Fire Lily (A Dangerous Hearts Romance)

by Deborah Camp

  “Decidedly,” he answered, completely unruffled. “And you do claim to be a skeptic?”

  “Proudly,” she rejoined with a lift of her chin.

  His smile sent a tingle down her spine. “May I say that narrow-mindedness is most often an ugly thing to behold, but it becomes you. It lights in your eyes a most attractive fire.”

  The others shared a spate of laughter, but Lily stared daggers at Griffon Goforth. Curls of steam rose off his damp clothing, making Lily imagine that he smoldered, coughed up fresh from hell.

  Arrogant Gypsy goat! she seethed inwardly. The object of her ire suddenly jerked back as if she’d struck him. His eyes narrowed. Danger emanated from him, landing her a blunt blow, then dissipated as he swung his gaze away from her. Lily released her pent-up breath, chiding herself for feeling a moment of panic. But the sensation persisted, and she couldn’t shake the notion that Griffon Goforth had heard her scathing epithet, although she’d not uttered a word of it aloud.

  “If our manners are wanting, please excuse us,” Uncle Howard said, breaking through the uneasiness. He stood on the other side of the hearth, and the look he sent Lily was more searing than the heat from the fire. “Lily is headstrong, but bears no ill will. In our home, guests are welcome, especially those who have traveled on such a dreadful night to offer their help in our time of distress.”

  “Oh, yes,” Nan enthused, her bright eyes shimmering with tears. “Any help would be a godsend. It’s been months since our daughter was last seen.”

  “By you?” Balthazar asked. “She was last seen by you?”

  “No, by the dressmaker, I suppose. I saw Cecille that morning before she went out. She looked so lovely…..” Nan’s eyes filled with tears as she turned to her husband, beseeching him to continue for her.

  “The last time we saw our daughter was on the thirtieth of December,” Howard said. “She left the house around ten that morning to go to her dressmaker’s for a fitting.”

  “The gown is a lovely thing, meant for a New Year’s Eve ball. It’s upstairs in Cecille’s room,” Nan said, then swallowed a sob.

  “The dressmaker said Cecille kept her appointment and left the shop at a few minutes before noon,” Howard continued. “Cecille had made plans to join two of her lady friends for tea in one of their homes.”

  “The Spencers,” Nan supplied. “Mr. James Spencer is an architect of some note, and his wife is president of the Fort Smith Literary Guild.”

  Howard smiled indulgently at his wife’s intrusion. “Yes, well, Cecille never arrived for the appointed tea. Janelle Spencer, Cecille’s friend and hostess, sent one of their domestics around later that afternoon to inquire about Cecille’s absence. It wasn’t like her not to send regrets.”

  “Oh, no,” Nan agreed, her blue eyes wide with alarm. “Cecille would never be so rude. She’d sent word three days before that she would be most happy to attend the tea. If she’d changed her mind, she would have sent Orrie or Ginger—the girl who works for us three days a week—around with a note excusing herself.”

  Lily closed her hands into fists of irritation as her Aunt Nan’s inconsequential digressions stretched her tolerance. She means well, Lily reminded herself. Aunt Nan couldn’t help being a scatterbrain any more than Lily could help being impatient. Griffon Goforth and the gregarious Balthazar didn’t seem the least bit perturbed. On the contrary, they listened to her aunt as intently as they did Uncle Howard.

  “Of course, we began an immediate search,” Howard said, picking up the events they’d all gone over countless times. “When the marshals turned up nothing, I contacted a private investigator.”

  Lily made a disparaging sound that brought all eyes to her. She shrugged, feeling she should make some response.

  “You find this hired man incompetent?” Griffon asked.

  “He turned up precious little and took quite a tidy sum for his uselessness,” Lily said, staring pointedly at Griffon. “It’s distressing to see that the world contains a variety of human leeches.”

  “Now, Lily,” her uncle said in a tone he used to sooth tempers and reinstate calmness. “I’m sure the man did his best. After all, he traced Cecille to Van Buren before he lost her trail.”

  “Why would Cecille go to Van Buren?” Lily asked, not for the first time. “She doesn’t know a soul there.”

  “Perhaps she was taken there by someone who does,” Griffon suggested. “Does she have a beau?”

  “Cecille has many suitors,” Lily answered, although Griffon had addressed the inquiry to Howard. “And all of them are respectable and wouldn’t take a lady out of the city unchaperoned.”

  “She isn’t in love, then?” Griffon asked.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Lily demanded, exasperated.

  “Love makes us do uncharacteristic things. If Cecille is in love with someone, she might follow him to the ends of the earth if he asked.”

  “You know nothing of Cecille,” Lily charged.

  “Ah, but I know about love and the toll it often charges.”

  “I resent your suggestion that she’d traipse off with some man and leave her family in agony. We’ve heard such harebrained theories from the local authorities. We needn’t hear them repeated by you.”

  “Lily, dear, your manners,” Aunt Nan reminded. “The gentleman didn’t mean to cast aspersions on Cecille’s name.”

  “Quite,” Griffon agreed. “I can see that Cecille was raised in a most respectable household. I only meant to discern her state of mind and heart on the day she vanished.”

  “We understand,” Howard said, jerking at the hem of his waistcoat and sending Lily a warning glare. “It’s true that others have suggested that Cecille might have been blinded by love, but she would have come to her senses by now. She would have contacted us … sent word somehow that she’s safe.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” Griffon said.

  Lily turned her back to the room, pretending to warm her hands at the fire. She winced, knowing she had sounded like a shrew. The fact that she had run dry of patience, and didn’t think for a moment this soothsayer could return Cecille to them, didn’t give her license to be rude and overbearing. She closed her eyes for a few moments, dipped into her reserve of tolerance, then faced the visitors and her family again. The Gypsy, she noted, had been staring at her. He finished his tea and set the cup and saucer on the tray. When Orrie made a move to refill it, he nodded.

  “Yes, please, and I believe I’ll have a biscuit before Zar gobbles up the last.”

  “I’ll leave that one for you,” Balthazar assured him.

  “Orrie could prepare a late supper, if you gentlemen wished it,” Nan said.

  “How delight—”

  “No, thank you, madam,” Griffon said, interrupting Balthazar’s jubilant acceptance. “We’ll be turning in soon. It would be rude of us to keep our gracious hosts from their rest.” He patted his aide’s knee. “Zar, be a good chap and take our baggage upstairs. I’ll be along in a minute.”

  “Orrie, show Mr. Balthazar to the guest room,” Howard said.

  “Balthazar,” the jovial man insisted. “That will suffice, kind sir.” He turned merry eyes on Orrie. “After you, dear lady.”

  Orrie swished toward the staircase with Balthazar ambling behind her.

  “The marshals turned up nothing? No trace of Cecille?” Griffon asked, settling back on the sofa to relish his cup of tea and sugared biscuit.

  “Nothing,” Howard answered, pulling fretfully at his curly beard. “It’s as if she vanished into thin air. I, of course, hope she’s still in the city, but where, I can’t imagine.”

  “I regret to inform you, sir, that she’s not in Fort Smith.”

  “Oh?” Howard leaned toward his guest in anticipation. “And why do you say that?”

  “I get no sense of her presence in this place.” Griffon took a big bite of the biscuit.

  Lily exchanged a cynical smirk with her uncle. “Then by all means, l
et’s mark this area off our lists.” She dipped her head in a mock bow. “The Great Goforth hath spoken.”

  Nan made a clucking noise of distress and glanced nervously at her guest, but Griffon seemed to take no affront from Lily’s scorn.

  “You don’t sense her presence,” Howard repeated. “I’m afraid we’re going to have trouble trusting your … your hunches.”

  “Why should my hunches be any less trustworthy than those of the private detective you hired?” Griffon swept crumbs from his dark trousers.

  “The detective at least made inquiries and followed clues,” Lily said. “Or so he reported.”

  “I’m following clues as well,” Griffon said. “I understand your inability to grasp the way I work; it’s only natural that you are skeptical of something you don’t fully understand. My feeling that Cecille is no longer in this city is quite strong, and I learned long ago not to question my sixth sense, but to follow it. I’m sure Edward Meeker told you of my modest success at finding missing articles, as well as missing persons.”

  “Yes. Very impressive,” Howard allowed.

  “Your success in England,” Lily amended. “It’s rather difficult to verify actions that occurred overseas. But, then, you must be aware of that.”

  “Not so difficult,” Griffon said, rising slowly to his feet. “I have newspaper clippings detailing my work. Luckily, I brought a few. I’d be more than happy to show them to you tomorrow, Miss Meeker.”

  “And I should be most interested in seeing them,” Lily rejoined, not entirely convinced he had such proof.

  “So be it.” He plucked at his damp shirt and made a face of disgust. “I think I’ll retire, if you don’t mind. These clothes are beginning to stick like cooling wax to my skin.”

  “Where’s Orrie gone off to?” Nan asked, rising from the rocker. “Orrie!”

  “Yes’m,” Orrie called, then bustled into the parlor, breathless and pink-faced. “Ready to join your assistant, sir?” she asked Griffon.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Good night, Mr. Goforth,” Nan said, extending her hand, which Griffon kissed politely.

  “Thank you for your hospitality, madam.” Griffon turned and shook hands with Howard. “And thank you, sir.” His gaze drifted lazily to Lily. When she didn’t offer her hand, he nodded his dark head in a salute. “Good evening, Miss Lily.”

  Lily managed a weak smile. “Rest well, Mr. Goforth.”

  “I shall,” he assured her, then followed Orrie upstairs. He made not a sound, his tread light, his movements limned with grace.

  “Doesn’t he take the prize?” Nan asked when he was well out of earshot.

  “He seems capable, I suppose. Doesn’t have much of an English accent.” Howard dropped onto the sofa as if he were exhausted.

  “Yes,” Nan agreed. “Not like Elizabeth Battenburg’s cousin from London. Remember meeting him last year at the cotillion?”

  Howard nodded. “Could hardly understand a word the man said. I just nodded and smiled when he talked to me. If he was speaking English, it was a form of it I was never taught.”

  “Wondering about Mr. Goforth? He’s a Scot,” Orrie whispered, rejoining them in the parlor. “I asked Balthazar. Mr. Goforth was raised in Scotland and went to England in his early teens. Balthazar’s from Belgium.” Orrie’s eyes widened as if Belgium wasn’t part of this world. “Imagine that! Why, I never heard of anybody bein’ from that place.”

  “I’m not sure where that is located,” Nan said, worry lining her brow. “Belgium. Is it part of Europe?”

  “Yes, dear,” Howard said with a labored sigh. “It’s quite the civilized country, I assure you.”

  “I’m sure our guests are civilized,” Lily said. “But I’m also sure they’re both as worthless as Confederate currency.”

  Howard delivered a weary glance. “What say we give them the benefit of the doubt? Is that too much to ask, Lily?”

  Sensing his fatigue, Lily softened and patted his shoulder. “No, Uncle Howard.” She went toward the window to view the abating storm. Doubt is all I’ll give them, she thought. That inept detective had lightened her poor uncle’s purse while giving little in return. She wouldn’t let Goforth and his bulky associate steal her uncle blind. No. She’d watch the two opportunistic vultures like a hawk.

  “I think I’ll go to bed myself,” Lily said, moving from the window as she lifted a hand to cover a yawn. “It’s been a long day and an even longer evening.”

  “Good night, dear,” her aunt said, angling her head so that Lily could drop a kiss on her cheek.

  Lily gave Orrie’s arm an affectionate squeeze as she passed her on the way to the staircase. “You’re the only one of us who doesn’t look completely wrung out,” she noted. “You thrive on mystery.” Laughing lightly, Lily climbed the stairs and tiptoed past the guest room to reach her own room on the second level.

  This was her home, although she was quite welcome in her father’s house near Harvard College. But she never felt comfortable in Cambridge. She always felt like a guest of her father and stepmother, Angela. Fort Smith was home. She’d been born here and would be happy to die here, just like her mother, who had died from a snake bite when Lily was seven. They’d all been on a picnic near the Arkansas River when her mother had stumbled into a nest of water moccasins. Lily recalled little of the ensuing tragedy, other than that her mother’s had been a painful death. Afterward, her father had handed her over to his brother and sister-in-law to raise. She’d felt deserted for a while, but had adjusted because her uncle, aunt, and cousin loved her, and had made a special place for her in their family.

  Once in her room, Lily sat on the window seat and stared at the glistening night. The steady beat of the rain lulled her. The house was so quiet without Cecille. And so lonely.

  Her thoughts meandered to the midnight guests. They exuded mystery, and Orrie had lapped them up like a kitten going after cream. She smiled at that, then likened the psychic to a big cat. He moved like one, quiet and with a graceful stealth. Maybe he’s part griffon, she fancied, hence his name.

  Father had offered scant information about Griffon Goforth. He had been a ward of one of her father’s Harvard colleagues and he’d left England for America to oversee the newly established American Society of Psychic Research, having been on the English branch’s board of directors.

  High-sounding, Lily thought with a sniff of contempt. The ignorant might believe in psychics and fortune-tellers, but she’d never been weak-brained. She’d only agreed to Goforth’s visit because of her father’s recommendation. Besides, all conventional methods to locate Cecille had been exhausted. But she questioned the wisdom of accepting Goforth’s help now that she’d seen him and his flamboyant companion. Balthazar. What a showman! The man belonged in a circus! How could anyone take him or Goforth seriously?

  To convince her aunt and uncle to discharge the two charlatans was another matter and one Lily didn’t think she could accomplish. They were desperate to find Cecille … to learn anything they could of what had become of their only child.

  What if Cecille’s dead? Lily wondered, wincing at the stab of pain that caused. Yet, she had a strong sense that Cecille was alive. In danger, perhaps, and possibly ill, but alive.

  Good heavens! She sounded just like Goforth! She pressed her forehead to the cool windowpane and closed her eyes. Hunches couldn’t be counted on. False hopes shouldn’t be thrown out to the desperate. It was wrong to prey on people’s weaknesses. That’s what made Griffon Goforth so appalling. A good-looking, bright man like him resorting to such sordid business was unforgivable!

  Her uncle had been so polite, ever the genteel businessman, that he hadn’t discussed fees with that private detective at the outset. The man had presented them with an outrageous bill, which her uncle had grudgingly paid. How much would Goforth demand? Knowing her uncle, he’d be loath to pin Goforth down about his fee. It would be left to Lily to breach business etiquette and make it clear that the Meeker fami
ly would not be fleeced again.

  He’ll not get one penny until he proves he’s worth it, Lily promised herself. If she was branded rude and obnoxious, so be it. This was not a time for the fainthearted. This was a time for the lionhearted.

  She smiled, tickled at the image. Griffon Goforth’s not the only sleek cat in this jungle, she thought. Then, giving in to a streak of frivolity, she purred.

  Chapter 2

  Seated at the dining room table, Griffon admired the delicate pattern of pink and yellow blooms on the china cup and saucer. A part of his mind kept pace with the conversation flowing around him, but he didn’t bother to add anything to it. Between Balthazar and Nan Meeker, one could hardly get a word in edgewise anyway.

  His gaze strayed, taking in the highly polished serving table with its turned-out legs, the stocked china cabinet and silver keeper, the velvet draperies of golden bronze pulled back to let in sunlight.

  In his former life he would have made a quick inventory of the things he would steal from the house and how much they might bring on the black market. Now he only admired the craftsmanship of the furniture and the artistry woven into the crocheted tablecloth. Funny how he couldn’t completely shake the dirty, thieving, foul-mouthed Gypsy vagabond he’d once been. Thurman Unger had educated him in the ways of civilized men, but it seemed his tutoring hadn’t been entirely successful. Guess the raggedy lad will always live within me, he thought, then brought his gaze to bear on Lily. She would agree with that, he knew. She thought of him as a Gypsy goat with a penchant for hoodwinking innocent souls.

  When Lily refused to meet his gaze, he shrugged as if it meant nothing, although he would have enjoyed a glimpse of the topaz fire in her eyes. He flexed his shoulders and rocked his head to relieve the tight muscles in his neck. He hadn’t rested well. His mind had been invaded by dream images that made no sense. Dolls with golden hair. One with ink stains on its face. A window with a padded bench below it. A swing suspended from a tree branch. Girlish laughter.