Beguiled

by Laura Parker

  Yet deep inside she knew that Tyrone had not lied about Eduardo’s part in her father’s destruction. Eduardo was guilty, she had seen his confession in his eyes, that same deep black gaze that had seemed to reflect his love for her. Perhaps the greatest lie of all had been Eduardo’s. He said he loved her, but how could he? He had hated her father enough to destroy him. Then he had turned his powers of persuasion on her, had made her fall in love with him. Had that been his purpose all along, to make her betray her father’s memory in the arms of his enemy?

  No, she could not quite believe that. Eduardo had been too generous, too concerned with her welfare these last months. Those first days in New York when she had been terrified, he had been there for her, as Akbar, a quiet ever-present comfort. And then those weeks along the Hudson when he had made her aware of herself as a woman and of the power of erotic love, surely Eduardo could not have faked his desire. Yet, if he did love her, his actions became even more inexplicable. Why would he allow himself to fall in love with the child of a man he despised?

  Why? It was the question both Eduardo and Tyrone had chastised her for not asking. What would make a man hate another with such rage that he would deliberately set out to destroy him? Tyrone had called her father a coward, said his suicide was proof of his lack of love for her.

  Philadelphia shied from that thought. It was the one suspicion she had not dared. Her father had been a man hounded, besieged, not thinking clearly. He would not have abandoned her, otherwise. Or had he?

  The niggling suspicion that there was something she did not know would not be silenced. It clamored about in her mind demanding her full attention. An old memory pushed in on her thoughts, drowning out the cherubic voices of the choir. Christmas of 1862. The year of MacCloud’s visit. The glimpse of the beautiful blue Brazilian stone before she was sent fleeing from the library by her father’s order. Never before or since had he raised his voice in anger to her.

  She took a deep breath, shaken by the depth of the emotion the remembrance roused within her. Yet this time she forced herself to look back on the memory with an adult’s awareness. What had caused her father’s sudden rage? The sight of the blue stone, she suddenly realized. It was a precious jewel. Even as a child she realized the value of something so large and brightly colored. Was it possible that the stone had caused a rift between MacCloud and her father? But what connection could that have with Eduardo?

  She lifted her head in alarm as a gentleman knelt down beside her. Tyrone! No, it was a stranger who had joined her in the pew. He smiled and nodded but she turned away, shaken by the encounter.

  She was beginning to understand the power of hatred. She hated Tyrone, would do him injury if it was within her power. Perhaps it was within her power! Tyrone was seeking MacCloud. What if she told MacCloud about Tyrone, so that he might escape?

  She gazed up to where the sacred ceremony of unselfish love was being performed on the altar, and wondered if God would strike her dead for her thoughts. Certainly it would be an unholy revenge, but it might just cast a devil back into Hell.

  She waited until the service was complete before slipping out of the pew and exiting the church. She was surprised to find the street before the church damp from a brief morning shower. Yet even as the clouds scudded past to reveal the sun, the heat of summer eased into the air. With two thoughts in mind, she skirted the puddles on the cobblestones and traversed the street to Jackson Square. First, she must hide from Tyrone, who would no doubt set out to look for her when he realized that she had disappeared. Second, she must find MacCloud.

  She wandered down toward the bank of the river, stopping at a street vendor’s to buy corn fritters with honey and coffee in a tin cup. The sight of the river had a calming effect on her. No one would think to look for her here, among the mercantile trade along the wharves. Even the rough seamen and riverboat men kept a respectful distance from her. When she stopped at a merchant’s storefront to inquire about a cotton merchant named MacHugh, as MacCloud was now calling himself, she discovered that he was well known along the waterfront. Within minutes of the friendly conversation, she had his address.

  “Come in, come in, young lady,” MacHugh greeted as he ushered her into his office on the second floor of the Royal Street Auction Exchange. “It is Miss Hunt, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Philadelphia Hunt,” she answered as she crossed the room and took the leather chair he indicated before his desk.

  “Well, I’m most honored by the unexpected pleasure of your visit,” he continued as he rounded the desk which stood before tall open windows. She glanced beyond him and saw that his view included tall magnolias, and in the distance the golden back of the Mississippi.

  “Is there anything I can get for you?” He gestured toward the silver service on the nearby tea cart. “A cup of cocoa? Cafe au lait?”

  “Yes, coffee would be nice,” she answered. She gazed around the well-appointed room, noting the mahogany-stained cedar paneling, heavy dark plantation furnishings interspersed with delicate Louis XVI tables, and a superb collection of Chinese porcelains. “I see you are something of a collector, Mr. MacHugh,” she said when she spied a pair of Meissen statuettes flanking the fireplace opposite his desk.

  “I dabble,” he said, offering her the cup of coffee he had poured.

  “My father was also a collector. It would seem you have much in common.”

  MacHugh’s eyes narrowed as he continued to smile at her. “You said last evening he is a banker, I believe?”

  “Was. He is dead.”

  “My sincere condolences, Miss Hunt.”

  She stared at him, feeling as calm and cold as a frozen fjord. “I know who you are. You came to Chicago when I was a little girl. You brought me hard candies, and peppermints, and a doll dressed in a Scottish tartan. Were they the colors of the MacCloud clan?”

  She saw him falter. He set his coffee cup down so hard that the contents splashed over the side and wet his hand. Then he recovered, smiling as he patted his hand dry with a linen napkin. “I should have remembered you. It’s been some time, Miss Philadelphia. Nearly ten years?”

  “Thirteen. Christmas, 1862.”

  He nodded, seemingly recovered from his surprise. “A fateful time for all of us. The South was aflame with war, its industries in shambles.” He favored her with a sentimental smile. “I’m a Southern gentleman by birth and persuasion. Charleston is my real home. A man does what he must in times of conflagration. Your father and I were friends long before the war. We were men of commerce first and last.”

  He was evading a direct answer to her question but she did not stop him. Sooner or later he would say something that would give her a clue as to how to proceed.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I changed my name, just as I’m wondering why you’ve come here today.” He looked away and picked up his cup. “Frankly, there are those who would pay well for the information you possess.”

  “Because I know your real name? Why would that be of value?”

  He glanced at her with dislike that he masked almost at once. “Why? Because the South lost the war, my dear. Victors often brand as criminal that which would have been considered an act of valor had it been performed for the winning side. So, I changed my name and my place of residence. I had a family to think of. My daughter’s about your age. I’d lost two sons in the war and every cent I sunk in the cause. I was destitute and heartsore. I’d given up enough without tendering my life, don’t you think?”

  “You wrote my father a year ago.”

  He looked puzzled by her abrupt change of topic but his tone was polite. “Did I? Perhaps I did. What of it?”

  “I think it was in reference to the death of Mr. Lancaster in New York.”

  MacCloud began to thumb his earlobe. “So, Wendell told you about that, did he? I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him.” He looked up sharply. “What exactly did he say?”

  She did not answer directly. There w
ere other things she might learn from him before she revealed how little she really knew. “My father committed suicide four months ago with your letter clutched in his hand.”

  “Damned fool!” he muttered, thinking of his letter. He lifted his hands in apology. “Forgive my rough language, little daughter. But a man must learn to live with his mistakes as well as his triumphs, or the grief will kill him. I was sorry to hear your father sought that method to end his troubles.”

  “Why would someone want to ruin my father?”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “My father was deliberately ruined. He was lured into a scheme to discredit him and destroy his bank.”

  MacCloud looked genuinely surprised. “Are you certain? Many a bank has gone under when its officers over-speculate. I should know. Speculating is my business.”

  “Did you take part in the speculation that ruined him?”

  His thick orange brows rose three-quarters of the way up his forehead. “I should say not! Had he asked my advice, and he didn’t, I might have warned him away from the sort of scheme that could bring ruin. Your father and I were longtime friends and associates. Been together since the late forties. He struck it rich before me but then I struck it bigger than he.”

  His ruddy face split with a grin. “We were a pair of young scalawags in those days, I can tell you. Into everything and afraid of nothing. Fortunes aren’t made by the fainthearted, Miss Hunt. Your father was a regular tiger in his day.”

  “He must have made enemies,” she said quietly.

  “Well now, every man worth his salt has an enemy or two.” An arrested look came into his expression. “You don’t mean to say you think he was ruined for the purpose of revenge?”

  Philadelphia removed a letter from her purse and offered it to him. When he had read it with a guarded expression he looked across at her. “Sounds like tomfoolery to me.”

  She took back the letter. “My father died holding three letters: this one, an hysterical note from Mr. Lancaster just before his death, and yours. Your letter mentions Brazilians and a warning about spading over old graves. Mr. Lancaster’s letter mentions retribution for old wrongs. This letter speaks of graves and judgment. What is the connection between them, Mr. MacCloud? What had my father done?”

  The man rose to his feet, swearing under his breath as though she were not there, and turned his back on her to gaze out of the window.

  Forcing herself to sit perfectly still, Philadelphia waited, dreading yet almost unable to bear waiting for the moment he would turn back to her. He knew something! The hair lifted on her arms and nape. And, suddenly, she knew that what he would say wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

  He turned slowly from the window, a slight frown on his face. Then he moved from behind the desk and approached a painting on the far wall. The frame was hinged and swung away from the wall like a shutter. Behind it was a vault. He worked the tumbler with the speed of familiarity and then opened it. When he had reached in and withdrawn a velvet pouch with gold cording ties, he turned and came back toward her, opening the bag.

  “Hold out your hand, young lady. And be very careful, for it’s heavier than you’d expect.”

  Reluctantly, she complied. He withdrew an object and placed it in her hand. The huge sky-blue crystalline stone could scarcely be accommodated within the cradle of her fingers and palm.

  “It’s called the Blue Madonna,” MacCloud pronounced. “Can you guess why?” When she shook her head, he took her gently by the elbow to help her rise. “Come toward the window. You need strong light. Yes, stand here. Now hold it up so that it faces you at eye level. What do you see?”

  For a moment she saw nothing, only the polished uneven surface of an uncut gem. Then the light refracted beneath the surface of the jewel merged into the ghostly configuration of a woman’s face. It was more an impression of features rather than a clearly delineated image. The delicate outline of a woman’s high rounded forehead, narrow nose, and gentle curve of chin were radiated back from the depths of the gem, as was a faint aura surrounding the head.

  Philadelphia looked up at the man standing beside her with wide eyes. “It’s amazing. I see a woman’s image.”

  He nodded, pleased that she was impressed. “That’s the madonna of the blue stone; the Blue Madonna. At least, that’s what the Brazilian villagers who discovered it call her. Not only is a blue topaz of that size rare, the fact that it’s a religious relic makes it nearly priceless.”

  Philadelphia looked down at the stone. “I remember that you offered it to my father the Christmas you came to see us.”

  “I offered to sell it to him,” he corrected. His frown returned. “I was wiped out, the war on. I was moving my family west and needed money. But Wendell wouldn’t touch it. He gave me a few dollars and told me to get out.”

  “Why?”

  He lifted the topaz from her hand and placed it back in the velvet bag before turning a lazy-lidded stare on her. “Don’t know as I ought to tell you, without your father here to defend his side. Still, it was a long time ago. It was back in ’60. We were in Brazil, in Manaus where the Amazon and the Rio Negro converge. The three of us, Lancaster, your father, and I were there to cut a deal for rubber.”

  “My father traveled often when I was a child,” Philadelphia prompted.

  MacCloud looked away a moment, as though wondering if he had said too much. “Well, that’s where we heard the story of the Blue Madonna. It was said to be in the possession of savages who lived deep in the rain forest. The idea of possessing the gem just took us over. The three of us maintained a friendly rivalry when it came to collecting rare objects. Even so, we couldn’t very well search for it ourselves so we went in together to offer a reward to whoever would bring us the Blue Madonna.”

  “You hired men to steal the gem?” she asked incredulously, trying to understand that her father had been party to the theft.

  MacCloud grinned. “Have you been in a museum lately? They’re full of the booty people have carted back from their adventures. Humph! What good was the Blue Madonna doing lying in the jungle being worshiped by half-naked savages? A man makes his chances by seizing opportunities, and don’t make the mistake of thinking your father was any different than I. Your father owned more than one item I know personally was stolen at his instigation. Why, we had bought and sold our way around the world before you were born. Rubber, gold, silks, copper, tea; we made and lost more fortunes than I care to remember. The Blue Madonna was a mere bagatelle.”

  “Then why wouldn’t my father buy it from you?”

  His gaze wandered away from hers. “Sometimes a man loses his nerve. It took two years for the stone to surface in New Orleans. By then everything had changed. The war was on. Men suddenly began to value life differently. Lancaster and your father were Yankees while I was the Reb. Maybe that made a difference. All I know is after looking into it once, your father wouldn’t touch it again. Do you know what he said? He said it was cursed. Had he been a religious man, I’d have thought he’d had a vision. Anyway, he and Lancaster up and sold out their shares in it to me.”

  “That doesn’t explain why someone would have wanted to ruin him.”

  “There’s no proof he was ruined. You’re dodging shadows.”

  “I know the name of the man who ruined him.”

  MacCloud’s indifference evaporated, his pale eyes narrowing. “Who?”

  She hesitated, though she did not quite understand why. Tyrone had destroyed her dreams of a life with Eduardo and nothing she had heard here had changed her feelings about that. He deserved no consideration. “Do you know a man called Tyrone?”

  She had never seen a man’s face alter so radically, the guarded alertness became amazed fury, distorting his mouth and bulging his eyes. “Tyrone?” He thrust his face into hers. “What do you know about Tyrone?”

  She took an involuntary step back. “I know that he searches for you, and that he wants to
kill you.”

  He caught her by the wrist. “How do you know that? Damn you! Answer me!”

  She winced at the pain his fingers inflicted but she did not back down. “I thought you’d know the answer to that, Mr. MacCloud.”

  He looked like he might strike her. Instead, he released her with a shove that sent her staggering back against the drapes. “You don’t know a damned thing, do you? Oh, you know something, but not much. Did Tyrone send you?” Even as she shook her head, he reached into his desk drawer. “I advise you to tell me everything, Miss Hunt, if that’s your real name.”

  “I am Wendell Hunt’s daughter,” Philadelphia said with as much dignity as she could summon. “I’m sorry I disturbed you. I’ll leave now.”

  “Oh no.” He withdrew a pistol from his desk drawer. “You can’t walk out of here, knowing what you do about me. If Tyrone sent you, he’ll be waiting for you. Once you’ve confirmed who I am, my life won’t be worth warm spit.”

  “Mr. Tyrone is no friend of mine,” she said with the force of truth.

  MacCloud smiled as he saw the flush of genuine anger enter her face. “Well now. You, too, have a grievance against the man. You say you won’t further Tyrone’s interests. But you wouldn’t mind poking a stick in his spokes, would you?”

  Philadelphia hesitated. MacCloud was a far different man from the one she had expected. His rages were very much like Tyrone’s. “How?”

  He waved the pistol menacingly. “The less you know the better. You just take me to Tyrone and I’ll do the rest. I’ve been waiting a long time for this accounting.”

  She eyed him with great dislike. “And if I won’t help you?”

  His smile turned ugly. “I didn’t tell you everything about the Blue Madonna. From the beginning, your father wanted it more than the rest of us. He doubled the reward when no one would take our first offer. It wasn’t until he learned that the men he had hired had killed several Indians in order to obtain the gem that he changed his mind about owning it. He said he saw a death mask, not the Madonna, in it.”