Three Redeemable Rogues

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  She’d left angry.

  Of that particular fact, Sarah had little doubt.

  Sarah sat upon the small bed and contemplated the things Ruth Holland had revealed to her. It was true that Christopher was entirely too young, in relation to his peers, to begin to learn how to read. Most children his age were hardly contemplating school at all, much less reading. And yet she remembered the spark of intelligence in his eyes and couldn’t say she had been struck first by his youth. She hadn’t even considered it at all, in fact, but neither had she before she’d met him. Her mind had been focused primarily upon her goal.

  The missing journal.

  She slid off the bed and began to pace the room.

  Where would it be?

  Giving the room a cursory search, she considered the possibility that it might be here in this room where Mary had slept, though she doubted it. It had been more than six years since Mary’s death, and even had Mary kept them here, Sarah doubted they had been overlooked all this time.

  Besides, there were too few places to hide something of that nature, especially when all of the New York City police force and a guilty husband might be searching for it.

  Keeping that thought in mind, Sarah made her way to the wardrobe. Opening its smooth mahogany doors, she expected to find nothing. She wasn’t disappointed; it was empty, but for a very ornately designed hatbox.

  Stooping to reach it, she lifted it up, testing its weight. She then set it back down. There was something within, but she couldn’t imagine what it could be. It was too noisy to be a hat, and too light to be Mary’s journal. Then, of course, she hardly expected to find it so soon, and out in the open as this was. She opened the box and sifted through the pale tissue, searching for the object she had heard rattle across the bottom of the box. It was nothing of any substantial size, that much was certain. Her fingers skimmed the bottom of the box until she felt the object. She drew it out and blinked at the sight of it. It was a small golden key, tiny like a charm from a bracelet. In fact, attached to it was a tiny golden loop that appeared as though it had been pried apart. Perhaps it was a charm, but it was nothing Sarah recognized. Like Sarah, Mary had not been one to wear jewelry. She stared at it, admiring it, and then dropped the small trinket back into the box, replaced the lid, and returned it. Rising, she closed the wardrobe doors. That done, she moved down to the only drawer in the wardrobe, a long, thin one at the foot of the hefty piece of furniture.

  Opening the drawer revealed a folded soft blue cloth. Sarah lifted up the blanket and let it unfold into her lap. A baby blanket, solid blue with the beginnings of an embroidery in its center. A closer inspection revealed a threaded needle still embedded within its folds, and a strand of dark blue thread. The embroidery appeared to be a set of initials. She could make out the C quite clearly, but the next initial was unclear... maybe a J?

  She sat down upon the wood floor and reverently traced the embroidery with a finger. She had never known Mary to embroider; but she was quite certain it was Mary’s effort. The stitches were far from perfect, but lovingly done. Had she been stitching the blanket just before she’d died? Or had she given it her best effort and found her patience lacking and set it aside?

  Knowing Mary, and Sarah liked to think she did despite that they’d parted ways so long before her death, she had decided to embroider, and embroider she did, and hadn’t set it aside at all. No... Sarah was near certain she would have finished the task she’d set herself, and if the blanket was for Christopher, she hardly would have lost the passion for it.

  The initials... C for Christopher. But J…

  With a sigh of disgust, she realized she didn’t know Christopher’s middle name. John? Jack? God! Life was unfair. She hugged the blanket to her breast and allowed herself to grieve once more. For Mary...

  Her throat closed. Her cousin had been her closest friend. Her sister, for all purposes. They had been confidantes, had shared everything together, and here was such an enormous portion of Mary’s life that Sarah knew nothing about.

  She couldn’t help herself. She began to weep silently.

  She sat on the floor in this room where Mary had died, hugging a blanket Mary had been sewing for the child Sarah had never known, and tears spilled down her cheeks.

  Who was this man who had taken everything from her?

  Who was Peter Holland really?

  And why had Mary thrown away so much to be with him? How could she face Mary’s husband in the morning after sleeping in this room where Mary had died? Burying her face in the blanket, she wept quietly... lest someone overhear.

  She would face Peter Holland because she must.

  There were no choices to be made here.

  Mary hadn’t been given one, and neither had Christopher, and she owed it to both of them to make things right.

  Peter Holland might have the face of an angel, she reminded herself, but he had the heart of a jackal—at the very least for throwing Mary away so coldly.

  Sarah was determined to see him pay.

  Someone must.

  It wasn’t Peter’s idea of a warm welcome.

  He’d insisted upon seeing Cile home only because he didn’t particularly like the thought of leaving her to fend for herself on New York’s streets at night. Cile Morgan rather liked to think herself a match for any man, but the truth was that she would be little more than dessert for some of the city’s seedier sort.

  He lived already with one woman’s death on his conscience. He certainly didn’t intend to add another.

  His sister greeted him at the door in a fit of temper unlike anything he had ever witnessed in her before. The best he could make from her rambling was that she’d had words with Sarah Hopkins, and that their guest had eschewed dinner with her new pupil. Christopher had been heartily disappointed, and to say Ruth was angry was an understatement.

  He left Ruth, promising to speak to their guest, and ignoring her protests that he should do precisely the contrary—that if Miss Hopkins didn’t care enough to make the effort, he must be wrong about her character. Peter didn’t think so. One did not fake the sincerity he’d heard in her voice when she’d spoken to his son. He didn’t know how to explain it, but his gut told him that Sarah Hopkins was good for Christopher.

  Pausing at her door, he started to knock and then halted abruptly at the faint sound of weeping coming from within. Something about the way she sobbed took him back... evoked memories that made his chest wrench.

  Startled by the sounds that came from the room, he listened for a moment, confused, his hand poised to knock.

  This was not his wife, he reminded himself. She was a stranger to him still. A beautiful stranger, but a stranger nonetheless.

  She would not appreciate his interruption, he told himself... and what he had to speak to her about could certainly wait until the morning.

  He shrugged free of the stupor that held him. Straightening, he pushed away from the door, then turned and walked away.

  His chance to knock upon this door... to go to his wife and heal her sorrow, was long past.

  The time to reassure was gone.

  She wasn’t here anymore, and he had long since ceased to mourn her.

  God only knew... it wasn’t so simple a task to forgive himself. He may have dealt with his grief, but he hadn’t the slightest notion how to let go of his guilt.

  It stayed with him, snarling at his soul like a rabid beast.

  Chapter 8

  “These servants are all a bunch of gossips,” Mel swore, bursting into Sarah’s room, brimming with energy and excitement. “Thank God!”

  Startled by the unexpected intrusion, Sarah sat up in the bed. “Good Lord, Mellie! You nearly scared the life out of me!”

  “Poppycock!” Mel said. “Guess what I discovered,” she persisted, sitting on the bed at Sarah’s feet.

  Somehow Mel’s enthusiasm both buoyed and frightened her at once. She didn’t wish her dear friend to forget the risks they were taking. This was hardly a game
, and the stakes were too high to be taken lightly.

  “That you don’t wish to do this and you want to go home?” Sarah said warily.

  Mel waved a hand at her, dismissing her sarcasm.

  Sarah frowned. “You are beginning to enjoy this far too much, I think.”

  Mel laughed softly. “Perhaps I am. It is rather exciting to play at being a Pinkerton.”

  “Just remember that this is not play,” Sarah advised her. “It struck me again last night how dangerous a venture this is. It is not easy at all to play a blind woman, Mel. I find myself reacting instinctively and have to catch myself at every turn.”

  “But you are doing so well,” Mel assured her. “Sarah, I have spent time among the blind all my life, and you are convincing enough even for me. You are doing very well, and if you were not, I would put an end to this at once.”

  “You truly feel so?” Sarah lifted her thumb to her lips, and gnawed it absently.

  Mel gave her an admonishing glance. “When have you ever known me to mince words? Of course I mean it, or I’d not say it. I’d be nagging you instead—no, I would be dragging you out by your hair like some Neanderthal man.”

  Sarah had to chuckle at the images that came to mind. “You would, at that, I think.”

  “Of course I would.” Mel cocked her head. “Now... do you wish to know what I discovered, or not?”

  “Yes!” Sarah exclaimed. “Tell me already!”

  “Very well, then,” Mel said, “but I’ll not tell you while you are lying in that bed. I cannot believe you are sleeping so late,” she scolded, and then demanded, “Get up!”

  Sarah flushed guiltily. “I spent quite a bad night in this room,” she confessed.

  Mel gave her a quizzical glance. “Wish to talk about it?”

  “No,” Sarah answered at once, and then explained, “it is just this room.”

  “This room?”

  “Yes,” Sarah answered. “This is where it happened.” She gave Mel a meaningful nod at the floor. “There.”

  “Oh, dear...” Mel’s expression softened at once. “I’m so sorry, Sarah. I know you loved her dearly. But together,” she assured, “we are going to make everything right. You believe that, don’t you?”

  Sarah shrugged. “I received a visit from Ruth last night. She had little enough to say to me, but none of it was benevolent, I assure you.”

  Mel nodded. “She’s a regular battle-ax, they say.”

  Sarah lifted her brows. “Battle-ax?”

  “So they say. It seems she rules the nest here, and Peter Holland either does not seem to care or is afraid of her as well.”

  “Afraid!” Sarah exclaimed. “Peter Holland? One look at that man tells me he is afraid of nothing.”

  “I rather thought so as well,” Mel agreed. “And yet... I am only telling you what I have gleaned thus far. Most of the servants here seem quite closemouthed, but for a few.”

  “How did they welcome you?” Sarah asked with genuine concern.

  “Most of them not at all, to tell you the truth. They are all quite self-involved, I think. Not overly friendly, but neither are they cold. As best as I can tell, this is not some medieval household where they are forced into familiarity by necessity. But for a few, they all go home to their families at night, and mind their own affairs while they are here. But for a few,” she reiterated. “I did have an interesting discussion with the housekeeper...”

  “Well, tell me,” Sarah prompted.

  Mel smiled. “Get out of bed first. It unsettles me to see you lying there looking like a convalescent.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t contain her wry smile. She climbed out of the bed and went to the wardrobe, opening the doors.

  She’d had herself a good cry last night, and then had passed the time thinking while she’d unpacked. “If they ask, I shall tell them you unpacked my bags,” she said, as she rummaged through her dresses... all of them dark in color. She hadn’t noticed that detail until this moment, and had to wonder if the choices had been dictated by her subconscious. She had long since ceased to wear mourning, but somehow her choices were all somber. For today, she chose a deep burgundy wool dress and her simplest bustle—something she wished had never come back into style as she much ' preferred the long, slim lines. They had come back, however, and while she disdained having to follow someone else’s code of style, she wasn’t quite willing to draw the sort of attention she might were she to completely eschew the dictates of polite society.

  So she opted for the smallest petticoats and bustles, and cursed the man who first created such a ridiculous concoction of ruffles and frills.

  “Shall I help you?”

  Sarah cast Mel a wry smile. “Let us not, and say you did.”

  Mel giggled.

  Sarah glowered at her. “I am only playing a blind woman, remember? I have been dressing myself for years; I hardly think I need help now.”

  Mel smiled in answer, and then wrinkled her nose. “You are playing a widow, too, it seems, judging by your choice of dress.”

  “Well, it hardly seemed appropriate,” Sarah told her, “that I should adorn myself as though I could see.”

  “Is that what you think you are doing? Dressing the part of a blind woman?”

  “I suppose so,” Sarah answered, “though I hardly realized it until just now. As carefully as I planned, I certainly did not consciously choose.”

  Mel rose from the bed and came to help her with the petticoat. “Well, I am sorry to tell you, but that particular effort is wholly wasted.” She eyed Sarah with some disappointment. “The blind, as I’m certain you realize, do not shop to appear blind, Sarah. They hardly know what they are wearing. Those who are fortunate to have someone choose for them are dressed by silly individuals who make an exceptional effort to be certain they fit in. Those who are not so fortunate, well, they wear whatever is available to them, as would anyone else. Make an effort to note what Christopher will wear today,” she advised. “You will see, I’m certain, he is dressed as any other little boy of his means.”

  Remembering her conversation with Peter Holland, Sarah frowned. “How silly of me,” she said, and was embarrassed.

  “No need to worry,” Mel reassured. “You shall simply tell them that I do your shopping and that I am a dour old woman at heart.” She laughed. “For myself, I brought only the most conservative attire. Because, like you,” she said, “I was concerned with dressing the part.”

  “But I did not consciously choose,” Sarah protested.

  “It makes no difference—just as it makes no difference what you wear... Peter Holland will still look at you with those love-struck eyes.” She peered up from the laces to gauge Sarah’s expression.

  Sarah blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You are a silly goose not to see it!” She raised a brow and stepped away to inspect the petticoat’s fastenings. “He looks at you quite appreciatively, I think. And you would be a fool not to use it.”

  “I hardly think so,” Sarah denied hotly. “He’s a blackhearted murderer!”

  Mel gave her an amused smile. “Even blackhearted murderers suffer lust, my dear. Do not fool yourself. Peter Holland is definitely in lust with you.”

  The very notion horrified Sarah. “But I’m blind!”

  Mel frowned at her. “That’s a ridiculous statement, if ever I’ve heard one. So does that turn you suddenly into a toad?”

  Sarah’s cheeks heated. It was a ridiculous statement, for certain, but it had just popped out of her mouth. She hadn’t the first notion what else to say, because she refused to contemplate the possibility that Peter Holland might be attracted to her.

  She refused even to consider why it should bother her.

  It was an entirely unthinkable notion!

  Never mind that she was having a difficult time not being attracted in return.

  Sarah cast Mel an irritated glance. “So are you going to tell me what you discovered, or not?”

 
“Good Lord!” Mel exclaimed. “I very nearly forgot! It seems Peter Holland’s alibi for that dreadful night lives right here in his house.”

  “Here?” Sarah had entirely forgotten he’d even had an alibi. So little had been reported about it. In fact, considering the gravity of the situation, very little had been reported in that vein at all. Peter Holland’s name was bandied about in the worst light. And yet she did recall mention of an alibi... a certain maid... “Did you chance to speak with her?”

  “No,” Mel said. “But she remains in his employ, and I did speak to the housekeeper. The girl’s name is Caitlin. She’s apparently a very quiet sort. Six years ago, however, she was not. She was a giddy young girl in love with her employer.”

  “Do you think she will speak to us?”

  “I’m not certain,” Mel said. “It seems Peter gave her employ when she was hungry—an Irish immigrant with no place to go and no family to speak of. She is quite loyal to Peter, as I understand.” Mel winked at her. “But leave it to me. I shall have her story in no time.”

  “You are a gem, Mellie!” Sarah declared. “Whatever would I do without you?”

  “Bite your tongue,” Mel said. “I assure you, you shall never have to find out!”

  Christopher Holland was a brilliant child; that much was evident within the first hour of their lessons. Dressed as a darling little replica of his father, in trousers and formal shirt, he sat before her, dutifully listening to her every word.

  Ruth had brought him to the nursery, practically by the collar of his shirt, as it had appeared to Sarah. Every moment she thought of it, she grew more furious with his father. In the somewhat fearful glance he’d given his aunt, it was apparent that the child was unwilling to accompany Ruth to the nursery. And yet... that was not the impression Sarah had received that first day during her interview. He had seemed excited by the prospect of her instruction, in fact. Something wasn’t right here.