His Heart's Revenge (The Marshall Brothers Series, Book 2) Page 13

  Without hesitation Katy said, "They're from Victor." Victor would send daisies, she thought, smiling to herself. They were spring-fresh, clean and bright. Better, they had none of the cloying perfume fragrance of the roses. "He knows I like daisies."

  "Maybe he does," said Jane. "But so does someone named Logan. That's who sent these daisies. That wouldn't be Mr. Logan Marshall, would it?"

  "What?"

  Before Jane could respond, there was another knock at the door. "No peace tonight," the dresser said, cradling the bouquet.

  Katy went back to dressing and paid little attention to Jane's conversation at the door. She did not know Jane had lost the battle for her privacy until she heard an unfamiliar woman's voice apologize for the intrusion. Standing on tiptoe, Katy looked over the top of the dressing screen. Her mouth went dry when she saw Jenny Marshall standing in the open threshold. "It's all right, Jane. You can leave for the night. I would like to talk to Mrs. Marshall alone."

  Jane's eyes darted between the two women. The reassuring glance she got from Katy decided her. She slipped past Jenny Marshall and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

  "Please," said Katy, "make yourself comfortable. There is a pot of tea on the stand over there. It is probably still warm. I will be done in a moment."

  Jenny was surprised, and her eyes widened in reaction. After dealing with the dragon guarding Katy's privacy, Jenny had not expected to be warmly received by the actress herself. "I admit I am curious," said Jenny. "How is it that you know me?"

  "I noticed you last evening in Delmonico's. I asked my escort who you were."

  "Yes, I noticed you there also. Victor Donovan is a friend of the family." Jenny dropped her beaded bag on the chaise and poured a cup of tea.

  "I promise I won't take much of your time, Miss Dakota. I came because I want to know if you would permit me to make some photographic studies of you?"

  There was no response from behind the screen for a few moments. When Katy finished buttoning her gown, she stepped out into view. "Mr. Marshall put you up to this, didn't he?" she asked coldly. "It is some sort of test."

  "Why, no, my husband does not know I've come."

  "I meant Logan."

  "Heavens, no. Logan was against this from the beginning. That's why I'm here."

  "I don't think I understand," Katy said slowly. She admitted to herself that Jenny Marshall appeared very innocent, but it was a look that Katy herself had perfected on stage. "Logan did not send you here to see if I would throw you out?"

  Jenny's soft doe eyes widened. "Why would he do that?"

  "You tell me."

  Jenny set her cup down and brought her chin up. She spoke quickly and evenly, proving that she was not intimidated by Katy's frosty accents. "I believe we are at cross purposes, Miss Dakota. Let me explain more clearly why I have come." Jenny briefly described the conversation she had shared with Logan and Christian at Delmonico's. "I thought the matter was settled," she said, "when we left the restaurant. Logan was going to ask you to pose for the photographs so my husband could work on some sketches and preliminary paintings during our voyage. Apparently Logan never mentioned any of this to you. I assumed that he had because he told me that you had refused to pose. I came to ask you to reconsider."

  "Logan lied to you."

  "I am understanding that. I suppose he has his reasons."

  "You are quick to defend him."

  "He is family," Jenny said without apology. "Whatever I think of Logan's actions, I will tell him myself—in private. I take it that he did come to see you yesterday. When he sent someone to the house to get clothes for him I assumed that he was—"

  "You assume too much, perhaps." Katy sat down at the vanity and fastened pearl drop earrings on her lobes. "But yes, he was with me. All night. Does that shock you, Mrs. Marshall?"

  A tiny smile played at the edges of Jenny's beautiful mouth. "I am not Logan's keeper," she said. "If you did not object to his company, then why on earth would I?"

  "Why do you want your husband to paint me?" Katy asked. "Aren't you afraid I will find Logan's brother equally attractive? Aren't you afraid I might seduce him?"

  Jenny sighed, disappointed. "It is obvious that you are spoiling for a fight, Miss Dakota, and have been since I first made my request. Allow me to say this before I leave: I would be very surprised if you did not find Christian attractive, and I would scratch out your eyes if you did anything to compromise him or my marriage." Jenny picked up her purse and turned to go.

  "Wait!" Katy called after her, then added more softly, "Please, wait. I have been unconscionably rude to you. You were right, I'm afraid. I have been spoiling for a fight. Won't you sit down? I would like to start over."

  Jenny hesitated while she took measure of the actress's sincerity. It was Katy's uncertainty, her sudden insecurity, that decided Jenny. "All right," she said.

  Katy cleared the edge of the chaise longue of scripts and clothes to make room for her guest. Once she assured herself that Jenny was comfortable, Katy took some tea for herself. "Since Logan did not ask me to sit for the photographs, it seems obvious that he does not want me to do them. I don't think he would approve of you being here."

  "Approve? Perhaps not. But neither would he stop me. Logan does not have those kind of rights with me."

  Why did he think he had them with her? Katy wondered unhappily. But she knew that he held everything she valued hostage. A few words from Logan and the entire city would know that she had been responsible for his imprisonment. The Yankees had forgiven much since the end of the war, but Katy doubted they would be so generous in her case. Not with Logan Marshall, their favorite son, as her victim. "Who would take the photographs?" she asked.

  "I would. As you say, it is rather obvious that Logan is against the pictures, although I don't know why. I see no reason for him to know about it, do you? My husband has a studio on the third floor of our home. There is a darkroom there that Logan and I both use for developing pictures. None of the staff would comment on you visiting the studio with me." Jenny glanced around Katy's dressing room and paid particular attention to the vanity. "I could duplicate this setting fairly easily in the studio. You would have to bring your pots of rouge and powder, whatever you use to paint your face. That is the type of photographs I have in mind, something of a study while you begin to grow into your character."

  "My character is not particularly likeable."

  "Not in the beginning, she's not. But the way you play her she has a certain vulnerability. You've fleshed out the character, made her a real person. She is wicked, yes. Wonderfully wicked, in fact. She is also very, very human." Jenny laughed at herself. "Why am I telling you this? You must have realized it. After all, you practically created her."

  "The playwright would not want to hear that," Katy said, smiling. "But I thank you. So... we do these photographs in your husband's studio. He won't mind?"

  "I'll present him with a fait accompli. He will see the photographs after we've started our voyage. Both he and Logan will be at the paper tomorrow; there is no possibility that either will find out."

  "Will I be paid for the sittings?" asked Katy.

  Jenny successfully hid her surprise. She had not thought money would be an issue. "Of course." She named a generous figure. "That is just for the sittings. When Christian needs you for the actual painting there will be another payment. Naturally that will not be until we return from Europe. You also should know that he might not choose to paint you at all. He has been known to change his mind about models."

  "I understand," she said slowly, wondering if Logan could influence his brother against doing the paintings. "You say we would do the sittings tomorrow?"

  "Yes. Come round to the house at ten. We are on the northwest corner of Thirty-eighth and Fifth. It has an iron fence circling the property and—"

  "I am certain I can find it."

  "You will come, then?"

  Logan be damned. "Yes," she said.


  Jenny nodded. She stood, paused while she considered her question, and then asked in a rush, "Do you know why Logan does not want my husband to paint you?"

  "Yes."

  Jenny waited for more information but Katy offered none. She pressed on. "Will you tell me?"

  "It is well known that your husband's subjects are particularly beautiful," she said.

  "So?" Jenny was bewildered.

  "So? Don't you understand? Your brother-in-law knows how ugly I am."

  Jenny's frown deepened. Clearly Katy believed what she said and that struck Jenny as powerfully sad. Jenny excused herself quietly as Katy turned back to her mirror. All the way home she mulled over the puzzle of Katy Dakota.

  * * *

  Logan was having much the same thoughts as his sister-in-law. He was lounging on the sofa in Katy's sitting room, waiting for her to return from the theatre. Occasionally his eyes would shift to the cobalt blue ashtray and the cigar butt that rested there. The faint odor of cigar smoke still permeated the room.

  In his hands he held one of her delicate music boxes. He opened the lid, listened to the music for a moment, and then closed it again. It played "When Johnny Comes Marching Home." A strange tune for someone who had no love for Yankees. Almost as strange as the fact that she had kept his black lacquered box all these years.

  Logan put the music box down when he heard the key turn in the lock. His casual, proprietary posture was for Katy's benefit as she entered her suite. His half-smile and coolly colored eyes mocked her surprise and frustration.

  "Do you not have some place you would rather be?" she asked, tossing her coat on the back of a chair. "Some place where you are wanted?"

  "I like it here," he said. "And I've paid for it."

  "I'll have your money tomorrow."

  "Oh? Did they pay you your back salary or did you pick Victor Donovan's pockets?"

  Katy ignored him. She went into her bedroom and immediately became incensed when she saw his belongings on her dresser, in her wardrobe, and on her nightstand. "You are not staying here!" she called to him. She gathered up some of the clothes that he had not put away. When she turned, Logan was standing in the doorway.

  She pitched the pile of clothes at him. "I mean it, Logan! I want you out of here! You have no rights where I am concerned."

  Amused rather than riled, Logan hunkered down and picked up his clothing. He folded each item neatly before he placed it on the seat of the rocker. "You will have to clear some space for me in the chiffonier. I could not decide what items you would want to take out so I left everything as it was."

  "You want space?" asked Katy, her voice dangerously soft. She went to the dresser, pulled out the top drawer and upended it. Soft cotton handkerchiefs drifted to the floor. Lacy camisoles and lilac sachets scattered. The second drawer met with the same end as did the third and fourth. "Take all the space you need, Mr. Marshall."

  "Thank you," he said pleasantly.

  Katy stormed past him on her way to the bathing room. She slammed the door, locked it, and let the water run to drown out the sound of Logan's off-tune whistling. Staying in the tub until the water turned cold gave Katy time to map her strategy. When she emerged, dressed in a cream satin robe and plain cotton nightshift, she went directly to the spare bedroom on the opposite side of the suite. Passing him, Katy pretended not to see that Logan had made himself comfortable in her bed. She did notice, however, that he had made no attempt to clean up her mess.

  Katy turned back the bed covers and plumped the pillow. She crawled into bed and waited to see what Logan would do. She fell asleep waiting.

  Early morning sunshine filtered through the sheer window curtains and made a lacy pattern of light and heat on Katy's face. She smiled faintly, stretching with the abandon and trust of a child, and turned on her side. That was when she came up short, staring into the dark, impenetrable gaze of Logan Marshall. His eyes grazed her face, studying her sleep-washed features. She knew that he had been watching her for some time and that his normally light-colored eyes were dark for one reason: he had decided he wanted her after all.

  Katy started to move away and discovered that Logan was holding the end of her braid in a tight fist. Afraid now, she held herself very still. She saw his eyes skim the planes of her cheeks, her nose, and come to rest on her mouth. Breathing was difficult. She fought the urge to wet her lips.

  "When you're sleeping I can almost forget what a treacherous bitch you are," he said. He closed his eyes, released her hair, and rolled away. "God, but you make me want to hurt you... really hurt you." Sitting up, Logan threw his legs over the side of the bed. He rested his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He raked his hair in an absent gesture.

  Katy stared at his naked back. Her eyes drifted across his taut shoulders and down the ridged length of his spine. His skin was smooth, shades lighter than bronze but darker than most men who spent their days indoors. Just above the line of his drawstring drawers, near the base of his spine, there were two dimples. Angel thumbprints. She wished she had not noticed them. For some odd reason they made her want to cry.

  Logan got up. He took some clothes from the chiffonier. "I'm going to work," he said. "It's early yet. Go back to sleep." He disappeared into the dressing room and then into the bathroom. When he returned, Katy was sitting up in bed. On the table at the foot of the bed was a pot of coffee and two covered dishes. From the aroma, Logan suspected bacon and biscuits. "Did you order this for me?" he asked. His voice was soft and gritty at the same time, like the tide over sand.

  Nodding, Katy put aside the script she was reading. "I've never walked in my sleep," she said, pointing to her surroundings. "I suspect I did not last night either."

  Logan sat at the table and poured himself some coffee. It was hot and strong, just the way he liked it. "You didn't. I brought you in here after you fell asleep."

  "Why?"

  "In the event that one of the Donovans should come visiting, I did not want to be caught with my pants up—so to speak. It would be rather difficult to prove you are my mistress with you there and me here."

  "If you had asked me, I would have told you I was not expecting anyone."

  "That did not stop me from coming here."

  "No," she said quietly. "No, it did not."

  Logan uncovered both dishes. Steam rose from the biscuits. He cut one in half and buttered it.

  "What do I have to do to get rid of you?" she asked.

  Logan concentrated on his bacon. "Did you have anything particular in mind?" he asked with mild interest. "Other than killing me, that is."

  That he should hit on the first solution Victor presented her caused Katy to gasp softly.

  Enjoying her discomfort, Logan finished his bacon and licked his fingers slowly, giving the activity a certain erotic nuance that Katy could not fail to grasp. "So you had thought of it," he said, turning in his chair to fully face her. "Too bad. You had the opportunity to make that happen once before. Instead, you sent me to hell."

  Katy felt pinned to the headboard by Logan's hard, winter-cold stare. Yet she was also relieved that at last he had broached the subject. "I thought you would never speak of it," she said in a rush, imploring him to listen to her. "There is something I've been wanting to tell you about that day... something you should know."

  One of Logan's eyebrows kicked up in lazy regard. "Oh? Sorry, but it will have to wait." He examined his pocket watch, holding it up for her to see the time. "I am going to be late for a meeting if I do not leave now. You have a performance this evening?"

  Nothing of Katy's urge to scream showed on her face. The only hint of her frustration was in her short, sibilant response. "Yes," she said.

  "Then I will see you afterward. Thank you for breakfast."

  Katy watched him shrug into his jacket and straighten his waistcoat. He glanced in the mirror just once to brush back the hair at his temples with his fingertips, and then he approached the bed. Katy felt the lift of thumb and forefinger below
her chin. She could have resisted the pressure he applied to raise her face toward him, but she didn't. He bent his head.

  The kiss was neither gentle nor hard. But it was possessive, undeniably a mark of ownership. His mouth was warm, tasting faintly of coffee. His lips were firm, and the edge of his tongue played briefly with the line of her upper lip.

  When Logan stepped back, he studied Katy for a moment. Her beautifully expressive eyes were wide and luminous with a faint sheen of tears. Her mouth was damp. Two coins of rosy color appeared on her cheeks. "Now do you wish you had let your friends hang me, Katy?"

  She blinked and a single tear fell. "No," she said. "I do not wish it."

  "You will," he said. "You will come to wish you had never betrayed me."

  By the time Katy found her voice, Logan was long gone from the suite. She said her line aloud anyway. "You are not the only one who was betrayed, Logan Marshall."

  * * *

  Katy stopped at the theatre to pick up her face paints and one of the gowns she wore in the drama. Outside the theatre she hailed a hansom cab to take her to Marshall House. She arrived just minutes before ten o'clock. The driver helped her down from the carriage and offered to carry her things to the front door, but Katy declined, wanting time alone to compose herself before entering the mansion.

  Katy wondered how many times she had passed this brownstone without knowing that Logan Marshall lived in it. Dozens, at least. In the future, she thought, she would go out of her way to avoid it.

  There was nothing singular about Marshall House to distinguish it from its neighbors. It bore the mark of old money, the solid, grandiose design that stated wealth but fell short of ostentatious vulgarity. The property's privacy was guarded by a spiked iron fence and an elaborate wrought-iron gate that swung soundlessly on well-oiled hinges.

  There was no moat or drawbridge, just a simple stone walk that led to the imposing front entrance. In Katy's mind, a moat and drawbridge would not have been out of place. The double-door entrance was made all the more imposing by the large Corinthian columns and pilasters flanking it. There was no tower room, and probably no dungeon, Katy decided, but the heavy stone ornamentation reminded her of the great gothic gargoyles she had seen in photographs of Parisian cathedrals.