Rags to Rubies

by Annalisa Russo

  Jared helped the women from the vehicle as the heavy front doors to the mansion swung open and a manservant hurried to help with the luggage. They were ushered into the foyer, where a priceless Aubusson rug covered the oak floor and glowed in the soft lighting. A magnificent Venetian glass chandelier hung above the room and illuminated a second floor graced by a beautifully curved banister. The ceiling was beamed, rough-hewn, and the walls covered with a deep green-and-rose fleur-de-lis fabric. The home held exquisite pieces of furniture and art. Jared hoped Ravenhall looked as if it had evolved over several decades to a comfortable abode.

  “Please show my guests to their chambers, Donagon.” Jared addressed a stout, handsome man.

  The powerfully built older man easily lifted the luggage Mr. Cobb had removed from the limousine, carrying two bags and tucking another under each arm. The years that had added a sprinkling of gray to his dark thick hair hadn’t diminished his physical prowess. He set the luggage down at the base of the staircase and shot a questioning eye at his employer.

  “Zia Bruna,” Jared began, delicately. “I took the liberty of arranging a first floor bedroom for you so you wouldn’t have to navigate the stairs. Mr. Cobb will take your luggage and show you to your room.”

  Bruna eyed the long expanse of steps before her and begrudgingly hobbled behind Cobb, but not before giving Jared a cutting glance and mumbling something half Italian and half English that sounded suspiciously like a curse.

  Jared called after her, “When you have freshened up, please join me in the library for tea before dinner.” He turned back to Grace. “An hour, then?” Jared asked.

  “Yes,” Grace responded. “That sounds wonderful.” She turned to address the older man waiting at the stairs. “Thank you, Mr. Donagon.” She shot the man a dazzling smile that reddened his ears. As Grace preceded his friend and estate manager up the staircase, Jared watched them, smiling at the old bachelor’s discomfort. Donagon was never one to mince words and would certainly have an earful to say about this strange turn of events.

  ****

  Jared strode into his bedchamber and began removing his clothing. He wanted to soak in a hot bath and close his eyes for a few moments, but he knew if he didn’t get the deed done before Donagon set upon him there would be no bath and no peace. He’d telephoned ahead to alert his staff of his arrival but had been deliberately vague. Two extra bedrooms, one upstairs, and one downstairs, were to be prepared, and a wheelchair secured. Mary would need to cook for two more people for two weeks, maybe longer.

  One shoe dropped, then the other. Jared walked across the room to the bathroom, unhooking his suspenders and pulling the shirttails from his trousers. He turned the handles on a large, ornate, footed bathtub, testing the water for the right temperature while he continued to undress.

  He sank into the steaming water just as the door to his chamber opened, and he heard the unmistakable heavy gait of his manservant.

  He hadn’t offered to help Donagon with the luggage as he usually did because the man would have been embarrassed in front of the women. Donagon prided himself on his strength. Besides, a man who had once loaded heavy carts of coal for a living could certainly handle three or four bags.

  Donagon had befriended him in the mines of West Virginia, where he’d traveled after Illinois. After Jared made his fortune, he sought the miner out and offered him a comfortable life away from the debilitating effects of the coal dust that had begun to invade his lungs. Donagon knew he owed Jared his life and served him well and loyally, a requirement for anyone Jared allowed close.

  The door to the bath opened and Donagon stepped in, absently reaching down to scoop up the pile of discarded clothing from the floor.

  “And who might she be?” he asked in the heavy brogue of County Cork, with the ease of a man who had once worked side by side with his employer. He began to fold the clothes.

  Jared sighed wearily, closed his eyes, and sank back into the tub, willing the warm water to take the tension from his body. “A neighbor in Chicago.”

  “Hardly. Tell it to a sailor on horseback.”

  Jared reluctantly opened one eye and squinted in irritation. Donagon’s unique accent tangled with West Virginia colloquialisms.

  “She’s in trouble, and I’m helping her out. The older woman is her aunt.”

  “What kinda trouble?” Donagon prodded, determined to get the whole story.

  Jared slid low into the tub, the water circling his neck, and closed his eyes. He might as well get it over with. Donagon would just probe and question until he was satisfied anyway. He began the tale, not leaving out any details.

  “Sweet Jesus!” Donagon rubbed the back of his neck with one large hand. “Now that’s a fine meddle, it is.” He held out a thick towel to Jared, who stepped out of the water and onto the bathmat Donagon had provided.

  “And what would you be doin’ for ’er?”

  “I don’t know yet. Sallie is working on it. In the meantime, she’s safe here.”

  “Is she, now?”

  Jared glanced over his shoulder at his friend. “Mind your own business, Donagon,” he said understanding the meaning behind the question. What he didn’t understand was how the old miner had so quickly assessed his intentions.

  “Anyone with two eyes and half a brain kin see what’s happened ’ere.”

  “And I’m sure you’re going to tell me what that would be.”

  “She’s caught your eye, she has, and you’re besotted with ’er.”

  “I am not,” Jared answered with a snappish tone. “I just want to see her through this affair. That’s all.”

  “So how’s come you can’t keep yer bloody eyes off ’er?”

  “She’s not hard to look at. And besides, I do not stare at her.”

  “That dog won’t hunt. Yer roamin’ eyes followed ’er pretty backside alls a’ way up the stairs. Like a coon dog in heat, ye be.”

  “She’s inexperienced. Hardly my type,” Jared said as he exited the bath, ignoring the impudent question that followed him.

  “You plannin’ to give ’er some?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Grace placed her clothes in the magnificent old armoire and closed its carved doors. Opening the French doors across the room, she walked out onto a second floor balcony. A lovely scent hung heavily in the early evening. Too late in the season to be honeysuckle, she thought.

  Below her a pool, bordered on the far side by an expanse of thick woods, sparkled with the golden reflection of a setting sun. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the crisp evening air and listened to the night sounds, realizing she could actually hear the slight stirring of wind in the trees.

  She felt comforted for the first time in days. Her spirits lifted. Ravenhall was an idyllic setting, just what she needed to take her mind off jewel thieves, breaking and entering, and dark, lurking shadows.

  Her attention was drawn to a small child crossing the wide lawn toward the manor house. The boy appeared to be about five years old. From the corner of her eye, Grace saw the back door to Ravenhall open and a young woman step onto the pool surround. Grace leaned over the balcony to get a better view.

  The woman waved a greeting to the boy, who ran toward her and leaped into her open arms. She held him snugly, kissing his dark hair and patting his back as she rocked back and forth in a motherly motion.

  The woman was exquisite. Her beautiful blonde hair, streaked with strands of platinum so natural one could see the sunlight in it, was pulled back with a simple tie at the base of her neck, revealing a face classic in its lines and timeless in its beauty. Her figure was voluptuous, sensuously rounded, feminine, with long shapely legs.

  The child obviously belonged to her. He nuzzled her neck in a familiar gesture before she set him down and took his hand to lead him toward the back door.

  Jared’s mistress? Did the boy belong to him? The child had his dark hair. A staggering sting of jealousy cut through Grace. With so beautiful a creature under his roof, Jared w
ould have been sorely tempted. Would he have dallied with me only to bring me under the same roof with his mistress? He’s never given me any reason to mistrust him, but he is a man, after all.

  Damn! Biting her lower lip, Grace chastised herself. Why did she always judge him so quickly? She made herself remember the wheelchair she’d seen at the end of the foyer, a thoughtful act in preparation for Zia Bruna.

  Grace glanced at her watch, then returned quickly to her room to bathe and change for dinner.

  Within the hour, she stood facing her reflection in the full-length cheval mirror in the corner of the bedroom. She turned from side to side, assessing her appearance carefully. She wanted to look attractive but not alluring. He was hard enough to handle as it was, and since she evidently had no resistance to his charms, she had to be careful.

  Sometimes his features seemed to be carved in stone, unyielding and immutable. Was the charm he wielded only skin deep, covering a powerful determination?

  While he frightened her sometimes, she wondered if it was her own response to him that worried her. She remembered how she felt at his touch, how his kiss had taken her nights from her, tossing her from dream to dream. Sometimes in pleasure. Sometimes in sweet torment. She had never experienced anything like this before, but she knew where it would lead and where it would finally end.

  She ticked off his attributes in her head. Yes, he was incredibly handsome, attentive, and even kind, but he didn’t love her. He wanted her.

  But why did he want her? She glanced at the mirror and studied her reflection.

  ****

  Jared glanced up as Grace slipped into the library. She looks like a damn Renoir portrait, was his thought. If only she were as easy to acquire, his problems would be over. His eyes skimmed over the delicate fabric of her tea gown, over a pretty petticoat that caressed the décolletage of the bodice. Tiny sleeves were set off the shoulders, the hem and petticoat ended at the knee, delicate net fabric hung a few inches longer than the satin slip in front and plunged low to mid-calf in the back. With the foyer light as backdrop, the dress revealed her shapely silhouette.

  Hell. She made him dizzy.

  “Zia Bruna told Donagon she would rest and then join us later for supper,” he informed her.

  “Yes,” Grace responded. “I spoke with her. I noticed the wheelchair. Thank you.” She walked toward him. “The gesture was extremely kind.”

  Jared nodded and handed her a delicate china cup of fragrant steaming tea. She gave him a quick smile and wandered up to the eighteenth-century bookcases, eyeing several shelves filled with his favorite hand-tooled first editions. Her eyes rose to the Baroque-style medallion centered on the ceiling, then slowly took in the floor-to-ceiling windows covered in sheer pale drapery, trimmed with five-inch bouillon fringe that puddled on the parquet floor. The smooth paneled mahogany walls exhibited a multitude of oil paintings.

  She ran a finger along the carved mantel of the fireplace and glanced appreciatively at the Louis XIV desk nestled into a bay window.

  “Not exactly Art Deco,” she said. “It’s all the rage in Paris.”

  “We’re not in Paris.”

  Grace chuckled. “No, we’re not, and this,” she gestured with her hand, “is magnificent.”

  Pouring himself a cup of the Earl Grey tea, Jared leaned back against one corner of the desk and let her explore. His ever-present tension and restlessness seemed to be ebbing.

  With a quick look at the watercolor landscape above the fireplace mantel, Grace said, “I meant to ask about the portrait of the woman above your mantel in Chicago.” Grace hesitated and took another sip of her tea. She obviously wanted the lady’s identity.

  Jared volunteered the information. “The woman in the portrait is my mother.” He couldn’t help but feel a brief moment of discomfort.

  “She’s very beautiful. I thought you were orphaned as an infant.”

  “Three,” Jared answered quietly. “I was three, or so they told me.” He sipped his tea. “I commissioned an artist to produce the portrait from a photograph.”

  “She’s definitely a beauty—so light-haired and delicate.” Grace’s voice trailed off as she studied the portrait. “Light eyes and fair skin...”

  She leaned forward to look into his face. “You, on the other hand, have olive skin, unless that deep copper tan comes from playing on the beach, or more than your share of dalliances on a sailboat.”

  He gave no response, and she mused aloud, “Perhaps you look like your father.”

  “I don’t think so. He was English. The words on the photo were ‘Jared Dunstan de Warre III’, after him.”

  “Have you ever looked for your parents?”

  “I found my father’s family tree in Dorchester, England,” he began, surprised that his voice sounded strained, as if this ancient accounting of history still affected him. “However, for three generations back, each ancestor was an only child, male, and died along with his mate. So, I have no relatives there who would even remotely remember him. He left England after both his parents died, and he eventually ended up in Chicago. I guess that’s where he met my mother.”

  He paused and set the teacup gingerly in its saucer. Glancing at Grace, he read her calm expression, an encouragement to continue.

  “I know nothing of my mother. Not even her name. What happened to them is still a mystery.”

  The words were spoken without emotion. He’d had a lifetime to get used to the remote facts of his birth and abandonment. He cast her a rueful smile.

  “Don’t look so forlorn, Miss Hathaway,” he said. “You can’t miss what you never had.” He didn’t want her pity. “My life is full. I have everything I could ever want or need.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Grace said, as she swirled around, gesturing at the opulence before her. He heard a hint of annoyance in her voice.

  She turned and walked away from him toward the leather hobnailed sofa. Her fluid movement set the skirt of her tea gown circling her shapely legs. Tonight, in the pretty drop-waist dress and T-strap high heels, she looked like a flapper without the kohl-lined eyes and ruby lips, without the overdose of shellac.

  You play a dangerous game, Jared thought, watching her machinations.

  Turning to face him again, she asked unexpectedly, “So, are you happy, then?” Grace lowered herself gracefully onto the sofa and crossed her legs. She took a sip of tea.

  Jared shrugged. “Many people would envy me.”

  “I notice your mementos lack evidence of a female companion. I guess you were telling the truth last night.”

  “I haven’t had much time for women,” he replied.

  “Ah, a man’s man, then.” She looked at him over the rim of her cup. “I doubt that Jared Dunstan de Warre III has problems attracting female companionship.”

  From across the room, she assessed the perfect fit of his belted jacket and gray trousers. “Oxford Street, England?” she guessed.

  He smiled. “I don’t mean to mislead you, Miss Hathaway, but I haven’t been engaged,” he said coolly.

  Flinching, Grace turned her attention back to her tea. The movement had been slight but noticeable. He’d spoken the words for effect. If he was going to get close to her, he needed to know where her fear came from.

  “I didn’t mean to bring up an uncomfortable subject,” he said, “but you never told me the reason your engagement ended.”

  She lifted her gaze to his face. She didn’t appear to be offended. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking when she sat so still and curled the edges of her napkin.

  “Men are required by society,” Grace began thoughtfully, “and by each other, actually, to possess certain qualities, certain attributes. Courage, for example.” She shifted and adjusted the fabric of her gown. “Unfortunately, faithfulness is not one of the requirements.”

  So the man had been a cheat. This wasn’t as bad as he had imagined. He could circumvent this. He knew the right words to placate her, to gain her confidence. Besides, h
e had never cheated on any woman. He’d never allowed himself to get that close.

  “Some men—and some women, I might add—seem to need attention from more than one person. Ego, I guess,” Jared admitted.

  “Yes, but often men will not only condone a man’s dalliance, they actually applaud it. ‘Atta boy,’ if you will.” Her voice was more condemnatory than she had intended, he suspected.

  Jared thought how he’d done that very thing on occasion.

  But would he do that with Sallie if he found out his friend was cheating on Theresa? He would like to think he would straighten his old friend out quickly, but now he wondered.

  “I guess it’s a question of honor,” she said simply.

  Strangely, he didn’t want to be combined with the rest of the menfolk in Grace’s mind. He wanted this woman, this beautiful woman, to think better of him.

  He also felt a need to defend all his absent comrades.

  “I think there are three types of married men, Grace,” he began. “The first type is satisfied with his lot in life, his wife, and his children. He never thinks of looking elsewhere. It simply doesn’t occur to him.”

  He pulled away from the corner of the desk and strode across the room to sit near her. Now eye to eye with her, he continued, “The second type always looks, but knows he would never risk losing what he has. And the third type…” Jared hesitated for a moment. “The third type will always need a woman’s validation to be who he is.”

  “And which type are you, Mr. de Warre?”

  He shot her an easy smile, realizing the narrow box he had just built for himself. “I would try very hard to be number one, Miss Hathaway,” he said sweetly.

  Too sweetly, he guessed, as her eyes danced brightly and she emitted a soft chuckle.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dinner was wonderful—succulent lobster meat, buttery mashed potatoes, sautéed vegetables, and, in the French tradition, a final course of Boston lettuce and hearts of palm, with walnut oil dressing. They sipped Dom Perignon, a celebration, Jared said, of his good fortune to find himself in the company of two lovely ladies, and then a toast for a fun-filled respite of sightseeing, theater, parties, and shopping. She knew he was intentionally trying to distract her, but it was welcomed, nonetheless.