Her Defiant Heart (40 page)

Reilly blinked hugely and flushed bright red. "Heavens, what are you talking about? What would ever lead him to that conclusion?"

"Well, for one thing I arrived with virtually no belongings. For another, I did not know under what name I had been registered. I asked for Smith, but there were two. Then I simply asked for Room 212. That made the clerk suspicious."

"Just a moment," Reilly said, frowning. "Didn't the ad say C. Smith?"

"Yes, but as I said, there were two. I did not know which one I was."

Reilly shook his head, trying to clear it. "I don't think I understand the problem. Who was the other Smith?"

"Mrs. Norris Smith, I think."

"Then why were you confused? You were supposed to be C. Smith."

"But..." She paused, trying to make sense of their conversation. "Oh, you meant
C.
Smith, not
see
Smith." She laughed when she saw Reilly was still completely bewildered. "Never mind. It's not important." She slipped her arm through his and escorted him to the door. Reilly opened it and they stepped out into the carpeted hallway. "I appreciate you coming this afternoon, Mr. Reilly," Jenny said gravely. "You've been very good to me. I won't forget this. I promise." Impulsively she stood on tiptoe and kissed the butler's cheek.

Embarrassed and not a little moved, Reilly cleared his throat. "I only hope I don't regret it. You know how to get around this old man's heart."

Jenny helped Reilly into his coat. "Not so old," she said, surveying him critically from head to toe. "You still cut a fine figure." Jenny realized she was reluctant to see him go. She would be alone again and lonely. "You won't forget the clothes?"

"No. You will have them within the week." He reached in his pocket, withdrew some bills, and thrust them at Jenny. "For you," he said gruffly.

"But you already left me money."

"It's not enough." He raised his hand and cut off her argument. "Don't. We both know you will be needing this." He wrapped his scarf about his neck, adding a roguish flourish as he tossed one fringed end over his shoulder. "Besides, it rather makes me feel like Robin Hood."

Jenny smiled, relieved that it was not his own money that Reilly had forced into her hands. She wondered what he had stolen and sold to come by it. "That's all right then. As long as you can give me this, you're welcome to anything I have." Jenny lingered in the hallway until Reilly turned the corridor toward the stairs. Once he was gone she could not find an excuse to stay outside her suite. Slipping inside, she promised herself that she wouldn't dwell on thoughts of Christian Marshall—at least not for more than an hour or so.

* * *

Christian Marshall bent to pick up the hat he had purposely dropped on the stairs. Wilton Reilly passed him and continued on his way without a glance in his direction. Christian paused a beat, then followed. Once outside the hotel, Reilly hailed a hack.

Joe Means, who had been waiting for Christian with the carriage, took up a leisurely pursuit at his employer's curt order. Joe wanted to know if Christian had found Jenny Holland, but one brief glance at his tense, shuttered expression warned Joe that questions would be unwelcome.

Christian sat back on the leather cushions of the open carriage and unfolded a blanket across his legs. He raised his scarf over the lower part of his face to ward off the bitterly cold wind. Trusting Joe to maintain sight of the hack, Christian let his thoughts wander back to the bits of conversation he had overheard.

The stairway had not proved to be the most advantageous of positions, but Christian, familiar as he was with the hotel, knew his options were limited. Friday morning, in anticipation of Butler's arrival, Christian had tried to rent a suite near 212, only to discover they were all occupied. He returned in the afternoon with a sketchbook and pencils and used the excuse that he was looking into some design problems to gain access to the upper floors. Once the clerks at the St. Mark realized who he was, they were eager to assist him in any way they could. They found nothing odd about the fact that he spent most of the afternoon hovering about the second floor lobby dining room or pacing the stairway between the first and third floors. The intensity of his expression, the perpetual tightness of his mouth as he studied the structure and made sketch after sketch led them to believe the St. Mark was in imminent danger of collapsing. It was rather remarkable that the rumor never circulated beyond the registration desk. It was less surprising that no one summoned enough courage to ask him about it. His thoughts on Jenny Holland, he was particularly unapproachable.

On Saturday his mood was not improved. He arrived at the St. Mark knowing that if Butler did not appear, he would have to go to Room 212 himself. The suite was registered to a Mrs. Carlton Smith. See Smith. C. Smith. Christian recognized the connection immediately and did not accept it as coincidence. Jenny had to be there. He was certain of it. If only he were so certain that he wanted to see her. Each time a door on the north wing of the second floor opened, Christian found himself tensing with equal parts dread and anticipation. Never were any of the people who stepped into the hallway his Jenny.

His
Jenny. He heard himself think it but did not let himself think what it meant.

Christian wanted to know about Butler. He was disappointed when the man—and Christian knew in his gut that Butler was going to be a man—did not appear at the St. Mark on Friday. It was clearly a case of being careful what one wished for, because when Butler arrived and the door to 212 opened to him, Christian was devastated.

Jenny's sweet, husky voice had carried as far as the stairs.

"When you didn't come yesterday I began to worry."
Christian didn't remember what the man had replied—indeed, if he had said anything at all. Jenny's words echoed in his ears. There was affection in her voice, a touch of anxiousness that was reserved for someone she cared about. Christian was unfamiliar with the jealousy that wound through him. For a moment he thought he was going to be sick. Then he collected himself and concentrated on thinking with at least some measure of rationality. Butler was an older man, balding, rail thin, staid, and severe. There was nothing about the man that reminded Christian of Jenny, but he did not rule out the possibility that Butler could be a relative. Far from ruling it out, he clung to it. During the half hour that Butler was in Jenny's suite Christian constructed a half-dozen scenarios that explained their relationship. He was an uncle twice removed or a second cousin. Christian even allowed himself to go so far as supposing that Butler was a longtime friend of the family, a mentor, or an old business associate.

Then Butler left the suite and Christian heard Jenny's throaty voice again.
"I appreciate you coming, Mr. Reilly
.
"
The
man's name wasn't Butler, it was Reilly. Butler was Reilly just as Jenny was Princess. The subterfuge was wearing. He was tired of wondering about Jenny's secrets and equally tired of her clever little games.
"You've been very good to me."
He wished he hadn't heard that.
"Not so old. You still cut a fine figure."
What had she meant by that?
"As long as you can give me this, you're welcome to anything I have."
Reilly had given her money. Christian had not seen the transaction in the hallway but he knew what had happened.
"You're welcome to anything I have."
It would be a long time before he forgot she had said that.
"Anything I have. Anything."
A long, long time.

It was a measure of his dark mood that he could think of only one thing Jenny had to give. It was also unfair and without foundation. He wondered if the plunge bath at Jennings Memorial was the cure he needed, and he wondered it with more seriousness than scorn.

"Do you have the hack in sight?" he asked, leaning forward and shaking Joe by the sleeve.

"That's the hack a few carriages ahead of us, sir. Your man's changed cabs three times now."

Christian realized how far afield his mind had been wandering. He wasn't aware of what Reilly had been doing. "Do you think he suspects we're following him?"

"Can't say for certain, Mr. Marshall. But it doesn't look that way. He's not trying to elude us."

Christian thought it over but didn't understand if his quarry was using method or madness. "Where are we?"

"We're coming up on Forty-second."

"What are we doing so far uptown?"

Joe knew a rhetorical question when he heard one. Since he was merely following orders as well as the cab, he remained silent.

Christian slumped back into his seat, crossing his arms in front of his chest. His mother would have said he was glowering. His father would have said he was spoiling for a fight. They both would have been right. At the moment Christian had the temperament of a ten-year-old, and he refused to give it up.

"The hack driver's pulling up, sir," said Joe.

"Proceed slowly. I want to see where Reilly goes."

Joe did as he was told. He and Christian both watched the man alight from the cab, pay the driver, then cross to the other side of the street in long, hurried strides.

"Damn it," said Christian. "Can you follow him without drawing attention to us?"

Joe nodded confidently. He drove north a half block before he swung the carriage around while Christian kept his eye on Reilly. The man they were following never noticed them. When Reilly stopped in front of one of the massive private palaces along the avenue and opened the iron gates as if he owned the property, Joe's eyes widened a little. "Does he live there?" Joe asked, turning in his seat so Christian could hear him. "I thought this is where the Benningtons live." As he spoke, Reilly sprinted up the front steps, paused briefly to catch his breath beside one of the Corinthian columns flanking the main entrance, then disappeared inside.

"Good day to you, Mr. Marshall. Joe." Liam O'Shea lifted the brim of his hat with the rounded tip of his club, offering them a jaunty salute. "Right brisk day it is," he said. He matched his stride to Christian's slow-moving carriage.

Christian lowered his scarf. His smile was polite but not inviting. He did not want to engage O'Shea in conversation.

Liam accepted Christian's coolness philosophically. He was more comfortable talking to Joe Means than he was conversing with one of the top hats anyway. "How is Mrs. B. doing, Joe?"

"She's chompin' at the bit. Wants to be up and about."

"I can understand that. Tell her I want the same. No one else thinks to offer crullers unless she puts them up to it."

Joe chuckled. "I'll tell her."

"Haven't seen Miss Holland lately."

"No, she left," Joe said.

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that. Sure, and I'll miss the colleen. Enjoyed our walks together." He shrugged, swinging his club in rhythm with his stride. "Will you give Mary Margaret a message for me?"

Joe risked a glance back at Christian and saw that his employer was impatient to be gone. "Come by yourself with it," said Joe.

"That's just it. I can't." Liam stopped as they reached the end of the block. He used his club to point over his shoulder at the mansion behind them. "I've gotten myself a special assignment. I'm doing some work—private—supplementing the pay, as it were. I won't be able to take her—"

"You're working for the Benningtons?" Christian asked, interrupting. He lifted his hand to Joe, indicating he should halt the carriage.

"Can't really say that, Mr. Marshall." Liam rocked on his heels, his hands behind his back. His stance was self-important and proud. He'd gotten Mr. Marshall's attention. "Sure, and if I did a bit of detective work for you, you'd not want it bandied about. You'd want the arrangement private and confidential."

What Christian wanted was to bloody O'Shea's nose and get his answers. He was forced to give up this childish notion and take another approach. "The thing of it is, O'Shea, I'm looking for someone to do exactly that sort of work for me. I was thinking of going to the Pinkerton Agency, but I really haven't made up my mind. Perhaps if you told me what sort of work it is you're doing for the Benningtons, I'd know whether or not you're suited to what I need."

Liam glanced up and down the street. He was on his own time now—well, really Mr. Bennington's time—but it couldn't hurt to talk to Mr. Marshall for a while. After all, Mr. Reilly was back in the house, and it was unlikely he would go anywhere soon. With the exception of his cab ride this afternoon, the butler was fairly predictable. Liam wasn't overly concerned about losing Reilly's trail earlier. He knew the cabbie who brought Reilly back. Later today he'd find where he picked up the butler. O'Shea's smile radiated confidence.

"I'd be pleased to tell you what I can, Mr. Marshall," Liam said. "But not right here in front of the house. Wouldn't be proper."

Christian took the hint. "Then perhaps you will accept a ride. I'm going home. We can talk on the way."

Liam stamped his feet, ridding them of clumps of snow and ice, and hopped into the carriage. "What sort of work is it that you have in mind?" he asked, accepting the blanket that Christian offered him. He laid it over his legs as the carriage rolled forward.

"It would be personal," he said slowly, trying to think of something that O'Shea would accept. "Nothing for
the
Chronicle.
I imagine your work with Bennington has something to do with the bank."