She followed, hiking up her skirts and sprinting as fast as she could on the slick concrete floor. “Wait!” she hollered. “Why are you spying on me?”
Colin was just behind her, which was good, because the lamppost leaner was big, and she wouldn’t be able to stop him without help. They were gaining on him. The corridor was a full city block long, snaking past the sorting room and heading toward the staircase.
Without warning, the lamppost leaner pivoted and charged her, his face fierce with determination. He slammed into her with enough force to knock the breath from her body, and then shoved her into a darkened room off the corridor. She stumbled and fell to the ground. A scuffle sounded behind her, but it was too dark to see. Colin tripped over her as he was shoved inside as well. The door slammed behind them. She still fought for air, but Colin got to his feet quickly and went to the door.
“What happened?” she gasped.
“It appears we’ve been locked in a closet.” The jerky rattling of a door handle confirmed it. She rolled into a sitting position, struggling to draw a breath. A sliver of light came from the bottom of the door, but the closet was still oppressively dark.
“I think he’s gone,” Colin said, his ear pressed against the door.
“And we’re locked in here.” It suddenly felt like the walls were closing in.
“So we are.” He sounded amused. He tugged on the door and wiggled the knob again. “And in rather over-the-top fashion, too. Americans never do anything halfway.”
It wasn’t funny. Ever since Tom Jr. locked her in the dumbwaiter when she was a child, Lucy had feared entrapment. Her breath came fast and ragged, sounding loud in the close confines of the room. How long were they going to be entombed here? The smell of tar paper was nauseating, and she couldn’t get away.
“Are you all right?” Colin asked.
“Why should I be all right? That man has been spying on me, and I have no idea why. Now I’m trapped like a sardine in a tin, and I can barely breathe, and all my life I’ve been afraid of being trapped. So no. No, I’m not all right.”
Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the dark, and she saw Colin cautiously step forward, hunkering down to sit beside her. “You realize that we are in no real danger, correct?”
“Other than being confined in a small space that smells like tar and stokes all my childhood fears simultaneously? Yes.”
“This sounds like a good time to discuss the concept of a stiff upper lip,” Colin said in a maddeningly calm voice as he twisted to sit beside her on the floor. “The British are famous for it. It doesn’t matter what disaster befalls you, what sort of choking disappointments or tragedies knock you off balance. Those feelings must be repressed for the good of king and country. We’re not like the French, who weep at the opera house, or heaven help us, the Italians, who sob over a spilled glass of port. Not the British! And with a name like Drake, you are descended straight from that glorious, sceptered isle. So chin up, Lucy. Make me proud.”
His good humor was actually working. “Are you telling me the English aren’t allowed to feel emotions?”
“Heavens, no. We feel as much as those wailing French and Italians. We just don’t show it. Far more civilized, hmm?”
Since she was trembling on the floor and too queasy to stand up, yes, Colin seemed far more civilized. Then again, he probably hadn’t been locked in a dumbwaiter by his cousin when he was ten years old. When she told Colin about the incident, he finally showed a bit of sympathy.
“He sounds like a snotty-nosed twit.”
Lucy nodded. “While I was trapped, I hit the door and started crying. Tom taunted me the whole time from the other side, saying I sounded so crazy I ought to be locked up in Ridgemoor.”
“What’s Ridgemoor?”
“It’s a lunatic asylum north of the city. When I was in school, grown-ups used Ridgemoor as a threat. Make good grades or you’ll be shipped off to Ridgemoor. Finish your vegetables or you’ll go to Ridgemoor.” She hadn’t needed to be threatened with Ridgemoor to behave. Any kind of entrapment terrified her. And now here she was, locked in a tiny room where no one could hear them call for help.
“You must think I’m an awful crybaby,” she concluded.
He snorted. “Coming from a man who falls on the ground at the pop of a champagne cork?”
She scrambled for something to talk about besides their current entrapment. “Are you really going to marry for money?” It was a terribly personal question, but they had dropped all pretense, and she was curious.
“I really am.” His voice was heavy with reluctant humor. “Here’s the thing,” he said slowly. “First, you’ve got to promise never to tell this to another living soul.”
“I promise.” It was easy, because she desperately wanted to hear what he had to say next.
He sighed and shifted position on the floor. “Sorry . . . let’s just drop this.”
“No! Go on! I promise never to tell.”
She could hear his ironic laughter in the darkness. “All right. Since it’s dark and you can’t see my face flaming in embarrassment, here it comes. I inherited this glorious monstrosity of a house. Practically a palace. From a distance, it looks like someplace Henry VIII should live, with spires, mullioned windows, and miles of rolling hills. But my father was completely inept at turning its crumbling fortune around. He spent his life hunting grouse and perfecting his whist game.”
There was a long silence, and Lucy wondered at the mild disapproval in his voice. She worshipped her father, but Colin obviously felt differently.
“Sometimes I fear I’m no better than my father. I dabble in Morse code and follow troops around the world. Watch revolutions, sit at grand dining tables and listen to the captains of industry plan the twentieth century . . . but I am only an observer.”
In the darkness she reached for his hand, warm and solid in the chilly basement. “You’re an observer who sends his eyewitness account out to the rest of the world,” she said. “To the farmers in Nebraska or the power brokers in Washington. There is value in that. Without men like you, Reuters or the AP wouldn’t exist.”
He squeezed her hand. “I wish I didn’t like you so much.”
She pulled her hand away, for the feeling was mutual. “I wonder how much longer we’ll be trapped in here.”
Not long. Less than an hour later, employees returning from lunch walked past the closet, and Colin hollered loudly enough to get their attention. Lucy squinted against the flood of bright light as she stepped out of the closet. She’d overstayed her lunch break, but all she wanted to do was run to Nick and flaunt the fact that she now had proof the lamppost leaner was spying on them.
For once in her life, she didn’t like being right.
To her surprise, Colin offered to accompany her to see Nick, which was a relief. There was no way Nick could be dismissive of the lamppost leaner if Colin verified the frightening encounter.
It had stopped raining, and walking through the city alongside Colin was fascinating. She’d been born here, but watching his curiosity felt like being reintroduced to Manhattan, allowing her to see it anew through his eyes. He kept craning his neck to gape at the height of the buildings or gawk at the German vendor who heckled pedestrians to buy his bratwurst. He seemed riveted by the city, and it was unusually appealing. It was a delightful half hour until they arrived at the hog house where her brother worked.
Nick spent most of his day underground. Few people living on these crowded streets realized that each time they stepped outside, they walked above an underground city of tunnels where plumbers, electricians, gas line technicians, and engineers made their living. The men who dug and maintained the tunnels were known as sandhogs, and they took their breaks in buildings known as hog houses. Lucy put in a request at the front counter to summon Nick to the surface.
A few minutes later, Nick came above ground, wiping his hands on a grimy rag. He remembered Colin from their meeting on New Year’s Eve.
“Hello
, London,” he said, looking skeptically between Lucy and Colin. When she told him about the alarming encounter with the lamppost leaner, instead of being sympathetic, Nick was incensed. He tugged her to the rear of the hog house, where the aboveground portion of the vertical turbine engine provided a loud and steady chugging noise to mask his voice. “What are you doing, bringing a stranger into our business?” he demanded.
Colin didn’t feel like a stranger to her anymore, especially since the odd deal they’d struck about keeping each other’s secrets.
“When a sinister prowler locked us in a basement closet, I thought I owed him an explanation,” she said. “Quite frankly, I was terrified, and Colin kept me from losing my head. Unlike some people I know,” she added in a pointed voice.
Nick’s face twisted with regret. “I’m sorry, Luce.” He gave a heavy sigh. “This whole thing makes me feel so helpless, and I hate it. Let’s go talk to your fellow, and I’ll hear the rest of it.”
“Just be polite,” she warned. She needed to hear Colin’s observations about the lamppost leaner, for she hadn’t gotten a good look at him, and Colin noticed far more than she did. He relayed that the lamppost leaner had a nose that had once been broken, wore a tweed jacket that had been patched on both elbows, and smelled of cigarette smoke. And he’d noticed one other crucial detail. The man had been afraid.
“All the color dropped from his face when he realized we’d spotted him,” Colin said. “That was fear, not surprise.”
“Why would anyone hired by the Saratoga Drakes fear us?” she asked.
“Maybe this doesn’t have anything to do with the Saratoga Drakes,” Nick said. “Maybe the guy is carrying a torch for you.” She recoiled at the thought, but Nick kept speaking. “He followed you to the Western Union building. He loiters outside our apartment before dawn. Maybe it’s all in hope of getting a glimpse of you.”
“Then why was he sniffing around Mr. Garzelli’s tenement?”
Nick didn’t have an answer for that, and it was time for him to return to work. She and Colin had a long walk back to Broadway, during which Colin pressed her for more insight into the Saratoga Drakes.
“My uncle married a woman named Margaret,” she said as they walked along a tree-shaded avenue. Margaret Drake seemed nice enough, but Lucy couldn’t help but be suspicious of a woman who spoke with a trace of a British accent despite being born and raised in Yonkers. Sadly, Aunt Margaret seemed incapable of discussing anything other than her adored son. Tom Jr. suffered from the self-absorption of someone who grew up knowing he was the heir to a tremendous fortune and the apple of his parents’ eyes. Tom had graduated from Princeton after only two years, so he was smart, but he still lived at the family estate, and she didn’t think he’d ever held a job.
“If you and Nick win the lawsuit, what will happen?” Colin asked.
“It all depends on what the judge decides the damages are worth,” she said. “Jacob was responsible for making the business flourish, and during the early years of their partnership, he and my grandfather split everything fifty-fifty. It’s true my grandfather gave Jacob complete control until the end of the war, so if the judge decides Jacob’s seizure of the valve was illegal, the court will have to determine how much my grandfather’s valve has earned in the past forty years.”
Colin drew her to a stop behind a boxwood hedge and turned her to face him. “And how much would that be?”
“About forty million dollars. My uncle is entitled to some, and my portion would be split with Nick, so I’d have to settle for a measly eight or ten million.”
“Interesting.” There was speculation in his eyes, as though she was suddenly a person of extraordinary fascination.
“Do not look at me like that,” she said.
“Like what?”
“Like I might be a fallback candidate if your Madison Avenue heiress doesn’t work out.”
The roguish grin he beamed at her was wildly attractive. He didn’t even pretend to deny her suggestion that he was on the hunt for a wealthy bride, and his good-natured banter made him even more appealing.
“Wouldn’t you like living in a palace?” he asked. “If you bring over a few of those fancy valves, I can even rig up some running water. Nothing but the best for you, Lucy.”
She couldn’t suppress a grin as they resumed their walk to Broadway. “I’d be more tempted by the mouthwatering high tea you buy for the Reuters employees each afternoon. How much do you pay for those fancy watercress sandwiches?”
“Ah! A gentleman never worries over such tacky fiscal concerns.”
“And an American never overlooks the ridiculous cost of a pound of watercress.” It was fun being with someone so boundlessly cheerful.
“I bet your Saratoga cousins never worry about the cost of watercress. I’m still curious about the initial rift between the two brothers. Have you ever met Jacob Drake?”
“No. He turned control of the company over to Uncle Thomas ages ago. He used to live with them, but I don’t know if he still does. He’s ancient; at least ninety years old, I think.”
“I want to meet him,” Colin said.
She stifled a laugh. “I am not on cordial terms with the Saratoga branch of the family, so I can’t get you an introduction.”
Colin clucked his tongue. “One of the advantages of having a title is that I can get invited anywhere.”
“So arrogant,” she muttered.
“But also true,” he countered. “You told me your Uncle Thomas lives in a grand country manor named Oakmonte. A man like that would be thrilled to host a visit from Sir Colin Beckwith, 9th Baronet of Whitefriars. One of my responsibilities for Reuters is to visit our subscribing newspapers and make sure all is in good order. It’s time for me to start making the rounds, and I suppose the newspaper in Saratoga might warrant a call. While I am there, I will finagle an invitation to Oakmonte.”
She was flabbergasted. “You would do all this just to meet Jacob Drake?”
“Since it appears you are woefully under-informed about your own family history, it falls to me.”
“But why?” she pressed.
“I’m curious. This is a fascinating story, and unless I learn what really happened, I’ll keep obsessing over it. When investigating a story, nothing beats speaking to the parties themselves. You, my dear, are a highly partisan source. In the newspaper business, we would call you a ‘biased witness.’ Or perhaps an unreliable source. There’s all kinds of terms I could think up for you.”
“Clever and charming?”
“Clever, yes.”
They walked several steps in silence. She could hear him grinning beside her, even as his mouth remained clamped shut.
“Charming?” she prodded.
He drew a deep breath mingled with laughter. “Why must you be so persistent? If I pay you a compliment, I’ll be accused of chasing after your highly improbable fortune. Which is absurd. No self-respecting fortune hunter would gamble on a forty-year legal quagmire, no matter how charming the lady may be. And yet if I don’t pay you a compliment, I’m arrogant and coldhearted. True?”
“The burdens of greatness.”
They bickered all the way back to Broadway, and Lucy could not remember enjoying herself more.
It all came to an end the moment they stepped through the imposing doors of the Western Union building. Colin straightened his collar, assumed an aloof demeanor, and headed toward the Reuters office. The AP was located only two floors away, but she must never forget that an entire world separated them.
Chapter
Nine
What Colin had told Lucy about the ease of wangling an invitation to her uncle’s home was true. During his business meeting with the editor of a Saratoga newspaper, Colin mentioned the high praise he’d heard for the Drake mansion a few miles outside of town and that he would like a tour. An invitation to Oakmonte arrived from Thomas and Margaret Drake the next day.
Oakmonte. What kind of American gave their home a name? The
Saratoga Drakes were new money and probably thought naming their estate would carry a whiff of old-world prestige. Colin didn’t care what they did with their house; all he wanted was the chance to meet Jacob Drake. No one seemed to know where the old man lived, and there was no mention of him in the slim Saratoga telephone directory. Jacob Drake was now ninety-two years old, and in all likelihood, he lived with his son.
Colin was met at the Saratoga train station by Tom Jr., who was “taking a break” from employment in order to pursue his love of marksmanship. During the forty-minute carriage ride to Oakmonte, Tom Jr. did nothing but ramble on about shooting.
“There was no real competition at college,” he said with a knowing air. “Even the marksmanship instructors are little better than amateurs. Of course, I’ve been shooting since I was six years old, so perhaps I shouldn’t expect real competition at Princeton. I intend to compete in the next Olympics. It will be a pleasure to vie against truly worthy competitors.”
“Indeed.” Colin was good at making small talk with strangers. Normally he loved asking endless questions to discover what motivated a man to study, conquer, and achieve. But there was no need to ask questions with Tom, who filled the air with a relentless monologue about himself. It was a relief when they passed through the gates of the Drake family home.
The splendor of Oakmonte had not been exaggerated. The red-brick Georgian mansion sat on a rolling green lawn as though it had been planted there a hundred years ago.
It hadn’t. That much was apparent the moment Colin alighted from the carriage and approached the house, noting the fine condition of the mortar, which showed no sign of crumbling. Instead of wavering hand-blown glass, the windows looked smooth and sparkled in the sunlight.
The front door opened, and a tall man bounded down the short flight of stairs. “Welcome!” the elder Drake boomed in a confident voice. Thomas Drake’s dark hair was threaded with a hint of silver, but he maintained the lean physique of an athlete. His wife was a predictably handsome woman with even features and a triple strand of pearls that hung to her waist.
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