Kissing Comfort (46 page)

Samuel shook his head. “Nothing. Whatever trouble he got himself into, it must have happened before he broke his leg. Except for you and Miss Kennedy, I mean, Mrs.—”

“It's all right, Mr. Travers.” Comfort set a glass of lemonade in front of him. “You don't have to keep correcting yourself. We know who you mean.”

He nodded. “Well, then, like I was saying, the two of you, Dr. Harrison, and his mother were the only visitors he had. The help was in and out, but he couldn't get up to much trouble with them. Pardon my frankness, but he doesn't carry on with the maid like your father did.”

Bode didn't even wince. “No one else? What about his friends? He never wants for company.”

“They came around, most of them anyway, but your mother told Hitchens and anyone else who answered the door to send them away.”

Bode absently thanked Comfort for the glass she put in his hand. His attention was all for Sam Travers. “Why would she do that?”

“Couldn't say except to make a guess.”

“Well?” Bode prompted when Sam took a long drink and said nothing afterward.

“I have to believe she thought she was keeping him out of trouble. Your brother and his friends will make a wager on how many times the
Chronicle
uses the word ‘depraved' on the front page. He once told me that he put down money on the number of Chinese immigrants that walked off a Barclay ship and the number that had to be carried. His friends don't have to work very hard to provoke him to make a bet, and I'd say he's more often the one needling them. Did you know he invested in
Rigoletto
?”

“No.”

“Mr. Jefferson, your mother's friend, encouraged him to do that.”

“Where does he get the money?”

“Don't know. I always supposed he uses the allowance you give him. And he wins sometimes, so there's money there. He reinvests it, I guess you'd say.”

“I would
not
say.”

Comfort pulled out a chair and joined them at the table. She wrapped her hands around her cool glass. “Bram borrows money.” When both men turned to look at her, she nodded faintly. “I'm afraid so.”

“He told you?” asked Bode.

“No. He wouldn't. I think I mentioned once that Bram and I didn't discuss money. He never hinted that Black Crowne was in financial trouble.” She gave Bode a pointed look as she raised her glass and sipped. “I probably shouldn't be telling you this—I'm sure I was never meant to know—but Bram once took out a substantial loan from Jones Prescott. He arranged it privately with Uncle Tuck. I wouldn't have known except I was closing out the books last year, and I found the entry. Usually Tuck would have handled the closing, and I wouldn't have seen it, but he took ill for several days and Newt asked me to begin the work.”

“How much is substantial?”

“Twenty thousand.”

Bode swore softly. “Tucker Jones lent my brother twenty thousand?”

“The bank lent the money,” said Comfort. “Uncle Tuck approved the loan.”

“Thank you for clarifying.” Frustrated, Bode shoved his hand through his hair. “That makes all the difference.”

Comfort bristled. “I'm sure Uncle Tuck didn't know Bram was going to use the money to gamble. Bram repaid it quickly. That must have alerted Uncle Tuck, because I'm unaware of any other loans that he arranged for Bram. It could be that Bram never asked for another.”

“At Jones Prescott,” said Bode. “But if it worked with someone as shrewd as Tucker Jones, then he's probably done it elsewhere.”

Comfort nodded. “That's why I thought I should say something.”

“God, what a mess.”

Samuel Travers leaned back in his chair. “Shouldn't you be talking to Bram about this?”

“I guess I have to.” Bode wanted to press the glass to his forehead. He took a drink instead. “Tell me again when it was that Bram sent you out to find me.”

Travers was silent as he reflected back. “A bit more than two weeks back. It was a Wednesday. Well, Thursday actually. It was after midnight. No one was in the office. Not that I expected anyone would be, but I was surprised not to find you at home.”

“What could have happened that late that would make Bram send for me?”

Sam shrugged. “The house was quiet. Hitchens is the one who woke me. Bram asked him to.”

Bode stared at his glass, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. “How would Bram have summoned Hitchens? And why wouldn't Bram ring for you directly? I thought his bell pull was rigged so he could reach it from his bed.”

“It is. I guess I assumed he didn't want to wake anyone else.”

“Have you ever known him to be that considerate?” He put up one hand to keep Samuel from answering what was essentially a rhetorical question. “So Hitchens went to Bram first. Is that what we're all thinking?”

Sam Travers said, “Maybe your mother sent Hitchens to Bram's room.”

“Or maybe someone came to the door,” said Comfort. “Hitchens would answer that, wouldn't he?”

“Yes,” Sam told her. “He always does.”

“Still,” Comfort said, “it was terribly late. What would bring someone to the house that—” She didn't finish; she didn't have to. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bode's fingers tighten around his glass. He clenched his jaw. She said, “You think it had to do with me.”

Bode nodded.

Sam looked from Comfort to Bode and back again. “How's that again?” When Comfort and Bode exchanged looks without answering, he said, “It's like I was set adrift these last weeks. Could be someone needs to say something, because that Farwell's been like a sphinx.”

Smiling faintly, Comfort reached for Bode's hand. “You can tell him. We can't really discuss it around him otherwise. Go on,” she said when he hesitated. “I can bear to hear it if you can stand to tell it.”

Slipping his hand out from under hers, Bode turned his attention back to Travers. Beginning with the attack on Comfort's carriage, Bode told all of it. By the time he was finished, Samuel Travers had his elbows on the table and his head propped up in his hands. He looked like a man bowed at last by the weight on his shoulders.

“It's not your fault,” Bode said. “You couldn't have known he was so deep in debt he was being threatened. None of us could have suspected that someone would use Comfort to force Bram's hand.”

Comfort turned her glass slowly. Wet circles stained the tabletop. “You have to go see your brother, Bode. We don't even know if he's all right. Mr. Travers doesn't know anything that's happened at the house since he left.”

Sam stared at the table. “Mrs. DeLong's been real anxious to talk to Bode. I know that much.” He glanced up and saw that Bode and Comfort were both waiting for him to go on. “She was here that Thursday afternoon, the day after the Rangers attacked the carriage. I know it because she stood at the bottom of the steps and called up for you. That's why I shoved the bookcase over the hatch. I didn't trust her not to make the climb. She sounded that determined. Later, when I finally talked to Mr. Farwell, I learned he told her that you didn't want to be disturbed. He and I worked out the secret knock in case she sent someone from the house to fetch you. She did, but they didn't try to get in, and so no one knows I've been hiding out here.”

Sighing deeply, he finally raised his head. “Maybe I should have gone back, in spite of Bram telling me different. I guess I wanted to show him he needed to think before he issued orders like he was a potentator . . . a postenator . . . a—”

“A potentate?” Comfort asked gently.

“That's right. One of those.”

Bode looked at Comfort. “The first thing we need to do is get you back to your uncles. They had one job to do while we were gone, and that was to make certain everyone thought you were at home. If I can't be here with you, then I want you there.”

“All right. But what is it that you're going to be doing?”

“Killing Bram and calming Alexandra.”

“Bode.”

He shrugged. “I'll come for you later, or we might even stay with Newt and Tuck for a while. I'll know better what we should do once I've heard what Bram has to say.”

“I'll go,” she said, “because I want to see my uncles, but you shouldn't plan on abandoning me there. I won't stay without you. And you should expect that at this hour of the day they'll be at the bank, not at home.”

“You're right. Sam will escort you to the bank.” Bode pushed back his chair and stood. He went to his drawing table, scribbled a few lines on a pad, and then tore the paper loose. He handed it to Travers. “Can you get someone to gather those things for her?”

Sam looked at the list. “I can do this myself. I know just where to go.”

“There's money in a coffee tin in the pantry. Take what you think you'll need. Can you negotiate the stairs?”

“I can. I'm not as limber as I once was, but I still do for myself.” He got up. “Won't take but an hour or so.”

Comfort waited until he was gone before she went toe to toe with Bode. “Why didn't Bram's name come up when we were discussing threats and motives on the
Demeter
? You asked me questions about Newt and Tuck and never once offered Bram's name as a suspect. I know you, Bode. You've been thinking about him all along. Why wouldn't you tell me that?”

Bode didn't flinch, but he found it was more difficult to square off against Comfort when she was hurt than when she was angry. “I wanted to be wrong,” he said quietly. “And if I was right, I needed to be sure. He's still my brother, Comfort. Nothing he's done changes that. After I see him today, I may never speak to him again, but it doesn't alter the fact that we'll always be brothers. If there were other people who could have been responsible for what happened to you, I owed Bram the benefit of the doubt until all doubt was erased.”

He saw Comfort draw in her lower lip just enough to still its trembling. Tears welled but didn't spill. “I wanted to believe I was protecting you from his betrayal, but like everything else where Bram is concerned, it's more complicated than that. I knew that if Bram was responsible, then I was the one who made the attack on your carriage possible.”

She blinked and swiped impatiently at her eyes. “You? You didn't mention that when you were telling Mr. Travers what happened.”

“Because I wanted to say it to you first. I told Bram that I was going to meet with you and your uncles. I told him when. I told him where. Without that information, the Rangers couldn't have attacked your carriage.”

“That afternoon,” Comfort said. “They couldn't have attacked
that afternoon
. I've accustomed myself to the idea that it was inevitable. Someone wanted to make Bram pay by using me. It would have happened sooner or later. I was the security on his debt.”

“Do you understand that Bram gave someone the information that was needed to carry out the threat? No one else knew about our appointment.”

“But it was Bram who did that, not you. You probably thought nothing of it when you told him about our meeting.”

“I was angry with him. I stuck the knife in when I reminded him that he couldn't get out of bed, and I twisted it by telling him I was going to see you.”

“Still, that's hardly Cain and Abel.”

“I told him I was going to marry you.”

“You did?”

“Not precisely in those words. I told him I wouldn't try to convince you to marry him. I said something about throwing my hat in the ring.”

“Oh, well, that
was
rather Cain and Abel of you.”

Bode's attention was caught by the sly and wry twist of her mouth. He felt the corners of his mouth lift. She grounded him. “All right,” he said. “I'm done trying to martyr myself.”

“Good. It doesn't suit.” He surprised her by laying a hard, brief kiss on her lips. “What was that for?”

“For me,” he said, unapologetic. “That was for me.”

She gave him a small push that would have had no effect at all if he didn't want to be moved. “What was on that list you gave to Mr. Travers?”

He started to tell her but was interrupted by thumping and scraping noises on the stairs. “That's your trunk they're trying to bring up. Let me stop them until we know if we'll be staying with your uncles.”

Comfort removed herself to the bedroom to look around while Bode dealt with the men. As soon as he was finished with them, he went to get her. He stood in the doorway, leaned against the jamb, and watched her as she smoothed the coverlet on the bed and refolded the quilt at the foot of it. She was a study in the economy of movement, every line graceful, no twist or turn without purpose. Nothing wasted. He recalled how she'd set him back on his heels the one time they had waltzed together, the lithe, catlike motion that would have put him on the floor if she hadn't saved him from himself.

“Can you put me down?” he asked suddenly.

Startled, she glanced up. “Put you down? Like an old nag, you mean?”

“No. The way you did when we danced. Can you do that again?”

“Now?”

“Yes.” He glanced around. There wasn't enough clear space for a proper demonstration. “Not here, but in the other room.”

“I suppose. You're expecting it, so it would be more difficult, but I think I could.” She hugged the quilt to her chest. “Why would you want me to?”

“Humor me.” He saw she was still doubtful. “Please?”

She laid the quilt on the bed and followed him out of the room. “I wish you'd explain what you want,” she said, holding her ground when he turned to face her. “More importantly, why you want it. Do you think I'm still in danger, Bode? Is that it?” She began to circle him slowly, finding her balance and shifting her weight imperceptibly from heel to toe on her forward foot. “I hope you appreciate that these petticoats and all this drapery are an encumbrance.” Her arms lifted in an elegant arc, drawing his eyes to them. “And I did very little in the way of practicing while we were gone. Tell me, do you want me to draw back on the thrust or—”