Table of Contents
Rags to Rubies
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Epilogue
A word about the author...
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Rags
to
Rubies
by
Annalisa Russo
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Rags to Rubies
COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Johanna Shapard
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Vintage Rose Edition, 2012
Print ISBN 978-1-61217-329-0
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-330-6
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For Angela
Though the voice is silent, the spirit echoes still.
Chapter One
Chicago
1928
The idea of sliding into mindless oblivion held a certain appeal.
Jared Dunstan de Warre III raised the crystal glass to his lips and drank deeply, savoring the sweet burn of the exquisite brandy as well as the quelling darkness of his well-appointed library. The boredom plaguing him of late was blasted annoying. Its lingering restlessness robbed him of his usual detachment.
Sinking into the comfort of the leather Chesterfield, he contemplated the tabby cat perched on the arm. “Does Albert know you’re in here?” Jared scratched the feline under his chin, and Luther preened, a low rumble resounding from deep in his throat. Jared gathered the animal onto his lap. “Leave any evidence you’ve been out here, and Albert will have both our heads.”
Luther responded with a contented purr.
“You’re devilishly hard to hold a conversation with,” Jared said. He propped his long legs on the coffee table and crossed his stockinged feet at the ankles.
Drumming his fingers on the deeply tufted arm of the sofa, he tried to remember when this feeling of discontent had begun. He ran a hand over Luther’s soft fur and watched the play of firelight on the illegal amber liquid in his glass.
His circle of friends would think him a fool to complain. He had everything a man could want—wealth, social position, power. Normally his checkered past would have made it impossible to enter high society, but amazingly one’s extremely lucrative businesses and financial power did open doors. And silenced tongues. New York’s societal mavens rarely missed the opportunity to extend him invitations to their numerous soirees, parading the season’s nubile debutantes past him like so many cattle.
He could have followed his friends to The Tremont or to any number of gin mills tonight. Instead, he was having a one-sided conversation with a cat. Scowling, he raked a hand through his hair. He was often accused of being a wet blanket. Maybe it was true.
Luther rose and arched his back in a graceful stretch. Without so much as a backward glance, he jumped to the floor. “Fair-weather friend,” Jared muttered, rising from the sofa. He stretched, bunching the hard muscles of his shoulders, and then strode toward the darkened window, where the chill of early October flowed into the room.
A dismal mist blanketed the newly installed electric lamp post illuminating his front walk, a leaden-gray fog washing over the deserted street. Even the occasional rhythmic sound of passing vehicles had been stilled. Then, slowly, the chimes of the mantel clock punctuated the silence four times.
Swirling the brandy in his glass, Jared searched the bleak scene outside as if the answers to his pea-in-the-shoe discontent would suddenly materialize out of the heavy mist.
He inhaled the musky scent of his drink. Purchasing and renovating the old brownstone had occupied him for a while, but now he needed a diversion. Something to fill the emptiness between business concerns and the acute tedium of the social commitments his business required, like the one he had returned home from several hours ago.
Uttering a small obscenity, he finished off his drink, welcoming the familiar effect it provided, and crossed the room to prod the small fire that sputtered and crackled in the fireplace, watching as the rosy sparkles danced upward in the draft.
The hollow echo of heels on pavement drew his attention from the glowing coals. Luther hissed and skittered out of the room, his nails clicking on the parquet floor.
Walking to the window, Jared pushed aside the heavy velvet draperies to notice a small feminine form scurry toward the iron gate of his front walk. While accustomed to late night forays, he was mildly surprised to find another soul with a propensity for the dark void that always awaited him at this hour.
“What have we here?” he murmured.
The woman glanced over her shoulder several times while attempting to unhook the wrought-iron latch. Giving it a hard yank, she lifted the heavy latch and stepped onto the walk. In spite of her apparent haste, she glanced toward the open window before closing the gate neatly behind her. Then she hesitated as if reconsidering her decision to approach his door.
Swirling wisps of fog clung to her clothing as she continued forward at a brisk pace, all the while glancing to and fro at the shadows of the bushes that lined the cobblestone walk.
Making a mental calculation, he wondered how long it had been since he’d been with a woman. Surprisingly, he couldn’t remember.
He noticed she carried herself forward with more mettle than most females could muster at this hour of night.
She had spunk. Unusual for females in his world.
Afraid the summons would rouse his butler, Jared strode to the front door, pushed the button on the light switch to illuminate the foyer, and swiftly opened the vestibule door before the woman had a chance to lift and release the doorknocker.
A strong gust of wind blew into the foyer as he held the door open. T
he woman put out one hand to hold down her short skirt but not before Jared caught a glimpse of a very shapely thigh.
If his appearance or timing startled the woman, she concealed it well. He realized at once she couldn’t read his expression well in the dim light of the foyer. Perhaps fortuitously, as his demeanor was usually far more menacing than inviting.
Of course, it was four o’clock in the morning, and she couldn’t be so naïve as to think it normal for a lady to call on a gentleman at this hour, no matter how liberated the female sect had become of late. Yet it would be poor manners to turn away a visitor. Especially one with striking, deep-set eyes crowned with dark lush lashes.
Standing on the top step, the woman glanced over her shoulder once more to the lurid gloom of the night and hesitated again.
Jared arched an eyebrow, waiting for her decision. Then she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, firmly entrenching her resolve.
She was not a woman easily intimidated, he realized. He glanced over her head to the hooded street beyond to check for anything amiss.
“I’m sorry for this intrusion, Mr. de Warre,” the woman began, her gaze moving over his face. “I noticed your light.”
As she spoke, Jared spotted a fleeting form across the street. A man of medium build, wearing a fedora and a town coat with a tall collar that obscured a good look at his face, melted into the shadows.
“Please come in,” Jared muttered, pulling her across the threshold with one quick movement of his arm and closing the heavy mahogany door behind her. He held the sidelight’s lace drapery aside for a moment, staring into the night.
“Were you expecting someone, Mr. de Warre?” she asked, her tone rather direct.
New to the neighborhood, he wondered how he had become so well known. Turning back to her, he asked, “And you are?”
She swallowed and cleared her throat. “Grace Hathaway.”
His glance skimmed over her, quickly assessing her form and the musical sound of her name as it spilled from a pair of delectably plump lips. Her expression was not particularly friendly, though. It was as if he had inconvenienced her at this ungodly hour.
His assessment had included her sling-back shoes, the V-necked sweater skimming her hips, her short pleated skirt and rolled stockings, the modern woman’s rebellion against the corset, but none of that explained the blinding flash of fierce desire that slammed into him. Yes, he’d been celibate by choice for a while, but the instantaneous tightening of his groin was inexplicable.
The lady frowned and took a step back.
Not beautiful but pretty enough, he decided. Not crimped and curled and painted, and something about the way she held herself intrigued him. Something solid and dependable. Something real. He’d learned to recognize it long ago, a lesson that had served him well.
“I’m so sorry for intruding at this hour, but I tried to...I mean, I thought I saw...” Her breath whooshed out in embarrassment. She seemed to be annoyed with herself for stammering. Then she took a deep breath and began again. “Actually, I live...”
At that moment, the door off the foyer jerked opened and Alfred shuffled in, tucking in his starched shirttail. As usual, his gray hair stuck out in wiry tufts from his head. He held a half-eaten Dagwood sandwich in one hand, apparently having been roused from constructing the snack in the kitchen.
Clearing his throat with great aplomb, Alfred asked around a full mouthful, “Will you need me, sir?” Though used to strange, late-night requests, Alfred’s standing orders were to turn away any visitors.
“No, Albert, thank you,” Jared replied, absently patting Alfred’s bony shoulder.
“Would the lady need anything, sir?” Unfortunately, Alfred shot the young woman a look of disapproval that gained him a defiant glare as the woman raised her chin a fraction.
Jared smiled and shook his head as his butler gave him a surprised lift of one bushy gray eyebrow, implying his master was usually more discreet.
“Very good, sir,” the crusty old man muttered, taking his leave to shuffle back to his lair, one shirttail still twitching behind him.
Luther followed haughtily in his wake.
“You were saying, Miss Hathaway?” Jared asked.
Drawing her gaze from Albert’s ignoble exit, the woman swung her attention back to Jared. “I’m one of your new neighbors. Two doors down, Mr. de Warre. I had just arrived home when I had a strange feeling someone was watching me.”
She shifted her stance to one that put several additional inches between them. “The feeling was rather overwhelming. I usually don’t panic, but I must have turned off my new electric porch light when I left for Zia Bruna’s, and I couldn’t find my key in the dark.”
She opened her purse and reached in, scrabbling about. “Ah...I have it.” She blushed and held up the evasive key. “I’m sorry for bothering you.” She made a slight movement toward the door. “I saw your light on when I passed by and I...well.” She reached for the knob.
He would entertain her, he quickly decided, at least until the clandestine figure that had retreated into the shadows across the street relented and left. With a murmured, “Wait just a moment,” he grasped her elbow and ushered her into the library. Presumptuous on his part, but he wasn’t about to let her get away.
He usually resented intrusions into his well-ordered life, especially by uninvited women. This wouldn’t be the first time a female had fabricated a tale to manipulate him into something, but this one interested him for some reason. Maybe it had to do with her defiant little stance and deep sapphire eyes. Besides, he had recognized fear and panic in those eyes when he’d opened his door. Something or someone had spooked her enough to send her fleeing from her home.
He guided her to an overstuffed chair across from the sofa, then poured two glasses of brandy and held one out to her. “You’re not one of the drys, are you?” he asked and smiled to himself when she took the glass. “Now that you have my attention, Miss Hathaway, I would be remiss to simply send you on your way without investigating your little dilemma.”
Sinking back into the soft leather of the sofa, Jared noticed Grace Hathaway’s delicate features. The firelight brought out a hint of gold in her shoulder-length hair, not French bobbed and topped by a cloche hat like most young women of society who were intent on making a statement, but windblown with small enticing wisps framing her face.
“How do you know me, Miss Hathaway? Have we met? It is Miss, is it not?” Jared inquired, taking in the absence of a wedding ring yet the presence of some rather nice stones in her pierced ears and on her right hand. Having bought his share of trinkets over the years, he recognized the gems as valuable. It was possible that in his wide social circle he could have met Grace Hathaway before, though he rather doubted he would have forgotten such an alluring person.
“Oh, yes. ‘Miss,’ Mr. de Warre.” She fidgeted with the drink in her hand. “And as to your other question, we are a close-knit group here on Jasper Street. We look out for each other, sir. The neighbors are pretty diligent.” She hesitated, then smiled. “Well, nosey, to be honest.”
Jared realized his neighbors probably speculated why a man of his wealth had chosen a neighborhood far below his financial status. He had reasons they would never understand. The brownstone sat only a few blocks from where he had spent the first fourteen years of his life. A part of his life he wanted never to forget.
“The word on the street was this brownstone had sold to you, sir.”
Jared bristled at being called “sir.” Grace Hathaway appeared to be about twenty-five, and he was hardly over the hill at thirty-four! He had accomplished everything he’d set out to do nineteen years ago when he left Angel Guardian Orphanage. His life was just the way he liked it, the way he needed it to be.
“And what else do you know about me, Miss Hathaway?” he asked, gazing at her over the rim of his glass. His reputation usually preceded him. The dark tales suited him well. Not that he minded. It made things easier.
She returned his gaze with bold, unflinching interest. “I didn’t mean to offend you. With rumors, I mean. So few exciting events happen in our little neighborhood that a genuine war hero in our midst causes quite a stir.”
He unwound from the sofa and strode to the window with his drink. “That was several years ago,” he murmured as he took a sip. “I didn’t do any more in that battle than a thousand other soldiers. The real heroes died there.”
Anyone could be brave if living was inconsequential. He thought it amusing that some called him a hero. He rarely worried about anyone’s expectations other than his own.
Pulling back the drapery again, he glanced into the darkness and saw the glow of a cigarette in the shadows across the street.
“And you, Miss Hathaway, what’s your story? Many ladies stay out until dawn these days, but most do not come home unescorted on foggy nights to solicit the help of a stranger whose reputation is dubious, at best.”
Chapter Two
Grace studied her host and the darkness that had fallen across his face at the mention of the war. In the foyer, she’d had to raise her eyes to take him in. He stood well over six feet, and his strongly built body had been close enough for her to smell its subtle, spicy scent.
Actually he was beautiful, if she could use that word to describe the most masculine creature she’d ever laid eyes on. Black hair curled softly at the nape of his neck, softer and longer than the slicked-back style fashion dictated.
Her eyes roamed down to the contoured chest visible through the opening of his shirt. He hadn’t bothered to button it, and the dark hair repeated itself, en masse, and grew downward to where it thinned and disappeared into his trousers. There was something a bit uncivilized about his bare chest, yet he seemed to be perfectly at ease.
Grace knew what her father would have said. A gentleman always wears a jacket and never, under any circumstances, shows his shirtsleeves or suspenders in public. She suspected Jared Dunstan de Warre III was rarely led by social dictates.
An untied black cravat hung around his shirt collar. Long, manicured fingers held his glass, no ice. Obviously he’d been out for the evening, since his clothes were formal. A pair of new-styled loafers lay near the leather sofa.
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