A Dangerous Legacy

by Elizabeth Camden

It had a canister on its leg!

  What on earth was a carrier pigeon doing in Central Park? But the bird seemed to have reached its final destination and was happily gorging on the seed spread along the railing. Someone must have sent that pigeon here. Could it be part of today’s bird-watching class? That was surely it, but her heart still beat a little faster as she extended a hand and the pigeon climbed aboard. Holding her breath, she unlatched the canister, scolding herself for getting her hopes up. She probably shouldn’t even be reading this message.

  She wiggled the slip of paper free and nearly froze when she saw the note was written in Morse code. She skimmed the series of dots and dashes.

  Miss Drake, would you join me for tea?

  Her heart raced so hard she felt dizzy. Well! It seemed Colin was back from England, but where was he? She glanced around the park, scanning the open spaces and the pedestrians on the footpaths, but he was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he’d launched the bird from his office or even from his townhouse. He obviously had a good memory, for he recalled her vow in the hotel restaurant to start attending these bird-watching classes in Central Park. He had enclosed a blank strip of paper for her reply, and she drew a few calming breaths before she wrote her answer.

  Sorry. I no longer have tea with men courting heiresses.

  She inserted the reply in the tube, lifted the pigeon, and watched as it took flight and careened behind a stand of fir trees on the other side of the grassy lawn. She loved Colin but could no longer play second fiddle while he searched for a rich wife. She deserved more than that.

  The pigeon returned from the same location less than five minutes later. The message this time was masterfully short and dramatic.

  No more heiresses. Sold Whitefriars.

  Oh good heavens. Now her heart pounded so fast she had to sit down. He’d sold Whitefriars? And still came back to New York? If he’d sold Whitefriars, it meant he had no need for a rich wife.

  She mustn’t read too much into this. He’d probably returned to wrap up business at Reuters before heading back to England for good. It was foolish to imagine he’d come back for any other reason. She read the note three times. There was no mistake. He had sold Whitefriars.

  There was no slip of paper for her to send a reply. She watched the pigeon happily peck at the seed on the railing, wishing her heart could stop racing.

  As if her yearning had conjured him, Colin emerged from behind the stand of trees, striding toward her with confidence and purpose. Another pigeon rode on his shoulder. He looked happy, not like a man getting ready to tell her good-bye for a final time before sailing back to England forever. He locked gazes with her for his entire walk across the lawn, his eyes ablaze. Finally, he stood before her, fresh, windblown, and vibrantly alive. She rose to meet him.

  “Hello, Lucy.”

  Even the sound of his voice made her heart squeeze. “I’m sorry you had to sell Whitefriars.”

  “I’m not,” he said without losing a beat. “If I wanted it desperately enough, I could have married Amelia, for she’s lost interest in her Polish count. She sent me a very conciliatory note, suggesting a renewal of our friendship, but that is the past. I sold Whitefriars and have no need of a wealthy heiress. I intend to stay in the United States permanently. I find that I am homeless in England, and the girl I love lives in New York.”

  She went so light-headed it was hard to see straight, and she had to sit down. She didn’t even want to speak, for fear this moment would pop and vanish like a soap bubble.

  Colin smiled widely as he braced his forearms on the railing so they could be eye-level with one another. “I figured I would find you here,” he continued. “The first thing I wanted to do now that I’m back was seek you out and tell you I love you. Only you, not your highly unlikely Drake fortune.”

  That was good, since it was anyone’s guess if Jacob Drake would actually deliver on his decision to leave his fortune to Nick.

  This moment was so overwhelming that she couldn’t think of what to say. She took the coward’s way out by nodding toward the pigeon on his shoulder. “And you have a new pair of birds.”

  He grinned. “Yes! They are a delight. Lucy, meet George and Martha.”

  She blanched, not quite sure that even Colin would have the gall. “As in George and Martha Washington?”

  “Well, they are American birds.”

  “I’m not certain if that’s an insult or a compliment.”

  His eyes warmed with reluctant admiration. “George and Martha are valiant, tireless, and clever. Of course it is a compliment.”

  The wind blew again, and she used it as an excuse to swipe at a wayward tendril of hair. She didn’t know what to say. How odd, since they’d been refreshingly forthright from the instant they first met on that snowy New Year’s Eve.

  As the silence lengthened, he seemed equally awkward. “I’m sorry I lost my temper on that last night in your apartment. When you refused to come watch Tom Jr. get his comeuppance, I was furious. But I was also amazed and humbled. With everything I have, I admire how you broke free and started anew. I wanted to find a way to walk away, too. Selling Whitefriars wasn’t my first choice, but it was the right thing to do. We live in the twentieth century, and I’ve been trying to live in my seventeenth-century ancestor’s world. It won’t work.”

  He pushed away from the pavilion to stand upright. “So, Miss Drake . . . I repeat my original invitation. Will you join me for tea? I’ve brought something interesting to show you.”

  For the first time, she noticed a canvas sack slung over his shoulder. He held out his hand, palm up, and treated her like a great lady as he helped her rise and walked her out of the pavilion. From the sack he removed a blanket and tossed it on the ground. He placed an assortment of boxes, tins, and jars on the blanket. Heavens, it looked like a delightful spread.

  A gust of wind knocked over one of the boxes, sending it tumbling across the lawn. Colin lunged after it, but it traveled several yards before he was able to scoop it up and carry it back to her.

  “I’m afraid it’s empty,” he said, wiggling the box in the air. “But someday soon people all over America will be able to buy Nanny Teresa’s lemon cream shortbread.”

  He handed her the box. It featured a vibrant watercolor of a platter of the familiar cookies on a lace doily. At the top of the box was an oval etching of a stately castle.

  “Whitefriars?” she asked.

  “Whitefriars,” he confirmed. “There will be an entire line. Fancy tea, jam sold in hand-blown jars, shortbread. Maybe some candies, since Frank says the profit margin for candy is hard to beat. All of it manufactured by Frank’s facility, but using the Whitefriars name and traditional English recipes.”

  She picked up a tin promising fine tea. It was empty too, but the tin featured a profusion of brilliantly colored orange blossoms, tea leaves, and trailing vines that made her want to buy it for the charming package alone. The jars were clear glass, but heavy and cut in the shape of an octagon. The label contained the same oval etching of Whitefriars.

  “The label on the jam is smaller so the color of the fruit will be the backdrop,” Colin said.

  She set the jar back on the blanket. “I am in awe. Never in a million years would I have imagined you could be so businesslike. Weren’t you the one who suggested the word capitalism sounded like dangerous and revolutionary to your ears?”

  “Now it sounds like survival,” he said with a grin. “I’ll be making a one-percent commission on every product we sell.” He flicked the empty box of shortbread. “Of course, I invited you to a fancy English tea and don’t have a morsel of food to offer. But I do have a hand to offer. And a heart, although that’s already yours. I love you and would be honored if you would consent to be my wife.”

  The breath left her in a rush. She had no money of her own and nothing to offer him, but he was willing to marry her anyway. “Oh, Colin . . .” she said in a voice so shaky it sounded like a butterfly caught in a gale-force wind. “I l
ove you, too. And I think I might be able to make a go of being your wife if I don’t have to preside over some fancy castle.”

  He grinned but held up a hand to stop her. “Before you say anything else, you should probably get a look at the ring that comes with the job.” He dug into his vest pocket and retrieved a plain, dark metal band.

  “The first baron of Whitefriars was up to his eyeballs in debt when he won that battle off the coast of Malta. This was the ring he had given his wife years earlier. A plain band forged of iron. Even after he struck it rich, I guess she never wanted to trade it in for something else. All the subsequent wives went in for something flashier, but I am turning over a new leaf and am of a mind not to buy things until I’ve earned the money to pay for it. So for the moment, this is what I have to offer.”

  He dropped the ring into her palm. The metal was humble, but the blacksmith must have been a master, for the filigree ring had swirls forged into it, and a tiny, simple cross in the center of the design. She could understand why the first lady of Whitefriars wanted to keep it. This ring spoke not of glamour or status, but of enduring strength and beauty. It was the ring of a strong woman.

  “I wouldn’t want any other ring,” she stammered. It suited her. Forged in fire. Resilient. It was bound to fit her to perfection. Her hand trembled as she held it out and Colin slipped the ring on her finger.

  It was way too big and slipped off to bounce in the grass.

  “We’ll get it fitted!” they both said simultaneously, then burst out in laughter.

  Colin leaned forward and caught her up in a kiss, and Lucy wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer.

  They would make this ring work, for there was nothing they couldn’t do. They had crossed oceans, foiled an assassination, and overcome class differences. They had both broken free of a dangerous legacy, and together they would embark on a new life they would forge for themselves.

  Epilogue

  One Year Later

  Lucy eyed the platter laden with German sausages and fermented cabbage as it was passed down the length of the table. Nick had rented the entire outdoor biergarten for his birthday celebration. With lights strung through the trees and platters of hearty German food circulating the shared tables, the mood was boisterous and loud.

  Which was a problem, since Lucy had come here with the goal of getting to know Bridget O’Malley better. It looked as though Nick had serious intentions toward the pretty seamstress he had been courting for the past three months.

  Bridget reared back, her eyes widening at the platter of pale meat passed beneath her nose.

  “Have you tried the braunschweiger?” Lucy asked. “Colin isn’t brave enough, but I’m game if you are.”

  Bridget flinched as she looked at the array of sausages on the plate. Bregenwurst, knackwurst, bratwurst, and liverwurst. The restaurant’s host had tried to explain them earlier to Lucy, but they all seemed to have the same pale beige coloring and smell.

  Colin raised his chin a notch. “I’m not trying any sausage soft enough to be spread with a knife.”

  Lucy grinned. Colin was always such a snob about food, especially since the extravagantly priced Whitefriars brand of shortbread, teas, and candies had debuted on the market. The public had eagerly embraced the gourmet delicacies, but Nick didn’t want anything elegant at his party. Most of the guests here were the men Nick once worked with in the tunnels beneath Manhattan, along with their wives and children. Over two hundred people crammed the biergarten, for Nick was picking up the bill for everyone. When Jacob Drake died earlier in the year, he’d left his entire fortune to Nick. Although Nick tried to split it with Lucy, Colin was adamant that he intended to live off the money he earned through his own work with Reuters and the products sold under the Whitefriars brand.

  Each morning, Lucy and Colin still walked hand in hand into the Western Union building, where they rode the elevator to the sixth floor. He escorted her to the AP telegraph office, kissed her hand, and bid her farewell.

  “Have a good day, Lady Beckwith. I shall return at five o’clock to escort you home,” he would say, then they parted ways and went to work at their rival news agencies. Until they had children, she intended to keep working at the AP. She had a fulfilling career, a man who loved her, and the knowledge that she was making the most of her God-given talents.

  At the end of the table, Nick sat amidst a crowd of his old plumber friends. One would never know from his plain clothes and suspenders that he was one of the wealthiest men in Manhattan, for he never flaunted his money and still seemed most comfortable in his old stomping grounds. Lucy worried about him. His face was flushed in laughter as he watched a fellow plumber balance a mug of ale on his nose, and Lucy realized this was the first time she’d seen Nick looking genuinely happy in months.

  “Come, let’s be brave,” she whispered conspiratorially to Bridget. “I’m trying the bratwurst. If we slather it with enough mustard, surely we’ll be able to get it down.”

  Bridget smiled shyly back. “Okay,” she said a little breathlessly. She certainly seemed a sweet young lady, but Lucy wished they had a quieter venue for getting to know each other.

  A man in a herringbone vest not far from Nick snagged her attention. In an evening of rollicking good cheer, loud voices, and plentiful food, he looked out of place.

  She elbowed Colin and spoke in a low voice. “Do you know that man over beneath the tent pole? The one scribbling in a notebook?”

  Colin’s eyes narrowed as he leaned forward to scrutinize the man in question. “I can’t be sure, but it looks like Count Demetri Ostrowski. He was once my rival in courting Amelia Wooten.”

  The heiress’s name caused an involuntary stab of jealousy in Lucy, and Colin noticed.

  “Sheathe your claws, Yankee,” he said with a wink. “The battle is over. You won.”

  She had indeed, but she didn’t like the way the count was eyeing Nick with a mild sneer on his face. She rose and grabbed Colin’s hand. “Come on,” she said. “Introduce me.”

  Colin obliged, weaving among the long tables and around waitresses balancing trays filled with platters of meat and bowls of sauerkraut. When they reached the count, he tucked his notepad into his jacket and stood.

  “It’s been a while,” Colin said with a casual smile. “Allow me to introduce my wife, Lady—”

  “Mrs. Beckwith,” she interrupted. She would probably never wear Colin’s title with ease, and since they lived in America, she preferred the simple joy of being Mrs. Beckwith.

  The count gave a slight bow. “Ma’am,” he murmured politely.

  “I’m glad you could join us,” she said. “Nick rented out the entire restaurant, but I don’t believe we’ve ever met. How do you know my brother?”

  The count shifted his weight. “Your brother is a popular man. He has many acquaintances.”

  All true, but Count Ostrowski definitely wasn’t the type of man Nick normally associated with.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” Colin’s voice was coiled with tension, and it cut through the celebratory air of the party. She looked at him curiously, surprised by the hint of anger on his face.

  “I beg your pardon?” the count asked.

  “It was you who wrote those gossip stories about me. You were at the Wooten residence that night, and somehow you must have had a spy planted at Oakmonte, didn’t you?”

  Lucy gasped. They had never discovered the source of those vicious rumors, but she’d always wondered. As if sensing the sudden tension, Nick showed up beside them. He extended a hand to the count.

  “Hello, Demetri. I see you’ve met my sister.” Nick turned to her. “Demetri was loitering outside when Bridget and I got here. He looked hungry, so we invited him inside.”

  “He’s only hungry for gossip,” Colin said. “You’ll want to watch out for men like this. I suppose we are going to enjoy an account of this party in tomorrow’s newspapers?”

  Count Ostrowski smirked as he scanned the hundred
s of people in the outdoor biergarten. “I’m not sure anything here would make the cut,” he said dismissively. “Money can’t buy class, now can it?”

  Nick’s friendly attitude vanished. “I’ve never tried to buy class, and I don’t care what people say about me in the papers. If you’ve got a problem with me, throw a punch. Write your dirt. Take a stab at me. But if you print one bad word about my family, I’m coming after you.”

  “Is this fellow giving you trouble?” Ruby Malone inserted herself into the group, her hands fisted, ready for battle. The hard-eyed girl Lucy had met at Ridgemoor now did office work for the Whitefriars brand of delicacies. Despite the genteel image of the product line, their chief clerk was a tough girl from Brooklyn who would fight to the death to make it succeed.

  Count Ostrowski was about to respond, but Lucy held up a hand. She sensed he was doing his best to goad Nick into losing his temper, and that would be a disaster. “I don’t care what people say about us,” she told the count. “I care about who we are. My brother offered a stranger hospitality, and you are repaying it by digging up dirt about him.”

  “One doesn’t have to dig very deep to find it,” the count said as his gaze tracked to Bridget, sitting alone at the end of the table and opening her mouth wide in an attempt to take a bite of an oversized sandwich.

  Nick grabbed the count by his lapels and shoved him against the side of the restaurant. “You write one bad thing about Bridget, and I’ll stuff that notepad down your throat.”

  Colin grabbed Nick around the waist and hauled him back. “He’s not worth it, my friend. There are things you can control in the world, and things you can’t.”

  Nick’s breathing was ragged, but Colin’s words must have penetrated, for he straightened his collar and gave a nod of understanding. When he spoke to the count, his words were calm.

  “You can say whatever you want about me, but leave Bridget out of it. She’s a nice girl who isn’t cut out for the spotlight. Leave her alone.”

  Count Ostrowski affected a pleasant smile. “I imagine a man of your wealth will kindly remember a hardworking journalist who overlooks the shortcomings of a woman who is . . . not cut out for the spotlight.”