The Marshal's Pursuit (9 page)

Now there was a Louden who would never receive a lecture about not living up to potential. Neither would Worthing know how to laugh even if injected with a serum.

“My parents,” Frank explained to Miss Vaccarelli, “went to England after their wedding. They—”

“Frank,” warned Grandmother.

“—holidayed in Worthing,” he said without pause. “My parents enjoy the ocean and fishing.”

Miss Vaccarelli’s lip, the side under that fascinating beauty mark, curved upward. “I take it they saw little of the beach.”

“How right you are,” Grandfather said quite proudly. Of Miss Vaccarelli’s quip or his daughter and son-in-law’s industriousness, Frank wasn’t sure. He suspected both. Charles Grahame admired wit and dedication to duty.

Grandmother sent a glare his way, which Grandfather, per his nature, ignored.

Frank relaxed against the back of his chair, and Worth bounded uninvited into his lap. “If you would prefer we leave, we will.”

A sigh ever so soft escaped Miss Vaccarelli’s lips. It’d been a long day, but he knew she would never admit to being tired. Like a trouper, she would carry on until the battle ended.

Grandfather opened his book. “Leaving may be best.”

Frank nodded. He didn’t like his grandfather’s decision, but he would respect it. Of course, the predicament now was where to hide Miss Vaccarelli. He needed somewhere safe, somewhere secluded and somewhere her reputation wouldn’t be impugned. No sense worrying. An idea, he was confident, would come before they reached the Tuxedo front gate.

Frank nudged Worth off his lap. He stood. Miss Vaccarelli placed her hand in his, and he helped her to her feet. He let go as quickly as deemed proper, but his palm tingled from her touch. Something about her made him want to draw her close, shield her. Considering she was his first witness to protect, that made sense.

Grandfather grabbed his cane and moved to stand.

“Oh, Mr. Grahame,” Miss Vaccarelli rushed out, “please don’t stand on my account.”

Yet he did.

“Meeting you has been my honor.” She smiled at his grandparents. Her gaze moved around the room. “Your oil paintings are impressive, Mrs. Grahame. If I owned just half of them, I would turn one room of my home into a gallery and space each about the room so that I may take my leisure reading them. Every painting has a story, if you take the time to search for it.”

Grandfather’s eyes widened.

Grandmother gave her a strange look. “I had never thought of it that way. Sit, please, both of you.”

Frank waited until Miss Vaccarelli found purchase on the sofa. He sat and stretched out his leg. What he wanted most at this moment was to remove the shoe encasing his splinted toe, but as long as the ladies were present, Frank, unlike his shoe-disliking grandfather, would remain shod.

“You may stay,” Grandmother announced, “but we will need to give her a new name and a reason for being here.”

Grandfather settled back in his chair. “How about...his fiancée?”

“No,” blurted Miss Vaccarelli and Grandmother in unison.

“We can’t pretend we’re engaged,” Frank explained with an apologetic shrug. “Certain things go with engagements. Tea parties, brunches, china patterns at Gimbels, announcement in the
Times,
etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.” He leaned over the side of his chair and in a loud whisper said to Miss Vaccarelli, “Did I forget something, dearest person who refuses to be my faux fiancée?”

For someone he knew was peeved with his comment, she sat there with a placating smile. She had all the makings of the ideal wife.

Grandmother’s foot tapped the carpet. “Frank, this is a serious matter.”

“I’m a serious guy.” He straightened in his seat, and Worth jumped on his lap again, and that’s when he had the answer. “Miss Vaccarelli, how are you with static-y canines?”

Her mouth opened but nothing came out.

“I’ll wager she can manage them,” Grandfather put in, even though his attention was back on his book, “about as well as she can manage too-smart-for-their-own-good marshals.”

Frank scooped up Worth and deposited him in her lap. “Sit.”

He didn’t.

“Congratulations, Miss Leah Carr,” he announced under two confused gazes. “You are now the
governeresse
—or tutor, if you prefer—to a pompom with legs. Your duty is to watch over him morning, noon and night, and train him into good behavior. My grandfather thanks you for volunteering.”

Chapter 9

[T]here is always a happy combination of some attention on the part of the host and hostess, and the perfect freedom of the guests to occupy their time as they choose.

—Emily Price Post,
Etiquette

The next morning
10:23 a.m.

W
ith her arm outstretched from the dog’s energetic pulling on the leash, Malia ordered, “Heel.” Then, “Stop.” Finally, “Whoa, doggie.”

Worth, however, continued to pull. His nails clicked and scraped on the limestone steps in his desperation to reach the grass.

“I see improvement already,” remarked Mr. Grahame.

Malia sighed in response. She descended the back steps, in step with the reputable stockbroker. Top hat on head and cane in hand, he looked as if he were strolling along in Central Park, not that the air in the city ever tasted as fresh at that in the Ramapo Mountains. Between the puffy white clouds and the birds fluttering about the green treetops, even the sky looked bluer. Even with her heeled boots on, she was a head shorter than him.

“How do you like being a governess?” Mr. Grahame asked.

“Considering it is my first employment,” Malia answered drily, “I have to say it suits me well. My charge woke me promptly at three o’clock for a morning constitutional.”

“His bladder does favor the three o’clock hour.”

She didn’t have to look at him to know he was smiling. “After escorting me through the scenic path back to my room, he tutored me in the art of sharing by ensuring I stayed on one side of the bed.”

“On the exact edge, I venture to guess.”

“It is imperative one also learn the art of balancing.”

Mr. Grahame thumped his cane on the last step. “I knew that hound was smarter than he let on,” he said in that deep-chested voice of his.

Malia gave an approving nod. Contrary to Mr. Louden’s repetitive insistence that the Pomeranian was worthless as he joined Malia on the tour the housekeeper had given her of the house—six bedrooms, over seven thousand square feet and a basement built into the bluff!—she’d developed fond feelings for Worth. After fourteen hours of nannying, he had the makings of her finest, albeit first and likely only, pupil. Not to say she didn’t need a bit of tutoring on the difference between Pomeranians and Spitzes. Mr. Louden had simplified: Pomeranian was to Spitz as zucchini was to squash.

They stepped off the stairs and stopped where the palatial limestone and hewn native stone ended and the manicured lawn, or at least the small patch there was on the hillside, began. Worth ran in circles at the toes of Malia’s white lace-up boots that few could see under her borrowed black cambric dress and high-bib apron. She could have accepted a new pair of shoes, but like those silver slippers Dorothy put on, these fit her fine. Besides, she liked having something daily to remind her of who she really was: Malia Vaccarelli, heiress, not Leah Carr, dog governess.

“Then,” she continued, “over breakfast, Worth kindly spared me from kippers that were sure to upset my stomach.”

Mr. Grahame’s lips twitched. “You don’t say.”

“Your chef even complimented him with a fluttering of adjectives best suited to anyone illiterate in French.” Despite the chef’s abhorrence for the dog, like the other eight members of the staff, he had been most welcoming to her. The Pomeranian, they’d all declared, needed expert training. She needed training if she wanted to have any hope she could help him.

Mr. Grahame thumped his cane on the next step. “I had no idea my wife’s Pomeranian had such fine manners.”

“Nor does he,” Malia said with a sad sigh.

Mr. Grahame laughed.

“Sit,” Malia ordered, pointing at the dog.

Worth, the industrious dog he was, stood on his back paws, his front ones on her knee.

“At least he performed something on command.” Malia unclipped Worth’s leash. “Go on. Attend to your business,” she said, sliding the leash into her apron pocket.

Mr. Grahame rested his cane over his arm. Malia watched him for a moment, waiting for him to confess his reason for asking if he could join her on the walk. When he said nothing, she followed his gaze to the dog dashing around rough-hewn rocks in search of the best tree. The silence lingered. Malia didn’t mind, nor did Mr. Grahame seem bothered.

From what she’d seen since arriving, he was beloved by his wife and his staff, who praised him to Malia behind his back. From the glances she’d caught him giving his wife over dinner, she suspected Mrs. Grahame was as beloved. He was also an avid reader, which she’d guessed by the book he carried in the pocket of his tailored morning coat. The book’s cover was gray, thus not
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz,
which she was yearning to finish. He seemed a deep and intellectual man, so she suspected his book was something deep and intellectual as well, such as the writings of Plato or Saint Augustine.

He cleared his throat. “You are the first girl Frank has brought to visit since his divorce.”

Malia blinked, startled by his abrupt announcement. She turned her head enough to look directly at him and opened her mouth to respond, but his gaze was on the dog, which was still looking for that prime watering hole. Not any spot would do, as she’d learned at three in the morning.

“I can’t imagine his life has been easy since his wife left him.”

“No, it hasn’t. I know you’re in protective custody,” he went on. “Frank seems...different here.”

“He is here for work, sir, not pleasure. I’m sure he is focusing on doing his job.”

He shook his head. “That’s not what I mean.” His blue eyes settled on her. “He seems different here
with you.
”

Malia nodded even though she wasn’t sure what to make of his comment. Mr. Louden behaved the same with her as he’d had with Miss Hogan, and as he had when he’d spoken to the housekeeper and even with his grandmother. Was this “different” a good thing? Or bad? She was about to ask when Worth came running up. He sat at Malia’s feet and scratched frantically at his neck, growling, as he had several times since she’d become his caretaker.

“Is this normal?” she asked.

“You’re the dog governess.”

“Because your grandson volunteered me!” she said, chuckling. She then drew in a deep breath. “Mr. Grahame, I should have confessed this last night. Never in my life have I owned a pet. The closest I come to dogs are when I’m walking in Central Park. I know nothing about them.”

“Excellent. This means I can reduce your salary.”

She stared, mind blank at how to respond to a man whose humor was so much like his grandson’s. Splendid. Because she couldn’t quite argue about her salary when they both knew full well she wasn’t receiving one, she knelt next to Worth. She was the dog’s governess, so, by golly, she would be the best one there ever was. As Worth’s white fox face stared up at her, she pressed her fingers through the fur in search of bumps, lesions or splinters. Found none. Whatever was bothering him wasn’t on his skin.

He twisted his neck and continued to growl, this time using a front paw to push at his two-inch-wide jeweled collar.

Malia scooped him in her arms and stood. “Sir, the problem is his collar and, more precisely, his lack of love for it.”

Mr. Grahame stepped closer. He examined the dog. Before Malia could blink, he bent the collar. The clasp snapped. Worth began licking Malia’s hands, his sandpapery tongue determined not to miss a spot.

“Instead of the cross, the Albatross about my neck was hung.”
Mr. Grahame pocketed the collar. “Now there. That will give you and Worth some peace until Josie has it repaired.”

“You knew?” Malia placed the dog on the ground. He immediately darted to the steps.

“No male—human or canine—wants to wear a jewelry store about his neck.” Mr. Grahame gave her an apologetic look. “My wife bought the collar in Paris last week, and Worth has been scratching ever since.”

Malia joined him in walking back to the stairs. She lifted the hem of her skirt as she ascended in the middle, leaving the handrail for Mr. Grahame. Save for his knees, the man seemed in excellent health for someone his age.

“Why haven’t you told her Worth dislikes it?” she asked.

“For the same reason I haven’t told her the problem with her drawing room. Every designer has had to work under the stipulation he include
all
the paintings and tapestries in the design. Josie doesn’t like to be told what to do.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “But you graciously put the solution in her mind, and for that I am in your debt.”

They reached the curve onto the second-floor balcony. Down below was the carriage house, paved drive and Mr. Louden washing Miss Hogan’s vehicle. The brown coat of the three-piece suit he’d borrowed from his grandfather lay across an iron bench. His shirtsleeves rolled above his elbows, revealing the toned muscles of his forearms and what was either a birthmark or a tattoo. The latter wouldn’t surprise her. King Edward VII’s tattoos made them popular among High Society. One didn’t need more than a day’s acquaintance to know that Frank Louden was comfortable in his own skin, flaws and all.

She admired that in him. She envied that.

Feeling his grandfather’s eyes upon her, Malia turned around to appreciate, instead, the expansive stretch of shimmering blue water called Tuxedo Lake that was no less enchanting in the day as it had been under the moonlight at three o’clock in the morning.

Mr. Grahame leaned back against the side wall. “I take it you like what you see.”

Malia couldn’t help but nod. She liked everything she could see—and had seen—although she hoped he wasn’t referring to his grandson. Still, her cheeks warmed. On the far left, above the treetops, she caught a glimpse of a partially built cottage (mansion, really) on the hill next to the one the Grahame estate was perched majestically on, the sounds of the construction faint in the distance. The main view, though, was of the virginal mountains rising on the far shore of the lake.

“There is a serenity here not found in the city,” she admitted.

“A man can find his soul in these mountains. Or lose it. I’ve done both.”

She leaned back, resting her palms on the limestone wall cap, the stone cold and rough against her skin. Yet unlike anything she experienced in the city, this felt real. This felt alive, and inviting to new birth.

“And though I have the gift of prophecy,”
she said softly,
“and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not love, I am nothing.”

That seemed to surprise him. “You are more than I expected, Governess.”

She gave him an easy smile. This man was in the upper echelon of Society, and, according to the chambermaid, owned a cottage in Tuxedo, a mansion on Millionaire’s Row and a beach house in Newport, and he traveled to Paris once a year. He was less than she’d expected, and in that she was glad to be wrong.

“I envy your view,” she admitted. “If I were to live anywhere besides New York, it would be near green mountains and water, and where the air smells of earth and rain.”

“DeWitt would want to know where you are.”

It was his turn to surprise her. “Grandfather hasn’t spoken to me since the funeral. My family brings shame upon him, and—” She took in an unexpected breath. A wave of anguish pounded into her chest. “And...as much as I would wish—” Her voice caught. Splendid. She was going to cry. Again. This was not her, a person who wept at the first tug on the heartstring. A cornucopia of tears.

She turned swiftly, looked over her shoulder, blinking rapidly to dry her eyes.

After Mamma died, Grandfather DeWitt was free to end any duty he had to them. No more visits because Mamma invited—begged—him to come. No more pretending he didn’t despise Malia and Giovanni for being the offspring of a disobedient union. No more being anything in her life. For all that he wasn’t anymore, she still missed him.

Alone. That’s what she was. That’s all she’d ever be. She had no life within the mafiosi. How could she have any life outside it?

“Are you going to tell Grandfather DeWitt where I am?”

“It’s not my place, Malia.” Mr. Grahame’s hand covered hers. “Burying a loved one is as hard for a parent as it is for a child.” After a gentle squeeze, he walked away.

Malia looked to the sky, expecting to see clouds, dark and gloomy. But the sky was bright. The sky showed no fear. The sky carried no burdens. The sky was light and free and unchained. Any shadows there were had settled on her heart. Were they holding her, or, God help her, was she clinging to them? All coppers
weren’t
corrupt. She could see that now. Had she been poisoned, too, about her grandfather?

* * *

He wasn’t going to look at her. Not again.

Frank focused on drying—in a clockwise motion and with an Egyptian cotton towel—the leather bench. Whatever Miss Vaccarelli and Grandfather were discussing was between them. What she did with her time was her business. Hers. Not his. They had no relationship. None. They could have no relationship.

“None,” he muttered, keeping his back turned to the balcony. He moved to the backseat and dried it.

“Darling, I don’t see why you couldn’t have left that to the sunshine.”

Frank looked up to see his grandmother approaching with a crystal goblet of lemonade, her olive-green mermaid skirt sweeping the ground. She stopped next to him, kissed his cheek and gave him the glass.

Frank took a long sip. “How was Paris?”

“As expected,” she simply said. “I am not pleased you brought her here.”

Frank couldn’t stop himself from glancing up to the second-story staircase, where Miss Vaccarelli no longer was. She had to have Worth with her, and the dog wasn’t allowed access to the upper floors except his grandparents’ bedroom and, now, hers, out of fear of what he’d eat or use as a chew bone. It wasn’t as if she had many things to do throughout the day, so she probably needed help—

No, he wasn’t going to investigate. Or wonder. What she did with her time wasn’t his business. And he would cease thinking about her, even though she hadn’t left his mind since he saw her in the hotel courtyard. The prettiest flower there.