Comfort and Joy (23 page)

During the brief sleigh ride, Maeve had joined in the chorus of hearty voices singing The Holly and the Ivy. Due to the crowded conditions of the sleigh, Maeve was forced to sit halfway upon her husband’s lap, an inconvenience she found delightful.

Although it was a cold night, there was no wind or falling snow. The area around the pond was well lit with gaslights, their bases wound with fresh holly and tied beneath the light with big, red bows. Even the benches scattered round the pond were decorated with crimson bows. Wellington’s servants stood by with jugs of hot cocoa and eggnog.

Minutes after they arrived, Maeve sat on a bench as Charles knelt before her, tying the new skates he’d purchased especially for her.

She leaned forward, close to him. “I think I should just like to watch for awhile,” she said in a hushed, confidential tone.

“You cannot learn by watching, Maeve.” He stood up, towering over her, and held out his hand.

Charles towered over most of Spencer’s guests. But it was not only his height that made him so compelling, his patrician features, so finely hewn, were a riveting factor. His broad, solid frame appeared even more striking in his long, fur-lined coat. Early on, he’d discarded his hat. His hair, thick and dark, gleamed beneath the flickering light. The tips of his ears were red, and his dazzling smile as white as fresh snow.

Maeve would do anything for Charles. She would even attempt to skate. She took his outstretched hand.

Charles pulled her up to his side and wrapped a supportive arm about her waist. Her ankles wobbled. Her heart sank.

“Easy now,” Charles cautioned. “We’re going to skate onto the ice now. It will feel different, but I’ll be holding you until you gain speed.”

“Speed?” Saints above!

In the center of the ice Stella, dressed in her navy coat and ermine muff, twirled once and began to skate backward. The show-off! Maeve would not even be standing if it were not for Charles’s arm around her. The solid strength of him gave her courage. And she needed courage for this unnatural act.

“Speed gives us balance,” Charles told her. “You’ll see.”

Determined to master the sport for Charles’s sake, Maeve was hampered by ankles that kept buckling inward. All around her, his friends skated with ease. Young men and women glided by, hand in hand. Some of the fellows raced and all obviously were enjoying themselves—but Maeve.

She had to skate. She had to fit into this group of Charles’s friends. A knot formed in the base of her belly. What was she thinking? How could she ever be accepted by the cream of Boston society?

Charles had maneuvered them to a rather frightening speed but surprisingly, Maeve felt stronger on her feet, more secure on two thin blades than she ever imagined. The sting of the cold nipped at her face, an exhilarating sensation that made her laugh. Or maybe she was laughing because she was skating. Charles released her with a gentle push and she skated solo. Triumphant! Straight ankles and on her feet.

Maeve raised her arms and screamed in delight.

Boom.

And then, somehow she was on her bottom, sliding across the pond.

Charles skated to her side and helped her up, encouraging her with his great, hypnotic grin and rallying words. “You’ve got the idea!”

She fell three times more.

Charles showed no sympathy, only laughing and coaxing her to try once more. “This is the way everyone learns to skate, Little Bit.”

Her husband’s support strengthened Maeve’s determination. He never strayed from her side. And she loved hearing his laughter. Each day it seemed Charles laughed more often, more easily. Each day she loved him more.

After an hour of spills and shaky starts, Maeve finally skated on her own. Many of those who’d watched her final victory glided up to congratulate her. She accepted their smiles and friendly words as genuine. But as soon as Charles went off to race with Spencer, she collapsed on the nearest bench.

Pansy, a longtime member of the young society crowd, had come to the party as well. She brought a steaming mug of hot cocoa to Maeve and sat down on the cold bench beside her.

“You’re a fast learner, Maeve. It took me weeks to learn how to skate.”

“I don’t believe you. More likely you mastered the skill in little more than a minute.”

Pansy laughed. Dressed warmly in a nut-brown coat and matching hat, she looked different somehow. Her eyes shone brighter, her cheeks glowed and her tight, rusty-red curls brushed against her coat in splendid contrast. “All right. It was less than weeks but more than a minute.”

Maeve grinned. She was so grateful for Pansy’s friendship. Pansy Deakins might have strange ideas, but she had accepted Maeve as an equal even when Maeve had served as her maid. If it were not for her hazel-eyed friend, who would have spoken with her during Beatrice’s party or sat with her tonight?

“I fear it will take me weeks before I feel comfortable,” Maeve sighed.

“Well, you certainly earned the respect of this group tonight.”

“Do you think so?”

“I know so. It takes courage to learn to skate before twenty or more people.”

Maeve basked in the ray of hope Pansy had just offered as her friend sipped at her cocoa.

“Maeve, have you seen your brother recently?” she asked after a moment of silence.

Maeve’s gaze was on Charles, skating in sure, swift strides around the pond with his friend. “No, but I will have to chase after him soon.”

“Do you think he has the information you need?”

“If anyone can discover who attacked Charles, it will be Shea. I have more confidence in him than in the private investigator Charles has hired.”

“Shea is intelligent?”

“Of course. He’s an O’Malley,” Maeve teased. But then, seeing the dreamy look in her friend’s eyes, she became serious quickly. “Don’t be getting any ideas about Shea,” she warned. “You’re a friend of mine and I shall be frank with you. My brother has a roving eye.”

“Perhaps because he has not found the right woman.”

“Perhaps, but you know your parents would not approve of a man like Shea. They expect you to marry a man like Spencer Wellington.”

“I have known Spencer Wellington all of my life.” Pansy made the remark as if their long acquaintance alone made Spencer ineligible as a mate.

“Please, Pansy, do not spend time thinking about Shea. It can come to naught. And if your mother even suspects that you’re mooning over an Irish boxer, she’ll send you clear out of the state.”

“I want to see him box.”

“What?” The thought horrified Maeve.

“I have been a good friend to you, Maeve. Please arrange this one thing for me. If you do, I shall never ask another favor and I shall never ask about Shea again.”

Maeve’s misgivings weighed like a boulder tied to her heart. If she were thrown in the ocean at the moment, Maeve would sink like a brick. But how could she refuse the first time Pansy ever had asked anything of her?

“We shall see Shea box together,” she agreed quietly.

“Oh. Oh.”

“What?”

“Stella is headed our way.”

Maeve’s evening was rapidly falling apart. She had managed to avoid Stella by remaining in her rooms most of the day, busy with her lessons and finishing the knitting of Shea’s Christmas sweater.

Stifling an inward groan, she greeted Stella with a smile and a kindness. “You are an accomplished skater. I admire your skill.”

“Thank you, Maeve. Hello, Pansy.”

Pansy said nothing in reply, only inclining her head as if she were waiting for a shoe to fall.

And it did.

“I should like to have a woman-to-woman chat with you at your earliest convenience, Maeve.”

Stella’s wooden smile did not distract from the bright, cold gleam in her eyes.

Maeve suppressed the urge to run.

* * * *

The man who preferred to think of himself as Samson prepared to leave for the night. He was deep in thought when he heard the soft rap and then the jingle of the bell as the door opened. He hurried from his back office to find his accomplice.

The big man’s patched jacket appeared to be two sizes too small. The dirt-brown wool stretched across his wide frame and the sleeves fell inches short of his thick wrists. He held a knit cap in his hands.

“What are you doing here, O’Brien? I warned you never to come here again.”

The oafish man nervously shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Had to.”

‘‘No. You could have sent a message and I would have met you in the Common as we agreed. Or don’t you recall?” He was as impatient with himself as with the boxer. He should have known better than to hire a man who’d had his brain knocked about like Bill “Spit” O’Brien.

“This couldn’t wait.”

Hope leaped in his heart. “Has Charles Rycroft met with an accident?”

The big man shook his head. “No. Ah’m needin’ more money.”

Samson slapped the heel of his hand against his forehead. “You fool.”

“I never did in a man before — on purpose,” O’Brien said.

Speechless, Samson could only stare at the only human link to his crime. How had he, a respected businessman, been reduced to keeping such company? What began as a simple plan several weeks ago had taken on unforeseen complications. Now he felt as if he lived in another man’s body, and that body was quickly being pulled under by a sucking quagmire of quicksand.

A shudder ripped through him and he shook the black thoughts away. If he could keep his head up for a few more weeks, he would be out of the country and all of this unpleasantness would be behind him. Everything would be fine.

Stroking the waxed end of his mustache, he narrowed his eyes on the nervous hulk standing before him like a misbehaved child. “What do you want?”

“Ten dollars.”

“Ten dollars,” he repeated. Throwing his shoulders back, he tugged at his waistcoat. Unwilling to show his relief, he scowled. O’Brien could have demanded more and he would have had no choice but to pay. “Five.”

“No, ten.”

“Agreed then,” he said with a huff of annoyance. “But it’s the last money you will see from me. Do not think to blackmail me.”

The big fellow nodded. “It’s a big job.”

“What did you have in mind for Rycroft?”

“A runaway sleigh.”

This time it was he who nodded. “It happens. It’s common. A man can’t be too careful with all of the snow and ice we’ve been having. Do the job and report to me directly with your,” he paused, “success. I emphasize success. I shall walk in the public gardens every afternoon before tea.”

“Aye.”

“But I warn you, stay away from my place of business. Do not come here again.”

“Aye.”

He watched O’Brien lumber out the door and into the cold. After locking the door, he returned to the back office. The big lout revolted him, irritated him. Stroking his mustache, he deplored the state of the work force. It was impossible to find good help anymore.

But he could hardly scuffle with Charles Rycroft himself, could he?

He hadn’t the stomach for it.

Chapter Thirteen

“That was a close call cousin.”

Charles was shaken but not hurt as he walked through the doors of Rycroft Publishing with Martin the following morning. If it hadn’t been for Martin, the runaway coach that had veered off the street and toward the Rycroft building, most certainly would have hit him.

After leaving his coach, Charles had sauntered across the street with his head in the clouds. Martin, who had been briskly approaching the Rycroft Building from the opposite direction, saw the coach bearing down on Charles and rushed to shove him aside.

Apart from some bruises and dirt, neither of the men emerged the worse for wear. Although Martin’s favorite felt bowler was blown away.

“You might have saved my life this morning,” Charles said as he led the way into his office.

Downplaying his heroics, Martin undertook a rather pompous preening, straightening the bow of his narrow tie. “Of course I saved your life. Who would I argue with if you were gone?”

“Rycroft Publishing would be yours,” Charles said flatly, falling into the leather chair behind his immense mahogany desk.

“I have no desire to run the business by myself, Charles.”

“But you have been campaigning relentlessly for a monthly magazine.”

“A different matter entirely.” Martin finger-combed his hair and smoothed his beard and side whiskers as he spoke. “Rycroft Publishing must expand beyond books, and I see a monthly magazine as a viable, profitable way. You know very well that several of our competitors have already launched monthlies.”

Charles knew. He also knew Rycroft profits had diminished over the past year. The idea of taking funds from the slim profit margin to invest in a risky venture had put him off from the first His father never would have taken such a risk.

Steepling his fingers, Charles studied his tall, heavyset cousin, who now brushed unseen lint from his tweed jacket. “If you undertook such a major project, Martin, you would certainly be entitled to a substantial increase in salary.”

Martin raised both bushy eyebrows. “A substantial increase would be welcome. With a new home and a baby on the way, I find myself forced to practice a certain frugality for the first time in my life.”

“Quite understandable.” Charles leaned back in his chair, folding one long leg across the other. If Martin had been behind the theft of his St Nick sketch, his cousin would not be experiencing financial difficulties.

And if the big man really wished to take over Rycroft Publishing, he would not have saved Charles moments ago from what easily might have been a fatal accident. While Martin often drove Charles to distraction with his overbearing ways, he was not a criminal.

Charles had to ask himself why he had been resisting launching a monthly magazine. Was it simply because the venture had been Martin’s idea and not his? Or was it because after years of his father insisting Charles had neither the creative nor business head to lead Rycroft Publishing into a new era, he had to prove his father wrong by succeeding alone? Charles had committed himself to single-handed success even if it meant he had no life other than publishing.