Forever Safe (Beacons of Hope) (2 page)

Then Arch grabbed her arm and dragged her forward without giving her the chance to right her hat. She blew at the feathers hanging in front of her face and attempted to keep up with him even though he was half-carrying her like a parcel under his arm.

“What’s happening, Arch?” she asked.

But the burly man couldn’t hear her over the instructions he was roaring at the footman of their Irving place mansion across the street. “Send for the police!” He sounded strangely winded and weak. “The attacker’s getting away!”

“Attacker?” Victoria strained to see behind her, but once again the feathers and ribbons on her hat blocked her view. “Who was it?”

Arch stumbled across the street to the short flight of scrubbed stone steps at the front of the Cole home, with her in tow. Victoria was surprised when Arch’s grip around her slackened and he deposited her none-too-gently on the landing in front of the footman. Her bodyguard was usually so much more careful with her.

“Take her in!” Arch bellowed breathlessly. “Now!”

The footman and several other servants who’d appeared in the doorway scrambled to obey the giant bodyguard. Within moments, Victoria found herself inside the front hallway. Her father was in the process of descending the curving marble staircase, and he, too, was calling out orders.

Servants rushed around her in chaos. When the sea of bodies separated, she caught a glimpse of Arch still on the front stoop. He’d fallen to his knees and was staring blankly ahead.

“Arch?” She elbowed her way toward him. But before she could reach him, he fell face down and hit the floor with a painful-sounding thwack. With his body sprawled across the threshold, several servants dropped to their knees next to him. Deep crimson began to form a puddle on the floor underneath him.

“Send someone for the doctor!” the footman yelled. “He’s been stabbed.”

“Stabbed?” Victoria dropped to her knees next to her bodyguard. Her pulse raced erratically as she took in his silent, unmoving frame. “Will he be all right?”

The footman and another manservant gently rolled Arch to his back, exposing the wide circle of blood near his waist. The blood had turned the wool of his dark blue coat almost black.

The footman lifted Arch’s coat and then rapidly lowered it while sucking in a hissing breath. “The wound is deep.”

“And he’s already lost a lot of blood,” said the other servant, with a glance outside.

Only then did Victoria see the blood on the front steps, trailing across the road from where Theresa stood, a lone figure in the open gate of the park.

Victoria stared at the blood and tried to make sense of what had happened. Arch had been stabbed and bleeding. Had he carried her to safety anyway?

She pressed a hand against his cheek expecting warmth but was met cold pallor instead. “He isn’t—” she started in a shaking voice. “He isn’t dead, is he?”

The footman turned and shouted at another servant in the hallway. “Hurry!”

Victoria sat back on her heels, suddenly dizzy.

“Someone take Victoria away,” her father said, kneeling on the other side of Arch. “This is too much for her.”

Gentle hands were upon her instantly, helping her to her feet and guiding her toward the stairway. She couldn’t find her voice or the strength to protest.

All she could think about was the fact that Arch was dying. And she was to blame.

T
om Cushman eyed the glass doors that led to the second story balcony of the Cole mansion. The elaborate iron railing surrounding the spacious outside sitting area provided at least a dozen holds for a grappling hook. An easy climb for an intruder. Only one lock on the double doors. A simple latch-style lock that even an idiot could pick.

The balcony and doors were safety hazards. If he took the job, they would have to go.

A servant’s heels clicked against the wooden floor in the hallway, nearing the sitting area where he’d been ushered exactly six minutes ago. Lighter footsteps than before. A different servant this time. A female. One hundred twenty pounds. A bunion causing her to favor one side, which meant she was probably middle-aged.

He rose as the servant entered the room. Sure enough, she was a petite woman with her hair pulled back into a tight bun revealing wings of gray at her temples. She wore a long black dress with a starched white apron over the top. From the pristine condition, he guessed she was probably the housekeeper in charge of all the other maidservants.

“Mr. Cushman?” she asked. The hint of chamomile surrounding her and the grains of sugar on her fingertips told him she’d just poured tea for someone. “Mr. Cole is ready to see you.”

Tom jerked on the wide lapels of his suit coat to straighten them and nodded at the woman. He followed her down the hallway decorated on either side with enormous paintings from a variety of famous European artists, Gainsborough and Blake among them. Open doorways on either side revealed a music room, a library, and another sitting room. They were all as elaborately furnished as any of the royal households he’d worked in during the past five years. The palatial size of the New York home, the classical columns and cornices, the lush carpets, the brightly papered walls, the ornamentally carved furniture. None of it made him even blink.

But with each step he took through the house, he spotted safety hazards—a loose window latch, a broken fireplace grate, a door without a lock, and many other small issues that could mean the difference between life and death.

When the housekeeper reached a carved walnut door and knocked, Tom quickly reviewed all he’d researched already about Henry Cole and Cole Enterprises. The multi-millionaire had inherited a fortune from his father. However, in recent years, not only had he improved upon his father’s lumber and mining holdings in the Midwest, but after the War Between the States, he’d invested in the booming steel and railroad industries, along with silver mines in the West. He was making more money than he could possibly use in one lifetime.

Henry Cole owned the Gramercy mansion in New York City, a newly built estate on Prairie Avenue in Chicago, a summer home in Newport, and a recently purchased villa in Italy. He had several yachts, dozens of racehorses, and two private country farms. Each home was staffed with enough servants that the man could form a small army with all his employees.

The family wasn’t of old money like the Astors, Forbes, or Winthrops. But Henry Cole’s wealth had pushed him high on the list of most prominent men in the United States. He had a reputation for being innovative, aggressive, and intelligent. Tom had heard nothing but praise for Mr. Cole.

The housekeeper swung open the door to reveal a dark-paneled room with a large mahogany desk, floor to ceiling bookshelves, built-in wall cabinets, and an elegant sideboard. A man Tom guessed to be approximately forty-five years of age sat in one of the leather wing-backed chairs in front of an expansive picture window that overlooked Gramercy Park. He replaced a china cup onto a saucer on the low table in front of him and rose.

He was slim but solid. His light brown hair was smoothed back and his chiseled face clean shaven. He wore a fine suit that included a dark brown worsted coat with a fine braid binding the edges, a collarless waistcoat of fancy white quilting, and light brown striped trousers, all of which were perfectly tailored. Apparently Mr. Cole had just looked at his watch because the flap on his waistcoat pocket was half-tucked in and half-out, with the triple-strand gold fob stuffed too far inside.

“Sir,” the housekeeper said, “Mr. Cushman is here to see you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hatfield.” Mr. Cole nodded at the petite woman as she took her leave, closing the door behind her. “Come in, Mr. Cushman and have a seat.” He waved at the leather side chair next to his, all the while studying Tom, from his dark short-cropped hair down to his shiny black shoes.

With his usual long stride, Tom crossed the room and extended a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Cole.”

“You’re earlier than I expected.” Mr. Cole gripped his hand in return. A firm handshake that spoke of confidence and authority. But there was also a softness to it that indicated the gentler side of the man that Arch had vouched for.

“I always say better early than late.”

“I like that policy.” Mr. Cole released his hand and lowered himself back into his chair. As he reached for his tea cup, Tom glimpsed the ink on the man’s right thumb and the indentation on his middle finger where’d he recently held a pen. The man had evidently been writing a telegram, hence the sight of the telegram delivery boy that had been leaving the house when he’d arrived.

Tom sat on the edge of his chair, and immediately his mind went to work plotting escape routes from the room. Although he had no need for a backup plan, no charges under his protection at the moment, the habit was hard to break even when he was off duty.

Mr. Cole took a sip of tea and continued to study Tom over the cup’s golden rim. His eyes reflected both frustration and fear. And Tom could guess why. The man desperately wanted to keep his family safe, but without a bodyguard, he felt vulnerable and afraid. Tom could respect him for his concern. He’d seen too many wealthy men who didn’t care. Who weren’t faithful. Who treated their mistresses better than their wives.

From his research, Tom had learned that Henry Cole was extremely devoted to his wife, Isabelle. But sadly, she was blind. She’d inherited a disease that had caused her to lose her sight when she was a young woman. Not only did she need constant assistance, but she also apparently needed protection. A man of Mr. Cole’s high profile and exorbitant wealth had made plenty of enemies over the years.

Mr. Cole had a daughter too. As Tom had scoured the old newspaper articles and gossip columns about her, he’d only shaken his head at the girl’s frivolities. A column from a month ago had indicated that Victoria Cole was planning a late June wedding in Newport to the oldest Winthrop son. The wedding was expected to be one of the most lavish parties of the summer season. If she made it to the altar. Which Tom doubted she would, if her past antics were any indication.

“I have to be honest, Mr. Cushman,” Mr. Cole said. “I wasn’t expecting someone as young and handsome as you.”

“Is that a problem?”

“It could be.” Mr. Cole’s expression was troubled. “Arch’s description of you led me to believe you were older and scarred.”

Tom had thirty wounds and scars of various shapes and sizes from his days as a Jessie Scout during the war. But he couldn’t think why that would matter.

“You’re clearly fit but much too good-looking for the job.” Mr. Cole sat back as though baffled by the problem—a problem Tom didn’t understand. As an unmarried man he’d made it his policy only to guard older women who were already married or widowed. Of course that didn’t necessarily stop complications. But if Mr. Cole thought his wife might be attracted to him, then he was forgetting one critically important point. His wife was blind. She wouldn’t see him. Ever.

Even so, if Mr. Cole didn’t approve, it was no loss to him. After all, he’d only agreed to the interview with Mr. Cole because of Arch. His friend and fellow scout had sent him a telegram after his attack and begged him to apply for the temporary position. Since Tom was between jobs, he’d already considered returning to America because it had been so long since he’d seen his family. When he’d discovered that Arch was in the hospital, he’d left Europe immediately.

The first place he’d gone after docking in New York City was to visit Arch. His friend had lain on his bed at Presbyterian Hospital, pale, limp, and weak. When he’d pleaded again with Tom to take his place as a bodyguard for the “lady of the house,” as he’d lovingly referred to Mrs. Cole, Tom hadn’t been able to say no. Arch had been like a father to him during the war, had taken him under his wing, and had saved his life more than once during their dangerous scouting missions. He owed it to his friend to take the job. It was the least he could do.

Even though Tom had planned to spend a little time with his family out at Race Point Lighthouse on Cape Cod, he’d wanted to do Arch this favor. Wanted to keep the Coles from giving Arch’s job to someone else so Arch could come back after he recovered from his wound.

“Arch had nothing but positive things to say about you,” Mr. Cole continued. “Truth be told, after the way he went on about your bravery and experience, I half expected a demi-god to come walking through the door.”

“Arch is a good friend. No doubt he exaggerated my skills.”

“I thought so too. But I received a telegram from Archduchess Gisela. And she confirmed everything Arch said and more.”

Tom nodded. So that’s what Mr. Cole had been doing. Checking up on him with his previous employer. Likely after getting the notice from the Archduchess, Mr. Cole had written a thank you in reply and sent it with the telegram boy.

“It would appear that you’re the best of the best,” Mr. Cole said.

“I may not
be
the best. But I certainly
do
my best.”

“Your list of past work references is quite impressive. Not only Archduchess Gisela, but also Princess Anna of Budapest and the Dowager Countess Elise. Why would you settle for a position with my family when you could have your pick of European royalty?”