“My, my but we’ve grown presumptuous,” he said with a sardonic chuckle. “Let’s not forget whose home and social position we’ve taken advantage of since—”
“Let’s not forget that only a coward would let his devoted wife believe him dead!” she blurted. “Katherine deserves better, and you know it! Were Grandfather alive, he’d boot your yellow ass out.”
The burly man on the step above her didn’t reply for several seconds. He smoothed the fringe of hair surrounding his scarred pate, as though her comments had finally found a heart to hit after all. “Is that the kettle whistling?”
“Yes. I’m making my aunt some tea.”
“I’ll have some, too—and a sandwich of some sort. Haven’t eaten since before I left St. Louis.”
“There’s beef in the ice box and bread on the counter,” she said coolly. “I’ve left Katherine alone long enough. Join us in the parlor when you’ve prepared your explanations.”
She’d won this first battle of wills and words, but as she arranged the tea tray Celesta felt the hollowness of her victory. Never a gracious loser, Ambrose would retaliate—as though he hadn’t shocked and hurt them enough! Her remarks about his cowardice had struck a deep wound . . . what was it Katherine once said? That he never felt he measured up to Grandfather’s high expectations?
Losing the Phantom, the very foundation of Ransom shipping, must’ve confirmed his self-doubts and driven him into hiding. Like an animal in pain, Ambrose might lash out at them any time they reminded him of his failures—as his wooden leg surely did, every step he took—and Celesta prayed that for her aunt’s sake she could hold her tongue. His reasons for feigning death would never justify the anguish he’d caused his wife, but it wasn’t her place to pick at his wounds.
She paused in the parlor doorway to assess her aunt’s condition. Katherine had remained on the settee, looking like a beautifully behaved little girl with a graying upsweep. The bow at her collar was askew, but otherwise she appeared unruffled by her husband’s unexpected appearance.
“Our tea should be brewed just the way you like it by now,” Celesta commented as she set the sterling tray in front of her aunt. She poured two steaming cups, carefully gauging the little woman’s mood. “Ambrose is eating a bite, and then he’ll join us. I’m sure he has much to discuss.”
No comment. Katherine stared into the swirling steam above her cup as though it were sending her some sort of message.
After a few soothing sips, Celesta tried for conversation again. As long as Ambrose was taking to eat, he must be stalling—he should be embarrassed, by God!—and the waiting was making her anxious. “Your molasses crisps are delicious,” she said as she took a second one. “Nobody bakes cookies like yours, Aunt Katherine.”
The little woman glanced blankly at her but made no move toward her cup.
Her stomach felt like someone was threading a drawstring through it. Never in her life had she seen Katherine Ransom so detached ... so ominously quiet. “Are you feeling all right?” she asked. “Did you hurt something when you fell?”
Katherine looked toward the crackling fire as though she hadn’t heard a word.
The drawstring tightened. Celesta set her cup down and slid onto the settee to put her arm around her aunt. “I know Uncle Ambrose gave us quite a shock,” she pleaded, “but if something’s wrong, please tell me! It’s not like you to—I know! Blink once for yes and twice for no. Did you bite your tongue or bang your head when you fell?”
The hazel eyes in front of hers remained focused on her upper lip, unmoving.
“Try again—one blink is yes and two means no. Are you in pain, Aunt Katherine?”
Her gaze wandered aimlessly to the tea tray, but she didn’t pick anything up.
Celesta’s pulse pounded in her temples. Dear God, no! Not another mind unraveling even as I watch. “Talk to me!” she demanded, clutching her aunt’s slender shoulders. “Tell me who I am! Tell me who you are! Tell me anything at all, just—”
“I see Katherine’s retained her flair for the dramatic,” Ambrose commented dryly. He was leaning against the doorjamb, watching them.
Celesta pivoted to face him. “You did this!” she hissed. “You gave her such a scare she doesn’t even know who she is.”
“She looks perfectly healthy. She’ll come around when she gets tired of being ignored, so I suggest you and I have our chat,” he said as he took the chair facing the settee. He eased down carefully, compensating for his wooden leg. “You’d better listen closely. I probably caught my death riding in this storm and I’m exhausted. Do you realize it’s damn near impossible to stay on a horse when you have only one knee?”
His martyred attitude made her seethe, but she held her fire. Better to get the facts from him and be done with this “chat” before it turned into another quarrel that would upset Katherine. “I assume you lost your leg when the boiler exploded?”
“Indirectly. The blast hurled me into the river, and I was battered by flying debris,” he replied quietly. “Thompkins insisted a surgeon see to the gash in my leg, but I refused. Knew the doctor wouldn’t respect my anonymity . . . and when I became too weak to fight him, Bill moved me to a hospital in St. Louis. Gangrene had set in, so amputation was my only recourse.”
Celesta glanced at her aunt, who was lost in her own little world. “And your anonymity was more important than a grieving wife and sister?”
“At the time, yes.” Ambrose shifted his weight, his eyes following Katherine’s lack of reaction. “The shipping business is extremely competitive, Celesta, and it’s the only trade I’ve ever known. Had I come home unable to work again, I’d have gone mad. My friends would’ve patronized me, and Justine and Katherine—well, surely you know how it was between them. My sister would’ve harped at me constantly, and at my wife for waiting upon me, and Katherine would’ve smothered me in pity.”
He knew his women well, but Ambrose Ransom was clearly a slave to his vanity. Despicably self-centered. “So you allowed the passage of time to bury your deceit. You figured you’d left Justine and Katherine wealthy enough to live out their lives in comfort—”
“Without the burden of a scarred-up cripple,” he finished.
Celesta looked away in disgust. Perhaps it was best her aunt didn’t comprehend Ambrose’s hypocrisy. “You got here in one piece when you thought Damon Frye and I were making off with your money! In a storm, no less.”
“Bill made it sound like an emergency. It wasn’t raining when I left my apartment in St. Louis.”
“Maybe Bill was tired of keeping up your pretenses,” she said bitterly. “I can’t imagine him being party to such a lie all these months!”
Her uncle chuckled and leaned over the side of his chair to toss another log on the fire. “He wouldn’t hear of it, at first. It was he who pulled me unconscious from the river—as well he might, since he’d gone over the side before the explosion. The boiler was his responsibility, you see.”
She studied the man across from her. “You’re saying he jumped ship, knowing disaster was at hand? And you played upon his guilt to keep yourself hidden away—blackmailed him into silence so he could remain in Hannibal. As your spy.”
Ambrose smirked, his dark eyes sparkling. “Who would’ve guessed my pretty little niece had such a fine mind?”
“And who would’ve guessed my illustrious uncle was such a sham and a cheat?” she countered. “Don’t think I’m going to keep your little secrets!”
“Why not?” he asked, cocking his head as though considering the possibilities. “This home’s the perfect hideaway. It’s removed from town; my widow won’t be expected to entertain anytime soon, now that Justine’s gone ... if indeed she’s capable of it.”
Glancing at her aunt, Celesta felt the color rushing up her neck. She leaned forward, pointing at the man whose dark eyes taunted her . . . much as Damon’s had at times. “I refuse to act as though you’re the dear departed head of this household,” she blurted. “When I re
alized how Damon conned Justine into the river, I had him arrested. And for the ways you’ve hurt Aunt Katherine, I could just as easily—”
“Spine as well as intellect, eh?” he cut in. “Will your talk be so cocky when you realize how much your taletelling will cost you?”
“What have I got to lose?” she scoffed. “Thompkins was concerned about his integrity, but when you’ve been the maid’s daughter most of your life, status doesn’t mean much.”
“But the Ransom fortune does,” he mocked. “Now that you’ve had a taste of life on the hill, I doubt you’ll want to return to Eula Perkins’s employ. Bill tells me young Patrick was none too pleased when you so brazenly broke your engagement to him by flaunting your affections for Mr. Frye. You have a lot to learn about finding favor with men, Celesta.”
She stood, clasping her hands to keep from striking him. “And you have a lot to learn about me, if you think—”
“You have your price, like everyone else. You’re bold enough now, but when your name’s to be stricken from the will—”
“And how will you do that, without consulting the lawyer?” she demanded.
Ambrose tented his hands beneath his chin, studying her. His rumpled suit didn’t hide the tough, masculine physique Katherine had always loved. His face, while not as striking as Grandfather’s, still bore a regal Ransom virility and would’ve been handsome had his conniving not lent a weasel-like sharpness to his features.
Had he always been this devious? Or had Katherine overlooked his baser motivations, as she usually did when a man paid her some attention? Frye had certainly fooled her—more than once—and Celesta wondered if her silent aunt would ever realize what sort of ogre lived beneath her husband’s stunning exterior.
Her uncle’s gaze shifted to Katherine, and Celesta’s mouth went dry. She shouldn’t have pressed him about the will. She should’ve humored him until her aunt—or Thompkins—was aware of the new scheme he was dreaming up.
“I’m glad you asked about the lawyer,” he said after a nerve-tautening pause. “I’d have to confine you to the house—starting now, of course—and have Bill bring up supplies and check on you and Katherine, who, rumor would have it, had both fallen ill. His ministrations would lead to matrimony, and since Katherine’s so obviously unfit to oversee the Ransom estate, Thompkins, as her husband, could do whatever he—under my direction—wished with her money. You’d be left penniless, dear child. The story has a few holes in it, but none that couldn’t be patched by a man who’s made death work to his advantage for the past year.”
Celesta dropped to the edge of the sofa. He’d reeled off that story with total sincerity, and she’d never been more frightened in her life. Ambrose Ransom, Jr., had no qualms about holding a niece hostage, forcing his witless wife into a bigamous marriage, and controlling his rescuer’s life even more onerously than before—all to prove how powerful he was. He hadn’t so much as spoken to Katherine; seemed convinced her mind would remain fogged in—as though he’d planned it that way—and was ready to play her like a pawn without a moment’s hesitation.
If only Justine were here to stand with her ... if only Damon hadn’t turned traitor. Celesta reached for her aunt’s hands to quell the overwhelming loneliness she felt in the face of this evil that had invaded their lives. But Katherine’s fingers merely curled up in hers, and then she frowned and pulled them free, as though she’d never seen her niece before now.
Ambrose laughed low in his throat while he scooted to the edge of his chair. “Have you reconsidered?” he asked, rising to his imposing height. “You’ve lost your mother, and your aunt Justine, and your handsome prince—and for all practical purposes, you’ve lost Katherine, I fear. Is the brief satisfaction of exposing me worth losing your inheritance, too?”
As his shadow fell over her, Celesta felt panic pumping through her veins. This madman looked ready to strangle her! His large hands flexed at his sides, and although Ambrose appeared to be awaiting her answer, she could feel him tensing like an animal ready to pounce if she gave the wrong response.
She bolted sideways off the settee, and when her uncle lunged to catch her she dove for his wooden leg.
“You goddamn—”
Ambrose fell against the spot where she’d been sitting, and Celesta didn’t waste a moment of her advantage. She scrambled toward the door, not daring to look back. Her life—and probably Katherine’s—depended upon finding someone who could protect her while exposing her resurrected uncle for the viper he was.
The list of heroes seemed terribly short: she couldn’t trust Bill Thompkins, couldn’t rely upon Police Chief Jones. And who else would believe her if she awakened them in the middle of the night with such an incredible story?
The wind chilled her, and the rain had slackened to a quiet drizzle. If she stopped to saddle a horse, Ambrose could trap her in the stable. If she ran, he’d catch up to her on horseback. The sound of his hurried, uneven clumping across the hallway tiles nearly drove her insane—until other footfalls caught her attention.
Her uncle’s mount, left out in the downpour, trotted toward her with a curious whicker. Now that the storm had blown over he seemed eager for company. The stirrups were so high she had to spring toward the saddle horn and haul herself up to get a foothold, but by the time Ambrose threw the door open behind her she was racing toward town on his horse.
Chapter 27
Patrick Perkins looked up from his ledgers, scowling. Surely no one would be pounding on the door at two-thirty in the morning . . . must be the screen banging, and he’d best hook it before it woke Mother. If she saw his mathematical jugglings between these two sets of books, months of planning and patience would be for nothing. Better to let her brag that Perkins Lumber was still the second most profitable mill in Hannibal—because it soon would be again, if all went as he anticipated.
Good things come to those who wait, he thought smugly as he padded downstairs. He tied his dressing gown more securely, swearing under his breath while the racket from the vestibule resounded around the ground floor. What could anyone possibly want that couldn’t wait until—
He yanked the door open and forgot the cutting remark he was about to make. Celesta stood there, quaking with the cold, her eyes wide with desperation. Patrick felt a smile warming him all the way to his bare toes: she’d finally come back to him, and his problems would soon be solved. So would Celesta’s, if she played along.
“What in God’s name? Get in here before—” He was all concern, questioning her with his eyes as he shut the door on the brisk wind. “Where’s your coat, honey? You’ll catch your death if you stay in these wet clothes.”
“You’ve got to help me,” she blurted. “I’m afraid for Katherine, and there’s no one else I can trust to—”
He pulled her close, chafing her cold, damp dress sleeves. “We’ve been friends forever, Celesta,” he reminded her. “Now come into the kitchen and tell me what’s wrong, over a hot cup of tea.”
“I—I’m not sure this can wait until—”
“Who was at the door? It’s only—oh, my!” Eula’s yawn turned to a gasp when she saw Celesta in her son’s arms. “Is it Katherine, dear? I know how she frets during a storm.”
Inhaling deeply to still her galloping heart, Celesta let Patrick’s warmth seep through to her clammy skin. “You won’t believe what’s happened,” she rasped, still gulping in air. “I rode down here as fast as I could. Had to tell someone—had to get away before—”
“Before what?” Patrick asked warily. “If Frye’s after you, I’ll haul Jones out of bed, and we’ll put his ass back in jail, where it should’ve been—”
“Not Damon,” she said, shaking her head emphatically. Aware of Mrs. Perkins’s stare, she eased away from Patrick. Eula’s face was pale with the creams she wore to bed, and her former employer was likely to turn whiter yet unless she worded her announcement carefully.
“When it was still storming, we saw a horse and rider approaching the Mano
r,” she said urgently. “We didn’t recognize him—didn’t want to let him in, of course, but he kept beating on the—”
“Who?” Patrick demanded.
Celesta blinked, startled by the brilliance of his blue eyes. “Ambrose. Uncle Ambrose is home, after all this time we thought he was dead. He’s been in hiding ever since the Phantom sank.”
“My stars!” Eula exclaimed. “Katherine must be beside herself.”
“She fell over in a faint and hasn’t been normal since she came around,” Celesta replied. “I hated to leave her, but when things got ugly, Ambrose threatened to—”
“You’re sure it’s him, and not some imposter worming his way into your bank accounts?” Patrick asked. He hoped his frown expressed concern rather than the sick feeling he had in his stomach right now.
“He has some scars and a wooden leg, but it’s definitely Ambrose,” she replied firmly. “What can I do? Katherine’s speechless with shock, and when I said I’d expose his underhandedness, he threatened to hold me hostage and force her to marry Bill Thompkins so—”
“Whoa, there! This makes no sense at all,” Patrick said, guiding her toward the kitchen. “We’re going to sit down and hear the whole story over tea. No sense rushing over to Harlan’s until I’ve got all this straight.”
“You don’t think Katherine’s in danger, do you?” Eula asked, clutching the neck of her satin wrapper. “Ambrose is a burly fellow, but I never considered him capable of violence. At least not toward her.”
Celesta thought for a moment. “I...I suppose she’ll be all right for a while. He was too full of himself to pay much attention to Katherine.”
“Fine. Now, start from the beginning, and I’ll take over from there,” the blond beside her commanded.
She allowed him to steer her toward a chair in the shadowy kitchen while Eula rushed to put the kettle on. Her teeth were still chattering from her ride in the rain, and that drawstring she’d imagined in her stomach was pulled until it would snap if she didn’t settle herself.
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