The Rose of Winslow Street (17 page)

“Have you met the woman he claims is his sister?”

It was only for a moment, but Mirela's delicate frame and porcelain beauty were etched in her memory. “I have,” she said.

“Then come down and examine this photograph,” the judge ordered.

Her father was standing and looking up at her—not in anger, but in panic. His eyes were haunted and his Adam's apple bobbed while he twisted his bony fingers in anxiety. He was afraid. More than anything she longed to race downstairs and comfort him. No matter how bumpy their relationship, he did not deserve what was happening to him.

People shifted in their seats to let her pass down the narrow row. On trembling knees she walked down the staircase and then up the center aisle of the courtroom. Michael stood in front of the bar, his face drawn with concern as he watched her. Did he understand what he was asking of her? Identifying the girl in the picture seemed such a harmless thing to do, but he was asking her to drive the stake through her father's case.

When she reached the front of the room, the judge turned the photograph so she could see. The young man at the center of the portrait looked a little like Michael, with the same sculpted planes of his face and line of his nose, but he was of slighter build. Her focus shifted to the young girl in the portrait. The photograph must have been taken several years ago, because Mirela looked to be only thirteen or fourteen years old, but she had the same delicate beauty and gentle eyes. Hundreds of tiny pearls were sewn into the fabric of her dress and a small tiara rested on her head.

“Yes, this is the girl I saw living in my house.”

“You are certain?” Judge Frey was looking at her with sympathy in his eyes. After all, if her father lost this case, she would be homeless as well.

“I am certain,” she whispered. She looked at the other people in the young duke's family. The splendid clothing they wore displayed more wealth than Libby's father would earn in a lifetime. Michael Dobrescu was no peasant. He was the closest thing to royalty this town had ever seen. Even the elaborate certificate that recorded his birth was on embossed paper affixed with a satin ribbon. The duke's bold scrawl of a signature filled most of the lower half of the document. Then Libby's eyes widened.

In the space where Michael's mother should have signed her name, there was a small X. It was the universal sign of illiteracy, one she knew all too well. Libby could sign her name—her father had successfully drilled that much into her head—but the simple X Michael's mother had written made her intensely curious. And sympathetic to the woman.

The judge announced that he was satisfied with Michael's identity, and he proceeded to move to the substance of the case.

When Libby returned to her seat, Regina leaned over to whisper in her ear. “I hope your father's lawyer is smart enough to ask for a delay, as their entire case hinged on proving Mr. Dobrescu an imposter. The fool seems to want to plow ahead even though his other arguments are weak.”

As the hours passed, Regina's assessment proved accurate. Mind-numbing talk about property titles, due process, and statutory law dragged on for hours. Much of the audience dwindled away when it became apparent there would be no quick victory for the Sawyers. Time and again the law appeared to be on the Dobrescu side. Despite the professor's long tenure in the house, he never had clear title to purchase it. Even to Libby's unschooled eyes, it appeared Judge Frey was looking to throw any benefit of the doubt toward her father, but his lawyer was inadequately prepared.

Through bleary eyes, the judge looked at her father's lawyer. “Mr. Colberg, can you cite any case law that would allow the title of a house to revert back to the state in the event an heir never files a claim on said property?”

“I have not yet investigated that issue, but I'm certain such case law exists.”

Libby could practically hear Regina roll her eyes. “That is the foundation of the entire case, and the fool didn't bother to look it up,” Regina muttered.

“My father hired him because he has been the college's attorney for three decades and he could get a reduced fee,” Libby whispered.

The judge banged his gavel. “I am going to postpone the hearing until more research can be conducted. I am sympathetic to Professor Sawyer's concerns regarding the mechanical drawings that have gone missing from his house. Given these are directly related to his livelihood, I am giving the professor or his representative several hours of access to the house to thoroughly search the premises for his property. Sheriff Barnes will accompany you, and I suggest that the Dobrescus vacate the house while the search is being conducted. I gather there was some unpleasantness the last time Miss Sawyer searched the house.”

A flush heated Libby's face at the memory of being hoisted out of her bedroom by Michael Dobrescu. He manhandled her as though she weighed no more than a loaf of bread. She tried to summon the sense of outrage she'd felt that day, but how strange that all she could feel was affection. How typically Michael, to barge forth and defend his family with whatever tools he had at his disposal. Act first, think later. Lady Mirela was lucky to have such a champion on her side.

For Libby had no one.

Michael felt like a leper.

As spectators left the courtroom, their steely glares burned him. When he left the courthouse, people drew away from him, turning their backs and pulling their skirts aside. Even Libby appeared shaken and reluctant to speak with him as she pushed through the crowds toward her father.

It did not matter. Among the dozens of people leaving the courtroom, there was only one person he needed to see. Dominic Sterescu was a stranger to him, but a dangerous stranger. Across the courtyard, the young man was only a few steps away from boarding a carriage and leaving town. If Sterescu got away before he could be neutralized, Michael's hard-fought victory in smuggling Mirela out of Romania would be jeopardized.

Michael shouldered through the crowds, jostling a man off the path and almost causing another to stumble down the steps of the courthouse. He quickened his step to bound across the yard and toward the street. Dominic Sterescu had already opened the door of the carriage and was about to step inside. “Sterescu!” he shouted in his command voice. “Wait! Don't go.”

The young man paused and looked over his shoulder. With reluctance, he lowered his foot and turned to face Michael. “Mr. Dobrescu,” he said with a brief nod. “I'm sorry if my testimony put you in a difficult position, but my first loyalty must be to the duke.”

Sterescu spoke in Romanian and Michael answered in the same language. “I have no argument with you,” he said as he extended his hand. After a moment of hesitation, the younger man shook his hand, but when he sought to withdraw it, Michael's grip tightened and refused to let go.

“I have no argument with you,” Michael repeated in a low voice, “but I know who you are, and I know why you were expelled from the University of Bonn. I do not believe your new employers in America would be pleased to know the Romanian agent they have hired has been disgraced and branded as a cheater in the circles of Europe.”

A flash of anger lit Sterescu's eyes, but Michael maintained his iron grasp on the man's hand. “I repeat, I have no argument with you. But if you tell my brother that I am in America, or that any of my family is here, I will blanket every American newspaper with advertisements that announce your shameful past at the university.”

Michael stared hard into Dominic Sterescu's troubled eyes. Sterescu's disgrace when he was caught cheating on a philosophy exam was eight years ago, but that sort of stain lingered on a man's reputation. A stupid mistake made by an eighteen-year-old should not carry a life sentence of shame, but that was what Sterescu faced if Michael carried out his threat.

“Both of us are seeking a new start here,” Michael said slowly and carefully. Winning clear title to the house on Winslow Street would be a minor victory compared with the real prize he had won for Mirela, and it would be jeopardized without this young man's cooperation. “I have no desire to cause you harm, and will keep your secret as long as you keep mine. My brother,” he said slowly and clearly, “is
never
to learn we are here.”

A tightening of the young man's hand and a firm return of the handshake gave Michael hope. “Mr. Dobrescu, as far as I am concerned, I never saw you today, and I never intend to see you again.” This time when Sterescu tried to withdraw his hand, Michael permitted it. “I would rather submit my body to a living autopsy than return to Romania. I look forward to a long and happy life in America, and I wish the same for you.” He turned and mounted the steps to the carriage. “What Enric doesn't know won't hurt him.”

Michael rubbed a thumb along the thinly ridged scar as he watched the carriage roll down the street, remembering the rage that burned in his half brother's eyes the day he brought the riding crop slashing down against Michael's face. Michael prayed Sterescu was wise enough never to carry tales back to the Duke of Vlaska.

His jaw tightened as he pondered his dilemma. From the moment his brother was born, that child had been showered with gifts, land, titles, and power, and yet still Enric seethed with jealousy over the love their father had so freely bestowed upon his illegitimate son. Enric had managed to control evidence of his resentment while their father was alive, but once the old duke was dead, there was very little to contain the simmering envy that burned inside him.

Even if Michael won clear and undisputed title to the house on Winslow Street, it would be years before he could be certain Enric's power could not reach them there. Mirela's actions in the greenhouse put them in a more precarious position than ever, for if Enric ever learned of that suicide attempt . . .

Michael forced the thought away. In a perfect world, he and Mirela would have assumed new names in America that would have insured their anonymity, but his need to secure title to his uncle's house precluded the use of false names. Always there was the danger that Enric might someday learn where he had fled with Mirela, and Michael could only pray that Mirela was fully healed before that day came.

T
he boughs of the pine branches were rocking in the stiff autumn breeze, the tiny seedpods nestled deeply among the needles. A dusting of early snow gave a pale cast to the tiny berries, which would soon feed birds.

Libby snapped awake from the dream, memories of the red juniper tree still vivid in her mind. She knew
exactly
where they were. The trees were down in the DeRooy valley, named after the old Dutch settler who had first tried to set up a trapping company there. She saw the cluster of red juniper trees when she was searching for the wild echinacea that sometimes grew in the valley. The trees were growing all along the western bank of the steeply sloped valley wall. There must have been dozens of them.

She sat up in bed, wishing she could tell Michael about the red juniper trees. It had been two days since the court case, two days since she had learned Michael was no imposter out to swindle them. The niggling fear that Michael might be a fraud had kept Libby's wayward fantasies in line, but now they had broken free and were running rampant through her every waking thought. The sight of Michael wrestling with his children in the yard, Michael following her around the house to smell her hair, the strength of his shoulders as he picked up a barn door to haul it out of the way. He wasn't a fraud, he was exactly what he presented himself to be. A bold, hearty man who adored his family and plowed through any obstacle to care for them. She sprang out of bed and yanked on her clothes, anxious to find Michael and tell him about the red juniper trees.

Unfortunately, Regina had other plans. “I have the most fabulous news,” she said as she snapped a white tablecloth over the table in the backyard garden. “I've invited guests to a luncheon and I need your help.” She sent Libby a wink. “I think you and your father are going to be very pleased.”

There was no avoiding it. The entire household was buzzing with curiosity about Regina's surprise, and Libby would need to wait at least until after the meal to escape notice and visit the Dobrescus.

They set out a platter of cold ham, bowls of chilled cinnamon apples and cucumber salad, a plum cake, and a basket of poppy seed muffins. Next to a pitcher of water, a bottle of champagne rested in a crystal bucket of ice. There were two extra places at the table, but Regina stoically refused to reveal the identity of the guests.

Libby cut some flowers from the garden to make a centerpiece. Twice she rearranged the flowers in the vase of water, each time wondering what Michael would think of the arrangement. She knew if he were there, he would not comment on their appearance, rather he would be interested in the combination of scents. Amidst a handful of fern leaves she had inserted a few sprays of indigo salvia mixed in with sweet alyssum. Both were nice, but the fragrance was subtle. The real power of the bouquet was in the single stalk of an oriental lily in the center of the vase. Was it a good choice for the salvia and sweet alyssum? Or too overpowering? She didn't know if it was a suitable match with the salvia, but she was certain Michael would have an opinion.

There my mind goes again
, she thought. She could not even set the table without thinking of the man. The kitchen window slid open with a rasp and her father leaned his head out the window. “Regina's visitors are here,” he said. “They are coming straight back.”

Libby cast one last look at the table and could not resist a final tweak to the angle of the lily in the centerpiece. She turned to greet the visitors as Regina led them around the house on the garden path, followed by Jasper and Tillie. The two men were of similar height, both middle-aged, both with neatly groomed and oiled dark hair. Even their small, clipped mustaches were identical. Libby raised her brows. Twins?

“And this is Libby Sawyer, the professor's maiden daughter,” Regina said in her exquisite southern accent as she strolled into the garden.

At least she did not say
spinster
, Libby thought as she stepped forward to greet the men. “Libby, this is Mr. Mark Radcliff and Mr. Raymond Radcliff. The Radcliffs are well known as the very best estate attorneys in all of New England. Better yet, they have experience with international wills and estates. They have agreed to take on your father's case.”

“How very kind of you,” Libby murmured, but her mind was racing. The men were elegantly attired, with fine silk weskits and each of them sporting a watch hanging from heavy gold chains. When Libby looked at her father, she saw him shifting in anxiety and knew exactly what he was thinking. Attorneys like this would cost a fortune.

Regina was already pouring drinks and inviting the guests to sit. Mr. Auckland had been invited as well. Regina spooned some cinnamon apples onto a plate as she chatted with the attorneys.

Her father had yet to sit. He cleared his throat and touched Regina's elbow. “Regina, if I might ask for your assistance inside the kitchen?” he asked quietly. “It will only take a moment.”

Libby rose from her chair. “I'll go as well,” she said. Once inside the house, she could see her father struggling to find the words, but Libby was not so diplomatic.

“Those men must cost a fortune,” she said in a harsh whisper.

“Not to worry, dearest. I have already covered their fee.”

Her father's eyes nearly bulged from his head. “Jasper doesn't make that sort of income. Those men could put us both in the poorhouse.”

Regina patted her father on the arm. “Nonsense. You remember those little green earrings I received for my tenth birthday? I always told Jasper they were merely green glass, because I just assumed they were. What sort of parent gives a ten-year-old real emeralds?” She shrugged her shoulders as a gorgeous blush tinted her ivory cheeks. “Well, it was before the war and my Mama always did like fine things. Turns out those earrings were the genuine article, and I traded them in for a little pin money to fund the Radcliffs' fee. So everything is taken care of, and soon you will have your house back. I am certain of it.”

Her father sank into a chair and Libby's hand flew to her throat. Regina had always been nonchalant about allowing Libby to enjoy her cast-off clothing and perfume, but never had her generosity included something as grand as emerald earrings. The only time Libby could recall seeing them was when Regina wore a tailored riding habit identical in shade to the earrings. Still, she was shocked. Her father seemed equally confounded. “Regina, those earrings must be very precious to you.”

Regina leaned down to embrace her father-in-law, still collapsed into his seat. “Nonsense, Willard. We are all family now and I am determined to see that you get your house back. That college attorney you were using was no match for the case you are up against and the Radcliffs are the very best. Positively
lethal
in the courtroom, I am told.” She whirled away in a flounce of perfumed voile and laughing good spirits, while Libby stood in dazed disbelief.

Her father lowered his head, rubbing his forehead in agitation. “I don't know what to say,” he finally stammered.

Libby drew a steadying breath. The gift was substantial, but it would not have seemed so strange had it come from Jasper. It was likely that her father would lose the house if they could not reverse the avalanche of evidence that had emerged to weigh against them. Those two attorneys sitting in the garden might be the only chance her father had of holding on to his home.

Libby knelt down to look at her father directly. “The earrings are already gone and the fee has been paid,” she said quietly as she took his hand. “I think you should accept the gift, and we will figure out a way to repay Regina's kindness later. After we are back in our home.”

The strength in her father's fingers as he squeezed her hand was reassuring. She could forgive his surliness over the past few weeks. What man would not be thrown off-kilter after what Michael Dobrescu had done to him?

When they rejoined the luncheon, the rest of the occupants at the table had already begun to eat. Libby pulled Tillie onto her lap while they dined and the Radcliff brothers entertained them with stories of their trips to Venice. Libby had never traveled outside of Massachusetts and she was eager to hear about Europe, but her father was impatient to get down to business.

“The judge granted me permission to search the house for my mechanical drawings,” he said, creating an abrupt break in the conversation. “All day yesterday I inspected that house with a fine-toothed comb, but the drawings aren't there. The gypsies have taken them. I want to know what my options are.”

The laughter and conversation sputtered to a halt. Only the drone of a few insects flitting about the delphiniums filled the air. Finally, the lawyer closest to her father set his glass down.

“Mrs. Sawyer mentioned your concerns about the missing drawings,” he said. “We can make a motion regarding the contents of the house, but this is a separate and distinct issue from the title to the house.”

Regina waved her fan in front of her face. “Personally, I think they probably used them for kindling. Gypsies are prone to doing that sort of thing.”

“What's a gypsy?” Tillie asked.

Libby stroked a curl from the girl's forehead. “It is not a very nice word,” she said gently, shooting Regina a dark look over Tillie's head.

“I want to annihilate that man,” her father growled. “He has taken my house. He has taken my drawings. I swear by all that is holy he is trying to take my daughter.” At Libby's gasp, her father whirled to fix her with an angry glare. “Yes, my daughter! That man has more tricks up his sleeve than a traveling magician. Don't think he is fascinated by your charms, Libby. The man only wants to take whatever is mine.”

The summer heat suddenly escalated and Libby fought the temptation to stand and flee the table. “Now, Willard,” Mr. Auckland said. “Libby is a fine and sensible girl any man would be proud to have.”

Regina rose and topped off the professor's glass. “It is too nice a day to be worried about that nasty Mr. Dobrescu,” she said in her infinitely sweet voice. “The Radcliffs are going to take care of him in short order and all this unpleasantness will be behind us, right?”

Her father only grunted, but Mr. Raymond Radcliff sensed her father's unquenchable need to strategize against the Dobrescus and proceeded to outline his plan of attack.

Libby's gaze traveled around the lush greenery of Regina's splendid garden. No matter how lovely the garden, how clear the summer day, it was impossible to be in her father's presence without the corrosive taint of his bitterness seeping out to spoil the mood. He had cause to be aggrieved, but did that mean they could not enjoy the beauty of the day? Their plates were filled with food, their bodies were healthy and warmed by the summer sun. They had friends, family, and now the assistance of the best attorneys. Couldn't he find a few minutes to enjoy what blessings he had, rather than enumerating what was lost?

She watched a bumblebee gorge itself on a delphinium in full bloom, which was much more fascinating than the tense legal jargon surrounding her. There were always people in this world who counted their grievances, rather than giving thanks for their blessings. There was a time when Libby had done the same. From the age of five, when her appalling inability to read first became apparent, until the day Mr. Auckland rescued her in the library and gave her permission to quit trying, Libby had subjected herself to daily castigations of her shortcomings. She had learned to break herself of the habit.

After all, Father is always on hand to remind me of them,
she thought as she suppressed a wry smile.