“Lord, help me find something worthwhile quickly.” Despite whispering, her voice echoed in the stairwell. As she made her way up, she looked behind her a couple times. At the door at the top, she paused, heart pounding in her throat. Was the office empty this time? After listening as long as she dared, she wedged the key into the lock.
The doorknob turned halfway, then halted. Her heart sunk. Did Mr. Falstaff give her the wrong key? Wiggling the key, she twisted and jiggled until her insides turned into mush. She rattled the doorknob one last time and almost fainted when she heard a soft click.
She rushed inside and leaned against the back of the door. Catching her breath, she waited to make sure she heard no footsteps on the stairs. The light of dusk would only give her minutes to look through files. Turning on the lamps or pushing aside the shades would increase her risk of getting caught.
God, send me to whatever I need right away.
Padding across the floor, she stopped in front of two filing cabinets. Sliding out the drawers as noiselessly as possible, she glanced through the tabs, but they were simply last names—nothing out of the ordinary. A pile of haphazard papers in the back of the bottom drawer caught her eye. She flipped through articles and loose papers until the bottom of the stack yielded a dark red ledger. There was no title or any kind of indication of its content. The pages were filled with random lists of names and numbers.
At the desk, she sat and flipped to the ledger’s most recent page. The last date entered was yesterday’s. She ran her fingers along the names, and one caught her eye. D. Emma. Had she ever met a woman who went by an initial? Men, yes, but not any women she knew of.
The D could stand for Dirty. And she knew of a Dirty Emma—she would’ve been appalled at knowing such information only weeks ago. She scanned for other initialed names. Almost all were surnames, two she recognized as men her father had muttered about owing. Then she hit on another woman’s name—I. Mary. Surely Emma and Mary weren’t last names.
Her hands smoothed the pages, the markings rubbing off onto her palms. Why did this book give her butterflies?
The last date was yesterday, and yet it was buried in a back drawer. She slammed it shut and hugged it close. Maybe.
Opening a desk drawer, she riffled through pens and ink and stamps and—
The door opened and a man’s shadow blocked the dim afternoon light for a split second. Her vision grew dark and her blood pounded in her head, roaring in her ears. How had she forgotten to lock the door?
Could she slip down onto the floor beneath the desk without catching the intruder’s eye, or had he seen her already? Considering her heart beat as loudly as a blacksmith’s hammer against an anvil, hiding likely wouldn’t help.
“Miss King?” Mr. Falstaff turned on the wall’s gas light. “Could you not find the lanterns?”
She stood, hitting her thighs against the opened middle drawer, and hissed.
“Are you all right?” Sebastian’s secretary walked over, looking pointedly at the open drawers.
“I’m all right, just a bit of a bumbler.” Could he see the panic in her eyes?
He looked a second time at the ledger in front of her. “I thought you were after the Hammersmith file.”
“I was . . . but I needed this too.”
“What is it?” He rounded the desk.
There was no use in trying to hide the book. “I don’t know, he said it was red, and yesterday’s entry would be”—she glanced down at the open pages—“Peter Toliver, and it is. Now that I found the correct ledger, I’ll get the Hammersmith folder.”
He put his hand up in a signal to stop. She schooled her features. She’d fight to look innocent until the end.
“That’s why I came. I put Hammersmith’s files over there only yesterday.” He pointed to a table stacked with books and folders. “Sebastian probably told you to look in the vertical file.”
She nodded.
His gaze strayed back to the book under her trembling hands. “Would you mind if I take a look at the ledger for a minute?”
“Of course not.” She wouldn’t pick the book up and hand it to him lest her shaking hands give her away. She got out of his way and tried her best to sound carefree. “I’ll just go get that Hammersmith file, then.” The overeagerness in her voice grated on her ears.
He looked at her a little suspiciously, but he didn’t say anything.
Trying not to watch him over her shoulder, she shuffled over to the table and found the Hammersmith file within seconds.
Mr. Falstaff had sat down and was running his finger down columns. He scratched his chin and flipped back a few pages.
“Do I need to wait?”
He spooked in his chair and then shut the book. “Mr. Little asked you to bring him this?” The incredulity in his voice made her heart skip.
He didn’t believe her.
“Yes,” she squeaked. She could have kicked herself.
He handed it to her, and she tucked the volume under her arm and tried not to melt in relief. Whatever she had, it must be something important, considering how Mr. Falstaff seemed suspicious of her having it. But what was it exactly?
Mr. Falstaff’s eyes were sharp and penetrating. He knew what the book was and was likely trying to figure out if she did. What if he was involved with Sebastian’s family’s misdeeds? It would be best to act the dense, put-upon sweetheart. “I’m so glad you came. It would’ve taken me forever to find the Hammersmith file without you, and Sebastian really seemed to want it before he finished his dinner meeting.”
“Hammersmith,” he repeated. His eyebrows met in the middle for a second before he stepped back for her to pass. “I’m sorry for holding you up.”
“Your key.” She fished it out of her pocket and handed it to him, careful not to touch him lest he feel her clammy hands.
“I believe I’ll do a little tidying before I leave.”
She let out a sharp exhale of relief. Most gentlemen would have offered to escort her back to Sebastian.
But Mr. Falstaff did seem quite ruffled.
Had he realized she was here without permission and would trail her to see where she went? Or was he staying behind to destroy evidence before turning her into the police for thievery?
She couldn’t force a good-bye out of her mouth, and Mr. Falstaff did nothing but stare at her with unsteady eyes. Evidently he wasn’t moving until she left.
Finally, she mustered up a nod of farewell and walked out the door.
She prayed Nicholas was home now. For what good would another note do if he didn’t return soon?
She kept glancing over her shoulder to make sure Mr. Falstaff wasn’t trailing her. But what if he was doing something far worse? What if he went to Sebastian?
She raced to the mansion, praying everything would be all right while uncertainty wrapped itself around her heart, squeezing until she was no longer certain prayers would help.
44
Leaning heavily against the doorjamb to help him balance the weight of a drowsy Robbie clinging to his neck, Nicholas knocked on the servant’s entrance door again.
The flicker of a candle in the window caused him to sigh in relief. He glanced back at Angel, who refused to get close to him. “They’re coming.”
The girl had refused to go inside the mansion’s front entrance for some reason, and since ice crystals were already taking over the windowpanes, having them sleep in the stable wasn’t an option.
“Who is it?” Josephine’s annoyed voice sounded behind the door.
If he wasn’t mistaken, his maid was holding a candle in one hand and a club of some sort in the other. The thought made him smile, though he’d be sure to wipe it off before she opened the door. She’d clobber him if he looked at her wrong, he had no doubt.
“It’s Nicholas, and I’ve got the children.” Well, two of them anyway. He shook his head and swallowed against disappointment. Two of them were better than none. But he couldn’t erase the sound of Angel hanging over the
train car’s railing, crying for her sister.
How Pepper had remained standing defiantly among the depot’s crowd listening to her sister’s high-pitched, frantic pleading, he couldn’t fathom.
What awaited her at the brothel she’d taken her siblings to? He’d offered her escape, and yet she believed she had to return.
But since she’d had the gall to ask him for money in exchange for her siblings, he’d decided getting the younger ones away was more important than staying to convince her she should and could leave.
The chain dropped and the door opened.
Josephine looked at the children and sighed while rubbing her eyes. “Why aren’t you putting them in the seamstress’s room like last time? There’s only three cots down here.”
He’d ignore his cranky maid’s ungratefulness, considering it was after eleven. “The girl didn’t want to go inside the empty house with only me.”
Effie scuttled out from one of the back rooms, yawning, but within seconds she sported a soft smile amid her cloud of blond hair. “What girl?”
He turned slightly and tipped his head outside toward the shadows, grateful to see Angel’s silhouette. He didn’t want to go traipsing through the trees calling for a runaway at this hour. “Angel.”
“Oh, Annie’s girl. Come here, darling.” Effie held out a hand and made her smile even wider. “Just us girls down here—no one comes visiting.”
Angel stepped forward, but her head was held at a suspicious angle as she tried to see into the darkness.
“There’s a girl about your sister’s age with us now, but she’s asleep. No one else. You can look around if you want.”
Once Angel finally took a hesitant step inside, Nicholas blew out a breath that turned straightaway into a yawn.
“Give me this one.” Josephine held out her hands as if awaiting a crate of groceries or a basket of laundry.
The boy tightened his grip.
If only he’d fallen back asleep after they’d tumbled out of the coach. “Maybe I should bring him in.” He jiggled his shoulder against the boy’s chin. “Would you like me to tuck you into bed?”
Robbie nodded but clung even tighter.
Josephine let her hands fall with exaggeration. “Guess I have to make up a bed anyway. On the floor, I suppose.”
“That’ll be all right. As long as it’s in the same room with your sister, yes?”
Again the boy nodded, so Nicholas stepped inside and headed for the chair next to the table with the candle. He had to get off his feet before he fell over with exhaustion. The boy didn’t weigh much, but Robbie hadn’t let him put him down for hours.
Effie came out of the back room and grabbed some linens from a small trunk. She came over to smooth Robbie’s curls. “Just give us a minute and then you can sleep.” Her gaze suddenly shifted to the table and she frowned.
Beside the candle lay a newspaper. His name at the top. “Oh.” He shifted the boy to his other shoulder. “I see my story’s out.”
“You might not want to read that until morning, not if you want a good night’s sleep anyway.” She put her hand on it and pulled the paper away.
He stopped her. “Oh, I know I was intentionally jabbing the hornets’ nest. But the question is if my trust in Greene is well placed or whether he’s embellished.” He pulled the paper toward him. Might as well read it while his maids got things ready for Robbie and Angel. Otherwise they’d have to drag his snoozing carcass upstairs if he sat inactive for long. “How have the townsfolk reacted, do you know?”
She reluctantly let go, shaking her head.
He smiled at the huge title above the fold. This orphanage idea would be the buzz of the town. He already had his first tenants, so hopefully this article would bring about some volunteers. Surely Caroline could watch the children until then, though she had plenty of housekeeping chores—
Lydia’s name atop the small right-hand column caught his attention.
SEBASTIAN LITTLE CELEBRATES
ENGAGEMENT TO LYDIA KING
He looked for the date, though it had to be one of last week’s papers, considering his article was featured.
But the type blurred no matter how much he blinked.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d do.” Effie made a sad clicking noise. “I thought for sure she felt what you felt for her.”
He blinked up and frowned at his maid. “What I felt for her?”
“You might think you’re gruff and beyond needing human company, but with Miss King around, you were more relaxed than I’ve ever seen you.”
“No, I wasn’t. She frustrated me out of my wits half the time.”
She found her smile again. “Yeah, that too.” Her frown returned, and she squeezed his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
She moved off with her handful of sheets, and his eyes couldn’t resist returning to the big block letters that had made the beat of his heart disappear.
With some more blinking, and breathing slowly and steadily, he was able to get the words back into focus. A very ordinary engagement announcement. A list of their achievements, a list of their family, and a glowing political endorsement to cap it off. But then:
Miss King is a lucky young lady to be chosen to enter the Little family, a fairy tale come true.
A fairy tale? Did the newspaper’s editor mean to insinuate Lydia had found true love or was shucking rags for riches?
Tripe straight from silly dime novels.
Money wouldn’t give her a happily-ever-after—it certainly hadn’t for Gracie. Lydia might be banking on Sebastian’s money to keep her mother alive and them off the street, but that’s all it would do—if it lasted.
And to think, he’d meditated on Pastor Wisely’s words the whole trip out to Dodge City and back and had decided the man was right. He’d returned home determined not to hesitate, but to pursue the woman he loved.
And in love he was. He’d come to grips with it and had been more excited to return to Teaville than ever before.
But love couldn’t fix this. No . . . he’d not fallen in love—he’d fallen into folly, just as he had with Gracie.
But this time, God saved him from pairing himself up with another woman who’d toss him away if he didn’t spend enough. He picked up the newspaper and lobbed it toward the wastebasket near the door.
He should be grateful.
Should be relieved.
But now all he wanted to do was find some more things to throw.
A soft snore sounded near his ear. The boy had finally gone back to sleep.
But he’d not be snoring anytime soon. Effie was right. He’d not be sleeping well tonight, if at all.
Josephine appeared in front of him again, her hands pulling Robbie out of his hold. “Caroline has been waiting up for you every night since you left. So find her and then send her down with more blankets, if you would.”
“Waiting up?” Since when did his housekeeper ever wait up for him?
Josephine rearranged the boy none too gently in her arms, but thankfully Robbie slept right through the jostling. “She’s been in a fuss, worrying over you for days now. Make sure you find out what she wants before you turn in. I think it has something to do with that lady who’s been here so often lately.”
So Caroline was waiting up to tell him about Lydia? He didn’t need to hear what he already knew.
Effie walked out of the shadows, hands clasped in front of her. “Though if you don’t feel up to it, Mr. Lowe, I’m sure her news will keep till morning.”
Josephine huffed and shrugged. “Suit yourself, but by the way she’s been acting, I wouldn’t.” She turned and walked Robbie off into the room where his sister had disappeared earlier.
“I’ll say a prayer for you.”
He looked down at Effie’s hand lightly clasped about his arm and tried to respond to her, but after finding his throat and facial muscles unresponsive, he attempted to give her what he hoped she saw as a grateful nod. Had she ever mentioned God or prayer befor
e? She’d listened to him politely when he’d spoken of his faith, but never had he seemed to convince her that God cared. However, he couldn’t come up with a response, so he got up to head back outside.
“You could use the servant’s corridor if you—”
He slammed the door shut on Effie’s voice and stumbled into the darkness.
The frosty air did nothing to clear his brain or soothe the ache that burned from his heart up into the back of his throat.
Lydia . . .
He trudged up the sidewalk but slipped on a patch of ice. He crashed down on one knee before he caught himself with his hands. The coldness of the bricks seeped into his palms, and he let it spread up into his heart.
With a grunt he shoved himself up to stand, found his footing on the untrustworthy ground, then forced himself to step forward with more wariness than before.
As he would need to do every day from now on—with any woman who dared cross his path again.
The mansion’s windows were dark, vacuous pits in his three-story sepulcher. Unfortunately, he’d not find restful sleep within its walls as the bodies in the tombs several blocks west did—not for weeks or months most likely.
Inside, the heat was set too low for him to remove his coat. “Caroline!”
His yell echoed up the entry stairwell and filled the dark, empty foyer.
While turning on the gas lamps, he called again. After no answer, he attempted to unknot his laces but finally had to yank off his stubborn shoes.
Elbows on his knees, holding his shoes in his hands, he stared at the mail across from him, gritting his teeth in hopes of keeping his thoughts blank.
After a bit, he called out Caroline’s name again, but the roughness in his throat shuttered his voice to barely a whisper. His housekeeper wouldn’t have heard him even if she’d been sitting beside him.
He chucked his shoes across the hall and closed his eyes.
Did he want to cry or do something else?
What he really should do was go upstairs, crawl into bed, and let sleep erase the hurt caused by loosening the chains he’d so wisely kept tightened about his heart until recently.
A Heart Most Certain Page 31
