Comfort and Joy (14 page)

A part of him hoped she would never lose the melodic lilt to her speech. The sound of her voice was like a song to his ears.

He cleared his throat “Me. It’s me.”

Maeve spun around. Her eyes were round with fright and her lips slightly parted.

“My apologies. Did I frighten you?”

Her head shot up. “No.”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

With a toss of her head, Maeve stepped away from the mirror. A rosy red blush heightened the color of her cheeks. “Sure’n I’ve never been frightened by a man.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“I did not hear ye...you come in.”

“I knocked but you were busy.”

“Practicing my manners.”

“Your manners are fine,” Charles assured her. “You acquitted yourself perfectly last evening.”

“I did not speak a word.”

“You didn’t have to say a thing. Your beauty spoke for you.”

Good lord what was he saying?

Maeve’s luscious cherry-red lips parted in a hesitant smile. “Sure’n you’ve kissed the Blarney stone.”

“No,” he replied softly. He’d spoken the truth.

His wife’s beauty radiated from the inside, from her heart or soul — he wasn’t sure which — and was captured in her glorious smile. Her real beauty, a pure beauty, shone from within.

“Charles?”

Damn. He’d slipped into some sort of odd trance.

Charles made a great business of clearing his throat. “My cousin informed me today that you are now the woman of mystery in town.”

Her beautiful blue jewel eyes grew wide again. “What?”

“By saying so little last night, you aroused the curiosity of our guests. They assume you to be a woman of great mystery.”

“I did not mean to arouse curiosity. It was Stella’s party so I —”

“You outshone the guest of honor indisputably,” he interrupted, feeling an astonishing satisfaction.

“Oh, no!”

“I am afraid so.”

“Saints above.”

“You might want the saints below and by your side this evening.”

“Why?”

“We have been invited to dine with my mother and Stella. My mother regrets she has been unable to spend time with you up until now.”

“ ‘Tis only been two days. She need not worry over me.”

“Dinner is at seven o’clock. Meet me in my study and we shall go into the dining room together.”

Heaving a wistful sigh, Maeve again attempted to beg off. “But tonight I feel so weary and thought to have me...my meal right here in the sitting room.”

Charles refused to let her off the hook. He was not going to dinner without Maeve. “And what did you do today to bring on such exhaustion?”

“I paid a visit to my father and cooked his favorite potato soup. Then I went off to find Shea but never did. When I returned I worked on my knitting and then me...” she paused before correcting herself once more. “My manners.”

Before preying on her sympathies, he remained silent for a moment as if he might actually be considering her excuses. “In my humble opinion, you should have enough strength to join us for dinner, Maeve. Would you leave me alone to such a fate? Would you have me dining with Mother and Stella alone?”

Wary eyes fixed on his. “You really want me?”

“Yes,” Charles answered quickly. “Please. Do this for me.”

Knowing the dinner would not go well, he felt like a traitor of sorts. But the only way for Maeve to learn how far apart their worlds were was to make her a part of his at every opportunity. A world that served lobster bisque instead of potato soup.

“I suppose, for you, I shall manage to muddle through,” she acquiesced quietly. Her sweet berry lips parted in a faint, uncertain smile.

Struck by the melancholy of her smile, Charles knew he could not put Maeve through what promised to be a punishing ordeal without rewarding her in some way. As much as he, the girl was an innocent victim of circumstance.

Her luminous eyes reflected absolute trust as they met his.

In that silent moment an unseen, powerful hand reached inside and gripped Charles’s heart, melting his defenses like a red-hot seal on wax.

Maeve touched him as he’d never been touched before. She caused him to say things he’d never said before. And he seemed unable to stop himself from saying more. “After dinner I shall take you for a sleigh ride if you like.”

Maeve’s glowing smile warmed Charles to the marrow. “Oh, Charles, I should like a sleigh ride very much.”

The depth of her delight set his heart to beating in a new, swift-thumping rhythm. An alarming excitement took hold of him, infusing Charles with a great burst of energy. All at once, he felt like a small boy on his way to a parade.

“Then let us consider dinner a duty that we will dispense with as soon as possible,” he suggested to Maeve with all the equanimity he could muster. “A sleigh ride will follow as our just reward.”

Her light, melodic laughter filled his senses with the same dizzying effect of having drunk too much French champagne. The music of Maeve’s laughter struck Charles’s heart anew and drew an unabashed grin from him. Although he hadn’t planned a sleigh ride for tonight, he’d accidentally hit on a good idea for himself as well as his temporary wife. A change of routine with a quiet, intimate ride might prove just the thing.

Normally, Charles relaxed alone in his study following a particularly trying day as this had been. During the first appointment of the morning he hired Herbert Lynch to recover the stolen sketch of St. Nick. The private investigator could have been more encouraging concerning the chances of finding the lost art. But he wasn’t, mumbling that too much time had elapsed and the trail was cold.

In a later meeting with Martin, Charles argued again with his cousin about the future course of Rycroft Publishing. Martin could never win and seemed completely unable to stop feeling sorry for himself.

When Charles became head of the company, he resolved to make Rycroft even more successful than when his father had been at the helm. Conrad had never expressed faith in his abilities, preferring to disparage Charles at every opportunity. Although his father had been dead for three years, Charles still felt driven by the need to prove he could operate a successful business enterprise. He meant to take the publishing business to heights Conrad Rycroft never dreamed of.

Martin could not be expected to understand.

Finally, toward the end of the day, Charles worked out his increasing restlessness by fencing with Spencer Wellington.

When tension stretched him to his limit, Charles could usually find relief by fencing with his friend. Today, however, the match had not eased the edginess coiled in the pit of his stomach like a snake ready to strike. He wondered at that

“Will you read your book on our sleigh ride?” Maeve asked, stirring Charles from his uncomfortable reverie.

He looked down in surprise. He’d entirely forgotten the book he’d brought home for her. “It’s for you. A novel called Around The World in Eighty Days by Jules Verne. I thought perhaps you might not have read it yet as it was just published last year.”

Maeve smiled up at him, a sweet, reverent smile that made him feel like the hero in a dime novel. “I shall read it as soon as I finish the manuscript you brought last evening. Thank you, Charles.”

She spoke slowly, once again lapsing into a practice of her speech. A bittersweet sadness settled over Charles. He felt a loss of something intangible. It did not seem right for Maeve to curb her natural exuberance. At the same time, he understood her desire to achieve the restraint and manners of his class. The fiery little bit of a woman did not wish to stand out in his circle of friends. She wanted to be like everyone else.

In his heart, Charles knew she would never be like everyone else.

Maeve displayed unquestionable courage, working diligently to fit into a world which in reality she could never become a part of. Somehow he must find a way to ease the shame of their inevitable divorce for her.

“I shall keep you well supplied with books,” he promised before turning to leave.

“You have been sent to me by my faerie princess.”

Dear heaven, she was back to the faeries.

“I’ll see you in an hour for dinner.”

“Dinner.” Maeve repeated the word as if it were a death sentence and she was headed toward the gallows.

As he left her chamber, she began to hum. He recognized the tune. Now, if he could just remember what it was.

* * * *

One lamp burned in the small, dark room where he paced impatiently. Samson. A man distraught. No matter what he attempted something always went awry. It was the story of his life. The best of his plans seemed destined to sink like leaky boats. Including his current undertaking. It was going down fast. Only desperate action would save his skin.

The original plan did not call for Charles Rycroft to be killed. He’d depended on the elements to finish Rycroft, but then Charles was found and rescued before the cold could claim him. Another case of bad luck.

At last the rear door opened and his brawny accomplice lumbered through. Shoulders hunched and jaw set, the scowling amazon grunted an indiscernible greeting.

Bill “Spit” O’Brien.

The jagged scar above Bill’s right eye gave him an ominous appearance, even in the full light of day. By the light of one flickering lamp, he looked truly terrifying.

“Do you know what Rycroft has done now?”

Bill shook his head.

“He’s hired a private investigator. The man was here today asking questions.”

Bill just stared.

“Why is this happening to me?”

Bill shook his head.

“In just a few weeks I will be able to leave the country with no questions asked. In the meantime something must be done about Rycroft. I refuse to be constantly looking over my shoulder. It’s not expected for a man in my position.”

Unfazed by his scolding, Bill “Spit” O’Brien merely shrugged.

“I paid you to do a job and I expect you to finish it. I don’t want to see you again until it’s done.”

The ferocious-looking giant simply nodded.

“Do you understand?” he barked, irked beyond endurance. If he’d had the funds to hire a true professional at the beginning, he wouldn’t now have to deal with this slow excuse for a man. He just had no luck at all.

Bill nodded again.

Samson could not fully trust a man of so few words.

“Send me a message when you’ve completed your task. We can’t risk meeting here with a private investigator lurking about. I’ll meet you at the footbridge in the public gardens.”

Again, Bill nodded. His dull blue eyes seemed to have no life nor comprehension behind them.

Samson feared the worst. A repeat of past calamities. If only he really was Samson. He asked once again, “Do I make myself clear, Bill?”

Chapter Eight

Maeve entered the dining room on Charles’s arm. She held her head high even as her knees threatened to buckle out from under her. Hopefully, neither Beatrice Rycroft nor Stella Hampton could detect the nervous trembling of her lower lip. The moment they’d crossed the threshold, Maeve felt as if she were on trial. Rules of etiquette swirled in her brain.

Always use your napkin before and after drinking. Never cut your bread with a knife, break it by hand. Use your napkin before and after drinking. Never make a display of your napkin.

A display of your napkin. Whatever did that mean?

The seating arrangements had Charles at the head of the table, his mother and Stella to his right, and Maeve to his left. Beatrice Rycroft and the pale widow sans her silly dog were already seated.

Swathed in dusty rose satin and diamonds, Beatrice appeared every inch the grand dame. Despite the deepening lines fanning her eyes and framing her mouth, traces of the beauty she’d once been were evident. Charles’s mother possessed magnificent high cheekbones and perfect bowed lips, rouged to an apple-red.

Unlike Maeve, she moved in fluid, elegant grace and spoke in soft, modulated tones.

With barely a flicker of an eyelash, she appraised a quaking Maeve from the top of her head to the hem of her dress. When Beatrice completed her perusal, neither approval nor disapproval registered in her bland expression.

Although Maeve had dressed with care and presented herself with nary a hair out of place, she knew her mother-in-law must disapprove of her, beyond what the eye could see. With her stomach churning like a storm-tossed sea, Maeve did not hope to swallow a bite of the meal. Instead, she meant to win a small piece of her mother-in-law’s regard.

“Good evening, Maeve,” Beatrice greeted her with a cool nod before bestowing a brilliant smile on her son. “Charles dear, you look exhausted.”

“Not quite, Mother.” He held Maeve’s chair before seating himself.

“I don’t see why you must work. Martin can handle the firm.”

“I work because I enjoy it.”

“And you do it so well,” Stella put in. “Even with all the New York publishing houses, Rycroft is as well known in the city as any that are headquartered there.”

“You may overstate the case.”

“Oh, no,” Stella protested. “But have you ever thought of moving the company to New York City?”

“Never. My father founded Rycroft in Boston not long after Little, Brown and Company.”

“But publishing flourishes in New York City,” Stella insisted, smiling all the while. When she spoke to Charles, her dark cocoa eyes never left his.

“Rycroft flourishes here.”

Unlike the amiable man who had come to Maeve’s rooms just a few hours earlier, Charles appeared aloof and conversed in short, curt sentences. Maeve thought there must be something she could say to soothe the conversation. She just could not think what.

Stella had again chosen a dress with a neckline that amply displayed her cleavage. The azure blue silk pongee with wide lace trim and flounces heightened her delicate appearance. But Maeve feared that if the merry widow sneezed, she would shatter like glass and her mighty bosom would burst from her gown. Maeve had taken to thinking of Stella as the merry widow.

Having no luck with Charles, Stella turned to Maeve. “You must convince Charles to move, Maeve. In my experience a wife exercises astonishing influence over her husband.”