The Widow's Secret (9 page)

Even her aunt was not immune to his potent masculine appeal. Cheeks delicately flushed, the graceful hands more animated in their gestures, Portia Brock carried on a largely one-sided conversation while Micah listened, his head tilted attentively. An unpleasant possibility slipped into Jocelyn's mind. What if, like almost every other man in Portia's sphere, he'd been moonstruck by her voluptuous beauty, blinded into forgetting his own role in this dangerous game?

Jocelyn's throat locked; her feet refused to move. For one terrifying instant she herself forgot every line she'd practiced in silence and secrecy the past two weeks.

Then Micah shifted, and caught sight of her. “At last. My dear long-lost cousin.” He'd altered his accent, adopting the drawl of a Southern tidewater aristocrat. Striding across the
room, his back to Portia, he searched Jocelyn's face with concern flickering in the gray eyes. “Cousin Jocelyn? It's been years.…Have I changed so much you don't recognize me at all? My mustache is thicker, and you may recall lamb-chop sideburns are no longer fashionable.”

He stopped a scant yard away, concern deepening when Jocelyn still didn't respond. “You're more beautiful than I remember,” he tried next, and executed a perfect bow.

The undertone of facetiousness finally unlocked her paralyzed vocal cords. “It has been a long time.” The words bubbled forth, a little too high-pitched, a little too breathless. “You've grown into a handsome man. I'm very sorry our families lost touch over the years. How fortunate to make contact after so long.”

“I was just lamenting to Mr. MacKenzie that I find inquisitiveness a deplorable flaw,” Portia interposed, coming to stand beside them, her blue eyes bright, bathing Micah in warmth and the heavy scent of her French perfume. “Now I see I must forgive our acquaintances as their penchant for name-dropping has been a stroke of luck for us all. Come, sit down, shall we, and I'll ring for refreshments.”

She beckoned for Jocelyn to precede her, a ruse Jocelyn had witnessed several times before, having discovered at the Brocks' first dinner party that her aunt considered other females to be archrivals, regardless of their age. As though he hadn't noticed, Micah smoothly stepped around the older woman, offering Jocelyn his arm. “Allow me, cousin.” He laid his palm over her fingers, not betraying by even the flicker of an eyelash the discovery that they were chilled, and damp. “My business in New York will require much of my time. But I have already extended my stay at the hotel in the hopes that we can become reacquainted.”

“I would like that very much.” Jocelyn allowed him to lead
her over to a striped-silk Louis XIV side chair with a decorative motif of grotesque masks. An involuntary shudder rippled through her, which she covered with a question. “How long will you be able to enjoy this magnificent city, then?”

“Oh, several weeks, I should think,” Micah replied with a sympathetic smile. After he seated her he ran his fingers over the carved masks, then straightened as though he hadn't just read Jocelyn's thoughts with uncanny accuracy. “I have managers who can attend to matters back home while I conduct business here in New York.”

“And what sort of business allows you the pleasure of so much discretionary time, Mr. MacKenzie?” Portia sat down, pressing the foot buzzer with a little more force than necessary. “My dear husband is seldom free, you see. He's something of a slave driver—Oh, dear! I do hope I haven't offended you, Mr. MacKenzie, seeing as how you're from Charleston.”

“No offense taken. Slavery's an evil our country's well rid of, and I'm the first man to admit it. However, I no longer live in Charleston. Early last year I moved to Washington, D.C., and live in a lovely neighborhood practically within hailing distance of the White House. I've made a lot of contacts there, all of them beneficial.”

“Then you're only a day's travel from Richmond, which is where I live,” Jocelyn exclaimed. “How delightful, having my only living relative so close when I return home.”

“But, Jocelyn, child, you must know we're hoping you'll look upon New York as your home now. There's nothing for you in Virginia. A man of Mr. MacKenzie's obvious stature in the business world can't be expected to traipse back and forth from Washington to Richmond, even for a long-lost relative. You'd do yourself and him a grave disservice, depending too much on his goodwill.” Lips framed in an appeal
ing pout, Portia leaned forward. “Perhaps you're not aware of our niece's tragic story. We don't like to speak of the scandalous death of her husband, of course. But since you're family…”

“All I know is that her husband died, some years ago,” Micah said, his gaze focused solely on Jocelyn, his voice gentle. “Quite a blow, isn't it, when one is young.”

“Yes. But I've made a life for myself in Richmond, and do not foresee leaving—” She stopped, furious with herself.

“You mentioned she's only been here a fortnight, Mrs. Brock?” Micah filled in the charged silence. “Two weeks is perhaps not long enough to convince my lovely Southern cousin of the advantages of living in one of the world's greatest cities. Over the past few years I've made several visits here, and only now am considering the efficacy of purchasing property. I believe you mentioned that your husband is in real estate as well as banking? A conversation with him might prove helpful as I make a decision.”

“Our middle son, Virgil, handles real estate matters for one of his father's banks.” Her nostrils still quivered, but by the time the maid rolled a tea cart laden with refreshments into the room, Portia was batting her eyes shamelessly at Micah. She passed him a delicate Limoges teacup the size of one from a child's play set, which Micah accepted with aplomb. “I'll arrange our calendar to include you as often as you're free, Mr. MacKenzie.”

“Excellent. I'll do my best to convince your niece to change her mind about New York.” He took a sip of the thick Belgian cocoa Portia loved. Jocelyn watched admiringly as without so much as a grimace he swallowed half the stuff, then slid a smile her way. “Of course, I might decide that Washington, D.C., offers her even more.”

“I think I'll make up my own mind about where I choose to live, and when I choose to move,” Jocelyn whipped out with just enough spirit to wipe the smile off his face. “Right now, I'm enjoying the city, and everything it has to offer. My aunt and uncle have been most generous and hospitable.”

The conversation settled into ritual; twenty minutes later, at precisely at five o'clock, Micah set aside his cup and rose.

“May I escort him to the door, Aunt Portia? I know you were supposed to meet the Auckleys to attend that lecture.”

“Very well.” Her mouth pursed in a moue, but she acquiesced with surprising grace. “Mr. MacKenzie, I'll send a dinner invitation soon, I promise.” After a final lingering look she rose and glided over the parquet floor, silk skirts rustling.

Mindful of listening ears, Micah waited until Portia had left the room before turning to Jocelyn. “You're fine,” he murmured under his breath to her. “And far more beautiful than your aunt.”

“Katya told me Mrs. Brock's chambermaid confided that her mistress will be sixty-three next spring. But men still fall all over themselves whenever she appears.” She heard the wistfulness in her own voice and hurriedly moved toward the door. “I hope we can look forward to seeing you again soon, cousin.”

“Call me Micah. The family connection was really only an excuse to reestablish the connection. I've never forgotten you, Jocelyn. And I plan to see you as often as I'm able.”

“Micah,” she whispered out of the side of her mouth, stiffly waving her hand around the grand hall, another monstrosity of bad taste with its marble columns and ghostly white statues. “Anyone can hear you.”

“Good. Then my intentions will be clear to everyone.”

Heat rushed up her neck and burned her cheeks. When he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss on her knuckles, Jocelyn gawked at him like a knobby-kneed young girl, then brought her knuckles to her mouth.

Micah inhaled sharply, his eyes darkening. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

Footsteps rang on the tiled floor, and a uniformed maid scurried across from between the columns. When she caught sight of them she stopped, eyes widening before she bobbed a hasty curtsy, then scuttled away.

“Jocelyn…” Micah shook his head.

They walked in pulsing silence to the main foyer where Palmer, the stolid butler, opened the door. Jocelyn led the way down the marble steps, into a bright bar of late-afternoon sunshine. Behind them, horses and streetcars and wagons clattered along Fifth Avenue. Pedestrians strolled the sidewalk. Only after the butler closed the door did Micah speak again. “I'll be back as soon as I can. Next time, we'll go for a walk in Central Park, where we can enjoy a bit of privacy.”

“There's a safe in Portia's private parlor—it's a sunroom on the third floor.” Jocelyn stumbled through the words, her tongue tangling because she could only risk a moment to tell him. “And I've seen several men visit Uncle Brock. They're always taken in through a back entrance, and two times they've been carrying leather satchels—like the one you had in Richmond.”

“Identical?” he questioned sharply.

“No.” She searched her memory, and repeated with more assurance, “No. These were larger, more like a club bag.”

He nodded, then clasped her hand, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. Obviously, he could feel their trembling, but Jocelyn no longer cared.

“I don't trust Chadwick's cousins.”

“Why? Have they been rude? Unkind?”

Touched by his instant protectiveness, Jocelyn smiled up at him. “No. Just…secretive. Julius is the youngest, Virgil the middle. Lawrence is the oldest. He lives in St. Louis now, and
wrote that he won't be back in New York until Christmas. Both Virgil and Julius maintain suites here, but I think Virgil might have an apartment at the Knickerbocker, as well. As you heard, he works at his father's bank. Julius…he's something of a misfit, socially awkward. Mealtimes, when the whole family is in residence, have been interesting.”

“Ah. And what about Rupert Bingham?”

“Micah, I scarcely recognized him. He's been staying here for a week, but he mentioned at lunch that he plans to return to his home on Long Island soon. We don't talk much. He spends most of his time dozing in Uncle Brock's study, or reading. I—I can't explain it, but I don't believe he's guilty of anything these days, except—” she hesitated, then added softly “—regrets.”

“Mmm…” Micah replied. “I'll pass your information along in my daily report.” He smiled, a slow smile that penetrated even the frozen spots inside her heart. “When I take you to Central Park,” he murmured, “I think I might have to haul you behind some bushes, and kiss every one of those shadows from your sad eyes. Good day.”

After another flawless bow he tipped his hat, then strolled down the brick walkway. He looked every inch the confident, wealthy gentleman, not an operative for the United States Secret Service who had taken shameless liberties with a young woman on the front steps of her uncle's mansion, in plain view of the passersby strolling along New York City's Fifth Avenue.

With a wisp of a sigh, the young woman forgot every one of the stern lectures with which she'd armed herself. Trailing her fingers over the cool marble, she wandered down the brick path that led to the gardens behind the house.

Later, she thought. Later she would remember that this was only an elaborate stage, and she and Micah mere players in a dangerous game.

And for an hour or two, Jocelyn allowed the young girl who had never been romanced a fleeting opportunity to dream about a walk in Central Park.

A
man strolled with arrogant grace across the gravel pathway until he reached a carriage. Casually, he stood beside it and began to talk. “They've been out together three times in the past week. Last night, at the horse show, she spent more time staring at him than at the horses. I don't like the implications.”

“Don't do anything precipitous at this point. I've got men investigating, as well as following, him. Thus far nothing untoward has surfaced. MacKenzie is lodged at the Brevoort Hotel, an acceptable choice for conducting business in the city. My sources inform me that he's done quite well in the shipping industry. The people he's contacted locally indicate he does have plans for expansion in the New York market. For the moment, I'm inclined to believe a connection with Mr. MacKenzie might prove useful to us down the road.”

“How do you know he's not the law, or some private detective, or another long-nosed sniffer spying for the Secret Service? I don't trust him, I tell you.”

“Nor do I. That doesn't mean he couldn't be useful.”

“So you let him romance the chit because you think he
might be
useful?
What if he's actually stupid enough to decide she'd do for a wife? I've watched her. She plays him like a professional floozy. If he asks, she'll reel him in. With her looks, at her age there won't be many proposals coming her way. Marriage proposals, that is.”

“If such an event occurs—and I stress the
if
—we have several options.”

An unpleasant bark of laughter was the response. “I can see from your face which of those options you prefer.”

“Don't be impertinent.”

“But isn't that precisely why you depend on me?” With insolent grace, he paused to strike a match on the sole of his shoe, then lit a Cuban cigar. “Shall I share a little scheme I've devised for our charming redheaded widow?”

“No. Scheme all you want, but do nothing that will pull her out of our reach. We don't need her fleeing back to Virginia. The depth of their attraction for each other is unexpected, but we can use it to our advantage. As for your ‘options,' unless I give the order, I don't want her arrested.”

“Now why would I want to do that after spending the past month turning her into the perfect shover? Who would suspect Chadwick Bingham's widow of passing counterfeit goods? I've enjoyed the novelty of it all.”

“I trust the person making the switch is dependable.”

“Indisputably. They want their family out of Five Points.” He blew a ring with the cigar smoke. “I keep telling you if our little redhead had known anything five years ago, she would have told someone, not disappeared when Bingham inconsiderately hanged himself. You never should have involved her.”

“Bah! She might still look the same on the outside with her brassy hair and freckled face, but she's no longer a green ingenue. Why can I make that assumption? Because the
goods we gave Benny have not surfaced. We know he passed them to her.”

“How do we know Benny didn't do a double-switch on us and take everything to those infernal Secret Service mosquitoes? Maybe that's why he's disappeared.”

“You fret like an old woman. Those agents are overworked, few in number. They exterminate a few hustlers, expose some green-goods swindlers and think they've done their job. I've tossed a few bones their way myself—helps keep their attention elsewhere. The Secret Service is a bumbling government agency that will disappear by the turn of the century. Our present problem with Benny will resolve itself. Flexibility, as well as cunning, is a necessity in our business.”

“So you say. But I still fail to understand your distrust of the widow. We only have Benny's word that he passed her the goods.”

A malignant current momentarily darkened the air. “There are things about that woman I have not shared with you. I do so now because your infatuation—”

“She's an amusing toy, not a blasted infatuation.”

“—is not to be tolerated. Listen to me. After her husband's cowardly suicide, when she vanished, a half-million dollars from one of our accounts also vanished.”

“Legitimate dollars, not prime examples from one of our production firms?” Thoughtfully he tapped his walking cane on the gravel pathway. “So that's the real reason behind this brouhaha. What a cunning little sneak. Of course, it's far more likely Chadwick himself accomplished the theft. As I recall, he was one of the vice presidents at that bank, wasn't he? Probably transferred it overseas, or spent it, or invested it in a silver mine or something. Although it wouldn't make sense, helping himself to the goods if he'd decided to string
himself from the balustrade. Perhaps his wife decided she wanted it all, and Bingham's suicide was a cleverly arranged murder.”

“Murder or suicide, he's dead. She's not.”

“True. What difference does it make at this point? Besides, the woman could also be the innocent rose she pretends to be.”

“Don't be stupid. I've had to replace those funds with counterfeit bills, at considerable risk.
That money is mine.
Nobody steals from me. Nobody. Jocelyn Tremayne Bingham will eventually be persuaded to share all her secrets. If we'd known she'd reverted to her maiden name, we could have found her—and the money—sooner.”

Silently the companion puffed on his cigar. “Have it your way. She's an unprincipled doxy and a clever thief.”

“Clever enough to know a counterfeit ten-dollar gold coin and an obviously forged bill provide her with leverage. Clever enough to have hidden them well, since we know they're not in her Richmond residence, or among her possessions here in New York.”

“Moving the plates and the printer to a new location is costing us $50,000 a week. You do realize you might jeopardize the entire organization over her and still not find that money. Is she worth it?”

“I'll be the judge of acceptable risks. Better than exposure, wouldn't you agree? Don't worry. We still have the means to produce enough to keep everyone in the partnership agreeably solvent. Now, the two lovebirds should be strolling along in a few minutes. Unless you want them to see you, I suggest you cut across the grass and mingle with the crowds on Bethesda Terrace.”

“Very well.” He flicked the cigar onto the gravel path, ground out the smoldering tip, then curved his hands over the
opened window of the dark green brougham. “I suggest you have the driver hurry. You wouldn't want to be seen yourself.”

 

God had blessed them with a perfect late-autumn day, Micah decided as he and Jocelyn strolled the Mall with the other park goers. Though past their red-gold peak, the elms still formed an arched canopy above them, with an azure sky peeking through the branches. The air in the park seemed clearer, more invigorating. He glanced down at Jocelyn, and a quiet joy radiated through his bones.

“You're looking pleased,” Jocelyn said.

“I finally have you all to myself for a change, and I'm liking the feeling very much.”

“And all these other people are figments of my imagination?”

“Well…you do have a fertile one.” Delighted with her, Micah impulsively grabbed her hand, tugging her in front of an Irish nanny pushing a wicker baby carriage. At the edge of the path, he whisked a giggling Jocelyn around one of the many park statues into the dappled shadows. “Let's see if we can find a spot somewhere even your imagination can't discover.”

If he were clever enough, and blessed with a snippet of divine indulgence, the pair of lackeys who monitored every swing of his and Jocelyn's arms would instead chase themselves in circles. “As I recall, I made you a promise some time ago. Between the Brocks parading us in front of their friends, and that spate of inclement weather last week, this is the first opportunity I've had to follow through on that promise.”

He felt the jolt of her reaction, heard the catch in her breath. Micah paused in the midst of a clump of evergreens to search the endearing freckled face. “Don't be alarmed. I promise to try to remember that I'm a gentleman.”

“I thought you'd forgotten,” she confessed, and scarlet streaked across her cheeks. “Not about being a gentleman, I mean. About…about…what you said, the first day.”

“Not a chance. As for place…I think below Vista Rock. There's a thicket of rhododendrons and azaleas…perfect surroundings for us to be alone together.”

“Micah…”

“Shh…this time is for us. Enjoy the moment.”

“For tomorrow we die?”

He gave her a sharp glance, his jubilance faltering. “You quoted scripture, Jocelyn.”

“If it shocks you so much, I promise never to do it again.”

In the blink of an eye she had whisked herself away from him, reverting from the vibrant, warm and sparkling woman to a hollow-eyed shell. Micah wanted to tie his blabbing tongue in a permanent knot. “I'm sorry. I'm a clumsy dolt of a man. You caught me off guard, but I never intended my response to wound.”

Slowly, shyly, life crept back into her face. “I'm sorry, too.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth, then whispered miserably, “Chadwick used sarcasm like a sword, especially when he…was in one of his black moods. I don't think he meant to hurt me, but—” she slid Micah a sideways look “—I used to be very thin-skinned. I thought I was better now. Hide of an elephant.”

They hadn't reached the more secluded bluff, but after a swift survey assured him that they were alone, Micah halted and clasped her forearms. Beneath his fingers the dense curly wool of her blue Persian jacket felt soft as a newborn lamb. Holding her gaze with his own, he worked his thumbs beneath the thin leather of her gloves until he reached the fragile skin of her wrist. Her pulse thundered against his searching thumb. “Your skin is perfect. And I'd rather be
holding a vulnerable, easily wounded redhead than anything else on earth.”

“Micah…you shouldn't say things like that. Not now, not under these circumstances.” In the shadows her hazel eyes had turned a glimmering shade of forest-green. “Our courtship is supposed to be a pretense. I can't—”

“This courtship has never been a pretense, Jocelyn. Let's admit that to each other, right now.” When she shook her head he cupped her cheeks. “Yes,” he murmured, and kissed the pinkened tip of her dainty nose. “Yes,” he repeated, his voice deepening. Inhaling the heady gardenia fragrance of her favorite perfume, he pressed light kisses on her forehead, her translucent eyelids, all the time stroking his gloved fingers over her cheeks. “I've wanted to do this from the moment I saw you at Mr. Hepplewhite's store….”

“You looked as though you wanted to skewer me.”

“Well, right now what I want is to kiss you.” He lifted his head and smiled down into her unguarded face. “May I? Will you share a kiss with me, little firefly?”

Wonderingly, her hand lifted to brush her own gloved fingers with the lightest of touches against his mustache. “Haven't you already?”

“Those kisses were the appetizer.” Smiling softly, he tugged off first his gloves, then Jocelyn's, and stuffed them into the pocket of his jacket. “This is the main course.”

He slid their bare fingers together. Watching her eyes dilate into huge mysterious pools, her lips half parting, he lowered his head. Just before he touched his lips to hers, he closed his eyes.

Heat sizzled through Micah in explosive starbursts. Before it burned him to a crisp, he tried to force himself to end the kiss, but Jocelyn herself shattered his honorable intentions. With an inarticulate gasp she pressed against him, kissing him back, their intertwined hands fused together.

Something—the distant chords of the band striking up, a childish voice raised in laughter, perhaps it was the chittering of a squirrel—finally gave him the impetus to lift his head. Breathing hard, slowly he relaxed his cramped fingers, slid them about Jocelyn's supple waist, steadying her even as he fought to keep his own balance. Her own breath was ragged, and behind the thick screen of her cinnamon-colored eyelashes, green-gold eyes shimmered with emotions.

Micah could no more stem the need coursing through him than he could stop the wind; he touched his lips to the pulse throbbing in her temple. “Jocelyn…” Her name emerged in a ragged sigh.

Slowly, she opened her eyes and gazed wonderingly up at him. “Ohhh…I never knew…I never dreamed…” A light breeze flicked over them, loosening one of the spit curls she'd arranged about her face.

The incipient panic building inside Micah evaporated. “Me, either.” A crooked smile grew and built until his cheeks ached with it. “You are so beautiful to me.” He lifted the dangling curl, marveling at the shades of red and gold and auburn, at the softness.

“You make me feel beautiful.” In an endearingly awkward gesture she turned her head and nuzzled his hand. “For the first time in my life, I feel—beautiful.”

“Jocelyn, surely Chadwick—” Instantly she froze, and would have turned away except Micah was having none of it, firmly holding her still. “No, don't hide from me. I won't pry, I won't mention him again. Let's not spoil this present moment with the past.”

“The present will spoil it soon enough.” She stood, still as a fawn in the meadow, her gaze turned so wistful Micah's heart cracked.

“I told you, this has nothing to do with your family, or my
job. I'm not sure it ever did—not entirely.” Abandoning all restraint, he pulled her close, wrapping her in his arms. “Jocelyn, whatever happens, months ago I promised that I would not abandon you. I don't make promises like that lightly. Please believe me. I know you're angry at God, that you don't trust Him or His purpose, but I do. I do.” He rocked her, longing to infuse his own faith into her pores, praying in the darkest reaches of his soul that God would heal her. “I don't have any easy answers for you. I just know that, without my faith, I could not have survived these last years. Without my faith, I couldn't walk away every time I leave you at the door of a family I believe with all my heart has wickedness at its core.”