Three Redeemable Rogues

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “Hello,” the boy said quietly, and the single word was the sweetest greeting Sarah had ever heard. It was the dulcet voice of a six-year-old angel.

  Peter Holland’s brows lifted. “Forgive me,” he said, “I certainly didn’t intend to startle you with his presence, but... you see... my son wishes to personally... er... conduct this interview.”

  He smiled a devastating smile that Sarah wasn’t supposed to react to. Because she wasn’t supposed to see it. A reflex, she was quite certain. He probably couldn’t help himself, she thought sourly. He was very likely quite used to stealing hearts and charming young women to death.

  And still her heart quickened its pace.

  “Have you objections to his presence?”

  Sarah resisted the urge to turn and stare at her cousin’s child. “Not at all!” she replied, and tried not to sound overeager. “He’s the one I most need to impress, is he not?”

  Peter chuckled at her question. “He is at that,” he agreed, and seemed to relax a bit in his stance. He turned to his son. “Ready, sport?”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy replied.

  In the meek sound of his voice, there was little evidence of his tempestuous mother, and the realization filled Sarah with grief.

  And yet, she determined, how could there be anything of Mary in him at all when Mary had had so little influence upon his life?

  “Very well,” Peter continued, dismissing his butler with a nod. He turned to Mel, motioning toward the facing chair. “My apologies,” he said, “but as you see, I’ve only the one. I was expecting Miss Hopkins alone, I’m afraid—though I should have anticipated perhaps. If you will see her to her seat, you are welcome to the divan yourself.” And with that he dismissed Mel and sat on the corner of his desk.

  Mel, bless her heart, suddenly took a servile role, quite unlike their entrance, which was anything but deferential and caused Sarah to wince. Taking Sarah gently by the arm, she led her to the chair as though Sarah were indeed unable to find the black leather monstrosity on her own. Sarah did her part to appear awkward though not entirely helpless—she couldn’t quite manage helpless.

  Mel bent to whisper in her ear. “Eyes closed,” she demanded.

  Sarah closed them at once. And suddenly it was all she could do not to run screaming from the room. All that kept her focused and calm was the strength of her purpose… and the little boy sitting not more than five feet from her.

  Christopher was the reason she was here, she reminded herself.

  Opening her eyes, she sat facing the enormous desk, trying not to weep with joy at the sight of the six-year-old child seated behind the hulking piece of furniture, his little face barely visible above the papers stacked there. She tried to keep a blank expression. And yet she dared not look away, dared not twitch a brow at the sight of him. She could scarcely keep her hands from trembling as she sat inspecting her cousin’s child for the first time, her emotions in melee.

  Her uncle would have been overjoyed to see him this moment.

  He looked so like Mary, with his tawny hair and his upturned little nose. It saddened Sarah that her uncle had not lived to set eyes upon his only grandson—her sweet uncle who had sworn his two girls were all that any papa should need. She could almost hear him speak the words as though he were standing over her shoulder, and the sensation choked her breath away.

  “If I recall correctly...”

  Peter Holland, too, had been gazing at his son, and shifted his attention suddenly, crossing his arms as he turned to assess her. Sarah spied him from the corner of her eye, but dared not acknowledge his renewed regard. She continued to stare at the desk, at Christopher, repressing her emotions.

  “Your resume states you studied at L’Institut National des Jeunes Aveugles in Paris? Quite a feat for someone so young, much less...”

  “A blind woman?” she finished for him, recognizing the tone and wholly offended by it. She lifted her chin, tilting her head, though kept her calm, taking Christopher’s presence into consideration, and recalling her purpose. It wouldn’t suit to begin railing over the iniquities of male supremacy, though it galled her nevertheless. “You need not finish, Mr. Holland,” she told him. “I hear it in your tone. Do you not believe a woman capable of academics?”

  “I did not say that, Miss Hopkins.”

  Sarah was certain she heard amusement in his voice now—a note that only further provoked her. “It is Miss Hopkins, is it not?”

  “Yes, it is, Mr. Holland. And you need not have said a thing, sir. Pardon my speaking so plainly, but I am blind, not deaf, nor am I stupid.”

  He had the audacity to chuckle at that. “No, you are not, I see quite clearly.”

  Sarah didn’t quite appreciate his good humor. “My apologies once again,” he offered, and managed to sound sincere, despite the laughter that tinged his voice.

  “In any case,” Sarah continued, bolstered now by a renewed sense of injustice for the plight of her gender, “I did not study Braille at the Institute. You misunderstood my letter of credits. My late tutor was a retired professor there.”

  “I see,” he said. “And how long have you been using the Braille code, may I ask?”

  “Five years,” Sarah lied, prepared for his question. She was well rehearsed. “Long enough to lament the fact that there is too little published as yet.”

  “Yes, I tend to agree,” he said. “But I shall remedy that for my son’s sake, I assure you.”

  Sarah swallowed and forced her reply. “He is quite a fortunate child to have such a caring father.” The praise sat like acid within her belly, burning with her anger.

  He glanced at Mel. Sarah refrained. She didn’t dare look at Mel, didn’t dare give herself away.

  “And in what capacity does Mrs. Frank serve you?” he asked her then.

  “She is both my friend and my aid. She sometimes assists with instructions, as well.” A greater understatement Sarah had never uttered. Mel’s knowledge of the Modified Braille code and her work with the sightless would be the key to effecting this plan. Though Sarah had anticipated having to teach Christopher someday—hoped to at least—she only knew the minimal. Without Mel, she’d never have been able to complete this ruse.

  He seemed to be studying her. “I have but a few more questions, if you might indulge me.”

  Sarah braced herself. “Certainly.”

  He lifted up her resume, scanning it.

  Sarah’s gut turned as he read over her lies. “Your credentials are excellent. I’ve no reason to doubt them, but it is essential I understand your commitment...”

  He sounded all the world like a loving, caring father, but Sarah knew better. “Of course,” she replied.

  “Why Braille? Why not the New York Point System?”

  “Well,” she began, “I must confess my resume is a bit misleading as it stands.” She took a deep breath—it was more than a bit misleading! “Braille is in fact the system I was primarily taught, but I am also familiar with the New York Point System. My preference, however, is a rather new code, the Modified Braille.”

  His brows lifted. “Modified Braille? I’m afraid I am not familiar with that one.”

  “Yes, well, it has yet to be accepted by the British Braille authorities, though it has been used with some success at the Perkin’s Institute in Boston. It is quite similar to Louis Braille’s system, but the new code’s key feature is that the most frequently recurring letters are represented by the smallest number of dots. Therefore, it may be written and read more quickly.” She glanced at Mel out of the corner of her eye and saw that she was nodding her approval. “The New York Point System, on the other hand,” she continued, encouraged, “though at present it receives much favor, is a bulky and confusing system. I wouldn’t recommend it at all.”

  “And so you would propose to teach my son this Modified Braille?”

  “The choice is solely at your discretion, of course, Mr. Holland. I am merely giving you my humble opinion. I am quite capable of ins
tructing him in any of the codes we’ve discussed, but yes, I do have strong leanings toward the Modified Braille. And yet... I should caution you to consider that most of what is published already is published in accordance with the British Braille authorities. That does not mean, however, it will always be so. The debate is quite heated at the moment, and there is a diversity of opinion as to which code is actually the better code. There are strong advocates for both the New York Point System as well as the Modified, but as yet, as I said, the British Braille authorities do not recognize either.”

  “You certainly seem to know your work, Miss Hopkins.”

  Sarah felt nearly dizzy with relief at his approval. Not that she gave a blast what he thought of her truly. She was merely relieved that he had accepted her story.

  “Now I would like to know why it is you are applying for this position.”

  Because she wanted to catch a murderer!

  The directness of his question startled her only an instant.

  She took a deep breath. “Because I was not always blind, Mr. Holland,” she replied, repeating the story she and Mel had rehearsed.

  She came aware of the sound of footsteps, and tilted her head toward the newcomer, not daring to turn and acknowledge the person with her glance. It wasn’t easy to catch herself at every gesture, but she must do her absolute best. It was crucial she not give herself away. She closed her eyes now, and kept them closed, forcing herself to see the room only through the confines of her mind.

  “I had a friend, you see, when I most desperately needed one,” she continued passionately, and silently berated herself for not considering acting as a career. “My tutor... he inspired me when I thought nothing might. He taught me that my blindness was not a death sentence, Mr. Holland, and that I need not waste myself with self-pity and lamentations. Someone cared enough to give all that to me, and I only wish to give it back.”

  The room remained silent.

  She heard his intake of breath and knew he was moved by her words.

  “That is certainly commendable,” he said after a contemplative moment.

  “You see,” she continued, encouraged, “there must be a reason under the sun for everything, Mr. Holland. And I refuse to allow my own accident to pass in vain.”

  “You are quite a remarkable woman.”

  Sarah opened her eyes.

  The sincerity in his tone was disarming.

  The way he was looking at her was even more so. It was a look she wasn’t supposed to see behind her dark glasses, and yet she did. Her heart hammered a strange beat against her breast. She had to will herself to breathe.

  It was dangerous to believe him capable of human compassion, she reminded herself. Any man who could murder his wife so coldly had a heart as black as coal.

  Peter Holland was a dangerous man—more so because he bore the face of an angel.

  He wasn’t an angel, but a heartless killer. Rumors alluded to it and Mary’s growing unhappiness certainly didn’t absolve him.

  “Thank you,” Sarah answered, a little breathlessly.

  What the devil was wrong with her?

  “Well, then ...” He turned to look at Christopher. “Are you ready to conduct the interview, sport?”

  Sarah could scarcely see the little face that lit with excitement behind the massive desk. She was grateful for the sudden turn of Peter’s attention.

  “I really can do it, Daddy?” Christopher asked, bubbling over with enthusiasm. And yet he didn’t rise up on his knees as Sarah expected most boys would have done. He didn’t vie for a better view of her. He didn’t look her in the face. He merely sat within his father’s chair, glowing with excitement.

  “Of course,” his father replied. “She’s all yours, son.”

  Sarah smiled despite herself at his choice of words.

  “What should I ask her, Daddy?” he whispered anxiously, and seemed to think, perhaps, that no one but his father could hear.

  “Ask whatever you wish,” Sarah answered. “What may I tell you that will convince you to give me employ?”

  “Ummm,” he replied a little uncertainly, and placed a finger to his head, as though to touch upon the answer in his brain. “Do you keep taffy in your dress coat?” he asked.

  Sarah smiled, forgetting her darker thoughts in the face of such sweet innocence. “Why, yes, I do!” she confessed, and resolved to do so, “though sometimes, I fear, I sneak them for myself. But shhh,” she urged him. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  He giggled, and Sarah had to restrain herself from peering over the desk to better see his expression. He had his mother’s laughter, she thought—that impish little giggle that made one want to giggle, too, even when one wasn’t certain what the laughter was about.

  “Next question?” she prompted him, and was very much aware that his father was watching them carefully... and someone else was watching too.

  Sarah sensed the scrutiny upon her and yet dared not turn to see who it was that watched from the doorway behind her.

  “Ummm,” he said again, and paused awhile to think. He cast his head back, as though to gaze up at the ceiling in contemplation. Sarah tried to remain sober at the sight of him. “Do you have a little boy of your own?” he asked next, surprising her with the question.

  Sarah smiled again. “Why, no, I don’t. Nor a little girl, though I wish very much that I did,” she confessed.

  “Then why don’t you get one?” he suggested with the innocence of a child.

  Sarah laughed at that. “Well, it is not quite so simple as all that, I’m afraid.”

  “Why not?” he persisted, and Sarah caught herself before she could glance up into his father’s face.

  She wasn’t even certain why she was compelled to, and the realization perturbed her.

  She frowned. “Because I don’t wish to marry, is why.”

  “Oh,” he replied, and seemed to ponder that an instant, before asking, “Why not?”

  “Christopher,” came a woman’s voice from behind them, her tone full of censure.

  Sarah started at the sound of it.

  Christopher quieted for a moment and then asked, “Do you smell funny?”

  Sarah’s brows collided. “Do I smell funny?”

  Peter Holland covered his mouth with his hand and tried not to laugh, Sarah noted. “I think he is wondering if you wear perfume,” he clarified.

  Oh! Good Lord, but they begin so young. “Just a bit,” she replied. And it was her turn now to ask, “Why, Christopher?”

  “’Cause I don’t like it!” he answered fervently.

  “I see.” Sarah bit her lip. She could not laugh at his disclosure, even though she truly wished to.

  “That is because you are much too young to appreciate it,” the woman at the door announced somewhat defensively.

  Sarah was plagued with curiosity now. Christopher seemed reluctant to speak again. Nor did she fail to note the uneasy silence that had fallen over the room—until Peter Holland’s deep baritone spoke to breach it.

  “Miss Hopkins,” he said, “please make the acquaintance of my sister... Miss Ruth Holland.”

  Sarah didn’t dare search out the woman’s visage. She lifted her chin, closed her eyes, and listened for her voice.

  “Very good to meet you, Miss Hopkins.”

  Sarah blinked at the tone of her voice: cold disapproval. But why?

  Why the instant dislike?

  “Au contraire,” Sarah answered, smiling, “the pleasure is all mine.”

  “Yes, well... I shall leave you to your interview. Please forgive the interruption. Peter,” she said, dismissing Sarah rudely, “I shall see you at dinner. I should love to hear about the remaining applicants.”

  Peter said nothing in the uneasy silence, but then he replied, “I shall be out this evening, Ruth. Dinner engagement... business, so it will simply be you and Christopher tonight.”

  “I see,” Ruth answered, her tone clipped and cool. “Very well, then. Perhaps tomorrow.”

/>   And then Sarah heard her departure, soft footsteps for one with such a bold presence. She waited for them to ebb completely.

  “Did I do something wrong?” she asked. “I’ve the impression she has dismissed me already.” Sarah didn’t have to pretend disappointment. If Peter Holland turned her away now... her chance to discover the truth would be gone forever. The thought aggrieved her enormously.

  “Not at all,” Peter assured. “My sister does not run my household, Miss Hopkins.”

  Sarah sensed in the pause that ensued that he would have liked to say more on the subject, but he refrained.

  “In fact,” he continued, “I think you are precisely the candidate I am seeking. If it suits you, the position is yours.”

  Her stomach lurched. She was both thrilled and terrified at once.

  Sarah wasn’t certain she could do this, and yet she must—every word, every action, she would have to scrutinize, but the end would be worth the means.

  She straightened her spine. “It most certainly does suit me, Mr. Holland!”

  “Then it is settled. The position is yours.”

  Sarah suddenly wasn’t certain whether to thank him for the opportunity or to weep. Behind her dark glasses, she dared to look up into Peter Holland’s eyes.

  Innocent?

  Guilty?

  He was one or the other, and she had the sickening sensation she was about to find out which.

  Chapter 4

  The interview couldn’t have gone more successfully.

  Preparations couldn’t have gone more smoothly.

  So why did Sarah suddenly feel like crawling under the bed and never coming out?

  All arrangements were complete now, and there was no turning back. All that remained to be done was to call a hansom and return to the corner of University Place and Twelfth Street.

  Mel watched her from the divan, her legs drawn up upon the gold damask. “Your pacing is making me dizzy, Sarah!” she complained.