Once an Heiress (Gilded Promises) Page 7

  Turning in a fast, hard circle, Gigi searched frantically for a solution to her predicament. Run. The word permeated every thought, attacking every attempt she made to calm her rioting nerves.

  Run.

  She couldn’t.

  She could. She must.

  What other choice did she have? If Fitz had uncovered her whereabouts, others could as well. The name change, the disguise, becoming a servant, none of it had been enough.

  Gigi had fooled herself into thinking she could outrun her past. She’d been naïve to hope she could return home and pretend she’d been studying music in Vienna as her family claimed. There were men and women of her acquaintance—mostly women—who would gleefully pick away at the story until the shameful details were revealed. Gigi didn’t fear the consequences to her own reputation. But her younger sisters, Annabeth and Mariah, must be allowed to make their own way in the world without the taint of Gigi’s scandal rubbing off on them.

  Run.

  Cruel pain burst inside her chest and leaked into her limbs. She’d confronted one blow after another since she’d climbed out of bed this morning. A matter of hours, a mere half day, and Gigi’s calm, boring life had been thrown into chaos. Every instinct told her to . . .

  Run.

  Where was her suitcase? She spun in another, faster circle, her eyes darting around the room, landing on the tiny four-drawer dresser, the end table, the bed.

  The bed.

  She dropped to her knees, groped around until her hand connected with a small leather case. Closing her fingers around the cold metal handle, she gave a hard yank, dragging it close before scrambling to her feet.

  She didn’t know where she would go, just away from this house, this city, this demi-existence she’d built for herself out of lies.

  Somewhere in her mind, Gigi knew she wasn’t thinking rationally. Running would do her no good.

  Try to run from me. Give it your best effort, but know that I’ll find you again.

  Fitz had never been a man to make empty promises. That knowledge didn’t stop Gigi from setting the small piece of battered luggage atop the mattress and flinging open the lid. She went to her dresser, pulled out its top drawer, and began tossing items haphazardly toward the bed. She was halfway through the second drawer when a knock sounded on her door.

  Gigi’s hands stilled.

  “Sally?” Another, more urgent knock. “I know you’re in there. I can hear you moving around.”

  Gigi’s heart raced, then nearly beat out of her chest when the doorknob rattled. “Please, Sally. Let me in.”

  There was something off in the muffled voice that gave Gigi pause.

  “Just a minute, Sophie.” She quickly shut the half-filled suitcase and stuffed it back under her bed. Next, she hurried to the dresser and closed the open drawer with a fast sweep of her hand. “Enter.”

  Sophie’s perfectly coiffed head poked into the room. “I’m home.”

  The obviousness of the statement nearly had Gigi smiling, until she noted the lost look in the young woman’s eyes. All thoughts of running were abandoned. Sophie needed her, as evidenced by her dejected manner and red-rimmed eyes.

  “Oh, dear.” Gigi joined her friend in the hallway and took in the pinched expression. “The luncheon went badly.”

  “Actually . . .” Sophie crossed her arms in front of her waist and sighed. “The entire afternoon went without a hitch.”

  “Then why the miserable tone?”

  The young woman opened her mouth, snapped it shut, opened it again, shivered. “Can we talk somewhere besides this drafty hallway?”

  “Of course.” Gigi took Sophie’s arm and led her toward the stairwell. “We’ll go to your room, and I’ll stoke the fire. Once you feel warmer,” and steadier, “you’ll tell me about the luncheon.”

  With a distant look in her eyes, as though lost in deep contemplation, Sophie allowed Gigi to guide her to her room. Neither spoke as they entered the young woman’s personal domain, which took up most of the second floor.

  Esmeralda spared no expense when it came to providing for her daughter’s comfort. The dressing and bathing rooms flanked the main bedchamber, which contained an enormous bed with a polished headboard and columns supporting a green-and-gold silk canopy. As a final nod to style, the wallpaper in all three rooms featured flowers and birds in a variety of complementary colors.

  “Sit here,” Gigi told her friend.

  While Sophie settled on an overstuffed chair facing the hearth, Gigi saw to the fire. With quick, efficient moves, she stacked several pieces of dry wood in a crisscross pattern over the remnants of the previous fire. A few pokes with the fire iron and the new load ignited.

  Satisfied, Gigi brushed her hands together. Soot had taken up permanent residence beneath her fingernails. Callouses showed on her palms, and a thin white scar ran across the knuckles of her right hand.

  The old Gigi would have been appalled by the physical reminders of how far she’d fallen from grace and how, with her selfish choices, she’d become a liar, a fraud, and a woman completely unworthy of the world she’d left. Most days, she still was horrified. But in rare moments like this, when she looked at her hands, she saw each imperfection as a badge of honor.

  She’d learned to survive on her own, without the help of a man, her family, or anyone but herself. She knew the value of hard work, as well as the joy of a job well done.

  Perhaps that wasn’t a bad thing. Perhaps there were blessings to be found in her adversity. Something to think about when she was alone.

  “Now then”—she turned to Sophie—“that should warm you right up.”

  She positioned the screen in front of the snapping fire, then sat on the footstool beside Sophie’s chair. They each stared at the flames in silence.

  After a moment, Gigi shifted her position. The light bounced off Sophie’s troubled features, making her look heartbreakingly young.

  Gigi hurt for her friend. She felt a connection to the young woman that went beyond servant and employer. In Sophie, Gigi saw herself.

  “Tell me what happened at the luncheon.”

  Sophie stared into the fire for several more seconds. The flames painted an orange glow across her features, highlighting her misery. “They loved me.”

  “And that’s a problem because . . . ?” Gigi prompted.

  “It was all an act and not very well played, either.” Sophie slammed her fist on the chair’s arm. “The ladies were only pretending to be interested in what I had to say. I could see the impatient glee in their eyes as they said their farewells. I know they’re tucked safely in their homes right now gossiping about me. The little nobody, that Daughter of Scandal, who thinks she can become one of them.”

  Unfortunately, Sophie was probably right.

  “Surely not all the ladies are saying terrible things about you.”

  “Perhaps not all of them,” Sophie admitted, albeit reluctantly. “Not Penelope. She’s the kindest, most genuine woman I know. I’m honored to call her my sister.”

  “What about Mrs. Burrows?” Gigi asked. “Do you doubt her sincerity?”

  Sophie smiled, and for that one moment, she looked a little less wretched. “She seems to like me well enough.”

  “The others will come around.”

  “Will they?” Sophie let out a strangled sob. “Will they come around?”

  I hope so.

  But Gigi couldn’t be sure. New York society was notoriously conservative and a bit cruel in its exclusivity. Even with the support of Penelope and Mrs. Burrows, Sophie had a rough road ahead of her. The Daughter of Scandal was attempting to navigate the treacherous waters of one of the most elite circles in America, something even women of legitimate birth scarcely accomplished.

  It was all so morbidly unfair. Sophie didn’t deserve the censure she received for what her parents had done.

  Gigi reached out again. This time, she laid a hand on Sophie’s knee. “Give it time. Even the most influential grande dame of
society will soften toward you eventually.”

  Sophie’s snort of laughter lacked all signs of humor. “You seem to know a lot about the inner workings of society.”

  Catching the suspicion in the other woman’s tone, Gigi sat back and schooled her features into an innocent stare. “I have lived in some of the finest homes in America.”

  It wasn’t a lie. Her father owned eight houses in four states, each grander than the last.

  “That may be true.” With eyes far wiser than her twenty-one years would suggest, Sophie leaned forward. “Yet it doesn’t explain how you know the difference between a teaspoon and a dessert spoon.”

  Sophie made a valid observation. Ladies’ maids knew how to put together a breakfast tray and tea service. But they were too busy with their other chores to work in the kitchens and dining rooms. Gigi should not know how to properly set a table.

  “My training was extensive.” Again, not a lie. Her mother had drilled proper etiquette into Gigi as a child.

  “Sally?” Something came and went in Sophie’s eyes, something kind yet also shrewd. “We are friends, yes?”

  Gigi nodded, not sure how the conversation had turned so completely back on her.

  “As my friend, won’t you please tell me your secret?”

  “I don’t have a secret.” She spoke quickly. Too quickly.

  Sophie wasn’t fooled. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “I have heard the way you play the piano. No domestic servant gets that sort of extensive training.”

  Gigi’s breath backed up in her lungs. Sophie’s suspicions weren’t new, and yet there was something different in them today, a knowledge that surpassed simple curiosity.

  “The way you carry yourself has a certain je ne sais quoi.”

  “Would you believe I trained on the stage?”

  “I would not.”

  Bottom lip caught between her teeth, Gigi turned her attention to the fire. She needed to stop Sophie from continuing, as she’d done every other time the young woman had pressed for information about Gigi’s background.

  Why couldn’t she stop her friend?

  “You have tutored me in the elaborate set of rules governing a young lady’s behavior in the upper classes. That sort of knowledge is handed down from mother to daughter, not lady to maid. Much less from a maid to her lady.”

  Finally, Gigi found her voice. “My tutor was a woman of high standards. She demanded I behave with proper comportment.”

  Sophie continued as if Gigi hadn’t spoken. “Even more telling, you’re terrible at stain removal, making tea and tonics, and you don’t know the first thing about polishing silver. Sally, my dear, sweet friend, you are no more a servant than I am a debutante.”

  Finished having her say, Sophie raised her eyebrows, a silent dare in the gesture.

  Tears came, instant and unwelcome. Gigi was suddenly so very exhausted. She felt her control slipping with each beat of her heart. She was so very weary of hiding her identity, of pretending she was someone she was not.

  Perhaps it was the devastating events of the day. The disappointment she’d endured at the pawnshop coupled with the sudden appearance of Christopher Fitzpatrick. But the last shreds of her resistance dissolved. “How long have you suspected?”

  Sophie gave her a triumphant grin. “From the very first moment we met.”

  “That long?”

  “That long.”

  All Gigi could do was stare at Sophie in stunned disbelief. The young woman was far too perceptive. It was remarkable, really, and yet . . .

  Was it?

  Esmeralda had raised Sophie in a world of make-believe, where slipping into disguises and fake personas was a way of life. Like her mother, the young woman would know how to look past the surface and see the truth beneath the lie.

  “I have spent much of my life in theaters and opera houses,” Sophie said, the words putting a fine point on Gigi’s thoughts. “There is no deception I have not witnessed, no charade I have not been a party to. I know a disguise when I see one. And I know when someone is lying to me.”

  Gigi had once thought the theater a magnificent world of hopes and dreams, a wonderland of wish fulfillment. She’d envied Sophie her childhood. Now, she saw the flaw in her thinking. Sophie had experienced her share of difficulties, and Gigi had been yet another person to deceive her. “I’m sorry, Sophie.”

  “Don’t apologize. I find your situation rather fascinating. I have made up all sorts of romantic tales about your past.”

  Romantic? No. Tragic, sorrowful—a cautionary tale, at best. The transgressions Gigi had committed in the name of love could not be undone. Whether the truth came out or not, she would always be a woman of questionable morality, one who’d put her passionate desires ahead of all else.

  “I have always loved a good secret-identity story. I’m especially partial to The Prince and the Pauper.”

  Gigi had liked that tale once, long before she’d been forced to live out the charade.

  “Are you like the prince?” Sophie asked. “Are you pretending to be a pauper to find out how the other half lives?”

  “There is nothing romantic about my tale.” And there would be no happy ending.

  “I’m sorry.” Sophie touched her arm. “Will you tell me your name? Your real name?”

  Consumed by a need to keep her sordid details private, Gigi reluctantly shook her head.

  “Please. You can trust me. I am very good at keeping secrets.” Sophie made a face. “Unless, of course, they’re my own.”

  The commiseration in Sophie’s voice was Gigi’s undoing. She stared at her friend for a long moment, counting her own heartbeats as a battle waged within. One beat. Two. Three.

  By the fourth, she gave up the fight. “My name is Georgina.”

  “Georgina.” Sophie cocked her head to one side. “Georgina,” she repeated, enunciating each syllable.

  “Gigi for short.”

  “Gigi. Yes, the name suits you. I like it.” Sophie reached out and touched the mobcap atop Gigi’s head. “Is red your natural color?”

  Gigi’s hand went to her head as an enormous wave of embarrassment coursed through her. Had she fooled no one? She’d tried to hide the roots of her hair beneath oversized mobcaps, but the task had grown more difficult in recent months. Had others noticed she’d dyed the strands so many times the ends were breaking off at an alarming rate?

  “Not to worry.” Sophie leaned in close, much the same way schoolgirls did when sharing a confidence. “Those ridiculous hats hide most of your handiwork. I doubt anyone else has noticed, except perhaps my mother. But she probably thinks you’re practicing different styles and color on yourself. If she hasn’t mentioned anything to you yet, she probably won’t.”

  Gigi could only pray Sophie was right. She needed this job, at least for another month.

  “Well? Are you going to answer my question?”

  “What question?”

  Sophie straightened. “Is red your natural color?”

  “Yes.”

  Sophie gently removed the cap and studied Gigi as if attempting to decode a riddle. “I wager it’s stunning when all grown out.”

  Gigi had once considered the red tresses, quite literally, her crowning glory. One of her suitors had penned poems in his attempt to describe the flaming color.

  How frivolous her life had been.

  “Please, Sophie, you cannot tell anyone what I’ve told you.”

  “Have no fear.” Sophie took her hands, the gesture reminiscent of when Gigi had taken hers earlier that morning. “This will be our little secret . . . Sally.”

  Gigi swallowed around a knot in her throat. Her eyes stung, and she was very close to tears. “Thank you.”

  “When you are ready, I trust you will share your tale with me.”

  Not if, when. Gigi didn’t trust herself to speak.

  The clock struck the bottom of the hour. Sophie frowned.

  “Oh, drat, look at the time. Mother has invited a sp
ecial guest to dine with us this evening.” Her frown deepened. “I’m to be my most charming.”

  A tingle of dread swept across Gigi’s lungs. “Did your mother tell you the name of this special guest?”

  “Perhaps. I don’t remember.” Sophie gave a delicate shrug. “I think he’s from Philadelphia. Or . . . maybe Washington.”

  Gigi felt her shoulders relax.

  “No. Boston. He’s from Boston.”

  Of. Course.

  “He’s someone very important. I am not only to be on my best behavior, but I am to look my most ravishing.” Sophie made a face. “Mother’s words, not mine.”

  Gigi took a deep, purifying breath. “Then we had better get you changed.”

  Chapter Five

  An hour later, Gigi circled Sophie, taking in her appearance with an objective eye. The young woman did indeed, as Esmeralda had requested, look ravishing in a blue silk gown the color of lightning trapped in a bottle. Gigi smoothed out a final wrinkle and declared, “You are ready.”

  After a slight roll of her shoulders, Sophie nodded her agreement. Consulting the clock on the mantelpiece, she sighed, clearly reluctant to spend an evening with her mother and a man she didn’t know. “I believe I will read awhile before I head downstairs.”

  “I’ll leave you to it.”

  Gigi exited the room. Out in the hall, she leaned back against the door and released a short sigh. All she wanted to do was sit in her tiny room, stare at a blank wall, and review the disturbing events of the day. She needed perspective. Much had changed in her life.

  Everything had changed.

  She caught her mind wandering to Fitz. She tried not to worry. How could she not? With his appearance came too many contingencies she couldn’t control.

  Why had he come? Why not send one of his employees? He had masses of them.

  Fear swept through her. Gigi shoved it down with a hard swallow. She was not yet defeated. Unless Fitz had sent word to her family that she was living in New York. She’d gone to great lengths to keep her location secret, while also letting them know she was alive and well. One word from Fitz and she would be forced to go home before she was ready.