The Hired Husband. Judith Stacy

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      “Just don’t be surprised when her father tries to push her off on you.” Leo grinned, then slouched low in the seat, folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes.

      Mitch was glad for the peace and quiet, yet it offered no respite from his thoughts.

      The Branford family. More stupid rich people. He knew their kind. Just because people had money it didn’t make them smart.

      But Mitch was smart. That’s why people of that social circle came to him, begging for his help, paying him well—very well—for his expertise, his ideas, his solutions.

      The Branfords would be no exception. Mitch knew it. He’d take his fee and be on his way in no time, his wallet fatter, his clients forever in his debt.

      He didn’t make it easy for them, though. Mitch never accepted a job when first presented. He insisted on meeting the principals, hearing firsthand what the situation was. Then he accepted the work.

      Mitch picked them. He never allowed them to pick him.

      The hansom swung around a corner, rousing Leo. He sat up and gazed through the window, then turned to Mitch, his eyes wide. “Jesus…”

      Mitch turned. Outside, the West Adams District passed before him. A neighborhood of staid elegance and a solid, stately air. Wide, palm-lined boulevards. Grand mansions.

      The hansom pulled into a driveway of an imposing residence, towering three stories high. Ivory in color, trimmed in deep blue, decorated with carved scrollwork and gingerbread, it sported numerous balconies, a turret room and a black slate roof.

      “Looks like you’ve hit the motherlode this time,” Leo said.

      A very old, very familiar knot twisted in Mitch’s belly. He fought it off.

      “Whatever they’re paying you, ask for more,” Leo advised.

      “Maybe I’ll do just that,” he murmured.

      The hansom drew to a stop just steps away from a large covered entryway surrounded by potted palms and blooming flowers. Mitch shrugged into his jacket.

      “What are you going to do while I’m working?” he asked.

      “Knock around a little. See the sights. Meet some people.”

      Mitch nodded. It was more of a commitment than he expected to get from his wandering friend. Leo was apt to disappear for weeks at a time, and return looking worse for wear.

      “Watch yourself,” Mitch said.

      “Don’t I always?”

      “No.” Mitch pulled his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and peeled off several bills. He held them out to Leo. After a moment’s hesitation, Leo took the money and shoved it deep into his trouser pocket.

      “These people can tell you where to find me if you need anything,” Mitch said, nodding toward the house as he returned his wallet to his jacket.

      “Try not to yack when you first lay eyes on the Branford’s ugly-duckling daughter,” Leo said with a smile.

      “Good advice,” Mitch said, letting Leo have his fun.

      He put on his bowler and climbed out of the hansom. The waiting driver accepted Mitch’s fare and tip, then climbed up top again and headed out of the driveway, leaving Mitch alone.

      He turned and gazed up at the house. Huge. Expensive. So spectacular that Mitch’s stomach knotted again.

      Once more he shoved down the old feelings. He wanted no part of them. Would tolerate none of the memories.

      And the Branford’s ugly-duckling daughter? He wouldn’t give her a second look. All he wanted to see was the flash of green when he received his fee.

      An old gray-haired butler opened the door when he rang, relieved Mitch of his bowler and gave him entrance.

      “You’re expected, Mr. Kincade. This way, sir.”

      Mitch followed the butler across the foyer, past the twin staircases that swept up to the second floor, and into a sitting room.

      “Refreshments for you, sir,” the butler said, gesturing to a small, round table near the settee. “The others will join you shortly.”

      Mitch glanced around the room as the butler’s footsteps faded. A lady’s sitting room, he guessed. Pale pink, flowers, ruffles. On the little table sat a maroon-and-ivory-colored tea service, trimmed with gold. Thin plates, cups and saucers. Trays of miniature cakes. The room smelled of food, tea and cleaning polish.

      How many servants had worked to prepare the tea, the cakes? How many had labored to clean this room? Mitch wondered. How many hours of work? How much sweat? How many aches and pains?

      He walked to the tea table. He wasn’t usually received in the homes of his clients. They met in bars, restaurants or offices to discuss business. Seldom in their homes. That’s the way Mitch wanted it. Clients, desperate for his help, always did it his way.

      He picked up one of the teacups. Thin. Light. Delicate. Where had the set come from? How long had it been in the Branford family? Someone with exquisite taste had selected it. Someone who knew about such things, had access to them. Someone used to having money.

      Returning the cup to the saucer, Mitch gazed around the room. Everywhere he looked he saw fine, expensive things. The sort of fine, expensive things he had been allowed to look at a long time ago, but not touch. Not own. Not have for himself.

      The house, for all its grandeur, seemed to close in on him. Memories surfaced. Hiding under tables and around corners. Peeking out. Watching, afraid of being caught.

      Mitch gave himself a mental shake. His fee just went up.

      Rachel hiked up her dress and dashed down the staircase, her mind whirling. She’d heard the door chimes and was relieved to escape her younger sister’s bedchamber and her latest crying fit, yet distressed to think that the visitor might be the accountant Uncle Stuart had hired, and that he’d arrived early.

      Early. And she wasn’t ready to receive. Rachel touched the back of her dark hair as she hurried across the foyer. She hadn’t checked the sitting room to ensure the servants had set it properly. She hadn’t yet selected the floral bouquet from the garden to scent the room. She hadn’t had time to think of appropriate topics so that she could make conversation with the dull, boring bookkeeper who awaited her.

      Rachel cringed inwardly. What would her mother think of her?

      She paused near the entrance of the sitting room, smoothed down the front of her green skirt and drew in a breath to calm herself. It certainly wouldn’t do to rush into a room short of breath and lacking in composure.

      Rachel had been alarmed when Uncle Stuart had reported that this Mr. Kincade—her knight in shining armor, her uncle had called him—insisted upon meeting with her and the family before making his decision on accepting the job. So much was riding on this meeting. She had to make sure everything went well.

      Rachel called upon each and СКАЧАТЬ