“No wine, no steak . . .”
Nicholas’s stomach rumbled. Why not eat? “Let’s go to the hotel and celebrate whatever it is you haven’t told me.”
Henri slapped the desktop. “Mr. Padgett’s no longer my competitor. We’re partners now.”
Impressive. If ever a man was more prickly and standoffish than himself, it was Padgett. Not someone he pictured partnering with a man as quirky and carefree as Henri. But perhaps Henri liked collecting taciturn friends. “Padgett’s got a lot of connections.”
“And I know how to work people. It’s perfect.”
“Congratulations, buddy.”
The door opened, and Caroline walked in with tea.
Nicholas rose. “Miss O’Conner, I gave you orders.”
She gave him a wavering smile, her ghastly white face a sure sign she shouldn’t be working. “I figured I could do one more thing before I—”
Henri stopped throwing around the paperweight, his gaze landing on the tray of cookies she’d brought in.
Caroline slammed the tray down on the end table, causing the creamer to tumble over, and about-faced. “You’re right, I’d best lie down.” She rushed out at a pace he’d never seen before.
He set the creamer upright and glanced back to see her disappear around the corner. What had spooked her?
“O’Conner?” Henri stared out the door, rubbing his bristly chin. “Do I know her? Where’s she from?”
“I don’t know.” Nicholas righted the teacups and sopped up the cream. Though he’d been acquainted with her for about a year, she’d only become his housekeeper a few months ago. His last one had quit because of his strange inability to hire any capable maids.
Caroline had never been a prostitute, so he’d never worried about her being seen, but the second she’d glimpsed Henri, she’d grown pale and ran. He thought back. Had she ever served Henri before?
No, that had always been Roxie.
So had Caroline lied to him about her past? Were lies the only way soiled doves could reenter polite society?
He rubbed at the tense knots in his shoulders. No, the story Caroline had told him made sense. But did she know Henri? The man occasionally went to a tavern and played a round of cards, but he’d often derided men foolish enough to flirt with disease and death by visiting sporting women. So he couldn’t know Caroline’s sister. Where else might she have seen him that would cause such a reaction? He’d have to ask her later. “So how about dinner—in the public eye, behaving like we ought?”
“I shall never behave like I ought. It’d take the fun out of living.” Henri let the chair fall forward. The front legs hit the floor with a thwack. “Maybe we can swing by Miss King’s and bring her along.”
Nicholas jerked his head. “Whatever would possess you—”
“A man as glum as you needs a pretty woman on his arm.”
“I told you she was taken.”
“And I told you it’s no fun behaving. Miss King doesn’t have a ring on her finger, does she?”
Nicholas glared at him. He’d not entertain this topic.
“Come now, you’d be less tense if we could get you a woman.” Henri tugged down on his green vest that had wriggled up his paunch. “And I’d only set you up with the marrying kind.” Henri shoved him on the shoulder as he passed out of the room.
“She’d find me wanting, just as Gracie did.”
“You’re making excuses.” Henri bounded down the small staircase and grabbed their suit coats. “You have money enough to treat the next one like a queen. Relax.”
Nicholas caught the coat Henri threw at him and worked the buttons through stiff holes. Marriage would solve some of his problems. If he was married, he and his wife could probably oversee a house for recovering prostitutes without risking accusations of impropriety. But what woman of quality would dare be involved?
Caroline would. And she had quite the compelling reason.
Maybe he should consider marrying her. She wasn’t bad to look at with her dark auburn hair and green eyes, a combination of dark and light—like Lydia.
He shoved away the image of Miss King’s pale blues and hustled after Henri, letting the front door bang shut with the wind. The thud of Violet’s coffin lid would soon sound with the same finality—and hardly anyone would hear. Would he even be able to get to her before she was unceremoniously buried? If his late wife’s funeral had attracted no mourners, why would anyone besides the undertaker bother to witness Violet being lowered into the ground?
How long could he continue this ministry when nothing seemed to make a difference?
But there was the bright spot of Roxanna’s good fortune—she’d written him, and by all accounts, the preacher indeed had told the truth about forgiving her past and had married her right off.
And how else could Nicholas make up for his own past except to continue on?
Quitting was not an option.
And neither was befriending Lydia King.
10
“How’s your steak?” Sebastian speared a piece and popped it into his mouth. “I’ve always said steak should be seasoned with nothing but salt and pepper, but there’s something else here. And I find it to be”—he chewed slowly, his eyes studying the ceiling—“interesting.”
The men at the table behind Lydia erupted into laughter. She knew they weren’t laughing at Sebastian making small talk about meat, since they’d laughed throughout the evening, but Sebastian was rather absurdly fixated on parceling out every dish set before him. Which might have been amusing if his fixation on food preparation and presentation didn’t seem to portend how dinner conversations would go for the rest of her life.
She needed to steer the conversation away from food. “So, if at some point you decide to stop pursuing elected positions and return to law, what would you expect me to do?”
“Whatever you like.”
She played with her fork. “What if I chose to read all day?”
“That would be a waste of time. But if it’d make you happy, I could give you a book allowance. Though I tend to agree with Mother; the Bible is the only reading material a woman needs.”
“How much would the allowance be?” She’d never had enough money for books—that’s why she had so few and reread so many.
“How many books would you need to waste money on? Too bad we don’t have a library in town.”
Her passion . . . a waste.
She sighed. “Yes, too bad.”
“With the population growing, I’m sure the town will build one someday, and then you could borrow to your heart’s content.” Sebastian used his bread to sop the juices. “Until then, social clubs could occupy you.”
“Yes, I’ll need to be occupied.” If for nothing else but to escape his ramblings about politics and the proper texture of cornbread. “If Teaville ever got one, would you mind if I volunteered there?”
“As long as you don’t ignore the children to do so.”
Children. She pushed around her steak. How many did he want? No, she wasn’t having that discussion right now. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
The restaurant’s door flew open, and the redheaded man she’d seen with Mr. Lowe several days ago blew in. The stout man waved at a few people, then stopped at a booth beside the door, slapping one of the seated diners on the back with a laugh.
Mr. Lowe came in behind him and handed his hat to a hotel employee. Of course Mr. Lowe would come here to eat; it was his hotel, after all.
She inched toward the wall but then stopped herself. What was she doing, trying to blend in with the wall like she’d used to while reading a novel during science class?
She straightened back up, speared a slice of steak, and took a huge bite. Cold.
“Do you not agree, Lydia?”
“What?” She blinked at Sebastian. What had he said?
“The potatoes?”
She tried not to cringe as she ventured a reply. “Good.”
Thankfully he found that res
ponse adequate and took the dessert menu from the ledge beside them to peruse.
Mr. Lowe tramped toward an empty table in the back corner. His jaw was tight, his posture slack, and once he sat, his gaze stayed fixed on the rolled silverware he fiddled with. Every few seconds, he pinched the bridge of his nose.
Was he crying?
She squinted against the hazy restaurant lighting. His eyes and cheeks seemed dry.
Perhaps he had a headache. She could sympathize—she’d had one for the last hour.
Mr. Beauchamp sauntered over to their table and knocked Sebastian on the shoulder with a meaty fist. “How are you doing this fine night, Little?”
“You’re in fine spirits, Beauchamp, and no wonder. I heard your news about joining up with Padgett.”
“Yes, my very good news.” Mr. Beauchamp switched his gaze from Sebastian to her, his gaze far too probing, his smile embellished. “I hear you two are to be congratulated as well.”
She sucked a breath through clenched teeth.
“Don’t rush the lady. We’ve not declared anything official. Though I’m smitten—how could I not be?” Sebastian winked at her.
Mr. Beauchamp looked at her for a second, his smile looking less authentic by the second, then gave his attention back to Sebastian. “I look forward to working with you now that we have such close partners. One can never have too many connections.”
“No.” Sebastian glanced toward Mr. Lowe. “Though I don’t understand why you’d want some of them.”
Mr. Beauchamp looked at his gloomy friend, and his put-on smile faltered. “He’s a decent chap.”
“A self-righteous chap,” Sebastian sneered.
“It pays to have someone on every side, doesn’t it, Little?”
Sebastian’s gaze twitched toward her for a second and then returned to Mr. Beauchamp. “Of course.”
Mr. Beauchamp’s green eyes landed on her again, and she dropped her gaze, grabbing the salt shaker.
Once Mr. Beauchamp left their table, Sebastian added more sugar to his tea. “I hope Lowe’s not causing you too much trouble.” He took a sip, muttered, then added more sugar. “I know Mother says you have to twist a penny out of him to prove your worth, but if you can’t get anything from him, I won’t fault you.”
She exhaled and smiled a little. Would he truly not care if she failed to do as he and his mother wished? She tried to read his countenance, to find the truth behind his eyes.
His facial features were softer than normal as he gazed upon her—until his dinner distracted him again.
She glanced at Mr. Lowe and sighed. Whether or not Sebastian cared if she won over Scrooge, she did. She wanted to convince Mr. Lowe that she wasn’t as selfish as he thought her to be, that she did want to help the underprivileged. “I appreciate your concern, but he’s not bothering me in the least. I’ll get something from him though. Just watch.”
“I hope you do.” Sebastian sniggered. “That Pharisee needs to be taken down a notch.”
Pharisee? Mr. Lowe hadn’t sounded Pharisaical in his office a few days ago. Hard-nosed, maybe.
Sebastian’s eyes flitted toward the door, where two men she didn’t know entered. With a quick dab to his lips, he scooted himself away from the table. “If you don’t mind, I need to talk to those gentlemen. Boring business stuff—wouldn’t interest you.” He set down his napkin and excused himself.
Blowing out a breath, she stared at her barely touched plate but couldn’t find the will to figure out for Sebastian what extra spice the cook had put on her now-cold steak.
Mr. Beauchamp slid into a chair across from Mr. Lowe and rumbled a steady stream of chatter as he flipped through his menu. Mr. Lowe smiled when his friend laughed, but the merriment in Mr. Beauchamp’s chuckle wasn’t mirrored in his friend’s eyes.
And then, suddenly, Mr. Beauchamp abandoned their table with a shouted greeting to an older gentleman entering the restaurant. The two of them headed toward the corner where Sebastian was speaking to a man who didn’t seem very interested in Sebastian’s topic.
How she felt for the poor stranger.
Her eyes flitted back to Mr. Lowe. Sitting alone.
Well, it seemed it had turned into a night of business. How could one more attempt hurt? Swiping crumbs from her lap, she tried to breathe in such a way as to tamp down her heartbeat. She’d have to get used to ignoring her desire to sit in a corner with a book when there were campaigns to finance and donations to obtain.
She walked over to his table and lifted her chin. “Good evening, Mr. Lowe. It seems we’ve both lost our dinner partners, so I thought I’d come over and ask if you’ve given any more thought to funding our quilting project?”
“Miss King, please—”
“Or perhaps I could . . .” She wetted her lips and prepared to state the amount of money Sebastian wanted. Even if Mr. Lowe was a man of wealth, it was hard to ask for more money than most would see in three years’ time. “I was hoping to get you to consider a campaign donation to Sebastian Little. He’s sure that, with your known desire for moral strictness, you’d back his plans to clean up the town and be willing to pledge a generous one thousand dollars to—”
Mr. Lowe snorted, though there was an amused glint in his eyes—a marked improvement from the sour expression he’d worn earlier. “A thousand?”
She put on a smile and attempted to make it look heartfelt. “Or any other sizeable donation you’d like to give to his campaign. Though I’d settle for the thirty dollars for the sewing machines.”
He picked up his spoon and twirled it in his hand, watching her intently. “How many times do you plan to ask me for this thirty dollars?”
“As many times as it takes.” What was so terrible about providing people with blankets? “You know, if I were you, this wouldn’t be such a hard decision. Surely, the cost of our entire project can’t be more than what you carry around in your pocket.”
“If you were me?” Nicholas couldn’t believe Lydia had the nerve to invade his dinner to pester him about donations again.
Why she and everyone else thought they could spend his hard-earned cash better than he could was beyond him. People expected generosity from everyone but themselves.
“The cost of two sewing machines won’t break your bank.” Lydia’s voice was contrite, but he still saw hardness in her eyes.
He sighed. Would it hurt him to give her thirty dollars? He’d wasted more than that before. Surely she’d stop pestering him then.
Yet being pestered by her wasn’t all that bad.
But if he was going to give her money, he’d do it his way.
“Let’s say you were me.” He set down his spoon and folded his hands atop the table. “Would your top priority be sewing machines?”
She caught her lip with her teeth, but kept her gaze steady.
He really should stand up in a lady’s presence, so he shoved himself out of his chair, maintaining her gaze without blinking. He shouldn’t make her squirm too long, even if her expressions were currently entertaining.
The longer she remained silent, the more obvious it became she truly was going to come back to pester him again and again over thirty dollars.
Stubborn.
Confound it all, he liked that. This woman had the kind of personality he could groom. She could help save the world—if she knew what to save it from. “I’ll make this easier. If you had excess money, what charities would you choose?”
“The quilting project—”
“Anything besides those infernal machines.” If the top of his chair hadn’t been made of sturdy wood, it would’ve splintered in his hands.
She looked toward the ceiling and sighed. “I’d have to think.”
“Listen, I agree we’re called to help the lowly, but I’ve seen people do a lot of damage in the name of God’s work.” He glanced at one of the men in Henri’s group. “Paul didn’t care why the gospel was preached so long as it was. But why settle?”
“I realize you don
’t think much of me. But I don’t need you to . . . I’ll just let you return to your dinner.” She pivoted.
“No, wait.” He clasped her arm and turned her back. “You have guts. That’s worth something. But what I want to know is if you care, truly care, for the unfortunate.”
She kept her eyes level with his collarbone. “Of course I do.”
“And are you willing to get your hands dirty, or do you expect someone else to do that for you?”
“I don’t shy away from difficult things.” She crossed her arms. “I’m here fighting for the quilting project though the ladies told me you were hopeless, aren’t I?”
Hopeless? He swallowed a growl. Those moral-society ladies. In years past, none had come back once he’d sent them packing—though he’d been nice to Mrs. and Miss Wisely. But he wouldn’t fund silly projects just because the people asking for donations were decent.
But the unwavering defiance Lydia possessed in the face of failure was something he couldn’t plant inside anyone.
Mrs. Little could never help Lydia harness her talents for God. Maybe he’d volunteer to help the moral society groom one of its members to think their projects through. “All right, Lydia—tell you what I’ll do. I want you to write down three things you think I should fund. Don’t discuss this with the Littles or your ladies’ group. Will you agree to that?”
At her nod, he continued. “You said if you were me, these decisions would be easy, so imagine yourself in my position when you choose.” He crossed his arms. “If I see sewing machine on your list, I’ll read no further. Give your wishes to my secretary by eight next Wednesday morning. If they’re worthy and sane, I’ll grant all three.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Three wishes?”
Maybe that wasn’t the smartest way to put it, but he didn’t care about semantics. “Yes, but please don’t come to me again pleading for those quilts. I really do mean no on that.”
“I suppose you do.”
“No supposing at all.”
“Tell Mr. Black he should expect me no later than Wednesday morning at 7:59.”
11
A Heart Most Certain Page 7
