Forever in My Heart Page 10

  Lisa replaced her cup in its saucer and folded her hands on the desktop. "I know very little, though you can be sure I made some inquiries of my own. My sources in this case aren't entirely reliable."

  "Tell me anyway."

  "The best I can piece it together is that she somehow wandered into the district on her own. Not even this end of the district. She was lost along Canal Street before she got this far. Apparently she was accosted by a group of sailors looking for some entertainment. They were probably too drunk to take note of her clothing or her manner and see that she didn't belong where they found her." Lisa heated her coffee with a little more from the pot. "Harlan Porter, a pimp of the worst sort, rescued her."

  "Rescued?" asked Connor.

  "A relative term, to be sure," she replied dryly. "It seems he led her along, promising to get her home, then ended up drugging her and trying to sell her to Horace Beale. Beale, by the way, is an old man with a taste for young flesh."

  The surface of Connor's remote calm rippled a little. His fingers whitened a fraction on the delicate china cup.

  Mrs. Hall had seen the infinitesimal change in her guest's features but she didn't comment. It satisfied her to imagine that he was remembering the girl in that moment. "My man Samuel, who managed to get these details from Harlan with very little in the way of physical persuasion, tells me that she escaped Harlan at that point. He chased her and caught up with her in my backyard. One of my young women sent him running and we took in the girl.

  "I'm no fool, Mr. Holiday. I knew that girl wasn't part of the life, and it certainly wasn't my intention to help her take it up. The poor thing was ill. She had bruises on her neck where Harlan or the sailors had choked her. Between that and her sickness and the drugs, she couldn't get a word past her throat that anyone could understand.

  "We set her up in a spare room, drew a hot bath for her, gave her some laudanum, and sent for the doctor."

  Connor jerked. Coffee sloshed over the rim of his cup and trickled down his fingers. Lisa was there immediately with a linen napkin, mopping his hand and fawning over him. He took the napkin from her and set his cup aside. "It's nothing," he said.

  "Did you burn yourself?"

  "It's nothing," he repeated curtly. He didn't know himself why it had happened, not with any certainty. It was something Lisa had said, something that caught his attention, his memory, in a particular way and then was gone before he could grasp its implication. "You were saying..." he prompted as she returned to her chair.

  "Actually I was finished. You know better than I what happened next."

  Connor had recovered his calm. He dropped the napkin on the serving tray. "I was sent to the wrong room."

  "Not intentionally," she said quickly.

  "Perhaps," he conceded after a moment's pause. "I'm not a fool either, Mrs. Hall. When I arrived in that room, I had no reason to believe your guest wasn't precisely what she seemed to be. She was compliant and she wasn't a chatterbox."

  "She was feeling the effects of the drugs and she was ill."

  Connor's dark eyes narrowed. "What are you saying? That I forced her?"

  "I wasn't in the room. Did you?"

  He stood and leaned forward at the desk, bracing himself stiffly against it, towering over Mrs. Hall. "You don't know anything about it."

  Lisa Antonia Hall was not cowed. She stared up at him calmly. "If you ever find the young woman, perhaps you'll ask her what she thinks. Perhaps she feels she was perfectly entitled to your money after what you took from her."

  Something flickered in Connor's eyes before they became reflective again. He straightened, turned on his heel, and left without a word in reply.

  * * *

  Skye rounded the corner in the upstairs hallway and came to a halt on the landing. Looking down the wide staircase to the foyer below, she saw her sister adjusting her yellow straw bonnet in the mirror. "Where are you going?" she called. "It's barely daybreak."

  Maggie almost stuck herself with her hatpin as she jumped. The wild strawberries decorating the brim bobbled.

  "I didn't mean to frighten you," Skye said, hurrying down the stairs.

  "It's all right." That was because it was guilt that had made Maggie jump, not fear. She adjusted the bonnet again. "I was wool-gathering."

  "Oh?" Skye asked hopefully.

  "None of your business."

  Skye pulled a face, disappointed. "Oh."

  Satisfied with the arrangement of her bonnet, Maggie stepped away from the mirror. "I'll be home in time for luncheon." She placed one hand on the doorknob.

  "Where are you going?"

  Maggie's hand tightened on the knob but she answered easily. "To the library."

  Skye nodded. Then she noticed her sister didn't have any books or papers or pens. And it was absurdly early for such a visit. Her brows knitted. "Maggie," she began earnestly, "if there's something that—"

  "Not you, too!" Maggie said. It was not hard to appear betrayed. It was exactly what she felt. "Please, Skye, don't do this. Mama and Jay Mac are so certain there's something wrong that they watch me all the time. I'm feeling smothered in my own home. I can't go anywhere without being interrogated."

  "You haven't gone anywhere," Skye pointed out. "Not in weeks, you haven't. Not since you told Jay Mac you weren't going to marry Connor Holiday. One would think you're afraid you'll run into him."

  "Don't be ridiculous. He's probably back at his ranch by now."

  "Well, if he is, it won't be for long. Jay Mac is getting ready to close the deal with Rushton. The Double H won't be Connor's after that."

  Maggie closed her eyes momentarily as she felt uncertain guilt wash over her again. Weeks ago she had accepted the fact that somehow she was at fault for Connor losing the land, yet she had no clear idea why that should be so. "It was never Connor's," she told her sister sharply. "It was his father's."

  Skye frowned. "You're different, Maggie. Something's not—"

  "I'm going to the library." She slipped outside and closed the door firmly behind her.

  There was the scent of early summer in the air. The day was warm, slightly humid, and the air was redolent with the fragrances from flower gardens in full bloom. Maggie's light shawl was more of a wrap than she needed, but she drew it around her shoulders protectively, chilled from within. It made no difference that she was out of the house. She was still smothered. It was her own company that she wished to escape, her own thoughts, the terrible sense of dread that seemed to weigh her down so she was alternately sluggish or numb.

  She didn't want to think about where she was going or what awaited her there, but she found she had almost no choice in the matter. She couldn't call up the numbness to serve her when she needed it most.

  Maggie Dennehy lowered her head and hunched her shoulders as she approached the large brownstone on the northeast corner of 52nd Street and Fifth Avenue.

  The residence of Madame Restell was a pretentious one, built long before the wealth of the city began moving uptown. It was a quiet scandal that the denizens of Fifth Avenue could now count the most notorious and expensive abortionist in the city as one of their own. She was excluded from public social circles, but she had intimate knowledge of the private ones. After more than thirty years of practice she was feared, and therefore protected.

  Maggie hurried up the front steps, glad it was still very early and the normally busy thoroughfare had only a little traffic. She rang the bell and was shown in almost immediately.

  Maggie waited nervously in a sumptuously appointed parlor furnished in royal purple and gold. Thirty long minutes ticked by before Madame Restell joined her.

  "You shouldn't have come here," she said haughtily. She was a slender woman who carried herself with a stately air that lent her height and consequence. The pale skin of her face was engraved with fine lines, especially around her mouth where they underscored an unfaltering and sour expression. The clear, sharp eyes were frankly assessing, wise, and shrewd. "This is my home. I have offic
es on Chambers and Greenwich Streets. I advertise them."

  Maggie had come to her feet upon Madame Restell's entrance. Her fingers fidgeted nervously in the folds of her gown. "I... I didn't know," she said uneasily. "I only knew that you lived here."

  "Then this is a social visit?" she asked coldly.

  "No."

  "No. Of course it's not. It couldn't be, could it? We've never met before." She waited expectantly, wanting a name to put to the delicately featured face in front of her.

  "Must you know my name?"

  "Naturellement. You know my name. Knowing yours is my best protection."

  It didn't even occur to Maggie to try to lie, she was so bad at it. "Mary Margaret Dennehy."

  Madame Restell didn't blink. With typical directness she said, "One of Jay Mac Worth's bastard daughters." When she saw Maggie's surprise at her instant recognition she added, "I find it amusing to know the skeletons in other people's closets."

  Maggie bristled and her wide green eyes fired brightly. "My sisters and I are hardly skeletons since Jay Mac has never tried to hide our existence."

  "Nor tried to get rid of it either, it seems," Madame said bluntly. "It's a certainty you weren't referred here by your mother."

  At the mention of her mother, Maggie blanched. Her legs felt unsteady beneath her.

  "Sit down before you drop." Madame Restell rang for tea. When it was brought, she served some to Maggie but took none for herself. "Drink it all," she ordered. "It will put color back in your cheeks. Have you lost weight recently?"

  "A few pounds, I think."

  "Judging by the fit of your gown I'd say it was closer to ten. And you have none to spare. Have you been trying to lose it?"

  Maggie shook her head. She saw Madame's shrewd eyes drop to her teacup and Maggie quickly took a sip.

  "That's better," Madame said approvingly. "Then you weren't trying to hide the fact that you're pregnant?"

  "Am I?"

  "Don't you know?"

  "That's why I came here." She took a large swallow of her tea, burning the inside of her mouth this time.

  "You came here to find out if you're pregnant?" Madame asked slowly, scarcely believing it.

  "Shouldn't I have?"

  "Most women go to a doctor first or wait until they know with absolute certainty."

  "But I can't go to my doctor. He's a family friend and I don't want anyone to know."

  "So you came here."

  "That's right." She set aside her cup and saucer. "Will you help me?"

  Madame Restell looked hard at her guest. John MacKenzie Worth's daughter. It was a lovely irony. The man had been trying to buy her property and move her off Fifth Avenue for the better part of a decade. He had fathered five bastard daughters and carried on an open affair with his mistress for years, and he was not only accepted by society, he was one of its leaders. She welcomed the opportunity to make him beholden to her. Mary Margaret Dennehy. It was too delicious to pass. "Come with me, child, and bring your tea."

  Maggie left by a side entrance less than an hour later. She was too dazed to bow her head or hunch her shoulders, too insensible to comprehend the risk she was taking by allowing herself to be seen. She could only think of the packet that Madame Restell had slipped into her hand at the end of the examination. Infallible French pills. Maggie didn't know if she was afraid enough to use them or more afraid not to.

  Beryl Holiday opened the front door because the knock came while she was passing. It bothered her that with five servants in the house none of them ever seemed available for the little duties she thought were so intrinsically their province. She vowed to speak to Rushton about it again. It was intentional, she thought, not mere coincidence. The servants didn't respect their new mistress.

  "Yes?" she asked. "Is there something I can do for you?"

  "You must be Mrs. Holiday."

  At least the woman hadn't mistaken her for a servant. "That's correct."

  "I'm Maggie Dennehy."

  Beryl stared at Maggie blankly. It took her a moment to recognize and place the name. When she did, she blinked widely, shocked that Connor had made an offer for her. Mary Margaret Dennehy was thin and curveless. Her cheekbones were too prominent, her eyes too large, her mouth too full. Beryl supposed her hair was a nice feature but the humidity had curled it haphazardly around the bonnet she wore.

  "Of course, Miss Dennehy. Won't you come in?" Beryl, feeling more in control of things by the second, opened the door wider.

  Maggie hesitated. "Is Mr. Holiday at home?" she asked. "Connor, I mean. I've come to see Connor."

  Beryl's inclination was to lie but she wasn't given the opportunity. Connor stepped out of his father's study and into the hallway. "I'm right here, Beryl," he said. "Please show Miss Dennehy in."

  There was no choice but to comply. She ushered Maggie in. "May I take your shawl?" she asked politely.

  In response, Maggie drew it around her like armor.

  Her grip relaxed only when she caught the amused, almost superior glance that Beryl tossed off in Connor's direction. Maggie raised her head a notch, straightened her spine, and walked boldly toward Connor. He stepped aside to let her precede him into the study and blocked Beryl from following.

  "Don't even think it, Beryl," he murmured. "You heard Miss Dennehy. She came to see me," He started to shut the door and paused to caution his former fiancée. "And no eavesdropping."

  Beryl stamped her foot. "You're hateful, Connor Holiday."

  "I know." He shut the door in her face.

  Maggie was hovering near the chair where he had been sitting and reading. Her eyes had strayed to the book that curved open over the arm of the chair. She was tilting her head, trying to read the gold leaf lettering on the spine.

  "Don't twist your neck," he said. "It's Jules Verne's Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea. "

  Maggie didn't attempt to hide her surprise. "I don't know what to make of that," she said honestly. "Are you enjoying it?"

  "Very much so." He watched her consider that, finding it odd that she could amuse him with her seriousness.

  "I wouldn't have expected it."

  "You don't know me very well."

  It was like a wash of cold water slipping over the surface of her skin. She felt her skin go alternately hot and cold, but she managed to say steadily, "I wasn't sure that you would be here."

  "You came anyway."

  "I took a chance. I thought perhaps you'd have returned to Colorado by now."

  "I'm leaving in a few days."

  "I see." She found it easier to look anywhere but at Connor. "My sister told me this morning that my father and yours are getting ready to close the deal on the land."

  "That's right." He watched her expressive eyes fix on a point beyond his shoulder. She was worrying her lower lip. "Is that why you've come?"

  She looked at him. "What?" Her eyes darted away again. "No, that's not it."

  "So you don't have my twelve thousand dollars." She looked so pained, he was almost sorry he said it.

  Maggie shook her head. "No, I don't... I can't..." Her soft voice trailed away. A film of tears formed in her eyes and she blinked quickly to force them back.

  "Maggie?"

  She turned away. "Those other things you said to me that night in my home," she began before she lost her courage, "were they true?"

  Connor surprised himself by hesitating. Finally he said, "Yes. They were all true."

  Even though she had been expecting nothing less, her shoulders sagged slightly. She drew in a deep breath and turned to face him again. She raised her chin and this time she found the courage to look directly in his cool and remote eyes. "A few hours ago I found out I was carrying a child. I wondered if you might be the father."

  Chapter 5

  Connor Holiday had had his gut twisted by double-fisted punches that were less numbing than the blow Maggie had just dealt him. He knew he had heard her correctly and he didn't insult her by asking her to repeat it. "Why don'
t you sit down, Maggie?" That way he could do the same. He felt he had to.

  She looked around and chose the short sofa opposite Connor's chair. She perched on the edge like a fledgling bird, hands folded neatly in her lap, her face raised expectantly.

  Connor went to the door, opening and closing it softly to make certain Beryl wasn't on the other side. He returned to his chair, put his book aside, and sat. "Don't you know who the father is?" he asked quietly.

  Maggie's face flushed with color, but she managed to keep looking at Connor. "There's been no one... that is, no one I know of. I only thought of you because of those things you said."

  He leaned forward in his chair and rested his forearms on his knees. His hands pressed together, forming a steeple with his fingers. "Isn't it time you stop pretending?"

  "Pretending? Oh, I see. You think I'm making it up." She shook her head. "Perhaps I don't want to remember, Mr. Holiday, but it's still true that I can't remember."

  Connor thought that over, then responded to the only thing that made sense to him. "It's Connor, Maggie. You may as well call me that. Then there's no confusing me with my father."

  A terribly gruesome thought occurred to Maggie. Her expressive eyes relayed her panic. "Did I... you know... with your father?"

  Something flickered in Connor's eyes. His voice was colder than he intended. "No. That's not something you have to answer for."

  Relieved, still a little confused, Maggie released the death grip she had on the folds of her gown. "But I did with you," she said.

  "Yes."

  She shook her head wonderingly. "It's hard for me to believe," she said, not much above a whisper. "It's as if it happened to someone I don't even know." She stilled and stared steadily at Connor, trying to imagine herself touching him. It was difficult to get past the granite remoteness of his face, the coldness that seemed powerful enough to burn her with its intensity. Had her fingers threaded in his inky-black hair? Sifted through the thickness at the nape of his neck? Had she touched the hollows just beneath his cheekbones or felt the warmth of his bronzed skin?