Written in the Heart Read online

  “Are you all right? Did something happen?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” She turned away. Nothing, except that her pulse was racing from what she’d just seen.

  “Why are you out here?”

  He stopped beside her. She felt the heat from his body and knew he was close.

  “I just…”

  She glanced back at him, and that one tiny glimpse drew her uncontrollably. His hair was ruffled. Whiskers darkened his chin. He’d closed the center button on his shirt, but that was all. The tail flapped in the breeze. The cuffs were open. Black crinkly hair covered his chest. His broad, bare chest.

  “What are you doing out here?” Stephen asked.

  Never—ever—in her entire life, in all the countries she’d lived, in all the circumstances she’d found herself, had Caroline once wanted to press her hands against a man’s chest. Until now….

  Dear Reader,

  This month our exciting medieval series KNIGHTS OF THE BLACK ROSE continues with The Rogue by Ana Seymour, a secret baby story in which rogue knight Nicholas Hendry finds his one true love. Judith Stacy returns with Written in the Heart, the delightful tale of an uptight California businessman who hires a marriage-shy female handwriting analyst to solve some of his company’s capers. In Angel of the Knight, a medieval novel by Diana Hall, a carefree warrior falls deeply in love with his betrothed, and does all he can to free her from a family curse. Talented newcomer Mary Burton brings us A Bride for McCain, about a mining millionaire who enters a marriage of convenience with the town’s schoolteacher.

  Whatever your taste in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historicals novel. We hope you’ll join us next month, too!

  Sincerely,

  Tracy Farrell,

  Senior Editor

  JUDITH STACY

  Written in the Heart

  Available from Harlequin Historicals and JUDITH STACY

  Outlaw Love #360

  The Marriage Mishap #382

  The Heart of a Hero #444

  The Dreammaker #486

  Written in the Heart #500

  To Judy and Stacy—thanks for always listening

  To David—thanks for always being there

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter One

  Los Angeles, California

  April 26, 1896

  Surely there was an easier way for a woman to get work.

  Caroline Sommerfield shifted on the leather seat of the hansom cab, mentally rehearsing the speech she’d prepared. She’d waited weeks for this chance. She wasn’t about to waste it. Even if it meant sneaking around and lying about her whereabouts tonight.

  “Who is it you’re visiting, Caroline?”

  Across the darkened hansom Caroline heard her cousin’s voice. She hadn’t wanted Sophie to come along with her tonight. But since they’d both been leaving their aunt’s at the same time she couldn’t reasonably protest.

  “A friend,” Caroline said. “A sick friend.”

  “I didn’t realize you knew anyone in the city but family,” Sophie said.

  “I’ve met a few others,” Caroline said.

  Sophie was quiet, so Caroline figured she’d accepted her lie as fact. Which was good, because Caroline wasn’t particularly adept at telling less than the truth, even to someone she hardly knew, like her cousin.

  “How did you meet this friend?” Sophie asked.

  Caroline cleared her throat. “All those parties Aunt Eleanor arranged invitations for.”

  “Really? Which party?”

  “Last Saturday night’s.”

  “And whose was that?”

  Caroline tightened her grip on her handbag to keep from wrapping her hands around her cousin’s neck. This thing of having family, of answering to other people, was getting on her nerves. It was all so strange. And inconvenient.

  Still, Caroline had no one but herself to blame for her uncomfortable circumstances tonight. This wasn’t what her father had had in mind when he insisted she travel to Los Angeles and move in with her aunt a month ago.

  “The Latham party,” Caroline said. “We met there.”

  “Oh, yes, the Lathams,” Sophie said. “That’s where you showed off your—what is that thing again?”

  The thing that had nearly sent Aunt Eleanor into a faint.

  “Graphology,” Caroline said. She’d repeated the word dozens of times since arriving in Los Angeles.

  “Oh, yes. Quite…interesting,” Sophie said. “Aunt Eleanor was…”

  “Surprised?”

  Sophie managed a polite laugh. “Yes, something like that.”

  Despite Aunt Eleanor’s embarrassment, Caroline had been the hit of the party. The craft of analyzing handwriting was a novelty here, but Caroline had studied it from masters in France and Germany, where the skill was taken more seriously. After only a few minutes of studying a handwriting sample Caroline could interpret the character of the writer. Only a few people in this part of the world could do that.

  “Did your father know about your…talent?” Sophie asked.

  “Of course,” Caroline said. “He encouraged me.”

  Caroline wished her father were here with her now. Instead he was happy and contented in Europe—where Caroline wished she were—while she’d been exiled to the States.

  To find a husband, of all things.

  She’d been annoyed with him for weeks but now she just missed him. He meant well. After all, at twenty-four years of age Caroline was more than old enough to be married. That’s why she’d agreed to come, why she hadn’t protested this husband-hunting expedition, why she let Aunt Eleanor parade her from party to party.

  Besides, Aunt Eleanor wasn’t as smart as her father and didn’t know her as well, so she wouldn’t catch on to Caroline’s real intentions until it was too late. She didn’t want or need a husband. She had plans of her own.

  Caroline gazed out the window of the hansom, forced to admit that those plans weren’t turning out as well as she’d like. She’d been a little surprised by the reception she’d gotten two weeks ago at the Pinkerton Detective Agency—even after she’d dropped her father’s name.

  They recognized Jacob Jackson Sommerfield as the renowned detective on the Continent, the man who’d solved some of Europe’s most intricate, puzzling crimes. But how, exactly, did that apply to his daughter?

  No one at the Pinkerton Detective Agency knew what a graphologist was. She’d explained it, presented her references, even offered a demonstration, but they simply weren’t interested.

  Undaunted, Caroline had trotted out her skills at all the parties she’d attended these last weeks. Parlor tricks were hardly what Caroline had intended when she’d studied the craft, but it looked as if they had finally paid off. She’d been approached by a Mr. Richard Paxton on behalf of his employer, who had offered her a job. A real job.

  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—

  Heat ignited low in his belly, fanning through him like wildfire. He tensed.

  Was that Richard’s gift? The woman?

  Stephen looked around at his guests. These were wealthy, dignified people, as close as Los Angeles came to aristocracy. Surely Ric
hard wouldn’t send him a whore for his birthday, right under the noses of his guests—and his aunt.

  Even if it was just what he needed.

  No, Richard must have something else in mind. But what? He knew Stephen didn’t need anything, didn’t want anything.

  Still, Stephen couldn’t let go of the idea. His imagination started to roam. A slow heat built inside him. He bit into his lower lip to keep from smiling. Would Richard do such a thing?

  Richard wasn’t like his other friends, these people in the ballroom. He’d give Stephen something he really wanted—really needed.

  A smile bloomed on Stephen’s face. Yes, he just might do it.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  Jarred from his thoughts, Stephen found Charles, their balding butler, standing at his elbow.

  “A visitor has arrived, sir.”

  Another guest. The last thing he needed.

  “Send him up, Charles.”

  The butler shook his head. “Not an invited guest, sir. A personal visitor, she says.”

  “She?”

  “Yes, sir. Sent by Mr. Paxton.”

  “Paxton?”

  “Yes, sir.” Charles frowned distastefully. “I explained to the young woman that you were occupied, but she insisted—”

  “No, that’s fine, Charles. I’ll see to her myself.”

  Stephen hurried out of the ballroom, anticipation humming in his veins. Could this be his present from Richard? Would he have actually done such a thing?

  At the top of the steps, Stephen stopped. The grand, central staircase led straight down to the marble foyer and the carved, double front doors. Off to the right he glimpsed a woman wandering through the sitting room. Was this she? His gift?

  The woman turned and Stephen’s knees weakened. Oh, yes. Beautiful. Shapely. A woman meant for rolling around in bed with, if ever he’d seen one.

  Just what he needed.

  Stephen trotted down the stairs and across the foyer. He forced himself to stop at the entrance to the sitting room.

  “Good evening,” he said.

  She swirled. “Mr. Monterey?”

  Heavens, she was pretty. Not gorgeous, but touchable. Wholesome and natural-looking. With big blue eyes framed by dark lashes, soft skin, full pink lips, brown hair.