“I see.” A dark cloak of a mood settled over Slade. “What happened next?”
Mrs. Stanley frowned, apparently at a loss with his curious line of questioning. “Hammonds gave me her bag, I carried it to her—she was having her breakfast. I addressed her as Miss Lawless. When I did, she jumped up and lit out of here. She even spilled her handbag in her haste. We barely had time to gather up her things before she and her trunks were gone in a cab.”
Which explained her missing the little item now in his pocket. He thought of the care with which it was folded. And of the ribbon that secured its contents. Her care with the scrap of letterhead showed the value with which she endowed it. And his name was written on it. Intriguing.
“Sir?”
Slade forced his attention back to the housekeeper. “What is it?”
She hefted the linens she carried. “May I make the bed in here now?”
Slade shook his head. “No. Give me a moment, Mrs. Stanley, would you?” He stared pointedly at her, until she finally nodded and then stepped out of the room. Her footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Alone again, Slade walked to the room’s window, leaning his shoulder against the casing and bending a knee. With his arms crossed over his chest, he looked down upon Public Garden. But the familiar landscape couldn’t hold his attention. In fact, the world outside looked strange to him. He felt unconnected to it. He’d sheltered a Lawless whelp in his home.
And held her in his arms. And kissed her. With one vicious swipe, he scrubbed his fingers over his lips, as if he could wipe away the deed. What a fool he’d been. Those helpless tears, the wide-eyed looks. But at least now he knew why the girl struck such a familiar chord in his memory. She looked just like her mother. He’d never met Catherine Jane Wilton-Humes. But he knew her. Slade saw himself as a boy gazing up at Catherine’s smiling face in the portrait Ardis Wilton-Humes kept in her suite at Cloister Point.
But it wasn’t only from his visits with his grandmother Isabel that he knew of Catherine Lawless. If only that were all. Hadn’t he, like his mother, been forced to live with her image all his life? In truth, Catherine’s specter had killed his delicate mother and followed his father to his grave.
Dwelling on that, feeding his steadily darkening mood, Slade recalled yesterday’s events. Two things immediately stood out. One, Hannah Lawless had fainted when he said his name. So, she knew the name—probably from its being scribbled on the Wilton-Humes letterhead—but hadn’t known the face. And two, once he’d identified himself, she’d reacted with venom and no small amount of wariness. Slade quirked up his mouth. He’d do well to reserve for himself some wariness toward her.
Because she’d sought him out last night—in his home, even knowing full well who he was. What then was her game? Catching his hazy reflection in the windowpane, Slade looked his ghostly self in the eye and wondered how it was that he didn’t feel the depth of anger and, yes, hatred that he should feel for her. Instead, all he felt was a disappointing sense of loss. Of what? Or whom?
Slade shifted his stance and searched his soul. Yes, he harbored strong feelings of family fidelity, a righteous sense of old wrongs that needed righting. But not the hateful rage he’d always expected he’d feel if chance or fate were to put him face-to-face with a Lawless. Was that because this Lawless was a mere girl? A soft and pretty young thing?
Slade dismissed that notion. Mother’d been both of those things when her life was ruined by Catherine Wilton-Humes. With that thought came the surge of anger, the mistrust of anything Lawless. In the window’s pane, Slade watched his mouth straighten into a grim line and found himself swearing to his mother’s memory that he would finish what Hannah’s mother’d begun more than twenty-five years ago with his father. He also swore that he’d finish what he himself had started with her last night.
With that thought came a revelation. Slade straightened up, focusing on a far steeple that rose above the other rooftops. By God, now he knew her game, why a Lawless dared come to Boston—and right at this particular time. A slanting grin split his face.
He’d give her a game of cat and mouse she wouldn’t soon forget. He admired her courage, but too bad her efforts would be for naught. Slade laughed out loud, wondering how long it would take her to realize that she was now the mouse to his cat. Fingering the scrap of Wilton-Humes stationery in his pocket, he grinned. Thanks to her guilty haste, he knew exactly where to find her. As he strode across the room, intent on his mission, his parting hope was that she would survive her foray into Cloister Point long enough for him to get there and exact his pound of flesh from her.
He called out, “Mrs. Stanley. You may make the bed now.”
CHAPTER THREE
Clad in her best visiting dress of bronze satin, her hands folded demurely in her lap, Hannah sat in the drawing room at Cloister Point while her great-aunt poured tea. An outward picture of calm, inside Hannah was a mishmash of raw nerves. She sent up a prayer of thanks to Mama for her repeated instruction on a lady’s deportment during a formal call. Because not for anything would she give these rigid Easterners, blood kin or not, any reason to fault her upbringing, and thereby Mama.
Eyeing her great-aunt and great-uncle, two long-nosed, white-haired specimens, Hannah also counted herself grateful for the deferential silence in the room. She was supposed to be absorbing her grief and shock over just finding out her grandparents were no longer amongst the living. But she felt nothing for people she’d never known, people who’d declared their daughter dead just because they didn’t approve of the man she loved.
Instead, Hannah spent the moment fearing that any grief or shock she’d experience would come later at the hands of Slade Garrett. For certainly the man now knew she was a Lawless. Coupled with that terror was her discovery, on the way here, that her ribbon-tied hanky was missing from her handbag. Heaped onto that was her certainty that there was only one place it could be. And hence, she was left with the fatalistic acceptance that once it was discovered, she herself would no longer be amongst the living.
“You’re awfully pale. Are you quite all right?”
Hannah jerked her attention back to the moment, starting when she realized Cyrus was now standing over her, offering her a cup of tea. “I apologize, Uncle. It’s, um, just the shock of learning my grandparents have passed on.” She took the cup and saucer, merely holding them for the moment.
“So sorry to have to give you the news. It’s still a bit raw to us, too. Poor Hamilton and Evelyn. Only three months ago in a carriage accident. It doesn’t seem possible that my older brother is gone. And yet you say you heard nothing about it? Pity. We did send word. But wait. Your … mother sent you to us when? Perhaps you were already on your way here when she received word?”
“That could be. I’ve only just arrived in Boston.” She hoped he didn’t notice that hers was no real answer. Perched on the edge of a bird’s-eye-maple chair covered in blue damask, Hannah fingered the delicate china cup, bringing it to her lips. But as soon as her great-uncle turned away, she promptly set it down, unsampled, on a gold-inlaid table next to her chair.
So, her grandparents died two months before Mama and Papa had. Well, that didn’t change the facts or her evidence of Wilton-Humes involvement. It merely cast her suspicions onto Uncle Cyrus and his wife, Patience. Therefore, she’d taste her tea only after they drank theirs. Lord knows what they might be capable of.
Hannah darted a glance at her great-aunt. Seated on a medallion-backed sofa, the only large piece of furniture in the room other than Hannah’s chair, this sharp-eyed woman frightened her more than her uncle did. Because this imperious lady remained intimidatingly silent as she stared a hole through Hannah. Her chalky expression assured Hannah that she hadn’t missed her not tasting the tea. With every action a pointed one, the older woman picked up and sipped at her tea.
Just then, Uncle Cyrus cleared his throat. Hannah gladly gave him her attention, finding he now stood positioned beside the hearth and under portraits h
e’d said earlier were of her late grandparents. Looking up at them now, she saw only a cold man and a haughty woman who were complete strangers to her. How had these two produced a daughter as warm and loving as Mama?
“Quite the handsome couple, are they not?” Cyrus crooked an elbow up on the mantel, and went on as if he hadn’t asked her a question. “Still, it’s a shame your mother couldn’t have seen fit to allow you to visit while your grandparents were still alive. I think they would have found your striking resemblance to her quite … unsettling.”
Unsettling? Just as she’d hoped. Hannah feigned a dramatic sigh. “Yes. It is a shame. But then again, my mother was dead”—gasps from her aunt and uncle gave Hannah more satisfaction than was probably good for her—“to them all these years, since she married my father.”
“Quite. All those years ago.” Cyrus recovered beautifully, in Hannah’s estimation. “Your mother’s … defection was all the scandal. None of us ever recovered.”
“Oh, I’m sure it was awful for you, but you don’t appear to have done so poorly.” Hannah raised an eyebrow at the man and then did a slow sweep of the regal room. Just the furnishings alone—though surprisingly few in number—were probably worth more than the entire Lawless spread.
“Young lady?”
Hannah jumped. This was the first time Aunt Patience’d spoken since she’d entered the room. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Perhaps you’d best tell us exactly what your point is in coming here. Yours is a most unusual presentation. I find it quite odd that you would arrive within minutes of our own return from Nahant. And I don’t believe for a moment that Catherine sent you here. She detested us all. So, come, out with it.”
Hannah stared at the sharp old bird. Time for the lies. “You’re right as all outdoors, Aunt Patience. I do apologize for inconveniencing you with my presence.” Hannah paused, making a dramatic dismissive gesture at her own expense. “Oh, I never should have tried lying. I’m no good at it. But, you see, it is true that I came here hoping to confr—” A sharp thrill chased through her at her near slipup. “Uh, meet my grandparents. And now you tell me they’re both … gone. It’s all too sad.”
She looked down at her lap, twisting her fingers together and collecting her scattered thoughts. Taking a deep breath, she raised her head and pushed on. “I … well, I’ve had a falling-out with my parents. Life out West is just not for me. We had a terrible fight, and I left, telling them I intended to come here. I stopped along the way to visit with friends, so it’s taken me a while to arrive unannounced on your doorstep.” She peered intently at them. They were breathing, weren’t they?
With no encouragement or murmurs of sympathy from them, Hannah plowed another row of pure corn. “When my parents and I had our set-to, I up and told them that the Wilton-Humes family—every last one of them—could not be as cold and as hateful as they tried to make me believe you were. But Papa said you’d never accept me. And then he told me never to come back, should I darken Cloister Point’s doorway.”
She managed a long-suffering sigh here, turning purposely widened doe-eyes their way. “So you see, I made my choice. And now I’m at your mercy.”
Not one blasted peep did Uncle Cyrus or Aunt Patience make. Hannah wriggled in her chair when a trickle of sweat rolled slowly down her back. Had they turned to stone? Feeling a need to jog a reaction from these two, Hannah blurted out, “Oh, please don’t tell me he was right, that you’re greedy and grasping and back-stabbing and despica—”
“We take your point, young lady.” Aunt Patience then exchanged a look with Uncle Cyrus. “A rebellious child. How interesting, Cyrus. And she comes to us. I find that life’s ironies can be quite … satisfying.”
“Yes, quite, Patience dear.”
Hannah watched this bit of byplay between the two, assessing their reactions. They were falling into her trap. So, beyond the whoppers she’d already told, she figured now was the time to keep quiet. Either she’d get invited to stay or she’d be tossed out the door.
But apparently Aunt Patience wasn’t ready to welcome her into the fold just yet. “How unfortunate that your … set-to with your parents didn’t come sooner. As it is, we’re forced to be the ones who must heap more bad news onto your head. Your great-grandmother, Ardis McAllister Wilton-Humes, passed away six weeks ago.”
“Oh, no, don’t tell me that.” Hannah brought a hand to her mouth in genuine shock and sorrow. If Mama had loved that grand old lady, as Biddy’d told her and her sisters countless times, then Hannah held that same love in her own heart. And here she’d missed meeting her by six weeks. Realizing they were staring at her, waiting for her to say something, Hannah forced herself to speak up. “I’m reeling from all these deaths, as you must be. How did it happen—her death, I mean?”
Aunt Patience’s beady little blue eyes stared at her. “As you can figure, Grandmother Ardis was quite old. She didn’t see very well. On that awful night, she got up from bed, wandered into the hall, and fell down the stairs. Cracked open her skull. It was quite a gruesome … accident.”
Hannah clutched spasmodically at her own skirt. A coldness traveled up the back of her throat, closing it. She shook her head, feeling a terrible sickness invade her soul. These people are monsters. None of the deaths were accidents. They had Mama and Papa killed. She was suddenly sure of it, blindingly sure. And she’d just thrown herself on their “mercy”?
Aunt Patience added, “We’re still in mourning.”
“I see.” But she didn’t—not really. Because not one stitch of black clothing, not one wreath, or even an armband, adorned anyone or anything here. In mourning, were they?
Cyrus clapped his hands together suddenly. Hannah jumped as if he’d fired a gun at her. “Well then, with all the unpleasantness behind us, you must tell us how your dear mother is.”
That was twice he’d asked how Mama was. Could it be that they weren’t certain that their murderous plot had been carried out? Of course, she was acting on the premise that they indeed were guilty. Better to assume that and guard herself accordingly, than to be caught unawares and empty-handed. But Uncle Cyrus’s pointed questioning did confirm her belief that the only thing that could keep her alive was making them believe she thought everyone at home was alive and well. Hopefully, if they believed she didn’t suspect them of treachery, they’d feel no need to kill her. Especially if they thought her estranged from her parents and unlikely to contact them.
When she could see through the angry red haze that clouded her vision, Hannah answered her great-uncle. “My dear mother is not a topic I like to discuss—given my circumstances. I hope you don’t think me rude for saying so.”
“Quite the contrary, my dear niece. Forgive me for bringing her up. I assure you, we don’t spend an inordinate amount of time discussing her here.” He then exchanged a nod with his wife before turning back to Hannah. “Which means, I’m happy to say, you’ll find you won’t be discomfited while you stay here … for as long as you like.” With that, he came to attention, snapped his heels together, and bowed slightly to her.
Victory. It tied Hannah’s nerves in knots. She’d won her way in. Now to keep her body and soul together under this roof. She’d have to guard herself night and day against some “gruesome accident.” If her predicament weren’t so dire, it might almost be funny, for she was now truly the spider that got caught in its own web, only to put itself in danger of being eaten by bigger spiders. Rousing herself, she smiled in feigned delight. “Oh, thank you so much. You have no idea what this means to me.” And she meant that.
“Or to us.” Aunt Patience sized her up, looking like she was considering tasting her great-niece’s flesh.
Hannah’s insides roiled. The currents in this room threatened to pull her under. No one, including her, was saying what he or she meant. If she weren’t careful, she’d become just like them. But wasn’t she already?
Smoothing her expression, she jumped up and fluttered to each of them. She forced herself to
clasp her aunt’s and uncle’s hands in turn. She even managed to plant a dutiful-niece peck on their cheeks. To her surprise, their skin was warm and dry. Unlike hers at that moment.
That accomplished, and wanting with all her soul to be out of their presence, even if only for a few hours, she minced to the middle of the nearly bare, spacious room, clasped her hands together at her bosom, and chirruped, “I can hardly wait to see my room. I just know it will be as lovely as the rest of Cloister Point.”
Aunt Patience smiled. “Yes. Your room. I’ve just the one for you, my dear. You should feel quite comfortable there. Your mother occupied it … while she lived here.”
* * *
Her mother’s room. Wasn’t Aunt Patience just the most thoughtful thing? With the drapes drawn against the day’s light, Hannah lay atop the Louis XV bed. Disrobed down to her chemise, she held a damp cloth over her eyes. Not one ounce of strength or bravado remained in her body after waiting for the room to be opened and then overseeing her own unpacking.
Legs flung carelessly wide, she groaned out her success in gaining entry at Cloister Point. If every encounter with her aunt and uncle proved as draining as today’s, she’d be a gray-haired, wizened old hag inside of a week.
Being manipulative and underhanded was hard work, she mused, for someone who hasn’t honed those … talents. Nagging at her too was the tiny doubt that she could be completely wrong. What if the burned scrap of letterhead was simply what remained of the letter Uncle Cyrus’d said he sent to notify Mama of the family deaths?
Hannah groaned. What if none of these people were guilty? What if Slade Garrett was just as he seemed—something of a rake, but a gentleman, nevertheless? And what about her aunt and uncle? What if they were just as they seemed—haughty but honest, truly suffering through wrenching accidental losses, and taking her in out of the kindness of their hearts and their shared bloodlines?
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