan, so Nicholas reluctantly put down his crate and stuck his hands in his pockets.

  Miss King took a step toward him. “Mr. Lowe, I feel compelled to ask—”

  “No, please.” He held up a hand. “Not again.” Could the woman not take no for an answer?

  “—for your forgiveness, for attacking you earlier.”

  What? An apology was the last thing he’d expected. “All right.”

  The flicker of a smile and the relaxing of her brow made him catch his breath and look to his friend for a distraction—a much uglier distraction. “Have you met my good friend, Mr. Beauchamp?”

  “From Beauchamp Mills?”

  “One and the same.” Henri leaned forward and nodded his head. “Pleased to meet you, Miss King.” He glanced between the two of them and smirked.

  Nicholas needed to stop the man’s assumptions right now. “Miss King attends my church and has lately stopped by on business. I was unfortunately unable to help her.”

  Her mouth formed a silent word—unwilling, perhaps?

  She turned to Henri. “I have heard tell Mr. Lowe had no friends, so I’m glad he has you.”

  He couldn’t let himself be ensnared by the beautiful smile she flashed at Henri. He could only handle one high-maintenance friend, and Henri was much safer. Nicholas’s mouth didn’t dry up at the sight of the thickset Frenchman. “Yes. Henri’s a man to be pitied for having to be my friend.”

  The tweak of her lips indicated her agreement.

  Heat crept up his neck with her silence. Even if she didn’t call him out on his lack of friendly qualities, the statement was true enough. He wasn’t the greatest friend—he probably wasn’t even capable of being a good friend to anyone, really.

  But Henri was loyal. And loyalty was hard, very hard, to come by.

  Especially in a wife.

  He scowled at the jump in his thoughts and jammed his hands back in his pockets. Even if he wanted to marry again, Lydia was too young to think about. Likely a decade his junior.

  Though he was likely closer to her age than Sebastian.

  Gritting his teeth, he constrained his brain from wandering further. Any number of foibles might lay hidden under that creamy skin and those pale blue eyes—she was, after all, an active member of that awful moral society.

  And he made about as good a husband as he made a friend.

  He needed another conversational topic. “I hope your mother’s feeling better.”

  Her face lost every ounce of amusement. “I didn’t know you knew about my mother.”

  “Is she still feeling poorly?”

  “Yes.” She pressed her lips together and blinked.

  Blast. He hadn’t intended to make her cry, and the longer teary-eyed females wept, the more he felt like gathering them up and shushing them. How would Lydia feel in his arms, being such a slender thing?

  Confound it. He knew better than to think along that vein. Someone needed to slap him.

  But Henri was oddly quiet, slouched against the pole, watching with a lazy grin.

  Nicholas raked a hand through his hair. “I’ve been praying she recovers.”

  She nodded and looked at him—no calculation in her gaze, just sorrow. “I believe that’s all we can do.”

  They stood staring at each other. If she loosed the tears she was holding back, how could he simply hand her a handkerchief? She’d need an embrace, and Henri’s wouldn’t do.

  No. What was he thinking? A woman who’d so easily make him think about gathering her up into his arms needed to be avoided.

  Henri cleared his throat.

  Nicholas jumped. “I’ll see you again, Miss King. At church.” Please, just at church, and only in passing. How many more times could he turn her down before he caved to her slight pout? Which would get him into hot water with Sebastian Little, and rightly so.

  “Good day, Mr. Lowe. Mr. Beauchamp.” She bolted, as if electrically shocked from her spot, and walked away at a good clip.

  Henri shoved off the lamppost. “What was that?”

  Nicholas busied himself with picking up the crate.

  “There was something between you two beyond your normal, condescending way of rubbing people wrong.”

  Nicholas frowned, then wove across the busy street. “That’s not particularly nice of you to say.”

  Henri shrugged and dodged a mule cart. “You know it as well as I do, Mr. High Horse. Not that you don’t have reasons to act high and mighty. I wouldn’t remain your friend, in light of our philosophical differences, if I hadn’t plenty of reasons to respect you.” He scurried to catch up. “But you haven’t answered my question.”

  “I told you I disappointed her in matters of business.”

  Henri huffed. “You like her.”

  If he lied, Henri would sense it and drill him relentlessly. “She has admirable qualities for someone her age.” Perceptive, tenacious, smart—

  “Meaning you think she’s good-looking.” He laughed.

  “And you don’t think so?”

  “She has extremely large mandibles and a pointy chin.”

  “Otherwise known as a heart-shaped face.” Nicholas rolled his eyes. “It’s an attractive feature.”

  “She needs more meat on her.” Henri stumbled a bit on an uneven paver. “That way, when you take her into your arms, you won’t crush her.”

  Great, now both of them were thinking about his arms wrapped around Miss King. “You can quit your fretting over me crushing her in my arms. She’s Sebastian Little’s conquest.”

  Henri stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Sebastian? The new mayor’s son?”

  “Yes.”

  He made a sad clucking sound. “She’d have been better off with you, scalawag that you are.”

  It made no difference. “I’m not looking for a wife, never will be.” So what if she had everything he’d ever fancied in a woman? Dark hair, blue eyes, a thin figure, determination, intelligence, vivacity. Those qualities led to heartache eventually. He’d married a woman like her once, and he wouldn’t rep
eat that mistake.

  “Ah, but with your money, you’d have your choice of respectable women.”

  Nicholas scowled, and Henri waved his hand at him.

  “I know, I know. Your money’s exactly why you won’t take another, but that girl no doubt would’ve given you some pretty wee ones . . . if they inherited your jaw.”

  “Right.” His curt reply must have finally warned Henri off. Either that or he was too breathless to speak again. Nicholas continued at a rapid pace, but it wasn’t fast enough to keep Henri entirely quiet.

  “I wonder how Little reeled her in?” Henri caught his breath and scurried a few more steps. “It’s not like the man has a dashing figure . . . and we know where he goes . . .”

  Nicholas ignored Henri’s breathless listing of Sebastian’s widely rumored faults as they entered his friend’s yard.

  Did Miss King know what the people in the red-light district whispered about the man who courted her? Of course she didn’t, and he wouldn’t stoop to sharing the accusations with her since all he could share were rumors. Rumors from people whose integrity and uprightness left a lot to be desired.

  The rumors flying around about him were just as scandalous and were certainly not true.

  He raked a hand through his hair and huffed. He was done thinking of Miss King, especially Miss King and Sebastian Little together.

  She was old enough to make her own choices, and her amorous engagements were none of his business.

  9

  “Caroline?” Nicholas called into the caverns of his gigantic house as he emptied his pockets onto a silver tray on the entry-hall table. It’d been a long week of negotiations, arguments with his supervisors, and a failed attempt at acquiring Wilson’s mill. He was ready for a night of putting his feet up and listening to his gramophone or reading a novel if sleep didn’t call to him first.

  Caroline’s hurried steps thumped from near the music room.

  He hung up his keys and turned for the stairs to the main part of the house. “Have you seen—oof!” He caught Caroline by the arms, yet they both stumbled into the corner table. A green glass vase toppled over the edge and broke against the polished wood floor.

  She let out a strangled cry.

  “It’s all right.” He leaned over to pick up the glass shards amid the pink roses and the spreading pool of water. “Far more expensive things could’ve been broken.”

  “Oh no, sir. It’s Violet.” She smashed a lavender-scented handkerchief against her mouth as if she were in danger of adding her stomach’s contents to the mess at their feet.

  He dropped the broken glass and took her by the arms again. Caroline wasn’t a weak woman, but her eyes were glassing over. “What’s wrong?” He jiggled her a little, his heart racing. “What’s this about Violet?”

  His housekeeper inhaled deeply. “Dead.”

  “How?” He loosened his grip on Caroline’s poor arms.

  If Violet’s death was anything like that of the last maid’s . . . He swallowed against the bile rising in this throat.

  “I found her with two laudanum bottles and an empty flask half an hour ago.” Caroline wrapped her arms about her middle as if trying to squeeze herself in two. “I don’t know where she got them.”

  “Let’s have you sit down.” He needed a chair too.

  Caroline shook her head furiously. “Yesterday I sent her to Reed’s mercantile while the men fixed the elevator pulley.” She waved her handkerchief at the offending apparatus. “I’d seen one of the handymen before and thought he might be the sort to recognize the maids, plus I’d caught him in the laundry room, where he had no reason to be. I sent her so I could keep my eye on him.”

  If only Nicholas could’ve fixed the contraption himself. “But I saw those men before they left. They didn’t seem to be acting peculiar.” If they’d recognized Violet . . . were Josephine and Effie in danger?

  “No, it wasn’t them. Violet returned from Reed’s crying. Told me a man cornered her in the store and dragged her out. Told her the other shoppers shouldn’t be forced to breathe the same air as her.”

  “Terrible.” But why hadn’t Caroline told him this last night? Not that he could have done anything. Hunting the man down and giving him what for would’ve only ruined Violet’s ability to shelter with him—and that of any other woman seeking refuge.

  Last night, Violet’s smile had had a melancholy twist to it, but he’d seen that smile on her many times. He’d only smiled back and wished her good night.

  He’d hoped the maids could one day leave this place—find freedom from their past mistakes and society’s judgment—but maybe that would never happen. Twice he’d gotten an out-of-town business connection to hire a maid, only for one of the ladies to be found out and the other to return to prostitution after she’d been fired for not pleasing the housekeeper.

  Then there were the women who couldn’t reconcile their minds to being worthy of anything but death or abuse, letting their sins haunt them while they scrubbed the mansion’s floors, never finding the gumption to reenter good society.

  Maybe his mansion was more a prison than a sanctuary.

  And the escape Violet had chosen wouldn’t release her into a better world, considering she’d refused to believe in the God who warned of heaven and hell.

  He rubbed a hand against his suddenly warm eyes.

  If only these women’s problems were as easy to fix as a poorly tallied ledger.

  Caroline blew her nose. “She said the man dragged her into the alley, and when some ladies from the moral society passed by, she screamed out to them. But the drunkard informed them Violet was just a . . . just a . . . well, I can’t say it.”

  She wrung her dainty handkerchief and plopped onto the horsehair chair beside him. “And I stupidly told Violet she ought to be thankful he didn’t do more to her. That she’d have to brace herself to deal with the consequences of her poor choices for the rest of her life.” She sputtered, then burst into tears.

  Caroline was normally so helpful, so tame-tongued, so nurturing with the women who hid beneath his roof.

  “I’d just returned from seeing my sister,” she whispered.

  Ah. “So I take it your visit wasn’t pleasant?”

  She dropped her gaze into her lap. Her hands wrung her kerchief so hard her knuckles were turning white.

  She glanced up at him for a second before staring blankly at her dirty apron again. “My sister and I had a row, and I took my anger out on Violet.” Caroline trembled, despite the house being overly warm. “I killed Violet.”

  “No you didn’t.” Nicholas took her hands in his and shushed her. “That’s not true.”

  She pulled away. “Don’t try to console me. I should feel the consequences of my actions, as I told Violet she should.”

  His brass knocker thunked rapidly—Henri’s impatient tattoo. Was there a worse time for the man to drop by?

  What to do with Caroline? And his poor, departed maid? He ran a hand through his hair. “Where’s Violet now?”

  Caroline pulled in a rough breath and swiped at her eyes. “Mr. Parker took her body to the coroner about ten minutes ago.”

  “Nicholas?” The silhouette behind the door pressed against the windowpane. “I can see you.” Henri’s hot breath fogged the glass.

  Nicholas pulled Caroline up and steered her toward the servant’s door under the stairwell. “Get yourself together and retire for the night. Your duties for today are over. No argument.”

  He waited until Caroline’s sniffling was out of earshot, braced himself, and then unlocked the door.

  “Took you long enough.” Henri walked in without so much as a “May I come in?” “You really ought to hire yourself a butler again.”

  That wouldn’t happen. The moment Caroline had brought Effie to the mansion several months ago, he’d had to let go of his butler after discovering he occasionally went to the red-light district. Finding servants he could trust would be a monumental task. Thankfully Henri hadn�
��t seen any of the women for more than a few seconds. Roxanna normally served him when he dropped in.

  Henri threw his suit coat at the hall tree. “What do you have planned for tonight? I’m up for action, if that’s what you’ve got planned. Work at the mill’s been depressing.” Rubbing his hands together, he made his way to the study. “And who knows when I’ll have time to go prowling about the city with you again.”

  Nicholas dragged his hand down his face. “I’m not going out tonight.”

  “All right, then. A night in. It’s a shame you have an empty wine cellar. You know the laws have exceptions for personal vineyards.”

  “I don’t want any alcohol in this house.” Where had Violet gotten her liquor? He should lock up all medicines tonight to be safe. Did Josephine and Effie feel as desperate as Violet? Maybe he should have Caroline ask them how they’re feeling every week or so.

  “Don’t tell me you’re that rigid.” Henri tossed a glass paperweight between his hands. “Jesus drank wine.”

  Nicholas rolled his eyes. “Next time you’re over, bring a barrel of water with you, and pray for a miracle.”

  Henri leaned forward, a goofy grin lightening his face. “Well then, what shall we do to celebrate?”

  Nicholas closed his eyes and prepared himself to smile for whatever good news Henri was about to spill. He shouldn’t ruin Henri’s evening with bad tidings—not that he could confide in him about what was going on under his roof.

  Henri had known about Roxanna, but not the rest of them. He had once inquired if Roxanna would be open to entertaining his suit. But after Nicholas had explained his cousin’s situation, Henri had lost interest—though he’d seemed to accept her presence in the mansion. Roxanna and Caroline had sneaked the ladies in as servants for months now, knowing full well if people discovered his basement was full of ex-prostitutes, no one would believe they were former anything. Would Henri believe ill of him? His friend seemed more accepting of sinners than the Christians in this town, but would he believe everything was upright?

  “Well? How do you celebrate without anything good to drink?”

  Nicholas rubbed his eyes. “Meat. A steak the size of Texas. But my cook has the day off.”