A Matter of Principle (15 page)

“
Did you make any headway there?”

Nicolas shook his head. “I doubt it.” He kissed her palm. “I hope to meet with Nelson and find what my best course of action is against such muckrakery.”

Sydney smiled, in spite of her pains. “Did you just make up a word?”

“
Perhaps. Do you like it?”

January 6, 1822

Cheltenham

Nicolas drove Stefan to school in the wagon. Snow had finally come, giving Missouri the sort of pristine look that artists romanticize on canvas. After dropping off his son, he pulled up in front of the post office, went inside and stomped the pristine beauty from his boots. The postmaster handed Nicolas his daily newspaper.

“
How is it going so far?” the man asked.

Nicolas shrugged. “It’s not what I expected.”

“
Are you long at home?”

Nicolas shook his head. “No. Vincent has me booked for a week of speeches in surrounding towns.” He unfolded the paper. The words of the headline jumped out and grabbed him.

Candidate Hansen’s Financial Mystery

Nicolas Reidar Hansen is running for state representative from St. Louis County. Not much is known about this man; he has no history in local politics. He has never held a recorded office. He is not a businessman, nor a plantation owner, nor does he hold a professional position. What does he do?

He claims to breed horses. But there are no records of him holding an auction, or registering any purely bred horses. No one in St. Louis can recollect seeing him ever trade in any type of horseflesh.

And yet, he lives well. He has rented apartments in St. Louis for use during the campaign. He wears the finest clothes, drinks the finest wines and brandies, and pays for services the common man would never consider.

Is it coincidence, then, that a certain brothel on Elm Street is being purchased by one of its very own? Or that Nicolas Hansen is known to have frequented this particular brothel on a regular basis? Or that his current wife has been seen in the company of the adventuress who is purchasing the establishment?

Could it be that Mr. Hansen is in actuality a ‘Madam’?

Nicolas folded the paper and stared at the postman without seeing him.

“
Nick?”

His eyes focused. “Yes?”

“
Is everything alright?”

“
No.” He turned and methodically opened the door, stepped outside, and pulled it shut. He drove the wagon home as quickly as he could in the slippery snow cover. He let Jeremy take care of the wagon while he saddled Fyrste. The huge stallion snorted and his flesh quivered at the reckless mood of his owner. Nicolas rode the animal to the house, and ran inside to tell Sydney where he was going.

“
St. Louis? Why? For how long?” she asked.

Vincent appeared at Sydney’s elbow. “You have a speech tomorrow in Webster Grove.”

“
I shall be home tonight. The sooner I leave, the sooner I return.” Nicolas kissed Sydney soundly and handed her the newspaper. “I need to see about something.”

Nicolas gave Fyrste his head and let him fly. The few inches of snow cover were no hindrance to the stallion’s huge iron-shod hooves, and his long legs chewed up the miles with exhilarating speed. Nicolas closed his eyes and let the rush of cold air calm him. Bits of snow hit his face, melting. Bits of mud hit his face, stinging. He breathed in the sweat and musk of the animal that strained beneath him, running, reaching, pushing.

Nicolas let Fyrste set his own pace, and eventually the horse slowed to a trot, then a walk. When they entered St. Louis, Nicolas guided him to the
Enquirer’s
brick-faced building. He swung off the saddle in a seamless drop, and tied the reins to the hitching post out front. Jerking the door open, he strode inside.

“
Who is in command here?” His deep voice filled the office, though he did not raise its level.

A man stood. “May I help you?”

“
You are?”

“
Ralston VanDoren, Chief Editor. And who might you be?”

Nicolas straightened and filled his chest, glaring down at the older man. “Nicolas Reidar Hansen.”

VanDoren stepped back and looked up. He swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Mister Hansen, won’t you come have a seat?”

Nicolas followed VanDoren’s gesture to a chair, his eyes checking each desk for any familiar face.

“
What can I do for you, sir?”

“
Who wrote this article?” Nicolas pointed to the front page splayed on Ralston’s desk.

“
One of my columnists.”

“
Which one of your columnists?”

“
He’s not here, at the moment.”

“
When do you expect him?” Nicolas hounded after the fox.

“
I’m not sure.”

The front door opened and four eyes turned, expectant. The slender man pulled off his black felt hat, and turned to VanDoren. Then his eyes slid to Nicolas, who rose, stunned.

“
You? You
are the snake in this newspaper’s grass?”

Rodger stood rooted in place.

“
You filthy—”

“
Hansen!” Rodger barked.

“
You are acquainted, then?” VanDoren stepped between the men.

“
We are,” Nicolas grunted.

“
And not friends, I venture?”

His gaze sliced back to the editor. “Not in the least.”

“
I must remind you both that we are standing in the office of a respectable business. We must be civilized.” VanDoren turned to Rodger. “Get to your desk.”

Rodger walked slowly, his eyes locked into Nicolas’s. Then, he blinked. One side of Nicolas’s mouth curled slowly, malevolently. He nodded almost imperceptibly. “Watch yourself, boy.”

“
Is that a threat?” Rodger’s voice wavered.

“
It’s a promise.” Nicolas turned back to VanDoren. “What’s his full name?”

“
Uh, Rodger Merrick.”

“
And where is Herbert Q. Percival?”

“
He’s not here.”

“
Where is he?”

“
I don’t know.”

Nicolas’s chest inflated, then he blew out long and hard. “Are we going to play that game again?”

“
I truly don’t know, Hansen. He writes sporadically, on consignment, and files his columns via messenger.” VanDoren slipped behind his desk.

“
And you pay him?” Nicolas did not hide his skepticism.

“
Also by messenger.”

Nicolas rested the heels of his hands on the editor’s desk. He narrowed his eyes and stared at the older man. “Words are being written about me that are not true.”

Ralston waved his hand. “If you can prove that, we are happy to print retractions.”

“
On the back page? Your lies are on the front.”

“
Are they lies?”

“
They are.”

“
Then prove it.”

Nicolas straightened. His gaze slid sideways to Rodger, pale and breathing hard at his desk.

“
This game goes both ways,” Nicolas warned him. “Remember that.” Then he crossed to the door and threw it open. He untied Fyrste and was gone.



Rodger gripped the bottom edge of his desk. His gut felt like jelly. Surges of conflicting reactions crashed in his chest. He stared at VanDoren, wide-eyed.

“
He’s a piece of work, isn’t he?” The editor wiped his face with both hands. “And he hopes to win an election?”

Rodger didn’t respond.

“
Merrick?”

“
Yes?” The word clipped short.

“
Are you well?”

Rodger nodded and shuffled papers on his desk.

“
What are you working on?”

“
I’ve an inkling concerning one of Beckermann’s misdeeds.”

“
Good! Off with you, boy!”

“
Yes. In a moment. I need to write a few reminders, first.” Rodger grabbed his quill and scribbled furiously. When he felt able to stand, he did so, stuffing the paper into his greatcoat pocket.

Rodger pushed the office door open and stepped into the cold January air. He gulped deep breaths, his spectral exhalations blown behind him by his rapid pace. When he passed a sidewalk vendor, he pulled the crumpled paper from his pocket and dropped it on the man’s fire. Meaningless ink scratches bubbled. The paper shriveled to ash.

“
Merry?” Lesley stepped from the kitchen. With one look at Rodger, he hurried across the drawing room to take his coat. “What happened?”

“
Hansen.”

“
Again?” Lesley hung the greatcoat on a hook. “What now?”

Rodger sat, elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling. “He came to the office. He was furious.”

Lesley sank into a chair. “So he saw you?”

Rodger nodded. “He saw me. He was surprised, and shocked perhaps, that it was me.”

“
Did he threaten you?” Lesley leaned forward. “Was it about that brothel column?”

“
I’m not sure.”

“
About which? The threat or the column?”

“
The threat was clear. I assume it was the column.”

“
What will you do?”

Rodger shook his head slowly. “I cannot risk writing things like that about him again.”

Lesley frowned. “Why not?”

“
Because he knows.”

“
Knows?”

Rodger fixed his gaze on Lesley. “He knows what I am.”

Lesley leaned back in his chair, his hand protectively over his heart. “Might he tell?”

“
Oh, yes he might. There’s no doubt.” Rodger’s tone made his point. “I’ve no desire to spend the rest of my life in prison.”

“
And Herbert?” Lesley ventured.

“
Herbert is safe. He can write any dang thing he wants to. And I expect he shall!”

Lesley sighed. “Well, then, there’s that, in any case.”

Rodger covered his face with his palms. He sat, unmoving.

“
Merry?”

Rodger peeked at Lesley from between his fingers.

“
What haven’t you told me?”

“
You’ll believe me mad,” Rodger whispered.

“
Never.”

Rodger scoffed. “Don’t make promises you cannot keep!”

“
Tell me.”

Rodger hesitated. “The man is magnificent.”

“
What? How?” Lesley scooted his chair closer. “And I expect specific details!”

“
If you repeat this to anyone, Lesley, I shall fire you on the spot! And I’ll make it known in all our circles that you cannot be trusted! Do you understand me?” Rodger avowed.

Lesley tilted his head. “I do, Merry. This must be good.”

“
Good? It was positively shattering.” Rodger shifted his position and spoke with his hands. “I didn’t recognize the stallion tied out front. Huge beast, seventeen hands at least. Mottled gray, black edges. And the most beautiful saddle I have ever laid eyes on.

“
I smelled him when I opened the door; cold air, sweat and leather. He was blown wild by the wind, his blond hair was everywhere. His coat was spattered with mud and damp with melted snow. He was untamed, rough-looking, and burning with the kind of anger that calmly removes your head from your neck.”

Lesley’s jaw hung slack. He nodded.

“
The power of the man filled the office. I couldn’t move, it was so thick. Doren finally ordered me to my desk, and I managed to walk there. But I couldn’t take my eyes from him.”

“
Yes…”

Rodger sighed heavily. “I hate him, Lesley, for what he’s done to me.”

Chapter Twelve

January 6, 1822

Cheltenham

Nicolas walked Fyrste along the mile from Cheltenham to his home, in spite of his impatience. The stallion had worked hard that day making the ten-mile journey to St. Louis and then back. Nicolas ached for Sydney’s company, and her calm way of looking at things. The discovery of Rodger Merrick at the newspaper had him completely undone.

Jeremy took the stallion from him. He trudged across the snowy yard and into the back door of the manor. The winter sun hung low in a yellowish sky.

“
Oh! Good afternoon, sir!” Anne was baking bread and a pie. Their mingled aromas made his mouth water. Sarah sat at the table with Kirstie on her lap. When Kirstie saw Nicolas, she reached for her
pappa
.

Nicolas smiled for the first time in hours and gathered the little girl in his arms. She grinned at him, her gray-blue eyes sparkling. Her curly light brown hair smelled of almond-oil soap.

“
She’s just had a bath,” Sarah said in her Cajun lilt. “She’s a sweet package, isn’t she?”