“Mr. Monroe, I thank you for your timely assistance, but I—”
“I comprehend your reluctance to accept the services of a stranger, miss; however, someone pushed you—deliberately pushed you—into oncoming traffic. I will not leave you to a second attempt. If you will not accept my company, I shall follow along behind at a discreet distance to ensure that you arrive home safely.”
A second attempt? The words struck a note of terror in Tory’s heart.
She cleared her throat. “Very well. I shall . . . accept your offer, Mr. Monroe.”
“A wise choice.” He did not offer Tory his arm, but gestured for her to provide direction.
She nodded and set off for the corner. They crossed together and walked in silent companionship to her rooms.
When Tory turned to thank him, he forestalled her.
“Will you return to work after you change?”
“Why, yes. I must.”
“I shall wait for you,” he pointed at a bench under an awning, “just there and make sure you reach your shop intact, Miss Washington.”
It was only after they had arrived at Tory’s shop and he had left her that she realized, I never gave him my name, and he knew I worked in a shop. How could he have known?
Then she remembered. He must have heard the comments of the crowd while I sat in the gutter.
Nevertheless, she was not reassured.
O’DELL CALLED AT THE rear entrance of Victoria’s House of Fashion, so that his presence in the shop was unseen by her clients. However, the girl who opened the door to him lived at Palmer House and recognized him.
“Mr. O’Dell, sir!”
“You are Marion, are you not?”
She curtsied. “Yes, sir—and glad I am to see you, sir. Are you here because of what happened?”
“What do you mean? What has happened?”
Marion looked around, then whispered, “Miss Washington went out to the bank at lunch. A man pushed her into the street, and she was nearly run over.”
“What? Is she all right?”
“Yes, sir. A passing gentleman pulled her out from under the wheels of a motorcar, he did.” She looked around again. “Please do not say I told you. I overheard her telling Miss Tobin.”
O’Dell frowned. “Please tell Miss Washington that I am here. I must speak to her.”
“Right away, sir.”
She returned to escort him to an office where Tory rose from behind a desk to greet him. She turned hopeful eyes on him. “Have you news already?”
“No. I have ruled out Charles and Belinda Luchetti and Miss Visser, but I am no further along than that.” Tory’s expression was stoic as he related his visit to the Broadmoor.
“Roxanne Cleary told me Charles did not know, that he was not part of the plan to . . . to send me to Corinth. I suppose I had my doubts.”
“Charles had no idea. He was shocked.”
“Was he?” Tory was wary.
“I can only say that when I asked him about you, he appeared genuinely distressed that he had not heard from you in three years. He kept saying he did not understand why you left without saying goodbye.”
Tory dropped her face to her hands. “Miss Visser. She lied to me. She told me Charles refused to see me before I left.”
“All the lies will come out, Tory, if you are willing to confront them; however, it is more important that we deal with the present dangers first.” He allowed his displeasure to show. “You ignored my advice, Miss Washington. You left my office and straightaway ignored my advice.”
Tory sighed. “Who told you?”
“Who told me is not important. Someone tried to harm or even kill you, Miss Washington. The stalking and attempts to ruin you have become a frank attempt upon your life. These actions suggest personal animus at their core but, perhaps, also a more tangible purpose.”
Tory searched O’Dell’s face. “But what could that be?”
“I cannot say at present, but it is certain that you must take proper care for your safety.”
“My spring showing is but a week away. I and much of my staff are here day and night, working to complete our preparations. I am hardly alone or vulnerable.”
O’Dell’s ferocity intimidated her. “You are, as I have said, at your most vulnerable when you walk in public—whether day or night. If you do not have an escort, call a cab—particularly after dark.”
Tory winced. “I shall heed your admonitions, Mr. O’Dell.”
“See that you do. And I also cannot help but think that your upcoming fashion parade provides an opening for whomever is behind these attempts to discredit you.”
“What? How?”
“It is a public occasion. It presents a favorable time and opportunity for a bold and motivated individual to call you out before your friends and clients—to finish the job he began of ruining you. Or, if he has a more devilish goal, to attempt another assault on your person.”
Tory swallowed as she absorbed O’Dell’s “attempt another assault on your person.” “And yet the rationale eludes me. Why? What could motivate anyone to hate me so?”
“That is the missing piece, Miss Washington. The missing piece I must uncover. Please report any fresh faces or acquaintances to me in a timely manner.”
“I . . . I suppose I should mention that the gentleman who pulled me from the street just as I was about to be struck insisted on seeing me home to clean up.”
O’Dell’s expression hardened. “You accepted the escort of a stranger?”
“Certainly not—but he said he would follow me from a distance if I did not allow him to see me home safely. He waited outside while I cleaned up, then walked me to my shop.”
“Who is this man?” O’Dell demanded.
“Here is his card.”
O’Dell took the card. “Jack Monroe. I will set men to locate him immediately. In the meanwhile, I caution you to exercise the highest level of care, Miss Washington, and I will arrange suitable security at your fashion event next week.”
O’Dell tipped his hat. “I pray all will be resolved then.”
Chapter 38
Tory entered the ballroom to enthusiastic acclaim. She wore a gown of her own design for the event—a lovely, beaded creation that sparkled and shimmered along her slim figure as she moved. The light glinting from the amber beads infused her gleaming caramel skin with rich fire. The mahogany fox stole draped about her arms was the perfect accent. Golden pearls, courtesy of Grace Minton, adorned Tory’s neck and dangled from her ears.
Denver’s elite might not be present at Tory’s fashion parade in the numbers she had initially hoped for—but neither had as many stayed away as she had feared. The influence of Martha Palmer, Emily Van der Pol, her friends, and other godly women of Denver’s society had wrung a credible success from what could have been a resounding disaster.
While Tory’s entire spring lineup traveled the parade route, the models wending their way among the tables and posing before the seated guests, the hotel’s staff served hors d'oeuvres and beverages. When the models had twice walked the circuit, the popping of celebratory champagne corks signaled the beginning of the reception.
Tory was gratified to see a line forming at a side table where Miss Tobin was taking appointments. She circulated among her guests and thanked them for coming to view her spring lineup; she accepted their accolades at her success.
“Miss Washington, I simply adore your designs! I shall be making an appointment and placing an order as soon as you can accommodate me.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Lerner; you are too kind. I look forward to seeing you in my shop.”
Near the end of the reception, Tory retired from the crowd and stood near a watermarked silk curtain overhanging a cozy nook. She sipped on a champagne flute filled, at her request, with ordinary mineral water. As Charles would say, I do not wish my senses dulled.
From her vantage point in the room, Tory studied her guests and patrons—the wealthy and pampered of Denver. She kept
a small smile at all times, one she knew projected confidence and satisfaction, but it was a smile that gave nothing away. Particularly her fear. Without turning her head, Tory swept her eyes across the room, searching. Searching for that one individual in the crowd Mr. O’Dell had insisted would attend her event: the unknown someone who had proven himself determined to destroy her reputation and her business.
I am poised on the brink of success in this city while this man plots to harm me—but why? I do not understand. And will the reasons matter if he succeeds in ruining me?
Tory exhaled to calm her nerves. The “why” was unimportant at the moment and must wait for an answer. Mr. O’Dell believes this man—whomever he is—will be here, that my event presents him with a favorable time and opportunity to strike, neither of which he will pass over.
“He is likely here already,” Tory breathed, “waiting, biding his time.”
Tory nodded at Emily Van der Pol and Viola Lind to her far right. They are praising my designs to the heavens, Lord, she thought. Oh, please bless them for their love and support. I will never be able to thank them enough.
Her smile tightened in response to a nod from far across the room. The handsome gentleman raising a glass to her was also suspect: Jack Monroe. Tory did not believe Monroe to be the man who had dogged her steps from Philadelphia to Denver. She had caught glimpses of her stalker—and he was not Jack Monroe.
But Mr. O’Dell cautioned me to trust no one he has not personally cleared—and Mr. Monroe remains a cypher. An unknown entity.
She spied Edmund O’Dell moving among the guests. Tory trusted few individuals without limit—life had shown her how rare were those she could rely upon implicitly, but Edmund O’Dell was one such rarity. She knew he had placed three additional Pinkerton men in the room, one who stood his post mere feet behind Tory’s shoulder. O’Dell had assured her that the man would not leave her side.
Tory exhaled to calm her nerves. Mr. O’Dell is convinced my enemy will act this evening. She blinked as a thought occurred to her. Enemy? Or enemies? Could more than one man be stalking me? Is it possible?
She observed Jack Monroe edging his way through the reception throng. He was moving in her direction. As he moved closer, she saw his expression shift. Harden.
Tory’s pulse quickened in response. She looked around for O’Dell, hoping to catch his eye, hoping he was close by, but she had lost sight of him.
When she looked again at Monroe, his mouth had twisted; he began to run toward her. As he bore down on her, Tory panicked and dropped her champagne flute. She heard it shatter, but she had already turned toward Emily and Grace and the safety of their presence.
The Pinkerton agent assigned to protect her touched her elbow. “Miss Washington, Mr. O’Dell has ordered me to take you to safety. Come with me.”
Tory glanced back at Jack Monroe—he was running all out and shouting. The Pinkerton man, tugging on her arm, opened a service door that had been hidden behind the curtain. Tory was relieved to pass with him into the safety of the dark hallway.
O’DELL SAW THE SUSPECT’S headlong sprint toward Tory. He bulled his way through the crowd and launched himself at the man, catching him about the knees. They fell to the floor together—amid the shocked screams of nearby attendees. O’Dell got to his feet first, grabbed the collar of the man’s jacket, jerked him to standing, and pulled his arms behind his back. O’Dell’s two Pinkerton agents arrived; one of them grabbed the suspect from O’Dell.
“Not me, you fool!” the suspect shouted. He struggled, but could not free himself. “It’s not me—it’s him! He took her! He is going to kill her!”
O’Dell’s eyes jinked about the room, looking for Tory, but not seeing her; looking for her guard and not seeing him, either. Then he heard a faint, muffled scream. So did the man he held.
“Look—my name is Jack Monroe. I am not a threat to Miss Washington. Let me go—we can save her!”
One glance at the suspect’s expression told O’Dell what he needed to know. He nodded to his agent to release Monroe. “You saw where they went?”
“Yes. Follow me.” Monroe ran toward the service door.
O’Dell and his men followed close behind—nearly tripping over an unconscious form half hidden by trailing drapery. It was O’Dell’s Pinkerton agent, the detective assigned to guard Tory.
O’Dell clamped his jaws together. “Ignore him for now; Miss Washington is our first concern.” He and his two remaining agents followed Monroe through the service door into a dark corridor.
Monroe had stopped; he was listening, unsure of which way to go. Then he heard scuffling to their left and was off like a shot. The thudding, scraping grew louder—and then they saw.
The man had Tory pressed against a wall; his hands were about her neck, his fingers digging into her throat. Tory’s feet were flailing against the floor, kicking against the wall.
“Stop!” Monroe roared. He was on the man a second later—but instead of attempting to pry the attacker’s fingers from Tory’s neck, Monroe clouted the attacker’s ears with his open palms.
Howling with pain, Tory’s attacker released her—and collided with Monroe’s bunched fist. O’Dell arrived next and threw the man to the floor.
O’Dell and Monroe turned to Tory at the same time. She was barely conscious; her breathing was faint.
“Tend to her; I’ll be back directly,” Monroe hissed. He turned and sprinted down the hall toward the ballroom. One of O’Dell’s men, not fully trusting Monroe’s abrupt departure, raced after him. He found him at a serving table tossing crushed ice into a napkin.
“Do not get in my way,” Monroe commanded. “In fact, stay here and assure this crowd that Miss Washington will be all right—and have someone summon an ambulance.”
The Pinkerton man noted the pandemonium sweeping the ballroom. “Got it.” He raised his voice and announced, “May I have your attention, please! The, er, situation is under control. We have apprehended a man who, um, intended to disrupt the event. We have taken him into custody. Please do not be alarmed.”
“What about Miss Washington?” a man shouted.
“Yes! Is she safe? We heard her scream,” another voice chimed in.
“She is with friends. I, er, I believe she will be fine.”
Grace Minton challenged him. “Then why do you need an ambulance?”
“Yes, why?” Emily Van der Pol demanded. She drew herself up. “You will take us to her at once.”
WHEN MONROE RETURNED to the corridor, Tory was slumped against the wall, only semi-conscious. O’Dell was holding her hand and chafing it. Monroe removed and unfolded his pocket square, laid crushed ice into it, and rolled the kerchief into a poultice.
“Move,” he gestured to O’Dell. “I must place this ice on her throat to reduce the swelling.”
O’Dell, sensing only good intentions from Monroe, stood and stepped away.
Emily Van der Pol, strain and concern etched in her features, arrived seconds later, accompanied by Grace Minton.
“Do not worry,” O’Dell reassured them, “Our friend here has things in hand.”
“Our friend? Just who is he? And who is that man?” She pointed at the unconscious form not far from where they stood over Tory.
“I do not know, but I believe Tory’s champion here,” O’Dell jerked his chin at Jack Monroe, “will be able to answer our questions in due time.”
HOURS LATER, TORY RECLINED on the sofa in Emily Van der Pol’s parlor, a cool cloth about her swollen, bruised neck. Emily hovered nearby with an ice-filled beverage the doctor had insisted Tory sip on for the rest of the evening. Also in the room were Grace Minton and the quick-thinking Monroe. O’Dell had taken a chair near Tory, and placed the stranger on the other side of the room where he could study the man.
The doctor had departed. Tory’s attacker was in police custody.
It was time for answers.
O’Dell leveled his first question at Monroe. “Mr. Monroe, would you care to
tell us the identity of the man who attacked Tory?”
“Certainly, but please let me formally introduce myself. As I told you earlier, my name is Jack Monroe—John Monroe, actually, although I go by Jack.”
“We will accept your introduction at face value, Mr. Monroe—for the moment. Now, you saw the attacker take down my agent and that is why you ran toward Miss Washington, is that correct?”
“Something like that. I already knew that you were Pinkerton, Mr. O’Dell, so I familiarized myself with your men, particularly the one guarding Miss Washington. When I realized the guard was missing and saw who had taken his place? That was when I rushed to help.”
“You knew I was Pinkerton? And you just happened to be at her event? A complete stranger who had already saved Miss Washington once before? I don’t think so.”
O’Dell’s gaze hardened. “It is time you came clean with us, Mr. Monroe: How is it you know Miss Washington—and just how do you figure into her affairs?”
“Ah, yes—but, of course, I did not ‘just happen’ upon her event, Mr. O’Dell. I was present quite on purpose.”
“Why? You are unknown to Miss Washington and, I wager, you are not from around here.”
“Correct on both points. Before last week, I had never laid eyes on Miss Washington or set foot in your fair city. I am an attorney from New Orleans, Louisiana, as was my uncle, my mother’s brother, before me. As to how I figure into Miss Washington’s affairs,” Monroe nodded at Tory, “my uncle, Richard Follinger, handled your father’s estate.”
“My father?” Tory’s voice was not much more than a croak.
“Henri Declouette was your father, yes?”
Tory swallowed before she breathed her answer. “Yes.”
O’Dell touched Tory’s shoulder, and he whispered in her ear, “Courage, Miss Washington. I think we shall know everything soon, and your troubles shall be at an end.”
Monroe continued. “You may be unaware, Miss Washington, but your father made provision for you in his will.”
Tory Page 40