by Goodman, Jo
"Not really," Susan said. "I don't think you're far off the mark. It's odd, Scott, but when I saw her I was struck by the notion that we had met before. Or at least that I had seen her somewhere, and recently, too."
"Where could that have taken place?"
Susan paused, searching for the right word. "How shall I describe it? Someplace ordinary."
"Ordinary? How do you mean?"
"You know, like the butcher's. Or standing in line at the bank or the greengrocer's. It would have been an encounter like that. Not likely, is it?"
"No, not likely. Especially not if it was recently. Jenny has not been out of Marshall House since Christian took her inside. It's no longer a matter of hiding her. She's the one hiding now, and if I realize it, you can be sure Christian knows it as well."
Susan agreed. Christian rarely missed a beat when he was drinking. Sober, nothing escaped his notice. If the idea that Jenny was hiding from someone or something captured her interest and imagination, then that same idea would be irresistible to Christian. "She probably just reminds me of someone. I suppose it will come to me in time." She yawned sleepily. "Will you talk to Christian?"
He nodded. "Whether or not he is attracted to her, he is going to be offended by what I have to say. He will probably call me out."
Susan laughed softly. "Do men really do that any more? Besides, you both enjoy sparring. Sometimes you act like schoolboys."
Scott's grin was sheepish. He rolled toward Susan, partially trapping her under his body. "I want to lay him out cold just once," he said, nuzzling her neck.
"Oh? And what will that prove?"
"Nothing. But it would give me the chance to put him on the table."
"You still want that lead ball in his leg, don't you?"
He nodded. "I am going to get it, too."
"I believe you will." Her eyes softened as her heart swelled. How dear this man was to her. "I fell in love with a champion." She would have said more, but Scott's mouth brushed hers and Susan gave herself up to the moment.
* * *
"Good day to you, Mr. O'Shea," Jenny said. Her smile was engaging, her expression winsome.
Liam O'Shea tipped his hat as Jenny opened the iron gate securing the Marshall property. His jet-black hair was immediately tousled by the wind. "Miss Holland, is it not?"
She nodded. "How good you are to remember." She let him close the gate for her and they naturally fell in step together. The wind buffeted them, putting ruddy color into their cheeks. Jenny tightened her grip on the frog clasp of her gray wool cape. She kept the fur-trimmed hood close about her head so that it hid her face more than framed it.
"I make it my business to remember names and faces," Liam said importantly. "In this neighborhood I have to know who the strangers are. They're up to no good."
"I was a stranger once," she said.
Liam's deep blue eyes danced. He twirled his club with a jaunty air. "Sure, and you were that. But that's before you started feeding me warm crullers. No one with crullers is a stranger."
Although he made it sound as if she did it all the time, Jenny could only recall offering him the braided doughnuts twice: once on Christmas morning and again a few days later. Both times it had been Mrs. Brandywine's idea. The housekeeper's attempts at matchmaking were as obvious as they were misguided, but Jenny did not take offense.
"Are you going as far as Forty-third Street, Mr. O'Shea?" Jenny asked. He was not unhandsome, she thought absently, and was more struck by the fact that she had taken so little notice of him before. The copper was not much taller than she was, but he had broad shoulders that pulled at the seams of his double-breasted coat. A black leather belt cinched his waist, and his badge shone brightly from a recent polishing. He wore black boots that gave sound to his confident stride. Liam had a wide, open smile, kind eyes, and an unruffled demeanor that made him popular with the local aristocracy as well as their staff. Jenny suspected that he kissed the Blarney Stone regularly, but then she never met an Irishman who didn't. It was not the sort of thing she could hold against him. Compliments came as easily to his lips as criticism came to Christian's.
She shook her head, disappointed with herself. She did not want to think about Christian Marshall. She had managed to stay out of his way since their encounter in his study four days earlier. If only it were so easy to keep him from pressing at the edges of her thoughts. Even now she could hear his voice taunting her. "Shall I make you want me, Jenny Holland? I can, you know." In spite of the cold, Jenny felt herself begin to warm from the inside out.
"Are you feeling all right, Miss Holland?" Liam asked.
Jenny blinked. "What? Oh, yes. Yes, I'm fine." She was so warm that she flushed. "I didn't hear what you said about Forty-third Street. Are you going that far?"
"Thought you might have missed my answer." He grinned. He smoothed the edges of his handlebar mustache with the tips of his fingers. "Yes, Miss Holland, my beat takes me directly past there. Is that where you're going?"
"Yes," she said. It did not feel like a lie. It was her general direction, if not her specific one. "Then you don't mind if I walk with you?"
"Sure, and I'll be pleased to have the company of a pretty colleen like yourself."
And she would be pleased to have his protection. Jenny knew that where she was going there would be people who would do everything they could to see that she was silenced. There were those members of upper Manhattan's social elite that could be compared quite accurately to the criminal element of Paradise Square.
Jenny left Liam behind on the corner of Forty-third and Fifth. The copper had offered to escort her to the servants' entrance at the Vanderstell mansion, but Jenny had declined in what she hoped was a gracious manner. She was thankful Liam was not more persistent since the Vanderstell home was not her destination. The scene could have been very awkward had she shown her face there.
The wind was less biting now that she had turned the corner, but Jenny kept her hood close and her eyes downcast. The soft fur trim tickled her pink cheeks as she watched her feet kick up a spray of snow with each step. Even though she had taken the precaution of wearing woolen mittens and stockings, her fingers and toes tingled from the cold. This unpleasant reminder of what she had already suffered made Jenny more determined to see that justice was done. If she could not do that, she thought unhappily, she might very well go mad.
Jenny knew Wilton Reilly was a creature of habit. After a few blocks she turned south to intercept him before he reached home. As soon as she saw him striding along Eighth Avenue, taking his daily constitutional, she would know the time was a few minutes on either side of two-thirty. In the past when she had accompanied him on his walk, she had teased Reilly about his adherence to routine. She had never expected to feel so grateful for it.
Mr. Reilly's brisk walking style did not allow for woolgathering or taking much regard of the neighborhood. Those activities were more suited to Sunday afternoons and Central Park. He refused to dwell on anything more thought provoking than the housekeeper's recent assertion that William Bennington and son were going to hell in a handcart. Since Reilly agreed, even approved, it was hardly a matter to be pondered long. Now his concentration was on the mechanics of walking, shoulders straight, eyes ahead, and arms swinging slightly at his sides. His stride was long, purposeful, and quick. He did not notice the young woman until she stepped squarely in his path.
His first instinct was to tip his bowler, beg the woman's pardon, and continue on his way. Recognition caused his hand to falter halfway to his hat.
"Are you going to strike me, Mr. Reilly?" Jenny asked gravely. What she wanted to do was throw herself into Reilly's capable arms and never let go. She wanted his protection, his avuncular advice, and his prayers. There had been so many times of late when she was afraid of the course she had set for herself.
"You! My God, it's you!" His voice was not much above a whisper and his usual sangfroid deserted him. He blinked several times. What he thought must be an app
arition, or at least wishful thinking, did not vanish.
"Close your mouth," she said. "You look like a hooked fish." Jenny glanced around. The avenue was virtually deserted, but it was safer if they kept moving. Her plan depended in part on maintaining Reilly's routine. "We should walk."
"I can hardly believe this." He lifted his bowler and rubbed the bald spot at the back of his head before he replaced the hat. "I don't believe it. I was so certain... that is, we all were so sure that..."
"Whatever you thought, you can see it isn't true. But I understand your surprise. Make no mistake, that I am here at all is proof that I have an odd assortment of guardian angels. Never mind," she added when she caught his puckered frown. "I have no time to explain it now."
It was not often that Reilly lost command of a situation, yet now he felt very much at sea. "I can't take this in," he said, shaking his head. "When the others hear..."
"No one must know," she said quickly. She felt a stab of panic and met it squarely. "The risk would be enormous. I am only willing to trust you, Mr. Reilly. Can you accept that?"
"Of course," he said without hesitation.
"It will be a burden for you. I am in need of a great many favors."
"Do not concern yourself," he said. "How may I help?"
Jenny felt the tightness in her chest ease. She had cautioned herself against expecting Reilly to assist her, but she realized now how much she had been counting on his help. "There will be risk for you as well. Living in the house as you do, you might find yourself under suspicion."
Reilly snorted derisively. "Allow me to worry about that. Once again, how may I help?"
"I need money. Several hundred dollars will make a good beginning."
A deep furrow appeared between Reilly's beetled eyebrows. "You want me to rob a bank?"
Jenny's breath clouded in the cold air as she laughed. "Oh, Reilly, I believe you have a sense of humor after all. Of course I don't want you to rob a bank. Any bank," she said to be clear. "There are some items at the house which I believe you can take without drawing attention to yourself or even to their disappearance. Selling them will raise the money I need. I've made a list." She reached into a pocket inside her cloak and pulled out a meticulously creased piece of paper. "Here, take this and keep it safe. Don't read it now. The things I've underlined are the ones I think you can take from the house. Some silver pieces, a few items of jewelry. I have given this considerable thought. I believe it can be done without attracting notice. The other things listed are items I need you to purchase for me."
Reilly frowned. "This is all very mysterious. Perhaps too much so. Are you thinking clearly?"
Jenny was taken aback. "Not you, too," she said. "Are you doubting my competency?"
"I am not," he said succinctly. "Do not put words in my mouth. I was trying to interject a note of caution, not comment on your state of mind."
"I'm sorry. It's just that after..."
He waved aside her apology. "You don't have to explain."
But Jenny realized that she did. Reilly's understanding of what had happened to her had to be vague at best. He may not have known what had been done to her, but he, like all the members of the staff who had looked in on her from time to time, had believed she was gravely ill. "I cannot tell you anything now, but I promise that we will talk later." She glanced in his direction, her expression earnest. "Will you do this favor for me without further question?"
He nodded. "Anything you want, but not without question, I'm afraid. For instance, how do I reach you? You have not mentioned where you're living or how you're keeping body and soul together."
"And I can't. Not yet. It's better that you know very little." Jenny heard his disdainful sniff and realized she had hurt his feelings again. "Please don't take offense," she said. "I must also think of the people who are caring for me now. They know so little about me, and I intend to keep it that way. If you were to come around, it would compromise me. I do not want to make my troubles theirs."
"Very well," he said heavily. "I shall respect your wishes, but under protest."
Jenny smiled, confident now that he would not only help her but keep her secret as well. "It will not be possible for us to meet like this again, but I have arrived at an alternative which I believe will be satisfactory."
"Go on."
"When you have what I need you'll place a notice in the personal columns of the Herald. I will respond in the same manner with further instructions. We can communicate without fear of being caught."
Reilly was not as certain. "I don't see how. Young Mr. Bennington reads those personal columns with religious fervor. If you'll pardon me for speaking so frankly, he's looking for women of... of easy virtue, the type who make and keep appointments in their own homes while their husbands are occupied elsewhere."
"I see." Her words were carried away on the wind's back.
"He would see my name and yours," Reilly went on, "and that would be the end."
"There must be aliases, then." She thought a moment. "What do you think of Butler?"
"Clever," he said dryly. "And yours?"
"Princess."
"Of course." He smiled. "That's very good."
"I'm glad you approve. We're agreed?"
"Yes."
"I must go now," she said, glancing up and seeing that she had accompanied him nearer to his destination than was her intention. "We are too close to the house. I might be seen." She paused and turned to face him, placing one hand on his forearm. "Thank you, Mr. Reilly. I promise you will not regret this. Someday I will make it up to you."
His sunken cheeks flushed with ruddy color. "It will make it up when you bring the Benningtons to their knees."
"What makes you think that is my plan?"
Wilton Reilly smiled. "Don't men kneel at the feet of the princess?"
* * *
Stephen Bennington let the gold velvet drapes in the front parlor window fall back. His handsome features were drawn into a taut, thoughtful expression as he turned away from the window. He was still frowning when Reilly entered the house by the front door—a liberty the butler took which invariably struck Stephen on the raw. Why his father insisted on keeping the man employed was beyond Stephen's understanding. It was an old argument they periodically engaged in because it was never resolved. It seemed that William wanted Reilly because most of the Fifth Avenue aristocracy had tried to lure him away at one time or another. His efficiency in running a household was legendary, and there was still a touch of merry old England in his accent that reminded people he had once served dukes and counts. Or so he said. Stephen was inclined to believe otherwise.
Stephen stepped into the hallway and confronted the butler as he was removing his hat and coat. "Who were you speaking to out there, Reilly?"
"Sir?"
"I saw you speaking to someone," Stephen said sharply. "Who was it?"
Not for the first time Reilly thought that young Mr. Bennington was in need of a swift kick in the arse. "I'm sure I don't know, Mr. Stephen," he said politely. "We didn't exchange names."
"Then how was it you came to be speaking?"
Reilly decided to take the offense. "I'm not certain I understand your interest. Is she someone you know?"
The butler's directness took Stephen off guard. "She looked... that is, it seemed... she reminded me..."
"Yes?"
"Never mind." It had only been a brief glimpse, he told himself. His suspicions were unwarranted. He'd only had a tumbler of brandy, but Reilly would have considered him drunk if he had spoken his thoughts aloud. "It's none of your concern." He turned on his heel and retreated into the parlor. "Get me another brandy, Reilly," he said. "And there's no need to mention our exchange to my father. He wouldn't understand."
"I'm not certain I understand myself," Reilly said for Stephen's benefit. But he did understand. The Princess had nearly exposed herself this afternoon. She had been wise to think of an alternative way to communicate with him. It was probably a lucky
thing that Stephen didn't want to tell his father what he thought he had seen. William Bennington was considerably more cautious than his son and wouldn't have rested until he was satisfied there was nothing to Stephen's story that a trick of the light or an afternoon of serious drinking couldn't explain.
"Just get me the brandy," Stephen snapped.
"Very good, sir." The butler's mouth bore the hint of a haughty smile as he turned away. Having a hand in Stephen Bennington's comeuppance would be very sweet revenge indeed.
* * *
Christian Marshall raked his fingers through his thick hair. "What do you mean I am aware of her?" he asked Scott. Before his friend could answer, he continued. "I pay her as much attention as I do any of my staff. Mrs. Brandywine is in charge. She gets my attention. Trust me, Scott. I do not want Jenny Holland underfoot or under roof. Surely it has occurred to you by now that she's hiding here."
"It's occurred to me."
Mrs. Brandywine entered the study with a tray of tea and cakes. When the housekeeper left, Scott helped himself to a cup of tea and wandered over to the window where Christian was standing. "What has she told you?" he asked.
"Hardly anything. And at least one lie that I can name."
"Oh?"
"She said she was Alice Vanderstell's personal maid. She must not have realized that I knew Alice has been in the hospital this last year."
"But you let the lie pass."
"Why shouldn't I? I'm sure she thinks she has her reasons. They're unimportant to me."
"Aren't you the least bit curious about her?"
Eaten up with it, he almost said. "Not really."
Scott threw up his hands. "I don't believe you, but since there is no talking to you about it, I will let it go."
"Good for you. I'll be sure to tell Susan you did your very best to warn me away from Miss Holland," Christian said. "I'll also tell her that your concerns are groundless. As long as Jenny Holland stays out my way she can hide here. In fact, I think that Mrs. B. would..." Christian stopped when he realized that Scott had ceased to listen to him. He followed the path of his friend's gaze and found himself turning to look out the window. The object of their discussion was standing at the end of the walk conversing with Liam O'Shea. When Jenny's hood fell back and revealed the elegant line of her profile and the sable richness of her hair, Christian wanted to flatten the copper for being aware of those things, too.