Haunting Jordan (35 page)

Perhaps she had one more option, one more strategy at her disposal. And if that didn’t work, then she would force herself to make the more wrenching decision.

“What happens to me, or to Longren Shipping, is no longer of any consequence,” she said. “But I won’t bargain with the lives of others.”

Seavey studied her, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Then it’s truly a pity,” he said finally, “that you won’t allow me to help you.” He replaced his top hat, nodding. “Good day, Mrs. Longren.”

He stepped around her and walked away. With shaking fingers she pulled her cape close to ward off the chill
that seemed to permeate even her bones, never noticing the warmth of the late afternoon sun.

Pray to God my idea works
.

Turning, she stepped into the alley. Walking to the door at the back of the building across from the courthouse, she raised a hand and knocked on its weather-beaten whitewashed exterior. Within moments, the door opened, revealing the young prostitute Hattie recognized from the night of the fire.

“Isobel. Please tell Mrs. Starr that I must speak with her immediately.”

* * *

F
ROM
one block away, Michael Seavey watched Hattie enter the Green Light. So Hattie thought to secure assistance from Mona Starr. He found Hattie’s resolve, her courage in the face of truly frightening circumstances, curiously admirable. His late wife would’ve acted only to save her own skin, not out of principle or concern for others. Not that asking Mona would do Hattie any good—the wealthy madam was not without resources, but she didn’t have the power to affect the outcome of this little drama. Whereas he did. However, the question was, what outcome did he desire?

He turned to his bodyguard. “Remy.”

“Yessir.”

“Fetch Clive Johnson and bring him to my hotel room.”

“Yessir.”

“And, Remy?” The bodyguard turned back. “Don’t be gentle about it.”

Remy’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. “How much time do I got, Mr. Seavey?”

“One hour should be sufficient, I believe.”

The Rescue Plan

TWENTY-FOUR hours later, Hattie sat in the second-floor parlor, sewing a hidden pocket into the skirts of her evening gown. She’d already pricked her fingers with the needle more times than she could count.

No ransom note had been delivered, as she’d prayed would happen. At least a ransom note would’ve cast a different light on Charlotte’s abduction, raising doubts as to her presumption about Seavey’s plans to use Charlotte as leverage. With no such note forthcoming, she’d been forced to accept the worst.

Sleep had been impossible, eating even more so. All she could hope was that the plan she and Mona had devised would be successful.

“Give me time to gather information regarding Charlotte’s location,” Mona had told her the day before at the Green Light.

“But the longer we wait—”

“Acting in haste, and in the absence of a solid plan, will be even riskier,” Mona had pointed out. “Think with your
head, not your emotions, Hattie. Charlotte’s life is more important than whatever temporary discomfort, or even abuse, she experiences at the hands of her captors.”

Hattie had forced herself to nod her agreement. “How long?”

“Twenty-four hours, at least. You must also attend the soirée tomorrow evening—it will be your cover.”

“To expect me to act normal, as if nothing has happened, as if Seavey and Greeley, who are bound to be in attendance, haven’t had a hand in this …
no
. You ask too much.”

“If anyone asks later, dozens of people will say that you were at the party, that you couldn’t have been involved,” Mona had insisted.

Though Hattie had been forced to admit the wisdom of Mona’s plan, she’d been incapable of more than a shudder by way of response.

Mona had taken her silence as acquiescence. “Slip out no earlier than midnight, and make certain no one sees you. Come to the alley door—we will proceed from here.”

So she had come home to wait, firming her resolve for what she must do. Struggling to assure Sara and Tabitha that all would eventually be well, that Charlotte would return home safe.

Hattie closed her eyes for a moment, then bent over her sewing once again. She would never forgive herself for her own naïve actions that had brought about this chain of events.

She heard a slight movement and turned. Frank stood,
one shoulder propped heavily against the doorway, his face white with pain. Setting aside her sewing, she leapt to her feet. “You shouldn’t be out of bed—whatever were you thinking?”

Frank shook his head, working to get his breath back and, she realized, to keep his balance. “Willoughby said I could walk around as soon as I felt well enough.”

“Yes, I’m certain you’re feeling fine at the moment,” Hattie said, her tone acerbic. Though his improvement had been rapid since his awakening, he was by no means miraculously cured of either the concussion or the broken ribs. She grasped his arm. “Let me help you back up the stairs.”

He didn’t move, instead gazing down at her grimly. “The walls have ears, Hattie. I heard Tabitha’s screams, and her sobs late into the night. And Sara informed me of your plans for this evening.”

Hattie stiffened. “I gave Sara no such permission.”

“I was persuasive in my arguments.” Hattie watched him deal with a new wave of dizziness before continuing. “She’s concerned, as am I. I’m asking you to reconsider.”

“There’s no other way.”

She began to turn away, but Frank placed his hand on her arm, halting her. “I can’t … be there to protect you.”

She covered his hand with her own. “I must do this—I’m Charlotte’s only hope.”

“Take Seavey’s offer,” he urged. “I could accept that before I could bear seeing any harm come to you.”

“And you don’t believe
he’d
harm me?”

“At least you’d be safe. He’s a hard man, but I don’t think he’d mistreat
you.”

“And what of you?” she argued, unaccountably angry. “Do you truly believe I’m capable of trading Charlotte’s life for yours? If so, you must think very little of me.”

After a long moment, Frank sighed, dropping his hand. “At least give me assurances that Mona is taking adequate precautions for your safety.”

“Yes, Booth will be accompanying us, along with two hired bodyguards.”

“Very well.” His tone was grudging.

“Please, allow me to help you back to bed—”

“No.”
He ran a hand through his hair, his expression rife with frustration. “I’ll await your return in the library.”

* * *

A
T
precisely eight o’clock that evening, Hattie presented her engraved invitation to the butler at the door of the Canby Mansion. While he studied it, she slipped a hand into her pocket to assure herself the roll of cash she’d taken from the library safe was still there.

“If you’ll follow me, Mrs. Longren.” The butler ushered her inside.

Eleanor stood with her husband in the mansion’s spacious front entry hall, receiving guests. She wore an eggplant moiré gown trimmed in creamy white Venetian lace that Hattie couldn’t help but admire. The gown’s rich fabric bespoke of the wealth Eleanor and her husband enjoyed, while its subdued color had been carefully chosen
so as not to eclipse the outfits of her guests. Hattie knew she’d never possess a fraction of the social skill Eleanor so effortlessly exhibited.

She moved forward, injecting as much warmth into her voice as she could. “Eleanor, thank you for allowing me to attend this evening.”

Eleanor noted the dark green velvet trim on Hattie’s mourning gown, pursing her lips. “Hattie.” She inclined her head. “I believe my invitation included Charlotte. Is she not attending this evening?”

“I’m afraid my sister came down with a severe headache this afternoon and is quite indisposed,” Hattie lied.

“A pity. I’ll send my maid over presently with a powder that may ease her discomfort.”

“
No
… that is, no, thank you, Eleanor. Sara has already prepared a tincture for Charlotte, and she’s gone to bed for the night. I’m certain she’ll be fully recovered by morning.”

If Eleanor noticed her agitation, she didn’t remark upon it. “Very well, I’m sure you know what’s best.”

“Yes.”

“May I present my husband, Alexander? Alex, this is Charles Longren’s widow, the lady I’ve mentioned to you frequently of late.”

“Mr. Canby,” Hattie managed politely.

After a quick glance in the direction of his wife, Canby bowed over her hand. “Mrs. Longren. I hope you enjoy the evening we have planned.” She caught the barest hint
of a twinkle in his eye. “The music promises to be entertaining.”

“Yes, I look forward to it,” she replied. Casting about desperately for an appropriate topic of conversation, she seized upon the design of the grand, three-tiered staircase behind them that was the talk of the town. “You must be quite proud of your home, Mr. Canby. The architecture is astonishing.”

“Why, yes, my dear!” Canby smiled, looking relieved. “Do note the eight panels of the domed ceiling—the frescoes of graces and nymphs depict the Four Seasons and Four Virtues. You’ll have to return for a visit during the first few days of a season—sunlight shines through the ruby glass of dormer windows, causing a red beam to point at the appropriate season—”

“Alice,” Eleanor interrupted firmly, glowering at her husband. “Please show Mrs. Longren into the parlor, where she can await the arrival of our other guests.”

Canby shot Hattie a rueful glance but remained silent. Hattie gave him a small smile of apology before turning away. Evidently her own contretemps with Eleanor were indicative of the manner in which she also treated her family members.

Hattie was shown into a lushly furnished parlor graced with a high ceiling decorated by stencils and elaborate murals. Because she was the first to arrive, she had a moment alone to collect her thoughts. She’d probably committed some small slight of etiquette, showing up
exactly
on time, but her nerves hadn’t given her a choice. She wanted the hours until she could slip away
gone
, the
evening
over
. Concentrating on breathing deeply and evenly, she took in her surroundings.

Tall windows adorned with allegorical corner carvings of lions, doves, and ferns looked onto formal gardens. Groupings of velvet-upholstered, baroque-style furniture crowded the room, and on the farthest wall stood the largest music organ she’d ever seen in a private home. No doubt Eleanor had her own personal organist who played hymns each Sunday for the family.

Unable to remain still, Hattie paced around the ornate room, noting it contained no fireplace. Eleanor’s pronouncement to the world, Hattie suspected, that she could afford central heating and therefore no longer saw the need for wood fires. Stopping at a window, Hattie gazed out, trying to calm the pounding of her heart, which sounded unnaturally loud to her own ears. It wouldn’t do to faint, she silently chastised herself.

“Alexander commissioned the house’s interior finish work by his ships’ carpenters, as you know.” The deep voice came from behind her, chilling her.

She swallowed and turned from her view of Eleanor’s immaculate gardens. Michael Seavey stood inside the door of the parlor, elegant in his charcoal gray dress jacket and kid gloves, his pale eyes watching her the way a powerful cat watches its prey.

Think of Charlotte
, she reminded herself,
only of Charlotte
. All that mattered was that he not learn of her plan for later that evening.

“It’s said that the design of the supporting structure for the hall staircase remains a secret even to this day,” he
added, smiling slightly. “And Eleanor does love her secrets.”

“Stay away from me.” Hattie kept her voice low.

He strode across the room to stand before her, his demeanor too familiar by half. She held her ground. The gesture did not appear to be lost on him. He smiled. “I do greatly admire your spirit, my dear.”

She took a deliberate step backward, allowing him to see the revulsion she felt. An indefinable emotion flickered in his eyes, gone in an instant, then his expression turned neutral. He made a production of removing his gloves and lighting a cigar.

“I’m told we are to be entertained by the great Scott Joplin this evening,” he said lightly, obviously enjoying the acrid fragrance of the smoke.

“I doubt I’ll find Joplin’s music relaxing.”

“On that we agree.” He looked amused, clearly choosing to misinterpret her remark. “The jarring melodies that enthrall Antonín Dvořák elude me. Rumor is that the composer might use their essence in his New World symphony, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”

“Yes, though I’m surprised you took note. I don’t see you as a man of refinement.”

If her affront bothered him, he didn’t show it. He puffed on the cigar, then sighed. “I feel the need to impress upon you once again that I can help you, Hattie, if only you’ll allow me.”

“In return for the surrender of everything I hold dear, no doubt,” she replied bitterly.

He leaned toward her, keeping his voice low. “Say the word, and Charlotte is returned to you, unharmed.”

She remained silent. In the hallway, more guests had arrived, and she could hear Greeley’s booming voice, causing her stomach to knot even harder.

“Men have base instincts, Hattie,” Seavey murmured. “Ones that Charles may have chosen to shield you from during your brief marriage. And my men … well.” He spread his hands. “I can’t predict, nor can I control how long they will wait before acting upon those … instincts.”

“You bastard.”

He stepped closer, so close she feared she’d gag. “I’ve proposed a lucrative business alliance, one that will make you a rich woman overnight. And I can guarantee you’d enjoy my touch.”

“I don’t want your money. Or your hands on me.”

“Yes, I’ve come to that lamentable conclusion.” He straightened away from her. “You have the rest of the evening to decide. After that, it’s out of my control.”

She kept her tone cold, though fine tremors ran the length of her spine. “Do not approach me again, Mr. Seavey, or conventions be damned—I will scream this house down. And I will tell
everyone
what you’ve done to Charlotte. Do you understand?”