Bewitching: His Secret Agenda

by Carla Neggers

  “Well,” Cousin Thackeray said carefully, “I could be a bit out of touch. I haven’t been to Boston myself in...oh, it must be fifty or sixty years.”

  Hannah gritted her teeth. “Then for all you know Boston could be crawling with Harlings.”

  “No, no, I doubt that.”

  “Thackeray,” she blurted, “I’m in big trouble.”

  She told him everything, start to finish. He listened without interruption, except for an occasional gasp or sigh. It wasn’t a pretty story.

  When she finished, he said, “You’ve been posing as a Harling? Oh, Hannah.”

  “What’s done is done, Thackeray. And now I need to talk to the elder Harling—this Jonathan Winthrop. I still want to examine the Harling Collection.”

  “Hannah, I want you to listen to me.” Her cousin sounded very serious. “The Harling Collection doesn’t exist. It never existed. The Harlings made it up to drive folks like you crazy.”

  “But I have reason to believe—”

  “Trust me on this one, Hannah. It doesn’t exist.”

  “If it does, Thackeray, it could well contain information that could provide insight into Cotton Harling’s thinking when he signed the order for Priscilla’s execution.”

  Her cousin was apparently unmoved. “It doesn’t exist. Give up your search for it at once. Come home, Hannah. If the Harlings find out a Marsh is in town...”

  “I’m not finished with my research here,” she countered stubbornly.

  Cousin Thackeray sighed, clearly not pleased. “You have a plan, I presume?”

  “No, not really. I just want to find this old Harling—Jonathan Winthrop—and try to explain everything to him.”

  “He won’t understand.”

  “Just because he’s a Harling?”

  “And because you’re a Marsh,” Thackeray Marsh added.

  “Well, I’ll have to take my chances with him. I suppose I could have explained to this younger Harling last night....” She inhaled, remembering the black eyes fixed on her, the arrogance. “But it didn’t seem the time or place.”

  Her cousin grunted. “What, was a good hanging tree nearby?”

  Hannah made a face. “That’s not very funny.”

  “It wasn’t a joke.” He sighed. “You’ll do what you’ll do. You always do. If you need help, give me a holler. You know where I am.”

  “Thanks.” But she could feel her heart thumping, and knew she should heed his advice. “I know I can always count on you.”

  He muttered something under his breath and hung up. Hannah gathered her materials and stuffed them into her canvas bag, promising herself an ordinary day of research at the New England Athenaeum. No hunting down Harlings today...unless, of course, she got a really good lead on old Jonathan Winthrop, one that would allow her to bypass the black-eyed Harling. She suspected that he was most likely devising his own plan to track her down.

  * * *

  AS HE ENTERED the Tiffany reading room of the New England Athenaeum, Win noticed the dour portrait of an ancestor above the mantel. He had to admit there was a family resemblance. Although not a member of the venerable institution, he doubted he would be turned out on his ear.

  He introduced himself to the middle-aged woman behind the huge oak front desk. She showed Win back to Preston Fowler’s office immediately.

  “Mr. Harling,” Fowler said, rising quickly from a chair old enough to once have belonged to Ben Franklin, “what a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?”

  “Win, please.” He turned on the charm. It was midmorning, and he had already shocked his assistant by phoning in to say that he’d be late and she should reschedule his morning appointments. “I believe one of my relatives is in town.”

  “Well, yes, of course. I assumed you knew. I understand she’s your cousin....”

  “We’re not close.” His wife in one place, his cousin in another. She should keep her story consistent, Win thought.

  “So I’ve begun to gather. She’s been trying to locate your uncle. I haven’t given out his private address, of course, but I did tell her she might find him at his club. I hope there’s no problem.”

  “Not at all.”

  So, she was after Uncle Jonathan. No wonder she’d been so shocked when she’d run into him yesterday instead. They were both called Jonathan Winthrop Harling, something Win would guess she hadn’t realized.

  “She’s from Ohio—Cincinnati, I believe.”

  Like hell. “I see. And she’s attending Saturday’s fund-raising dinner?”

  “Yes, she is. She’s not officially a member of the library and wants to repay us for permitting her to use our facilities for her research.”

  “Her research?”

  “She’s a historian. I’m not sure precisely what her project is, but she’s very interested in the Harling family.”

  No doubt, Win thought. The more she knew about the Harlings, the better chance she’d have of continuing her ruse of posing as one of them. “Do you have any idea what she wants with my uncle?”

  “Just to meet him, I should imagine.”

  “And she hasn’t mentioned me,” Win said.

  Fowler shook his head. He obviously didn’t want any trouble with the Harlings. Win didn’t judge the man. He had a tough job, trying to maintain an aging building and a priceless collection on what he could beg from a bunch of tightfisted Boston Brahmins. Uncle Jonathan’s idea of a generous donation wouldn’t keep the rare book room climate-controlled for a day.

  “I’m not sure she’s aware you’re in Boston,” the library director said carefully.

  Undoubtedly not. Win spun an old globe, from the days of the British Empire. “Is it too late to purchase a ticket for the fund-raising dinner? I’d like to attend.”

  Fowler obviously struggled to contain his excitement: it was no secret Win had a hell of a lot more money than his uncle did.

  “We would love to have you—I’ll attend to the details myself. Oh, and if you would like to meet your cousin, she might be in the stacks. I’m sure I saw her earlier this morning.”

  Win felt his adrenaline surge, but said nonchalantly, “Really? If you don’t mind, I’d like to see her.”

  “I can send someone after her....”

  “No, that’s all right. I’ll go myself.”

  * * *

  HANNAH WAS FLIPPING through a book of fasting sermons from the seventeenth century when she heard footsteps below her. The old-fashioned stacks had been formed by dividing the space between the tall ceilings in two, then making a floor in between of translucent glass and adding curving, wrought-iron stairs and bookshelves. It was easy to detect another person wandering about. Only, she thought, this person sounded very purposeful...even sneaky.

  She closed her book and set it back upon the shelf. She was sitting cross-legged on the thick glass floor at the far end of a row of shelves. Below her, through the translucent glass, she could see the shadow of a tall figure. It wasn’t one of the library staff. She was sure of that.

  Listening carefully, not moving, Hannah heard the figure walk steadily up and down the stacks below her. The footsteps never paused, never varied their pace. It was as if whoever was down there was looking, not for a book, but for a person.

  Me.

  The figure reached the end of the row below her, then she heard the sound of footsteps on metal as it started to climb to her level.

  Instinct brought Hannah to her feet. Launched her heart into a fit of rapid beating. Tightened her throat.

  The footsteps came closer.

  She slipped down to the end of her row and moved soundlessly past the next one, and the next, until she was at the far end, near the stairs.

  The figure climbed the last stair and stepped onto her level. It was her bla
ck-eyed rogue of a Harling.

  Oh, no....

  Hannah slipped back behind the shelves and waited, not breathing, while he moved all the way to the end of the stacks. She knew he would then methodically walk up and down each row until he found her.

  Then what?

  Sweat breaking out on her brow, she heard him start on the far row. She ducked up her row so that he wouldn’t spot her when he reached the end of his. She could try to keep this up, but he’d eventually catch up. Why not just pop out and hope she scared him to death? Why not just explain herself? Apologize?

  Yeah, and you can get on your knees and beg a Harling for forgiveness while you’re at it.

  Priscilla Marsh hadn’t begged. She’d gone to her death with her pride and dignity intact.

  Hannah decided to take what little pride and dignity she had left and get the blazes out of here. He’d hear her on the stairs—no question about it. But she’d have a head start, she knew her way around the library, and if she was lucky...

  Since when can a Marsh count on luck around a Harling?

  She had to count on her wits...and maybe on a little gall.

  Speed being more critical than silence, she darted down the row and hit the stairs at a full gallop, taking them two and three at a time.

  Above her, she heard her pursuer curse.

  She swung down to the next level and scooted through the stacks, zigzagging her way to the small corridor in the far right corner. Preston Fowler had loaned her the key to the rare book room. She came to the heavy door that marked its entrance, stuck in the key, and, relying on stealth, quietly pulled the door open and slipped inside.

  Without turning on the light, she pressed her ear against the door and waited.

  * * *

  WIN FIGURED she’d locked herself in the rare book room. He also figured his uncle would never forgive him if he made a scene in the venerable New England Athenaeum by hauling a pretty, blond-haired Marsh out by her ear. Preston Fowler would have questions that Win couldn’t answer and Hannah Marsh, if that was her name, no doubt wouldn’t answer.

  So, he rapped on the door and said, “I know you’re in there.”

  Naturally she didn’t answer.

  “You haven’t stopped pretending you’re a Harling,” he went on. “Until you do, I have no intention of leaving you alone.”

  He waited, just in case she had something to say.

  Apparently she didn’t.

  “By the way, I would say you have my uncle and me confused. We’re both named Jonathan Winthrop Harling.”

  He heard a muffled thud. Had Ms. Hannah pounded her head against the door? He would guess he knew more about her and her devious plans than she expected him to know. Certainly more than she wanted him to know.

  “You’d better leave my uncle out of this,” he said in his deadliest voice. “I won’t warn you again on that score.”

  Her voice came to him through the door, sounding very clear and surprisingly close: “What’re you doing? Tying the noose even now?”

  The woman was incorrigible.

  In no mood to make her life any easier, Win tiptoed away, so she wouldn’t know he had gone.

  * * *

  HANNAH SWEATED IT OUT in the rare book room for another hour.

  There were two Jonathan Winthrop Harlings in Boston. All her leads had pointed her in the direction of the wrong one, and as far as she could tell, she was doomed.

  Doomed.

  But when she went back down to the main reading room, no one treated her like an impostor. Preston Fowler and his staff apparently continued to believe she was a Harling, which was a relief, if a small one. It meant, she knew, that the younger Jonathan Winthrop Harling planned to deal with her himself in his own good time.

  Hannah had no intention of waiting like the proverbial lamb for the slaughter.

  On her way out, Preston Fowler said, “We’ll see you tomorrow night at the dinner, Ms. Harling.”

  She smiled. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  She realized she would need a dress. Her Harling clothes were all for day, and her Hannah Marsh clothes—my clothes, she reminded herself—were too casual. So, she headed off to Newbury Street, just a few blocks down from the New England Athenaeum. It was one of Boston’s most chic and high-priced shopping districts. There wouldn’t be much she could afford.

  Her black-eyed Jonathan Winthrop Harling, however, could probably buy out the whole street and have plenty left over.

  * * *

  WIN HAD A HELL OF A TIME trying to concentrate that afternoon, and it was almost with relief that he greeted a grim-faced Paula bringing him news of another bit of larceny performed by Hannah of the Midwest Harlings.

  “Is she my cousin today,” he asked, “or my wife?”

  His assistant didn’t seem to appreciate his wry humor. “Your wife. The owner of the shop on Newbury Street where you buy your ties just called. A woman fitting the description of the impostor was in earlier and bought a black evening dress on your tab. He faxed me the bill.” Paula handed it over. “You will note that she signed her name as Mrs. Hannah Harling.”

  “Arnie didn’t believe her?”

  “Oh, no, he believed her. He just called to congratulate you on your wedding. I think he’s hurt he wasn’t invited.”

  Win looked at the bill and inhaled, controlling an urge to pound his desk or throw things. The price of the dress was staggering. It was, he knew, Hannah Marsh’s way of thumbing her nose at him.

  “I was the one who had him fax the bill,” Paula said.

  “Did you give him a reason?”

  She shook her tawny curls. “He should have asked for identification or at least called you before he let her have the dress. She must be awfully convincing.”

  For sure. Arnie was no pushover. Still, he wasn’t alone in not wanting to annoy a Harling. “Call Arnie back,” Win instructed her. “Tell him Hannah jumped the gun and we’re not married yet.”

  Paula’s eyes widened. “Yet?”

  “The point is, I will pay for the dress. This impostor isn’t Arnie’s problem. She’s mine.”

  * * *

  THE DRESS WAS AWFUL, and Hannah decided she couldn’t wear it. It was too...Boston. Too matronly. Too something. She stood in front of the full-length mirror in her borrowed bedroom an hour before the New England Athenaeum dinner and tried to figure out what wasn’t right about a dress that had cost as much as this one.

  She had bought it in a fit of pique when she’d only wanted to strike out at Jonathan Winthrop Harling. Now the Harlings really had grounds for throwing her in jail. But better to hang for a three-thousand-dollar dress, she’d decided, than a fifty-dollar lunch.

  Was she crazy?

  Not only was the dress not her style, it also wasn’t, in fact, hers. Never mind that it was in her possession. Harling money had—or would—pay for it. She hadn’t even removed the tags.

  And wouldn’t. She would take the thing back on Monday. Twenty-four hours of sitting alone in her borrowed apartment, doing her work, being the studious, law-abiding biographer she was, had enabled her to think. Not even a Harling would turn her into an out-and-out thief.

  A smarter decision would have been not to go tonight. The prospect, however remote, of bumping into her black-eyed Harling on his own territory didn’t thrill her. But how could she just drop everything and head back to Maine? It just wasn’t in her to run.

  She rummaged around in her closet and found the dress she’d picked up at a vintage clothing store in Harvard Square. It was not a Harling dress, and it hadn’t cost three thousand dollars. It hadn’t even cost fifty.

  But it was her.

  * * *

  “YOU’RE SURE SHE’S A MARSH?” Uncle Jonathan asked when Win picked him up. Naturally
his uncle had insisted on going to the Athenaeum’s fund-raising dinner, once he knew their impostor was potentially a Marsh and would be there.

  Win nodded grimly. “I’m positive.”

  “I should have guessed it myself. The blond hair’s a dead giveaway.”

  “You can hardly suspect every blonde you see of being a Marsh without further evidence.”

  “You’d better watch yourself, Winthrop.” Uncle Jonathan climbed into the front passenger seat. “If she’s a Marsh, she’s after something. Any idea what?”

  “None.”

  “The Marshes have never let us forget Priscilla. They refuse to understand that Cotton was a man of his times, a flawed human being just doing his job.”

  Win frowned at his uncle. “He had an innocent woman hanged.”

  “He wasn’t the first, nor the last.”

  There was no point in arguing. Win pulled into traffic, trying to concentrate on the road and not on what was coming up this evening.

  “Think she’ll risk showing up tonight?” his uncle asked.

  Win had already considered the question, given what had transpired yesterday morning, but it had only one answer. “She wouldn’t miss it.”

  * * *

  HANNAH ARRIVED EARLY at the exclusive seafood restaurant on the waterfront where the New England Athenaeum’s fund-raising dinner was being held. Preston Fowler greeted her warmly. Before he could introduce her to anyone as a Harling, she slipped off to the bar, ordered a glass of white wine and found her table. Mercifully, it was at the far end of the room, but still had a good view of the entrance.

  She sipped her wine, watching Boston’s upper crust filing in, dressed in its spring finery. She saw a dress much like the one she had rejected. It looked curiously right on its owner, just as it had looked wrong on her.

  What a long night she had ahead of her, she thought, if all she had to do was notice what people were wearing....