Almost a Lady (4 page)

Willow
checked into the Astor House around suppertime, asking for the most luxurious—and most expensive—room available. She ordered dinner and a bath, and prepared herself for an enormous dose of relaxation.

But foremost, she had to see what was in that note. When the bellboy left her alone, she quickly removed the bodice of her gown, separate from the skirt. For the first time, she noticed smears of blood on the page, dark red now that they'd had time to dry. The thought of Charlie lying in her arms almost made her drop the note. She took a deep breath and steeled herself not only to touch the bloodstained paper, but to read whatever information rested inside.

She unfolded the square.
Then stared blankly at the one word written there.
Gideon.

"Gideon?” she said aloud. What did it mean?

She finished undressing, tucking the paper into the toe of her boot for safekeeping, and got into the bath. While she soaked, she thought about the word
Gideon.
And what it might have to do with Charlie's murder.

Was it a last name? She could think of no families by the name of Gideon in
New York
. But then, her investigating radius wasn't necessarily confined only to the city.

Or was it a first name?
The first name of the man who stabbed Charlie and left him for dead?
Perhaps Charlie had suspected that he would be harmed and wrote the name as a clue to his killer's identity.

What if it wasn't a name at all, but a place—a town or theater or club of some kind?

She stepped out of the tub, about to change for bed, when a knock sounded at the outer sitting room door. Still wet, she grabbed up her red oriental robe to cover herself.

Expecting the hotel staff with her dinner, she pulled open the door. Only to find Robert standing there, a dark scowl on his face.

"Robert. Come in.” She stepped back to allow him entrance. “What's wrong?"

"Nothing,” he said shortly. He took off his bowler cap and overcoat, tossing them onto a nearby chair while he folded his long frame onto the settee.

"Don't lead me on a merry chase, Robert,” she said, clutching the folds of robe at her neck to ward off the chill on her damp skin. “Something is bothering you, now what is it?"

"Nothing,” Robert said again. “Our agents and the police both went over every inch of that railway car and came up with nothing. None of the passengers heard or saw a thing."

Willow bit her lip, wanting to tell him about the note but still possessing the insane desire to keep that tiny piece of evidence to
herself
.
Especially now that she had been put on inactive duty.

And yet she didn't feel right keeping something—something as vital as this might turn out to be—from him. If he would open up to her, then she would be more than willing to share her knowledge with him.

Folding one leg under her, she sat down beside him. Her hand rested on his knee. “Will you tell me now what Charlie Barker was working on?"

He closed his eyes on a sigh. “I can't. It's Agency policy. Unless you're involved in the case, I cannot give you information from the case file."

"Then let me work on this case."

His head snapped up. “What? No. It's too dangerous."

"It's my job, Robert. I'm a detective. If you're not going to let me investigate, then I might as well hang up my derringer and call it a day. I know you're disappointed that I messed up with Sammy Triton. Let me prove myself. Let me show you that I'm still a good operative, worthy enough to carry a Pinkerton badge."

He looked at her for a minute. When he spoke, it was in a soft, serious tone. “I trust you, Willow.
Maybe more than any other agent under my supervision.
And I know you can handle any case I assign to you. But I'm not talking about your job being in danger, Willow. I'm talking about your life."

She shook off the involuntary shudder that coursed through her body. “I've taken on dangerous cases before. Or are you forgetting the time I was kidnapped and held hostage by a band of renegade army deserters?"

His brow wrinkled. “I'm not forgetting anything."

"Then put me on this case. Let me catch the bastard who killed Charlie."

*
    
*
    
*

He turned her down. Flat.

Two days later, she was still fuming over Robert's dismissal of her request. So she decided to give him one more chance at redemption. She dressed in her best day gown, a peach and white vertical-striped concoction she'd picked up on her last trip to Indianapolis. The jacket fit her form snugly, leaving a
vee
open at the neck for the lace of her snow-white blouse. The long, straight skirt pulled into a large bustle in back. She slipped on a pair of peach satin slippers with two-inch heels and topped off the outfit with a tall, extravagant bird nest bonnet, a dozen orange and white plumes fluttering in every direction. A few tiny ring curls framed her face, intentionally left out of the tightly coiled braid atop her head.

With an air of optimism, parasol balanced elegantly on one shoulder, she left the hotel and marched her way down
Fifth Avenue
toward the Pinkerton National Detective Agency.

Mrs. Girard greeted her with a pleasant hello when Willow requested an audience with Robert.

"He's in a conference with Mr. Warner just now, Miss Hastings. If you'd care to wait in Mr. Pinkerton's office, I'm sure he wouldn't mind. I'll let him know you're here just as soon as he's available."

"Thank you.” Willow sauntered into Robert's small but quaint office, making herself at home in his leather-back desk chair. She propped her
slippered
feet on the corner of the desk and tapped them in an irregular, staccato rhythm with the tip of her closed parasol.

A few moments later, the door opened and in walked Robert, wearing a hunter green morning coat and tan trousers.

"Willow,” he welcomed her warmly. “What brings you here on such a sunny day?"

'Round and ‘round and ‘round they go, she thought. Robert definitely had something on his mind or he wouldn't be making small talk. She slid her feet from his desk and stood.

"I thought I would pay you a little visit,” she answered in all honesty, giving him a peck on the cheek.
“Any new developments in Charlie's case?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

His answer surprised her. Biting back the myriad of questions swirling through her brain, she watched him walk around the desk and take a seat.

Robert focused on her, his lips drawing together in what could only be a smile held in check. “You'll get your petticoats all in a bunch if you keep your curiosity bottled up. Would you like me to explain?"

She released a pent-up breath. “Yes."

He laughed. “Take a seat and I'll tell you everything, from the beginning."

Willow moved to the nearest chair, forgetting all about her protruding bustle as she leaned closer to Robert.

"The police have turned the case over to us."

Willow inhaled sharply. The police were often willing to work with Pinkerton, but she had never heard of them actually turning a case over to the Agency.

"They're leaving it open on their end, mind you, but because Barker was one of ours, they're letting us take the reins. Yesterday we got a telegram from Union Pacific headquarters in Boston. Because the crime occurred on a train belonging to the Union Pacific Railroad, they've asked that we cooperate with the security agent being sent to conduct his own independent investigation."

"You aren't going to, though, are you?"

"I'm not going to what?” he asked.

"Let them investigate simultaneously. You don't know what kind of incompetent lummox they'll send. He'll impair our investigation, maybe even unknowingly destroy evidence."

"Come now, Willow, I'm sure Union Pacific hires very skilled men. Not as skilled as our people, of course,” he added, “but competent enough to conduct a case without mistakenly overlooking a murder weapon, I hope. Besides, Francis and I have already discussed the matter and decided to cooperate fully with the Union Pacific officer."

Willow swallowed. If Francis Warner had been brought into this, her powers of persuasion mattered little. The superintendent had no time for her point of view or ideas. Robert, who trusted and believed in her, weighed the pros and cons, thought over her requests and propositions, and made a decision based on the merit of her argument. Warner, however, often made his decisions based on her gender rather than her reputation as a detective.

"Then at least let me get a head start. Let me see what I can come up with before the UP man gets here. That way he won't be stepping on any toes."

Robert shook his head. “The fact is, Willow, he's already here."

She sat in stunned silence, wondering when her life had begun to spin so out of control. Two weeks ago she'd been lurking around Jefferson City, keeping a close eye on Sammy the Snake. Now here she was, back in
New York
, officially taken off active duty, about to be stuffed into a windowless basement office, she was sure. Her next assignment would probably be dusting off old case files and putting them in alphabetical order.
Maybe sweeping the front stoop on particularly leafy days.

Well, she had been a Pinkerton agent too long for such mundane chores.
If she couldn't be a detective—investigating real crimes and not just “who took my sliced turkey on pumpernickel?"
—then she would not investigate at all.

She straightened her spine as she stood, glaring at Robert with a no-nonsense look on her face. “Robert Allan Pinkerton, I have only two words for you.
I quit."

"What?” He jumped to his feet, racing past her to the door before her hand could grasp the knob. “You can't quit."

She took in his startled expression, eyes wide, mouth lax. A small smile touched her lips. She kissed first one cheek, then the other. “You are a precious, precious man, Robert Pinkerton. I love you dearly. But I most certainly
can
quit, and I have every intention of doing so."

Still, he blocked her exit. “Willow Elizabeth Hastings,” he said in the same tone of voice. “You are a beautiful, outrageous, obstinate woman who sometimes makes my teeth perspire. You are also a wonderful friend."

"Robert,” she interrupted, “I hope you know that whether I work for the Agency or not, you will always be my dearest confidant. I wouldn't lose touch with you for all the heather in Scotland."

"I know. But you didn't let me finish. Aside from being a beautiful woman and a wonderful friend, you are an even better detective. The gravest crime of all would be to let you slip through our fingers."

"Do you mean it?” she asked, holding back a smile.

"I'll do whatever it takes to keep you with the Agency."

The room fell into silence. A knowing grin spread across her face. “I guess that leaves you only one choice then, doesn't it?"

His eyes narrowed warily. “And that
is.
. .?"

"Put me on the Barker case."

Robert stared at her blankly. “Excuse me?"

"Your hearing isn't failing, Robert. I said that if you want me to stay with Pinkerton National Detective Agency, you'll assign me to Charlie's murder investigation."

He shook his head and made his way back to the desk. “You drive a hard bargain, Hastings."

"I'm a good detective, Pinkerton,” she stated boldly.

Robert tapped a finger against his chin, in deep thought. After several long minutes, he raised his head and met her eyes. “I'll let you go after Charlie's murderer on one condition."

Uh-oh.
Her staunch certainty slipped a notch.
A condition.
This could mean trouble. Nonetheless, she opened her mouth and heard herself ask to hear his bargain.

"A simple one, really,” Robert
said,
a bit too smoothly for her peace of mind. He went to the door once again, calling for Mrs. Girard to send in the railroad security officer. “All I ask is that you work with the Union Pacific investigator."

Willow mulled it over for a moment, weighing her options carefully. But in the end she really had only two choices. Quit her job and, if she was lucky, find a position at a laundry house or as a governess. Or stay on with the Agency and—as painful as it might be—work with another (less competent, she was sure) investigator.

"You, sir, drive a hard bargain. But I agree."

Just then, someone tapped softly on the frosted plate glass of the office door.

"Come in,” Robert called.

Willow kept her eyes on Robert, not bothering to turn around even when she heard a man move in behind her. An attitude of firm competence would set the tone with this so-called investigator.

"Willow Hastings,” Robert said, “allow me to introduce you to Union Pacific Officer Brandt Donovan."

Willow
whirled around.
And promptly dropped her parasol.
"You!"
she hissed.

Brandt Donovan's mouth fell open. He thought he would have lost his tongue if it hadn't been fastened in back of his throat.
"You!"
he breathed.

"You know each other?” Robert asked innocently.

"Yes,” Brandt responded affirmatively.

"No,” Willow answered at the same time just as strongly.

Brandt saw icy daggers aimed at him from sparkling violet eyes.

"We met briefly,” Willow amended.

"Where?”
Robert asked.

"Jefferson City,” Brandt said honestly.

"St. Louis,” Willow said loudly, obviously trying to overshadow his answer.

When Brandt gave her a questioning glare, she smiled prettily. “You must be mistaken, sir. I'm quite sure we met in St. Louis."

Cocking her head toward Robert, she continued. “The train stopped in St. Louis for a few hours and I took the opportunity to visit one of my favorite millinery shops. That's where I purchased this bonnet.” Her hand fluttered toward the feathery concoction atop her head. “On the way out of the store, I nearly tripped on the hem of my gown. Mr. Donovan was kind enough to catch me before I embarrassed myself by falling flat on my face. I never did thank you properly, did I, sir?"

"No thanks necessary, ma'am,” he said, catching on to her little game, though he had no idea why she felt the need to make up a story in the first place. He would be sure to ask once he managed to get her alone.

And he
would
get her alone.

"Still, I do appreciate your assistance,” she continued. “If not for you, I might have seriously injured myself."

"Well, I'd like to think that if I hadn't been there to catch you, some other gentleman would have."

"True gentlemen are few and far between, it's sad to say. In fact—"

"All right, all right,” Robert interrupted shortly.
“Enough of this good-natured bantering.
I appreciate that you saved her life, Mr. Donovan, and that she's thankful, but need I remind the two of you that there are more important issues at hand?"

"You're right. Robert,” Willow said. “I'm sorry for losing sight of our true reason for being here."

Brandt almost lost consciousness when he heard her apology. She sounded almost like a lady. What happened to the Willow Hastings he'd met in Jefferson City?
The one who tempted and teased a man into aching arousal by shamelessly removing her stockings in front of him.
The one who sang like an angel—then devilishly turned down his sexual proposition for fear of bruising him further.

His hand almost rose to his cheekbone. The injury had pained him for a good week. But thoughts of Willow had lingered longer, and involved another kind of physical ailment entirely.

"Willow. Mr. Donovan.
If you'll have a seat."

The three of them sat in silence for a moment while Robert shuffled papers on his desk. Then he clasped his hands in front of him and looked at them. “As you both know, one of our operatives was killed two days ago.
Stabbed to death on a Union Pacific railway car just after it pulled into Grand Central Station."

He passed them each a large brown envelope at least half an inch thick. “These are some of the photographs we have of the crime scene, along with notes taken by the investigators I sent. Some police information is included, and whatever else I thought imperative to the case."

Brandt pulled out the contents of his envelope to study but noticed that Willow didn't bother opening hers.
Which caused another question to pop into his head.
Why was she here?

"Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton, but why are you apprising me of the situation in Miss Hastings's presence? I'm not sure the subject is appropriate for a lady,” he said, aware that he used the word “lady” quite loosely. “Perhaps we should wait to speak of the case in private. No offense,” he added, sliding a glance in Willow's direction.

Her lips pursed, but she said nothing.

Robert cleared his throat and looked sideways, coloring three different shades of red. “Well, Mr. Donovan,” he began, “that's another reason I asked you in here. You see, Miss Hastings is . . . um, that is to say—I want you and—” He stopped to clear his throat.

"Oh, Robert,” Willow said sweetly, batting her long brown lashes, “
do
let me tell him."

Brandt's eyes narrowed. He smelled a rat. “Tell me what?"

Willow came to her feet, that blasted grin painted on her face. She held out her hand. “Congratulations, Mr. Donovan. I'm your new partner."

Brandt stood so fast, he nearly forgot to
unbend
his knees. He started to raise his voice,
then
forced his emotions in check. “I do hope you're joking."

The cat-who-ate-the-canary-and-licked-clean-the-bowl-of-cream expression on her face told him she wasn't.

"Not in the least, sir,” she replied. His eyes swung to the man behind the desk. “Tell me she's joking, Pinkerton."

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Donovan."

"I work alone,” he stated, though it had never been a particularly rigid requirement before.

"So do
I
,” she said.

"You're both more than welcome to work alone,” Robert said, “as long as you do it together."

"My office telegraphed you that I would be looking into the incident, did they not?” Brandt asked of Pinkerton.

"They did."

"Then you are well aware of the fact that I have investigated such cases before. I am completely capable of doing so now—without dragging some simpering female along."

Robert winced visibly. He opened his mouth to say something, but Willow cut him off.

"You do
not
want to turn that corner, Mr. Donovan,” she told him, back ramrod straight.

He crossed his arms over his chest and fixed her with a stern gaze. “And just why not?"

"Because this ‘simpering female,’ as you so rudely put it, can investigate circles around you."

"Please,” he scoffed. “Women belong at home, raising children and keeping their husbands happy, not tripping around in the detective business. I have five sisters,” he added, “so I know about these things. Each one of them was courted and wed and never let
a silly notion enter
her head about solving crimes, or working to make her own money, for that matter."

Willow blanched. Her chest rose in indignation and a scarlet blush crept up her neckline. “You ignorant, foul-minded, obnoxious son of a—"

"Willow!” Robert shouted.

"—jackal,” she finished. “If you had any idea just who you were dealing with, you'd amend your low opinion of women."

"I know exactly who I'm dealing with,” Brandt said in a deep, intimate tone. “If you recall, I got quite an eyeful when we first met."

"Well, I wouldn't bet too much on your memory, Mr. Donovan, seeing as how your left eye was nearly swollen shut. Such an injury makes me wonder how good an investigator you really are. Perhaps
I
should be worried about working with
you.
"

Brandt bristled at that remark, most certainly aimed at his masculinity. He raised himself to his full height, towering over her as best he could since the top of the woman's head came even with his shoulders—higher if he included that damn hat.

"I'll have you know that I am a top-notch professional, Miss Hastings. I am head of Security for the Union Pacific Railroad."

"And I'm Catherine the Great,” she retorted, “but that is of no consequence here. It's how you operate, not who you are, that matters in this line of work."

"Is that right?” he challenged.

She held his gaze, not the least intimidated by his height or breadth. “That's right."

Behind them, Robert cleared his throat. “Are you quite finished?"

Willow broke eye contact first, lowering herself with the utmost grace into her chair. “Quite,” she answered.

"I take it you're not thrilled with the idea of working with a woman,” Robert said. It was a statement, not a question.

Brandt answered anyway. “I'd rather work alone."

"I agree,” Willow said. “He'll only slow me down, Robert."

"
I
would slow
you
down?” Brandt regarded her with wide, disbelieving eyes. “I assure you, you would be running to catch up to my investigation."

"I would be running to get away from the disgrace of your investigation,” she corrected, then turned her head to study the opposite wall with blatant disinterest.

Brandt decided against putting up further argument. “Mr. Pinkerton, I cannot work with this . . .
woman
."

Willow's head whipped around. A scoffing sound rent the air as she stared at him, mouth open,
nostrils
flaring. “Robert, I cannot work with this . . .
man
,” she shot back.

Robert gave a long-suffering sigh. “I'm sorry you both feel that way. Because you either work on this case
together,
or neither of you works on it at all."

Willow caught her breath. So that was the crux of it. She either worked with this mule-headed, arrogant ignoramus or she found herself another occupation.

She glanced at Brandt through her peripheral vision. Where would stubborn refusal get her, other than kicked into the street like a cur?

Robert implored her with a desperate expression. She inhaled deeply, counting to seven before a smile stretched across her tight lips.

"Fine,” she said in a calm, decisive voice. “If Mr. Donovan will lower his standards and agree to work with me, then I guess I can do the same.” She waited only a heartbeat before adding, “My standards were never all that high to begin with."

Brandt ignored her. “The Union Pacific will not be happy to hear that you refused to allow me to investigate,” he threatened.

Her first inclination had been right, Willow thought: brainless Neanderthal.
Never threaten Robert
was very high on her list of things not to do.

Robert's jaw clamped shut, all but chipping teeth. “I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Donovan,” he said in a tight, clipped tone. “But then, your presence is not really necessary. A Pinkerton operative was murdered. That it happened on a Union Pacific passenger car is fairly insignificant at this point."

He stood, resting his closed fists on the desk. “Now, I am giving you the opportunity to investigate, as your company has requested. However, this offer hinges on your agreement to work with Agent Hastings. If you find this arrangement unacceptable, then I bid you
adieu
.” He held his hand out to Brandt.

Au
revoir
.
Bon voyage,
Willow added silently.
Don't let the door hit you in the back on the way out
. Things were looking up. Robert would be so impressed by her ladylike behavior through all of this that he would assign her the case even after Brandt Donovan stormed out, refusing to work with a woman. Whoever said, “You can't have your cake and eat it, too,” didn't know a fig about the art of manipulation.

"If that's your position,” Brandt said to Robert, “then I have only one thing to say."

Willow stood, holding out her hand to Brandt. He was taking entirely too much time to turn down Robert's offer. “It was nice to see you again, sir.” That lie was the hardest she'd had to swallow in a while.

"What is it?” Robert asked, continuing the conversation around Willow's rush to see Brandt Donovan on a train bound for Boston.

Ivory teeth gleamed as Brandt grinned. He took her proffered hand and brought it to his lips for a light kiss.

Uh-oh.

"Where do we begin?"