Tomorrow's Dreams (37 page)

Sitting on the stairs, peering curiously at him over the top of a magazine through thick-lensed spectacles, was a girl of sixteen or seventeen. It was no wonder he hadn't noticed her. Her deep green gown blended with the homogenous hue of the carpet runner beneath her, while her chestnut hair seemed one with the richly stained woodwork against which she leaned.

Here
, Seth thought,
sits the epitome of a wallflower
. Poor creature. She'd probably been relegated to reading on the stairs by her lack of dancing partners. That thought tugged at his heartstrings. Hoping to lift what he was sure were her low spirits, he flashed her his most charming smile.

The girl sighed, looking more impatient than impressed by the grin that had never before failed to beguile its recipient. Laying the open magazine across her knees, she pointed toward the hallway from which he'd come. “The necessary room is three doors up from the ballroom. The last time I went past, there was a long line. So if you're desperate to relieve yourself, I'd suggest you go out back and find a likely bush.” With an air of dismissal, she picked up the magazine and turned the page.

Seth gaped at the cheeky baggage, at first taken aback and then amused by her unladylike address. Perhaps it wasn't her appearance, but her tongue that put the young pups off. The longer he looked at her, the more certain he was that that was the case. If he didn't miss his guess, and he seldom did where women were concerned, there was a tearing beauty lurking behind those spectacles.

After several moments she lifted her gaze from the page and fixed it on him. Her spectacles slipped down her nose a fraction. “What are you staring at?”

“You.”

“I ascertained as much,” she replied dryly. “Why? Haven't you ever seen a woman read before?”

“The
Home Journal
, yes. The
National Police Gazette
, no.”

She shrugged, a gesture that sent her glasses inching closer to the end of her nose. “I have no interest in learning how to make infant pap or in reading about the fancy doings of society.”

“But you are interested in crime and mayhem?” Seth teased.

“Not so much in the mayhem as in the solving of the crimes and the workings of the criminal mind. I intend to be a detective someday, maybe even work for the Pinkerton Agency.” She glared at him over the top of her spectacles; her back stiffened visibly with defiance, as if she expected him to laugh.

Moving from the newel post to sit on the stair two steps below hers, Seth mused, “A detective, you say?” He peered up at her stubbornly set face for a moment and then nodded. “Yes, I believe you will make a fine detective.”

Her mouth gaped open. “You do?”

He nodded again. “You have a fine mind and a bold manner, both desirable attributes for a detective. Add that to your interest in the subject matter, and I'd say you're almost there.”

“But I'm a female,” she blurted out, as if the fact had somehow escaped his notice.

He chuckled, thoroughly enjoying himself … well, at least as much as his aching head would allow. “You most definitely are a female. And by all appearances, a remarkable one.”

She flushed at that, her defensive demeanor instantly softening. “Do you know that you're the first gentleman who's ever believed me … about being a detective, I mean? Most laugh and tell me that females can't be detectives.”

“I believe a woman can be or do anything she wants. Just like a man,” he informed her honestly. “In fact, my best friend's wife is living testimony to that belief. She's a doctor.”

“A doctor? Really?” She looked intrigued by that notion.

He gave his head an affirmative jerk, a move that rewarded him with an intensified throbbing in his temples. He must have looked as bad as he felt, for the girl observed:

“You look as if you could use that lady doctor's services.” She leaned forward to peer at his face, her glasses slipping until they dangled precariously from the end of her small nose. “What happened? Did you get caught in a brawl at one of those Blake Street saloons?”

“Nothing as mundane or with as good of odds as that,” he replied, his hand itching to push her spectacles into a more secure position. One more move and they'd be in her lap. “I was set upon by a band of masked men whose motives baffle me.”

Her almond-shaped gray eyes brightened with fascination, and to Seth's relief, she shoved the straying glasses back to a safe perch on the bridge of her nose. “Masked men? Unknown motive?” Her voice was breathless with excitement. “Now, there's a mystery worth solving.” Meeting his gaze with a look that was eager yet uncertain, rather like a puppy who wants to be petted but half expects to be rebuffed, she said, “If you tell me about the attack and give me the details, I might be able to figure out who did this to you and why.”

Seth stared into her wide eyes, magnified to look even wider by the thick lenses covering them, wanting to deny her request. How could he, in good conscience, allow this charming child to pry into what could easily turn out to be dangerous business?

Yet how could he not? For more potentially tragic than the results of her meddling would be the crushing of her dreams. And by denying faith in her and her abilities now, no matter how well intended that denial, he would be doing just that.

Eyeing her anxious face solemnly, he mused, “Perhaps you're just the detective to solve this mystery, at that.” By the luminosity of her responding smile, he knew that he'd made the correct decision.

Settling back against the turned baluster, he proceeded with his tale, selectively recounting those details he deemed suitable for a young lady's ears. He'd just gotten to the part where he'd dragged himself down the road to find his horse placidly grazing in a field, when Louisa emerged from the unexplored hallway.

Without pausing from his story, Seth marked her progress. She was headed their way, drawing nearer as the seconds ticked by. When she was almost to the stairs, he averted his face, expecting her to pass. To his surprise, her footsteps faltered and then halted, as did his speech.

“I see you've made a new friend, Lisbet,” she commented, her voice surprisingly warm and sweet.

“Oh, Mama!” The excited girl bound to her feet, sending the forgotten magazine on her lap tumbling down the stairs. “This gentleman was set upon by a band of masked men just a half mile from our brewery, and he's consented to let me be the detective on the case. He was just giving me the details.”

Mama? Our brewery?
Seth stared up at the girl, who was beaming down at him as if he were some sort of hero, too stunned to speak.
This lovely, intelligent, and thoroughly delightful chit was his sister?
His next thought made him as sick as his dizziness had a quarter of an hour earlier.

When he finally destroyed Louisa's life, he'd also wreck Lisbet's. All her hopes and dreams, her youthful exuberance for life would be quashed, perhaps forever, beneath the grinding despair of shame, poverty, and ruin.

“And does your client have a name?” Louisa prompted.

Lisbet's smile faded, and she flushed a shade of pink that perfectly matched the sunset sky in the still-life hanging behind her head. His little sister was a regular chameleon.

“Oh! I'm so sorry,” the girl exclaimed. “Where are my manners? I never even bothered to introduce myself.”

“My fault entirely,” Seth reassured her, hating to see the light of her pleasure dimmed by her distress. Miserably aware that that vital flame would probably be snuffed out forever when he exacted his revenge, and fiercely determined to make it burn as brightly as possible, for as long as was feasible, he continued, “As a gentleman, I should have undertaken the duty of introductions. Allow me to remedy the situation now.”

With his face still averted from Louisa, Seth rose to his feet. Once again dizziness engulfed him, this time with a vengeance that almost brought him to his knees. Emitting an involuntary moan, he grabbed at the handrail, wavering like a sapling in an autumn wind as he waited for the spell to pass.

Unlike his first disconcerting bout of dizziness, however, his equilibrium didn't return immediately. And as he stood clinging to the handrail, battling as much to hold on to the contents of his stomach as to regain his balance, he felt a strong arm wrap around his waist. Through the crashing pain in his head, he heard Louisa command Lisbet to support him on his other side and then felt himself being urged away from the rail, securely braced between the two women.

“Sir? Do you want to sit down on the stairs, or do you think you can make it to the front parlor?” The worry in Louisa's voice was unmistakable. “You can lie down in the parlor.”

For the first time since his mother had come upon him talking with Lisbet, Seth raised his head and looked straight at her. Even through the fog of his hazy vision, he saw her expression change from one of sympathetic concern to one of baffled recognition. Then, as if chasing away a troubling thought, she shook her head and her face cleared.

If Seth hadn't been so wretched, he probably would have chuckled. He'd have bet his entire fortune
and
Penelope's lucky ribbon that he could guess exactly what that thought was. Instead he muttered, “I think I can make it to the parlor.”

She nodded and smiled. “Good. It's best that you lie down for a while.”

Clucking like a couple of mother hens over a newly hatched chick, the two women led him to a spacious parlor pleasantly decorated in shades of salmon, blue, and ivory.

The pain in Seth's head was excruciating now, almost unbearable, and as the women eased him down onto the firmly stuffed salmon brocade sofa, the pain exploded behind his eyes. Then everything went black.

Slowly Seth emerged from the peaceful darkness, drawn by the feel of something cool and wet against his face.

What the hell?
he wondered, groggily moving through the shadow lands of unconsciousness toward the light of lucidity.

Music?
He heard music and the sound of distant voices. Dully he fought to raise the leaden weight of his eyelids, struggling to recall time and place.

A concert? No
…
a ball
, he amended as he recognized the lively piece as a mazurka.
But where?

Louisa!
He bolted upright, his eyes ripping open as the evening's events came flashing back. Wildly he stared at the woman by his side, a gaze that she returned with a serene smile. She'd dragged one of the dozen rosewood rail chairs lined up against the far wall to a position next to the sofa, and with the wet towel dangling from her hand, had been bathing his face.

Laying a firm but reassuring hand on his shoulder, she pushed him back down again, murmuring, “Rest. You fainted.”

Fainted?
Then he remembered his crippling pain. Gingerly he touched his temple. Odd. When he'd sat up just now, he hadn't felt even the slightest bit dizzy, and aside from the understandable soreness from the stitches, his head didn't hurt at all.

“How long was I unconscious?” he finally asked.

“Just a few minutes. Lisbet has gone to send a servant for the doctor. By the looks of your face, you need one.”

Seth shook his head. Again, no pain. “She needn't bother. Dr. Larson examined me earlier this evening. I'm fine.”

Frowning, Louisa laid her hand on his forehead as if checking for fever. “Men who are fine don't faint.”

Her motherly gesture touched something deep inside him, drawing a response so fierce and elemental that his enmity cringed beneath its humbling force. With an impulse so strong as to be almost undeniable, his troublesome heart urged him to lay his head on her lap and beg her to stroke his hair the way he'd seen mothers do as they calmed their crying children. He longed to hear her croon all sorts of soothing silliness, to feel special as she fussed over his comfort. He wanted to experience the tenderness a treasured son received from his loving mother.

But you're not her treasured son, and she's never been your loving mother
, his head challenged his heart. One by one the dismal visions of his childhood rose from his memory. And for the first time in a long while, his mind defeated his emotions.

Bitterness, blistered with rage and scorching with disappointment, seared his desperate yearnings, charring them to ashes of hate. For all her benevolence and saintly posturings, Louisa Vanderlyn was nothing but a conniving, murderous bitch.

And his reason for coming here tonight was to confront her with that fact. Once again focused on his purpose, Seth jerked his head away from her hand and sat up.

Apparently his expression reflected his mood, for she flinched away, eyeing him with sudden trepidation. For a moment they simply stared at each other; he, with a lifetime full of fury and resentment; she, with a look that wavered between apprehension and bewilderment.

Slowly a chilled smile twisted his lips. “Louisa Van Cortlandt,” he intoned at last, sharply enunciating each syllable like a judge announcing a death sentence.

Her eyes narrowed. “Do I know you, sir?”

He leaned into the lamplight to fully illuminate his features. “Do you?” he countered, cryptically.

Her brow furrowed as if she ferreted the farthest reaches of her mind. “Your face is familiar, though your name and acquaintance elude me.”

“Our acquaintance
eludes
you?” He let out a harsh grate of laughter. “My guess is that you've
chosen
to forget it.”

“It's those whom I would most like to forget who I make a point of remembering best,” she replied with admirable aplomb. “Especially if I suspect that they bear me ill will, which by your tone you obviously do.”

“Oh? And are there many such persons?” he purred, his trap baited and ready to spring.

She shrugged. “A few. But none of consequence.”

“Most people find my wrath of great consequence. Downright ruinous, in fact.” He leaned back, chuckling humorlessly. “By the way, how are your fortunes of late?”