Escapade (9781301744510) (38 page)

To his astonishment, Tessa burst outside. She
was trying to arrange her shawl as she went, but she was in such
great haste she let the black wool trail over her shoulder. She
glanced anxiously up and down the street and appeared relieved when
she spotted Zeke by the lamppost.

"Johnnie. Wait!" she called.

He hadn't moved a muscle, but she came
tearing down the front steps as though she expected him to
disappear.

As she drew up breathlessly beside him, Zeke
said, "What's all this, Tess? You couldn't bear to part with me or
you decided you wanted to punch me in the nose after all?"

"N-no," she panted. "This isn't the time to
be funny, John."

The lamplight haloed her pale features, and
Zeke could see she was not smiling. Nor was the familiar glare
present either. Rather her eyes were filled with an uncertainty,
that same troubled look that had rendered him uncomfortable at the
dinner table.

"I have something important to tell you,
something I should have told you a long time ago."

She seemed so deadly solemn she was starting
to scare the hell out of him. He waited, but she was unable to go
on, to meet his questioning gaze. She hung her head.

He took hold of her hand to give it an
encouraging squeeze and discovered her fingers were trembling.

"What is it, Tessa?" He joked to cover his
own growing unease. "Did you pay some gypsy woman in the Village to
put a curse on me?”

"Johnnie, please don't," she said hoarsely.
"It's about the night Mama died."

That was one night Zeke could hardly bear to
remember, let alone talk about. He let go of his sister's hand.

"Tessa, if you are going to heap old
recriminations on my head, I wish for once you would spare me. I
did try to get there sooner that night. I honestly did."

"I know that," she said in a small voice. "I
guess I always realized that, but I was so upset for Mama. She
needed so badly to talk to you before she died. She said if she
didn't last until you came, she trusted me to tell you—"

"It's all right, Tessa," Zeke broke in,
dreading that his sister might begin sobbing all over again, out in
the middle of the sidewalk. And damn it all. He could feel his own
eyes starting to smart. "Even though I didn't deserve it, I knew
how loving, how forgiving Sadie could be. I can guess what she
wanted to tell me."

"No, I don't think you can. You see she knew
who your real family was."

Tessa's halting confession was so far from
what he'd expected, her words slammed into his gut with the weight
of a powerful fist.

"What?”

Tessa bit down upon her quivering lip. "I
think Mama must have always known. She said the people at the
orphanage told her when she adopted you."

Zeke was stunned to silence. Sadie had known
all along who his real parents were and never told him? Sadie, the
one person in all the world he had trusted ever to be honest,
straightforward, had kept such a thing secret from him? Feelings of
betrayal cut through him.

Tessa stole a nervous glance up at him.
"Well? Aren't you going to say anything? Aren't you going to ask
who—"

"I'd rather know why. Damn it, Tessa. Why
didn't she tell me?"

"Mama was afraid of losing you. Your real
family was wealthy and powerful. All the things you ever wanted. If
you had known, you would have gone running off to them."

"To seek out people that let me be dumped in
a trash can?" Zeke raked his hand back through his hair, in a
gesture fraught with anger and bitterness. He thought that nothing
could hurt more than the realization Sadie had lied to him, but
something did—that she had apparently believed him capable of
turning his back on all her loving kindness, seeking to belong to
some cold-hearted bastards simply because they were rich. His pain
was the more acute because of his fear that at some point in the
shallowness of his youth, Sadie might have been right.

"And after Mama died," Tessa concluded in a
voice half-guilty, half-defiant, "I never told you any of this—just
out of spite."

"So tell me now. What's the name of these
marvelous beings Sadie thought I would be so eager to desert you
all for? The Astors? The Vanderbilts?"

"No, a family named Markham. They had this
son named Stephen.” Tessa faltered when Zeke stared at her.

"Have you ever heard of them? I believe it
was the maiden name of that friend of yours, Mrs Van
something."

"I know who the Markhams are," Zeke said. His
ears had been filled with enough gossip about the family, even from
Mrs. Van H. herself. But Zeke could not credit that it had anything
to do with him.

"Do you mean to stand there and tell me that
Stephen Markham was my father?"

Tessa nodded unhappily.

"That’s crazy. From what Mrs. Van H. has told
me about her brother, half the unwanted brats in New York could lay
claim to being sired by him. What makes you so sure he was my
father?"

"Because Mama said so. She even tried to find
out more, who your mother was. She went to visit that Mrs. Van
Hallsburg."

Zeke flinched. Another leveler. He hadn't
been floored so many times since the last time he had put on gloves
and stepped into the ring. "Sadie did? When?"

"A long time ago. I'm not sure. Mrs. Van
Hallsburg admitted the part about her brother. She said your mother
was some sort of an actress, but she wouldn't tell Mama more than
that."

Zeke seized Tessa by the shoulders in a hard
grasp. "You mean that Mrs. Van H. knew that I was her brother's
son?"

"I guess so."

This was worse than madness. This was a
nightmare. Images of Cynthia Van Hallsburg seared his mind, how she
had behaved in his study that day, the blaze of unsettling passion
in her eyes, her kiss. He could still imagine the brassy taste of
it on his lips. He felt like he was going to be sick.

"None of this makes any sense." He gave Tessa
a brusque shake. "Go on. Tell me the rest of it."

She squirmed to be free. "There isn't any
more. Mama was dying the night she told me. It wasn't all clear.
Please, Johnnie. You're hurting me."

It took a moment for her cry to penetrate his
haze of confusion and anger. Abruptly he released her, his mind
trying to cope with a barrage of information he had never sought.
He had always told himself that he didn't give a damn about knowing
who his mother or father were. They had left him to die, hadn't
they? Then the hell with them. But these half-answers, half-truths
were worse than knowing nothing at all.

Tessa rubbed her arms where he had gripped
her. "You are making me sorry I told you. You've got a crazy look
on your face, Johnnie."

How did she expect him to look when she had
just turned his world upside down? He said curtly, "Go back into
the house, Tessa. You shouldn't be out here by yourself."

"By myself? Where are you going?"

He didn't answer her, pacing off several
impatient steps and scanning the street ahead for the approach of a
hack. Of course there was never one around when needed. But it
didn't matter a damn. He would walk all the way to Fifth Avenue if
he had to.

Tessa trailed after him, tugging at his
sleeve. "Come back to the house, John. You're scaring me."

He pulled away from her, his lips set in a
taut, angry smile. "You've no need to worry about me, Tess. I'll be
in no danger. I'm merely going to pay a late-night call upon my
dear Aunt Cynthia."

CHAPTER TWENTY

Rarely did Cynthia Van Hallsburg throw open
the doors of her white marble townhouse for entertaining. But when
she did, her invitations were eagerly sought, her affairs very
exclusive. The dinner party she had arranged for tonight, however,
had become almost too exclusive. Half of those invited hadn't put
in an appearance, and the rest had only come out of vulgar
curiosity. The whisperings had already begun. Mrs. Van Hallsburg
was very much aware of that fact as she stood at the entryway to
her best salon, but her icy composure revealed nothing of her
dismay.

Her guests clustered in polite conversation
by the piano, or by the red lacquered Japanese cabinet, or near the
decorative sculpture designed by Karl Bitter. The chatter was
low-key, well-bred except for the furtive glances occasionally
directed toward their hostess.

The rumors were already thick about town,
spurred on by the scurrilous articles being run in the New York
World, written by that barbaric red-haired reporter friend of John
Morrison' s .

It was all coming to pass just as she'd
feared. Charle Decker's clumsy plot had sparked off an intensive
investigation. Not even her clever disposal of Charles had been
enough to stop it. She should have shot the fool years ago, not now
when it was already too late.

She was obliged to admit she had been less
than careful herself. A self-mocking smile touched her lips as she
thought of the newspaper article that reported the little detail
that threatened to undo her. Decker's death appeared a most
unlikely suicide, the paper said. His right hand had been found
holding the gun, which made it quite awkward, considering he had
been shot through the left side of the head.

She had put the gun in the wrong hand. It was
enough to make one laugh, tripping herself up on a tiny detail like
that. So clumsy, so careless. Yet that wouldn't have been enough to
cause her concern. It was that other report that did it, about
someone claiming to have seen a woman slipping away from Decker's
house late that night.

No fingers were pointing her way yet, but she
feared some sort of evidence might have been found connecting her
to Charles's illegal activities. The police had been making
discreet inquiries about her bank accounts. She was fast coming
under suspicion. She knew it, and, she feared from her guests'
uneasy behavior, so did everyone else.

It took all her rigid years of social
training to keep her carriage erect, the smile frozen on her lips.
She almost wished for once she could be ill-mannered enough to
exhibit some of John Morrison's bluntness.

"You've satisfied your vulgar curiosity!" she
wanted to shriek at her guests. "Now get the hell out."

No one was coming to arrest her tonight.
Maybe not even tomorrow. But she had to face it. It could come to
that. Time was running out. She was going to have to make some
plans and soon.

Her anxious reflections were interrupted by
the butler appearing at her elbow, forcing his back into a stiff
bow.

"Should dinner be served yet, madam?" Chivers
cast a dubious glance at the half-filled room.

"We may as well," she murmured. "I doubt
anyone else is coming."

As the butler began to retreat, she called
him back, adding in a whisper, "See that half of the settings are
removed, the table rearranged."

There was no sense in making her humiliation
obvi¬ous. The butler appeared to understand, although he delivered
his "Very good, madam" with a slight smirk.

The fellow had never dared show such
insolence before, she thought with a frown. Likely he was already
on the lookout for another post. She had spent a lifetime
maintaining a proper distance from everyone, but now she sensed
them all drifting from her, as inexorably as the ebb of the tide.
It was hard to admit, but she found the sensation a little
frightening.

She was about to encourage her guests to move
into the dining room when she heard a thunderous summons at the
front door. Perhaps she had not seen the last of the arrivals after
all. Although she had never held up dinner this long before, she
could afford to wait a few more minutes.

Lingering by the door, she prepared to greet
the latecomer more graciously than she would have under ordinary
circumstances. But she heard no approaching footsteps, only the
unthinkable sound of raised voices in the front hall.

She excused herself and stepped down the
corridor to see who had caused the disturbance. She drew up short.
She shouldn't have been surprised. No one would have the temerity
to manhandle her butler other than John Morrison. He had the
manservant all but pinned to one of the towering Corinthian pillars
as he shoved his way past into the hall.

John was ill-dressed as always, his Prince
Albert coat rumpled, the tight set of the fabric seeming scarcely
enough to contain all that masculine energy straining beneath. Dark
strands of hair tumbled across his brow, his eyes darker still,
flashing with anger. He was in one of his rages. Distasteful as she
found such a display of emotion, she couldn't suppress a tingle of
excitement as well.

Morrison was like a slumbering volcano of
power, raw and untamed. After their last, embarrassing scene, she
had never wanted to see him again, yet now she was glad of the
sight of him. Never had she been so fascinated by any man. Never
had she hated anyone as much.

Although quaking, her butler continued to
insist, "Madam Van Hallsburg is not available this evening."

"Then she'd better get available," Zeke said
crudely. "Fast."

The butler had made a dive to summon some
footmen to his aid when she intervened. "It's all right, Chivers.
You may admit Mr. Morrison."

It was an unnecessary command, for Zeke's
head had snapped around at the sound of her voice. He came charging
in her direction.

"Good evening, John," she said, maintaining a
calm that for once she didn't feel. "I thought that I had at least
taught you not to attend a party when you haven't been
invited."

"Your party be damned. I want to talk to
you."

This wasn't one of his usual blustering
rages. His mouth was taut with some suppressed emotion, his eyes
hard, accusing. She felt a prickling of, if not apprehension, at
least of warning.

"We were just sitting down to dine, but I
suppose I could spare you a few minutes." She turned, beckoning for
him to follow her.