Tomorrow's Dreams (13 page)

“Harrumph!”

All gazes darted toward Bertram, who'd remained silent until now. Clearing his throat again, he announced, “I shall escort the lovely child home.” Always the gentleman, he deferred to Penelope. “That is, if you have no objections, my dear?”

Penelope smiled gratefully at the bewhiskered old actor. “I would be honored.”

“Let me assure you that the honor is all mine. It's been a long while since I've had the pleasure of such charming company.” With a gallant flourish, he offered Penelope his arm. After nodding first to Seth, who inclined his head in consent, and then to the sulking Miles, Bert led her down the shallow back stairs.

When they reached the dusty alley below, the old actor glared up at Effie and barked, “Egad, woman! Will you stop dawdling and come along? We don't have all night you know.”

Muttering something about pompous old goats, Effie scampered to join the couple. As for Miles, he shot his new employer a venomous look before stamping back into the saloon, undoubtedly intent on whining to his mama.

Seth shrugged. Narrowing his eyes in thought, he watched as the trio of actors vanished into the shadows of the night. There was something going on here. Something dark and dangerous if his senses served him right, which they usually did. And he fully intended to find out what it was. Question by probing question.

Chapter 9

It was a perfect day for revenge. Sullen black clouds hung thick and low, shrouding the rising sun in an amorphous pall. High above the rooftops lightning stabbed the storm-swept sky. Wind rattled at every window and door. In the distance, garbed in mist and jutting regally against the leaden sky, the Rocky Mountains presented a stunning still life in muted shades of purple and gray.

Snug within the elegant confines of the American House dining room, his palms flexed around a mug of steaming coffee, Seth studied the approaching storm through the plush-draped window. The weather suited his mood perfectly. Dark. Wrathful. For today would see the culmination of all his meticulously laid plans. Today was the day he would take the final, devastating step in his scheme to destroy Louisa Vanderlyn.

With savage exaltation swelling deep in his chest, he raised the mug to his lips and took a swallow of coffee, watching as his reflection in the polished window glass followed suit. Every contour, every line of the face in the glass bore the unmistakable stamp of the aristocratic Van Cortlandt family. So much so, that when he'd gone to the decaying Van Cortlandt Manor two years earlier seeking information about his birth, the ancient retainer had gasped and stumbled back, keening, “Get ye back to yer grave, Willem Van Cortlandt!” It was from that servant that Seth had learned of Louisa's treachery.

After poking and prodding his unexpected visitor to assure himself that he was a living, breathing mortal, the old man had invited Seth to the kitchen to warm himself by the hearth. The eerie echoing of their footsteps as they made their way through the long central hallway and down the steep back servant's stairs had made Seth pause more than once to peer uneasily over his shoulder. There was something chilling about the hollow emptiness of the house that had made him half expect to see Willem Van Cortlandt's ghost stalking them in the shadows.

Once they were in the kitchen, comfortably ensconced at a battered trestle table with a stein of home-brewed beer in hand, the servant had prattled with the unremitting zeal of a man long-starved for company. After an hour of answering questions and listening to small talk, ranging from local folklore to the latest harvest, Seth had cautiously broached the subject of his birth.

At first the retainer refused to dig up the long-buried tale, but when Seth told him his own story, starting with his abandonment at birth and ending with the Pinkerton report linking him to the Van Cortlandt family, the man reluctantly relented.

The servant prefaced his tale by explaining, rather boastfully, that he'd once occupied the position of Willem Van Cortlandt's valet, and it was only because of the familiar nature of his duties that he knew of the secrecy-shrouded birth.

According to the man's rambling account, Willem had just negotiated an advantageous marriage between his daughter, Louisa, and their wealthy neighbor, Cornelius De Windt, when Louisa's maid privately confided her suspicions that the bride-to-be was pregnant. When Willem confronted his daughter with the allegation, she'd tearfully blamed her older brother, Pieter, for her condition. From what the servant could ascertain from his eavesdropping, Pieter, who everyone but Willem agreed was quite mad, had violated his sister, and she'd been too humiliated to report the rape when it had happened two months earlier.

In a confidential tone the man added that Pieter had forced himself on three housemaids prior to his assault on his sister, but because the women were mere servants, Willem had ignored the crimes. The incestuous rape and resulting pregnancy of his own daughter, however, were things he couldn't overlook, especially in light of her upcoming nuptials.

Though Cornelius was forty years older than sixteen-year-old Louisa and the father of two grown sons, he was offering her an enviable position in clannish New York society, and Willem a long-coveted parcel of farmland adjoining the Van Cortlandt estate. Neither the land-greedy father or the society-conscious daughter was willing to let such a fine catch off the hook.

At this point the servant's tale began to falter. Scratching his balding pate, he vaguely recalled Willem telling Cornelius that Louisa's heart was set on buying her trousseau in Paris, and that she refused to be married in anything but a gown by Madame Delatour, dressmaker to Queen Marie-Amèlie. That piece of fiction had yielded the desired results, for De Windt had indulgently agreed to set the wedding date eight months in the future so as to allow his bride time to procure the trousseau of her dreams.

Where Louisa actually went for those months, the servant couldn't say. All he knew was that it couldn't have been more than a few miles from the manor, for seven months later Willem had clandestinely presented him with her hours-old babe.

The man's creased face perfectly reflected his horror as he related how Willem had ordered the newborn killed rather than fostered as was customary for bastards, claiming that it was Louisa's wish that all evidence of her shame be destroyed. As Willem's most trusted servant, the inhuman task had fallen to him. Being a God-fearing man, he hadn't had the heart to kill the babe, so he'd secreted him into the city, where he eventually abandoned him in the vestibule of St. John's Chapel.

It wasn't until seventeen years later, when Willem was on his deathbed, that he'd finally confessed his deception to his employer. That was in 1851, and according to the servant it was the last time he'd ever spoken of the lurid affair.

For a long while after the man's voice faded away, Seth had sat staring at the smoke-blackened hearth, too devastated to speak. That a mother could be so cold-blooded as to order her own son killed was evil almost beyond his comprehension.

The servant had finally broken the silence by offering to show him the family portrait gallery. When the man pointed to a picture of Willem, one painted when he was in his prime, Seth had been stunned by his uncanny resemblance to his grandfather.

From the wicked slant of his hazel eyes to the squareness of his jaw, his every feature perfectly mirrored those of the once mighty Van Cortlandt patriarch. Only their expressions differed. Where Seth tended to smile easily, Willem's lips were twisted into a cruel sneer, his face a mask of icy dignity.

Remembering that portrait now hardened Seth's mouth into a line as harsh as that of his grandfather. Idly tracing the rim of the mug with his thumb, he wondered what Louisa would do when she finally came face-to-face with the living image of her father. Would she guess his identity? And if she did, what would she say to the son she'd ordered murdered thirty-six years ago?

In a roaring blast of wind, the first splatters of rain pelted against the window glass, smearing diamond-like droplets of moisture down the cheeks of his ghostly image. Like the solitary tears of an unloved child, the raindrops fell in silence and rolled away undried. The sight wrenched at Seth's heart; sudden loneliness choked him. He remembered all too well the pain of shedding such tears; he remembered the anguish of being unwanted. Because of his mother's selfishness, he'd been left at the mercy of a world where orphans were despised as pariahs and subjected to hardship that no child should be forced to endure.

A cold ball of emotion lodged in Seth's throat, strangling his breath as he struggled to banish the ugly memories. He was a man now, a rich, powerful man. He was educated. Successful. Respected. He had friends who loved him, women who desired him, and associates who valued him. He was important … wanted.

Empowered by that knowledge, he ruthlessly shackled his childhood demons, muzzling their taunts with reminders of his own achievements. Gradually he was able to refocus his mind on the purpose of today's business meeting. That purpose was to make Louisa Vanderlyn suffer. She was about to find out for herself how it felt to be utterly and completely without hope. Today his mother would be the one shedding tears.

That thought was enough to make Seth smile. Finally meeting his solicitor's gaze across the table, he rasped, “Do it.”

The young man paled. “Are you certain, sir? Mrs. Vanderlyn is only asking for a six-month extension on her loan. She's sure she'll have the money to buy back her vouchers by then.”

Seth shrugged. “I don't intend to be in Denver in six months. Besides, I doubt if she'll be able to raise the money in six months, or six years, for that matter.” He'd make sure of it.

A year earlier, shortly after the Pinkerton Agency traced Louisa to Denver, he'd had his solicitors conduct a discreet yet extensive investigation into the Vanderlyn affairs. Upon learning that the successful Vanderlyn Brewery was the family's sole financial support, he'd had his solicitor secretly purchase Vanderlyn's main competitor, the Queen City Brewery. Immediately he'd had the price per barrel of beer dropped so low that the Vanderlyns were unable to compete.

Within a short time, Queen City had stolen all the Vanderlyn accounts. All except the lucrative Shakespeare Saloon one. Floyd Temple proved to be stubbornly loyal to Louisa. But now Seth owned the Shakespeare, and he'd make damn sure that the patrons drank Queen City beer.

Holding out a sheaf of documents, the solicitor suggested, “Perhaps you should look over Mrs. Vanderlyn's proposal before you decide. The interest she's offering is more than generous.”

Seth took another gulp of coffee before setting down his mug and taking the papers. Relaxing against the well-padded chair back, he reviewed the contents.

His most recent victory in the battle to destroy his mother was the acquisition of the Vanderlyn bank loan vouchers. Before his death two years earlier, Louisa's second husband, Martin, had borrowed thirty-seven thousand dollars for the expansion of the brewery. It was a sure bet. It had meant a handsome profit for everyone concerned. After all, Vanderlyn had been the reigning brewery in the Colorado Territory for almost a decade.

But that was before Seth learned of Louisa's treachery. That was before Queen City waged a price war. Once Seth set his vengeful plan into action, it had only taken a few months for the Vanderlyn's fortunes to take a drastic downward turn. And the bank, being familiar with the contrary nature of frontier trade, had been eager to sell the foundering Vanderlyn's loan vouchers.

Now it was payback time.

Satisfaction, fierce and sweet, raged through Seth. The pain of his mother's betrayal dulled a fraction. Louisa Vanderlyn was about to have a very bad day indeed. For not only was she going to receive the news that the Shakespeare was canceling its beer account, her bank loan was going to be called due. By the time he left Denver, his mother was going to be truly destitute, just as he'd been all those years ago.

“Sir?”

Seth's lips spread into a grim smile as he returned his attention to the solicitor. “Sorry, Mr. Penn. You were saying?”

Edward Penn fumbled nervously with his napkin. As a mere junior partner, he'd never been permitted to do business with the prominent Seth Tyler. It was only because Archibald Swain, the firm's senior partner, was tied up with one of Mr. Tyler's more important San Francisco transactions that he was allowed this opportunity at all. With that in mind, he proceeded cautiously.

“I was pointing out that it would be to your advantage to allow Mrs. Vanderlyn her six months. After all, her brewery is no longer a threat to Queen City, and it would make far better business sense to give her the opportunity to repay the debt rather than be saddled with a bankrupt brewery.”

Seth snorted his impatience as he handed the papers back to Edward. “My time is far too valuable to waste on a trifling matter such as this.” He nodded to a brown-and-gold uniformed waiter who indicated that he was ready to serve the men their breakfast. “Let's foreclose and be done with it.”

“But, sir! Think of the money you'll lose!”

Seth waited until the waiter finished serving them before inquiring in a cool voice, “How much money do I have, Mr. Penn?”

“Just over five million dollars. Of course, we are expecting another half million on your European railroad investments, not to mention the income from your other interests.”

Seth shrugged dismissively. “Then I think I can afford to lose the money.” Picking up his fork, he said, “Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to see the new sugar refinery proposal.” With that, he turned his attention to his breakfast.

After taking several bites of baked trout and devouring a ginger biscuit slathered with butter, he glanced expectantly at the solicitor. The young man was watching him eat, his expression as morose as if he'd just bankrupted his richest client.