Bees in the Butterfly Garden (34 page)

The dance ended too soon and Ian bowed, then squeezed her hand. “I’ve always wanted what was best for you. Never forget that, Meg.”

He excused himself, found his way to the Pembertons, thanked them for the evening, then bid good night to Kate.

He would see Meg once more, just to be sure the consequences of the break-in went exactly as he had planned.

And after that, he would never see her again.

Meg watched Ian go, troubled by his early departure but more than that by the words he’d spoken. The dance had begun so promisingly. He’d told her she was lovely, that he’d thought so since she was a child. She’d held her breath at such words, fully expecting them to be followed by a declaration of love. In that moment she realized she’d have easily and eagerly returned such a declaration. She loved him. How could she have ignored it for so long?

But he’d gone on as if she were nothing more than an inconvenience. Someone he wanted to pass on to a man more willing to share her future.

She found her way to Kate, who was sitting next to Claire. Meg waited some time to speak alone with Kate.

“What’s changed your mind about your confession?” she whispered. “Did you make some kind of deal with Ian? That he would give up his partnership with me if you don’t endanger our plans?”

“What a lovely idea!” Kate said. “But no, I hadn’t thought of it. Why do you ask?”

“Because Ian acted so strangely this evening, and you . . . I thought you were going to tell everyone your real identity. And yet you haven’t.”

“I cannot make my confession without jeopardizing your entire social future, Meg. And I once promised your father that if ever you and I were to meet, I would love you with all the love I held for him. How could I do anything to hurt you?”

Meg watched the others who were dancing: Claire with her brother, Evie with one of the stable boys, the servants with each other. She knew the evening wouldn’t last much longer, but it had ended for her the moment Ian departed.

32

The truly elegant young lady always remains in control over her inner sentiments. She does not compromise grace by exhibiting melodramatic behavior that commands attention, whether she finds herself in the heights or depths of emotion.

Madame Marisse’s Handbook for Young Ladies

Meg had once believed her nights of investigation in the downstairs office resulted in the greatest loss of sleep. That was no longer true. From the moment she arrived home from the picnic, she was beset tenfold with anxiety.

Would the robbery be discovered? Sooner or later it
must
be. But when?

Once inside the Pemberton home, nothing happened.

No one went into the library or the office at such a late hour. There was no chance for anything amiss to be discovered.

All she had to do now was wait for Pubjug to retrieve the bricks from the garden. She saw them from her bedroom window, a neat, square stack that looked as untouched as it had since the moment it had been delivered.

Pubjug would come for them in just a few hours. The job would truly be complete then.

And if by the end of the week Nelson had no cause to go into his father’s office, if by next Sunday the missing gold had not been discovered, Meg would hint at her departure anyway.

Then, perhaps within a few days of that, she would leave without the slightest suspicion. Perhaps by then she would have learned to live with the fear of discovery. Perhaps that could even begin by dawn, after the bricks had been taken away.

Meg did not go to her bed at all that night. She watched the bricks. Before she heard the first bird welcoming dawn, she paced, waiting for Pubjug. Her restless heart picked up a beat when she heard him arrive at the servants’ entrance and the scullery maid let him in. He never looked up, never wavered from his task. He secured the rope-bound bricks to a dolly and wheeled them away. She watched, tears in her eyes that he had made it look so simple. The gold had been taken away without a noise, not even a grunt.

Meg sat silently, listening to the birds just waking. The garden below had only one spot left in need of attention. Soon the new, innocent bricks would be delivered and Mr. Deekes would hire someone to build the bench to her design. Then the garden would truly be complete.

Meg wanted to say it would be lovely. In the pinkish hue of the early morning, it might have been—to any other eye but hers.

“Where are your hat and gloves, Evie? It’s almost time to go.”

“I don’t want to go to the park today, Clairy.”

“What?” Claire’s surprise was followed with an enlightened nod. “Just because Geoffrey and his family haven’t returned from Saratoga doesn’t mean you should avoid the fresh air.”

Meg slipped into her gloves as she watched the exchange. She could tell already that Claire would lose this battle; Evie had that not-going-to-budge look on her face, and of the two sisters, Evie was clearly the stronger.

“I had enough fresh air last night, but I’ll sit in the garden if I want any more of it. What I really want is to spend the afternoon in the aviary or the library.”

“All right, then.” Claire followed her capitulation with a glare. “But don’t get into any trouble.”

Evie offered a smile that would have been at home on the most innocent child. “Why would I cause any trouble? You won’t be here to enjoy it.”

Claire tsked but was clearly in good humor anyway. “We’ll be back early, then, just to make sure that you won’t miss us for too long.”

Then Claire forged the path through the foyer and out the front door, which was hurriedly opened by the butler, Mr. Deekes.

Meg glanced up at the sky. Myriad layers of clouds skidded along, white and gray, some wispy, some thick. All moving on something more than a gentle breeze.

“She may be right about staying at home today,” Meg said. “The fair weather looks to be changing.”

“We won’t stay long.”

The Pemberton driver paced the carriage at a healthy clip, as if knowing he raced with the weather. He gained entrance to the park at the familiar Scholars’ Gate. While Meg noticed the air didn’t hold the scent of rain, she realized her worries about something so mundane as a soaking seemed nearly a pleasure compared to the anxiety that had plagued her since last night.

Meg could think of nothing to chat with Claire about, not with her secretly burdened heart pulled firmly downward. She’d been alternately sympathetic and unaccountably irritated with Claire all morning. Sympathetic because of her own guilt, but irritated for the same reason. If Claire hadn’t been so easy to like, Meg wouldn’t feel nearly as guilty. Would she?

In the rare moment Meg’s mind drifted from the plague of her remorse, she strove to think of other things. But the strain was never truly pushed aside; it hovered over every thought she tried putting in its place.

You’re a thief, a liar, a fraud. If Claire knew the truth about you, she would demand justice as quickly as she’d demanded it of Evie.
Every naughty thing Evie had done in her life did not add up to the grievous wrong Meg had helped perpetrate.

Meg continued to summon the image of her father, hoping his face would dispel some of the oppression. How had he lived with himself all the years that he had? Knowing he’d cheated people? Had he known any of his victims as well as Meg knew hers?

Perhaps she’d gone about it the wrong way; perhaps she shouldn’t have allowed herself to become so fond of the Pembertons. She would know better next time.

Next time! Her heart whirled painfully in her chest. Somehow the thought of doing such a thing again wasn’t as exciting as she imagined it would be. But that had been the goal, hadn’t it? To set herself up as Ian’s partner? That undoubtedly meant this was only the beginning.

When the driver left them at the usual footpath, Claire told him not to go far, that their walk would not be long today.

The park seemed different than it had just last night, when it had been the unlikely location for a servants’ ball. Meg glanced at the spot where the grass was still somewhat trampled—the keep-off-the-grass signs set neatly back in place. A moment’s reminiscence of dancing in Ian’s arms nearly took Meg’s breath away. But even that brought little comfort, remembering most of their conversation had been less than romantic despite dancing under the moonlight.

A glance at Claire and her guilt settled back into place.

Perhaps Meg’s fortitude against this oppression would build, in time. She might become immune to it, desensitized. Surely she couldn’t live this way without developing a callus against the shame.

They took the usual path toward the usual park settee, but as they rounded the wooded curve, Claire stopped short. Meg looked ahead and stopped as well.

The settee was occupied.

That occupant, however, stood as if he’d expected them, waited for them. He was a stranger to Meg, though obviously not to Claire, whose breathing became irregular in her hurried step—which she cut short not ten paces from the man.

He was of generous height, thin but broad in the shoulders, and handsome in a rugged way. Despite the fine cut of his morning coat, he didn’t seem the Fifth Avenue type. He looked as if he should be on a trail out west or at the helm of a sailing vessel. Just now he held his hat in one hand, a walking stick in the other, shifting each from one hand and back again as if he couldn’t decide what to do with either item.

“Claire.”

“Jude.”

Meg’s eyes widened. Was this why Claire made a point of visiting this same settee every single day the weather permitted? Had she come here day after day with this secret hope?

Yet as the two stood staring at one another, Meg wasn’t at all sure Claire’s hopes had come true. She looked every bit as fearful as she did hopeful.

A surprising swell of protectiveness washed over Meg’s heart. If this man was the cause of the pain Claire had borne these past few years, Meg wouldn’t hesitate to sharpen her tongue and send him on his way.

“I’m sorry, Claire.” His gaze was intent on hers. “I’m such a sorry idiot. It was all my pride, every stupid decision I made since the day we parted. I’ve wronged you, and I came to ask your forgiveness.”

Claire’s hands went forward as she issued one tremulous word: his name. Meg seemed to have been forgotten as the two closed the gap between them. In an instant Claire was in the man’s arms, he with the most profound look of relief, she with such longing that he couldn’t possibly misread her forgiveness and acceptance.

“I ask that you deal with me in the Pemberton way,” Jude said. “I haven’t forgotten, you see? I know I deserve justice—”

“Grace, Jude.” Claire laughed her verdict. “Most definitely grace.”

He kissed her then, the kind of kiss that ought never have been performed in public, not even by married folk, but Meg couldn’t blame either one. She doubted Madame Marisse herself, had she seen the look on Claire’s face, would have condemned the action.

Meg, uncomfortable with witnessing so private an exchange, took a step back, drawing their attention.

“Oh, forgive me, Meg! I—I’m so . . . just aflutter! This is—”

Meg held out her hand as she finished for the flustered Claire, telling the man her name, then saying, “I can guess that you must be Jude Johnson. Claire—and not to mention Evie—have both spoken of you.”

“Evie!” He looked past Claire. “Where is the little mischief maker?”

“At home. And won’t she be sorry not to have come along today!” Claire clutched Jude’s hand. “You’ll return with us to the house, won’t you? Are you staying in New York?”

“Only long enough to . . . to ask you to marry me, if you’ll have me. It means coming with me to Chicago, but it’s not so terrible a place, really.” He tossed his hat to the settee nearby, dropped his cane to the ground, and put both of his hands around one of Claire’s. “I know Chicago isn’t New York, Claire, and I haven’t nearly the money your father has or even what my own family once had. But I offer you all I do have, with a promise to take care of you the rest of our lives.”

Claire was fully sobbing now. “Oh! Jude! Of course I’ll marry you.”

If either one of them had dreamed of such a moment, it surely hadn’t included Meg as a witness. Nonetheless she felt hot tears stinging her eyes. When her dance with Ian had begun last night, she might have dreamed of him asking that very same question. But he hadn’t.

A cold thought struck her. Her father had only asked Kate to marry him after Kate had no doubt insisted, with her recently found faith. Was that the way of thieves? Not wanting to commit to something as mundane as marriage?

Perhaps she would
never
hear Ian say such a thing to her! Last night he’d told her he only wanted what was best for her. Suddenly, in comparison to what she’d just seen between Claire and Jude, Ian’s words sounded like a good-bye. Especially when she remembered his words about Geoffrey. All Ian had ever hinted about marriage was for her to consider someone else.

She must send him a note immediately or, better than that, go to the Glenham, where he had been staying. Even if it meant humiliating herself with a demand that he clarify exactly what kind of partners he expected them to be.

Meg knew she’d agreed to stay with the Pembertons through the next week or two, long enough so the exact date or time of the robbery would fade among many more nights that followed. But she couldn’t wait. She wanted to leave now.

“Claire,” she said, glad when her voice sounded far calmer than she was, “would you like me to take the carriage home and send the driver back for you? I’m sure you’d like a little time alone with Mr. Johnson.”

Claire blushed but shook her head. “Of course I’d like to, but how could we? Half of Fifth Avenue might still be in Newport, but the half who stayed behind have tongues just as active. Evie used to be our chaperone, as unlikely as it sounds.” She turned to Jude. “Will you come back with us?”

“Yes, I’d like to speak to your father anyway.”

“He’s traveling with Mother, but Nelson will be home soon. . . .” She grinned. “Jude, everyone in my family believes me to be in danger of becoming an old maid. I don’t think you need my father’s permission or my brother’s if you want to ask for my hand. They’ll both be only too happy to see me wed.”

By the time the carriage let them out at the Pemberton home, Meg couldn’t decide which was worse: waiting for the robbery to be discovered or for confirmation of what she’d just figured out. Ian might have wanted to be her partner, but such a partnership never included any hope of him becoming her husband.

Ian downed the rest of his beer just as Pubjug entered the bar.

“It’s done,” Pubjug said, low. “Not one of the phony bricks ever made it to the yard, just as you expected. Our tips for Brewster went straight on up the line.”

“Was it Keys who stole them?”

Pubjug nodded grimly. “He pulled a gun on me. Never thought I’d see such a day, not from him.” Then he grinned. “Didn’t show no surprise about me bein’ willin’ to hand ’em over. He just took ’em like they was gold. I seen Brewster’s carriage a ways off, waitin’ for Keys to bring them over. I even helped.”