“This isn’t the time for games, Amberley. If you know something about Victor Peale’s death, you need to spill it right now, and then maybe you’ll actually live to spend all of your late husband’s money.”
“Are you in league with the badges now? Can’t blame you, though. They’re a couple of lookers, aren’t they?” She blew out a puff of smoke and examined the room, as if there were eyes watching them through the walls. “What a historic turn of events. Wren Lockhart actually has a heart beating underneath that bow tie of hers. It’s starting to pitter-patter for the first time, eh?” Amberley shook her head, a lurid tone punctuating her words.
She used her nails to pick a piece of tobacco that had gone astray from her cigarette and stuck to her tongue.
Wren knew her words were meant to sting, but something still managed to prick at her, that perhaps she was more transparent than she wished to be.
“If you think you’ll get a better offer from the man you met at the Union Oyster House today, then by all means, do feel free to go ask him instead.”
Amberley’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know that?”
“Agent Finnegan has been tailing you. And he’s seen enough to know you’re in some serious trouble. I’m about the last person you wanted to see. Believe me, I don’t want to be here either. But you may want to listen to what I have to say because shocked as I am to admit it, we might be the only allies you have right now.” Wren waited for the pointed admission to crack Amberley’s defenses. “So tell me. Why did you help Horace Stapleton at his show in the cemetery? What does he have on you?”
“Nothing.” Her eyes drowned with indecision. She dropped her voice low. “It’s other complications that have become problematic for me.”
She looked as though she was ready to spill something further, until her eyes focused on the door behind Wren’s back. A small bit of card stock slid under the door, sailing to a stop in the middle of the linoleum floor.
Wren jumped up and crossed over to pluck it up. It bore a single word scratched in ink.
Run.
CHAPTER 14
A shadow darkened the pebbled glass of the door leading to the hall.
“One of your guys?” Amberley whispered.
Wren shook her head. “I would have guessed one of yours.”
“But I don’t have guys!” Amberley’s whisper shot out in a fever pitch. “I’m a widow. I’m on my own, Wren.”
If you’re on your own, then that’s finally something we have in common . . .
Wren shifted her glance back to the door. The figure was more than a head taller than Elliot and much stockier than Connor. The only thought that moved through her mind was that Elliot told her not to open the door unless she was certain he was on the other side. And now with a warning in hand, their precious little time could be slipping away.
The doorknob jiggled and she locked eyes with Amberley, seeing that instant fear flashed in them.
Wren jumped to her feet and hauled the shaken socialite up at the elbow. The cigarette fell from her fingertips, the last bit of flame in the end scattering ashes and sizzling out as it dropped onto the tabletop.
“Come on,” she whispered, tugging Amberley through the inner door to Elliot’s office.
There was no time. Wren closed and locked it behind them, then scanned the room, her mind firing quickly at her options. There were no other means of escape, and the thought of trekking blindly through the unknown halls of the Bureau seemed riskier than hiding out in a locked office. The best they could do was try to push the corner of the desk closer to the door. It wouldn’t stop bullets from flying, but it could help slow up someone if he tried to come through.
“Help me.” Wren elbowed Amberley, then tipped her head to the desk in the center of the room. “This may give us a head start if someone tries to push in.”
Amberley didn’t question, just nodded and put her back into moving the desk’s edge to block the door. Her strength was deceptive. And though Wren’s shoulder protested, she grimaced rather than crying out as the pain intensified, and the desk finally gave in to their joint effort.
“What is the matter with you?” Amberley paused, brow furrowed.
“I’m fine. It was just a little present from some of the guns that chased us down last night.”
“What? You mean you weren’t just posturing? You were actually shot?” Amberley’s hand flew to cover her mouth, her whisper urgent. “Then the people who came after you last night . . . Is that who’s in the room next door this very minute?”
“Let’s hope we don’t have to find out. But if we don’t want a repeat performance for both of us this time, we need to get out of here. Now.”
She crossed to the window and tugged at the Venetian blinds until they cinched up out of the way. The shelf between them and a path to the window was stacked high with papers, files, and books.
“Sorry, Elliot.” Wren used her good arm and swept the painstakingly organized stacks of case files to the ground. Paper rained down like a ticker-tape parade, covering the floor in a sea of white.
The lever clicked when Wren pushed the window wide, allowing a cold blast of air to invade the room. She poked her head outside and looked left to right, her heart sinking.
You were right, Elliot. She couldn’t believe his quip about the unlocked window actually came true. Classic. Now it was their only way out. There were no drainpipes, but there was a wide ledge and a low rooftop in the building next to them. They’d have to climb down, then cross over to a grove of trees down to the street.
If that was the only escape route available, they’d have to take it.
“You don’t mean we’re actually climbing out on that ledge, do you?”
“You bet we are.” Wren hauled Amberley up to her side. She pushed her in the small of her back until the tips of her shoes kissed the wall. “And you’re going out first.”
Amberley drank in a deep breath. Despite looking as though she might swoon clean off the ledge, she climbed up, balancing the heels of her gold-tipped oxfords along the windowsill. Wind brushed the coat about her legs and played with the wavy brown locks of hair in a frenzy against her neck.
A flood of relief washed over Wren when she saw a familiar car appear through the trees. It came to a stop in the shadowed grove beneath them with the outline of a familiar face through the window.
She watched as Elliot angled the car so he could see them through the maze of tree branches above. He edged forward until he was in a good position and idled the car. She presumed he was waiting to intercept them the moment their shoes touched the ground.
“I’ll tell you this,” Amberley said, her breath fogging in the frigid night air. She shivered at Wren’s side, easing her heels in careful steps along the ledge. “If we manage to live through this night, I just may reconsider my stance on murder. Right now, Horace Stapleton is number one on my list.”
“While I don’t advocate that, you just might get your chance to claim justice against him.” Wren tightened her grip on the brick exterior as she slid out on the ledge behind her.
“I know how he brought Victor Peale back. Or how he tried to make it look like he did. I assume bringing you in was his attempt at revenge for attempting to ruin him. Except he waited until Harry was gone to resurrect his own name. But if your agent friends want a statement from me, I need a guarantee of full immunity first. If I see one night in jail, I swear I’ll put everything in a vault and they’ll never hear a peep out of me.”
“Well, standing on a ledge isn’t the place to tell it. But you’ll have to come clean as soon as we’re on firm ground. You know it was bound to come to this.” Wren nodded to the shadow of the car through the trees as they moved. “Head for the car. That’ll be our ride out of here.”
“Right. But I . . .” Amberley nodded, edging over to the roof they’d have to traverse from the ledge. She hesitated. “I hated you, you know.”
It was the least surprised Wren had found herself sinc
e New Year’s Eve. “I know.”
“I’m not the only one.”
“I know that too.” Her words were flat. Said on a sigh. “But envy is a poor substitute for doing the right thing.”
“I’m not in the mood for a lecture. You became Harry’s little protégé, and so many others faded away behind the stage curtain. I ended up kicking up my heels for dime shows at the Castleton just to stay off the streets.”
“I thought I heard that somewhere.”
“Well, thank Providence I met Stanley Dover and got out of there, even when so many others didn’t. Yet all the while, you seemed content to languish in the darkest parts of the showman’s world. Dressing how you wished. Living in your big house on the hill. Uncaring what anyone thought, when I wanted you to fade as badly as the rest. I tried to humiliate you last night, in front of everyone in Boston society, because of it. And still you bested me. But you should know now that I could have darkened you, and I didn’t.”
“I have no interest in competing with you, Amberley, let alone to best you in anything. I’m content to live my life without drama.”
“And yet you know I’ve become privy to your family’s secrets. I have only to whisper the blackness of the Charles name to bring down a scandal upon Wren Lockhart if I choose. The public may not know who you are, but I do. Remember? I heard Houdini say your real name that first day you showed up to join his show. I never forgot what I heard, or what I learned it meant.”
Wren refused to show that any mention of her past affected her. “Scandal or not, I’ve never cared much what society thought of me.”
“Secrets will keep until someone is ready to use them. They always do. Whether Horace Stapleton is behind the car chasing you, I don’t know. But I had nothing to do with it. I’d still see you hang in the court of public opinion, of course, but I won’t tie a real noose.”
Amberley had the power to destroy the fragile cage Wren had built to protect herself, and she knew it too. In the smallest instant, the walls could be torn down. Her whole life’s illusion, shattered. Only, the truth didn’t sting as much as Wren always thought it would.
Maybe she was stronger somehow.
Maybe the sins of Horace Stapleton could be unfurled, and Amberley’s willingness to help them could prove the key. Harry Houdini had always been interested in the most profound levels of truth, scientific or otherwise. And the deeper they trekked into the dark world surrounding Victor Peale’s death, the more Wren realized people were not the real enemy. It was her choice how she lived, whether she’d carry the burden of bitterness against Amberley or allow truth to soothe the gaping wounds between them.
“Step there.” Wren pointed Amberley to a level surface leading down to the flat roof. “This doesn’t make up for past wrongs. Nothing can change that now. But I won’t live under the shadow that you propose. If you choose to ruin me, so be it.”
Amberley paused, turning to look Wren square in the eyes. The breeze carried stray locks of hair off her brow, sweeping it back in winding tendrils off her face. “Then why? Why are you helping me?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Wren said. “And it’s what Harry would have wanted.”
Amberley’s nod and the feel of the cold night air flowing around them reminded her that time wasn’t on their side.
“Let’s go. That desk won’t hold them off forever.” She gripped an arm around a sturdy limb of a nearby tree. “You’ll just have to restrain your hatred of me—at least until we’re out of our current fix. After that, all bets are off.”
“I think I can handle that, if you can.”
Wren extended her hand out to Amberley. It should have been against her better judgment, but she held fast. “I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but welcome aboard.”
“I want to talk to him,” Amberley demanded, tipping her chin toward Elliot. “Alone.”
The socialite narrowed her eyes, daring Connor or Wren to challenge her the moment they stepped inside the back door of the seaside cottage.
Elliot watched for shades of objection to darken Wren’s face. He saw none. Tall and sanguine, she stood in the doorway with her injured arm cradled in her good one, remaining silent. He considered it a marked response that she didn’t challenge Amberley’s behavior and decided to follow suit.
“Very well, Mrs. Dover. Just this way.” Elliot motioned her to the parlor.
“And I’ll just go in to make sure everything’s . . . ,” Connor piped up, following them into the room.
Wren stepped up, easing her good arm to hook under his elbow. “You’ve been here before, Agent Finnegan?”
“Uh . . . no. But I’m sure Elliot will give you a tour later if you want.” He tried to wiggle his way out of her grasp to see into the parlor in which Amberley had just disappeared.
“Actually, I’d love one now. And I assume we’ll just have to find the kitchen together. Yes? I could certainly use a cup of tea.”
“Good idea.” Elliot pointed down the hall past the stairs. “Kitchen’s in the back. Connor, you keep Ms. Lockhart here safe while she makes us some tea.” When Connor looked like he wanted to argue another solution that included staying at Amberley’s side, Elliot added, “And don’t bother having the grounds keeper or his wife do it. Wren likes to live on the wild side—without anyone doing anything for her. She won’t take to disturbing service staff when the two of you can manage it together.”
He knew what Wren was up to.
She smiled, a honeyed version Elliot knew was much too submissive to have been anything close to real.
“Rightly so.” She tugged Connor down the hall with her.
Best to separate the would-be lovers, even if the potential sparks were one-sided. Connor wasn’t thinking clearly, and the last thing Elliot needed was a love-sick agent clouding judgment during an interrogation. If Amberley was ready to talk, he couldn’t allow obstructions to what she had to say.
Wren slipped Elliot a slight nod to tell him he’d have as much time as he needed in order to get something out of their cagey socialite. He nodded back, trying not to notice how easily they could play off each other’s thoughts without missing a beat.
They turned the corner. Did Wren know he watched her all the way?
Lovesick agent . . .
Before, he might’ve judged that as only Connor’s fate. Heaven help Elliot if the growing familiarity he had with Wren made him begin to doubt what they were there to do.
Elliot brushed it off and trailed into the parlor.
Amberley had settled in a wingback chair by the fireplace, smoking a cigarette in the dark. After shrugging out of his coat, he tossed it on a bench by the stairs and undid the cuffs of his shirt. It was cold, so he knelt and twisted old newspapers as kindling.
“Well, you got what you wanted.” Elliot layered logs and paper in the hearth. “I’m here. I assume you’ll tell me why.”
“I will. Don’t you worry about that.”
Amberley’s words weren’t the problem. It was her tone—secure and unafraid—that made him doubt their conversation would go the direction he wanted it to.
“What’s this about, Amberley? What kind of game are you playing?” He scratched a match against the stone hearth and lit the edges of the newspapers. A flame caught, and an orange glow began to fill the room.
“Who says I’m playing games?”
“Aren’t you? In the interest of saving everyone a lot of time, why don’t you just tell me what you want.”
Amberley tipped her head to the side, as if indecision held her prisoner from answering. “Oh, this is about what you want, Agent Matthews. I’ll give you something for free. Just one something. The rest is going to cost you—full immunity—if I give a signed statement as to what I know about Horace Stapleton. That’s my offer. Take it or leave it.”
He brushed his hands together and moved to the chair across from her, then sat with elbows braced at his knees. “And what do we get for free, since you’re being
so magnanimous?”
“You choose,” she said, her singsong voice punctuated with a smile. She flitted her glance toward the end of the hall and to the corner around which Wren had just disappeared.
“If I could choose, I’d have you hauled before a judge who would force it out of you. But I consider myself magnanimous, too, for giving you the opportunity to come clean while you still can—at least before the trench coat from the Union Oyster House finds you. He’s still out there, you know. We could put you out on the street right now and just wait for something to happen. I promise you that you’re not likely to get a better offer from the people who have you running scared.”
“Oh, believe me, my position has had me up nights. But I do so love to be helpful, Agent Matthews. So I’ll let you choose the topic of our conversation: Horace Stapleton or—” She leaned back in the chair, satisfied, it seemed, with the cards she was playing. Smoke curled around her. “I’ll tell you the dirty family details of our caged little Wren back there, better known as one Jennifer Charles.”
CHAPTER 15
APRIL 21, 1916
KEITH’S THEATRE
WASHINGTON, DC
“You say you’re here to work with Harry Houdini?”
The guard at Keith’s Washington, DC, theater looked like he might believe them. Wren had only to offer the man a confident smile and a worn business card with the entertainer’s name for she and Irina to be allowed access to the auditorium.
“That’s correct, sir. We both are—my business manager and I.” She watched intently as he flipped the card back and forth in his fingertips.
“Business manager?” He eyed Irina, looking her up and down as though she were a creature from a far-off jungle.
Irina crossed her arms over her chest, green eyes staring him through.
“Does this one talk?”
“If there’s anyone worth talking to,” Irina grumbled, prompting Wren to lightly stomp the side of her foot.
“Of course she does, sir. What a silly question.” Wren laughed it off, doing her best to make light of the situation.
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