Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage] (21 page)

“He’s turned out quite well.” Marcus frowned, studying his hands. “He’s…handsome.”

She blinked, diverted. “What…?”

“It’s not that I notice these things much,” he declared. “But the contrast is so great from when he was young. He had all of those freckles and the pudgy lips. And that carroty head of hair. Well, he looks much improved. And he does seem taken with you…It’s just a bit…of a…surprise.”

“A handsome man being interested in me is surprising?”

“No, of course not. It’s just that he’s attractive enough for even me to notice. And he’s always hanging about, I hear. And even Dr. Winner—” He shrugged, looking away. “Never mind. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

Was he jealous? Inside she thrilled. But that wasn’t very nice of her, was it?

Leaning forward, he brushed his lips over hers. “One more kiss. I suppose I do feel like you bring me luck.”

Quickly, she wrapped her arms around his neck and showed him, with her mouth and her body pressed close, her longing for him to be safe.

“Have a care, Marcus,” she murmured in his ear. Then swiftly she unwound her arms and slipped out the door. She hated good-byes, she realized, especially when they felt like corkscrews twisting inside her heart.

A heavy raindrop spattered onto her nose, then another onto her eyelash. Unmindful of the rain, she headed back toward the house, her heart heavy, her litany of fears a
yard longer. She wondered if there would ever be a time when it didn’t feel as if the world was spinning out of control.

She wished that there was something to do. Some way to take fate into her hands and wield it like Marcus did. He took chances, fought villains and made a mark on the world. Mayhap one day so might she. Fantasy, Jared had called it, but it was all she had.

C
atherine was lost in a gloomy mist the rest of the afternoon. It must be the weather, she tried to convince herself. It had been pouring ceaselessly since Marcus had gone. She’d watched Marcus depart with Tam and was so sad and so fearful for the monumental endeavor he undertook, she felt like a powerless wretch.

“Two gentleman’s ’ere to see the headmaster,” young Elias called from the threshold of her office.

Shaking off her reverie, she stood. “Who are they?”

“Sir John Winston and ’is son Mr. Thomas Winston.”

Catherine’s stomach twisted. She swallowed. “Well done, Elias. You announced them correctly.” Her mind raced for how to proceed. What would Headmaster Dunn do?

Hear them out. Then apply reason. And charm. But Catherine had never been particularly good at “charming.” She prayed to the heavens to invoke Headmaster Dunn’s spirit for the reason and Marcus’s for the charm. Lord help her, she was in trouble. But this was for Jared.

Nervously she tucked her hair into her bonnet, praying she could make a good impression. “Did you offer them refreshment?”

“Yes, Miss Miller. Jest like ya taught me. But they jest wanted to speak with the man in charge. I set them up in Headmaster Dunn’s office and came right ’ere.”

“Well done, Elias. Thank you.”

Girding herself for battle, Cat went to greet their visitors.

“So as you can see, Sir John,” Catherine finished breathlessly. “The business with the watch was a game. It was always meant to be returned.” Lifting her lips into a wooden smile that she prayed would be seen as charming, she added, “As a father, you can appreciate the impetuousness of a fourteen-year-old boy.”

“Hmmm.” Sir John Winston scratched his chin. Nodding sagely, his blond ringlets flopped about his shiny, pinkish face. A hint of gray in his coiled hair hinted he must be about forty-five years of age. He had somewhat kind eyes and a bemused air, in contrast to his son, whose pale blue eyes gleamed with malicious satisfaction.

Sir John turned to his son who leaned against the window frame, the epitome of ennui. “What do you say, Thomas?”

Thomas Winston had the same blond ringlets and shiny pink-tinged face as his father, except where the senior Winston was corpulent, the son had a few years left before his waist expanded to his father’s girth. And where the father seemed kind, the eighteen-year-old Mr. Winston was a snake.

“If he returns the watch and pays the debt, then mayhap all can be forgiven,” the younger Winston drawled.

Catherine bit back a retort and instead turned to Sir
John. “As I explained, the watch was left in Reigate, in your son’s valet’s possession—”

“The last I saw it,” Thomas countered, with a curl to his upper lip, “it was in your brother’s hand. And I will explain it thus to any constable—”

Sir John held up his hand. “I know we must follow the law, Thomas, but let us not forget the many tangles you pulled me into when you were this lad’s age.” His eyes strayed around dear Headmaster Dunn’s study. “Moreover, this lad is unfortunate, and we must take that into consideration.”

Catherine took her first easy breath in the last half hour.

Thomas scowled like a petulant child. “You always taught me that debts are to be repaid.”

Sir John smiled, showing uneven yellowed teeth. Probably from cigars, Catherine surmised. He wore the odors of stale tobacco and fleur de rose perfume like a bouquet. “That I did, that I did.”

Turning to Catherine, he held his white-gloved hands out wide. “As you said, Miss Miller, your brother is a bit young and doesn’t have town polish. Yet last I knew it, right from wrong were basic concepts that even a simpleton could understand. The boy must return the watch and repay the debt.”

Catherine swallowed as panic sliced through her. She hoped that the sweat under her arms did not show through her woolen gown. “But it’s quite a sum of money for us.”

Sir John brushed his hands together as if there was something dirty about discussing finances. Still, he turned to his son, and asked, “How much was the debt, Thomas?”

“Fifty pounds.”

Catherine’s mouth dropped open. Thomas glared, practically daring her to call him a liar.

“Are you quite certain of that sum?” she bit out. “It seems, so…exact.”

“Absolutely,
Miss
Miller,” Thomas drawled. His gaze raked over her breasts down to her waist and below, making her feel violated.

“And the watch,” Sir John added. “Mustn’t forget about my watch. It never quite kept the time, but still, it’s the point of the thing. Let us say, twenty pounds. That’s beyond fair, Miss Miller.”

Might as well make it a thousand, for all the money Catherine had to give them. “Sir,” Catherine began, but her mouth was dry as dust. She coughed into her hand. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

Shaking his head, Sir John sighed. “Then it will be out of my hands.” He turned to his son. “Come along, Thomas. Our business here is done.”

Thomas stiffened. “But they haven’t paid.”

“You can’t expect people such as these to have the funds readily available. It takes time.” Turning, he smiled a yellowed grin at Catherine. “You have seven days, Miss Miller. Then I go to the authorities.”

After they’d departed, Catherine dropped her hands into her face and groaned.
If only Marcus were here.

Catherine looked up, amazed by how much she’d grown to rely on his counsel in such a short time.
“When was the last time you asked anyone for help, Cat?”
he’d asked. Would she have accepted the money if he’d offered it? Shockingly, she might have. But Marcus wasn’t there. Prescott would give it to her if he had it, which she knew he didn’t. He’d just broken it off with his latest “lady friend.” And there was no other source for the funds. What was she going to do? If she had anything of value she’d pawn it.

Suddenly the leather-bound journal she’d found in the
dusty closet flashed in her mind. It could still be valueless but it was worth the effort to find out. But who could help her discern its value?

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Gillis,” Catherine offered as she sat down in the attorney’s musty office. Papers were piled high on every available surface, from the big brown desk, to the tatty, striped sofa, to the wooden table and chair by the blazing fire. Catherine once more reminded herself of what Headmaster Dunn had said about Mr. Gillis. His mind was too full to worry over such trifles like neatness and fashion. And he had served Andersen Hall well for years. She hoped he would have some recommendation regarding the journal. He might point her in the direction of someone who could assess its value, if any. If not, mayhap he had some advice on how to proceed with the Winstons.

“As always it is a pleasure to see you, Miss Miller,” Mr. Gillis declared, pushing his gold-rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “I apologize for the mess, but my office was recently burgled.”

“Burgled?” Her eyes widened.

“Yes.” He scowled. “Nothing of value, thankfully, was taken. But they made an absolute mess of my files.”

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she replied. “I had no idea. I wouldn’t have called upon you had I known.”

“Oh, it’s no bother, Miss Miller. In fact, the reportage, thank heavens, was with me at home. So it’s safe and sound.”

Reportage?
She opened her mouth.

“As Headmaster Dunn’s secretary, I’m sure you were involved, but still, it’s a big undertaking and I don’t know if you’ll wish to continue fighting Baron Coleridge’s title petition,” Gillis ventured. “Will you tell me, by the by?”

Catherine felt the blood drain from her face. “What?”

“Who he is.” His sharp brown gaze was assessing.

She licked her dry lips.

“Headmaster Dunn did not impart that intelligence to me,” he continued. “But I would dearly like to know. Would you care to enlighten me?”

Slowly, she shook her head.

He nodded. “That is your prerogative, I suppose, as it was dear Dunn’s. Are you going to continue his efforts of stopping the title claim?”

“I’m not certain,” she replied, feeling as if she’d stepped into a nightmare.

“Then you’d better have the reportage, so you can determine for yourself the best course. These folks have a list of indiscretions a mile long. If you do decide to proceed, I don’t envision having much difficulty.” Moving around the desk, he lifted up his brown satchel and leafed through the papers inside. “The only problem you might have is in making the contacts. I can help you there if you wish.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gillis,” was all she could think of to say.

“Ah, here it is.”

Catherine accepted the papers as if in a dream. Across the top was scrawled in bold black lettering:
CADDYHORN
.

Catherine felt faint. If she hadn’t been sitting down, she would have dropped straight to the floor.

“Headmaster Dunn was handling this matter on his own, but he wanted me to have the record. In case anything…” Scratching his head, he mussed his unkempt gray hair even more. “…happened to him.” A strange look entered his eye.

“Surely he hadn’t believed that the Caddyhorns would stoop so low as to try to harm him?”

He looked up. “Are you all right, Miss Miller? You face is white as a sheet.”

“I’m fine,” she murmured, looking down to hide her distress.

“Mr. Gillis,” a young shiny-cheeked clerk called from the open doorway. “Mrs. Lattimer’s man of affairs is here to see you for his three o’clock appointment.”

Mr. Gillis started. “Ahh, yes of course.” Still distracted, the attorney waved a hand. “I’m sorry, Miss Miller, but I have a standing appointment. If you would care to wait in my sitting room, I should be done in about three-quarters of an hour. Please stay, we can talk then.”

Blindly she stood, amazed that her knees could still hold her. Slowly she made it out of the office, but instead of stopping in Mr. Gillis’s sitting room, she floated out the exterior door.

“Miss Miller!” the attorney cried behind her. But she was lost in a daze.

The cane. Ivory and black-tipped. In the shape of an eagle’s head, Marcus had said. The one that belonged to the man who had hired Headmaster Dunn’s killer.

It was too much of a coincidence. Deep in her heart, Catherine
knew
it had to be true. If the Caddyhorns had found out that Headmaster Dunn was challenging their title petition they would have had no compunction about having him killed. Distantly she wondered why the Caddyhorns’ vicious man-of-affairs, Mr. Kruger, hadn’t been the one to hire the thug. Conrad Furks, Marcus had called him. Mayhap Kruger was dead. Alas, the heavens couldn’t be that kind.

Catherine would never forget the terror when she and Jared had desperately jumped down from the second-story window the night before they were to be sent to Bethlehem Lunatic Asylum, better known as Bedlam. She’d overheard Kruger’s idea to lock them away and declare them insane. Then it would be only a matter of a few
greased palms before the title was Dickey Caddyhorn’s. As it was, the money was there for the taking since Dickey was their legal guardian.

The bushes had saved Jared when he’d fallen, Catherine remembered. She hadn’t been so lucky. Her drop had ended on a ledge and her leg had bent wrong and broken.

She could still almost see the nauseating stars she’d seen with every dragging step she’d taken, could almost experience the excruciating knives piercing her limb. She’d never forget the torturous journey towing her little brother through the blustering snow. The agony of climbing up the ladder to a neighbor’s barn’s loft where they’d taken refuge for the remainder of the night. Only to have to scurry away in the morning as the Caddyhorns’ man of-affairs, the wretched Mr. Kruger, questioned the barn’s owners about the children’s whereabouts.

That was when Catherine had almost lost hope that they would escape with their lives. Kruger was a tenacious hound, even more unscrupulous than his employers. In an act of desperation, Catherine had placed her cherished brooch and Jared’s ring, both Coleridge heirlooms, on the riverbank and had laid tracks leading into the churning dark waters. Then, she’d taken her lilac cloak and soaked it in the glacial river, and with icy-numb fingers had lodged it beneath a submerged rock.

She’d foresworn her name that freezing morning; she was no longer Catherine Coleridge, but Catherine Miller. She went from being daughter of an honorable baron to being a destitute orphan whose parents had died in debtors’ prison. At least that’s the story she’d told Headmaster Dunn when they’d finally found their way to Andersen Hall.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she recalled how Dunn had offered them shelter, food and care for her leg.
In all of the years since, he had never once challenged their version of who they were and how they’d come to such desperate straits.

He must have known!
she realized. He’d started acting differently toward her, had offered her new gowns, had moved her to a new room…right after her nasty argument with Jared over Mr. Graves’s drink! He must have been in the chapel. He must have overheard. He knew. Uriah Dunn, the man who’d helped her for so many years, had known her precious secret and had kept it hidden even from his own attorney.

He’d secretly been opposing the Caddyhorns’ title petition. He was fighting for the children who were too afraid to fight for themselves. And it had cost him his life.

At the bottom of the musty stairwell, Catherine broke down on her knees. Sobs wracked her as she clutched her satchel to her chest, rocking to and fro. Aching pain deep inside her chest pinched so badly, she fought for breath.

The Caddyhorns had killed her beloved headmaster. It was her fault. If it weren’t for her and Jared, Dunn might yet be alive. Grief, guilt and anger swirled inside her heart, leaching her soul to black.

Vengeance. She wanted to taste it; needed to exact it. The Caddyhorns were long overdue for a reckoning.

If only she were like Marcus, seizing the initiative, staking a claim for what was right. If only she had the means…

Means…Dear Lord in heaven. For all of her thoughts of settling scores, she had but seven days to pay the Winstons or Jared would be arrested. It wouldn’t matter who had the title then, Jared couldn’t claim it from a prison cell, or worse yet, from a gallows.