Swan's Grace (18 page)

"But jewelry is expensive."

"So is Grayson Hawthorne. I've seen what he charges." She had, when she had gone through his desk, which was sparse and well-ordered, just like the man. Only a small locked cabinet remained beyond her reach. Henry had offered his services, but even she had limits. Though often she had wondered what he kept inside.

"True, Mr. Hawthorne is expensive." He considered, his tea long finished. "Perhaps I should give it a try."

"If I were you, I'd take her to dinner on occasion, as well. Bring her flowers. Candy."

He looked at her, the furrows in his brow easing. "And maybe the… the… your suggestion. Thank you, Miss—"

"Wentworth. But call me Sophie."

"Sophie, I appreciate your candor."

She patted his hand. "I'm always glad to help."

She walked him to the foyer. But just as she pulled open the front door, Grayson hurtled up the granite steps, his hair falling forward, making him look like a tardy schoolboy.

"Willard, I apologize for being late." He glowered at Sophie and raked his hand through his hair, his other holding his black leather satchel. "There was a little mix-up with my schedule."

"No problem, Grayson. In fact, I just received the best advice I've gotten in ages from Miss Wentworth here. If all goes as planned, I won't be in need of your services, after all." He tipped his hat and strode to his waiting carriage.

Slowly Grayson turned a baleful eye on Sophie. "What did you say to him?"

"Something you should have said when he first came to you."

"What was that?"

He enunciated each syllable through gritted teeth, making Sophie smile wickedly.

"I suggested he use contraceptive devices."

That took the wind out of his puffed up sails. He stood for several seconds, his expression incredulous. "Contraceptive devices?" The words seemed to tangle in his mind.

"You've heard of them, haven't you?" she asked ever so innocently, fluffing her fluttering sleeves, "those things men slide down over their—"

"Christ! You didn't," he demanded, his normally implacable features pulled into a mask of disbelief.

"I did." She tossed the end of the feather boa over her shoulder. "I never would have guessed at how good I am at giving advice. If you'd like, when I have a bit of free time, I could give you some pointers."

His eyes blazed, and he looked as if at any moment he would strangle her—with great delight. "You are ruining my law practice."

"Now, really, it's unbecoming to blame others for your shortcomings."

Frustration flashed across his face. "I have no doubt you've set out to run off my clients intentionally."

"Would I do that?" she asked with a thick, honeyed drawl.

"In a heartbeat. Unfortunately, I don't have time to deal with that now. I have a hearing in another hour. If anyone arrives, do not so much as look at them. If I find out that you have been
advising
another client of mine I'll—"

"You'll what? Take me to court? Sue me?" she challenged.

His jaw worked furiously, but he didn't respond.

"I didn't think so." Then she smiled at him, baldly, before she turned on her dainty heel and disappeared down the hall.

This time he didn't chuckle.

The tables started to turn in earnest a week later, though not in her favor.

On Thursday, Henry and Deandra departed for New York to see Lily Langtree. Deandra had insisted they see the show for inspiration and ideas. Besides, she added, they had friends there that they wanted to stay with.

Standing there, Sophie hadn't had any idea how to tell them that what little money she had was dwindling faster than she had anticipated.

But in the end, since they had yet to learn the money was dwindling at all, she had scraped enough together to buy two train tickets. Thank goodness, Margaret was going to Lexington to visit her cousin. Three tickets would have put her in dire straits. As it was, she'd had to borrow from the meager allotment of coins she had set aside for emergencies.

A low thread of panic started to rise. She'd never had to juggle money before. She had always had the luxury of buying what she wanted, whenever she wanted. Even when she had borrowed against future earnings for the jewels, she'd hardly batted an eye. In her mind she considered it an investment in the future. And the investment had paid off. She was booked solid for the upcoming season. Soon she would have money.

Only she realized now that it wasn't coming in fast enough.

Sophie took a deep breath in hopes of calming herself, absently rubbing her hand over the dog's sweet head.

When Henry and Deandra had pressed her about the importance of going to New York to see the Langtree show, Sophie had started to confide in them about the situation. But the words stuck in her throat.

She wrinkled her nose as she realized she wasn't sure they would stay if she couldn't continue to pay their way. And right that second she couldn't afford to lose the only semblance of family she had.

She snorted out loud at how pathetic it was that she had to buy her family. But even knowing that, she couldn't bring herself to tell them. As a result, she was on her own until the following Monday.

It had snowed overnight, hopefully the last of the season, the cinders and sludge covered up with a fresh dusting of white. It promised to be a glorious morning.

She flipped the end of her feather boa over her shoulder, pulled out her cello, tuned it, then started to play. The dog stood up and stretched, then circled around until she plopped back on the soft cushion as music filled the house.

Sophie played whatever she wanted, fast and slow, cheerful and moody. The session went well, but it was hard to concentrate on the show. Soon she was bored, and her friends had only just left. Even the thought of Grayson arriving held some appeal. Too much appeal, if truth be known.

A knock gained her attention. Excited despite herself, she dashed to the front door and swept it open. Her mind froze at the sight of Niles Prescott standing on the slate tiles, his wool coat a flashy burgundy, his scarf a mix of blue and gold, his bowler perched on his gray hair at a jaunty angle.

He stood on the threshold with a smile on his face, as if five years hadn't passed and he had arrived for tea.

What had her mother ever seen in the man that she would bring him into their home?

"I think we both know she is not here," she snapped, and started to slam the door.

He flattened his gloved palm against it with an indulgent chuckle. "Now, now, Sophie. Is that any way to treat a family friend?"

"Let's not pretend we're friends, Mr. Prescott."

"
Tsk, tsk
, you're still upset about the Grand Debut."

His audacity made her blood boil. "Upset?" She fought to remain casual. "You ingratiate yourself into my family, take advantage of my mother's largesse, promise me the solo, then…"

Words failed her.

"I what? Gave the concert to someone else?"

"Yes," she blurted. "For starters!"

He shrugged indifferently. "I'm giving you a concert now."

"And you think that makes up for everything?"

"Doesn't it?" He brushed lint from his sleeve, then glanced up at her with amused gray eyes.

She felt the flare of her nostrils as she took a deep, searing breath. "Get out."

"Now, Sophie."

"I said get out. We have nothing to discuss."

"Ah, but I'm not here to see you, my dear. I'm here to see Mr. Hawthorne about a little thing called a contract that you so wisely asked for."

But stupidly agreed to. Her world spun.

"Grayson isn't here. Now good day."

Before he could protest, she slammed the door, then purposefully ignored his muffled demands and pounding fists.

She walked from room to room, waiting for him to leave, and for the first time she wished she had gotten the lock fixed. She stopped and shuddered at the sight of the library. Painting the wallpaper red really had been a childish act, but it had gotten rid of Altima Pruitt.

The dog followed every step she took. When the pounding on the door finally ceased, she leaned down and hugged the dog tight. "You really are a sweet thing. Come on, Sweetie. Let's get something to eat."

They went to the kitchen, only to find that the cupboards were bare. She shouldn't be surprised, however. When Margaret had offered to take care of stocking the shelves before she left, Sophie had known her food allotment had already been spent on train tickets. So she had produced one of her famous smiles and told Margaret there was no need. But now she realized she had to eat something.

Sophie thought of a place her mother used to go on Beacon Hill. Sloan Market. How Sophie had loved shopping there, always leaving the store with candy and sometimes even a slice of cheese from the butcher. Plus, all her mother had to do was sign for the food and a bill was sent later.

Within minutes, Sophie was bundled up and headed for the store. When she came to the courthouse on her way, she felt a start of awareness that Grayson was inside. She wondered what he was doing, could imagine him standing tall, wooing juries with his respectable looks and fine voice.

She started to smile, then realized what she was doing. Muttering about foolish musings, she hurried by, then slipped inside the warm, inviting confines of Sloan's.

Grayson shook his client's hand in the courthouse rotunda before they both headed out. Buttoning his coat, he headed for the Back Bay, but four steps beyond the large plate-glass window of Sloan Market he stopped dead in his tracks. His head cocked in confusion; then he took four steps back, certain his eyes were deceiving him. But when he peered through the gold lettering on the clear glass there was no question that the person standing at the counter, a long line of impatient customers behind her, was his betrothed.

Sophie was sure her cheeks were as bright as the shade she had painted the library walls.

"I'm sorry, Miss…"

"Wentworth," she said, her smile forced. "From Swan's Grace."

"Wherever," the young clerk said with a huff, snapping the thick black ledger book closed. "But you can't just sign your name, then walk away with groceries. What do you think this is?"

"I told you that I was referring to an account," she said as quietly as she could through clenched teeth, the line of people behind her on the verge of revolt, "with a bill being sent at a later date."

"And I keep telling you I don't have any Wentworth at Swan's Grace in my book. Now either hand over the money or put the goods back."

"Yeah, hurry up, lady," a man behind her stated. "We don't have all day."

Mortification stung Sophie's cheeks and she stared at the items on the counter. "How much does it come to?" she finally asked.

"A dollar fifty."

A dollar fifty
! Who would have guessed groceries could be so expensive? She ran her eyes over the tin of her favorite cakes—why go to all the trouble of making them yourself when you could buy them?—her favorite sardines. It wasn't as though she were trying to buy caviar.

Praying that she had more money in her reticule than she thought, she pulled out her coin purse. She flicked her finger through the change. A meager thirty-five cents.

With a wooden smile, she reached out and took away a jar of peach preserves. "There, now how much?"

Someone in the line groaned. The clerk blew out his breath in an exasperated puff. "A dollar twenty-nine."

With a self-conscious shrug, she took the tin of sardines and set them aside. "Now what is the total?"

A woman stamped her foot. "If you quit buying fancy gowns with feathers, and hats with birds, you might be able to afford groceries."

"Heck, just put back those expensive cakes and you could pay for a thing or two," another woman barked.

Sophie turned with a jump, and started to say something to the hecklers. But her mouth froze, the words hanging unspoken on her tongue when she saw Grayson. He stood just beyond the line, a look of confusion on his face.

"Is there a problem here?" he asked, stepping forward.

"No, no problem," she said quickly, whirling back to face the clerk.
Of all the rotten luck
She leaned close. "Please just pack up thirty-five cents' worth of things, and hurry," she whispered frantically.

Grayson worked his way to the counter.

"Hey, mister, there's a line here."

Grayson turned to the woman and gave her a smile that would have melted the hardest of hearts. Sophie remembered that expression so well, a smile he had used many times when they were young to get her out of the worst of predicaments.

He directed the full brunt of his charm on the woman. "I know there is a line, madam, and I wouldn't dream of cutting in. But if you don't mind, I'll take care of this… situation so we all can get on with our days."

Situation.

Sophie's cheeks flared even redder. But then she saw the woman who had only seconds ago heckled her all but swoon right there on the Sloan Market floor. That was when she got mad.

Sophie jerked around. "On second thought, I don't need any groceries."

Snapping her change purse shut with a click, she stuffed it in her reticule and started to leave.

"Fine," the clerk said with a sneer, "and don't bother coming back."

But she didn't get any farther than a half step toward the front door when Grayson blocked her path and restored her purchases to the center of the counter.

With those strong hands that had caressed her, he pulled a five-dollar gold piece from his pocket and faced the smirking clerk. Grayson's smile was gone as he set the coin down with an ominous click against the high-polished wood.

The clerk's eyes widened, and his knowing grin evaporated into the coal-heated air.

"Here is your money," Grayson enunciated. "It's a wonder anyone shops here when they are attended to in such a rude manner. Perhaps I should have a word with Mr. Sloan."

The clerk sputtered and awkwardly rang open the cash register, fumbling to make change.

"You'll have a word with no one," Sophie snapped, taking the recently returned items and setting them aside. "I will pay my own way."

Grayson's eyes bored into her, dark and exasperated. "Why are you being so stubborn about this?"

They stared at each other, a battle of wills taking place in the store.

"I am no longer a child, Grayson," she said, almost in a whisper. "I don't need you to save me."