His Heart's Revenge (The Marshall Brothers Series, Book 2) (32 page)

Logan stood, and let Katy precede him to the door. As she passed him he caught her fragrance. Her fragrance. It elicited a flood of memories that were almost overwhelming in their power. Logan had to stop himself from reaching for the braid that had fallen over her shoulder.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, turning to Logan as she opened the door. The expression on his face was one she could not identify. His eyes had narrowed slightly and his head was tilted to one side.

He blinked. "Nothing's wrong," he said. His mouth hinted at a smile; mostly it was sad. "Good day, Katy."

* * *

Victor looked up from the work that surrounded him on the bed. He slipped off his spectacles, put them on the night table, and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

Katy stopped brushing her hair and regarded him with curiosity and worry.

"I wish you would not work so hard," she said softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Papers slid from their neat stacks, and she made no attempt to make the piles right again. Her thumb passed back and forth over the brush bristles as she spoke. "Ever since we returned from the Willows you have been obsessed with your work. There is no room for me in your bed anymore." She waved her hand over the papers and ledgers and bonds and certificates. "Is it me? Is it the baby?"

Victor closed the ledger in his lap and pushed it aside. "It is not you, and it is certainly not the baby."

"Then it's you." Her large, almond-shaped eyes appealed to him. "Please, Victor, tell me what it is. I miss being with you, being held by you. I miss talking to you and laughing with you. I don't want to sleep in that other room any more. I want to be with you."

He leaned across the bed and took the brush from her nervous fingers. His hand circled her wrist, and he needed only to tug lightly to bring Katy to his side. Leaning against the headboard, a pillow at the small of his back, Victor held Katy so that her cheek rested against his shoulder. Her nightshift had ridden up to her thighs so that her beautiful long legs were pale and smooth as cream against the deep blue of his robe. She was curled in the crook of his body, one of her arms across his chest. She laid a finger against the side of his neck. He caressed her knee with his palm.

"I could hold you for a lifetime, Katy," he said softly. "Believe that."

She frowned, her brows drawing together slightly.

"It is just what you said: it's me. I am afraid I have been rather a poor excuse for a husband."

"That's not true."

He chuckled. It was laugh or cry, and he was not going to cry in front of Katy. "It most certainly is. If you had more experience you would know that. I want to make love—"

"I don't care about that! I don't!"

Victor said nothing for a moment. "But I do," he said finally, quietly.

"Oh, Victor," she said sadly, tears pricking the back of her eyes.

"I have come to despise my body for not being able to meet the desires of my heart and mind. Some days I despise my heart for loving you with the passion of a youth. And my mind... can you possibly understand what I am talking about, Katy?"

She nodded slowly, adding in a broken whisper, "I've been so selfish, thinking only of me, thinking only of what I wanted. I'm sorry, Victor."

He stroked her hair, holding her to him when she would have broken their embrace. "No," he said. "Stay here. I shouldn't turn you out of my arms and my bed just because I can't be all that I want."

"But your work."

Victor rarely swore. Now he told her in very explicit terms what he thought about his work.

"The papers are wrinkled," she said.

In response he began pitching everything over the side of the bed. What he couldn't reach he kicked off. "There," he said, satisfied. "Trust me, V.I. Donovan's records are not any worse now than when you and I came back from the Willows."

"But Michael handled everything for you then."

"Precisely," he said dryly.

Katy laughed lightly and snuggled closer. "Victor, you are certain everything's all right, aren't you? With you, I mean. You looked tired at dinner this evening."

Victor was determined to skirt the issue of his health. "If I am tired of anything, it's the way Michael seems so bent on creating trouble between us."

"You mean his comment about Logan being here today."

"Exactly that. He brought it up without giving you any opportunity to mention it yourself."

"You handled it quite well anyway," she said. "Thank you for that."

"I trust you absolutely."

"Michael thinks you are foolish for that."

"My son and I have disagreed on any number of things over the years. Now we can add you to the list. I wish I had been the one who saw Logan leaving the house instead of Michael, but there's no changing it. He can think what he likes." He turned his head and kissed Katy's brow. She could not see his eyes; could not see the faraway look in them. "I know how you feel about Logan Marshall."

* * *

Katy sat alone at one of the dark oak booths in Crestmore's Ice Cream Parlor. She ordered a cherry phosphate from a young waiter wearing a starched white shirt and baby blue sleeve garters. He looked at her oddly, as if he was struggling to recognize her face but couldn't quite make out how he knew her. She had gotten used to the look when she was on the stage. It was a novelty now. Katy smiled and kept the secret to herself.

When her phosphate arrived, she sipped it slowly through a paper straw. Her eyes were lifted, focused beyond the large plate window at the front of the parlor. Victor's store, situated diagonally from the parlor, was in her line of vision. There was a steady stream of people in and out of the store. It seemed to Katy that most of them went in empty-handed and came out with at least one small parcel. In the case of Mrs. Easton-Brooks, there were seven large boxes, and three obsequious clerks carried them for her.

Katy looked down at her side where her purchases lay. She had bought a book for Ria and fabric for herself. Ria was lonely and bored in the prison of her bed, and Katy had taken it upon herself to keep Michael's wife entertained and her spirits lifted. Today nothing had helped. Ria cried until she made herself sick, and Katy lost patience with her. Leaving Ria to her maid, Katy realized she needed to get out of the house before she began to equate it with a prison herself.

With no particular destination in mind Katy had eventually found herself in V.I. Donovan's. The gift for Ria was in the way of a peace offering, and the fabric purchase was an afterthought. Later, she went to Victor's office and invited him to lunch at Crestmore's.

He had seemed amused and pleased by the idea, but Katy had the sense that his enthusiasm was mostly for her benefit. When she first entered his office, he had been sitting with his back to the door, staring out the window and deep in thoughts that seemed intensely personal. There were lines at the corner of his mouth she had never seen before and they worried her.

Katy frowned as someone moved into her field of vision, throwing her face in shadow. She glanced up and her frown deepened. "What are you doing here?"

Michael sat down in the booth opposite her. "Father sent me over to say he would be later than he first thought."

"That's all right. I'll wait for him." She expected him to go then, but he didn't. He stared at her, his blue eyes sliding over her face until they rested on her mouth. "Your lips are cherry bright," he said in a low voice. "Very kissable."

"Don't do this here, Michael. I do not want a scene."

"There won't be one unless you cause it. I am quite content to just sit here and imagine how things might be if you'd ever lower your guard around me. I could make you happy, Katy."

"Stop it," she hissed, pushing her half-finished drink to the middle of the table. "I don't want anything from you. And you can stop trying to make trouble for your father and me. Your remark last night at dinner was uncalled for. You tried to insinuate there was something between Logan Marshall and me, and you could not be more wrong. Your father knows that, even if you don't."

"Then why was Logan at the house yesterday?"

"That is none of your business."

Michael persisted. "And why was he the one who found you in the hotel room?"

"Who told you that?"

"No one. I saw him. I was still in the hallway when he came up the stairs. I ducked out of sight until he disappeared into one of the suites. It was your suite he went into, Katy. I stayed around long enough to confirm that much. What is Logan Marshall to you?"

"He is no one to me."

"I don't believe that."

"I am not listening to you any longer." She slid across the bench, gathered her packages, and stood. "Tell your father I decided to leave. I will see him at home this evening." With her purchases in the crook of one arm and her beaded bag dangling from her wrist, Katy used her free hand to pick up the cherry phosphate. She lifted it to her lips, smiled frostily, then poured the drink in Michael's lap. "Waiter! There's been a bit of an accident here." Setting the glass down, Katy left the parlor.

Michael caught up to her on the sidewalk when they were directly across from Victor's store. His finely drawn features were pinched and flushed with anger. He grabbed her elbow, jerking her toward him so that she was forced to halt in her tracks. A few passersby slowed in their steps, glancing in Katy's direction. Michael's hard glare sent them hurrying off again.

"Let me go," she said under her breath.

"You need to attend to your manners."

"Not with you, I don't. I suggest you be careful, Michael. That detective Victor hired is bound to see you with me and begin to wonder."

Michael's grip eased. Finally he dropped his hand altogether. "You are not always going to have the upper hand, Katy. Remember that."

Victor had just come out of the store. Ignoring Michael completely, Katy raised her hand to wave to her husband. Broadway was crowded with traffic, and a hansom cab blocked Victor from her view. She caught a glimpse of him as he turned to go down the walk so that he could cross closer to the ice cream parlor. She tried to attract his attention again but it was a hopeless task in the midst of the traffic and the pedestrians. Carriages and carts and cabs filled the wide boulevard and people dodged the horse-drawn vehicles and impatient drivers in order to negotiate the crossing.

All except Victor Donovan. Looking in neither direction, he stepped onto Broadway and into the path of a coach and four.

Chapter 9

Katy was a lone figure at the grave, a stark black silhouette against the evening sky. Occasionally a breeze would sweep across the knoll, suggesting movement when there was none. The hem of Katy's black gown fluttered; her bonnet was nudged toward the back of her head, and her veil pressed lightly at the contours of her face. She remained immobile, her head bowed and her hands folded around a prayer book.

She wished it would rain. Rain would have seemed appropriate today, she thought. All of nature should weep for Victor.

People had been parading in and out of the house for two days to offer condolences to Michael and pay their respects to Victor. Katy had never suspected how fondly Victor was regarded until she saw the swell of people gathered earlier for the funeral. Employees from the store, business acquaintances, his club friends, peers in his social stratum, all turned out to bid Victor farewell. She found little comfort in their appearance. Most often they spoke to Michael and regarded her suspiciously when they regarded her at all. Even at the end, there were whispers about Victor's foolish marriage.

"Ma'am?" Liam O'Shea took off his bowler and held it in front of him. He cleared his throat to attract Katy's attention. "Mrs. Marshall? You should come away now. It's getting dark. You don't want to stay out here alone."

Katy's head turned slowly. She looked at O'Shea without really seeing him. "Pardon me?"

"I said you should come away now. Sure, and it's not a good thing for you to be out here alone."

Kay pushed her veil back, and her eyes focused on the man at her side. He was a few inches shorter than she with dark, wind-ruffled hair and a stiffly waxed handlebar mustache. She remembered the mustache. "You're Mr. O'Shea, aren't you? The detective."