Linda Castle (6 page)

Missy blinked back her surprise and tried not to feel what she was feeling. It was silly, but for some strange reason she felt…hurt to see the woman so
intimate
with Brooks.

“I saw no reason to write,” Brooks said as he turned and looked at Violet. “When I left you were busy chasing a title.”

“It was all a great misunderstanding, darling.”

Darling.
The word hung like a sword.

“A misunderstanding?” The tone of Brooks’s voice was deadly. “It was a damn lot more than that.”

“Nonsense.” Violet removed her hand from his arm and tugged off her elegant, elbow-length glove. “It was nothing to me and I can prove it.” She held up her left hand and wiggled her fingers. Gaslight and candlelight glinted off a huge stone. “I am still wearing your engagement ring. I think that says it all.”

For the next few days Missy moped around Ellen’s house, reading the latest Godey’s magazine and practicing at solitaire, which Ellen taught her…trying to forget the scene at the brownstone. Then one day during breakfast Ellen surprised her.

“I think it is time we answered a few of these invitations.”

Missy looked up and blinked. She was still numb all over, except for the unaccountable pain in her heart.

Why should I care if Brooks is engaged?

She had asked herself the question a hundred times and more, but she never came up with an answer that suited. It could be that she had harbored some silly girlish fantasy about him. Or it could be that it was just such a shock. After all, he had never mentioned the golden beauty who wore his ring. It might be all of those reasons…or none of them.

“Did you hear me, Missy?” Ellen frowned and pointed to a pile of calling cards and small white envelopes. “Gregory Whitemarten was here again this morning, and Charles Rutheford.”

“I don’t want to see anybody,” Missy said glumly.

“No, you’d rather sit at home and let him win.”

Missy’s head snapped up. “What do you mean?”

“Cousin Brooks is having his cake and eating it, too, if you ask me.” Ellen plunked two cubes of sugar into her tea and stirred it savagely. “He’s got Violet Ashland hanging all over him, telling anyone who will listen that they will be married, and you are sitting at home pining away.”

“I am not pining.” Missy blinked at the harsh words. “What a silly notion.”

“Prove it,” Ellen challenged with a toss of her yellow curls. “If you aren’t smitten with my cousin and you are not pining, then pick one of these invitations.”

“Right now. I won’t believe another word you say unless you prove it.”

Missy narrowed her eyes and leaned forward. She shoved the stack of cards and envelopes around on the table while she glared at Ellen. “I can’t believe you would get such a dunderheaded idea, Ellen.” When she could
delay no more, she closed her eyes and picked up a slip of paper.

“Let me read it,” Ellen said as Missy stared at it blankly.

After glancing at it, Ellen swallowed hard, but then she inhaled deeply and looked Missy straight in the eye. “It is from Cyril Dover.”

“Which one was he?” Missy’s irritation had momentarily banished her misery over Brooks.

“He was the tall slim man with the blue eyes—the one who brought the bouquet of roses the morning after Aunt Patricia’s party.”

“Oh, him.” Missy sighed. “I guess he is as good as any of them to prove to you that I am not moping around because of Brooks. I don’t care one little bit that your cousin is engaged.”

Ellen’s brows rose over cornflower blue eyes full of doubt.

“Well, I don’t,” Missy reaffirmed.

F
or a few days Brooks went to his old haunts, including the theater and his favorite café, but everywhere he went he met with the memory of Missy’s dark eyes and the unwanted presence of Violet Ashland.

She kept turning up, clinging to his arm. It was all he could do to bite down on the inside of his mouth and remember that he had been given a gentleman’s upbringing. But it didn’t take long to realize that he was a changed man—a man who found the simpering blond beauty of Violet more annoying than intoxicating.

One gloomy morning when the clouds were a great gray frown across the eastern horizon, Brooks was staring into the dark brew at the bottom of his china coffee cup. He largely ignored the conversation of his mother and brother, enjoying a hearty breakfast.

When the doorbell rang, Tilly answered it, then appeared carrying a flat silver dish containing a white envelope.

Brooks barely stifled his groan. He had been expecting a long overdue summons from his eldest sister, Clair. He knew the envelope was going to contain a family invitation that would be unavoidable. Her parties were boring
affairs, attended by dozens of horse-faced girls of marriageable age and doubtful charms—and without a doubt Violet.

He drained the contents of his cup and stood up, ready to beat a hasty exit before Tilly reached him. But the bemused look on his mother’s face as she read what was written on the creamy card stock she’d plucked from the silver tray stopped him in his tracks.

“Mother, what is it?” he asked. “Not bad news?”

She glanced up, as if only becoming aware of his presence. “No, not a bit. It is an invitation to a garden party.” Her voice was soft and slightly bemused.

“Just as I thought,” he grumbled under his breath. Clair
was
throwing another of her boring dinner parties and wanted him there. Well, he wasn’t going to do it, not this time. He wasn’t going to be there for Violet to use as a crutch to reenter the social set she had left when she was chasing a duke’s title. She had scandalized herself, and he was not about to act as if it all never happened.

Brooks headed in the direction of the French doors and freedom. He was nearly there when Rod’s hearty chuckle stopped him. Against his better judgment he turned and found Rod’s face wreathed in a cunning smile.

“I haven’t seen a smile that wide since the last stock report, Rod.” Brooks crossed his arms at his chest and watched his brother. “What has made you so happy?”

“Read the invitation addressed to you.” Rod returned his invitation to the dish Tilly continued to hold. “Perhaps it will bring a smile to your long face. Lord knows I am tired of seeing you scowl. I swear, you’ve had a frown since the night of Miss O’Bannion’s introductory party.”

“I have not.” Brooks jerked the envelope from the tray and ripped it open. He was disgusted for allowing himself to be manipulated by family connections and social ties.
If his father wasn’t such a good friend of Horace Ashland’s, Brooks would simply call Violet a liar the next time she started all that nonsense about rings and engagement.

Hell, he just might do it anyway!

He scanned Ellen’s flowing script and felt the pace of his heart increase as he read. “A garden party…” His voice trailed off as he quickly read the entire invitation. “At Uncle Leland’s house. That might be nice.” He looked up to find Rod studying him, undisguised amusement twinkling in his brown eyes.

“Nice? Missy and Ellen are throwing a party and you think it is
nice?”

“Yes.”

Rod grinned. “And what a happy coincidence, brother, that you’ll finally get to see Missy O’Bannion again.” He rose from the chair and pulled on his coat.

“Why in blue blazes would I want to see Missy? I have rather enjoyed not having my hide flayed off.” Brooks cleared his throat and wondered why his pulse was racing like a runaway mustang.

The image of her dark eyes as she’d turned and left him standing with Violet had kept him awake more than one night. He just wanted to explain that he had no intentions of settling down with
any
woman. That was all.

Wasn’t it?

Rod shrugged. “It was just a joke, little brother. Take it easy.” Rod walked to his mother’s chair and dutifully bent to deliver a kiss to the top of her silver curls. “I never dreamed you’d return from the Territory so serious, Brooks. Perhaps a garden party is what you need.”

“Where are you going, Rod?” Patricia looked up, still holding the invitation in her hand, with a happy smile on her face. Parties did that to her, Brooks mused.

“It is my morning at the gentlemen’s club.”

“Oh yes.” Patricia frowned at Brooks. “Why don’t you go too, Brooks? You have been a bit grumpy lately.”

“I have been grumpy?” Brooks repeated in astonishment. “I don’t know why you all keep saying that.”

“Well, you have, dear, and I can’t for the life of me imagine why, especially when things seem to be working out for you and Violet Ashland.”

Brooks rolled his eyes to the ceiling and counted to ten. “Mother, there is nothing between me and Violet. I’ve told you this before.”

Patricia smiled. “All right, dear.” She held both her hands up. “If you want everything to be a surprise, then fine, I will act as if I haven’t heard a word.” She beamed at him. “Just as you say, there is nothing between you and Violet.”

“Mother—” Brooks started to explain, but Rod snagged his arm and tugged him toward the door as if he were a shavetail.

“Come along, little brother, or I’ll box your ears. It will do you good to work up a sweat instead of just getting hot under the collar.” Rod laughed aloud when Brooks flashed him another dark gaze, but he continued to tug his sibling toward the door.

The carriage lurched through a light drizzle of rain. Brooks had been silent on the way to the club, trying to figure out why on earth his mother could be so convinced that he and Violet were still romantically involved. But before he had found a scenario that seemed to fit, Rod was opening the carriage door.

Moisture accumulated on Brooks’s face and his mustache as his eyes traveled up the craggy facade of the club. Vermont granite, the color of the storm clouds scudding overhead, soared upward without a break for seven stories.
Stark, unadorned rock, solid and unyielding, met his eye.

“It never changes, does it?” he muttered.

“Not on the outside, at any rate.” Rod tilted his head, endeavoring to see what held his brother’s attention. “We have had one or two minor alterations on the inside.”

Brooks’s eyes scanned each floor while memories of his former life flooded through him. He’d had his first liaison here with Violet after a boxing match. “What? Have they installed new leather sofas?”

The carriage clattered away as the pair took the polished steps two at a time, side by side. “Not exactly.”

“I know—new humidors,” Brooks teased, suddenly glad that Rod had insisted he come along.

Rod smiled thinly at his brother’s attempt at humor. “A group of forward-thinking young women came to attend one of the weekly sparring matches.” He chuckled.

Brooks raised both brows, a little doubtful of the story. “I’ll bet that caused some of the older members to need three fingers of brandy and a short rest.”

“You would think—but that wasn’t the way it turned out at all. After the hoopla settled down, everyone noticed the pugilists actually seemed to be putting forth a little more effort.” Rod shook his head and laughed. “Because of the record amount of wagers won and lost on that day, a new tradition was started. Now, once a week, ladies are invited—actually welcomed—to observe the exercises. It has caused some raising of brows from other gentlemen’s associations, but we are standing firm.”

“Remarkable.” Brooks found himself chuckling along with Rod. The staid and conservative founders of the club were probably turning over in their graves while the present members won wagers of staggering amounts on each
bout. The women were allowed in, so long as it profited the stodgy members.

“You should understand, brother, a man will endure all kinds of pain to impress a woman.” Rod kept a straight face, but his eyes twinkled.

“Perhaps, if she is the
right
woman,” Brooks acknowledged, while his thoughts vacillated from Violet to Missy. He found himself lost in a world of his own while Rod went to change his clothing. It seemed like only moments had gone by before he returned.

“Last chance to come and take a shot at your older brother. Those hands of yours are tough and callused as shoe leather from the work you did out West. Now is the time,” Rod taunted as he danced around in his high-topped boots, feigning punches and rotating his broad shoulders as he warmed up.

“No need to break a sweat to see who the winner is. I concede defeat from right here.” Brooks leaned back in a heavily padded chair and laid his coat over the arm. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. “I have no desire to get up there and have my face pummeled. You carry on without me.” He intended to remain seated; there was nothing Rod could say, no inducement he could offer, to get him into the ring.

“Suit yourself.” Rod turned and focused his attention on a young man who entered the ring bare chested, wearing similar knitted wool tights and high-topped, laced boots of black leather. They met in the middle, shook hands and then, during the next few minutes, proceeded to pound each other’s face.

Brooks unconsciously grimaced each time Rod took a punch. Brooks had eaten enough dirt and tasted his own
blood more than enough in the Territory. The sport of bare-knuckle pugilism no longer interested him.

Sweat covered Rod’s exposed upper body in a glossy sheen, but he danced on his toes, obviously still fresh. A young man who stood outside the ring rang a small bell and both men stepped away, going to opposite corners.

“He’s got a nice punch,” Brooks offered. “Who is he?”

Rod spat a mouthful of water into a bucket and grinned at his sibling. “I believe that is Cyril Dover—you remember him.”

“No, don’t think I do.” Brooks looked at the man.

“Rumor has it he has been squiring Missy O’Bannion around town.”

Brooks’s head snapped up. Something hot and liquid coursed through his veins.

Jealousy.

Brooks stood up and started unbuttoning his shirt. “I think I’d like to—”
be the man who escorts Missy
“—have a go at him,” he said.

Rod raised his brows, but he didn’t laugh. “Suit yourself. Go change and I’ll ask Cyril if he’s up to a fresh comer.”

Brooks planted a solid fist on the young man’s chin. Blood smeared his knuckles. Brooks advanced, driving Cyril back. Surprise—or was it knowledge?—gleamed in Cyril’s eyes as they stood facing each other.

Blood, or a knockdown, marked the official end of a contest between gentlemen at the club. Brooks knew he had to break off his assault.

“Well done, brother,” Rod said to Brooks, who was breathing heavily. Cyril joined them, not nearly as defeated looking as Brooks had hoped he would be.

“Anytime you want a go with me, just be here before seven in the morning,” he said cheerfully. “I am always looking for a man to give me a good workout.”

Rod picked up a towel and offered it to Brooks. He took the towel and dabbed at his face.

“How’s business going?” Rod asked.

Cyril shrugged. “My father makes the money, I consider it my sacred duty to spend it.” Straight white teeth flashed when he smiled. “By the way, I wanted to thank you, Brooks.”

“For what?” Brooks held both ends of the towel, looped over his. neck, and gave Cyril an undisguised scowl.

“For bringing home such a lovely guest to stay with your cousin.” Cyril smiled again, and Brooks found himself actually counting all those white teeth, thinking how he would like to forcefully remove a quantity of them.

“Yes, Bellami’s new sister-in-law is visiting,” Rod said with a sidelong glance at Brooks.

“She is quite lovely,” Cyril continued.

Rod’s face was unreadable. “You have met her?” he asked innocently.

“Yes.” Cyril grinned wider. “I would stay and have another go in the ring, but I have an engagement with her this morning. Would you like a ride? I have a carriage waiting.” He paused with one leg through the ropes.

“No thanks, Brooks and I are making a morning of it. He has been a little gloomy since his return from the West.”

Brooks flashed his brother a dark look.

“No? Well then, I’d better go and change.” Cyril slipped to the floor and disappeared.

“You know, Brooks, according to the gossip Cyril has been spending quite a bit of time with Missy.”

Brooks didn’t answer.

“I got it from the Mulligans’ cook, who heard it from the Bentons’ upstairs maid, that Cyril has seen her nearly every day.” Rod waggled his brows.

“Then it is practically gospel,” Brooks snapped.

Rod chuckled at his brother’s terse answer. “Cyril has also been asking a lot of questions about the O’Bannion family.”

Brooks refused to encourage him to continue.

Rod shrugged and continued as if Brooks had done so. “A lovely woman, new to town—”

“I thought Cyril had an understanding with Carol McLain,” Brooks interrupted. “After two scandals in the past, and that breach of promise suit, I am amazed good ol’ Cyril would show more than a passing interest in any new woman.”

“Ah, but I have it on good authority that his father has laid down the law. The rumor is that Cyril must find a bride or be cut off.”

“Isn’t Carol suitable?” Brooks’s brows lifted.

“I dunno. But if he is seeing Missy every day, then I would think it is safe to assume his attentions have turned in a new direction.” Rod slapped his brother on the shoulder. “It sounds as if Cyril has set his sights on your Miss O’Bannion.”

Brooks whirled on him, only to find an annoying smile curling Rod’s lips. “She is not
my
Miss O’Bannion,” he snapped.

“Perhaps not…” Rod frowned again. “But if Cyril Dover’s intentions are what I think they might be, she may not be anybody’s Miss O’Bannion for very much longer.”