Scarlet Lies (Author's Cut Edition): Historical Romance Read online

  He called her name and began running.

  Brooklyn's head lifted with birdlike quickness. Ryland was coming for her! His long strides covered the ground swiftly and Brook's eager, hungry eyes darted over him, taking in the sudden gladness that smoothed his taut, angular features. She waited for him at the top of the grade, extending both hands so that when he was within inches of her her arms slid easily around his shoulders and the distance between them disappeared as she was lifted and pressed against the solid length of his body.

  Brooklyn's fists pummeled his back as her face lay in the curve of his neck. "Don't you leave me again, Ryland North! I'm not that brave! I'm not!" Her voice caught on a dry sob. "I couldn't pull the pin... and the train was m-moving so f-fast... and I gr-greased the pin with b-butter from our dinner and it came out and I was so scared because the brake wouldn't turn. I don't have any c-courage at all. I don't."

  "Of course you don't," he said softly, burying his smile in the thickness of her hair. "I don't know how I could have mistaken such a thing."

  Her fists stopped working and her fingers unfolded, fluttering along the breadth of his powerful shoulders. "You're laughing at me."

  "It's either that or cry," he admitted quietly. He set Brooklyn down and held her at arm's length, inspecting her with eyes that were still troubled. "Are you really all right? You weren't hurt?"

  "Yes... No."

  "Which is it?"

  "Yes, I'm all right. No, I wasn't hurt." She touched his face, tracing the angles and planes with the tips of her fingers, memorizing the cast of his features. "You?"

  He shrugged, nodded, held her again. Words wouldn't assure her now; the secure circle his arms would. After a few minutes Ryland released her. "We may as well go back to our car and wait. The engineer assured me that as soon as the passengers were calm he would back up the train and reconnect us."

  "I want to travel by ship next time," was all she said.

  Chapter 14

  The sky above New Orleans was overcast. A fine drizzle tapped lightly against the roof of the carriage. Brooklyn unpinned her silk bonnet, held it on her lap, and laid her head against Ryland's shoulder.

  "Sleepy?" he asked.

  "Mm. It's the rain."

  Puddle water splashed the underside of the carriage and sprayed the passersby who were not quick enough to take cover in doorways. Ryland glanced out the window and saw one man raise his fist in anger as he stamped his feet, shaking droplets of muddy water from the legs of his pants. Leaning his head back against the padded seat, Ry tried not to think about the tension coiling in his midsection as if not thinking about it would make it disappear.

  "How much farther?" asked Brooklyn. She curled her legs under her and smoothed the folds of her dark blue traveling dress. The gold braid edging her overskirt looked tarnished in the muted afternoon light. She placed her hand lightly on Ryland's thigh and felt the wiredrawn cords of power in his legs. Since Denver it had seemed that he never relaxed. Even in sleep there were lines indelibly engraved at the edges of his mouth and eyes, parenthetical expressions of pain that enclosed even the finer moments of love they shared.

  "Not much. Miss Abby's home is a few blocks from here." He pointed to a rain-washed brick building on his left. "That's the bank."

  Brooklyn showed no curiosity. "I don't care about the bank."

  "I know."

  "Or the money."

  "I know that, too."

  "Even if I weren't married to you I wouldn't care about the money. I made enough at the Brass Slipper to support myself."

  "I doubt Chandler or Preston would accept that. I imagine they think you intend to be greedy, just as... as Phillip was."

  "Just as they are, you mean," she snapped. "I doubt I would have ever come here if it weren't for them."

  Ryland's brow knitted. "What are you saying? Don't you want to meet your grandmother?"

  Brooklyn shifted uncomfortably in her seat, sitting up and securing her bonnet on her head. "My mother never wanted to go back. Why should I? You know what Phillip wrote in his letter. Mama was afraid she wouldn't be accepted, that she would have to bear her family's censure. It won't be any different for me."

  "I think your mother didn't know her own mother well enough," he said gently. "And the same is true in reverse. Abby would have welcomed her daughter back. She will welcome you, no matter what your past."

  "You don't know that."

  "I think I do, but you can make your own judgment." The carriage slowed and finally stopped in front of Abby's splendid home. "We're here."

  Brooklyn leaned across Ryland and peered out the window. A high white stucco wall surrounded the courtyard, but what Brook could see through the wrought-iron gate looked imposing enough. "This is where my mother was born?"

  "Yes."

  "It's very large, isn't it? Rather like the homes on Nob Hill."

  "I suppose it is." Ryland cupped Brook's chin and turned her face toward him. "Are you scared? Would you rather go to our hotel first and come back tomorrow?"

  She shook her head as her shoulders stiffened a little. "No. Let's have done with this."

  He kissed her lightly on the mouth. "Courage becomes you."

  Brooklyn snorted indelicately, adjusted her bonnet, and opened the carriage door. The driver had jumped from his seat and helped her down the narrow step to the sidewalk. Brook thanked him and stood near the gate while Ryland instructed the driver to wait for them.

  As Ryland crossed the courtyard he noticed the shrubbery was still meticulously manicured, though the gardener was not in evidence this afternoon. Ry could just imagine the man hurrying outside once the rain stopped and pruning back the greenery before it grew out of control. He pointed to the four cherubs perched on top of the fountain. Brooklyn pronounced them ridiculous-looking, and Ryland warned her about Miss Abby's manservant who resembled the cherubs to such a degree that he could have been their sire. That brought a smile to Brooklyn's face, and Ry was feeling hopeful as he knocked briskly on the door to Abby's home.

  Hope faded quickly when his knock was answered by a young woman instead of the cherubic butler. If she had been dressed as a servant Ryland wouldn't have found it odd, but she wasn't. Her gown was modest, exquisitely tailored to her lush curves, and patterned after the most recent French fashions to arrive in America.

  Ryland knew that Brooklyn was looking at him oddly, waiting for him to announce their business with Mrs. Gordon, yet he couldn't seem to find his voice. He realized Brooklyn couldn't possibly understand why he stared at the woman framed in the doorway, but then Brooklyn probably remembered her mother as a scarred, drug-ravaged woman. She had never seen, as Ryland had, the portrait Miss Abby kept above the mantel in her drawing room. On that occasion he had told her that his problem was remembering numbers, not beautiful women. And it was true. He recalled very well the honey-colored hair, the porcelain complexion, and the heart-shaped face. The winsome young woman returning Ryland's curious regard was the near-perfect image of Linda Brookes Pendleton.

  "May I help you?" she asked, her pleasant smile fading slightly as her marine blue eyes wandered from Ryland to Brook. "Is something wrong?"

  Ryland put his arm around Brooklyn's waist and drew her closer to his side. "No, there's nothing wrong," he said, though he knew the opposite was true. Something was very wrong. "I'm Ryland North and this is my wife. We're here to see Mrs. Gordon. She's expecting us."

  What remained of the woman's smile vanished, and she appeared puzzled. "How could that be?" she asked politely. "Grandmother never mentioned it, and I'm certain there was nothing in her mail about your arrival. I handle all her correspondence now."

  Squeezing Brook's waist warningly, Ryland cautioned her to say nothing. "My appointment with Mrs. Gordon was made some time ago," he said smoothly. "In early autumn. I haven't talked to her since. I don't believe you were living here then, Miss... I'm sorry, I don't now your name."

  The door opened wider. "Forgive me. I am forgetting my m
anners. I'm Sarah Pendleton, Mrs. Gordon's granddaughter. Please, won't you come in?" Sarah retreated a few steps into the hallway and ushered Ry and Brooklyn inside. "We can speak in the drawing room," she said, indicating the doors on her right. "If you haven't seen my grandmother since fall, then there may be quite a lot you don't know."

  Brooklyn's steps faltered at the entrance to the drawing room as her glance was caught and held by the oil portrait above the fireplace. Sarah paused in asking them if they wanted some refreshment when she saw Brook staring at the painting. "The resemblance is uncanny, isn't it?" asked Sarah, moving to stand below the portrait of Linda Brookes. "Everyone remarks on it. It's unsettling on occasion since I never really knew my mother."

  "Your mother?" Brooklyn asked around the lump that was forming in her throat. She felt Ryland's cautionary squeeze again and called upon all her reserve of poise to respond evenly. "Yes, there's a striking similarity. You're both quite lovely."

  Sarah blushed at the sincerely given compliment. "Would you care for some tea? It will only take a moment for me to prepare. It's the servants' day off," she explained.

  "Tea would be fine," said Ryland. As soon as Sarah left the room Ryland led Brook to the sofa and urged her to sit before her legs gave way beneath her.

  "You hate tea," she said, trying to hold onto normalcy in a world that had turned on its end.

  Ryland sat beside her, drawing her attention away from the portrait. "It seemed the best way to be alone with you for a few minutes."

  "You knew, didn't you?" she accused softly. "As soon as you saw her you knew who she was."

  "I knew who she was pretending to be. Who she is pretending to be. She's no more Abby's granddaughter than I am."

  "Do you understand what's happening here?"

  "I have a theory. Please, Brooklyn, just follow my lead. We'll talk later."

  "Where is my grandmother?"

  "That's the first thing I plan to find out. Trust me?"

  "You know I do."

  "Good." He took her hand in his, mingling their fingers. "Did you recognize your mother in the portrait?"

  She shook her head. "Not immediately. I was simply struck by the similarity between the woman in the painting and Sarah. It was Sarah, yet not Sarah. Then when she said it was her mother... that's when I knew the truth." Her clouded silver-blue eyes were drawn to the portrait again. "Mama never looked like that to me. She was never that young, that innocent."

  Ryland's reply was interrupted by Sarah's return. She placed a silver tea service on the low table between the sofa and the armchair she chose for herself and poured their tea into dainty china cups. Ryland accepted his and tried not to make a face as he sipped it. Something must have shown on his features anyway, because Sarah offered him more sugar.

  "No, thank you," he said, placing his cup on the table. "Is Abby expected to return soon?"

  "Return?" Sarah asked, bewildered. "Oh, of course. You would think that, wouldn't you? It stands to reason." The corner of her mouth lifted in an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. I'm certain I'm not making any sense to you. My grandmother is here right now, in her bedchamber. She's not well, I'm afraid. Quite unable to see visitors."

  "We're very sorry to hear that. Has she been ill long?" Ryland asked politely.

  Sarah Pendleton sighed. "Months. She wasn't well when I came to live here. I've been nursing her and I think she is comforted by my presence, but there are days when her memory fails her and her heart beats poorly. I wish today weren't one of those times, else I'd be delighted to have you visit her. She is sleeping now, having had an intolerably restless night." She looked at Ryland expectantly. "Is there some way in which I could be of assistance, or was your visit strictly to exchange pleasantries with Grandmother?"

  "I had a business arrangement with Mrs. Gordon," Ryland said. "A private matter. I don't think you would be able to help me." He watched Sarah's face carefully and almost applauded her delicate expression of embarrassment as she took offense to his remark. She was a remarkable actress, equal to any he had seen on stage. He wondered where Chandler or Preston had found her.

  "Certainly. If it is a private matter I would not want to interfere. Perhaps you would be better served by speaking to my cousins."

  "I'm sure I would," Ryland said, sarcasm edging his words subtly so that only Brooklyn was aware of it. "Would I find them at the bank?"

  Sarah glanced at the clock standing in the corner of the room. "Yes, they would still be there. You are welcome to wait here for Chandler. He will be home in under an hour."

  "Chandler lives here now?"

  "Yes. Ever since Grandmother became ill."

  "I see."

  "He's very good with her," Sarah added. "I don't know that I would manage so well on my own, and he did everything for her before I came. It's a good arrangement."

  "But you have the servants to help," Brooklyn interjected. She was glad she had made the comment because Sarah's poise seemed to falter briefly, as if caught in a lie. Brook was confident that Ryland had seen it also.

  "Oh, yes," Sarah said. "The servants are a great help, though I'm told there aren't so many as before. Chandler dismissed several because he felt they got underfoot."

  Brooklyn murmured sympathetic agreement that it was often the case with servants. She finished the last of her tea and placed the cup beside Ryland's. "You've been very kind to take the time to explain about Mrs. Gordon," she said. "We're disappointed not to be able to see her, but we understand."

  Ryland mentioned the name of a hotel where he had reserved a suite. "If you'd send word around when Mrs. Gordon is able to receive visitors, I'd appreciate it," he said, standing.

  Sarah also stood. Her hands fluttered uneasily to her sides. "You must understand that Grandmother is not able to conduct business under any circumstances," she said anxiously.

  "I'll take up my business with your cousins. Seeing your grandmother will be solely for pleasure." And my peace of mind, he added silently.

  "Oh, well... that's all right then. She would welcome that." Sarah was on the point of escorting her guests to the entrance hall when the drawing room doors slid open and Chandler Brookes presented himself in the gap.

  He looked much the way Ryland remembered him. Chandler had always been lean, but now he was gaunt, whippet-thin. His cheeks had a hollowed-out look, making his nose appear sharper and his mouth fuller. He still carried himself with perfect correctness, shoulders straight and stiff, chin high, even haughty. A few threads of gray mingled with the dark hair greased back at his temples. Ryland thought the graying was something new or that Chandler had been given to blackening his hair at the time of their previous meeting.

  "Chandler!" Sarah went quickly to his side and touched the sleeve of his stark business suit lightly. "I'm so glad you're home early. We have guests, or rather Grandmother has guests."

  "I see that," he said without inflection. Putting down his bowler on a nearby table and leaning his walking stick against the wall, Chandler took a few steps forward and extended his hand to Ryland. "Mr. North. This is somewhat of a surprise. I suppose you never received my message."

  "Mr. Brookes," said Ryland, returning the greeting. "What message was I supposed to receive?" The one sent by Jordan and Kittredge or the one delivered by Giddings? Ryland's face was inscrutable, revealing nothing of his thoughts.

  "The wire I sent some months ago." He glanced over his shoulder at Sarah, and then held out his hand to her, drawing her to his side. "I informed you that you could abandon your search, that Sarah had been found." He smiled, placing his arm around Sarah's shoulders. "Hasn't she explained who she is?"

  "Yes, she has," Ryland replied, improvising quickly. "I admit I was equally surprised. I returned to tell Mrs. Gordon that I had some promising leads." As if he suddenly remembered Brooklyn's presence he introduced her, but purposely avoided using her name. "Darling, I'd like you to meet Chandler Brookes. He's Miss Abby's grandson. Mr. Brookes, this is my wife."

  Ch
andler nodded in Brooklyn's direction. "Very pleased to meet you, Mrs. North." He turned back to Ryland. "This is a long way to come to tell Grandmother that you have a lead."

  "Our wedding trip," Ryland said. "It seemed the perfect opportunity to combine business and pleasure."

  Sarah clapped her hands together and she laughed delightedly. "How perfectly wonderful! A honeymoon! I should have realized... the way you look at one another... so romantic," she said breathlessly.

  Chandler's smile was indulgent. "Don't you remember that I told you about Mr. North, Sarah? He's the man Grandmother hired to find you. But he didn't, of course. You managed to find us."

  "I'd be interested in hearing how that came about," Ryland put in, his tone just bordering on dry.

  "Certainly," Chandler said. "First, can I get you something to drink?" His expression was wry as he glanced at the tea service. "Something with a little more kick? I'm going to have a whiskey." He went to the sideboard, lifting the decanter in question. "You?"

  "Bourbon."

  Brooklyn refused anything for herself and returned to the sofa. When Ryland had his drink he sat beside her. Sarah hovered somewhat nervously by her chair until Chandler joined her. He indicated that she should sit, and when she did Chandler perched himself on the arm of the chair. Brooklyn thought that he had the look of a man trying very hard to appear relaxed. Ryland could have sat like that and been comfortable. Chandler was too severe and formal and the effect was lost. Brook wondered why he tried.

  Chandler took one large swallow of his whiskey. His face became flushed almost immediately. "I assume Sarah has told you that our grandmother is not well."

  Ryland nodded. "She mentioned it. Again, I'm sorry to hear it. She seemed in fine health when I left her."

  "It happened very quickly... a few days before Thanksgiving. I remember because she was planning a feast for her friends, and as things turned out she was quite unable to attend the gathering. The doctor says it was a small stroke. Since that time she appears to have had a series of them. Her speech is slurred and her mind drifts. Some things she recalls with absolute clarity; other events are terribly confused."