by BJ Hoff
Jealousy.
It was an unfamiliar emotion to Jack. Indeed, he couldn’t remember having ever experienced it before today. With Martha, there had been no occasion. Their courtship had been brief and uncomplicated; their marriage, the same. And although his reputation as a womanizer still dogged him—a reputation he found amusing for its very exaggeration—the truth was that no woman since Martha had meant enough to him to provoke anything as intense as jealousy.
Until now.
Unsettled, he glanced from Avery to Samantha, who seemed to be engrossed in the attorney’s every word. Occasionally, she turned to give Maura Shanahan an encouraging smile, but for the most part her attention belonged to Foxworth.
In that moment, Jack couldn’t help seeing her as Avery Foxworth undoubtedly saw her. Even with her glistening chestnut hair confined to that stuffy little bun at the nape of her neck, and in spite of the fact that she was dressed as always in an unadorned—but exquisitely cut—suit, Samantha was a stunning woman. Her presence seemed to cast a soft glow even on the dingy visiting room.
Any man would be taken with her. Why should Avery be the exception?
Feeling increasingly edgy and out of sorts, Jack started to pull a cigar from his pocket, but stopped in deference to Samantha, who claimed to abhor the smell. He turned his attention back to his attorney. Although he had retained Avery Foxworth years ago, he still didn’t know all that much about the man. Like himself, Avery kept his own counsel, seldom revealing anything of a personal nature. Their relationship over the years had been strictly business, by mutual consent.
The man was a study in contradictions, the total opposite of his partner in the firm, Charlie McCann. Charlie was colorful, jolly, and unabashedly vulgar, whereas everything about Avery fairly shouted breeding.
Avery was British, and although removed from his native land for more than twenty years now, he had retained a slight accent, which Jack half suspected might be a deliberate affectation. Where Charlie was large and lumbering, Avery was slender and fine boned. Jack had never seen the man looking anything less than impeccably barbered and attired, while Charlie McCann was a tailor’s nightmare.
The one thing the two partners held in common was that they were both, Jack was convinced, thoroughly corrupt—Charlie blatantly so, whereas Avery was careful to maintain the veneer of a gentleman—and one of integrity.
Jack almost grinned at the thought. Avery Foxworth was probably one of the shrewdest, most resourceful men Jack had ever done business with. He was also quite possibly the most ruthless. As to integrity—an alley cat probably had more.
At the moment, he was more curious about what sort of impression Avery might make on a woman.
More to the point, a woman like Samantha.
Not a tall man—Jack probably topped him by several inches—Avery somehow looked tall and struck a sense of importance and power that didn’t seem in the least practiced, though Jack suspected it was exactly that. He was probably in his late forties, only a few years older than Jack himself. If he was graying—and he most certainly should be by now, Jack thought peevishly—it was well camouflaged by the natural, sand-colored shade of his hair. He had a long, lean face. His eyes were an indefinable shade of gray, like cold slate, with an unnervingly intense gaze.
There was no denying the fact that he was a “well set-up man,” as the Irish would put it, and while not exactly handsome, Jack grudgingly conceded that Avery Foxworth would probably hold a certain appeal for women.
Apparently, he was also eligible. There was a daughter somewhere, but to the best of his recollection, Jack had never heard tell of a wife.
He looked at Samantha, and the thought struck him that both she and Avery Foxworth bore that elusive air of refinement that someone like himself could never hope to attain; one was born to it, he supposed. Indeed, his attorney’s enviable elegance only served to remind Jack of his own somewhat ungainly height and the callouses—and news ink—embedded in his hands. He had the long arms of a plowboy, the near swarthy skin of a Galway sailor, and while his own tailor was the finest in Manhattan, he had never quite lost the memory of the threadbare pants and run-down shoes he had once worn.
In truth, although he was obscenely rich, at times he still felt wretchedly poor.
And always, he felt thoroughly, blazingly Irish.
More irritable than ever, Jack reminded himself that he had come here today as a favor to Samantha, to lend a bit of moral support, as it were, not to wallow in his own shortcomings. Samantha seemed to think his presence might influence Avery to make a more vigorous defense on behalf of the Shanahan woman, and the very idea that Samantha would look to him for help of any sort went a long way in relieving his self-doubts. At least for the moment.
Of course, he knew Avery Foxworth too well to think he could influence him one way or the other, but if Samantha wanted him here, he was only too happy to oblige.
Given the way the conversation was going, he thought Samantha could rest her concern about Maura Shanahan. Avery clearly had a plan in mind.
“I’ve given you a rather detailed account of what could happen, Mrs. Shanahan,” Avery was saying, “but it’s by no means what I think is going to happen.”
His well-modulated voice held an uncharacteristic warmth, Jack noted.
For Samantha’s benefit?
“In my opinion,” the attorney went on, addressing his words to Maura Shanahan but still watching Samantha, “I can bring an end to this unfortunate situation rather quickly. If you’ll just sign this paper, Mrs. Shanahan, I’ll take care of things from here. I’ve arranged a private meeting with the prosecutor, and I’m fairly certain that when he reads your statement and hears my assessment, he’ll dismiss your case without a trial.”
He handed the paper to Maura Shanahan without a glance, his gaze still locked on Samantha.
Jack knew a sudden, unreasonable desire to take a swing at him.
Again he told himself that Avery was surely not the first man to be smitten by Samantha’s loveliness.
Indeed.
For the moment, he dragged his attention away from Samantha to Maura Shanahan, who sat staring at the paper in her hand with an absolutely dismal expression. Finally, she looked up. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t…I can’t—”
Obviously, she couldn’t read. Samantha moved to save the woman from further embarrassment. Gently, she took the paper from her, saying, “Here, Maura, this light is terrible. Perhaps Mr. Foxworth wouldn’t mind explaining what it says.”
She looked at Avery, who gave her a faint, knowing smile and nodded. “Of course. Briefly, Mrs. Shanahan, this is a chronicle of the circumstances leading up to the day of the shooting, as well as the events of the day itself. It gives an account of the long-term mistreatment you suffered at your husband’s hand, both physical and emotional. It also details his threats and actions during the hours before you…shot him.”
He leaned back, linked his well-manicured hands over his handsome waistcoat, and continued. “Clearly, you felt yourself and your children to be in grave danger of physical harm. He was threatening you. You were terrified, and you reacted. It was self-defense, pure and simple. I believe we’ll have you back home in no time, without the delay and aggravation of a trial. For now, though, I’ll need your signature.”
Without looking at him, Maura Shanahan murmured, “I cannot write, sir.”
Jack saw Samantha’s eyes cloud with compassion as she touched the other woman’s hand. “That doesn’t matter, Maura. All you need to do is make a mark. I’ll help you.”
Her expression was dubious as she looked across the table at Avery. “I don’t mean to question your judgment, Mr. Foxworth, but are you quite sure about there not being a trial? It would seem almost—too easy.”
Avery Foxworth leaned forward, folded his hands on the table in front of him, and gave Samantha a look of steady earnestness. “I wouldn’t mislead you, Mrs. Harte. I’m almost certain we’ll avoid a trial. In the first place, Mr
s. Shanahan’s husband sounds as if he were a low sort all ’round.”
Maura Shanahan seemed to wince at his words, but Avery appeared not to notice.
“If the shooting happened as she says,” he went on, “I’m quite sure the prosecutor will conclude that the man got no more than he deserved and will then summarily dismiss the case.”
Jack was surprised at the strength of the Shanahan woman’s response. Her face tinted with emotion, she leaned toward Avery and burst out, “Why, it did happen the way I said! Don’t you believe me, then?”
Avery Foxworth’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. “It doesn’t matter in the least whether I believe you or not, Mrs. Shanahan. My job is to make certain the prosecutor believes you. And I assure you, he will.”
“But will he care?”
Samantha’s voice was low and none too steady. Jack looked at her, saw the set line of her mouth, the tautness of her features.
“I’m not sure I understand, Mrs. Harte.” Avery Foxworth’s tone warmed considerably when he addressed Samantha.
“Are you quite sure the prosecutor will appreciate Maura’s circumstances, that she had to act to defend herself and her children?”
The attorney smiled a little. “I’m afraid I can’t vouch for the humanitarian instincts of the prosecutor, Mrs. Harte. But I can tell you not to concern yourself with the outcome of all this. It’s a fait accompli.”
As Jack watched, Samantha studied Avery Foxworth as if she were taking his measure and was none too certain she liked what she saw.
“Maura is telling the truth, Mr. Foxworth,” she said firmly. “Her husband beat her for years. Viciously. The day she shot him, he was threatening to kill not only her but the children as well.”
“I’m not questioning Mrs. Shanahan’s story.” Avery gave her a conciliatory smile. “If I gave that impression, I apologize. I’m simply trying to explain that what will count in the long run isn’t so much whether the authorities believe her or are sympathetic to her but rather that they’re aware of the caliber of her husband. The man was obviously a bully, so it’s not as if we’re dealing with any great loss. Once the prosecutor understands as much, he’s not likely to initiate the expense and fuss of a trial.”
Again Jack saw a cloud of anger darken the Shanahan woman’s face, as if she resented this condemnation of her late husband. But it was Samantha’s response to Avery’s somewhat glib dismissal that took him aback.
For an instant he thought she was going to rise from her chair. Instead she gripped her hands on top of the table so tightly her knuckles went white as she faced Avery Foxworth. Her face was pale, her voice noticeably strained. “So whether or not a woman is to be believed—or exonerated—depends on the mettle of her husband? If he’s a drunken boor, then her chances with the courts improve, but if he’s a man of good reputation, the law might not be quite so sympathetic to her plight, is that it? Even if his offense is just as heinous?”
Avery Foxworth’s gaze was speculative as he replied. “That might be oversimplifying somewhat, but yes, it’s probably a fair assessment of how things work.”
As Jack watched, Samantha drew in a long, none-too-steady breath. He didn’t miss the slight trembling of her chin and the sudden flush of color to her face that told him she was probably aware she might be overreacting and already regretted it.
He wanted to go to her, but, of course, he could not. He could do nothing but sit there and agonize for her, for the old, clearly unhealed pain that Avery Foxworth’s rather callous summation must have evoked in her.
If Samantha hadn’t realized her mistake right away, that she had reacted too strongly to Avery Foxworth’s words, Jack’s pained expression would have told her as much. She was aware, too, of the attorney’s close scrutiny.
She felt the heat of embarrassment stain her neck and rise upward. Quickly, she fixed her gaze on her knotted hands atop the table.
Jack came to her rescue after only a second or two. “I think Mrs. Harte’s concern in the matter is the same as mine, Avery. You really are convinced this won’t go to trial?”
Samantha could have kissed his hand in gratitude for the way he managed to divert Avery Foxworth’s attention away from her so smoothly.
At the attorney’s nod of confirmation, Jack turned to Samantha with a faint smile. “I think you can rest easy, Mrs. Harte,” he said, his tone one of careful formality. “As I may have told you, Avery—Mr. Foxworth—has represented me and the Vanguard for some years, and I can assure you that when he makes a judgment about some legal matter, he is almost always right on the money. After hearing what he’s had to say this afternoon, I feel certain there won’t be a trial. So if you’ll just make your mark on that paper, Mrs. Shanahan—”
He gave an almost imperceptible nod to Samantha, indicating that she should help Maura, then turned back to Avery Foxworth. “Mrs. Harte and I have another appointment yet today, so we need to be getting along. You’ll contact us once you have final word?”
Samantha looked at him in surprise. He hadn’t said anything to her about another appointment.
The two men shook hands as she showed Maura where to make her mark. Jack seemed altogether oblivious to Avery Foxworth’s inquisitive glances in Samantha’s direction, but Samantha was sure he noticed. For her part, she had been uncomfortably aware of the attorney’s studying, appraising looks throughout the entire meeting. She had also observed the way his expression occasionally altered when he looked at Jack, though she was fairly certain Jack didn’t notice. She wasn’t quite sure what she was seeing in the attorney’s gaze, but she almost thought it might be resentment. Once she even thought she’d caught a glimpse of overt dislike.
But to be fair, her impression of Foxworth might well have been colored by a few of his seemingly insensitive remarks.
In any event, she found herself suddenly anxious to leave and was only too grateful for that “other appointment” Jack had referred to, whatever it was.
19
AN UNEXPECTED PROPOSAL
I had a thought for no one’s but your ears.
W. B. YEATS
Outside, the gloom of early evening was drawing over the streets. It would be dark soon, and the raw wind and rain hinted of a bitter night ahead. The smell of the sea and the ever present stench of garbage mingled with the damp air to hang heavy over the streets.
Their cab was to return between six and six-thirty, but there was no sign of it yet. Even at this time of day, Broadway was still busy. The hooves of horses clopped over the wet streets, impatient drivers shouting or cursing the traffic, cracking the reins as they tried to push ahead of slow wagons or pedestrians pooling into the streets.
After Avery Foxworth had pulled away in his carriage, Samantha turned to Jack. “Thank you for trying to cover my blunder back there. I don’t know what…came over me.”
The softness and depth of understanding in his eyes as he looked down at her stabbed at Samantha’s heart. “Don’t fret yourself about it,” he said gently. “I doubt that anyone noticed but me.”
Samantha wasn’t so sure, but she still felt embarrassed about the incident and had no intention of dwelling on it. Instead she changed the subject. “What was that about another appointment?”
The cab pulled up just then, and Jack took her arm as they began to walk. “It was just a way to get us out of there,” he said, gesturing to the driver that he would help Samantha in himself. “Besides, I rather hoped we might have another appointment. For supper.”
Samantha started to protest—they had been together entirely too much recently—but Jack pretended not to notice. Inside the cab, he caught her at a loss by sliding into the seat beside her, instead of sitting across from her as he usually did. Ignoring her scrutiny, he draped the lap robe about her, then rapped on the roof to signal the driver before turning back to her.
Unsettled by his closeness, Samantha edged toward the door as much as possible. She avoided his gaze as she clenched her hands in her lap and stared strai
ght ahead. “Do you really think Mr. Foxworth can convince the prosecutor not to go to trial?”
“Avery can be a very persuasive fellow,” Jack said. “I think it’s safe to assume there won’t be a trial.”
“I do hope you’re right.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Samantha saw that he was still watching her. She felt the need to keep talking, to avoid that intense dark gaze. “Have you spoken to the police yet about that anonymous letter?”
Ever since Jack had told her of the recent threatening note, Samantha couldn’t help but speculate as to whether it had been written by the same madman as the unknown assailant who had shot Cavan Sheridan—an unintended target—a few months past.
The thought of how close Cavan—and Jack—had come to tragedy that night still froze her blood. Either of them might have been killed. As it was, Cavan had taken the bullet in Jack’s place, but now it seemed that Jack was still in danger.
“There’s been no time for that,” Jack said in reply to her question about the police. “Besides,” he went on with a shrug, “it’s not as if they can do anything about it.”
Samantha stared at him. “Jack, you can’t afford to take this lightly! Someone is threatening you! You’ve already had one attempt on your life. Now this. You thought it important enough to warn Cavan and me,” she reminded him. “Please promise me you’ll not ignore this.”
He eased his shoulders a little and passed a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m hardly ignoring it, Samantha. But I’ll admit I don’t quite know what to do about it. Except—” he turned toward her again—“it has occurred to me that perhaps I should keep my distance from you for a time, given the nature of the threat.”
Samantha tried to ignore the sick wrench of dismay his words evoked. It startled her—and troubled her more than a little—to realize how much she didn’t want him to “keep his distance.”
“Obviously, I’m not doing so well in that regard,” he said wryly. “No doubt you’ve noticed that I can’t seem to stay away from you.”