Riverrun (21 page)

He sniffed, pulled the handkerchief from his sleeve and passed it quickly over face and neck. “Madam,” he said, “I have built quite a practice here, one of the best in the entire city, if I do say so myself. The unusual does not play a great part of my daily life, as you can well imagine. So you can be sure I’ve done nothing else this day but make certain inquiries, a check with my bankers, and a number of other things of no interest to you. The signatory, being anonymous, has made this all the more difficult. But in a word … yes, Miss Bowsmith, I am absolutely sure.”

She touched a palm to her forehead, thinking that perhaps Forrester had somehow given her a drug with that brandy, or that she was suffering a fever dream, a delirium; and she barely heard the lawyer when he continued.

“As you have read, I am to purchase your aunt’s house in your name. With what is left over, I must set up an account that will, in regular fashion, allow you to draw a living wage. It won’t last forever, mind, but it should see you comfortably through the next year or so, depending on this damnable war.” He leaned forward then, and clasped his hands on the desk firmly. “With your permission, I shall take a portion of the overage and invest it as wisely as I can, hoping to extend thereby the period of your grace. In addition, but again only with your permission, I shall also use the farm sale receipts in this manner. I trust my plans meet with your approval.”

She nodded, having no idea what he was talking about, and having no real choice but to trust him.

“You’re not wealthy, Miss Bowsmith,” he cautioned, “but you need not stake out a place in the gutter, either.” He chuckled at his slight attempt at humor, harrumphed again when she did nothing but gape at him. “The papers,” he said sourly, and handed her a quill.

She remembered nothing of the signing, his instructions, or his guiding her personally to the front door. There was a fleeting glimpse of David gaping at the display, and she was outside and walking before she knew it. Her skirts snapped against her legs, leaves and damp papers swirled about her ankles, a drayman shouted obscenities at her when she stepped blindly in front of his cart, and when a drunkard stumbled out of a tavern and collided with her, she only smiled at him vaguely, pushed him away, and moved on.

And when she reached Jordan Lane, she stopped to stare down the row of houses to … her own! A tear welled, was tugged at by wind and fell to her cheek. It was, she thought, the most beautiful house in the city, in the world, and it was hers. In the space of less than forty-eight hours she’d gone from a nightmare of disasters to a freedom she’d never dreamed would be marked with reality.

Suddenly there were things to buy, things to do, how much and how many she had no idea; but think, Cass, of the dresses, the gowns, the— She took a deep breath and held it until her imagination calmed, her excitement subsided to a point where she could regain control. A drop of rain splattered against her face, another, and she hurried on, pushed through the door and barred it automatically behind her. Her shawl— she grinned; she had left it behind, but it was no matter. No matter! She could buy herself a new one, hundreds, thousands …

“Stop it, Cass, for heaven’s sake!” she laughed, then shook her head and moved into the sitting room. Quickly, she lit the lamps against the storm’s gray haze, opened the windows to the fresh damp air, and took a seat at her desk, her hands trembling with joy. You are not rich, she reminded herself; but without extravagance she’d not have to worry, either. The food would be there, and the roof, and the warmth of the hearth. She wanted to cry out her joy, shout, race through the house trailing laughter behind her.

But who had it been?

She sobered instantly and leaned back in the hard wooden chair. Eric? She was sure he had no part in this. Knowing the man, he would have made this an occasion to be remembered, filling it with light and laughter, not subterfuge; proclaiming it, not hiding it.

And if not Eric … there was no one else she knew in the city save one man. If not Eric, it would have to be Geoffrey Hawkins. Not content in his rage for mad revenge to have her simply thrown into the streets, he had now made sure she would be where he could find her when his madness dictated another moment of action. He was taunting her, showing her how far his power extended, how imposing it could be behind a wall of gold.

Her hands became fists. She half rose from the chair before a sly grin settled over her features. She relaxed, sat back, and one finger tapped slowly at the dark polished wood while she let the realization sink in that perhaps, finally, Geoffrey had erred.

If what she suspected were true, then she had to concede the madman his cleverness. It was a foul thing that she should find herself dependent upon his money, his whim; but he had underestimated her strength. To him, and to Forrester—especially after last night—she was only a woman. And not simply a woman, but one who had been abruptly transplanted from the rustic to the metropolitan; adrift, then, in a sea whose currents would soon drown her. It was evident that he had forgotten in what circumstances he’d first met her, and what she had survived.

Her smiled widened and she drew a sheet of foolscap to her. It would be worthwhile, yes, advantageous to keep him from believing anything else. As long as he did not know what she was, she would have the upper hand. What she needed was a list of things to take care of, now that she had the means.

And when she was done, several hours later, she looked up and was surprised at the evening darkness taking the storm’s place. She rubbed her eyes, stretched and yawned, shook her head, and grabbed a handful of hair to stroke and calm her. And she sighed.

Poor Geoffrey, she thought; it might have been different once. But now it was too late. Now she had—

Someone knocked at the front door. She gasped and pushed away from the desk, looking immediately to the corners for a place to hide. Heard the knocking again.

“Eric?” she said. Then, loudly: “Eric, oh, my God, Eric?”

She dashed from the room and flung the door open, was barely able to stop herself from leaping into the visitor’s arms. And the moment she realized she did not know him, she cursed her carelessness; it wasn’t Forrester, but it might well have been.

“Miss Bowsmith? Miss Cassandra Bowsmith?”

She stiffened and pulled the door open slightly, one hand behind it in case she had to slam it quickly. “Yes,” she said with a slight nod.

The man grinned as though relieved, doffed his high dark hat and held out a gloved hand. When she did not accept it, he only shrugged and leaned on a walking stick that was more like a club.

“I apologize for the late hour, Miss Bowsmith, but when Hiram told me what happened in the office today, I couldn’t help but come over here on my first free moment to meet the mysterious woman who has taken our firm by storm.”

She blinked rapidly, then realized guiltily she was keeping him out the rain.

“You’re—”

“That’s right,” he said. “Hiram is my partner. My name is Kevin Roe.”

Chapter Thirteen

A
cut glass decanter of wine sat on the low marble table between them, the deep red liquid absorbing the glow from the lamps as though it were a web to trap shadows. The wind had subsided, the lash of rain against the panes vanished, and only an occasional flare of distant lightning signaled the storm that moved inexorably over the river toward the sea. Despite the month, a chill had settled into the room; despite the hour, Cass was more awake than she had been in days. She smiled politely as she sipped from her glass, knowing there were probably amenities that should be followed on such an occasion; instead, however, she studied candidly the man sitting opposite her, just as candidly as he studied her.

He was young, Mr. Kevin Roe, and not at all tall. Yet, from the highly polished gleam of his low-cut black boots to the tailoring of his rich brown suit with its velvet trim and matching ascot, he bespoke an elegance that seemed to her far out of place in an office such as Cavendish & Roe. Hat and Gloves were placed neatly on the cushion beside him, and he touched at them every so often, as if reassuring himself that no one had crept in to steal them. His face was pale, narrow, lightly touched across the bridge of his sharply planed nose with faint freckles to match the fiery red hair he wore combed back over his ears, settling well below his neckline in a fashion long out of date with those who lived in the city. She thought him then a curious combination of contradictions: the dress quite modem, the hair not so; the elegance and the profession; the wry, persistent smile that belonged more properly on the face of a hawker than a lawyer.

“Miss Bowsmith,” he said finally, setting his glass on the table, “I commend you on your good fortune.”

She bowed her head slightly. “Your trip to New York was successful, I hope?”

He grinned. “Hiram talks a lot when the spirit moves.”

“David,” she corrected, and he sighed dramatically.

“That boy,” he said, as though speaking of a son, “will make a damned—pardon me, ma’am—a tolerable fine lawyer one of these days. He knows everything there is to know in Hiram’s books, but he lacks experience, and that Hiram is still reluctant to give him as yet. He does, unfortunately, have a tendency to pass around office work as though it were gossip.” He leaned back and crossed his legs at the knee. “But I didn’t come here in a rainstorm to talk about either dear old Hiram or dear young David. I want to know all about you, and what I can do to help you.”

“But Mr. Roe, Mr. Cavendish—”

He held up his forefinger. “First, it’s Kevin, please. Second, dear old Hiram has placed your affairs into my hands.” His shrug was disarming. “You see, the whole matter puzzles him a great deal, and he thinks there’s something—well, no matter. He doesn’t trust his own shadow to follow him when the sun comes out. For myself, I think it’s all incredibly fascinating, and I thought I’d best visit you this evening, without fail, so that I can get right to work tomorrow with whatever you want done. I assume you’ve done some considering?”

Cass was hesitant. An image of Forrester’s despicable smile overlaid this man’s, and she was tempted to ask him then for some sort of credentials to establish his identity. She scowled at herself instantly, scolded, chided, and decried her burgeoning suspicions. If everyone who came to her door was going to be treated in the same manner, she might as well move out of the city and into the mountains and become a recluse, or live with the redmen. Fear, she recognized with a slight start, was going to be a constant part of her life for a good long time, until she was able, one way or another, to get rid of Forrester and— She swallowed and poured herself another glass. The fear would have to be controlled. Starting now.

Draining the glass, then, she excused herself and fetched the lists she had made that afternoon. When she returned, Mr. Roe had not moved.

“I did a lot of thinking today, Mr. Roe—”

“Kevin.”

Flustered, she managed a weak smile. “Kevin, yes. Well, I did do some thinking today. A good deal of it, in fact.” She handed him the sheets of paper. “I don’t know exactly how much it is that I’m to be given to maintain the house, but there are some things that should be taken care of as soon as you can manage it.”

As she sat again, she watched as he glanced over her writing, nearly blushed at the admiration so clear in his expression when he had finished reading. “Indeed you have been working, Miss Bowsmith,” he said. “And it looks like you’ve certainly thought of just about everything.” He stabbed a finger at the paper and nodded his agreement. “Yes, I’ll see to a woman right away, a housekeeper and cook in combination, and she can take charge of the foodstuffs. I’ll arrange for a seamstress to come in during the afternoon if that’s convenient, see to it that the tradesmen are aware of you, and—” He frowned suddenly. “I’m afraid I don’t understand this particular item, Miss Bowsmith. It sounds as if you’re talking about a Pinkerton man. Are you?”

He did not have to read it aloud. Cass had known she would be questioned, and was now glad that the young Mr. Roe—Kevin, she reminded herself—was handling things instead of his senior partner. She took a deep breath for courage, then, and with a great deal of careful omission, explained why she wanted to hire someone to search for Eric Martingale. As she spoke, swirling images of her flight, her assault, the nightmares compounding each other mercilessly, swept across her vision, and when she was done, she found that she was trembling violently. Kevin immediately refilled her glass and insisted she drink it down; the admiration had not yet left his voice.

“Incredible,” he said quietly, his eyes instantly filled with sympathy. “I—I can’t believe that you managed to survive! Hiram, bless his cantankerous soul, didn’t tell me any of the circumstances that brought you here, and for that I apologize. And I apologize for bringing up the subject.”

She waved his words away with one hand, but her smile signaled her gratitude for the expression.

“I should have checked,” he continued, “but I was so anxious …” The frown faded and his smile returned. “David, again, you see. He told me—not once, but several times—how lovely you were, and I’m not the sort to pass up a meeting with a beautiful woman.” The smile became a grin. “He was right, by the way. You are quite lovely.”

Cass muttered something in thanks, fidgeting uncomfortably under his steady gaze. Somehow, she thought, this was neither the time nor the place for passing compliments.

“Is there … is there enough there to take care of all that?” she asked, trying to recall what Cavendish had told her.

“No question about it,” he said, folding the papers neatly and tucking them into his jacket pocket. He rose then, and bent over her outstretched hand, “Please don’t get up, Miss Bowsmith. I’ll show myself out. And now that I know with whom I’m dealing, you can rest easy when I say that I’ll take good care of you.” His lips lingered over her hand a moment longer than was necessary, and Cass withdrew it before his obviously large ego was overfed.

And when he had left, with a jaunty wave and a wink, it was as if a weight she had not known was there had suddenly been taken from her shoulders. The laughter returned, though more subdued, and she knew there was nothing more now to do but wait: watch and wait, and make her plans.