Nine Buck's Row (8 page)

“I'm almost nineteen.”

“When I was your age, I was already married to my first husband. Some of us mature earlier. Come, dear, sit down, sit down. Mrs. Henderson will serve us—have you ever been in love?”

I shook my head, discomfited by the question.

“Not even once? Outrageous! The men must be blind—”

She cut herself short as the housekeeper came in with the roast. Mrs. Henderson was large and plump, her hair jet-black, her eyes dark, a perpetual crease between her brows. She clumped about noisily, casting angry glances at both of us. She looked as though nothing would have pleased her more than serving a generous portion of arsenic with the soup.

“Poor thing, I don't think she
enjoys
herself much,” Maggie said as the woman shoved out the swinging door. “I'm always begging her to take a day off and go visit friends, but she prefers to stay in her room. Perhaps she's making a bomb—” She laughed merrily, orange-red ringlets bouncing on either side of her face.

“I'm sorry Nicky couldn't make it back in time to join us,” she continued. “He keeps such a strange schedule. I never know what to expect.”

“How long has your nephew been staying here with you?” I inquired.

“About—oh, let me see now—six weeks, I'd say. He arrived two weeks or so before that horrible murder at the George Yard Buildings—the Tabrun woman and all that blood on the stairs. That was August seventh, wasn't it? Yes, he's been here about six weeks. He
does
keep peculiar hours. He might be out all night, then spend the next two days compiling notes in the study, absolutely
livid
if anyone breathes loud down the hall. Concentration, you know.”

“Does he go out much socially?”

“Not often. He sees a few friends now and then, and I suspect he takes an occasional woman—most men
do
, my dear—but mostly he prefers to be alone. Since Valerie—well, since the divorce he's lost interest in most of the people he used to chum with.”

Maggie shook her head disapprovingly and let the subject drop. I would have loved to have questioned her about his marriage to Valerie and the divorce, but good manners forbade it. She chatted happily about her shop and the hats and bonnets she made and the difficulty of obtaining fine quality plumes and enough good velvet. I listened politely, still thinking of Nicholas Craig and wondering about Valerie. Such a beautiful name, so melodious. Did it suit the first Mrs. Nicholas Craig?

After we finished dessert, Maggie and I went into the parlor. It was an attractive room with ivory walls, a plush maroon sofa, maroon drapes and a large ebony piano, the wood reflecting the orange glow of the oil lamps. Maggie sat in an overstuffed brown-and-ivory-striped chair, picking up her knitting, and I examined the books in the dark, heavy bookcase, selecting one of the Bronte novels to reread. Almost an hour passed before Maggie yawned and said she was ready for bed.

“Coming up, dear?” she asked.

“In a little while. I—I'd like to play the piano. Would it disturb you?”

“Not at all. Nice to have music in the house again. Well, I'll say good night, Susannah. It's wonderful to have you here.”

She kissed me on the forehead and left the room. I heard her climbing the stairs, footsteps weary, and a moment later I could hear her moving around in the room directly overhead as she got ready for bed.

Without consciously making a selection, I began to play Chopin. The sad, emotional melodies perfectly expressed my mood, and soon I was lost to all else, merely a tool through which the music was conveyed. The oil lamps flickered, shadows danced on the walls, the soft, subdued music filled the room, suggesting anguished hearts and tears.

I don't know how long I played, how long it was before I became aware of someone watching me. I stopped abruptly, turning around on the stool to meet his dark, brooding eyes.

“Please don't stop on my account,” Nicholas Craig said.

“How—how long have you been standing there?”

“For several minutes. You're quite an accomplished pianist, Susannah. Technically perfect, with that extra quality, quite rare—the ability to express feelings.”

I made no reply. I stood up, nerves taut, a curious, hollow feeling inside.

He was leaning against the door frame, his body long and lazy, arms folded across his chest. The black suit was even more rumpled, the maroon vest sadly creased. He looked weary, his face lined with fatigue. The smudges beneath his eyes seemed darker, the hollows under his cheekbones more pronounced. Locks of hair spilled over his high forehead, the one silver strand making a stark contrast. He looked like someone who had worked to the point of exhaustion, or someone who had overindulged in the most demanding of dissipations.

He stared at me. It was a detached stare, unnerving. It made me feel extremely vulnerable. No man had ever stared at me this way before. Nicholas Craig stood up, heaved his shoulders and moved across the room until he was standing only two or three feet away from me, those magnetic eyes still studying me. I could smell his body and the odor of leather and damp tobacco.

“You're a beautiful girl,” he said. The remark was cool, an indifferent observation.

I met his gaze with a calm, frosty manner that didn't deceive him at all. His wide, firm mouth spread into a mocking smile.

“I take it you've been told that before?” he said.

“A time or two,” I replied.

“And have you ever been kissed?” he asked. His voice was low.

I wanted to lie, but I couldn't. I shook my head. My wrists felt weak, and my knees seemed suddenly unable to support the weight of my body.

He lifted his hand and touched my cheek, his fingers lightly brushing the skin. He still smiled, and his eyes were darker than ever, glowing. Then, abruptly, he stepped back. A deep frown creased his brow, and his face was suddenly hard, severe. He reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief, thrusting it into my hand.

“Harlots wear rouge,” he said icily. “While you're under my supervision, you won't act like a prostitute. Is that quite clear? Take off the rouge, Susannah, and don't ever let me catch you wearing it again!”

6

With bottle of milk and chipped blue saucer in hand, I started up the back stairs, hoping that Scrappy had confined himself to the sandbox I put out. It was after noon. I had spent the morning with Maggie in the shop, watching her make hats in that bright magpie's nest of a workroom cluttered with ribbons and feathers and bolts of cloth. We had had lunch, and she insisted I spend the rest of the afternoon on my own. After I finished giving Scrappy his milk, I intended to visit Millie.

The kitten looked indignant when I stepped into the room. He made it quite clear that he didn't like being left alone, mewing and posturing and making hateful faces at me as I set down the saucer. After I had poured the milk, he examined it cautiously, dipped one paw in, licked the paw, tilted his tiny head to one side and then lunged at the bowl, splattering milk all over the carpet.

“Outrageous animal,” I scolded, pouring more milk.

As he devoured the milk, I stepped over to the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door, thinking about what Maggie had said at lunch. Colleen had come in to say that Mr. Nicholas had left word he would be gone most of the day. Maggie frowned, reaching for the bowl of spinach.

“If I didn't know him better, I'd think he had a mistress stashed away somewhere,” she muttered. “Maybe he
does
, though after Valerie—” She dished the spinach onto her plate and let the sentence fade away.

“Nicky doesn't like women,” she added a moment later. “Don't misunder
stand
me—it's not that he prefers boys. He carries this bitterness around with him, you see, and—” She passed the spinach, insisted that I have another muffin and said no more about her nephew.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, suddenly wishing that I were twenty-eight instead of almost nineteen, wishing I could wear black velvet and ropes of pearls, and wear my hair in sculptured waves on top of my head. Nicholas Craig was a worldly man, rather dissipated and weary of it all, and he would never be interested in a girl with rosy cheeks and clear blue eyes. I hadn't an ounce of sophistication, despite the worldly knowledge I had accumulated during my years with Marietta. It was utterly foolish to cherish any thoughts of capturing his fancy.…

I cut myself short, refusing to carry this chain of thought any further. There was no need trying to deny it any longer. I was attracted to my guardian. I was acting exactly the same way Millie acted when she met a good-looking soldier with blond hair and smoky gray eyes. It happened to her three or four times a month, but it had never happened to me before. I didn't know how to handle it. Last night he had been about to take me in his arms, and I had wanted him to do so. His sudden angry outburst had shattered the moment, and the frustration I had experienced was partly bewilderment and, I admitted now, partly disappointment. I had wanted him to kiss me.

I was appalled, but I accepted the truth. There was no way to evade it. Very well, I had wanted him to kiss me. That wasn't so shocking, was it? He was an attractive man, fascinating in his way, and it was only natural that I should have responded to that fascination. But I wasn't a flirtatious little featherbrain, swooning in ecstasy over a pair of dark eyes and a wide, mobile mouth. I had dignity, and I would maintain it. Nicholas Craig would never know about this. I would nip in the bud any feelings he might have aroused before they blossomed into something stronger. I intended to be cool toward him, civil, of course, but cool, and no doubt I would soon forget this nonsense. Twenty-eight years old and black velvet indeed! What in the world had come over me?

I was suddenly aware of the silence in the room. A moment before there had been the noisy slurps of a kitten devouring milk, and now the sound was gone. The small blue bowl was empty. The kitten was nowhere to be seen. I glanced around the room anxiously, then spied the open door. He must have slipped out to go exploring. I hurried into the hall, just in time to see a fluffy silver-gray ball scurrying up the stairs to the attic rooms.

“Scrappy!” I called. “Come here at once!”

He ignored me and scampered on up the staircase. Then he began to howl gleefully, making almost as much noise as he had made on the fence yesterday afternoon. I darted up the narrow stairs to find a small landing with tattered green carpet and a large brown door. Scrappy was sitting in front of the door, head thrown back, that incredibly loud noise issuing from his throat.

“Hush!” I cried. “What's the
meaning
of this? You're just a kitten, not a lovesick tenor—”

The door flew open and a long, pale face peered out, dark blond hair tumbling in damp locks over the high forehead.

“What in the
hell
is going on?” a nervous voice shouted.

I scooped up the kitten, my cheeks burning.

“I'm terribly sorry. One minute he was drinking his milk, and the next minute he was—”

“That
kitten
made all that noise?”

“I'm afraid so. I apologize for him—”

“My God, I thought a woman was being butchered in front of my door. A tiny thing like that—incredible!”

The door opened wider, and I could see that he was very tall, wearing an old wine red dressing gown over black pants and a shabby white shirt. He had an unusually long neck and there were dark shadows under his moody blue-gray eyes. He had a dark blond moustache, neatly trimmed, and his mouth was full, the lower lip heavy and petulant. He still looked a little groggy, and I realized that he must have been asleep when Scrappy began his impromptu serenade.

“And who might you be?” he asked arrogantly.

“I might be Lucretia Borgia,” I snapped, irritated by his tone, “but in fact I'm Susannah Hunt, Mr. Craig's ward.”

“You're an orphan?”

“Yes I am!”

“You needn't take offense, child. I adore orphans.”

“Don't call me ‘child' in that patronizing way. You're not so ancient yourself.”

“Twenty-six,” he admitted ruefully. “It seems terribly ancient. I'm Daniel Lord, Susannah, and I
do
adore orphans. Since you're the cause of waking me up—indirectly at least—the least you can do is come in and make me a pot of tea.”

“I'm not a servant, Mr. Lord.”

“Of course not. Come on in. It would be an act of Christian charity.”

I hesitated, backing away from the door. He observed this and smiled, the sensuous mouth spreading in a most charming manner. The smile made him look entirely different.

“Don't be absurd,” he said. “Do you think I'll throw you on the sofa and force my attentions on you? It's much too early in the morning for that sort of thing, I assure you.”

“It's almost one o'clock,” I said stiffly.

“Ghastly hour. I rarely get up before three. You
can
brew up a pot of tea, can't you, or are you merely ornamental?”

“I make marvelous tea.”

“Then prove it.”

I still hesitated, and Daniel Lord reached out, gripped my arm with a surprisingly strong hand and pulled me into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. I held Scrappy in my arms, outraged by this man's presumption yet rather enchanted at the same time. Daniel Lord had a breezy, devil-may-care charm that was immediately disarming. One had the feeling that he was a mischievous little boy merely pretending to be grown up.

He let go of my arm, executed a mock bow and made an expansive gesture to present the vast room.

“My humble abode,” he said. “It's not much, is it?”

“It certainly isn't,” I replied, staring at the clutter.

“I take it the monster isn't housebroken?” he said. “No matter, as you can see, he couldn't do any harm. Put him down anywhere. A few more stains here and there will just add a little more character.”