The Marshal's Pursuit (8 page)

Miss Hogan back-stepped until she found purchase under the covered walkway. “On the rear seat,” she called out, “is a basket with food from Besly’s Tavern.”

“Excellent.” He shifted into reverse and looked over his shoulder, backing up.

Malia caught Miss Hogan’s gaze and returned a smug grin. “I’ll ensure he reads and follows the booklet.”

Miss Hogan waved.

“You do know how to drive this,” Malia said at a level only Mr. Louden could hear.

“My grandmother has a Studebaker.”

“My fears are assuaged.”

“My pleasure.” He stopped and shifted into first.

Malia waved at Miss Hogan, who waved back.

“So, Mr. Louden, what is this Emerald City to which we are headed?” she asked as the car moved from the gravel lot and onto the street, the cobblestones making for bumpy progress.

“Tuxedo,” he answered.

Malia’s mouth gaped. His mention of Tuxedo Park was a jest. Had to be. Everyone knew Tuxedo was a colony of ultraexclusive wealthy people who lived in luxurious houses and entertained lavishly. They didn’t welcome outsiders.

She knew because, back in ’88, Grandfather DeWitt’s quest to purchase land was rebuffed by the Tuxedo Park Association, under the auspices of Pierre Lorillard and his heirs. In retaliation, Grandfather had written a letter to the
Times
clarifying that Cora Urquhart Brown Potter, Lorillard’s mistress at the time, had originated the brilliant idea, not Lorillard, to turn the useless game park into a playground for his friends and cohorts. Malia’s thirteenth birthday party had been ruined because Grandfather could talk of nothing else except “that philanderer Lorillard.” Even after her debut into Society, Malia had never received an invitation into the community. Even to visit.

Mr. Louden stopped at the first intersection. A horse-drawn carriage pulled to Malia’s side of the car, bringing with it the aroma of equine and manure. They waited for the pedestrian traffic to cross North Street.

“Your excitement is intoxicating,” he said.

“People don’t go into Tuxedo whenever they like. Not even the U.S. Marshal Service has free access.”

He shrugged as if to say that was no concern of his.

His action only inflamed her more. In his naive attempt to enter the park, he would humiliate them both. She had to warn him. She had to make him understand the folly of his actions.

“Mr. Louden, that eight-foot barbed wire fence around the park is there not to keep people in. Eight. Feet,” she stressed. “Barbed wire. Keep out.”

His frown was evident even though his gaze stayed on the road. “Out?”

“Yes, as in...we don’t want you in.”

“Oh. Ooohhh.”

She smiled—well, smirked—at him. If felt good to be right in something.

“I can get us in,” he boasted.

“Were you not listening?”

“If I remember correctly, my grandparents have a house there and I haven’t been barred from visiting.” He grimaced. “Yet.”

Grandparents?

Malia held her breath in shock, in refusal to believe what her ears knew they heard. Her mind, though, shuddered through memories from the day. There was something she’d missed, something she had to remember, something in the law library. That vague memory, the one of Irene introducing Van Wyck Cady and Frank...

Grahame Louden.

Malia gasped in air.

As in, the grandson of the esteemed Charles and Josephine Grahame, who lived on Millionaire’s Row, and second son to Henry and Anne Louden of the Newport Loudens, who repeatedly were mentioned in the society column for their philanthropic and political donations. No wonder Anne Morgan had greeted him so fondly. And the Goulds, for that matter. If Josephine White Grahame was indeed his grandmother, then that made him second cousin twice removed to Lina Schermerhorn Astor. Good thing Malia was already sitting.

What was she to say? She didn’t know what to say. She had to say something in response. She couldn’t go into Tuxedo. For heaven’s sake, the hem of her dress was more gray than white.

And then, the moment she noticed her hands trembling, a trolley bell rang a block away. Malia flinched. The horse-drawn carriage turned right onto the paved North Street. Mr. Louden eased the car into the intersection and turned left, shifting into the next gear. It increased speed as it took them north.

On her right, a darkening sky. On her left, above the trees and buildings, the sun painted streaks of red and pink amid the blue. Wasn’t Tuxedo forty miles from New Rochelle? If they made Tuxedo by sunset, they would be fortunate.

They passed several buildings, automobiles, carriages, pedestrians and a park.

She cleared her dry throat.

“For what reason,” Malia finally began—she didn’t actually believe he was being serious, did she?— “will, ah, we—and by we, I mean you—tell people we are there? In Tuxedo.”

“How about...we’re engaged.”

She sputtered a most unladylike cough. “Engaged?” Her cheeks warmed. “I don’t think that is wise.”

He spared a glance in her direction. “It worked well for us in getting on the train.”

“Yes, but we will never see the engineer again. And you couldn’t exactly show your badge and draw attention to the fact a marshal was trying to sneak a woman on a train.”

She shifted on the bench to face him, even though all it did was give her a clearer view of his profile, and that perfectly sculpted jaw with a day’s growth of blond bristles. When Papà used to come home from work, she would jump into his arms and brush her palms against his bristled cheeks. For good luck, she’d say. Each time she returned home from Vassar, he intentionally skipped shaving. He’d hold her palms against his cheeks and whisper, “For good luck.”

He lied to her about coppers. He was a criminal, a thief, and he’d left her an inheritance built on deception and a safe with counterfeit bills. Yet despite it all, she missed him. Some nights she missed him so that her heart physically ached. Some nights she would lie in bed, stare out her window at the stars and wish to have him and Mamma back. Some nights she pretended they were. For all of Papà’s faults, he loved her. As Nonno had loved her. As Nonna. As Mamma. They had raised her with love and laughter, and the belief that she could marry for love, and she buried four empty caskets because their bodies, like their yacht, lay beneath the Atlantic.

Malia let out a long, uneven breath. She’d tried to live a God-honoring life, and look where it left her. Alone. It wasn’t right. Or fair.

I want something more, Jesus. Something different. Something abundant and true.

She refocused her attention on Mr. Louden. “What will happen when the Tuxedo-ites hear the news of our ‘engagement’? I can’t imagine there isn’t a grapevine there.”

He seemed to give that some thought.

They passed Huguenot Lake on their left, and the road narrowed, emptied of all but them. He shifted into the next gear, increasing speed.

Malia decided to answer for him. “They will want to meet Frank Louden’s fiancée, is what will happen. They will want to congratulate him and his grandparents. That will lead to invitations to brunch and afternoon tea. Even if I use a false name, someone may recognize me. Anne Morgan will recognize me. Her family has a house there. We will be questioned when our engagement announcement will be in the
Times.
I cannot think—”

His lips twitched.

Malia growled under her breath. He had been jesting all along, which she should have known. Except for when he was focused on marshally things, he took little seriously.

“You are not amusing,” she pointed out, and if she didn’t feel quite so foolish, she would smile as well over her silly, though realistic, avalanche of panicked thoughts. Clearly Society women frightened her more than predatory men.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “At all.”

That seemed only to amuse him more. His laughter snorted out.

They passed the outskirts of New Rochelle, the forest on each side of the road growing denser.

He smiled lazily. “Fret not, Miss Vaccarelli. My grandparents are in Europe with my parents, and will not return to the country until Independence Day. They will stay in the city until autumn. What servants are on the estate will be discreet. The housekeeper can be your chaperone. As long as we stay on the property and keep to ourselves, no one will know we are there.”

“No one?”

“Practically no one.” He said it with such solemnity and assurance that she felt comforted. Well, dull, dutiful and ever practical Malia felt that way.

In three weeks, her life as she’d known it, according to Special Prosecutor Cady, would come to an end, whatever that meant. She would adapt, of course. She’d keep her chin high, fight the good fight, win the race. Be the good Christian girl she desperately tried to be. Because she had to. She had to manage and survive because her brother’s life depended on her. He needed time to repent and change and become a man of faith. She needed him to...so that she wouldn’t be alone. Because she couldn’t watch another coffin sink into the earth.

A choking feeling overtook her.

Malia shifted on the bench, tucking her right leg under the left, propping her arm on the seat back. She gripped a bar on the folded hood’s frame and rested her head against the cold metal as she watched the green terrain pass by. It wasn’t the proper way to sit. She didn’t care.

This new her—this Leah Carr as Mr. Louden had spontaneously named her—wanted to live. She wanted to live, be fun and carefree, even if for only three weeks. For that may be all the time she had left to live, if Mr. Maranzano and his mafiosi
friends had their way.

Malia pushed down the choking feeling.

No matter how few or many people were on the Grahame estate, she was going to be adventurous. She would have fun.

Chapter 8

Suitability is the test of good taste always.

—Emily Price Post,
Etiquette

Grahame Estate
East Lake Road, Tuxedo Park
7:04 p.m.

M
alia stopped with Mr. Louden at the entrance to the drawing room. A white-bearded man sat in a chair reading a book. A stately woman with salt-and-peppery hair sat at a desk, her back to the entrance. Before Malia had time to blink, gasp or pose a question, Mr. Louden grabbed her arm, jerked her back behind the wall and breathed a “Shh.” They rested against the rosewood wainscoting. Her heart pounded in her chest.

Malia whispered, “That doesn’t look like ‘no one’ to me.”

“I remember saying ‘practically no one,’” he ground out.

“Someone sounds a bit unhappy.”

He grumbled under his breath.

Malia peeked around the wall into the drawing room—an explosion of French Renaissance and pink. A dozen, at least, varying-height candlesticks sat on the mantel above the massive fireplace, where a sofa and a lone chair were placed facing it. An unaccompanied desk behind the sofa. Two other chairs in an opposite corner on either side of a tabled chess set. Crystal chandelier and lemon-oil lamps. Gold-plated plaster ceiling. The walls, what little could be seen amid the paintings and tapestries, were pink-and-gold striped. Too much to admire meant nothing was admired.

As a whole, the well-lighted room, while elegantly and expensively furnished, was nothing short of aesthetically hideous.

Malia found that odd because, even though the light from the setting sun had been meager, she’d been able to tell that the forest surrounding the Queen Anne-style mansion was aesthetically manicured and the carriage house in neat array, as had been every room they’d passed by or through since the footmen and butler had met them by the side entrance and welcomed Mr. Louden. Then the housekeeper arrived and proceeded to take Malia’s hat and coat and suggest they wait in the French drawing room while she had rooms prepared for their visit. No mention had been made of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Grahame being in attendance, and certainly not of them being in the French drawing room.

Of the room’s two occupants, only one was speaking.

Mr. Louden placed his hand atop Malia’s head and nudged until she scrunched down. He leaned over her to look inside the room, his leg against her side, his face close enough that she could hear his even breathing. Malia focused on the conversation to keep from thinking how close his body was to hers.

“I’m telling you, Charles,” said the woman Malia deduced to be his grandmother, “a new sofa would solve the problem with this room.” She pushed back the rosy chintz drapes. “And curtains, new ones in silk. Yellow. You like yellow.” Wearing a periwinkle and ivory-lace day dress, the elegant woman looked no more out of place in the pink room than the framed nymphs above a Marcantonio Raimondi engraving that hung between the two towering windows. Short, straight-backed, with prominent regular features, Mrs. Grahame looked every inch an aristocrat.

The man Malia guessed was Mr. Louden’s grandfather used one foot to remove a shoe then repeated the action on the other, in the same manner her shoe-abhorring Nonna used to do. He propped his socked feet on a stool, the wooden top covered with embroidery, the design Malia couldn’t see. A big man physically, like his grandson, he contrasted with the slender porcelain, gold and black nymphs—three feet tall down to three inches—in the gaudy room.

Without raising his eyes from the book he held, the cover Malia also couldn’t see, he grumbled, “I’m not spending another dime on another decorator to redesign this room again. Twice in thirteen years is enough.”

“But—”

“No, Josie. Find a better way to fix the issue you have.”

“This could be a problem,” Mr. Louden murmured.

“Could be?” Malia straightened and bumped her head into his chin. She swirled around, grabbing his lapels to steady him. “Sorry.”

He rubbed his chin. “You have a hard head.”

She rubbed the back of her head. “You have an even harder jaw.” Malia peeked around the wall again to see if the older couple had heard them. The pair was busy bickering, or at least Mrs. Grahame was. Mr. Graham’s book held his attention. A cream-and-white Pomeranian jumped out of its wicker basket beside the hearth and darted underneath the sofa.

She turned back to Mr. Louden. “You said they were in Europe.”

“They were.” He gave her a sheepish look. “My grandfather is seventy-six. I suspect he caught an ailment that necessitated an early return.”

“He looks robust.”

“He tends to make an amazing recovery once he’s back in New York.” He straightened his suit, brushing any remaining dust from the sleeves and front. “Follow my lead.”

He took a step. Malia placed a hand on his chest, stopping him.

She reached inside his coat pocket and withdrew the star-shaped badge with Deputy U.S. Marshal engraved into it. “I enjoyed pretending we were different people in New Rochelle, but I need you to be candid with them, as you have been with me.” She pinned it on his left lapel then took a step back. “They’re your grandparents, Mr. Louden. Treat them with honor and respect, and tell them who is seeking sanctuary in their home.”

His hands rested on the hilt of each gun. “What makes you think I wouldn’t be honest?” His blue eyes, intense and studious, met hers. They neither flickered nor blinked. “What are you afraid of?”

Her heart pinched. She was afraid of too much.

Malia looked away, fearful of what he might see. Even more fearful of what he might force her to confront. “They’re your family. I couldn’t forgive myself if they were hurt because of me.”

* * *

It wasn’t the proper thing. Frank knew it. He also knew when a woman needed comforting, and this one screamed with need, so he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. She tensed, trembled. She smelled of soot and dust. And it was all because of him.

He released a weary breath and rested his chin on her crown of hair. He’d had no choice, though. He had to sneak her out of Cady’s office and onto the train. He had to get her off the train in New Rochelle. He had to drive her to Tuxedo because this was the safest place for her to be. He’d done it all for her. To keep her alive. And she’d stay alive because he knew how to do his job. He knew how to keep her safe. He’d always keep her safe. What?

No. He’d just met her, even though it’d felt as if they’d been together for days. Months even. It hadn’t been a day yet, and more so, he didn’t— He couldn’t—

He simply could not love her. Not that he did already.

Heavens, he wasn’t that flawed.

Falling in love—that he did not do. Not anymore. He had his work, his life, his family and friends. He was content not to have a needy female in his life to distract him from the things he needed to accomplish, and loving someone was always a distraction. He’d spent the past seven years guarding his heart and keeping his emotions in check. How much he enjoyed looking at her pretty face wasn’t going to change that.

Mr. Louden, while emotions dictate otherwise, need and want are not the same.

He knew that well enough. He knew that quite well enough, because right now he could feel every lush curve, every warm contour. What he needed didn’t match what he wanted in this moment. And he wanted—

“Malia,” he said, his voice hoarse. As gently as he possibly could, Frank pushed her back, for his sake as much as hers. “Everything is going to be fine.”

She was staring up at him. There was hope in her eyes, or at least a willingness to hope that all would end well. That she wanted to trust him was enough for him. For now.

He turned her around, to where she faced the entrance to the drawing room.

“Hello,” he called out.

“Frank,” Grandfather answered, “we’re in here.”

He nudged Miss Vaccarelli forward. They stepped into the drawing room.

“Oh, darling, it’s so good to see—” Grandmother stopped halfway between them; her outstretched hands lowered. Her gaze shifted from Frank to Miss Vaccarelli then back to Frank. Something close to a smile flittered across her lips. It would not do, not do at all, for her to be rude and unwelcoming, but she didn’t have to say a word or move a facial muscle. Her caution was evident.

Grandfather stood with his favorite Jules Verne novel,
From Earth to the Moon,
still in hand. Tipping his head toward Miss Vaccarelli, he walked to his wife. He then looked to Frank. “What brings you to Tuxedo?”

“It’s complicated.” Frank closed the distance between them, and didn’t smile over how Miss Vaccarelli stayed right next to him. Nor did he wallow in the pleasure over her action. He kissed his grandmother’s cheek, shook his grandfather’s hand and made introductions.

“Have a seat.” Grandfather motioned to the furniture.

Grandmother and Miss Vaccarelli sat on opposite ends of the sofa; Grandfather took the chair next to it. Frank glanced around for somewhere to sit. Whoever designed the drawing room must not have wanted people to sit and have a conversation, which was likely why he’d avoided this room until today. That and with all the paintings, who would want to sit where it felt like hundreds of eyes were staring down upon him, waiting to expose his sins.

He grabbed one of the chairs by the chess table and carried it over to the sofa. He placed it catty-corner to Miss Vaccarelli’s side. His grandparents’ return hadn’t been in his plan, but he’d adapt.

He sat, saying, “This isn’t a pleasure visit. Miss Malia Vaccarelli is a witness in a case, and I’d like to keep her here until the deposition hearing in three weeks.”

Grandmother looked to Grandfather, but he was studying Miss Vaccarelli.

“Vaccarelli,” he murmured. He stroked his Santa-bearded chin, pulling on the three-inch-long hairs at the tip. “Name sounds familiar.”

“My maternal grandfather,” Miss Vaccarelli said in a matter-of-fact voice, “is Gulian DeWitt. His youngest daughter, Marion, married my father, Carmine Vaccarelli. You probably read in the papers about the Vaccarelli yacht sinking off the New Jersey coast. Two years and three months ago. My parents and nonni all died in the explosion.”

Frank’s grandparents exchanged glances.

“We had read that,” Grandfather admitted. “I know DeWitt. Good man.”

Frank leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “The mafiosi
have put a hit out on Miss Vaccarelli’s brother.”

“Why?” asked Grandmother.

Frank paused. The truth was shameful enough without him having to embarrass Miss Vaccarelli in front of his grandparents.

“Giovanni is in the mafiosi, too,” Miss Vaccarelli answered without hesitancy in her voice. Nor did her gaze lower to the ground. “I am trying to help him make more honorable choices. Your grandson has been a godsend, but I would not impose on your hospitality. Your safety is paramount to mine.”

Grandmother’s face paled. “Are we in danger?”

Grandfather reclaimed his book from the side table. Although his eyes narrowed as they did when he was analyzing a puzzle, he said nothing. A bear operator in the stock market, Charles Grahame didn’t make his first—or fourth—million by letting others do the thinking and deciding for him.

“There’s always a slight chance of danger,” Frank admitted. “Only two other people know we are here, and they’re both trusted marshals. I feel confident saying we’re safe.” For now.

Worth slid out from under the sofa, his cream-and-white fur standing on end from static electricity. He darted in a circle then barked once at Miss Vaccarelli.

“Sit,” she said.

He didn’t.

Still, she leaned down to pet him and—

“Don’t,” Frank blurted, grabbing her hand. “Watch.” He moved his hand from hers to the dog and barely touched the fur when he felt the shock. Frank flinched. Worth yelped.

Grandfather snickered. “That hound conducts more electricity than Benjamin Franklin’s kite.”

Rising to the bait as she always did, Grandmother lifted her chin. “Worth is a direct descendant of Lenda and Marco from Queen Victoria’s stock of Italian Volpinos and German spitzes. He is a blue blood. Not a hound. Not one of your retrievers. And he is still a puppy.”

“Grandmother, you’ve been saying that for three years.” Frank scratched behind the dog’s ears. “You’d think he’d have learned by now that rolling under the sofa only makes it worse. For all his aristocratic heritage, this blond fellow is pretty worthless. He heeds no commands and has a penchant toward chewing socks.”

“Now, Frank,” Grandmother said and shifted her gaze to Miss Vaccarelli then back to him. Her thoughts practically screamed at him:
Good behavior in front of guests.

Frank smiled at her. He knew how to win her over—a dip of his chin, lazy eyes, curved lips that said
I love you best, Grandmother.
As expected, the irritation in her eyes fled and she smiled back.

“One of my professors at Vassar,” interjected Miss Vaccarelli, her gaze on Worth as she stroked his silky fur, “a man of dubious character and political associations, taught that the world was divided between the blonds, who had all the virtues, and the brunettes, who were decidedly inferior. He feared if something wasn’t done about it, the fertile brunettes would overtake the virtuous blonds and make the world a very uncomfortable place.” She looked up. “How can a dog this blond be deemed worthless? As a brunette myself, it pains me to admit he is a bastion against our oncoming apocalypse.”

“Well, Frankie,” Grandfather said, “the natural blonds that you, Worth and I are must band together against your grandmother and Miss Vaccarelli.”

“It’s a good thing we have them both in protective custody.”

“The best place for them.”

“You boys,” Grandmother said with an amused sigh.

Miss Vaccarelli stopped petting Worth, but he nudged her into resuming. “Would he, by chance, be named after Charles Frederick Worth?”

Frank exchanged glances with his grandparents.

Grandmother shifted on the sofa to get a better look at her sofa mate. “You are the first to have guessed correctly. Everyone assumes he was named after Frank’s older brother, Worthing.”