by Heidi Betts
So he simply needed to be extra innovative. And diligent.
And he would begin now, tonight.
Ignoring the tenseness of her body, Brandt kept Willow's arm folded within his as they made their way into the Burtons’ elegant town house. James and Mary Xavier walked a few steps ahead, nodding to acquaintances, stopping to chat and introduce their guests, newly arrived in the United States.
Brandt was learning that Willow was a competent detective and could easily infiltrate any situation, as the need arose. But he knew her disguise called for more than her usual talents. And he could tell she was nervous about their plan, especially her part in it. She was anxious and fidgety, and he'd heard her practicing basic French from the other room, over and over, until even he felt fluent in the language.
Brandt smiled broadly and saw that Willow did the same. She was a consummate actress when she needed to be and knew her role well. He wondered how he ever could have doubted her abilities. She seemed born to this type of work. But because she seemed more apprehensive tonight, he made a mental note to help her along. Make things easier for her whenever he could.
When Mary Xavier spotted the Burtons, who were mingling with their guests, she immediately led Willow and Brandt in their direction, while James moved off to a circle of his old cronies standing near the entrance of the ballroom.
Before leaving their home that evening, Mr. and Mrs. Xavier had given them an extensive list of everyone who had attended the soiree at their house the night Yvonne disappeared. They had also informed them that many of the same people would be at the Burton gala tonight.
Brandt and Willow were attending this event simply to begin their entrée into society, but the Xaviers had offered to host another gathering at their home if they felt it necessary to aid their investigation.
"William. Claudia. What a lovely party.” The petite, fair-haired Mary swept up to the hosts and pressed light kisses to the air at each side of their faces. “I must introduce you to our houseguests. William and Claudia Burton, this is Brandt Donovan—of the St. Louis Donovans,” she added proudly, “and his lovely new bride, Willow. Willow had been on holiday in Paris this past year, until she met Brandt and the two fell madly in love. Isn't that right, dear?” she asked, resting a hand on Willow's arm.
Willow opened her mouth, but Mary turned back to the Burtons before she had a chance to respond. “It's terribly romantic. And we've been lucky enough to entertain them while they're in town."
Mary's loud and embellished speech brought others to crowd around them, wanting to meet the world travelers and gawk at the newcomers.
"Did I hear that you've just returned from Paris?” a woman asked over Willow's right shoulder. “Oh, I've always dreamed of visiting France. You must have loved it."
"Oui," Willow answered, drawing a round of chuckles and titters from the group."Truly, it was lovely. But the most wonderful thing about Paris was that I met Brandt there. The city paled in comparison.” She fluttered her lashes, cocking her head to gaze adoringly at her supposed husband.
"Au contraire, mon amour," Brandt returned in nearly flawless French. “It was you who put even the moonlit waters of the River Seine to shame."
Willow's cheeks heated at his compliment, but she saw that it had done its job; he had charmed his audience and endeared them both to this sometimes close-knit community.
For the next few hours, they mingled with the crowd, telling fictitious stories and charming as many guests as they could. While Willow enjoyed the refreshments and an occasional dance with Brandt or another male guest, she mostly felt fettered and frustrated.
Everyone here was a suspect. And no one was a suspect. She had no idea where they were supposed to begin their investigation within the Xaviers’ circle of friends when they all seemed so friendly and harmless. And yet it was very likely that someone in this very room had abducted and murdered Yvonne.
And she had to find that person before he could kill again.
Brandt's arm tightened on her waist as they spun around to the last strains of a waltz. Through a smile, he asked softly, “Anything suspicious?"
"Nothing,” she returned with an equally bright smile. “You?"
"Nothing."
She let her lips loosen a bit, moistening them with the tip of her tongue. “I could use a drink, though. All of this politeness is making me as parched as sand."
Brandt chuckled and pulled her away from the dance floor. “Well, then, allow me to find the punch bowl and bring you a beverage."
She reached into the small velvet handbag on her wrist and removed a fan that matched her gown. “I'll make my way around the room,” she told him, beginning to circulate air near her face and neck. “Shall we meet at one of the back windows?"
He nodded once, then turned toward the refreshment table.
Smiling and otherwise trying to avoid the same people she had spoken with earlier, Willow moved along the edge of the room, passing small clusters of women who were criticizing certain guests’ gowns or stirring up more dirt on the latest public scandal.
She skirted several of these groups, using her waiting husband as an excuse not to linger. Leaving the crowded ballroom, she escaped into the nearly empty foyer. Stopping for a moment to catch her breath, she leaned against the opposite wall and closed her eyes.
She wasn't meant to frequent this type of event, she thought. She was much better off keeping to herself and only battling a few saloon girls from time to time over breathing space and personal items of clothing.
After this evening, she was never again wearing a corset, either. The blasted thing made her dizzy, and the bones were digging into her flesh like knife blades.
Raised male voices in the drawing room across the hall caught her attention. At first she thought the men might be laughing over some joke, but as she listened, she realized one of the voices, at least, seemed to be mounting in anger.
With a sigh, she pushed away from the wall and crossed the parquet floor. Making sure there was no one else in the foyer to see her eavesdropping, she placed an ear near the mahogany door panel and listened.
". . .dirty whores, I tell you. Every one of them deserved what they got."
"Do you really believe that, Chatham? Or are you just blustering again?"
"It's not blustering to possess moral principles and the conviction to stand by them.” Willow envisioned this first man clutching his lapels and puffing up his chest while he delivered the obviously overused diatribe.
"I've used the doxies down on the wharf a time or two myself, I don't mind telling you,” another fellow put in. “Worth every penny . . . which is precisely what I paid for them."
A round of masculine guffaws echoed into the hall.
"If they weren't out there, strutting about half-naked, we wouldn't be tempted,” the first man put in again. “It's about time someone has begun to put a stop to the debauchery they're selling. Good riddance, I say."
"Good God, Virgil. You don't mean to imply that they deserved to die.” The man who said this sounded truly aghast, and Willow wished she could see what was going on. She wanted to know who was saying what, the expressions on their faces, and who it was who seemed to relish the deaths of five innocent women, including a young lady from their own walk of life.
"That's exactly what I'm saying,” the one they'd called Chatham chimed in. “Those who sin deserve to be punished."
"I guess that depends on your definition of sin,” the jovial one piped up again, apparently trying to break the note of tension in the room.
But Chatham refused to be swayed. “What this city needs is a liberator, like in the Old Testament A reformer. Someone who isn't afraid to dole out justice wherever and however necessary. Just like Gideon."
Chapter Eighteen
Gideon.
The name struck Willow's blood cold and made her gasp aloud.
Could that be what Charlie meant? Could it be that Gideon wasn't a person or place at all, but a reference to the He
brew judge named in the Bible?
She had to get into the room and get a good look at this Virgil Chatham. The man seemed to have more than just a passing interest in the dockside killings. And more importantly, in the women who “deserved” to die for their sins.
Taking as deep a breath as she could manage to steel her courage, she squared her shoulders and barged into the room.
Every head in the room turned toward her.
"Oh, pardon me, gentlemen,” she said, purposely making her voice sound slightly short-winded. She made a slow sweep of the room, taking in the features of each face. Some she recognized from earlier introductions, but not all. She needed names to put to the rest.
"I'm sorry for interrupting, but I thought my husband might be about.” It was as good an excuse as any. When no one immediately offered directions to her wandering spouse, she stepped forward and held out a gloved hand to the closest gentleman. “I'm Willow Donovan. My husband is Brandt Donovan . . . of the St. Louis Donovans,” she added, remembering the awe it seemed to inspire when Mrs. Xavier divulged that particular piece of information.
As she'd hoped, her one introduction led to nods and names from the rest. Stephen Bishop, Clarence Price, Harry Sheffield, Hadden Wellsboro. And finally, the last man, Virgil Chatham. He took her hand briefly, a loose hold that—luckily for Willow—didn't last long.
He gave her the shivers. She wondered if that was because she'd overheard his conversation and knew how he felt about the deaths of the girls on the wharf, or if she would have experienced the same reaction had she met him at the start of the evening, before she knew his views on the “ills” of society.
She took in his mutton-chop sideburns and long jowls. The wide girth pressing behind the buttons of his stylish waistcoat. The way he stared through her rather than at her. No, she suspected she would have disliked this man regardless of the words that tumbled from his mouth.
She cleared her throat and forced herself to ignore the chill that raced down her spine. With a smile, she said, “Since it's obvious my husband didn't join the rest of you here for a cigar, does anyone know where he's disappeared to?"
A simultaneous round of negative replies and head shakes met her query.
"He's probably off charming our hosts with more stories of Europe,” she offered with a quick laugh. “I'll just go back to the main ballroom and wait for him. So sorry to have interrupted, gentlemen. Please, carry on.” And with a quick toss of her head, she departed the room and pulled the door firmly closed behind her.
Consciously letting the tension wash from her body, she marched across the well-waxed floor, her heels clicking along the way. From the open doorway to the ballroom, she spotted Brandt immediately, standing at one of the far windows with two glasses in his hand, exchanging pleasantries with a middle-aged matron who seemed to have cornered him. Making her way around the room with quick, determined strides, she came up behind Brandt and put a hand on his arm.
"Ah, here she is now,” he said with a smile, turning away from the other woman. He held out a glass to her. “Here's your punch, darling."
Absently, she took the glass, pressing her free hand to her forehead. “I'm so sorry about this, darling, but would you mind terribly if we went home early? I seem to have come down with a dreadful headache and think I need to lie down."
Concern and a bit of suspicion etched his brow. “Of course.” He turned back to the older woman. “If you'll excuse us, Mrs. Flourant. I'll get your cloak and meet you at the front doors,” he told Willow, taking both glasses and crossing the room.
Willow smiled a quick good-bye to the lady beside her and began to follow after Brandt.
"Are you leaving already?” Mrs. Burton asked with a frown as she reached the front of the house.
"I'm afraid so.” Willow once again placed the back of her hand to her temple as Brandt moved behind her to cover her shoulders with the black shawl. “I seem to be suffering a touch of réveiller lascif."
A choked sound escaped Mrs. Burton and her eyes widened.
Behind her, Brandt released a small snort. Turning, she saw the corners of his mouth lifted in amusement.
Willow frowned. “Thank you for a lovely evening, Mrs. Burton, but I'm afraid we must take care of this little malady before it gets any worse."
His mouth curved into a fall-out grin and Willow's frown deepened. Whatever did he find so amusing?
"Yes,” he put in. “It's best if we get home and get her directly into bed."
Leading her out of the house and down the concrete steps to the sidewalk, he began to laugh aloud. “You may want to study your French a bit more thoroughly,” he told her as their carriage was brought around.
"And why is that?” she asked as he lifted her into the coach and took a seat across from her.
"Because you just told Mrs. Burton that you were . . . sexually excited.” He quirked a brow and practically leered. "Réveiller lascif means ‘randy.’ Horny. Aroused. Essentially. Literally, it means something more along the lines of ‘arousing lasciviousness.’”
Willow's mouth dropped open. “Oh, my God,” she gasped in horror. “You mean . . . she thinks . . . that we're leaving to. . ."
"Uh-huh."
"And you told her we needed to get straight to bed. Oh, my God,” she breathed again. “You knew. You knew what I'd said and you encouraged her to believe that we're going home to . . . to. . .” She turned a scowl on him and demanded, “How could you?"
"How was I to know that's not what you meant?” he asked, deciding to play innocent. “I thought perhaps this was my lucky night.” After a brief pause, he ventured hopefully, “So are we leaving to, ah. . .?” He was certainly more than a little sexually excited, now that she'd mentioned it and gotten his mind moving in all sorts of erotic directions.
"No! Absolutely not! I thought I was telling her I had a headache. Dear God, she must think I'm a lunatic."
"A very forward-thinking one, I'd guess."
Willow's lips flattened and she glared daggers at him through the semidarkness of the coach's interior. “If you're so prolific with other languages, will you please tell me why I'm the one who's supposed to drop a French phrase here or there?"
"Because you're the one who was supposed to have been vacationing in Paris for several months before my arrival. It wouldn't do for me to be more fluent in the language than my lovely part-Parisian bride."
"Hmph." Willow crossed her arms over her chest and scowled, her gaze concentrating on the view out the window rather than on him.
"I take it your headache has gone away, then."
"My lascif never existed, if that's what you mean. The headache, however, is only growing stronger.” She rubbed her temples and wondered how she managed to get herself into these situations. If she ever had to face Mrs. Burton again, she would surely burst into flames of mortification. And if Mrs. Burton told Mrs. Xavier of her faux pas . . . well, she would never be able to look either woman in the eye again.
The remainder of the ride back to the Xavier home passed in silence, for which Willow was infinitely grateful. Brandt was overbearing enough without thinking he'd been crowned the prince of passion, with everyone at the soiree believing him so virile that she couldn't wait to get him home and into bed.
If only they knew. Even though they were pretending to be man and wife, and sharing a room at the Xaviers', Willow found the hard floor preferable to sleeping next to this man. Better yet, let him sleep on the floor.
The carriage slowed and pulled up at the sidewalk in front of the red brick town house. The driver hopped down to open the door and Brandt exited, turning back to offer his hand for Willow's descent.
She took it out of obligation, he suspected, quickly releasing his hold and moving up the short set of stairs at the front of the house. Without waiting for him to join her, she let herself in the unlocked door and headed for the second floor, the train of her dress rustling behind her.
Willow was upset and had every right to be. H
e shouldn't have teased her about her incorrect translation. Better yet, he should have smoothed things over by offering a plausible explanation for Willow's mistake. Instead, he'd made matters worse by not only finding her blunder amusing, but by further implying that he was taking his wife directly home to put an end to her arousal.
Though the foyer was still well-lit, the house was quiet, the servants having been instructed not to wait up for their employers’ return.
At a slower pace, Brandt followed his perturbed bride to the guest room they'd been appointed and watched as she discarded her cloak. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed it over the back of the nearest brocade chair, then immediately began to light every lamp in the room.
So much for his expectations of a dark and amorous evening spent in her arms. On the other hand, making love in a well-lit room did have a certain appeal.
They'd already moved their possessions from the two rooms at the Astor House, which he assumed made Willow feel right at home. That, and the fact that she was apparently used to moving. He wasn't even sure if she had apartments of her own here in the city, but he did know she seemed quick to make herself at home wherever she ended up, be it a small room in a Jefferson City brothel, a hotel room on Broadway, or here in the Xavier household.
Brandt wished he adjusted to new surroundings as easily. His suite at the Astor House had been nice, as was this. But frankly, he missed his own room back in Boston. He missed his lumpy but familiar bed. He missed his landlady, Widow Jeffries, who met him every time he entered or exited the house, and the breakfasts she provided for each of her four boarders. He even missed the proximity to his sisters and their weekly, unannounced visits to check on him, rearrange his furnishings, and ask for the thousandth time when he was going to meet a pleasant young girl who could take over the duty of cooking and cleaning for him so that they wouldn't have to come over all the time and complain about the build-up of dust he didn't even seem to notice.