“Dudley Ames, does the current financial panic mean nothing to you? One look at this portfolio tells me that your years at Harvard were seriously misspent, my friend. Just as your dear mother feared.” Enjoying an after-dinner cigar, a brandy, and his friend’s company, all in the snug comfort of his study, Slade sorted through the sheaf of papers in his lap.
When a knock sounded on the closed door, he shot a sly grin at the senator’s son seated across from him. “That must be Hammonds.”
Dudley groaned, collapsing his large-boned body into his leather wing chair. “Not again, I beg you. Leave off with the man, Garrett. If dueling weren’t outlawed, I believe your poor butler would call you out. Still, should he, I intend to offer him—and not you—my services as his second.”
“You wound me mortally, my inconstant friend.” He then bellowed out, “Yes? What is it?”
The door opened and in stepped Hammonds.
A bemused grin claimed Slade’s mouth when his butler wrinkled his nose at the smoky air. Slade laid Dudley’s papers aside, uncrossed his legs, and sat forward, flicking a long ash into a crystal vase not meant for such a purpose. Another groan issued from the red-haired Dudley.
But from the thin-nostriled servant came a sniff of censure. It never ceased to amuse Slade that Hammonds, in his employ for the five years since he’d inherited this brownstone, still behaved as if Slade were a callous, messy intrusion into the neat and orderly world of his own domestics.
“Well, Hammonds, what is it? Are you lonely for our company?” He pretended to reach for a book. “If so, allow me to read you a passage Mr. Ames and I found particularly amusing in Aldrich’s The Story of a Bad Boy. I borrowed it from Jacko and Edgar.”
The very idea, him borrowing a children’s book from his newly hired housekeeper’s sons. But his words had the desired result, for Hammonds’s face was turning a satisfying red. “Perhaps later, sir. At the present, a … young lady at the door insists on seeing you. What shall I tell her?”
“A young lady?” A wrench of emotion tore through Slade’s chest, squelching his humor. No, it couldn’t be her.
“How’s that? A young lady? Here? Now?” Dudley snapped to attention, his hands gripping the chair’s arms. He furrowed his brow to match that of his frowning host. “I’m not sure I can name a proper young lady in all of Boston who would be at your door at this hour. Or any hour—without her mama and several armed men in escort.”
“My thoughts exactly. So, this can only mean, my friend, that our luck has changed—and she’s not a proper young lady.” Slade snuffed out the cigar in the already maligned vase, rose to his feet, and swept his hand in a grand gesture at his butler. “By all means, show her in, Hammonds.”
“Yes, Hammonds, by all means,” Dudley seconded, rubbing his overly large hands together in glee.
Staring straight ahead, and pinching his features into alarming primness, Hammonds didn’t move. He clearly had no intention of doing any such foolish thing.
First exchanging a pointed look with Dudley, Slade then exhaled loudly as he turned to his butler and crossed his arms over his white-shirted chest. “All right, what’s wrong with her?”
Hammonds cut his gaze over to his employer and then refocused on the portrait over the fireplace. Following suit, Slade and Dudley shifted their attention to the same painting. What was it about the long-dead Garrett ancestor pictured there, they often wondered aloud, that so captivated Hammonds? “I’m sure there’s nothing … wrong with her, sir. She’s just not … uh, how shall I say it?”
Staring at his ancestor, just as Hammonds was, Slade asked the family likeness, “One of us, you mean?”
“Quite, sir,” Hammonds agreed with the man in the oil painting.
“But that’s exactly what we’re hoping.” Slade headed for the room’s open door, calling out to Dudley over his shoulder, “Will you excuse me?”
“Not on your life.” Unabashed and eager, Dudley charged after him.
Knowing from long experience that he’d never dissuade his friend, Slade strode down the narrow hall. Dudley’s booted steps marched in regimental cadence behind his. Past the darkened dining room and the parlor on their left, and then past the stairs on the right and into the tiled foyer.
There, sighting their quarry, they stopped short, staring. Slade ignored the soaring bird that was his heart and forced himself into an attitude of nonchalance. Putting his hands to his waist, he turned to eye Dudley, and then pivoted to his unlikely visitor—the bedraggled Not-one-of-us, surrounded by her various luggage. “Somehow, I just knew it.”
The girl Slade knew only as Hannah held her dripping self erect with dignity. But the uncertain light in her eyes as she looked from him to Dudley and then back to him gave her away. “Knew what?”
Slade almost smiled at her tone of voice. She managed to make it seem that he was the interloper here. Must have been coached by Hammonds. “I knew it would be you.”
When she didn’t answer, he took the moment to note that her gloved hands were twisting her handbag’s strings into knots. And that she was shaking all over. His abrupt manner in danger of dissolving, he resettled his attention on her face, waiting for her to explain her presence.
She again darted her gaze from him to Dudley to him. “I’m sorry. I’m intruding, I know. I wanted only to ask you some questions, but the coachman … he put me out.” She bit at her bottom lip and frowned. “I shouldn’t have come here.” She jerked around, grabbing for the heavy doorknob.
Two long strides saw Slade beside her and stretching out his arm to hold the door closed. He looked down into her upturned face. Purplish smudges underlined her blue-green eyes. A red chafing, no doubt from exposure to the cold wind, claimed her nose and cheeks. Dark tendrils of hair hung limply from under her ruined bonnet.
“Stop pretending you have anywhere else to be. Because if you did, you wouldn’t have come back here. And yet you did—which says a mouthful. And which makes you my problem … at least for tonight.”
She stared up at him momentarily … and then burst into tears, covering her face with both hands. Slade went wide-eyed and made a helpless gesture at Dudley, who just as silently gestured back for him to take her in his arms. Slade frowned hugely, shaking his head. Dudley renewed his efforts, managing only to look like a redheaded dancing bear.
Slade quirked up his face in reluctance and looked back at Hannah. Her slender shoulders shook convulsively. Then cursing himself for a cad—wasn’t the girl undone enough without him attacking her?—he muttered a curse and wrenched her into his arms. He glared at Dudley, to see if he was happy now. Dudley silently applauded. Slade mouthed an especially descriptive curse at his oldest friend. Dudley made tsk-tsking noises. He then pantomimed getting his hat and coat and exiting out the back door. Slade nodded.
Alone with her now, Slade concentrated on the cold, wet body pressed against his warm, dry self. Smelling her wet hair, breathing in cold rain and dark night, he took himself to task over this most unusual behavior of his. He wasn’t in the habit of sheltering pathetic waifs who landed on his doorstep. He patted the girl’s back awkwardly. Then, why this one?
A slight movement in the hallway caught his attention. “Ah, Hammonds, there you are. Have Mrs. Stanley open a bedroom and draw a bath. And see that the room is heated. Get her boys to move these trunks aside. Then have her put together a dinner tray.” He looked down at Hannah and then back up at his man. “I believe the lady is staying.”
* * *
Her hair pinned atop her head, Hannah sat in the first plumbed tub she’d ever seen. Such luxury. And it was in a private bath attached to the bedroom Mrs. Stanley’d shown her to. To Hannah’s further wonderment, the entire brownstone was heated by a coal furnace and lit with gaslights. She’d never seen the like of such conveniences. She’d heard of these things, had read about them, but she’d never expected to experience them.
And especially not in Slade Garrett’s home. She soaped her arm and then dragged the fragrant bar over her chest. She then leaned forward, waggling her bobbing breasts through the water to rinse them. Sitting up, she sluiced water over her shoulders as her unguarded thoughts wandered to the feel of Slade Garrett’s arms around her. She hadn’t liked the warm, solid feel of him, the bay rum scent of him. Yes you did. She plopped the soap into the water, sending a splash over the side. No she didn’t.
Her glare crumpled. Yes she did. She covered her face with her dripping hands, gulping back a sick lump in her throat. God help me. To even think of the man like that was as good as a slap in the face to Mama’s and Papa’s memories. But as long as she was being harsh on herself, she admitted that at the depot and then downstairs, she’d felt something for him that she’d never felt before. She could forgive herself for what occurred at the depot because she hadn’t known who he was. But now she knew. And the feeling was stronger.
Hannah straightened up, staring at the painted wall in front of her. Her hands curved over the rolled edges of the tub’s sides. She had to get out of here. Just leave this house. She couldn’t stay here—not even for one night. But then she slumped. Just as he’d pointed out, she had nowhere else to go.
Then, so be it. Giving in to this circumstance of her own making, and reaffirming that being here was part of her plan, she resolved that tonight was the only night she would stay. Tomorrow she would be stronger. She could locate her hated kin, or rent a room in a respectable boardinghouse until she did. A boardinghouse. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of that first, instead of racing here? Because you wanted to see him again.
No. Hannah abruptly stood up in the tub and pulled the plug out of the drain. She watched the soapy water sluice out in a rapid tide and then, when almost empty, in a noisy whirlpool down the thirsty drain. Just like her brilliant plans.
She quirked a grin at her own bungling thus far. Relieved that she could still laugh at herself, she reached for the thick towel on the washstand and vigorously dried herself. Then, laying the towel aside, she inched open the bathroom’s door to peer into the bedroom. Her gaze swept the room, furnished in highly polished mahogany. Good. She was alone. Mrs. Stanley’d seemed surprised that she hadn’t wanted her to stay to help with her toilette.
A chuckling snort escaped Hannah. She’d been doing for herself since she was a little thing. Yes, Biddy and Mama’d raised three young ladies, but she and her sisters were young ladies who could see to their own needs.
Feeling better for the memory, Hannah opened the door and skittered to the high bed, where her waiting bedgown lay. Spooking herself with the vision of the door bursting open to reveal Slade Garrett, she made a girlish noise and grabbed up the linen garment. Only to realize that she hadn’t unpacked the one cloth bag she’d brought upstairs with her. Then, who had? She clutched the gown’s familiar folds to her chest and stared blankly at the heavy draperies covering the window. Mrs. Stanley? Of course.
Thus reassured, Hannah pulled the gown over her head, grateful for its simple rounded neck, long sleeves, and feeling of security. Her nakedness now modestly covered, she eyed the high, narrow bed with yearning, wanting nothing more than to melt into it and sleep for an eternity. But Mrs. Stanley should knock at any moment with the promised supper tray.
Still, she couldn’t resist. She reached out a hand to test the overstuffed mattress, giving it a firm downward press. A feather mattress, thick and soft. She gave in to a delicious shiver. A real bed. After endless nights of sleeping sitting up on the train, it would feel wonderful. That stopped her short, putting a frown on her face. She wasn’t a welcome guest here. This house was the enemy camp. She must remain alert, for she was merely assuming her host didn’t know her identity. But if he did, he could even now be loading a gun. Or could be right outside her door, readying to choke the life out of her—
A light knock sounded on the door, spinning Hannah around. Startled and fearful, she covered her mouth with both hands. For a long second, she stared at the door, as if it had snarled. Then, sanity returned. Such a silly girl she was. Envisioning the nice housekeeper on the other side, Hannah relaxed. To prove to herself that she was recovered, she moved her hands to her hair, unpinning the heavy curls as she called out, “Come in, Mrs. Stanley.”
The door slowly opened, and the tray appeared first. Hannah quirked a bemused grin. The housekeeper was being awfully cautious. Then, just as Hannah released her hair to swing in a cascade down her back, the door fully opened, revealing not Mrs. Stanley at all, but Slade Garrett. Shock turned Hannah to stone.
Garrett stared at her for the longest time before clearing his throat. “I sent my housekeeper on to bed. She has her children to see to.” He hefted the tray. “I brought your supper. You said earlier you had some questions to ask me. I thought … we can talk while you eat.”
Rooted to the thick carpet under her bare feet, Hannah made not a sound. But her very soul screamed from her toenails to the roots of her hair. Questions? Talk? There was no doubt that her family name would come up. And all of a sudden, asking him how to find her kin here in Boston and if he’d had a hand in her parents’ deaths, especially if he was in cahoots with Mama’s family, was not something she wanted to explore over a meal in this house. Wondering how she could get out of this, she finally noticed that his expression had changed. Had the man never seen a woman in her bedgown?
Her bedgown? Lord above! With maidenly shock animating her, Hannah grabbed for the only thing she could find—the bed’s counterpane. Desperately, she yanked and tugged on it, finally freeing enough of it to cover herself. By twisting around in it, she fashioned a cumbersome toga, the ends of which still graced the bed’s sheets. Keeping her back to him, she clutched the coverlet to her bosom. “I thought you were Mrs. Stanley.”
After another moment of silence, he remarked, “What with my wearing an apron and having my hair in a bun, we’re often confused for one another.”
A chuckling guffaw erupted from Hannah, which she promptly bit off. No good could come of warming up to this man. She forced herself to concentrate instead on her rather precarious situation. With fumbling fingers, she worked at covering more of herself. “Why are you lingering in here, Mr. Garrett? I appreciate your kindness, but anything I have to ask you can wait until I’m not in my unmentionables.” She thought a moment about what she’d just said, and amended, “Of course, I mean when I’m fully clothed—not just out of my unmentionables.”
There it was—that deep, masculine chuckle. Anger took hold of her heart and raised her voice. “Is it a particular habit of yours to see to the physical needs of unmarried young women in their bedchambers?”
“Every chance I get, my dear Hannah. Every chance I get.”
His twisting of her innocent words was shocking enough, but it was his accompanying bellow of laughter that finally spun her around. And spin she did, tangled as she was in her twisted toga. But that didn’t disconcert her as much as did the sight of him nudging the door closed behind him with a booted foot.
He meant to kill her. Or worse. Her eyes widened more with each step he took farther into the room. She nearly fainted in relief when all he did was set the tray down on a low table by the bed. Then, lean, square hands to his trim waist, he turned to her, his black-eyed gaze raking over her, much as if she were on his supper tray. “That’s quite a fetching costume you’re wearing.”
Trying not to notice the prominent veins in his powerful forearms, or the light sprinkling of dark hair covering them, visible with his sleeves rolled up nearly to his elbows, Hannah raised her chin, determined to be as plucky as the moment called for. “A girl learns to make do with what’s available.”
Eyebrows quirked in obvious amusement, he smiled like Satan. “And are you available, Hannah?”
Gasping in displeasure, Hannah took an outraged step backward, only to bounce her bottom against the stuffed mattress behind her. The buoyant recoil sent her staggering forward two coverlet-tangled steps. Right into his arms.
“I like your way of answering.” He pulled her to him and smiled down into her eyes.
Hannah froze at the feel of his strong, warm hands claiming her arms. Her titillated senses besieged her with the clean, musky scent of full-grown male. With the faint aroma of cigar and brandy that coiled like an aura about him. With his full, parted lips only inches from hers, and slanting ever downward.
In a detached moment, Hannah realized she was straining toward him, parting her own lips. She recognized that she wanted nothing more than to press herself against the muscled length of him, to run her hands over the expanse of his chest, to feel Slade Garrett’s kiss on her lips.
Slade Garrett’s kiss? What was she doing? Shocked at her own behavior, but more terrified of her yearnings, she jerked her head sideways. His kiss lit on the point of her jaw, just under her ear. And staggered her. A cry escaped her, seeming only to have the effect of urging him on. His questing mouth, as it tasted of her neck and then her collarbone, sent shock wave after shock wave of desire rippling through her. In only moments, all would be lost.
Hannah dragged in a mind-clearing breath and twisted in Slade Garrett’s arms. She loosed her grip on the counterpane, allowing it to sag between their close-pressed bodies, and pushed against his chest. “No!”
She’d meant for the word to signal her intense displeasure, but it came out as a strangled cry that echoed in the otherwise tomblike quiet of the bedroom. But perhaps the emotional sob was just as well.
Because Garrett immediately stilled, and then straightened up, looking down at her as if he’d just realized what he was doing. “My God, Hannah, I’m sorry.” With that, he released her and stepped back.
The ends of the counterpane dropped like a weight to tangle around her ankles. Hannah clutched at the bed’s steadying bulk beside her, all the while watching her enemy, whose kiss still dewed the skin of her neck. He held his hands up and out in a momentary gesture of helplessness, and then ran them through his longish hair. A black-winged cascade fell across his brow, only deepening his dark sensuality. Hannah dragged in a breath through her pinched nostrils, and stared numbly when he spoke.
“I’ll see myself out. Despite what just happened here, you can sleep soundly. I’m not in the habit of forcing myself on my guests.” Here, he paused, searching her face. Was he looking for forgiveness? He frowned away a look of confusion and turned on his heel.
Hannah watched him stalk to the door, unavoidably noting his broad shoulders under his white shirt, his muscled buttocks and long, tapering legs under the close fit of his dark brown pants. When he reached the closed door, he gripped the knob and turned back to face her. Hannah met his steady gaze. And knew what he would say before he ever uttered the words.
“Just who the hell are you?”
* * *
Slade chuckled. She hadn’t answered his question last night before ordering him out of her room. It didn’t matter. He’d find her. This morning’s long and dreary railroad board meeting had only delayed his searching her out by a few hours. Home now for his luncheon, he stood just inside the guest bedroom, empty now of the dark-haired woman who’d set his senses aflame.
Dark-haired woman. Slade relived the moment when, ladened with her tray, he’d come in here last night. The sight she made. Waist-length hair flowing loosely around her. Her white gown. The lamp backlighting her, showing him every curve beneath the thin fabric. He thought he could see her here now.
He wanted again to apologize for kissing her against her will. He wanted to apologize for his harsh words to her in front of Dudley. For letting her think he’d mishandled her during her faint. For startling her at the depot before that. For everything since the first moment he saw her. Slade ran a hand through his hair. What had gotten into him? His circle of friends, sworn bachelors all, would laugh at his besotted state. And they’d be within their rights, for here he stood, mooning over a female of no consequence. Ridiculous behavior. Then his heart thumped achingly. Dammit. She’s gone. Who is she? Where did she go? Certainly, she’d made her point that she had no desire to be involved with him. Then, fine. So be it. He eyed the stripped bed, the only evidence she’d ever been here. A particularly harsh curse escaped Slade, echoing in the room’s stillness. Hating this agony of loss, he turned to leave.
A bit of white under the bed stopped him. He stared at it with enough intensity to prove that force of will could not affect matter. For if it could, the thing would have scooted across the carpet to him. Apparently, Mrs. Stanley’s cleaning had missed this. His curiosity piqued, and telling himself he wasn’t hoping for some link that would help him find Hannah, Slade stalked to the bed and bent over, going down on one knee to reach under it.
His fingers closed over a lady’s folded, ribbon-tied hanky. Which crinkled when he grasped it. Crinkled? Frowning at that, he stood up and lifted the delicate fabric to his nose, hoping to capture Hannah’s scent. And thought he did. But her faint legend was overpowered by a subtle burned odor that made him pull back.
Intrigued now, and holding the fabric in his cupped palm as he would a baby bird, Slade untied the ribbon and lifted the carefully folded edges to lay bare the contents. He could only stare at what he saw. First his eyebrows shot up, but then they lowered when he frowned. Not able to make sense of what he was seeing, he muttered, “What the deuce?”
“Did you say something, Mr. Garrett?”
He looked up. Mrs. Stanley stood in the doorway, her arms full of folded linens. With his mind still working on what he held in his hand, Slade took a moment to refold the curious piece. He slipped it and the ribbon into his pocket. Then, he asked, in a deliberately offhand manner, “Did … the lady say where she was going?”
“No, sir.” She then nodded, causing the thick bun atop her head to bobble. “Hammonds did as you asked, though. He requested she stay here until you came home. But Miss Lawless would have none of it.”
The name struck him like lightning. “Did you say … Lawless?” Lawless. It hadn’t been uttered by his family since his father cursed it one last time when he lay dying five years ago.
“Yes, sir. Your guest last night—Miss Lawless. Unusual name. Same as that outlaw out West. I used to be quite taken by his exploits when I was a girl. Such a romantic, dashing figure.” Her voice breathless with curiosity, Mrs. Stanley wondered, “Could she be related to him?”
“Closely, no doubt.” A crushing weight on his chest made breathing difficult. No wonder she’d kept her identity secret from him. “Did she volunteer her name to you?”
“No, sir. Hammonds told me. A coachman stopped by this morning after you left. He had a piece of baggage, saying it belonged to the young lady he’d dropped off here last night, and that he’d overlooked it in the dark. He asked if we would make his apologies to Miss Lawless.”
“I see.” A dark cloak of a mood settled over Slade. “What happened next?”
Mrs. Stanley frowned, apparently at a loss with his curious line of questioning. “Hammonds gave me her bag, I carried it to her—she was having her breakfast. I addressed her as Miss Lawless. When I did, she jumped up and lit out of here. She even spilled her handbag in her haste. We barely had time to gather up her things before she and her trunks were gone in a cab.”
Which explained her missing the little item now in his pocket. He thought of the care with which it was folded. And of the ribbon that secured its contents. Her care with the scrap of letterhead showed the value with which she endowed it. And his name was written on it. Intriguing.
“Sir?”
Slade forced his attention back to the housekeeper. “What is it?”
She hefted the linens she carried. “May I make the bed in here now?”
Slade shook his head. “No. Give me a moment, Mrs. Stanley, would you?” He stared pointedly at her, until she finally nodded and then stepped out of the room. Her footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Alone again, Slade walked to the room’s window, leaning his shoulder against the casing and bending a knee. With his arms crossed over his chest, he looked down upon Public Garden. But the familiar landscape couldn’t hold his attention. In fact, the world outside looked strange to him. He felt unconnected to it. He’d sheltered a Lawless whelp in his home.
And held her in his arms. And kissed her. With one vicious swipe, he scrubbed his fingers over his lips, as if he could wipe away the deed. What a fool he’d been. Those helpless tears, the wide-eyed looks. But at least now he knew why the girl struck such a familiar chord in his memory. She looked just like her mother. He’d never met Catherine Jane Wilton-Humes. But he knew her. Slade saw himself as a boy gazing up at Catherine’s smiling face in the portrait Ardis Wilton-Humes kept in her suite at Cloister Point.
But it wasn’t only from his visits with his grandmother Isabel that he knew of Catherine Lawless. If only that were all. Hadn’t he, like his mother, been forced to live with her image all his life? In truth, Catherine’s specter had killed his delicate mother and followed his father to his grave.
Dwelling on that, feeding his steadily darkening mood, Slade recalled yesterday’s events. Two things immediately stood out. One, Hannah Lawless had fainted when he said his name. So, she knew the name—probably from its being scribbled on the Wilton-Humes letterhead—but hadn’t known the face. And two, once he’d identified himself, she’d reacted with venom and no small amount of wariness. Slade quirked up his mouth. He’d do well to reserve for himself some wariness toward her.
Because she’d sought him out last night—in his home, even knowing full well who he was. What then was her game? Catching his hazy reflection in the windowpane, Slade looked his ghostly self in the eye and wondered how it was that he didn’t feel the depth of anger and, yes, hatred that he should feel for her. Instead, all he felt was a disappointing sense of loss. Of what? Or whom?
Slade shifted his stance and searched his soul. Yes, he harbored strong feelings of family fidelity, a righteous sense of old wrongs that needed righting. But not the hateful rage he’d always expected he’d feel if chance or fate were to put him face-to-face with a Lawless. Was that because this Lawless was a mere girl? A soft and pretty young thing?
Slade dismissed that notion. Mother’d been both of those things when her life was ruined by Catherine Wilton-Humes. With that thought came the surge of anger, the mistrust of anything Lawless. In the window’s pane, Slade watched his mouth straighten into a grim line and found himself swearing to his mother’s memory that he would finish what Hannah’s mother’d begun more than twenty-five years ago with his father. He also swore that he’d finish what he himself had started with her last night.
With that thought came a revelation. Slade straightened up, focusing on a far steeple that rose above the other rooftops. By God, now he knew her game, why a Lawless dared come to Boston—and right at this particular time. A slanting grin split his face.
He’d give her a game of cat and mouse she wouldn’t soon forget. He admired her courage, but too bad her efforts would be for naught. Slade laughed out loud, wondering how long it would take her to realize that she was now the mouse to his cat. Fingering the scrap of Wilton-Humes stationery in his pocket, he grinned. Thanks to her guilty haste, he knew exactly where to find her. As he strode across the room, intent on his mission, his parting hope was that she would survive her foray into Cloister Point long enough for him to get there and exact his pound of flesh from her.
He called out, “Mrs. Stanley. You may make the bed now.”