“It’s just that we’re leaving soon, and I didn’t intend for anything romantic to happen between Mr. Brown and myself,” she hurried to explain.
“Whatever the case may be, I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time tonight.” Esther gave her a bright smile before leaving the room.
“It’s all right, Cynthia,” Corbin said, pushing himself out of the chair where he sat and walking over to her. “Let him call it whatever he will, and let the maid have her own fantasies about beautiful dresses and so forth. And ignore my reactions to it too. Just concentrate on your task and don’t worry about the rest of us, all right?”
“I don’t want you to be unhappy.”
He chuckled. “That’s for me to endure. Now, why don’t you take a nap until it’s time to get ready for dinner? I can see you fighting off a yawn, and I think I’ll go nap in my room too.”
She nodded, and after Corbin left the room, she climbed onto her bed and lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Have dinner, steal the book, don’t get caught, don’t let him get the wrong idea . . . Gracious. There was so much to consider. Yes, a nap was just the thing to make sure she was ready for this challenge.
Chapter Seven
“My dear, you look even more beautiful in that dress than I imagined,” Kade said as he welcomed her into his suite. “The color suits you very well.”
“It’s one of the loveliest things I’ve ever owned,” Cynthia replied truthfully. “I almost didn’t accept it, though—it seems far too extravagant a gift when we won’t be seeing each other again after tomorrow.”
“Oh, let me decide what’s too extravagant.” Kade chuckled. “It’s my money, after all—I should be the one to determine what happens to it.”
Cynthia smiled because it was expected, but not because she wanted to. It was odd to think that he’d likely spent part of the fee she’d paid him on a gift for her, especially when the gift was just window dressing and carried no real meaning. “I’m sorry for questioning you. I’m not used to such kindness from someone I’ve just met.”
“Your modesty does you credit. Please, have a seat.”
In the center of the room stood a small dining table that had been set with nice dishes and a lovely crocheted tablecloth. It brought another smile to Cynthia’s lips, but this one of wry amusement. She was not the first young lady to be invited to dinner here, that was for certain, and she wouldn’t be the last.
She took her seat, and Kade sat across from her. She noticed now that he wasn’t wearing the same jacket he’d worn that morning—the one with the breast pocket where he’d tucked his notebook. Instead, he wore a vest and no jacket, and she couldn’t detect the outline of a notebook in the pocket on his chest. If he wasn’t carrying it, where had he put it?
“Thank you again for arranging things for us,” she said. “It’s hard to think that we’ll be saying goodbye to our old lives forever, but both our parents are deceased, and there’s nothing keeping us tied to the past. I’m rather excited to see what the future holds for Christine Stewart.”
“May she prosper in her new home,” Kade said, lifting his water glass in a toast.
Cynthia lifted hers as well and took a sip. As she set it down again, she commented, “And I also need to thank you for sheltering us in the meantime. I’ve never felt so safe.”
“It’s nothing less than you deserve.”
A knock sounded on the door, and Kade rose to answer it. A young man stood on the other side, and he spoke to Kade in low tones. Cynthia couldn’t tell what was being said, but it sounded urgent.
Kade returned to the table, but instead of sitting, he rested a hand on Cynthia’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, my dear, but the kitchen has run into a bit of trouble with our dinner and I need to step out for just a moment. I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be waiting.” She gave him a broad smile.
When he left the room and pulled the door closed, she noticed that it gave an extra click, and she wondered if she’d been locked in. She counted to ten, then crept over and tried the knob. As she suspected, it wouldn’t turn in her hand.
All right . . . She took a deep breath and pushed aside the sudden feelings of fear that rose up in her. She had a job to do, and this was actually the perfect opportunity. She needed to locate the notebook, and Kade’s absence made that task all the easier.
She began with the dresser under the window, opening and closing drawers and sifting through the contents. Then the bedside table, then the desk. Her hands were shaking and her movements were jerky, but she was thorough, determined not to miss anything. At last, she found the notebook tucked into the very back of the desk drawer, and she flipped it open to make sure that’s what it was and not a similar notebook filled with recipes or some such thing.
She found the names “Nathaniel and Christine Stewart” written on the back page, but interestingly, there was another name written after theirs. Had Kade met with another client later that morning or afternoon? It would appear so, but where was that person now? Were they locked in another room here on the second floor?
She startled and nearly dropped the notebook when she heard voices in the hallway. She stepped away from the desk as quickly as she could and walked over to the bookshelf, pretending to examine a row of poetry books, but she had no idea what to do with the notebook in her hand.
“I’m so sorry for the interruption,” Kade said as he opened the door to the room and entered. He held it wide, and two young men carrying large trays entered behind him. They arranged plate after plate on the table, then left, and she was once again alone with Kade, a notebook in her hand. “I trust you weren’t too bored in my absence.”
“I did feel a little awkward here without you, so I helped myself to your books,” she said, motioning toward the shelf. “Might I borrow this volume of poetry? It might help me sleep tonight. I’m afraid I’ll lay awake until dawn otherwise—I’m so anxious about leaving.”
“Of course you may borrow it. And anything else on my shelf.”
“Thank you.” She pulled the book down, slipped the notebook inside it, and set the book on the table next to the door. Provided that he didn’t look at the book too closely and notice that there was something wedged inside it, everything should be all right. Then she returned to her seat.
“Everything looks so delicious.”
“The kitchen does a marvelous job. For some reason, though, they didn’t understand my instructions about dessert.” He nodded toward her plate. “Bon appetit.”
The food was delicious, and Cynthia tried to concentrate on her enjoyment of it rather than her anxiety over being discovered. She didn’t know how she was supposed to act natural when she felt so very uncomfortable, and it was difficult to keep her eyes from straying to the book.
“How long were you married to Mr. Fielding?” Kade was asking, and she forced herself back to the moment.
“Just over two years,” she replied. “I married him young—far too young to make a proper decision, and my mother didn’t override my choice because I insisted that’s what I wanted.” She paused. “Daniel was right, you know, when he spoke about our parents. I was coddled—I realize that. And it did make me selfish in a lot of ways.”
“You can’t blame yourself now for the innocent choices of youth,” Kade said. “As you pointed out, you have a whole new life waiting for you, and a long string of new choices as well.”
“And this time, I’ll be wiser.” She gave him a wide smile, which he returned.
“I wonder, Marie, if you’d permit me to read you one of my favorite poems from the book you’re borrowing.” He made a motion as if to stand, but she held up her hand.
“Of course, but I’ll fetch it. You needn’t bother.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind.”
She crossed the floor and picked up the book, her mind racing. What to do … what to do . . . Acting on pure impulse, she dropped the book, making a show of her clumsiness. “Oh, dear,” she said as she bent
down to retrieve it. She turned her body slightly so the voluminous skirts of her dress covered the book where it lay, and as she picked it up, she flicked the notebook onto the floor. Then as she straightened, poetry book in hand, she gave the notebook a little kick, sending it under the door and out into the hallway. Thank goodness the door had a small gap before it met the floorboards. Now she just hoped that Corbin was out in the hallway somewhere and would retrieve the book before someone else came along and picked it up.
“You must think I’m all thumbs,” she said lightly as she took her seat again and handed him the volume of poetry.
“Not at all. I’ve rarely seen such grace.”
Well, that certainly wasn’t true. Did he expect her to believe that flattery? “Which poem is your favorite?” she asked, preparing to settle in for what was likely to be a very boring reading indeed.
***
If Kade did have other “special guests” and they were all being tucked away on the second floor, Corbin wanted to know it. He waited until he could no longer hear voices in the hall and then he crouched down in front of his door with his lock-picking tools. Within a few moments, he had his door open, and he slipped out into the corridor.
He began with the room on the far end, pressing his ear against the door and listening for any sign of movement inside. When he heard none, he tapped lightly—just enough to be heard by an occupant, but not enough to draw the attention of someone more than a few yards away. Again, nothing, so he moved on.
None of the rooms sounded occupied, and he wondered where the other special guests might be staying. Or if there even were any—Esther could have been confused about the exact number of guests that day. At any rate, by the time he’d checked every room on the second floor, he’d heard nothing—not a rattle or a rustle, not even a cough.
Hmm.
He was easing his way back up the corridor when he noticed a book lying on the floor just outside Kade’s room. As he drew near, he saw that it was Kade’s notebook—Cynthia must have found a way to get hold of it. He picked it up, put it in his pocket and continued toward his room, reaching it just as he heard steps on the staircase.
He closed his door quickly and took a deep breath, hoping he hadn’t been seen.
The footsteps neared his room but continued past without stopping, and Corbin allowed himself to relax. He sank down on the edge of the bed and pulled out the notebook, curious to see what secrets it held. Page after page of names and locations—there had to be over fifty notations here, and if each represented a person hiding from the law, this was a gold mine.
The last page was particularly interesting. There was another name written after the aliases he and Cynthia had chosen—a Thomas Brewster, who would be relocating to Canada. Why would this Mr. Brewster, or whatever his name actually was, want to go so far away? Was his crime that heinous, or was he just eager to start again somewhere completely different? And where was he now if not on the second floor? Was there an additional floor assigned to those under Kade’s “protection”?
The staircase did continue upwards, but it was impossible to tell how far it went. Corbin needed to find out—he needed to find this Mr. Brewster and determine whether he was a dangerous man or just an adventurous one. Even if he didn’t find Mr. Brewster, though, having the notebook was enough to ensure that a great many people would finally see justice.
As far as arresting Kade went, though, they needed to show that he actually put individuals on trains or on boats and sent them off to their new homes. Right now they had a list of names and places, but until he directed them where to go more specifically, it wasn’t concrete evidence, although vastly helpful.
Corbin passed a hand down his face. He wanted to leave his room again and see if he could reach the third floor, but he heard more footsteps, so for the moment, he was trapped. Impatient, he began to pace, passing by the window, and something caught his eye.
Harold Carlson was on the street below reading a newspaper, sitting on a bench just as casual as you please.
Corbin pulled in a relieved breath. He’d had no idea how he would contact Harold from inside this fortress, and now the answer was right below him on the street. He grabbed a sheet of paper from the desk and scribbled a quick note, then wrapped up that paper and the notebook inside another sheet to create a little bundle.
“Please, let this work,” he breathed.
Using his lock-picking tools, he was able to open his window about a foot. He grasped the bundle tightly and stuck his whole arm out the window, clear up to his shoulder, and flicked his wrist, letting go of the bundle and holding his breath at the same time. If this didn’t work . . .
The package hit Harold Carlson square in the head.
The man jumped up, looking around and then up at the building. Corbin waved at him, then retreated, knowing that any further action on his part would draw too much attention to himself. He did watch through the window, however, as Harold picked up the projectile.
Now all he could do was wait.
Chapter Eight
Kade was actually better at reading poetry than Cynthia had given him credit for, and if circumstances were different, she might have enjoyed it. But circumstances weren’t different, and she was becoming more anxious by the minute to leave. She needed to find out if Corbin had found the book and what he’d done with it. She also needed to know if he was safe. Without a clear indication of what he’d been doing for the last hour, she didn’t know what she’d find when she saw him again.
“My dear Marie, I can see that I’ve kept you up too late,” Kade said, closing the book and setting it on the table. “Your eyes seem heavy.”
“I’m rather exhausted—I’m sorry I’m not better company tonight.” She smiled, hoping his feelings wouldn’t be too hurt. “And I confess that I’m a little apprehensive about life in San Francisco. I’ve never moved to a new community before, and I’m worried about making new friends.”
“You will be swarming with friends by the end of the winter,” Kade assured her. “With your welcoming nature, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble at all.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that.” She paused. “Will you stay in touch? Or will you forget all about me once I’m gone?”
He tilted his head. “Well, I don’t generally stay in contact with those I’ve helped after they leave my care, but if you’d like me to stay in touch, I’m sure I could make an exception.”
“Oh, would you? It would mean so much.”
The pleased expression on Kade’s face told her she’d said the right thing. “Of course.” He rose, placing his napkin on the table. “Would you like to stay for an after-dinner glass of sherry?”
“That does sound nice, but you’re right—I’m quite tired. I think going to sleep would be the best thing for me. Do you mind horribly if I excuse myself? It was a lovely dinner and I appreciate it so much, but I’m nearly asleep where I sit.”
He smiled. “I’m a little disappointed, to be honest, but I understand. Goodnight, sweet Marie, and I’ll see you in the morning for a final farewell.”
She picked up the book of poetry. “Thank you again for this. I might not need it after all, but I’m glad to have it just in case.”
“Consider it a gift, my dear. Something to remember me by.”
She made a show of clasping it to her heart. “Thank you. I’ll treasure it.”
Kade rang the bell for service, and as Cynthia stepped into the hall, she found Esther there waiting for her.
“Did you have a nice evening, ma’am?” she asked as they walked back to Cynthia’s room.
“Yes, I certainly did. The food was delicious—I’m so glad the kitchen was able to resolve the issue with dessert.”
“Dessert, ma’am? Was there a problem with dessert?”
“I thought so . . . that’s what Mr. Brown said.”
“Oh. Well, if that’s what he said, I’m sure it’s so.”
What a curious answer.
Esther fo
llowed Cynthia into her room and offered to help with the buttons of her dress, but Cynthia declined, saying that she could reach them all herself. When Esther left, the door wasn’t locked, and Cynthia breathed a sigh of relief. She’d hated feeling trapped—it did give her a moment to look for the notebook, but no one should ever be caged.
She slipped out of her dress and into a simple blouse and skirt, knowing her evening wasn’t over yet. She needed to speak with Corbin about his findings. If he’d discovered anything pertinent, they’d likely want to go investigate, and one couldn’t do that very easily in one’s nightclothes.
Just a few moments later, she heard a soft tap, and she let Corbin into her room.
“Did you get the notebook?” she whispered.
“Yes, I did, and I passed it along to Harold. He was keeping watch outside, and I tossed it down to him.”
“Oh, thank goodness. I was scared that someone else would pick it up.”
“How was your dinner?”
“It was delicious. A nice roast beef, gravy . . .”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” She grinned. “It was fine, although nerve-racking, and he read me poetry.”
“Poetry?”
“Yes. I brought it back with me if you’d like to read it for yourself.”
Corbin shook his head. “I don’t think so. Listen, do you know anything about a man named Thomas Brewster?”
“Wasn’t that the last name in the notebook?”
“Good—you did see that.” Corbin sat down on one of the chairs and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’ve listened at the door of every room on this floor, and they all seem unoccupied. If Mr. Brewster is under the same kind of supervision we are, where is he? And if he’s not being watched like we are, well, why not? What makes us the exception—does Kade suspect us, even though he says he doesn’t?”
An Agent for Cynthia Page 7
