Scarlet Lies (Author's Cut Edition): Historical Romance Page 36

  Brooklyn took three steps into the dining room before she stopped short, pulling on Ryland's coat sleeve.

  "What is it?" he asked, every sense alert to her sudden tension.

  "That man." Her eyes darted to a corner table. "The one sitting alone, smoking a cigar. Do you know him?"

  Ryland turned slightly, saw as much as he needed to, and then guided Brooklyn back out of the dining room. He hoped their movement was casual and would not cause comment. He saw the headwaiter turn and look for them, but the man did not bring attention to himself as he wended his way around the other diners and returned to the lobby.

  "Is something wrong, sir?" he asked, afraid that he had given some offense.

  "My wife feels faint," Ryland said as Brooklyn quickly took her cue and leaned against him heavily. "It happened suddenly. Please choose something for us and send it to our suite. One-oh-four. We'll eat there."

  "Very good, sir."

  When the headwaiter was gone Ryland lost no time in getting Brooklyn back to their room. He refused to answer any of her questions until he was certain they were alone. As soon as the door shut he rounded on her. "How do you know him?" he asked more sharply than he intended.

  "Ryland!" Her eyes bore into him frostily, and her chin lifted defensively. "Don't adopt that tone with me."

  Ry took a deep breath and calmed himself, knowing that he had been unreasonable. "How do you know him?" he asked again, sinking into one of the brocade-covered armchairs.

  Brooklyn removed her feathered hat and placed it on the table by the door. "I don't know him. Not really. Phillip had dinner with him once."

  "But you didn't."

  "No. I know it sounds odd," she explained quickly. "It happened while Phillip and I were in New Orleans before. He told me he had a dinner engagement with one of his business partners and didn't want me to join them. But he specifically requested that I eat in the hotel dining room when they were there. I assumed it was because he wanted to keep me in his sight. He could be suffocatingly protective at times."

  "He could be an insufferable snake," Ryland said biting out the words.

  For once Brooklyn did not take up Phillip's defense. "The man with, the cigar... he's Preston Brookes, isn't he?"

  "Yes."

  "And Phillip was actually parading me in front of the man, proving that I existed and that Phillip had me in his care."

  Ryland nodded, his eyes following Brooklyn's agitated pacing. "Did you speak to him then?"

  "No. Do you think he saw us downstairs?"

  "I don't know. It sure as hell was the reason he was here. We told Sarah where we would be. She must have gotten word to him. Preston is the sort of man who would want to see you for himself."

  "What are we going to do?"

  "Leave here as soon as night falls. We'll go out to Brighton Oaks and press our case with David Pendleton tonight. You're safer there than in the city. Even if he doesn't believe us and refuses to help I doubt he'll turn us away."

  Brooklyn was not encouraged, but she tried to look hopeful. "I'll start packing," she said, forcing a smile. "I'm getting rather good at it." As she passed Ryland's chair his hand snaked out and circled her wrist.

  "We're doing this so we can stop running," he reminded her. His thumb caressed the delicate back of her wrist.

  "I know." She placed her free hand absently over her abdomen. "I'm just damned tired of people trying to hurt us." Her eyes were sorrowful. "Don't you ever regret trouncing my abominable hat?"

  Ryland heard what she was really asking. He pulled her onto his lap, and she did not offer any resistance. "That is something I will never regret." He held her for a long time in the supportive, nurturing circle of his arms, and eventually they packed their things together.

  Chapter 15

  Brooklyn found herself wishing her father had been more like his brother, then chastised herself for the vaguely disloyal thought. David Pendleton was a man committed to his land, to his roots. There was nothing fanciful or romantic about his sturdy features, no dreamer's light in his solemn hazel eyes. A receding hairline made his forehead seem higher and broader and added a few years to his appearance, yet he was not given to vanity and did nothing to hide it. The hair that remained was thick and black, untouched by even a thread of gray. His hands were large, his body heavy but not fat. There was an air of practicality about him, a certain steadiness that seemed to invite others to share their problems. There was also something implacable about the set of his mouth that said he did not suffer fools gladly. One could ask his advice, but to argue with it meant he wouldn't be so obliging the next time.

  For all his pragmatism, David Pendleton was also genial. He remembered Ryland immediately. When Ry and Brooklyn appeared on the wide, columned veranda of his home shortly before midnight he accorded them the same hospitality he would have given invited guests. They were shown to the library by the house steward while David went back to his bedchamber to change into something more presentable than his robe and slippers. After assuring his sleepy wife that nothing was wrong and she need not rouse herself, he joined Ryland and Brook in the library. They were standing beside a cherry wood table set with chess pieces, and they parted guiltily when he entered.

  Waving aside Ryland's apologies as completely unnecessary, David Pendleton asked his guests to get straight to the heart of the matter. He was quiet throughout most of Ryland's recital, interjecting pointed questions only when he needed clarification. Occasionally his thoughtful gaze rested on Booklyn, but for the most part Ryland received his full attention.

  "If you were not so earnest," David said when Ryland finished, "I would find your story enormously entertaining." His thick fingers massaged the tip of one earlobe in an absent gesture. "I think you'll agree that it strains at the boundaries of credibility."

  Ryland nodded. "We know. But every word is true."

  "I'm inclined to believe you." He turned to Brooklyn. "You look nothing at all like your father... or any Pendleton, for that matter. But you have Abby Gordon's eyes, their shape and color. Michael used to say that Abby could stop a person cold with one of her slanted looks. I never knew what he meant until I saw her at my brother’s wedding. She stared at Michael throughout the ceremony, boring holes into his back. I remember thinking that my brother must be the bravest man in the world to have withstood that." He chuckled. "Or the most lovesick. I'm inclined to believe it was the latter. He and your mother were not good for one another, but they were deeply in love. It was apparent at the time even to my young eyes."

  Brooklyn leaned forward in her chair. Her eyes lost the almond shape David had remarked upon as they widened, a trace of sadness in their clear depths. "You can't know how much it means to me to hear you say so. There has never been anyone to tell me about my father... thank you."

  David stopped the absent pulling of his earlobe for a moment. "Linda never spoke of him?"

  "No," she said shakily. "My mother was..."

  "Linda was ill for many years," Ryland finished for her. He had not wanted to put her through emotional torture by revealing every part of her past to David Pendleton. Now he covered the lapses in his story. "Brooklyn was raised for the most part by her mother's friends and later by the man we told you about—Phillip Sumner."

  "The one who taught Brooklyn to gamble?" asked David.

  "Yes."

  A half-smile lifted one corner of his mouth. "This Sumner fellow may have taught you, but I think you probably inherited your father's aptitude. Michael enjoyed his cards. He loved the excitement, the bluffing. Of course he used to cheat outrageously, but only with me. I couldn't very well call him out, especially when we only played for marbles or who would have to rub down the horses. Still, I hated to lose to Michael."

  Ryland was reminded again that David Pendleton was the younger son. He wondered why he should be struck by that fact and why it should make him feel a vague sort of uneasiness. He pushed it to the back of his mind and pressed his case. "Do you believe us enough to
help?"

  "I certainly believe you. But help? What is it that I could do for you?"

  "You could officially recognize Brooklyn as your niece. It would give her public protection against her cousins while giving us time to gather evidence against Preston and Chandler. You could insist that we be permitted to see Abby. That's all that Brooklyn wants."

  "You make it sound very simple," David said heavily. He got to his feet and began pacing off a small area in front of the fireplace. For a while he said nothing more. He stopped suddenly and addressed Ryland and Brooklyn as one. "I have already recognized Sarah as my niece. Preston brought her here soon after he discovered her in that dress shop. I even saw the note he claimed Linda left with her child. His story was as credible as yours. Sarah was the correct age. She had Linda's features and her great-grandmother's name. It was I who said she must accept Pendleton as her surname. She cried in my arms then."

  "A clever touch," Ryland said cynically.

  David agreed, his eyes sharp on Ryland. "Yes, it was clever. They're both very clever. They convinced me."

  Brooklyn's head tilted in question. "Then why do you say that you believe us now?"

  "Because there was one part of their story which I could never comprehend and therefore never wholly believe. Linda wouldn't have given up her child. That baby was all that she had left of Michael. She would never abandon Michael's daughter."

  "She didn't abandon me," Brook said softly, adding to herself, at least not in the manner you mean.

  David went on as if she hadn't spoken. "I'm certain my reasons for not recognizing Brooklyn will sound very selfish to you... and they are. Brighton Oaks is the single most important thing in my life because one day it will belong to my children. This land, this house, is for them, and I will not let anything come between my sons and their inheritance. After the war there was much rebuilding to do, the soil had yielded nothing for years. Most of the slaves had fled and I worked the land myself. I mortgaged everything against the day when Brighton Oaks would thrive again." He turned away from them briefly and stared out the window as if it were not night, as if he could see the rich earth turned over for the spring planting. "This land is my heritage, my legacy for my children," he finished quietly.

  Everything was suddenly clear to Ryland. "Preston and Chandler hold the mortgage," he said. "In effect they own Brighton Oaks."

  David's voice was heavy, bitter. "Yes." He shook his gaze from the window. "The loans were originally made when Miss Abby was controlling the bank. The terms were perfectly reasonable. I counted myself fortunate to have her support. Brighton Oaks would have fallen to the Yankees on the weight of its taxes alone. Abigail saw that it didn't happen. She knew her return would be a long time coming, that an investment in what amounts to no more than a farm would be a risky undertaking at best. There was never any pressure while she had a firm hand in the running of the bank." He shrugged, lifting his hands in a helpless gesture that seemed to pain him. "Things change. Preston and Chandler have brought a certain amount of pressure in recent years. If I were to recognize Brooklyn as my niece, in effect name them for the liars they are, I doubt that Brighton Oaks would be mine for longer than it would take me to pack my things and move my family elsewhere."

  "We understand," said Brooklyn. "Really, we don't expect you to endanger everything you've worked for here."

  Ryland wished Brooklyn hadn't spoken for him. He didn't understand. Brooklyn's life was more valuable than any plot of land, no matter how large or how productive. Preston and Chandler could certainly bring pressure to bear on David Pendleton. But calling back the mortgage? That seemed extreme in the circumstances. It would lend credence to everything David was saying. There still was no proof that either of Brook's cousins was ultimately guilty of the deaths of William Maine or Phillip Sumner. Except for Ryland's gut feeling, there was nothing to connect them to Andrew's beating. If they were as cunning as Ryland suspected, they would accept Brooklyn as their cousin and turn the tables on Sarah, making it seem as though she deceived and duped them. It was unlikely that anything she could say to the contrary would be believed by anyone.

  Ryland considered putting these thoughts to David Pendleton, but something held him back, a certain finely honed second instinct, though Ry wouldn't have named it such. What he knew was based on perception, observation, and years of experience in similar matters. He preferred to think of it as knowledge at his fingertips, knowledge that could be retrieved at a moment's notice because it was so much a part of him. If pressed to the wall he could have clearly explained his uneasiness and done so in terms that had nothing to do with vague awareness or hinted at the mystical. But that always took time and often it was easier to let people believe he was guided by instinct. At the moment the knowledge at his fingertips told him to take another tack.

  "I can understand your concerns," he said, "but perhaps there is another way in which you can help us without endangering Brighton Oaks."

  David Pendleton pursed his lips and regarded Ryland thoughtfully. "If there is, I'd be pleased to do it."

  "I believe that Miss Abby is the key here. Brooklyn and I must have an opportunity to see her and state our case. Even if she does not accept Brooklyn as her granddaughter we will have planted a question in her mind. She’s very astute. I think she will want that question answered to her complete satisfaction."

  David frowned. "Miss Abby is not so astute as she once was. She's been ill for some time."

  "You've seen her?"

  "Only once. I paid a visit when I heard she had taken to her bed. I'm not certain she even knew me."

  "I'm willing to take the risk that she may not know me either," Ryland said, pressing on in spite of the small obstacles David continued to place in front of him.

  "Very well," David said, sighing gustily. "How can I help?"

  "I would like you to take Sarah out for a drive tomorrow while Chandler and Preston are at the bank. No one would remark upon it. As her uncle you have every reason to want to do something with her. You only have to keep her from the house for little more than an hour, just enough time for Brooklyn and me to talk to Miss Abby."

  "Sarah will not leave her," he objected. "For whatever reasons she's devoted to her care."

  "I have my own suspicions about that. It would fall on you to make certain she does leave."

  The room fell to silence as David thought it over. "I suppose I could take along one of the maids to stay with Miss Abby while Sarah and I went out. That would at least stop Sarah from saying there was no one to care for her grandmother, and it would give you easy access to the house."

  Ryland leaned forward in his chair. His fingers pushed impatiently at a copper-threaded lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. "Then you know that Chandler and Sarah have dismissed most of their servants."

  "Indeed. Some of them work for me now."

  "You didn't think it was odd that they should be given notice while miss Abby was ill?"

  David was visibly offended. "I had no reason to question Chandler's motives then or Sarah's deceit. As I said, Sarah appears to be devoted to her grandmother."

  Brooklyn broke in before Ryland could comment. "It was very kind of you to take in the servants," she said soothingly. "And of course there was no reason for you to think anything was not as it should be. Ryland and I have been part of this nightmare for so long we tend to be suspicious of everything. Forgive us."

  Some of the stiffness went out of her uncle's shoulders. "I suspect that you're both very tired," he said. "Naturally you will stay here this evening. I can offer you that much. Let me ring a servant to show you to your room. Perhaps you'll both sleep easier knowing I intend to do as you've asked. I'll make it possible for you to see Miss Abby tomorrow afternoon."

  Ryland and Brook were shown to a large guest room on the second floor. It was at the end of the hallway, placed well away from the family's bedchambers. Brooklyn was glad for the measure of privacy it afforded because she was furious with her
husband.

  "I don't understand you," she whispered harshly, moving across the room to put some distance between them. "You were the one who decided we should come here and then your behavior verged on being rude! I saw how you looked at my uncle when he said he couldn't recognize me officially. Thank God you didn't say anything. And to question him about Miss Abby's servants as if he should have known what was going on, that was unwarranted. He has offered us his hospitality. He has even accepted our story, which is much more than I anticipated we could expect."

  "Perhaps he accepted it too easily," Ryland said quietly. He sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off his shoes.

  Brooklyn stepped closer to the bed, hands on her hips. "What is that supposed to mean?"

  "Just what I said."

  "You think he's involved, don't you?"

  "It crossed my mind."

  Eyes blazing, she nearly stamped her foot in frustration. "I'm sick to death of this, Ryland. You're being completely unreasonable. I'm tired of you raising my hopes and shattering them in the next breath. There is absolutely no reason for him to be part of what my cousins are doing. You heard what he said. The bank has his mortgage. You should be thankful he's offered to help us at all. You can be so... so infuriating."

  Ryland's voice became calmer in reaction to Brooklyn's rising fury. "Why are you so angry?" he asked.

  "Why?" she asked incredulously. "Because this is my family. These people are my blood. I want to like them, admire and respect them, even love them. And you're making them all out to be liars, thieves, and murderers." She took a deep breath and her shoulders sagged; her blistering cold eyes became infinitely sad. At her side her hands shook. She implored him. "What does it say about me?"

  Reaching for her hands, Ryland pulled her closer so that she stood between his outstretched legs. His thighs supported her. "What do you think it says about you?" he asked gently.

  "I'm just like them." A dry sob caught in her throat. "It's bred in the bone, Ryland. I'm a liar—"