Leslie LaFoy

by Jacksons Way

  She walked at his side and allowed him to hand her into the carriage that sat waiting in the circular drive. It was an oddly disconcerting experience, she decided, as the carriage started to roll and she waved good-bye to him.

  She'd known Benjamin Tipton all of her adult life, but there was something about being with him outside of the office that didn't feel at all right. And, despite the sense of betrayal she felt, she couldn't keep from comparing him to Jackson Stennett.

  In appearance they were both handsome men, although in very different ways. Ben was fair and finely molded, a creature of parlors and cultured events. Stennett had dark hair and eyes, his skin burnished tawny-gold by life under the sun. Where Ben was delicate, Jackson Stennett could only be described as chiseled.

  And while they both were quite capable of exhibiting courtly and mannerly behavior, there was an obvious difference in the underriding tone of it. Ben's manner was tightly controlled and gave her the sense of being based on cool calculation of the advantage to be gained in playing by the expected rules. In fact, now that she thought about it, the politeness was almost like a mask behind which Ben hid the more personal side of himself.

  Jackson Stennett, on the other hand … Lindsay chewed on her lower lip. Stennett struck her as the kind of man who didn't care enough about rules to even bother learning what they were. His manner—his respectful treatment of those around him—was as natural a part of him as breathing. He wore his social station with ease and didn't seem to care what anyone thought of him or what he said or did.

  He was a remarkably baronial man, Lindsay admitted. And in comparison, Benjamin Tipton seemed decidedly shallow. It was a shame that Ben's sense of duty and loyalty weren't obvious at a casual glance. They were his best qualities and so few people knew he possessed them.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SIR?”

  Ben. Jackson opened his eyes. Yep, it was Ben Tipton standing beside him. “What time is it?” he asked, easing up and into the back of the chair.

  “It's eight o'clock, sir. In the morning. Do you take sugar or cream in your coffee?”

  “No, just black and strong.” His forehead felt six inches high and a good four thick. And sweet criminey, his shoulders were stiffer than planks. “Pour yourself a cup and have a seat, Ben. We need to talk.”

  Ben poured from the silver pot, saying, “I think you should know that Mr. Vanderhagen has sent his card announcing that he intends to call at nine.”

  Wonderful way to start the day. Jackson began working the kinks out of his neck. “Then we have an hour and we'll make the best of it.”

  “Perhaps you'd like to shave while we talk,” Ben suggested while handing him a dainty cup and saucer. When it had been safely transferred, he motioned toward the far wall. “I've seen to the dressing table. If you'd care for breakfast, I'll order whatever you'd like to be delivered.”

  Coffee, a shave, and the offer of breakfast. Ben sure had the routine down pat. “Thank you. I take it that Richard often spent the night here.”

  “He did, sir. Especially in the last year.”

  The coffee was hot and strong. In searing a path all the way down his throat, it succeeded in clearing the cobwebs of sleep from his brain. Ben was at the washbasin, lathering the brush in the heavy shaving mug. Jack considered him. The bookkeeper was what they called a pretty boy back home. For some reason, age never made any difference for men like Ben Tipton. They were handsome and stylish and popular with the ladies—working real damn hard at it all— and about as deep as a hoofprint on rock. All the ones he'd ever run across hadn't liked working for a living and had avoided it if at all possible. Ben struck him as working not out of necessity or because society expected him to be productive, but because it amused him. Ben Tipton was—no doubt about it—good at his job, but he was still an odd kind of critter.

  Jackson took another long swallow of coffee and then, leaving the saucer on the desktop, forced his body upright. “Tell me, Ben, have you ever thought about giving up bookkeeping and becoming a manservant?”

  “I'm much more comfortable spending my day with books and figures than I am people, sir.”

  “Why's that?” Jackson asked, setting the coffee cup down beside the washbasin and looking at himself in the mirror. Rode hard and put away wet.

  “Numbers are numbers,” Ben explained, handing him a steaming towel and setting down the shaving mug before stepping back. “They are what they appear to be. People seldom are and I always seem to be disappointed by what I find beneath the surface of them.”

  Jackson considered the observation as he pressed the moist, heated towel over the lower half of his face. Tossing it aside, he picked up the shaving mug and slathered his chin with soap, saying, “Until recently, I would have disagreed with you, Ben. Now I'm beginning to think that you may be right. I sure as hell never expected Billy to be who he turned out to be.”

  He set down the mug, accepted the razor from Ben, and began to shave. “And I never in my wildest nightmares thought I'd be in New York trying to figure out how to salvage the business and personal disaster he left behind. The least he could have done was give me a hint that all this was waiting down the road. It would have been nice to have just a bit of warning instead of walking into it all blind as a bat.” He met Ben's gaze in the mirror. “And if you breathe so much as a word of my grousing about Billy to Lindsay, I'll have to cut your tongue out for it.”

  “Of course not, sir,” Ben murmured. “Never.”

  “I'm kidding, Ben.” Jackson rinsed his blade for the last time and laid it aside. “I really wouldn't cut your tongue out. It's just an expression.”

  “Oh.”

  “Look, Ben,” he said, wiping the last traces of soap from his face with the towel. “Maybe it might help you to know that I'm a simple man; what you see is all there is to me. I like a lot of things, but above all else I appreciate honesty and directness. If I ask a question, I want a straight from the hip answer. I can't stand pussyfooting or beating around the bush or excruciatingly polite attempts to avoid the issue. You can deal with me square up and not worry about losing your job or your head.”

  “That's good to know. If I might ask … Do the same parameters apply if Miss Lindsay is present?”

  God, he felt halfway human again. He picked up his coffee cup and quickly drank what remained. “If she can't take it, then I'm prepared to throw myself between you and her. I won't let her hurt you.”

  In the mirror, he saw Ben blink and purse his lips. After a moment, he ventured, “Miss Lindsay is a very good woman, sir, and while I'm grateful for her willingness to employ me, I feel obligated to point out that she does have a temper and that she can be quite headstrong.”

  “A little like a comanchero,” Jackson muttered.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Never mind,” he said, heading back toward the desk and the siren call of the coffeepot. “Just understand that I'm bigger and meaner than she is and that I can handle her.”

  Ben beat him to the silver service. Refilling Jackson's cup and fighting a smile, he said quietly, “I've never seen anyone ‘handle’ Miss Lindsay.”

  “I'm selling tickets. Want one?”

  Ben smiled. “It should be a spectacular show, sir. I do believe I'll take one—since you offered. How much are they?”

  “The price is honesty. And a slight shift in allegiance.”

  Instantly, Ben sobered. He took a step back and met Jackson's gaze for a long moment as the thoughts and choices paraded through the clear depths of his eyes. Jack noted that they darkened as the decision was made.

  “You may well be my employer now, Mr. Stennett,” he began, slowly, deliberately, “but Miss Lindsay has been my employer a good many years. There will be some matters that I will never feel comfortable discussing with you and you'll have to accept that.” He paused and drew a deep breath. “I also understand the reality of Miss Lindsay's business situation and I feel honor bound to do whatever I can to ensure that she e
merges from the situation with as much of her world intact as possible. What I share with you regarding the business will be offered in that spirit. Is that acceptable to you?”

  “And on the assumption that I'm a fair and decent man who will do right by her,” Jackson added.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I failed to mention how much I value loyalty, Ben. Your terms are admirable as well as acceptable.”

  Benjamin Tipton sighed in apparent relief and smiled. “Yesterday you asked about the wheel coming off the wagon. I think the slippage began about fifteen years ago. I see certain patterns in the books that have always intrigued me.”

  “You have my attention, Ben. Keep going.”

  As Jackson leaned back against the desk, Ben continued, choosing each word carefully, “If you go back through the records for the last fifteen years, you'll see that a considerable number of businesses and properties have been purchased and sold over that time. This, in itself, is commonplace. But what I see in the numbers is that some properties do very well for a time and then show sudden and precipitous drops in revenues.”

  “Let me guess. At which point they're sold for a net loss.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It happens in business.” Jackson sipped his coffee. “What makes you look twice at it?”

  “There are roughly thirty-seven such sales.”

  Thirty-seven? I'd've looked more than twice. “That's too many; a little over two a year,” Jackson mused aloud. “The law of averages doesn't usually work that hard and long against a good manager.”

  “And all thirty-seven sales have been fairly evenly divided between only four purchasers.”

  Just four? As patterns went, they didn't get much easier to see. “So are they turkey buzzards waiting to swoop down on an easy meal or are they gallant white knights responding to the cries of a sweet damsel in distress?”

  “Miss Lindsay sees them as knights.”

  “She contacts them, offering the property for sale?”

  Ben nodded. “That's been my observation, sir. Mr. Patterson developed the strategy years ago and Miss Lindsay adopted it when she became responsible for conducting the company affairs.”

  “And these good-hearted fellows come into the office with pennies on a plate and take the dying critter off their hands.”

  “Actually, the transaction is done by correspondence,” Ben clarified. “I don't recall ever seeing or hearing of a face-to-face meeting.”

  The hairs on the back of Jackson's neck prickled. Never in all his life had he bought or sold anything without looking the other man in the eye. It had never occurred to him that any other way was acceptable. Trust was a good thing, but it only went so far and it was best to back it up with a sure and certain knowledge of who you were dealing with. Conducting business blindly could—and usually did—lead to costly mistakes in judgment. Surely Richard Patterson knew that, had passed the lesson on to Lindsay. “Do you get the impression that Lindsay knows these gentlemen personally?”

  “No, sir. I do believe, though, that Mr. Patterson knew them many years ago. However, all of his day-to-day relationships ended with his injury in the accident. He rarely goes anywhere but here and his home.”

  Jackson saw the seed of reassurance in the answer, but didn't find any sense of ease in it. “Three questions, Ben. Answer them in any order that you'd prefer. Are these businessmen here in New York? Have you tracked down what happens to the businesses they've bought? And are there any transactions currently pending?”

  “In the order in which you asked, sir: no, no, and yes.”

  Ben had picked one helluva time to try a bit of humor. Jackson smiled wryly. “I'd appreciate it if you'd back up your pony and take it through the gate again.”

  Ben blinked repeatedly and then his mouth formed an O of understanding. “Do all Texans have such wonderful twists of speech?”

  “I suppose so,” Jackson answered as patiently as he could. “I don't seem to recall anyone ever stopping in their tracks to admire someone's words as unusual, so I have to think that we all speak pretty much the same way.”

  Ben contemplated this for a moment, then nodded and seemed to resolutely set aside his wayward thoughts. “One of the companies is located in Philadelphia, one in Richmond, one in Charleston, and another in Boston. Looking into what happens to the various properties after their sale would require a great deal of time and some expense. I haven't had the resources to satisfy what has been, to this point, an idle curiosity. As for pending transactions … Miss Lindsay has recently sent out letters to all four companies offering them land she holds in St Louis and—”

  “That would be the property where the warehouse burned,” Jackson mused.

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Patterson and she concluded that there were insufficient financial resources to rebuild it. If one of the gentlemen doesn't respond with an offer, she'll let the bank have it. The second property on which she's requested an offer is the bank in Kentucky. I don't know what she thinks to do if an offer isn't tendered on it.”

  Jackson didn't either and he made himself a mental note to ask her. He'd also ask her why the hell she was doing business not only blind, but over long distances. “Tell me something, Ben,” he ventured. “While she waits for the mail to move back and forth between here and the other cities, the value of what she's offering declines even further, doesn't it?”

  “That is generally the case, sir.”

  “Why doesn't she sell the properties to someone here in town? It would be faster, easier, and she'd make more money in the transaction.”

  “You'll have to ask her, sir,” Ben replied. He leaned forward before he added quietly, “I suspect that it's a case in which she doesn't want her dealings to become public knowledge in the community in which she lives.”

  “In other words, she doesn't want people to know that the MacPhaull horse is lame, blind, and wheezing.”

  Ben smiled tightly. His gaze darted to the window and he grimaced. “I see Mr. Vanderhagen's carriage drawing up.”

  Jackson quickly rose to his feet, finished the last of his coffee, put the cup on the tray, and handed the entire service to Ben, saying, “Here, take the coffeepot with you. I don't want that weasel here long enough to have a cup.” As the bookkeeper dutifully turned away with his burden, Jackson added, “One more thing, Ben.”

  He stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “Yes, sir?”

  “Actually two things. First I want a list of all the properties currently owned that are consuming rather than producing income. When you're done with that, I want a list of the MacPhaull properties sold in the last three years, the price Lindsay paid for each and what she got out of it when she sold it, as well as the name and address of the buyer. Not just the name of the company, Ben, but the names of the individuals who hold major interests in it. I also want to know the present status of each of those properties they purchased. If they've been sold, I want to know to whom and for how much.”

  The corners of Ben's mouth tightened. “I expected that you would want that information, sir. I've already begun. Will there be anything else?”

  “Naw. I figure that'll keep you busy for a week or two.”

  “At the very least, sir,” Ben said with a taut smile. He started for the door, adding, “I should mention that it's Miss Lindsay's custom to arrive here at nine-thirty.”

  “Thanks for the warning, Ben.”

  Jackson raked his fingers through his hair, buttoned his shirtfront, and then found his tie where he'd tossed it aside the night before. Otis Vanderhagen's voice was booming through the outer office as Jackson pulled on his suit coat. Thanks to Benjamin Tipton's honesty, he had a few more answers than he'd had yesterday. If he could get a few out of Vanderhagen in the next thirty minutes, the day could be counted a success. If he could actually get Vanderhagen gone before Lindsay came sweeping through the door, it would be cause for celebration. The less reason he gave her for swinging a fist at him, the easier it was going to be to
set things right with her.

  “It's good to see that you've taken the helm so quickly and firmly, Stennett,” the lawyer declared, advancing into the room, his hand extended, the door standing wide open in his wake. From the other room, Ben glared briefly at the lawyer's back and then turned away to take care of the coffee service.

  Jackson noted the bookkeeper's apparent animosity and then, with no other polite choice, shook Vanderhagen's hand and began. “Circumstances haven't allowed for the luxury of wasting time.”

  “Yes, poor Patterson. So tragic,” Vanderhagen wheezed as he dropped down onto the sofa. “But I'm glad that you're a man of clear and decisive purpose. It will make my task this morning much less awkward and more easily concluded.”

  Jackson eased down into his own chair, asking slowly, “And that task would be?”

  Pulling a handkerchief from inside his coat, Vanderhagen began mopping his face as he answered, “I've spoken with Dr. Bernard this morning at MacPhaull House. Although he didn't come right out and say it, I think it prudent to conclude that he doesn't expect Richard to recover from his lapse of yesterday. Under the terms of William MacPhaull's first Will, Richard's death would set into motion the transfer of company management. Henry, Mr. MacPhaull's eldest child and only male heir, would take the helm.”

  “But Billy's later Will changed all that,” Jackson supplied to prod the conversation along. “I own it all and who manages it is my decision.”

  “Indeed,” he said, his voice actually dropping to normal volume. “Which brings me directly to the matter we need to discuss today.” He sucked a deep breath that drew his waistcoat up over his girth. He tugged it down, saying, “Mr. Stennet, you have inherited considerable wealth. As the attorney who has represented the interests of the MacPhaull Company for over two decades, I feel that it's my responsibility to see that there exists some mechanism by which the assets are protected should something—God forbid—happen to you.”

  “You want me to make a Will stipulating … what precisely?”