The Men of Pride County: The Pretender (21 page)

“I’m takin’ care of things just fine, Daddy. You can trust me—”

“Trust you?” That bellow cost him long minutes of painful coughing. Finally, he concluded with a raspy chuckle. “I’d sooner put a serpent to my breast. I got my eye on you, boy, and you won’t betray me like your faithless mother did, you hear?”

Tyler waited for the sound of his father’s halting steps to carry the wasted figure back into his parlor lair, for the scent of sickness and the shivery sense of fear to abate before he took a deep, cleansing breath.

“You old bastard, you got no idea what I’m capable of. But you’ll find out,” he promised. “And won’t you be surprised. You’ll all be surprised.”

Chapter 15

W
ithin the week, replies to the Priors’ evening party began streaming in. Staring at the stack of affirmatives, Garnet felt panic press upon her. This would be her proving ground, and these people her judges. They were attending not out of friendship or respect, but because of curiosity.

They all wanted to see who had ousted Pride’s premier family. And all hoped to watch fireworks as they appeared under the same roof.

She would be scrutinized, categorized, and picked apart. Would any of them be fooled by the bluff she was learning to play under Hannah’s tutelage? Or would they all see exactly what she was—a backwoods girl who was buying her way into their circles with money she hadn’t earned?

Now she understood Deacon a little better. This was the playacting he had been called to do in the service of the South. Only he was a smooth professional, and she an amateur.

Beneath her determination to succeed was the
remembered truth that Deacon had surrendered up his first love because his family and peers found her unacceptable. If she wanted to be a part of his life, either directly or on the periphery, she would have to win over not just the tenderhearted Hannah, but his suspicious sister and the town’s elite. Once that task was accomplished, her only hurdle was Deacon himself.

Monty was right: she did love him. He continually impressed her with glimmers of humanity that seemed to surprise him as much as those around him. He was maturing from isolated aristocrat to a caring member of a community. And as uncomfortable as he was with the progression, he wore it well. A decent man lurked beneath his surface indifference. That was the man she’d fallen in love with and she was beginning to suspect that he was more that man than the coldly motivated spy who chose duty over emotional involvement.

Clutching at all she’d learned to steady her quaking knees and welcoming smile, Garnet stood in the parlor at nine o’clock to receive her guests, and for the next hour, bowed and smiled and struggled to remember the faces and names of the endless parade of Pride citizens come to shine in their dressy best. In a show of support that puzzled and invited whispering, Hannah Sinclair was often at her side, her hand lightly on Garnet’s elbow in a show of silent approval—almost as if she were bringing the young woman out into Pride society under her wing.

And the most puzzled of all was her son.

Deacon stood apart from the guests out of habit, and from that separate stand was able to observe the happenings dispassionately. He tried not to think about the last elaborate affair under the Manor’s roof. His mother and father had been the ones to receive the guests. His father, in a full dress uniform that had yet to see the wear of battle, was a handsome sentinel at his mother’s side.

Patrice had been a vivacious girl with the county’s blades hovering around her. That night, she’d announced her engagement to Jonah Glendower, Reeve Garrett’s half-brother. It was his father’s triumphant moment: his daughter set to wed in what he considered a prime match between the area’s most powerful families. He’d been proud and content. After the guests had gone he drew Deacon aside to pour modest glasses of bourbon and toast the future of the Sinclair name. Then he’d taken Deacon’s vow that his son would carry on in the family tradition if he didn’t return from the supposedly brief confrontation with the North. Deacon gave his oath with the same solemness with which his father had surrendered his life.

Thank God his father had never seen him break it.

“A lot’s changed since then.”

The sound of his sister’s voice and the gentle touch of her hand on his arm startled Deacon from his ruminations.

“Everything’s changed,” he amended, before
looking down at her. Heavy with Reeve’s child, she was no longer that flighty girl who’d bedeviled him when they were children. He liked the sensible woman his sister had become, and begrudgingly he admired her husband for his ability to protect her and make her happy.

She put a hand to the small of her back, reminding Deacon of her condition. His arm banded her in immediate support.

“Would you like to sit down?”

“No. I’d like to have this baby so folks would quit fussing so much. I thought Mama would have a conniption when I showed up, but Mrs. Prior insisted that I be here, fat with child and all. But for Mama’s sake, I’ll keep a low profile.”

Deacon glanced at her big belly. “That’ll be kinda hard to do.”

She poked his ribs with her elbow, then grew serious.

“She’s quite the hostess, your Mrs. Prior.”

Deacon’s features hardened, the light leaving his eyes. “She’s not
my
anything.”

Patrice didn’t bother arguing, which bothered him plenty.

“She’s very lovely. No wonder you fell in love with her.”

Squirming under his sister’s observations, Deacon switched his to the woman in question. Yes, she was lovely. Lovely and poised and looking every inch the society matron. As hostess, she was dressed for tactful understatement, not wishing to outshine any of her guests. He could
see his mother’s touch there. But why Hannah Sinclair would school her in etiquette the way she would a daughter was a mystery to him.

Garnet
was
every inch the lady. In her modest gown of pale blue moiré with a pattern of raised velvet flowers of the same subdued hue imprinted upon the full sweeping hem, she was every man’s dream of a hostess for his home: tasteful, refined, and yet simmering with an innate sensuality that all the manners in the world couldn’t contain. She was the kind of woman a man would show off on his arm with pride while dreaming of the night to come when propriety could be cast off along with elegant clothing. His stare cut to Montgomery Prior, who was chuckling over some story with Judge Banning. Is that what he was dreaming when his gaze touched fondly upon his bride?

Jealousy burned like a brand in Deacon’s heart.

“Deacon, I would like to sit down.”

Patrice’s quiet request called him back from his envious musings. With a solicitous hand upon her elbow, he guided her to the fringe of the company, holding her steady as she lowered into a chair like a freight wagon dropping a load of bricks. Reeve was instantly there to attend her, nodding to dismiss Deacon, then fussing until Patrice slapped at his hands.

“I’m fine,” she insisted testily.

But in studying her drawn expression, Reeve could see that wasn’t true.

“What’s wrong, ‘Trice?”

“Nothing that can be easily mended, I’m afraid.” Suddenly, her mood shifted. “Reeve, would you be good enough to fetch me a glass of lemonade? I find myself positively parched.”

She’d spotted Tyler Fairfax arriving with his sister, her best friend, Starla Dodge, and her husband, the town’s banker. The unlikely trio made her arch a brow, but she was quick to call Tyler over with a beckoning smile. He took up her hand in his gloved one and held it gently. His jaded stare softened with an affection reserved for her and Starla.

“I hope you don’t mind me sayin’ so, but darlin’, you sure look beautiful this evening.”

“I look like one of your bourbon barrels,” she complained, flattered nonetheless. She nodded toward Dodge. “It seems you’ve mended your fences with your brother-in-law.”

“The Yank?” Tyler shrugged. “He ain’t so bad. Star’s crazy for him, so what can I do?” His voice lowered a notch. “It would be bad form to kill him, now that he’s making me an uncle.”

Patrice’s gaze leapt to the always glamorous Starla, then back to her proudly grinning brother. “Starla and Dodge?” At his nod, she pouted. “Why didn’t she say something to me?”

“She wants to keep it quiet until she’s sure things will go well, after her losing the baby last time and all.” He looked away, uncomfortable with the topic and the painful memories that clung there. “The Yank, he spoils her something
fierce, and she swears she’s healthy as a hog, so I guess it’s all right to let you know.”

“I’ll scold her about it later. Sit down with me for a minute. We haven’t talked for ages.”

Tyler’s expression lost all its sharp edges, his look so needy, so anxious, it caused Patrice a moment of distress. The ill-will between them over the actions he’d taken against Reeve before their marriage put a damper on the friendship they’d once shared and suddenly, she realized that she’d missed it and him, the unrepentant scapegrace. She tugged at his hand, encouraging him to sit. His obvious pleasure twisted poignantly about her heart, but she blocked it in deference to her purpose.

“Tyler, what do you know about the Priors?”

The guarded look returned in a blink. “Why do you ask, darlin’?”

“I was just curious about how you came to sell the Manor to them.”

His caution intensified. “Patrice, I don’t want to get into no argument with you about your brother selling off the mortgage to me.”

She pressed his hand gently, as if she no longer felt any bitterness over that situation. “I don’t want to argue either.”

He regarded her warily for a moment, then fixed his attention on the comely Mrs. Prior. “She sought me out, wanting to buy the place. Real insistent, she was.”

“Wanting to buy any plantation?”

He shook his head. “No. Just this one.”

She followed his stare. “Why?”

“I don’t know, darlin’. You might want to ask your saintly brother what he done to make her want to pay three times what this place is worth just to stand there in that doorway, smiling at all the neighbors.”

The idea of getting her stoic brother to spill his guts concerning a lost love affair was as far-fetched as it was unlikely. So that left one alternative.

“Maybe I’ll just have to get to know Garnet Prior better.”

For the first half of the evening, Garnet concentrated on Hannah’s lessons. It was during this critical time that she would pass or lose her laurels. She circulated in an unobtrusive manner, speaking in a gently modulated voice, trying to commit the names of her guests to memory so as not to embarrass herself or them upon their next meeting.

As hostess, she was excused from dancing in the quadrilles. There were enough ladies to fill the sets, while Monty attended those who didn’t dance with a courtly charm that had them blushing. She noticed he paid particular attention to Hannah Sinclair, and if she noticed, so would others. Making note to speak to him about it, she had no time as the first half of the dance programme ended and guests were excused to a separate room for supper. Monty had offered his arm to the widow Sinclair, leaving
her adrift in a sea of unfamiliar faces. To her dismay, she saw Roscoe Skinner approaching. He was groomed and sleek and grinning like a fox. Something about the man made her inexplicably uncomfortable. Perhaps the directness of his stare that seemed to peel away her outer defenses to get at inner thoughts she’d prefer to keep private. Or the way Monty kept pushing them together.

“Might I escort you to supper, Mrs. Prior?”

She glanced up in surprise, staring at the elbow Deacon offered as if she’d never been extended such a courtesy before. In truth, it wasn’t one she’d expected from him. Then she saw his attention wasn’t focused on her, but rather on Roscoe. Her moment of tender anticipation faded. His gallantry was meant to thwart the new overseer, not to please her. Skinner drew up short, eyes narrowing at the interception of his plans, but he bowed as if there were no hard feelings. The glitter in his stare said there were plenty.

Glumly, her features set in lines as somber as his own, Garnet placed her fingertips upon Deacon’s sleeve so he could lead her, as hostess, into the dining room first. Monty brought up the rear as guests were seated agreeably, the host at one end, the hostess at the other. As her escort, Deacon wordlessly assumed a position at her side. After the salmon and fried smelt were trowled out to each guest, she was relieved when he offered her a glass of wine. She needed the fortifier with him so close at hand. Raising the first
glass, Deacon bowed to her as lady of the house, the other gentlemen following suit.

“I trust you are having an enjoyable evening,” Deacon murmured, never looking directly at her. “From all indications, you are a success.”

“Thank you.”
Thank you, Hannah
. “You are too kind.”

“No, I’m not. You know me better than that.”

Waiting for the servants to finish dishing up the meal, she was relieved from the obligation of answering. But yes, she did know better.

She did know that he could be kind, though he chose not to be. She noticed that the party guests went out of their way to give him plenty of space, addressing him only with polite nods of acknowledgment, as if afraid to confront him directly. She didn’t see him as an intimating figure, but rather as a lonely one. But before she could engage him in inclusive conversation, she caught a blur of movement darting in from the hallway under the table. Ulysses had somehow come to visit.

Oh no!

She was halfway out of her seat, gesturing frantically for the nearest waiter, when Boone burst into the dining room like a wildly galloping horse. He made a beeline for the table, too intent upon the chase to realize what Garnet saw at once: that he couldn’t easily fit between the guests or under the edge. He lunged, knocking the guests on either side from their seats as he disappeared beneath the table. Unfortunately, he
tangled in the scalloped lace hem of the linen cloth, dragging it under with him.

And all the place settings, wineglasses, and silver followed, avalanching into the laps of all those on that side of the table.