A Touch of Scarlet

by Renee Ryan

  “This was the first one.”

  That was . . . unexpected. “You are not going in order?”

  “That would take away the spontaneity.”

  Of course it would.

  “All in all, I had great fun this evening. Please don’t spoil it for me.” The smile she gave him nearly ripped his heart out of his chest.

  Her course was set. He saw the familiar obstinacy in her eyes.

  “There is nothing I can say to change your mind?”

  “I am determined. And Luke”—her smile turned blinding—“your five minutes are up.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The trouble with keeping secrets was the weight put on a man’s conscience. Even if the secrets weren’t his own.

  Perhaps especially if they weren’t his own.

  The morning after the dinner party with his friends, Luke dragged himself out of bed before dawn and made the short walk to his childhood home. The cycle of sins, lies, and deceit ended with him. Now that the contracts were signed, and his automobile company was more reality than concept, it was time to inform his father he was breaking out on his own.

  The news shouldn’t come as a shock. Luke had given Warren plenty of advance warning this day was coming.

  Nevertheless, he predicted a difficult conversation ahead.

  Having carefully planned his arrival to catch his father before he left for his place of business, Luke was mildly put out when the butler informed him Warren was not at home.

  “What about the rest of the family?”

  “I believe your sister is still abed. Your mother is in her greenhouse.”

  “Thank you, Winterbotham.”

  Dawn had barely broken when Luke trod through the sunken gardens toward his mother’s favorite building on the property. Dew moistened the ground at his feet, muffling the sound of his footsteps. Birds chirped their happy greetings. A squirrel hurried up a tree.

  Taking an easterly route, Luke passed the ornamental pond near the wrought-iron bench he’d shared with Elizabeth the night of Penelope’s engagement party. The memory of that encounter brought a smile to his lips. Though there had been tense moments between them that evening, and since, the moments alone in this garden had been a turning point in their relationship.

  Now, the pleasing scent of jasmine, lilacs, and roses would always remind Luke of Elizabeth. He couldn’t bear the idea of her moving to England. The British wouldn’t appreciate the complicated mix of sweetness and feistiness, of shyness and nerve. They wouldn’t—

  His feet ground to a halt.

  Familiar notes from the first act of Carmen floated on the air. Luke knew the piece well. Sung by the mezzo-soprano lead, “L’amour est un oiseau rebelle” was the entrance aria for the main character.

  The music wafting on the still air could mean only one thing: rehearsal for the upcoming performance had begun earlier than usual.

  Luke changed direction.

  Instinct warned him not to enter his father’s private opera house. It was the same feeling Luke had experienced all those years ago when he’d come upon Warren and Esmeralda embracing. Even if he found nothing inappropriate this morning, he sensed he would come away angry.

  Turn back.

  He continued on.

  Turn. Back.

  He entered the building.

  Besieged with an ominous sense of déjà vu, he paused just inside the threshold and took in the scene up on the stage. He counted a total of five people gathered. Four of them made sense: his father, a beautiful young woman, an older woman at the piano, and a famous voice coach—Marco, Marcella, Mercutio? Luke couldn’t remember the man’s name.

  The fifth person sitting in the front row gave him pause. His sister was not still in bed, as Winterbotham had led Luke to believe. She was fully awake and dressed for the day, watching the rehearsal with rapt attention.

  Did Penelope know about Warren’s passion for turning his protégées into his paramours? Luke narrowed his eyes. His sister seemed lost in the music, oblivious to the undercurrents between her father and the young singer.

  “Again, Juliette.” The voice coach spoke in a thick Italian accent that Luke suspected wasn’t wholly authentic. “And this time try to display more longing. We must know of your secret hopes from the very first note.”

  Under the coach’s direction, the girl launched into the famous opening verse. “L’amour est un oiseau rebelle”—love is a rebellious bird—“Que nul ne peut apprivoiser”—that none can tame.

  Gut roiling, unable to turn away, Luke propped his shoulder against the wall and watched the rehearsal, telling himself he would not leave until he told his father of his future plans.

  His father’s latest “project” glided to center stage, arms outstretched as she lifted her voice in song. She was young, of course—Warren’s paramours were always young—probably only a few years older than Penelope. She was also very pretty.

  Listening intently, Luke had to admit the girl had a respectable talent, not great, but good enough to launch a brief career on the stage. Then again, Luke had an aversion to opera that matched his father’s love for it. Luke abhorred the music, or what he considered the equivalent of screeching. The melodrama was always over the top, and the tragic endings far too depressing. His opinion was, of course, skewed by events of the past.

  With an angelic smile that lacked the longing the coach had requested of her, the girl launched into another verse.

  “L’oiseau que tu croyais surprendre”—the bird you hoped to catch—“Battit de l’aile et s’envola”—beat its wings and flew away.

  Although she wasn’t as talented as some of the others before her, she had their same look. Smooth porcelain skin; liquid, doelike brown eyes; and the wild, dark curls that spoke of an exotic heritage.

  Warren Griffin was nothing if not consistent. The girl was the very image of the singers who’d come before her, all of them mere copies of the original.

  A memory flashed of Esmeralda on this stage. She’d been the first, the best. None of the women following in her footsteps had come close to her talent.

  As if sensing his presence, Penelope turned her head and gave him a wiggle of her fingers. Nodding in return, Luke maintained his relaxed posture. Though he tried for her sake, he could not prevent a frown from forming on his lips as his sister joined him at the back of the room.

  She kept her voice low to prevent interrupting the rehearsal. “You’re up early this morning.”

  “I was going to say the same of you.”

  She glanced back to the stage, sighed wistfully. “I wanted to catch a portion of Juliette’s rehearsal before I have to travel across town for my appointment.”

  “Dress shopping with friends?”

  “The florist to finalize my selections for the wedding, then luncheon with Simon.” Her smile brightened when she said her fiancé’s name.

  One would think Luke would be relieved to see his sister so happy. One would be wrong. Especially after what he’d learned last night when he and Jackson had left the women to their long chat.

  Oblivious to what was really going on in the green parlor of Jackson’s home, Luke had taken the opportunity to quiz his friend about Penelope’s fiancé. After verbally dancing around the issue, Jackson had eventually agreed with Luke’s estimation that the man might not be what he seemed. Then, he’d said, “I believe you were once acquainted with his cousin Albert.”

  Luke’s guard had immediately gone up at the reminder. He’d taken great pains to forget the months he’d spent running in the same circles as Albert “Bertie” Phineas Fitzgerald III.

  Apparently, he’d succeeded, and thus had missed the familial connection between Bertie and Simon.

  “Do you not like the music?” Penelope asked.

  Luke attempted a light tone. “I like it fine.”

  “You are a terrible liar.” She pointed to a spot in the dead center of his forehead. “Your expression is every bit as soft as granite.”

>   She was no doubt correct. Luke never could fake appreciation for the art form that had destroyed his parents’ marriage. He glanced to the stage, drew in an unsteady breath. “I prefer the theater, primarily Shakespeare’s tragedies. There is far less drama.”

  Penny laughed, as he hoped she would.

  His father’s latest protégée began the next verse. Jenny, Julie—no, Juliette—sang with a sensual voice, the tone slightly deeper than the sopranos his father usually preferred.

  Luke attempted to separate his personal opinion of the opera from the music flowing from the stage, and by doing so realized the girl was better than he’d originally supposed. Penelope sighed beside him, her eyes shutting momentarily, her face a look of absolute joy. He loved seeing his sister happy. “You really do love opera, don’t you?”

  Opening her eyes, she beamed up at him, innocence shimmering in her gaze. “Very much.” A delicate frown crossed her features. “I wish father would have let me continue my lessons. I should have enjoyed tackling complicated arias like this one.”

  It was only then that Luke remembered how Esmeralda had taught Penelope to sing. Though basic, and nothing compared to the training Warren’s paramours received, the lessons had played a large role in helping Penny conquer her stammer. No wonder she missed singing.

  “When was the last time you had a lesson?”

  “Not long after Esmeralda left for her initial European tour.” The one that had launched her international renown.

  Penelope braided her fingers together, her gaze reflective. “I miss her, you know, and Sophie even more. The time they were in our lives included some of the happiest days of my childhood.”

  Luke made a noncommittal sound deep in his throat. They had been some of his worst.

  “Did you know Father used to take me up Fifth Avenue in his carriage, just the two of us?” Penelope asked.

  “I didn’t.”

  “He and I would visit Esmeralda and Sophie at their little house. The four of us would go ice-skating or stroll through the park at a leisurely pace, then Sophie and I would eat gooey cakes afterward.”

  An ironic smile tugged at Luke’s lips. Though it was clear Penelope had fond memories of that time, it was also clear she had no idea about the true nature of Warren and Esmeralda’s relationship. Luke would hate for Penny’s recollection of those seemingly spontaneous visits to become tainted if she discovered the truth.

  How could Warren have been so selfish? Taking Penelope with him to his paramour’s home, the one he’d purchased for sinful reasons. While he spent time with Esmeralda, he’d encouraged his legitimate daughter to cultivate a friendship with his dark little secret.

  What sort of man did that? So many innocent lives damaged for one man’s desires. Luke wondered if Warren had any remorse, any regret, over his behavior.

  Luke prayed Simon was a man of integrity. He wanted Penny happily settled, far, far away from Griffin Manor.

  “What have you heard of Esmeralda in the years since they left for Europe?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Only what I read in the papers. Did you know she is returning to America?”

  “I heard.”

  Penelope shifted her gaze to the stage. “I do so hope she’ll follow through with her promise and perform for us here.”

  “I have no doubt she will.” Warren would never let the world’s most celebrated diva come to the city and beg off from singing at least one aria for him and his friends.

  “Oh, oh.” Penelope clapped her hands together. “Maestro Marcella is giving Juliette notes on her performance. I should like to hear what he has to say.”

  “By all means.”

  She gave Luke a hasty farewell and an even faster kiss on his cheek, then hurried to take a seat in the front row. Luke returned his attention to the stage. The voice coach commanded Juliette to begin the next song, the one where Carmen beguiles Don José with a seguidilla, singing of a night full of dancing and passion with her lover.

  Nothing but misfortune and heartache awaited the character. Art imitating life.

  Luke thought of the performance in a few weeks. Some of the most important men and women of New York, dressed in all their finery, would fill up every one of the plush velvet chairs. An invitation to one of Warren Griffin’s operas was much sought after.

  Of course, Luke’s mother would be missing. As was her custom, she would take to her bed, claiming a headache. Luke took his gaze off the drama unfolding on the stage and glanced around. His father had redecorated the interior, sparing no expense. The expert woodwork, elaborate chandelier, and vibrant frescoes made for a luxurious décor seen in all the larger opera houses.

  He closed his eyes for a moment—just one—and realized his mistake. The heart-wrenching melody washed over him. Luke whipped open his eyes and focused on his father. Warren had yet to look away from the stage. His fierce attention focused solely on Juliette; he was oblivious to all else, ignoring everyone, everything, but the woman on the stage.

  She sang directly to him, watching him like a rabbit watched a hawk swooping in, with doomed fascination. The arrogant smirk and entitlement that poured off Warren Griffin had Luke’s gut roiling again.

  The music hit a crescendo, dragging his attention back to the stage. Juliette was yet another young woman making a very bad mistake. She had no idea the price she would soon pay for her career. Luke could try to warn her, as he had the others. Yet he doubted she would respond any differently than those before her. Among Warren’s protégées, longing for success had always trumped the threat of lost innocence.

  He’d seen enough.

  As he headed for the door, Luke remembered why he’d come. He’d failed to reveal his future plans to his father.

  Another time.

  Luke exited the building.

  Head down, he walked quickly, not really knowing where he’d end up, just that he had to get out of his childhood home.

  His father was the worst sort of hypocrite, cultivating his next mistress less than a hundred yards from where his wife nurtured her hothouse flowers.

  Unfair? Absolutely.

  The world they lived in was unfair, and all the more reason Luke had to stop Elizabeth from ticking off items on her list, including number seven. Especially number seven.

  He couldn’t prevent Juliette from taking the wrong path. He would prevent Elizabeth.

  Time passed.

  He kept walking, conquering one block after another.

  More time passed.

  Someone called his name. Luke’s steps faltered at the familiar voice. What are the odds?

  He’d carefully avoided this meeting for months. He’d circumvented the places he’d once frequented in hopes of preventing a one-on-one conversation with this particular man.

  Luke looked around, attempted to gather his bearings. Without realizing it, he’d covered nearly a dozen blocks and was now standing in front of the Harvard Club, at an hour he knew would cause this very sort of problem.

  His past stared back at him from the face of a man he’d once considered a friend. No, Bertie had never been Luke’s friend. They’d only run in the same crowd for six months. Five months and twenty-nine days too long.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Lucian Griffin in the flesh. Good to see you, old boy.” A hand clapped him on the back. “What has it been? Two years? Three?”

  “Three.” Luke kept his voice even, his expression devoid of emotion.

  “How have we managed not seeing one another for that long?”

  “I’ve been out of the country.”

  “Ah, yes, I recall hearing something about that. It appears the other rumors are true as well.”

  Luke stiffened. “What rumors?”

  “You’re a changed man.” Bertie gave him a thorough once-over.

  Luke treated the man with equal irreverence, taking in the changes. There weren’t many. He was of an average height and build, his face was still classically handsome, his hair still dark and fas
hioned in the latest style. The red-rimmed eyes indicated a long night of carousing, and the evening attire was a sure sign Bertie had not been to bed yet.

  Though Luke knew Bertie’s true nature, many did not. The man was slick, living a double life that few outside his inner circle knew about. All that mattered to the New York upper crust was that Bertie came from a well-respected family with ties to the most influential men in the country.

  As Jackson’s wife often said, people saw what they wanted to see. When they looked at Bertie, they saw a man full of charm and wit who lived a blameless life. It was, of course, a well-honed lie. Once he left the more sedate functions, Bertie preferred running with men of loose morals. He skillfully kept his debauchery to areas of the city no proper gentleman dared frequent.

  “You coming or going?” Bertie hitched his chin toward the club.

  Luke hesitated. Bertie was trouble, but he was also Simon’s cousin. Just how close were the two? One sure way to find out. “I’m heading in.”

  “Join me for a drink, my old friend.”

  The request was meant to goad him. Bertie knew Luke had quit drinking long before they’d parted ways. He’d made a host of bad decisions prior to that critical one, so becoming sober had been Luke’s way of maintaining some semblance of control. A false sense of security, to be sure. He’d sinned in other ways that hadn’t involved alcohol. In that respect, Luke was no better than his father.

  Judge not, that ye be not judged.

  They entered the club in silence. Luke gave Bertie a sidelong glance and caught the other man smirking at him in return. He wanted to wipe that look off his face. With his fist.

  Think of your sister.

  He forcibly unclenched his fingers, silently vowing to do whatever it took to secure Penny’s future. If spending an hour in Bertie’s company meant finding out whether or not Simon was cut from the same cloth as his cousin, then that was what he would do.

  As they climbed the wide stairwell, Bertie regaled Luke with his doings since last they’d met. Taking in his surroundings, he listened with only half an ear. There were two types of members who patronized the Harvard Club at this early hour: men of industry starting their day with a hearty breakfast, and men of leisure finishing up their evening of play in the same manner.