Blind Trust (35 page)

Tavish had plenty of time to think, that was certain. And for the first time he looked at the problem from a new angle. Rory, the deputy, obligingly gave him a pencil and paper. He scratched out clues and suppositions, he crossed them out and started again. He made a timetable. He made lists.

It was when he was eating the indifferent supper Rory had pushed underneath the bars that it all started to come together. Then, like slow dawn over the Rockies, tiny fingers of light began to sneak into his mind. Then illumination flooded in.

Tavish put down his tin fork. If he was right, eleven o'clock could be too late.

“Hey, Rory,” he called through the bars, forcing his voice to sound light. “Come and eat your dinner back here. No sense both of us eating alone, is there?”

“Sure enough, Tavish. I'll just put the chair right here against the wall.”

“Sure. I just thought we could both use a bit of company is all,” Tavish answered cheerfully. “Now, tell me, was your father in the National Grange?”

“H-he was, yes,” Rory sputtered. “How did you guess?”

“Oh, I can tell a Granger,” Tavish said. “And I can tell a Granger's son.”

She had lived with Claude for what seemed like an eternity, concealing her feelings, her thoughts. It was the only thing that saved her now, for she felt close to collapse.

She barely heard her uncle speak of what they should do—he would send her to Denver on the late train, he would explain everything to Tavish tomorrow, then he would follow her after doing what could be done here, and finally he would petition the governor personally. Through a pounding in her temples, the facts thudded into her mind with sickening logic. Even while she nodded and thanked him, she remembered.

She remembered everything. Lemuel had been away in January when Tavish's friend was killed. In St. Augustine, he'd said. But he'd been away for two months, time to get to California and back, and do business in between. Oh, she'd had letters. Letters that spoke of the warm weather, the business he was doing. Letters that had arrived, like many of her letters, on her tray already opened by Claude. And they were letters, Darcy was sure now, that Lemuel had written before he'd even gone away. He'd given them to Claude, and Claude had passed them along.

The letters in Claude's file that had been written from Boston were not from last year. Lemuel hadn't made a mistake about Florence's marriage. He'd been planning a trip somewhere—back to California, most likely—and had already given the letters to Claude so that he would have an alibi in Boston.

Had they both come up with the scheme then, to open her letters so that they wouldn't have to mail them to cover their tracks? Or had Lemuel seen that he could use Claude's practice to create an alibi whenever he wanted one?

Everyone thought that Lemuel and Claude had hated each other. They hardly spoke. But what better cover for their business activities could there be? They would never slip in public, never betray by their eyes that there was more between them. For they rarely saw each other in public. And when they did, they did not speak.

And then Darcy remembered her mother's letter. The only letter with an envelope, an envelope with no canceled stamp, no postmark, because Lemuel had received it in Paris himself on one of his trips. Why it had never been given to her, she didn't know. Perhaps it was because despite the dutiful annual visit, Lemuel hated Amelia. Darcy knew that. He blamed Amelia for so much. Just as Darcy had, once. And who had led her to hate her own mother? Not Edward. Lemuel.

When she'd told him that she'd seen the letters in Claude's study, he'd been furious. Not because of what Claude had done. But because now there was a danger that she would find all this out if she had gone back and read the letters through.

So he'd killed Claude and taken the letters himself.

And Annie O'Day! Who better than Lemuel would recognize her on Wall Street? Claude hadn't known her by sight, but Lemuel had.

She'd been so blind! Claude should have taught her that no surface, no matter how glittering, how safe, could hide a depraved soul, could hide anger, could hide greed. She had blinded herself to Lemuel's nature for the most egotistical of reasons: because he had praised her, he had made much of her. Even while he had disdained her father, turned his back on her mother, been cruel to his wife—no wonder poor Marie was so silent, so cowed!—he had made a pet of her. And so she had trusted him, she had loved him. Because her husband had hated her, she had yearned for love. And because someone had loved her, she had loved him back, turning a blind eye to his selfishness, his cruelty to others. He was not cruel, she had said stoutly. For wasn't he kind to her?

A sob broke from her, and Lemuel looked up sharply. “Darcy, dearest, what is it?”

“It's all been too much,” she said, using the same excuse she'd given to Ned. Ned! If Lemuel would leave, she could go to him. Of course if Columbine trusted him he must be trustworthy; Columbine was no fool.

But what if Columbine had been blinded by love as well? What if Ned was in league with Lemuel? Darcy moved restlessly; she felt she would go mad. She hadn't the knack for deciding who to trust; she didn't know how it was done. She'd never known.

She had to get to Tavish. He was in danger, she knew that now. Would Lemuel be content to wait for the judge? Or would he send her to Denver and exact his own brand of justice?

She leaned her head in her hands to disguise the fear in her eyes. “I'm so afraid,” she murmured. It was the truth.

“I know. But you must be strong. I'll leave you now to pack. I'll send up a brandy for you. Come downstairs when you're ready. We have only a half hour. I'll be waiting.” He pressed his lips against her hands. They felt thin and cold. She shuddered.

“I'm cold.”

“Dress warmly. I'll telegraph ahead to Denver, you'll have a fine suite to rest in. And I will join you as soon as I can. Now, hurry, Darcy. I'll be downstairs.”

She forced herself to look at him. “Thank you so much, Uncle Lemuel. You don't know what you've done for me tonight.”

“You know that I would do anything for you, Darcy.”

His eyes were as kind as ever. He bowed, picked up his lavender gloves, and he left.

She forced herself to wait. She counted off the minutes. In five, a large brandy arrived. She ignored it; after her experience with Claude, she would not risk even a swallow of it to steady her nerves.

She thought carefully. He could be having a nightcap himself in the bar downstairs. He could be waiting in the lobby ot in the street. She would have to go through the kitchens; there must be a back door for deliveries. She had to warn Tavish, she had to try.

Once again, she put on her cloak. She turned down the kerosene lamp and went to the window. Waiting until her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she stared out into the black night, trying to discern shadow from substance.

She was squinting so hard at the shadows on the porch of the hotel that she almost missed it. A man was coming slowly down the street. He was keeping close to the buildings, and his hat shadowed his face even further. But she knew him. Tavish.

She started to turn away, hurry downstairs to meet him, but something made her stop, turn back, and look again. Another shadow. Her heart stopped. Under the porch, there, near the comer of the building. And then the shadow that was Tavish moved past, stopped, went back. And the two shadows merged into one. They stood, then moved off together. One long black shadow that passed into the alley between the buildings and disappeared.

She didn't wait another instant. Lemuel had found him. Waiting for her, he had caught a bigger prize. Her heart in her throat, Darcy ran.

“Much better that you do not try to walk into that hotel,” Tavish's companion said. Swinging his cane, he walked as though he were strolling down Broadway. “Everyone in town knows your face. They're drunk and, like everyone out here in the savage West, trigger happy. However did you manage to break out of jail, anyway?”

“The deputy's father was in the Grange,” Tavish said.

“Ah. Of course. A subversive group, rather like the Masons—or the Union Club. So he would not hesitate to let you go, accused saboteur or no.”‘

“Only for an hour,” Tavish replied. “A gentleman's promise.”

“Which you will break, undoubtedly.”

“Not if I can help it. I only wanted to speak to Darcy.”

“And so you shall. She should be at the depot in just a few minutes. I made sure she was all right before I left her.”

In his pocket, Tavish clenched his fist and unclenched it again. What the hell did that mean? he wondered. Did the devil want him to think that he had Darcy under his control? Was she truly all right? Tavish's mind roared with questions. He wasn't sure how far the man would go. Surely he wouldn't harm his own niece.

“And I don't think you have to worry about jail,” Lemuel said. “I had dinner with the governor two nights ago in Denver, and—”

“You were in Denver, Mr. Grace?” Tavish's question was light.

Lemuel faltered for the first time. “Yes, I'd been following you and Darcy for some time—”

“But why did you think we would go to Denver?”

“I didn't. I received a wire from my wife—”

“Darcy sent that wire from St. Louis—that would be rather too late for you to catch up with us. You were already in Denver, then?”

“I was wandering—hoping to catch news of the two of you.”

“I see.” They were at the deserted depot now. It was a dark night, the moon obscured by long streaks of clouds. No one from Redemption was taking the eleven-thirty train. The tiny station was deserted.

“Shall we be frank, Mr. Grace?” Tavish said, turning casually to face him. “I, sir, am unarmed. Rory's sympathies did not include handing over his gun to me. And I must tell you that I'm tired of lies, and you must be, too. Why should we hide from each other? So, tell me—how could you stomach having Claude Statton as a partner?”

Lemuel's eyes caught a shaft of moonlight. They glittered, ice against steel. Dead eyes.

I've seen warmer gazes on salmon I caught.

Suddenly grief nearly knocked Tavish down. Jamie Alden, dead. For this man's greed. Perhaps this man's pleasure.

“I discovered rather quickly,” Lemuel said, smoothly taking a gun from his pocket, “that you can stomach anything if considerable sums of money are involved.”

“You sound like a shoddyite,” Tavish said. “Like Claude Statton, one of the vulgar new rich you abhor.”

Lemuel shrugged. “A man has a private life, and a public life—one learns that rather quickly in my class. I met Claude Statton when I was investigating opportunities for investment out West. I knew he could make me money. He was so hungry, so unscrupulous. And I had already found Annie O'Day, brought her to Fleur's. I saw how much money passed through there. Claude seemed to be the perfect one to handle it. So I brought him to New York.”

“You brought him—”

“I backed him. He did well. He took over the day-to-day handling of the business, plus the expansion and the blackmail. I handled the out-of-town business—the railroads in California, the lumber, the mines. Even a little business in Europe. Then when we needed more capital, we got Edward to approach the Old Guard. But first we had Claude court Darcy. It was wise to be allied to a good name. That was Claude's idea. It was good for Darcy, too. At least I believed so in the beginning.”

Tavish felt his blood pound. Good for Darcy to marry such a man. “Why?” he asked. “Why did you risk everything for this, your name, your position, your
niece?
You had money.”

“Yes, I had money,” Lemuel spat out. “Money by any standards but today's. I saw the men who moved up Fifth Avenue, how much they had, how much they spent. I knew it would only be a matter of time before they'd taken over society completely. And I was proved right! The Vanderbilts and their ilk
run
society now! I knew that names like the Graces and the Snows and the Archers would be destroyed if I didn't do something. I
had
to do it.”

“But why kill Jamie Alden?” Tavish whispered.

“Because he got too close,” Lemuel said dispassionately. He motioned Tavish closer to the tracks with his gun. “He was hanging around the brothels in San Francisco—he could have put the pieces together. There were quite a few hostile madams there—tough women. They weren't afraid of me like Fleur Ganay was, but we were starting to make inroads there. We'd taken over some of the Chinese crib houses—your friend found that out. I just wanted to scare him. But it was so easy to dispense with him completely.” A dreamy expression came over Lemuel's face. “So surprisingly easy to kill a man.”

Tavish heard the whistle of the train. Still not very close, but coming. He realized why Lemuel was keeping him here, talking. This time, he wanted it to look like an accident. Would he knock Tavish out first, or simply force him onto the tracks? Would he risk shooting him first? And if he
did
shoot, where would he aim?