“I’ve been ready for weeks,” she declared, ignoring a sudden attack of the jitters.
Micah carefully lifted her from the carriage, steadying her with a firm grip on her waist. “This might get ugly,” he warned her. “From everything you’ve said, Portia’s not likely to surrender easily, for all she’ll be surrounded by a squad of Secret Service operatives and a couple of U.S. marshals.” He handed her the cane Dr. Aloysius had provided, but did not release his hold until Jocelyn proved she could stand on her own.
“I’ll be fine.” She gripped the cane firmly in one hand, Micah’s arm with the other. “For ten long years I allowed these two families to turn me into a weak, fearful creature. Those days are over.”
They started up the walk, and with every step the pain in her leg yielded to the righteous confidence running like a stream of living water throughout her body. “Now I’m ready to show them the real Jocelyn Tremayne, a woman who most definitely will never again fear the Virgil or Portia Brocks in this world.” With Micah’s help, she managed to climb the stairs up to the landing.
The huge front door opened, and Palmer appeared, his dignified face cracking in astonishment. For a moment he gawked at them in stupefied silence. “Mrs. Bingham. Mr. MacKenzie,” he finally managed. “We…That is to say, it was my understanding that the police…” He gulped, then passed a trembling white-gloved hand across his brow. “Mr. and Mrs. Brock are…are…”
“Inform Mr. and Mrs. Brock that we’ll meet them in the library,” Jocelyn announced. “At once.” She stepped forward, and the stammering butler moved aside. “And, Palmer? My name is Mrs. Jocelyn Tremayne.”
With the cane and Micah’s rock-solid arm keeping her steady, and four Secret Service operatives bringing up the rear, they advanced upon the library, their footsteps and Jocelyn’s cane beating a triumphant victory march on the polished marble tile.
Moments later, the Brocks strolled without any show of haste into the library, Portia clinging to her husband’s arm—an affectation, of course. Jocelyn could count on one hand the number of times Portia ever permitted this show of wifely submission. They were dressed to the nines in formal attire, Portia resplendent in a creamy-white gown crusted with pearls. An eye-popping blue sapphire hung about her neck. Augustus, on the other hand, looked miserably uncomfortable in his tie and tails. Red-faced and perspiring, he studied the cluster of people gathered in the library with nothing but bewilderment clouding his mild brown eyes. Jocelyn thought with a twinge of concern that he might be ill, instead of angry.
“I am grateful you’re here,” Portia announced in dulcet tones, her gaze searching out every man in the room but Micah, lingering on each one until they shuffled their feet, cleared their throats or looked away. “I see you’ve captured my dear, misguided niece. We’ve spent a frightful night and day, hoping the police would be able to find her before her life was utterly destroyed by a man we esteemed very much.”
She sliced a look toward Micah and Jocelyn wondered if she were the only one who sensed the malevolence swimming behind the china-blue eyes, darkened now to cobalt. “These past few years have been a trial. Jocelyn’s mind, you know, has been dreadfully weakened. Such a tragic business. I was most—”
Micah stepped forward, directly in front of her. “Mrs. Brock, your lies grow tiresome. We will hear no more. The district attorney has issued warrants. I am placing you and your husband under arrest for the crime of counterfeiting. Also for the bribery of public officials, for defamation by oral utterance of an agent for the United States government and finally, for conspiracy to commit murder.”
“Mr. MacKenzie…” Augustus cleared his throat several times, but his words remained hoarse. “I don’t understand. Last night, Mrs. Brock informed me that our niece—Forgive me.” He clumsily withdrew his handkerchief and dabbed his mouth, while his confused gaze sought out Jocelyn. “You stole my wife’s jewelry. Mrs. Brock was devastated. And you, Mr. MacKenzie—” he studied Micah for another befuddled moment before shaking his head “—somehow contrived to steal a half million dollars from my bank. My son Virgil showed me the figures last evening.”
The gasp escaped before Jocelyn could prevent it; her gaze flew to Portia, who was coyly batting her eyelashes at the agent standing beside her as though they were engaged in a harmless flirtation. Jocelyn turned away from the disgusting tableau as the confirmation settled inside her with a little click. Oh, Chadwick, she thought, not knowing whether to laugh, or cry. Such a role model he’d had in his aunt and cousin.
“And beyond the pale, appearing on the doorstep at this hour.” Augustus had drawn himself up to his full height, his barrel of a chest expanding. “How dare you barge into my home, sir, with these wild accusations, distressing myself and my wife?”
A muscle in Micah’s jaw twitched. With blinding speed he whipped out his credentials, thrust them in Augustus’s face, then tucked the folder back inside his jacket. Light from one of the room’s chandeliers caught on his badge, which set it to gleaming like polished silver. “I am, and have been for the past eight years, an operative for the United States Secret Service.” Jocelyn saw him make a discreet motion with his hand, and two of the deputy marshals moved to flank Portia Brock. “Your family, and your brother-in-law Rupert Bingham, have been under suspicion for a long time, Mr. Brock. Two nights ago, Mrs. Tremayne—”
“You’re an agent for the federal government?” He shook his head, and a tremor shuddered through him. “And my niece’s name is no longer Tremayne. She is my nephew’s widow, and you will accord her respect by referring to her by her proper name.”
Quietly, Jocelyn hobbled over to stand beside Micah. “You didn’t know, did you?” she asked Augustus. The knowledge settled inside her heart, along with a stirring of pity. “You’ve been as much a victim of your wife and son as I have.”
“What manner of vulgar talk is this, speaking of ‘victims,’ Jocelyn? I demand an expla—” He swayed a bit on his feet, then collected himself. “I demand an explanation.”
Jocelyn nodded. “You’re hearing the explanation, Uncle. And so will your wife, whom I refuse to address as ‘Aunt.’ Everything you’ve heard from Operative MacKenzie is true. I haven’t stolen anything, nor has he. But Mrs. Brock and your son Virgil are guilty of every crime of which they stand accused. They stood in this very room, while I listened on the other side those closed doors—” she pointed to the pocket doors behind one of the operatives openly displaying his Colt revolver “—and listened to your wife order a man named Vanetti to murder Operative MacKenzie. When I escaped from the house, Virgil was on the way to Mr. Vanetti with the order.”
Augustus’s face drained of color. Humiliation burned in his eyes, painful to see, and with temper goading her Jocelyn whirled toward Portia. “You’re the most despicable human being I’ve ever known. If I had my way, the courts would re-institute public stocks in the market square. And you would be placed in them, with an announcement written in large letters for all the world to know what a hypocritical liar you really are.”
Quick as the lash of a whip, Portia drew back her arm and slapped Jocelyn’s cheek. Every man in the room jumped forward, Micah with a hair-raising growl of fury. Jocelyn, her cheek throbbing, grabbed his arm with one hand and waved the men back with her cane. “You have the authority to arrest her,” she said to Micah, holding on to his arm until he looked down into her face. “But I have the right to confront her. Let me.”
Breathing hard, Micah slowly nodded, and stepped aside.
Righteous wrath boiled through her but instead of retaliating in kind, Jocelyn locked gazes with Portia. The weight of ten years fueled her actions as she yanked every hairpin from her head, flinging them at Portia’s feet onto the thick Aubusson carpet. When the last one was removed she shook her head, and the chignon she’d fashioned at the shanty unraveled. Her hair spilled in a glorious sunset tumble around her shoulders, halfway down her back. For good measure, Jocelyn lifted her hands and skeined them through the ma
ss. Finally, she lifted a handful and held it up, inches away from Portia’s quivering nose.
“My hair,” she announced, “is red. Red. And I’m proud of every strand, because this is the color God made it. Moreover, the man who loves me—loves me—believes I am beautiful.” She grabbed Portia’s ice-cold rigid hand, then pressed it to the cheek the woman had just slapped. “These freckles you abhor? There’s more beauty in one of these spots than in a single inch of your powdered face.”
She released her hold on Portia’s hand and flung it aside. “You want to slap my other cheek? Go ahead. I’ll still be more beautiful than you are, because you can clothe yourself like the Queen of England, and pretend your face can still launch a thousand ships like Helen of Troy, but inside you’re a selfish, vain creature. A pathetic excuse of a woman who turned to crime to compensate for the emptiness of her soul.”
“I could say the same about you.” Fury palpated through Portia, but instead of striking Jocelyn’s other cheek, she chose the weapon of words. “I trained you well, transformed you from a self-effacing nobody to a woman who knows the strength of her own power. What a magnificent disdain I see in you now! We would do well together, you and I. Why don’t you dismiss your pathetic suitor? Love is a tool. Use it, and when it rusts, throw it out. There’s nothing he can offer I can’t replace ten times over. These sedulous charges will be dropped. He has no proof. Your claim will be dismissed in court as hearsay. And I will personally ensure that Mr. MacKenzie is eviscerated.”
“I don’t think so,” Micah drawled, coming to stand beside Jocelyn. “Operative Matthews? Would you mind enlightening Mrs. Brock?”
“Not at all, sir.” He marched across the room, and withdrew several sheets of paper filled with typewritten words. “Mrs. Brock, this is the recorded and witnessed testimony of Mr. Vanetti, and your son Virgil Brock. Both acknowledge that on four separate occasions you did order without shame or remorse the deaths of four individuals, including the foiled attempt on Operative MacKenzie.” He slid Micah a sideways look. “According to Mr. Vanetti, said murders commenced on the night of June 24, in the year 1887, when he was ordered to, ah, dispose of Mr. Angus MacKenzie, Operative MacKenzie’s father and Mr. Rupert Bingham’s head bookkeeper. Furthermore, he was to dispose of evidence that Mr. Angus MacKenzie had discovered that would implicate members of the Brock family in a counterfeiting scheme against the First City Bank of Brooklyn, New York.”
Augustus sputtered an anguished protest. “Henry Lundford was president of that bank, and our friend. Mrs. Brock…Portia…” He started for his wife. “I don’t understand. Why? I gave you everything. I work sixteen-hour days, six days a week, to provide you with a life envied by even Mrs. Astor herself.”
“You’re nothing!” Portia said, her facade finally cracking as her words spewed into air grown thick and foul. “A pompous windbag whose tedious character I’ve endured for thirty years. I needed something to feel alive. A pastime more stimulating than playing whist with boring females, and presiding over your dinners. Do you understand?” Feverishly, she searched Jocelyn’s face, then Micah’s. “Have you any idea of the complexity required, the intelligence needed, to create a network of skilled craftsmen able to produce over five million dollars a year? To be able to command their loyalty, and their silence?”
In a dramatic gesture she lifted her arms in front of her. “Go ahead. Arrest me. I’ll still have everything I need to twist every one of your Secret Service knickers in a knot, and I’ll do it from prison. You think you’ve won, but you’re wrong.”
“I assume you’re referring to the three sets of engraving plates? Stashed in a barn on Long Island, under the floorboards of a tenement in Jersey City, and in the back of a foundry not a dozen blocks from here?” Micah queried, casually cupping Jocelyn’s elbow while he spoke and urging her out of striking range. Understanding him better than he realized, she complied.
Micah’s hand fell away, but not before—without ever taking his gaze from Portia Brock—with the lightest of brushes he skimmed his finger along her reddened cheek. “We also have in our possession the printing press at the dummy printing company you own on Fifty-fifth Street, with the ink and the paper stolen from the U.S. Treasury Department three years ago. Benny Foggarty’s proved to be a font of information, you see.”
“You found Benny?” Jocelyn asked, slumping in relief. All right, yes, her leg hurt, but she refused to sit down on a stick of furniture in this house.
“Let’s just say the Service still has a trick or two up its sleeve that even Mrs. Brock is unaware of.” A wolfish smile spread across Micah’s face as he produced a pair of handcuffs. “Mrs. Brock, your network has been disbanded. Permanently.”
He snapped the handcuffs around Portia’s wrists, and a palpable wave of relief swept through the room. “Oh, one other item I almost forgot to mention. If you’re hoping to contact your eldest son for help—don’t bother. He was arrested at his St. Louis home yesterday for possession of counterfeit goods discovered underneath the floor of his study.” Still smiling, he glanced across the room. “Marshal O’Keefe? I believe you arranged for police transport?”
“Arriving momentarily, Operative MacKenzie.”
“How fitting,” Micah said, “that the Black Maria you sent along for Mrs. Tremayne and me will instead be transporting you.”
Behind them, Augustus emitted a choking sound. Before anyone could reach him, he collapsed onto the rug, his arm flung in mute appeal toward his wife.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Richmond, Virginia
December 1894
A light snow dusted the city like confectioner’s sugar as Micah drove the buggy along the quiet Richmond streets. At one corner a cluster of boys and girls waved as he passed, their arms full of ice skates and sleds. Six inches of new snow had fallen the previous day, and the almanac was predicting a white Christmas.
Micah smiled to himself.
Jocelyn had promised to make him an apple pie, his favorite, for Christmas Eve. Not to be outdone, Katya and Magda Schuller promised to ply him with enough dishes from their native lands to pop the buttons on his overcoat.
The Schullers had settled into life in Richmond with a joy that never failed to warm Micah’s heart. For the past month they’d been living with Jocelyn, but Micah knew Jocelyn had been negotiating with Mr. Ginter, a prominent philanthropist, to purchase a house for them in the rapidly developing west end of the city.
When he reached the town house, he took the steps two at a time, but Heinrich still beat him to the door.
“Mr. MacKenzie! We have been waiting. There is a visitor, to see the missus. Come—” He grabbed Micah’s arm and tugged him inside. “She is crying, but she is smiling, too. I am taking Elfie, and we are going outside, to play in snow that is still white. In New York, snow turns black, very soon.” He clattered out of sight toward the kitchen door.
Alarmed, Micah divested himself of coat, muffler, hat and gloves, dumping them on the hall tree. Katya appeared in the hallway and beamed at Micah, her head bobbing up and down as she reassured him with her eyes.
“Micah!” Jocelyn stood when he strode into the parlor. “You’re not going to believe this. Look who’s here.” Her deep navy gown swirled around her ankles as she rushed to his side. In the gaslight her red hair deepened to a rich auburn; in her expression he read gladness, but her hands fluttered nervously and beneath her freckles she was too pale. “Do you remember Mr. Bingham, Chadwick’s father? He journeyed all the way down here, to see me. I—” She shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t quite know how to tell you this.…”
“As long as he hasn’t tried to persuade you to move back to New York, you needn’t be afraid of telling me anything.” Hiding his concern, Micah walked over to the fireplace where Rupert Bingham stood. They shook hands. “Mr. Bingham. You’ve come on a long trip through a snowstorm, hopefully not for the purpose of upsetting Mrs. Tremayne.”
Rupert was looking less frail than he had been
a month earlier, at Portia’s and Virgil’s arraignment. His handshake was firm, and a pleased little smile hovered around his lips. “As with life, Operative MacKenzie, I bring sad tidings along with glad ones.”
A moment of awkward silence ensued, until Jocelyn finished conferring with Katya and joined the two men.
“Why don’t we all sit down?” she suggested. “My knees are still shaking.”
“But your leg isn’t hurting, is it?”
“No. Practically good as new.” She and Micah exchanged a private look, and he settled comfortably beside her on the sofa. “Micah, Mr. Bingham’s sad news concerns Augustus. He died two weeks ago. Complications from the heart attack he suffered the day we arrested his wife.”
“I’m sorry. I know it’s little consolation, but—” He hesitated. “I’m very sorry,” he repeated.
“Quite all right, my boy,” Rupert assured him. “Augustus was always a self-complacent man, but he wore his pride like a gentleman. His wife’s and sons’ perfidy was a blow from which he never recovered. I was the executor of his estate. I spent the week after his funeral going through his papers. In the process, I found something that I realized would mean a great deal to my son’s wi—” his face pinkened as he corrected himself “—to Mrs. Tremayne. I’ll let her show you.”
“Micah…” Without warning tears filled her eyes. She reached for an official-looking document lying on the table, and with unsteady hands gave it to Micah. “This is the deed, to the Tremayne family estate. After Chadwick’s death, Parham was one of the properties Rupert sold to Augustus. Then Uncle Augustus sold it again. But apparently in last year’s Panic the people he sold it to couldn’t pay their mortgage. Augustus bought Parham back from them for—for—”
“For a pittance,” Rupert supplied distastefully. “Even more reprehensibly, and I have already spoken to Operative-in-Charge Bagg. I have reason to believe that it was not Augustus, but Portia, with Virgil a willing accomplice, who arranged to repurchase the property from those desperate people. Not only did they pay less than half its worth, from what I was told, they were paid in counterfeit funds.”
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