The Rose of Winslow Street (14 page)

He turned his gaze back to her. It was true she was the closest thing he had to a friend in America, and he needed her help like a dying man in the desert needed a drink of water. It was a heady sensation, but her father's warnings rang in her ears. The logical piece of her brain told her Michael Dobrescu could be manipulating her, pandering to her insecurities in order to extract the information he needed from her. While she became drunk on the sensation of feeling needed and admired, she endangered her relationship with her father merely by associating with the Dobrescus.

But never before had she been needed like this. Michael Dobrescu, with all his awesome strength and ferocious will to succeed, was looking at her with yearning in his eyes. The pride she felt when he first recognized the quality of her paintings paled in comparison to this exhilarating sensation of being needed. Respected. She had every reason in the world to deny him, but there was no question in her mind what she would do.

“What time shall I meet you?”

Regina was pleased that Libby had agreed to go on an outing with Michael Dobrescu. They lingered in the garden for an evening cup of tea and Regina provided advice for extracting the maximum amount of information from Michael. “Away from the house and those children, his guard will be down,” Regina said. “Plus, you are doing him a tremendous favor, so he may be more inclined to chat if he thinks it is the only way you will help him. What a perfect opportunity for you to slide in and do a little digging.”

Libby watched as Regina dangled a long, thin stream of honey into her cup of tea. When the last of the honey stretched and broke away, Regina dipped her spoon and began stirring. It seemed so calculating, but Libby knew her sister-in-law was correct. It was not as though she was going to trick the man. All she wanted was to know the truth about his family, and she could not trust any of the Dobrescus to tell it to her. That meant she needed to pounce on whatever tidbits he dropped.

“It still feels underhanded,” she murmured, taking a sip of her own tea.

Regina shrugged her shoulders. “Nonsense. Herman Banks at the county courthouse told his wife that Mr. Dobrescu paid a visit just yesterday. He asked to see how much your father paid for the house back in 1856. Then he asked to see the tax assessments over the last twenty years. It sounds to me as if the man is preparing to stage an aggressive assault in court next week to undermine your father's ownership of the house. You would be foolish not to turn over every stone as well.”

“I don't understand,” Libby confessed. “What does that have to do with the legitimacy of the old Cossack's will?”

Regina set her teacup down. “Your father paid the city a grand total of two hundred dollars for that house. Can you imagine? Two hundred dollars! The house had been vacant for years and it was a fire hazard and a public nuisance. The city wanted it off their hands and your father got the house for a song.”

“I had no idea. . . .” It certainly made her father's claim more tenuous. A fresh wave of anxiety swamped her. How could it be possible for a family to emerge from nowhere to dispossess them of their house? And yet it seemed to be happening. “I know my father poured a fortune into renovating the house,” Libby said. “It was a ruin when he bought it and he could barely afford all the renovations. That sort of investment must be worth something, don't you think?”

Regina shrugged. “Here is the real problem your father has,” she said as she leaned forward. “If the old Cossack's family had not been properly served notice about the pending sale, they have a legitimate cause to dispute ownership.”

“But they
were!
” Libby protested. “Michael has a copy of the will that he carries with him everywhere he goes.”

Regina gave a sad shake of her head. “The will is different from a notice of sale. The law required the city to give proper notice to the Dobrescu heirs of the pending sale of the house. They never did. After Mr. Dobrescu left, Herman Banks practically turned that courthouse upside-down looking for any evidence of notification, but it is not there.”

Regina took a sip of her tea. “So you see, my dear,” she said in that purring southern voice, “I certainly hope you can make the most of your scavenging through the wilderness with Mr. Dobrescu. You need to find something to prove that the man is an imposter, because otherwise, he is almost certainly going to win the lawsuit.”

I
t was a misty morning, with vapor still hanging in the air as they passed the cranberry bogs that dotted the countryside like patchwork quilts to the west of the village. Libby remembered Regina's advice from the evening before.
Speak of inconsequential things,
she had said.
Don't broach anything of substance until his guard is down.

Libby borrowed Jasper's horse and wagon to travel toward the western ridge, where she suspected the soil would support the type of red junipers Michael was looking for. She was almost certain she had seen a cluster of the trees along the top of the ridge, where the wagon could not take them. They parked the wagon, tied the horse to a fence bordering the O'Malleys' cranberry field, then climbed the steep slope on foot. Michael led the way, with Libby struggling to keep up as he pushed higher up the embankment, stepping over fallen logs and through the heavy undergrowth of ferns.

As much as she tried to concentrate on gleaning insight into Michael's history, she kept getting distracted.
Quit looking at the man's shoulders
, she thought for the third time since leaving the wagon. It did not matter how appealing the width of them or how they set off his finely tapered waist. Neither would she keep dwelling on the way the tiny crinkles fanned out from his eyes when he smiled at her. If she accomplished nothing else today, Libby was determined to rid herself of this foolish notion that Michael Dobrescu might be interested in her as a woman. Even if he was, the very notion ought to appall her. Either this man had a legitimate claim to her house and was on the verge of disinheriting her, or he was a liar, a fraud, and an imposter intent on swindling her family. She must cease these bizarre thoughts about the man. Snuff them out like a candle flame. The only interest she had was predatory. As Regina suggested, Libby must seek out and glean as much information about his past as possible.

But as they tromped through the green-tinted world beneath the sycamore and hickory trees, her resolve was constantly tested. There was no path and the undergrowth was thick as they pushed their way to the top of the ridge. Always, Michael was careful to hold a stray branch so it would not strike her as she followed him up the embankment. She was insane to keep dwelling on how good it felt to walk within the sphere of his protection.

“Soon you will see a patch of sunlight ahead,” she said. “The ground will get very rocky and I think this is where we will find the juniper trees.” She had brought her canvas and supplies here to paint in the sunlit grassland at the top of the ridge many times. The bounty of the American wilderness stretched for miles in every direction, and she felt at peace up there.

Libby pulled her skirts to the side as she searched for footing along this steep section of the hillside. An occasional maple root provided a bit of traction in the damp soil as she pushed farther up. “I see it,” Michael said.

Patches of sunlight broke through the screen of leaves and Libby smiled in relief as they trudged into the grassy clearing at the top of the ridge. She gestured to the far side of the meadow to the cluster of juniper trees.

“Are those the type of trees you have been looking for?”

She did not even need to point, for Michael had already spotted them and his eyes narrowed as he scrutinized them. “I'm not sure,” he murmured as he set off across the field with his long-legged stride, devouring yards of land with each step. Libby had to hoist her skirts and scurry to keep up with him, ambling along in his wake. By the time she crossed the field and arrived at the stand of juniper trees, Michael was examining the coarse, densely packed cluster of the leaves, so narrow they looked like pine needles. He twisted a cluster of the leaves, pinching and rolling them between his fingers, then bringing them to his nose to sniff. Libby held her breath as she scanned his face, looking for the slightest sign that she had succeeded in finding the tree he so desperately needed. For years she had been filling her brain with arcane, useless knowledge about plant life, and if that knowledge could
finally
be put to some useful purpose . . .

“No, this is not a red juniper tree,” he said. “This is a white juniper, a cousin to the red juniper, but its resin carries a faint hint of fragrance. It will not work for my purposes. I need an odorless resin.”

Her lungs deflated and she dropped her gaze. Libby hoped her disappointment did not show on her face, but she kept her voice steady as she asked Michael to describe precisely how the red juniper differed from the white juniper. Perhaps she could still succeed in locating the tree on the outcropping.

“The seedpods of the red juniper will develop a blue tint late in the season, but these will always stay brown.”

Libby bit her lip. The moment he said “blue tint,” she knew precisely what he was describing, so she must have seen the tree. Only a brainless fool would confuse a red juniper with a white juniper. She started gnawing on the side of her thumbnail as she racked her brain for where she had seen those blue-tinted seedpods.

The weight of his hand on her shoulder startled her, as did the look of amused concern on his face as he smiled down on her. “Do not be so discouraged,” he said. “We will find the right tree eventually, and I am grateful you have been so kind to bring me this far.”

She had to look away, for she was not the least bit kind. She felt devious for agreeing to Regina's plan to ferret out information from him, and stupid for not knowing the difference between a red juniper and a white juniper. She could not give up and head home yet. “I often come up to this glade, but I've never explored the other side of the ridge. Perhaps it would be worth pushing a little farther?”

Michael nodded. “I would like that.”

As they ambled through the tangle of knee-high grasses, Libby sneaked a peek at him from the corner of her eye. “How is it you learned so much about plants?” she asked, hoping she did not sound like she was prying into his life. Surely discussing plant life was an innocent question on a day such as today.

“My family has worked the land for generations,” he said in his open, unabashed manner. “These things were bred into me before I could even talk. As I grew older, I worked the land and learned everything I could from the experts who had accumulated a lifetime of wisdom from working the fields. I went to college for a few classes, but I learned very little there.”

Her jaw dropped. “
You
went to college?” she gasped.

“You say this as though I had flown to the moon.” Again, he said it in that amused, congenial manner, even though he had every right to be offended by her unspeakably rude tone.

A wave of heat flushed her cheeks. “I'm surprised you could have fit into one of the desks. That is all.” She was pleased she was able to say it with a straight face, especially since he roared with laughter. “Where did you go to college?”

She held her breath, wondering if he would answer her. “I went to the University of Paris,” he said casually. “I was supposed to study chemistry and botany, but there were far too many temptations in Paris for me to stay cooped up in a classroom.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I suppose those Parisian temptations are rather world famous.”

His grin was unabashed. “Indeed they are! There is a wonderful street called the
Rue de Grenelle
that is home to the world's greatest perfumers. The street is filled with great artisan shops, and at night there are so many lights twinkling from the cafés it is as if the street glows. But the best are the perfume shops. People come from all over the world to blend and sell their perfume in Paris. Of course, perfumers are a paranoid people, always afraid you will steal their secrets.” He looked down at her and winked. “Which is why I still feel a bit guilty for eavesdropping on one of them as he spoke to his apprentice and learned that the resin of the red juniper is the perfect fixative for perfume.”

Her jaw dropped. “Eavesdropping? I would have thought you were too big to hide around a corner and eavesdrop!”

“I was standing right beside them. They simply did not know I understood Turkish.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Do you speak French as well?” she asked.

“Mais bien sûr,”
he said easily.

The “simple peasant” from Romania was anything but simple. English, Turkish, and now French? Her heart sank. Her father's best shot at regaining their house was to prove Michael Dobrescu an imposter, with no blood relationship to the old Cossack or the Duke of Vlaska. Perhaps if he was a servant within the duke's household he would have picked up some foreign languages. But would a duke send a servant all the way to France for an education?

He would if the servant possessed a nose as brilliant as Michael's. If the duke grew roses for the perfume industry, he may have wished to begin blending it on his own estate. What better way to do so than to send one of his servants to France, where he could learn the intricacies of the industry? She needed to keep asking questions, but carefully.
Keep your probing general
, Regina had advised her.

“How did you learn Turkish?” she asked. “It seems an odd language to learn.”

“Not if you live in a country ruled by the Ottoman Empire,” he said with a good-natured grin. He proceeded to tell her more about the history of his country, but they quickly moved on to comparing the horticulture between Romania and New England. His accent was musical and she was entranced by the fascinating insights he so freely shared with her.

After coming back down the hillside, they drove Jasper's cart to a copse of trees that clung to a rocky stream where she found some wild irises for him, which pleased him immensely. They kept up a constant search for the elusive red juniper, but their failure to locate the tree did not seem to discourage Michael. He just kept asking her questions about the climate and plants and growing conditions in America.

The heat built rapidly, causing thunderheads to form in the late afternoon. “I don't like the look of those clouds,” Michael said with a glance at the dense clouds. The two of them were more than ten miles from town, and Libby supposed it only made sense to cut the day short and return home.

She hated to see this magical day end. That morning she'd believed Michael was probably a servant in the duke's household, but now she was more confused than ever. Her father was due back from Washington tomorrow, but she feared he was only going to learn who Michael was
not—
not the son and heir of the Duke of Vlaska. Finding out who Michael
was
would be much more difficult, and Libby had been able to glean very little.

What about Michael's wife? He had never spoken about her and Libby was becoming increasingly curious. If she could learn something about his wife, it would shed insight into his life in Romania. She bit her lip, shamed that she would probe into such a delicate subject to further her own ends, but she needed to know who this man was.

“What was your wife like?” she asked impulsively.

“Marie?” Michael asked.

She shifted on the hard seat of the wagon and tamped down her guilty conscience. “That was her name? Marie?” At his nod, she voiced the question again. “What was she like?”

He mulled over the question before answering. “She was a good wife. A good mother.” The clomping of the horse's hooves against the dusty road was the only sound to fill the awkward silence. Michael glanced over at her. “Is that what you wanted to know?”

The logical part of her brain wanted to know if Marie was an aristocrat or a woman as earthy and hardworking as Michael. The irrational part wanted to know what Marie looked like! Was she prettier than Libby? Had she had an easy laugh or was she the type of woman who was withdrawn and serious? Did she share Michael's love of plants? “When did she die?” she finally asked.

“Four years ago. It was one of the few times in those years when a truce allowed me to be home for the planting season. I was allowed to be a normal family man, and during the days I taught my boys the skills I had learned from my own father. In the evenings we ate together as a family on the terrace overlooking the rose fields. Marie always loved the roses. One morning she was helping me work bone meal into the soil when she stepped on the edge of a hoe and it cut through the leather on her shoe. The wound became very bad.” Michael paused and his face darkened. “I do not know the English word for the disease, but it made her whole body become stiff with seizures. She died not long afterward.”

It sounded like tetanus to her. Libby had heard of the ailment that came from putrefied cuts and caused the body to undergo spasms so powerful it became impossible to breathe. It was terrifying how a woman healthy enough to be helping her husband in the fields could take a wrong step and perish a few days later.

“I'm sorry, Michael,” she said. “Those words sound so inadequate and I wish there was something better I could say.”