“This will only take a moment,” Esmie said, her voice low. Her pale-gray eyes met Genevieve’s, resolute. “I understand Miss Maple and her grandmother are staying with the Lindsay family at present?” she asked.
“Yes,” Genevieve answered, even more confused. Eliza and her father were insisting that the women stay as their guests. Genevieve suspected that the Maple townhouse, which had been in the family for three generations, would soon be sold.
But how did Esmie know this? And why did she care?
“I believe if they return to their home tomorrow morning, they may find what was lost,” the other woman said carefully. Her expression was perfectly neutral. “Good day to you.”
Without another word, Esmie quickly brushed past Genevieve and was out the door, refastening her veil as she departed.
The shock of what Esmie had said froze Genevieve in place for a full five seconds as she struggled to wrap her mind around its implications. Willing herself to move, she yanked open the tearoom door, only to gape as the stiffly held back of the slender, black-clad figure turned a corner and disappeared like a wraith.
Speechless, Genevieve climbed into the cab with her friends. Thankfully, Callie had calmed somewhat, and even more thankfully, neither asked why she had been a few moments delayed.
They had now retreated to the Lindsay townhouse on the Square’s west side, where Eliza had gamely tried to recreate the experience they might have had at the tearoom with cake, scones, and Darjeeling, but nobody felt much like eating anything.
Genevieve stared again at the cake on her plate, then glanced out the window. It was ridiculous, this sitting around. She stood, startling her friends, and began to spin a string of lies about why she must leave.
It was time for action. She feverishly hoped Daniel had not been harmed. But if he hadn’t and was off somewhere ignoring her, licking his wounds, she was done trying to find him. Someone had to continue their investigation, and Esmie Bradley had made it clear that perhaps tonight, all their questions would be answered.
And if he had been harmed … well, then tonight would be the first step toward justice.
The bar’s wooden surface was the most fascinating mixture of textures and color Daniel had ever seen. Different shades of brown swirled, expanded and contracted, merged with streaks of black and reemerged, in a mesmerizing pattern.
Just like Genevieve’s hair. Warm, honey-hued strands, tumbling down her bare shoulders.
Daniel shook his head mightily to clear the image, and realized with a start that he was examining the bar’s surface through the clear base of his glass.
His empty glass.
Well, that wouldn’t do.
He blearily raised his head and looked for the bartender, tapping his glass on the wooden surface to signal he was ready for a refill. The barkeep, looking up from his paper at the far end of the bar, glanced toward one of the tables lining the wall behind Daniel. Daniel followed his gaze and noted Paddy’s dispassionate nod.
Well, that wouldn’t do either.
“I don’t need his permission for more whiskey,” Daniel protested, casting an accusing glance at Paddy, who turned back to his own drink without acknowledging the claim.
The bartender wordlessly tipped more of the amber liquid into Daniel’s glass and returned to his side of the bar. Paddy and Billy nursed their drinks in silence. Daniel decided not to pursue the unjust arrangement—since when was Paddy his keeper, anyway?—and moodily sipped his fresh drink, enjoying the warm burn of the liquid coursing down his throat. He knew that soon the burn would stop and transform into a thin but necessary layer of fuzziness that would add to the existing layers of fuzziness, and all of these layers would pile up until they were the consistency of a thick blanket. The woolly kind. This woolly blanket would protect him. It would insulate him from the thoughts and memories that he couldn’t stop from buzzing around his brain, stinging him with tiny, painful pricks.
Yes, the woolly blanket was his shield. But it also itched.
The memories pushed through despite his efforts, stinging and itching. His baby sister Mary, toddling across the room toward his parents. His father, picking up his five-months-pregnant mother as if she were a slight girl and swinging her round while their children laughed with delight. Maggie’s sad face, telling him to be good in Boston.
Dammit, there wasn’t enough whiskey in the world to build the blanket he needed. Nothing could insulate him. Not from his wretched, painful past, and not from the present, stinging betrayal.
He had trusted her.
Daniel hadn’t allowed himself to trust anyone, not for years.
What he should have trusted was his gut. Goddamn the goddamn press. Anything for a story. And he had been taken in, had truly, honestly believed they were on the same side, that she’d keep his secrets.
He would never forget the sight of Asher, paper in hand, looking mildly stricken. That alone was cause for alarm, as typically an illustration of Asher’s countenance could serve as the definition for poker face in Merriam-Webster. At first Daniel had been amused at the headline, wondering why it had taken one of the papers so long to accuse him of being Robin Hood after his origins were exposed by Tommy at the Bradleys’ ball. Reading on, though, he found more intimate, private details of his life. There it was, words glaring at him from the page. The insinuation that Maggie had been Jacob’s lover. The hint that her death had been self-induced. There was the usual suggestion of foul play that had accompanied Daniel since his teen years, but he was accustomed to that. It was having the sad details of his beloved sister’s life and untimely death splashed about on the front page that cut him to ribbons and made him feel as though he were experiencing Maggie’s death all over again.
All written under her byline: Clive Huxton and Polly Palmer. She must have rushed to this Clive person instantly, spilled all
