Chane had managed to hold himself together this long because he knew that the second he saw Jennie, he’d know how things stood between them. And he was right. Looking into her eyes, he knew, and hope died in him. But part of him continued to function, to record information. She looked ill, pale and gaunt. And she’d been crying.
Despite the sure knowledge that she’d betrayed him, for one moment he wanted to reach out and pull her into his arms. He’d wanted her so badly these last few days that he could hardly bear to give her up just because he knew he had to. He wanted to hold her and bury his face against the silky sweetness of her hair and skin one last time. But of course he wouldn’t. Part of him knew better and felt ashamed.
Jennifer recoiled as he shook a brown envelope at her. “Take it. I want you to see…” Fire kindled in Chane’s eyes as he reached into the envelope and pulled out a picture. He shoved it toward her, demanding that she look at it.
Jennifer recognized it immediately as one of the photographs Frederick’s sister had taken last year. She had burned most of them before Frederick could stop her. Stronger and more determined, he had saved the others from her wrath. She had demanded he burn them, but he’d talked her into letting him keep them. Now, with Peter dead at her husband’s order, they were irrelevant.
“These are old photographs,” she said dully.
“Did you let Frederick make love to you?” Chane asked, his voice deadly quiet.
Jennie’s gaze wavered and dropped. Grief filled Chane. He felt sick with so much grief and pain.
Jennie reached into her pocket and pulled out the gun, which she pointed at him. “You killed my brother,” she whispered raggedly.
Chane looked down at the gun, but its meaning did not register in his mind. The pain of her betrayal was dull and sickening. It rose within him like a tide of filthy water. He felt suffocated by it. He’d been a fool to marry a woman who’d do this to him. A fool.
She hadn’t fired the gun yet, but a wound opened in him and throbbed with intense grief. This was worse than if she had died, because she was still here, needing to be dealt with. He had to talk to her, to arrange things between them, to acquit himself in a manner that wouldn’t add any more shame to what he’d done—falling in love with a woman who felt nothing for him, a woman who had betrayed his trust as if it were of no consequence. Latitia’s words lashed him. He’d been warned, and still he’d let it happen.
“How many ways can you kill a man, princess?”
His husky, pain-filled voice reached down inside Jennifer. He was trying to confuse her. The only important thing she needed to remember was that Peter was dead, and Chane had caused it. Her finger tightened on the trigger. A wave of dizziness almost overwhelmed her.
The gun was aimed at his head. Chane looked into the muzzle and sighed. “Your hand is shaking. You might miss such a small target.” He reached out and lowered the pistol until it pointed at his broad chest.
The gun felt too heavy. Jennifer could barely hold it.
“Here,” he said, tapping the center of his chest. “At this range, one bullet is all you’ll need.”
Jennifer’s finger squeezed on the trigger, and she felt it waver between holding its position and giving in to the pressure. In one second he would be dead. Her mind stripped away his dirty shirt. Once again she saw his broad, naked chest covered with crisp black hairs curling around flat nipples, furring the lean taper of his rib cage, swirling around his belly button.
If she pulled the trigger the way his sea green eyes dared her to, he would never use that tall, lean, clean-muscled body to lure another woman to her doom. One tug of her finger on the trigger and she would avenge her mother, her father, and her brother. Just a little more pressure…
Her consciousness closed down to a pinpoint of light at the end of a shadowy tunnel. She flung the gun away from her, sagged against the wall, and covered her face with her hands, crying raggedly. She’d had too much of death already today.
“What’s the matter, Jennie? No guts?” His rich, husky voice taunted her.
Jennie turned on him. “You dare mock me? After what you’ve done?”
“You’ll understand if I have Steve take care of you instead of doing it personally, won’t you?”
“Of course,” she spat bitterly. “You certainly wouldn’t handle these nasty little details yourself.”
For one second Jennifer was tempted to make Chane shoot her himself. But not even her rage and grief could stand up to the glacial scorn she could see in his eyes.
In the dark hallway, Steve wondered what was taking so long, when a distraught Chane emerged from the apartment.
“Take her wherever she wants to go. Give her whatever she needs. I don’t ever want to see her again.”
Steve frowned. “Are you sure?”
The look in Chane’s eyes stopped Steve. It was a look of such bitterness and determination that he flinched.
“I’m going to walk back to the hotel,” Chane said.
“Take the carriage. I can get a cab.”
“I want to walk.”
Chane strode through the snowdrifts blindly. Near Washington Square Park he became aware that someone was calling his name. He came out of himself enough to stop and look around.
“Mr. Kincaid!”
Chane finally located the person yelling at him. Derek Wharton, reporter for one of the yellow rags, stood beside Edgar Noonan, a man Chane disliked almost as much as Derek. Noonan turned furtively away, as if he didn’t want to be seen. But Derek strode toward Chane, a cocky smile on his pale face.
“Hey, Kincaid, I just heard that one of your bridges collapsed in Jersey. What do you have to say for yourself?”
For a moment Chane listened in silence, but the image he’d seen earlier, of Wharton and Noonan together, suddenly made sense to him. Noonan had been a saboteur during the Civil War. He had the engineering knowledge to disable a bridge. And he’d been known to do odd jobs for the Commodore.
Wharton and Noonan! Was it possible that Wharton, who was a known gambler, had run up gambling debts in Peter’s name? Had Noonan beaten Peter? Were these the enemies Jennie had alluded to?
Wharton stepped closer and poised his pencil over his tablet. “Tell me, Kincaid, how do you feel now that the tables have turned?”
A red veil fell between Chane and the world. With his left hand Chane grabbed Derek Wharton by the coat lapels; with his right, he hit him. Wharton’s fear only increased Chane’s rage. Once started, he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He just kept hitting him because it felt so satisfying.
He probably would have killed him, but Edgar Noonan ran over and tried to drag him off the limp reporter. Chane turned on Noonan, just as happy to hit him as Wharton.
The thought came to him that Noonan might have been the man in the red bandanna in Peter’s room. Noonan was big and meaty and he fought well, but even he was no match for Chane. Soon Noonan collapsed and fell back, but Chane kept hitting him until someone pinned his arms behind him.
Chane fought with all his strength, but the man yelled for reinforcements. Finally, panting and cursing, Chane recognized his coachman, Patrick Kelly, as one of the men holding him. Slowly, all the fight drained out of him.
“He knows us,” Patrick said. The pressure on Chane’s arms was released. He struggled into a standing position.
“I told you I’m going to walk back to the hotel,” Chane said.
“I’m beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but ye’re a bloody mess. Ye’ve a cut over that eye that needs tending…”
Chapter Fifteen
Jennifer felt sick. Chane was gone. He had motioned Steve aside, spoken to him in low tones for several minutes, then left without another glance at her.
Jennifer knew she could probably reach the gun, but her limbs felt too heavy. The weight of losing both Peter and Chane at the same time was too much to bear. Let him kill her.
“May I take you somewhere?” he asked.
“Do it here.” She had
no energy to go anywhere.
“Very well.” Steve cleared his throat. “Mr. Kincaid has asked me to handle all the details of the divorce. He has, ummm…asked me to provide for your needs. He has an estate north of here, White Acres…if you’d like to go there for your confinement.”
Jennifer’s mind dumbly repeated the words, divorce, confinement. Apparently he didn’t have to kill her. He’d killed her brother and her will to live, but she was no threat to him. Steve’s voice droned on. Jennifer forced herself to try and hear his words.
“Mr. Kincaid has canceled your brother’s gambling debts. He will provide monthly support for you and your brother, so you may continue to live in the house on Fifth Avenue, he will…”
Steve apparently did not know Peter had died from the beating Chane’s thugs had administered. It didn’t help, except it was good to know Peter wasn’t supposed to have died. At least Chane had not meant to hurt her in this terrible way.
Jennifer doubled forward, the pain within unbearable. It was a surprise to her as well. Part of her mind worried about the image she presented to Steve Hammond, a stranger who no longer liked her, who saw her as an unfaithful wife. Another part marveled at the way she could just fold forward and cry as if she had no control at all.
“Mrs. Kincaid—” Steve stopped. Jennifer cried silently. Her slim shoulders shook with the intensity of her crying; it seemed to act on him in a curious way. Steve could not continue. A swirl of his own vague, painful memories crowded to the surface of his mind, as if summoned there by the sight of her crying.
He waited in confusion and frustration. Finally, when he was sweating as if he had run a mile or more, she looked up. Her eyes were red and swollen. “Mr. Kincaid doesn’t need to be so generous. My brother is dead,” she whispered.
Steve frowned. “No, your brother is alive. Chane interrupted what was apparently an attempt to kill him.”
Jennifer uncovered her face and looked at Steve.
“What?”
“Chane saw your brother alive this morning. He’s been badly beaten, but he appears to be recovering.”
“Simone said Peter was dead…” Hope sprang alive in her. “Will you take me home?” Jennifer asked, wiping her eyes.
“Do you have a coat? It’s cold outside.”
Steve found it in the entryway closet. In the carriage, he sat across from her. They didn’t talk. Jennifer had no need for words, and Steve could think of nothing except Chane’s pain and grief. Chane had looked like hell. Steve had never seen him so smitten with a woman as he had been with Jennifer Van Vleet. His loss was proportionately large. Steve was glad women didn’t seem to take to him. It had probably saved him a lot of grief.
The carriage rolled steadily through the darkness. Most of the obstacles had been cleared away by earlier traffic. At the Van Vleet town house, Steve helped Jennifer down. As he started to escort her, she tore away from him and ran up the stairs. She banged the door knocker again and again. At last a gray-haired woman let Jennifer inside. Steve returned to the carriage to wait. In a moment his eyes closed in exhaustion and he dozed.
Augustine was appalled at how ill Jennifer looked. But she was forced to answer a torrent of questions. She told Jennifer the whole story about the man who had somehow sneaked into Peter’s room and had been holding a pillow over his face when Kincaid walked in on him. The man had escaped on foot.
Jennifer realized she’d been horribly wrong. It was Chane who had saved Peter. When she fully understood what that meant, her gratitude was intense, but so was her grief. She’d been wrong to believe the lies Frederick had told her. Tears burned her throat and eyes. She had made a foolish, foolish mistake. Her marriage was over, and there was nothing she could do about it now.
She checked Peter’s room. He was sleeping soundly, and she didn’t want to wake him. Standing by his bed, she gazed down at him and wept as she gave silent thanks that he’d survived.
When the tears passed, she straightened herself and rejoined Steve in the carriage. “You were right,” she said stiffly. “My brother is alive and recovering.” Her color and spirit had returned. “Will you take me to the Bricewood?”
Steve considered her question. Chane had directed him to take care of Jennifer. In his opinion that probably meant doing whatever she needed so she could reestablish her life without him. But it certainly didn’t mean bringing her back to him.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but Mr. Kincaid doesn’t want to see you again, right away anyway. If you don’t mind—”
“I do mind.”
She looked like a woman he wouldn’t want to cross. Startled, Steve rapped on the carriage and told the driver to take them to the Bricewood. They rode in silence for a while.
An icy chill seeped through the windows of the carriage. Steve picked up a wool blanket from the seat and spread it over Jennifer’s lap. Snow had begun to fall again. The sun, so bright and welcome this morning, hid behind angry storm clouds. Wind gusted against the carriage, rocking it. Steve wished Chane had asked someone else to chaperone his soon-to-be ex-wife.
At the Bricewood, Steve helped her out and took her arm. A look of panic crossed her beautiful face.
“I can’t stay here,” she whispered.
Steve was glad she at least understood reality. “I know that, but we’d never make it back to your house in this weather.” As he spoke, one of the hotel employees yelled and pointed. Steve followed his pointing finger. One of the great old sycamores lining lower Fifth Avenue slowly toppled across the road, blocking traffic.
Carriages tried to circumvent the fallen tree by driving into the Bricewood’s covered entryway. Within seconds, the entry was clogged with carriages topped by drivers screaming, “Out of my way! I was here first!”
Steve took Jennifer’s elbow. “You’ll be safe here. This storm might not last long,” he said, more as a prayer for himself.
Chane sat up on the side of the bed. Mrs. Lillian tapped lightly on his door, walked in and stopped, apparently not surprised to see him there. “I know you said you didn’t want to be disturbed, but Jennie’s here and she says she has to see you. She has something important to tell you.”
A thousand-pound weight pressed against his chest. “Send her away.”
“I tried,” Mrs. Lillian said, “but she won’t leave.”
He struggled to bring his energy up. When he had mustered all he could, he stood up, put on his coat, and walked to the back door. He trudged down the stairs and out of the hotel. The icy wind stung his face, and he raised his coat collar. He didn’t know where he was going, but he couldn’t risk any more encounters with Jennie.
Arctic blasts of wind whipped around him. He felt too tired to force himself forward, but he was unwilling to go back. He walked south. He could have walked north, but it seemed easier to put the wind at his back.
“He left, dear. I’m sorry.” Mrs. Lillian’s eyes were filled with love, compassion, and finality.
Jennifer realized it was over. He really wouldn’t see her again. Despair almost swamped her.
She walked to the elevator and took it down to the Grand Ballroom. She would see Simone, find out why she had carried a lie to her. She sat down in the fifth row beside Bellini, watching dancers rehearse on an almost empty stage. Apparently, a few had stayed at the Bricewood for the duration of the storm.
Bellini glanced over at her. “How’s your brother?”
“Alive and getting better.”
“Good. Good.”
On stage, Simone and Frederick rehearsed the second half of the peasant scene from Giselle. He executed the développé sauté flawlessly.
The pas de deux ended and Jennifer strode toward the stairway to confront the pair of them. She found Simone first. Her face was pinched with grief. Her eyes had the haunted look of a woman for whom the world had ended.
“My brother is alive,” she said, watching Simone’s reactions carefully. At the news, Simone burst into tears. There was no mistaking her joy and relief. She loo
ked like a woman who had been given a second chance to live.
“Thank God,” she breathed. “Are you sure?” she asked, sniffing back tears of joy.
“Yes, I just left him. He has been badly beaten, but he is recovering.” She told Simone the story Augustine had told her about someone trying to smother him, and Chane interrupting just in time.
Simone raised a shaky hand to her eyes. “Oh, thank God,” she repeated again, tears flooding her eyes. She stepped into Jennifer’s arms and held her tight.
“Who told you he was dead?”
“A messenger came with a note. I didn’t see him.”
“I wonder if the messenger was sent to coincide with his being murdered? Whoever sent that messenger may have hired the would-be killer.” Out of the corner of her eye Jennifer saw Frederick trying to slip past unnoticed. She let go of Simone, caught Frederick by the arm, and whirled him around.
“You gave him those pictures! How could you?”
“What pictures?”
“You know what pictures! The ones of us!”
“I gave them to no one!”
“Chane had them!”
“Well I didn’t give them to him. I swear to you!”
“Liar! I’ll never, ever forgive you for that!” Jennifer said through gritted teeth. “I hope you rot in hell, Frederick Van Buren.”
“Jennifer, dammit! Kincaid is a bastard! I tried to warn you about—” A terrible thought flashed across his mind. “Jennifer, wait…Latitia—”
“I don’t ever want to hear that woman’s name again.”
Frederick caught Jennifer’s arms and shook her.
“Dammit, Jennifer, we belong together, just like that pair of robber barons. They deserve each other.”
“I hate your guts, Frederick! I hate you!”
His look beseeched her, but she turned and ran from the stage. Her life was over. And it didn’t really matter whether it was bad luck, carelessness, or deliberation that had ended it.
The Lady and the Robber Baron Page 21
