The Widow's Secret

by Sara Mitchell

  “Was there a compliment buried in there somewhere?”

  “Absolutely.” His reciprocal smile lasted but a second. “These people are more shrewd than any serpent. They don’t like risk, and they don’t act on impulse. I’ve been after them for a long time and, though it pains me to acknowledge it, I know them almost as well as I know my own family.”

  “They are my husband’s family.”

  “I live with that awful truth every second of every hour.” A muscle twitched in his jaw, but his voice remained calm. “They’re thorough, and patient. What they’ve chosen to do with their lives is not only illegal, I believe it is evil. Although they know their actions harm innocent people, they don’t care as long as they’re not caught.”

  “I understand why you think that way.” Swallowing hard, Jocelyn forced herself to sit back, to keep her gaze level with his. “I appreciate your confidence in me but there’s something you need to understand, as well. After having lived with this family for almost two months now, I’m finding it difficult to agree with all your assumptions. Yes, they’re pompous and vain and venal, and Benny’s presence indicates the probability of wrongdoing on their part. I’ll never completely trust them. But wicked?”

  Half-consciously, she began to fiddle with the appliqué embroidery on the cuffs of her walking suit. “My aunt is happily planning nuptials between us. Uncle Brock admires you. And…and Chadwick’s father has changed. Rupert’s kind to me, Micah. He wants me to be happy. Perhaps the Brocks will change, too. They all see us together, and they believe—” She stopped dead, stuck like a bug on a pin to the conundrum of their relationship.

  “They believe our courtship is real?” Micah finished evenly.

  “Yes.” Her voice broke on the word. Stupid, silly gudgeon. All the stern lectures to the starry-eyed creature in her mirror might as well have been directed to a dressmaker’s dummy. Oh, how could she, of all the women in this merciless world, have harbored an illusion of hope in her heart?

  “Jocelyn…do you remember what I told you in the park the other day?”

  “I remember more what you did,” she whispered, ducking her head because she could feel scarlet flags heating her cheeks.

  “Those memories keep me awake at night, and distract my concentration during the day,” Micah said. “Don’t be shy. Here—I’ll say the words again. Look at me, Jocelyn. Look into my eyes and know I’m telling you the truth.”

  He waited until Jocelyn found the fortitude to comply. “I’ve pretended to be a lot of things over the years. But falling in love with you is not one of them.”

  She felt as though an anvil had dropped from the ceiling on top of her. In a reflexive gesture she pressed her hand to her throat, crushing the ruched collar in a vain effort to quiet her galloping pulse. “What are you saying? Is this a ploy to reassure me, so I won’t break under pressure? You needn’t perjure yourself. I promised to help and I will.”

  “Sometimes, my love—” the words sounded more exasperated than affectionate “—you frustrate the daylights out of me. I shouldn’t have declared myself yet. I know this is not the proper moment, nor the proper place. But what about these past months has been?” A half laugh, half groan escaped. “Here I am, apologizing for trying to reassure you, for telling you the truth. I’m in love with you.” He half turned, flinging out his arm in a sweeping gesture. “We should be in Delmonico’s, not a café in the Bowery, surrounded by—” With a speed that left Jocelyn blinking he turned back around, reached across and tugged the veil back over her face. “Lean over as though you dropped something on the floor,” he ordered with enough urgency that she obeyed instantly. “Stay there, that’s it…wait…wait. All right. Sit back up, very casually, but keep your face out of the light.”

  “What is it?”

  “A man’s come inside. His name’s Limbrick. Goes by ‘Brick.’ Among other things, he’s a boodle carrier, a person who receives counterfeit goods from the manufacturer. I arrested him five years ago, caught him shoving five-dollar bills to immigrants straight out of Castle Garden. Despicable blackguard, taking advantage of them, and poor working-class families desperate to put food on the table. He and men of his ilk are like roaches, hard to exterminate. Brick only got three years—judge at the time wasn’t too fond of the Service.” Casually he slid a glance over his shoulder. “He’s sitting down now, with a few other men I don’t recognize. Fortunately, his back is to the door, and us. Jocelyn…”

  “We need to leave.” She would have wept except tears would not soften sharp-edged reality. The widow Bingham would never entice, much less expect, Operative Micah MacKenzie of the U.S. Secret Service to forsake his calling. Loving each other was a dangerous mistake neither could afford. “Shall I slip out first, or you?”

  For a moment he looked as though he were about to argue. Then he said, his voice grim, “I’ll go first. You’re sure to draw attention, but as long as you don’t meet anyone’s gaze you should be able to exit without a fuss. Wait to leave until after I’ve paid the bill and gone outside. Don’t worry if you don’t see me. I’ll be there.”

  Suddenly he leaned in close enough for his breath to warm her cheek. “I’ll be there, Jocelyn,” he repeated, and a flash of white teeth appeared beneath his mustache. “You’ll get your way, if only for a moment or two.”

  “My way—Oh.” Her own smile was a weak imitation. “You mean, you’ll be slipping out unnoticed, while the red herring creates a distraction.”

  “Always distracting. Always a beautiful redhead. Never a red herring. Be strong, firefly. I’ll see you outside.”

  And with the languid grace of a panther he rose and maneuvered his way between the tables. Mr. Limbrick had tossed his head back in a coarse guffaw, then gulped down a tankard of beer with the other men at the table. He never looked Micah’s way.

  Beneath the fine woolen skirt Jocelyn’s knees wobbled. Her throat felt hot, the muscles constricted as she waited until the door closed behind Micah. Then she rose to her feet, clasping the curved back of the chair to steady herself. The Italian family beamed at her with friendly black eyes; one of the younger men said something in Italian but Jocelyn maintained a measured pace, her gaze fixed upon the red-checked curtains framing the windows.

  “What’s a hoity-toity lady find to do in dese parts?” a nasal voice called out loudly in a pronounced Brooklyn accent. “I know, youse must be one of them pretty waiter girls. Saw me a redhead gal just like you last night, right down da street on the waterfront.”

  The lout, reeking of spirits, planted himself directly between Jocelyn and the door. “I likes da way you clean up, kitten.”

  Heads were turning, drawing attention their way. The raucous laughter from Mr. Limbrick’s table ceased and she heard murmurs ripple over the room. Fear for Micah slithered down her spine, followed swiftly by anger. “At least I know how to clean up.” She advanced upon the man, whose heavy jowls dropped in surprise. A deep flush spread across his forehead. “Move out of my way at once,” Jocelyn ordered, her clear Southern voice crackling through the suddenly charged air. “You’re drunk, and you smell.”

  “Why, you little—”

  Thankfully the manager shoved his way to her side, along with several men from the Italian family, all of them surrounding Jocelyn in a flurry of waving arms and loud voices. Though speaking Italian, they managed to convey a threat to the masher, and respect for the pretty lady he’d insulted. By the time Jocelyn extricated herself from their protection, the man had thrown open the door and escaped outside. With a final smile and a heartfelt thank-you, Jocelyn followed, dignity intact though her heartbeat threatened to crack her rib cage. The sidewalk was choked with pedestrians, heads bowed against the vicious wind of the mid-November afternoon. Shivering and clammy, Jocelyn resolutely stepped forward, searching the sea of top hats, homburgs and bowlers for Micah.

  “Ha! I’ll teach you what happens to snooty little skirts with nasty mouths.”

  A beefy arm wrapped around her mid
dle in a crushing grip that stole her breath. Stunned, for an instant Jocelyn hung motionless as she was dragged through the crowd, toward one of the dark hackney carriages that waited by the curb. When her abductor yanked open the door of the cab, outrage jabbed her like a cattle prod. Twisting and flailing her arms, she struggled to find breath enough to call out to the cab driver for help. She must not, would not call Micah’s name.

  She was released so abruptly she tumbled forward and would have fallen except a firm hand grabbed her upper arm, steadying her until she regained her balance.

  “I’ve got you, Jocelyn,” Micah’s voice spoke in her ear.

  Before she could gasp out a warning his foot had lashed out, striking the masher with a hard blow to his knee. Howling, the man stumbled back and fell, his head thunking against the carriage wheel. The horses snorted, hooves restlessly stamping. Micah looked down at Jocelyn. “Are you able to stand on your own?”

  Numbly she nodded.

  Micah released her, then leaned down, hauled the other man to his feet and twisted his fist around the hapless attacker’s collar. “If you ever so much as blink at another woman without respect,” he said in a voice that raised gooseflesh, “I’ll hunt you down, no matter what sewer you’re swilling at, and make you regret the day you took your first drink. Do you understand?”

  Choking, blubbering a stream of profanity and pleas, the man finally went limp. Micah dragged him away from the hackney, propped him against one of the El’s metal supports, then stepped back. “Do you understand?” he repeated.

  The man bobbed his head. Micah turned to the small crowd who had gathered to watch. “Go on about your business,” he ordered them in a hard voice that yielded instant results. Then, to the drunk, “If I can still see you in ten seconds, I’ll have you arrested on so many charges you won’t see daylight until spring.”

  Without a word the man straightened, then fled, still limping, across the broad avenue to the other side of the street.

  Micah turned to Jocelyn. She tried to smile, but her hands couldn’t seem to stop shaking so she ceased trying to fasten her buttons and tug down her shirtwaist. “I’m all right. I’m…He didn’t hurt me.” A watery laugh escaped. “Perhaps you should instruct me on how to confront an intoxicated man. I’m afraid I inflamed him, when he…um…spoke to me, inside the café.”

  “You don’t confront drunken clods at all,” he muttered, his mouth a thin slash of a line. “I never should have left you in there alone. Here, let me help you….” Despite the anger still flickering across his face, his hands were gentle as he straightened her jacket, repositioned her hat, tucked the veil inside her collar.

  He’d put his gloves back on, but even so the intimacy of that gentle touch scalded. Jocelyn looked up into his eyes, unable to breathe, unable to think, unable to do anything at all but give him her heart. He hadn’t asked for it, and might soon spurn the words, much as she had his. Yet the awareness flooded her in a golden warmth as irresistible as sunlight on a cold winter day. God, I know You’re going to take him away from me. But at least I have this moment.

  And for the first time in a decade, Jocelyn felt something other than anger toward the Almighty.

  Slowly Micah’s tender ministrations stilled, until the two of them stood together in a little pool of silence, surrounded by loud conversations, milling crowds, clattering hooves and the teeth-rattling noise of trains shuddering along the tracks above them.

  “Jocelyn…” His head dipped. Then he froze, stepped back, jerking his hands away to cram them inside his pockets. He gave her a crooked grin. “I’m afraid I lost my head a little, seeing that oaf manhandle you. At least this is the Bowery. If I kissed you, which I want to with every breath in my body, instead of arresting us for lewdness, an appreciative audience would applaud.”

  “They might even toss coins in your hat.”

  “As long as they aren’t counterfeit.”

  Before she lost her courage, Jocelyn stepped close, then stood on tiptoe to brush a kiss against one hard cheekbone. “Thank you for saving me,” she whispered. “I’m sorry for causing a scene.”

  “Not your fault. I’m sorry I wasn’t with you. There wouldn’t have been a scene.”

  Abruptly, his smile vanished. Eyes narrowed, he began a methodical visual search, memorizing, Jocelyn knew, every face that glanced their way. She watched his face harden to a stone mask.

  She turned toward the café, where several customers, including Mr. Limbrick, had gathered at the window.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The room was dark save for the gas flame softly hissing in a wall sconce. Near a curtained window, the man sat shrouded in shadow, his face a pale blur. Somewhere in the room a clock ticked off the seconds in a monotonous rhythm.

  In his hand the man held a single sheet of paper torn from an inexpensive tablet. He had read the hurriedly scrawled words twice now, his mouth set. Finally, with a foul curse he crumpled the paper, threw it to the floor, then downed his glass of whiskey in a single gulp.

  After a while he stood, walked over to the crumpled note and picked it up. Each movement deliberate, he struck a match and touched the small flame to the paper. For a moment he watched the edges curl, brown, then softly ignite in a red-gold blaze. Like her hair, he thought viciously.

  Just before the heat singed his fingers, he dropped the burning remains onto the marble hearth of the unused fireplace, ground the ashes beneath his heel and strode from the room.

  Micah stared out the window of Maisie Tanner’s cottage, one hand resting on the sill, the other absently rubbing beneath his chin. Beard stubble scratched his fingertips; he needed a shave. Gusts of wind had persisted into the twilight, whistling through windowpanes and rattling shutters. A leafless tree in Mrs. Tanner’s minuscule backyard swayed with the breeze; through the cobweb of its branches, Micah watched the gray sky turn dark and bleak.

  “But you don’t know for sure that this man recognized you,” Jonathan Tanner pointed out, not for the first time. He glanced down at the report in his hand. “From what you wrote here, the patrons inside the café, one of whom included Limbrick, were looking out the window, at you and Mrs. Bingham. But that doesn’t mean he recognized either of you. Yes, in a crowd Mrs. Bingham’s remarkable, but she is not the only redhead strolling the streets.” He laughed. “New York is crawling with immigrants, several million of them Irish, or even Scots. A fair number of them have red hair.”

  “No other woman’s hair compares to Jocelyn’s.” Micah leaned his forehead against the window, his thoughts as dour as the twilight. “I shouldn’t have allowed her to go back to the Brocks’,” he said, also not for the first time. “We can’t forget Benny. We still don’t know where he is, don’t know for sure what he knows or what he plans to do with what he knows. However, Benny’s not a murderer. If he confesses that he passed that evidence to Jocelyn at the store where Hepplewhite was murdered, he might wind up murdered himself. So I’m thinking—” praying fervently “—that Benny’s kept his mouth shut, or scarpered altogether.” A sick feeling swam sluggishly in his gut, and not even Jonathan’s insightful observations assuaged it. Ruthlessly Micah forced his attention on what they must do next, instead of dwelling on what was already done. “The Brocks have spies everywhere. I don’t know all of them by sight, any more than you do. But today I was confident we’d given them the slip—until that ill-timed scuffle in the Bowery. I’d like to believe we weren’t picked up on the trip back to the Brocks’, but with all the crowds, I can’t be certain.”

  “Well, I have it on good authority that I’m worth at least half a dozen spies, sir.” The assistant tucked Micah’s handwritten report along with his own typewritten notes into the Secret Service envelope he would mail in the evening post. His movements were as pedantic as those of a fussy schoolmarm, though put Jon Tanner down on the docks and the lean but well-muscled young man would pass for a navvy. “If you’re that concerned for Mrs. Bingham, let me take over for Mr. MacKay. I wouldn’t b
e around to bail you out of trouble, but I could rescue the damsel in distress.”

  “Your humility is reassuring.” Micah turned away from the window to study the younger man. The tough arrogance of youth might still dust his spirit, but if Micah could choose one man other than Alexander MacKay to guard his or Jocelyn’s back, despite his youth it would be Jonathan Tanner. “Still fancy being a professional boxer when you grow up, instead of an operative? From the look of them the shoulder seams on that suit are begging for mercy.”

  Unoffended, Jonathan assumed a boxing stance and delivered several rapid punches to the air. “Haven’t ripped them yet,” he announced with a grin. “Give me another month. As for what I want to do with my life…I don’t know how to answer. Sometimes I can see myself as the next Gentleman Jim, but then I think about what you’re doing. And I feel, well, selfish. Vainglorious, as Aunt Maisie calls it. I know I shouldn’t waste the best years of my life in the ring, but I can’t see myself spending them hunched over a desk, writing reports, either.”

  “What are you now? Twenty-four? Five?”

  “Twenty-seven. You’ve been too busy falling in love with Mrs. Bingham to notice, I imagine.”

  At twenty-seven, Micah had already buried a wife and son. His faith in God, and his dedication to the Secret Service, had saved his sanity. At twenty-seven, he’d felt as old as Moses. Now he was prattling about Jocelyn’s hair, fretting over her safety, as though he were a calf-eyed sprout half Jonathan’s age. Abruptly, he reached a decision. “I’m not so busy I can’t add sums and come up with the correct answer. Regardless of evidence or the lack thereof, I’m removing Mrs. Bingham from this case by the end of the week. In my judgment the danger to her life outweighs her usefulness, however critical it may be. I’m going to send Chief Hazen a telegram. I’ll write out what to say, but we’ll maintain established protocols and let you send it.” From the outset of this phase in the investigation, they’d agreed Micah could not risk visiting places a wealthy businessman would not normally be seen, which included frequent jaunts to Western Union.