Blue Waltz (2 page)

"Obviously." Stephen grasped the bottom of an upended champagne bottle from a bucket of ice. "A Montagne de Reims Grande Cuvée?"

Adam blanched.

"From my cellar, no doubt," Stephen said, dropping the bottle back into the watery ice.

"I'll restock! I'll go out first thing tomorrow."

Stephen turned to his brother and gave him a look of

10 Linda Francis Lee

barely held patience. Several of the guests shifted nervously, eyeing the door.

"Well, time to depart," Lewis finally said into the uncomfortable silence.

No sooner had Lewis set his glass aside than the remainder of the revelers followed suit and practically ran one another down in their haste to be gone. There was not a person in Boston who had not learned, either firsthand or second, that to cross Stephen St. James was tantamount to committing social and financial suicide. The crowd in attendance this night could afford neither.

Adam watched them go, his eyes both wistful and leery.

"Who is crazy as a loon?" Stephen asked again in a voice both soft as velvet and unrelenting as steel.

Adam cringed, casting about in his mind for an expedient prevarication. Finding nothing suitable, he opted for the truth. "Your new neighbor."

It took a moment for Stephen to absorb the import of his brother's words. And when he did, his somber countenance darkened even further.

The Back Bay of Boston consisted of perfectly ordered streets, lined with elegantly designed town houses built in long neat rows. Stephen's house was at the end of a row. A house, in fact, which had once been the entire row before his father had years earlier divided it into two town houses; one smaller, one much larger, where Stephen lived to this day. The only "neighbor" he had was Adam who lived in the smaller town house.

"If I understood you correctly," Stephen said finally, "there is someone I am unaware of living in your home. This could only mean two or three things." He stood perfectly still for a moment without speaking. "You've either taken on a boarder, gotten married," he looked away and

Blue Waltz 11

took a step toward the wall, "or you've sold the only thing of worth you have ever owned." He glanced back. "Tell me you got married, Adam."

The gramophone needle skipped, then caught the thick groove of the next piece and music flared once again. Mozart. Piano Sonata No. 17 in D major. Adam listened to the beginning strains of the first movement, the keys striking the notes so beautifully, and he considered taking up piano lessons. He had always wanted to play. It was the practicing that put him off.

"Adam! Answer me," Stephen said.

Adam pursed his lips before he pushed the music from his mind and dragged his attention back to his brother. With a shrug of his shoulders, he forced his most charming smile. "I'd be happy to tell you I got married, but then at some point I'd be forced to produce a wife. That might prove difficult."

"Not if you would bother yourself to marry any one of the numerous eligible and wealthy young women who prostrate themselves at your feet." -

Adam held back a shudder of distaste at the image that loomed in his mind. "An exaggeration I assure you, dear brother. Regardless, once you have 'bothered yourself to marry, get back to me with that complaint."

Adam ignored Stephen's clenched jaw and forged ahead. "As to the boarder, he or she might be easier to produce, but in the end, when I have to leave the warm and safe—" he eyed his brother "—relatively safe confines of your splendid home, I'd have no place to go."

Stephen visibly tensed.

"So I guess I must admit that I . . . sort of sold my home."

A moment passed.

The tension was almost palpable when Stephen fi-

12 Linda Francis Lee

nally spoke. "You 'sort of sold your home!" His voice was low and deep, tight. "How can a person 'sort of sell their home? A house, I might add, which I gave you after you badgered me to death about needing a home of your own."

Adam tilted his head and grimaced. "Living alone wasn't all that wonderful, I suppose."

"You suppose?" Stephen took a slow menacing step forward.

Adam's eyes opened wide. "But God knows how much I appreciated the house—loved it, in fact," he murmured more to himself than his brother, his voice melancholy. "But it's not all that bad, really. You're obviously concerned about that little remark you overheard about the woman being crazy as a loon. Well, I for one am sure it's all an exaggeration. I'm certain she'll turn out to be a very good neighbor. Nice, sweet, no bother. Much better than me." He tried to laugh. "And since you never have parties or make any noise of any kind, I'm sure she'll never have need to bang on the wall again."

Stephen's eyes widened, then narrowed in turn. "Bang on the wall?"

"Only when the music became too loud," Adam explained, suddenly engrossed in picking lint from the sleeve of his jacket.

Stephen groaned, the sharp edges of his anger seeming to ease as he looked at his younger brother. "Good Lord, what have you done?"

Adam dropped his arm to his side, the lint forgotten. "I really hated to sell it," he admitted finally, "really I did."

"Then why did you? Why did you sell something that, despite your remarks to the contrary, you loved and cherished more than anything? Or need I ask?" Stephen

Blue Waltz J3

sighed and ran his strong chiseled hand through his hair. His voice became dry. "What did you need the money for this time?"

French doors, leading to a balcony at the front of the house, stood open in the ballroom. A late fall breeze drifted in. When everyone had been dancing, the breeze had mingled through the room like a welcome guest. Now it was simply cold.

Adam walked over and shut the doors, clutching the handles, his head slightly bowed, as if unwilling to let go. He knew he should have been used to disappointing his brother by now. But somehow each time it happened it was as painful as the first. Years of trying to be like Stephen had only managed to convince Adam of the futility of the act. And that was something, he knew, his brother would never accept. Adam wasn't certain he could accept it, either. "I'd rather not talk about it now."

"Well, I would!" The words exploded through the high-ceilinged ballroom, echoing against the walls and hardwood floor, drowning out the strains of music that still played on. "What did you need the money for? Are you going to tell me you broke another axle on your carriage and you needed money for repairs? Or gambling debts, perhaps? Woman trouble? Let's see, what was it last time? An investment gone awry? What?"

This time it was Adam's jaw that clenched, Adam's eyes that grew unfathomable. "Leave it alone, Stephen."

"Like hell I will. I'm sick and tired of bailing you out of trouble!"

Adam sighed as he looked out into the darkened night. The remnants of his tattered defiance fled, leaving him defeated. "Yes," he said. "So you've told me."

Stephen looked up toward the ceiling as if seeking

14Linda Francis Lee

guidance. "Why, Adam? Why does it always come down to situations like this? Have I done so poorly by you?"

Adam turned to him and started to speak, wanting so much to tell him why, wanting so much to talk to someone as smart and logical as his brother about all that was wrong. But before the words would come, a crash from belowstairs suddenly sounded through the house. Loud shouts and banging followed.

Both men turned toward the door, their anger and frustration forgotten as they tried to make sense of the noise that was fast approaching, ascending the stairs from the first floor.

"What the devil—"

"There you are!" a man jeered from the doorway in drunken disarray, his words slurred, a gun in his hand, his eyes trained on Adam.

Stephen started to step forward, but was stopped when the gunman turned his attention and the pistol in his direction.

"Who the hell are you?" the man spat at Stephen.

"Now, Tom," Adam interjected, his tone calm but cautious, "you have no quarrel with him."

The man named Tom glanced back at Adam. "You're damned right, you bastard!" he hissed. "My quarrel is with you. You tangled with the wrong man, St. James. I'll not be bought off. Not this time. Not me." The muscles in his face worked and strained. "You're not going to do this to me! You're not—"

"Tom," Adam said quietly. "Give me the gun. Then we can talk about this silly misunderstanding."

"There's nothing more to talk about, do you hear me? Nothing! You're not going to get away with it!"

"Now, Tom," Adam repeated, stepping forward.

Blue Waltz 15

"Adam," Stephen said, the word a demand. "Get back."

Adam, however, took no notice. "Give me the gun, Tom," he continued, taking another step forward, his eyes imploring.

The fury in Tom's eyes seemed to waver for the first time. The crease in his brow eased and he looked down at the gun. "You shouldn't have done it," he whispered.

And then Adam lunged.

At the movement, Tom tensed and his eyes widened, before his indecision vanished, his anger bursting forth unchecked as his finger pulled the trigger. Only it was Stephen who ran forward and got there first. Stephen who made the vain attempt to stop the events from unfolding. And Stephen who jerked back at the impact when the bullet struck.

Time hung suspended. Smoke from the gun barrel rose in the air. Adam tried to force his brain to work, to make sense of the unimaginable. Staring across the room at Stephen, he didn't notice when Tom slipped out the door.

"Stephen," Adam breathed, the single word snapping him out of his stupor, and he ran forward.

Stephen leaned back against the wall, blood seeping through his fingers where he held his chest.

"Dear God, I'm sorry," Adam cried. He reached out, but flinched back in surprise at the wet heat of blood. Reality washed over him. "God, I'm the one who deserves to be shot!"

Stephen's breath hissed through his teeth when he tried to move. "Don't say that. It's not true." He took a deep, labored breath. "You're a St. James, Adam. A St. James."

And when Adam pressed his eyes closed against the truth of his brother's words, and the inevitability of what that meant, Stephen slumped to the floor, red streaking the wall behind him, just as the gramophone needle began to beat softly against the center of the record, announcing the music was at an end.

CHAPTER 2

Silence. Long nights of frustrating silence. No music. No dancing. Nothing more than silence since she had heard that haunting shot three weeks before.

Belle Braxton pushed angrily away from the wall. She stood very still before turning her attention to the grandfather clock, her eyes set and determined. At length she clenched her teeth and curtsied, then started to dance. One, two, three, as best she could. One, two, three, with all the grace she could muster. Across the hardwood floor. Trying. Yearning. Feeling instead only the dark heaviness in her mind.

With a groan of frustration she jerked to a halt. It was no use. The music was gone. Dancing was impossible.

If she had not heard the shot herself, she would have doubted it had happened at all. There had not been a mention in the paper or a word of rumor from any of the servants. It was as if the incident had never occurred.

A fire burned in the grate, casting the room in golden light. She paced back and forth, the only sound coming from the bells of Arlingon Street Church as they tolled the hour. Her leg was sore, had been for weeks. For a while she had relied on her cane. But she had spent too many years learning to walk without it to take it up again because of a little pain. She had to keep walking. She had to work out the stiffness. It was the cold weather and the fact that she hadn't been out of the house since she

18 Linda Francis Lee

moved in that her leg was becoming so stiff now. But the streets were crowded with people and carriages, making her uneasy, making it difficult to go out.

She glanced toward the window, the mullioned panes turning to murky mirrors against the nighfe It was hard to fathom that so many people existed, much less in one place. And always outside, rushing here and there. Good heavens, where were they all going? she wondered. Did people really have so many places to go?

Belle glanced over at a pile of invitations she had received. Maybe they did. And perhaps she should accept one or two of the invitations herself. She really needed to get out. She could wait at dinners and parties as easily as she could wait in the house for her father's arrival.

Her heart leaped in her chest. Her father. Browning Holly. He was coming for her. Any time now. She knew it.

At twenty-nine years of age, she was a widow, her husband dead five years now from rheumatic fever. She had more money than she knew what to do with. And after leaving her lifelong hometown of Wrenville, Massachusetts, she had traveled the sixty miles to Boston to purchase the home of her father's dreams. It had everything from the moldings and castings to the carved marble colonnades he so desired.

And here, in the city he so loved, he would come for her, she told herself firmly, pressing her eyes closed against the familiar ache in her heart.

The wind was growing stronger, buffeting against the windows, preceding the storm that was said to be imminent. She could just make out the muffled clank and scrape of pots and pans two floors below in the basement kitchen, reminding her that supper would be ready soon.

Thursday night. Roast and potatoes, no doubt. Deli-

Blue Waltz19

cious roast and delicious potatoes, but roast and potatoes nonetheless.

Running her fingers along the mantel, she sighed. She was tired of eating the same thing on the same night every day of the week—just as she was tired of waiting.

Unexpectedly, she wished for chicken and dumplings on a Thursday night, and clear skies with stars shining in the icy blackness of night. And she wished for a new life. An ordinary life, she thought, as a milkmaid or mother, or even a young maiden woman in Boston with nothing more in her head than a long list of parties and the names of beaux who surrounded her with flowers. A life of no more dreaming. No more waiting. But most of all, no more fragments of memory, no more dark heaviness that she had found since moving here hovered relentless at the edges of her mind.