Hooked (20 page)

“How old are you, Mr. Wilberforce?”

Pulled from his memories, Gage didn't flinch when he answered, although he suspected Mrs. Rothman wanted him to. “Thirty-one.” He wondered how old Wilberforce really was.

“And still a bachelor.”

“Afraid so.” The truth rolled off his tongue easily enough, but it left him cold. The truth, lies—they were mingling. There seemed to be no beginning or end to either. He hated leading this kind old woman down a fictitious path.

“My husband and I married when we were both twenty—Margaret's age. I was a late bloomer. I suspect she will be, too. She needs to come into her own and not worry so much what other people think. Why,” she said, removing a pair of spectacles from her face, “if I cared about propriety and all its silly rules as much as Iris did, I never would be able to be a fighter for the Cause, now would I? The time has come for women to make their own way in this world. What is your view on the suffrage movement, Mr. Wilberforce?”

A suffocating feeling closed in over Gage. The question was a hard one for him to answer. As himself, he could easily say he had no objection to women having certain rights in public life. But would Mrs. Rothman believe Wilberforce? She already suspected he wasn't everything he appeared to be.

Gage met her expectant gaze, then gave her an answer he hoped would be satisfying. “There's nothing stronger than the human voice when its spoken en masse.”

Mrs. Rothman's blue eyes darkened with emotion. “That was very well said, Mr. Wilberforce. Have you ever considered writing?”

The foundation of confidence he'd built in his ability to fool people was just cracked; albeit a hairline fault, it was a fault nonetheless. If he wasn't careful . . .

“A time or two,” Gage replied while pushing away from the desk. He headed up the stairs, feeling her watchful eyes on him as he departed.

*  *  *

Fully clothed, Gage reclined on his bed, an unlit cigar at the corner of his mouth, and his hands folded over his chest. He had half a mind to lift open the window and light the smoke, But he suspected Mrs. Rothman made inquiries, asking the help if any rooms smelled like burnt tobacco. He didn't want her snooping in his. It was hard enough to keep things hidden on maid service days.

The day had been over hours ago. He should have gone to sleep. But he wasn't tired. He kept thinking about Meg. About being with her today on their picnic. Then he thought about her grandmother.

Then he thought about himself. Where he saw his life headed.

Gage didn't devote time to who or what he would be in ten more years. He'd always assumed: a journalist, a muckraker. One and the same. It was all he knew. All he desired to do with himself.

His thoughts meandered as he laid quietly in his near dark room. The only bit of light coming in through the window was that of the moon. Sprawled in disarray around him were his fishing books and notes. After watching Meg cast a fly rod, Gage knew he was a goner. He'd be found out as soon as the contest got underway. He was no fisherman.

And he was fast becoming a lousy liar.

He never should have said what he had about considering writing to Mrs. Rothman. Too personal. A damn dead giveaway if ever there was one. But he liked the spunk and all-out confidence Meg's grandmother projected. She made him aware of things he didn't think about.

Her views were rarely portrayed in the papers—no help from Gage either. She'd make a good story. Especially since the newspaper he wrote for seemed to be undergoing a change in direction in this first year of the new century.

The Chronicle's
style of yellow journalism had slowly been made over since its extensive coverage of the Spanish-American War. After an armistice had been signed two years ago, the front page had been progressively dropping the more objectionable features. Fewer and fewer were the scare headlines with excessively large type in black. Photos without significance and fake interviews were also fewer in number. Gage's style had survived simply because he wrote the truth, no matter how hard it was to swallow.

But Gage was beginning to wonder . . . was the
stark truth really what readers wanted? Gage had stripped many people bare, revealing their illicit dealings; the stench was starting to stick with him long after the fact.

His first editor had wanted him to write about ordinary everyday life: white picket fences, rose bushes and gardens, homey houses, ladies who bought Bissell carpet sweepers, men who worked for their community, ministers, dogs, cats up trees—all the little idiosyncracies that were the daily slice of apple pie in Americana.

All those things he'd told himself were insignificant.

Well, maybe they weren't. Stories like that could make a person feel good. He could have used one right now. He wasn't feeling all that great about himself.

If Gage learned one thing today, it was that he could no longer pretend this fly-fishing article was just another story to be written. He had to either get on with his investigation or get out of it. If the accusations about Wayne Brooks proved to be false, Gage would drop the whole thing. If they were true . . . It was time to talk with Oliver Stratton. Gage didn't want to unnecessarily hurt Meg.

She made him feel worthy of her company. And she didn't even know who he was. She liked him for him—or the
him
he showed her. What would she think of the real Matthew Gage?

The answer was one Gage didn't want to speculate. He'd had the door closed on his face too many times before.

10

M
eg woke up Sunday morning feeling awful. Her heartbeat fluttered as if she were soaring high on a swing, and her pulse tripped whenever she looked at the standing vase of yellow daisies on her night bureau. She laid in bed with her chintz coverlet up to her chin. A sneeze tickled her nose. At least she thought it would be a sneeze. Nothing happened. She was coming down with a bad case of something. She just knew it.

But what she was getting couldn't be cured by Dr. Porter.

She was in love.

Honest to goodness real love.

And she was . . .
miserable.

Meg dragged herself out of bed. Maybe she was wrong. Being in love was supposed to feel wonderful. Maybe she really was getting pneumonia.

As Meg sat on the edge of the bed, she put her hand on the bottom of her foot—Warm, not cold. No pneumonia. Then again, she felt feverish. For good
measure, she made herself shiver. Yes, definitely feverish. She rose, went into the bathroom and snatched the thermometer.

Trudging back to her room in her nightgown, she pursed her lips over the thermometer and sat back down on her bed.

What was wrong with her?

She'd wanted to find a man and get married. Well, she'd
found
a man. Vernon Wilberforce. She never expected to feel something for him. In all her fantasies of romance, love hadn't really been a part of the picture. The frame had been surrounded by a doting husband, a house, and children. The very essence of domesticity. That love would play into the scheme of things . . . well, she just hadn't prepared herself.

Removing the thermometer, she read the mercury. Normal.

But it could rise at any second.

Meg set the thermometer by the daisies, her fingers absently brushing the yellow petals. She smiled. Then she frowned as soon as her stomach flip-flopped. She pressed her hand to her ribs where it felt like the wings of a thousand butterflies danced.

Yesterday, those daisies had done her in.

She had to find out for sure if there was any cure for this love sickness of hers. She'd go see Mr. Wilberforce this morning and take a long, hard study of him. Maybe he wouldn't look so appealing. He had to have faults. Things she didn't particularly care for about him so if he didn't return her affection, she wouldn't be crushed.

Character weaknesses
. She didn't like when he used words like “By gum” and “I'll be jiggered.” At times, he seemed to be forcing them. Like he would forget,
then remember to say them. In any case, they didn't fit with the sound of his deep voice.

And another thing, he really did have a weak stomach. She suspected as much yesterday, but had discounted the fact because he was just too virile looking. However, confirmation came when on their way home from the Fish Festival, they passed a variety of food booths that her uncle would have avoided. Mr. Wilberforce was just like him. He couldn't tolerate “sinful” food because he suffered from dyspepsia. Unappealing.

Then again . . . she didn't really care about any faults he had. She had hers, too. Nobody was perfect. She wasn't. Far from it.

The picnic had been heaven and perhaps she was putting too much into it. The day had kind of passed in a haze. And after he'd kissed her, she hadn't fully come back to reality.

He'd said he liked her. Well, just
who
did he like? Margaret or Meg? Even she was getting them mixed up these days. What if she showed him Meg's true colors? Would he still say the things he did to her?

After dressing in the first shirtwaist and skirt that her hand touched in the clothes wardrobe, Meg hastily put herself in order. Which, now that she thought about it as she walked the boardwalk to the hotel, wasn't her very best effort. Definitely a Meg influence—
she
didn't overly worry about appearances.

Gazing at her reflection in the window glass of Treber's men's store, Margaret was dutifully horrified that her hat sat crooked on her head and finger curls had come lose from pins; gossamer spirals of copper bounced on her shoulders. She had forgotten her gloves and parasol; also her handbag. Not that she had
any need for calling cards. Mr. Wilberforce already knew who she was . . . Or did he?

Meg took the porch steps to the hotel just as Mr. Wilberforce exited the front doors. Standing back, she looked up into his face. Cleanly shaven, his jaw was set and determined; an unlit cigar rested between his lips. He wore a suit coat and tie, the vest beneath a shade of blue. In his hand, he grasped a black case.

Her Mr. Wilberforce appeared to be going out on a call. Off to sell some Bissells. She wanted to sigh with pride. In the face of the contest and all the readiness it took to prepare, he wasn't going to shirk his job responsibilities. Such devotion overwhelmed Meg.

“Mr. Wilberforce,” she said with a soft exhale. She brought her hand to her cheek. Her skin felt overly warm. Hot—but not from any fever.

She really was in love.

“Miss Brooks.” His eyes narrowed as he passed his gaze across her. Of course he was staring at her hat and lack of essentials. “You look awful.”

He needn't tell her that.

And if he was in love with her in return, then he'd have signs. But he didn't. That disappointed her. “If you felt the way I feel, then you would at least have misbuttoned your shirt or have your hair out of place.”

“What's the matter with you?” he asked, taking a step down. He talked around the cigar in his mouth; it gave him a drawl she found fascinating.

Her reply was riddled with a hopeful tone. “Nothing that you couldn't cure.”

He looked up the street a moment, appearing to be in deep thought. The outline of his profile intrigued her. The smooth and strong plane of his forehead beneath
the brim of his hat. The way his nose was kind of crooked. The silhouette of his lips. Lips that she had felt against hers.

Gage grew aware of her stare on him. He turned to search her face. It was hard to forget about her. Hard to tell himself not to care.

Despite every reason he knew to steer clear, Gage brought his hand to hers and squeezed her slender fingers. Her skin was warm and felt as soft as sunshine.

A startled sigh caught on her lips. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to forget Wilberforce and fishing tournaments and all the garbage that went with his job. For just one moment, he wanted to be Matthew Gage again. A man without any kind of occupational attachments. Just Matthew—who felt deeper emotions than those he let show on the surface.