Almost a Lady

by Heidi Betts

  The carriage drew to a halt in front of the tall building and Brandt stepped out, turning just in time to catch a hurtling Erik as the boy threw himself from the vehicle. The air left Brandt's diaphragm in a grunt of pain as he regained his footing and arranged the child on his hip. Erik was certainly too big to be carried, but it wasn't that far to the door of the office and it was a far cry better than having him race off on his own and possibly having to chase him through the streets of New York.

  "Willow here?” the boy asked.

  "Yes, Willow is here, waiting for us. Now, Erik, you have to be quiet when we go in, do you understand? There are people working inside and we mustn't disturb them. And your sister may be sleeping, so we wouldn't want to wake her. All right?"

  Erik nodded, and then let his body bend all the way backwards over Brandt's arm as they crossed beneath the Pinkerton symbol. Brandt had to tighten his hold and redistribute the boy's weight to keep from dropping him.

  Freeing one hand, Brandt opened the front door of the building and stepped into the cool interior. This would be the first time he'd encountered Robert since Willow's confession about their short, long-past affair, and Brandt honestly didn't know what his reaction would be when he once again came face-to-face with the man he now knew to be her first lover. He supposed he felt a niggling of jealousy low in his belly, but he couldn't say he'd honestly been surprised by her revelation. He'd suspected something all along, given their close relationship and the numerous gifts Robert had given Willow over the years.

  And yet Brandt felt quite secure in his relationship with Willow, especially now that she'd consented to become his wife. He loved her and knew she loved him. Robert had married since the affair and was apparently quite a devoted husband, so there was really nothing to be concerned about. Brandt might not like the fact that another man had introduced Willow to the intimacies of lovemaking, but he would be the man she spent the rest of her life with, so he counted himself as the lucky one.

  Mrs. Girard looked up as the door swung open, startled by their entrance. “Mr. Donovan. What a pleasant surprise.” She rose to her feet on the other side of her desk. “And who is this with you?"

  "Erik Hastings,” Erik replied proudly, in a booming voice. And then, remembering that Brandt had warned him to be quiet, he tucked his chin into his chest and whispered, “Sorry. Erik Hastings."

  The secretary's graying brows crossed. “Erik . . . Hastings? Are you any relation to Willow Hastings?” she asked the boy turning her eyes questioningly to Brandt.

  "Didn't she tell you we'd brought her brother back with us?” A sickening feeling that had nothing to do with too many sweets seeped into his gut.

  "Tell us. . .?” The woman's hands clenched and unclenched at her breast. “Why, we haven't seen Willow in weeks. Did you expect her to be here?” She tried to keep her tone calm, but Brandt heard the underlying concern in the words.

  He dropped Erik, took only a moment to see that the boy had his footing, and then stomped toward Robert's office. Any thoughts of jealousy or male competition fled as fear for Willow replaced every other emotion in his body. “You're damn right I expected her to be here. We dropped her off outside hours ago. You're telling me she never arrived?"

  With his hand already on the knob, he shoved the door open, once again barging into Robert's office unannounced. This time, he was speaking with two men, who whipped around in their chairs at his sudden appearance.

  Not sparing a glance for the strangers, Brandt's eyes went directly to Robert, who was shaking his head in displeasure. Throwing his pen to the desktop, he rose and began to speak. “If you break into my office one more time, I swear on all that's holy—"

  "We need to talk,” Brandt cut in. “Now."

  "As you can see, I'm with—"

  "Now,” Brandt said again, the single word sharp and demanding.

  Seeming to sense the urgency in his tone, Robert moved around his desk. “I'm sorry, gentleman, but this is important. I'll just be a moment."

  Closing the door behind him as he stepped into the outer office, Robert asked in a low voice, “What the bloody hell is going on this time?"

  "Willow never showed up here?” Brandt charged.

  "Willow?” This time it was Robert's brow that wrinkled. “No. She went to visit Erik, as I told you. I thought she would return with you, if you went to find her."

  Brandt swore viciously and spun on his heel to stalk across the carpeted floor, his fists clenching and unclenching with fear and fury. “We arrived in the city hours ago. I took Erik to the traveling circus that's set up only a few blocks away. We dropped Willow at the curb and agreed to meet her here afterwards. Now Mrs. Girard tells me she never arrived."

  Robert's eyes darted to Erik, who stood against a far set of oaken file cabinets, sucking nervously on the knuckle of one hand. “No, she never . . . Oh, my God. You don't think. . ."

  The men's gazes locked. “Yes, I do think, goddammit. We have to find her."

  "I'll assemble as many agents as I can find. Where should we begin looking for her?"

  "You know where,” Brandt answered, his eyes narrowed, the words lethal.

  "Right. Mrs. Girard, watch the boy, if you would, please.” Marching down the hall, he knocked on the glass of the nearest door even as he pushed it open. “Jonathan, Gregory, come with me. We have an emergency.” Returning to Brandt's side, he lowered his voice and said, “You go find her. We'll be right behind you."

  Brandt nodded and stormed into the street. He didn't look in Erik's direction as he passed. He couldn't. Because he didn't know how he would ever explain to the boy that his carelessness had gotten Willow killed.

  Willow regained consciousness degree by agonizing degree. Her head throbbed. She groaned, and the sound echoed in her ears. She sniffed and smelled a moldy dampness and melting beeswax. When she tried to stem the pain pounding in her brain with her hand, her arm refused to move. She tried to raise the other and met with the same resistance.

  Why couldn't she move? Why did her head hurt without as well as within? A spot at the back of her skull and another at her temple ached, and her hands seemed anchored in place.

  That was when she remembered.

  Being hit from behind. Turning to see Virgil Chatham bearing down on her, that cane glinting in the sun as he raised it to strike her again.

  My God, Virgil Chatham had abducted her. Grabbed her off the street in the middle of the day.

  And Brandt hadn't been there to help her because he'd taken Erik to the circus. She should be glad of that, she supposed. At least they were safe, out of the reach of this madman.

  Willow opened her eyes slowly, trying to block out the thudding beat in her brain, not knowing what she might encounter when she looked around. If she was bound, as she suspected by her inability to move her arms, then she was helpless. She'd had a pistol with her, in her reticule, but she imagined the weapon had been discovered by now. And because she'd been with Brandt and Erik, simply traveling back to New York, she hadn't bothered to stick her stiletto into her garter for added protection.

  She was doomed.

  No. She wasn't dead yet, and that was what it would take to keep her from fighting Virgil Chatham.

  Candles burned all around, causing shadows to flicker on the dark, uneven walls surrounding her. Was she in a dungeon? The thought almost tickled a laugh from her throat. Did dungeons even exist anymore? She didn't think so, at least not in America, but she couldn't help noticing the stone confines, the dank odor.

  She rolled her head and saw that her wrists were indeed shackled, stretched straight out from her body on the wide platform upon which she'd been laid. Pulling at her legs, she found that they too, were fettered. Although, unlike her arms, they were secured together.

  From somewhere, a chill draft blew through the room, causing the candle flames to dance wildly and making her realize that she was not fully clothed. Straining her neck, she looked down the length of her body and saw only pale fles
h and a small amount of white material. Her heavy walking dress had been removed, as well as her garters and hose. Only her chemise and drawers remained.

  Gooseflesh broke out along her skin. This must be how all those other women had felt; brought here against their will, stripped and tied down. Willow wondered how long Chatham had left them lying helpless. Did he kill them quickly, or had they endured hours of terror and torture, born physically and mentally?

  She tried to think back to the condition of the bodies that had been discovered. She didn't recall marks other than the killing wounds to the heart, but she couldn't be sure.

  A creak sounded somewhere above her head and she heard footsteps. The blood froze in her veins. He was coming. He was coming to kill her. And even though she knew it was useless, she struggled against the metal bonds that trapped her on the wide table.

  "I see you're awake,” Virgil Chatham said as he came down a hidden stairwell and moved into view. He wore a long, black cape, clasped at the neck, that covered his entire form.

  His voice made her skin crawl, just as it had the first time she'd heard it. She swallowed hard to keep from screaming.

  "He brought you back to me, you know. I knew from the moment I saw you that you were not as virtuous as you pretended to be, but I had no idea you were such a transgressor. I realized you had to be dealt with like the others, but you disappeared."

  He came to stand at her side, hovering above her. His heavy jowls quivered as he spoke. “You oughtn't have done that, my dear. It only postponed the inescapable. But God's will cannot be averted. He brought you back to me, and now I will carry out His wishes."

  Brandt! her mind screamed. And though she knew there was no way for him to know where she was, no way to realize she was in trouble, she couldn't help being irritated by the fact that after all the times he'd refused to leave her alone when she hadn't wanted him around . . . the one time she needed him, he wasn't there.

  Willow wet her dry lips, forcing herself to speak. “You . . . you killed those girls, didn't you?” She asked the question to distract Chatham, to hopefully slow his plans, but also to get him to confess. If a miracle occurred and she did get out of this dungeon alive, she wanted to know every detail of his crimes so there would be no doubt of his guilt. If she survived, she would arrest him and testify against him in a court of law, using his own words to convict him.

  "Of course I killed them,” he answered proudly, turning away from her. “Though it wasn't really murder, as you and those other Pinkertons believe. You can't consider eradicating evil to be murder."

  "And you think . . . you're Gideon, don't you?” The flesh of her wrists and ankles burned as she yanked them against the restraints. She felt a stickiness spread over her skin and knew they'd begun to bleed. And still she fought, hoping the added wetness of the blood would help her slip a hand or foot free.

  Chatham laughed, a sound that sent chills down her spine. “My dear, you are even worse off than I imagined if you believe I think myself to be the great Gideon. You cannot be someone who existed so long ago. No, I am merely carrying on with his—work, his calling. Gideon rid the world of whores and sinners, and I am doing the same. It's God's will."

  He turned back to her, a long silver sword glinting in his hands.

  "But if you're killing people,” she continued, wanting to keep him and that blade as far away as possible, for as long as possible, “doesn't that make you a sinner, too?"

  He stopped, his body tensing, the weapon in his hands trembling with rage. “No,” he snapped. “You don't understand. You don't see. I'm blessed, sent here on a mission: to cleanse the world of offenders such as yourself."

  "What about Charlie? Was he a sinner, too?"

  His bushy brows knit and the sword dropped a fraction at his confusion. “Who?"

  "Charlie Barker. The Pinkerton agent killed on that passenger train."

  "Oh, him."

  Chatham said it as though the man had been of no consequence. A man with a wife and three children, who worked hard every day of his life, meant nothing to this maniac.

  "I hadn't intended to hurt him. He wasn't a sinner, as far as I could tell. But he was one of you, wasn't he? A Pinkerton agent.” He put the point of the blade to the ground and leaned forward, using the length of the weapon to prop up his ample weight. He shrugged a shoulder, indifferent to a man's death. “He knew too much, that's all. He'd found out about my actions because of Yvonne and would have tried to stop me. So I had Outram take care of the problem. I will not be thwarted,” he added sharply.

  He was insane. He thought he was killing for God and had no compunction over slaughtering anyone who got in his way or threatened to hinder his plans.

  She had to keep him talking. Every moment he remained over there was another moment that her heart beat and her lungs were allowed to draw air. Another moment they had to find her—if anyone was even looking.

  "Why Yvonne?” she queried. “She wasn't like the other girls."

  "Yvonne was a whore,” he declared with vehemence. “I thought she was pure, but she was as corrupt as the rest, dallying with that young man outside her parents’ home. That's when I realized there were sinners in my own circle. I won't be so shortsighted from now on, I assure you. I'd decided you would be next, even before I realized you weren't who you claimed to be.” He raised the sword in both hands, once again aiming it skyward and stalking toward her. “You're just one of many. I intend to continue my duty to God. I will not be stopped."

  He stood above her now, the sharpened blade drawing her full attention as she envisioned it plunging into her breast, stealing her life. Oh, God, she didn't want to die. She didn't want to leave Erik and Brandt, not now.

  She loved Brandt and she'd never even told him. She'd agreed to marry him, but she'd never actually spoken the words. Possibly because she hadn't realized until just this moment how true they were. She did love him, and she did want to spend the rest of her life with him, even though he'd badgered her into accepting his proposal.

  And now it was too late, because she was going to die. She would never get the chance to tell him how much he meant to her, never get the chance to be the best wife she knew how to be.

  "What about Outram? Will you leave him to rot in prison?” Her voice rose in panic.

  "Sometimes one must be sacrificed for the benefit of all.” His face hardened and he scowled down at her. “No more questions. Let's get on with it."

  Willow jerked at the manacles until her joints screamed in agony. It was over. He was going to kill her and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She squeezed her eyes closed and began to pray. Tears slipped down her face and into her hair as he began to chant.

  "Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo, et mundabor: lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor. . ."

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  She wasn't here. He'd searched every inch of Chatham's town house and found not hide nor hair of either of them.

  Dammit, where could she be?

  She had to be all right. He had to find her, and she had to be safe. He couldn't live with himself if Chatham hurt her, not when Brandt had been the one to leave her open to this threat.

  Hell, he couldn't live without her. He couldn't. Willow was the only woman he'd ever loved, the only woman he ever would love, and he didn't want to think about a single day passing without her in his world.

  He had to find her.

  He started up the wide staircase again, his hand on the newel post, when he felt the wood beneath his fingers give. Moving down a step, he tested the large cherry-wood sphere. When pushed in one direction, the piece didn't budge. But when pushed in the other, it slid almost an inch to the side. At the same time, he heard a low squeak.

  Rounding the banister, he began looking for the source of that sound. Behind him, the front door sprang open, much the same way it had when he'd kicked it in not ten minutes before. Robert entered, followed by half a dozen armed Pinkertons.

  "Where are they?” Robert
demanded.

  "Damned if I know. I've searched all the rooms; they're nowhere to be found.” He indicated the newel post he'd investigated moments earlier. “But I think there is something odd about this staircase."

  "Like what?” Robert closed the distance between them and followed Brandt as he continued his search for the origin of the noise he'd heard.

  "I don't know, but I'm going to find out.” He ran his hands over the polished railing, the progressively increasing height of the wall beneath the stairs, even the floorboards.

  He did this for the next few feet of space, and then paused as he sensed a slight protuberance.

  "What is it?” Robert queried.

  "This part of the wall. It sticks out a bit.” He tested every inch of the silk covering and discovered seams at the top and bottom. And on the far left, what appeared to be the opening of a doorway, a fraction of an inch ajar. As though the movement of the newel post had released a hidden latch that kept the secret entrance closed.

  As Brandt slid the panel open, he heard voices. Muted and impossible to decipher, but voices all the same. One of which he thought was Chatham's. The other he prayed was Willow's, because that would mean he'd not only found her, but she was still alive.

  He inclined his head, signaling Robert, who in turn gave silent, hand-gestured orders to his men. Even with the flicker of light glowing from below, the decline was dark as a tomb, and it took a moment for their eyes to adjust. With Brandt in the lead, they made their way down the uneven stone steps.

  Brandt didn't have a weapon, but he didn't need one when he stepped out of the stairwell and saw Virgil Chatham standing over a tied and defenseless Willow with a downthrust sword aimed directly at her heart.