Blue Waltz (7 page)

56 Linda Francis Lee

thought, but sobered quickly enough when she remembered her unfortunate circumstances. Nevertheless, she was reassured that this man hadn't seen her leg or any other part of her unclothed body. No doubt he sat there now to protect his precious domain. It was a maid who had disrobed her, surely, though why, she couldn't imagine. But understanding was the least of her concerns just then, departing was.

She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, quietly, doing her best not to wake the man. She had to get out of there, preferably without him knowing, wrapped in the sheet, if that was all that was available. But when she looked around the rest of the room, she found her clothes neatly folded before a fire that burned low in the grate.

With a stealth that would have made a dime novel detective proud, Belle slipped from the bed, her long, dark hair cascading down her slim form. She grimaced only once when her bad leg hit the floor, then she tiptoed across the room, threw her dress over her head, not bothering with the nuisance of undergarments, pulled on her shoes, bundled the rest of her clothes under her arm, before she snuck out the door. She made it through the semi-dark hallway, then down the long curving staircase, without laying eyes on a single soul except for the frozen-eyed gazes of what must have been ancestors to this household whose portraits lined the walls. Not until she turned the knob and pulled open the massive front door did it occur to her that she was barely dressed, with no cape in sight, and she had no idea how far away she was from home.

But her concerns proved unfounded when she stepped outside onto an elegant, polished brick walk of what was clearly an expensive home. In the Back Bay. On Arlington Street. Across from the Public Gardens. Good Heavens! She was no further away from her own house than twenty yards!

Twenty yards away from home!

She staggered back a step before catching herself on a granite pilaster when she realized she had just been in the house of the man whose music she had heard through the wall, and whose myriad guests had danced long into the night.

Good Lord, she had just slept naked, for reasons unknown, in the bed of the dark, dangerous pirate-man who lived next door.

CHAPTER 6

"You really should take it easy on that arm, Stephen."

Stephen glanced out the window of a room that stood just off the foyer, overlooking Arlington Street and the Public Gardens. For most people, this space would have been used as a receiving room. Stephen had turned it into his study, with thick red draperies, plush Oriental rugs, dark woods, and row after row of leather-bound books.

His doctor stood beside the heavy, finely wrought mahogany desk, the man's wire spectacles perched on his nose. "Really, Stephen. You have to be careful."

Stephen didn't bother to tell the doctor that he had been extremely careful—until last night. "I heard you the first time, Harold."

"Well, it's just that if you're not cautious, the shoulder will never heal."

"I didn't ask about healing, I asked about movement. Will I or won't I ever be able to move my arm again?"

The doctor appeared to grow uncomfortable and became absorbed in arranging his medical instruments in his black leather satchel.

"Harold?"

The doctor's heavily lined face creased further in consideration. Harold Mayfield had been Stephen and Adam's doctor for as long as Stephen could remember, and their father's before that. It had been Harold who

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had come to the house twenty years before and told the boys of their parents' death.

The memory was shrouded in a haze of cold and pain. An icy winter night. Slick, frozen roads over an old, narrow bridge. Swerved to miss an oncoming carriage. Crashed through the wooden railing. Died instantly.

What Stephen remembered most clearly of all was being seventeen years old and trying to comprehend the fact that his parents were never coming home.

Adam had only been twelve at the time and had never been the same again.

Stephen had taken over. He had tried to fill his father's shoes. But at seventeen or twenty-seven, and even now at thirty-seven, more often than not he knew he fell short—at least where Adam was concerned.

John St. James, Jack as everyone had called him, had been a big man, a happy man, a man who knew everyone's name and used them frequently. He had loved life, and it had loved him—at least until that night so many years ago when his luck ran dry, pinching out the flame that had burned so brightly and intensely that, when it was gone, many were left alone in the dark. Even now, twenty years later, Stephen missed the man as much as he had that first day, perhaps even more.

Harold finally snapped his bag shut and sighed. "Well, if I'm to be straight with you, Stephen, I don't hold much hope for your shoulder to be of much good to you any longer. At least not in the way you're used to. You'll get accustomed to it, though. I've seen it before. The body adjusts. Amazing thing, the body. Just like a three-legged dog gets along just fine without that missing leg."

Stephen looked on, his face tight in stony silence.

Harold seemed to realize that comparing Stephen's condition with a three-legged dog was not the most reas-

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suring of comparisons. He hemmed and hawed, then added, "You should be thankful you aren't dead, son. A couple of inches lower, and that bullet would have gone right through your heart." His head bobbed up and down. "And we both know what that would have meant. So don't go dwelling on not being able to use the arm any longer. Just be thankful you're alive."

Stephen considered the words, putting them at a distance, unwilling, or perhaps unable, to deal with the reality of what the doctor had said. He had already experienced the impotent anger of weakness last night in the park. How would he ever be able to get used to living without the use of his arm?

"Stephen?"

He focused and found the man staring at him. "Thank you for your honesty, Harold," he said, his tone clipped. "Now, if you've poked and prodded your fill, I have work to do."

Harold stood nonplussed for the moment, seemingly uncertain as to what he should do. At length, he only shrugged his shoulders, gathered his bag, and departed.

Stephen turned back toward the window. The day was brisk and cold. Winter was here to stay. No more teasing days of fall, only harsh bitter cold that would wrap the city in its unforgiving grip until April—March if they were lucky. He watched, very still, as Harold heaved himself into his carriage before the driver snapped the whip in the air, and the ancient brougham rumbled off down the cobbled street. Just when Stephen started to turn away, a hired hack pulled up. It was Adam who stepped out, paid the driver, said something that made the man laugh, then headed for the door.

Since the night of the shooting, Adam had rarely been around, unavailable when Stephen had wanted to

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question him. Now, as the front door quietly opened, then very carefully closed, after which Adam headed straight for the stairs, it appeared that he would try to avoid the issue, or at least Stephen, again.

"Adam!" Stephen barked, his frustrations seeping through, his normally iron-clad control strained.

Adam hesitated at the bottom of the staircase, before he turned toward the study with a sigh. He crossed the marble foyer in a few reluctant strides, then walked into the study. His sandy blond hair was disheveled, looking as if he had used his fingers rather than a brush to comb the strands. Even his smile was tired. Without a word, he dropped down into a casual sprawl on the leather sofa. "Comfy, is it new?"

"You look like hell!"

Adam raised an eyebrow. "You don't look much better yourself, dear brother." But as soon as the words were out, he seemed to wish them back. His poise became less relaxed, and his handsome face became strained.

"No, I suppose I don't." Stephen's laugh was harsh.

Pushing himself up, Adam said, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It's no wonder you don't look—"

"Tell me about this house situation." Stephen cut him off, having no interest in discussing his arm any further. "I've been waiting two weeks to learn the details of the sale."

Adam sighed, running his hand through his hair. "It's done, Stephen. The house is gone. Signed, sealed, and delivered. Forget it."

"I will not forget it." The words were laced with steely resolve. "Why did you sell it?"

For a moment it seemed that Adam would simply push himself up from the sofa and leave. Instead, he ran

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his finger along the seam of the cushion. "I needed the money."

"Again?"

"Yes, again, damn it!" Adam stood abruptly and came to stand toe to toe with his brother. "I needed the money! Again! Always again!"

Stephen's eyes narrowed and his full lips thinned in anger. "Who drew up the papers?"

Adam jerked away with a curse. "You won't give up, will you?"

"I think we both know the answer to that."

The clock ticked the minutes away as Adam simply stood there. At length he sighed. "Her solicitor drew up the papers."

"What was his name?"

"Wilkins. Or maybe it was Walker, Waller." He shrugged, the fight along with any traces of good cheer finally and completely gone. "Damn it, I don't know."

Stephen's good hand fisted at his side as he strained to keep himself under tight control. "Who took care of your side of the transaction? Nathan?"

Adam scoffed. "Your assistant wouldn't give me the time of day, much less help me with the sale of my house."

"Because he knows I wouldn't have approved."

"What, of giving me the time of day?"

"Your insolence is not appreciated."

"Nor has it ever been," Adam snapped.

This time Stephen ran his hand through his hair. "Just tell me who represented your interests."

"Jesus, Stephen. Why can't you just leave it alone?"

Stephen's jaw clenched. "Who represented your interests?"

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With a dejected bow of his head, Adam said, "Peter Maybry."

"Peter Maybry! He's a crook."

A dry smile etched Adam's face. "My kind of guy."

Stephen pursed his lips, hating this, hating that the only interaction he had with his brother, his only living relative, always turned out like this. But he had learned that hating the problem did nothing to solve it. "I'll have Nathan look into the matter. There isn't a contract written that can't be undone. And if Maybry was involved, all the better. He is notorious for bad contracts."

Stephen turned away and walked over to his desk.

"Is that it?" Adam asked, his tone insolent. "Am I dismissed? Sir?"

Turning back, Stephen looked at his brother. "Yes," he said finally, not knowing what else to say, what else he could say. But just when Adam got to the door, Stephen spoke, trying for a conciliatory tone. "What time are you leaving for the Abbots' dinner party? Perhaps we could go over together."

Without turning around, Adam said, "I hadn't planned to go."

Then silence.

"What do you mean, you hadn't planned to go? Elden and Louisa are lifelong friends. Their parents were friends of our parents, and our grandparents were friends before that. I don't believe I understand."

"Well, let's study this." Adam's voice dripped with sarcasm. "What part of that sentence don't you understand? The 'I hadn't planned' part, which should cause you no problem since you're always telling me I never make plans; or the 'to go' part, in which case you need English grammar assistance, which I am in no position to provide."

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"What is wrong with you?" The words exploded into the room, Stephen's restraint finally gone.

Surprise flashed across Adam's face, then turned almost instantly to resignation. "What do you want from me, Stephen?"

"I want you to be the man you are capable of being! That's all, and you know it!"

"But therein lies our problem, dear brother. I'm not a man who can direct a seventeen-fleet shipping line, or knows which buildings to buy and which to sell. I'm a man capable of little more than running through his inheritance in a matter of years, then living off the largesse of his older and clearly smarter brother. The man you want me to be and the man I am truly capable of being are two very different individuals. When are you going to accept that?"

"Never! Do you hear me? Never. I will never accept the fact that you have grown into manhood as a lazy, worthless, spendthrift who has no respect for who he is, or for the obligations a man of your stature is expected to fulfill."

"Then you're never going to accept me. Face it, Stephen, I am all those things you say, and more."

If it hadn't clearly been the middle of the day, with faded winter light falling through the window, Stephen would have sworn it was night—those hours in the darkness when everyone else in the world is asleep, though he lay awake, the promise of day beyond reach, his thoughts crowded by uncertainty. "What is wrong? You used to seem to care. What is it that you want?"

"What I want has nothing to do with honor and duty —something you could never understand. I'm not perfect like you! Everything I do is not perfectly proper, totally with honor."

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Without warning, a glimpse of naked white skin flashed through Stephen's mind. Silky smooth. Infinitely touchable. For one oppressive moment, the room stood silent. Still.

"You would never dream of doing anything that didn't fit into your strict sense of what is proper and honorable."

But Stephen hardly heard. He stared at his brother without seeing. He saw instead the image of himself, wrongly, sitting silently, not moving away. He sucked in his breath.

"They could write a book about propriety based on the way you live!"

His hand, extended above milk-white skin, longing to feel, as she slept, her mind in some safe nocturnal haven, unaware of his actions.

"No one can live up to your expectations. No one!"