The scent of gin and tobacco hit Joseph’s nose an instant before Willard Craven swaggered to a stop alongside his chair. “Join me at my table, Blake.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. Could this day seriously get any worse? “Not tonight.”
Craven hitched both thumbs in his waistcoat. A strutting rooster couldn’t have posed with more bravado. “I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say.”
“I’m not in the mood.” His voice sharpened to a fine edge, drawing the looks of a few senators sitting nearby.
“You heard the man,” Henry added, shooting Craven a scowl.
Craven eyed them both. “Two words: Grigg house.”
Exhaling in disgust, Joseph shoved back his chair and followed Craven over to his little piece of the kingdom near the back door.
Craven sat.
Joseph folded his arms, refusing to comply. “Let’s have it.”
Willard pulled out a cigar from an inside pocket while nodding his head toward the empty chair across from him. “Is there nothing civilized about you?”
“Not when it comes to you.” Nearby, brows rose. If he didn’t want this turned into a dog-and-pony show, he’d have to sit.
But it took all his strength to ignore Craven’s smirk as he sank into the chair.
Pulling out a pocketknife, Craven flipped it open and carved precise little cuts into his cigar, whittling the end into a V-shape. Each slice rubbed Joseph raw.
“I just came from a council meeting. Thought you might be interested in the results.” Craven held up the cigar for inspection. Apparently pleased, he slapped shut the knife and tucked it away. “A certain property on Summit Avenue was brought to my attention earlier today. Something had to be done.”
“What’s your point?”
Retrieving a silver box from his pocket, Willard removed a match and struck it against the rough edge on one side. He waited until the flame caught, then worked to light the outside edge of the cigar, rotating it for an even burn.
Sweet mercy! This was more than a man could take. Joseph ground his teeth and waited.
Finally the man laid the match on the ashtray. “The Grigg house has been condemned and is in the process of being appropriated for public use. Whoever owned that property will take a big loss in more ways than one.”
“You got something to tell me, man, now’s the time.”
Craven wrapped his lips around the cigar, drawing in puffs of air, then exhaled in a single stream—right at Joseph. “Looks like the city attorney may be facing manslaughter charges. Oh … that’d be you, wouldn’t it?”
Joseph shot to his feet. If he stayed any longer, he’d be guilty of first-degree murder. He pivoted to return to Henry’s table—until Willard’s words stopped him cold.
“Apparently you haven’t heard about Tam Nadder, then. Poor lad. I sent him on an errand over to the Grigg house this afternoon, right before the committee met.”
His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms, the sharp sting a welcome sensation.
“The young fellow nearly broke his neck falling down the stairs. Even now he’s fighting for his life over at St. Joe’s.”
Joseph wheeled about, rage as keening as the next squeal from the heat register. “If this is your handiwork, I’ll have you locked up so tight, you won’t be able to breathe!”
Gaslight painted Willard’s face a pasty hue. “Don’t blame me for your negligence. If you’d taken better care of your property, such an accident wouldn’t have happened in the first place.”
In two strides, he closed the gap between them, towering over Craven’s chair. “How did you find out?”
Craven exhaled smoke like a dragon. “Seems you’re not only negligent about property, but women as well.”
A roar rumbled in his chest. He grabbed the man by the lapels and yanked him to his feet. “Leave Amanda out of this!”
The banter in the room stopped. The swoosh of heads and chairs turning their way circled like autumn leaves caught in an eddy.
Craven clucked his tongue. “Why, the poor little lamb ran straight into my arms for comfort after your betrayal.”
The words ripped through him. The thought of Amanda anywhere near Craven punched him in the gut, the sickening feeling spreading like a wound. Amanda would never willingly plot with Craven against him. The blackguard had likely manipulated her.
He rocked onto the balls of his feet, ready to spring forward—
And at the same time an ear-shattering explosion shook the building, throwing him to the floor.
What on earth? Hard to tell with the buzzing inside his head and chaos erupting around him on every side. Tables tipped. Bottles broke. Men and servants scrambled to get out the front door. Joseph staggered to his feet and coughed, an acrid stink thickening the air.
Craven shot up from his chair, their eyes locking as the back door burst open. Servants poured out. So did super-heated air, smoldering white clouds, and a shout for help from belowstairs.
Willard stared at the smoke-belching door—then bolted. Away from the cry.
Coward!
Ducking, Joseph charged toward the sound and into hell. God, help me. Help us all.
The next cry was more faint, yet still audible. He pitched forward on the stairs, catching his hand on an exposed timber to keep from plummeting head first. “Where are you?”
“Here.” The word traveled on a spate of coughing near the bottom of the stairs.
Joseph pressed on, horrified at what he might find. How had the boiler man even survived the explosion?
The stairs ended, opening onto a hallway, the top half clouded with smoke. To his left, a door hung crooked from one hinge, barely concealing a black maw gaping like an open grave. The smell of dirt and fear added to the stench of fire.
“Hurry!” A ragged voice called from the hole.
Joseph shoved the door aside and dove into what appeared to be a tunnel of some sort, but he didn’t go far. A fallen beam pinned the man’s leg just inside. The fellow didn’t stand a chance of moving it. Still, he struggled to free himself.
Edging past him, Joseph angled for the best position to lift the thing.
The man peered up at him, the whites of his eyes a stark contrast to the darkness. This was no boiler man, not in a ruined suit and tie. “Thank God Craven sent you.”
Craven? No time to think on that now. Straddling the fallen end of the beam, he squatted, praying for the strength of Samson. “I won’t be able to lift this much, but at the slightest movement, pull away for all you’re worth.”
He yanked the wood upward, straining every muscle and grunting from the effort. Sweat dripped down his forehead, stinging his eyes.
The man yelled, “Free!”
He dropped the beam, chest heaving.
A bright flash erupted from the hallway, followed by another explosion. They had to get out of here. Now.
“I think my leg’s broken.” The fellow groaned.
Blast! Joseph grabbed the man beneath the arms and hefted him up, supporting him on the side of his injured leg. He lugged the fellow to the stairway, until a horrific thought stopped him cold. “Are there any others trapped in there?”
“No,” the man hacked out. “I left Hannah’s alone.”
The man’s revelation was as dazing as the awful heat licking their backs. He half-dragged, half-shoved the man up the stairs. No wonder Craven always sat near the back door, gatekeeper to a terrible secret, likely getting a cut of the money. When he got out of here—if he got out of here—he would finally have all the evidence he needed to shut down the brothel and go after Craven.
At the top of the stairs, smoke erupted in black swirls, darkening the top half of the club. Crouching, Joseph ignored the man’s screams as he forced them toward the front door.
He cleared the pillars, charged into the foyer, freedom and air yards away.
Something hard and dull cracked against his skull—and the world went black.
The downstairs clock chimed midnight. The last toll struck the final nail into the coffin of the worst day of Amanda’s life. Though she was fully dressed, she shivered from the ghostly echo leaching through her bedchamber door. Standing at the window, she stared into a night as black and endless as her thoughts. Outside, wind gusted, rattling tree limbs like bones. A storm would break soon. A tempest. And why not? If nature mimicked her life, then the world ought to be ravaged.
From the recesses of the downstairs foyer, the front door knocker hammered out a loud report. She stiffened. Only tragedy or terror called at such an hour. Dreading both, she snatched her shawl off the end of her bed and cracked open her door. Down the hall, her father did the same, only he held an oil lamp, the circle of light casting macabre shadows against the wallpaper.
“Go to bed, Amanda,” he grumbled as he swept past.
She fell into step behind him. “Sleep is out of the question.”
The words trailed her down the stairs. Indeed. She may never sleep again, so tormented was her heart. Oh, the silly thing still beat, but merely from habit. Joseph’s betrayal had seen to that.
Grayson reached the door before them, and at Father’s nod, the butler swung it open.
A dark shape entered, smelling of smoke. When Father raised his lamp, Henry Wainwright removed his hat, a fine sprinkle of ash falling to the floor. He tipped his head toward them both, his gray eyes devoid of their usual sparkle. “Mr. Carston, Miss Amanda, I come with hard news.”
Father’s gaze shot to Grayson. “Light the lamps in the sitting room.”
Henry shook his head, hair spilling onto his brow from the movement. “There’s no time.”
Amanda swayed, or maybe the floor did. Whatever Mr. Wainwright had to say couldn’t be good. She rushed out of the shadows toward the light and clutched her father’s arm. “What’s happened?”
“There was a boiler explosion at the club. I escaped, but Joseph …” Henry’s mouth twisted. “A pillar caught him on the head. The doctors aren’t sure if he’ll make it.”
Aren’t sure. The words taunted like demons. Trembling started in her knees and worked its way up her legs, until she gripped Father’s arm tighter in a vain attempt to stop it. When she’d told Joseph she’d never see him again, she’d never meant anything this final. Her heart lurched. What if he left this world without peace between them?
Oh, God. Not death.
Henry stepped closer, pity etching creases at his eyes. “I’ll take you to him, if you like, with your father’s permission, of course.”
She lifted her face to her father, seeking his approval without words. Her voice wouldn’t move past the lump in her throat even if she tried.
Father’s jaw worked, harsh lines furrowing the sides of his mouth. Then, surprisingly, the movement stopped. The lines softened. So did his tone. “Go. You have my blessing.”
She froze. For the first time, he looked past convention, what others might think, and stared straight into her heart.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Grayson held out her cloak, and she moved from the house to Henry’s carriage like swimming through a murky pond. Gloom painted the night sky with a black brush, air cold and damp as a cellar. By the time Henry seated her and clicked his tongue for the horse to walk on, thunder rolled a bass warning.
This late at night, no other carriages traveled on Summit. Just her and Henry and the awful knowledge sitting in her soul that even now Joseph might be dying.
Henry glanced at her. “I, uh, I suppose there’s no easy way to say this, but Joseph told me what happened between you and him today.”
She stifled a gasp, but truly, should she be so astonished? This man had been friends with Joseph since their days of rock skipping and knickers. “You know?”
Henry nodded. “I think there’s something you should know, too. That man of yours is faithful to a fault.”
Faithful? Neglecting to tell her that he owned the very property she’d been trying to acquire was faithful? She cleared her throat to keep from scoffing.
“Joseph’s too pig-headed to tell you, so I will.” Henry sighed, as blustery as the next gust of wind. “He was using the Grigg estate as a safe house. You know how big he is on closing down Hannah Crow’s brothel, right?”
A safe house? What did that even mean? Her hat lifted, and she righted it with a quick grab, ruefully wishing everything could be as easily set straight. “I fail to understand how the two are connected.”
“I’m getting to that.” A flash of light and a crack of thunder interrupted him, and he paused to rein in the horse, which shied toward the curb. “When the Grigg house, dilapidated as it was, came on the market, Joseph snatched it up on the sly, allowing and even spreading the rumors that it was haunted. That way no one would go snooping around and possibly discover his operation.”
“What operation?”
“Blast it! Joseph should be the one telling you this. Not me.” Henry clicked his tongue and snapped the reins. “Pardon the delicacy of the topic, Miss Amanda, but allow me to be blunt. It’s near to impossible for a woman to leave behind a tawdry lifestyle on her own. Besides the haunted house rumor, Joseph also let word spread, woman to woman, that if any wanted to escape the brothel, all they had to do was make their way to the Grigg house and hide upstairs. When he saw the drapes opened in the third-floor window, then he knew a woman wanted out. He’d go at night and escort her to the train station, where he’d pay her fare to Chicago. From there, his reverend friend, Robert Bond, helped the woman find a new life.”
“Joseph? My Joseph did this?” Though it was hard to believe, everything Henry said rang as true and clear as the next arc of lightning. Perhaps she and Maggie had not been imagining things when they’d heard footsteps, and this would explain why Joseph had been so close at hand when they’d run from the house.
She looked up at Henry, the next strobe of light harsh on his face—as severe as the single question girding up what remained of her anger. “Why did he not tell me?”
“Because he was hoping to be done with this by now. He kept trying to shut down the brothel, and once that happened, he’d sell the Grigg house. End of story—and not really a story for a proper lady’s ears to hear. He was trying to protect you.” Henry gazed down at her, gray eyes hard to see in the dark, but the steadiness in his voice was pure and true. “There are things in this world that are ugly. Evil. Things no one should have to know.”
Rain broke then, pattering on the roof like tears. A whimper caught in her throat. She’d gotten so caught up in her own schemes to right this world that she’d failed to think others might be doing the same.
The wind shifted. Rain needled her cheek from the open side of the carriage, as stinging as her misguided pride. The closer they drew to the hospital, the more carriages and pandemonium crowded the streets, despite the late hour. Henry wove through undaunted, shouting bold threats to clear the way.
She hated to distract him, but the need to know flew past her lips. “Why did Joseph want to help the brothel girls in the first place?”
He slowed the horse to a halt and tied off the reins. “The rest is for Joseph to say.” He hopped from the carriage and rounded the back of it to her side, reaching to help her down.
She grasped his big hand—and didn’t let go even when her feet hit the ground. Gas lamps burned on each side of the hospital entrance. A man, leaning heavily on another, staggered out the front door, sorrow etching his face. But at least he was walking. Unlike Joseph. What would she find when she went through those doors?
“I’m afraid, Mr. Wainwright.” Her voice shook. So did her legs.
He squeezed her hand. “So am I.
Chapter Ten
Amanda paused in the doorway leading to Joseph’s ward, trying hard not to breathe too deeply of disease and despair, a trick she’d learned to master over the past couple of days. Mortality lived here as insidious as the stains on the white walls. Though scrubbed clean, years of blood and
toil marred the plaster with a sickly gray.
Dr. Beemish, frocked in a knee-length lab coat, strode down the center aisle toward her. “Good day, Miss Carston. I hope you know what a welcome sight you are. Your care for Mr. Blake and the others is commendable.”
“All I have to offer is a listening ear or a hand to hold. Not much for those who were so horribly injured.” She shuddered thinking of the disfigured gentlemen she’d comforted, then searched the doctor’s face, pleading for a morsel of good news. “How is he?”
The doctor clasped his hands behind his back. “I shall be frank with you, my dear. If Mr. Blake doesn’t wake soon, I fear he might not at all.”
She stared at him, dry-eyed. She’d cry if she had any tears left. But nothing remained. She was a shell, a husk. Held together by skin alone, for her emotions had checked out that first night she’d seen Joseph lying on white sheets, bloodied bandages swaddled around his skull. Deathly still.
“But take heart in this.” Dr. Beemish reached out and gripped her arm, imparting strength. Or maybe courage. Hard to tell, for despite his action, she felt none.
“The rest of Mr. Blake is sound and whole. Body functions are normal. Reflexes without flaw. Should he regain consciousness, recovery will be swift.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” She used her confident voice, but it was fake. Everything about the last forty-eight hours had been a ruse of backbone and pluck on her part. Lies, all. Though she’d labeled Joseph as such, she was the liar.
Once Dr. Beemish swept past her, she let her shoulders sag. Walking the aisle to Joseph’s bed, she trembled from the coldness inside her soul—then froze, jaw dropping.
Two beds over, dark brown eyes stared into hers.
“Joseph!” She darted ahead and sank to his side, afraid to hope. What if this wasn’t real? “You’re awake?”
“Apparently.” Voice raspy, he cleared his throat. “Water?”
She grabbed a pitcher from the bed stand and poured a glass, hands shaking. Oh, God. Oh, please. Oh, thank You! Cradling Joseph’s bandaged head, she lifted the water to his mouth. Most dribbled down his chin, darkened by two days’ worth of stubble, but even so he offered a weak smile when he finished. “So good.”
Of Rags and Riches Romance Collection Page 33