Hayley paused on her way into the house. Stephen leaned against the terrace railing, ankles crossed, arms folded across his chest. The warm breeze ruffled his hair, and the sun glinted in the ebony strands. Dear God, her throat ached just looking at him. After scooting Callie inside with the promise of reading her a story after dinner, Hayley turned to him, ready to smile, but his somber gaze stilled her. She looked down and noticed he held a Gentleman's Weekly in his hand. A sense of foreboding prickled her skin.
"Is something wrong, Stephen?"
He regarded her with an unreadable expression. "I don't know how to ask this other than simply to ask. What is your connection to H. Tripp?"
His words shifted the ground beneath her feet and she locked her knees to steady herself. She felt the blood drain from her face, but she tried her best to hide her stunned distress. "I beg your pardon?"
"H. Tripp. The author. How are you associated with him?"
Hayley's mind spun, frantically searching for the proper words to say. How much did he know? And how on earth had he found out? Swallowing her dismay, praying her voice remained steady, she asked, "Why would you think I have any connection to him?"
Instead of answering, he opened the magazine and read,
…when each of my five were born, the missus and I looked at them and recalled the moment we'd made them … named them all based on where we'd loved. Good thing it was never by a stream or the poor thing would have been called "Atwater!"
He closed the magazine. "I'm sure you understand my question now."
Weakness wobbled her legs and she sank into a wrought-iron chair. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She'd guarded her secret for so long, she didn't know how to respond. And if Stephen had figured it out, how long before other people did? If she lost her income … she clenched her hands together until her knuckles whitened. That simply could not happen. She wouldn't let it. But under the circumstances, there was no point in attempting to lie to Stephen.
Drawing a resolute breath, she squarely met his gaze. "I am H. Tripp."
She'd expected her admission to upset him, or disgust him, but he merely nodded.
"Does anyone else know?"
"No. The publisher demands absolute secrecy—"
"With good reason," he broke in.
"Yes." She searched his eyes for some clue of his feelings, but his expression remained unreadable. "When Papa died, we desperately needed money. I refused to leave the children to take a governess or companion post. The income I receive from Gentleman's Weekly allows me to provide for them here." She rubbed her moist palms on her skirt. "I'm sure you're quite scandalized—"
"I'm not."
She waited for him to say more, but he remained silent. He might not be scandalized, but it seemed apparent he didn't approve. And the possibility of her secret becoming common knowledge filled her with dread. "I hope you will please consider not telling anyone about this. My livelihood depends on retaining my anonymity."
"I have no intention of doing anything that could harm your employment, Hayley. I shall not reveal your secret. You have my word."
Relief flooded her and she released a pent-up breath she hadn't even realized she held. "Thank you. I—"
"You're welcome. Please excuse me."
Before she could say another word, he opened the French windows and entered the house. Hayley stared after him and bit her bottom lip to stop its trembling.
Though he'd said nothing further, his abrupt, cold departure said it all.
Chapter 18
« ^ »
Stephen sat through dinner that evening stealing glances at Hayley, who blushed every time their eyes met. He tried to keep his mind on the chatter around him, but it proved impossible. His thoughts kept alternating between the amazing discovery that Hayley was H. Tripp, and the conversation he knew he had to have with her about his upcoming departure from Halstead.
Nathan joined the family, and as he was the center of attention after his fall, Stephen wasn't required to say very much. Which was just as well.
Hayley sat next to him, garbed in a plain gown. Although she talked to everyone, Stephen thought she seemed somewhat subdued. She tried several times to draw him into the conversation, but his comments were desultory at best.
Tomorrow. I'll tell her tomorrow. If I'm alone with her tonight, God only knows what will happen. That decided, Stephen excused himself immediately after the meal, claiming a headache. He headed toward the stairs, but had only made it halfway up the long flight of steps when Hayley caught up to him.
"Are you all right, Stephen?" she asked, touching his sleeve.
Stephen looked down at her hand, then into her eyes. She looked worried. "I'm simply tired and I have a headache," he lied. I'm not ready to tell you I'm leaving. And I have to get away from you or else we'll end up on the study sofa again and I'll finish what I started last night. Believe me, it's for your own good. You're not safe with me.
"May I get you a draught or tisane?"
Stephen shook his head. "No, thank you. I simply need some rest." He turned to go.
"Stephen?"
Stephen paused and looked down at her and almost lost his resolve. The look of concern on her beautiful face nearly changed his noble intentions. "Yes?"
"About our conversation this afternoon…" Her voice trailed off and she dropped her gaze to the floor. "I hope you don't think badly of me."
If only I did, this would be so much easier. Tilting her chin up with two fingers, he smiled at her. "I could never think badly of you, Hayley. As far as I am concerned, that conversation is forgotten."
Her relief was evident. "I'm glad. Sleep well."
"Thank you." He continued up to his bedchamber and closed the door behind him.
Sleep well? Not bloody likely.
* * *
Not bloody likely had proven prophetic. At two in the morning sleep was still nowhere in Stephen's immediate future.
He restlessly paced the length of his bedchamber, tossing back Tripp Albright's excellent brandy at an alarming rate. He felt tense and totally out of sorts.
And sexually frustrated as hell.
He longed to leave the confines of his bedchamber but hesitated to do so, fearing he'd run into Hayley in the study, the drawing room, or the garden. Stephen knew without a doubt that if he happened upon her, his battle with his conscience would be completely lost. He wanted her too damn much. Muttering a savage oath, he stoked up the fire and poured himself another brandy.
Just as he lifted the snifter to his lips, he heard a quiet knock on his door. Thinking he was mistaken, Stephen stood, his drink arrested midway to his lips, and listened.
The knock sounded again.
Damn it, if she'd come to him, how would he ever find the strength to send her away? His heart thumping, he went to the door and pulled it open.
And saw no one.
Then he heard a sniffle. He looked down.
Callie stood in the hallway, clutching her doll to her chest, tears streaming down her small face. A combination of relief, disappointment, and alarm washed over him.
Crouching down, he brushed a curl away from the child's brow and asked, "What's wrong, Callie? Aren't you supposed to be in bed?"
She raised tear-filled eyes to him. "It's Miss Josephine," she whispered in a quavering, watery voice. "She's had a terrible accident."
"Indeed? What sort of accident?"
Callie handed over the doll with a teary sniff. "Look."
Stephen gently cradled the doll in his hands. Miss Josephine had indeed met with an accident. A very serious accident. Her dress was torn and both her arms were pulled off. Her face, never really clean, was utterly filthy. And she stunk to high heaven.
"What happened to her?" Stephen asked.
"Stinky must have gotten hold of her," Callie said, her chin trembling. "I woke up and couldn't find her. Then I remembered I'd left her on the patio. I went to get her, and this is how she was. I know Stinky didn't mean to hurt her, but I
don't think Miss Josephine will ever be the same."
Callie sobbed as if her heart would break. Stephen stared at her, holding her doll, feeling utterly helpless. He awkwardly patted her back.
"Well, why don't you lay her down and perhaps in the morning Hayley or Pamela or your aunt can fix her up," he suggested, at a complete loss as to how to handle the situation.
Callie shook her head. "I can't let Miss Josephine go to bed like this. She's miserable. And how could she sleep, with her arms torn off?" A sob broke from her chest. "She's in terrible pain. We must help her."
We? Stephen panicked at the very idea. "Why don't you see if one of your sisters is awake…" Stephen's words drifted off as Callie raised tear-filled aqua eyes to his.
"Hayley doesn't like it when I wake her up. Pamela either."
"Nonsense. I cannot imagine either one being angry."
"I know they'll tell me to wait until morning, and I just can't." She raised hopeful eyes to his. "Will you help us?"
Stephen stared at the child. "Me?" What he knew about dolls could be carved on the head of a pin with room to spare. He wondered if he looked as horrified as he felt.
Tears streamed down Callie's face and another heartbreaking sob racked her small frame. "Please, Mr. Barrettson? Please?"
Stephen swallowed and suppressed a desperate desire to flee. The sight of Callie crying, her eyes huge with tears, completely undid him. He knew defeat when it stood in front of him.
"Please, don't cry, Callie." He yanked his hand through his hair. "I suppose I could help you set Miss Josephine back to rights—"
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Barrettson!" Callie launched herself into his arms and hugged him fiercely, nearly knocking him over. His arms automatically went around the child. She was so small. And trusting. And sweet. He inhaled, and a smile touched his lips. She smelled like what he imagined children were supposed to smell like—warm sunshine and fresh cream.
She pulled back and raised teary eyes to his. "Do you think we can fix her?" she asked, her voice filled with hope.
"Absolutely." He had no idea how to accomplish such a task, but he'd do whatever necessary to make her smile again. "Let's see. Why don't we take her into your chamber and clean her up a bit? I'm sure she'd feel better if we washed the dirt off her."
"All right." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Stephen reached into his pocket and extracted a white hanky. Callie took the piece of linen and gave her nose a gusty blow.
"Feel better?" he asked with a smile.
She nodded. "Yes."
"Excellent."
Callie slipped her tiny hand into his and led him down the hall to her bedchamber. Once there, she removed the doll's torn dress and handed it to Stephen, who gingerly dipped it in a pitcher of water. He used a bit of soap on the cloth, rubbed it vigorously, wrung it out and placed it near the fire to dry.
Then Callie held Miss Josephine in her small hands while Stephen gently washed the filth from the doll's porcelain face. When they finished, Stephen carefully dried her off with a towel.
"What now?" Callie asked, cradling the towel-wrapped doll in her arms. "Miss Josephine's clothes are still wet, and her arms are still ripped off."
"Does she have any other clothes?" Stephen asked, totally at sea.
"No. That is her one and only dress."
"Hmmm…" Stephen stroked his chin with one hand, puzzling over how to solve the problem of Miss Josephine's lacking wardrobe.
"Perhaps we can sew her arms back on," Callie suggested.
Stephen stared at her blankly. "Sew?"
"Yes. I think that would be best."
"Do you have the proper, er, utensils for sewing?" he asked, praying for a negative answer.
"Yes." She retrieved the items from a small basket near her bed and handed them to Stephen.
He looked at the needle and thread resting in his palm. He couldn't have been more astounded if she'd just placed a tarantula in his hand. While he could easily see that Miss Josephine's arms needed to be sewn back on her body, he hadn't the faintest clue about how to accomplish the task.
"Do you know how to thread the needle?" he asked.
"Of course." Callie brought her supplies near the fire, and with a great deal of concentration she threaded the needle and made a knot at the end of the thread. "Here you are," she said, handing the item to Stephen.
Stephen pinched the needle between his fingers and stared at it as if it were a snake. Dear God, what had he gotten himself into now?
But then again, how difficult could this be? He was an intelligent man. Surely he could manage to take a stitch or two. He glanced quickly around the room, as if to make sure none of Society's esteemed members were lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce at him and denounce him for this unseemly behavior. The Marquess of Glenfield sewing on a doll's arms. Stephen knew that even if he were foolish enough to tell anyone of this episode, they would not believe him anyway.
"All right then." Folding his legs under him, he sat on the floor near the fire. Callie sat next to him, and together they managed to sew Miss Josephine's arms back onto her body. She held the arm while Stephen took a series of uneven, awkward stitches, forcing his lips to remain clamped shut when he stuck his finger over and over with the sharp needle.
"You'd best not stick yourself too many times, Mr. Barrettson, or you'll find yourself with a tattoo."
"I beg your pardon?"
"That's how tattoos are made, you know. With needles. I heard Winston tell Grimsley all about it. First you swill something called Blue Ruin till you feel lushy, then you get stuck with needles, then you go with your mates to the bawdy house." She inclined her head questioningly. "What's a bawdy house?"
Stephen dropped the doll and nearly choked. "It's a place where, er, ladies and gentlemen go to, ah, play games."
"How grand! I love to play games. Do you suppose there's a bawdy house in Halstead I could go to?"
He scrubbed his hands down his face and smothered an oath. "Only adults are allowed, Callie." The thought of such vulgarities ever touching this innocent child turned his stomach.
Disappointment filled her eyes. "Perhaps when I'm older?"
Settling his hands on her narrow shoulders, he looked in her eyes and desperately searched his mind for appropriate words. "Nice, clean young ladies do not go to bawdy houses. Ever."
Her eyes widened to saucers. "Oh my. You mean it's a place for ladies who don't take baths?"
"Baths? Er, yes."
She wrinkled her pert little nose. "Then I wouldn't care to go. I love playing in the bath. Hayley lets me stay in till my skin is wrinkly." Her gaze drifted down to the doll lying on the rug between them. "Can we finish fixing Miss Josephine?"
Stephen grasped the opportunity and snatched up the doll with the zeal of a starving dog grabbing a bone. He sewed as if his life depended on it, praying Callie wouldn't think of any more questions to ask him.
"There," he finally said, making a knot and breaking the thread with his teeth. He held Miss Josephine up for Callie's inspection. Not bad, old man. Not bad at all. In spite of his sore fingers, Stephen felt very proud of himself. So what if the doll's arms were a bit crooked and one was now longer than the other? They were attached.
"She looks wonderful," Callie breathed, her eyes wide with gratitude.
A wave of smug accomplishment washed over him. "Yes, she does. Let's check her clothing. Perhaps it's dry by now."
Callie retrieved the doll's dress. "It's only a bit damp around the edges," she reported.
"Excellent. I suggest we get Miss Josephine clothed and tucked into bed."
"I agree," said Callie. "She's had a very trying evening."
Stephen held the doll while Callie slipped the dress over her head. Together they fastened the clothing.
"Thank you, Mr. Barrettson," Callie said, hugging the doll close to her chest. "You saved Miss Josephine's life and I'll always be grateful." She held the doll to her ear and listened, her eyes growing round.
She looked up at Stephen. "Miss Josephine would like to give you a hug and kiss."
Stephen dropped to one knee in front of Callie. She held Miss Josephine's porcelain face next to his cheek and made a kissing sound. "Thank you, Mr. Barrettson," Callie said in a high, Miss Josephine-like voice. "I love you."
A knot lodged in Stephen's throat. A knot that became nearly unbearable when Callie threw herself against him, wrapping her small arms around his neck, hugging him fiercely. He hesitated, then hugged the child to him, his heart expanding at her show of gratitude. What a unique feeling, being hugged by a child. Unique, incredible, and heart-stoppingly wonderful.
"I love you, too, Mr. Barrettson," Callie whispered into his neck. She planted a damp kiss on his cheek with pursed lips, then leaned back and smiled at him, her eyes glowing.
Bloody hell, the child was going to completely unman him. Stephen cleared his throat, and somehow managed to smile at the child. "I believe it's time for you and Miss Josephine to get into bed," he said, his voice husky with emotion.
Callie clambered into her bed, and Stephen tucked the covers around her and Miss Josephine. He wasn't sure he'd done it correctly, but Callie immediately yawned and closed her eyes. Within moments her breathing grew deep and regular with sleep.
Stephen stood at the edge of the bed for several moments watching her. Shiny dark hair surrounded her small face in a halo of curls. Her lashes created dark crescents on her chubby cheeks, and her little bow mouth looked as if it had been stolen from a cherub.
I love you, Mr. Barrettson. God help him.
Stephen left the room, quietly closing the door after him.
* * *
When he entered his bedchamber, Steven made a beeline for the brandy decanter. Damnation, the people of this household were going to rob him of his wits. He didn't know how it had happened, but each one of them had somehow managed to sneak with the stealth of a master thief into his jaded heart and steal a piece.
And none more completely than Hayley. Dear God, he hadn't even realized he possessed a soul until she touched it with her warmth and loving, courageous compassion. She was an angel who tempted him beyond reason and made him feel things he'd never felt before—things he couldn't begin to describe—that squeezed his insides together and made his chest feel queer.
RED ROSES MEAN LOVE Page 20
