Velvet Thunder (37 page)

He chuckled lightly. “And if I were a gamester, I'd wager that you're not sick.” His silent invitation for a confession was louder than his verbal declaration.

She considered her options. Lie, run, spill her guts. “You'd be right,” she said at last.

“You know Heath wants me to examine you.”

“Just you? I thought he wanted both of his doctor brothers to check me from head to toe.”

“I have no doubt that after I'm finished with you, he'll drag Rad in for a second opinion. So what shall I tell him?”

“If I tell you the truth, will you reassure him?” She widened her eyes. “And get him off my back?”

“Guess that depends on the truth.”

“I'm pregnant with your brother's baby.”

The uncle in Chap smiled hugely. The doctor maintained his professional air. “And do you intend to tell him?”

“Eventually.”

That was good enough for Chap. He had meddled in this little lady's private affairs sufficiently for one day. “Well, everything that passes between a patient and her physician is confidential.” He patted her hand in a familial gesture. “But a man can reassure his brother that the woman he loves is healthy.”

“Thank you, Chap.”

“Don't mention it.”

Charm
was
an inborn trait in the Turner men, Stevie decided.

Heath stood just inside the general's door. The suite was cast in semidarkness, the early morning sun barely penetrating the closed potierres.

At the far end of the large room, his father's bed was curtained off. Though he couldn't see the general, familiar scents that he associated with him alone filled his nostrils: fine tobacco, expensive leather, spicy cologne.

A myriad of emotions flowed over him. Weak in the knees, he gripped the knob at his back. The memories of a lifetime flashed before his mind's eye. He and the general hunting, fishing, talking. Most of all, talking. Whenever he'd had an important decision to make, the general was always there, always understanding, always interested, and always able to help him find his way.

He hadn't known how much he depended on his father until now. Like most children, he'd taken his father for granted, expected him to be there when he needed him, thought him invincible. Even now he couldn't imagine life without him.

Heath was closer to his father than to his brothers and sisters. They had dubbed him “the little general” as soon as he was old enough to toddle around after their patriarch.

“Well, are you gonna stand there all day, or are you gonna come over here and say hello?” a deep, familiar voice called to him out of the dark. “And open those damn drapes. This place looks like a tomb.”

“Yes, sir.” Heath smiled and did his father's bidding. When he reached the bedside, it took great effort to keep his pleasant expression in place. His usually larger-than-life father looked thin and pale propped against a half dozen pillows. Not thin for a normal person, but certainly frail for the general.

“Good to see you, son.” The old man's voice was husky, his once-snapping eyes sunken and faded.

“It's good to be home, Dad.” As long as Heath could remember, none of the general's children had ever called him “Dad.” But the emotion welling in his heart overflowed. Somehow “General” was too impersonal. He bent and wrapped his arms around his father's shoulders. They were thinner than Heath remembered. But the strength of his returning embrace belied his frail appearance.

The general's voice was gruff with emotion, his eyes unusually bright when Heath finally released him. “Hell, am I dying?”

“Sir?”

“You hugged me like you were saying good-bye for the last time.”

“No, sir. I wasn't saying good-bye.” He blessed his father with an off-center grin. “I just got home. You running me off?”

“No, son.” The general straightened as much as he was able. “Fact is, I need you.”

Supposing that he spoke of emotional support, Heath declared fervently, “I'm here, sir.”

“Good.” The general adopted a business-as-usual air. As much as he was able, sitting in bed, dressed in a nightshirt, he assumed control. “We'll talk specifics later, but I want you to take over our businesses. Soon the twins will head back to Richmond.” He coughed until Heath thought he would choke.

After a long draw of water, he continued where he left off. “Which is as it should be. They have their medical practice to think of. And the girls”—Heath surmised his father referred to Ginny and Kinsey—“have family who need your brothers' help. But there are families here that depend on us. More than you know. The Turners employ a large number of people, and I want a Turner looking out for their interests—as well as our own.”

The general noted the incredulous look on Heath's face. “Your mother has found some pantywaist she's bound and determined to marry Ann off to. You know the kind, impeccable breeding, rich as Croesus. But the man couldn't blast his way out of a wet paper bag with a twenty-pounder cannon. He'll be no help to me at all. And Emily's still grieving for Ross. I have my doubts she'll ever marry again. Though her children need a father.” He waved the thought away and faced Heath seriously. “Son, I know you enjoy your marshaling. But your family needs you. It's time you took your rightful place as head of Turner Incorporated.”

Heath was stunned. He'd had no idea he was walking into this. Truth to tell, the prospect of wheeling and dealing on Wall Street appealed to him. His days of roaming the Wild West were beginning to wear thin, the bloodletting nightmarish.

But there was Stevie to consider. He could scarcely imagine her as a New York socialite. And the children, Winter and Summer, he wondered how they would be treated in the East?

The general detected interest, surprise, and hesitancy on his son's face. In all, he was pleased. Having planted the seed, he decided to water it later. “But we can discuss business tonight, after dinner. Tell those overprotective twins of mine and your mother that I will be joining my family after tea. You brought a young lady home with you?”

“Yes, sir.” Heath was still somewhat distracted, and inordinately intrigued by his father's proposal.

The general hid a smug smile. “I assume she has a name.”

“Yes, sir. Stephanie Johns. But she likes to be called Stevie.”

“Well, tell Miss Stevie Johns that I look forward to meeting her at dinner. Now, run along,” he said as if Heath were still in short pants, “and tell your mother's cook if she serves me anything that remotely resembles gruel, I'll fire her on the spot.”

Still in somewhat of a daze, Heath nodded to his father.

“Son?”

Heath halted in the doorway.

“Pass the word that I want to see my grandchildren this afternoon.”

“All of them, sir?”

There was definitely a note of paternal pride in his voice when the general responded, “Every last hellion on the place.”

Heath quit the room wondering if the general hadn't exaggerated his illness just to get him home. Surely not. Chap and Rad would have had to be in on the scheme, and they were far too professional for that.

Weren't they?

 

 

A scant hour later Stevie was still seated in the parlor. Heath had replaced Chap on the hassock fronting her chair. When he returned from his father's room and reported on his visit, Chap mumbled his excuses, claiming an inordinate interest in the general's remarkable recovery.

“I'll show you upstairs for a rest. You must be exhausted.” He winked. “I bribed Smithers to put you in the room next to mine.”

“What will your mother think of that?”

“I'm not masochist; I don't intend to tell her.”

“Won't she just see me there?”

“It's doubtful. The boys—as she still calls us—and the general sleep in the east wing. Mother's suite is in the west wing. She never comes into our part of the house, something about men giving off vapors when they sleep. In fact, she's horrified that Ginny and Kinsey insist upon sleeping with their husbands. If we're lucky, she'll not think to ask where you are.”

She feigned apprehension. “About these vapors . . .”

Stevie was unable to finish her sentence as the parlor doors were almost wrenched off their hinges. They hit the wall with a deafening bang. Nothing could have prepared her for Ann Turner, Heath's youngest and most affectionate sister.

“Heath,” Ann squealed, flying across the room like a whirling dervish in a Worth gown. She tackled him before he could rise, knocking him backward off the hassock. Brother and sister hit the floor, disappearing in a flurry of silk, satin, and lace.

Heath wrapped his arms around Ann and tried his best to cushion her fall. Squeezing the breath out of him, she placed kisses on both of his cheeks, his forehead, and his chin. “I've missed you, you idiot,” she cried breathlessly, thumping him in the chest.

He edged to the side of her, pulling them both to a sit on the floor. “Stevie honey, may I present my sister Ann.” His arm still around Ann's shoulders, he paused for breath. “As you can see, Mother's attempt to turn her into a lady failed miserably.”

Stevie found herself being scrutinized by beautiful pale blue eyes. “Hello, Ann . . .” she began. She was soon to learn that one rarely completed a sentence around Ann Turner.

When Ann surged up onto her knees, her skirts spread about her. She looked as if she were sitting on a pale pink cloud. She stretched forth her white-lace-gloved hand and touched Stevie's knee with wonder. “Oh, I love your leather trousers.” She looked past Stevie's shoulder. “Em, don't you just love her trousers?”

“They're pretty on her.”

Heath and Stevie turned toward the calm, kind lady gliding across the room. Heath rose smoothly to his feet and met her halfway. He enfolded her in his embrace. “Emmy.”

He spoke her name so tenderly that Stevie knew this was yet another beloved Turner sibling. She was the opposite of Ann. Where Ann was pretty and full of life, her older sister was rather plain and sedate. She didn't possess her brothers' good looks or their vivid coloring. In fact, there was nothing physically attractive to distinguish her.

Until she smiled. Her face was transformed. The only word that came to Stevie's mind was
radiant.
Emily possessed something more entrancing than physical comeliness; she possessed inner beauty. But it was the pain in her eyes that touched Stevie's heart. Grief was an emotion she recognized from experience.

Arm in arm, Heath escorted Emily over to Stevie. “Honey, this is my sister Emily. Em, may I present Miss Stephanie Johns.”

Emily greeted her warmly. “Miss Johns, welcome to Turner House.”

“Thank you. But please call me Stevie.”

Ann rose with Heath's aid. “How wonderful. A boy's name and trousers too. Oh, she's just wonderful, Heath.”

Heath regarded his youngest sister, wondering at her strange behavior. He shook off the thought. Ann had always been a tad strange. That was what set her apart from the other young, beautiful socialites in New York. “Annie, since you and Stevie are close in size, I've offered her the use of one of your gowns until she can see a modiste.”

“Certainly. You'll need to be wearing a gown when you meet Mother.” The fervent way Ann said that made Stevie uneasy. “Let's go up now. That'll give you time to find more than one. You'll need an outfit for tea and another for dinner.”

“Hon, I have some business to attend. I'll leave you in Annie's capable hands.”

Stevie had a notion that Heath's business concerned Judge Jack. She didn't want to be left behind. “I wouldn't want to be an imposition.”

“Oh, pooh. It's not an imposition.” Ann linked her arm with Stevie's and escorted her from the parlor.

Stevie glanced over her shoulder at Heath. He winked and nodded. Sighing, she accepted her fate.

From the open doorway Heath and Emily heard Ann say, “Would you permit me to try on your trousers?”

Stevie's muffled response was lost in the distance.

“When did Ann become so fascinated by masculine affectations?” Heath asked Emily. “Not that there is anything manly about Stevie.” Thinking about Stevie's feminine charms, he didn't meet Emily's eyes.

“Since Mother betrothed her to a man who has so few masculine traits of his own.”

The harshness in Emily's tone arrested Heath's attention; he had never heard her sound so unpleasant.

“Annie fully plans to be the one to wear the pants in the family . . . if Mother is able to make her go through with the wedding.”

“So when do I meet this specimen of masculinity?'

“Tonight at dinner, unless we're lucky and he doesn't show.”

“Sounds like you don't like him either.”

“Either?”

“The general told me about him. He wasn't too complimentary of—”

“Eugene.” She almost spat the name. “And I'm not surprised the general doesn't think much of him. If Father were stronger, I should think he would get his gun and shoot the worm.”

“What on earth has the man done, Emmy?”

“It's what he hasn't done. Dear Eugene didn't fight in the war. Asthma, you know. Unsubstantiated by any medical man Chap and Rad have been able to find. Nevertheless, he paid an immigrant to take his place. The man was killed at Bull Run.”

“Cowardly bastard,” Heath uttered, acknowledging one more obligation to his family. Ann Turner would marry Eugene over his dead body.

No matter what their mother said.

 

 

The gentlemen's club was virtually deserted when Eugene Prickle entered, making his way to his usual table. Only one other table in the richly appointed common room was occupied. But Eugene didn't spare the man so much as a glance. He was too angry to concern himself with strangers.

It was those damn Turners. Despite his best efforts, he feared that the clan as a whole would indulge Ann's spoiled wishes and oppose their marriage, despite their mother's dictate to the contrary.

He couldn't let that happen. He had to marry Ann Turner and he had to marry her soon. Everyone—India Turner included—assumed he had access to his father's fortune. But after Eugene's unfortunate incident, one which involved his sister Eugenia, his father had left the country, instructing them both to be out of his house, out of his life, by the time he returned.

Thankfully, the old man had not told anyone that he was disowning his children before he left town. So Eugene had been able to put his creditors off for a time. But that time had come to an end. He needed access to the Turner fortune, and the only way to do that was marry the bratty chit.

The general was sick but improving. The Turner doctors would leave soon, he'd been told. He could handle the women once he married into the family. Eugenia didn't like the thought of him marrying Ann. But it was the only way. . . .