She tried not to let anger interfere with her concentration as she transcribed a report coming from Minnesota about a contested congressional race. Accusations of voter fraud against a sitting congressman were proceeding to trial, and Lucy wondered if anywhere was safe from corruption. Wasn’t Minnesota supposed to have only nice people? Wasn’t there anyplace where people could be counted on to be decent and honorable?
The lightbulb turned on, indicating a message from the law office. Lucy ached to switch wires immediately but finished transcribing the Minnesota story before opening the sounder to catch the law office message in the middle of a transmission.
—account overdrawn. Father furious and threatening refusal to pay.
Lucy leaned in. Who wasn’t paying their bills? It didn’t sound relevant to her case, but she couldn’t be sure, so she scribbled the message on a notepad in case it turned out to be important.
Whoever was on the other end of the conversation replied with the amount of overdrawn funds and banking fees. It sounded like a conversation between the law office and a banker. Her hunch was confirmed when the law office replied.
Can we negotiate a lower fine structure? Our client will pay.
The reply came quickly.
Bank will accept lower fines contingent on immediacy of—
“What are you doing?”
The voice came directly above her shoulder, and she startled, dropping her notepad. Panic rushed through her at the sight of Colin Beckwith standing less than a yard away. The connection was still open, and his head tilted forward, listening to the rapid-fire dots and dashes coming over the wire that clearly weren’t a news story.
She closed the connection to stop him from hearing more. It was a mistake. He looked stunned by her action, for disconnecting a message in transmission was a sure sign she was eavesdropping. Now she couldn’t even claim to have been sending a personal message.
She hoped the guilt did not show on her face. “Just listening to operators chatter. Slow news day.”
He remained motionless, staring at her with a keen look in his intelligent eyes. “Let’s go for a walk,” he said casually.
“I’m on the clock.”
“Punch out.”
He had no proof she was doing anything wrong, for there was no physical record of the message she was eavesdropping on, and it would take a skilled engineer to notice the stray wire nestled among the dozens of others attached to her sounding machine. Colin Beckwith might have translated enough of the conversation to learn something she wished he hadn’t, but surely he wasn’t an engineer. Was he? She swallowed hard, but the worst thing she could do right now was act guilty.
“Maybe aristocrats can afford to go off the clock at will, but I have bills to pay.”
“Pay them later. Let’s go for a walk.” His voice was implacable, and worse, now he was scrutinizing her equipment. If she lost this connection to the Moreno Law Office, they would lose the only leverage they had in a forty-year war. She stood, blocking his view of her desk.
“Let me punch out, and I’ll meet you at the front of the office.”
She waited for him to step away before moving. She walked to the front of the office, her mind racing as she inserted her punch card into the brass slot, pulled the lever, and stamped her card.
“Let’s go.”
They were both silent as the elevator carried them to the first floor. It was a long ride, stopping at every floor as the uniformed attendant cranked open the doors to let additional workers crowd inside, for it was nearing the end of the work day.
Calm. She had to be calm. In all likelihood, Colin’s sudden appearance at her office related to his drunken incident at the fancy dinner. It would be putting her job at risk to “lose” the story, but she’d been risking her job ever since she and Nick installed that wire two years ago.
Even after leaving the imposing Western Union building, they were silent as they walked along the crowded sidewalk. St. Paul’s Chapel was only a block away and afforded a measure of privacy in the leafy cemetery plot surrounding the historic church. This was where George Washington prayed following his inauguration in 1789, and it seemed a timeless oasis of greenery amidst the bustle of Broadway.
Colin held the iron gateway open for her. The cemetery lawn was overgrown and lumpy as they wandered amidst the tombstones, seeking a little distance from the others strolling the grounds. The tombstones were smooth with age, the lettering worn away from centuries of weather. The people buried here had fought in the Revolution. They’d waged battles as fierce as her own. They knew heartache and deprivation and moral dilemmas.
Colin cleared his throat. “I believe I overheard enough of your conversation to know it could not be from an AP correspondent. It sounded like an entirely private conversation about some overdue bank accounts. Are you perhaps in some financial difficulty?”
“No!” The response was automatic, but after the word was out of her mouth, she realized she’d just closed off a possible explanation for being part of such a conversation. She shifted from the defense and moved to attack. “Were you drunk that night?”
He stopped beside a gnarled old sycamore tree and turned to face her. “I’ve told you that I was not.”
“And I wasn’t eavesdropping.”
His smile was knowing. “The difference is that I’m not lying . . . and you are.”
A little breeze ruffled his blond hair, and he looked flawless and intimidating in his elegant attire. He had the perfectly sculpted features that spoke of a long aristocratic heritage, but she sensed a hint of desperation in him. It was hard to imagine a man of his lofty status could ever want for anything, but did he have a medical condition that gave him fits? She knew a girl at school who had epilepsy, and disease did not respect rank.
“What happened that night?” she asked softly.
He turned and walked a few paces to brace his hands on the church fence, his knuckles clenched white as he glared into the distance. She followed, surprised by his troubled mood. When he finally spoke, his voice was low.
“I served in the Boer War as a foreign correspondent,” he said. “I was under the mistaken impression that reporters attached to the army generally stayed behind the lines and wired their stories from a cozy inn after the fighting for the day had concluded. That was my experience during the Greek uprising. But this was no gentleman’s war, and while traveling with a squad of soldiers, we found ourselves completely surrounded and trapped. The siege went on for weeks. I’d prefer not to go into details.”
Lucy knew all about the Boer War, for the newspapers had been saturated with accounts of the conflict in the southern African colonies, which ended in a British victory over the Dutch only last year. The fighting had been brutal, made worse by the sweltering African climate.
“You were wounded?”
“No, but anyone who endures something like that does not care for the sound of gunshots. Or grenade detonations, cannon blasts, rocket flares, or artillery rounds.” Maybe it was the chill in the air, but it seemed his face took on a pallor that hadn’t been there moments ago. “When one is pinned down, unable to escape, and those noises are a constant companion for weeks, it can have a certain effect on a man. A bad one.”
How interesting that he spoke in the third person, as if it had happened to someone else. She had no idea how this conversation had strayed from his drunken episode onto the dusty battlefields of the Boer War, but she’d rather discuss anything besides why she had an illegal wire monitoring her uncle’s attorney.
“How does this relate to the dinner on Madison Avenue?”
He straightened and met her gaze. “A waiter uncorked a bottle of champagne a few feet behind me. It took me by surprise, and I responded badly.”
“I see.” She had no experience with war but didn’t doubt such things could leave a scar on a man’s soul. “What about the other part of the story? About being on the hunt for an heiress?”
“Only a scoundrel would confess to
such a thing.” His expression was inscrutable, but he hadn’t denied he was on the hunt for a rich wife.
“Why don’t you simply tell people about it?”
He looked appalled, a series of emotions flashing across his face. “I am not the sort of person who lays my weaknesses out for all the world to see. Some things are better kept private.”
Like why she needed to spy on her uncle and his legal maneuverings. “I agree.”
She didn’t know how to phrase her suggestion, so she turned to wander the cemetery grounds while trying to line up the right words. He followed. What she was about to propose was entirely illegal, but wasn’t there a distinction between the letter of the law and what was morally right? Her family had been battling the law since before she was born; it came naturally to her, but she didn’t trust outsiders. Especially not a rich, titled outsider who worked for Reuters. But sometimes necessity made unlikely allies.
“Perhaps we can help each other,” she said as she wove between the gravestones.
“I’m listening.”
“You need the world to believe that you do not quake in terror at the sound of loud noises, and I need access to a private wire that must remain secret. It seems we have each other over a barrel.”
She risked a glance at him. He stared straight ahead as they walked, his face drawn and pensive. They reached the far side of the cemetery, and he braced his hands on the top of the iron fence, leaning on it as he stared at the towering office buildings across the street. What would she do if he refused to cooperate? The Saratoga Drakes would run roughshod over her and Nick if she could no longer anticipate Uncle Thomas’s next move.
“Miss Drake, I may look superficial on the outside, but I try to maintain a modicum of honor beneath it all. I must understand why you have a private wire.”
She told him everything. The Drake lawsuit had been covered in the press, and everything she told him of the forty-year battle could be easily verified. More difficult to prove was her uncle’s sadistic delight in frightening off anyone who dared befriend them. She relayed Mr. Garzelli’s story, how a decent man tried to provide something nice for his tenants and was being threatened with deportation as a result.
“It sounds appalling, but I need more information,” he said. “For all I know, you could be involved in some kind of stock trading scheme.”
She shot him a look. “If I were tapped into a stock trading scheme, I’d be a lot richer than I am.”
“Nevertheless, I’ll need to verify what you’ve told me about your uncle. You don’t mind if I poke around a bit?”
“Poke away,” she said. “Feel free to ask either me or Nick if anything isn’t clear. We’ve got no secrets. Other than that wire, of course.”
Colin folded his arms across his chest and looked at her down the length of his very aristocratic nose. “If I can confirm your assessment of your uncle’s character, are you prepared to bury that story about me being a drunk?”
“What story?” she asked, and he smiled in return. They had an agreement.
Chapter
Eight
Colin knew exactly where to find insight into Lucy’s wild-eyed story about the long-running battle over a unique plumbing valve. Frank Wooten, the man he hoped would soon be his father-in-law, had made his fortune in the rough-and-tumble world of Manhattan industry, so he ought to know something about the case.
Even before Colin began courting Amelia, he went on regular fishing jaunts with Frank Wooten, first in England and now in New York. They both enjoyed the simple pleasure of a day in the country, fishing and catching their own dinner. Standing knee-deep in the cool water of a lake outside Mr. Wooten’s summer retreat, surrounded by a thick pine forest, it was hard to believe they were only forty miles outside the city. These afternoons with Frank had been a godsend. Colin had no formal training in business, and the self-made millionaire was happy to share his thoughts on leading a corporation. He also knew plenty about the infamous Drake case.
“I met old Jacob Drake when I first came to New York,” Frank said as he cast his line into the lake. “He was earning money hand-over-fist with that valve and started exporting them to Europe. He contracted with a stevedore who was new in the business to pack them up and get them loaded onto a ship. A storm delayed the packing, and the stevedore missed his deadline. Drake sued and won the cost of unfulfilled European contracts, which drove the stevedore into bankruptcy.”
Colin had never had much interest in commerce or capitalism—a word with mildly revolutionary overtones he instinctively disliked—but he had always been fascinated by what drove men to strive, compete, fight, and die for a cause. He flicked his line to tug the bait along the surface of the water. “Is it true that a lawsuit has been waged by the inventor’s heirs? That they were cut out of the profits?”
Mr. Wooten nodded. “It’s a long shot, but any time there’s that much money on the table, people will fight for it. It’s ugly, and Thomas Drake has a reputation even more ruthless than his father’s. I’m not exactly sure what happened there. The old man used to be the public face of the company, but no one has seen him for years. Everything gets negotiated through his son these days.”
He went on to say that after Thomas Drake took over the company, the price of the valves had skyrocketed. Old Jacob had been difficult to do business with, but his son was impossible.
“Here’s what I learned from the Drakes,” Frank continued. “They’re shrewd, tough, and know how to use the courts to their advantage. I don’t think they’ve done anything illegal, but they aren’t honorable people. The incident with the stevedore is proof of that. They were in the right, and the stevedore did miss his deadline, but an ounce of compassion would have brought far greater dividends in the long run. No one in Manhattan likes or trusts them. I think everyone is rooting for the poor relations to win that lawsuit.”
As was Colin. Having learned a little about how the Saratoga Drakes did business, he would lose no sleep over Lucy’s illegal wire. In return, she would bury the gossip about him.
Lucy squinted through the heavy rain trickling down her office window. The street below was already swamped, and Nick hated days like this. The sewers became overloaded, and men were taken off the fresh water pipe projects to manage outflow in the sewers, a wet and smelly job.
But she couldn’t worry about Nick. All she could think about was Colin Beckwith and his pending decision about keeping her wire a secret. If he exposed her wire, Uncle Thomas would get away with all the devious things he’d done over the years. Her father had worried himself into an early grave over this lawsuit. For the hundredth time, she wondered about the location of that maroon satchel and its mysterious contents that had terrified her father. She was certain it related to the lawsuit, and if Colin decided to expose her . . .
As if her thoughts had conjured him, Colin entered the office. It was hard not to be impressed as he strode through the room, his lean form projecting a sense of confidence she wished wasn’t so attractive. For pity’s sake, she had no business being enthralled by the way a man walked.
His first words brought her wayward thoughts crashing back to earth.
“I hoped we could go for a stroll to discuss what I learned over the weekend, but the rain is going to make that a challenge.”
Her heart seized. Whatever he had decided would have a drastic effect on her future, and she couldn’t bear waiting another moment. “Let’s head to the basement to talk,” she said.
The basement housed the hub of the pneumatic tube operation, making it noisy and unpleasant. Aside from the people working in the sorting rooms, few people ventured down there. Since it was lunchtime, they would have plenty of privacy.
Colin followed her, riding the elevator all the way down and stepping out into the dank air of the basement, which was brightly lit with bare electric bulbs hanging every few yards from the exposed ceiling. Down one hallway was the mail room and the hub of the tubes, so she headed in the other direction, toward the
boiler room. Their footsteps echoed on the concrete floor as they rounded a corner and found an empty hallway. She turned her attention to Colin, who got straight to the point.
“Everything I’ve heard confirms what you said about the Drake valve,” he said in a low voice, standing so close she could smell his pine-scented soap. “If your grandfather wasn’t actually swindled, it certainly appears he was treated unfairly.” The tension in her spine uncoiled a fraction, but he hadn’t finished speaking. “Why do you suppose Jacob took such shameful advantage of his own brother? Especially while that brother was at war?”
“Easy,” she replied. “Greed.”
Colin shook his head. “I don’t think so. From what I’ve been able to glean, old Jacob Drake charged a fair price for the valve. It wasn’t until your uncle took over that the price skyrocketed, so I don’t think it was greed.”
“Are you sure about that?” Uncle Thomas had taken over when she was a baby, so she couldn’t say how things changed under his administration. All she knew was that she distrusted every single member of the Saratoga branch of the family.
Colin’s voice carried a combination of curiosity and frustration. “These kinds of questions drive me insane. I want to know what motivates people. How could your grandfather be so creative and brilliant, but careless at the same time?”
She tensed, sensing someone around the curve of the hallway behind her. The humming and hissing from the boiler made it hard to hear, but she gestured for Colin to be silent as she turned. Her back pressed flat against the cinderblock wall, she crept toward the bend in the hallway. Colin must have thought she was ridiculous, creeping like a bug along the wall, but he hadn’t seen those photographs that proved someone had been spying on her here in the building.
Reaching the end of the short corridor, she peeked around the corner and gasped. A man stood not two feet away, his ear cocked toward her, but the distinctive twist of his shoulders sparked a memory.
“It’s you!” she gasped. His tall, misshapen frame was unmistakable. It was the lamppost leaner who’d been spying on her apartment and lurking at Mr. Garzelli’s tenement. Caught by surprise, he ran for the staircase at the far end of the basement.
A Dangerous Legacy Page 8