by Cindy Nord
As if her heartbreak or how she’d hurt him at the moment was the greatest threat. With his discovery of the murder warrant, unless a miracle happened, she would hang for a crime she didn’t commit.
Panic welled inside, and her body began to shake. She must free Brennen from further heartbreak. As painful as she knew this truth to be, ‘twas the one thing she could still offer him.
An aching pain churned through her. “Deputy,” she whispered, stopping the young man before he left.
“Yes, Miss Swan?”
She inhaled, chin lifting as she worked to contain her grief. “I n-need you to tell Mister Benedict something for me. Will you do that, please?”
“Of course,” he said, palming the key. “What would you like me to share?”
“Tell him—” A sob caught in her throat, her lips trembling. Closing her eyes, Annabelle tried again. “T-Tell him I…I release him from my winning bet.”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. If that’s wha--”
“That’ll be all, Deputy.” Brennen’s voice cut him off in mid-sentence.
Annabelle’s eyes flew open just as Brennen stepped into the small room. The air left her lungs in a rush as the deputy exited.
Brennen stepped closer. A muscle ticked along his jaw. “You think I’d just walk away from you?”
Fear for his safety pulsed through her. “I don’t want you involved in…this.”
He laughed, a dry, brittle sound that rode the curl of his lip. “I’ve been involved with you from the first moment we met, minx. It’s a bit late for a warning.”
The tears she tried so hard to bank, rolled down her cheeks. “I’m so s-sorry I didn’t tell you about…didn’t trust you enough to…”
He slipped his arms between the bars, wrapped them around her waist, and pulled her up against the metal, against him. “I know you’re innocent. That night, the rainstorm in Philadelphia…hell, I know better than anyone that you’re barely able to function during one, let alone kill anybody.”
The horror returned, the terrifying images, the panic…everything she’d kept bottled up for months broke free. “Edward m-murdered Bernice. He p-plunged the knife into her back, but h-he blamed me.” She gulped a ragged breath. “And the world believes him.”
Brennen rested his chin atop her head. “I believe in you, and you’re safe here. I’ll do whatever it takes to win your freedom.”
Her heart swelled with love for him, yet her emotions lay in tatters. “You don’t understand. There’s no protecting me from him.” Her fingers dug into his chest, crumpling the expensive linen. “H-He’s powerful. A congressmen with influence and money. I’d had no recourse but to run.”
“And I’m glad you did, otherwise I wouldn’t have found you.” He lifted her chin. “Don’t wall me out, minx. I’ve got a plan.”
Her panic multiplied. “Non…non, you mustn’t,” she sobbed. “H-He’s c’est un monstre…A monster of the worst kind. You can’t stop him. No one can. He’ll kill you, j-just like he did Bernice.”
His intense gaze narrowed on her. “No one’s killing me.”
“Please, Brennen…I-I can’t lose you, too.”
He pressed a kiss against her temple. “You’ll never lose me,” he rasped, his words reassuring amidst the terror gripping her soul. “Trust me. I’ll take care of this.”
She wanted to, desperately, except she’d witness Edward wield his power, his rage, destroying anyone who’d dared confront him. Through a sheen of tears, she shook her head and whispered. “N-No one can beat him at his wicked game.”
“Au contraire, mon cher amour…games are my specialty.” He stepped back, and in three strides reached the door, then paused and burrowed his gaze into hers. “I love you, Annabelle. Never forget that.”
The panel clicked shut behind him after he exited.
“Oh Brennen,” she whispered, gripping the metal bars. “Je t’aime…Je t’aime tellement…” Yards of gray silk pooled around her as she slid to the floor, her shoulders shaking beneath the great, heaving sobs that spilled from her lips.
Chapter Thirty
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
One week later
Brennen pulled his rented gelding to a halt before an enormous brownstone mansion on the corner of Walnut and John Streets. The men gathered inside were considered by many to be the historic core of East Coast establishment. Indeed, among the wealthiest leaders of politics, trade and industry in the United States.
He dismounted, then handed the reins to a uniformed groomsman. “Keep her saddled, please.”
“Yes, sir,” the man replied before leading the animal toward the stables behind the mansion.
Brennen noted the front of the oldest gentleman’s club in the country. Simple in design, no audacious insignia noting its distinct standing within the realm of the rich. Gasolier lighting illumed from every opening. His gaze narrowed on one of the front windows. An American flag was draped on the wall of a second-story room. Light artfully reflected off the stars and stripes. On the opposite side of the building, through a third floor window, a pedestaled bust of George Washington gleamed as the gasoliers in that room highlighted the impressive marbled face of the country’s first president.
On a smile, Brennen’s gaze travelled upward to the candlelit fourth floor windows. If all things went according to plan, he’d soon be up there.
He tugged on the white cuffs beneath his black cutaway, then straightened the maroon vest above his gray slacks. An easy shift straightened his black-and-gray striped cravat. Clean-shaven, his long hair cut and slicked back, he looked every inch a wealthy aristocrat. He resettled his dark gray top hat.
Gaining admittance into this exclusive building proved somewhat easier than actually matching the appointment time of a member who needed a fitting from the most expensive tailor in Philadelphia. But, match him, Brennen did. Now, their fortuitous acquaintance had gained him a new suit complete with an evening’s admittance into The Philadelphia Club.
One evening is all I’ll need.
The visit earlier this afternoon with Wallace’s agent proved most helpful. Bryant Parker had given him all the information needed pertaining to Congressman Edward Sullivan’s schedule.
Brennen smiled as he stepped inside the marbled foyer and removed his top hat. A stern-faced sentinel blocked his path.
“Excuse me, sir,” the man said, peering down his long nose at Brennen. “This is a members’ only establishment and I know every fellow on its registry. You, sir, are not one of them.”
Brennen reached inside his breast pocket. “Not yet, that is,” he said, offering the guard what he hoped was a charming grin. He handed over the note of introduction.
Please consider for membership one Mister Brennen Benedict, of the Benedict family from Richmond, Virginia, and, as of late, near Louisville, Kentucky. He is a man of immense intelligence, importance, and wealth.
For several long moments, the attendant perused the parchment.
Brennen waited, his palms sweating inside his white-gloved hands. The scrawled name across the bottom by the member he’d met at The Elite Emporium of Cloth had been as quickly forgotten as had his face.
“Stay here,” the guard ordered, then stepped into a small room off the entrance. Door left open, he conversed with several members sitting around a private gaming table; older men obviously vital to anyone’s admittance.
Their ensuing discussion muted, Brennen waited, a well-rehearsed and disgruntled expression pasted upon his face. Deceiving these upper crust gents at their own game was imperative if his plan had any hope of moving forward.
Amid a swirl of cigar smoke, the oldest fellow glanced his way.
Brennen nodded back in a nonchalant way that spoke of impatience, yet acknowledgement of the man’s obvious importance. More dialogue rumbled in the room. Moments later the butler returned.
“Welcome, Mister Benedict. We do hope you enjoy your visit with us this evening. Cocktails and spirited discussions are ava
ilable in the first floor parlor on your left; billiards and other pastimes are on your right. The second floor offers private card games without betting limits. Our third floor provides you a sumptuous meal. And, of course, our exclusive fourth floor rooms offer you the finest in female entertainment. Our ladies are of excellent health as well as being quite qifted.” He chuckled and reached out to take Brennen’s hat. “If you need anything else, sir, please let me or my staff know.”
Perfect.
Brennen thanked the doorman, handed over the silk chapeu of expensive hatters’ plush, then moved past the parlor in favor of the billiards room. Subdued conversations, laughter, and the clacking of an ivory ball striking another resonated above the soft hiss of lighting.
He glanced up.
A fancy sixteen-armed gasolier illuminated the foyer, casting suffused lighting throughout the establishment. No more shadows. No more candles or oil lamps placed within a room. No more odor. He’d heard most streets in London had changed to gas lighting, but the average American still doubted these modern complex contraptions. Not at The Philadelphia Club. Only the most up-to-date devises landed among the wealthy gentry.
A slow smile curved Brennen’s mouth. Perhaps Le Belle Maison should have a gasolier in her entryway, too. He chuckled, envisioning Annabelle’s awe.
He’d give her the world if she asked.
Except right now she didn’t need the world, but proof of her innocence. Brennen glanced toward the rear of the wide corridor where a pair of elegantly scrolled stairways, opposite the other, curved upward.
Soon.
Heart pounding, he turned and entered the billiard room.
* * * *
A long while later, Brennen leaned back in the chair and took another sip of Bomberger’s whiskey, the fine spirit lauded by the first distillery ever established in America. Smooth and oaken flavored, ‘twas the best he’d ever tasted. He sighed, sipping again. Gaining an invitation into the no-limit card games on the second floor had taken a series of losses at the billiards table, a couple of rounds of drinks for everyone, five winning poker hands, and four hours of pure Virginian charm.
He brought the cheroot to his lips, inhaling as he glanced around. The low-key atmosphere underscored the prosperity of the men seated at the half-dozen, linen-draped card tables. No animosity or heated discussions were allowed upstairs. Instead, a subdued gentility existed, the understated opulence of the room matching their behaviors. No shoddy woodwork or garish boastings here either. Only the best mahogany had been handcrafted into the walls and furniture of the establishment. More impressive, The Philadelphia Club displayed the best the art world had to offer.
His gaze narrowed on an Italian white marbled figurine on a nearby pedestal, a bronze plate beneath etched with the inscription, Vanerella by Francesco Barzachi, Milan. A magnificent piece exquisite in both form and flow.
The famous canvas titled The Hay Wain hung on the wall beside the sculpture. He recognized the artist John Constable’s technique, the most famous landscape painter of this century. Another small bronzed inscription beneath this masterpiece stated the picture was on loan from the National Gallery of London. In fact, everywhere Brennen looked, means and prestige spoke volumes without uttering a single word.
“Heard you’re in construction, Mister Benedict?” inquired the mutton-chopped gent on his right who owned the majority of rail lines that crisscrossed Pennsylvania. An intriguing coincidence as Brennen had ridden in one of his plush cars from Cincinnati to the City of Brotherly Love earlier this week.
Brennen removed his cheroot, and smiled. “Bricks, actually, made from the finest Kentucky clay and shale.” He angled a stream of smoke upwards. “Unlike you established gents, I’m slowly creating my wealth. Since the war’s end, folks are building at an amazing rate, and the Bluegrass state is no different. There’s good money to be had in the bricking industry.”
“Is that right?” asked the man on his left who owned the largest amount of lumber mills between the Allegheny Mountains of West Virginia to the Appalachian Cascades of Maine.
“As building materials go,” Brennen continued, “bricks have a proven track record of durability, performance, and natural aesthetic beauty.” He reached for his glass of whiskey and offered a silent toast before downing the last swallow. “Streets, houses, you name it, I’m gonna be the one to brick ‘em all.”
Peals of laughter erupted along with a couple of strong huzzahs.
“Why the Bluegrass moniker for your commonwealth?” Another asked.
“Well, from my understanding, Kentucky’s an Iroquois Indian name which means on the meadow.” Melancholy tugged at Brennen’s heartstrings. “And almost every one of those sweeping meadows are filled with a type of grass that blooms bluish-purple in the late-spring, thus the sobriquet bluegrass. My livestock also loves the stuff.”
Good God, he even missed the damned sheep!
A third gent from Boston whose fortune had been made in shipping leaned back. “So what brings you east, my friend?”
Brennen set aside his empty glass, and the butler replaced the tumbler with a freshly filled one. He nodded his thanks to the servant. “Well, Mister Talmadge,” Brennen replied to the shipping magnate. “That’s an excellent question.”
“Let’s just drop that mister shit, Benedict. Call me Charles.”
“Charles it is,” he agreed, enjoying an easy affinity with the mogul who lacked the pretentiousness of so many others in the club. “I’m searching for a person who has a date with destiny,” he chuckled, then asked, “But why are you in this fair city?”
Talmadge settled his cigar on the edge of a crystal dish. “Sailed the coastline around New York, then came upriver for a meetin’ with managers overseeing my investments here. Might need a good bricking company for future warehouses I’m building on League Island near the confluence of the Delaware and Schuylkill Rivers.”
Brennen smiled. “I’m afraid my noteworthy bricks are a tad too far away to be of any benefit to you, my friend.”
Everyone laughed, then a moment later another man asked, “So who’re you searching for, Benedict? Might we know him?”
“I’m sure you do,” he proclaimed as he lifted his glass. “Congressmen Edward T. Sullivan. Our acquaintance stretches back as far as our fathers who both served in congress before the war.”
Several nodded.
“Damn mess, that war. Nasty one,” Charles added.
“Yep,” Brennen said. “Couldn’t agree more.”
“Lost both my sons at New Market,” the lumber baron mumbled. “We all lost loved ones, I’m afraid.”
“Hey, Edward’s a club member,” the man sitting opposite Brennen stated.
“That’s right,” the railroader confirmed. “He’d be here this evening, too, but had an appointment up the Lehigh Canal in Allentown to speak at some anthracite coal function.” The businessman paused. “Should be back tomorrow, though. Maybe you two could meet up then.”
“I’ll do just that, sir. Thank you.”
Parker had already informed him of the congressman’s whereabouts this evening. Yet another reason why Brennen had chosen this night to visit the club. A disruption at the entrance drew his gaze just as a bevy of beautiful women sauntered into the room.
A half-dozen brunettes, two blondes, and a fiery-haired red head whose loveliness rivaled even the goddess of beauty, Aphrodite.
Ah yes, the spawn of Zeus and Dione…just the one I came to see.
“Looks like our ladies have arrived right on time,” Charles exclaimed, thumping Brennen on the shoulder as he winked. “Our guests always get first pick.”
“I’ll take her,” Brennen said, his lips flattening into a thin smile.
“Good choice. That’s Celeste, and ordinarily she’s Sullivan’s choice. You two must share a similar interest.”
“Yes,” he muttered, “the coincidence is uncanny.”
“But tread softly, my friend,” Talmadge added on a deep chuckle. �
��This gal’s got a streak of Irish ornery through her a mile wide. Oh, and by the way, they’re paid well to know us and keep their mouths shut.”
“I’m always careful.”
She sashayed toward him.
All too easy.
“Evening, Celeste,” Talmadge said. “This here’s Brennen Benedict. He’s a guest at the club this evening so you take good care of him, all right, honey?”
She slipped her hand across Brennen’s. “Come along, Mister Benedict,” she purred. “Looks like I’m exclusively yours for the night.”
“See?” Talmadge boasted. “Told you she’s fiery!”
Brennen stood and sent a wicked grin over his shoulder. “I like ‘em hot, gentlemen.”
Laughter trailing behind him, Brennen allowed the redhead to lead him out the door and up the winding steps to the fourth floor. Soft candlelight illuminated a well-decorated room as he stepped over the threshold.
She closed the door, then turned to face him. “I’m Celeste, but you may call me whatever you’d like this evening. Please get comfortable.”
He eased down onto the closest chair.
“There are two rules we enforce at the club, Mister Benedict.” She closed the distance between them. “There will be no whips, or chains, nor am I to be bound in any manner. If you can agree to these guidelines, then I shall provide you a most memorable night.”
He nodded his acceptance of her rules. “I’m hoping you will.”
She indicated the linen-draped table where a bounty of fresh fruits, various hard cheeses, and a bottle of his chosen bourbon waited alongside two empty glasses. “Please, help yourself to whatever you’d like while I slip into something more comfortable. I prefer to wear a soft peignoir while we visit if that’s all right with you? Or would you rather I be naked?”
The woman performed well, he’d give her that much. “Your peignoir is fine, Celeste as I, too, prefer softness over the blatant.”
“How very nice.” She trailed a manicured fingertip over his shoulders. A moment later, she stepped behind a black-lacquered Chinese dressing screen.