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The Widow's Secret
Sara Mitchell
Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesWhen Jocelyn Tremayne saved her husband's reputation, she lost everything–including her faith in God.The idealistic bride once had a future all New York society envied. Now the young widow is suspected of an unthinkable crime. And to clear her name, she must uncover a conspiracy. . . and endanger her disillusioned heart.Although Secret Service agent Micah MacKenzie needs Jocelyn's aid to infiltrate the city's most privileged circles, he's determined to keep her at arm's length. But the more she risks to help him find the truth, the more he sees the wrongly judged woman she truly is. Now he will do whatever it takes to win her trust, rekindle her belief–and prove his love.
“Am I likely to be arrested now?”
“No, you’ve committed no crime, you handed over evidence and have cooperated fully. However…” Micah hesitated “…until we learn the circumstances surrounding Mr. Hepplewhite’s death, I’m going to need to keep an eye on you.”
“You think I’m responsible for his murder?” Jocelyn asked.
He reached for her hand, tightening his grip when she tried to wriggle free. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that if Mr. Hepplewhite’s murder is connected to the forged currency Benny gave you, that you might be in grave danger?”
“You want…are you saying you’re trying to protect me?”
“Don’t look so astonished. You’re a widow, living alone, with only a maid who no doubt leaves you alone at night. Why wouldn’t I want to protect you?”
Jocelyn had looked less traumatized when she thought he might be about to arrest her. “Because…” Her voice turned tremulous as a young girl’s. “Because the thought never occurred to me.”
“Well, get used to it, Mrs. Tremayne. I don’t know yet whether your involvement is happenstance or design. But either way, you’re now under my protection.”
SARA MITCHELL
A popular and highly acclaimed author in the Christian market, Sara’s aim is to depict the struggle between the challenges of everyday life and the values to which our faith would have us aspire. The author of contemporary, historical suspense and historical novels, her work has been published by many inspirational book publishers.
Having lived in diverse locations from Georgia to California to Great Britain, her extensive travel experience helps her create authentic settings for her books. A lifelong music lover, Sara has also written several musical dramas and has long been active in the music ministries of the churches wherever she and her husband, a retired career Air Force officer, have lived. The parents of two daughters, Sara and her husband now live in Virginia.
The Widow’s Secret
Sara Mitchell
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Don’t call me Naomi, she told them. Call me Mara, because the Almighty has made my life very bitter.
—Ruth 1:20
Jesus answered her, If you knew the gift of God and Who it was that asks you for a drink, you would have asked Him and He would have given you living water…Whoever drinks the water I give will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give will become a spring of water welling up to eternal life.
—John 4:10, 14
For my mother, a true Southern lady whose life
exemplifies dignity, intelligence and faith.
Thanks for loving me, no matter what.
Acknowledgment
With much gratitude to the staff members in the U.S. Secret Service Office of Government and Public Affairs, and the staff of the U.S. Secret Service Archives. Their cheerful assistance and endless patience, not to mention the reams of invaluable information they provided, deserve recognition. Any errors or inaccuracies rest entirely on the author’s head.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Questions for Discussion
Prologue
New York City
September 1884
A bar of orange-gold sunlight poured through the windows of the Binghams’ Fifth Avenue mansion, flooding the large guest bedroom where Jocelyn Tremayne had spent the past three nights. Tonight, however, she would be sleeping elsewhere. A persistent flutter wormed its way above the constricting whalebone corset; Jocelyn stood before the ornate floor mirror positioned in one of the room’s several alcoves, solemnly studying the strange reflection gazing back at her. She blinked twice to see if she could pray the freckles into disappearing, at least for her wedding day.
Her prayers went unanswered.
“You look prettier than the picture in a Harper’s Bazaar fashion catalog, Lynnie.”
Kathleen Tremayne stepped around the four-poster bed and gently lifted her daughter’s hands, gave them a squeeze as though to quiet their trembling. “Everything’s going to be all right now,” she whispered. “Don’t you worry, sweet pea. Your daddy’s in the study with Mr. Bingham and the lawyer now, signing all the papers.” An expression drifted through the hazel eyes, and Jocelyn launched into a flurry of words, anything to banish that expression from her mother’s face.
“I’m fine, Mother. Just…excited.” Nervous. Determined. But she would never admit to fear.
She might have willingly agreed to marry Chadwick Bingham, only son and heir to the Bingham fortune, in order to save her family’s Virginia estate, but she wished she’d at least been allowed to wear her own mother’s wedding dress, instead of Mrs. Bingham’s. The white satin gown, over thirty years old, dripped with seed pearls and ruffles and Valenciennes lace over six layers of starched (and yellowing) petticoats to achieve the once-fashionable bell shape. Jocelyn thought she looked more like a bridal cake than a bride. She tried not to think about her mother’s wedding gown, refashioned five years earlier into clothes for her two growing daughters.
Shame bit deep, without warning. Jocelyn was marrying a pleasant, courteous young man, but the union bore scant resemblance to her dreams. Even impoverished Southern debutantes with red hair and freckles dreamed of romance, not business transactions.
She thrust the pinch of hurt aside. Countless other Southern daughters over the past decades of Reconstruction and national recessions had married to save their families from starvation. In return for Jocelyn’s hand in marriage, the Tremaynes would be allowed to live out the rest of their lives on the thousand-acre farm her great-great-granddaddy had carved out of the Virginia Piedmont two hundred years earlier. Her younger brothers and sister would still have a home until they each reached their eighteenth year, even if their heritage had legally just been signed over to Rupert Bingham.
Perhaps the payment was justified. Until the war her father, and his before him, had run the farm with slave labor.
Kathleen tugged a lace hanky from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes as she gave Jocelyn a sweet smile. “Well. It’s time. Jocelyn? Are you sure…?”
“I know what I’m doing,” Jocelyn promised, even as a black chasm seemed to be sucking her into its depths. “I like my husband-to-be. He’s been nothing but kind. We’ll be happy, I promise.”
Her mother’s cool hands cupped her cheeks. “Your father and I love you very much. If—” She stopped, pressed a kiss to Jocelyn’s forehead. “Let’s go, then. You don’t need to start your new life being late for your wedding.”
Hours later, the new Mrs. Chadwick Bingham surreptitiously leaned against one of the ballroom’s marble columns and slipped her feet free of her shoes. An audible sigh of relief escaped before she could swallow it. Jocelyn hoped the din of four hundred conversations and music from the strings orchestra successfully masked her faux pas—until a masculine chuckle floated into her ears from the other side of the pillar.
“I agree with your sentiment, but I’m surprised to hear it coming from the bride.” A tall young man appeared in front of her, a mischievous expression glinting behind a pair of gray eyes. “Don’t look so mortified. I won’t tell anyone.” He swept her an awkward bow, lost his balance and stumbled against the marble pillar. “Oops. Sorry. My father tells me I’ve sprouted an inch a month over the past year, and my feet—” A tide of red spread across his face. “I apologize.” He smoothed a hand over his long side whiskers, then fiddled with the end of his string-thin mustache while he continued talking. “We were introduced in the receiving line, but that was hours ago. Micah MacKenzie, at your service, Mrs. Bingham.”
“Mr. MacKenzie.” Frantically Jocelyn felt for her shoes with her stockinged toes. She could feel the heat in her own cheeks, which certainly must rival her hair for color. “I—I do remember you.” A polite social fabrication. On the other hand, she wished she remembered him. As though to balance the impropriety of her sigh, her brain abruptly nudged her memory. “You were with your parents. And—and you’re in your second year at college, though I don’t recall where. Your father works for Mr. Bingham, I believe?”
“Not exactly.” He paused, for a moment looking far older than his twentysomething years. “Never mind. May I fetch you something to drink? You look like you’re about to wilt.”
“I’m sorry it shows. Brides are supposed to glow, aren’t they?”
The gray eyes softened. “No, I’m the one who should apologize. Again. You make a breathtaking bride, Mrs. Bingham. Your husband is blessed.”
Blessed? Jocelyn thought his word choice peculiar, but then everything about this gangly young man didn’t quite seem to fit the polished perfection of all the other guests. And yet, despite his lack of poised sophistication, she felt more at ease than she had in…in weeks, actually. “Are you one of Chadwick—I mean, Mr. Bingham’s friends?”
“No, ma’am. I only know Chadwick through my parents.” He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands; after twiddling his thumbs, he distractedly ran his fingers through his pomaded hair, then glared down at his sticky hand. “Forgot my mother insisted I look the part,” he muttered half under his breath as he pulled out a large white handkerchief and wiped his hand clean. “Now that I’ve made a complete fool of myself, how about if I finish the job and ask if you’d permit me to help you find your way over to your husband. You’ve been polite long enough,” he finished gently. “The guests are waiting for you to leave, you know.”
“I know. I was…I mean, I thought…” Swallowing hard, she straightened away from the column. “I can’t find my slippers underneath all my petticoats,” she admitted with a defeated smile. “I took them off because my toes were cramping.” Was it impolite for a new bride to mention her toes? “I suppose I could start across the floor and hope the petticoats drag my shoes along, but I didn’t want to risk leaving them behind.”
“I understand.” This time his hand reached toward Jocelyn, and for the breath of an instant his fingers hovered inches from hers before he dropped his hand back to his side. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared into the crush of wedding guests.
Moments later he reappeared, Chadwick beside him. “Here she is,” Mr. MacKenzie announced. “Waiting for you, I believe.” He studied Jocelyn, and she suddenly felt as though he had touched a lighted match to her pulse. “You know, Bingham, I think you’re absolutely right. The freckles lend her face much more character than a ho-hum rosy-cheeked complexion. Congratulations on your good fortune.”
Chadwick was gawking at him as though his ears had just sprouted peacock feathers. “I…um…thank you,” he finally murmured.
“Before you take her away, she requires your assistance in a small matter.” Mr. MacKenzie tipped his head to one side, a half smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “God’s blessings on your life together.”
And before Jocelyn could frame an articulate reply, he vanished around the marble column and was swallowed into the crowd.
“What a bounder.” Chadwick offered his arm. “I never said a word to him about your freckles.”
“Oh.” Jocelyn swallowed a stab of disappointment.
“He’s certainly not part of Mrs. Astor’s Four Hundred, I gather. Friendly enough, but he’d taken off his gloves, did you notice? And his trousers were—” He stopped abruptly. “It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter, does he? Too bad. Congenial sort of fellow, not like some in this crowd. Now, what’s this small predicament that requires my assistance? Why, my dear, what a delightful shade of apricot. Here—” he leaned down, and the tang of his imported French cologne saturated Jocelyn’s nostrils “—whisper in my ear, then. Don’t be shy. We’re married now, Mrs. Bingham.”
Married. With a tremulous breath of laughter, Jocelyn shoved aside all thoughts save her new status, and rose on tiptoe to explain her predicament.
Hours later, she waited for her husband to enter the grand suite of rooms the Binghams had redesigned for the newly wedded couple. Hands clammy, heart thumping hard enough to rattle her teeth, Jocelyn squeezed her eyes shut and prayed with innocent fervor that she would please the young man who had vowed to care for her the rest of their lives.
“Jocelyn…”
She gasped, hands automatically clutching the crisp linen sheet even though she forced her eyes open. Chadwick stood by the bed, wearing a deep red dressing robe. Gaslight from the wall sconce limned his face, revealing the high forehead and the hooked nose so like his father’s. His face was freshly shaved save for the trimmed mustache. His eyes were…Jocelyn searched his eyes, trying to interpret their emotions.
“M-Mr. Bingham?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, when we’re alone, call me Chadwick. Or Chad, if you don’t mind. I’ve always hated my name, to tell you the truth.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “The truth,” he repeated like an echo. “Why do you suppose the Bible claims it will set you free?”
Flummoxed, Jocelyn gathered her courage and sat up, drawing her knees to her middle and clasping her damp hands around them. Apparently Chadwick was as nervous as she was, and thought a conversation might help them both. She warmed inside at the thought of his sensitivity. “I always thought it meant telling the truth about Jesus. You know, that He’s the Son of God?”
Chadwick laughed, the sound so dark and bitter Jocelyn flinched. “No wonder my parents insisted I marry you,” he said. “Well, it’s too bad for both of us your youthful innocence can’t last forever.”
He leaned over, planting his palms on the counterpane, inches from Jocelyn’s quivering limbs. “The truth is, Mrs. Chadwick Bingham, that from this moment forth, you’ll never be free again.”
Chapter One
Richmond, Virginia
September 1894
Over a dozen clocks chimed, bonged, pinged or warbled the hour of four o’clock in Mr. Alfred Hepplewhite’s store, without fuss simply named Clocks & Watches. Jocelyn smiled at the cacophony of timepieces heralding the time, while Mr. Hepplewhite placidly continued to fiddle with the clasp of her brooch watch. His gnarled hands were as deft as an artist’s, his eyes intent upon the task.
The store was busy today. Restless, Jocelyn wandered toward a deserted corner near the front of the shop to avoid mingling with the other customers. For this moment, she wanted to savor the freedom of being alone, a widow of independent means beholden to nobody, whose sole activity of the day consisted of enjoying the chaotic voices of a hundred clocks.
“Mrs. Tremayne? Your timepiece is ready.”
Jocelyn hurried across to the cash register, ignoring a disheveled little man wearing a bowler hat several sizes too large, as well as an officious customer who insisted that Mr. Hepplewhite hurry up, he had an appointment in an hour and didn’t want to be late.
“It’s always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Hepplewhite,” she said as she opened her drawstring shopping bag to pay.
“And you, madam.” He handed her the watch, bushy white eyebrows lifting behind his bifocals when the seedy-looking customer wormed his way past the rude gentleman to stand shoulder to shoulder with Jocelyn.
“Sorry.” He produced an unrepentant gap-toothed grin. “Just wanted to see them watch chains.”
“Here now, I was next. Move out of the way, you oaf.”
“Right enough, gov’ner.” With a broad wink to Jocelyn the other man stepped back. “Fine-looking brooch watch, ma’am. Don’t see many like it these days.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do.” Jocelyn pinned her watch in place, steeling herself to fend off another impertinent remark.
Instead the man abruptly scuttled back down the aisle. After jerking the door open, he darted across East Broad, barely missing being run down by a streetcar. People, Jocelyn decided as her gaze followed the strange scruffy man, were uniformly unpredictable, which was why she didn’t trust many of them.
The door flew open again before she reached it. A tall, broad-shouldered man loomed in the threshold. Blinking, Jocelyn took an automatic backward step when, eyes narrowing, he focused on her. For some reason time lurched to a standstill, all the clocks ceased ticking, all the pendulums stopped swinging because this man with windblown hair and gray eyes looked not only dangerous, but familiar. For a shimmering second he stared down at her with the same shock of recognition she herself had experienced.
“Excuse me,” he finally said.
His deep voice triggered a cascade of sensations she’d buried a decade earlier, of longing and hope, and Jocelyn squelched the emotions. “Yes?”
One eyebrow lifted, but unlike most other gentlemen, this one remained uncowed by the hauteur she had perfected over the years. “A man came in here, scrawny fellow with a hooked nose, pointy chin. Clothes too big for him. Did you happen to see him?”
Cautious, Jocelyn kept her answer short. “Yes. I did see him. He left a moment ago.”
Frustration tightened his jaw. Beneath a straight, thick mustache, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Despite herself, Jocelyn’s heart skipped a beat, but even as she determined to push her way out the door, to fresh air and freedom, the man swept past her down the aisle, where he proceeded to make the same inquiry of the other customers.
Impatient, Jocelyn quickened her step and walked out of the store. She was behaving like a two-headed goose. Men had gawked at her all her life, even after she was married, certainly after she was widowed. Little could be gained by turning weak-kneed over one of them. His pointed questions marked him as a policeman of some kind, though he hadn’t been wearing a uniform. But even if he weren’t a policeman and was only trying to find a friend, his affairs had nothing to do with her. The reserved widow Tremayne did not associate with policemen or ruffians.
At what point during her marriage, she wondered, had she allowed herself to become the self-righteous snob the Binghams so relentlessly demanded her to be?
“Mrs. Tremayne.”
Her head jerked back. “How did you learn my name?” she demanded, concealing her perturbation with words. The sidewalk was filled with pedestrians she could cry out to for help, and her shopping bag, though not heavy, would serve as a weapon if words weren’t sufficient. “Surely Mr. Hepplewhite wouldn’t—”
“No, but one of his customers, a Mr. Fishburn, proved to be most helpful.” The man smiled down at her, a smile loaded with charm and not to be trusted. His gaze lifted in a sweeping search around them. “I take it you are unaccompanied, without a maid or…your husband?”
Sometimes, usually when caught off guard, the uprush of painful memories would still crash over Jocelyn, stealing her breath as the waves sucked her backward into the past. “My life is none of your business. Please let me pass. I have an appointment. You’re making me late.”
“Ah.” His head tipped sideways while he searched her face with an intensity that triggered a self-consciousness Jocelyn thought she’d eradicated long ago.
Then he touched the brim of his gray bowler hat, one end of his mustache curling upward as he offered a crooked smile. “Take care, Mrs. Tremayne. God doesn’t always choose to intervene in our circumstances, and life on Earth isn’t always kind to innocence.”
Before Jocelyn could fry him with a scalding retort, he was half a block down the street.
“God doesn’t always choose to intervene…” Bah! Jocelyn could have informed the man that God might exist, but He never intervened. For ten years she’d carried the awful burden of her past, and God never supplied one moment of peace. All that religious doggerel was nothing but a lie to soothe simple minds.
As for the rest of the stranger’s insulting remarks, she’d been deprived of innocence long ago, and she couldn’t figure out why he had made the observation.
If she ever saw him again, which she knew was unlikely, but if she did, she planned to inform him that he was an incompetent bounder, a slavering wolf disguised as a gentleman in his three-piece woolen suit and natty red tie.
On the way home, when she realized she was pondering her encounter with the mysterious gray-eyed stranger as a curative for her growing sense of isolation, she ground her teeth together, and initiated a conversation with the person sitting across from her in the streetcar.
Micah MacKenzie lost his quarry.
Frustration pulsed through him like an abscessed tooth, but he vented the worst of it by kicking over a stack of empty crates at the back of the alley where Benny Foggarty had disappeared. Benny, the glib-tongued engraver-turned-informant for the Secret Service, was now officially a fugitive, courtesy of Operative MacKenzie.
Thoroughly disgusted with himself, he retraced his steps back to Broad Street, then settled in the shadow of a bank awning. Shoulders propped against the brick wall, he tilted his bowler to hide his face, so he could survey passersby without drawing attention, and mull over his next move. Benny’s dash into that store could have been deliberate, instead of a scramble to find a hiding place because something had made him bolt. After nine months, Micah thought he knew the way Benny’s mind worked, but he acknowledged now that he may have been mistaken about the expression he’d glimpsed on his informant’s face.
Because of one particular woman’s presence in Clocks & Watches, a more thorough investigation not only of her, but of the other customers and Mr. Hepplewhite was required, regardless of Micah’s personal feelings.
Decision made, he expelled a long breath, allowing his thoughts to return to the woman he’d practically abandoned midsentence when he spotted Benny.
Lord, a bit more warning would have, well, given me a chance to prepare. It was a childish lament. Aside from a miracle or two over the last millennium, life’s pathways were mostly paved one brick at a time. Believers learned to call it faith. Right now, however, Micah felt like a brick had been hurled against his head. Chadwick Bingham’s wife…
The shop owner had addressed her as Mrs. Tremayne, and the obnoxious Seward Fishburn corroborated hearing her addressed thus—which indicated that Chadwick must have died, and his widow remarried. Though Micah’s initial shock had faded, a surprising regret boiled up without warning, catching him off guard. Once again this fascinating woman had dropped into his life, yet once again she was beyond his reach—for more than the obvious reasons.
She hadn’t remembered Micah, of course, and why should she? He’d been a gangly college boy without a shred of sophistication, invited to the wedding along with the rest of his family only because his father had been head bookkeeper at one of the Binghams’ New York banks.
But as he mulled over their recent encounter, he realized that although she might not have remembered the awkward college boy, she had recognized Micah on some level. Her eyes, still long-lashed, a unique swirl of green and amber and nutmeg-brown, had flared wide in surprise and what he chose to hope was gladness…before she cut him off at the knees. Her frosty voice had been stripped of the soft Southern sweetness he remembered.
The Bingham family had done their job well.
Micah tucked his thumbs inside the pockets of his vest, struggling to reconcile the enchanting bride with the embittered woman on the sidewalk in front of Clocks & Watches.
Even on a cloudy day her hair still glowed with color, shot through with every hue of red in God’s palette. And the freckles still covered her face, making a mockery of her chilly disdain.
Lord, of all the people in the world, she’s the one I don’t want to be suspicious of.
A raindrop splashed onto Micah’s nose. He tugged down the brim of his hat, and set off across the street. Regardless of his feelings, and her current marital status, Jocelyn Bingham Tremayne required thorough investigation.
She would have children, of course.
Children…
For their sakes as much as hers, Micah hoped his investigation would prove her innocent. Deep in thought, he caught a passing horsecar and rode to the terminus at New Reservoir Park, where, instead of tending to his duties, he watched the sky gradually clear of rain clouds. When sunset turned the western horizon glowing red, he breathed a silent prayer for strength, then caught the last horsecar back to town.
Chapter Two
It rained once more during the night, but the next morning brought enamel-blue skies and the fragrance of fall in the air. As she patiently curled snippets of her hair on either side of her forehead, Jocelyn abruptly decided to take a drive in the countryside.
The spit curls on her forehead were forgotten as she yanked the pins out of her topknot and began twining her hair into a braid instead. Trying to look fashionable while driving an open buggy was not only vain, but ridiculous. She may have turned into an eccentric, but she would not stoop to silliness.
Katya, the day servant she employed to clean house and do the laundry, had just arrived and was filling a pail of soapy water when Jocelyn clattered down the stairs to the basement kitchen.
“Morning, Katya. I’m going for a drive in the country.”
Katya smiled her crooked smile and nodded. The Russian girl had suffered some dreadful accident when she was a child, and though she could hear, she could not speak; the right side of her mouth remained paralyzed, her vocal cords somehow damaged beyond repair. Jocelyn had spent the past two years teaching her to read and write English, so for the most part communication between them remained snarl-free, but Katya was as reticent about her past as Jocelyn was. If sometimes the silence in the brownstone chafed a bit, Jocelyn could always go next door and talk to her neighbors.
“I should be back early this afternoon. I made some hot-cross buns last night, and there are preserves in the larder. Make sure you eat something, all right?”
The girl gestured to the pantry.
“I’ll stop by the market on my way to the livery stable, pick up something for lunch. I can put it in my shopping bag.”
Jocelyn grabbed some extra handkerchiefs to stuff inside the bag, as well, since any drive in the country included dust or, since it had rained the previous night, splatters of mud flying from the buggy wheels and horse’s hooves. When she thrust the extra hankies into the bottom of the shopping bag, however, her fingers brushed against something hard and round. Puzzled, Jocelyn withdrew what turned out to be a man’s watch.
What on earth?
Jocelyn laid the shopping bag on the seat of the hall tree without taking her gaze from the watch case. It was a handsome thing, made of gold, with an intricate design engraved in bas-relief on the bottom half of the lid. But when she flicked it open, instead of a timepiece, she found a piece of paper. When she unfolded it, to her astonishment it turned out to be a ten-dollar bill. Inside the bill was a ten-dollar gold piece.
Jocelyn turned the coin over and over, not recognizing its markings, knowing only that it was not like any coin she’d ever seen, or spent. As for the ten-dollar bill…Carefully she smoothed it out, turned it and saw that the engraving on the back was slightly blurred, the print not as crisp as it should be. Goodness, but she was holding a counterfeit bill! Written in a hurried black scrawl across the blurred engraving were the words “Remember to use…” That was all.
Fear crept into her mind, dark as a blob of ink staining the paper. Trembling, she stared down at the forged bill, the coin and the innocent-looking watch case until her icy fingers cramped.
She couldn’t stuff the thing away in a drawer and pretend she didn’t have it, nor could she pay a visit to the police station.
Nobody in Richmond, or even in the state of Virginia, knew that the widow Tremayne was legally the widow Bingham, whose husband, Chadwick, had hanged himself from the fourth-story balustrade of their Hudson River estate in New York, precisely five years and twenty-six days earlier.
A flurry of telegrams throughout the next two days left Micah exhausted, edgy and exhilarated. Chief Hazen, head of the Secret Service, had been furious over his blunder with Foggarty, yet placated by Micah’s assurance that he had stumbled onto the possibility of the first solid lead in a case plaguing the Service for eight years.
Micah steadfastly refused to divulge names, or details, citing his concern over accusing an innocent civilian in the absence of definitive proof.
An express letter from Hazen arrived while Micah was eating breakfast at the Lexington Hotel. Your obfuscatory explanations are duly noted. A contradiction exists between what you deem a “solid lead,” and your fears of unjust accusations. While strict adherence to Agency policy is required, obfuscation is not appreciated.
As he drove the rental hack toward Grove Avenue, Micah chewed over the implications…and faced squarely that, for the first time in his eight years as a Secret Service operative, he was a hairsbreadth away from allowing personal feelings to interfere with his professional responsibilities.
He might have been alarmed, except for the anticipation singing along his nerve endings over seeing Jocelyn Bingham-now-Tremayne again.
When he arrived at the Grove Avenue address Mr. Hepplewhite had supplied, he spent a few moments studying the place while he collected his thoughts. She lived in a plainly appointed but attractive brick town house with two sturdy white-painted columns supporting its front porch, a much smaller dwelling than he would have expected, considering who her former husband had been.
The door opened. A plump young woman with dark hair and wary brown eyes appeared, swathed in a soiled apron, with a mobcap tilted precariously on her head. She smiled a lopsided smile at Micah but did not speak.
“Good afternoon. I’d like to see your employer. Mrs. Tremayne, isn’t it?”
Recognition flared in the bright eyes. She bobbed a curtsy and stepped back, gesturing with her hand. After a rapid assessment Micah noted the droop in the facial muscles on the right side of her face, the lack of movement on the right side of her mouth when she smiled. He revised any plans of interrogating her; his estimation of Mrs. Tremayne rose at this evidence of charity toward a woman unable to speak, though there appeared to be nothing wrong with her hearing. Few households employed servants with any sign of deformity or, if they hired them, relegated them to menial work, where they remained out of sight.
Mrs. Tremayne allowed her maidservant to answer the door.
“Katya? Did someone knock? I thought I heard—Oh!”
The woman who, along with the telegrams, had disturbed his sleep all night stood frozen on the staircase. Above the frilly lace bow tied at her neck, her throat muscles quivered, and the knuckles of the hand resting on the banister turned white.
“What are you doing here?” she finally asked. Then, her voice taut with strain, “Who are you?”
At her sharp tone, quick as a blink, the maid darted over to barricade herself in front of her mistress, her gaze daring Micah to take one more step into the foyer. Nothing wrong with her hearing, or her loyalty, he noted with a tinge of satisfaction. Somewhere inside the evasive and haughty Mrs. Tremayne still lived the forthright bride he remembered, whose handicapped servant sprang to her defense.
“I need to ask you a few questions. Nothing ominous,” he answered. “My name, since we didn’t get around to formal introductions yesterday, is Micah MacKenzie. Operative MacKenzie, of the United States Secret Service. We’re part of the Treasury Department, assigned to protect the national currency by tracking down counterfeiters.” After flipping open his credentials, he pushed aside his jacket to reveal the badge, also revealing his .45 Colt revolver.
Though brief, he caught the flash of raw fear before all expression disappeared from Mrs. Tremayne’s befreckled face. “Are you here in an official capacity, Operative MacKenzie? Accusing me of the crime of counterfeiting?”
Hmm. Somewhere over the years, along with a patina of social smuggery, she’d also learned how to reduce a person to the level of an ant. “Depends on what you have to say, Mrs. Tremayne.” Glancing at the maid, he added, “I imagine I interrupted your maid’s work. She’s free to go about her tasks while you and I talk.”
“I’ll decide for myself whether or not Katya remains.” She descended the rest of the stairs. “She’s my friend, as well as my housemaid. You’ve no right to dismiss her as you might a pet dog.”
Claws, as well, and equally protective, Micah noted, irrationally pleased with her. “That was never my intention.” Doffing his hat, he stepped forward, directing all his attention to the wide-eyed maid. “Katya, I’m here to speak with Mrs. Tremayne on personal as well as professional business.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mrs. Tremayne snapped. “Katya, it’s all right. Go ahead with your cleaning. Mr.—I mean, Operative MacKenzie and I will talk in the parlor.”
Lips pursed, Katya subjected Micah to a head-to-toe inspection that left him feeling a need to check his fingernails for dirt. Then she nodded once, and whisked out of sight down a hallway. After the maid left, Mrs. Tremayne gestured toward the room behind Micah. “Shall we?”
As he followed her into the parlor, Micah found his attention lingering on the graceful line of her spine, delineated by a seam in her day gown that ran from the back of her neck to a wide band of rich blue velvet at her waist. The glorious red hair was gathered in a severe bun at the back of her head. But she’d cannily arranged snippets of curls to frame her face and cover her ears, which not only softened but distracted.
“You may as well sit down, Operative MacKenzie.” She dropped down onto an upholstered couch, leaving Micah to ease himself into an ugly Eastlake-style chair across from her. He glanced around the room. Like Mrs. Tremayne, it glowed with rich color and a profusion of textures. For some reason the plethora of trinkets and plants and pictures invited intimacy, instead of overwhelming the visitor.
Successful interrogation, Micah had learned, required a deft balance between diplomacy and intimidation. Silence either bridged a gap or spurred a confession. After a comprehensive assessment of the room, still without speaking, he trained his gaze upon the woman sitting across from him.
A pearl of moisture trickled below one of the vivid curls arranged at her temple. Her hands were clenched tightly in her lap, betraying her nervousness, and a gut-wrenching suspicion grew inside Micah. When the silence in the room stretched to the shattering point, he leaned forward.
“You seem ill at ease, Mrs. Tremayne. Is it because you’re widowed, and a strange man is sitting in your parlor?”
“Perhaps my husband is at work in the city, Operative MacKenzie.”
He admired her audacity even as he shook his head at her as though she were a naughty child. “I gather information for a living, remember? The Secret Service tries to work closely with local authorities, you see. Your police department has been efficient, and cooperative. Better for everyone involved. Except for counterfeiters. Or—” he added, his index finger idly stroking his cheek “—anyone with a guilty conscience.”
“If anyone should have a guilty conscience, it would be yourself, for prying into innocent lives.”
“Usually my prying reveals a depressing lack of innocence.”
Beneath the freckles her skin paled, and she turned her head aside. “I beg your pardon. You’re right, of course.” He watched as one by one she separated her fingers, focusing on the task as though her life depended on it.
Feeling like a heavy-fisted clod, Micah sat back with a sigh. “I like your home,” he announced abruptly. “Though it’s a home without a man inhabiting it. No spittoons, no masculine-size gloves or top hats or canes on the hall tree, no lingering odor of tobacco in the air, no photographs on your piano. You purchased it three years ago, and listed your status as widowed.”
“Again, you’ve made your point, Operative MacKenzie. Yes, I am a widow. What of it?” The tremble in her voice leaked through her stillness; she continued to stare fixedly at the line of silk tassels fringing the drapery that covered the top of her piano. “I should have covered every inch of that wretched piano with photographs,” she murmured. “But…I’ve never mustered the courage. I can’t face the memories, and photographs serve no purpose other than to remind me of everything I’ve lost. And now…” She stopped, swallowed several times.
“I understand,” Micah told her, gentling his voice. “It’s difficult, isn’t it, losing your spouse at so young an age.”
“I will not discuss my husband’s death. Ever.”
“Death, not deaths? So you’ve been married only the one time, then?”
Chapter Three
The lump in Jocelyn’s throat swelled until she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to breathe, much less speak. This man was too quick for her, too intelligent. “Yes,” she finally managed, once again picking her way through half truths. “I…I reverted to my family name, after he died.” She took quick breath that allowed her to finish, “I told you I will not discuss the matter.”
“I’m not asking you to. Yet.” He’d been carrying a leather satchel, and now placed it on his lap. “One of the reasons I’m here today is to ask about Benny Foggarty. I have witnesses who signed affidavits that, after entering the store, he crowded next to you and Mr. Fishburn while you were standing up front, talking with Mr. Hepplewhite.” He withdrew a much-handled photograph and passed it to Jocelyn. “Was it this man?”
With a concentrated effort of will she managed to keep her hands from shaking as she took the small rectangular cardboard and pretended to study its unforgettable likeness of the man who had probably ruined what was left of her life. “Yes.” She passed her tongue around her lips to moisten them. “He made a comment about my watch.” Instinctively, her hand cupped it. She could feel her heart frantically thudding beneath the soft linen of her shirtwaist.
“I can see why. It’s a beautiful piece. A gift from your late husband?”
“My father.” Pressure built inside her chest, crowding its way up her tightening throat. “He gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday. I’ve worn it ever since.” Until she’d had to take it to Clocks & Watches to be repaired.
Life was unfair, Chadwick used to remind her. Either learn how to duck—or close your eyes and let it pummel you into dust.
“My father gave me a watch once,” Operative MacKenzie said. “I’m afraid I was more entranced with its internal workings than keeping track of time. By the end of the evening, watch innards were scattered all over the table. I put it back together, but it never did keep good time.” He smiled at her, uncapping the charm as though it were a potent elixir. “Made a perfect excuse to be late for chores or other loathsome tasks I didn’t want to do.”
She was too fatalistic to believe she possessed the strength of will to continue her resistance much longer, not when Operative MacKenzie treated her with a quixotic blend of gallantry and steely determination. Somehow that knowledge helped ease the pressure in her chest a bit. She wondered if condemned prisoners looked with the same tremulous longing upon their executioners.
Jocelyn Tremayne, you are a weak and foolish woman. Postponing the inevitable, she asked, “How old were you?”
“Twelve. So Benny commented on your brooch watch?”
She nodded. “Then the gentleman at the counter made some rude comment, and—you said his name was Benny? Benny left. After I paid for the repairs, I did, too. And before you ask, I’ve not seen him since.”
When was telling the truth a lie? At what point had she become so adept at it that she could sit in her parlor and not tell an operative of the United States government that she had, albeit without her consent, become a receiver of stolen goods?
“Hmm. I believe you, Mrs. Tremayne.” Then he added, “About that, at least. It’s a good thing your father gave you a brooch watch. They’re more difficult to pinch.”
Tell him. Give him the incriminating evidence and be done with it. Why not get it over with? Her thoughts spun in a maddening tornado of lurid visions of her fate, with chain gangs and rat-infested dungeons tilting her toward mental paralysis.
She opened her mouth to confess. “If Benny’s nothing but a thief, why are you chasing him?” dribbled out of her mouth instead.
Perhaps she was a lost soul after all, beyond hope of redemption.
Operative MacKenzie sat back in the chair, his finger returning to trace the line of his clean-shaven jaw while he studied Jocelyn. Unable to stop herself, she stared back. He was tall; even when seated he dominated the room, with those clever gray eyes and thick tawny-brown hair whose prosaic color she envied with all her heart. As before, he was dressed in a gentleman’s day wear: gray-striped trousers that matched his eyes, and a double-breasted waistcoat under his black woolen frock coat—a thoroughly masculine man comfortable enough to make himself at home in her fussy, feminine parlor.
This man was going to arrest her—and she was gazing at him as though he were her savior instead of her executioner.
But from the instant they’d met the previous afternoon, something about him had quickened feelings inside her that she thought were as dead and cold as her marriage. His deep voice washed over her, and she drifted in the currents, savoring the fleeting connection.
If only she could pray for strength, and be equally soothed by the assurance of a response.
“We don’t usually chase after thieves,” he was informing her, “unless they also print money from counterfeited engraved steel plates. Benny Foggarty’s one of the best engravers in the business. He’s also a gifted forger, taking photographs of bills, then touching them up with pen and ink. For the past nine months Benny’s been…ah…helping…me track down the principals in a notorious gang of counterfeiters. If we can’t put the ringleaders out of business, last year’s financial woes will look like a picnic in comparison.”
He paused, but when Jocelyn did not respond he shrugged, adding softly, “Life can be complicated. You’re an intelligent woman, Mrs. Tremayne. But you’re also…let’s say, a �guarded’ woman. Makes me wonder what’s happened to you over these past ten years.”
She almost leaped off the sofa. Ten years? Ten years? What could he mean—He must know Chadwick, after all. And if he had known Chadwick ten years ago, he must know who she was. He probably also knew—
Rising, she locked her knees and struggled to breathe. “I need to…” The words lodged beneath her breastbone. She pressed her fist against her heart. “Operative MacKenzie…”
Her entire marriage had been a lie; how ironic that finally telling the truth would result in her complete destruction. She could feel the internal collapse, feel her will buckling along with her knees, until ten years of secrets and shame collapsed into rubble.
“Take your time, Mrs. Tremayne. Contrary to what some would have you believe, Service policy prohibits the use of thumbscrews on widows.”
Because he didn’t modulate the tone, it took Jocelyn a second to realize he was actually teasing her, as though he’d peeked inside her soul and discerned what would disarm her the most effectively. Disarm, yet somehow calm. Chadwick had used sarcastic humor as a weapon, but never tolerated laughter directed his way—never.
But Chadwick’s image blurred, then dissipated like a will-o’-the-wisp until she could see only the commanding figure of a man with windswept hair and smoke-gray eyes…who had risen from the chair. Whose hand was stretched out as though he were about to touch her.
Prickles raced over Jocelyn’s skin. She might crave his touch with a force more powerful than the longings for Parham, her long-lost family home, but she had long ago given up girlish dreams.
In a flurry of motion she sidestepped around him, practically babbling in her haste. “I have something for you, something B-Benny dropped in my shopping bag the other day. I didn’t discover it until yesterday morning. I was going for a ride in the country and—Never mind. I should have told you before, but I—but I—”
His hand dropped back to his side. “It’s all right, Mrs. Tremayne. Go ahead, finish it. You’ll feel better for it, I promise.” The kindness in his voice made her eyes sting.
“I doubt it,” she whispered.
It was done. Whatever happened to her no longer mattered. Exposure, shame, condemnation—prison. Nothing mattered but that she had finally gathered the strength to do the right thing, for someone other than herself. No longer could she control her quaking limbs. Fumbling, she opened the doors to the sheet-music cabinet, tugged out the bottom drawer, her fingers scooping up the watch box. Her steps leaden, she walked back across the room to Operative MacKenzie and thrust out her hand.
“Here. This is what I found.” She thrust the object into his hands. “Inside the box there is a ten-dollar bill wrapped around a coin. The bill is obviously counterfeit. I don’t know about the coin.”
As she talked, he opened the box, removed the bill and coin. “I gave him this case,” Micah said. “He was to hide inside it the evidence he promised to bring me. Something, or someone, made him bolt into Clocks & Watches. Mrs. Tremayne, you’re not going to swoon at my feet, are you?”
“Of course not!” She hoped.
“Hmm.” His gaze shifted to the gold coin, and the ten-dollar bill, and Jocelyn watched, fascinated, while he examined them with narrowed eyes and deft fingers. “Excellent workmanship, but someone mishandled the printing on this bill, which indicates an entire set was likely bungled. Coin’s probably bogus, as well…but this just might be the break we’ve been looking for.” Excitement sparked in the words.
Jocelyn sank back down onto the sofa and allowed herself a single shuddering breath.
Operative MacKenzie’s head lifted. “You all right?” She nodded but didn’t trust herself to speak yet; his gaze turned speculative. “In my business, I’ve learned how to distinguish a counterfeit bill from the real one. I’ve also learned the same about people. Sometimes it’s more difficult to discern the counterfeit from the genuine, particularly when you think you know someone. Or, in your case, when you think you knew someone.”
Dumbfounded, Jocelyn lifted her hand to her throat, her eyes burning as she searched Operative MacKenzie’s face. “Earlier…you said �ten years.’ We’ve met before, haven’t we?” she asked hoarsely. “Before Clocks & Watches?”
“Yes. We have.” He hesitated, clasped his hands behind his back and contemplated the floor for a tension-spiked second. “It was at a wedding. Yours, to Chadwick Bingham. You were leaning against a marble column, and you’d removed your shoes because they were pinching your toes.”
“You’re that young man? You said Chadwick told you the freckles gave my face character. No wonder I—” Roaring filled her ears, and a vortex sucked her inside its black maw. “Chadwick never said that. My freckles embarrassed him. And I…I wished—”
“Gently, there.”
A hard arm wrapped around her shoulder, startling her so badly she jerked. “Whoa. Relax, Mrs. Tremayne. Let’s lean you over a bit, hmm? I’m holding you up so you don’t topple onto the carpet. As soon as I can, I’ll fetch Katya. All right?”
The words washed over her, lapping at the fringes of the whirling vortex. His warmth and his strength surrounded her. If only she could trust him, if only she could lean against him, draw from his strength, savor the feel of his protective embrace. Soak up his kindness.
Kindness, she had learned through painful experience, usually covered a shark-infested sea, boiling with ugly motives.
She would never trust a man again.
Chapter Four
Micah struggled to remember that he was a federal operative, that the woman he held was not the blushing bride he’d met one evening a decade earlier, but a witness who—strictly speaking—was also a receiver of stolen goods.
He stroked his hand up and down her arm, spoke softly, as though he were gentling one of his brother’s high-strung mares. Propriety be hanged—she felt like a bundle of sticks, brittle enough that the slightest pressure would snap her.
And her eyes, Lord. As Micah gazed into them, he felt as though he’d come face-to-face with himself. There were secrets in her eyes. Secrets, and pain.
As a man, Micah might yearn for the opportunity to help assuage the pain.
As a U.S. Secret Service agent, he was bound to investigate the secrets, particularly those associated with the Bingham family.
For the moment, however, the widow Tremayne was a terrified woman, one who needed a gentle hand and a reason to trust the man who had terrified her.
In the end, Micah took her for a ride in his rental buggy. Katya, who communicated through the use of a lined tablet and pencil she kept in her pocket, refused to accompany them, despite Mrs. Tremayne’s and Micah’s invitation. After eyeing her mistress, she wrote for a moment, then handed the paper to Micah.
She has fear, all day. Needs help. You are good man. A servant like me. I clean house, you help lady.
The maid’s extrapolation of Secret Service to Secret “Servant” touched him; he wished her mistress shared Katya’s wordless trust and was surprised by Mrs. Tremayne’s docility, though he doubted it would last. For a few blocks they drove in silence. But the late-afternoon sun was warm, the sound of the steady clip-clop of hooves soothing, and eventually Mrs. Tremayne relaxed enough to shift in the seat, and glance up into his face.
“Katya is very perceptive, for all her youth. I’m surprised she refused to accompany us, but she’s obviously taken a shine to you. Even if you were taking me to the police station to be arrested, Katya would tell me not to worry.”
“I’m not taking you to the police station. I have no intention of placing you under arrest. The motive behind this outing is to banish your worries, which I’m sure you know achieve nothing but wrinkles and gray hair. A fate worse than death for a lady, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Unless the lady has a head full of garish hair.” At last she smiled, the rueful sweetness of it arrowing straight to Micah’s gut. “But thank you all the same. I’m much better.”
“God gave you a beautiful head of hair, Mrs. Tremayne. Why not celebrate it?”
He might have struck a match to tinder. Temper burned in her eyes and the words she spoke next were hurled like fire-tipped darts. “Operative MacKenzie, we may or may not have to endure each other’s company in the future. If we do, please know that the next time you feel compelled to utter any divine reference, however oblique, I will leave the room. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly. Since we’re traveling in a buggy along a fairly crowded street, however, I’ll be especially careful how I phrase my remarks.”
Well, he’d known the docility would not last, but he hadn’t anticipated such a violent reaction. Micah wondered who had poisoned her mind, not only about her hair color, but about God. On the heels of that question, it occurred to him that her comments might be a clever ploy, designed either to draw attention to herself or to deflect probing questions about why she had abdicated her status as a member of the Bingham family.
If she’d been a different sort of woman, the watch with its vital evidence might still be hidden in her music chest.
A stray breeze carried to his nostrils the faint whiff of the gardenia scent that permeated her house. It was a poignant, powerful scent and threatened to turn his professional objectivity to sawdust. Micah’s hands tightened on the reins. “I do have a secondary motive for this drive. If you don’t mind, I’d like to stop by and talk to Mr. Hepplewhite a moment. See if perhaps Benny Foggarty returned.”
“Certainly.” She drew her jacket tighter, but at least her response was civil. “I’d enjoy seeing Mr. Hepplewhite again myself, if only to have him vouch for my character.”
Micah prayed the old watchmaker would do precisely that, since his own view of Jocelyn Tremayne Bingham was regrettably distorted at the moment. For the next few blocks he stared between the horse’s ears, excoriating himself. The Secret Service had spent years tracking the most vicious network of counterfeiters in the agency’s brief history.
Operative Micah MacKenzie was not sharing a buggy merely with a distraught, vulnerable woman. He was sharing a buggy with the widow of the man whose family—eight years earlier—had arranged for the murders of three people, one of them Micah’s father.
Micah glanced sideways at her profile. Sunbeams streamed sideways into the buggy, turning her freckles a rich copper color. It was difficult to nurture suspicions about a woman whose face was covered with copper freckles.
When they reached Broad Street, throngs of pedestrians, buggies and bicycles choked the roadway as well as the sidewalks.
“Strange,” Mrs. Tremayne commented in a warmer tone. “I’ve never seen such a crowd on a Wednesday afternoon.”
Micah, who had spotted several policemen’s helmets in the crowd, made a noncommittal sound as he maneuvered the buggy down a side street, pulling up in front of an empty hitching post. “We’ll have to walk from here.”
He helped her out of the buggy, noting with a tinge of masculine satisfaction the color that bloomed in her cheeks at the touch of his hand. At least the attraction appeared to have buffaloed them both. She quickly freed herself and stepped onto the sidewalk—directly into the path of a newsboy racing pell-mell down the sidewalk. Boy, cap and newspapers tumbled to the ground. Jocelyn staggered, and Micah swiftly clasped her elbows, swinging her off her feet.
The feel of her exploded through him like a tempest. He managed to gently set her down on the sidewalk, then knelt to help the newsboy to give himself time to recover, no mean feat since his hands tingled, and his fingers still twitched with the memory.
Streams of people flowed around them, glancing indifferently at the boy’s plight as they hurried along toward the corner.
“Thanks,” the newsboy said, his voice breathless. “Didja hear what folks is saying? A murder. Right down the street! I ain’t never seen nobody dead, so’s I was hurrying.” He gawked at Jocelyn while he stuffed newspapers under his arm, then flashed Micah a quick grin. “I never met nobody what had more freckles than a salamander, either.” He grabbed the last newspaper, leaped up and scooted down the sidewalk with the agility of a squirrel darting up a tree.
Micah stood, dusting his hands, a frown between his eyes.
“I’ve heard less flattering comparisons over the course of my life,” Mrs. Tremayne offered with a rueful smile. She glanced down the walk. “Operative MacKenzie…”
“Why don’t we stick with �Mr.’? It’s less of a mouthful.” Forcing a smile, he casually stepped in front of her. “Crowd’s a tad unruly. How about if I take you home? I can talk to Mr. Hepplewhite another time.”
“I’m not deaf. I heard what that child said. He was probably exaggerating. People don’t get murdered in downtown Richmond.” She darted a quick glance up into his face, stubbornness darkening her eyes. “We’re already here, and I’d like to see Mr. Hepplewhite. If you want to wait in the buggy, I’ll go by myself.”
Micah lifted a hand, stroking the ends of his mustache to hide a reluctant smile. “I’m sure the masses would part like the Red Sea for you, Mrs. Tremayne. But my mother would nail my hide to the door if I neglected my duty.” He gestured with his hand. “Shall we?”
By the time they reached the millinery shop two doors away from Clocks & Watches, the crowd swarmed eight deep, sober business suits mingling with day laborers, shop workers and a surprising number of ladies.
“Can’t believe it…shocking…”
“…in our fine city…”
“…murdered…lying on the floor…”
“Who would…atrocity…such a nice man…”
Micah casually moved closer to Mrs. Tremayne, whose complexion had turned sheet white. Her lips moved soundlessly, and he leaned down, even as his gaze remained on the crowd of people hovering around the doorway of Clocks & Watches.
“Who…” She cleared her throat, tried again. “Who was murdered?”
A burly gentleman standing beside them glanced around. “The old watchmaker, I heard,” he muttered.
“Here.” Micah pressed his handkerchief into her hand. “Breathe deeply. You’ll be all right.” Concerned, he watched her sway, watched her struggle for composure, and fail. Consigning propriety as well as his profession to the nether regions, he slipped a supporting arm about her waist, and all but carried her backward, out of the milling crowd, to the edge of the sidewalk, where he propped her against a telephone pole.
Eyes wide, unblinking, she dabbed at her temples with his handkerchief, its deep indigo-blue color a startling contrast against her red hair. After several deep breaths, a tinge of pink crept back into her cheeks. Solemnly she looked up at Micah as she returned the handkerchief. “I’m all right now. It’s a dreadful shock. I behaved like a silly goose. Thank you for…” Her voice trailed away and she bit her lip.
“Violent death is always a shock—for most people.” When her body shuddered, Micah debated with his conscience for the space of two heartbeats before giving in to the overwhelming urge to protect. “Come along.” He took her hand, surprised by the way her fingers tensed, then clung. “There’s nothing you can do now. I’ll take you home. A lot has happened to you in the past twenty-four hours.”
“Mr. MacKenzie? Do you believe M-Mr. Hepplewhite’s death is connected with that man, the one who dropped the pocket watch in my shopping bag?”
Before Micah could scramble for an answer, they were interrupted.
“Operative MacKenzie! Been looking for you for going on two hours now.” A burly policeman approached, looking annoyed. “Who’s this?”
“I’ll be along in a moment, Sergeant Whitlock,” Micah said as Mrs. Tremayne pulled her hand free.
He watched in admiration as she metamorphosed from fright to fearlessness, spine straight and chin lifted, her lips stretching in a social smile aimed between the two men. “I won’t take any more of your time. Obviously, you both have more pressing matters to attend to. Don’t worry about me. I’ll take a streetcar home.”
“No, you won’t,” Micah contradicted, only to be interrupted by Whitlock again.
“Coroner’s been ordered to wait until we ran you to earth. If I’d known you were out courtin’, I’d have told him not to bother.” His hand tightened on his billy club. “Now you’re here, you git yourself inside and do your job, Mr. Government Agent, else you can whistle for any more cooperation.”
“Sergeant…Whitaker was it?” The widow Tremayne focused on the police sergeant, who seemed to suddenly shrink in size. “For your information, Operative MacKenzie has been about his duties. He was considerate enough just now to attend to me, which is more than I can say for any other gentle man in this motley crowd. All of them preferred to satisfy their prurient interest in a man’s death instead of coming to the aid of a lady. You may tell the coroner that Operative MacKenzie will be on his way—shortly. Now if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to express my appreciation without you looming over us.”
His face red as a brick, the sergeant glowered at Mrs. Tremayne, then swiveled to shoulder his way through the crowd.
“Well.” Micah scratched behind his ear. “You certainly put him in his place.”
“He was rude. And something of a bully. I’ve never had much use for bullies.” A forlorn uncertainty settled around her like a creeping gray fog. “Am I likely to be arrested now?”
“No.” At least not in the immediate future. “You’ve committed no crime, you handed over the evidence and you have cooperated fully. However—” he hesitated, the internal debate waging a bloody war “—I think you, and Katya, should pack your bags. Until we learn the circumstances surrounding Mr. Hepplewhite’s death, I’m going to need to keep an eye on you.”
“You think I’m somehow responsible for his murder?”
“I’ve changed my mind.” He reached for her hand once more, tightening his grip when she tried to wriggle free. “Apparently you can be a silly goose. Or hasn’t it occurred to you that, if Mr. Hepplewhite’s murder is connected to the forged currency Benny Foggarty gave you, you might be in grave danger?”
“You want…Are you saying you’re trying to protect me?”
“Don’t look so astonished. You’re a widow, living alone, with only a mute maid who doubtless, like most day servants, returns to her boardinghouse at night. Why wouldn’t I want to protect you?”
She’d looked less traumatized when she thought he might be about to arrest her. “Because—” her voice turned tremulous as a young girl’s “—because the thought never occurred to me.”
“Well, get used to it, Mrs. Tremayne. I don’t know yet whether your involvement is by happenstance or design. But either way, you’re now under my protection.”
“As an operative for the Secret Service?”
“Partly.” He held her gaze with his as he slowly lifted her hand until it was inches from his lips. “But also as a man.” Every nerve ending in his body rioted as he fought the urge to bring her hand those last two inches. “I’ll take you home, then I’ll return here. I hope you and your maid are efficient packers, Mrs. Tremayne. I have a ticket on the Richmond, Fredericksburg and Potomac leaving Byrd Street Station first thing Friday morning. You and Katya will be accompanying me back to Washington.”
Chapter Five
Washington, D.C., 1894
Through the window of the ladies’ hotel on F Street, Jocelyn and Katya watched Operative MacKenzie swing aboard a streetcar. He was on his way to a meeting with the chief of the Secret Service, and Jocelyn’s muscles were skeined together in painful knots. “Do you think he’s an honorable man?” she asked Katya, who nodded with more decisiveness than Jocelyn felt. She waited in silence while the maid wrote on her tablet.
Is very good man. Likes you.
“Rubbish. He’s behaved like a gentleman, but he’s no different from anybody else. I’m under investigation, that’s why he brought us to Washington with him.” The knowledge chafed, yet not once during the six-hour train journey from Richmond had he treated her like a criminal.
Of course, neither had he accorded her the familiarity he’d extended when she’d all but swooned in front of Clocks & Watches. Since Chadwick, Jocelyn had not handled death with any degree of equanimity. Swallowing, she tried to banish the memory of the faces of the crowd, ghoulishly craning for a view of Mr. Hepplewhite’s body, found sprawled in the stairwell that led to his upstairs apartment. Operative MacKenzie had refused to share any further details, but Jocelyn’s vivid imagination needed no embellishment.
Katya scowled and wagged a sheet of paper in her face. Is differernt. Sees YOU, not hare.
“Dear Katya, it doesn’t matter, especially if Operative MacKenzie’s chief believes I’m involved with some notorious counterfeiting crowd.” She stared blindly down to the street below, watching the soothing motion of a white-coated street sweeper pushing his broom. Perhaps if she went for a stroll…
Katya followed her, and Jocelyn sensed her reluctance to end the discussion. “By the way, you misspelled two words,” she said, hoping to divert her. When it came to reading and writing, Katya was a perfectionist.
She could also be as contrary as a goat. Don’t spelling matter. He likes you. Sees more than red hare. You lissen. Be careful. Should tell me things. I take care of you.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the watch,” Jocelyn retorted wearily.
She fretted over how easily she’d refused to confide in Katya, who after two years knew more about her than any other living soul. Yet with little effort Micah MacKenzie managed to wrest from her secrets she had never shared with anyone.
Of course, Micah MacKenzie was also the first adult male in ten long years to touch more than her gloved hand. Hating the sick sensation swimming about her middle, Jocelyn tormented herself by imagining his reaction had she plonked down beside him on the train seat. He would have been courteous, of course. But she would only have shamed herself and embarrassed them both, acting on that frenzied need for connection, however ephemeral, to someone other than Katya, who offered a dollop of comfort.
No doubt he’d offer that comfort when he slapped his handcuffs on her wrists, after being ordered by his chief to arrest her.
God in heaven, she longed to hurl the angry cry, what did I ever do to make You hate me so?
Micah took the steps up into the Treasury Building three at a time.
Nodding, occasionally speaking to people he passed in the maze of hallways, he tried to juggle his mounting uneasiness with the conviction that he would be able to do the right thing, for everyone.
Especially Mrs. Tremayne Bingham. Regardless of the mounting evidence against her, he could not bring himself to believe she was guilty of anything but an ill-advised marriage. A faint memory surfaced, something his mother once mentioned about the Tremaynes, about why an old, distinguished Southern family married their daughter off to a Yankee from New York City. Next time he visited her, he might risk asking.
A fellow operative was just leaving the chief’s office when Micah reached the top-floor offices of the Treasury Department.
“You’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest, MacKenzie,” he said. “Best put on some armor.”
“Thanks, Welker.” Confidence dissipating, Micah stepped inside the office with a sense of impending doom.
Chief William Hazen, appointed to head the Service earlier in the year, greeted him but remained seated behind his ornate walnut desk.
“You’re late, Operative MacKenzie.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry.”
“Humph. Well, I have a meeting in ten minutes, so let’s see what we can accomplish with the time we’ve got.” Rising, he came around the desk to stand in front of Micah. “According to your telegram last night, you confiscated the watch you loaned Benny Foggarty, along with some hopefully vital evidence. Let’s see it.”
Micah removed the watch case from his coat pocket, flicked it open and withdrew the bill and coin, handing them to Chief Hazen. “Bill’s damaged bogus goods, as you’ll see, but the front is some of the best work I’ve stumbled across in years. Paper’s hardly distinguishable from ours, including the silk fiber. Possibly made in England, or Connecticut.”
Beneath a thick handlebar mustache, Hazen’s lips compressed in a thin line. “Most troubling. I believe the ten-dollar gold piece is from one of the coin mills operating out of New Jersey.” He gave a mirthless chuckle. “Though the amount of gold wouldn’t cover half a filling in a tooth. Most likely underneath the shiny gold surface we’ll discover a blend of copper, antimony, possibly tin. Just last week we seized a sizable quantity of those materials, which, by the way, included a stack of bona fide silver dollars.”
Micah nodded. “Milling’s good but not top rate, and I thought the weight wasn’t quite right.”
“What about the handwriting on the back of this bill?”
“Obviously, it will require thorough examination downstairs, but if you’re asking my opinion…” Micah hesitated, then finished honestly, “I didn’t recognize the handwriting. Benny could have forged it, or it could be the work of the person he stole the goods from. It’s also possible the network has found someone new in Richmond….” His voice trailed away. No sense stating the obvious.
“A fortunate happenstance, your securing the evidence after losing Foggarty.” His movements deliberate, Hazen set the watch, coin and bill on top of his desk, then turned back to Micah. “Let’s talk about this woman—your telegram gave Tremayne as her name, right? Tell me about her.”
Loyalty, honor, integrity and faith all clashed as Micah waged an internal battle with his conscience. Mrs. Tremayne might have resumed using her maiden name for any number of reasons. Yet the extremity of her self-imposed isolation, and her fear, struck a false note. An innocent citizen who discovered obvious forgeries would have instantly conveyed them to the local police. An innocent citizen would have greeted an operative of the Secret Service with relief, and immediately handed over the evidence.
Jocelyn Tremayne Bingham—and he could not ignore the connection—had only been willing to part with the watch, bill and coin after practically passing out at his feet from fear.
Yet a complicated personality did not make her a criminal.
Until Micah thoroughly checked out her story, he was reluctant to reveal her ties to the Bingham family. But as a sworn operative for the United States Secret Service, he was balancing his way across a fraying tightrope.
“MacKenzie!” Chief Hazen barked. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Sorry. Yes, as I explained in the telegram, her last name is Tremayne, Christian name Jocelyn.” God, forgive me for lies of omission. “She’s a widow, but lives in a comfortable town house in a well-to-do neighborhood. From my initial interview, I’m prepared to presume innocence instead of guilt. I do not believe she knows Benny Foggarty, nor had any idea that he had passed her stolen and forged goods.”
“Humph. Under the circumstances I’m not sure a single visit can support such a conclusion.” Face inscrutable, he tugged out his watch, checked the time and cleared his throat again. “In my brief tenure as chief, I’ve heard a lot about you, Operative MacKenzie. They say you have an instinct about people. Call you the dragon slayer of lies. Claim you can convince counterfeiters to forsake their evil ways and work with us instead.” He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, studying Micah’s discomfiture. “For the past several years you’ve been tireless in your pursuit of a family most everyone between here and New York would swear in a court of law are upstanding citizens. Philanthropic do-gooders whose hearts as well as pockets are lined with gold.”
“Yes, sir. There were those who praised William Tweed for his contributions to New York City’s railways, despite all the graft and corruption. I believe the Binghams are worse than Boss Tweed. My father—”
“I’m aware of your father’s part in bringing our attention to this family,” the chief interrupted testily. “I’m equally cognizant that his murder was never solved and information he promised would clinch the case against the Binghams was never delivered. In eight years we’ve been unable to verify that proof ever existed.”
“If we had more men working on the case now…”
“At the time of your father’s murder, we did. Two of them were fired, and rightly so, for their unsavory methods.” Lips pursed, Hazen contemplated Micah for an uncomfortably long moment. “My predecessor informed me that although your father’s death was the primary motivation for your decision to join the Secret Service, your first allegiance has always been to the Service, not revenge. You’re an exemplary agent, MacKenzie. Don’t do anything rash to jeopardize my opinion of you.” He crossed over to stand directly in front of Micah. “Now. Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”
Micah squared his shoulders. “Yes, sir. Although we’ve never learned the details, we’ve known Rupert Bingham’s only son and heir, Chadwick, died five years ago. We did not know, however, what became of his wife. We do now.” Lord, please give me the right words. “Jocelyn Tremayne is Chadwick Bingham’s widow. After his death, for some unknown reason—though we can conjecture several—she reverted to her maiden name. Lastly, I haven’t been able to verify it, but…” The words choked his throat and he clenched his fists, until the remnant of painful emotion faded and he was able to finish. “I don’t believe there were children born of the marriage. Mrs. Tremayne refuses to discuss her husband at all.”
He met the older man’s gaze without backing down. “Her marriage into the family does not indicate culpability, and her reticence concerning her husband may have more to do with a reserved personality than fear of exposure.”
“Fear of exposure, you say. Well, I can enumerate some of your conjectures now. The woman was married to one of the richest men in the Northeast. It’s possible Chadwick Bingham was one of the malefactors. It’s also possible that his wife was, as well. On the other hand, it’s possible Mrs. Tremayne is innocent, and disappeared because she knows too much about her husband’s family.”
Micah was grateful for the twig of an olive branch, however grudgingly extended. “My point exactly, sir. We cannot rule out some strong circumstantial evidence that the watchmaker’s murder in Richmond is connected to our case. The modus operandi is too similar. In fact,” he added casually, “because of my concern for her safety, I insisted that Mrs. Tremayne and her maid accompany me here to Washington. She needs protection, not persecution.”
“It is not the job of the Secret Service to protect civilians!” Chief Hazen exploded. Red-faced, he jerked at his silk bow tie as though it were about to strangle him. “Even if the mandate existed, the funds are not available. We’re under-staffed and underbudgeted, thanks to those mouthpieces down the street in Congress.”
“Mrs. Tremayne insisted on paying all expenses.” To the point that she refused to leave her house otherwise, Micah recalled with a faint smile. “And I believe, sir, that earlier this year after two operatives learned of suspicious threats against President Cleveland, you transferred those operatives here to Washington, to monitor them and their families. Keep them safe, same as we’re trying to keep the country’s currency safe? That’s all I’m trying to accomplish with Mrs. Tremayne.”
The chief was shorter than Micah by several inches, but at that moment Hazen loomed over him like a sober-suited Goliath. “I may concede the point, Operative MacKenzie. But, mind you, don’t test my goodwill much further. Don’t ever withhold information from me again, or presume to act without authorization. We’ve spent over a decade shining the tarnish off our badges, proving this organization is peopled with men of honor and integrity. I will not let the Agency’s reputation deteriorate again, especially now, poised on the threshold of a new century.”
“I understand, Chief Hazen. I give you my word it won’t happen again.” Sweat pooled in the small of Micah’s back, and he had to force himself to stand tall, not to beg, or rush into explanations that would only sound like rationalizations. “If you meet Mrs. Tremayne, sir, I believe you’ll see that my actions were justified.”
The chief heaved an explosive sigh and clapped a firm hand on Micah’s back. “Then bring the lady here, and be done with it. I’d like to meet the woman who turned my best operative’s head.”
“Sir, I—”
“However…don’t let anything, including a mysterious young widow, place you in a potentially compromising position.”
Each move deliberate, Chief Hazen walked over to the window and stared outside, toward the White House, hands clasped behind his back. “I want this counterfeiting network unmasked, stripped of its tentacles and every last member in jail by next spring, Operative MacKenzie. Every principal, every shover, every engraver, every wholesaler—the lot. I want the molds, the plates, the paper, even the blamed ink! I don’t care whether it’s Rupert Bingham himself, his brother-in-law or nephews. I don’t care if the ringleader turns out to be their butler, or the bootblack. Get these malefactors behind bars. Do whatever you have to, legally, in order to learn the identities of the persons who are undermining our country’s economic stability.”
Turning, he walked back to his desk, picked up a file folder, carefully wound the string around the button tabs. Then he looked across at Micah. “After this meeting I’ll clear my schedule. I’ll see you and Mrs. Tremayne at four o’clock. But if I detect even the slightest trace of suspicion on her part—or inappropriate regard on yours—I’ll remove you from this case.”
With Chief Hazen’s words buzzing like mosquitoes inside his head, Micah headed for the hotel where Mrs. Tremayne and Katya were staying. If Jocelyn Tremayne turned out to be a counterfeit of the woman he remembered, the chief wouldn’t have to fire him. Micah would turn in his credentials, because he would no longer trust his instincts. On the other hand, if he were forced to choose between her and unmasking the man responsible for murdering his father…
Lord, please don’t force me to make that choice.
Chapter Six
“I promise he won’t arrest you or threaten you.”
“But you can’t promise that he’ll believe me.” Jocelyn glanced at the man seated beside her in the hansom cab, then, clearly uncomfortable, shifted her attention to the street.
It was a dreary afternoon, the sky a dull smear of gray, the buildings stolid rows of brick and stone. Over the clatter of the wheels, a train whistle tooted a warning; seconds later the hansom stopped, and a Pennsylvania Railroad locomotive pulling several passenger cars rumbled across Maryland Avenue on its way toward the depot. Moments later, the driver flicked the whip and the hansom lurched into motion once more.
Beneath the layers of her blouse and walking suit, Jocelyn’s heart fluttered like a captured rabbit. She still didn’t know quite how Operative MacKenzie had persuaded her to accompany him to the Treasury Building—except she’d been reluctant to thumb her nose at a summons from the head of the Secret Service.
As though he’d been reading her mind, after the sound of the train had faded in the distance, Operative MacKenzie observed, “I can’t speak for Chief Hazen, but I might make the observation that I’m not sure you believe me.”
She jerked her head around, searching the shuttered face. The rocking motion of the cab made her queasy, and she fought the incipient panic rising in her throat. “It’s difficult, when I know I’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing! Yet you’ve frightened me, hounded me, and now you’ve bullied me into a situation I don’t want to be in. I returned your evidence, so I don’t understand what I can possibly say to your chief that I haven’t already explained to you.”
An unexpected smile kindled in his eyes, crinkling the corners, then beneath his mustache a corner of his mouth tipped up. “If that’s how you perceive me, I’m fortunate you’re here at all, Mrs. Tremayne. Ah…you’ve placed me in an awkward position, especially after hearing your interpretation of my actions. You see, once he meets you in person, I don’t think Chief Hazen will have any lingering doubts about you.”
Instantly wary, Jocelyn stiffened. “And why is that? You believe someone who looks like me is far too…noticeable…to engage in criminal activities? I’m too easily picked out of a crowd? Oh, yes—I swoon when confronted by murder.”
“I could pick you out of a crowd of a hundred redheads,” Operative MacKenzie said, his voice deepening. “Besides which, the lovely young woman I met a decade ago still lives somewhere inside the woman sitting beside me now. Regardless of how much you may have changed in the intervening years, Mrs. Tremayne, I don’t believe you’d ever knowingly be part of anything illegal.” A soft pause as potent as the touch of his fingers seeped into Jocelyn. “And you didn’t swoon. You’re harboring a terrible fear inside you, Mrs. Tremayne. But I also see a rare strength of character, not to mention a formidable temper.”
Hot color whooshed from her chin to her hairline. If she leaned sideways a scant six inches, their shoulders would touch, and she would feel again the strength of him, of muscles tensile and tough as her oak banister. An evocative scent of starch and something uniquely masculine flooded her senses. If only she’d met this man when she was seventeen, still bubbling with hope and a heart full of dreams. Instinctively, her hand lifted to press against her throat in an effort to calm her galloping pulse. “I—You shouldn’t say such things to me. I don’t know how to interpret them. I wish I…” She bit her lip, tearing her gaze away from Micah MacKenzie.
With a jerk the hansom came to a halt. “Treasury Building,” the hack announced.
The imposing building loomed before her, its seventy-four granite columns reminding Jocelyn of massive bars on a stone prison cell. When a warm hand gently clasped her elbow, she jumped.
“It’s really not the lion’s den,” Operative MacKenzie murmured. “But if it were, even if I couldn’t close the mouths of the lions, I’d protect you with my life.” When her startled gaze lifted, she discovered that despite the light tone, his eyes probed hers with an intensity that stole her breath.
With his hand supporting her, they climbed the stairs into the main entrance. Jocelyn realized with a spurt of astonishment that she actually looked forward to engaging the chief of the Secret Service in a spirited defense of her position.
Richmond
A week had passed since Jocelyn and Katya returned from Washington, and life settled back into an uneasy rhythm of sorts. For long clumps of time, Jocelyn almost forgot about the man who had burst into her life with the force of a runaway locomotive, then chugged off toward the horizon. Operative MacKenzie was somewhere in the Midwest—St. Louis? Chicago?—chasing after counterfeiters while Jocelyn struggled to believe his parting words.
“I’ll be back,” he promised. “Don’t think you’ve seen the last of me, Mrs. Tremayne.”
“You’re like the wind, Operative MacKenzie,” she retorted, disguising desolation with flippancy. “Blowing here and there, and nobody can hold it in one place, or capture it inside a basket. I plan to go back to living my life as though none of the past week ever happened.”
“Mmm. I gave up playing pretend games when I was, oh, about six years old.” Then he touched the brim of his hat. “But for now, I’ll leave you to yours. Be careful, please. The police are keeping an eye out, but—”
She wondered now what words he’d swallowed back, but refused to invest much effort in an exercise that would only trigger a plethora of memories.
Tonight she was attending a musicale at the Westhampton Club with friends—an enjoyable diversion that might allow her to forget, if only for a few hours, Micah MacKenzie and the Secret Service. During the days she filled the hours with mindless activities, while the nights taunted her with their emptiness as she searched in vain for peace of mind.
There is no peace, saith the Lord, unto the wicked.
The poisonous verse slapped at her like a vindictive hand.
“I’m not wicked!” Jocelyn announced aloud, anger and pain twining her in thorny vines. “I’m not….” When her voice broke, she bit her lip until she tasted blood. Throat aching, she snatched up her gloves and evening cloak and swept out of the room, firmly shutting the door behind her.
The night was warm, more like summer than late fall. Air thick with humidity clung to trees and buildings. Despite his considerable bulk, a man walked in soundless stealth along the city’s back streets until bank buildings and stores gave way to lumber and tobacco warehouses. For a block or two he followed the railroad tracks. Eventually, he reached a neighborhood where, in daylight hours, he could never risk showing his face.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew this task was both reprimand, and restitution. Still, it gave him the shivers. He was a professional, but he had a few standards; he’d never snuffed a woman. He’d stolen from ’em plenty, he’d cut a few as warnings, but he’d made it plain that he wasn’t after anything worse.
But a job had to be done, and he had to do it. His reputation after the last botched assignment was hanging over his head, a noose about to drop around his size 19 neck. He’d explained. Unfamiliar city, poor directions—no time to study patterns, so the old man’s death wasn’t his fault.
In the end, it didn’t matter. Orders were orders, and money was money. And his own life was on the line.
“Find these items, and you’ll be rewarded accordingly. Fail, and your usefulness might come to an end.”
There. White porch, two columns. Getaway alleys on either side. At last, luck was running his way.
He slid one hand inside to make sure the knife was within easy reach. Next he fit his brass knuckles over the fingerless gloves. Ten minutes later he slipped over the windowsill and into the house’s parlor.
“I refuse to stay inside this place another day!” Jocelyn stabbed hat pins in place while she glared at her obdurate maid. “It’s been three days. We’ve cleaned everything up, nothing is missing. The police assure me they’re doing everything they can to—What?”
Katya wrote with a furious speed that mirrored Jocelyn’s frustration, her double chin quivering like calf’s-foot jelly. Need to wait for—she hurriedly searched the list of correctly spelled words she kept inside her apron pocket—Mr. MacKenzie.
Sergeant Whitlock, the policeman who was still investigating Mr. Hepplewhite’s murder, was the officer who had appeared on her doorstep to investigate her report of vandalism. More policemen had followed, as well as a nattily dressed detective wearing a dark suit and spotted yellow bow tie instead of a blue uniform.
Operative Micah MacKenzie’s name had been mentioned several times. But nobody saw fit to enlighten Jocelyn as to when he would return to Richmond, or whether or not he concurred with their hypotheses that the villain who had torn her house apart was connected with Mr. Hepplewhite’s murder.
Jocelyn crumpled Katya’s words into a ball, stomped across to the parlor fireplace, hurled the note into the flames, then returned to the foyer where Katya hovered like an over-wrought governess. “For the last time, I doubt we’ll ever see Micah MacKenzie again. What’s the matter with you, anyway? No—don’t answer that, it’s just a rhetorical question. And before you ask what that means, a rhetorical question is one for which I don’t expect an answer. They’re not meant to be answered—Oh, botheration.” Her gloves weren’t cooperating with her fingers. Jocelyn gave up and threw them down. “I’m going downtown. You can either stay here and fret, or do what the police sergeant told you to do and come with me.”
Katya gave her a wounded look as she wrote. I fetch my coat.
They walked the two blocks to the streetcar stop in silence.
“I’m sorry,” Jocelyn said after they boarded the nearly empty car and sat down, side by side but an ocean apart. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper, or taken it out on you.”
A self-righteous sniff was Katya’s only response, but when Jocelyn glanced sideways, she spied a twinkle in her maid’s eyes. “Come now, confess,” she coaxed. “You’ve been wanting to go to town as much as I have. We’ll stop by the bakery, and buy some of those nutmeg doughnuts you love so much.”
When Katya dug into the folds of her voluminous sack coat for her pad and thick charcoal pencil, Jocelyn almost wept with relief. The further evidence of her crumbling fortitude drained her. Her desperation for any connection with another human being, albeit through the silent scribbling on a notepad, reduced her to a tearful puddle.
Katya tugged her arm. Their stop had arrived. Jocelyn corralled her gloomy thoughts as they joined the throng of pedestrians spilling across the tracks to the sidewalk. As long as she and Katya stayed together, Sergeant Whitlock counseled her, and confined their meanderings to the busy downtown, they should be safe.
After they strolled along East Main for several blocks, she relaxed enough to point out a display of ladies’ shoes in the window of a shoe store, even laughed with her companion over a man on a bicycle bumping his way down the cobbled street scarcely a dozen paces ahead of a horsecar. She lingered in front of the bookshop until Katya thrust a piece of paper in front of her face.
Bakery.
“Oh, all right.”
They walked up Sixth Street to Bromm’s Bakery on East Marshall. Several moments later they emerged from the shop, carrying fragrant sacks of confections. A mule-drawn delivery wagon pulled up in front of the bakery and a wiry dark-skinned man jumped down, tying the mule to the hitching post. Katya’s entire face lit up as she pointed to the straw hat on top of the mule’s head, its long ears poking through holes cut on either side. When she indicated that she wanted to go pet the mule, Jocelyn waved her on without a second thought.
“I’ll wait for you here. I’ve no desire to spoil the fragrance of our doughnuts with eau de mule.”
Sometimes she forgot how young Katya was, she mused, watching the girl gesturing with her hands to the driver, relieved when he obligingly introduced her to the flop-eared mule.
How had Katya endured the nightmares in her short life, yet retained the capacity for joy and hope?
Chapter Seven
An hour later, by the time they left the streetcar to walk the last three blocks, they’d gobbled down three doughnuts each. Leaves swirled about their feet in a lazy shuffle, and in a burst of contentment Jocelyn waved enthusiastically to the driver of an ice-block delivery wagon as he passed by, causing Katya to roll her eyes.
Their innocuous outing had momentarily banished the ugly shadows that swirled around Jocelyn like the leaves; a lightness spread inside her heart until she had to squelch the giddy impulse to skip down the last block like a young girl.
The mailman met them as they reached the front porch.
“Afternoon, ladies. Mighty fine day for an outing. I have a letter here for you, Miz Tremayne. Y’all caught me just before I popped it into your box.” He handed the envelope to Jocelyn.
“Thank you, Mr. Hobbes,” she managed, giddiness transforming into a tangled mix of hope and dread. The letter might be from Operative MacKenzie. He was probably writing to tell her he’d been ordered to California or the Wyoming Territory. She glanced down and all the blood drained from her head.
“Have a doughnut,” she offered the mailman automatically, while the buzzing in her ears intensified so that she scarcely heard her own voice. “They’re fresh, from Bromm’s Bakery.”
“Why, thank you kindly, Miz Tremayne. Ma’am.” He nodded to Katya, then whistled his way down the walk.
Somehow Jocelyn managed to climb the porch steps and unlock the door. She could feel the weight of Katya’s curiosity pressing down on her shoulders; she dropped her cloak onto the hall tree, then wandered into the parlor, the envelope clenched in her hand.
The Honorable Augustus Brock, New York City.
Not Micah MacKenzie, but Chadwick’s uncle, his mother’s brother. Jocelyn’s last memory of Augustus Brock and his narcissistic wife, Portia, was the day of Chadwick’s funeral. Dressed in their hastily dyed mourning clothes, they’d glared at Jocelyn like two black ravens about to pick out her eyes. “He wouldn’t have been driven to commit such an abominable act of shame if you’d given him the child he longed for,” Augustus’s wife proclaimed loudly enough for the rest of the mourners to stiffen into appalled silence.
“Don’t know why Rupert agreed to let his son marry you in the first place,” her husband muttered, his complexion flushed above the high shirt collar. “Who would have thought it—all that brass in your hair and you turn out to be barren. Disgrace to the whole family.”
Jocelyn started violently when a hand brushed her arm, only then realizing that Katya was beside her, waving a piece of paper in front of her face. “Sorry.” She squeezed Katya’s hand, but after reading the words moved away, unable to bear even the loyal maid’s proximity. “It’s a letter from…some people I used to know. Be a dear, won’t you, and…and make us some tea?”
Satisfied to have a task, Katya nodded and hurried from the room. Jocelyn collapsed onto the sofa. Why now? She felt like a puppet whose master delighted in dangling her over a fire. One day, she thought, the flames would leap up and consume her.
Hurriedly, before she yielded to the urge to rip the letter unread into tiny pieces, she opened the envelope and withdrew two sheets of expensive vellum.
To our niece, beloved widow of Chadwick. No doubt this missive will come as a surprise after all these years. It has long been upon my heart, and Mrs. Brock’s, that the family treated you most shamefully in its disregard for your health and well-being after the death of your dear husband. It is with deep regret to know that, perhaps influenced in part by our regrettably Bourbonic conduct, you felt compelled to forsake his name.
Now there was a masterstroke of understatement for you. The entire Bingham clan, including the Brocks, had disowned Jocelyn before the gravediggers finished shoveling dirt over Chadwick’s coffin. One of the Brock cousins—she neither remembered nor cared which—had gone so far as to spit on her, claiming she was nothing but poor white trash, a pathetic creature whose hair and face had embarrassed Chadwick almost as much as her barrenness.
The letter crumpled in her hands. Jocelyn inhaled a shuddering breath, flexed her fingers and forced herself to read the rest of it.
After years of searching, at last we learned of your whereabouts. I thus most humbly beseech you to lay aside the acrimony you justifiably must feel, and to consider the following as an olive branch extended toward you—a gesture of our desire for reconciliation.
It is our wish for you to return to New York for an extended visit, with the express purpose of allowing this family to atone for our shameful neglect. Time has given a far more charitable heart to myself and Mrs. Brock; I plead with you to consider this invitation as one made in utter sincerity. The past, like your beloved husband, is beyond our reach. We must fix our hearts and minds upon hope of a brighter future for us all, in which we can come to better know our dear niece. Even as I write, rooms are being readied for your arrival. Enclosed, as further proof of our goodwill, please find two one-way tickets in our private Pullman, the Aurora (as you may remember) for you and an appropriate chaperone.
Your humble servant and contrite uncle-in-law, Augustus Brock.
When Katya tiptoed in with a tray some time later, she found Jocelyn sitting on the edge of the sofa, bowed at the waist with her face in her hands, the wrinkled vellum sheets lying faceup on the floor.
Micah returned to Richmond a day after the clear, cool autumn days of the past week blew into the Atlantic, driven out by another ill-tempered hot spell from the south. Indifferent to its cloying humidity, he rented a buggy from the livery stable and drove himself directly to the Third District Police Station.
“Operative MacKenzie! ’Bout time you brought your ugly self back to help us poor clods of the Richmond Police.” George Firth, acting sergeant, greeted him with a congenial handshake—and the unpleasant news that “Your little redheaded widow’s got more trouble than a cemetery’s got head-stones.”
“What’s happened? Has she been harmed? Why didn’t someone notify me?”
The sergeant threw back his head and guffawed. “I’ll be…they wuz right, about you and Miz Tremayne. And here I am telling ’em you’re just a high-falutin’ government man, keeping his sticky fingers in our business.”
Heat crept up Micah’s face. He felt like a rube, the target of public ridicule, but he counted to thirty and waited until the other man’s coarse jesting finally wound down. “I’ve been in constant touch with your chief, the Detective Bureau and the mayor, concerning Mr. Hepplewhite’s murder and its possible connection with my case. Mrs. Tremayne is part of that investigation,” he stated evenly. “Now, over the past few weeks I spent three days locked in an airless room, examining approximately $100,000 in fraudulent two-and five-dollar bills, not to mention over $20,000 in spurious coinage. Less than twelve hours later, I caught a midnight train heading west, and I’ve been on the road going on ten days now. I came here straight from the train station, I haven’t had a decent meal or a bath in—” he glanced at the large round clock on the wall across the room “—almost forty hours. So when I ask if Mrs. Tremayne is all right, you might want to let me know—at once.”
“Oh-ho, tetchy today, eh? Fair enough. Now that you mention it, you do look frayed a bit around the edges. Here—Tenner! Fetch Sergeant Whitlock. We got our own gen-yoo-ine agent from the Treasury Department back in town. Fill him in, and let’s watch how fast he hightails it over to the widow Tremayne’s.”
Micah tied the livery horse to a post three houses down from Jocelyn’s home, then checked the time. Seventeen minutes. He’d driven the buggy with imprudent haste through a maze of narrow streets, dodged two streetcars, an oncoming freight train, and clipped the wheel on a curb when he took a corner too fast on the edge of Monroe Park. He’d planned to return to Richmond a week earlier, but duty, not to mention Chief Hazen, bound him with chains he could not afford to break. Sighing, he thrust the watch back in his pocket. Ah, yes. Duty.
Katya’s round face lit up like a harvest moon when she opened the door. But her gestures spoke of urgency as she bustled him into the front parlor.
“Hello, Katya. You’re looking fine.” When the maid rolled her eyes, Micah smiled a little. “It’s all right, I came from the police station. I know about the break-in. Is she home?” he asked, glancing around the room, noticing the absence of a pair of green glass paperweights with flower etchings that had been displayed on the doily-covered table next to the window. A colorful urn in the foyer that had boasted several peacock feathers was also gone.
He started to say something else, but the words drained out of his head when Jocelyn appeared between the fringed draperies lining the entrance to the parlor. “Mrs. Tremayne.”
“Operative MacKenzie.”
She hovered, seemingly uncertain about whether to enter, or perhaps flee up the staircase. Her reception was so contrary to Micah’s expectations that for a moment he floundered in his own swamp of indecision. Then he looked more closely into her eyes and realized that her lack of warmth stemmed from causes other than himself. “I believe we agreed that �Mister’ is less official-sounding. What’s happened, besides your home being vandalized?”
“Oh…I’d forgotten. How did you know?”
With a wry look, he gestured to his wrinkled, travel-worn attire. “I went from the train station to the police station to your house as fast as I could. I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner. Katya’s back to looking anxious, and you’re looking—” he reeled in the words dancing indiscriminately on his tongue “—subdued,” he finished, and behind him Katya stomped the floor.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Jocelyn said, waving a limp hand at her maid. “There’s nobody else I can ask….”
Micah waited, but when she didn’t elaborate, and a backward glance at the maid revealed her frantically writing in her tablet, he went with instinct. “Here.” He placed his hand under her elbow, exulting in the feel of her despite the alarming fragility that hovered all around her. “Come and sit down. Tell me what’s bothering you.”
“I don’t know where to begin.”
“Anywhere you like.” He sat her down on one end of the luxurious sofa, and commandeered the other end for himself. “Perhaps…what happened the other night? The police report indicated that you weren’t home, so the only damage was to some of your possessions.” And he thanked God for it, though not aloud.
Jocelyn shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to talk about that, not right now.”
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