The Widow's Secret (8 page)

“G
oing well,” Alexander MacKay reported to Micah, who had been waiting in the lobby of the Brevoort Hotel where he'd checked in two hours earlier, after watching Jocelyn and Katya climb into the Brock carriage.

MacKay was an operative out of the Richmond office of Pinkerton's National Detective Agency; he and Micah had met the previous month, when one of Mr. Hepplewhite's heirs hired Pinkerton's to investigate the watchmaker's murder. An instant rapport had sprung up between the two men, fueled by their mutual faith, Scottish heritage—and a fervent dedication to their respective professions.

Casually, Micah folded the newspaper he'd been reading. “The Service appreciates your assistance—I appreciate it. It was sanctioned—” with grumblings about funding “—because we know your face won't be recognized up here in New York. Chief Hazen told me your superintendent thinks you're an independent rascal, but someone he'd trust his life to nonetheless.”

MacKay shrugged.

Using the folded newspaper as a shield, Micah handed him
a thin string-tied folder. “These are photos and descriptions of the Brock family, most of their staff and Rupert Bingham. They socialize, a lot, except for Bingham, who's something of a recluse these days. Shadowing them won't be easy.”

“I'll do my best.” MacKay deftly accepted both paper and folder. “Do I report to you here?”

“Not directly. I'll leave word with the concierge where we can meet. Most likely I'll be followed all the time, once I introduce myself to the Brocks, and it might be safer for us all if we make other arrangements. I have an assistant, a young fellow with a quick mind and a closed mouth. He'll be shadowing
me
. For some reason, Chief Hazen thinks I need looking after.”

“A pair of eyes in the back of your head never hurts.”

“Mmm.” The two men exchanged sober looks. “I argued, strenuously,” he added dryly, “against Mrs. Bingham's inclusion in this investigation, but Chief Hazen thought she offered our best opportunity in several years.” Jocelyn had agreed to revert to her married name to placate the Brocks; Micah had almost learned to use it without internally flinching. The private doubts he'd battled for weeks had intensified once he'd watched Jocelyn vanish into the Brocks' carriage. In an attempt to lighten the tone, he quipped, “What's the world coming to, when the federal government relies on a female civilian and a private detective to carry out its missions?”

Alex laughed. “Hazen and the widow ganged up on you, I heard.”

“There are no secrets in the Secret Service.” Micah pointed to the newspaper Alex now held under his arm. “Make sure you take a gander at the society page. There's some possibilities for you tomorrow night and Saturday.”

MacKay inclined his head. “Makes a change from chasing criminals wearing sack coats and guns. You do realize you might be trying to crack open a safe with a silver teaspoon.”

“Did you know God once used a talking donkey to induce a confession from a man? I might not agree with, or approve of, allowing this woman to be part of our investigation. But who knows if God didn't provide her, at just the right time, for just this very reason? We've spent years hunting for the molds as well as the bogus goods, years trying to secure prima facie evidence against the principals in this case.”
And my father lost his life.
“We want to shut them down, Alex. Permanently.”

“It will happen,” MacKay promised, the burr in his voice more pronounced. “'Tis the waiting that tests our faith as well as our patience. But trust yourself—trust God to bring about the result, in His time.”

“You're right, of course.” Micah stuffed his hands into his pockets. “She's angry at God right now, Alex. So angry she's pretty much renounced her faith. I don't want her hurt any more by this business.”

“So that's the way of it, hmm?”

“I don't know. I haven't been able to think about it, try to decide whether what I'm feeling is real.” He paused, adding slowly, “I haven't had much practice, courting a woman, especially when the woman thinks the courtship an elaborate sham.”

“You told me you lost your wife some years ago?”

Micah nodded. “I loved her, very much. But Jocelyn…she's different. She's built this facade—the independent, self-sufficient widow—yet I don't think I've ever met a more vulnerable, lonely person. Unless we're careful, I may be responsible for her ruination or worse, her death. I need to solve the case. Something isn't ringing true, but I can't figure out what. Like it or not, Jocelyn Tremayne Bingham holds the key. I have to remain objective even as I pretend to be a long-lost cousin who—” God help him “—pretends to fall in love with her.”

“You'll find a way, my friend. Have the same faith in yourself as you do in God.” Alex lightly punched his shoulder. “Enjoy your courtship as well as the hunt. From the little bit I glimpsed of the lass, your widow does make a striking silver teaspoon.”

 

By the end of the second week, Jocelyn discovered that she possessed an aptitude for undercover work, despite her overactive conscience. Most of the nervous butterflies had vanished, but the effort to daily cast off a slough of self-recrimination was more taxing than she cared to admit. Occasionally, an even more depressing possibility surfaced—she was merely resuming the lie she had lived throughout the years of her marriage.

Daily she cultivated the facade, ignoring the whispers among New York society while she absorbed everything she heard, every face she saw, every nuance thickening the atmosphere. Late at night, she and Katya huddled together in an alcove in Jocelyn's bedroom to share their discoveries through voice and written words.

Before going to bed, Jocelyn diligently burned Katya's scribblings.

And every hour of every day she yearned for Micah, with a fervency she had not experienced since her debut at White Sulphur Springs when she was sixteen years old. The dangerous play they had concocted only heightened emotions struggling to break free of a decade of self-imposed restraint. After two weeks without hearing that deep voice, of not watching the gray eyes brighten to polished silver when he laughed, or darken to charcoal when he touched her fingers—those emotions were about to spill over and drown her.

The Letter had finally arrived two days earlier. Because Mrs. Tobler, the Brocks' dragon of a housekeeper, always
confiscated the mail and took it directly to Mrs. Brock, Jocelyn had no opportunity to spirit Micah's debut missive away for an initial private read. Instead, when her aunt handed her the envelope, Jocelyn professed tearful astonishment at the discovery that any member of her own family, however remote the relation, was still alive. “I'll read it aloud, if you like,” she suggested to Portia. “I believe this branch of my family distinguished themselves within Charleston society. You recently mentioned that Uncle Augustus had been discussing a business venture there. A relative would be a contact he could cultivate.”

Portia laid aside the rest of her correspondence. Her ringed fingers gently tapped the inlaid mahogany of her writing desk. “How odd that this man should contact you only weeks after your arrival here.” The china-blue eyes with their wintry chill contrasted sharply with her creamy complexion and cupid's bow lips. Despite her advanced age—she had passed her sixtieth birthday—Portia's voluptuous shape and exquisite gowns continued to draw admiring glances even after four decades.

In her presence, Jocelyn by turns felt garish, gangly and impatient. Sometimes a longing surged through her to yank a hairpin out of her aunt's perfectly arranged coiffure, or step on the train of one of her Worth evening gowns. Thus far she had managed to quell the impulse.

“I would imagine he read my name in the papers,” she suggested now. “I scarcely remember meeting him. It was only once, when I was very young.” At her present age of almost twenty-eight, seventeen was barely out of leading strings. Micah, she realized, was a very good teacher of how to disguise truth with verisimilitude. “Mama mentioned his people came from Scotland. My mother was Scottish, you know.”

“Mmm. Unrestrained lot, like the Irish, with a tendency to vulgarity. But I have met Mr. Carnegie, who, despite his ancestry, has distinguished himself, with something of a philanthropic bent I find most appealing.” She took a sip of imported spring water from a delicate crystal goblet probably worth more than Jocelyn's Richmond town house. “That business with his steel mills in Pennsylvania, however, is most distressing. A man who can't control the mob becomes part of it, regardless of his wealth. You might want to remember that, child.”

“Yes, ma'am. Shall I read the letter?”

“Please do. You have a pleasing voice, Jocelyn, despite the Southern drawl.” She flicked her an assessing glance that encompassed Jocelyn from the crown of her head to the lace trim of her morning tea gown. “Good heavens, you'd think by now something could have been invented to remove freckles. Have you tried the bleaching rinse I instructed Matilda to make for you, to tone down the excessive red of your hair? Perhaps if you watered down the rinse, it would do for a facial scrub, as well. Not that I wish to impugn your hair and face, child. You understand that, I'm sure. And in your own quaint way, you're a very attractive woman. But I know how uncomfortable it makes you, when people gawk at you as though you were an exotic creature in a zoological park.”

By now Jocelyn had learned to deflect the thinly disguised barbs with a serene Mona Lisa smile. Concentrating on opening the envelope, she withdrew the single sheet of paper, and pretended she could absorb Micah's touch through the words he had written. “I'll read my cousin's letter—I'm sure you're as curious as I to hear what he has to say.” That quip earned her a sharp look. Jocelyn schooled her own face to stillness and, heart thrumming, began to read.

She looked up. “He signs it,
Your servant, Micah L. MacKenzie
.” The inclusion of the middle initial indicated that all was well, and they could proceed with the intended plan.

Her aunt extended an imperious hand, and Jocelyn silently handed the letter back.

“I trust you'll conduct yourself with decorum, Jocelyn. This family has suffered quite enough scandal.”

 

Now Tuesday had arrived, bringing with it the formerly banished butterflies, and a fog of grayness that dimmed the golden autumn sunlight. “Katya, could you loosen the stays a notch? I don't care if my aunt notices and tears a strip off me later. Right now I can't breathe. I need to breathe, Katya….”

Her patient maid laid aside the brush and combs she'd gathered to arrange Jocelyn's hair. Somberly she laid a care
ful hand over Jocelyn's intertwined fingers. The gesture calmed—and tweaked a feeble spark of amusement.

The reserved, proper widow of Chadwick Bingham allowed a housemaid a degree of familiarity beyond the pale for any servant. Scandal indeed!

After Katya loosened the corset, while Jocelyn gratefully sucked in air and willed the grayness away, the maid wrote on her tablet.
Do not worry. You and me, we are good. HE is gooder. You be all right.

“He's better, not gooder, but either way, I know you're right. I'm just…” She stopped. Despite the closeness they shared it was far too dangerous to confess, even to Katya, the Chinese-sparkler sensation Micah MacKenzie set off inside her. Confiding the feelings only lent them more credibility.

Heartbreak lurked over her shoulder. More likely than heartbreak, however, she'd find herself lying dead on a cold floor somewhere like Mr. Hepplewhite, and the Secret Service still wouldn't have the proof it needed.

Yet mortal danger was preferable to heartbreak.

A few moments later, as Katya fastened the last button of her gown, the parlor maid knocked on the door to announce the arrival of a visitor for Mrs. Bingham.

Jocelyn and Katya stared at one another for a suspended moment, then with a strangled sound Jocelyn clasped the younger girl's forearms, leaned forward and brushed her lips against her smooth forehead. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I couldn't do this without you.”

She had just opened the door when behind her Katya stamped her foot. Turning, Jocelyn waited while the girl hurried across the room with her final note.

I believe God is with you two.

For a moment the walls closed in upon Jocelyn. “I'm glad you believe that,” she finally managed. “I know Micah agrees
with you. And if God chose to be
with
anyone, it would be Micah MacKenzie.”

Katya scowled. Her head moved in a definitive headshake.

“Don't,” Jocelyn forestalled her as she dug out paper and pencil. “I can't, Katya. Not right now. Just—” she closed her eyes, but a longing deeper than the ocean, deeper than the bowels of the earth pushed the words past her constricted throat “—pray for him. For—for me. Please.”

And before her courage collapsed, she walked out into the hallway.

Micah had been shown into the formal reception room, a calculated move designed to impress first-time callers. For a shaky moment Jocelyn stood in the entrance between the French doors, soaking in the sight of the one man she could not dismiss from her mind. He looked taller than she remembered, his shoulders broader. The strong face radiated strength and restrained power. In a room designed to dwarf self-importance, Micah MacKenzie stood at ease, just as relaxed as if he were standing in the library of Jocelyn's cozy, cluttered town house.