Bewitching: His Secret Agenda

by Carla Neggers

  “If she wasn’t a Marsh,” his uncle continued, “she just might be the woman for you, Winthrop. She’d make you think about something besides work, I’d allow.”

  She already had, but Win said, “Uncle Jonathan, I didn’t ask you here to discuss my love life. Now...”

  “You need a woman.”

  Win sighed. “That’s a rather blunt statement.”

  “It’s true. You’re waiting for fate to take a hand and present you with the woman of your dreams. I say she’s out there somewhere and you need to hunt her down.”

  “Like a buffalo?”

  “More like an antelope, I think. Maybe a tigress.”

  “Uncle Jonathan...”

  “Well, Win, what can I say? You work too hard. You don’t pay enough attention to your personal life. Dating women isn’t the same as finding the woman meant for you. And don’t tell me that’s romantic nonsense, because it’s not.”

  Win knew a change of subject was in order. He didn’t want to argue, and not just because he didn’t want to sit through another of his uncle’s lectures on marriage and little ones. Anything Win said would bring up, however indirectly, Uncle Jonathan’s own unhappy life. He had lost his wife to cancer twenty-five years ago, his only child, a daughter—a cousin Win had adored—to a car accident ten years back. The kind of life Jonathan wanted for his nephew meant that Win would have to set himself up for tragedy. Right now he preferred to keep his risks financial.

  “Tell me about the Marshes,” he said.

  That distracted his uncle. He poured cream into his coffee and began a lecture on the Marsh-Harling feud of the past three hundred years, sounding like the history professor he’d once been. Win listened carefully.

  “I wouldn’t think,” he said after a while, “that reasonable people would blame an entire family for the conduct of one of its ancestors. Right or wrong, Cotton’s been dead a long time.”

  “The Marshes will capitalize on his mistake whenever they see an opening. That’s how they ended up with a chunk of prime southern Maine real estate that’s rightly ours.”

  “Ours? What do you mean?”

  “About a hundred years ago the Marshes swiped a lovely piece of coastal land from the Harlings. They stole the deed from us and claimed they’d bought the land first. No one could prove otherwise. It’s theirs to this day.” He grimaced. “They call it Marsh Point.”

  “And the Harling Collection,” Win said. “Tell me about it.”

  “About the same time the Marshes appropriated our land in Maine, a Harling—Anne Harling—gathered the family papers together into a collection.”

  “I never knew—”

  Uncle Jonathan held up a hand, stopping him. “It’s never been proven to exist. It disappeared not long after Anne finished putting it together. Nobody’s ever produced a credible theory of what happened to it.”

  “And you think our Hannah Marsh is after it?”

  “Yep.”

  Win shook his head. “It doesn’t explain her behavior. Why would she lie to us and steal from us if she expected us to hand over the Harling Collection for her to examine?”

  His uncle lifted his bony shoulders, then let them drop; he sighed heavily. “She doesn’t expect us to hand it over.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” his uncle announced, “she plans to steal it.”

  * * *

  HANNAH ENDURED A disturbingly quiet Sunday. Twice she ventured into Louisburg Square. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. But then, how would she know? The Harling House stood bathed in spring sunshine, giving away none of its secrets. She debated venturing up the steps and sticking her check into its mail slot. It would mean a lean winter ahead, but would restore her sense of pride. But she decided against leaving it. It had her name imprinted at the top, and she wasn’t sure she wanted Win Harling to have her name confirmed for him, at least, not yet. First she had to find a way of explaining what she’d done, making him—or his uncle—understand her motives.

  By Monday morning she’d decided Win Harling couldn’t learn much more about her than he already suspected. But she remained on her guard. She couldn’t relax. If anything, the fund-raising dinner on Saturday could only have stimulated his desire to best her.

  Stimulated his desire?

  She cleared her throat, reacting to the unfortunate choice of words, and tried to dismiss the possibilities, but dozens of images flooded her mind.

  Work. She had to keep working.

  But when she arrived at the Athenaeum for a morning of what she’d promised herself would be disciplined research, a message was waiting for her. It was a note scrawled in black marker on a scrap of paper.

  I suggest you come by my office in the Financial District today at noon. We need to discuss the Harling Collection and Marsh Point. If you value your reputation, you won’t be late. I know who you are.

  It was signed, arrogantly, just with Win Harling’s initials, JWH.

  Hannah stood rock still, feeling every drop of blood drain out of her. She read the note twice.

  First of all, she now knew why he’d been in the well-armed building in the Financial District the other day; his office, not his uncle’s, was there. Probably his uncle was retired and no longer had an office. Hannah hated making a mistake in her research, but never had one been as costly as this one.

  “Well, no use crying over spilt milk,” she muttered, reflecting that a lot more than milk could be spilled by the end of this affair.

  Second, the Harling Collection. He’d figured out she was after it. Well, that she could understand. She had made no bones about looking into the Harling family history, and so could be expected to want to examine the Harling Collection, if it existed. Still, she would have preferred to have a chance to explain her real reasons for wanting access to it before Win Harling found her out. But so be it.

  The mention of Marsh Point, however, she didn’t understand. Why would he want to discuss Marsh Point? Did he know that was where she lived?

  And just who did he think she was?

  The library assistant who had handed her the note said, “He also left a book for you.”

  It was a copy of her biography of Martha Washington.

  The bastard knew.

  He knew!

  “Well,” Hannah muttered under her breath, “it’s not as if you didn’t see it coming.”

  But to threaten her reputation...

  How like a Harling.

  “Is something wrong, Ms. Harling?” Preston Fowler asked, emerging from his office.

  “No. Not at all.” She crumpled the note, stuffing it into the pocket of her squall jacket, and turned the book so that Fowler couldn’t see the name of its author. She forced a smile. “Thanks for asking.”

  “Did you enjoy the dinner Saturday?”

  “Yes—yes, I did. The food was wonderful, and I enjoyed having the chance to be with my relatives.” She smiled, hoping she didn’t look as flustered as she felt, but knew she’d always been particularly good at thinking on her feet. A Marsh trait, according to Cousin Thackeray. Of course, if she had listened to him, she might not be in the crummy position she was in right now. She’d be home in Maine, where she belonged. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get to work.”

  “Of course. Let me know if I can be of any assistance.”

  Would he be so willing to help if he knew she was Hannah Marsh and not Hannah Harling?

  But she had a couple of hours before noon and refused to fall victim to obsessions about J. Winthrop Harling. Instead she tucked her notebook under her arm and proceeded to the second floor to the rare book room; the small, secure, climate-controlled space where Win Harling had trapped her the other day.

  Amid her musty books, she began to relax. Come what might in he
r life, she always had her work.

  She had already examined the most pertinent documents stored in the room, but there were several peripheral books and documents she wanted to look at. She got started.

  After a relatively peaceful hour, disturbed only by moments of having to stomp on her unruly thoughts, she located a history of colonial Boston written in the early nineteenth century. On the inside front cover she spotted, in a faded handwriting, the name Jonathan Winthrop Harling and an address in the Back Bay section of Boston, just around the corner from where she was right now.

  Win’s uncle Jonathan. The old man with the cane. The man Hannah had intended to find in the first place, the only Harling supposed to be still in Boston. He must have donated the volume.

  He had seemed reasonably charming on Saturday evening, and was still her best lead to the Harling Collection. If he hadn’t moved, she could look him up herself, instead of going through his black-eyed, suspicious nephew. He might listen to her explanation of her behavior during the past week, to her legitimate reasons for wanting to examine the Harling Collection. He wouldn’t threaten her reputation.

  Neither would he threaten her peace of mind, create the kind of mental and physical turmoil his nephew did. He wasn’t young and good-looking and too damned sexy for her own good.

  She had time, if she hurried, to try and see Jonathan Harling before her summons to the Boston Financial District and the offices of J. Winthrop Harling. She gathered her papers, stuffed them into her satchel and headed out, hardly stopping to say goodbye to Preston Fowler.

  Built on fill from the top of Beacon Hill, the Back Bay consisted of a dozen or so streets beyond the Public Garden, within easy walking distance. Jonathan Harling lived in a stately Victorian brownstone on the sunny side of Marlborough Street. Once a single-family dwelling, the building had been broken up into apartments, probably shortly before or during World War II. The name HARLING was printed next to a white doorbell, which Hannah rang.

  There was no answer.

  Her spirits sagged. Just her luck. She had hoped she could explain her situation and get him to contact his nephew to have him call off his witch hunt. If she were particularly persuasive, she might get the old man to talk to her about the Harling Collection and forgive her for her many transgressions. She would pay back his nephew.

  She considered waiting on his front stoop until he returned, then realized that if she did, she would never make the Financial District by noon. Win Harling would only hunt her down. She owed it not to him but to herself to find out what he knew about her, how he’d learned it, whom he’d told and—most important—what he’d meant by his reference to Marsh Point.

  Uncle Jonathan would have to keep.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  BY THE TIME she reached the modern federal building and its armed guard, an appropriately blustery wind was blowing off the water and dark clouds had rolled in. Springtime in New England. Hannah hunched her shoulders against the cold. She had on a lightweight black squall jacket, black pants and a pale yellow silk shirt, a little less the proper Bostonian than on her previous visit to the Financial District, but still not quite herself. Cousin Thackeray, she remembered, had insisted the Harlings and their crowd were a bunch of tightwads who considered new clothes tackily nouveau riche. Dowdy, worn-out, once-expensive clothes were the mark of a true Boston Brahmin. They’d accept her a lot quicker, he’d maintained, if she could show off a few moth holes. Hannah had refused his offer to beat her clothes on the rocks to make them look more authentically “old money.”

  Cousin Thackeray...

  She couldn’t have her feud with Win Harling touch him.

  The red-haired guard grinned at her, not making a move for his gun as he might have been expected to, given their last meeting. “Go right on up. Fourteenth floor.”

  Hannah gave him an I-told-you-so smirk, but there was nothing in his expression that indicated he thought she had the upper hand. She dashed for the elevator and blamed its fast ascent to the fourteenth floor for the slightly sick feeling in her stomach and her sudden light-headedness. Win knows about the Harling Collection...about Marsh Point....

  What could he have found out about Marsh Point?

  Had Cousin Thackeray neglected to tell her something that he should have?

  Checking the floor directory, she found her way to Win’s office suite, entering a large, airy, L-shaped room, arranged so that both the reception area and corner office had windows with views of the city and the fountain plaza below.

  A young woman greeted Hannah, who was a good ten minutes late. “Mr. Harling’s waiting.”

  Hannah sensed the administrative assistant’s disapproval; she obviously didn’t like anyone keeping Mr. Harling waiting. The younger woman led the way, pushing open his door in an exaggeratedly professional manner she’d probably seen in old Joan Crawford movies.

  J. Winthrop Harling’s office was spacious, modern and spare, and Hannah was struck by its contrast to her own rustic, cluttered space overlooking Marsh Point. It was just more evidence that the two of them led totally different lives, and that she was an intruder. She was on his turf, and she wasn’t the only one who knew it.

  “Welcome.” Win rose smoothly, his graciousness belied by the dark, suspicious expression in his eyes. He gestured to a leather chair in front of his gleaming desk. “Have a seat.”

  His assistant silently withdrew, shutting the door behind her.

  Hannah shook her head. “Thank you, I prefer to stand.”

  “As you wish.”

  “I got your summons,” she said coolly.

  His mouth twitched, and he sat down, eyeing her. He was wearing a white shirt, its sleeves rolled up to midforearm, its top button undone, and had loosened his tie. Very sexy. His suit jacket was slung on a credenza to his right. His jaw looked even squarer than usual, but if Hannah could change only one thing about him, it would be his eyes. She’d fade them out, water them up a little, add some dark shadows and red lines. That done, surely the rest of him wouldn’t seem nearly as appealing...or as dangerous.

  “So,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest, “who am I?”

  “Hannah Marsh, the biographer.”

  She shrugged, neither confirming nor denying, but her heart was pounding. The man was relentless. But at least by leaving the Martha Washington biography for her, he’d given her fair warning of just what he knew.

  He pushed a slender volume across his immaculate desk. It was her biography of three women married to famous robber barons of the nineteenth century. Like the study of Martha Washington, it had not been a bestseller. Win Harling would have had to dig to find her out.

  “Okay,” Hannah said unapologetically, “so I lied. In my position, wouldn’t you have done the same?”

  He made no apparent attempt to disguise his outright skepticism. After their rocky start, he was going to have a tough time believing anything she said. “Just what is your position?”

  “Simply put, I’m a Marsh in Harling territory.”

  “There are just two Harlings in Boston.” His tone was even and controlled, and all the more scathing for it. “My eighty-year-old uncle and me. Neither of us was disposed to harm or impede you in any way.”

  Hannah duly noted his use of the past tense. She decided she should keep her mouth shut until he finished.

  Win sprang up and came around his desk, black walnut from the looks of it. Expensive. The man did know how to make money. “In my position, what would you do?”

  She shrugged. “Leave me alone.”

  A smile, not an amiable one, tugged at the corners of his mouth. Hannah pushed aside the memory of that whisper of a kiss the other night.

  “Wouldn’t you want to find out what a woman posing as a member of your family was up to?” he asked. “Especially given the history between our
two families.”

  “A lowly biographer? Nope. I wouldn’t waste my time with her.”

  His eyes narrowed. In her mind, she washed out his black lashes. It didn’t help. She still had to contend with the black irises.

  “Wouldn’t you think your behavior suspicious?” he asked.

  “I’m not of a suspicious nature.” She tilted her chin at him, unintimidated. They were fourteen floors up, in a well-guarded building. What could he do to her? “I’m a Marsh, remember? I don’t think like a Harling.”

  He moved forward, so that they were only inches apart. She could smell his clean, expensive cologne and see a tiny scar at the corner of his right eye. It did not detract from the intensity of his gaze. “You’re working on a biography of Priscilla Marsh.”

  “So?”

  “So, it’s a nice cover for what you’re really after.”

  “The Harling Collection,” she said calmly. “I don’t know what nefarious purpose you have attributed to me, but I only want to examine it for research purposes. I want to do as thorough a job as possible on Priscilla Marsh’s life. Examining the Harling Collection could be very helpful in understanding Cotton Harling’s thinking when he had her hanged.”

  Cotton’s descendant stared at her in dubious silence. It was outrageous, Hannah thought, how sexy she found him. What would Priscilla have thought?

  “That’s the truth,” she continued. “I didn’t know it was even rumored to exist until I’d arrived in Boston and started doing my research, identifying myself as a Harling so I wouldn’t arouse suspicion and might get better treatment. When I came here the other day, I tried to get in to see you without giving a name. I wanted to talk to you about my research first and explain. Of course, I thought you were your uncle. I had no idea...” She took a breath and glanced at him. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “Oh, I get it. Your devious plan backfired.”