Her Defiant Heart (38 page)

"That's all very interesting. But who is Stewart?"

"Not Stewart. Stu. As in studio. She was concerned that Butler would not understand what she required, so she recommended talking to someone at a photographic studio. Anyone there could explain to Butler precisely what she was asking for. That's what she's talking about when she mentions the contact printing frame and rack. The printing frame is what holds the negative to the paper, and the rack is for holding the frames in the sunlight for exposure."

"So, our Princess is interested in photography."

"I would say it is more than an interest. She seems quite serious about it. Perhaps she is a professional photographer."

"I understand that photography is an acceptable pursuit for women, but do you still think this is Jenny that we are talking about?"

Christian nodded briefly. "I am more convinced than ever. I overheard a brief part of a conversation between Mrs. B. and Jenny. Jenny was talking about Mathew Brady's work. She was obviously familiar with it. Admittedly it's a slim connection, but I think it's worth noting." Christian's mouth turned up in a faint smile. He spared a glance in Scott's direction. "You once told me that Jenny was very clever, probably more clever than either of us. If these ads don't point that out, then I don't know what does."

Scott grunted softly. "The truth is, they're probably
too
damn clever. What does this mean?" He pointed to numbers two and three. "Butler is short of funds and asks for suggestions. Princess tells him to watch Ruby R. Sterling. I'm afraid that Ruby R. Sterling sounds like the moniker of a madam, Christian. In fact, I would be willing to wager that if we made inquiries, would discover Miss Sterling is exactly that line of work."

Christian was spared answering by Susan's return to the parlor. She placed a tray on the table and began pouring coffee for each of them. "I can hardly believe what I was hearing, Scott. I had a great-aunt named Ruby, and she was most definitely not a madam."

Scott smiled a trifle guiltily as he accepted his cup of coffee. "It was merely a suggestion. It seems to me that we have to toss around some possibilities, or we are unlikely to hit on what the Princess was talking about."

"Actually, I do have an idea," Susan said. "It occurred to me when I heard you say the words aloud. I think when Butler asked for suggestions, the Princess's reply tells him what to sell. A watch. A ruby r., which is probably a ring. And sterling, which I take to mean silver. Coins, perhaps, or items such as trays and utensils."

Christian took Susan by the waist, lifted her a few inches off the floor, and kissed her full on the mouth. "You are brilliant!"

She blushed prettily and smiled archly at her husband. "Do you see, Scott? I am brilliant."

"I never doubted it," he said gallantly. "Christian, would you stop fondling my wife?"

Christian winked at Susan and set her down. "All right," he said, stepping back to the table. He stabbed at the clippings with his forefinger. "Susan's explanation makes sense, but we still don't know where the Princess is. It seems as if Butler had no difficulty understanding her message. He asks for a delivery address, and she provides him with one. A few days later he replies that everything has been sent there. I think we can assume that when she asks Butler to meet her, she is referring to the address in number six."

Above the lip of her coffee cup Susan frowned. "I don't know any Gospel Hotel. Do either of you?"

Both men shook their head. Scott said, "It occurred to me that it might be a place for indigents to get a hot meal and a roof over their head for the night. Aren't there missions in the Bowery or the Five Points?"

"There probably are," Christian said. "But I cannot imagine that one needs to secure a room there. That's what the Princess asked Butler to do for her. And do you really suppose a mission would accept delivery of photographic equipment or that she would refer to it as an ideal location? It seems to me that the Princess is talking about more permanent lodging."

"What about this verse?" asked Susan. "I assume it's from the Bible, but what is it supposed to mean?"

Scott shrugged. "I don't recognize it, but I'll get our Bible." He left the parlor and returned a few moments later. Placing the book on the table, Scott began to thumb through it. "Old or New Testament?"

"New," said Susan. "The passage is about a healing. Perhaps you'll find something in John."

"Gospels!" Scott and Christian spoke at the same time, at exactly the same pitch of excitement. Scott's fingers rapidly turned the pages.

Christian raked his copper-streaked hair. "I can't believe how incredibly dull-witted I've been! Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John," he explained to Susan, who was frowning at him. "It's St. Mark! It has to be the St. Mark Hotel that she's talking about. There are no hotels named after the others."

Scott's eyes were skimming the text of the Gospel according to St. Mark. "This could take forever," he said, impatient with his progress.

"That's what the concordance is for," Susan said gently. She nudged the heavy Bible away from her husband and slid it in front of her. "Give me a moment. 'Pallet' would seem to be the word to look up." Ignoring the expectant, anxious expressions of Christian and Scott, Susan took her time examining the concordance. Moments later she raised her head, smiling triumphantly. "Here it is, the Book of Mark, Chapter Two, Verse Twelve." She read it aloud. When she was finished her smile faded. "I still don't understand. What does the Princess mean by it?"

"I don't think she means anything by it," said Christian. "It's not the content that's important to her. It's the placement. Don't you see? Chapter
Two,
Verse
Twelve.
212. That's the room she asked Butler to get for her. Actually, it's a suite of rooms. I know every inch of that hotel, and the Princess requested a corner suite. If she had wanted something else she would have simply chosen a different chapter and verse."

"How clever," Susan said admiringly.

"Yes." Christian's tone complemented his wry expression. "She's clever."

"Well, Christian," said Scott. "It seems that you know where the Princess can be found. What do you do now?"

Christian folded the paper with the clippings pasted to it and put it in his vest pocket. "I wait, of course."

"Wait?"

He nodded. "Until Friday or Saturday afternoon, when Butler meets the Princess. Two birds, one stone. I will not only learn if Jenny is the Princess, I will learn the exact nature of the arrangement she has with Butler."

What he would do about either of those things was not at all clear.

* * *

It was late when Jenny finally arrived at the St. Mark Hotel. Most of the day had been spent brooding. Had she done the right thing leaving Marshall House? Was she certain she could go through with her plan? What if she were caught? At different times during the day she had been absolutely paralyzed with fear. If Christian had suddenly appeared during her aimless wandering around the frozen pond at Central Park, she would have flung herself in his arms and begged him to allow her be his mistress. But of course he had not been there, and Jenny embraced herself and the certain knowledge that she had come too far to cry surrender. She had to go on.

Her feet tapped lightly on the parquet floor as she crossed the St. Mark's wide lobby. Polished mahogany paneling reflected her passing from the glass-enclosed entranceway to the registry desk. The candle-lighted chandeliers burnished her hair. She tried not to think that Christian Marshall had designed this building. She had not known that when she first realized the location of the St. Mark was perfect for her purposes. It should not make any difference to her now, yet it did. Jenny felt as if she were still surrounded by him, as if she had never left the protective circle of his arms. It was not the clean break she had envisioned when she left him.

"I believe you have a suite reserved for me," she told the desk clerk.

"The name, miss?" he inquired politely, frowning at Jenny over the rim of his glasses. Her outerwear was not precisely shabby, but neither did it speak of money.

"Mrs.," she said, correcting him. "Smith. A friend made the arrangements for me. I was told everything would be in order upon my arrival."

The clerk ran his finger up and down the hotel register. "Are you Mrs. Carlton Smith or Mrs. Norris Smith?"

"Which Smith is in Room 212?" she asked.

The clerk regarded her oddly but answered nonetheless. "Mrs. Carlton Smith," he said.

"Then that's who I am," she said, and slid a one-dollar note toward him. Until she reached her suite, it was all the money she had. She hoped it was enough. "May I count on your discretion, Mr.—?"

"Hughes," the clerk said, pocketing the bill. "Henry Hughes. And you may certainly depend on me, Mrs. Smith." He turned his back, found the key to Room 212, and faced Jenny again. He leaned around across the counter, whispering conspiratorially as he passed her the key. "Will there be many gentleman callers, ma'am, or just the one friend?"

Jenny was not surprised that he thought she was a prostitute. What other kind of woman didn't know what name she had been registered under?
Smith
. She shook her head as she climbed the stairs to the second floor. It showed a singular lack of imagination on the part of Mr. Reilly. At the very least, he should have been more specific about which Smith. Now the clerk would expect to have his pockets lined periodically just to keep his silence. The owners of the St. Mark would certainly frown on a prostitute setting up business in one of their suites.

Jenny rolled her eyes. She wondered if Mr. Hughes had been on duty when Reilly brought in all the photographic equipment. She hoped he had been. That would give the little toady something to think about.

* * *

William Bennington's disgust was directed at his son. "Put down that paper and listen to me," he said sourly.

Behind his copy of the
Herald,
Stephen's eyebrows lifted. He did not lower the paper when he made his bored reply. "I've heard every word, Father, and I fail to see where it's leading. I thought our visit this morning to Dr. Morgan settled things. You told him your concerns, and he said he would look into the matter. If you thought it was so damn important to do something, why did you wait this long to go to Morgan?"

William yanked the newspaper out of Stephen's hands. He crumpled it up angrily and threw it into the fire. "I waited," he said, "because I thought Amalie's suspicions were without substance. What am I supposed to believe when a madam whore like Mrs. Chatham tells me that she thinks she's seen my stepdaughter? We had Morgan's assurances that she was dead. Of course I believed Morgan."

Stephen was not looking at his father. He was watching the newspaper go up in flames. "I anticipate the blame for this being laid squarely on my shoulders, and, frankly, I will not accept it. If you had told me earlier about your conversation with Amalie, I would have mentioned observing Mr. Reilly talking to a woman in proximity of this house. You did not, and I did not. When you did, I did. It's that simple. Amalie thought she saw her. So did I."

"Yes, but you saw her first. Days before she showed up at Amalie's. If you had said something then, I would have taken Amalie more seriously."

"I
thought
I saw her. Hell, it could have been anybody. I told you I didn't get a good look. And Reilly. He's a cool one. Never blinked an eye when I asked him about it. I'd had a few drinks." Stephen shrugged. "As I said, I'm not sure who it was. It just reminded me of her."

William walked away from his son and took up a position by the fireplace. He picked up the drink he had left on the mantel and took a swallow. "If she is alive, what's she doing? Why hasn't she come here?"

Stephen glanced sharply at William. "You are the mad one if you think she would come back here? We'd have to have her committed all over again. She knows that."

"Christ!" William muttered under his breath. "Why couldn't she cooperate? Why did she oppose everything regarding marriage? My God, it could all have been so simple if Caroline had agreed to be your wife." He tossed back the rest of his drink. "Well, that's over now. We have to have a plan, Stephen. We have to find her. I don't think we can trust Morgan to help us. He might go through the motions, follow the leads we gave him, but he will deny to his last breath that he ever knew who his Jane Doe patient really was."

"You
will have to have a plan, Father," Stephen said, rising to his feet. "I have commitments this evening. Maggie is waiting for me at Amalie's, and I don't want to be late. Anyway, I think the person you should be blaming is Christian Marshall. If he hadn't gone back into the treatment room for that story Dr. Morgan told us he was writing, she would never have gotten out, and we would not be having this conversation. You should not have interfered at Amalie's when I wanted to lay him out. He deserved that at least."

"Perhaps. But he also would have deserved an explanation for your actions. And that, Stephen, is precisely what he cannot have. It's still unclear to me what his involvement in all this is."

"What do you mean?" Stephen's interest was piqued. "Except for what happened at the hospital, how is he involved?"

William thrust his hands in his pockets. His angular features sharpened as he pushed out his lower jaw. "Weren't you paying attention when I spoke to Morgan? No story about Dr. Glenn's treatments ever appeared in the
Chronicle
. Doesn't that strike you as odd? And then there was Marshall's presence at Amalie's on New Year's Eve."