Lisa Bingham (2 page)

Knowing that she must regain control of the situation immediately or wither into a mortified ball, Louisa scrambled to wrap the remnants of her pride around her. In a heartbeat, she assumed the same imperious tone she had employed to put many a recalcitrant child in line.

“How
dare
you, sir!” she exclaimed in a voice barely more than a whisper. Then, needing some outlet for the unsettling mixture of embarrassment, exhilaration and awareness that still thrummed through her veins, she lifted a hand and slapped the fellow across his cheek.

Although she’d put every ounce of strength behind the gesture, he barely moved. She was beginning to believe that he was no mere man at all, but a slab of granite.

“How could you…
why
did you—” Unable to formulate a coherent sentence, she stamped her foot in fury and slapped him again.

Rather than appearing cowed, the stranger bowed his head ever so slightly in apology. But the effect was minimized by the humor that sparkled deep in his eyes.

“My apologies, ma’am.” He bent to scoop her parasol from the ground, pressing it into her numb hands before grabbing his hat. Slapping the brim against his leg, he dislodged most of the dust. Unfortunately, a betraying breeze carried the cloud of dirt in her direction, causing Louisa to cough and sputter.

“
Mon Dieu,
look what you ‘ave done. Look!” Chloe, clucking and exclaiming in French, hurried forward to bat at Louisa’s skirts. Small, dark and pretty, Chloe looked the epitome of a lady’s maid in her dark dress and dainty black bonnet.

Louisa gaped in horror at her gown. No amount of brushing would ever repair the ruined dimity. She was covered in dirt, soot and far worse. One of the ruffles had been torn from the skirt, leaving a gaping hole, while smaller rips appeared at her hip.

Her eyes squeezed shut and her hands tightened around the parasol with enough pressure to make the handle creak. Despite her efforts to control her infamous temper, she felt a white-hot tide of fury rise within her.

Vainly she tried to remind herself that the daughter of a marquess would hold her tongue, but the thought was no sooner formed than she blurted, “Have you escaped from Bedlam—or an American version of the same? What on earth would have possessed you to—to…” She gestured to her disarray with a wave of her hand.

The man had the audacity to grin. Insolently he settled his hat over the waves of his hair—hair sadly in need of a cut. He must be alone in the world. If he were attached to a wife or a sweetheart, she would have seen to his hair by now.

Stop it! It’s no concern of yours.

“My apologies, ma’am. I thought I heard a shot.”

Whatever explanation she had been expecting, this was not it. Louisa’s mouth moved wordlessly as she fought to put words to the whirling of her brain.

“A
shot?
” she finally echoed.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She saw a hint of a grin again.

Her speech grew clipped in disbelief. “What sort of shot?”

“A gunshot.”

She stared at him, completely unable to fathom how the sound of gunfire should inspire this man to leap forward, passing a half-dozen other women, to throw
her
to the ground.

“You can’t possibly think me so naive as to believe such a—such a crock of nonsense.”

Briefly, she remembered the sharp retort, but a glance in the direction the noise had come from confirmed that a crate of eggs had fallen from a large pile of baggage. A gooey mess was already beginning to soak into the weathered floorboards.

“Eggs,” she said through clenched teeth. “Not a gunshot, but eggs.”

“So it would seem.”

The stranger’s tone was so calm, so unflappable that she could have screamed again. How could he stand there, looking at her so blandly when she was…

A new wave of dismay swept through her body when the full import of her appearance sunk into her consciousness. Uttering a soft cry, she glanced over her shoulder just in time to see the noon train screeching to a halt amid a billow of steam.

“Chloe, help me!” Louisa turned to her maid in panic. But as the petite woman began fussing over the wrinkled flounces and repinning the bonnet to her tousled curls, Louisa knew that the maid’s efforts were in vain. She was about to meet her husband—a very wealthy and powerful Bostonian businessman—looking like a waif who had just crawled out of the gutter.

Her anger sparked anew. Without thinking about the consequences of her actions, she rounded on the man who had caused her current disaster.

“How
dare
you? How
dare you!
Today of all days when it is imperative that I look my best!” As she advanced toward him, she poked his chest with her index finger to drive her point home. “A gunshot? Hah! I should have you arrested on the spot for lunacy if not for incompetence!”

But her anger offered no comfort for her situation. Louisa felt the prick of tears behind her eyes—as much from the debacle of her appearance as the fact that her tirade hardly seemed to dent this man’s aura of confidence. Knowing that uttering another word might break the dam to her emotions, she swung her parasol at his arm, then whirled and strode away from him.

Slowly she made her way through the concerned onlookers. All the while, Chloe patted and tucked and pinned in an effort to repair some of the damage.

Louisa didn’t need a mirror to tell her that the maid’s efforts had done little to help the situation. She was a mess!

What if Charles took one look at her and sent her packing?

Louisa bit her lip to keep a sob from spilling free.

What if he took one look at her and knew that she was a fraud?

A chill swept through her body. Drat it all! Why hadn’t she held her tongue? The daughter of a marquess wouldn’t have railed at a stranger like a fishmonger. She would have withered him with a single glance before demanding that he be arrested for his actions.

Louisa groaned aloud when she remembered her parting shot. Surely she had revealed her coarse upbringing in that unguarded moment. A woman of the aristocracy would not lower herself to such an undignified display.

The train had come to a complete stop now. Steam ebbed into the humid air as the locomotive panted and heaved after its arduous journey.

Opening her parasol with a determined pop, Louisa studied the passengers beginning to step down to the platform.

Which one was Charles?

She had imagined so many versions of this first encounter that she wasn’t sure what she should expect. Would he travel alone or with an entourage? Would he be tall or slight, thin or stout?

Would he be a kind man?

Would he learn to love her?

She shivered as if a goose had walked upon her grave. The tiny hairs at the back of her neck prickled, her body suddenly alert.

Looking out of the corner of her eye, she stiffened when she discovered that the horrible stranger hadn’t dissolved into the crowd as she had believed.

Instead, he’d followed her.

London

T
ell me everything,” Horace Haversham said as he looked up from his ledgers at the man who had just entered the door.

Thomas Ritchie approached the desk, his heart knocking against his ribs in an anxious tattoo.

When Ritchie had first answered the advertisement for the job of private investigator, he’d thought little of what tasks might be required. He’d assumed that he might be asked to follow a wayward wife or find an old business acquaintance. For a man who had spent a lifetime devoted to petty crime, he’d thought that the situation accentuated his God-given talents for skulking in the shadows.

What he hadn’t expected was to become embroiled in a web of intrigue and murder—a web that he was powerless to avoid without implicating himself in the worst possible light.

Was it only a month earlier that Horace Haversham had employed Ritchie? Was it only a few weeks since Ritchie had discovered that Horace Haversham was a man who had literally risen from the dead?

Twenty years earlier, it had been reported that Horace had gone down in a ship destined for Hong Kong. He’d been on his way to set up trade agreements for the family shipping business. When the ship never arrived, it was assumed that Horace and all hands on deck had perished. The family title and fortune had immediately reverted to Oscar Haversham, Horace’s twin and younger brother by a mere hour.

“Well? Out with it! What do you have to report?”

Ritchie cleared his throat. Hooking a finger beneath his cravat, he attempted to loosen the constraint.

“As I have explained before, a servant in Oscar Haversham’s employ has become my informant. According to him, your brother’s health continues to worsen. Although he had hoped to reach Italy—and the warmer climate—his ship is still docked in Liverpool. There are rumors that his business dealings are deteriorating with amazing speed. According to one of his servants, Oscar is toying with the idea of journeying to America in the hopes of obtaining a loan from his new son-in-law, Charles Winslow III.”

There was no reaction on Horace’s face.

“And the girls? Have they been eliminated yet?”

Ritchie’s throat constricted and he wondered briefly if he would be shot for bringing bad news.

“No, milord.” Ritchie unconsciously employed the title that Horace had forfeited long ago. “The elder twin, Louisa Haversham Winslow, has been holed up in her hotel suite waiting for her husband-by-proxy to collect her. Although she has often ventured out of the building to shop and enjoy the theater, her situation has proved…awkward.”

“How so?”

Ritchie fumbled for a logical explanation. Dear sweet heaven above, they were casually conversing about murder!

After spending decades marooned on an uninhabited island, Horace Haversham had grown embittered and savage until, finally, he’d been rescued and returned to England. Determined to have his revenge on a brother who had failed to search for him, Horace intended to have his title back. But rather than claiming it as his right, he had decided to eliminate all possible heirs first, and thereby destroy his brother and exact a revenge he’d dreamed about for years.

Which meant that Oscar Haversham and his daughters would have to die.

Horace scowled impatiently. “
Why
has the task proved difficult?”

“T-too many prying eyes, I believe. The person you hired to…take care of the matter…has not had an opportunity as of yet.”

Horace grunted in irritation, but did not press the point. “What of the other one? Phoebe. The one destined for Oregon.”

This was the moment that Ritchie had been dreading. “In that respect, I have some bad news. Your…” Ritchie searched for the correct euphemism to employ before finally continuing. “Your…
people
failed in the attempt.”

Horace’s hands clenched around the arms of his chair and his whole body became rigid with fury. “What do you mean?”

“I—I mean that the plot was discovered. Your assistant—Mr. Badger, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, go on,” Horace said with an impatient wave of his hand.

“Mr. Badger traveled to America to orchestrate matters for you and…ensure that each of the tasks was…completed to your satisfaction.” Ritchie could feel the sweat gathering on his upper lip and between his shoulder blades. “This morning, he sent a telegram saying that the…the attempt against Miss Phoebe Gray was unsuccessful.”

Fearing that he would be punished for bringing the disappointing tidings, Ritchie threw the telegram onto the desk, then took two steps backward.

Scowling, Horace read the slip of paper, then swore, crumpling it into a ball that he threw to the floor. Jumping to his feet, he strode to the opposite side of the room and peered from beneath the blinds to the street below.

A stark sliver of light revealed his features. Not for the first time, the similarities between this man and the Marquis of Dobbenshire struck Ritchie. If the marquis had not been afflicted with consumption, he would have looked like this—tall, rugged, fierce. And yet…there was a cruelty to Horace’s features. One born from years of solitude and survival.

“The servant you spoke to…” Horace began.

“Yes?”

“Was he sure that Oscar intended to journey to America?”

“Yes, sir. Haversham’s business situation is so grave that there seems to be no other choice. Unless Oscar can obtain the money he needs in short order, his business empire will crumble.”

If Horace was concerned about his brother’s financial ruin, he gave no sign. Instead, he said decisively, “Send a telegram to Mr. Badger. Tell him I’m on my way to America. If Oscar is bound for Boston, then I intend to arrive there first. We’ll book passage on a steam sloop to save as much time as possible. Tell Mr. Badger that I want him to delay matters with Louisa Haversham until I get there.”

“Sir?”

“Don’t you see, Ritchie? I want my brother to sail for America thinking that he has a hope for redemption. I don’t want the girl killed until he is in Boston. Then I can watch his reaction when he discovers his efforts were all for naught.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“In the meantime, tell Badger that I insist he take care of the other girl immediately.”

Ritchie’s sweat turned ice cold as the harsh cast of Horace’s face intensified.

“I want her dead before I set foot on American soil.”

New York

Louisa quickly cast a glance around the crowd lingering on the platform. She’d already born the brunt of their curiosity and she didn’t relish making a scene again. Not when passengers were beginning to disembark.

Her hands balled into tight fists. Although she’d sworn that she wouldn’t speak to this stranger again, she had no alternative but to whisper tightly, “Go away.”

She could have been talking to a post. He stuck to her side like a burr.

“I thought I’d better stay to help you explain things,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble.

Louisa stiffened in horror at the mere idea of meeting Charles for the first time with this giant at her side. She was having a difficult time concentrating already. Her body ached from the fall and her skin still retained a portion of this man’s heat. She didn’t need a flesh-and-blood reminder of what had occurred. Especially not when the mere memory had the power to make her body grow warm and heavy.

“That isn’t necessary,” she hastened to assure him. Although it galled her, she added, “But thank you for your thoughtfulness.”

When he didn’t move, she glanced nervously at the train, then again at the stranger. “I really must insist that you leave,” she said desperately. “If you were to stay, it would make things…”

“Awkward?”

She released a quick breath of relief. “Immensely awkward.”

“Ah.” The stranger looked at the crowd. “Exactly who are you meeting?”

Were all Americans so blunt, so intrusive, so…forceful?

She refused to answer, but when it became apparent that he didn’t intend to leave without an explanation, she said, “My husband.”

“Ahh.” His eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

Louisa felt her balance momentarily desert her at his careful inspection.

“You don’t look like a married woman,” he stated bluntly.

She swallowed hard, wondering if the man had managed to tap into her thoughts somehow.

“You look…untouched.”

Louisa gasped, scrambling to think of a scathing retort. But at that moment, she became aware of a stocky, balding gentleman who had stopped a scant yard away. He was staring at her with such open dismay that she flushed anew.

Was this mousy-looking fellow Charles?

Disappointment made her speechless for a moment. Somehow she’d thought that such a successful businessman would have a different air about him. There was something…subservient about the man, not forceful, as she had imagined.

“Charles?” Louisa breathed, ignoring the giant at her side and trying not to compare the two men.

Taking a step forward, she extended a hand for his kiss. But when the man took it, his touch was cool and restrained. He held her hand awkwardly, then offered a little shake rather than a kiss.

“You are Louisa Haversham Winslow, I presume?”

“Yes.”

The man released her and dug into a leather portfolio he carried, offering her a neatly printed card.

“My name is Grover Pritchard.”

So he wasn’t Charles.
Louisa felt a wave of relief.

“I am Charles Winslow’s lawyer.”

“Lawyer?” Her lips could barely form the word. An icy fear settled in her veins. Had she been found out?

Mr. Pritchard glanced at the giant, who continued to stand behind her.

Turning pointedly, Louisa stated, “You may go now. As you can see, I’ve been delivered into safe hands.”

The giant didn’t move. Instead, he was studying Mr. Pritchard with open suspicion.

Louisa’s panic increased. “I must insist that you return to your own activities. This man will deliver me safely to my husband, I can assure you.”

Still the stranger offered no sign of leaving.

Huffing in impatience, Mr. Pritchard took Louisa’s arm, drawing her aside.

“Who is that man?” he whispered, casting disapproving glances over her shoulder.

“I—I don’t know. I…suffered a mishap a few minutes ago, and he felt it necessary to wait with me until Charles arrived.”

Her explanation bordered on untruth, but she prayed the lawyer would accept the words at face value.

Mr. Pritchard gave a soft grunt, then took her elbow as if to steady her. “Mrs. Winslow, I’m afraid I have some rather…distressing news to impart.”

A trembling began in her extremities and she felt the world around her lurch, but Louisa clung to her wits with every ounce of will she possessed.

Mr. Pritchard paused to glower again at the stranger behind them, before murmuring, “I really must insist that you return to your hotel room, where I can meet with you more privately.”

Charles didn’t want to create a public scene. He would send the police to fetch her from the suite where she’d lived for the past two weeks.

Unconsciously, Louisa clutched Mr. Pritchard’s arm. “Please,” she whispered through wooden lips. “Tell me now.”

Mr. Pritchard looked down, clearly fearing that Louisa would react badly. “Madam, your husband…”

“Yes?”

“Your husband is dead.”

Dead?

Louisa wasn’t sure if she had actually uttered the word aloud. Shock shuddered through her body, robbing her of strength.

“No…” She managed to summon a faint laugh. “There must be a mistake. I just received a…a telegram from Charles a few days ago….”

Obviously fearing she would faint, Mr. Pritchard drew her toward a bench and sat beside her. “
I
sent those telegrams, Mrs. Winslow.” He took her hand. “I hope you will forgive me, but I didn’t know how to break the news in such a blunt fashion. I thought it would be best if I were here.”

When Louisa continued to stare at him in bewilderment, he continued. “Charles grew ill during his last business trip, gravely ill. When I asked him whether I should send for you, he refused. He didn’t want to worry you. Unfortunately, in the past week, his condition deteriorated quickly. There wouldn’t have been time for you to join him even if I’d sent you a message.”

“Dead?” Louisa whispered again, unable to fathom the reality of the situation. She had prepared herself for many things, but not this.

Mr. Pritchard abruptly stood, motioning to Chloe. “Please take Mrs. Winslow back to her suite. She’s had a shock, and I hardly think the midday heat is good for her.”

“But of course,
monsieur,
” Chloe murmured, making a sad tsking sound with her tongue.

Mr. Pritchard turned back to Louisa, helping her to rise. “I’ll join you directly, Mrs. Winslow. For now, I think you need a few minutes alone. I have several matters to attend to so that the bod—Mr. Winslow’s remains can be brought here. Once I’ve finished, I’ll meet with you again. At that time, we can prepare for your trip to Boston and see to funeral arrangements.”

Distantly, Louisa was aware of Mr. Pritchard leading her through the station house. But even as she scrambled to make sense of the situation, a single thought stuck in her mind like a burr.

Once again, due to a bitter twist of fate, she was being forced to wait in New York until her husband—or in this case, her husband’s body—arrived.

A wave of blackness swam in front of her eyes. Louisa felt herself falter, but not from grief. She did not wish to be disrespectful of Charles Winslow and his unfortunate demise. But if the truth were known, she had been given little information about him other than his name and his supposed wealth. No, what had the ability to steal the breath from her body was the precariousness of her predicament. In one simple declaration she had fallen from being Mrs. Charles Winslow III, wife of a wealthy Bostonian entrepreneur, to…

To being no better off than she’d been before leaving England.

Once again, she was alone with no means of revenue to support herself.

Somehow, through a fog of confusion, she heard Mr. Pritchard reiterate his condolences, and a bitter laugh lodged in her throat.