Her Defiant Heart Page 9

  "I couldn't say, Mr. Marshall."

  "I couldn't say, Mr. Marshall," he said, mocking her. He watched her turn her back on him and head toward the dressing and bathing area adjoining his bedroom. "Where do you think you're going?"

  "To the next room," she explained patiently. "I'm going to pour some water so you can wash, clean your teeth, and shave."

  "Where is Mrs. Brandywine? Is something wrong with her? Is that why you're here?"

  "Mrs. Brandywine is fine. A little out of patience with you, it's true, but I suspect the feeling is mutual. I am here because she sent me." Jenny disappeared into the other room.

  "What if I don't want to wash and shave?" he asked sourly. "Don't you ever ask anything first?" When there was no reply Christian expanded on his theme. "What the hell did that old harridan do with my bottle? It was here yesterday. Scott put her up to it. I know he did. She wouldn't have had the nerve otherwise. That's why she sent you up here to beard the lion. She doesn't trust herself not to give me what I want." He smiled a trifle smugly. "I know precisely how to get around her." He glanced at the tray, grimaced, then picked up the piece of dry toast and began eating it. It was not so bad. His dulled taste buds and churning stomach would have revolted against anything less bland.

  "Can't you do something about all the light in here?" he called out. "If I wanted to make my room in the solarium I damn well would have done so. And what was Mrs. B. thinking, letting you in here? You might do anything. Strip me naked. Tie me to the bed. It's not as if you haven't done those things before." The pain behind Christian's eyes was sharp enough to make him wince. He couldn't remember a hangover equal to this one. Chewing hurt. "Has everyone in this house gone mad? Are you infectious perhaps? Should we have the house quarantined before it spreads to the rest of the city?" There was still no response from the other room. His voice rose. "Dammit! Can't I even offend you?" He thought his head would explode. "You don't ask! You don't answer! What else don't you do?"

  Jenny stepped back into the room carrying a porcelain washbowl and pitcher in one arm and a small salver and water glass in the other. "I don't swear to make a point. Would you move the breakfast tray a bit so I can set these things down?" When Christian grudgingly complied, Jenny went on. "I don't purposely set out to hurt another person's feelings, and I don't raise my voice in anger. Not because I don't want to. I can't. If I had tried to make myself heard from the other room I wouldn't have a voice now." She sat down on the edge of the bed and handed him the water glass. "You can rinse your mouth with this. And don't look so hopeful. It's water, not gin."

  He regarded her suspiciously. "Are you related to Mrs. B.?"

  She smiled and picked up the salver. There was baking soda paste on it for Christian to clean his teeth. "No, I'm not, but it is a lovely compliment."

  "It wasn't meant as a—"

  "I know. Here, you can clean your teeth."

  Christian wrinkled his nose, but he swiped at the paste with his finger and brushed it on his teeth. He took a sip of water, sloshed it around and looked for a place to spit. Jenny helped him by pulling a juice glass from her pocket and holding it up to his mouth.

  "Better?" she asked, placing the spit glass and salver aside and removing the water glass from Christian's hands. She noticed his fingers trembled slightly.

  "Better than what?"

  Jenny did not have an answer for that. She poured some water into the basin and wet a cloth. "Do you want to wash yourself or shall I do it for you?"

  Christian wondered exactly how drunk he had been when he took this viper into his home. "I'll do it." He took the cloth and rinsed his face. She held out a bar of soap for him and he took that as well. "I'll need hot water if I'm going to shave."

  "Of course." Jenny rose from the bed and found a small kettle in the dressing room. She set it over the fire to heat. "Shall I pour tea for you?"

  Christian's face was buried in the cloth. He was on the edge of feeling human again and not certain he liked it. "No tea," he muttered.

  She shrugged. "As you wish."

  "This is a dream, isn't it? An alcoholic hallucination. Scott warned me it might happen and here it is."

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "You. I mean you." He tossed the cloth and soap into the basin and leaned back against the headboard. "My God, this all seems real."

  Jenny had more than a little empathy for the disorientation Christian was feeling. "I'm afraid this is real," she said gently. "I'm very real."

  "You would say that." He slanted her a sideways glance. "You are looking better than the last time I saw you."

  "And you are looking worse."

  He gave a short laugh. "You don't mince words. Perhaps I should be flattered you noticed enough then to make a comparison now." He saw pink color tinge her cheeks but she did not look away. "How long have you been out of bed?"

  "For two days."

  "Scott agreed to that?"

  She nodded. "I was ready a day or so before that, but he wasn't."

  "He's a tyrant."

  "When he has to be."

  Christian did not miss how she came to Scott's defense. He had not anticipated that. Miss Jane Doe was not likely to become his ally when she was so firmly on his friend's side. "Tell me, Jane, why were you chosen to play nursemaid?"

  "My name is Jenny," she said, correcting him. The water in the kettle had begun a rolling boil so she removed it.

  "What?"

  "My name is Jenny Holland." She poured the hot water into the basin, tested it, and added a measure of cooler water from the pitcher.

  "Jenny. As in Jennifer?"

  She put the kettle on the apron of the fireplace. "No. Just Jenny." She went into the adjoining room and returned moments later with Christian's shaving things. "It was your housekeeper's idea that I take over the role of nursemaid. Your word," she reminded him, "not hers or mine."

  Christian's coolly colored eyes regarded her thoughtfully as she sat on the edge of the bed and added water to his shaving mug. She began making lather with his brush as if she had done this for him a hundred times. It was a trifle disconcerting. Christian still was not entirely convinced that he wasn't hallucinating. "Scott was right, wasn't he? You're not a lunatic."

  "Perhaps I am not the best person to judge that. It is rather like asking a drunk if he has a drinking problem. He says, 'No, not as long as I am drinking.'"

  "God, but you have incredible nerve." He snatched the shaving mug from her hands and began brushing lather on his face. "Get me a mirror from the other room. There's one right on top of the small linen cupboard." When she returned with it, he pointed at her to sit down again and hold the mirror up for him. "Where is my razor?"

  "Shouldn't you soften your beard first? That's why I boiled the water."

  Though it pained him to admit it, she was right. "I need a towel."

  She turned away quickly so he would not see her smile. A lunatic, indeed. Everything she heard—and saw—about Christian Marshall convinced her he was a much better candidate for commitment than she ever had been. She retrieved the towel, let him wipe away the lather smeared on his face, and then took it from him so she could dip it in the hot water. After wringing it out, she returned it to him. He placed it around the lower part of his face and pressed it against his beard.

  "For what it's worth, I don't think I'm demented," she told him when he couldn't interrupt. "I already thanked Dr. Turner for his part in helping me. I want to thank you also. You made it possible for me to escape that hell. And that's all I really want to say about it. If that does not satisfy you, I'll leave, but you should know that Dr. Turner says I do not have to talk about anything until I want to... if I ever want to."

  Beneath the steaming towel, Christian smirked. It showed in his eyes. "How convenient."

  "I appreciate that it might appear that way to you," she said. It was not a matter of convenience to her. Jenny would have liked to confide in someone, but experience had taught her there was no one sh
e could trust. Christian Marshall, Dr. Turner, even Mrs. Brandywine would be no different. They would think her deranged, and the real madness would start again. Silence and time were the only means of combating the problems facing her. "You will find out soon enough, so you may as well hear it from me. Mrs. Brandywine has hired me."

  Christian tore off the towel. "Hired you? No. I forbid it."

  A measure of Jenny's bravado deserted her. What was she going to do if he made her leave his home? "Why?"

  "Because... because you're not well enough to be working."

  "My duties are very light, but I will be able to do more as time goes on."

  Christian picked up the shaving mug again and lathered his softened beard. When he was done, he set the cup and brush aside and held out his hand for his razor. "Hold up the mirror. A little higher. That's good." He scraped through his beard carefully, cleaning the razor by wiping it against the edge of the basin. "I think Mrs. B. has overstepped," he said. "You are a guest. Scott's patient, really. I cannot imagine what she was thinking. Or Scott for that matter. He shouldn't have gone along with it."

  "It was my idea."

  "Oh?"

  "I've worked in service before. I was a lady's maid, hairdresser, and companion."

  "Well, I sure as hell figured out you weren't from the Five Points. But a lady's maid?" He had to lower the razor because he was in danger of cutting himself. Laughter rumbled in his chest. He sucked in his breath as the pain in his head sharpened almost unbearably.

  Jenny was immediately aware of Christian's distress. His eyes closed briefly and his complexion lost even its sallow coloring. Her attention dropped to his right hand. Gently she took the razor out of his trembling fingers. "I'll do this for you."

  "I can do it," he snarled, embarrassed.

  "Of course you can," she said. "But let me."

  He looked at her suspiciously. "I thought you were a lady's maid. Who was the lady? A bearded curiosity in one of Barnum's sideshows?"

  Jenny's mouth twisted to one side, showing him what she thought of his sarcasm. "I used to do this for my father. Tip your head back a little." When he hesitated, she sighed. "Are you afraid I'll have a fit of madness and slit your throat?"

  It was her challenge that hooked Christian. Prudence be damned, he thought. He tilted his head so the crown of his copper-streaked hair rested against the headboard and exposed his throat to her. He didn't realize that his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed hard.

  Jenny's tongue peeped out at the corner of her mouth as she concentrated on her task. Angled as it was, he had a relatively easy face to shave. The jaw was strong and, unlike her father, there was only one chin and no dimple. "I would have thought a man in your position would have a valet."

  "I did," he answered without moving his lips. "He left. Ow!"

  "Sorry," she said, wincing. "You jerked."

  He merely grunted.

  Jenny drew her own conclusions about why Christian's valet was no longer in residence. To her way of thinking, it was astonishing that anyone remained in his employ. Although there were loyal retainers, Mrs. Brandywine in particular, no one ever said Christian Marshall was an easy man to work for.

  So many things were still hazy about the day he broke into the treatment room and offered his help that Jenny often wondered what parts were imagined and what parts were real. What left an indelible impression, however—what she would have maintained even under torture—was that Christian Marshall had been kind to her. His voice had soothed her as she cowered like a wild animal in one corner of the cell. He had offered his coat as comfort against the cold. He had talked to her as if she could understand him, not as if she were demented. Christian had spoken to her, not at her. That was something no one, not even Dr. Turner, had done since she had been taken to Jennings.

  In some ineffable way, he had returned to her a measure of dignity. It was a gift without price.

  "There," she said, her tone hinting at pride. "All done." She wiped a bit of lather from the corner of his jaw near his ear. "One nick, and it's already stopped bleeding. Would you like to see?"

  He shook his head—gently, because it was still pounding. "No, I'll take your word for it." He wasn't ready to confront his face in the mirror again. The quick glance earlier was enough. Christian felt as aged as the whiskey he had been drinking.

  Jenny began cleaning up, removing all the shaving articles and the basin and pitcher to the bathing room. "Tea?" she asked when she was done. She placed her palm against the pot. "It's still warm."

  "And weak as water, no doubt."

  "Just about. Mrs. Morrisey was under strict orders to keep everything mild."

  "I detect Mrs. B.'s fine hand."

  Jenny did not disabuse of that notion. "Dr. Turner left some headache powders. Would you like me to get you one?"

  "No."

  Jenny looked around the room. There was nothing else she could do for him. "I'll go then. I promise I'll do something about the drapes later."

  "The light's not so bad."

  Her dark brows rose a fraction at Christian's grudging admission. He had certainly made a fuss over it earlier. She turned to go but had only taken a few steps when he called to her.

  "Who was the woman you used to work for?"

  She looked at him and saw his eyes were still closed. It struck her that speaking was an effort for him. Her fingers fidgeted with a crease in her apron. "I don't think you would know—"

  "Jenny. Her name."

  "Vanderstell. Alice Vanderstell." There was no reaction from him, nothing to indicate whether he believed her or even if he was surprised. She could not imagine that he knew Alice, but the Vanderstell name would be known to him. When he made no reply, she assumed he was done with her. She reached for the door.

  "Aren't you forgetting something?" he asked, regarding her through narrowed eyes and under a dark sweep of lashes. He opened his palm and showed her the key she had given him earlier. "You'll need this to get out. And I don't know if I can trust you to give it back."

  A sly smile touched Jenny's pink lips. She reached in her pocket and dangled the key to his room between her thumb and forefinger. "You should not have trusted me to give it to you in the first place." Before he decided to get out of bed and come after her, Jenny inserted the key into the lock and twisted the brass handle.

  Christian regarded the key in his possession with complete astonishment. "But you said—"

  "I lied." It was her parting shot.

  Chapter 4

  Stephen Bennington lowered his newspaper as his father entered the dining room. He looked over the top edge, saw the grim set of his father's mouth, and wished he had never stole a glance in the first place. In Stephen's opinion breakfast was meant to set the mood for the day; therefore, one should make it pleasant. His sigh was inaudible as he briskly snapped the paper, folded it in quarters, and laid it beside his plate.

  "The biscuits are especially good this morning," he said as his father helped himself to the food set out on the sideboard.

  The senior Bennington's acknowledgment was something between a snort and a grunt. He spooned scrambled eggs onto his plate, speared a few strips of crisp, blackened bacon, and took two biscuits. When he approached the table, the maid who had fluttered in with a fresh pot of coffee held out his chair for him. She poured a cup for her employer and added a good measure to Stephen's, then removed herself from the room quickly, pulling the pocket doors closed behind her.

  With an angry flourish, William Bennington opened his linen napkin. He smoothed it across his lap and shot his son a sour look. "Where were you last night?" The question was not so much an inquiry as it was the beginning of an interrogation. It was the senior Bennington's way to never ask a question when he could make a demand.

  Stephen was too familiar with his father's manner to take offense or even be much bothered by it. He returned his father's glower with a slight smile. "I informed you days ago that I had plans for last evening," he said coolly.<
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  Though father and son were possessed of decidedly different temperaments, there could be no doubt, even among the most casual of observers, that these two men were related. When they stared at one another from opposite ends of the table, as they were doing now, the physical similarities were striking. The Benningtons shared sharp angular features that were by turns aristocratic and predatory. The strong jaws were softened only marginally by large side-whiskers. William had a meticulously groomed beard and mustache while Stephen sported a mustache alone. Both men had thick heads of pale ash-blond hair, though William's hairline showed signs of receding and some strands of hair were more gray than ash. On their feet, William and Stephen stood shoulder to shoulder, lithe, handsomely featured men with a natural grace that invariably captured a woman's eye.

  William's manner of dress was rather more conservative than his son's. He preferred formal cuts and somber tones, which he believed lent him dignity and forcefulness. Stephen was more likely to wear the colorful clothes of his generation: checked trousers, coupled with a short, loose sports coat and a jaunty bowler. William was often seen coming or going from his office at the bank. Stephen was more likely to be spied taking part in a daring coach race down the center of Broadway.

  A score of years separated father and son. At twenty-five Stephen still lapsed into moments of profound immaturity and petulance. At forty-five William did not always shoulder responsibility well. Somewhat to his regret, William realized that in the case of his only offspring the apple had not fallen far from the tree.

  William's cobalt eyes snapped at his son. "I would have thought you had sense enough to change your plans. I don't think you truly understand what we are up against. Things are not going to stay the same no matter that we might wish it otherwise. Caroline's death has changed everything."

  "I don't see that my presence at the bank mattered one way or the other."

  William jabbed at his eggs with his fork. "Then it's high time you began to see. You were Caroline's fiancé, for God's sake. Don't you think the board found your absence conspicuous? After all, this was the first meeting since her death."