Betina Krahn (12 page)

“I’ve seen a good bit of life, and I’ve learned that sometimes difficulties are just opportunities in disguise.” She creamed her coffee, then studied Priscilla over the rim of her cup as she sipped. “Does any of that make sense to you?”

Confused by her aunt’s composure in the wake of so traumatic an experience, and annoyed by the fact that her imperious aunt had seized her expression of concern as an opportunity for yet another lecture on Life, Priscilla scowled.

“I’m not a child, Aunt Beatrice. I do know a few things about life.”

She stalked from the room and down the main steps,
where Richards was admitting a familiar face to the entry hall. Surprised, she paused on the landing to smooth her hair, then proceeded down the stairs to greet Detective Blackwell.

“Good morning, Detective.” She extended her hand with ladylike aplomb. “We certainly didn’t expect to see you this morning.”

The young man’s eyes brightened as he pressed her hand.

“I didn’t expect to be here so soon. But when I left here, my men and I spent a good part of the night checking taverns and waterfront gang haunts. I believe I have uncovered the identity of your aunt’s assailants.”

“You have?” Priscilla drew her hand back abruptly.

“My goodness, Detective, you’re not only dedicated, you’re efficient,” came Beatrice’s voice from above. They turned to find her coming down the steps. “Who are they?”

“Mrs. Von Furstenberg.” He smiled and nodded to her. “A pair of Irish day laborers who do a bit of ‘night work’ on the side. Your recollection gave us a head start. One seems to have been Dipper Muldoon and the other was most likely his partner, Shorty O’Shea. We’re searching for them now.” He glanced back at Priscilla, who managed a sickly smile, and then he assured them: “It’s only a matter of time.”

THREE DAYS AFTER
his disastrous dinner with Beatrice Von Furstenberg at the Oriental Palace, Connor Barrow still was not himself. He rose each day at the usual hour, had his customary breakfast, and spent the morning seeing clients in his law office on Fourteenth Street, just around the corner from Tammany Hall. Each
afternoon, he had dinner with a client, a precinct captain, or a city official, then he spent much of the afternoon in election meetings and walking the streets, talking to shopkeepers, craftsmen, and city workers who were registered in the Fourth District. Supper found him at O’Toole’s, sampling Mary McMurtry’s delicious fare.

But dogged adherence to a well-established routine was the only normalcy in his life. He frequently came to his senses on the street and discovered he had walked well past his destination or missed a cab or trolley because he was staring at the pavement or scowling off into space. He left his food half eaten, had difficulty falling asleep at night, and had to ask everyone to repeat what they’d said. His law clerk chanced a remark on his uncharacteristic lack of attention to details, and he erupted in an uncharacteristic explosion.

But it wasn’t until a message written in a feminine hand and bearing a Fifth Avenue address arrived that he recognized that for the last three days he’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop. He had unfinished business with Beatrice Von Furstenberg and when he read the high-handed summons she had issued him, he was on his feet in a heartbeat and reaching for his hat.

It was the rancor of their last parting that had plagued him, he told himself. He felt unjustly accused, and the contempt in her face as she ordered him out the door had lodged like a nettle in his pride, preventing him from putting the whole damnable incident behind him. Now she had asked him to call on her and he intended to use the opportunity to set her straight.

As the cab rumbled along the brick streets, uninvited memories materialized in his mind: Beatrice in a black corset and black stockings, wielding a whip by torchlight … Beatrice wrapped in a tousled sheet … her
green eyes wide with surprise … Beatrice, with her breasts spilling out of a leopard-print gown, looking like the brazen huntress she was at heart. Every image seemed to raise the temperature in the cab. His mouth went dry.

It was only when the cab rolled to a stop in front of the imposing Fifth Avenue mansion that he managed to get around to the reasons she might have for insisting that he come to her home straightaway. As he stood on the doorstep fiddling with his cuff links and picking imaginary lint from his sleeves, a host of unpleasant possibilities descended on him … including the prospect that she’d somehow learned the truth.

What the hell was he doing here?

Before he could escape down the steps, the door opened.

“Mr. Barrow?” An efficient-looking butler waved him inside with one gloved hand and reached for his hat with the other. “This way, sir. Madam is expecting you.”

Connor followed, tugging down the bottom of his vest and taking in the white marble entry hall, crystal chandeliers, and gold-framed portraits lining the sweeping staircase. Everything about the place spoke of wealth and power and of the owner’s willingness to use both to gain the advantage in everything she did.

As the butler showed him into the drawing room, he felt himself bracing.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Von Furstenberg.”

She was standing on the far end of a large, rectangular chamber decorated in a style that could only be called “palatial cozy.” Oak paneling, arched windows, and imposing gothic marble fireplace were balanced by plush, overstuffed chairs and settees upholstered in color-drenched damasks, abundant still lifes and landscapes,
oriental vases and screens, thick floral pattern rugs, and a storm of pettipoint pillows. Settled serenely amongst that profusion of color and pattern, dressed in a forest green silk with leg-of-mutton sleeves, and a scooped neckline, she was the set piece of the room and she clearly knew it.

“Do come in, Mr. Barrow.” She waved with regal authority toward the nearby settee. “And be seated.”

The huge doors behind him closed with a bang and he had to control a powerful urge to turn and make a run for them.

“Will whatever business you have with me take that long?” he said with more geniality than he felt.

“That depends, Mr. Barrow.”

“On what, Mrs. Von Furstenberg?”

“On you, sir.”

“Determined to be mysterious, I see.” He strode forward and took the seat she had indicated, determined to show no indecision or undo concern.

“On the contrary, Mr. Barrow. I am determined to dispel a mystery. I have spent some time and energy inquiring into the cause of my abduction. And I think you may be surprised at what I have found.”

“Very little you do would surprise me, Mrs. Von Furstenberg.” Every part his body seemed to be tightening, even his throat.

“Well, then,” she said with a smile, moving toward a cleverly disguised door on one side of the ornate fireplace, “you won’t be shocked to learn that I’ve located the men who kidnapped me.” She turned the handle and the door swung open into a small sitting room, where two bedraggled male figures were perched uncomfortably on the edge of a dainty floral settee.

Dipper and Shorty.

Connor sprang to his feet, feeling as if his stomach stayed behind and now rested somewhere in the vicinity of his knees. How the hell had she found them?

“Mr. Barrow!” and “Gov’ner!” They greeted him with a flare of hope that died as they perceived the horror in his face.

“They tell a most interesting tale. And your name figures prominently in it.” She crossed her arms and prodded the pair with an arch look. “Repeat for Mr. Barrow what you told me, gentlemen.”

“Well,” Dipper rose anxiously and rubbed his sweaty palms on his coarse trousers. “I said we were plenty sorry fer th’ inconveenyence we caused ’er. We wasn’t supposed to kidnap her.”

“We was supposed to rob her like,” Shorty put in.

“The congressman here … he told us there was a gent needed a job done an’ that we’d get paid right well for it. The young gent told us he wanted us to make believe we was robbin’ some old lady. Said we was to scare her real good and then he’d come an’ rescue her. Only he was late an’ the coppers showed up. We figured we wouldn’t get paid if she didn’t get ‘rescued’ … so we took ’er with us.”

“We owe Black Terrence money … an’ he wants to break our heads,” Shorty inserted. Dipper’s glower silenced him.

“The coppers kept gettin’ closer and closer … we had to stash her someplace safe and I spotted the Oriental. My cousin, Mary Kate, she works there, and I figured she’d help us out.” He shrugged. “So, we stowed th’ Missus there and laid low ’til that detective come nosin’ around and put the pinch on us.” Dipper
jammed his hands into his trouser pockets and tucked his chin.

“Sorry, gov,” Shorty said with a wince of apology.

“And who was this other ‘gent’ who was supposed to join you, only never came?” Beatrice demanded.

“Don’t know, ma’am. We jus saw ’im that once. Young fella. It wus dark,” Dipper said. Shorty echoed that with a vigorous nod.

“And what was he supposed to do when he arrived?”

Dipper shrugged and glanced at Connor. “Rescue ye, is all I know.”

“From your foul clutches,” she clarified.

“Yes, ma’am,” Shorty answered with a despondent nod.

“Thank you. Sit down, gentlemen,” Beatrice ordered. The pair sank as if someone had dropped lead weights into their trousers. She closed the door on them and turned again to Connor. “So,
you
are the one who recruited those two for the purpose of robbing and menacing me. Don’t waste breath denying it. What I want to know is the identity of the person responsible for this plot. Who hired these wretches and what were they truly supposed to do with me?”

“I haven’t a clue,” he said, folding his arms and hoping that grit and bravado might win out where logic and sanity had already failed.

“Don’t you?” She advanced on him, her eyes narrowing.

“Revenge is a vastly overrated pleasure,” he declared. “I strongly suggest you forget it and cultivate more improving pastimes.”

He turned sharply and headed for the door. With a sputter of outrage she rushed past him in a storm of swishing silk. She reached the door ahead of him, huddled
for a second over the door handles, then turned, holding an iron key with an air of triumph.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?”

With a cool smile, she plunged the key inside the rounded neckline of her dress, until only a small spot of iron was visible between the mounds of her breasts. He reddened all the way to his ears as he stared at that bit of metal.

“You can leave when I have the information I need,” she declared.

“Don’t be absurd.” He jerked his gaze from that disturbing sight. “Open the door.” He took a step forward so that he loomed over her as she stood with her back against the door. She looked up with a determined set to her jaw and a shiver raced through him, accompanied by palpable memories of the feel of her warm curves pressed hard against him and the pleasure of her soft mouth opening under his. Very bad move, he realized. Stiffening, he dropped back a step, then another, and struggled to right his derailed train of thought.

“Look, you have the word of those two numskulls that no harm was intended. And you have their word, my word, and Charlotte Brown’s word that your being at the Oriental was a mistake. Why can’t you leave it at that?”

She studied him for a moment, then pushed off from the door and strode back to the center of the room, where she rested her hands on the back of a chair.

“I am a businesswoman, Mr. Barrow. I don’t know if you can appreciate what that means in the New York business world. I am President of Consolidated Industries Corporation and sit on the boards of several other large business concerns. I compete on the open market to buy and sell, to manufacture, to transport, and to franchise. I buy and sell stock for profit and enter into hundreds
of financial transactions each year. Many of those transactions cost someone something … a stock loss, a forfeited supply of materials, a legal injunction, an option that will never be exercised … and I am seldom the one who pays. I am good at what I do, and there are many people in the business world who don’t like losing to a woman, whether it occurs in a fair contest or not.”

It took a moment for him to connect what she had just said with a comment she had made while at the Oriental. She truly was concerned that the entire episode might have been initiated by a business rival. That put him in something of a quandary. To reassure her would be to reveal his knuckle-headed participation in something that showed abysmal judgment … not to mention identifying himself as a party to a criminal action.

“If you are protecting someone, I’ll find it out.”

“I am protecting no one.” His conscience groaned.

“Except perhaps yourself?” she said, striking perilously close to the mark. “Tell me the name of the man who came to you and why he wanted to frighten me.”

“I can’t imagine anyone with half a brain trying to frighten you, Mrs. Von Furstenberg. That should eliminate the more intelligent of your business rivals. Quite honestly, I had no idea what the fellow was planning when I—”

“When you matched him with the two lackwits in the next room?” she finished for him. “Ahhh. We are getting somewhere. You admit you were involved from the beginning.”

He flinched. She had him dead to rights and they both knew it.

“I admit no such thing.” He backed up one step, then another. “A fellow approached me at O’Toole’s one evening and said he needed a couple of men for a job. I spotted
Dipper and Shorty in the tavern side and I sent them out to see him. That was the extent of my involvement.”

“Who was this ‘fellow’?” She folded her arms and leveled a glare at him.

“I had never set eyes on him before that night.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said.

“It’s true.”

“Why would you do such a favor for a perfect stranger? More importantly why do you continue to protect him?”

Connor tucked his chin and considered her words. Why indeed? He might be able to make up something plausible, but his own disgraceful part in this debacle had already been discovered. What was the point of protecting a spoiled adolescent whose entire problem was that he was already overprotected … from decisions, from responsibility, and from consequences … the very things that forced a boy to grow into a man.