An Improper Situation (Sanborn-Malloy Historical Romance Series, Book One) Read online

  “Delicately crafted, deliciously told. A book that transports you to a time and place from which you won’t want to return.”

  —Award-winning, bestselling author Marliss Melton

  An Improper Situation Summary

  With her chestnut hair and striking green eyes, Charlotte should be the catch of Spring City, CO. But she wears her independence like armor, cloaking herself behind her male nom de plume. A 24-year-old confirmed spinster, she won’t risk heartbreak; that is, until a handsome stranger arrives.

  Boston lawyer Reed Malloy has a mission—deliver two orphaned children to their Colorado cousin. He's not prepared for Charlotte being utterly beguiling, or for her flat-out refusal to raise her kin. It will take some firsthand persuasion to complete his legal duty and resolve more tantalizing issues.

  When Charlotte forsakes everything familiar and is welcomed into the high society of the Boston Brahmins, concealed malice abounds. With the intrusion of sinister forces and scorned women—and with passions ablaze—Reed and Charlotte find themselves in a very Improper Situation.

  An

  Improper

  Situation

  Book One: Sanborn-Malloy Series

  Sydney Jane Baily

  Cat Whisker Press

  Massachusetts

  COPYRIGHT

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2012 Sydney Jane Baily

  Cover: Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  Copyeditor: Victoria Piercey

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the copyright holder, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review or article.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  For more information, contact Cat Whisker Press through the contact page at www.CatWhiskerStudio.com.

  This book is also available in print.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  An Improper Situation Summary

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  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 Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  SNEAK PEEK . . .

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DEDICATION

  Dedicated to my dad

  James George Baily

  whom I miss every single day.

  Many times I call you.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I want to thank the following people for all their help:

  My three beta readers—Toni Echols (best big sister ever), Holly Meyerhoff, and Pamela Schwotzer; Gregory Smart, librarian at the Boston Public Library, who found the necessary information about and images of Boston in the 1880s; copy editor Victoria Piercey, who found seriously egregious errors; Marliss Melton, who not only is my dear friend but also paved the way as a bestselling author of romantic suspense; my husband and my children for putting up with me sitting at my desk typing, staring, typing, typing, staring, typing. And, of course, my mom.

  I couldn’t have written this book without all of you.

  Chapter One

  Spring City, Colorado

  Charlotte heard the wagon wheels and the horse’s hooves from where she sat at her desk and raised her head, a frown crossing her otherwise clear features.

  “Blazes!” she exclaimed. She was not expecting anyone. Except for Sarah Cuthins, the doctor’s wife, Charlotte and her neighbors weren’t, well, neighborly enough with each other for an uninvited visit. And she could tell just by listening that it wasn’t Sarah’s buggy coming down the road.

  She couldn’t see the wagon even if she tried to look out the window, as books were piled high in front of it. Books were, in fact, the dominant feature in the study—on history, modern and ancient languages, classical architecture, mathematics, even oceanology, entomology, and geology. And in the middle of them all, Charlotte sat at her large desk, strewn with papers and with a faded globe perched precariously on one corner.

  She lifted her fingers from the keyboard of her typewriter. The invention itself was over a decade old, but her machine—the one extravagant purchase she’d made that year—was new. Anything that took her from it was of great annoyance.

  Standing up, she absentmindedly tucked behind her ear one strand of hair that seemed to shimmer with all the colors of autumn. Then she reconsidered and twisted the rest of her waist-length hair up in a loose knot. It wasn’t tidy, but it was better than going to the door all undone, she thought.

  The wagon was obviously stopping at her door, so she had no choice but to greet its passengers. Lord, she hoped no one wanted coffee. For that matter, she hoped no one wanted anything, as the kitchen was as bare of food as she was of hospitality and time for interruptions.

  Charlotte crossed the well-worn yellow and blue rug, automatically stepping over the small hole in the floorboard as she strode into the hall. It was cluttered with her shoes, coat, umbrella, and various knickknacks, though she didn’t even notice the comfortable mess.

  When a sharp knock resounded from the other side of the door, startlingly loud in the silence, she froze. Then she took a deep breath.

  “Coming.” Charlotte hoped she didn’t sound as irritated as she felt. No one respected other people’s deadlines! She yanked open the door and then nearly slammed it shut with surprise. Instead, she stepped back with a murmured, “Oh, my!”

  Before her was a tall, dark-haired man with the most piercing blue eyes she’d ever seen, dressed in a well-fitted suit of the neatest charcoal stripe. However, what caused her disconcertion was not his devilish good looks alone, but the two young children standing on either side of him.

  The little girl, with two blond braids, was holding the man’s hand while the little boy, who had hair remarkably similar in color to Charlotte’s own and who barely came above the man’s knee, simply clutched the man’s well-tailored pant leg, causing a severe pucker.

  “I understand this is the Sanborn homestead.”

  His voice brought her attention back to him. She looked up dazedly, her own sparkling green eyes blinking at the late spring sunlight behind him. Perhaps the whole apparition of handsome man and small
children might just disappear if she willed it.

  “I am Charlotte Sanborn.” Automatically, she stuck out her right hand to the stranger.

  He looked at her hand, his face surprised.

  “The writer?”

  Now she looked stunned. “How on earth . . . ?” she began. No one except the few people in Spring City who cared to find out knew that she was “Charles” Sanborn, the acclaimed writer.

  “Excuse me,” he added, “I thought you would be older. That is, I’m delighted to meet you.” A smile crossed his features for the first time, and he took her extended hand in his free one, and with a firm grasp, shook it.

  Charlotte felt a shock of warmth and strength and realized it had been a long while since she’d touched someone else’s skin.

  “It is an honor and a pleasure,” he continued. “I’ve read much of your work.” His voice was as warm as his hand, and she flushed.

  Charlotte was used to praise, having been hailed as a voice of her time for the past few years by the editors with whom she had contact; she was successful in her own uncelebrated and quiet way—of course under the guise of her pseudonym.

  However, knowing that this man had sat down with her work in his hands caused her to feel strangely exposed.

  “Well, thank you,” she said and stopped. She was waiting. He was waiting. The children were waiting but less patiently. The little boy tugged on the man’s pant leg.

  “Are we goin’ in?” he asked, looking not at Charlotte but up at the tall man, who gave him a smile that stirred Charlotte’s sentiment.

  “Oh, I am sorry,” she murmured, still thinking of the man’s genuine smile. “Where are my manners?” The little girl just stared at her as if she was wondering the very same thing, and Charlotte quickly moved aside to let them enter. She felt for all the world as if she had suddenly stepped out of her own life. A few moments ago, she would never have imagined a man and two children standing in her entryway.

  “I am sorry to barge in on you, Miss Sanborn,” he began, as his eyes took in the untidiness and the disrepair in one quick glance, “but once we arrived in Spring City, I discovered, of course, that there was no telephone system in place as yet.”

  They must be from the east, she concluded. “I think it will be a while yet before those of us in Colorado have the benefits of Mr. Bell’s invention.” Having exhausted that topic, she waited again for him to explain himself.

  “We hope you are not too inconvenienced, but we tried to be here as close to the appointed time as possible, barring a few mishaps along the way.” This caused both the children to giggle, apparently having been the cause of some of the mishaps.

  Charlotte frowned. “The appointed time, sir?”

  “The trains were running late along the Topeka-Santa Fe line; a Pullman sleeper had overturned,” he stated.

  She nodded, finding nothing more to say, since the entire conversation so far was making no sense to her, and she usually prided herself on her quick understanding.

  After a long moment, he frowned. “Miss Sanborn, the children are tired. We stopped only briefly in Spring City to get directions, and I’m sure they’d benefit from a short nap while we talk about their situation. Then, perhaps, some supper would be in order.”

  “Supper?” she repeated. The situation wasn’t getting any better. Why would this family come to her house and demand a place to sleep and eat?

  She pressed her hand to the side of her head. She’d been working steadily for days to meet her editor’s deadline and she was plum tuckered out. Charlotte was sure that was the reason none of this was coming clear to her.

  “Miss Sanborn, is everything all right?” Even this tall, handsome stranger seemed a bit agitated now. His dark eyebrows formed the oddest pattern of straight and wavy lines as he frowned.

  “Everything is just peart,” she began, “except I must acknowledge the corn. I haven’t the slightest idea who you are.” She felt better for confessing that.

  It was his turn to flush. “But how is that possible? I sent the letter myself.”

  “The letter?” At least this wasn’t a random visit by lunatics wanting food, she thought. Perhaps soon they would get to the bottom of this and she could return to her work.

  “Yes,” he affirmed. “Are you telling me that you never received correspondence from the offices of Malloy and Associates, posted about a month and a half past?”

  “Malloy?” The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

  “Well, I’ve been awfully busy, Mr. . . . ah—”

  “It’s Malloy. Reed Malloy.” He said it slowly as if speaking to a child, but his voice registered a tone of definite annoyance.

  “You needn’t get in a pucker, sir. I didn’t realize you meant that you were . . .,” but Charlotte broke off, deciding to ignore his tone. “Let me take a look in my study. It’s possible that something came and got overlooked. Editors forward a lot of mail from people who read my work. I don’t always get a chance to look through it right away,” she added apologetically.

  She turned and entered her study, stepping delicately over the unsightly hole. The good Lord knew she often let the papers and envelopes just pile up. It was an unfortunate habit, and she would have to allow that it looked as if it had her in some deep trouble now.

  She heard them follow her, all three of them, trailing behind, as she went to her desk and began to sift through the papers on the edge of it. When these finally slid to the floor, she bent to try another pile that already had collapsed off of a small oval Pembroke table, with its leaves always in the up position to accommodate more stray papers and books.

  “It’s amazing that your work, which seems to come from such an orderly mind, can be created here, in this chaos,” observed the man behind her.

  At his tone, she looked up. He seemed genuinely displeased, and she felt a little like a naughty school girl in front of the teacher. His sapphire eyes bore into hers for a second and she felt the same jolt as when he’d taken her hand.

  She was the first to look away, continuing to rummage through the papers and then moving to a stack of Scientific American mixed with Yale Literary Magazine, ignoring his remark.

  Charlotte wanted to tell him how she used to be organized, how she used to have food in the pantry, and wood ready for the fires, and not a speck of dust anywhere . . . she wanted to, but it would be a bald-faced lie. It had ever been this way—chaotic, at best. Her mind, however, was sharp and orderly and with it, she created works that were concise, easily understood, and a step ahead of her peers.

  “Some of us have time to do housework,” she commented lightly, “while others of us put our minds to more important things, such as . . . aha!”

  “Did you salvage something, Miss Sanborn?”

  She stood up and faced them, triumphantly waggling the cream-colored envelope with Malloy and Associates embossed in blue lettering on one side. “Here it is.”

  Charlotte recalled now having received it, even remarking over the blue ink and placing it on her desk to read after dinner, and then . . .

  She looked guiltily up at the dark-haired stranger with his flashing eyes. The seal had not even been broken.

  “Well, perhaps you should open it and see why we’re here,” he continued evenly, crossing his arms over his broad chest, “though perhaps you could do that somewhere where we can all sit down. The children are growing tired.”

  “Oh, of course.” She had been caught out again without manners. Her mother would be appalled. Though, for the sake of her husband, Regina Sanborn had grown tolerant of the relative cultural vacuum in the west, she had, nevertheless, tried to instill in her bookish daughter a sense of propriety and manners and social graces. Charlotte failing miserably, and knew in her heart that this was why she welcomed her own isolation.

  “Please, come this way.” She went between the boy and girl who still stared at her as if she were the latest exhibit at the fair, and headed off down the hallway to the parlor. She
tossed open the door and froze; how long had it been since she’d use this room. It was dark and musty, and, frankly, it smelled like a horse blanket.

  “Excuse the a . . . well, I don’t entertain much. Let me just air it out a bit, but come in, come in and find a seat.”

  In the dark gloom, she could barely make out the furniture, all relics from her mother’s day. She went directly over to the windows, pulling aside the heavy curtains, and opening the shutters, letting the fresh spring air flood the room, bringing with it the scent of the purple-flowered fireweed that grew all around the house.

  Unfortunately, when she got to the third window, she opened the curtains and saw cracked panes of glass and a board nailed onto the sashes from outside. She hastily drew the curtain closed, hoping the elegant man in her parlor had not noticed.

  She turned to face her guests who had spread themselves gingerly around the room. By the look on his face, it was undeniable that Mr. Malloy had seen the poor repair job. The little boy sat directly next to the man on the high-backed sofa in front of the rough stone fireplace with its faded, embroidered screen, and rifle hanging above; the little girl had taken one of the petit-point cushioned chairs.

  Charlotte was well aware of the dust still settling after they’d seated themselves. As she crossed the room, she noticed Reed Malloy’s stare of disapproval. She sat in the only seat left, a small mauve-colored chair with bits of horsehair sticking out where it shouldn’t be, and took the letter out of her skirt waistband.

  She opened it and skimmed the salutation and the niceties and then suddenly caught her breath.

  “I take it you’ve reached the part where . . .,” he began.

  “Blazes!” Charlotte jumped out of her seat. “She gave the children to me? Is she mad? Does she understand—?”