His Heart's Revenge (The Marshall Brothers Series, Book 2) (29 page)

"Harris is practically deaf," said Ria. "That's why I specifically asked for him. Please, Katy. You must help. I cannot have this baby."

"This is something you should talk over with Michael. I can't advise you."

"I don't want your advice. I have already made up my mind. Tell me where I can go. You must know."

She did know. It would have been hard to avoid conversations related to pregnancy and abortion while working at the Rialto. Katy had found herself learning things she would rather not have known. "Is this why you came with me this morning? Because you wanted information?"

Ria nodded. "Please, do not take offense. I don't dare ask anyone else where I can go. No one else knows that I am pregnant. Just you and Dr. Turner. There is no one else I trust... no one at all."

"I'm sorry, Ria." Katy shook her head. "I can't help you." It did not matter that the sky was still cloudless; the sunshine had vanished from Katy's day. "I also had an ulterior motive for inviting you to come with me. You are not the only one who has seen Dr. Turner recently. I was in his office yesterday and he, well, he didn't confirm my suspicions because frankly I had none, but he gave me the same news as you. I am going to have a baby, Ria."

Blinking rapidly, Ria managed to halt the tears that welled in her eyes. "Then you have sentenced me to die," she said quietly, and turned away.

Stricken, Katy asked for an explanation and received nothing in return. Her entreaties made no impact on Ria, and finally Katy had no choice but to tell the driver to return home. Once inside, Ria took to her room, locking the door behind her and barring Katy's way.

* * *

"You did the right thing to send for me," Scott assured Katy, dropping his bag on a dark oak end table. His eyes wandered to the rows of leather bound books filling the walls before he took a seat in one of the deep armchairs. "I have given her a powder to help her rest. She will probably sleep until dinner. What about Michael?"

Katy shook her head and passed Dr. Turner a cup of tea. She sat down opposite him. "I wanted to hear what you had to say first," she said. "Ria told me this morning that you and I are the only ones who know she is pregnant. I was not comfortable being the one to tell Michael, especially when she is so desperate to rid herself of the child."

"I can appreciate that. It would be better if Ria did herself, of course, but quite frankly, I'm not sure we can trust her to do that. Don't worry, I'll talk to Michael myself. I owe him a piece of my mind. This pregnancy was completely avoidable. He had no right to use his wife as if she were a breeding—" He stopped abruptly and looked away. "Forgive me. I've said more than I should."

"It's all right. On reflection I suspected it was something like that. The pregnancy's going to be very hard on her, isn't it?"

"Yes. Ria's had four miscarriages. The last one was... well, suffice it to say that I told her then she should not think about another child."

"Is she going to die? Is that what she meant when she said I had sentenced her to death?"

"God, she said that to you? No wonder you are as gray as ash." He set down his cup. "I will not lie to you, Mrs. Donovan. Ria's pregnancy is dangerous, but if she follows my instructions and takes care of herself, there's certainly a chance that she and her child will come out of this healthy."

"What can I do to help?"

"Do not tell her about Madame Restell," he said, naming the most expensive abortionist in the city. He saw that Katy knew the name.

"I was surprised she didn't know," admitted Katy. "The woman is notorious."

Scott sighed, pushing back a lock of yellow hair that had fallen across his forehead. "Thank God she is too naive to know such things. Ria's a gentle soul."

And Michael Donovan was a beast, Katy thought. She thought of several things she would like to do to Victor's son, all of them excruciatingly painful.

"And what about you?" asked Scott, changing the subject. "Does Victor know?"

Katy found she could not help smiling. "You were right. He is very happy."

"You?"

"Oh, yes." She remembered all the tears in the doctor's office. Had that really only been yesterday? "Happy hardly describes it."

Scott stood, picking up his bag. "Good. That's what one hopes for."

Standing in the doorway, framed by white marble pilasters, Katy watched Dr. Turner drive off in his carriage. She shut the door slowly and leaned against it. Closing her eyes momentarily, she wondered how Victor would react to the news of impending grandfatherhood.

Chapter 8

"Holland! Come back here with that!" Jenny lurched forward in her chair to make a grab at her son. Holland laughed gleefully as his mother caught the waistband of his short pants. "Give me that photograph."

Still giggling and holding the picture away, Holland glanced at his father. Christian was not smiling. Holland's dimples disappeared along with his laughter. "Here, Mama," he said, solemnly passing the photograph to Jenny.

"Thank you," she said politely, letting him go. "Now play over there. I will be with you when your father and I are done." She added the photograph to the others spread out on the table in front of Christian. It was torn and crumbled at the edges, thanks to Holland's deathlike grip on it. "What do you think?" she asked her husband.

"I think we should have asked the nanny if seasickness was going to be a problem," he said, flicking the abused picture with his ring finger. He looked at Holland, who was now playing quietly with his toy soldiers on the bed. Last night one of those lead soldiers had caught Christian in the small of his back at a most inopportune moment. It had not seemed very amusing then. Now Christian found himself chuckling at the memory. He turned his attention back to Jenny. "Remind me to check the bed thoroughly tonight."

Only a hint of a smile altered her beautifully serene expression. "I'll do that," she said. "Now, tell me what you think of these pictures."

"They are amazing," he said honestly. "It's as if you've captured the essence of the actress and her character. The multiple exposures were very effective. When did you do them?"

"A few days after we first came up with the idea," she said. "Remember? At Delmonico's."

"I remember. I also remember that Logan told us later that Miss Dakota did not want any part of posing for the camera or for me."

"Yes, well, Logan was lying. He never asked Miss Dakota if she would do either." Jenny's dark brown eyes held Christian's. He looked away first. "What's more, I think you knew that."

"Actually, I did. He had his reasons."

"Perhaps if he had been honest with me I would not have gone to Katy and asked her to reconsider her position."

"I see." It was easy to understand what had transpired then. The photographs were proof of that. "I can't say that I am sorry you went around Logan. These are remarkable, Jenny. Truly remarkable. I want to paint her."

"I thought you might."

"She's willing?"

"She said she was. She is really rather shy, Christian. Your sketches will be very important to her. I don't think she will enjoy posing." Jenny sifted through the photographs. "Damn," she swore softly. "I wonder what happened to it."

Christian began looking, too, even though he did not know what he was looking for. "Happened to what?"

"Did you see one where Katy is standing with her dress held up in front of her?"

"I think I would remember that," Christian said dryly.

She went through the pictures again, then looked under the table to see if it had fallen there. Jenny stood up, glanced behind her on the chair, shook her skirts in the hope that the photograph would somehow miraculously appear. It did not. She looked suspiciously at her son, who paid absolutely no attention. His cherub face was intent on leading a force of troops over the rough terrain of a mound of pillows. There was no use asking him. "Oh, Christian," she said unhappily, "it was a superb picture. The dressing screen dropped, you see, and Katy was caught off guard. She looked so—"

* * *

—vulnerable. Logan couldn't think of any other way to describe her. He held the photograph carefully, scarcely believing that he held it at all. In the wake of finding the photograph, Logan did not remember what had sent him to the third floor studio in the first place. He sat on the narrow steps, one shoulder leaning heavily against the faded floral-patterned wallpaper, and stared at Katy's image staring back at him.

It was Jenny's work, of course. Christian rarely did photography any more. Logan's professional eye acknowledged that it was an excellent picture. The lighting was exactly right, emphasizing the smooth ivory contours of Katy's naked shoulder and the slender stem of her neck. Katy's eyes were enormous, her lips parted fractionally. A shadow deepened the cleavage between her breasts. She stood there expectantly, waiting. Logan wondered what she had been thinking in that moment, what she had been waiting for.

He could not find it in himself to be angry. After all, he had lied to Jenny. But Katy? Katy knew he did not want her anywhere near his family, and yet she had defied him. Still, he could not be angry.

She was achingly beautiful, perhaps more so in the photograph than she was in reality. The stillness surrounding her, the watchfulness of her expression, made him aware of every graceful line of her body. His finger lightly traced her arm from shoulder to wrist. Her eyes beckoned him.

Logan slowly got to his feet. He considered dropping the photograph on the stairs where he had found it, leaving it there for Jenny to discover when she returned from her trip. But someone else, a servant perhaps, might look at it as something other than what it was.

He decided to keep it.

* * *

Katy was sitting in the dining room, finishing her breakfast while reading the newspaper, when Michael walked in. She did not look up from the
Chronicle
. Using a variety of tactics, Katy had avoided being alone with him since the incident at her hotel. By her calculations, Michael should have left for the store an hour ago with Victor. Katy would have eaten in her room if she had known he was still in the house.

Michael served himself from the sideboard, taking a liberal helping of eggs and steak from the silver warming trays. He split a muffin, added it to his plate, and then poured himself a hot, dark cup of coffee.

Katy rose to leave as he placed his breakfast on the cherry wood table. Michael grabbed Katy's wrist.

"Let me go, Michael," she said between clenched teeth. "So help me, I will scream if you don't release me."

"Don't make idle threats, Katy dear. We both know you are not going to scream to bring the servants running. It would get back to Victor and you do not want that." His fingers uncurled slowly. He held her eyes for a moment, then he sat down and snapped a linen napkin open on his lap. "Sit down, Katy. I think we need to talk. God knows, it has not been easy to be alone with you. You've thwarted me any number of times here at the house. Outside, I have that damn detective my father hired to contend with. You cannot imagine—"

"Detective?" She sat down, holding onto the edge of the table to keep her hands still. She searched Michael's handsome face for some clue, but he was giving away nothing. He had actually nudged the newspaper away from her place and was pretending calm interest in the headline article. "What detective?" she asked.

Michael finally looked up. "You are looking quite lovely this morning," he said. "You should wear that shade of rose more often. It puts color in your cheeks." His blue eyes dropped to the bodice of her gown. Katy's dress buttoned at the front, from her waist to the hollow of her throat. He thought the fit was snugger than it had been several weeks ago and told her so. "Pregnancy becomes your figure."

"I will not sit here and permit you to bait me, Michael," she said, feeling an embarrassed flush steal over her throat and face. "I will ask Victor about the detective myself." She began to rise.

"His name is O'Shea. Liam O'Shea. Father hired him the day after you and I had our... er... our misunderstanding at the Chesterfield."

"Why would he do that?"

"Isn't it obvious? Father was suspicious of your story. He wants this O'Shea fellow to protect you, and he wants to find the man who accosted you. Quite the noble knight, my father."