A Dangerous Legacy

by Elizabeth Camden

  His problems weren’t so bad. He was giving himself an ulcer over a pair of birds while he sat in the lap of luxury and brooded like a sulky child. He snapped the newspaper closed and got dressed to perform as Margaret Drake’s prized guest of honor.

  The front hall was crowded with men in formal black suits, waistcoats, gloves, and white ties. The ladies wore fabulous confections of pastel-colored silks, satin, and lace. Perfume wafted through the air, and violin music came from somewhere deep in the house. Margaret spotted Colin the instant he started descending the staircase. The tension in her face eased and her expression was bathed in relief.

  “Sir Beckwith,” she purred, moving through the crowd with both hands outstretched like Cleopatra slicing through the peasants. After tilting her heavily powdered cheek for his kiss, she guided him straight toward a handsome middle-aged couple. She introduced them as Judge Mason and his wife, Caroline. Ah, descendants of a founding family of America and Mrs. Drake’s bête noire.

  Mrs. Mason was swathed in pearls while Mrs. Drake glittered in diamonds, but both of them had their knives carefully hidden behind polite smiles. Normally Colin would be fascinated by the sheer human spectacle of watching two privileged women battle for something as ridiculous as a little prestige, but a headache pounded in his skull. This was going to be a long evening. Other guests included the mayor of Saratoga and a bishop of the church. He cast his gaze about in search of Henrietta Schroeder and excused himself as soon as possible.

  “There’s a little too much drama in that corner,” he whispered to Mrs. Schroeder, who smiled in silent understanding.

  Mrs. Drake was to be commended. The candlelit rooms were exquisitely decorated with fresh flowers, the hors d’oeuvres were excellent, and despite the whiff of carefully veiled snobbery, everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Waiters circulated with trays of honeyed olives and pancetta with goat cheese. A string quartet played on the terrace, the music a perfect accompaniment on a summer’s evening as it floated through the open doors.

  Mrs. Schroeder sucked in a quick gasp beside Colin. “What is that man doing here?” she whispered fiercely.

  He followed her gaze, surprised by the hostility in her voice. It was easy to spot the man to whom Henrietta referred. The bullnecked man wore a suit that was too small and a smile too wide. The last time Colin saw such odd stripes on a man’s vest, it had been worn by a huckster selling peanuts at a carnival.

  Margaret’s smile looked frozen in place as she answered Henrietta’s question. “I believe that’s Mr. Sneed. He is someone Tom invited. I didn’t expect him until later in the evening.” She summoned a waiter and asked him to lay a thirteenth place setting at the table.

  Henrietta’s hand was unexpectedly strong as she reached for his. “Sir Beckwith, please . . . this man isn’t someone I choose to dine with. If Mr. Drake cannot be persuaded to stand up to Tom Jr. and ask this man to leave, I believe you and I should be on our way. Immediately.”

  Colin looked down at her curiously. She obviously knew Mr. Sneed, and he suspected the man was here to somehow embarrass him, but Colin had grown up in elite British boarding schools. He knew a few things about how to stand up to a bully.

  “Henrietta, you need not worry on my account.”

  To his surprise, Mr. Sneed inserted himself with no qualms into the glittering crowd, who pulled back at first, not sure what to make of the thickset man with the relentless grin. Tom proved his skill as a politician by smoothing over the situation, introducing Mr. Sneed as an old friend from college and recounting shooting matches he and Mr. Sneed had competed in. At one point, Tom even coaxed him into amusing the crowd by bending a fire iron with his bare hands. The crowd was suitably impressed, and a smattering of applause followed Mr. Sneed’s efforts.

  “What a . . . unique talent,” the judge’s wife said.

  Mr. Sneed slapped his hands together and grinned directly at Colin. “I’ve been working real hard.”

  Henrietta slid closer to him. “Sir Beckwith, I really think it might be a good idea to summon a carriage.”

  A warning underlay her words. Perhaps Mr. Sneed was simply brought here by a spoiled boy bent on introducing mischief into his parents’ assembly, but perhaps it was more sinister.

  “Do you know why that man is here?”

  She shook her head. “Mr. Sneed works for my husband and did not attend college with Tom Jr. I have no idea why he is here, but it isn’t good, and I urge you to leave.”

  “Henrietta, you might be the kindest woman I’ve ever met.”

  “Don’t say that.” It looked as though her heart was about to break.

  Colin would be a fool to ignore her warning, but he couldn’t leave yet. Not before he learned enough to incriminate Felix or Tom in the NCC conspiracy. Other than his suspicions regarding an unwise investment in the Nicaraguan route, he had no concrete proof. He glanced around the room. It would be hard for Mr. Sneed to use brute force in front of a judge and the mayor of Saratoga, but Colin would still be on guard. He sent a reassuring smile down to Henrietta.

  “No matter what happens, you are a kind woman who has offered me friendship, and it is deeply appreciated. Mr. Sneed is not a problem for me.” No man who survived the Boer War could be intimidated by a bully like Mr. Sneed.

  Couples proceeded into the dining room by order of rank, so naturally Margaret led him in first.

  “Now, Sir Beckwith, let me show you to your seat,” she murmured, reaching out to him with her icy hand. She’d been handling him as carefully as a grenade with the pin half-pulled ever since the incident with his pigeons.

  The addition of a thirteenth place setting was barely noticeable, but the perfect alignment of the seats was now slightly off-kilter. At least Mr. Sneed was seated at the far end of the table, where Colin could keep an eye on him.

  Colin was once again introduced to the guests sitting near him, including Judge Mason’s wife and the wife of the mayor of Saratoga. He’d expected nothing less, as Margaret surely intended to milk every minute of the evening by flaunting his presence between the two highest-ranking ladies of the neighborhood.

  But all he noticed was Henrietta Schroeder’s anxious face opposite him, and he worried about the cause for her alarm.

  Chapter

  Seventeen

  Lucy stared out the carriage window as the sun slipped below the horizon and the countryside darkened. After arriving at the Saratoga train depot, she’d hired a carriage driver to take her to Oakmonte, and they would arrive within the next few minutes.

  She already had a plan for talking her way into the mansion. All his life, the only thing Uncle Thomas wanted from her was an agreement to end the lawsuit. That would never happen, especially not after seeing the photograph of her father in a straitjacket, but Thomas didn’t know that. She’d dangle the prospect of a settlement in front of him long enough to get inside and let Colin know he was in danger.

  She gazed at the rolling green hills dotted with sheep and cattle. Even in the dimming twilight they looked so peaceful, slowly ambling behind their white picket fences, but they were only being fattened up for the slaughter. A part of her wanted to stop the carriage, open the gate, and tell them to run for their lives.

  Well, she wasn’t here to save cattle. She was here because it was the only way to get Colin out of the clutches of her uncle and his twisted network of associates.

  The carriage slowed as it turned onto a narrow lane. The lawn before Oakmonte was brilliantly green, almost like a carpet of emerald velvet. Even in Central Park, the land was dotted with trees and shrubbery, but this lawn was abnormally perfect and unlike anything she’d ever seen. At the far end was a break in the tree line, displaying a wide brick mansion that looked like someplace a king would live.

  Or her Uncle Thomas.

  She raised her chin as the carriage pulled closer to the house, the clopping of the horse’s hooves ratcheting her nerves higher. She could do this. She had no other choice.

  The c
abbie opened the slot behind the driver’s bench and leaned down to speak. “Here or around back, ma’am?”

  She pretended not to notice the way he glanced at her dress. It was a well-tailored gown of polished maroon cotton, the finest of all her work gowns, with a narrow band of lace at the collar. It still didn’t seem like the sort of dress a lady visiting Oakmonte would wear, but timidity was not going to win her entrance into this house.

  “I’ll get off here,” she said and allowed the cabbie to help her alight. “Please wait for me. It might be a few hours before I can return, but I promise you will be very well compensated.” She handed him a few dollars to keep him interested.

  She’d taken out the equivalent of a month’s rent from her bank before leaving the city. She had no idea how long it would take her to break through to Colin, so she’d come well-supplied.

  The cabbie seemed a little doubtful but nodded. “Of course, ma’am.”

  Her legs felt rubbery as she trudged up the half-flight of steps leading to the house, where a pair of torches illuminated each side of the grand front door. She lowered her head, trying to murmur a brief prayer for strength, but couldn’t even find the words.

  Please . . .

  She raised her chin and pulled the chain of the doorbell. A servant who looked even scarier than Colin’s butler opened the door.

  “Ma’am?” he asked doubtfully.

  Warm candlelight glowed in the foyer. The sounds of a string quartet mingled with laughter from deep in the house, and even from here, she could hear the clinking of silverware. She’d obviously interrupted a party in full swing. All the better.

  “I apologize for being late,” she said as she stepped into the foyer. “I hope my Uncle Thomas will forgive me.”

  “Are you an invited guest, ma’am?” the butler asked in an appalled tone.

  “I’m Lucy Drake. My uncle has always said he would welcome my visit at any time. Will you let him know that I’ve arrived?”

  There was no change in the butler’s skeptical expression. “I will consult with Mr. Drake,” he said. “Please wait here.”

  He turned and disappeared down the hallway, but she had no intention of waiting. She was here to see Colin Beckwith, and that was going to happen now.

  She headed down the hall toward the music.

  The center of the table was weighed down by an epergne, a massive silver sculpture sporting seven heavy arms laden with small dishes of pastries and fruit. Colin welcomed the ugly monstrosity, for it blocked his view of Tom Jr., who glowered at him from the far end of the table while a footman distributed bowls of turtle soup. It seemed the Drakes felt no need for a formal blessing, as everyone lifted their silverware and began dining immediately. He’d had no appetite all afternoon, but his first sip of delicately seasoned soup proved Margaret had made a good investment in her imported chef.

  Mr. Sneed finished his soup in record time, then held the bowl up and asked for a refill. The judge near Colin rambled on about yachting, but Colin couldn’t focus on the conversation. He was too busy paying attention to Mr. Sneed, for when the man raised his bowl, his jacket spread open to reveal a pair of handcuffs dangling from his belt.

  Definitely not a typical accessory of formal attire.

  A disturbance at the front of the room caught his attention. A late arrival? More henchmen from Dr. Schroeder’s sanatorium? He turned to look at the woman in the maroon cotton dress and almost choked on his turtle soup. Lucy?

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” Lucy said as she pushed past a servant carrying another bowl of soup for Mr. Sneed. She took several steps into the dining room until she was only a few feet away, but she did not once look at him. “I would not dream of missing the celebration for Mr. Jacob’s birthday. This is a birthday celebration, isn’t it?”

  “Get her out of here,” Tom Jr. growled.

  Colin was about to rise in Lucy’s defense but paused just in time. Nobody at the table was aware he and Lucy knew each other, and it was probably important to maintain that impression, at least until he understood why she was here.

  Thomas stood and cast a disapproving glance at Lucy. “This is neither the time nor the place, young lady.”

  “To celebrate your father’s birthday?” She gazed at all the faces around the table, who stared at her in open-mouthed confusion. “Jacob Drake’s birthday is at the end of June, so when I heard there was a grand celebration at Oakmonte, I simply assumed it was to honor your father. Where is he, if I might ask?”

  “You may not—” Thomas began, but Lucy cut him off.

  “Because I have a birthday present for him. My brother and I have come to a decision about the lawsuit and would like to talk about it. I think you and your father will be very pleased. May I invite myself to join you?”

  “Of all the nerve,” Margaret sputtered, but her husband cast her a warning glance.

  He gestured to a servant. “Lay another plate,” he said, scrutinizing Lucy with curiosity.

  His wife was not so conciliatory. She came around the table to give Lucy a scorching glare that could have peeled paint. “Perhaps you would like to wait in the music room until my husband can join you.”

  “No, I’d actually like to have dinner. I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.”

  Colin hid a smile at her audacity, but Margaret was not finished. “Perhaps you would like to take a moment and change into something . . . more appropriate.”

  “Sorry, this is all I’ve got.”

  A servant squeezed in a place setting directly beside Uncle Thomas. Lucy was going to be revolted down to her knickers to sit next to a man who made her skin crawl, but she did it. She still wasn’t looking at Colin. Why was she here?

  Thomas made a grand gesture to the rest of the table. “Carry on, everyone,” he said with forced congeniality. “Miss Drake is my niece, and I am looking forward to the chance to get caught up.” He lowered his voice, but Colin could still hear him. “All is well in Manhattan, I take it?”

  A waiter set a bowl of soup and a goblet of water before Lucy, but she remained tense as she made small talk with her uncle, hinting at a conclusion to the lawsuit. All the while, she fiddled with a spoon but made no attempt to eat.

  “A poor relation, I take it?” the judge’s wife whispered to him, amusement dancing in her voice. “Perhaps she and Mr. Sneed can pair up after dinner for a tête-à-tête.”

  Colin made no response. This evening was turning into a triumph for the fine old families who despised the Drakes. He just wished their contempt didn’t come at Lucy’s expense. Whatever had driven her here was surely important, for she’d rather chitchat with Genghis Khan than her uncle.

  Lucy’s odd behavior wasn’t doing her any favors. She nervously tapped her spoon against the tablecloth and only gave terse answers to her uncle. If only she would put down the spoon and quit that infernal tapping.

  Colin froze, all senses on alert as he focused on Lucy’s spoon. She was tapping out code! He turned his head to listen, but it was hard to focus on her taps amidst the clatter of people eating, talking, and laughing.

  He closed his eyes and concentrated, finally able to screen out the background noise. She was repeating the same brief phrase over and over.

  They know you are a spy.

  He opened his eyes and met her gaze. He nodded, and she set the spoon down.

  This explained Tom’s behavior and why he’d shot the birds. Tom and Felix Moreno had started acting oddly after the delivery of that telegram this morning. Lucy must have intercepted the same telegram that warned them to be on the alert. The message was surely enough to get the police to open an investigation into Felix Moreno’s investment in the Nicaraguan route, which meant Colin’s responsibilities here were over. No more sick tableaux of stuffed kittens, petulant brats, or fiendish psychiatrists. He and Lucy could leave and take what they knew directly to the police.

  He set down his napkin and stood. “Miss Drake, have you ever seen a stuffed-animal tableau?”

/>   “No, I haven’t,” Lucy replied after only a moment’s hesitation.

  “Then allow me to show you. It is down the hall in the conservatory. I think you will find it fascinating.”

  It only took a few steps to reach Lucy’s side, but Margaret intercepted them before they could get far from the table. “You’re leaving?”

  He gave her his most conciliatory smile. “I’m only showing Miss Drake your artistry, for it defies description. Carry on, everyone. We will return shortly.”

  Lucy needed no prodding to take his arm as he guided her down the hallway and toward the conservatory. He lengthened his stride, for he could hear someone following them. He reached the conservatory and stepped into the darkened interior. Torchlight from the terrace cast a weak illumination into the room. Once inside, he closed the French doors, but they were made entirely of glass panels, and Margaret was only a few steps behind and coming fast.

  “What’s going on?” he asked quickly.

  “I’ve got a carriage outside,” Lucy said. “We need to get away. Tom is planning a shooting accident—”

  A rapping on the glass interrupted her. Margaret’s face filled one of the small panels as she squinted to see inside, but at least she was alone.

  He cracked the door. “I’d like a moment of privacy, please.”

  “But, Sir Beckwith! There will be plenty of time for this later.”

  He glanced over her shoulder to confirm no others were coming down the hallway. “I only need a few minutes.”

  “But the main course hasn’t even been served. And we must have a formal toast to your health.”

  His fist tightened on the doorknob. “This,” he said loudly as he pointed to the door, “is a closed door. It will remain closed until I have finished my discussion with Miss Drake. And I won’t be returning to the dinner table until I do so.”

  Margaret’s pleading expression soured and was replaced with cold venom. “You’re going to regret this,” she hissed. “Thomas and I will see to that!”