His Heart's Revenge (The Marshall Brothers Series, Book 2) Page 23

  Victor said nothing for a moment. "But I do," he said finally, quietly.

  "Oh, Victor," she said sadly, tears pricking the back of her eyes.

  "I have come to despise my body for not being able to meet the desires of my heart and mind. Some days I despise my heart for loving you with the passion of a youth. And my mind... can you possibly understand what I am talking about, Katy?"

  She nodded slowly, adding in a broken whisper, "I've been so selfish, thinking only of me, thinking only of what I wanted. I'm sorry, Victor."

  He stroked her hair, holding her to him when she would have broken their embrace. "No," he said. "Stay here. I shouldn't turn you out of my arms and my bed just because I can't be all that I want."

  "But your work."

  Victor rarely swore. Now he told her in very explicit terms what he thought about his work.

  "The papers are wrinkled," she said.

  In response he began pitching everything over the side of the bed. What he couldn't reach he kicked off. "There," he said, satisfied. "Trust me, V.I. Donovan's records are not any worse now than when you and I came back from the Willows."

  "But Michael handled everything for you then."

  "Precisely," he said dryly.

  Katy laughed lightly and snuggled closer. "Victor, you are certain everything's all right, aren't you? With you, I mean. You looked tired at dinner this evening."

  Victor was determined to skirt the issue of his health. "If I am tired of anything, it's the way Michael seems so bent on creating trouble between us."

  "You mean his comment about Logan being here today."

  "Exactly that. He brought it up without giving you any opportunity to mention it yourself."

  "You handled it quite well anyway," she said. "Thank you for that."

  "I trust you absolutely."

  "Michael thinks you are foolish for that."

  "My son and I have disagreed on any number of things over the years. Now we can add you to the list. I wish I had been the one who saw Logan leaving the house instead of Michael, but there's no changing it. He can think what he likes." He turned his head and kissed Katy's brow. She could not see his eyes; could not see the faraway look in them. "I know how you feel about Logan Marshall."

  * * *

  Katy sat alone at one of the dark oak booths in Crestmore's Ice Cream Parlor. She ordered a cherry phosphate from a young waiter wearing a starched white shirt and baby blue sleeve garters. He looked at her oddly, as if he was struggling to recognize her face but couldn't quite make out how he knew her. She had gotten used to the look when she was on the stage. It was a novelty now. Katy smiled and kept the secret to herself.

  When her phosphate arrived, she sipped it slowly through a paper straw. Her eyes were lifted, focused beyond the large plate window at the front of the parlor. Victor's store, situated diagonally from the parlor, was in her line of vision. There was a steady stream of people in and out of the store. It seemed to Katy that most of them went in empty-handed and came out with at least one small parcel. In the case of Mrs. Easton-Brooks, there were seven large boxes, and three obsequious clerks carried them for her.

  Katy looked down at her side where her purchases lay. She had bought a book for Ria and fabric for herself. Ria was lonely and bored in the prison of her bed, and Katy had taken it upon herself to keep Michael's wife entertained and her spirits lifted. Today nothing had helped. Ria cried until she made herself sick, and Katy lost patience with her. Leaving Ria to her maid, Katy realized she needed to get out of the house before she began to equate it with a prison herself.

  With no particular destination in mind Katy had eventually found herself in V.I. Donovan's. The gift for Ria was in the way of a peace offering, and the fabric purchase was an afterthought. Later, she went to Victor's office and invited him to lunch at Crestmore's.

  He had seemed amused and pleased by the idea, but Katy had the sense that his enthusiasm was mostly for her benefit. When she first entered his office, he had been sitting with his back to the door, staring out the window and deep in thoughts that seemed intensely personal. There were lines at the corner of his mouth she had never seen before and they worried her.

  Katy frowned as someone moved into her field of vision, throwing her face in shadow. She glanced up and her frown deepened. "What are you doing here?"

  Michael sat down in the booth opposite her. "Father sent me over to say he would be later than he first thought."

  "That's all right. I'll wait for him." She expected him to go then, but he didn't. He stared at her, his blue eyes sliding over her face until they rested on her mouth. "Your lips are cherry bright," he said in a low voice. "Very kissable."

  "Don't do this here, Michael. I do not want a scene."

  "There won't be one unless you cause it. I am quite content to just sit here and imagine how things might be if you'd ever lower your guard around me. I could make you happy, Katy."

  "Stop it," she hissed, pushing her half-finished drink to the middle of the table. "I don't want anything from you. And you can stop trying to make trouble for your father and me. Your remark last night at dinner was uncalled for. You tried to insinuate there was something between Logan Marshall and me, and you could not be more wrong. Your father knows that, even if you don't."

  "Then why was Logan at the house yesterday?"

  "That is none of your business."

  Michael persisted. "And why was he the one who found you in the hotel room?"

  "Who told you that?"

  "No one. I saw him. I was still in the hallway when he came up the stairs. I ducked out of sight until he disappeared into one of the suites. It was your suite he went into, Katy. I stayed around long enough to confirm that much. What is Logan Marshall to you?"

  "He is no one to me."

  "I don't believe that."

  "I am not listening to you any longer." She slid across the bench, gathered her packages, and stood. "Tell your father I decided to leave. I will see him at home this evening." With her purchases in the crook of one arm and her beaded bag dangling from her wrist, Katy used her free hand to pick up the cherry phosphate. She lifted it to her lips, smiled frostily, then poured the drink in Michael's lap. "Waiter! There's been a bit of an accident here." Setting the glass down, Katy left the parlor.

  Michael caught up to her on the sidewalk when they were directly across from Victor's store. His finely drawn features were pinched and flushed with anger. He grabbed her elbow, jerking her toward him so that she was forced to halt in her tracks. A few passersby slowed in their steps, glancing in Katy's direction. Michael's hard glare sent them hurrying off again.

  "Let me go," she said under her breath.

  "You need to attend to your manners."

  "Not with you, I don't. I suggest you be careful, Michael. That detective Victor hired is bound to see you with me and begin to wonder."

  Michael's grip eased. Finally he dropped his hand altogether. "You are not always going to have the upper hand, Katy. Remember that."

  Victor had just come out of the store. Ignoring Michael completely, Katy raised her hand to wave to her husband. Broadway was crowded with traffic, and a hansom cab blocked Victor from her view. She caught a glimpse of him as he turned to go down the walk so that he could cross closer to the ice cream parlor. She tried to attract his attention again but it was a hopeless task in the midst of the traffic and the pedestrians. Carriages and carts and cabs filled the wide boulevard and people dodged the horse-drawn vehicles and impatient drivers in order to negotiate the crossing.

  All except Victor Donovan. Looking in neither direction, he stepped onto Broadway and into the path of a coach and four.

  Chapter 9

  Katy was a lone figure at the grave, a stark black silhouette against the evening sky. Occasionally a breeze would sweep across the knoll, suggesting movement when there was none. The hem of Katy's black gown fluttered; her bonnet was nudged toward the back of her head, and her veil pressed lightly at the contou
rs of her face. She remained immobile, her head bowed and her hands folded around a prayer book.

  She wished it would rain. Rain would have seemed appropriate today, she thought. All of nature should weep for Victor.

  People had been parading in and out of the house for two days to offer condolences to Michael and pay their respects to Victor. Katy had never suspected how fondly Victor was regarded until she saw the swell of people gathered earlier for the funeral. Employees from the store, business acquaintances, his club friends, peers in his social stratum, all turned out to bid Victor farewell. She found little comfort in their appearance. Most often they spoke to Michael and regarded her suspiciously when they regarded her at all. Even at the end, there were whispers about Victor's foolish marriage.

  "Ma'am?" Liam O'Shea took off his bowler and held it in front of him. He cleared his throat to attract Katy's attention. "Mrs. Marshall? You should come away now. It's getting dark. You don't want to stay out here alone."

  Katy's head turned slowly. She looked at O'Shea without really seeing him. "Pardon me?"

  "I said you should come away now. Sure, and it's not a good thing for you to be out here alone."

  Kay pushed her veil back, and her eyes focused on the man at her side. He was a few inches shorter than she with dark, wind-ruffled hair and a stiffly waxed handlebar mustache. She remembered the mustache. "You're Mr. O'Shea, aren't you? The detective."

  He nodded. "I wasn't sure you would know me. We met under less than pleasant—"

  "I remember," she said quickly. "You were very kind."

  O'Shea wanted to apologize for mentioning the circumstances of their meeting. He did not because it would have only made things worse. It should have been clear to the meanest intelligence that Katy Donovan was grieving from her heart, yet O'Shea had been watching most of the day and had seen only a few people offer her comfort. He recognized them as theatre people, Katy's friends before she married Victor Donovan. None of Victor's friends gave Katy more than a brief word.

  O'Shea was not generally at a loss for words. His glib tongue and easy manner made him a comfortable companion. He felt anything but comfortable now. Standing beside the grave, he was recalling everything associated with Victor's horrible accident. He could not imagine that it was any different for Victor's widow.

  Liam had been following Katy that day, just as he did every time she left the house. He knew what purchases she had made, knew that she had been to see Victor, and knew that she had gone to Crestmore's for refreshment. He had watched her leave alone and seen Michael Donovan give chase. He had been on the point of interfering when Michael released her. Moments later Katy's attention was focused across the street, and Liam glanced that way once to see what she saw.

  There was nothing he could have done to save Victor. His warning shout could not be heard above all the other noises on Broadway that afternoon. Victor was knocked down by the lead horse and trampled by the pair behind. He was dead before the driver was able to pull up his team some fifty feet down the boulevard.

  Katy's first instinct had been to run into the street, but it was Liam, sprinting through the suddenly immobile crowd of onlookers, who held her back. Michael stood beside them, unable or unwilling to help, until Katy collapsed in Liam's arms, whimpering Victor's name over and over in a grief-stricken litany of loss.

  "Mr. Marshall's carriage is waiting over there to take you home," Liam told her, pointing to the gravel drive that circled its way up the knoll. "He saw you refuse to go with young Mr. Donovan earlier and thought you would need some help getting home."

  "I can walk."

  O'Shea's mustache lifted at one end as he gave her a lopsided smile. "He told me you'd say that." Liam offered Katy his arm. "Please, Mrs. Donovan, Victor asked me to look after you. He would want me to do this, and even if he didn't, I would still want to. Won't you come with me?" When she still did not move, Liam played his last card. "I can't leave until I've put you in that carriage. Not that I mind stayin' for myself, you understand, but my wife, well, she's not always so agreeable when I come home late."

  "Very well, Mr. O'Shea," Katy said, taking his arm. She cast a last look over her shoulder at her husband's grave before allowing the detective to lead her away. At least Victor wasn't alone, she thought, still seeing the twin stone markers in her mind's eye. He was with his beloved Annie now, and Katy was able to find some small comfort in that.

  Liam knew the exact moment when Katy realized the carriage was already occupied. He felt her stiffen and hesitate before she finally made her decision to join Logan in the carriage. He realized that Logan had been right to do it this way, that Katy would not have gone with Logan if he had approached her first. Feeling the full force of Katy's cold stare, O'Shea ducked his head in an embarrassed apology, shut the carriage door, and told the driver he could leave. He waited until the carriage was out of sight before he left the cemetery on his own mount.

  Katy was so furious that she could not look at Logan for fear of striking him. She clutched the prayer book and stared out the window.

  "I'm sor—"

  Logan got no farther than that. The sound of his voice tipped Katy's emotional scales. She rounded on him, her eyes burning with gold fire and her voice shaking with the force of her anger. "How dare you do this to me! Will you never leave me alone? My God, Logan, Victor is not cold in his grave, and you are sniffing after my skirts again. I have just spent three days ignoring snickers and innuendoes of people who think I married my husband for his wealth and position. They think Victor's death is what I've been waiting for. They think I am mourning for show, that widow's weeds and weeping are for effect. I am sick to death of all of them. All of them! And none more than you! You are the only person save myself who knows why I married Victor Donovan, and God damn you for making me hurt like this now. I came to love my husband. I I-loved him! H-He was w-wonderful and gentle and k-kind and—"

  Katy did not know when it had happened, but sometime during her heartfelt speech Logan had moved from his side of the carriage to hers. He had taken the prayer book from her gloved hands and encircled her with his arms. He gave up his shoulder to her, and she leaned against him, clinging even while she cursed him. She hated him for witnessing her pain; hated him for opening his arms to her.

  "Th-they're all wrong about me," she whispered. "Everyone. I cared for Victor. I wanted to b-be his wife for a long, long time."

  "I know," Logan said softly. He was crushing her bonnet, so he loosened the ribbons and tossed it on the opposite bench seat. He gave Katy a handkerchief. She did not use it and he did not care. He let her cry until she was spent and even then made no move to release her. Through the carriage window he recognized landmarks that signaled the near end of their journey. "We are getting close to your home, Katy. What do you want to do?" When she did not answer immediately, he repeated her name, thinking she had fallen asleep.

  "I do not want to go home," she said at last, her voice barely audible. "They are reading Victor's will tonight, and I do not want to be there."

  Logan understood that he had won her company by default, not because she was choosing him. "Is there somewhere I can take you?"

  Sitting up, Katy impatiently brushed away tearstains with her fingertips. She was surprised to find she held a handkerchief. She blew her nose. "I suppose you could take me to Wallack's," she said. "Jane was at the funeral today. She said if I needed anything I should—"

  Logan held up his hand, interrupting her. "I have a better idea," he said. "Will you let me decide?"

  He was asking her to trust him, and Katy could not think of one reason why she should. In spite of all good common sense, she felt her head bob once in assent.

  "Good," he said. He opened a panel in the carriage and told his driver to take them to Marshall House. He saw the objection rising in Katy's throat before he heard it. "You said I could decide. You were very clear earlier about what you thought of me being here, but you were also very wrong. I purposely only spoke briefl
y with you when I came to pay my respects, and I avoided you today at the funeral. I thought it was what you would want."

  "It was. So why did you stay after everyone else had gone?"

  "Precisely because everyone else had gone. I didn't want to leave you alone. In spite of what you think, Katy it's clear to me that you're grieving. I am not—what did you call it?—sniffing after your skirts."

  Her face colored as he repeated her words. "I should have found another way to say what I meant."

  "I've heard worse." He raised his hand and briefly touched her cheek. "The color is good for you. You were as pale as salt before." The carriage stopped, and Logan did not wait for the driver to open the door for them. He leaned across Katy and flicked the handle with his fingertips. "This is where I am getting out, Katy. You don't have to. Say the word and I will have Joe drive you home."

  In answer, Katy gave Logan her hand and let him help her down from the carriage.

  The front parlor was crowded with furniture, figurines, and photographs. It was a homey room, filled with family treasures, and Katy would have liked to explore. Instead she sat on the edge of one of the settees and tried not to show how tired she was.

  "You can relax, you know," Logan said, turning from the doorway with the tray the housekeeper had just handed him. He blocked Katy from Mrs. Brandywine's curious glance, tempering his rudeness with an-over-the-shoulder smile. Mrs. Brandywine backed away quietly. "You look like a fledgling bird, perched that way."

  "One cannot truly relax in a dress like this," Katy said, indicating the bustle behind her. Her black train was made of yards of satin that she had swept to one side. The wire crinoline, which kept the bustle in place, remained exactly where it was meant to. "It is deuced uncomfortable."

  "So take it off."

  Katy blinked, her mouth parting slightly. "You are not serious."

  Logan set down the tray and began pouring tea. "I am," he said, adding a generous finger of whiskey to Katy's glass. "Not the dress. Just that contraption attached to your backside. It fastens around your waist, doesn't it?"