The Matchmaker (26 page)

Julia felt a shock, and for an instant her thoughts whirled in confusion. Was that part of her reluctance to trust Cyrus? Not because she had any real suspicion he was somehow deceiving her in his kindness now, but
because something deep inside her stubbornly insisted
happiness wasn't meant for her? Had Adrian twisted her
emotions so badly he had convinced her she deserved to be hurt and disappointed no matter what?

She got up from the bed slowly, looking at her
unexpectedly wise sister with a little smile she could feel
inside her, tentative but, for the first time, hopeful. "No,
I won't do that," she promised.

Lissa smiled at her,
then
went quietly from the
bedroom.

Julia spent a few minutes putting clothing, hats, and
shoes away—the maids had been more than thorough in
getting everything she might need—and thought about herself and her emotions more carefully than she had in a very long time.

She was on the point of putting her plain dark skirt
and white blouse back on when she paused, still thinking. After a moment she left the skirt and blouse lying
over a chair and went to the wardrobe. She fingered
several garments, finally drawing out an afternoon dress
of olive green. It was elegant in design and very simple,
but it was a long way from what anyone would consider
a mourning dress. Julia put it on.

It fastened up the front of the bodice, and as she dealt with the tiny hooks and eyes, she couldn't help remem
bering what Sarah had said when she and Cathy had
returned to the house weighted down by even more
boxes a couple of hours earlier. Mr. Cyrus, she'd giggled
with a slight blush, had been quite adamant about
corsets, and alarmingly frank in his detailed description
of what he did not want them to buy.

Conscious of the relatively comfortable garment beneath her dress now, Julia had to smile. The corset in no way
exaggerated
her shape, nor did it constrict her waist painfully, make it impossible for her to breathe normally, or turn every movement into a torture. Julia was delighted with it.

The dress in place, she studied her reflection for a
moment and nodded to herself. Like virtually every
thing else she had tried on, it fit perfectly. She thought both the color and simple, elegant design suited her, and
she hoped she looked attractive. Not for fashion's sake,
but for Cyrus.

She left the bedroom, planning to check on Lissa, but
stopped in the hall as Stork approached her.

"Mrs. Stanton has called to see you, Miss Julia," he said in his quiet, unexpressive voice. "She's waiting in the blue parlor."

Julia realized suddenly that, although he'd been turn
ing away other callers all day, the butler had twice
admitted Mrs. Stanton. Because of the woman's insistence, she wondered, or because Cyrus had left those instructions? Whatever the reason, it seemed clear she had to speak to this visitor.

"Thank you, Stork," she murmured, changing her
direction to move toward the stairs.

"Miss Julia?"

She paused and looked back at him. "Yes?" she asked,
realizing something else: she had not been called Mrs.
Drummond since entering this house. Cyrus's doing?

The elderly man hesitated, some fleeting emotion crossing his stern features, then said precisely, "It's not my place to speak, Miss Julia, but I've served this house more than forty years and I feel I know Mr. Cyrus as well as anyone does."

"You went west with him, didn't you?" Julia said,
remembering what she'd heard.

"Yes, Miss." Stork hesitated again,
then
said, "The
tales told about him, they're wrong."

Considering the circumstances, Julia hardly wasted
more than a fleeting thought on the impropriety of
discussing Cyrus with his butler. "You mean his
women?" she asked bluntly.

Stork nodded, betraying no embarrassment. "People saw, but they didn't understand. He has a—a gift for
helping others. When there's trouble in their lives,
unhappiness because of some problem they are unable to solve alone. Mr. Cyrus always seems to know that,
and tries to help them. They were mostly women,
perhaps because women have fewer resources when something goes wrong for them."

Julia knew that only too well. "I see." She felt mildly
puzzled. "Why are you telling me this, Stork?"

Again the butler hesitated, and when he spoke his
voice came slowly. "I've never seen Mr. Cyrus the way
he is with you, Miss. I've never seen him so happy. I just wanted you to know he isn't the rake some people say he
is. He's a good man. And he would never hurt you." There was only the faintest emphasis on the pronoun.

Julia gazed at Stork's impassive face, and as she looked
into quiet brown eyes, she thought, He knows. The
Drummond servants were staying there for the moment; had they known more than she realized and talked about it?
Probably.
Servants always seemed to know more than their employers realized. The odd thing was
,
Julia didn't feel upset.

"Thank you, Stork," she said softly.

"The entire staff is happy to have you and your sister here, Miss Julia."

"Thank you," she repeated, smiling, then turned away
and continued toward the stairs. Another gentle push
toward Cyrus, she thought bemusedly.
First Lissa and
then Stork—as well as the other Fortune servants,
apparently.
As she went down to greet Felice Stanton,
Julia had the idea she was about to encounter another ally. Not particularly because of what Lissa had said
about Felice, but because Stork had admitted her to the
house... several times.

She walked into the blue parlor, a small room at the side of the house, feeling wary and uncertain. Felice, a small woman in her early thirties with dark hair and
eyes, was unusually lovely. She stood near the window,
holding a newspaper in one gloved hand, and when she spoke—obviously referring to Adrian—her voice was dryly ironic.

"A week ago he walked on water; now half the
reporters writing about his untimely demise have the
insufferable gall to claim they knew he was a lunatic all
along."

It was hardly the accepted conventional speech to a very recent widow, but the unexpected greeting, combined with Felice's rueful smile, not only put Julia at
ease but made her immediately warm toward the older
woman. "It sells newspapers, I suppose," she said.

Felice uttered a faintly disgusted sound and tossed the paper toward a chair. She came to shake hands with
Julia, her grip warm and firm, and said frankly, "Custom
says this is a dreadfully inappropriate time to call, but
etiquette can go hang. I've felt uneasy about you for
months, Julia, and if I'd only said something... Well, at least you would have had someone to talk to."

"Uneasy about me?"
Julia gestured toward a comfort
able settee, and as they both sat down she studied Felice
with a startled suspicion in her mind.

"You'll recognize the signs from now on too," Felice said quietly. "You won't see it often, thank God, but you
will see it. Beatings do more than leave scars on skin, no
matter how well we think we can hide what we feel."

"You?"

Felice nodded.
"My first husband.
That's why I
wanted to talk to you today, Julia. It took me a long time
to heal, and if it hadn't been for Noel.
.."
Her eyes
grew a little misty,
then
she smiled. "It's amazing, isn't
it? How one man can heal the wounds another man
inflicted?"

"I-—I'm not sure that's possible," Julia confessed in a
low voice, but her eyes were pathetically hopeful. "Is
it?"

Taking the younger woman's hand in her own and
holding it strongly, Felice said, "I wasn't sure, either, ten
years ago. Then I met Noel. And I met another woman
who'd been through much the same thing. You aren't
alone, Julia. We aren't alone. And it helps to talk about
it, to someone who understands. May I tell you my
story?"

Her throat was so tight Julia couldn't speak, but she
nodded, and she listened. In time, she talked.

Cyrus asked his attorney to wait for him in his study,
then
addressed Stork as they stood together in the
entrance hall. "Where's Miss Julia?"

"In the blue parlor, sir, with Mrs. Stanton."
The
butler's voice was unexpressive, and few would have
heard anything informative beyond the facts he im
parted. Cyrus heard more.

"They've been talking?"

"For more than an hour, sir.
Miss Lissa is walking in
the garden with one of her young friends who called to
see her. One of the new—footmen—you hired is stationed by the gate."

"Has Lissa seen him yet?"

"I don't believe so, sir."

"All right."
Cyrus stood thinking for a moment, a faint
frown drawing his brows together. Absently, he said, "I've found other employment for the Drummond servants, so they'll be out of your way by tomorrow. And if a Mr. Stevens should call, I want to see him immedi
ately. "

"Yes, sir.
Another Pinkerton man, sir?"
Stork inquired
in a low voice.

Cyrus nodded. "Yes, but remember what I said—keep
that information to yourself, Stork. I don't want Julia or
Lissa worried, and I see no reason why the staff should
know."

"Very well, sir."

Cyrus crossed the entrance hall to his study and went in, closing the door behind him. His attorney, Gabriel
Rushton, was seated in a comfortable chair by the desk
placidly smoking a cigar. He was a silver-haired man in
his fifties, very distinguished, with shrewd gray eyes and
a deep, mellow voice.

That voice was a little dry now as he said, "This is highly irregular,
Cy
."

Settling into his chair behind the desk, Cyrus said, "Legally, perhaps."

Rushton looked pained. "The law is my business. Why
I ever had the misfortune to accept Adrian Drummond
as a client I'll never know, but I am obligated to
discharge my duties as his attorney in accordance with the law—and that hardly includes divulging any of the man's private dealings to you."

"Gabe, you know why I want the information. I have an enemy who's determined to hurt Julia, and I need to know who he is."

"Are you sure he's your enemy? From what you've
told me, he hasn't struck directly at you. If it was
Drummond he meant to injure, Julia should be safe
now."

Cyrus shook his head, frowning. "He was using Drum
mond somehow, controlling him, or just goading him. The false message that lured Julia out to the house that
day wasn't only meant to compromise her; it was also intended to focus Drummond's attention on me as his
enemy. Julia would have suffered for it if the plan had
worked, and Drummond's suspicion would have forced
me to keep away from her. Don't you see?"

The attorney puffed on his cigar for a moment, then shrugged. "No, Cy, I don't see. All you have is supposition and a wild theory. Who's to say one of Drum
mond's enemies—who
has
nothing against you—might
have simply meant to make mischief?'

"I say so."

"Based on?"

"Helen Bradshaw's murder."

Rushton straightened in his chair, the lazy air vanish
ing as his expression turned grim. "They've found her?"

"Early this morning."
Cyrus's voice was flat. "I hired a
Pinkerton man a week ago, partly to look for the girl. Neither of us expected to find her alive. He was with the
police when they found her."

"Was she in the river?"

"No. I suppose the killer decided not to take that
chance with the water so low. She was buried in a
shallow grave in a vacant lot here in the city. There wasn't much left of her, but the police think she may have been strangled. It's impossible to know for certain
when it happened; I believe she died the day she left
that message for Julia."

Rushton smoked his cigar in silence for a few mo
ments, his eyes fixed on the younger man's face. Finally,
he said, "All right, I'll grant there must have been a
connection between the false message and that poor
girl's death; I don't believe in coincidence. Clearly,
there's a diabolical hand involved in all this. But I still don't see how you've reached the conclusion you are the ultimate target when there's been no direct strike against
you. What if it's Julia, for some reason neither of us can
fathom, who's the target?"