His Heart's Revenge (The Marshall Brothers Series, Book 2) (11 page)

"They won't kill him," Peggy promised. "But if he survives Andersonville and ever decides to look you up, you'll wish they had."

Chapter 3

May 1872—New York City

The playbill said her name was Katy Dakota. Logan Marshall knew different. She could have changed her name to Sara Smith or Barbara Jones, and he still would have known Mary Catherine McCleary. After what she had done to him, after what she had cost him, he was incapable of forgetting. Forgiving never occurred to him.

Logan tried to relax in his seat, stretching his long legs and crossing them at the ankles. The box he shared at Wallack's with his brother and sister-in-law gave him a commanding view of the stage. They were seeing Manners, a play that purported to show that among the New York elite there were none. If the playwright were to be believed, then fidelity, honor, and tradition were values that were given lip service by the wealthy and left to the growing middle class to uphold. Manners was meant to shock theatre-goers with its seduction scenes, the frankness of its dialogue on divorce, and the flouting of conventional morals by the characters. Manners proved to be so shocking that it played to packed houses each night since its opening two weeks earlier. Everyone seemed to agree that the play and its female lead were a scandalous success.

Jenny Marshall nudged her husband delicately and indicated with a flick of her finger that he should look at his brother. Christian turned his head slightly, just enough to see Logan's profile. He didn't know what to make of what he saw. Clearly Logan's attention was on the play, yet his eyelids were heavy and lowered, shading the cool pewter gray of his eyes. He could have been sleeping, yet there was a thread of tension running the length of him. Christian knew his younger brother well enough to know the relaxed posture was a sham. Turning back to Jenny, Christian shrugged and pretended he was not concerned, but his own aquamarine gaze narrowed on the stage as he tried to understand what it was his brother was seeing and thinking.

Jenny was regretting that she and Christian had talked Logan into joining them at the theatre. She had meant it to be an evening's light entertainment. Both men had been working so hard of late, holing up for hours at a time in the study discussing how the
Chronicle
should handle the latest scandal from Tammany Hall. For Christian it was a personal crusade; normally he left the running of the family-owned paper to his brother. For Logan the long hours were accepted as part of his commitment to the
Chronicle
and the competition with the
New York Times
.

Without appearing to let her attention stray from the stage, Jenny studied Logan out of the corner of her eye. The resemblance he bore to his older brother was nothing short of striking. They were of a similar height, both over six feet, with broad, tautly muscled shoulders that filled out a black tail coat so that women actually had been heard to sigh as the brothers passed in tandem. Their hair was threaded with strands of copper but Logan's was darker, more like an old penny piece. Their profiles were sharp, yet rugged.

At thirty-four, Christian was five years older than his brother, but the lines at the corners of Logan's eyes and the often serious—even grim—set of his mouth erased the difference in their ages. Jenny remembered when Christian had looked as hardened as Logan, as if he were always trying to temper his anger. The tension in the long line of Logan's body, the muscle working rhythmically in his lean cheek, and the steady rapping of his fingertips against the scrolled arm of his chair, reminded Jenny so much of Christian a few years ago that she stole a glance at her husband just to make certain he had not reverted.

He hadn't. Jenny was startled to discover that Christian had been watching her. When their eyes met, they smiled guiltily at having been caught with their thoughts exposed. Christian's hand slid around Jenny's slender wrist and his thumb brushed back and forth across her pulse.

Logan shifted in his chair, uncomfortable as Christian leaned toward Jenny and whispered something in her ear. He could almost feel the heat from Jenny's blush. No doubt Christian had suggested something that would have been most improper had they not just celebrated their fourth wedding anniversary a week ago. The secret, intimate exchange between Jenny and Christian struck Logan on the raw. He couldn't recall that he had ever been bothered by their obvious happiness before. He didn't much care for his reaction right now.

There was only one explanation for it. Katy Dakota. Mary Catherine McCleary. Funny, he thought, he'd called her Katy back then, too, and she had hated it. Or perhaps she hadn't. She was quite the actress all those years ago. Watching her on the stage, Logan realized that some things hadn't changed.

When the crowd stood, applauding wildly at the end of the play, Logan remained sitting. He clapped, but it was a rhythmic, slow, and sarcastic joining of hands. Logan Marshall was unimpressed and he did not care who noticed.

Christian helped Jenny with her shawl. His head bent over her thick sable hair and his lips briefly touched her temple. The sweet fragrance that was his Jenny filled his senses and his hands rested on her shoulders, holding her against him while he spoke to his brother. "We are going to Delmonico's for a late supper. You're still coming with us, aren't you?"

Logan glanced at Jenny. She was watching him carefully, her dark brown eyes curious and concerned. She was lovely, decent and kind, and Logan did not want to worry or disappoint her. Still, there was something he had to do. "Why don't you and Jenny go ahead and I'll join you in a little while. There's someone I want to see backstage."

Jenny's beautifully molded mouth lifted at the corners. Her smile was at once serene and knowing. "Not Miss Dakota, I hope. You will never get in to see her. I understand there's a veritable throng of admirers. Victor Donovan chief among them. She's very popular, you know."

"How do you know, dear sister?" asked Logan, forcing a smile.

"Yes, Jenny," said Christian, "where do you learn such social tripe?"

"Perhaps both of you should pay more attention to the society pages of your own paper," she said smugly. "Friday's edition devoted three whole columns to Miss Dakota, her background, and her following."

Both men had the grace to look sheepish. "Point taken," Christian said, giving Jenny's shoulders a light squeeze. "Come, let's be off. They won't hold our reservations forever. Logan, we'll see you there."

Wallack's Theatre, on the northeast corner of Broadway and Thirteenth Street, was one of the largest playhouses in the city. On opening nights especially, the richly appointed lobby, draped in velvets and satins, was a place where playgoers could take refreshment and gather to be seen. Artists and authors mingled with the politically powerful and the landed gentry. Although Logan Marshall was part of the city's aristocracy, moving in circles that were both fashionable and wealthy, he avoided the public eye as much as possible. Until now Logan had never regretted missing an opening night.

Trust the presence of one Katy McCleary to change how he felt, he thought. Seven and one half years had passed since he had last seen her and just saying her name had the power to tie his gut in a knot. The confrontation could have been over two weeks ago if only he had attended opening night.

The candlelit chandeliers were being lowered and snuffed by the time Logan decided to leave his box. Except for a few stagehands and ushers, the auditorium was empty and the lobby was deserted. Logan knew that he wasn't going to wait for Katy with the stage door johnnies. They wanted a sweet word or the favor of her company for drinks and dinner at Harbor House. Logan wanted revenge, and that demanded more in the way of privacy—at least for the time being.

***

"Miss Dakota." The door to Katy's dressing room was pushed open six inches. A balding head appeared. "Miss Dakota. There's someone here to see you."

Katy's fingers paused on the laces of her corset as she looked over the top of the silk dressing screen. "I said I did not want visitors tonight, Mr. Grant," she reminded him gently. It was difficult not to affect the cold, disparaging accents of the prima donnas she had always despised. She was anxious and weary and desired nothing so much as to be left alone. "Please tell whoever it is to leave his card and call later in the week."

Katy turned her back and continued struggling with her laces. She was beginning to regret dismissing her dresser, but then Jane's chatter had been anything but soothing this evening. Jane took particular delight in knowing who was in the audience and tonight her coup had been spying the Marshalls in their box. "Sure, and I'm thinkin' it's high time they came to see you. All those nice things that were written in their paper, well, it just didn't look right, them not seein' the play for themselves. Like they didn't believe their own press, that's what it looked like to me."

Katy had purposely not asked Jane which Marshalls were in attendance. She got through her performance by believing that only Christian Marshall and his wife had an interest in theatre. Thinking about Logan would have paralyzed her with fear.

She didn't realize her fingers were trembling until they were gently removed from her corset strings by hands that were stronger and steadier than her own. A shudder went through her and she whirled around, eyes flashing and accusing.

"Whoa!" came the soft admonishment. "You are only supposed to be this skittish before the performance."

Relief shimmered down Katy's spine. "Oh, it's you. For a moment..."

"Yes?"

"Nothing," she said tersely, regaining control. "What are you doing here, Michael? I specifically told Mr. Grant I didn't care to entertain visitors. Can you not accept no for an answer?"

"Not where you're concerned." Michael Donovan's smile was smooth and engaging. Even when it failed to coax Katy, the smile lost none of its confidence. True, Michael's light blue eyes became fixed and frosty, but the smile never faltered. "Come here, let me finish unlacing you. I don't mind playing the lady's maid."

"
I
mind. Take a seat on the other side of the screen, Michael. Allow me some privacy."

It was definitely not the time to remind Katy he had seen a lot more of her than she was revealing now. Discretion being, in this case, the better part of common sense, Michael said nothing and took a seat on the chaise longue out of Katy's view. "I told you I would come by this evening," he called to her. "Had you forgotten?"

"I try to forget all unpleasantness," she replied. Michael Donovan was a most handsome man. An Adonis, she had heard one ingénue in the company call him. If pressed, Katy would have agreed. Michael's features appeared to have been sculpted by an artist's hand with clean, strong, chiseled lines. His light blond hair was streaked with sunshine. A shade darker than his hair, Michael's mustache accentuated the line of his sensual, sulky mouth. He was tall and broad-shouldered and carried himself with pride and confidence. In all the time Katy had known him, he had only been honest about one thing—he did not accept no for an answer.

Michael ignored her and picked up the paper lying at the foot of the chaise. It was the
Chronicle
. "Whom were you expecting?" he asked casually, flipping through the pages.

"No one. That's why you startled me."

He would not let the lie pass. "That's not true. You were actually relieved to see me for a moment."

"You're mistaken, Michael. I am never relieved to see you."

"My, my. You are irritable this evening. Didn't the performance go well?"

"Do you mean you didn't see it?"

"I was here opening night, remember? That was enough, I assure you. You are quite wonderful in it, but to turn a phrase, the play's not the thing. You are."

"I am not flattered." She slipped into a cream satin dressing gown, stepped out from behind the screen, and sat down at the vanity. She pinned up her hair and began to remove the greasepaint that accentuated her features on stage. Beyond Katy's shoulder, Michael's reflection dominated the mirror.

"Was it my father?" he asked, refusing to drop the subject. "He left home shortly after dinner this evening. Ria remarked that he took a cab downtown. I thought he might have come here."

"I have not seen Victor in three, no, four days. You might want to check his studio or the Union Club. Your father has a life outside the theatre and interests other than me. You would know that if you paid attention to Victor instead of his money."