by Jacksons Way
“I'm looking at the history of the company from the outside, Lindsay,” he said blandly, almost as though he wasn't the least bit aware of having stirred her ire. “I don't have the blind loyalties and faith that you do.”
Lindsay clenched and unclenched her fists. “No one's ever accused me of being blindly faithful about anything, Jack. No one.”
“Well,” he countered, his voice edged with frustration. “just because they've never said it aloud doesn't mean that they aren't counting on it, just the same.”
“That would imply that this person sabotaging the MacPhaull Company is either someone whom I trust implicitly or someone whom I wouldn't consider capable of such a complicated act of thievery.”
“Yep.” He swallowed with what seemed to be difficulty and a great deal of thought. “On both counts.”
“How long do you think these purported thefts have been occurring?” she asked, her hands on her hips.
“At least fifteen years.”
“I haven't accepted your supposition, Jack,” she stated, thinking that he looked like he could collapse at any moment. “But I am willing to run with it a bit longer just for the sake of argument. Setting up false companies would take a great deal of thought and legal work; not to mention what amounts to confidence operations in distant cities. Henry might be motivated to steal, but he doesn't have the intelligence to actually do anything on a scale this large or for the length of time you think it's been happening. Ben's certainly capable of actually doing it, but he's the most loyal man on the face of the earth. Otis Vanderhagen, however, meets the requirements on all counts.”
“So does Richard Patterson,” he offered softly, his eyes full of regret.
“Richard would not steal from me.”
“And there's your implicit trust and blind loyalty.”
“Richard would not steal from me,” she asserted again, angry and unshakeable in her conviction.
Jack moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. “If I'm wrong, I'll apologize. But I'm not wrong, Lindsay. I'm sorry, but I'm not wrong. Richard Patterson's behind it and I'm betting Otis Vanderhagen has a finger in the pie as well.”
He was ill. He didn't know what he was talking about, and he clearly didn't understand the depths of betrayal he was suggesting. “You're going to have to give me irrefutable and undeniable proof of Richard's involvement.”
“That's why we're going to Boston. You're going to be with me when my letter to Percival Little arrives in the hands of whoever deals with the game on the Boston end. You're going to be there when I ask the hard questions and you're going to hear the answers from the mouth of Richard's shill. I'm not going to give you a choice to believe anything except the ugly, bitter truth.”
An order rang out behind them and, in almost the same fraction of time as the mooring ropes were cast free, there was a sudden scrape of unfurling canvas and then the pop and lurch of wind filling the sails. The vessel surged away from its berth in the next heartbeat, its hull plowing and rolling hard against the incoming waves. Lindsay grasped the railing to keep from being pitched off her feet.
“And assuming that this shill points his finger straight at Richard … What are you going to do about it, Jack?”
“Theft is against the law,” he answered tightly, his breathing growing quicker and more shallow.
“You can't try and imprison a dead man,” Lindsay countered, watching in alarm as his face went whiter than the sails over their heads. “At least not in New York.”
“But you can challenge the settlement of his estate. If you can prove his property was gained from embez—” He leaned out over the railing and lost the battle to keep his stomach down.
“Oh, Jack,” Lindsay said softly, gently rubbing her hand over the width of his shoulders.
“If I die,” he half-moaned, “for godssakes don't bury me at sea. Have a heart and find—”
She waited until the second purging episode had passed before she asked, “Do you want me to haul your body back to Texas?”
He laid his forehead against the wooden railing. “Only if you promise to take me overland.”
“Where exactly should I take you? I understand that Texas is quite large.”
“Little town called Waterloo.” He gagged, but managed to keep from having to lean out over the rail again. “Just started up nearby. By the time you get me there, it'll probably be called Austin. Talk was swinging that way when I left.”
“Waterloo,” Lindsay repeated, still rubbing his shoulders. “As in Napoleon. Or Austin. As in Stephen Austin. I can remember that, Jack. Do you have any special requests for a funeral service? Will I need to hire professional mourners?”
“God, Lindsay.” His laughter was somewhat strangled, but she was glad to hear that he was capable of the attempt.
“I just want to do this right, you understand. I need very specific instructions.”
“Just get me to the Hill Country. Central Texas.”
“I'll ask for directions,” she assured him, running her fingers gently through the hair at his nape. It felt like strands of warm, dark silk. “Surely people will point me in the right direction; if for no other reason than to get rid of me. You're going to smell awful by the time I get you there, Jack.”
“Oh God.” He tried to laugh again, and this time the effort ended with him leaning out and retching again.
“I'll get you a proper headstone,” Lindsay promised him when he returned his forehead to the rail. “Of course, I'm going to have HE WAS WRONG ABOUT RICHARD PATTERSON carved in it.”
“I'm not wrong,” he muttered miserably. “I'm not.”
“We'll just have to wait and see.” She stepped against his side and, sliding her arm around his waist, tried to draw him away from the rail, saying, “Right now, though, let's get you to the cabin.”
“I can't move,” he moaned. Even as the words left his mouth, he belied them by sinking slowly to his knees.
“Oh, Jack,” Lindsay whispered, easing down onto the deck and wrapping both arms around him. “We'll come back to New York by coach.”
“Doesn't matter,” he answered morosely. “ 'Cause I'm dying right here.”
Drawing him down so that his head rested on her lap, Lindsay gently brushed damp tendrils of hair from his brow. “I'll take care of you,” she crooned. “You'll live to see Boston.”
He groaned. Lindsay loosened his tie and undid his starched shirt collar. He sighed in relief and nestled his head deeper into the cradle of her lap. After a few moments, his breathing evened and deepened and she knew that he'd escaped his misery in sleep.
Still winding her fingers through his hair, she leaned her head back against the gunwale. Crew members scurried in the ropes overhead and the languages of at least fifteen nations billowed on the wind. When they were well under way and when the frenetic activities of departure were done, she'd get someone's attention and ask them to help her get Jack to their cabin. He'd rest more comfortably in a bunk with a soft mattress under him. She'd open the porthole so that he'd have plenty of cool, fresh air.
“My poor, sweet, deluded Jack,” she whispered, looking back down at the massive, vibrant man made so utterly vulnerable by the forces of nature. “How very badly you must want to get to Boston.”
How strongly he must believe. Lindsay frowned and thought back through all that he'd told her of his suspicions. Four companies with one owner, whose single purpose was stripping the MacPhaull Company of assets? Using deliberate sabotage to reduce the value of the holdings so that the properties could be acquired for a mere fraction of their real worth? It was, she had to admit, a brilliant strategy, if indeed it was being done.
What would be required for someone to manage the game for the fifteen years Jack maintained it had been going on? Certainly an initial amount of capital would have been necessary. But, if it worked as Jack thought it did, the process would have more than paid for itself after the first one or two purchases and subsequent sales.
The l
ogistics of making it work would be complicated, though. Four companies, each in a different city and some distance from New York, meant that whoever—if indeed there really was someone—couldn't realistically travel between them to conduct the correspondence and business from all ends. They had to have established a system for making it all look real. There had to be people in Boston, Richmond, Philadelphia, and Charleston who were participating in the scheme, who took their instructions from whoever was behind the thefts and were rewarded for their complicity.
Why would someone want to strip the MacPhaull Company? Lindsay quietly snorted in a most unladylike way. Money was always a first consideration. Revenge usually counted among the other most popular motives, too. The desire for wealth was a universal thing, though, and that made for an impossibly long list of persons who could be behind it all. Vengeance, however, produced far fewer possibilities. Unfortunately, she couldn't think of anyone who might think that the MacPhaull Company had done them an injustice.
Perhaps it was a personal vendetta, she mused. Perhaps someone wanted either herself or Richard to be punished for some unintentional or imaginary wrong they were thought to have committed. It was so easy to step on people's social toes, but surely no damage had ever been inflicted that would warrant such a long-term, concerted effort at retaliation. If it had begun fifteen years ago, she would have been just beyond childhood and incapable of hurting anyone to a sufficient degree to bring such a hatred to bear on the MacPhaull Company.
Could Richard have inadvertently stirred someone's wrath? Lindsay sorted through her memories. Richard had been at the helm of the company since long before she had been born. She remembered being a young child—no more than five years old—and sitting at the top of the stairs watching him cross the foyer toward her father's study. Richard had had long strides and she could remember thinking that it said he was a man of concentrated purpose. Everything about him had been larger than life, too. His laugh had been loud and exuberant in those days. His eyes had been bright and quick and he'd had an air about him that said nothing could put so much as a dent in his spirit.
It had been his sense of confidence and resiliency—and the peppermints in his pockets—that had been her harbor in the marital storms that shook the walls and rattled the rafters of MacPhaull House. Those same qualities had been nothing less than her salvation in the days and months following her father's departure.
Richard had changed a great deal in the aftermath of the carriage accident. He hadn't laughed very much after that and the light in his eyes had changed, too. It was deeper and cooler and not nearly as quick. And it had been shortly after the accident that the scheme to strip the company had begun. Or at least that's what Jack thought.
Lindsay sighed. Richard had stepped beyond the bounds of propriety to court Abigail Beechum, a married woman. And Abigail had said that she'd had reservations about marrying him because of the way he used the people around him. Lindsay couldn't imagine Richard being so callous, but she didn't doubt the veracity of Abigail's observation. All in all, Lindsay had to admit that there was a distinct possibility that Richard might have been the one to have committed the sin that had triggered a quest for economic revenge. With adult eyes, she could look back at her childhood memories and realize that Abigail hadn't been the first married woman to have been courted by Richard Patterson. A wronged husband might feel humiliated and angry enough to go a long way to achieve retribution. And a crippled man with a wounded spirit would have been seen as an easy mark.
Lindsay watched as Jack's dark hair slipped through her fingers. He didn't know Richard as she did, didn't know how Richard had devoted his life to the MacPhaull Company. She could understand how Jack had come to the conclusions he had. But when the truth was known, Jack would apologize as he'd promised. He was a good man and a strong one, one strong enough to admit his mistakes.
Calmed and certain, Lindsay shifted her gaze beyond him, catching the attention of one of the crewmen. She motioned him over and asked for his assistance in getting Jack to the bunk in their cabin. It took two burly sailors, but Jack was eventually hefted up and half-dragged, half-carried to his berth. Lindsay followed behind, never more than a step away.
IT WAS DARK, but he could still feel the world rolling and heaving beneath him. His stomach lurched and rose in protest, determined to punish him yet again for his decision to buy passage to Boston by sea. Jackson, lying on his side, drew his knees up, just as determined to hold his own against the inner torment. A chill swept over him from head to toe and he shivered hard, drawing a steadying breath through his clenched teeth.
A soft warmth moved to mimic his own shifting position and then nestled more closely against the length of the back of his body. Jackson felt a nuzzling in the space between his shoulder blades as an arm slipped around his waist and drew him even closer. He didn't dare look anywhere but at the open porthole. To shift his head would be to invite another bout of ignobility.
“Lindsay?” he whispered.
“Are you warm enough?” she asked, her voice soft with concern as she rubbed his shoulder again with her cheek. “I've tried covering you with a blanket, but you keep kicking it off.”
“I'm just right,” he replied, burrowing back into the curve of her soft body.
“Are you feeling any better?”
“A little,” he answered, realizing that there was sudden warmth in the center of his chest and that it seemed to have a settling effect on his stomach. Peace slipped over him and his eyelids grew heavy.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Jack?”
“Just keep hanging on to me.”
“I wouldn't let go for the world,” he heard her say as he drifted into a blessedly easy sleep.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
JACKSON BUTTONED A SHIRT CUFF and listened to the copper bathtub being taken out of the adjoining room. His own bath had been gone some ten minutes or so; just long enough for him to pull on some clean clothes and make a decision. He waited until he heard the tub bang against the corner of the servants' stairs at the far end of the hotel hallway before he stepped to the door connecting the two rooms he'd rented, and knocked.
“It's unlocked,” Lindsay called from the other side. “And yes, I'm decent.”
With a smile, he turned the glass knob and pushed open the door. Lindsay sat at the small dressing table to the right of the door, brushing her hair. She wore a pale blue silk dressing gown, the color accentuating the fairness of her skin and the dark circles under her eyes.
“You look like you feel better,” she said, laying her brush aside and turning on the seat to smile at him.
“I do,” he admitted, absolutely certain that he'd made the right decision. “And you look exhausted. Why don't you go to bed and get some sleep?”
“Because it's not even noon yet,” she laughed, rising and going to the foot of the bed where her valise sat, “and sleeping in the middle of the day is sinfully decadent.”
“Well, if there's anyone who's earned some sinful decadence, it's you, Lindsay,” he pointed out. “Taking care of me as you did, you couldn't have had more than a total of ten hours of sleep in the last three days. You've got to be dead on your feet.”
“I'm fine, Jackson,” she assured him, giving him a smile that, while bright, didn't reach her eyes. “We came to Boston for a purpose and it isn't for me to sleep the day away,” she went on, pulling a chemise and petticoat from the large red leather bag. “I see that you're dressing to go out. Give me twenty minutes and I'll be ready to go with you. Mrs. Beechum relayed your suggestion that I bring comfortable clothes and I did. I won't need any help with lacings, so dressing will be an unusually quick affair.”
Jack shook his head and tried one more time to make her be reasonable. “All I'm going to do is track down Percival Little's address and see if I can't find someone who'll tell me what time of the day the mail's usually brought by there. After that, I'm just going to wander around and get the lay of the land.”
&n
bsp; “You're assuming that a carrier will bring it to the address we have for Little, Bates,” she said blithely, continuing to pull items from her bag. “It costs two cents—in addition to the regular postage—to have a postal carrier deliver a letter to a specific address. What if it's simply held at the post office until someone comes to pick it up?”
Damn stubborn woman. “With thousands of dollars at stake, Lindsay, what's two cents? It'll be delivered by carrier. You can bet on it.”
“I guess we'll see.”
“No, I'll see,” he declared, stepping to the side of the bed and yanking down the coverlet and the top sheet. “And then I'll tell you all about it.” He straightened, took one step, caught her hand in his and drew her away from the valise, saying, “C'mon. You're going to bed.”
“Jack,” she protested, trying to draw back. “I'm fine. Honestly.”
He didn't like having to resort to using physical force, but she left him no other choice. Letting go of her hand, he instantly closed the distance between them and swept her up in his arms. She squeaked in surprise and flung her arms around his neck, holding tight.
“I'm hale and hearty again,” he remarked, chuckling as he turned and set her down in the center of the bed. Drawing the bedcoverings up over her long, bare legs, he added, “You're one helluva tough woman, Lindsay MacPhaull, but you've met your match. You might as well quit resisting.”
With a martyred sigh, she rolled her eyes and then flopped backward, her head landing smack dab in the center of the pillow, her arms straight-out from her sides. “There. Are you happy now?”
She was just a tad bit disgusted with him and maybe even a bit peeved, but it only made her that much more stunningly beautiful. Never in his life had he ached so badly with wanting. Happy? That was a matter of degrees. “Reasonably so,” he admitted, drawing the covers up to her shoulders and carefully tucking temptation away. He'd been right that first day; her curves didn't owe a damn thing to any corset.
It took effort to make himself step back from the edge of the bed, but he managed it. “I'm going to lock the doors when I leave. I'll slide the key to yours back under the door so you can have it. But please promise me you won't go out and wandering around on your own. All right?”