Velvet Thunder

by Teresa Howard

  But there was Stevie to consider. He could scarcely imagine her as a New York socialite. And the children, Winter and Summer, he wondered how they would be treated in the East?

  The general detected interest, surprise, and hesitancy on his son’s face. In all, he was pleased. Having planted the seed, he decided to water it later. “But we can discuss business tonight, after dinner. Tell those overprotective twins of mine and your mother that I will be joining my family after tea. You brought a young lady home with you?”

  “Yes, sir.” Heath was still somewhat distracted, and inordinately intrigued by his father’s proposal.

  The general hid a smug smile. “I assume she has a name.”

  “Yes, sir. Stephanie Johns. But she likes to be called Stevie.”

  “Well, tell Miss Stevie Johns that I look forward to meeting her at dinner. Now, run along,” he said as if Heath were still in short pants, “and tell your mother’s cook if she serves me anything that remotely resembles gruel, I’ll fire her on the spot.”

  Still in somewhat of a daze, Heath nodded to his father.

  “Son?”

  Heath halted in the doorway.

  “Pass the word that I want to see my grandchildren this afternoon.”

  “All of them, sir?”

  There was definitely a note of paternal pride in his voice when the general responded, “Every last hellion on the place.”

  Heath quit the room wondering if the general hadn’t exaggerated his illness just to get him home. Surely not. Chap and Rad would have had to be in on the scheme, and they were far too professional for that.

  Weren’t they?

  A scant hour later Stevie was still seated in the parlor. Heath had replaced Chap on the hassock fronting her chair. When he returned from his father’s room and reported on his visit, Chap mumbled his excuses, claiming an inordinate interest in the general’s remarkable recovery.

  “I’ll show you upstairs for a rest. You must be exhausted.” He winked. “I bribed Smithers to put you in the room next to mine.”

  “What will your mother think of that?”

  “I’m not masochist; I don’t intend to tell her.”

  “Won’t she just see me there?”

  “It’s doubtful. The boys—as she still calls us—and the general sleep in the east wing. Mother’s suite is in the west wing. She never comes into our part of the house, something about men giving off vapors when they sleep. In fact, she’s horrified that Ginny and Kinsey insist upon sleeping with their husbands. If we’re lucky, she’ll not think to ask where you are.”

  She feigned apprehension. “About these vapors . . .”

  Stevie was unable to finish her sentence as the parlor doors were almost wrenched off their hinges. They hit the wall with a deafening bang. Nothing could have prepared her for Ann Turner, Heath’s youngest and most affectionate sister.

  “Heath,” Ann squealed, flying across the room like a whirling dervish in a Worth gown. She tackled him before he could rise, knocking him backward off the hassock. Brother and sister hit the floor, disappearing in a flurry of silk, satin, and lace.

  Heath wrapped his arms around Ann and tried his best to cushion her fall. Squeezing the breath out of him, she placed kisses on both of his cheeks, his forehead, and his chin. “I’ve missed you, you idiot,” she cried breathlessly, thumping him in the chest.

  He edged to the side of her, pulling them both to a sit on the floor. “Stevie honey, may I present my sister Ann.” His arm still around Ann’s shoulders, he paused for breath. “As you can see, Mother’s attempt to turn her into a lady failed miserably.”

  Stevie found herself being scrutinized by beautiful pale blue eyes. “Hello, Ann . . .” she began. She was soon to learn that one rarely completed a sentence around Ann Turner.

  When Ann surged up onto her knees, her skirts spread about her. She looked as if she were sitting on a pale pink cloud. She stretched forth her white-lace-gloved hand and touched Stevie’s knee with wonder. “Oh, I love your leather trousers.” She looked past Stevie’s shoulder. “Em, don’t you just love her trousers?”

  “They’re pretty on her.”

  Heath and Stevie turned toward the calm, kind lady gliding across the room. Heath rose smoothly to his feet and met her halfway. He enfolded her in his embrace. “Emmy.”

  He spoke her name so tenderly that Stevie knew this was yet another beloved Turner sibling. She was the opposite of Ann. Where Ann was pretty and full of life, her older sister was rather plain and sedate. She didn’t possess her brothers’ good looks or their vivid coloring. In fact, there was nothing physically attractive to distinguish her.

  Until she smiled. Her face was transformed. The only word that came to Stevie’s mind was radiant. Emily possessed something more entrancing than physical comeliness; she possessed inner beauty. But it was the pain in her eyes that touched Stevie’s heart. Grief was an emotion she recognized from experience.

  Arm in arm, Heath escorted Emily over to Stevie. “Honey, this is my sister Emily. Em, may I present Miss Stephanie Johns.”

  Emily greeted her warmly. “Miss Johns, welcome to Turner House.”

  “Thank you. But please call me Stevie.”

  Ann rose with Heath’s aid. “How wonderful. A boy’s name and trousers too. Oh, she’s just wonderful, Heath.”

  Heath regarded his youngest sister, wondering at her strange behavior. He shook off the thought. Ann had always been a tad strange. That was what set her apart from the other young, beautiful socialites in New York. “Annie, since you and Stevie are close in size, I’ve offered her the use of one of your gowns until she can see a modiste.”

  “Certainly. You’ll need to be wearing a gown when you meet Mother.” The fervent way Ann said that made Stevie uneasy. “Let’s go up now. That’ll give you time to find more than one. You’ll need an outfit for tea and another for dinner.”

  “Hon, I have some business to attend. I’ll leave you in Annie’s capable hands.”

  Stevie had a notion that Heath’s business concerned Judge Jack. She didn’t want to be left behind. “I wouldn’t want to be an imposition.”

  “Oh, pooh. It’s not an imposition.” Ann linked her arm with Stevie’s and escorted her from the parlor.

  Stevie glanced over her shoulder at Heath. He winked and nodded. Sighing, she accepted her fate.

  From the open doorway Heath and Emily heard Ann say, “Would you permit me to try on your trousers?”

  Stevie’s muffled response was lost in the distance.

  “When did Ann become so fascinated by masculine affectations?” Heath asked Emily. “Not that there is anything manly about Stevie.” Thinking about Stevie’s feminine charms, he didn’t meet Emily’s eyes.

  “Since Mother betrothed her to a man who has so few masculine traits of his own.”

  The harshness in Emily’s tone arrested Heath’s attention; he had never heard her sound so unpleasant.

  “Annie fully plans to be the one to wear the pants in the family . . . if Mother is able to make her go through with the wedding.”

  “So when do I meet this specimen of masculinity?’

  “Tonight at dinner, unless we’re lucky and he doesn’t show.”

  “Sounds like you don’t like him either.”

  “Either?”

  “The general told me about him. He wasn’t too complimentary of—”

  “Eugene.” She almost spat the name. “And I’m not surprised the general doesn’t think much of him. If Father were stronger, I should think he would get his gun and shoot the worm.”

  “What on earth has the man done, Emmy?”

  “It’s what he hasn’t done. Dear Eugene didn’t fight in the war. Asthma, you know. Unsubstantiated by any medical man Chap and Rad have been able to find. Nevertheless, he paid an immigrant to take his place. The man was killed at Bull Run.”

  “Cowardly bastard,” Heath uttered, acknowledging one more obligation to his family. Ann Turner would marry Eugene ove
r his dead body.

  No matter what their mother said.

  The gentlemen’s club was virtually deserted when Eugene Prickle entered, making his way to his usual table. Only one other table in the richly appointed common room was occupied. But Eugene didn’t spare the man so much as a glance. He was too angry to concern himself with strangers.

  It was those damn Turners. Despite his best efforts, he feared that the clan as a whole would indulge Ann’s spoiled wishes and oppose their marriage, despite their mother’s dictate to the contrary.

  He couldn’t let that happen. He had to marry Ann Turner and he had to marry her soon. Everyone—India Turner included—assumed he had access to his father’s fortune. But after Eugene’s unfortunate incident, one which involved his sister Eugenia, his father had left the country, instructing them both to be out of his house, out of his life, by the time he returned.

  Thankfully, the old man had not told anyone that he was disowning his children before he left town. So Eugene had been able to put his creditors off for a time. But that time had come to an end. He needed access to the Turner fortune, and the only way to do that was marry the bratty chit.

  The general was sick but improving. The Turner doctors would leave soon, he’d been told. He could handle the women once he married into the family. Eugenia didn’t like the thought of him marrying Ann. But it was the only way. . . .

  “Pardon me, sir.”

  Eugene started as if the man speaking to him discerned his thoughts. The afternoon sun limned the intruder. Eugene shifted in his seat to get a better look at the man interrupting his thoughts. He was middle-aged, tall, handsome, with blond hair. He was dressed smartly in unrelieved black. But it was his black eye patch that intrigued Eugene. It lent him a sinister air.

  “Yes?”

  Judge Jack gestured toward an empty chair. “May I?” Eugene nodded.

  Judge Jack broke the tense silence. “I believe we have a common interest.”

  Eugene lifted his weak chin disdainfully. “Since we are complete strangers, I can’t imagine what that might be, sir.”

  Jack had paid dearly for the information regarding Eugene and his sister. He needed a local partner, someone who had the run of Turner House. And the prissy gentleman peering down his aristocratic nose at him was his best bet. “We both want something from the Turners. And we want it badly. In fact, I would venture to say that our very survival depends on it.”

  A frission of fear and anticipation skittered down Eugene’s spine. The man across from him was ruthless, he could see that. But desperate times called for desperate measures. “I’m listening.”

  “I know Mama would lock me in my room for the next year if she knew.” Ann sighed dramatically, lying across her bed. “But I want to have one last lark before I’m sold into slavery to that sorry excuse of a man. I’m going to do it tonight, Stevie.” She paled as if she had said too much. “Please don’t tell Heath. He’ll sit on me if he finds out.”

  “I don’t know anything about gentlemen’s clubs, Ann. But they don’t sound like the place you should be.”

  “I imagine they’re like your western saloons. Have you ever been in one?”

  Stevie remembered her eventful visit to the Silver Dollar. “Once. And Heath almost drowned me afterward.”

  “Tell, tell,” Ann chortled, coming up on her elbows.

  Stevie related the incident with a great deal of embellishment. She left out the fact that she had caught Heath in the act of kissing a soiled dove. After all, Blue was reformed now, and it had been an innocent kiss in the first place.

  Ann wrapped her arms around her waist and flopped over onto her back. Her pink gown disappeared in the fluffy pink bedspread and post drapes that billowed at her every movement. “Oh, I envy you.” She bounded off the bed. “I have a disguise. Wait’ll you see.” Ann’s top half disappeared into an enormous armoire. She withdrew a small suit of men’s clothing. It looked somewhat like the ensembles worn by both Heath and Chap.

  Stevie had to smile. The look in Ann’s eyes was absolutely devilish.

  “I can get another suit. You could go with me. The men will closet themselves in with the general after dinner. Heath won’t know you’re gone. We’ll slip into the club and just hide and watch. Don’t you want to know what goes on in those bastions of male domination?” she finished theatrically.

  Stevie now knew what it meant to be between a rock and a hard place. Mentally, she listed the pros and cons of participating in Ann’s daring escapade. The gentlemen’s club sounded like the kind of establishment that would draw Judge Jack like flies to a pile of cow manure. If he weren’t there, she could ask around. Oh, she wouldn’t speak to the patrons. But surely there were serving girls she could question. At least she guessed there were. Her experience with gentlemen’s clubs was rather limited, she reflected wryly.

  If she discovered the judge’s whereabouts, she wouldn’t confront him. She would come back and tell Heath. They could capture him together. With the judge behind bars where he belonged, she and Heath would be free to begin their new life.

  Also, she would take her derringer and bowie knife. She could protect Ann. There’s no telling what would happen if the girl went alone. Heath’s sister was precocious, but she was green as a gourd. Stevie would be doing the Turners a favor, watching out for their sweet if somewhat willful daughter. That might even get her in India Turner’s good graces.

  Despite her rationalization, she knew good and well that Heath would wear her fanny out if he discovered what they were up to. He was protective of her in the extreme. And he didn’t even know that she was carrying his child. In the end, Stevie decided to go. Her pa always said people did exactly as they pleased; this was no exception. “All right. I’ll go.”

  “Oh, Stevie, you won’t be sorry. It’ll be great fun.”

  “First we have to get through tea and dinner.” And I have to meet the formidable India Turner, Stevie added silently.

  “I’ll run dress for tea. Be back for you in a flash.”

  Stevie was hardly aware of Ann’s exit. She was planning ahead. Soon she would begin her campaign to convince Heath’s mother that she was good enough to marry her son.

  She sighed heavily, thinking of the monumental task before her. After tea and dinner with Heath’s mother, infiltrating the gentlemen’s club should be like a walk in the park.

  Fifty

  Heath was standing at the bottom of the floating staircase when Stevie and Ann came down to tea. He had eyes for Stevie alone. Usually unflappable, he stood with his mouth agape, watching the vision approach.

  Seeing her dressed like a woman, he vowed to burn every pair of trousers she owned. Her voluminous gown of lemon tulle brought out her ethereal beauty in a way that men’s clothes never could. The skirt was fashionably flat in the front, showing the outline of her firm thighs with each step she took. It was drawn up into a soft bustle in the back, flaring into a short train.

  The bodice skimmed her slender torso, the low décolletage edged with double rows of seed pearls. Her softly curving breasts rose high above the neckline, providing an arresting contrast of pale fabric with smooth, dusky skin.

  Ann’s maid had twisted Stevie’s platinum hair into long curls at the back of her head, ornamenting the silken tresses with small yellow bows. Pearl drop earrings dangled from her delicate lobes, a single strand kissed the dark shadowy cleavage that drew Heath’s eyes like a magnet.

  “You’re breathtaking,” he whispered, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips.

  Ann couldn’t stifle a giggle as she stood on the step above them.

  Heath raised his gaze to her. “You too, short stuff,” he complimented Ann. His sister looked like a fairy princess in pale blue taffeta. Much too lovely for the likes of Eugene Prickle. “Shall we?” Offering each lady an arm, Heath escorted Stevie and his sister into tea.

  Stevie steeled herself against meeting his mother. But she needn’t have worried. India Turner was nowhere to
be seen.

  The only sign that Heath noticed his mother’s continued slight to Stevie was the muscle twitching in his jaw. He had visited her in her rooms earlier and specifically requested that she come to tea and meet Stevie. It appeared that she didn’t intend to honor his request.

  Teatime at Turner House was a joyful affair. The fact that Heath’s mother still refused to put in an appearance had unsettled Stevie at first. But Chap, Kinsey, Emily, Ann, and a host of Turner grandchildren were so open and accepting, she soon dismissed India from her mind and just enjoyed being part of Heath’s family.

  “Sorry we’re late,” a masculine voice intruded on the outlandish tale of life in the Wild West Heath was spinning for his nieces and nephews.

  Stevie turned to see an exact, life-size replica of Chap. Clinging to his arm, Ginny Turner appeared the flesh-and-blood epitome of southern womanhood. And she was at least six months pregnant.

  Heath surged to his feet. “’Bout time you two showed up.” He hugged Rad, then carefully embraced Ginny.

  “It’s my fault. Seems all I want to do these days is sleep,” Ginny’s drawl was very like Kinsey’s. She rested her hand on her stomach. Just touching where Rad’s child slumbered appeared to give her pleasure.

  “And being the good husband that I am, I have to keep her company.”

  Chap and Heath laughed knowingly. From the blush on Ginny’s face, Stevie doubted that her handsome husband allowed her to sleep a great deal when they were in bed together. Stevie found herself blushing as well, remembering what she and Heath had done in his bed just the night before. Reading her expression, he winked slightly.

  Rad wasn’t reserved like Chap. He was much more gregarious, blatantly flirtatious, incredibly charming, like Heath. He walked up to Stevie, wrapped his arms around her waist, and lifted her off her feet. He hugged her so tightly that her borrowed corset creaked. When he placed her on her feet, he planted a firm kiss on her cheek. “Has that kid brother of mine made you my sister-in-law yet?”