by Summer Devon
She half closed her eyes and directed her cat-in-the-cream smile first at Clermont, then Reed. She was like a cat too, a hunter that disdained all the lesser creatures around her.
Suddenly, for the first time in ages, Reed wished he was home. Perhaps the recitation of his sisters’ and brothers’ names had started it. The family he hadn’t seen in more than a year.
They’d all be bigger now, filled with concerns and news he’d only heard of in letters. They’d needed his money, and Elizabeth assured him again and again that she and Edgar could manage the younger ones without him.
But now he wasn’t sure he wanted to manage without them. Sitting in the wealthy, sophisticated young lady’s parlor, he’d had enough of trying to interpret the strange words and body language of the dedicated decadents. They tried to fill their whole lives with only the delicious bits, nothing but the rewards without the work or sweat or any real sentiment.
He wanted the raucous laughter and genuine, rough embraces of his siblings. Children were selfish creatures too, but their loving was genuine and uncontaminated by this sort of greed.
The longing swept through him and left him almost as confused as kissing Miss Ambermere did.
And then he noticed Miss Ambermere watched him, a pleading look on her face. He couldn’t tell what she wanted him to do, but knew something was wrong. The maudlin moment passed—she needed him.
He got up and walked to a landscape at the far side of the room. “This painting”—he waved at it—“this is your work, Miss Ambermere? How did you manage the, er, blue?”
She rose at once and went to his side. To gain some privacy, he had to turn his back on Clermont, who sat close to the door. Reed doubted Clermont would simply stand up and leave. For one thing, he appeared far too intrigued by Lady Williamsford’s bosom.
“Yes? What’s wrong?” he asked in a low voice. She looked so pale.
“I’m worried that Hawes will take some of the powder. He knows what it can do.”
“He does?”
From Rosalie’s grim manner, Reed understood that Hawes hadn’t just heard rumors—he knew and understood the strength of the substance. Either the coachman had witnessed Miss Renshaw, or someone else in the household had been exposed. Poor Miss Ambermere. “Does he know it’s in your hatbox?”
“I’m sure he suspects. Please go to him. Take the box and put it…put it…” She closed her eyes and chewed her lip. “The coal cellar. Behind the furnace. I’m sure that would be safe, I hope. Oh heavens. I wish I knew the bowels of my own house better.”
“I wonder if a more private room would be better. Your bedroom, perhaps?”
“No. That wouldn’t stop my mother, even if I asked her to stay away.”
“The coal cellar it is. I’ll look for a good spot. You don’t have a garden shed, so perhaps your gardener stores supplies in the cellar?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll find some pot or container. I know how to hide things. And I shan’t tell anyone but you where I put it.”
“All right.” She pretended to straighten the picture. “Thank you, Mr. Reed. You are a good friend.”
He scowled. Certainly he wanted to be her friend. The attraction wouldn’t kill that possibility, would it? If he spent any time in New York, he might resent any of her true suitors. But no need to worry about that. He would be gone soon. Although now he understood he couldn’t go until Dr. Leonard had neutralized the damnable stuff.
She put a hand on his arm and said, “Oh, I beg your pardon. You’re looking fierce again. I mean to pay you, of course.”
Her employee. That was a good way for them to go on together. He’d ignore the sinking sensation that felt suspiciously like disappointment.
Rosalie wanted them all gone. Her mother, Mr. Clermont, even Miss Renshaw, who’d hurried into the room, breathless and clutching a parcel. Only Mr. Reed should stay, and they could make plans for the powder and perhaps talk about something other than the dratted powder—about him, for instance.
His accent was not lower-class, but that might have been the product of his schooling rather than his background. She wanted to know where he came from and how he’d learned to use irons and a pistol.
A few minutes after they’d pretended to examine the paintings and returned to their seats, Mr. Reed excused himself. “Don’t leave without me, Clermont,” he said, smiling, but the command was clear.
He returned in less than ten minutes and gave her a tiny nod. He’d managed to hide the powder, and really, she was just as glad not to know where. For the moment, at any rate.
Her mother was busy describing to Mr. Clermont all the entertainments she’d planned. Plays, visits, dinners out with gentlemen. The rancher, Rosalie recalled. Clermont listened avidly.
“And your daughter will participate in this delicious menu of events, of course?”
Of course. Deirdre would want her to come along because she always dragged Rosalie to her city adventures.
As long as Deirdre didn’t insist on visiting the expert in electrical cures. That greased, sinewy man had vacant, pale eyes, and the way he twitched was no great advertisement for electrical cures. She’d waited for her mother in his parlor, reading health magazines, rather than take his cure.
Rosalie half listened to her mother and Clermont and shot furtive glances at Reed, who wore his usual mask of boredom. He sat near her but seemed to ignore her.
If she was free to do anything, she might take the long ride out to Long Island and watch the seagulls wheeling over the waves for a few days. It was by no means warm enough for sea bathing, but she longed for the bracing, sea-scented wind without the crowds of Rockaway or Coney Island.
Eventually the gentlemen stood, preparing to leave. Mr. Reed leaned forward a brief moment while the other two were in some close contact, Deirdre giggling over something Mr. Clermont said.
Mr. Reed’s breath warmed her ear. “It’s behind the furnace. You were right; there is a perfect little room there.”
His hand squeezed her arm, reassuring, but she felt only the thick pang of desire that usually paralyzed her when he touched her. This was another reason to go to Long Island. The sea wind would blow away that foolishness.
“Your mother has been kind enough to invite us to dinner,” Clermont told her as he kissed her hand good-bye.
“Dinner?”
“Here, of course. In two weeks. And don’t you worry; I have already started plans,” Deirdre said. “The weather will be lovely, and we might even be able to use that sweet garden of yours. Croquet under lantern light. Sounds charming, doesn’t it, gentlemen? Terrapin and champagne. Some sweet birds in cages. Don’t look cross, dear. I’ll arrange it all.”
She hadn’t looked cross. Rosalie was far too well trained to express her annoyance, especially not in front of guests.
She didn’t even feel cross. Rosalie felt nothing but panic.
Chapter Six
Beels had been quietly warned about the coachman’s visit by Rosalie, so he didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow when he found Rosalie to announce he’d put Mr. Hawes in the red parlor. He did put a slight emphasis on the word “mister.”
She wondered if the coachman had been discreet enough to wait until her mother wasn’t on the premises—Deirdre’s rancher had taken her out for a drive—or if it was only a coincidence. Whichever was the answer, she was grateful. The coachman sat at the edge of a chair. His clothes were surprisingly quiet and tasteful. She had expected flashy and loud. He did reek of lavender water and had obviously gone to a barber who favored scented hair pomade. His hat was gray and new and jiggled as he balanced it on a knee.
He jumped up when he saw her, and the hat hit the ground.
“Miss…um. Miss. Yes, Miss Ambermere.” He started to touch his forelock, then bent in a low bow instead.
“Thank you for helping Mr. Reed with the hatbox.”
His eye twitched slightly. She’d never noticed he had an eye twitch before. �
��Certainly, ma’am. Anything to give satisfaction. I hope I might have a word with Miss Renshaw?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll go fetch her at once.”
Emily was in the back bedroom, sorting postcards and buttons. When she heard who waited for her downstairs, she immediately adopted her martyred look. “For you, Miss Ambermere. Yes, I shall face him. And be civil and, I hope, kind.”
As the ladies walked down the stairs together, Rosalie said, “I’ll leave you for a few minutes, shall I?”
“Please, oh no. I beg of you. Don’t leave me.”
“He won’t attack you.”
“But I shall feel so much better knowing my dear Miss Ambermere was close by at my time of need.”
Rosalie gave up, and when they entered the parlor, she seated herself in Miss Renshaw’s usual spot, acting as the chaperone for the chaperone.
Much of the quiet conversation didn’t reach her, but then she saw Miss Renshaw’s nose turn pink and her eyes well with tears.
Rosalie got up and moved to a closer chair, and neither of them seemed to notice her move, thank goodness.
Miss Renshaw groped in her sleeve. “Here, take mine,” Hawes said and handed her a white handkerchief.
“Thank you. You are so kind, Mr. Hawes. I know. I shall always remember how kind you have been.”
Now that Rosalie knew Hawes wasn’t insulting or hurting Miss Renshaw, she should have moved away again, but didn’t.
“Good. Just keep that in mind, hey, please, miss?” he said, his gruff voice soft and the New York accent thickened. “Don’t say yes or no.” He leaned forward. “I know you weren’t real keen on what happened out in the garden. I mean, afterward. But it wasn’t anything so terrible. Try to think of how good it felt.”
Rosalie wished she was invisible. Miss Renshaw gave a small squeak of some sort.
Hawes cleared his throat. “What I mean ter say is, it’s a-a thing God gave us. Right? He wants us to be happy.”
Miss Renshaw smiled. “You’re a spiritual man, Mr. Hawes?”
She rested her hand on his.
“If I gotta be, sure.”
Miss Renshaw giggled. A good sign. Not normal behavior, but good. “Such a curious answer.” She sounded coy.
“For you, Miss Renshaw, I’ll go to church every dam—dag-gummed week.”
“Oh, my.”
“Sure. And I’ll start next week if you promise to go to Coney Island with me. It isn’t such top-notch entertainment as you’re used to, I know. But lemme show you some of the sights. Please?”
She nodded hesitantly.
He rose to his feet and turned to face Rosalie. “Can we go right now, Miss Ambermere?” He met her startled gaze with narrowed eyes, as if challenging her to say no, though his gravelly voice was hesitant. “Take the rest of the day off, I mean? Jackie the groom’ll take you wherever you want, ma’am. I got it all arranged.”
“Dear me,” Miss Renshaw said. “It’s quite a distance. We’d be gone all the rest of the day.”
“Don’t you worry, miss. I got it all planned out.” He still watched Rosalie. “I’ll have her back here by five. I promise, miss.”
“It’s not my day off, Mr. Hawes.” Miss Renshaw looked at Rosalie with wide, expectant eyes, but her message wasn’t as clear as Hawes’s. Eagerness? Or perhaps it was fear.
Rosalie gave up trying to guess and said, “Please, take the rest of the day off, Miss Renshaw. You’ve been, ah, under the weather, and this will help, I’m sure. You needn’t worry about me. If I require a companion, my mother is more than willing, and there’s always Murphy.”
Hawes’s smile was endearing, even with several of his back teeth missing and the rest slightly tobacco stained. “Thanks, miss. You’re a fine lady.”
“Thank you,” Miss Renshaw echoed, and the corners of her mouth trembled but then definitely turned up. Rosalie watched them go, wondering what had changed Miss Renshaw and given her something almost like resolution.
It wasn’t until ten minutes later, as she checked Cook’s menu for the dinner party her mother had planned, that she remembered the handkerchief.
Mr. Reed had held a handkerchief as he’d picked up the box containing the horrible stuff to put it inside her hatbox—the box that he’d then given to Hawes. Rosalie tapped the table absently with the pencil. She was far too suspicious. That was what this powder had done to her.
She quickly went up the stairs. “Miss Renshaw,” she called through the door. “I hope you don’t mind if Murphy and I accompany you and Mr. Hawes on your expedition? In all this time, I’ve never been to Coney Island.”
“Oh Miss Ambermere, how jolly,” Miss Renshaw said. “I shall tell Mr. Hawes.”
Rosalie was relieved. Miss Renshaw didn’t sound her usual self, yet she didn’t mind an escort.
She summoned her maid and went to change her gown into something less elaborate and more comfortable. Murphy was delighted at the coming treat. She listed all the wonderful things they’d see.
“I think Mr. Hawes has plans,” Rosalie said.
Murphy nodded and continued her description of the joys of the roller skating in the special park. She didn’t appear to think it odd that they would be a party together—the servants, the companion, and the mistress of the household. New York, Rosalie reflected, was often more interesting than England.
* * *
The warmth seemed to mute the day. Reed stood against a wall, drowsing, waiting for Clermont to finish with the twin contortionists.
He and Clermont had come to Coney Island on the New York and Sea Beach Railroad with excited families. They’d headed straight past the grand, sprawling hotels with broad, long pavilions and fluttering flags and a carousel and orchestras playing “Roller Skating,” to the less savory part of the island, where the beer halls and other dens of iniquity lay.
The young ladies were attractive. Not that this was vitally important for Clermont. Their caretaker, panderer—whatever—had welcomed Clermont into the cottage that lay behind a bar, and waved good-bye to Reed.
“See yous,” the old man had said cheerily and pushed off through the crowds in the direction of the racetrack.
So Reed waited, yawning and daydreaming about Miss Ambermere’s kisses. Perhaps he was obsessed with the woman, because as he watched the passing crowds, he noticed a gray-haired man who looked exactly like her coachman.
But then he saw the lady the man walked with and knew he wasn’t imagining things.
“Good afternoon,” he called. “How are you, Miss Renshaw? You’re well, I hope?”
They strolled over to him, and Miss Renshaw gave a small, shy smile. She had a glow about her and looked nothing like a trampled companion. Was Miss Ambermere to blame for the woman’s usual haggard look?
“Afternoon, Mr. Reed,” the coachman said, an air of belligerence so strong that Mr. Reed wondered how he’d offended the man.
But then he noticed the protective way Hawes touched Miss Renshaw’s arm. Good heavens. They were there together. Reed tried to hide his smile. Hawes might be daring the world, telling anyone who saw them together to go on, make something of it, but Miss Renshaw apparently didn’t notice his possessive nature. She didn’t twitch her arm from Hawes’s light hold.
“Are you here for the sights?” he asked. “Lovely day for a visit to the beach.” This wasn’t exactly the best part of the beach, with the little shanties and cottages that held some fairly shady businesses, but they were within sight of the better areas of Coney Island.
Miss Renshaw gave a dreamy smile and looked around. “You are so right,” she said. Reed wondered what ailed the lady, when he noticed the groom holding out a slightly damp handkerchief.
“This is yours. Sir,” Hawes said, still belligerent. He glanced quickly at Miss Renshaw, whose attention had been caught by one of the beauties luring customers into an establishment across the way. In an open window, a bevy of women kicked and danced on a raised stage.
“Perhaps we should go the
re?” she asked. “People do seem to be enjoying themselves. It’s a concert hall.”
“Not at all the sort of place a lady like you should go.” Hawes patted her hand. “’Sides, they got a bad business with the waiters there. Never give you back your change.”
“Ah,” she said but didn’t look away from the female outside the door who’d grabbed a passing man.
Reed beckoned Hawes, who reluctantly loosened his hold on her arm. Looking up and down the walk, he took a step closer to Reed.
In a low voice, Reed asked, “Did you somehow slip something to this woman?”
“No, no, of course not.” But Hawes’s quick glance to Reed’s pocket, where the handkerchief lay, told another story.
Reed gave the coachman as aggressive a look as he’d got from the man. “Don’t lie, Hawes.”
Hawes sighed. “I knows where you put the hatbox, but I didn’t tell anyone, I promise. I just looked inside real quick and—and thought you might want your handkerchief back. Okay, all right. She wiped her face on your cloth, but that’s it. I swear on my ma’s grave. She’s just a little happy, is all. See it for yourself? Just happy. And we didn’t come out here alone.”
Good God. No wonder the man was looking around. There was Miss Ambermere herself walking with her maid. Miss Ambermere wore a simple, pale pink gown, a straw hat, and a half veil—and a look of distraction, her slightly pointed chin tilted up as she scanned the pedestrians. She looked like a young mother trying to keep track of small children who’d wandered off.
“Mr. Hawes, you have other females to escort,” Reed said. “This is not a part of the island where women should walk alone or even in pairs.”
Hawes gave him a sour look and nodded. “I got distracted.” By love, no doubt.
Reed strode toward Miss Ambermere. At the sight of him, she started, and then a large, sunny smile lit her face. He held his breath. Those smiles were dangerous.
“Mr. Reed! Good day. You’re here too? What a coincidence.” She raised her brows. “It is a coincidence, isn’t it?”
