Secret Hearts Read online

  Without flinching, Tom reached inside his fringed buckskin garment and withdrew a slender dagger. With one swift, graceful lunge, he dispatched the ferocious brave. Miss Abigail Faithgood screamed.

  “Miss Montague?”

  With a start, Claire realized Tom had just spoken to her. “Oh! I’m so sorry, sir. My mind wandered momentarily.” Good heavens, the man would think she was demented if she kept this up. Frantically, Claire fought for composure.

  Tom watched Claire’s mental struggles wage themselves on her expressive face and revised his initial impression of her. Miss Claire Montague might be a sobersides and she might favor a dreary hairstyle and boring garb, but she certainly was not dull. In fact, Tom had seldom seen such an animated countenance. She seemed quite charming, in fact, and not nearly as stuffy as his first impression had led him to believe. He gestured her into a chair and sat himself down on the sofa, trying not to sprawl.

  “Do you have any idea what the full acreage encompassed by Partington Place is, Miss Montague?” he asked again gently.

  “No. No, I’m afraid I don’t. But I’m sure Mr. Silver, the late Mr. Partington’s man of business, will be happy to go over all that with you. He has agreed to visit you tomorrow morning if it suits you.”

  “That will be wonderful. Thank you.”

  Claire took an agitated sip of tea and Tom wondered what the matter was. All at once it hit him why she must be so nervous. Of course. What a fool he was. But, hell, he wasn’t used to dealing with servants.

  “Miss Montague, I would like to reassure you that I don’t plan to make any staff changes immediately, if at all. My uncle got along quite well with you, Scruggs, the cook and the rest of the employees here at the Place, and I’m sure I shall do the same.”

  She looked relieved, and Tom was pleased.

  “Thank you, Mr. Partington. I fear Mrs. Philpott was quite worried about losing her situation. In truth, while she is a good, plain cook, she does rather lack experience in more extensive presentations.”

  “More extensive presentations?” What the hell did that mean?

  “Well, if you were to invite your friends in for a gala ball or a theatrical evening, or some other affair of that nature, you see, she’s worried that she won’t be able to cope. I tried to assure her that any family chef accustomed to cooking for a single gentleman would need help under those circumstances, and to remind her that the late Mr. Partington used to hire people from the village for parties. Mrs. Philpott, however, seemed determined that you would expect her to be able to create elaborate pastries and ice sculptures on an every-day basis.”

  “Good God.”

  “I mean, I’m sure a gentleman such as you must be used to entertaining on a grand scale, but I believe Mrs. Philpott can handle your day-to-day requirements if they aren’t terribly elaborate. And even parties, with help.”

  “What makes you think I’m used to giving big parties, Miss Montague?” Tom asked, genuinely curious. “I’ve been living on the frontier for fifteen years.”

  “Oh.”

  She was obviously startled by his brusque question, and Tom wished he’d phrased it more delicately. That was what came of living in the rough, he reckoned, and vowed to try to conduct himself more appropriately, as befitted his new station in life.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Montague. I didn’t mean to sound so blunt. But I can assure both you and Mrs. Philpott that I am not in the habit of entertaining—on any scale at all. Nor do I have a bevy of friends who will expect it of me.”

  Good Lord on high, the buffalo hunters, half-breed scouts, and mule skinners he’d been associating with for the past several years would probably faint dead away if they even set foot in this mansion. And, after taking a good whiff of them, undoubtedly Miss Claire Montague would join them. Tom suppressed his chuckle at the image his thought evoked.

  “I see. Well, then that’s fine.” Claire looked at him over her teacup, a puzzled expression on her face. Her spectacles gave her a grave, studious look, strangely appealing to Tom. He had an urge to tease her out of it.

  “You seem surprised, Miss Montague.”

  “I suppose I am, actually.” Her studious expression intensified. “I mean—well, your uncle used to love relating tales of your derring-do, Mr. Partington, but he also indicated you were used to fairly lavish entertainments when you got back to civilization from the wild frontier.”

  Tom shook his head in disgust. He couldn’t help it. “As I said, Miss Montague, my uncle was given to exaggeration.”

  “Was he really?”

  She looked at him, big-eyed beneath those lenses of hers, as though he’d just denied the existence of God, and Tom was momentarily taken aback. Curious, he asked, “Just what did my uncle say about me?”

  Peering at him earnestly, Claire said, “Mr. Partington, your uncle was so proud of you. He followed your career with great interest. He cut out every newspaper article and magazine reference he could find, and read letters from your—oh, dear.”

  “From my mother?” Tom gave her an understanding smile. “It’s all right, Miss Montague. Uncle Gordon’s undying love was probably my mother’s greatest pleasure in life. I’m aware that they corresponded regularly.”

  He could tell she was relieved when a big sigh gusted from her, making her seem much less austere than before.

  “I’m so glad. I didn’t want to—to make any indiscreet references.” Obviously embarrassed, Claire took another sip of tea.

  With a little chuckle, he said, “And if he read you her letters, I’m not surprised you believed me to be a hero.”

  Claire opened and shut her mouth twice, then took another sip of tea. “At any rate, Mr. Partington, your uncle Gordon used to delight in telling me tales about you. He thought the world of you.”

  “I’m not sure I liked his way of showing it,” Tom muttered sourly. Then he recalled that he was now sitting in the parlor of this very lavish estate—his, only because of Uncle Gordo’s generosity, or, more probably, guilt—and he sighed. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to sound churlish. I gather you and my uncle were, ah, great friends.”

  “Yes, indeed, Mr. Partington. The late Mr. Partington was very kind to me. He took me on—that is to say, he hired me—ten years ago, knowing I hadn’t a particle of housekeeping experience. We became more in the nature of father and daughter, I suppose, than employer and employee.” She heaved a tiny sigh. “He was a kind man, and I miss him very much. He used to absolutely delight in sharing your adventures with me.”

  She looked at him shyly, and Tom felt a tiny twitch of tenderness in his heart.

  “I would carry the tales of your exciting adventures to the kitchen and regale Mrs. Philpott and Scruggs with them. They were every bit as fascinated by them as I was.”

  Oh, Lord. This was worse than Tom thought. On the other hand, he decided, taking another look around, he guessed he could stand it. He settled for a short, “I see,” and decided to drop the subject.

  They drank tea in silence for a few more minutes. Tom said, “Are you, Scruggs and Mrs. Philpott the only . . . employees on the estate, Miss Montague?” Unused to having dependents, Tom wasn’t entirely certain what to call them.

  “Good heavens, no, Mr. Partington. Why, there are two housemaids, Sally and Dolores—we call her Dolly—a chief gardener, Mr. Hodges, his two helpers, Carlos and Rodrigo, and a host of people who work on the farm. Mr. Silver can explain the workings of the farm to you, I suppose. I’m afraid my expertise is limited to the house itself.” Peering demurely into her teacup, she added somewhat bashfully, “And the garden.”

  “I see. Well, Miss Montague, if you’re through with your tea, perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking me on a tour of my new home.”

  Claire put her cup and saucer down with a clank and popped up from her chair. “Certainly, Mr. Partington. Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

  Good grief. If that were true, she must lead an extraordinarily dull life. But, no. It was probabl
y an empty social cliché and not to be taken seriously. Thinking he really should have studied civilization for a few more days before he tried living in it, Tom followed Claire Montague out of Uncle Gordon’s parlor.

  No. His parlor. Tom sighed with satisfaction.

  # # #

  Claire escaped from Tom Partington’s company as soon as she could. Not that she didn’t find him utterly fascinating; he was all too fascinating for her peace of mind, in fact. It’s just that being in the company of the real Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee had inspired her to greater heights of literary fancy than she ever could have imagined even two or three hours ago.

  With a feeling bordering on ecstasy, she sat at her desk and unlocked her special drawer. Pulling out the manuscript of her latest dime novel, she bent industriously to her task, writing far into the night. Even when she finally forced herself to climb into her bed and pull the quilt up to her chin, she stared at her ceiling, too excited to sleep.

  He had come at last. And he was everything Claire had hoped he would be. More. Polite, handsome, cultured, elegant: He was absolutely perfect.

  # # #

  Tom pulled out every drawer and opened every cupboard in the library and then in the pantry before he found a bottle containing distilled spirits. He took it into the library with him and, after staring at the label in bemusement for several seconds, poured himself a stiff one.

  Lifting his glass, he saluted his uncle’s portrait. “To you, Uncle Gordo, damn your eyes.” After a big swallow and a shudder, he added, “Good God. Why on earth did you ever start drinking cognac?”

  His tour of his new home had been unremarkable except that Tom felt like pinching himself every now and then to make sure he was awake and this wasn’t a dream spawned by years of back-breaking work and desperate wishes.

  He’d also found himself enjoying the company of Miss Claire Montague. Oh, it’s true she was starchy, reserved and majestic. Still, she seemed remarkably efficient and she hadn’t appeared to be offended by his occasional gaffes. Like when he’d called his “boudoir” the dressing room. Or when he’d asked, when shown the wine cellar, if his uncle hadn’t kept any regular booze around the place.

  He guessed he had a lot about gracious living to get used to. He’d manage, though. Sighing deeply, he sank into an armchair, still gazing at his uncle’s portrait. His contented expression gave way to a frown after another sip of the fine, aged cognac.

  Tom knew the old story, about how Gordon Partington had wooed the beautiful belle, Melinda Grace Hartwell and how, on the eve of their engagement party, Gordon’s dashing older brother, Grant, had swept Melinda off her feet.

  Tom often thought marrying his father wasn’t the brightest thing his mother had ever done. Of course, marrying his mother wasn’t the brightest thing his father had ever done, either. But then, Tom was a practical person, unlike either of his parents. God alone knew how he’d managed to end up that way; must be a throwback to an earlier generation.

  Barring his love for Tom’s mother, Uncle Gordon had been practical, too, and he’d done really well for himself. Tom’s gaze swept the room yet again. The furnishings of this room alone were worth more than his parents’ entire household in Alabama; Tom would bet anything on it if he were a betting man. Being the practical person he was, however, Tom didn’t gamble.

  It was practicality that had seen him into the army even though he knew the Confederacy was doomed. He’d had to get away from home, and the army was the only way he could see to do it without breaking his parents’ hearts. They, being the fanciful, addle-pated fools they were, had thought he was being noble.

  Tom rested his head on the back of the chair and stared moodily at the ceiling. Noble! Lord. Well, he guessed his old uncle Gordo had thought he was noble, too. Why on earth else would he have left him this magnificent estate?

  Now Tom would have to figure out how to help his parents without giving them money outright. If he simply handed them cash, they’d fritter it away, sure as anything. With a heavy sigh, he decided he’d tackle that problem later. Right now he planned to wallow in fine cognac and newly acquired riches.

  And horses. Tom grinned as he contemplated Jedediah Silver’s visit on the morrow. Silver would be able to tell him if his dream were doomed or if Tom could at last indulge his fondest wish.

  Good old Uncle Gordo. Even if he had made Tom’s life miserable in some respects, the old fellow had certainly done him a good turn by leaving him his estate and his fortune. Perhaps unrequited love, the very thought of which stirred Tom’s pragmatic soul to wry amusement, wasn’t such an idiotic waste after all. It had benefited Tom Partington, for a pure fact.

  Tom pulled out another slim cheroot, sipped his cognac, and wrinkled his nose. The wretched stuff had probably cost a damned fortune. With a grin, he decided he could get used to it.

  Chapter 2

  At Tom’s request, Claire took breakfast with him at eight o’clock the following morning. She was in the dining room, in fact, when Tom pushed the door open. Claire looked up eagerly—and dropped her fork.

  “You shaved off your mustache!”

  Tom stopped dead in the doorway and blinked at her, obviously startled. Claire was too shocked to be appalled by her shrill bellow.

  How could he have done such a dastardly thing? Why, Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee’s mustache was dashing! It was gorgeous! It was what distinguished Tuscaloosa Tom from a thousand other, inferior, frontier scouts! How in the name of heaven could he have shaved it off? She suppressed an impulse to surge from her chair and pummel him.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Tom’s puzzled voice gradually penetrated Claire’s rage and astonishment, and she realized she’d just shrieked at her employer. Immediately, she felt her cheeks get hot, and she knew she’d turned beet-red. Good heavens, what on earth was she thinking of? She sucked in a deep breath. She hadn’t thought at all, was the problem.

  With the cheerless knowledge that her breeding had again blindsided her, Claire tore her gaze away from her employer’s naked face and bowed her head. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Partington. I don’t know what possessed me to shout at you in that unseemly way. Please forgive me.”

  Humiliation still burned her cheeks. Claire wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d fired her on the spot. She was, therefore, doubly amazed when she heard his throaty chuckle. Although she feared what she might see, she dared lift her head a fraction and looked at him.

  He’d recovered from his shock at her indiscreet shout, and was grinning broadly as he headed to the sideboard and began heaping his plate with food. “Sorry to startle you, Miss Montague. Didn’t know anyone would miss it.”

  Didn’t know anyone would miss it? Good heavens, Claire loved that mustache. She’d written about it endlessly. Depending on the circumstances her hero faced, that dashing mustache of his bristled or drooped or lifted or dripped or sparkled with ice crystals in winter. Claire swallowed hard. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Partington. How foolish you must think me.” She tried to laugh, but a laugh wouldn’t come. He’d shaved off his mustache. Claire could hardly stand it.

  # # #

  As breakfast progressed, however, Claire, who kept shooting surreptitious peeks at Tom’s face, decided her world might not be over yet. In truth, his mouth, which was a work of art in itself, actually looked quite good without the frame of its famous mustache. In fact, Claire discovered herself staring in a most unbecoming manner at his lips. She frowned and tore her gaze away. There was her low breeding again, exhibiting itself in an indelicate way just when she least expected it.

  Well, she’d overcome her background before, and she could continue to do so. Claire told herself to stop being foolish and concentrate on efficiency. Efficiency is what Mr. Partington expected of her, and efficiency she would give him.

  “Mr. Silver will be arriving at ten, Mr. Partington.” She took a bite of ham, although she really was too nervous to be hungry. Merely being in the same room with this man, this ideal of her heart, made
her stomach flutter.

  His spectacular blue eyes sparkled at her from across the table. His mustache, Claire thought with a pang, would have drooped just enough to give him the air of an antebellum Southern gentleman getting ready to ride to hounds. Somewhat grudgingly, she decided he carried the air off rather well even without the mustache. Also, his broad shoulders filled the master’s chair much more fully than had his uncle’s. Claire decided maybe she didn’t miss his mustache too much after all. She tried not to stare.

  The breakfast room was much more intimate a chamber than the dining room. It had the capacity to seat only twelve people easily. This morning, with her senses completely overwrought, Claire would have felt more comfortable with twenty feet of mahogany between herself and her new employer, especially since she’d already managed to make a complete fool of herself before the day had barely begun.

  “I’m looking forward to meeting him, Miss Montague. I have all sorts of questions to ask.”

  “I’m sure you will find him very forthcoming, Mr. Partington. The late Mr. Partington said he’d found a treasure in Jedediah Silver.”

  “I’m certain he said the same of his housekeeper,” Tom offered gallantly, making Claire blush like a schoolgirl.

  She sputtered something incomprehensible and felt like an idiot. What a noble soul he was, to say such a thing after her behavior only minutes earlier! Claire guessed she could survive without his mustache so much after all.

  He continued, “After breakfast, perhaps you’d do me the kindness of showing me the estate grounds. I know you don’t have much to do with the farm, but you mentioned gardens. I’ve always wanted a garden.”

  Tom took a sip of coffee. Gordon Partington had imported his coffee from Jamaica, and it was generally considered excellent. Tom seemed to like it, for which Claire was glad.

  It surprised her to detect the note of unalloyed excitement in her new employer’s demeanor. She’d have expected such a well-traveled, heroic man of the world to be used to grand estates and elegant appointments.