The smell of charred wood was strong. The scent brought with it the bittersweet memory of a newly constructed shed, nestled in the California gold mines. Unconsciously, Drake’s hand strayed into the pocked of his trousers. Thoughtfully, he rubbed the silky lock of braided chestnut hair between his thumb and index finger. The jagged edge of the key strung through it grazed against his palm. He’d waited a long time to use that key.
Drake shifted his gaze, he studied his friend long and hard. His answer, when it came, was cold and filled with loathing. “Angelique Rutland killed any feelings I had the day she agreed to marry my brother. Disgust is about the only thing I feel for her now.”
“I know I should have never asked, but...” Elbert paused as he massaged the twitch in the corner of his left eye with quaking fingertips. “You must understand, Theodore Rutland is a practicing lawyer in this city. While we rarely see each other socially, he is still a business associate. I am concerned that your revenge against Charles, well founded though it may be, could also cause repercussions for Rutland’s daughter. I would rather see Angelique left out of this.”
Drake pushed away from the fireplace and retrieved the worn leather hat hanging on the hook beside the door. He turned back to the lawyer as he settled the hat atop his head. “She’s his wife, Elbert. If Charles falls—no, when Charles falls, she goes down with him. It’s inevitable.”
“I realize hurting Charles is inevitable. But is there no way to avoid hurting Angelique?” Sighing, he dragged his palm over the bald top of his head as he raised the other hand in a shaky plea for attention. “Please, Drake, let me explain. I can imagine how much it must have hurt when Angelique married Charles. Since I know firsthand how cold and manipulative the woman can be, I will not defend her on that score—or any other.” The door to the outer office opened a crack. Both men heard the barely perceptible squeak of hinges. Neither acknowledged it. Elbert paused, pursuing his lips and choosing his words with shrewd precision. “However, I would not feel I had fulfilled my duty to my business associate if I did not try, in some smaaall way, to dissuade you. Do you understand what I am trying to say, Mr. Fredrickson?”
Drake stifled a chuckle, carefully lowering his voice so their eavesdropper couldn’t hear. “Fredrickson.”
Elbert muttered under his breath, “I never worked well under pressu
re. You know that.”
Drake grinned and pulled the brim of his hat low on his brow. His voice rose enough for every juicy word to be caught by the prying ears. “Very well, Mr. Sneyd. I understand your concern and I will take it into consideration. I do want to assure you, however, that the innocent will remained unharmed.” His grin broadened. “Does that put your mind at rest?”
Elbert pushed up the spectacles and returned the grin. Picking the papers up off his desk, he held them out to Drake. “Yes, sir, it most certainly does. I thank you for your understanding. You have most definitely put my mind at rest.”
Drake took the papers and tucked them under his arm. “Notify the accountant I’ll be in touch with him before the end of the week. Good day, Mr. Sneyd.” From the corner of his eye, Drake saw the door swing shut. Where the hell is Hope? He wondered as he turned for the door. And why was she letting Sneyd’s secretary spy on his private conversations? Or was she the one doing the spying? The thought did not sit well.
“Good day, Mr.—“ Elbert’s gaze shifted to the door. Seeing it was shut, his staunchly professional demeanor thawed. “Good day, Drake. It’s good to have you back.”
“Feels good to be back, Elbert.” He stopped, his hand poised over the doorknob as he looked back at his friend. He fingered the papers tucked beneath his arm. “I’ll be in touch.”
“You won’t have to,” Elbert said as he plucked up Drake’s folder. He dug long fingers into his breast pocket in search of the desk key. “Charles and Angelique are throwing a charity ball at the house tonight. I’ve been invited. No doubt, we’ll see each other there.”
“Charity ball? Charles? You’ve got to be kidding me. The man has no more interest in charity functions than I have in fashion plates. What’s he up to now?”
Elbert shook his head thoughtfully. “I’m not sure, though I’m curious to find out. The benefits are to go to the Bradfield-Stillwell Home. Do the names sound familiar?”
Drake’s expression darkened. “Yeah,” he spat through gritted teeth, “Very familiar.”
“I thought they would. Like I said, I don’t know what he’s up to, but I do know this whole charity ball is suspicious. Of course, I have no proof. However, your brother’s sudden interest in procuring funds for a home for wayward boys seems particularly suspicious since the party’s conception coincides, to the day, with the date his inheritance ran dry. Now, I’m not suggesting he is doing anything illegal, but if you should happen to stumble on any information about this Bradfield-Stillwell Home, I’d be most interested in seeing it.”
He nodded slowly, his lips tight. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Oh, Drake, one more thing,” Elbert stopped his friend, whose hand was poised on the knob. “That matter you wired me about from St. Louis. It’s all been taken care of. The receipt is somewhere in those papers, in case you need it.”
He nodded once more to his old friend, then opened the door and stepped into the outer office.
The question of who had been eavesdropping was abruptly answered. The secretary, a kid who couldn’t possibly be over the age of seventeen, was sitting behind a small desk. Bent forward, he’d rested his elbows on the desktop and cushioned his pointed chin atop entwined fingers. His beady gaze was rigidly trained on the bench running against the wall to Drake’s immediate right—and the woman who slept on it.
With its high, slatted back posts and narrow, curved armrests, the hard wooden bench looked like an uncomfortable bed. Hope shifted. Her cheek was pillowed on her forearms, her knees drawn up almost to her chest as she huddled in the folds of one of Drake’s shirts. The hat she’d been wearing when they’d entered the office had fallen off. It now rested on the dark brown carpet near one of the bench’s spindled legs. The ends of the thick plait of hair curving over her shoulder dragged the floor, scarcely an inch away from the hat. Her deep, rhythmic breaths told Drake she had been asleep for some time.
A sudden stab of guilt at ever having suspected her of spying on him made Drake pull the door closed with more force than was necessary. He regarded the secretary with a suspicious glare. “How long has she been asleep?”
“About an hour, Mr. Fredrickson,” the secretary answered distractedly as he continued to scrutinize Hope. “How long has she been a she?” His eyes widened when he realized the impact of what he had just said. He fidgeted uncomfortably, the beady gaze flickered between the Colt strapped to the rugged man’s thigh and the anger that shimmered in those piercing green eyes. His confidence burst and he stammered, “I... I m-mean... that is—er—you both... I mean, I would have a s-sworn when you came in that you were b-both men.”
“And I know for a fact that when I came in, I didn’t give you my name,” Drake growled angrily.
Drake dropped the papers to the floor and approached the small desk in much the same way a lion would stalk his prey. In one lithe movement, he reached across the desk and grabbed a fistful of the young man’s coat. He included enough skin in his grasp to make his point painfully clear as he dragged the dark-haired fellow halfway across the desk. They were nose to nose, and Drake almost gagged on the rancid odor of the young man’s breath. “Tell me how you learned my name and tell me fast. I’m not known for my patience—and I don’t like snoops.”
“I didn’t snoop,” the man defended, his voice seriously lacking in truthfulness. He licked his fleshy lips, his gaze darting over Drake’s shoulder and resting on the woman asleep on the bench. He nodded in Hope’s direction. “Sh-she told me.”
“Like hell she did,” Drake snarled, pushing the kid back into his chair with a brutal shove. The wooden backrest banged against the wall as he pulled the pistol from his holster. “You should try to remember your lies, pal. Two minutes ago you told me the lady’s been asleep an hour. Good trick. We’ve only been here forty-five minutes. Now,” he eased the hammer back slightly to free the cylinder and rolled it lightly down his arm, giving the kid ample opportunity to see the six live cartridges spinning in the gun’s cylinder, and continued, “my Colt says you’re going to tell me the truth.”
“I did,” the kid whined miserably, his eyes never leaving the deadly pistol.