by Laura Parker
“Akbar isn’t my enemy, madame. Believe me.”
Hedda sighed and subsided into her chair. She picked up her teacup to inspect the contents. A quick sip brought a look of distaste to her features, and she placed it back in its saucer. “So, you do love him. I was afraid so. A pity.”
Philadelphia’s embarrassed gaze wandered to where her diamonds lay in the sunlight like a brilliant pool of pure spring water. “Will you recommend a pawnbroker to me, madame?”
Hedda stopped pouring a fresh cup of tea. “Are you determined to part with the gems?”
“I must.”
“Family pride notwithstanding?”
Philadelphia gave her a distracted smile. “What is pride when one is poor, madame?”
With great restraint, Hedda withheld the caustic remark that Philadelphia need have no fear of poverty if she remained beneath this roof. “Very well. I will buy the diamonds.”
“No!” Philadelphia didn’t realize how emphatically she’d spoken until she saw the amazed look on the woman’s face. “That is, I couldn’t allow you to, madame, after all you’ve done.”
Hedda reached for the necklace and held it up to the light with one hand while she lifted her lorgnette from its ribbon about her neck and closely inspected each diamond. “They’re real,” she declared finally. “Five thousand dollars.”
“But, madame—”
“Eight thousand!”
“Madame, please, you—”
“Ten thousand. That’s my final offer. Take it,” she urged in annoyance. “You won’t get a better offer elsewhere, certainly not from a pawnbroker. I ask only one thing in return.”
Philadelphia swallowed carefully over the lump of emotion lodged in her throat. “Anything, madame.”
Hedda turned very deliberately to her. “I will permit you to leave on the condition that when you’ve sorted things out—and I recommend that you do so quickly—you will again present yourself at my door with a full and thorough explanation of what has really been going on these last weeks. That French accent of yours is more unreliable than my new plumbing!”
Philadelphia smiled her chagrin. “There’s nothing I’d rather do, madame. Believe me.”
“Another thing, and I say this in the full knowledge that no one else of your acquaintance would ever advise you thus: if you are in love with that man, then tell him. He’s not getting any younger and heathen or not, a man is in his prime when he can still think of himself as young.”
To Hedda’s surprise, Philadelphia’s face fell and her golden eyes took on the distinct sheen of unshed tears for a second time. “You’re mistaken, madame. I don’t love him.”
Hedda didn’t say another word as Philadelphia turned and left the room. If she didn’t yet realize what her feelings were, no good would be served by pressing the matter. Still, she regretted the necessity of losing the girl before the little drama had been played to its conclusion.
Hedda picked up the diamonds and held them to her bosom over her heart. Yes, she regretted that, and the size of this enormous old house with only one small old woman to fill it.
Eduardo shifted into a more comfortable position on the leather seat of the private carriage as it rolled out of the coach yard of an inn half a day’s journey north of the city. Instead of reentering the major thoroughfare, the driver directed his horses onto a wooded lane that ran close to the shore.
Beyond the narrow trunks of trees on his left, Eduardo spied the broad back of the Hudson River gleaming in the early afternoon sunshine. Fifty yards from the shore a sailboat left a snail-track wake on the calm surface, its white sail arched proudly before a gentle breeze. The sight cheered him. It was a perfect traveling day, warm yet breezy, sunny but not blindingly so. It was the sort of day that offered endless possibilities of simple pleasures, the kind of day that made a man glad to be alive and not alone.
“Where are we going?”
The sound of Philadelphia’s voice dragged him from his musing, and he turned to smile at her. “Saratoga’s gambling season doesn’t open until August. Meanwhile, I thought you’d enjoy a holiday in the Hudson River Valley while we plan our next masquerade. I’ve rented a house for us on the river.”
“You mean for us to stay there by ourselves?”
He pursed his lips to hold back amusement until he could easily say, “Who do you suggest we invite, senhorita?”
Her gaze fell before his. “Oh.”
After a few moments of nervous silence, she darted a look at him and was glad to see that he’d gone back to his contemplation of the view. It gave her a chance to try to re-adjust to the changes in his appearance. Her gaze lingered curiously over the blue-black sheen of his hair and the rich caramel of his whiskerless chin. He smiled at some distraction in the distance, drawing her eyes to the sensually shaped lips that had pressed themselves to hers more than once.
She had left the Ormstead residence four hours earlier and traveled alone until noon in the rented carriage as per his instructions, when the driver had paused for luncheon at a traveling inn. It was when she reentered the carriage after her meal that she discovered she would no longer travel alone. But it wasn’t “Akbar” who occupied the opposite seat. It was Senhor Tavares, dressed for traveling in the latest European fashion.
The abrupt transition, without warning, was unnerving. She knew Akbar, trusted him. Did that mean she knew and trusted Eduardo Tavares? She wasn’t at all certain that that was so. He seemed as much a stranger to her as if he were an altogether different person. As he turned his head to smile at her, she looked away.
Something was wrong. Eduardo had noticed it the moment she climbed into the carriage, but he couldn’t fathom the reason for it. Unless it was the fact that he’d intercepted Henry Wharton before the man could say good-bye to her. Was that it? Was she sitting there grieving over the loss of that pale, dim-witted norteamericano?
The idea that her distress owed itself to another man rankled. What sort of man allowed a servant to prevent him from saying good-bye to the lady he loved? Yet Wharton had given up his attempt to see her without even a heated word. Had he been in Wharton’s place, he’d have braved half a dozen servants to see her. The coward shouldn’t even have been allowed the grace to leave a note.
She was well rid of Wharton, and if she didn’t soon realize it he’d put the matter to rest in his own way. After all, he had time and success on his side. Their first venture together had been quite profitable. Which reminded him.
“Here’s your share of our sale. It comes to something just over four thousand dollars.”
Philadelphia looked down at the banker’s note he placed in her lap. “I don’t want it.”
“Senhorita, you always say that when I offer you money.”
The sound of his voice, soft-voweled and unaltered now by the necessity of disguise, sent a shiver of disquiet along her spine. He was like quicksilver; liquid, bright, uncontainable, flowing naturally and effortlessly into whatever shape and need the moment required. There were moments, like now, when she wondered why she had ever trusted him at all. “I can’t accept Mrs. Ormstead’s money. It’d be like stealing from relatives.”
“She has a beautiful necklace in place of her cash,” he reminded her.
“Still.” She paused to reach for as reasonable a tone as she could muster. “If we hadn’t left the city so quickly I might have sold the diamonds elsewhere. A few days would have been all it would have taken to place them.”
“We didn’t have a few days.”
“Why not?” She tensed herself as the silence drew out. “I demand that you tell me why we left the city so precipitously. Is it because of the marquis?” Her voice quavered as she added, “Did he threaten to expose us?”
“You need not concern yourself with thoughts of the marquis,” he said shortly.
“Why not? What happened? I know you went to see him. What did you do? You didn’t—?”
He leaned forwa
rd. “Didn’t what?”
The challenge in his gaze gave her pause even in her thoughts. “Well … I don’t know precisely what.”
“Something like murder, perhaps?” he suggested softly.
“Murder?” she whispered, hoarse with shock. “You … ?” She knew she couldn’t have finished the thought if her life had depended on it.
He sat back, his bold mouth flattened into a straight line. “Do you see me as a bloodthirsty bandoleiro, senhorita? Do I remind you of every dark-skinned savage who ever threatened you in your schoolgirl nightmares?”
“Certainly not!” she snapped as his barb stuck closer to her thoughts than was comfortable. He did haunt her dreams, his kisses and those gorgeous eyes that saw more than was proper, but the fear she felt was only for her own sanity. How could she desire in her dreams a man she scarcely knew in her waking hours? “I’m quite capable of levelheaded thinking, senhor. I simply wished to know what had become of the marquis. It was you who suggested murder.”
“Did I? I apologize. The marquis is quite alive. He has decided, however, that America does not agree with his health and is at this very moment sailing for Europe.”
“I see.” But she didn’t. Did he possess such power that people did as he ordered, even if it meant leaving the country?
As every turn of the carriage wheels carried her farther from New York, she regretted more and more not throwing herself on Mrs. Ormstead’s mercy and confessing everything. She regretted so many things that she didn’t even realize that her thoughts had translated themselves into tears.
Annoyed with her for her foolish thoughts and his own jealous ones, Eduardo tried but failed to keep his gaze from straying toward her. He was amazed to see her weeping in absolute silence. At least, he supposed, crying was the correct expression. Two crystal tears slipped down her cheek, but neither by shortened breath nor movement did she betray any awareness of the event. It was as though her body were making a secret attempt to dislodge its overburdened senses without the consent of her mind.
The women he’d known in his life would never have let a display of tears go unnoticed. Nurtured on centuries of the stormy intercomingling of Portuguese and Spanish drama, native Indian passions, and African spirituality, all communicated in physical dimensions, a Brazilian woman could wring more emotion from a single tear than he’d seen Philadelphia Hunt reveal in all the weeks of their association.
He shifted his gaze away from her proud, if slightly damp, profile. She wasn’t unfeeling. She wasn’t cold. Deus! Just sitting beside her was warming him so thoroughly his skin seemed to simmer beneath his clothing. How long had he been without a woman? The realization registered with mild shock. That long? He nearly qualified for sainthood.
He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the note Wharton had quickly scribbled. If her tears were for him then she’d better read it now and have it over. Before they left the Hudson shore, he intended to completely wipe the man from her thoughts.
“Wharton asked me to pass this on to you.” He held the note between two fingers as he offered it. “I suggested that he forgo maudlin and trivial good-byes but …” He shrugged.
Philadelphia snatched the note, half-expecting him to withdraw it. “Did you read it?”
“I’ve never been driven to reading the scribbling of a lovesick schoolboy.”
“Then how to do you know it’s a love letter?” she challenged.
“The drool on the envelope,” he pronounced with glee.
She looked down at the note. “I should have said goodbye.”
“And given him the chance to spout whatever passes in his mind for passionate pleading? You’d have been subjected to a dozen awkward moments, perhaps even a threat of suicide. I don’t think you’d have liked it one bit.”
“I know one thing,” she answered with a cold unfriendly look. “I don’t like you one bit!”
“Fire from the ice maiden at last!” His rich laughter purled through the carriage, filling it with eddies of deep masculine good humor. She ignored him and opened the note.
Eduardo expected any of several reactions; sadness, a repetition of silent tears, guilt, regret, poignant loss. The stricken look that dilated her eyes was one he didn’t expect. “What is it?”
Philadelphia looked up at him, but in her mind’s eye she saw only the wording on the page she’d just read. Lancaster was dead.
Eduardo leaned forward and reached out. “Let me see what the idiot’s written that disturbs you so.”
“No!” She snatched the paper out from under his grasp. “No,” she repeated in a more reasonable voice. “It—it’s nothing. I was only reminded of something else.” She quickly stuffed the note in her purse and closed it.
“You’re trembling, senhorita.”
“Am I?” She laced her fingers together in her lap, not looking at him. “It must be fatigue. I didn’t sleep well.”
“That’s unfortunate,” he said mildly, but he was aware of every shade of expression that slipped across her face like clouds shadow the sun. “I, myself, always sleep the sleep of the innocent. I’m told, however, that there’s nothing like the breath of country air to calm a troubled spirit. Our hiatus on the Hudson would seem the perfect remedy for your problem.”
She didn’t answer him. She scarcely heard what he said. She wanted only silence.
Lancaster was dead. What were Henry’s exact words? She couldn’t remember. Anger threaded through the chill that had enveloped her. She didn’t dare retrieve the note. Tavares would try to take it from her and the last thing she wanted was for him to see it. Yet she couldn’t resist a fishing expedition. “Tell me, senhor, do you have business dealings in the United States?”
“Of course.”
“Then you can advise me. I would like to open an account with my newfound riches. I had asked Mr. Wharton to recommend a bank to me and he named the Manhattan Metropolitan Security Bank as a favorable choice.” She slowly lifted her eyes to his, hoping that her expression was unreadable. “Do you know of it?”
Years of experience kept his expression from altering but inside Eduardo recoiled as if from a striking snake. What had Wharton to do with Manhattan Metropolitan Security Bank, and why was she asking him about it? “If memory serves, senhorita, that bank closed more than a year ago.”
“Did it? Why?”
He shrugged. “Bad investments? Cash flow problems? Shortages? Embezzlement?”
“So many problems for one bank?”
“I only suggest possibilities, senhorita.”
She looked away. “Don’t you find it odd that so many banks fail? I’m reminded of my father’s case. The circumstances were so unexpected and brutal in their consequences.”
“Banking is a risky business,” he said, his gaze never leaving her. “Why does the fate of this bank interest you?”
“Henry Wharton is a friend of the banker,” she lied.
“Then why does he recommend to you a bank that he must know has been closed for more than a year?”
She could have bitten off her tongue. She wasn’t any good at lying. Why did she try? She looked back at him, hoping a direct gaze would help her weak defense. “I meant to say they were acquainted. I suppose they lost touch through the years.”
“The scandal was quite well known,” he said carefully. “It made every major paper east of St. Louis. Strange nephew Henry missed reading about it when even I heard of it.”
“Did you have business dealings with the bank?” She held her breath.
Softly, kitten, you tread on a panther’s tail, Eduardo mused. “I am very particular in my choice of business associates, menina. I don’t deal with thieves or imbeciles, or fools.”
“I will accept that as a compliment,” she replied in a curiously husky voice.
“It was meant to be. In future, I would prefer that you come directly to me with your questions. I will be as frank with you as reason allows.”
&nbs
p; “Your reason,” she returned with particular emphasis.
“My reason, of course. Now look there, menina, and you’ll see our new home.”
Philadelphia followed the line of his pointing finger to the top of a hill overlooking the river where a many-gabled house stood on the crest of a wooded cliff. The sight gave her a chill. It might have come directly from the pages of one of Mr. Edgar Allan Poe’s stories. Was Eduardo Tavares toying with her or had his words only provoked her because she knew something he did not? She didn’t know the answer to that question nor, at present, a way to find it.
She sat back, subdued and chastened. There were two other letters in her purse. In a private moment, she would look to them for direction.
The terrace of the house overlooked a sunken garden streaked with the vivid and abstract shades of a painter’s palette. Nearby, the fragrant honeysuckle wreathed the balustrade and scattered its scent on the breeze. The last rays of the late-June sunset cast long purple shadows across the expansive green yard, which dipped brown fingers into the shallows of the Hudson.
Philadelphia stood with her back to the house, absorbing the joy of her first day at Belle Mont. How foolish she’d been in ascribing any hint of darkness and disaster to the house. It was large and airy with many windows facing the river and many more looking toward the distant mountains. There wasn’t anything in the least foreboding about the tranquil scene stretching out before her. Even Eduardo Tavares had seemed subdued upon his entrance into the house. He had elected to remain inside for an afternoon nap while she walked as far as the river to clear her head of old worries and new fears.
The exercise had done wonders for her mood. At this very moment, she would have welcomed his companionship. The thought surprised her as much as the realization that it was true. She missed Akbar. Though she discounted Mrs. Ormstead’s assertion that she had fallen a little in love with him, she had felt a genuine companionship in his presence. Perhaps she could make her peace with Tavares equally well. After all, Akbar and he were one and the same. At least she would try, beginning at dinner.