Red Roses Mean Love (24 page)

He should have been scandalized. A woman selling stories to a gentlemen's magazine went completely beyond the pale. But somehow admiration overpowered any feelings of shock. When faced with dire circumstances, she'd found a way to provide for her family. But was Hayley actually H. Tripp, or simply an advisor to someone else?

The powerful need to know the answer to that question surprised him. He needed to see her. Talk to her. Would he be able to read her secret in her eyes? There was only one way to find out. Her occupation was none of his business, but he could not squelch his need to know the truth.

Determined to find Hayley, he headed for the terrace. In the foyer he encountered a dozing Grimsley sitting on a straight-backed chair. Two weeks ago, the sight of a servant sleeping in the foyer would have angered and appalled him. Here and now, however, the sight seemed somehow
…
appropriate. Without disturbing Grimsley, Stephen continued outside, shaking his head. Nearsighted footmen sleeping in the foyer, salty-tongued sailors hollering in the corridors, cooks tossing pots and pans, noisy children with boundless energy—Albright Cottage and its occupants were the complete opposite of everything he was used to. But where he'd at first been stunned by the chaos, he now knew that chaos was simply another word for heaven. And it was going to be damned hard to leave it.

Outside, he saw two figures in the distance walking toward the house. He knew at once they were Hayley and Callie. He settled himself on a wrought-iron chair to wait, and deeply breathed the earth-scented air. Leaning his head back, he enjoyed the warm sun on his face. Two days from now he'd be back
in
London
, resuming his life, trying to catch a murderer.
I need to tell Hayley I'm leaving the day after the party. I cannot put it off much as I want to. I'll tell her this afternoon.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of feminine voices. Sitting up straight, Stephen shaded his eyes against the bright sun. Hayley and Callie were dashing across the grass, arms outstretched. Unable to resist the lure of their laughter, he stood and walked to the patio railing for a better
view.

"You can't catch me!" Callie yelled, running as fast as her little legs would allow.

"Oh, yes I can!" Hayley
ran after her, nearly catching the child. "You won't escape this time!"

Callie squealed with delight and darted toward the patio. Hayley followed in hot pursuit. He watched their antics and a feeling, a longing, he couldn't describe tugged at him, seeping through his veins. What would it have been like to have a childhood filled with games and laughter? Hugs and smiles? He only needed to look at Callie's face, shining with happiness, to know it was wonderful. Hayley was an excellent mother to her sibling brood, and if his suspicions regarding her occupation proved correct, she loved them with an unselfish depth he wouldn't have believed existed.

His gaze sought her out, following her as she chased her energetic sister, pretending to catch her. Her hair had come undone, and shiny chestnut curls flew behind her in wild disarray as she ran. His throat tightened. She was so damn beautiful. A fascinating combination of wild innocence.

But it was no longer just her lovely face that captivated him. It was her inner beauty. Her loving touches and easy smiles. Her giving heart, her patient strength. If only things were different—

He ruthlessly cut off the thought. Things were not different, and he needed to remember that.

Their laughter grew louder. Callie sprinted toward the house, but just before they reached the terrace steps, Hayley caught her from behind and swung her up in her arms.

"Caught you!" Hayley announced. "I caught the poppet!" She covered Callie's face with exuberant kisses and the child's happy giggles filled the air.

Stephen cleared his throat, both to make them aware of his presence and to dislodge the lump of emotion clogged there. Two identical pairs of aqua eyes turned toward him.

His gaze locked with Hayley's, and his pulse galloped away.
She was flushed from exertion, her skin blooming bright with color. His attention wandered down to her mouth—that full, alluring mouth that beckoned him like a siren's call,
tempting him to forget where they were and kiss her until he'd had his fill. He knew she'd read his thoughts when her smile faltered and her lips trembled. He could almost hear her whispering,
Yes, I want you to kiss me.
He could almost feel the touch of her mouth, the taste of her tongue.

"Mr. Barrettson!" Callie scrambled from Hayley's arms and ran to him. "We're playing 'catch the poppet'! I'm the poppet."

Her excited voice broke through his sensual reverie. He glanced down at her beaming face and couldn't help but return her smile. "Indeed you are. And I see you were caught."

"That's the best part," she confided in a conspiratorial whisper.

His gaze swung back to Hayley. "Yes, I imagine it is."

"Would you like to play with us?"

Before Stephen could answer, Hayley said, "Callie, all that running about might injure Mr. Barrettson's shoulder or ribs. He can join us in a game in a week or two, when he's fully healed."

"Perhaps," Stephen murmured, a feeling of heavy gloom settling over him.

After tomorrow he'd probably never see her again.

Tell her. Tell her now.
But he looked into her smiling, happy face and could not make his mouth form the words.

Later. I'll tell her later.

* * *

"May I speak to you privately, Hayley?"

Hayley paused on her way into the house. Stephen leaned against the terrace railing, ankles crossed, arms folded across his chest. The warm breeze ruffled his hair, and the sun glinted in the ebony strands. Dear God, her throat ached just looking at him. After scooting Callie inside with the promise of reading her a story after dinner, Hayley turned to him, ready to smile, but his somber gaze stilled her. She
looked down and noticed he held a
Gentleman's Weekly
in his hand. A sense of foreboding prickled her skin.

"Is something wrong, Stephen?"

He regarded her with an unreadable expression. "I don't
know how to ask this other than simply to ask. What is your connection to H. Tripp?"

His words shifted the ground beneath her feet and she locked her knees to steady herself. She felt the blood drain from her face, but she tried her best to hide her stunned distress. "I beg your pardon?"

"H. Tripp. The author. How are you associated with him?"

Hayley's mind spun, frantically searching for the proper words to say. How much did he know? And how on earth had he found out? Swallowing her dismay, praying her voice remained steady, she asked, "Why would you think I have any connection to him?"

Instead of answering, he opened the magazine and read,

…
when each of my five were born, the missus and I looked at them and recalled the moment we'd made them
…
named them all based on where we'd loved. Good thing it was never by a stream or the poor thing would have been called "
Atwater
!"

He closed the magazine. "I'm sure you understand my question now."

Weakness wobbled her legs and she sank into a wrought-iron chair. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She'd guarded her secret for so long, she didn't know how to respond. And if Stephen had figured it out, how long before other people did? If she lost her income
…
she clenched her hands together until her knuckles whitened. That simply could not happen. She wouldn't let it. But under the circumstances, there was no point in attempting to lie to Stephen.

Drawing a resolute breath, she squarely met his gaze.
"I
am H. Tripp."

She'd expected her admission to upset him, or disgust him, but he merely nodded.

"Does anyone else know?"

"No. The publisher demands absolute secrecy—"

"With good reason," he broke in.

"Yes." She searched his eyes for some clue of his feelings, but his expression remained unreadable. "When Papa died, we desperately needed money. I refused to leave the children to take a governess or companion post. The income I receive from
Gentleman's Weekly
allows me to provide for them here." She rubbed her moist palms on her skirt. "I'm sure you're quite scandalized—"

"I'm not."

She waited for him to say more, but he remained silent. He might not be scandalized, but it seemed apparent he didn't approve. And the possibility of her secret becoming common knowledge filled her with dread. "I hope you will please consider not telling anyone about this. My livelihood depends on retaining my anonymity."

"I have no intention of doing anything that could harm your employment, Hayley. I shall not reveal your secret. You have my word."

Relief flooded her and she released a pent-up breath she hadn't even realized she held. "Thank you. I—"

"You're welcome. Please excuse me."

Before she could say another word, he opened the French windows and entered the house. Hayley stared after him and bit her bottom lip to stop its trembling.

Though he'd said nothing further, his abrupt, cold departure said it all.

Chapter 18

«
^
»

S
tephen sat through dinner that evening stealing glances at Hayley, who blushed every time their eyes met. He tried to keep his mind on the chatter around him, but it proved impossible. His thoughts kept alternating between the amazing discovery that Hayley was H. Tripp, and the conversation he knew he had to have with her about his upcoming departure from Halstead.

Nathan joined the family, and as he was the center of attention after his fall, Stephen wasn't required to say very much. Which was just as well.

Hayley sat next to him, garbed in a plain gown. Although she talked to everyone, Stephen thought she seemed somewhat subdued. She tried several times to draw him into the conversation, but his comments were desultory at best.

Tomorrow. I'll tell her tomorrow. If I'm alone with her tonight, God only knows what will happen.
That decided, Stephen
excused himself immediately after the meal, claiming a
headache. He headed toward the stairs, but had only made it
halfway up the long flight of steps when Hayley caught up to
him.

"Are you all right, Stephen?" she asked, touching his sleeve.

Stephen looked down at her hand, then into her eyes. She looked worried. "I'm
simply tired and I have a headache,"
he lied.
I'm not ready to tell you I'm leaving. And I have to get away from you or else we'll end up on the study sofa again and I'll finish what I started last night. Believe me, it's for your own good. You're not safe with me.

"May I get you a draught or tisane?"

Stephen shook his head. "No, thank you. I simply need some rest." He turned to go.

"Stephen?"

Stephen paused and looked down at her and almost lost his resolve. The look of concern on her beautiful face nearly changed his noble intentions. "Yes?"

"About our conversation this afternoon…"
Her voice trailed off and she dropped her gaze to the floor. "I hope you don't think badly of me."

If only I did, this would be so much easier.
Tilting her chin up with two fingers, he smiled at her. "I could never think badly of you, Hayley. As far as I am concerned, that conversation is forgotten."

Her relief was evident. "I'm glad. Sleep well."

"Thank you." He continued up to his bedchamber and closed the door behind him.

Sleep well? Not bloody likely.

* * *

Not bloody likely
had proven prophetic. At two in the morning sleep was still nowhere in Stephen's immediate future.

He restlessly paced the length of his bedchamber, tossing back Tripp Albright's excellent brandy at an alarming rate. He felt tense and totally out of sorts.

And sexually frustrated as hell.

He longed to leave the confines of his bedchamber but hesitated to do so, fearing he'd run into Hayley in the study, the drawing room, or the garden. Stephen knew without a doubt that if he happened upon her, his battle with his conscience would be completely lost. He wanted her too damn much. Muttering a savage oath, he stoked up the fire and poured himself another brandy.

Just as he lifted the snifter to his lips, he heard a quiet knock on his door. Thinking he was mistaken, Stephen stood, his drink arrested midway to his lips, and listened.

The knock sounded again.

Damn it,
if
she'd
come to
him,
how would he ever find the
strength to send her away? His heart thumping, he went to the door and pulled it open.

And saw no one.

Then he heard a sniffle. He looked down.

Callie stood in the hallway, clutching her doll to her chest, tears streaming down her small face. A combination
of relief, disappointment, and alarm washed over him.

Crouching down, he brushed a curl away from the child's
brow and asked, "What's wrong, Callie? Aren't you sup
posed to be in bed?"

She raised tear-filled eyes to him. "It's Miss Josephine," she whispered in a quavering, watery voice. "She's had a terrible accident."

"Indeed? What sort of accident?"

Callie handed over the doll with a teary sniff. "Look."

Stephen gently cradled the doll in his hands. Miss Josephine had indeed met with an accident. A very serious accident. Her dress was torn and both her arms were pulled off.
Her face, never really clean, was utterly filthy. And she stunk
to high heaven.

"What happened to her?" Stephen asked.

"Stinky must have gotten hold of her," Callie said, her chin trembling. "I woke up and couldn't find her. Then I remembered I'd left her on the patio. I went to get her, and this is how she was. I know Stinky didn't mean to hurt her, but I don't think Miss Josephine will ever be the same."

Callie sobbed as if her heart would break. Stephen stared
at her, holding her doll, feeling utterly helpless. He awk
wardly patted her back.

"Well, why don't you lay her down and perhaps in the morning Hayley or Pamela or your aunt can fix her up," he
suggested, at a complete loss as to how to handle the situation.

Callie shook her head. "I can't let Miss Josephine go to bed like this. She's miserable. And how could she sleep, with her arms torn off?" A sob broke from her chest. "She's in terrible pain. We must help her."

We?
Stephen panicked at the very idea. "Why don't you see if one of your sisters is awake
…"
Stephen's words
drifted off as Callie raised tear-filled aqua eyes to his.

"Hayley doesn't like it when I wake her up. Pamela either."

"Nonsense. I cannot imagine either one being angry."

"I know they'll tell me to wait until morning, and I just can't." She raised hopeful eyes to his. "Will you help us?"

Stephen stared at the child.
"Me?"
What he knew about dolls could be carved on the head of a pin with room to spare. He wondered if he looked as horrified as he felt.

Tears streamed down Callie's face and another heartbreaking sob racked her small frame. "Please, Mr. Barrettson? Please?"

Stephen swallowed and suppressed a desperate desire to flee. The sight of Callie crying, her eyes huge with tears, completely undid him. He knew defeat when it stood in front of him.

"Please, don't cry, Callie." He yanked his hand through his hair. "I suppose I could help you set Miss Josephine back to rights—"

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Barrettson!" Callie launched herself into his arms and hugged him fiercely, nearly knocking him over. His arms automatically went around the child. She was so small. And trusting. And sweet. He inhaled, and a smile touched his lips. She smelled like what he imagined children were supposed to smell like—warm sunshine and fresh cream.

She pulled back and raised teary eyes to his. "Do you think we can fix her?" she asked, her voice filled with hope.

"Absolutely." He had no idea how to accomplish such a task, but he'd do whatever necessary to make her smile again. "Let's see. Why don't we take her into your chamber
and clean her up a bit? I'm sure she'd feel better if we
washed the dirt off her."

"All right." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Stephen reached into his pocket and extracted a white hanky. Callie took the piece of linen and gave her nose a gusty blow.

"Feel better?" he asked with a smile.

She nodded. "Yes."

"Excellent."

Callie slipped her tiny hand into his and led him down the hall to her bedchamber. Once there, she removed the doll's torn dress and handed it to Stephen, who gingerly dipped it in a pitcher of water. He used a bit of soap on the cloth, rubbed it vigorously, wrung it out and placed it near the fire to dry.

Then Callie held Miss Josephine in her small hands while Stephen gently washed the filth from the doll's porcelain face. When they finished, Stephen carefully dried her off with a towel.

"What now?" Callie asked, cradling the towel-wrapped doll in her arms. "Miss Josephine's clothes are still wet, and her arms are still ripped off."

"Does she have any other clothes?" Stephen asked, totally at sea.

"No. That is her one and only dress."

"Hmmm
…"
Stephen stroked his chin with one hand, puzzling over how to solve the problem of Miss Josephine's lacking wardrobe.

"Perhaps we can sew her arms back on," Callie suggested.

Stephen stared at her blankly. "Sew?"

"Yes. I think that would be best."

"Do you have the proper, er, utensils for sewing?" he asked, praying for a negative answer.

"Yes." She retrieved the items from a small basket near her bed and handed them to Stephen.

He looked at the needle and thread resting in his palm. He couldn't have been more astounded if she'd just placed a tarantula in his hand. While he could easily see that Miss Josephine's arms needed to be sewn back on her body, he hadn't the faintest clue about how to accomplish the task.

"Do you know how to thread the needle?" he asked.

"Of course." Callie brought her supplies near the fire, and with a great deal of concentration she threaded the needle and made a knot at the end of the thread. "Here you are," she said, handing the item to Stephen.

Stephen pinched the needle between his fingers and stared at it as if it were a snake. Dear God, what had he gotten himself into now?

But then again, how difficult could this be? He was an intelligent man. Surely he could manage to take a stitch or two. He glanced quickly around the room, as if to make sure none of Society's esteemed members were lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce at him and denounce him for this unseemly behavior. The Marquess of Glenfield sewing on a doll's arms. Stephen knew that even if he were foolish enough to tell anyone of this episode, they would not believe him anyway.

"All right then." Folding his legs under him, he sat on the floor near the fire. Callie sat next to him, and together they managed to sew Miss Josephine's arms back onto her body. She held the arm while Stephen took a series of uneven, awkward stitches, forcing his lips to remain clamped shut when he stuck his finger over and over with the sharp needle.

"You'd best not stick yourself too many times, Mr. Barrettson, or you'll find yourself with a tattoo."

"I beg your pardon?"

"That's how tattoos are made, you know. With needles. I heard Winston tell Grimsley all about it. First you swill something called Blue Ruin till you feel lushy, then you get stuck with needles, then you go with your mates to the bawdy house." She inclined her head questioningly. "What's a bawdy house?"

Stephen dropped the doll and nearly choked. "It's a place where, er, ladies and gentlemen go to, ah, play games."

"How grand! I love to play games. Do you suppose there's a bawdy house in Halstead I could go to?"

He scrubbed his hands down his face and smothered an oath. "Only adults are allowed, Callie." The thought of such vulgarities ever touching this innocent child turned his stomach.

Disappointment filled her eyes. "Perhaps when I'm older?"

Settling his hands on her narrow shoulders, he looked in her eyes and desperately searched his mind for appropriate words. "Nice, clean young ladies do not go to bawdy houses. Ever."

Her eyes widened to saucers. "Oh my. You mean it's a place for ladies who don't take
baths?"

"Baths? Er, yes."

She wrinkled her pert little nose. "Then I wouldn't care to go. I love playing in the bath. Hayley lets me stay in till my skin is wrinkly." Her gaze drifted down to the doll lying on the rug between them. "Can we finish fixing Miss Josephine?"

Stephen grasped the opportunity and snatched up the doll with the zeal of a starving dog grabbing a bone. He sewed as if his life depended on it, praying Callie wouldn't think of any more questions to ask him.