When Toombs finally noticed Christian, he jumped to his feet, his eyes widening behind his spectacles.
Suspicious now, Christian eased into the chair in front of Toombs's desk and fastened his hard gaze on his father's attorney.
The man's thin, monkish features creased into an anxious frown. He resumed his seat and shuffled papers around, apparently trying to avoid meeting Christian's sharp gaze.
"I think there's a small item you forgot to mention,” Christian began, hoping to trip the man. He crossed his legs and folded his gloves over his knee, all the while watching the attorney closely for his reaction.
Toombs looked at him then, genuinely puzzled. “What item? I'm certain I mentioned everything listed in the will.” Clearing his throat, he got up and retrieved a file from a shelf against the wall, bringing it back to the desk. As he bent his wiry frame over the documents, his spectacles slid forward to the end of his nose. Instead of pushing them back, Toombs simply sank his chin deeper into his chest.
Christian observed these movements with a curl of his lip. He didn't like the man, but then the list of people he called friends was very small.
After a moment Toombs began shaking his head, nearly sending the spectacles flying from his nose. He caught them with one finger and slid them upward. “Yes, I'm certain of it. I remember going down this list and calling out every item to you."
Letting the moment stretch, Christian said softly, “I didn't find the necklace. You know—the ruby necklace worth a small fortune that was in Callie Garret's possession.” It wasn't hers, though—never had been.
"I—I'm afraid I don't know of any necklace.” Toombs looked owlish in his confusion. “Mrs. Garret never mentioned any such thing, or I'm certain I would remember."
"My father gave her the necklace shortly after their marriage. I saw her with it myself on a previous visit.” Christian stared hard at the man. “My step mother was extremely sentimental about it, and unless they buried her in the damn thing—which would be ridiculous—"
"As you know, Sir, I supervised the funeral myself, so I assure you she wasn't buried wearing a ruby necklace."
Christian fell silent, his thoughts running in circles as he tried to figure out what could have happened to the necklace.
Mr. Toombs replaced the file, then turned to Christian. He hesitated. “There was a young girl living in the house with Mrs. Garret, a companion of some kind."
"How do you know this?” Christian straightened, alert to the reluctance in the attorney's voice.
"Mrs. Garret came to see me several years ago, hoping to make a change in your father's will in order to provide for her young charge after her death.” Mr. Toombs shrugged. “I couldn't do a thing—Henry was adamant about everything reverting to you upon his wife's death and the will was solid."
This was the clue Christian needed, the missing piece to the puzzle. He stood, pacing the tiny office. “Why didn't you mention her to me immediately?” he demanded.
Mr. Toombs squared his shoulders. “I took care of evicting her myself, sir. Mentioning her didn't seem important after that."
"Tell me about this girl,” Christian prompted.
"Well, let me see. Mrs. Garret never mentioned her by name, but she did say the young girl had been living with her for quite some time—an orphaned offspring of no relation."
"No name?"
"No."
"Do you know where she went?"
"I didn't see any reason to inquire. It wasn't my concern."
Christian frowned at that. “You mean you simply threw the girl out in the street?” Even he wasn't that heartless, and Kellum Toombs didn't look strong enough to evict a mouse. “Tell me you didn't."
"I did."
It appeared Mr. Toombs possessed a hidden strength. Christian eyed the little man in a new light. If he was wrong about one thing, then he could be wrong about another. Maybe Mr. Toombs was attempting to throw him off the scent, so to speak. Well, Christian wasn't a babe, not by a long shot. “I find it extremely coincidental that you don't remember a name, Mr. Toombs. Surely Callie told you something about her? Who her parents were, where she came from?"
Mr. Toombs shook his head. “No, I'm certain the late Mrs. Garret didn't mention her name but I assure you she wasn't a figment of my imagination. Packed faster than I've ever seen a woman pack before."
Christian returned to his seat and Mr. Toombs followed suit. “Did you watch her pack?"
Color crept into Mr. Toombs's thin cheeks. “I beg your pardon?"
"Did you see the items she packed?” Christian felt his lips curl again. Obviously, Mr. Toombs wasn't a lady's man.
"Of course I didn't watch her pack!” His words ended on a squeak. He took a deep breath and Christian coughed to cover his laughter. “However, I did notice she carried a rather odd assortment of things out of the house."
Christian leaned forward, suddenly tense. “Go on."
"Well, it was when I returned to lock up the house and get the spare key. The young lady was apparently struggling with a number of valentine cards clutched against her—er—bosom.” Mr. Toombs fidgeted at the desk, straightening papers already straight.
Christian felt air whoosh into his mouth and quickly closed it. “Did you say valentine cards?"
"I did."
"What the devil do valentine cards have to do with a family heirloom worth thousands of dollars?” Christian failed to contain his exasperation. The man had given him hope, then dashed it to smithereens with silly nonsense about valentines!
"It might have a lot to do with it, if you're thinking this girl took the necklace with her.” He paused and Christian thought about beating it out of him. In the nick of time, Mr. Toombs continued. “You see, Mr. Garret, Worcester has its own valentine factory."
The man either courted death, Christian decided, or he had a point. Question was, would he ever learn of it? Between his teeth, he forced out, “A valentine factory?"
Mr. Toombs nodded, his expression proud. “Yes. Esther Howland owns the factory and hires quite an impressive staff of women to work for her. She's very successful and I imagine very rich by this time. You see, she started the factory back in eighteen forty-eight—"
"Skip the history lesson, Toombs, and get to the point.” For emphasis, Christian stood to his full height of over six feet. He was going to strangle the man in the next moment—
That's when it hit him, what the lawyer was saying. That, coupled with the memory of the valentine verse he'd found on the secretary. Now, he also suspected the meaning behind the bits of colored paper and lace and silk.
"As I was saying, I think it's a possibility the young miss—"
"Works at this valentine factory,” Christian concluded. When the attorney nodded, Christian began pulling on his gloves. “You will give me the address to this factory."
"Certainly.” Mr. Toombs, apparently cowed by Christian's thunderous expression, scrambled through his notebook and quickly copied the address onto a piece of paper. “Here it is, but I doubt you'll find her there on a Saturday."
"We'll just see, won't we?” Leaving Mr. Toombs to mull over his menacing remark, he secured his hat on his head and strode out of the office.
* * * *
Rosalyn wrapped two special-order valentines in delicate tissue paper, tying each with a satin bow. She tucked a slip of paper with the addresses into her coat pocket and donned her hat and gloves. “I'm off to make these deliveries, ladies. If Miss Howland inquires of my whereabouts, tell her I should be back shortly. Both deliveries are only a few blocks away."
"Why don't you take a hackney?” Wynette asked. “It's cold as blue blazes out there today. Just ask Jamy here, he's dumped three buckets of coal in the stoves since this morning.” She smiled as Jamy, a thin youngster of fourteen years, blushed a deep red. Miss Howland employed the lad to keep the heating stoves going, and he was painfully shy. The women teased him unmercifully, and mothered him as well.
"Cold, maybe, but the su
n is shining. I don't mind the cold as long is the sun is out, and I'm dressed warmly.” Thanks to Miss Howland's increasing girth, she was warm in the stylish pink coat. Plus, she saved a few pennies by walking.
"Well, take care, dear, and mind your manners."
Rosalyn laughed at Wynette's motherly reminder. From the beginning, Rosalyn discovered patience, a pleasant smile, and great fortitude were often requirements for this job. She wasn't always welcomed or appreciated in her role as Cupid.
Gathering the packages, Rosalyn left the spacious work room, making her way through the shop at the front of the building. Here, everything from the expensive and elaborate, to the simple and affordable could be found on display. Valentines, baskets, picture frames, stationary ... Customers could browse until they found a gift they liked, then place an order.
Of course, Rosalyn learned early on that the shop represented only a small portion of the business. Through the week over twenty-five women labored in the factory work room, filling great quantities of orders to be shipped to all parts of the country.
Rosalyn's critical eye found nothing out of place as she crossed the gleaming plank floor of the shop and reached for the door.
Tinkling bells above the door alerted her, and she managed to jump back out of the way as a tall figure entered the shop. The man stepped aside and doffed his hat, sweeping an assessing gaze around the gaily displayed gifts before focusing on her. Black curls sprang to life as he smiled down from an impressive height.
Rosalyn recognized his face, indeed, how could she forget? Such a memorable face, and those black curls—!
"You're the man from the train station,” she blurted. Heat crept into her face and she glanced behind her, relieved to find the shop empty. Alice had probably gone for her afternoon tea, and would return any moment. Rosalyn had to get rid of him before someone saw them talking and asked questions.
She couldn't explain her trip to the train station without telling a fib. She most definitely couldn't explain that she was there to propose for Miss Balderdash!
"How—how did you know where to find me?” Her eyes followed the movement of his shoulders as he shrugged. Broad shoulders, shoulders that could make a woman feel protected. Good grief, what was she thinking? He was a stranger, nothing more. Okay, he was a handsome stranger, with hazel eyes shadowed in mystery. Rosalyn scoffed at her fanciful thoughts, but they lingered in her mind.
"I followed you,” the man confessed.
Instead of looking sheepish, as Rosalyn expected, he trailed his bold gaze from the top of her hat to the bottom of her coat, which thankfully hid her worn boots from sight. And he took his time about it, too.
Her breath rushed out in a very soft gasp. She clutched the valentines against her breast as if to cover herself, which was silly, because several layers of clothing lay beneath the packages. No man had ever looked at her with such—such intensity.
"You—you followed me?” she squeaked, her heart pounding against her chest. “Why—why would you do that?” The thought both thrilled and alarmed her. Rosalyn could count the number of her gentlemen friends on one hand, and was far from confident with the opposite sex. Caring for Callie hadn't left her much time for socializing.
Her question appeared to amuse him, if the gleam in his eye was any indication—and Rosalyn thought it was. When he smiled, she found herself envying his perfect white teeth. No gap to make one self-conscious about smiling.
"You sound surprised,” he drawled.
Rosalyn remembered the packages and eased her hold, hoping she hadn't crushed them beyond repair. “I am. I mean, I wasn't expecting to meet you again—"
"So you have thought of me since this morning?"
Warm heat spread from her face to her neck, not stopping until it reached the region of her chest. She swallowed, then ran a nervous tongue over her dry lips. “I don't even know you..."
The handsome stranger bowed, his eyes warm with an interest that made Rosalyn want to sit down and give her legs a rest. “The name's—the name's Chris Brown."
Rosalyn noticed his hesitation, and wondered if he was ashamed of his rather common name. He shouldn't be, because there was nothing common about him. Warmed by her assumption, she held out a gloved hand. “Well, Mr. Brown, I'm Rosalyn Mitchell, and I work for this wonderful company."
He took the proffered hand and to Rosalyn's wide-eyed amazement, bent to kiss it. “I'm sure they're lucky to have you,” he murmured.
Rosalyn suppressed a shiver at the sound of his deep voiced compliment, sternly reminding herself she wasn't a naive young girl. She was a grown woman of twenty. Of course, this man was an experienced city man. Forcing a note of reserve into her voice, she said, “I feel lucky to have them, and I'm certain at times my employer wonders at her judgment."
"I can't imagine."
"Well, it's true. Surely you haven't forgotten...” Oh, why did she bring that up? Rosalyn could have kicked herself. Not giving him time to comment, Rosalyn rushed on, “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Brown?"
"You can start by calling me Chris."
"Oh, but we hardly know each other—"
"On the contrary, I believe we know each other very well,” was his outrageous reply.
Rosalyn's throat went dry. Of course he referred to the way they had tumbled to the platform, which was hardly gentlemanly of him. Or was he talking about the way she had clung to the window with goodness knows what showing beneath her coat? Rosalyn bit her lip, remembering a draft of cold air against her legs and wondering what, exactly, Mr. Brown had seen. “I regret you witnessed my—er—unladylike actions, sir."
Yes, that was exactly what Wynette would say, or Alice, or even Hillary. She cringed inwardly, knowing Miss Howland would never allow herself to get in this predicament in the first place. Miss Howland was a lady. But then, Rosalyn considered herself a lady too.
Now to convince Mr. Brown to forget about this morning and get rid of him before Alice returned. “You're being unkind by reminding me.” When he continued to look at her with unmistakable laughter in his eyes, Rosalyn felt her temper rise. She reached for the door. “If you'll excuse me, I've got deliveries to make. Alice should be back shortly, she'll help you with anything you need—"
He stopped her with a hand on her arm. “I'm sorry."
Rosalyn started at the contact, wondering how a man's hand could generate so much heat through layers of clothing. She turned quickly, disengaging his hand and hoping the action appeared accidental. If he found her amusing now, what would he think if he knew her thoughts?
With great reluctance, she met his burning gaze.
"I shouldn't have embarrassed you like that,” he said softly.
The moment encouraged honesty, and Rosalyn wasn't one for tact. “Why did you come here, really? Did you think ... my actions of this morning an invitation?"
It was his turn to be surprised by her boldness. She saw it in the brief flare of his nostrils. Otherwise, his expression remained frustratingly smooth. “Actually, I'm new to Worcester, and I'm spending my first day sight-seeing."
"And you just happened to drop by?” A curious disappointment winged through her. So, he really hadn't followed her, which prompted her next reckless question. “Why did you lie?"
He lifted one black eyebrow in a chiding gesture. “Who said I lied? Couldn't both reasons be true?"
Rosalyn was about to answer when over his shoulder, she caught sight of Alice returning. “Listen, since you're sight-seeing anyway, why don't you walk with me? I've got two deliveries to make, and we can continue our discussion along the way. Maybe I can help direct you."
Rosalyn didn't doubt Miss Howland would disapprove of her forwardness, but she was desperate to get him out of the shop. Ilene Balderdash trusted her and Rosalyn wasn't about to let her down. Before he could consider her suggestion, she opened the door and hooked his arm, pulling him with her into the cold sunshine. Beneath her palm, hard muscles bunched in reflex. Rosalyn hastily droppe
d her hand.
They stood outside the shop for a moment, watching the variety of people coming and going along the boardwalk that ran the length and breadth of Main Street. Saturdays were always busy, Rosalyn knew. Folks from outlying homesteads came to town for weekly supplies; college students hurried to do last minute shopping and prepare for another grueling week at Holyoke Seminary.
Cow hands mingled with business men in vested suits; wealthy ladies strolled beneath frilly umbrellas, while farm women dressed in calico and homespun depended on the shade from their hats to ward off freckles. The wild variety of humanity was one of the things Rosalyn loved most about Worcester.
"It's a busy town,” her gentleman friend commented.
Rosalyn nodded. “Yes, it is. Where are you from?” She had been trying to place his accent since hearing the first curse out of his mouth.
"New York.” He placed her hand at his elbow and glanced down at her up-turned face. “Which way?"
She pointed to the east and allowed him to lead, wondering if it was a wise thing to do. He was a stranger, but ... there were people all around them. She should be safe. “The first address is Clark Street, which is three blocks down and one block over."
"What are you delivering?"
Rosalyn hurried to keep up with his long strides. “Valentines."
"I should have guessed,” he said with a quick smile her way.
She missed a step and stumbled. He caught her without missing a stride or indicating he noticed. Rosalyn frowned. She'd do better if he didn't smile at her at all, the handsome devil.
"Well, we make things other than valentines, you know."
"Such as?"
Rosalyn peered at his profile, wondering if he teased her, but she could gather nothing from the strong set of his jaw and he didn't appear to be smiling. Thank goodness. “Like baskets, fancy stationary, birthday cards, anniversary cards ... all of which are hand made by talented women. The factory fills orders for shops all over the country year-around, and we fill an impressive amount of orders right here in town. Am I boring you?"
My Valentine Page 3
