The Widow's Secret (12 page)

The babble of voices crescendoed around them; pungent odors of fresh baked bread and garlic and oregano permeated the air; faces of half a dozen nationalities flickered through Micah's vision in a kaleidoscope of skin tones. But the only one who could light up the darkest recesses of his mind was a creamy-white face lavishly dusted with cinnamon freckles. “You're beautiful. Even when you didn't like me very much, I still thought you were one of the most beautiful women I've ever known. I wish I'd met you before your wedding day.”

He was shaken when a single tear pearled in the corner of her eye. “Would it be a terrible sin to confess how many times over the past few weeks I struggled with that thought myself?”

“It's not terrible, nor even a sin, firefly.” He wanted to kiss the tear, then the eyes and the mouth trying not to tremble. “I've never judged you, Jocelyn. And Chadwick has been dead for a long time.”

“Other people have not been so generous.”

“Would I be right if I suggested that while he was alive, your husband was one of them?” he asked gently.

A long sigh shuddered through her. Then, searching his face with the wariness of a shy animal, she nodded. “Chadwick was a tortured soul. I was never able to help him, no matter how hard I tried to be a good wife.” She paused. “I know you didn't want me to come to New York at all, but I knew I could help. I
needed
to help, not only you, but the
Secret Service. Since Chadwick's death I've never done anything to make a difference. Instead of Doing Good Works, or Being a Good Steward like Miss Isabella, the headmistress of a school I attended, used to tell us, I've tried very hard these past five years to make myself invisible. I'm not a very nice person, Micah.”

“Katya would disagree. So do I.”

She made a face, the ever-restless hands turning her empty mug around in aimless circles.

One day, Micah promised himself, he and Jocelyn were going to have a serious conversation about her attitudes. “Fortunately for you, this is not the time to point out how wrong-headed you are,” he began.

She swatted his arm.

His reserved, distrustful widow had consoled him in public, and now she was swatting his forearm. The starlight inside him spread all the way to his fingertips, banishing completely the old griefs.

No matter what the personal cost, whatever sacrifice was demanded of him, Micah would protect this woman. “Jocelyn, will you do something for me?”

“Depends on what you want me to do.”

He'd known all along she was also a smart woman. “Would you let me escort you across to Jersey City right now? Put you on a train to Washington? I'll send a telegram to Chief Hazen. You'll be met, probably by him. You'd be safe.”

“Don't be ridiculous!” Even in the flickering gaslight he could see the dark color swarm up her cheeks. He wouldn't have been surprised if the red hair burst into flames. “If you think for one minute you can manipulate the circumstances to remove me from this case, you're not thinking at all, Micah MacKenzie!”

B
ecause she couldn't very well flounce out in high dudgeon, Jocelyn scooted her chair all the way back into the corner and ignored the man across from her. The wretch. She'd shared a deeply private piece of herself, and all he could think about was ridding himself of her presence as expeditiously as possible?

Then he leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table with a total disregard for manners. “I'm not thinking at all,” he agreed. “I shouldn't have said anything. I wasn't trying to manipulate you, I assure you. My preeminent concern is and always has been your safety.”

His candor mollified her bruised feelings. “Thank you. The feeling's mutual. I will certainly consider taking a train to Washington—if you accompany me. But I'd much rather we both stay here. I'm sure Chief Hazen would agree.” Her winsome look merely precipitated an ironic lift of Micah's brow; her flirting skills had corroded over the years. Dropping all artifice, she added, “There's a possibility Benny wouldn't remember me. We were in each other's company less than five minutes, that day in Mr. Hepplewhite's store. You, on the other hand…”

“Are not a stunning woman with remarkable red hair, who
made a scene in a store in the middle of downtown Richmond. A half-dozen customers were still talking about you and your encounter with Benny a week later. So, Jocelyn…if Benny saw you last night, you can be sure he recognized you as the woman in Clocks & Watches. His presence at the Brocks' confirms to me that you were not randomly chosen as a dupe, but were in fact his designated target.”

Dry-mouthed, Jocelyn inhaled an unsteady breath. “Why? How could he have known? My uncle's letter didn't arrive until—” She choked off the rest of the sentence, unable to voice the obvious.

Micah seemed to hesitate, as though he were searching for the right words. Like a swarm of red ants, nerves stung Jocelyn's limbs so that even a burst of laughter across the room made her jump. “Your position as the prodigal niece might be irretrievably compromised,” he finished, the deep voice gentle.

“Why was I allowed out of the house to go for a drive with you?”

“They wouldn't risk questions, particularly from an infatuated man who wouldn't be fobbed off by some feeble excuse of other plans or ill health. Nor would they want the servants to gossip.”

“Katya!” Alarmed, Jocelyn half rose, consumed with guilt.

“Easy, there. As long as we maintain our roles, Katya should be safe. Your instincts are sound, Jocelyn. I trust them…which, in case you haven't noticed, is why I'm agreeing with you instead of yielding to my protective instincts.”

“Was there a compliment buried in there somewhere?”

“Absolutely.” His reciprocal smile lasted but a second. “These people are more shrewd than any serpent. They don't like risk, and they don't act on impulse. I've been after them for a long time and, though it pains me to acknowledge it, I know them almost as well as I know my own family.”

“They
are
my husband's family.”

“I live with that awful truth every second of every hour.” A muscle twitched in his jaw, but his voice remained calm. “They're thorough, and patient. What they've chosen to do with their lives is not only illegal, I believe it is evil. Although they know their actions harm innocent people, they don't care as long as they're not caught.”

“I understand why you think that way.” Swallowing hard, Jocelyn forced herself to sit back, to keep her gaze level with his. “I appreciate your confidence in me but there's something you need to understand, as well. After having lived with this family for almost two months now, I'm finding it difficult to agree with all your assumptions. Yes, they're pompous and vain and venal, and Benny's presence indicates the probability of wrongdoing on their part. I'll never completely trust them. But wicked?”

Half-consciously, she began to fiddle with the appliqué embroidery on the cuffs of her walking suit. “My aunt is happily planning nuptials between us. Uncle Brock admires you. And…and Chadwick's father has changed. Rupert's
kind
to me, Micah. He wants me to be happy. Perhaps the Brocks will change, too. They all see us together, and they believe—” She stopped dead, stuck like a bug on a pin to the conundrum of their relationship.

“They believe our courtship is real?” Micah finished evenly.

“Yes.” Her voice broke on the word. Stupid, silly gudgeon. All the stern lectures to the starry-eyed creature in her mirror might as well have been directed to a dressmaker's dummy. Oh, how could she, of all the women in this merciless world, have harbored an illusion of hope in her heart?

“Jocelyn…do you remember what I told you in the park the other day?”

“I remember more what you did,” she whispered, ducking
her head because she could feel scarlet flags heating her cheeks.

“Those memories keep me awake at night, and distract my concentration during the day,” Micah said. “Don't be shy. Here—I'll say the words again. Look at me, Jocelyn. Look into my eyes and know I'm telling you the truth.”

He waited until Jocelyn found the fortitude to comply. “I've pretended to be a lot of things over the years. But falling in love with you is not one of them.”

She felt as though an anvil had dropped from the ceiling on top of her. In a reflexive gesture she pressed her hand to her throat, crushing the ruched collar in a vain effort to quiet her galloping pulse. “What are you saying? Is this a ploy to reassure me, so I won't break under pressure? You needn't perjure yourself. I promised to help and I will.”

“Sometimes, my love—” the words sounded more exasperated than affectionate “—you frustrate the daylights out of me. I shouldn't have declared myself yet. I know this is not the proper moment, nor the proper place. But what about these past months has been?” A half laugh, half groan escaped. “Here I am, apologizing for trying to reassure you, for telling you the truth. I'm in love with you.” He half turned, flinging out his arm in a sweeping gesture. “We should be in Delmonico's, not a café in the Bowery, surrounded by—” With a speed that left Jocelyn blinking he turned back around, reached across and tugged the veil back over her face. “Lean over as though you dropped something on the floor,” he ordered with enough urgency that she obeyed instantly. “Stay there, that's it…wait…wait. All right. Sit back up, very casually, but keep your face out of the light.”

“What is it?”

“A man's come inside. His name's Limbrick. Goes by ‘Brick.' Among other things, he's a boodle carrier, a person
who receives counterfeit goods from the manufacturer. I arrested him five years ago, caught him shoving five-dollar bills to immigrants straight out of Castle Garden. Despicable blackguard, taking advantage of them, and poor working-class families desperate to put food on the table. He and men of his ilk are like roaches, hard to exterminate. Brick only got three years—judge at the time wasn't too fond of the Service.” Casually he slid a glance over his shoulder. “He's sitting down now, with a few other men I don't recognize. Fortunately, his back is to the door, and us. Jocelyn…”

“We need to leave.” She would have wept except tears would not soften sharp-edged reality. The widow Bingham would never entice, much less expect, Operative Micah MacKenzie of the U.S. Secret Service to forsake his calling. Loving each other was a dangerous mistake neither could afford. “Shall I slip out first, or you?”

For a moment he looked as though he were about to argue. Then he said, his voice grim, “I'll go first. You're sure to draw attention, but as long as you don't meet anyone's gaze you should be able to exit without a fuss. Wait to leave until after I've paid the bill and gone outside. Don't worry if you don't see me. I'll be there.”

Suddenly he leaned in close enough for his breath to warm her cheek. “I'll be there, Jocelyn,” he repeated, and a flash of white teeth appeared beneath his mustache. “You'll get your way, if only for a moment or two.”

“My way—Oh.” Her own smile was a weak imitation. “You mean, you'll be slipping out unnoticed, while the red herring creates a distraction.”

“Always distracting. Always a beautiful redhead. Never a red herring. Be strong, firefly. I'll see you outside.”

And with the languid grace of a panther he rose and maneuvered his way between the tables. Mr. Limbrick had tossed
his head back in a coarse guffaw, then gulped down a tankard of beer with the other men at the table. He never looked Micah's way.

Beneath the fine woolen skirt Jocelyn's knees wobbled. Her throat felt hot, the muscles constricted as she waited until the door closed behind Micah. Then she rose to her feet, clasping the curved back of the chair to steady herself. The Italian family beamed at her with friendly black eyes; one of the younger men said something in Italian but Jocelyn maintained a measured pace, her gaze fixed upon the red-checked curtains framing the windows.

“What's a hoity-toity lady find to do in dese parts?” a nasal voice called out loudly in a pronounced Brooklyn accent. “I know, youse must be one of them pretty waiter girls. Saw me a redhead gal just like you last night, right down da street on the waterfront.”

The lout, reeking of spirits, planted himself directly between Jocelyn and the door. “I likes da way you clean up, kitten.”

Heads were turning, drawing attention their way. The raucous laughter from Mr. Limbrick's table ceased and she heard murmurs ripple over the room. Fear for Micah slithered down her spine, followed swiftly by anger. “At least I know how to clean up.” She advanced upon the man, whose heavy jowls dropped in surprise. A deep flush spread across his forehead. “Move out of my way at once,” Jocelyn ordered, her clear Southern voice crackling through the suddenly charged air. “You're drunk, and you smell.”

“Why, you little—”

Thankfully the manager shoved his way to her side, along with several men from the Italian family, all of them surrounding Jocelyn in a flurry of waving arms and loud voices. Though speaking Italian, they managed to convey a threat to
the masher, and respect for the pretty lady he'd insulted. By the time Jocelyn extricated herself from their protection, the man had thrown open the door and escaped outside. With a final smile and a heartfelt thank-you, Jocelyn followed, dignity intact though her heartbeat threatened to crack her rib cage. The sidewalk was choked with pedestrians, heads bowed against the vicious wind of the mid-November afternoon. Shivering and clammy, Jocelyn resolutely stepped forward, searching the sea of top hats, homburgs and bowlers for Micah.

“Ha! I'll teach you what happens to snooty little skirts with nasty mouths.”

A beefy arm wrapped around her middle in a crushing grip that stole her breath. Stunned, for an instant Jocelyn hung motionless as she was dragged through the crowd, toward one of the dark hackney carriages that waited by the curb. When her abductor yanked open the door of the cab, outrage jabbed her like a cattle prod. Twisting and flailing her arms, she struggled to find breath enough to call out to the cab driver for help. She must not, would not call Micah's name.

She was released so abruptly she tumbled forward and would have fallen except a firm hand grabbed her upper arm, steadying her until she regained her balance.

“I've got you, Jocelyn,” Micah's voice spoke in her ear.

Before she could gasp out a warning his foot had lashed out, striking the masher with a hard blow to his knee. Howling, the man stumbled back and fell, his head thunking against the carriage wheel. The horses snorted, hooves restlessly stamping. Micah looked down at Jocelyn. “Are you able to stand on your own?”

Numbly she nodded.

Micah released her, then leaned down, hauled the other man to his feet and twisted his fist around the hapless attacker's
collar. “If you ever so much as blink at another woman without respect,” he said in a voice that raised gooseflesh, “I'll hunt you down, no matter what sewer you're swilling at, and make you regret the day you took your first drink. Do you understand?”

Choking, blubbering a stream of profanity and pleas, the man finally went limp. Micah dragged him away from the hackney, propped him against one of the El's metal supports, then stepped back. “Do you understand?” he repeated.

The man bobbed his head. Micah turned to the small crowd who had gathered to watch. “Go on about your business,” he ordered them in a hard voice that yielded instant results. Then, to the drunk, “If I can still see you in ten seconds, I'll have you arrested on so many charges you won't see daylight until spring.”

Without a word the man straightened, then fled, still limping, across the broad avenue to the other side of the street.

Micah turned to Jocelyn. She tried to smile, but her hands couldn't seem to stop shaking so she ceased trying to fasten her buttons and tug down her shirtwaist. “I'm all right. I'm…He didn't hurt me.” A watery laugh escaped. “Perhaps you should instruct me on how to confront an intoxicated man. I'm afraid I inflamed him, when he…um…spoke to me, inside the café.”

“You don't confront drunken clods at all,” he muttered, his mouth a thin slash of a line. “I never should have left you in there alone. Here, let me help you….” Despite the anger still flickering across his face, his hands were gentle as he straightened her jacket, repositioned her hat, tucked the veil inside her collar.

He'd put his gloves back on, but even so the intimacy of that gentle touch scalded. Jocelyn looked up into his eyes, unable to breathe, unable to think, unable to do anything at all but give him her heart. He hadn't asked for it, and might
soon spurn the words, much as she had his. Yet the awareness flooded her in a golden warmth as irresistible as sunlight on a cold winter day.
God, I know You're going to take him away from me. But at least I have this moment.