Deception at Sable Hill (3 page)

“It’s nothing.”

Facing the balcony, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the rail. “Sometimes it helps to talk about a fear.”

“You think so?”

He shrugged. “I think it can’t hurt.” After a pause, he added, “You might not know this, but police officers are very good at keeping secrets.”

“Even you?”

“Especially me.”

“I-I can’t seem to shake my fear of being in an enclosed space with a man.” She waited to feel a sense of relief, but it was proving as evasive as ever.

Now, as she felt the detective’s look become more intense, she wished she’d never said a word. Even though Reid Armstrong had told her he’d told the police a debutante of good character had been violated by Douglass Sloane, Eloisa never meant to actually speak of it. “I meant—”

“I understand.”

For some reason, she believed he did understand how she felt. Perhaps his professional experience gave him a sixth sense about how traumatic situations could damage one’s psyche.

Or perhaps he knew something of a more personal nature?

“I interviewed many people about the Sloane family, miss,” he said quietly. “As well as many people who were witnesses to Mr. Sloane’s behavior.”

He knew, she realized. Detective Ryan knew Douglass Sloane had raped her. She clutched the railing in a futile attempt to stop her hands from shaking. “I see.”

After a moment, he said, “I imagine your family has been a source of comfort during this time?”

She noticed that he’d somehow managed to make his statement sound like a question. And though it was tempting to lie, she found that she could not. “Not exactly.”

“Oh?”

This line of conversation was too intimate. Too personal. She was tempted to point out his poor manners, but she didn’t dare. At the moment, she was even more frightened of being left alone than of being alone with him and answering his questions.

“I haven’t told them anything.”

He blinked. It was obvious she’d surprised him.

And just as obvious that he was a man unused to surprises.

Weighing her words slowly, she whispered, “My parents are not aware that anything is remiss. I mean, they are not aware of what happened with Douglass.”

“I see.” He swallowed. “Have you told anyone at all?”

“Only Mr. Reid Armstrong.”

“I see.” He said nothing else, letting Eloisa know that he, too, would never betray her confidence. Ironically, his effort made her want to share more. “Reid found me after . . . after the incident.”

“Ah.”

“Yes.”

He was still looking at her intently. “If you will forgive me for prying . . . Why haven’t you told your parents? Or anyone else? Why not even a girlfriend?”

“I’m afraid you don’t quite understand the propensity for gossip in my circle. I can’t let this . . . blemish my reputation.”

“If a man overstepped himself, it was his fault, not yours.” He still was gazing at her intently. “Never yours.”

His words made her shiver. And though she tried to tell herself the response was from the conversation, she had a feeling that was far from the truth. “Not in my world, Detective. May we please speak of something else now?” Now the whole conversation was making her uncomfortable, sparking feelings of pain and embarrassment. They flashed over her in waves, each image that came to mind threatening to overwhelm her.

“As you wish.”

“Thank—”

“But if I may be so forward, I hope you have asked for the Lord’s help.”

“Do you mean pray?”

The lines around his eyes eased as a hint of humor entered his gaze. “You look flummoxed. Is the notion so unfamiliar?”

“Perhaps.”

“Do you not believe in the power of prayer?”

“I haven’t found all that much comfort in prayers lately.”

Now he was the one who appeared taken aback, Eloisa realized. She very likely had just offended him. “I am sorry if I have spoken too freely.”

“Not at all.”

“Forgive me if I offended you.”

“You couldn’t.” His voice lowered. “I know we don’t know each other well.”

“Hardly at all,” she interjected. Though he already knew her better than most. He knew things about her almost no one else did.

“But if you ever do need to talk, you can always talk to me.”

“You?”

To her shame, his cheeks reddened. “I realize I’m not the type of companion you’re accustomed to, but as I said, I have been known to keep a secret.” He paused until she felt as if she had no alternative but to meet his gaze. “And there is also the fact that nothing you could tell me would scandalize me.”

His words were shocking. But even more appalling to her was the idea that she wasn’t dismissing his offer out of hand. “You sound certain about that.”

“I’ve been on the police force for years, Miss Carstairs. I’m afraid I’ve seen my fair share of shocking situations.”

Looking into his eyes, noticing how they were so dark yet so filled with emotion, Eloisa yearned to let down her guard. To throw caution to the wind and simply talk without worry of being judged.
Or of having her worst nightmares bandied about as choice pieces of gossip.

But then the wind shifted, and she caught the scent of another woman’s perfume. Heard the lilting strains of the orchestra, the faint echo of crystal glasses clinking, and the refined echo of a toast.

And she remembered where she was—and who she was. She would find her parents’ friends, the ones who had brought her, and see if they, too, were ready to depart.

Pushing away from the banister, she faced him squarely. “I think not. Thank you again, Lieutenant, for coming to my aid. But I do believe I will join the party again.”

Whatever emotion she’d spied in his dark eyes was shuttered quickly. “Of course. Good evening.”

She’d just turned around when a woman’s shrill scream pierced the night air. After a second’s pause, more cries of alarm echoed from the garden below.

She’d just turned toward the stairs when Detective Ryan waylaid her. Gripping her shoulders with both hands, he pulled her to the side. “Stay here, Miss Carstairs,” he murmured. “Stay here where it’s safe.”

Then, just as abruptly, he turned on his heel and rushed toward the iron steps that led to the downstairs patio.

“But—”

He paused. “Promise me, Eloisa,” he ordered, his voice thick with emotion. “Promise me so I won’t have to worry about you.”

Only when she nodded did he rush down the stairs. She moved back to the railing so she could watch him. Perhaps even call out for him to be careful. But he was out of sight, beyond the candlelit patio, before she could utter another word.

Less than five minutes later, she heard more commotion from the garden. After a moment, she walked along the balcony until she
saw a group of people below. Some servants had brought lanterns to where Detective Ryan stood in the middle, talking to Owen Howard. She couldn’t see their faces. Eloisa craned her neck, moving slightly to the side in an attempt to discover what everyone was staring at.

When the crowd parted, Eloisa gasped. She could just make out that Danica Webster was lying on the ground. Her gown was torn, and she seemed to be bleeding from several places on her face and neck. As a pair of elderly women peered over the railing as well, screamed, and then collapsed into their companions’ arms, Eloisa gripped the railing even tighter.

It seemed that even a police presence this evening hadn’t prevented another attack.

It took two hours to clear the scene. Sean and Owen had sent footmen for more officers and medical assistance. Miss Webster’s brother carried her to one of the Gardners’ private sitting rooms. There, she soon came to and was attended by a physician. Fortunately, as with the other victims, none of the attacker’s slashes had cut very deep. Only enough, Sean was sure, to leave scars that would never completely fade.

The doctor cleaned Danica’s wounds, stitched her up, and at last released her into her parents’ care.

While the young lady was being treated, Sean, Owen, and their supervisor, Captain Sawyer Keaton, interviewed everyone from the party they could while uniformed personnel managed the crowd and tried to interview servants.

It was a grueling, almost thankless undertaking for the police. All the servants had been too busy to do anything but their tasks at hand, and all the guests were so highbrow that they were easily offended by
even the smallest hint of questioning. After his job and his character had been threatened for the tenth time, Sean knew his temper was brewing.

Their captain knew it too. “Go on back to the station, Ryan,” Keaton said. “Your attitude isn’t helping anything.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Captain Keaton shrugged. “There’s a reason we have Detective Howard here. Owen is not merely decorative; he’s also of this class. Face it, Sean. He’s far better at soothing ruffled society feathers than you could ever hope to be.”

“I agree, sir.”

It was also frustrating to learn that, like the previous victims, Miss Webster had little to tell them about her attacker. And there didn’t seem to be any witnesses.

He was just about to take a hack back to the station when he noticed Eloisa standing off by herself. What was she still doing here? When the captain was pulled to one side by Mr. Gardner, Sean walked to Eloisa’s side.

“Miss Carstairs, are you all right?”

Pain and stress dimmed her clear blue eyes. “I suppose I must be. My friends . . . I was just considering how to get home. Perhaps I should send for a driver . . .”

“May I have the honor of escorting you there?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. “I would appreciate that very much, Lieutenant. I . . . Thank you.”

“I’ll be right back,” he murmured before returning to the captain’s side. “Captain, I’ll meet you back at the station. Miss Carstairs needs an escort home.”

The captain stared at him hard before shrugging. “Sure. That would be fine, Ryan. It’s going to be a long night for all of us no matter what.”

While Eloisa went to say her good-byes to Mrs. Gardner, Sean asked the butler for her cloak. Owen stepped to his side. “Did I just hear right? Are you really planning to escort Eloisa Carstairs home?”

“What I am doing is none of your concern.”

“I think it might be.”

“Then you are mistaken.”

Owen rocked back on his heels, a mocking smile playing on his lips. “Listen to you. So glacial. So proper. So much so, I can hardly hear the Irish in your speech.”

As jabs went, it hit right on the mark. However, it didn’t faze Sean at all. He was, indeed, Irish. Once more, he came from the area of Chicago most people tried to escape. But he’d always figured someone had to come from humble beginnings. And he’d never had cause to feel anything but love and affection for his family and old neighbors who still lived there. “Can’t be helping my accent, Owen,” he mocked, daring to make it a bit thicker than usual.

“And the rest of us can’t help but be aware of it. It marks you.”

“No harm there.”

“There is if you have developed an affection for the elusive Eloisa.”

It grated on Sean that Owen could speak her Christian name without censure, and half the assembled crowd acted as if he were not worthy of even breathing the same air she did.

“I’ll see you back at the precinct. Let me know if you need any assistance,” he said as Eloisa reappeared.

When she looked at him and smiled softly, he realized she was waiting for him to help her on with her cloak. Hoping his hands weren’t as clumsy as he feared, he retrieved Eloisa’s velvet cloak from the butler and carefully placed it around her bare shoulders.

“This is so kind of you,” she said quietly.

Not trusting his voice, he simply nodded. Actually, it took
everything he had not to respond when his fingers accidently skimmed the bare, satin-soft skin at the nape of her neck.

Or when he smelled the faint scent of her perfume.

Yes, he was a cop and Irish. He was scarred from too many fights when he was young and too many scuffles with criminals during his work on the force.

All he knew about good manners was from spending a year as his captain’s errand boy just before going to the police academy—and from watching Owen.

At thirty-two, he was twelve years older than Eloisa and far more cynical and hard.

But, as Eloisa again smiled at him softly and placed one white-gloved hand on his forearm, Sean Ryan knew that he was, at the moment, the luckiest guy in the city.

Maybe even the whole world.

CHAPTER 3

I
appreciate your escort more than I can ever say,” Eloisa said as Detective Ryan guided her around two men loitering under the dim glow of a lamppost. Though both her home on Sable Hill and the Gardner home were in the best of areas, one never knew who might be lurking about on Michigan Avenue between, especially late at night. It was also a comfort to know Detective Ryan was no doubt armed.

“It is very kind of you, especially given the circumstances,” she added.

Recalling just what those circumstances were, she shivered. It was doubtful that she’d ever completely forget seeing poor Danica Webster lying on the ground, her pink gown marred by a profusion of tears and stained with blood. Only the knowledge that her wounds weren’t life-threatening gave Eloisa any comfort.