by Goodman, Jo
"Mother of God," Amalie whispered. She reached blindly for John Todd because just then she only had eyes for the curve of Jenny's belly. "She's pregnant."
"What?" Todd leaned forward to take in the same view.
"She's pregnant. I should have suspected it when she didn't keep her breakfast down. Lord, but this girl sets my teeth on edge."
John Todd did not wait to find out what Amalie wanted him to do. He was running from the room even as Stephen was lowering Jenny back into the water. He pushed open the door and crossed to the tub in three long strides. "She's pregnant, Bennington," he said, shoving Stephen out of the way. He yanked Jenny out of the tub. "You keep at this and she'll miscarry. Most likely die, too. That's not why I brought her here. That was never part of the plan, not my plan." He laid Jenny on the bed, turning her on her side, and covered her shivering body with a blanket.
"None of this was your plan," Amalie said. "Not the way I remember it." She stepped in the room from the hallway and shut the door behind her. In her right hand she held a derringer. It was leveled at John Todd's chest. "I don't know how I could have been so mistaken about you," she said quietly, a frown creasing her brow. "We've known each other so long... shared so much... why didn't it occur to me that you might have a tender heart? That's it, isn't it? You feel something for her."
"Amalie," Todd said, watching her carefully. He thought about reaching for his weapon and then reconsidered. Amalie would kill him before his derringer cleared the concealed holster. "I don't want her to be hurt because we can't afford it. I don't feel anything for her... not the way you think. I saved you, didn't I? I did not let her choke you. Lower the gun, Amalie. Do what is reasonable."
Stephen backed away from John Todd, making certain he was out of Amalie's line of fire. "I don't know why you want to share anything with him," Stephen said softly, his eyes darting from one to the other. "Surely his usefulness is over. The money should be yours, Amalie. You deserve it. You thought of everything. John Todd is the brawn, not the brains."
Amalie stared at John Todd. The corners of her mouth turned down. "Stephen's right, you know. I can't depend on you if you've gone tender hearted on me, and it seems that you have. I told you to let Stephen handle her as he saw fit. You interfered. Do you think I care if she's pregnant? It was an observation, not an excuse for you to become involved."
"Amalie." He said her name patiently. He did not plead, and perhaps that was his mistake, but he had no time to reflect on it as Amalie pulled the trigger. John Todd died where he stood.
The fist that Jenny pressed against her mouth prevented her from screaming when Todd's body slumped to the floor. Stephen dragged his eyes away from the dead man and stared at Amalie. The falling out between partners had been swift and final. He did not question Amalie's resolve when she tossed aside her spent weapon and quickly recovered John Todd's concealed one.
"Do not think of crossing me, Bennington," she said with icy calm. "I was a lot more sentimental about Mr. Todd than I am about you."
Stephen raised his hands, palms outward, and shrugged. "I understand. What should I do with the body?"
"Take it to the cellar. Use the back stairs."
"Do you think anyone heard the shot?"
"Above the music in the salon? Not likely. Someone would be here by now if they had."
Stephen lowered his hands as Amalie tucked the derringer into the sleeve of her gown. "Is she really pregnant?" he asked, jerking his thumb at Jenny.
"Yes. A recent realization. I'd have told you if I'd known earlier. Her belly's thickening."
"I don't want the child."
"I realize that. It would be a complication."
He nodded. "What can you do about it?"
"Nothing... or everything. Are you familiar with Madame Restell?"
"By reputation."
"She advertises herself as a midwife, but I'm sure you realize she's an abortionist. I send my girls to her when they get in trouble. Her little French female pills cost dearly, but she guarantees their efficacy."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Nothing tonight; it's too late. But tomorrow morning I want you to pay her a visit. Don't go to her brownstone on Fifth. She will turn you away. Her offices are on Chambers and Greenwich Streets. Tell her I sent you and that I assured you she could help. Bring the pills back here. I'll see that your fiancée takes them." She ignored Jenny's low, keening cry. "Don't give it another thought, Stephen. You'll never have to be a father to Christian Marshall's bastard."
* * *
Christian Marshall sat in the rocker in Jenny's suite. His head rested wearily against the ornately scrolled back of the rocker. His eyelids were heavy, shuttering the expression behind them. In his arms he held young Beth Turner. Her pale blonde hair was almost white against the dark fabric of Christian's jacket. She was fingering one of the buttons on his black satin vest.
Susan quietly motioned her daughter to come and sit on her lap, but Beth shook her head stubbornly. "Uncle Christian's sad, Mama," Beth whispered. "He needs me."
Susan and Scott, sitting opposite him on the chaise, glanced simultaneously at Christian to see if he heard their daughter's rather loud aside. He had. There was the slim suggestion of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"She's fine where she is," Christian said. "And she's right." He looked down at Beth's blonde, curling hair and ruffled it with his fingertips. His smile faded so completely that it might never have been.
Susan's heart went out to him. She busied herself, raising a glass of red wine to her lips in the hopes of hiding the pity she felt. Trust Beth to see what she and Scott had missed. Yes, he was sad, deeply so, yet until Beth had pointed it out Susan had only sensed the anger.
With Christian, it lay just below the surface, held there by the sheer force of his will. It was the silent, imploding kind of anger, terrible and terrifying to look upon because one could not help but imagine that it would not remain contained. His jaw ached from the almost constant clenching and unclenching. He could not relax. His stomach roiled. There were faint shadows under his eyes from lack of sleep and tiny white lines engraved at the corners of his mouth. A glass of wine rested on the table beside him, but after one sip he had shown no interest in it. There was the need to keep a clear head, of course, but it was just as true that nothing he ate or drank since Jenny left seemed to have any texture, color, or taste. As a result, his weight had dropped nearly ten pounds, and the hard lines of his face were as defined as if they had been etched by acid.
Christian winced slightly as Beth moved in his lap and accidentally kicked his wounded leg. "It's all right," he said when Scott moved to take Beth from him. "She didn't mean to do it." He massaged his leg long after the pain dissipated. The soothing, absent gesture was almost second nature to him. "Do you think Jenny and I will have a little girl?" he asked quietly, shifting his eyes to a point on the far wall. Copper threads in his dark hair shone in the gaslight.
There was no way to answer his question. "Is that what you want?" asked Scott.
"A girl would be nice. My family runs to boys, though."
"Boys are nice, too," said Susan for lack of anything better to say.
Christian's slight smile surfaced briefly. "I suspect I'll take whatever I get." He looked down at Beth but spoke to her parents. "Why haven't we found her?" he asked softly, almost cautiously, as though afraid to admit failure aloud. "What the hell has happened to Jenny?"
Scott heard Susan's breath shudder through her. His wife was very close to tears. He reached for her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "I wish I had the answers," he said. "God, how I wish it."
"I keep thinking we're overlooking something," said Christian. "I was convinced early on that Stephen or William Bennington would eventually lead us to her."
Scott nodded. "We all felt the same way. None of us could have anticipated that William's routine at the bank would never vary. And Stephen... he's certainly made no unusual moves. If he's worried
about losing any part of Jenny's inheritance, then he's drowning his sorrows in the arms and thighs of some—"
"Scott," Susan said reprovingly, pointing to their daughter. "Have a care what you say."
Scott ducked his head guiltily and mumbled an apology. "There's been no hint at the hospital of anything concerning Jenny," he went on. "If Stephen or William are involved, I think I'd have picked something up by now. They'd seek Morgan or Glenn out, wouldn't they?"
"That's what I thought," said Christian. "I just don't understand where it's gone wrong. William is coming and going as if nothing's happened. One would think I never confronted him about Jenny's disappearance. Stephen appears to be unaffected by anything save Amalie's girls. And the hospital has given us no clues. We have exactly what we had in the beginning: an embroidered handkerchief still smelling faintly of chloroform and no idea to whom it belongs."
"We have a plan," Susan reminded him. "The day after tomorrow, and with that bit of luck we deserve, we'll have evidence that Stephen and William are stealing from the bank."
Christian was silent for a long time. His arm stole around Beth's waist, and she burrowed against his side, instinctively sensing that it was Christian who needed the cuddle. He wondered if he would ever hold his own child. For a moment, that thought made it difficult for him to breathe. "I only care about the bank because Jenny did," he said at last. "I'd let William and Stephen walk away from it if it meant having her back." He raised his eyes to Susan and made no attempt to blink back the thin veil of tears. "I want her back, Susan. I want Jenny here again."
Chapter 16
Christian raised one hand to shade his eyes. After the near-endless winter New Yorkers had experienced, this particular Wednesday morning was unusually sunny, bright, and cloudless. Christian was not generally superstitious, but now, after so many turns of luck against him, he found himself thinking that the change in the weather and the onset of spring must be a good omen.
A light breeze whispered across the back of his neck. He was standing on the balcony outside Jenny's bedroom at the St. Mark. He stepped back from the balcony rail and turned slightly, squinting to get a better view of the activity in William Bennington's office. Sunlight bounced off the high, arched windows and made viewing difficult. Worried that he might be seen and identified as well, Christian hunched his shoulders and raised the collar of his jacket. It was probably an unnecessary precaution. From what he could see, William and Stephen Bennington were too preoccupied with their own concerns to pay attention to anything beyond their windows.
Mrs. Brandywine opened the double balcony doors and poked out her head. "Mr. O'Shea says the guards are in place at the back of the bank. The last shipment should be here in minutes."
Christian nodded. "Thank you, Mrs. Brandywine. I'll be looking for it."
"Do you see Susan?" she asked.
"I do. She's been retracing her steps along the block, Beth in tow, waiting for my signal. As soon as the payroll wagon arrives, I'll give it."
"She has the hatbox?" asked Mrs. Brandywine.
"She has it," he said patiently, soothing his housekeeper's frayed nerves. "Go back inside. We don't want to draw attention to ourselves." He turned away just as the payroll wagon rolled toward the alley behind the bank. Mrs. Brandywine disappeared into the bedroom, shutting the doors again. Christian checked his pocket watch. He would give the guards ten minutes, then signal Susan to proceed.
* * *
Amalie held a small white pill in the flat of her hand. She showed it to Jenny. "I've been patient," she said. "I could have insisted you take the first one yesterday when Stephen brought them around. I've given you time to accustom yourself to the idea. You probably think I'm being unnecessarily cruel. I assure you I am not. I had to be certain that Stephen meant to deliver the ransom. You will be pleased to know that early this morning he brought by a little over three quarters of a million in property deeds. Before noon he will have the rest. Since he has acted in good faith, I can do no less. I promised him I would get rid of the child. That's what has to happen. You really can't blame him for not wanting to be father to your child."
Jenny simply stared at the pill. Her eyes were vacant, her mind nearly so. Amalie's words seemed disjointed to her, nonsensical. More afraid than she had been at any time in her past, she had not slept since John Todd's murder. Eating was out of the question, as it was conceivable that Amalie would put the pills in her food. Jenny wished she had been as cautious about drinking, but her thirst was profound, and she realized too late that milk and sugar were not the only additions to her tea. She recognized the new danger only after she felt the effects, but upon feeling the effects, she did not care about the danger.
"Have more tea," Amalie said, closing her hand over the pill. She poured from the silver-plated pot and handed Jenny the cup and saucer. "Careful now. You do not want to spill any and burn yourself. Here, let me help. I'll tip it ever so slightly for you." Amalie's smile was warm, encouraging. "Take it slowly. There's a girl. Doesn't taste so bitter now, does it? I'll wager you're even coming to like the taste. I should have done this from the beginning. It was Mr. Todd who talked me out of it. He thought you could be managed without any help. But as it happened, it was my John Todd who couldn't be managed. I blame you for that, you know." Amalie drew back, studying Jenny with flat, cold eyes that were at odds with her smile. "It was pity that he felt for you. Nothing else." Amalie's smile vanished, and the placement of her full lips became as hard as the green glass light in her eyes. "Before you, I had no reason to doubt his loyalty. He never interfered when I had to discipline a girl, never failed me when I asked him to throw out a gentleman caller. I don't thank you for showing me his tender heart and softheaded side, Miss Van Dyke. I don't thank you at all."
Jenny blinked. Although she had little sense of the words, Amalie's sharp, bitter tone still stung. She recoiled from it and vigorously rubbed the gooseflesh on her bare arms.
Amalie raised the china cup to Jenny's lips again. "Here, just a few more sips. It helps, doesn't it? Gives the world a rosy glow. Whatever happens, you won't mind so much; maybe you won't even remember." Amalie took away the cup, placed it on the table, and unclenched the fist that held Mrs. Restell's special pill. She waved her open hand in front of Jenny, showing it to her. "You'll take this now, won't you? Open your mouth. I'll put it right under your tongue."
Jenny nodded. The voice that commanded her now was soft with a gently cajoling cadence.
Jenny wanted to please. Fatigue, even more than the tincture of laudanum, made it difficult for her to keep her eyes open, yet she still harbored the notion that sleep was her enemy. It was wakefulness that kept her connected to Christian. If she slept, how would he find her? She tried to hold onto that thought even as her lips parted. She moistened them with the tip of her tongue.
"That's right. A little wider and I'll put it in. Right in." Amalie raised her hand, holding the pill between her thumb and forefinger. "Just under your tongue. Good girl. Just—ow!" Amalie sucked in a breath and jerked her fingers away from between Jenny's teeth. "You little bitch!" She slapped Jenny hard across the cheek. Jenny's head snapped back, and she spit out the pill. It disappeared into the wrinkled sheet.
Amalie groped for the pill, thought better of it, and put distance between herself and Jenny. "It doesn't matter," she said, examining her hand. Teeth marks were clearly visible, but Jenny had not drawn blood. "There are more." Amalie patted down her hair and straightened the neckline of her gown. "We are not done. Do not think for a moment that we are."
Save for Jenny's blank stare, there was no response.
* * *
Christian took the embroidered handkerchief from his pocket and held it up as though studying it. He parted his fingers and allowed it to slip through. It snagged on the edge of the wrought iron rail and briefly fluttered in the breeze before it fell to the balcony floor. It was fitting that the delicately stitched J was still visible when the handkerchief landed. Christian stepped
on it and ground it with the heel of his shoe. The satisfaction was too fleeting.
His attention returned to Susan Turner. He watched her loosen the ribbon securing her bonnet and then tie it again. It was her acknowledgment that she had seen him drop the handkerchief. She bent down, said something to Beth, and then took her daughter in hand. They turned the corner and walked into the bank.
It seemed an eternity before he saw her again. Much of that time he spent reminding himself to breathe. So many minutes passed that he feared she hadn't been able to convince anyone of the necessity of personally seeing William Bennington. The bank president certainly would not have appreciated the interruption. He was sitting at his desk, a stack of ledgers before him, concentrating, Christian imagined, on hiding the evidence of the loans he had made to himself. It was the simplest method of stealing from the bank. The false loans were written off as bad investments. William's trail was covered in black ink tracks among accounts payable and accounts receivable. He took the loan money directly, removing it from the bank in the manner Jenny had suggested—between the pages of the daily paper.
Once again, the breath Christian hardly realized he was holding was released softly when he saw Susan take a chair in front of the senior Bennington's desk. William had stood briefly upon her entry and now he sat, sliding the ledgers to one side. Stephen, standing near the open safe, remained there. As near as Christian could tell, Stephen seemed untroubled by the interruption. His pose remained casual.
Christian silently ticked off the instructions he had given to Susan. Hold the hatbox in your lap. Make certain the ribbon is over the pinhole. Don't dislodge the paper. Talk to William about a loan as if there was nothing else to occupy your thoughts. Complain to him about the error in your account. Remind him how long you've been a customer and how the small investor values Hancock Trust. Be sincere. Be earnest. When you hear Beth crying for you from the lobby, stop talking. You are anxious now, unsettled. Uncover the pinhole with your fidgeting fingers. Stand up. Place the hatbox on the table beside your chair. Leave the office quickly; make your apologies as you go. Pretend you don't hear them if they remind you to take the hatbox. Take Beth in hand... get out of the bank.