Secret Hearts (24 page)

      
Trying
to catch his breath, Jed gasped, “We are?”

      
“Yep.
She’s going to be helping me with the horses.”

      
“Didn’t
know she knew anything about horses.”

      
“She
doesn’t. I’m going to teach her.”

      
“Oh.”
The look in Jedediah’s eyes was quite eloquent.

      
Tom
ignored it. Pulling Jedediah along, he set off at a spanking pace toward
the stables. “Tell me, Jed, what do you know about Miss Montague’s
background? What did she do before she came here to work for my uncle?”

      
Still
trying to regain his lost breath, Jedediah almost had to run to keep
up with Tom. He panted, “Miss Montague? I don’t know. She was working
for your uncle when I became his man of business five years ago.”

      
With
a conspiratorial look at his companion, Tom said, “Well, Jed, I have
a new job for you. After we discover where Uncle Gordon hid his
Tuscaloosa
Tom
profits, I want you to tackle Miss Montague’s background.
Only you must be absolutely discreet.”

      
Wheezing
by this time, Jed managed to gasp, “Discretion is my middle name.”

      
They
had arrived at the stables by this time. While Tom laughed, Jedediah
sank onto a hay bale and eyed him in some surprise.

      
The
accountant’s scrutiny didn’t bother Tom. He was glad Claire had
work to do in the house before she went to town, because it would give
him time to visit Miss Thelma’s before she did. He planned to make
good and sure Claire’s riding habit, at least, was crafted in a color
other than brown.

# # #

      
Claire
stared in dismay at the forest green serge draped over Miss Thelma’s
arm.

      
“This
is quite the latest thing, Miss Montague,” Thelma said with a twinkle.
“And it will look ravishing with your hair and complexion.”

      
Since
the very last thing in the world Claire wanted was to look ravishing,
Miss Thelma’s words filled her with consternation. “I was hoping
you’d have something suitable in brown or black, Miss Grimsby.”

      
“Nonsense.
Why, I have it from the highest fashion authorities that serge is the
ultimate fabric for riding, and it only comes in this beautiful green
or in the cherry red over there. I think the green would suit you better.”

      
“Oh,
dear.” Claire looked dismally from the beautiful green to the beautiful
cherry red and felt trapped. “Can it be made in a demure fashion?”

      
“Well,
I should like to know how a riding habit can be anything but demure,
Miss Montague,” Miss Thelma said somewhat tartly.

      
Brightening
minimally, Claire murmured, “I suppose you’re right.”

      
“We
also have some lovely new batiste and lawn for blouses, and I have a
perfectly stunning scarlet sateen that would make a gorgeous gown for
Christmas. In fact, I have one made up in blue, if you’d like to try
it on.” Miss Thelma waved vaguely toward the back of her shop. “And
we have some delightful plaid and striped calicoes for skirts. You did
say you wanted to brighten your wardrobe, if I remember correctly.”

      
Claire
looked with real longing at the magnificent peacock-blue sateen gown
draped over a dress form. “I believe I did, yes, but I’m not certain
brightening my wardrobe is a good idea any longer.” Her voice sounded
stifled. She felt stifled.

      
“Nonsense!”
Miss Thelma declared roundly, surprising Claire, who had assumed the
customer to be always right. “Why, I have it from an unimpeachable
source that the young Mr. Partington desires his staff to look fashionable.”

      
Narrowing
her eyes suspiciously, Claire asked sharply, “Who told you that?”

      
Miss
Thelma gave her a triumphant smile. “None other than Mr. Partington
himself, Miss Montague.” Seeing Claire’s eyes widen in shock, she
continued. “Yes, indeed. He came in here himself and ordered new paisley
shawls as Christmas presents for the female staff at Partington Place—except
you, my dear, for whom he has something entirely different in mind.
He said himself that he has an image to maintain and wanted his staff
to look fashionable.”

      
“He
said that?” Claire was so startled that she didn’t even pause to
consider how different Miss Thelma’s Tom Partington sounded from the
one she’d come to know; the one who claimed not to know beans about
fashion and to care even less.

      
Almost
smugly, Thelma nodded and said, “He most certainly did, Miss Montague.
And if I may be so bold as to give my opinion, I must say I agree with
him. Why, Partington Place is the grandest estate in the county. It’s
only fitting that you, as its most visible representative, dress accordingly.”

      
After
a moment’s thought, Claire muttered, “I suppose so.”

      
Botheration!
A sense of ill-usage bubbled up in her, and she resented Tom Partington’s
officiousness for a good solid minute or two. Still, if he wanted a
fashionable staff, Claire guessed it was her duty at least to try to
be fashionable. But how could she possibly repress her base urges if
she dressed fashionably? Those awful urges seemed to take over her personality
unless she was dressed in the severest of modes. This was all so very
troubling!

      
Straightening,
Claire told herself to stop being idiotic. Wearing a colored skirt could
not possibly betoken a wanton nature. There was certainly no evil goblin
lurking just out of sight waiting for her to don a hint of red so it
could take over her soul and make her do lascivious things. Why, the
very thought was laughable.

      
She
knew herself to possess a strong inclination to do right, even if she
hadn’t been bred for it. One tiny lapse did not a hussy make. After
all, she had escaped from her past, and for ten long years had done
nothing even remotely indecorous. Certainly she could maintain her strength
of character if she were to wear the occasional color.

      
That
pretty plaid, for example, was quite nice. And the blue gown Miss Thelma
had pointed out was exquisite. Scarlet, of course, was out of the question.
But the blue . . .

      
“Perhaps
you’re right, Miss Grimsby.” Claire hesitated another several seconds
before she threw caution to the wind and asked, “May I try on the
blue gown? Do you expect it might fit me?”

      
Miss
Thelma, who knew quite well it would fit Claire since, after a long
conversation with Mr. Tom Partington this morning she’d had her assistant
add a lengthening flounce to its hem and take in the waist, said, “I
do believe it might, Miss Montague. Let’s just see here.”

      
Claire
could hardly believe what she’d done an hour or so later when she
left Miss Thelma Grimsby’s Frocks and Bonnets. Not only had she purchased
that gorgeous blue gown to wear at the open house on Christmas Eve,
but she’d ordered a riding habit in forest-green serge; three blouses,
two of batiste and one of lawn; and three skirts, one in a dark-green
plaid with a dashing stripe of red, one in blue-and-white-striped calico,
and one in a crisp, frivolous rust-colored sprigged muslin.

      
Claire
pulled her plain, dull shawl more tightly against the December chill
and walked blindly away from Miss Thelma’s. She was in such a flutter
of excitement and trepidation as she dashed across the street toward
the mercantile that when she heard a nearly forgotten voice call to
her, she thought for certain it was her conscience taunting her. She
was so shocked she tripped and had to grab onto the hitching rail to
keep from falling down.

      
The
voice called to her again, and Claire’s heart executed a series of
crazy stumbles and then crashed like a boulder caught in an avalanche.
Turning, she whispered, “Oh, no!” and fought the urge to weep in
despair.

      
“Claire!”
came yet a third jovial cry, and Claire saw him: Claude Montague—master
rogue, unscrupulous medicine-show huckster, gambler, libertine, thief,
cheat—in short, her father.

      
She
whispered, “Oh, no!” again, and frantically looked around for somewhere
to hide. In only a second, she recognized the idea to be futile. She
could never escape now that he’d found her. She could, however, prevent
herself from being seen talking to him on the public main street of
Pyrite Springs, where she was known as a good woman, a straight-laced
woman, a woman of strong moral fiber and impeccable decorum.

      
Rushing
over to him, she grabbed him by the coat sleeve. “Come into the alley,”
she ordered, and almost upended him as she dragged him between the Pyrite
Springs Mercantile and Furniture Emporium and LaVira Pitts’ Ever-Fresh
Bakery.

      
There,
immersed in the delicious smell of freshly baked bread, Claire demanded,
“How did you find me? What are you doing here? What do you want?”

      
Claude
frowned. “Now, is that any way to greet your long-lost father, my
child?”

      
Since
she’d known him since her own infancy, Claire snapped, “Yes. Is
Clive with you?”

      
“Clive
experienced a bit of a misfortune in Seattle, Claire. I’m afraid he
couldn’t make the journey.”

      
“In
jail, is he? Well, that’s good,” said Claire of her only sibling.
“At least I only have to deal with one of you. Now what do you want?
I know you wouldn’t have come here unless you wanted something.”

      
Twirling
his mustache, Claude peered at Claire critically. “You look a sight,
child. Why are you dressed like that? Why, you’re a regular dull dog.
You never had any looks to begin with, you know, my girl. It’s a damned
shame to accentuate all your negative qualities the way you’re doing.
You need some color, Claire. You need a little frill here and there.”

      
Claire
was fairly seething with rage and frustration by this time. She stamped
her foot, a silly thing to do in the dirt-packed alley, as she realized
almost at once when a dusty cloud rose at her feet.

      
“Yes,
Father. I recall very well your assessment of my looks. And what you
used to make me do so people wouldn’t notice them. How I choose to
dress is absolutely no business of yours. What do you want? Don’t
even begin to think I’ll go back to your awful medicine show.”

      
“Pshaw,
child, the things you say.” Claude looked around with distaste. “Why
are we standing here in this alley, Claire? Come with me and we can
have a nice cozy chat at the Fool’s Gold Saloon, where I’m staying.”

      
“I’m
not moving a foot in your company, and wouldn’t enter that vile establishment
if my life depended on it,” Claire said through gritted teeth. “I
refuse to be seen with you. Now stop stalling and tell me what you want.”

      
Her
expression was every bit as ferocious as her father’s was sly. As
she glared at him, she experienced genuine loathing. A handsome man,
Claude Montague had traded on his looks for years. Women used to feel
sorry for the plausible, good-looking reprobate who paraded his poor
orphaned children around, feigning a solicitude for them he did not
feel. Claire remembered bitterly the way he’d used her to lure unsuspecting
women into his snare.

      
He’d
never cared a lick about her except insofar as she could be useful to
him. He’d left her to her older brother Clive’s care, and Clive
had resented the duty. She had come to hate them both years before,
and the ten years she’d been away from them hadn’t softened her
attitude at all. If anything, those years had given her perspective,
and she detested them now more than ever.

      
“So
you think you’re too good for your old father now, do you?”

      
“I
most certainly do.”

      
Claude
apparently hadn’t expected exactly this reaction from his only female
offspring. His eyebrows dipped. “I always did the best I could for
you, Claire.”

      
“Don’t
make me laugh!” she cried, as far from laughter as she’d ever been.

      
Splaying
a beefy hand over his breast, Claude muttered self-righteously, “How
sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have one’s child turn on
one.”

      
“As
usual, you’ve got the quote wrong. Now stop blathering this instant
and tell my why you’ve come here to blight my life.”

      
“Well,
I like that!” Claude declared, offended. “She hasn’t seen her
dear old father for ten years, and just listen to her.”

      
“You
listen to me, Father. The only reason you even kept me was because you
could use me in your show and lure poor soft-hearted women into your
clutches. I know you, and I know you have about as much family feeling
as a barracuda. If you don’t tell me what you want right this minute,
I’m going to tell the sheriff, Mr. Grant, that you’re wanted for
fraud in the Colorado Territory.”

      
Giving
up his pose as a loving parent, Claude glared at his daughter for several
seconds before he muttered, “Oh, all right.”

      
Then
he adopted the expression of cunning Claire remembered so vividly from
her childhood. Her fallen heart began to shrivel even before he spoke.