Almost a Lady (22 page)

Oh, what
luck.
What pure, unmitigated joy at happening upon her this day, just as he was about to return home from his solicitor's office—taking a circuitous route, of course, so that he could pass this very location.

He'd been watching for her ever since the night
Outram
had been caught, driving past the Pinkerton National Detective Agency several times a day, hoping to catch a glimpse of his quarry, but she'd seemed to disappear. He hadn't been able to find her anywhere in the city, even though he'd asked several knowledgeable acquaintances about her possible whereabouts.
Discreetly, of course.
It wouldn't do to have anyone begin to wonder why he was so curious about the woman.

Everything was so much more complicated without
Outram
, he thought with a sigh. Here he was, not five yards from his prey, and he had to figure out how to capture her all on his own. Normally, he would simply order
Outram
to pull the carriage near the sidewalk where she walked and grab her from the street.

He only hoped this new driver would turn out to be as biddable as
Outram
; otherwise he might have to dispose of two bodies this afternoon—the true sinner and the witness. Of course, chances were. Fitch would indeed work out just as well as
Outram
had. He'd found him in the same rundown part of town, after all, and knew that the salary he paid the frail man would have Fitch looking—or not looking, as the case may be—in any direction his employer required.

Tapping the trap door of the landau with his gold-tipped cane, he ordered the driver to slow and keep the vehicle close to the curb. To his benefit, the sidewalk was far from bustling. This part of town was typically vacant in the middle of the day. And she was headed away from, not toward, the more crowded intersection a block back. He took that as a sign of approval from God.

A man passed her, heading in the opposite direction, and then she was alone. Her heels clicked on the concrete walk, keeping time with her feminine sway. She moved with a purpose he champed at the bit to stifle.
Lying little harlot.
Hussy.
Wanton. He would show her she had no cause for that spring in her gait.

"
Gain the young woman's attention,” he ordered through the opening in the roof.

The driver, startled by the request, stuttered a moment and then began to call out to her. It took several tries, but finally she paused, turned, and raised her head to address the driver. She lifted a hand to shade her eyes from the blazing sun and listened to the long, convoluted question being asked of her.

He opened the carriage door farthest from her and stepped silently to the street, coming around front of the vehicle in order to approach her from behind. And that's when he pounced. Lifting his cane, he brought it down against her skull with a sharp thud, startling even the horses by the suddenness of his actions.

The woman jolted in shock and the driver jumped to his feet on the raised perch. He shot the man a withering glare, daring him to abandon his post or assist her in any way.

Dazed, she
turned,
one hand to the back of her head, the other pulling at the strings of her reticule. When she saw him, registered his identity, her eyes widened and she began frantically tearing at her bag with both hands. No doubt for a weapon.

"Hello, my dear,” he greeted her politely, as though they were at a crowded luncheon rather than alone on the street, with him trying to knock her unconscious.

Her fingers dove into the bag at her wrist and he realized the urgency of the situation. “Ah, ah, ah,” he
tutted
and once again smashed the cane down on her head.

This time the solid metal came in contact with her temple, and a spot of blood began to ooze at her hairline. For one stunned second, she glared daggers at him. And then her eyes rolled back in her head and she crumpled to the ground.

Opening the door opposite the one from which he had exited and tossing his cane to the floor of the carriage, he grasped her beneath the arms and dragged her up and onto one of the seats. It took some doing and he was puffing with exertion by the time he was finished.

Yes, it had been much easier with
Outram
around, he thought, as he rapped on the roof and ordered the driver to take them home.

"There it is!” Erik all but screeched, pointing and bouncing on the carriage seat.

Brandt shifted to look out the window, following Erik's line of vision to the unblinking eye with the words WE NEVER SLEEP emblazoned above it
Hanging
perpendicular to the stone building at
66 Exchange Place
, the painted carving clearly marked the Pinkerton Agency.

"Yes, there it is,” he agreed. For being mentally challenged, Erik was quite an observant young man. He hadn't missed a trick at the circus—or since Brandt had known him, for that matter. He had trouble with the meaning of some words while speaking and his reading and arithmetic skills were lacking, as Brandt had expected. But even though he was several years behind other children his age, he worked hard and
wanted
to team.

"It's the eye sign, the eye sign!” Erik sang, still abusing the poor carriage seats by tossing his full weight up and down like a spring.

Brandt was beginning to understand what Willow meant when she said the boy never tired. They'd spent hours at the circus, milling through the crowds, exploring every brightly colored tent and exotic animal cage, purchasing some small trinket at every booth, and trying a little of each morsel of food offered.

Erik's hands and face were covered in assorted layers of red, brown, yellow, and white stickiness. Brandt, himself, felt slightly queasy from all the sweets he'd consumed. Willow should have warned him that, though Erik would be eager to taste a few bites of each treat he saw, he rarely finished the entire portion, leaving Brandt to eat or throw out the rest. By the end of their tour of the circus grounds, Brandt had begun buying only one small piece of whatever Erik wanted to try instead of two and eating or throwing much of it away.

Having seen a multitude of tattoos, three- and five-legged barnyard animals, as well as such wild beasts as a giant Python and an agitated lioness, they were now on their way to Robert's office, where Brandt hoped to clean the tacky residue from his own face and hands and turn Erik over to someone else's keeping for just a few minutes.

He wondered if his impatience to marry Willow and start a family hadn't been premature. Oh, he still wanted to marry her; there was no doubt about that. But if one small boy contained this much energy, he shuddered to think of having to care for more than one child at a time.

The thought of offspring brought an image of Willow to his mind, waddling and swollen with his child. To hell with being tired, he told himself silently, he'd sleep when he was dead. He wanted to make babies with Willow, to fill their house—wherever they finally decided to settle down—with a dozen little
Donovans
of all kinds and colorings. Brown-haired and violet-eyed or auburn-haired and green-eyed, whatever combination God decided to produce when they came together to create a new life, he wanted them all.

The carriage drew to a halt in front of the tall building and Brandt stepped out, turning just in time to catch a hurtling Erik as the boy threw himself from the vehicle. The air left Brandt's diaphragm in a grunt of pain as he regained his footing and arranged the child on his hip. Erik was certainly too big to be carried, but it wasn't that far to the door of the office and it was a far cry better than having him race off on his own and possibly having to chase him through the streets of New York.

"Willow here?” the boy asked.

"Yes, Willow is here, waiting for us. Now, Erik, you have to be quiet when we go in, do you understand? There are people working inside and we mustn't disturb them. And your sister may be sleeping, so we wouldn't want to wake her.
All right?"

Erik nodded, and then let his body bend all the way backwards over Brandt's arm as they crossed beneath the Pinkerton symbol. Brandt had to tighten his hold and redistribute the boy's weight to keep from dropping him.

Freeing one hand, Brandt opened the front door of the building and stepped into the cool interior. This would be the first time he'd encountered Robert since Willow's confession about their short, long-past affair, and Brandt honestly didn't know what his reaction would be when he once again came face-to-face with the man he now knew to be her first lover. He supposed he felt a niggling of jealousy low in his belly, but he couldn't say he'd honestly been surprised by her revelation. He'd suspected something all along, given their close relationship and the numerous gifts Robert had given Willow over the years.

And yet Brandt felt quite secure in his relationship with Willow, especially now that she'd consented to become his wife. He loved her and knew she loved him. Robert had married since the affair and was apparently quite a devoted husband, so there was really nothing to be concerned about. Brandt might not like the fact that another man had introduced Willow to the intimacies of lovemaking, but he would be the man she spent the rest of her life with, so he counted himself as the lucky one.

Mrs. Girard looked up as the door swung open, startled by their entrance. “Mr. Donovan. What a pleasant surprise.” She rose to her feet on the other side of her desk. “And who is this with you?"

"Erik Hastings,” Erik replied proudly, in a booming voice. And then, remembering that Brandt had warned him to be quiet, he tucked his chin into his chest and whispered, “Sorry. Erik Hastings."

The secretary's graying brows crossed. “Erik . . . Hastings? Are you any relation to Willow Hastings?” she asked the boy turning her eyes questioningly to Brandt.

"Didn't she tell you we'd brought her brother back with us?” A sickening feeling that had nothing to do with too many sweets seeped into his gut.

"Tell
us.
. .?” The woman's hands clenched and unclenched at her breast. “Why, we haven't seen Willow in weeks. Did you expect her to be here?” She tried to keep her tone calm, but Brandt heard the underlying concern in the words.

He dropped Erik, took only a moment to see that the boy had his footing, and then stomped toward Robert's office. Any thoughts of jealousy or male competition fled as fear for Willow replaced every other emotion in his body. “You're damn right I expected her to be here. We dropped her off outside hours ago. You're telling me she never arrived?"

With his hand already on the knob, he shoved the door open, once again barging into Robert's office unannounced. This time, he was speaking with two men, who whipped around in their chairs at his sudden appearance.

Not sparing a glance for the strangers, Brandt's eyes went directly to Robert, who was shaking his head in displeasure. Throwing his pen to the desktop, he rose and began to speak. “If you break into my office one more time, I swear on all that's holy—"

"We need to talk,” Brandt cut in. “Now."

"As you can see, I'm with—"

"
Now,
” Brandt said again, the single word sharp and demanding.

Seeming to sense the urgency in his tone, Robert moved around his desk. “I'm sorry, gentleman, but this is important. I'll just be a moment."

Closing the door behind him as he stepped into the outer office, Robert asked in a low voice, “What the bloody hell is going on this time?"

"Willow never showed up here?” Brandt charged.

"Willow?” This time it was Robert's brow that wrinkled. “No. She went to visit Erik, as I told you. I thought she would return with you, if you went to find her."

Brandt swore viciously and spun on his heel to stalk across the carpeted floor, his fists clenching and unclenching with fear and fury. “We arrived in the city hours ago. I took Erik to the traveling circus that's set up only a few blocks away. We dropped Willow at the curb and agreed to meet her here afterwards. Now Mrs. Girard tells me she never arrived."

Robert's eyes darted to Erik, who stood against a far set of oaken file cabinets, sucking nervously on the knuckle of one hand.
“No, she never . . . Oh, my God.
You don't think. . ."

The men's gazes locked. “Yes, I do think,
goddammit
. We have to find her."

"I'll assemble as many agents as I can find. Where should we begin looking for her?"

"You know where,” Brandt answered, his eyes narrowed, the words lethal.

"Right.
Mrs. Girard, watch the boy, if you would, please.” Marching down the hall, he knocked on the glass of the nearest door even as he pushed it open. “Jonathan, Gregory, come with me. We have an emergency.” Returning to Brandt's side, he lowered his voice and said, “You go find her. We'll be right behind you."

Brandt nodded and stormed into the street. He didn't look in Erik's direction as he passed. He couldn't. Because he didn't know how he would ever explain to the boy that his carelessness had gotten Willow killed.

Willow
regained consciousness degree by agonizing degree. Her head throbbed. She groaned, and the sound echoed in her ears. She sniffed and smelled a moldy dampness and melting beeswax. When she tried to stem the pain pounding in her brain with her hand, her arm refused to move. She tried to raise the other and met with the same resistance.

Why couldn't she move? Why did her head hurt without as well as within? A spot at the back of her skull and another at her temple ached, and her hands seemed anchored in place.

That was when she remembered.

Being hit from behind.
Turning to see Virgil Chatham bearing down on
her, that
cane glinting in the sun as he raised it to strike her again.

My God, Virgil Chatham had abducted her.
Grabbed her off the street in the middle of the day.

And Brandt hadn't been there to help her because he'd taken Erik to the circus. She should be glad of that, she supposed. At least they were safe, out of the reach of this madman.

Willow opened her eyes slowly, trying to block out the thudding beat in her brain, not knowing what she might encounter when she looked around. If she was bound, as she suspected by her inability to move her arms, then she was helpless. She'd had a pistol with her, in her reticule, but she imagined the weapon had been discovered by now. And because she'd been with Brandt and Erik, simply traveling back to
New York
, she hadn't bothered to stick her stiletto into her garter for added protection.

She was doomed.

No. She wasn't dead yet, and that was what it would take to keep her from fighting Virgil Chatham.

Candles burned all around, causing shadows to flicker on the dark, uneven walls surrounding her. Was she in a dungeon? The thought almost tickled a laugh from her throat. Did dungeons even exist anymore? She didn't think so, at least not in America, but she couldn't help noticing the stone confines, the dank odor.

She rolled her head and saw that her wrists were indeed shackled, stretched straight out from her body on the wide platform upon which she'd been laid. Pulling at her legs, she found that they too, were fettered.
Although, unlike her arms, they were secured together.

From somewhere, a chill draft blew through the
room,
causing the candle flames to dance wildly and making her realize that she was not fully clothed. Straining her neck, she looked down the length of her body and saw only pale flesh and a small amount of white material. Her heavy walking dress had been removed, as well as her garters and hose. Only her chemise and drawers remained.

Gooseflesh broke out along her skin. This must be how all those other women had felt; brought here against their will, stripped and tied down. Willow wondered how long Chatham had left them lying helpless. Did he kill them quickly, or had they endured hours of terror and torture, born physically and mentally?

She tried to think back to the condition of the bodies that had been discovered. She didn't recall marks other than the killing wounds to the heart, but she couldn't be sure.

A creak sounded somewhere above her head and she heard footsteps. The blood froze in her veins. He was coming. He was coming to kill her. And even though she knew it was useless, she struggled against the metal bonds that trapped her on the wide table.

"I see you're awake,” Virgil Chatham said as he came down a hidden stairwell and moved into view. He wore a long, black cape, clasped at the
neck, that
covered his entire form.

His voice made her skin crawl, just as it had the first time she'd heard it. She swallowed hard to keep from screaming.

"He brought you back to me, you know. I knew from the moment I saw you that you were not as virtuous as you pretended to be, but I had no idea you were such a transgressor. I realized you had to be dealt with like the others, but you disappeared."

He came to stand at her side, hovering above her. His heavy jowls quivered as he spoke. “You
oughtn't
have done that, my dear. It only postponed the inescapable. But God's will cannot be averted. He brought you back to me, and now I will carry out His wishes."

Brandt!
her
mind screamed. And though she knew there was no way for him to know where she was, no way to realize she was in trouble, she couldn't help being irritated by the fact that after all the times he'd refused to leave her alone when she hadn't wanted him around . . . the one time she needed him, he wasn't there.

Willow wet her dry lips, forcing herself to speak. “You . . . you killed those girls, didn't you?” She asked the question to distract Chatham, to hopefully slow his plans, but also to get him to confess. If a miracle occurred and she did get out of this dungeon alive, she wanted to know every detail of his crimes so there would be no doubt of his guilt.
If
she survived, she would arrest him and testify against him in a court of law, using his own words to convict him.