Ladies of Intrigue

by Michelle Griep

  They crept together into a back room. Dirt coated the floors. Empty pegs poked out from a wall, save for one, where a stiff, mildewed canvas hung like a piece of meat on a hook. An upturned bucket lay in one corner. Amanda stared harder. Wait a minute. That was no bucket. The dark shape darted for the open door.

  Maggie shrieked, her nails digging into Amanda’s arm. Together they sprinted blindly down a corridor and into another room.

  Panting, Maggie slapped her hands to her chest. “This … is … a …”

  “Terrible idea,” Amanda finished. Her own heart beat loud in her ears. That had been a scare, but a raccoon or stray dog or whatever that had been was not going to get the best of her.

  She caught her breath and scanned the room, what she could see of it anyway. Hard to tell with the last of day’s light hovering near the windows. This might’ve been a grand room, once. Large. Stately. But now wallpaper blistered on the walls, blackened plaster lay in piles on the floor, where sporadic floorboards yet remained. What a ruin.

  Ignoring the rubble, Amanda picked her way over to an old desk tipped sideways, nearly tipping sideways herself as her toe caught in a hole in the floor.

  Maggie groaned. “This isn’t safe. I’m leaving.”

  “Hold on, Mags. I feel sure we’ll find something.” Yanking out drawer after empty drawer, Amanda rummaged faster. “If it makes you feel better, go stand by the front door and wait for me there.”

  Maggie’s footsteps padded off. Then stopped. “Did you hear that?” Her friend’s voice squeaked.

  Amanda straightened and listened, having turned up nothing but an empty inkwell and broken pen nibs. “What?”

  “The floorboards upstairs. They creaked.” Maggie’s words choked into a whisper. “We are not alone.”

  “Of course we’re not.” She flicked her fingers toward the ceiling. “There are probably squirrels racing around up there. Wait outside if you like.”

  Maggie scooted one way, Amanda the other. In a smaller room across the hall, a few old books lay riffled open on the floor.

  She snatched one up, paper crumbling as she paged through it. No names. Just a lot of dust that tickled her nose. Fighting a sneeze, she grabbed the other book and—paused. Plaster bits rained down on her head. Was something heavier than squirrels upstairs?

  Straining hard to listen, she held her breath and glanced up. Another poof of ceiling sprinkles dropped. Then another. And another. Paces apart. Traveling in a straight line.

  As if a person were walking.

  Maybe this had been a terrible idea. Her stomach twisted and her mouth dried to bones. She couldn’t shriek if she wanted to—nor did she need to.

  Maggie’s scream ripped the silence.

  Autumn evenings generally fell hard and fast. So did the lad who’d sprinted down the Grigg front driveway and sprawled in the gravel. Another boy disappeared through a hole in the side gate. Joseph narrowed his eyes. What mischief was this?

  He jerked his gaze to the third-floor window. The drapery was wide open—and the timing couldn’t have been worse.

  Anger ignited a slow burn in his gut. If those boys had discovered what he’d so carefully kept hidden this past year, the whole operation could grind to a halt. Well, then … he’d just have to put the fear of God and man into the remaining lad.

  He took off at a dead run and hauled the hoodlum up by his collar. “What are you doing—?”

  His words, his rebuke, his very thoughts vanished with the last light of day. Wide blue eyes stared into his. Blond curls escaped a tweed flat cap, framing a cherub face. A fresh scrape bloomed on one cheek, set below a tiny crescent scar. Recognition punched him hard.

  “Amanda?” He’d experienced many a surprise in twisted legal cases, but this? His hand fell away, and he retreated a step, shaking his head to clear it. “What are you doing here? And dressed like a boy, no less?”

  Tears sprouted at the corners of her eyes, rolling out one after another. “Joseph … I—I can explain.”

  “You’d better.” His voice came out harsher than intended. But sweet mercy! She had no idea what she might’ve seen. The hard work she might’ve undone. The women’s lives she might’ve ended—

  The danger she’d been in.

  He clenched his jaw so hard it crackled in his ears. “You could’ve fallen down a loose stair and broken your neck! What were you thinking?”

  She cringed. “I didn’t … think.”

  Choppy little breaths strangled whatever explanation she attempted. He’d get nowhere trying to bully an answer out of her.

  Sighing, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and led her to a boulder, away from the drive and far from the street. It wouldn’t do for the city attorney to be seen embracing a boy.

  “Just breathe.” He pressed her down onto the rock and dug into his pocket, retrieving a handkerchief. Dropping to one knee, he dabbed the blood on her cheek and dried her tears. As much as he’d love to throttle this woman, his anger slowly seeped away with each quiver of her lip.

  When her chest finally rose and fell with regularity, he started over. “Now then, let’s try this again. What are you doing here, dressed like this?”

  She sucked in a last, shaky breath. “Trying to find a name.”

  “A name.” Even repeating it, the reason made no sense. “I don’t understand.”

  She blinked as if she were the one perplexed. “I told you I wanted to acquire the deed to this place. I need the name of the owner.”

  He frowned. “You also told me you’d wait until after the election.”

  “I never said that.”

  “What?” Crickets chirped a singsong beat as he revisited their last conversation in his mind. “You stood there, in my office, and agreed to give up this project of yours until later.”

  She wrinkled her pert little nose. “I agreed I wouldn’t burden you, not that I’d give up my quest.”

  “Of all the absurd, irrational …” Stuffing the handkerchief away, he pressed the heel of his palm to the bridge of his nose and the ache spreading there. Would married life be this confusing?

  “Joseph, you don’t understand. If I fail at my first project, Lillian will never let me live it down. And Father …” She heaved a great sigh, as mournful as the breeze whistling through the barren branches. “All my life I’ve tried to be the son he never had. I thought that this time, as a chairwoman, he’d see me as a success.”

  The hurt in her voice sobered him, and he turned to her. “But the only good opinion you need is God’s, my love. And that you have. His and mine.”

  She blinked, eyes once again filling with tears—and the vulnerability he saw there broke his heart.

  He skimmed his fingers over her cheeks. “You are loved. Trust in that. Believe in that.”

  Pulling her into his arms, he lowered his mouth to hers. A kiss wouldn’t solve everything, not a hurt so deep, but that wouldn’t stop him from trying anyway. Slowly, she leaned into him, hopefully surrendering some of the pain she harbored.

  By the time he released her, she gazed up with luminous eyes—but this time not from weeping.

  “I love you, Joseph Blake.”

  “I love you too, soon-to-be Mrs. Blake.” He tapped her on the nose.

  She smiled. Slowly, her brows drew together beneath the rakish boy’s cap. “Wait a minute … what are you doing here?”

  He glanced up at the darkened house. As much as he yearned to be completely honest with her, he yet owed it to his aunt for the promise she’d wrenched from him years ago. Of course he’d reveal the truth eventually, but now? Breathing in the scent of Amanda’s sweet lilac cologne, feeling the warmth of her next to him in the cool of the eve? The thought of her possible rejection punched him in the gut.

  No, not yet. Soon, but not yet.

  Donning his attorney mask, he gazed back at her. “I decided to walk home from the office tonight and heard a scream. And a good thing I came upon you instead of someone else. Now, shall I walk you h
ome and sneak you in before your father sees your attire? Hey … where did you get those clothes anyway?”

  “My secret.” She grinned.

  Leaning close, he kissed her forehead and whispered against her soft skin, “Fine, hold on to your secrets. For now.”

  He stood and offered his hand—for he would hold on to his, for now, as well.

  Chapter Six

  Yawning away the last bit of sleep, Amanda stretched her neck one way and another, then entered the dining room. She might need more than one cup of coffee this morning. Was Maggie this weary after last night’s intrigue at the Grigg house?

  But as soon as her foot crossed the threshold, her step faltered. Ensconced in a chair at the far end of the big table, her father gripped an open newspaper as if it kept him afloat. Which it did. He could no more navigate life without his precious business section than a ship without a rudder. Strange, though. He usually took breakfast hours before her.

  “Good morning, Father.” She crossed the room and pecked him on the cheek, his whiskers as prickly as his usual disposition.

  He mumbled something, more a rumble than a greeting, without pulling his eyes from the newsprint.

  She retreated to the sideboard and reached for the silver urn, steam yet curling out the spout. Good. Nice and hot. After pouring coffee into her cup and stirring in some cream, she seated herself opposite her father. “I am surprised to find you at home this late in the morning.”

  The paper lowered slowly, revealing Charles Carston’s face inch by inch, from the white hair crowning his balding head to the frown folding his mouth nearly to his necktie. “Indeed. I should be at the office, but I need to speak with you, Amanda.”

  His gaze pierced like a flaming arrow. She swallowed a mouthful of coffee for fortification, heedless of the burn. Had he found out about last night? “Sounds ominous.”

  “It is.” He folded his paper, crease after crease, using the methodical movement and the tick-tock of the mantel clock to batter her nerves.

  Finally, he laid the Pioneer Press beside his plate. “I’ve heard rumors, Amanda.”

  She set down her cup, sickeningly awake without having finished it. “Oh? What rumors?”

  “A tale of inappropriate behavior … by my daughter.”

  Her stomach twisted, and she shoved her cup away. How had he found out about her escapade of the previous evening? Maggie couldn’t have told, for she’d be censured as well. And certainly not Joseph. She pressed her napkin to her mouth, hiding her trembling lips. Who else could’ve seen her?

  She lowered the napkin to her lap, clutching it as tightly as he had the paper. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Father.”

  “Mr. Warnbrough saw you traipsing about city hall the other day, unaccompanied I might add. Do you know what kind of women frequent city hall alone?” His fist slammed the table, rattling the water glasses. “Harlots!”

  She stifled a flinch. Barely.

  “Betrothed or otherwise, it is not seemly for you to be seen chasing after Joseph Blake in public.” His eyes narrowed, pinning her to the chair. “I am ashamed of you.”

  Her stomach rebelled, queasiness rising up to her throat. Could he never think the best of her? “But I did nothing of the sort.”

  “You deny an eyewitness?” Red crept up his neck, like a rising thermometer about to explode. “One of my esteemed friends?”

  “No. I deny your conjecture.” She shoved back her chair. Breakfast now was out of the question. “I was not ‘chasing after’ Mr. Blake. Honestly, Father, what kind of daughter do you think you raised?”

  “Then what were you doing?”

  She turned from his awful glower and stared out the window. How dare the sun shine so merrily on this horrible morning? She’d have to tell him about the Grigg project, but it was too soon. Too uncertain. Not yet a conquest she could offer him to gain his regard.

  “I asked you a question, Amanda.”

  He left her no choice. Inhaling until her bodice pinched, she slowly faced him. “As chairwoman of the Ladies’ Aide Society, it is my assigned duty to acquire the deed to the old Grigg estate by the end of the month.”

  “The Grigg house?” His brows met in a single line. “What on earth for?”

  “I had an idea to turn it into a school. An institution.” The more she spoke, the deeper his scowl—and the stronger her determination to change his disapproval to admiration. “The Grigg home will provide a safe place where children of need can receive an education without wilting beneath the scrutiny of those who deem them unfit to be taught.”

  He shot to his feet, his chair rearing back from the sudden movement. “Why this obsession with the poor? Surely you know the Warnbroughs and others frown upon such associations. We must play by society’s rules. Furthermore …”

  His voice droned on while he paced the length of the table. Her eyes followed the movement, and she gave the appearance of listening, but truly there was no need. She’d heard this tirade so often she could stand at a podium and present it with as much gusto as he.

  “… Or find ourselves counted among the outcasts. You are a lady of upstanding circumstance. Why can you not be happy with dinners and dances?”

  Disgust choked her as much as the aftertaste of her coffee. She stood and tipped her face to frown up into his, despite her being shorter than him by a good six inches. “And why can you not soften your heart toward those less fortunate? Life is more than entertainment, a fact the privileged have a hard time understanding.”

  “That privilege, Daughter, I have worked long and hard to achieve.” His words bled out as if from a deep, jagged cut. “Yet you dare undermine all that I’ve accomplished, knowing from where I’ve come. I do help the poor, more than you’re aware, but I will never—ever—live amongst them again.”

  Her vision swam, and she forced back tears. It was a sharp blow, one that stung. Not only was she not the son he’d always wanted, but she was an ungrateful, spiteful daughter as well. She padded over to him and placed a hand on his sleeve. “I didn’t mean that, Father. I know you’ve worked hard. Please—” Her voice broke, and she swallowed. “Forgive me.”

  He pulled from her grasp and stalked to the door without so much as a backward glance.

  Swinging down from the carriage in front of city hall, Joseph closed the door behind him. Too bad it wasn’t as easy to shut out the ruckus of itinerant merchants, hawking their goods like carnival barkers on State Street. Strange that Craven didn’t change the zoning around here, for his office faced the busiest side of the road.

  He retrieved a coin and paid off the cab driver just as his friend Henry Wainwright charged toward him.

  “The hero of the day!” Henry’s meaty hand slapped him on the back. “Congratulations on finally breaking that Hofford case.”

  Joseph shot him a sideways glance. “A little premature, don’t you think?”

  “Hah!” He shoved a newspaper into his hands. “Don’t play coy with me, Blake.”

  What the devil? Shaking open the front page, he focused on a bold headline: FINANCIER CHARGED WITH EXTORTION.

  Scanning further, he read: “Last night in a swift move by City Attorney Joseph Blake, the underhanded dealings of the Hofford Financial Group were finally brought to an end as Phillip Hofford was taken into custody.”

  What? The words were like rocks cast into a pond, sending out ripple after ripple. How could that be? He was still waiting on a deposition from his informant, Hofford’s brother-in-law. This made no sense, especially since he’d spent the evening secreting Amanda home from the Grigg house, then dining with her.

  He continued. “Blake cast a wide net to entrap the unscrupulous Hofford, enlisting the aid of other departments and even that of the city council, chaired by Mr. Willard Craven.”

  The newspaper drooped in his hand. Craven. He should’ve known. But why would Willard help him with this when the man did nothing but thwart every effort to shut down the brothel? He scrubbed his jaw wi
th his free hand. Could it possibly be a peace offering?

  He rejected the idea immediately. Men like Craven didn’t go out of their way to help anyone for such a trivial ideal as peace. Something smelled as rank about this as the fresh pile of horse droppings landing on the cobbles behind him.

  “Drink tonight at the club?”

  Henry’s voice derailed his train of thought. “Sorry. What?”

  “I said, meet me at the club for a celebratory drink tonight?”

  Club. Craven. Their last meeting barreled back. Craven hadn’t linked his name to the brothel, as promised, but instead dished it to the press by tying him to an extortion case. A very public way of sending him a message. Bribery in the open, for all to see. Leave it to a degenerate like Craven to come up with the idea of hush publicity.

  “Did you even hear me?” Henry asked.

  He shoved past his friend and wove his way through businessmen and legal aides. Darting into the lobby, he took the stairs two at a time. This early in the day, the scent of coffee and aftershave clung to the men he passed, until he neared Craven’s office. There cigar smoke tainted the hall like a yellow stain. Joseph shoved the door open. No secretary graced this single room. Craven wasn’t important enough, which almost made Joseph smile.

  He strode from door to desk and slapped the paper onto the mahogany. “I’m only going to say this once, Craven, so listen up. I cannot be bought.”

  The man’s waistcoat jiggled as he chuckled. “My dear Blake, think of it as one colleague helping another. You were stuck. I merely gave you a push—or rather, I pushed Hofford’s brother-in-law. I should think you’d be grateful for the positive publicity.”

  He clenched every muscle to keep from leaping over the desk and grabbing the man by his collar. “I don’t need your help,” he choked out. “I need you to get out of my way.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.” Willard stabbed out his ever-present cigar into an overflowing ashtray, little poofs of grey exploding past the edge. His smile flattened into a straight line. “I’ll stay out of your way, as long as you stay out of mine.”