Read Online Blue Waltz by Linda Francis Lee - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Linda Francis Lee
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dog was not the most reas-
60Linda Francis Lee
suring of comparisons. He hemmed and hawed, then added, "You should be thankful you aren't dead, son. A couple of inches lower, and that bullet would have gone right through your heart." His head bobbed up and down. "And we both know what that would have meant. So don't go dwelling on not being able to use the arm any longer. Just be thankful you're alive."
Stephen considered the words, putting them at a distance, unwilling, or perhaps unable, to deal with the reality of what the doctor had said. He had already experienced the impotent anger of weakness last night in the park. How would he ever be able to get used to living without the use of his arm?
"Stephen?"
He focused and found the man staring at him. "Thank you for your honesty, Harold," he said, his tone clipped. "Now, if you've poked and prodded your fill, I have work to do."
Harold stood nonplussed for the moment, seemingly uncertain as to what he should do. At length, he only shrugged his shoulders, gathered his bag, and departed.
Stephen turned back toward the window. The day was brisk and cold. Winter was here to stay. No more teasing days of fall, only harsh bitter cold that would wrap the city in its unforgiving grip until April—March if they were lucky. He watched, very still, as Harold heaved himself into his carriage before the driver snapped the whip in the air, and the ancient brougham rumbled off down the cobbled street. Just when Stephen started to turn away, a hired hack pulled up. It was Adam who stepped out, paid the driver, said something that made the man laugh, then headed for the door.
Since the night of the shooting, Adam had rarely been around, unavailable when Stephen had wanted to
Blue Waltz 61
question him. Now, as the front door quietly opened, then very carefully closed, after which Adam headed straight for the stairs, it appeared that he would try to avoid the issue, or at least Stephen, again.
"Adam!" Stephen barked, his frustrations seeping through, his normally iron-clad control strained.
Adam hesitated at the bottom of the staircase, before he turned toward the study with a sigh. He crossed the marble foyer in a few reluctant strides, then walked into the study. His sandy blond hair was disheveled, looking as if he had used his fingers rather than a brush to comb the strands. Even his smile was tired. Without a word, he dropped down into a casual sprawl on the leather sofa. "Comfy, is it new?"
"You look like hell!"
Adam raised an eyebrow. "You don't look much better yourself, dear brother." But as soon as the words were out, he seemed to wish them back. His poise became less relaxed, and his handsome face became strained.
"No, I suppose I don't." Stephen's laugh was harsh.
Pushing himself up, Adam said, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It's no wonder you don't look—"
"Tell me about this house situation." Stephen cut him off, having no interest in discussing his arm any further. "I've been waiting two weeks to learn the details of the sale."
Adam sighed, running his hand through his hair. "It's done, Stephen. The house is gone. Signed, sealed, and delivered. Forget it."
"I will not forget it." The words were laced with steely resolve. "Why did you sell it?"
For a moment it seemed that Adam would simply push himself up from the sofa and leave. Instead, he ran
62Linda Francis Lee
his finger along the seam of the cushion. "I needed the money."
"Again?"
"Yes, again, damn it!" Adam stood abruptly and came to stand toe to toe with his brother. "I needed the money! Again! Always again!"
Stephen's eyes narrowed and his full lips thinned in anger. "Who drew up the papers?"
Adam jerked away with a curse. "You won't give up, will you?"
"I think we both know the answer to that."
The clock ticked the minutes away as Adam simply stood there. At length he sighed. "Her solicitor drew up the papers."
"What was his name?"
"Wilkins. Or maybe it was Walker, Waller." He
60Linda Francis Lee
suring of comparisons. He hemmed and hawed, then added, "You should be thankful you aren't dead, son. A couple of inches lower, and that bullet would have gone right through your heart." His head bobbed up and down. "And we both know what that would have meant. So don't go dwelling on not being able to use the arm any longer. Just be thankful you're alive."
Stephen considered the words, putting them at a distance, unwilling, or perhaps unable, to deal with the reality of what the doctor had said. He had already experienced the impotent anger of weakness last night in the park. How would he ever be able to get used to living without the use of his arm?
"Stephen?"
He focused and found the man staring at him. "Thank you for your honesty, Harold," he said, his tone clipped. "Now, if you've poked and prodded your fill, I have work to do."
Harold stood nonplussed for the moment, seemingly uncertain as to what he should do. At length, he only shrugged his shoulders, gathered his bag, and departed.
Stephen turned back toward the window. The day was brisk and cold. Winter was here to stay. No more teasing days of fall, only harsh bitter cold that would wrap the city in its unforgiving grip until April—March if they were lucky. He watched, very still, as Harold heaved himself into his carriage before the driver snapped the whip in the air, and the ancient brougham rumbled off down the cobbled street. Just when Stephen started to turn away, a hired hack pulled up. It was Adam who stepped out, paid the driver, said something that made the man laugh, then headed for the door.
Since the night of the shooting, Adam had rarely been around, unavailable when Stephen had wanted to
Blue Waltz 61
question him. Now, as the front door quietly opened, then very carefully closed, after which Adam headed straight for the stairs, it appeared that he would try to avoid the issue, or at least Stephen, again.
"Adam!" Stephen barked, his frustrations seeping through, his normally iron-clad control strained.
Adam hesitated at the bottom of the staircase, before he turned toward the study with a sigh. He crossed the marble foyer in a few reluctant strides, then walked into the study. His sandy blond hair was disheveled, looking as if he had used his fingers rather than a brush to comb the strands. Even his smile was tired. Without a word, he dropped down into a casual sprawl on the leather sofa. "Comfy, is it new?"
"You look like hell!"
Adam raised an eyebrow. "You don't look much better yourself, dear brother." But as soon as the words were out, he seemed to wish them back. His poise became less relaxed, and his handsome face became strained.
"No, I suppose I don't." Stephen's laugh was harsh.
Pushing himself up, Adam said, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It's no wonder you don't look—"
"Tell me about this house situation." Stephen cut him off, having no interest in discussing his arm any further. "I've been waiting two weeks to learn the details of the sale."
Adam sighed, running his hand through his hair. "It's done, Stephen. The house is gone. Signed, sealed, and delivered. Forget it."
"I will not forget it." The words were laced with steely resolve. "Why did you sell it?"
For a moment it seemed that Adam would simply push himself up from the sofa and leave. Instead, he ran
62Linda Francis Lee
his finger along the seam of the cushion. "I needed the money."
"Again?"
"Yes, again, damn it!" Adam stood abruptly and came to stand toe to toe with his brother. "I needed the money! Again! Always again!"
Stephen's eyes narrowed and his full lips thinned in anger. "Who drew up the papers?"
Adam jerked away with a curse. "You won't give up, will you?"
"I think we both know the answer to that."
The clock ticked the minutes away as Adam simply stood there. At length he sighed. "Her solicitor drew up the papers."
"What was his name?"
"Wilkins. Or maybe it was Walker, Waller." He
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