And that, too, was wrong. He did not. Though she had no tangible proof, she had a sense—and that vague instinct told her whatever had happened to Eric had not happened because he had willed it. The mysterious woman the captain had mentioned; he could have been wrong, or she could exist and be perfectly innocent. Betrayal. She sighed, knew the first thing would be to learn as much about his vanishing, and— She put her head in her hands and took a deep breath. Easy, girl, she thought; take it easy. Too many problems, too much confusion. One thing at a time. She raised her eyes to the ceiling, thinking, and reached the inescapable conclusion that to do anything—from locating Eric to avoiding Geoff’s threats—she needed money, and more than she now possessed; there would be people to be hired, to be bribed, to move where she could not.
One thing at a time, girl. Remember what your father taught you.
The afternoon was a gray, grim harbinger of a storm that even now whipped the wind to a frenzy. Leaves were torn from the trees in violent gusts, scraps of debris were pinwheeled from the gutters to snap and hold themselves against pillars and fence posts. The black fringe of her white shawl fluttered helplessly, and her hair was loosened from its prim bun to flail across her face. She walked steadily, however, not letting herself stumble, noting with a slightly sardonic grin that carriages passed her less frequently now, and pedestrians without destination were few and far between. A platoon of horses rode swiftly by her, its guide lines borne defiantly by the young man in the lead. Mud was kicked up dangerously close to her skirts, but she paid it no mind, thinking instead of the rumors that had both Lee and Jackson preparing another northern thrust, toward Philadelphia and the industries she maintained, the port that was so valuable to the Union cause. Cass, however, discounted them all. From what David had told her, the Confederates were still retreating into the Virginia wilderness, shocked by the turnabout of their stunning loss at Gettysburg and looking for an opportunity to retrench before they were hounded to death. She remembered Geoffrey’s grudging admiration for the South’s leader, and for a moment wished that all these men would stop playing like children and come to their senses, end it now, once and for all, and let the world find its way back to normal.
She laughed silently. Normal was something that she feared her world would not be again. But she refused to let her mood darken like the sky, and when she entered Cavendish’s offices, she gave David a bright smile to help herself along. He was behind his high clerk’s desk when she came in. He grinned and clambered down from the stool in a hurry.
“Miss Bowsmith,” he said, his eyes shining. “What a pleasant surprise! What can I do for you?”
“I must see Mr. Cavendish,” she said. “Would you mind telling him that I’m here?”
“Well,” the young man said doubtfully, “I think he’s awfully busy today. He has a number of cases coming up in—”
“Please, David,” she said.
“He’ll be awfully put out. You don’t know him when—”
“Believe me, I can imagine,” she said patiently. “Listen, David, as a favor to me, will you please tell him I’m here?”
She followed her words with a trace of a smile that broadened when he flushed and nodded quickly. He turned with a gesture for her to wait, nearly tripped over the leg of his stool in his haste, and knocked on the plain, paneled door that led to his employer’s private rooms. When a faint voice answered sharply, he looked over his shoulder, grinned, shrugged, and vanished into the office. Before she even had time for a perfunctory glance around, he returned and beckoned to her anxiously.
“He’ll see you right away,” David said, not bothering to hide his surprise. “I’m not to let anyone disturb you.”
Her eyebrows lifted, but she kept silent as she swept by him. Just take it easy, she cautioned herself; he’s only a man, you know. For God’s sake, just be calm.
But after the door closed gently behind her, she was unable to prevent a band of iron from constricting her chest and making her lungs labor with anxiety. The room was lined with glass-fronted bookcases from floor to ceiling, the floor was carpeted, and several armchairs were scattered about in what seemed to her to be a haphazard fashion. In each of the corners were tall brass-and-marble pedestals upon which squatted lamps of amber glass, and on the back wall, where a window should have been, a tapestry depicted a unicorn hunt.
Cavendish was seated behind a large oaken desk trimmed in red leather and gold-and-silver inlay. A startling array of pens and scraps of paper were piled here and there in apparent disorder, and in a near corner, a pewter snuff box sat dwarfed by a humidor whose cap had been cast in the shape of a swooping hawk.
Cass was amused. Somehow, the wealth the office proclaimed did not stand easy beside the parsimonious image the lawyer had deliberately presented to her. She might have found the nerve to remark on it, but the old man rose then, and with a generous wave of his hand offered her the nearest chair, one thickly upholstered in puffs and ridges of a rich wine leather she had never seen before. She nodded, sat, and folded her hands almost primly in her lap after taking off the shawl and setting it neatly over the chair’s left arm.
“Miss Bowsmith,” Cavendish said, mopping at the back of his neck with a brilliantly white handkerchief, “I’m pleased that you’ve come today. In fact, truth be known, I was about to send for you myself, once this wretched storm was over and it was more suitable for you to walk. Please, will you have a glass of port? It’s quite good, actually. Comes directly from Madrid. That’s in Spain.”
Cass could do nothing but nod mutely. What was going on around here? Suddenly, as though his previous conferences had not even happened, she was being treated as though she were … well, a woman of property and social standing. Her eyes widened slightly when she accepted the glass offered her, lifted it to return his silent toast, and sipped. She dared not speculate; it would be too much like dreaming.
“Now,” the lawyer said. “Ladies first, as always. What can I do for you, Miss Bowsmith?”
“No,” she said suddenly, with a shy smile. “It can wait, sir. Please … why were you going to send for me? Is anything the matter? Don’t tell me I have to leave already; I’ve barely—”
“For heaven’s sake, woman, no, nothing like that at all.” He scowled, but shrugged off her reticence with an almost imperceptible rearrangement of his features. “I’ve had a busy day, you know,” he said, leaning back in his chair and cupping his hands around his glass. “Dawn to dusk, and everyone thinks I’m getting rich on it. Isn’t so, y’know. A lot of foolish people, like your dear aunt, have seen to that. I ain’t poor, o’course, but I’m not as rich as people would have me. Well off, I reckon, but that’s—”
“Mr. Cavendish,” Cass said, her smile now strained as she fought off the impression she’d been through this before. “You were going to send for me?”
“Ai, yes,” he muttered, pushing idly at a sheaf of papers in front of him. “Yes, well, you see … first thing today, when young David out there opened the office—a bright lad he is, had to pay a fortune to keep him off the conscription, you know—first thing, there was a messenger waiting with a package. Curious. They usually don’t come by that early. Especially on such a miserable day. All this rain, and the heat stays on in spite of it. Curious.”
“I’m sure,” she said dryly.
He harrumphed, sipped at his wine and stared at it in distaste. Then he cleared his throat, loudly. “Well, Miss Bowsmith, you can imagine my surprise when I discovered the package was addressed to me. And what do you suppose I found inside it?” He paused, staring at her as though daring her to interrupt again. “Money, Miss Bowsmith,” he said in nearly a whisper. “A good deal of money. More than I have seen in a long time. There was, in addition, a sheet of precise instructions for its use.”
“From one of your clients?” she guessed, confused now and impatient.
“Indeed not,” he answered peevishly. “My clients are not the sort to sneak about like that. The instructions,
however, and the weight of the gold have led me to believe that you have, somewhere in this war-torn world, a benefactor. And a most generous one, I might add.”
“A benefactor?” It was her turn to stare. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you, sir.”
“Miss Bowsmith,” and he shoved several papers affixed with a series of dark seals toward her, “if you’ll just sign these now, I think I can explain everything.”
“Of course,” she said, picking up the papers, “but after I read them first, if you don’t mind.” She ducked her gaze away from his frown, praying that something would soon begin to make sense. The room was far too warm without a window, the air was stifling, and she could feel perspiration running down her spine; the valley between her breasts. She touched a thumb to her chin and scanned the papers carefully; when she had done reading them a second time, she placed them back on the desk as though they were on fire. The warmth she now felt had nothing to do with the office’s air. Cavendish was grinning when she looked up. “I—” and she swallowed. “I don’t—” She shook her head to clear it of a dizziness that startled her in its intensity.
“I felt the same way,” the lawyer said, too loudly. “Quite naturally, my first impression was that it’s all a mistake, that they—whoever it is—had the wrong woman. My second thought, to be frank, was that whoever is doing this is quite mad, like poor old Abe’s wife, if you know what I mean. But—” and he spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. “The money is real, the instructions explicit.”
“Mr. Cavendish, are you sure?”
He sniffed, pulled the handkerchief from his sleeve and passed it quickly over face and neck. “Madam,” he said, “I have built quite a practice here, one of the best in the entire city, if I do say so myself. The unusual does not play a great part of my daily life, as you can well imagine. So you can be sure I’ve done nothing else this day but make certain inquiries, a check with my bankers, and a number of other things of no interest to you. The signatory, being anonymous, has made this all the more difficult. But in a word … yes, Miss Bowsmith, I am absolutely sure.”
She touched a palm to her forehead, thinking that perhaps Forrester had somehow given her a drug with that brandy, or that she was suffering a fever dream, a delirium; and she barely heard the lawyer when he continued.
“As you have read, I am to purchase your aunt’s house in your name. With what is left over, I must set up an account that will, in regular fashion, allow you to draw a living wage. It won’t last forever, mind, but it should see you comfortably through the next year or so, depending on this damnable war.” He leaned forward then, and clasped his hands on the desk firmly. “With your permission, I shall take a portion of the overage and invest it as wisely as I can, hoping to extend thereby the period of your grace. In addition, but again only with your permission, I shall also use the farm sale receipts in this manner. I trust my plans meet with your approval.”
She nodded, having no idea what he was talking about, and having no real choice but to trust him.
“You’re not wealthy, Miss Bowsmith,” he cautioned, “but you need not stake out a place in the gutter, either.” He chuckled at his slight attempt at humor, harrumphed again when she did nothing but gape at him. “The papers,” he said sourly, and handed her a quill.
She remembered nothing of the signing, his instructions, or his guiding her personally to the front door. There was a fleeting glimpse of David gaping at the display, and she was outside and walking before she knew it. Her skirts snapped against her legs, leaves and damp papers swirled about her ankles, a drayman shouted obscenities at her when she stepped blindly in front of his cart, and when a drunkard stumbled out of a tavern and collided with her, she only smiled at him vaguely, pushed him away, and moved on.
And when she reached Jordan Lane, she stopped to stare down the row of houses to … her own! A tear welled, was tugged at by wind and fell to her cheek. It was, she thought, the most beautiful house in the city, in the world, and it was hers. In the space of less than forty-eight hours she’d gone from a nightmare of disasters to a freedom she’d never dreamed would be marked with reality.
Suddenly there were things to buy, things to do, how much and how many she had no idea; but think, Cass, of the dresses, the gowns, the— She took a deep breath and held it until her imagination calmed, her excitement subsided to a point where she could regain control. A drop of rain splattered against her face, another, and she hurried on, pushed through the door and barred it automatically behind her. Her shawl— she grinned; she had left it behind, but it was no matter. No matter! She could buy herself a new one, hundreds, thousands …
“Stop it, Cass, for heaven’s sake!” she laughed, then shook her head and moved into the sitting room. Quickly, she lit the lamps against the storm’s gray haze, opened the windows to the fresh damp air, and took a seat at her desk, her hands trembling with joy. You are not rich, she reminded herself; but without extravagance she’d not have to worry, either. The food would be there, and the roof, and the warmth of the hearth. She wanted to cry out her joy, shout, race through the house trailing laughter behind her.
But who had it been?
She sobered instantly and leaned back in the hard wooden chair. Eric? She was sure he had no part in this. Knowing the man, he would have made this an occasion to be remembered, filling it with light and laughter, not subterfuge; proclaiming it, not hiding it.
And if not Eric … there was no one else she knew in the city save one man. If not Eric, it would have to be Geoffrey Hawkins. Not content in his rage for mad revenge to have her simply thrown into the streets, he had now made sure she would be where he could find her when his madness dictated another moment of action. He was taunting her, showing her how far his power extended, how imposing it could be behind a wall of gold.
Her hands became fists. She half rose from the chair before a sly grin settled over her features. She relaxed, sat back, and one finger tapped slowly at the dark polished wood while she let the realization sink in that perhaps, finally, Geoffrey had erred.
If what she suspected were true, then she had to concede the madman his cleverness. It was a foul thing that she should find herself dependent upon his money, his whim; but he had underestimated her strength. To him, and to Forrester—especially after last night—she was only a woman. And not simply a woman, but one who had been abruptly transplanted from the rustic to the metropolitan; adrift, then, in a sea whose currents would soon drown her. It was evident that he had forgotten in what circumstances he’d first met her, and what she had survived.
Her smiled widened and she drew a sheet of foolscap to her. It would be worthwhile, yes, advantageous to keep him from believing anything else. As long as he did not know what she was, she would have the upper hand. What she needed was a list of things to take care of, now that she had the means.
And when she was done, several hours later, she looked up and was surprised at the evening darkness taking the storm’s place. She rubbed her eyes, stretched and yawned, shook her head, and grabbed a handful of hair to stroke and calm her. And she sighed.
Poor Geoffrey, she thought; it might have been different once. But now it was too late. Now she had—
Someone knocked at the front door. She gasped and pushed away from the desk, looking immediately to the corners for a place to hide. Heard the knocking again.
“Eric?” she said. Then, loudly: “Eric, oh, my God, Eric?”
She dashed from the room and flung the door open, was barely able to stop herself from leaping into the visitor’s arms. And the moment she realized she did not know him, she cursed her carelessness; it wasn’t Forrester, but it might well have been.
“Miss Bowsmith? Miss Cassandra Bowsmith?”
She stiffened and pulled the door open slightly, one hand behind it in case she had to slam it quickly. “Yes,” she said with a slight nod.
The man grinned as though relieved, doffed his high dark hat and held out a gloved hand. When she did
not accept it, he only shrugged and leaned on a walking stick that was more like a club.
“I apologize for the late hour, Miss Bowsmith, but when Hiram told me what happened in the office today, I couldn’t help but come over here on my first free moment to meet the mysterious woman who has taken our firm by storm.”
She blinked rapidly, then realized guiltily she was keeping him out the rain.
“You’re—”
“That’s right,” he said. “Hiram is my partner. My name is Kevin Roe.”
Chapter Thirteen
A cut glass decanter of wine sat on the low marble table between them, the deep red liquid absorbing the glow from the lamps as though it were a web to trap shadows. The wind had subsided, the lash of rain against the panes vanished, and only an occasional flare of distant lightning signaled the storm that moved inexorably over the river toward the sea. Despite the month, a chill had settled into the room; despite the hour, Cass was more awake than she had been in days. She smiled politely as she sipped from her glass, knowing there were probably amenities that should be followed on such an occasion; instead, however, she studied candidly the man sitting opposite her, just as candidly as he studied her.
He was young, Mr. Kevin Roe, and not at all tall. Yet, from the highly polished gleam of his low-cut black boots to the tailoring of his rich brown suit with its velvet trim and matching ascot, he bespoke an elegance that seemed to her far out of place in an office such as Cavendish & Roe. Hat and Gloves were placed neatly on the cushion beside him, and he touched at them every so often, as if reassuring himself that no one had crept in to steal them. His face was pale, narrow, lightly touched across the bridge of his sharply planed nose with faint freckles to match the fiery red hair he wore combed back over his ears, settling well below his neckline in a fashion long out of date with those who lived in the city. She thought him then a curious combination of contradictions: the dress quite modem, the hair not so; the elegance and the profession; the wry, persistent smile that belonged more properly on the face of a hawker than a lawyer.
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