Three Redeemable Rogues

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  He even went so far as to lean toward her, and his smug and much too patient expression made her hands itch to slap his face.

  And, well, why shouldn’t she?

  He would never know if she meant to, she thought as she recalled the way Christopher had fallen upon his face. Reaching out, groping, she gave the air before him a swipe and then one more, catching him squarely in the face.

  “Aye!”

  “My goodness!” Sarah exclaimed. “I didn’t realize you were so near,” she added too sweetly.

  He was frowning at her now, and she smiled. “I’m beginning to think you are quite a dangerous woman to be around.”

  “I am soooo sorry!”

  “Are you?” Peter asked her, and was studying her once more. “You don’t respect men very much, do you, Sarah?”

  The observation surprised her, coming as it did in the wake of Mel’s tirade. “Of course I do! Whatever makes you think such a thing?”

  She began to see his face, giving it as little attention as possible.

  “The things you say...” He peered up at her, and Sarah closed her eyes. “Unless it is simply me you do not like?”

  Sarah ignored his speculation. “I respected my uncle enormously,” she told him honestly. “But there are, in truth, not so many like him.”

  She tried not to think of the way his skin felt beneath her fingers... the warmth of it...

  As she knelt above him, the scent of his warm masculine skin pervaded her senses. And dear Lord, but she became quite dizzy suddenly.

  “Were the two of you very close?”

  Much too close!

  God, they were too close.

  She couldn’t think. “What?” she asked a little breathlessly, her thoughts in danger of scattering.

  “Your uncle. Were you very close?”

  “Oh! Yes! Yes, we were! But he passed away... some years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Sarah’s hands shook. She tried to concentrate.

  Unable to bear it any longer, she began to draw away, but before she could leave him, he placed his hand over hers and restrained her fingers upon his cheek, trapping it there.

  “Afraid of a little touch?” he challenged, throwing her own words back at her.

  Sarah jerked her hand from beneath his.

  “It is only a face, Sarah,” he taunted her.

  “Scratchy face,” Christopher interjected, reminding them suddenly of his presence. “Miss Sarah’s is softer.”

  Sarah had completely forgotten Christopher though he didn’t seem the least aware of that, as he was still busy playing with his faceless soldier.

  Peter’s hand reached out, touched her chin then, and Sarah gasped in surprise. His fingers slid to her cheek, cupping it softly. “Much softer,” he affirmed, and closed his eyes. Sarah’s heartbeat quickened at the look of relish upon his face... the gentleness of his touch. She swallowed convulsively as his touch grew firmer and his thumb caressed her face.

  Dear God, she couldn’t bear it!

  Her eyes closed, and she leaned into his embrace.

  “Much softer,” he whispered, and Sarah let out a breath she’d not realized she’d held. Her hand covered his upon her face.

  She forced her eyes open, her heart beating much too fiercely. She needed to be away suddenly, and desperately.

  She drew his hand away quickly, as though it burned her.

  “Yes, well...” She couldn’t recall a time she had been more flustered. Her hands were trembling still.

  “I think... I think I’ve forgotten something!” she stammered, and reached for her cane. She had enough wits about her to make it appear she was groping for it.

  And then she rose and left the nursery as quickly as she was able.

  Chapter 17

  Sarah sat within her room—Mary’s room—in her chair by the window, staring at the portrait of Mary she held in her hand.

  She had panicked.

  There was no other word for it.

  She couldn’t explain what had come over her, except that she had lost her wits and nerve and who knew what else.

  There was something tangible between them, something that seemed wholly impossible, and yet... and yet... it was there.

  She could feel it.

  And it wasn’t her imagination because she saw it in the glitter of his eyes. It was a hungry glance she wasn’t supposed to have spied, and yet she had.

  Afraid of a little touch?

  More than she could possibly have imagined.

  Cad.

  Without mercy, he had thrown her own words back at her.

  Even now, with the memory of his touch, her heartbeat had yet to slow.

  She studied the portrait she held in her hand. Had Mary felt this for him too? Had she been drawn to Peter in the same way? Had her skin prickled at his slightest glance? And had she dreamt of his lips?

  Something fluttered in her belly at the thought of his mouth.

  Had Mary dared to live these wicked thoughts?

  Sarah could scarcely bear that she had condemned her cousin for what she was feeling this moment—and for the very man she’d felt it for! God knew Sarah had come into his home ready to loathe him. With a start, she realized she no longer could. How could she despise a man who cared so very much for his son, who sat on the floor and polished little toy soldiers with him, who bought him taffy in the park and gazed down upon his child with such undisguised affection?

  The only thing Sarah could not condone was the fact that he pushed his son so blessed hard. It was as though he drove Christopher out of some sense of...

  What?

  In truth, it was as though he could not accept Christopher’s disability. And yet he accepted his son completely... It was obvious that Peter embraced his child. So did he push Christopher so hard out of some sense of personal culpability? Did he need his son to overcome his blindness in order to assuage his own guilt feelings?

  Sarah wondered.

  The truth was, however, that Christopher was an overly intelligent child. He did not appear to be overburdened by his father’s expectations as Ruth had suggested. In fact, judging by all he’d said to his father, he had grasped everything she had taught him with a minimum of explanation and a maximum of comprehension. Even his speech patterns were hardly those of a six-year-old.

  Whatever the case... it was growing more and more difficult to believe Peter was Mary’s murderer.

  She had to consider whether it was because she suddenly didn’t want him to be.

  A soft rap on the door startled her from her reveries. She placed Mary’s portrait down upon the table. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Mel, Sarah.”

  Sarah rose up from the chair and hurried to the door. “Come in!”

  Mel didn’t need a second invitation; she threw open the door and entered, shutting it quickly behind her.

  “Where the devil have you been?” Sarah demanded of her at once.

  “I am so sorry!” Mel replied. “Forgive me, Sarah, for not returning last night. But I think you’ll be quite intrigued by what I’ve discovered.”

  “You left me all alone in that tub!” Sarah railed.

  Mel’s eyes twinkled with devilment. “Come, now, Sarah. You hardly need me to hold your hand,” she chided. She lifted a brow. “Anyway, he didn’t walk in on you, did he?”

  “No,” Sarah said, hardly appeased by the fact. “Thank God! But he very well could have.”

  “Well,” Mel reasoned, not the least bit moved by Sarah’s complaint, “all is well that ends well, so they say.”

  Sarah gave her longtime friend a beleaguered glance. “Spare me,” she pleaded with her. “So what did you discover?”

  Mel took her by the hand and dragged her back to the chair. She seized her by the shoulders and sat her down upon the chair, looking rather pleased with herself. “You remember I told you about Peter’s alibi?”

  “Caitlin?”

  “Yes! I spoke to her!�
�

  Sarah’s brows lifted. “You did?”

  “She was with him!”

  “Well, of course,” Sarah replied, not quite following. Something suddenly twisted in the pit of her stomach at the thought. “How else could she be his alibi?” she reasoned.

  “No,” Mel returned, giving her a meaningful nod. “She was with him.”

  Sarah’s gaze fell. Her heart sank. “I see.” So he wasn’t a murderer, but he was an adulterer. One was definitely worse than the other, but Sarah didn’t particularly feel relieved. “So he keeps his lover in the house?” she surmised. “Mary was right, after all. He was betraying her.”

  “No,” Mel said. “Not according to Caitlin. It seems he was quite inebriated that night, and did nothing more than pass out upon the floor—though that apparently was not his intention. Caitlin stayed to watch over him, because she was afraid he was in much too bad a state... if you know what I mean?” She lifted a brow, then turned and went to the bed, sitting on the edge of it, facing Sarah. “At least she stayed until she was certain he was all right, and then she went to bed—alone—in the servants’ quarters. However... he does have a lover, and Caitlin seems to think her quite manipulative...”

  Naturally, Sarah was curious, though she tried to seem as unconcerned as she was able, considering the turn of the day’s events. “Who is she?”

  “Her name is Cecile Morgan.”

  Sarah’s brows lifted. “The woman who was here the night of the fire?”

  Mel nodded meaningfully. “Precisely.”

  Sarah considered that, and said, “I had the distinct impression she was a business partner of sorts.”

  “It seems she’s that, as well.”

  Sarah frowned, still unable to connect the facts. “But it has been six years since Mary’s death,” she reminded Mel. “What has Cecile to do with anything at all?”

  “That is the most intriguing part.”

  Sarah wasn’t certain she could agree.

  “According to Caitlin, Peter’s sister, Ruth, introduced the two of them seven-odd years ago. At the time Cile was married to J. W. Morgan, quite a wealthy older fellow. He was fifty-two to Cile’s twenty-five—caused a bit of a scandal, the two of them did. At any rate, she and Peter met, and months later Cile’s husband was found dead in his bedroom.”

  “Do I truly wish to hear his cause of death, Mellie? Don’t tell me she sent him to the grave with a smile upon his face,” she remarked caustically, “because I think I will be sick if you do!”

  “Hush, now, Sarah,” Mel exclaimed, “and allow me to finish!”

  Sarah glowered at her.

  Mel ignored her. “Also... according to Caitlin, J. W.’s aged mother claimed to everyone who would listen that Cile had poisoned her son, but no one would ever believe her and Cile sent the old woman away to some hospital.”

  Sarah’s interest was piqued. “Quite an interesting tale,” she admitted.

  “Isn’t it, though?” Mel agreed, and lifted a brow suggestively. “Particularly when you consider the fact that merely three months later, Mary ends up murdered... here.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that you suspect Peter once again?”

  “If it is true that they are lovers... I’m afraid to say it, but yes. It is an age-old tale, I’m afraid; money and love and greed.”

  Sarah sighed. “So now he is both a murderer and an adulterer,” Sarah said bitterly, and lifted up the portrait of her cousin once more. She stared at it, trying to imagine what Mary must have felt... all alone here in this house.

  Mel watched her. “Sarah?” she began.

  Sarah placed the portrait facedown within her lap. “Yes?”

  “Be careful, dear. I am quite afraid that I might have led you wrong where Peter Holland is concerned.”

  “I am quite certain that I don’t know what you are speaking of,” Sarah said, refusing even to acknowledge her own feelings.

  “I think you do,” Mel returned, giving her a pointed glance. “I saw him and his son together and perhaps gave him more favor than he deserved.”

  Sarah sighed and confessed, “Perhaps we both did.” She absently toyed with the frayed back of the portrait, pulling it slightly.

  Mel gave her a sympathetic glance. “That is not to say he is guilty, Sarah. This is only to say that perhaps, just perhaps, he might be guilty after all. Somehow, the parts do not equal the sum. I cannot see that he would hire you in all good faith, and then try to kill you such as that.”

  Sarah nodded, contemplating the truth of that observation.

  “Perhaps someone doesn’t want you here,” Mel continued, “but I cannot think it is he. Promise me,” she demanded. “Promise me you will remain on your guard.”

  “I must,” Sarah agreed, and vowed to redouble her efforts.

  It certainly wouldn’t do them any good at all for her to lose her heart to a murderer—not that she was losing her heart, mind you! But she was certainly a fool to have given him the benefit of the doubt.

  She wouldn’t do so again.

  In her frustration, she tore at the frayed edge, pulling it away from the frame. “Blast!” she exclaimed.

  “I broke it!” But curiosity led her to peer inside. She pulled the backing off a little further to find that the picture displayed was folded within. Her heart beat a little faster as she ripped the backing and pried out the picture, trying not to tear it. Her hands were trembling as she unfolded it.

  “What is it?” Mel asked her.

  Sarah swallowed the lump that appeared in her throat as she stretched out the portrait and turned it to face her. She tried not to weep as she stared at the full portrait of herself and Mary together. It had been folded so that only Mary was visible, but Sarah had been tucked neatly beneath.

  Mary had not cut her so completely out of her life.

  The knowledge flooded her heart with joy. She flipped the portrait over, only to find something scribbled upon the back in Mary’s neat penmanship.

  Out of sight... not out of mind. I love and miss you, dearest Sarah.

  Chapter 18

  “And you never saw her before she answered your ad for employment?”

  Peter considered the detective’s question. He couldn’t help but feel he knew her somehow, but it was less her face he recognized, and more her manner. “Never,” he replied with certainty. But it was about damned time he discovered who his houseguest was.

  He had hesitated to hire a detective until he’d learned of Mrs. Frank’s inquiries last eve. Caitlin had come to him quite concerned over what had begun as a casual conversation. It had, shortly thereafter, turned into an interrogation of sorts, and she’d been heartily afraid that she’d spoken out of turn.

  He’d called an agency at once—though not the same he’d hired after Mary’s death. Still, he wasn’t certain how he felt about doing this once again. The last time he’d hired an agency, they hadn’t discovered a bloody thing pertinent to Mary’s murder. In the detective’s estimation, Mary had simply been the hapless victim of a robbery gone bad, and yet the man had turned around and sold her journals to the tabloids—all but one, because Peter had never been able to find the key to open it, and by the time he’d decided to destroy the little lock, the detective had already leaked her journals to the yellow press. Peter had locked away the last of her journals afterward, without ever having read them. He hadn’t been brave enough to hear Mary’s final words.

  “You say she was asking questions?” the detective asked Caitlin.

  “Yes, sir,” she replied.

  “What sort of questions?”

  “Well...” Caitlin seemed afraid to meet his gaze while she spoke, and Peter thought she was feeling guilty for disclosing so much. “No’ much tae begin with,” she said. “She was just wantin’ tae know was it me there that night, and I did tell her that yes, it was.” She turned to Peter then, and swore, “But I didna tell her anythin’ really, Mr. Holland. I swear tae God, I didna!”

  “It’s all
right, Caitlin. You did nothing wrong,” he assured her. “It’s not like my affairs aren’t already public knowledge.”

  She knew what he was referring to and her face flushed with color. If it hadn’t been for her disclosure of his condition that night so long ago, he might well be behind prison walls this instant.

  “I’m so sorry if I spoke out of turn,” she told him, “but I didna think I was tellin’ her anythin’ she couldna find out from anybody else.”

  “It’s all right, Caitlin,” Peter repeated. “I’m glad you came to me.”

  “Between this and her resume,” the detective interjected, “we’ve a pretty good start.”

  “If you look at her resume... she has a reference at the Institute, as well,” Peter suggested. “Perhaps Mr. John Cock might shed some light for us.”

  “Did you ever speak with him?”

  Peter’s face heated a bit. He hadn’t. He hadn’t even considered it.

  “I’ll speak to him first,” the detective suggested.

  “Thank you Dave,” Peter said, rising from his seat to see him off. “I have every faith you will get to the bottom of this.”

  “I shall certainly try.”

  Peter came around from his desk and shook his hand.

  “Good day, Miss O’Connell,” the detective said, and then left with Sarah Hopkins’ portfolio in hand.

  Peter had little doubt they would have their answers soon. The man was supposed to be good.

  If Sarah had left them a trail to follow, then he would sniff it down.

  Peter hadn’t precisely objected to her taking Christopher to the park, but Sarah had the distinct impression he hadn’t truly relished the idea.

  He’d been behaving rather strangely the last week and a half, watching her a little too intently, as though he were waiting... for what?

  She was afraid that he’d discovered the truth and was merely watching for her to trip herself up. And yet he hadn’t given her the first clue that he had.

  She and Christopher, along with Mellie, had spent the afternoon enjoying a concert in the park. The three of them had sat upon blankets, enjoying the unusually warm March weather, and wishing the day would never end—at least, Sarah had wished it.