Judith Stacy - Written In The Heart

The clip-clop of the horses’ hooves ceased and the hansom swayed to a stop. Sophie peered out the window. The glow of the streetlamps reflected on her face and Caroline saw her eyebrows bob.

“Good gracious, Caroline, you didn’t tell me your friend was rich.”

“Rich?” She leaned closer to the window.

“Yes, rich. This is West Adams Boulevard. It’s become as famous as San Francisco’s Nob Hill and New York’s Fifth Avenue. Haven’t you heard of this place before?”

She’d heard. The elite of the nation had considered Los Angeles a vacation spot, then moved here permanently once they’d recognized the area’s potential wealth. These affluent people built their mansions in the West Adams district, setting standards and creating the finest homes found in the city.

“Goodness,” Sophie said. “Just look at this house.”

Caroline gazed out the hansom at the beveled and stained glass windows of the magnificent three-story house. It was a huge square brownstone with circular turrets on each corner. Palms, shrubs and hedges flourished behind a scrolled wrought-iron and stone fence.

When Richard Paxton had instructed her to meet with his employer at his home tonight, she’d had no idea the man was wealthy—at least, not this wealthy.

Visions of an aging, cranky old man came to Caroline’s mind. A curmudgeon too set in his ways to see her during normal business hours, in his office.

“Oh, and look, Caroline. They’re having a party,” Sophie said.

The house was lit from top to bottom. Faint music drifted out into the street. Dancers glided past the glowing windows on the second floor. On the balcony a man in a tuxedo stood with a woman in an exquisite gown.

“Are you properly dressed?” Sophie asked, concern in her voice.

Caroline looked down at her blue dress. It was the height of fashion, since her father provided a generous allowance, but far from appropriate for a party on West Adams Boulevard.

Caroline reined in her panicky thoughts. “I’m here for a jo—to see a sick friend, not attend the party.”

Sophie nodded. “Well, I suppose…”

“Don’t tell Aunt Eleanor about this,” Caroline said. “I wouldn’t want her to get the wrong idea.”

“I see your point.” Sophie smiled. “All right, I won’t say a word.”

Carrying her small satchel Caroline climbed out of the hansom, paid the driver and stood on the walkway until the cab moved on. It irked her a bit that Richard Paxton had put her in this position—or rather, that his employer had put her in this position.

But a job was a job. Mr. Paxton had assured her that she was just what his employer needed. He’d been adamant.

So who knew where tonight’s meeting might lead? Caroline squared her shoulders. She didn’t care. As long as it wasn’t marriage.

He considered shooting himself in the foot, just as an excuse to leave his own party.

Stephen Monterey watched his elegantly attired guests dancing in the ballroom under the half-dozen crystal chandeliers, laughing, sipping champagne. They were having a wonderful time, or as good a time as polite society allowed itself to have. His aunt Delfina would be pleased. Apparently Stephen was the only one who was bored.

Or the only one who had important matters waiting for him.

The face of Russell Pickette sprang into Stephen’s mind, making him angry all over again. Damn that Pickette. The lying son of a bitch had brought a halt to a profitable business deal. He’d brought up old memories, too, ones Stephen couldn’t quite shake.

Stephen glanced at the mantel clock, anxious for his birthday party to conclude, the guests to leave, things to get back to normal. Turning thirty-two was nothing to celebrate. Just another day. Certainly not worth the time it took to dress in a tuxedo, suffer through a formal dinner, open gifts he didn’t want, attempt to make small talk with guests he hardly knew.

“Stephen? Stephen, dear?”

His aunt chugged toward him, her face drawn in its perpetual lines of worry. She wore the maroon gown he’d had to help her pick out, the diamond tiara he’d assured her wasn’t too much, the elbow-length gloves that hid the rolls of flesh on her arms.

“Stephen.” Breathless, she latched on to his elbow. “The party, Stephen, the party. I just don’t know….”

“What’s wrong, Aunt Delfi?”

“I’m not sure if it’s going well. I’m not sure at all.” Delfina touched her hand to her large bosom. “I think…I think my knees are feeling numb.”

“Your knees are fine, Aunt Delfi.” Stephen patted the fingers digging into his arm. “The party is wonderful.”

“Wonderful?” Panic widened her eyes. “Only wonderful?”

“Perfect,” Stephen said. “The party is perfect.”

She pressed her lips together. “Oh, it’s so difficult to plan properly. Your uncle Colin always did this sort of thing, you know.”

Stephen simply nodded. Of course he knew. His uncle, Delfina’s brother, had run the house, the business, the family—everything—until he’d passed away last winter.

Stephen took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Everything is perfect. Everyone is having a perfectly wonderful time.”

Delfina gazed hopefully over the sea of guests. “Oh, do you think so?”

“I’m certain.”

“But you?” Delfina looked up at him, fresh worry lines creasing her forehead. “Why aren’t you dancing? I invited several young women for you—”

“I’m enjoying myself.” Stephen managed to smile. “Having a fantastic time.”

He eased her toward the crowd. “You should see to the guests, Aunt Delfi.”

“Oh, of course. Oh dear, oh dear…” Delfina blended into the swarm of guests again.

Stephen made his way to an empty corner, watching the dancers but thinking about the work that waited on his desk downstairs. A suite of offices had been built into the house, from which the business was run. His uncle had liked being at home. Though never married, he’d pulled together an assortment of relatives—Stephen included—and made them his family.

Uncle Colin had taught Stephen everything he knew, and Stephen had taken over the operation of their vast holdings long before his uncle had become sick. Since his death, Stephen had stepped in to fill his uncle’s role in every aspect of the household they all shared.

Leaning against the wall, Stephen slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a folded note card. So far, it was the only interesting thing about the evening.

It was from Richard Paxton, his assistant, his friend. Richard wasn’t at the party but was expected shortly.

According to the note, Richard’s birthday gift to Stephen would arrive sometime during the party. And it was just what Stephen needed.

Stephen smiled and slipped the note in his pocket again. Just what he needed. What could that mean?

He thought back over the conversations he and Richard had shared recently. Business. They always discussed business. Stephen didn’t remember mentioning anything he needed, because he didn’t need anything.

Leave it to Richard to liven up his birthday party with this cryptic message. He’d known Stephen wasn’t looking forward to the party his aunt had insisted upon; she’d been concerned about the family’s social position since Uncle Colin’s death.

Stephen pressed his lips together, thinking harder. The only conversation they’d had recently that stood out in his mind and didn’t involve business was when Richard came late to work one morning a few weeks ago. Richard was never late. But he’d been at the wharf at San Pedro the night before, checking on a cargo shipment, and had met a beautiful young woman who turned out to be a prostitute.

According to Richard, being late for work that day was well worth it. He’d been so dazed by the woman that he’d bumped into furniture all morning long. Richard had raved about her and said that Stephen should—