Three Redeemable Rogues

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “Dear God!” Sarah exclaimed in horror.

  “What, Miss Sarah?” Christopher asked low.

  Sarah peered down at the child at her side. She had been so drawn up in the journal she hadn’t heard a word he’d spoken to her.

  “What’s wrong, Miss Sarah?”

  Sarah sucked in a breath and brought her hand to her cheek, realizing for the first time that tears had been streaming from her eyes. She swiped them away and set the journal down on the bed, unable to read more at the instant.

  She needed to find Peter, needed to show him the journal.

  Lifting her hand to her mouth, she tried to compose herself, tried to think of what next to do. She didn’t wish to leave Christopher alone, but neither did she wish him to be present when she spoke to his father.

  She knelt before the bed, taking Christopher by the shoulders. “Christopher, darling... I am going to ask you to do something for me,” she told him.

  He nodded, and Sarah reached out and took the journal into her hand, then pressed it into his.

  “I want you to take this to your father’s room, and I want you to hide with it under the bed. Can you do that for me?”

  His expression reflected his confusion, but there was no time to explain. And even if there were, what could she say? Your aunt is a murderer, and I fear for your safety? No, it was best for now simply to remove him from danger. Nor could she walk around with the journal in her hand.

  “Christopher?” she prompted.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and nodded.

  “If your aunt Ruth calls for you, you are not to come! Understand?”

  He nodded again, and Sarah turned around, surveying the mess on the floor. She had to clean it before Ruth discovered it. She left Christopher on the bed as she hurriedly picked up the items he had strewn on the floor and returned them to their little corner of the wardrobe, shutting the door after them. That done, she turned to Christopher, lifting him into her arms, deciding to take him to Peter’s room. She needed to see to his safety herself.

  “I’m going to take you there,” she said, as he lifted his arms around her neck. The sickeningly sweet floral scent of the journal filled her lungs, making her stomach roll and her heart beat faster. She had to find Peter.

  Peter would know what to do.

  Chapter 33

  Sarah settled Christopher within his father’s room and left him at once, not wanting to draw attention to his presence there. She loathed having to abandon him and knew he was likely to be frightened, but it couldn’t be helped. Something in her gut told her he would be safer there than he would be with her.

  And if something should happen to her before she was able to speak with Peter, then Christopher at least had the journal to give him as proof. She had left him with specific instructions to give the diary to his father as soon as he came into the room, and not to reveal himself until she returned for him or until he heard his father’s voice.

  And thank God she left when she did, because no sooner had she closed Peter’s bedroom door than Ruth’s voice startled her in the corridor.

  “Sarah,” she said, in a tone that was warmer than Sarah had ever heard her use before.

  Prickles bolted down her spine at the unnatural sound of it, and the hair on her nape stood on end.

  Swallowing, Sarah turned to face her cousin’s murderer—no, perhaps she hadn’t committed the deed with her own two hands, but it was obvious enough from her entries that she’d had a deciding role in Mary’s death.

  Sarah forced a smile. “Ruth,” she said in greeting, and her stomach knotted.

  Ruth tilted her a sweet look that made gooseflesh erupt on her body. “Dear Sarah,” she said, “I know you’ve suffered much these last days... I only wished to extend my sympathies over your friend’s death. This house has seen so much tragedy,” she lamented, and shook her head, with a genuine look of sorrow.

  Sarah’s heart began to thump wildly and her hands trembled, but she kept her composure. How could Ruth be so casual after all that she had committed? How could it not be evident in her eyes? Did she have no conscience? No heart? Feel no shame? Did she even recall the things she had written? The things she had done?

  More than anything, she needed to draw Ruth away from Peter’s room, away from Christopher. Taking a deep breath, Sarah began to walk away from the room, hoping Ruth would follow.

  She did.

  Sarah breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t want her anywhere near Christopher.

  “Thank you,” Sarah said, and then asked, “Have you seen Peter, perchance?”

  Ruth caught up with her quick strides and walked beside her down the hall. Had Ruth sought her out, then? And what did she want?

  She was up to something, Sarah sensed.

  “I’m afraid not,” Ruth answered.

  An uneasy silence fell between them.

  Sarah picked up her pace, hurrying farther away from Christopher, toward Peter’s office. She prayed he would be there. Fear began to take shape within her breast, a tangible lump that stole her breath away.

  “Actually,” Ruth disclosed then, “I was looking for you. I hoped you would have just a few moments this morning,” she said much too sweetly.

  Sarah’s heart tripped. “Me? You were looking for me?”

  Ruth smiled. “Yes. I’m afraid we’ve not had the opportunity to get to know one another as perhaps we should, and it seems to me my brother has grown quite fond of you. I thought it might be rather nice for the two of us to chat a bit while Peter is out. Don’t you think so?”

  “Peter is out?” Sarah’s heart sounded like thunder in her ears. “I thought you said you’d not seen him?” She halted at his office and peered within. Her heart lurched at finding it empty. He wasn’t there. She turned to face Ruth, her stomach rolling.

  Ruth gave her a sweet smile. “Well... I haven’t, you see, but I was told that he is off to a meeting this morning—business, I suppose. He always did work entirely too much, that brother of mine,” she disclosed with a sigh. “That was part of the problem, I think, between him and Mary. Poor Mary,” she said, and added, “Cile always was quite insistent, I’m afraid.”

  Sarah nodded. “Cile?”

  Ruth smiled benevolently. “Yes, of course. The two of them have long been inseparable.”

  Was that why Mary had doubted Peter? Had Ruth filled her mind with half-truths and innuendos?

  “Have you a few minutes, Sarah?” she persisted.

  Sarah stared at Ruth without answering, uncertain how to respond. She reminded herself that Ruth couldn’t possibly know about the journal so soon, that she’d discovered it—or could she?

  She shuddered, and nodded, swallowing the knot that rose in her throat. “Certainly.”

  “Wonderful!” Ruth exclaimed, and added, clapping her hands in an expression of delight, “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering some tea and biscuits to be served in the parlor.” She smiled brilliantly. “This shall be quite nice, I think, and long overdue!” And she turned to walk away, clearly expecting Sarah to follow.

  Sarah had to force her feet to move.

  She took a deep breath and followed down the corridor.

  Ruth was certainly up to something. She was behaving so strangely. She’d not once spoken to Sarah so cordially in all the time Sarah had been in Peter’s home.

  Alarms sounded in her head, blaring in her ears.

  The sweet scent of chamomile tea filled her lungs as she entered the parlor.

  She froze in the doorway, not quite able to enter the room.

  “Oh, good!” Ruth said, and went directly to the small table where the teacups and biscuits were laid out so neatly for them. “It’s already been served, I see. How proficient of Caitlin!” She turned to face Sarah. “Do come in,” she urged, seating herself upon the chair facing the door.

  The curtains were open wide to University Place. Only a thin veil of lace shielded them from view. Anyone might see them within this room. Sarah assure
d herself that even a madwoman would not attempt murder in such a public place. She entered the room at Ruth’s beckon, though hesitantly. Her stomach turning and her heart racing, she made her way to the chair facing Ruth.

  “I must say, Sarah,” she said in an admonishing tone, “that I was quite taken aback to discover your ruse with Peter, and I cannot say as I approve...” She rose from her chair once Sarah was seated, smiling softly. “However ... excuse me, but I think I shall close this door,” she said, changing the subject suddenly.

  Sarah’s heart tripped. She rose from the chair at once. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed, but Ruth had already reached the doors and was closing them.

  Ruth turned to face her. “Much better,” she said. “We don’t wish to spill our dirty laundry to the servants, now do we?”

  Sarah shook her head helplessly, feeling a bit out of control. Her thoughts began to race.

  Her gaze fell to the table, to the neat setting of cups and saucers laid out for them... both cups empty as yet. Between their cups sat a steaming kettle of tea, and the usual accompaniments... sugar... cream... A small tray of biscuits sat to one side. The combined scents of tea and fresh biscuits wafted to her nose, deliciously sweet...

  Inviting.

  Much too...

  “Sit,” Ruth demanded of her, and waited for Sarah to comply.

  Sarah did, frowning. She would be bloody damned if Ruth thought she was going to put a single morsel of biscuit or a drop of tea to her lips.

  She was hardly stupid.

  But then... Ruth didn’t know she’d discovered her journal.

  In truth, Sarah might otherwise have been completely oblivious... had she not stumbled upon the diary... but she had...

  Stay calm, she demanded of herself.

  Stay calm.

  She didn’t have to eat or drink.

  Ruth couldn’t make her.

  All she needed to do was stall until Peter arrived.

  It wasn’t as though Ruth had dragged her away to some dark cellar; they were both seated in the broad light of day and in hearing distance should Sarah feel the need to shout for help.

  And still Sarah’s heart hammered as she sat once more within the chair facing Peter’s sister.

  “There now,” Ruth said, smiling once more, and sat again as well. She didn’t move toward the tea at once, rather she sat back within the chair and studied Sarah a moment. “You really are quite lovely,” she pointed out. “I can certainly see why Peter is enamored with you.” She shook her head and laughed softly. “It was the same with your lovely cousin, too. Mary was such a darling.”

  Sarah nodded, uncertain what to say. “She was,” she agreed, and peered out the window, hoping Peter would pass by, hoping somebody would, anybody. She breathed a little easier when a young couple strolled slowly by, and returned her attention to the table between them.

  She stared at the kettle of tea. It was a beautiful porcelain set with tiny pink roses painted over blue flowing ribbon. Steam drifted out from the delicate spout, fragrant and sweet.

  “As I was saying,” Ruth continued. “I cannot say as I approve of your methods. I certainly wish you might have revealed yourself from the first, though I do understand your silence. I might have done the same,” she said. “Perhaps...”

  Sarah nodded and smiled. Her brows lifted. She took a deep breath and tilted her head, not quite certain how to respond.

  Ruth reached out and poured herself a cup of tea. She filled Sarah’s cup afterward... from the same kettle.

  Perhaps Sarah was being a bit melodramatic, but she refused to take a single sip until Ruth did. She didn’t trust the woman. Someone had drugged her tea once before, and she had been completely oblivious to it.

  Not this time.

  Ruth lifted the cup to her lips and then paused, lowering it and settling it once more within its saucer. Sarah’s gaze focused on her cup. “Would you care for sugar?” she asked Sarah. “How remiss of me! One lump or two?”

  “One,” Sarah answered, placating her. She blinked, lifting her gaze to Ruth’s face. Her eyes revealed nothing—nothing at all.

  “I take mine without,” Ruth disclosed. “So I completely forgot to ask. Forgive me.”

  “Not at all,” Sarah replied, and turned again to peer out the window. The street was much too empty for her comfort. Someone passed by the window every so often, but not nearly often enough to give Sarah any sense of ease.

  Ruth’s smile faded a bit. “You seem nervous,” she remarked, watching her, and Sarah sucked in a breath.

  “Not at all,” she lied.

  Ruth smiled. “Good!” And she pushed Sarah’s cup and saucer nearer to her. “But you should drink anyway,” she demanded. “It’s a special blend to soothe the nerves.”

  Sarah reached out to pull the saucer closer, her hands trembling.

  “It will do you good, I think... You have been through so very much, my dear.”

  Sarah lifted a spoon to stir her tea, stalling. She didn’t have to drink.

  She wasn’t going to.

  Ruth couldn’t force her.

  But this was a dangerous woman, with blood already on her hands, and Sarah’s fingers trembled as she stirred. The chink of silver against porcelain rang like a death knell in her ears.

  Peter entered through the Twelfth Street entrance and hurried toward his bedroom, hoping to find Sarah there.

  Once he was certain she was safe, and his son as well, he intended to confront Ruth with the message she had given him. She had to recall who delivered it. It was imperative he discover who had sent it. His gut told him that whoever had penned that message had malicious intent, and he was going to find the bastard if it was the last thing he did.

  The police may have closed the investigation, but he didn’t believe their conclusions for an instant. Two murders in one home in the space of six years was entirely too much of a coincidence. Perhaps it didn’t matter to the New York police that two innocent women were dead now, but it damned well mattered to Peter—particularly when the first had been his wife and the mother of his child, and the second intended to be the woman he loved.

  He loved her, dammit—knew it without a doubt. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, couldn’t get her out of his mind. And the possibility that she might be harmed frightened him as much as it might to lose his son.

  Opening his door, he found his room empty. Desperation made him call out her name.

  “Sarah?”

  He burst through the door and walked through his room, toward the adjoining room, calling her name once more.

  “Daddy!” a little voice called out.

  Peter froze. “Christopher?” His gaze scanned the room, searching for his son. “Christopher?”

  “Daddy!” he called out again, sounding frightened. His voice was coming from beneath the bed, Peter realized suddenly, and fell at once to his knees.

  “Christopher!” He crawled toward the bed, reaching under to drag him out. His son’s expression was filled with confusion and fright. “What the devil are you doing under there?”

  “Miss Sarah told me to stay!” Christopher said at once. Peter seized him by the arm, pulling him out. He came willingly, dragging a small book with him.

  Peter was confused. What was he doing under the bed? And why would Sarah ask him to hide there? And why would she leave him alone? Where was she?

  “Why did she tell you to stay there?” Peter demanded at once. “And what is that in your hand, son?” he asked, reaching for the book.

  “It’s the boogeyman’s, Daddy!” Christopher exclaimed, releasing it to him. “I showed it to Miss Sarah and she made me hide it under the bed. She said I hadda show you when you came, and told me not to come out from under the bed ’cept if you came.”

  Prickles of fear shot down Peter’s spine. “What are you talking about, Christopher?” He took Christopher into his arms and sat on the bed with him, examining the book. He opened it.

  June 10, 1879

 
He’s going to marry the bitch!

  His brows lifted. Good God! Whose words were these? Though he sensed he knew. He closed the journal, searching for a name on the binding. There was none to be found. Who was going to marry what bitch?

  “Where did you find this, Christopher?”

  Christopher launched into a frenzied explanation of his and Sarah’s morning discussion and his nightly visitor, and of the smelly book he had discovered deep within his wardrobe.

  Peter listened with a growing sense of unease. He lifted the book to his nostrils, breathing in its strong floral scent, and then flipped the book open once more, turning pages. Frowning, he stopped at a recent date...

  March 20, 1886

  I was right! I knew it!

  I saw them returning today from their walk... Peter might deny his interest in that woman, but the flowers in her hand prove otherwise. Men are such pigs! How can he so easily find himself swayed by a stranger with a pretty face? God, he does not even seem to care that she is blind!

  I will not be discarded!

  I will not be abandoned!

  And yet I know he will, and so easily. Just like his father!

  No! I must not allow her to wheedle her way into this home.

  There must be a way to be rid of her. I did not work so hard all these years to lose everything now. Nor did I bloody my hands with Mary’s death to see it all wasted.

  There must be a way, and I shall find it...

  The hair on his nape stood on end as he read, and his heart began to hammer. Just like his father... Mary’s death... Whose words were these? A sense of urgency forced him to flip to another page and read.

  March 23, 1886

  I don’t know what to do! Everything seems lost.

  The fire didn't work! The drug was supposed to keep her asleep until morning... How did she smell the smoke? She’s wheedling her way into his graces—don’t seem to know how to stop it. There must be some way! I won’t lose everything—won’t!