At Love's Bidding (28 page)

One Week Later

So this was Boston? As Wyatt stepped out of the noisy train depot, all that met his eyes were buildings stacked up against each other like fence staves with no space in between. Wagons crowded the road so closely that a man could've crossed the street by hopping from carriage to carriage without ever once touching his feet to the ground. A boy, heavy laden by a canvas bag strapped around his chest, stepped in front of him and waved a newspaper before his eyes. With just a glimpse of the flaying headline, Wyatt read:
MYSTERIOUS
LEBLANC
ARRIVING
 . . .

“What's that say?” he asked.

William snatched the paper, crumpled it under his arm, and tossed the boy a coin. “Just a bit of insurance. Miss LeBlanc notified the papers so everyone would anticipate your arrival and you couldn't mysteriously disappear on your journey.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Wyatt asked.

“I didn't mean to imply you'd die willingly.”

Oh. Wyatt's teeth clenched. Maybe he should've been more vigilant on the train.

But they had reached town safely, and now Wyatt followed William across the street, swinging his head from right to left, watching for a stray runaway carriage. Once they were back on the sidewalk, the way was no easier. He caught himself peering into each and every face they passed. Used to knowing everyone he encountered, Wyatt couldn't understand why the Bostonians acted so snippy from the attention. Glares and oaths resulted left and right. He reckoned he'd have to learn to walk like William, head held high, ignoring everyone, but Wyatt couldn't stretch his legs out without trampling over a child peddling something.

“Do we have far to go?”

“It's uphill to the Common and then from there only a few blocks. If you get tired I'll hail a cab, but I thought you might appreciate getting a sense for the city. Especially after the long ride we've had.”

He couldn't see enough of the city. At every corner he looked for Miranda or Elmer in the off chance that they'd happen to be outside among the crowds of people.

As they walked they passed through a section of the city where the smell of smoke hung thick on the buildings under construction. “Is this part new?” Wyatt asked.

“Yes and no,” William answered. “Last November the business district had a blaze that got out of control. It burned sixty-five acres of buildings to the ground.”

“Sixty-five acres?” Wyatt couldn't get his mind around a town that big, much less it burning. “And that happened here?”

“Yes, sir, but the Bostonians didn't sit in the ashes and wring their hands. As you can see, the streets are filling back up.”

Wyatt would prefer they'd leave some of those roads empty so a man could breathe. “Did the Wimplegates lose anything in the fire?” he asked.

“They were south of the blaze, not far from here. If we continue our course a block over, we'll walk past their auction house—if you approve.”

William was acting all fancy, as if Wyatt were someone important. “I reckon I'd like that.” He had to see Miranda. He owed her an apology after accusing her of being in cahoots with McSwain. As soon as he was settled here in town . . .

They turned down a smaller alley, thrown into deep sweltering shade. The heat bounced off the white stone building they were passing on his left.

“This is their business.” William threw a nod toward the building. “Looks quiet today. Maybe they don't have a sale.”

The building was one of those fancy Greek structures that politicians seemed to favor for their offices. The second and third floors didn't quite match the base, but when it came to style it was definitely more planned out than his angular barn at home.

They turned the corner to see the front doors. “Doesn't look like they're open.” The twelve-paned windows displayed only the backside of rich blue drapes. Pillars as thick as hundred-year oaks flanked the double doors at the entrance. Too easily he could imagine Miranda here. Too easily he could remember her shock when she arrived at his barn. No wonder.

A buggy had stopped at the entrance. One look to see if he recognized the passengers—when would he stop looking people in the face?—but seeing only a stranger, he turned away.

“Wait.” William tugged at his own cravat and dusted off his sleeves before stepping to the street and grasping the handle on the carriage door. Wyatt couldn't see past him but knew it must be a lady from the way he bowed and then straightened with his chest puffed out. Evidently a pretty lady had the same
effect on a man no matter what part of the country he was from. One hand on the door, he motioned to Wyatt. “Please.”

It went against Wyatt's instincts to climb into the little cage on wheels, but his instincts wouldn't always serve him through these new experiences. He ducked inside and slid onto a velvet-covered bench opposite the lady. Before William could join him, he'd taken in the rich interior—the fringe hanging over the windows, the flower-filled glass vases bracketed to the wall. Something, either the flowers or the woman, smelled good.

“Had our paths crossed in the street, I would have known you,” she said. She held his gaze with eyes as green as his own. “I congratulate you on your success, William. It'd be impossible for even Frederic to miss the resemblance.”

He'd expected her to be older—more like Ma's age—but then again, she was his father's youngest sibling. Already her youthful fleeting beauty had matured into something that promised to endure.

“Aunt Corinne?” He tucked his long legs in tighter to his bench. “I didn't think we'd meet here.”

“You and William did stray from the path, but I had a good idea where you might wander. Forgive me for my impatience. I had to see for myself before Monty King put you through the test.”

Of course. He hadn't thought it'd be that easy, had he? After years of denying Ma and Pa's letters, they wouldn't just roll over and show their throats because he'd bought a train ticket. The carriage dipped. Wyatt looked out beneath the fringed curtains at the busy street, amazed that after all their walking they were still in town.

“So what do we call you?” she asked. “I fear we've disrupted your life and don't want it to be more painful than necessary.”

“Wyatt is my name . . . and so is LeBlanc. I see no reason to pretend otherwise.”

“I was never fond of Yves anyway.” Her gaze stole to William, who was obviously mooning over her. “I wish we had more time to become acquainted before this interview,” she said, “but the painting and its story made it back before you. Frederic and Mr. King are awaiting your arrival and are none too pleased with me.”

William gripped the edge of his seat. “Just say the word and I'll make Monty King sorry.”

“Dear William, ready to take on the world for me.” She smiled fondly, but clearly the gesture was received with more thought than it was given. “When I heard how they were trying to ruin the Wimplegate family, I had to disclose my actions. I confessed that I'd been the one who arranged for the painting to be sold and shipped west. I didn't tell them where initially, because I wanted to give Yves . . . er, Wyatt . . . time to think through his decision, as well as time for us to determine what sort of man this Wyatt Ballentine was. The attorney must have had a guilty conscience, because he's the one who deduced that I'd learned of their old secret.”

“Why did you do it?” Wyatt asked. “Don't you trust your brother more than a stranger?”

“My brother, maybe, but not Mr. King. As you're probably too chivalrous to mention, I'm a young lady no longer. All my life I've wanted adventure, to travel, to meet people. When I present my plans to Frederic, he worries so much he can't make any decisions whatsoever and passes it on to Mr. King. For years he's claimed that I couldn't afford any expenses, and then he gives me some extra pocket money—as if that takes the place of freedom. Eventually, I refused to take his excuses and began
to investigate our finances for myself, but it hasn't been easy. Mr. King opposes my every request, and Frederic doesn't want to cause any problems. He's content to stay at home as long as his dinner is cooked and he has enough credit at the clubs.”

“So you hired a detective?”

Her eyes slanted in fondness. “Dear William. He's been my salvation throughout this, my contact with the outside world. At first, I lived vicariously through William's adventures—his dangerous cases—but then we realized that the biggest mystery of all might be in my own family. And so we started looking for you.”

She ducked her head, her earrings swinging with the rocking of the coach. “But enough about my trials. How are you feeling, Wyatt? I can't imagine the questions you must have.”

He wondered how much his aunt and his father had favored each other. His own green eyes were all he recognized from her, but such things were difficult to judge for oneself. “I knew my father claimed to be from a fine Boston family, but then the LeBlancs told Ma that they didn't know me, that my father was a liar. I tried to forget what I'd been told, but even if that picture hadn't come, I would've made my way here someday. I always wondered what I'd find.”

“Prepare for a difficult start,” Corinne said. “I'm sure there'll be many adjustments, but there's no denying your paternity. You have your father's eyes and his bearing.”

William leaned against the seat. “The testimony of your adopted brother helps, too. Although he was just a child, his memory of the wagon train and your abandonment verifies what we already know.”

Thank you, Isaac
. He couldn't do the calling for the auction like Wyatt could, but he'd been anxious to jump in and learn
the ropes. Wyatt had been surprised by how much he did know. Evidently he'd been paying more attention to Pa than Wyatt gave him credit for.

The curtains swayed, revealing swaths of a bright green spread. Men swung wooden mallets at a ball to roll it from hoop to hoop. Women strolled with parasols overhead, their dresses reminding him of Miranda, but none of them walked as graceful as she. What was she doing now? Had she heard that he'd followed her home? He'd prayed over this meeting ever since he'd learned it was going to happen. Now that the significance of the painting was understood, surely Miranda would forgive him for keeping it.

The carriage stopped. William descended, then turned to help Corinne down. Wyatt ducked through the opening, nearly tripping as he tried to take in the massive redbrick building before him. It was two, three, four stories high, with small round windows popping out above that. He stumbled backward a step trying to count all the white-framed, black-shuttered windows on the face of the home. And yet for all the windows, there was no porch. The front of the house was flat up against the walkway, just like every other building pressing in on both sides.

“Do you live here?” he asked Corinne.

“I prefer spending my time at our Cape Cod home, but this townhouse works well enough for when I must come to the city.”

“And my father?”

“He grew up here. Loved to fly kites with me on the Common.”

William forged ahead, his steps made brisk by the importance of his task. He seemed to challenge the curious stares of the man, dressed in a fancy suit, who opened the door.

“Is that my uncle?” Wyatt whispered.

Corinne squeezed his arm. “It's the butler. Perhaps you should hold your questions until we're alone again.”

The noises from outside blurred as they entered. Then the door swung shut behind them and the boom echoed through the vast room.

Not the least intimidated, Corinne released his arm and swept forward. With quick tugs, she removed her gloves and deposited them, along with her hat, in the hands of the butler.

“Jeffrey, tell Frederic we've arrived.”

“He's waiting in the library, ma'am,” and then in an undertone, “and Mr. King has done his best to trouble him over the matter.”