Hands secured behind his back, he knelt, listing to one side as he favored the gunshot wound. From the look of the bloody checked-cotton wrapped around his waist, some quick thinker had used one of Murchison’s spare shirts from the saddlebags to bind it. Devereaux stood over the man, willing him to look up. When he did, Murchison sneered. Pain etched in grooves in his cheeks, turning the sneer into a sickly look of defiance.
Devereaux felt his own cheeks spread in a grim smile. “Bring him,” he said. “Let’s find out what he’s been up to.”
* * * *
Yorke watched in silent rage, almost unable to believe his eyes. Almost.
The golden-pink fingers of dawn touched the blue-black sky as the last stars winked into oblivion. His wool coat did nothing to stop the frigid morning air from searing the skin of his face and hands. His ears and nose felt numb. The discomfort vanished the instant he saw movement at the door of Lillian’s private car. Not one shadow. Two.
Yorke sank back to shelter against the low bush he’d chosen as cover.
He didn’t have to see their faces to recognize their voices. Conn Maguire, that filthy Irishman. And Charles Lowell Adams. Both men leaving Lillian’s car at the break of dawn. Both in high spirits. Both, obviously, her lovers. At the same time.
Fury held him motionless until they passed on their way to the crew car. They were long gone from sight when he left his hiding spot. On stiff, wooden-seeming legs, he walked to stand beside Lillian’s car. The sun broke the horizon, making the curtained windows blaze like squares of beaten gold. Not a whisper of sound reached him. He guessed Lillian was exhausted from her night of debauchery.
With cold precision, he turned on one elegantly shod heel and made his way into camp.
Chapter 20
“The forests of the western mountains are a hunter’s paradise, with game of all varieties finding refuge under the trees. They populate the area with startling abundance, and can reach much greater size than their eastern cousins.”
— Charles Lowell Adams, Dispatches from The Iron Road, Great Western Rail Company
“Mrs. Cabot has promised that whatever we bag will grace the dinner table tomorrow night,” Charles said, speaking over his shoulder to the group of men trailing him. A Winchester lever-action repeating rifle, Oliver Winchester’s improvement on the old Henry rifle, cradled comfortably in the crook of his arm, he held aside a low-hanging branch and continued up the faint trail. His tall riding boots protected his lower legs from brambles. It was cool under the shade of the trees, but the exercise warmed him. While green predominated the foliage, the coming of fall was evidenced by the blush of orange, red, and yellow that touched the leaves. It was easy to imagine how spectacular the colors would be in a few weeks or even days.
A few of the men in the excursion opted to stay behind while the ladies picnicked with Lillian, so the hunting party comprised just under a dozen of the male guests. A few of Devereaux’s men walked with them, there to keep an eye out for hostile wildlife and play porter.
Charles’s thoughts went to Murchison, the man Devereaux had taken into custody early that morning. At first, he stubbornly refused to respond to the site boss’s questions. Then efforts to interrogate him proved useless when a fever brought on by the gunshot wound first made him delirious, then unconscious. Ritchards said barring the risk of infection, he would survive. Even so, it would be days before he would be lucid enough to tell them anything about his efforts to waylay work on the rail line or any possible accomplices. Charles particularly wanted to know about his connection to Yorke. Until he had some answers, Charles intended to keep a closer eye on Worthington’s secretary.
“I can’t remember the last time I went on a good hunt,” Wilbur Hartendy said. He followed a few paces behind Charles. Despite his girth and age, he walked with the careful steps of a seasoned hunter and handled his gun with sure hands. “Shame there’s no hounds to flush some birds.”
“In this tangle, I think it would just be a confusing muddle,” Matthew Daniels offered. The man was closer to Charles’s age, a contemporary of his older brothers. Charles knew him from Boston, but had never socialized closely with Daniels and his wife. Still, he seemed like a pleasant enough fellow.
“Quite,” Charles said, forcing himself to concentrate on his duties as de facto host instead of brooding about Murchison. “Besides, you won’t find many hunting hounds out here unless you bring them yourself.”
“Nice to get a break from the ladies,” Hartendy offered, smiling genially at the chuckles his observation elicited. “Mrs. Hartendy’s a splendid woman, but I will admit to some satisfaction that we’ve managed to escape the drawing room, so to speak.”
Charles stopped walking and gestured for silence. Using hand signals, he directed the men’s attention ahead. The dun-brown hides of a small herd of deer made them hard to see without effort. Upwind, they had yet to scent the men.
“Anyone have a taste for venison?” Charles whispered on a breath of air. He moved aside, taking care not to disturb an inconvenient branch or make a sound that would alert the deer. He sized up the men with him, selected the one who had the most eager look in his eyes. “Williams? Care to take the shot?”
The man, once-red hair faded to the rust-blond of middle-age, smiled widely. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said, just as softly as Charles had spoken. He moved up to stand beside Charles while the others gave them room. Then he lifted his gun to his shoulder.
* * * *
Lillian watched Conn load a prepared plate in the box of his camera and admired his forbearance. The trio of ladies sat posed on and about a boulder beside the stream. The miniature waterfall danced in the background, sending up a mist of moisture that sparkled like gold dust in the sunlight and gave the scene a fairyland appeal. The women, proper matrons from Boston society, dimpled like girls as Conn worked.
“I’ll be expecting you to make this worth my while later, Delilah,” he muttered from under the black cape of the camera.
Lillian smiled. “Of course, Conn,” she said for his ears only. “Do you have something particular in mind?”
“Oh, I’ll think of something, I’m sure, while I’m readying the photographs for your lady friends.” He flipped off the cape and gestured to his subjects that they were free to go. Removing the exposed plate, he crouched to slide it into a carrying case. Looking up at Lillian, his agile lips quirked in a devilish smile. “Count on it.”
She suppressed a shiver of delight and strove to keep her expression from giving everything she thought and felt away to anyone who might glance their way.
Clearing her throat, she looked around the clearing. The three ladies had rejoined the others on the blankets and folding chairs set up at the picnic site. Not all the ladies on the excursion had elected to join the outing, so Aileen had stayed behind to ensure they were kept well-entertained with gentler pursuits.
Lillian made a mental note to congratulate the cook for his repast, which combined the informality of a garden luncheon with the elegant touches of chilled wine and dainty confections. Feminine laughter and chatter filled the glade. Her guests appeared unbothered by the subdued presence of men with guns stationed on the perimeter. She suspected they assumed it was simply a precaution against wildlife instead of what truly concerned her—that Murchison hadn’t worked alone. It stretched belief that he could cause so much damage on his own. And then there was the prostitute who saw Yorke speaking with the man.
Lillian shivered for an entirely different reason. She’d never liked the man. But without proof, she hesitated to do more than agree to have Devereaux’s men watch his movements. With luck, they would quickly compile irrefutable evidence she could then present to her father in private. The last thing they needed was to have the investors discover there was trouble within the company.
She fell in step with Conn as he carried the case of plates to his portable darkroom. The ladies enthusiastically embraced the plan to have their portraits taken for keepsakes
of their adventure in the west. Lillian had no doubt they enjoyed being the focus of the virile Irishman’s attention as much as they liked the thought of showing off their pictures to their friends back home. They might consider him far beneath their social stratum, but the matrons weren’t beneath envisioning a dalliance with a handsome man.
Conn opened the doors at the back of the hearse-like carriage. Putting the small crate on the floor, he shoved it further inside. To Lillian, he said, “Make sure your ladies stay away from my gear.”
“Definitely.”
He chuckled. “My camera equipment.”
“That’s what I meant.”
He hummed his disbelief. “Right. And meanwhile,” his fingers grazed her waist, urging her closer behind the shield provided by the open doors. “I’ll be thinking on how you can best repay me for putting up with these twits.” His lips touched hers in a brief caress that made her wish for nightfall. Setting her back a pace, he chucked his fingers softly under her chin. “Best get to work so I can take a couple more portraits before we need to head back.”
“Good idea.” She turned to go, but he caught her hand. His thumb brushed over her knuckles in soothing strokes.
“Delilah, lass, all will be well. Charlie’s keeping an eye on Yorke with the hunting party, and Devereaux’s men are on the lookout, too. Lord knows I’d rather just pound the bastard into a pulp, but you said your Da wouldn’t like that. Fair enough. We’ll get enough on Yorke to satisfy your Da, and things’ll be right again before you know it.”
Grateful for his understanding, she squeezed his hand. “I know. Thanks, Conn.” She heard laughter, and one of the women called her name. “I’d better get back to my guests.”
“You do that,” he said. “Remember, I’ll be thinking on something special for tonight.”
Lillian laughed a bit breathlessly. “How could I forget?”
Conn jumped into the back of the carriage and pulled the doors closed. Lillian listened to the bar lock from inside, and sighed. Yes, she really couldn’t wait for tonight. Dismissing the problem of Yorke from her thoughts, she put on her hostess face and walked toward the picnic area. “Ladies, would anyone care for a game of cards?”
The cracking echo of a far-off gunshot made her steps falter. A covey of birds, startled by the unexpected sound, burst from the treetops and wheeled above the clearing in a flurry of motion too hectic to discern individuals. Lillian and the other women watched the avian display until the disgruntled, squawking birds found perches in a new stand of trees.
“I think the fearless hunters have bagged something for your table, Lillian,” Aunt Horatia said.
“Either that or, knowing my own fearless hunter’s proclivities, scared it away,” another woman observed dryly.
The women laughed appreciatively. Conversation quickly resumed, gunshot and ensuing aerial display forgotten.
The sunlight in the glade dimmed, and Lillian looked up. A gray cloud drifted across the sun, obscuring it. The wind, until that moment relatively still, gusted across the glade, rippling the knee-high grass and wildflowers like waves on a lake, and she smelled rain in the air. The cool breeze pressed Lillian’s skirts to her legs, teasing tendrils of hair loose from her coiffure to tickle her cheeks and neck. Then it was gone. The sun, free of the cloud, shone just as warmly. But she noted a flock of storm clouds gathering along the horizon. Shaking off her unease, Lillian tucked the loose strands of hair behind her ears and resumed her steps. “Now, about those cards?”
* * * *
“Ballocks!”
It wasn’t clear who uttered the expletive, but all the men turned to stare at Edward Yorke, whose precipitous shot had sent the small herd of deer bounding through the trees and out of sight before anyone else could attempt to take one down.
Yorke flushed. “My apologies, sirs,” he said. He looked down and kicked at the ground, as if in disgust. “Slipped on a damn root.”
“Well,” Wilbur Hartendy said. “Could have been worse, Yorke. Last thing we need is to carry someone back to the ladies with a ball stuck in him.”
Yorke wasn’t fooled by the man’s conciliatory tone. An avid hunter, Worthington’s confidant expected others of his sex to share the same enthusiasm and skill for the sport. Men like Charles Lowell Adams and the others in their party.
Yorke would be more put out if he’d aimed for the deer and missed.
He pretended not to notice Lowell Adams brushing bark chips off the sleeve of his coat, and the speculative glance the other man threw his way. His shot had indeed gone awry, but only in the sense that Lowell Adams moved at the last moment. It wasn’t because he’d lost his nerve, Yorke told himself.
He’d been on edge since learning of Murchison’s capture. What if the man talked? But then he reasoned that if Murchison did, Devereaux’s men would have taken him into custody. Perhaps the hired thug had a code of ethics that prevented him from naming Yorke as an accomplice. Thinking of the other man’s extortion following the attack on Lillian’s railcar, Yorke was skeptical. It was irrelevant anyway. Murchison had set the fires, touched off the explosions, spoiled the water and countless other things. What had Yorke done? What could they prove he had done? Nothing.
Still, he wouldn’t be in this position if it weren’t for Lillian and her lovers. It was all Lillian’s fault. The amoral bitch. Rage washed over him. His fingers clutched his gun so tightly his knuckles whitened, and he felt light-headed. Yes. It was all Lillian’s fault.
When he next looked up from his tangled thoughts, most of the others had moved ahead in search of new prey. All except Hartendy. Yorke realized he must have stood there quite some time in silence, staring at nothing. He fought down his roiling emotions and tried to think.
“I know you’re a better shot than that, Yorke,” Hartendy said, his expression full of polite concern. “Is something amiss?”
Yorke thought quickly. “Yes, sir, I believe there is.” Without speaking, he looked in the direction where he could hear the rest of the party moving ahead. Hartendy followed his gaze, brow lowering quizzically.
“Well, what is it?”
Yorke hesitated, feigning second thoughts, then spoke. “I’m not quite sure how to put this. I feel that my employer would want to know, but I don’t want to pry in family business…” He trailed off meaningfully.
Hartendy’s frown deepened. “Family business? What the devil are you talking about? Out with it, man.”
“Ah, well, sir, it’s about Lowell Adams. And Mrs. Cabot.”
“Lowell Adams and Lillian?” The frown cleared from the older man’s face, and he chuckled. “I think I see what you’re getting at. I’ll admit he’s a little rough around the edges, but Lowell Adams comes from a good family. Daresay Worthington wouldn’t mind having him for a son-in-law, so long as he makes Lillian happy.”
“That’s just it, sir,” Yorke said. He kept his face solemn despite the disgust he felt even mentioning Lillian Cabot and Lowell Adams in the same breath. Hartendy would go apoplectic if knew the Irishman was involved in what the older man obviously saw as a fortuitous romance. Yorke considered tossing that little gem out there, but decided against it. He had a feeling Hartendy wouldn’t believe another word he said if he so much as intimated at such a licentious dalliance. “I’ve heard he was something of a cad back in Boston. Frankly, I’ve seen nothing since our arrival to change my impression of him. I fear he may be simply dallying with Mrs. Cabot.”
The frown came back to Hartendy’s face. “Is that so? Perhaps I should have a chat with the man, then, on Worthington’s behalf.”
“Would you, sir?”
“Of course.” As he spoke, Hartendy gestured for Yorke to join him as he started after the rest of the party. “No trouble at all.”
“If I might suggest—”
“Yes?”
“It might be best to talk to Lowell Adams in a less formal setting. I know he enjoys a good game of cards.”
“Capital idea. I’ll put it t
o him as soon as I see him.”
“And his friend.” Yorke controlled the automatic sneer with difficulty. “Maguire. I’ve found it’s sometimes useful to get the measure of a man by seeing the company he keeps.”
“Too right. I’ve found the same to be true myself. I’ll suggest to Lowell Adams that we pass a few hands tonight after dinner, and I’ll make sure this Maguire fellow joins in, too.” Hartendy raised a hand in silent greeting as they neared the others. In a low voice, he said to Yorke, “Thank you for letting me know, Yorke. Good man. I am very fond of Lillian, and Worthington would want me to look out for her while I’m here. Poor girl’s gone through enough since losing Cabot.”
Yorke contented himself with a nod. The older man was as fond of his cards as he was of hunting and riding. As Worthington’s secretary, it was the kind of thing he was expected to know about even his employer’s closest confidant. He had no doubt Hartendy would keep Lowell Adams and Maguire occupied well into the night.
And while they played cards, Lillian would be all alone in her private car.
But not for long.
Yorke stopped walking. He frowned as he tried to see beyond the thick foliage of a gently swaying tangle of bushes and vines, certain he’d seen something moving away from the trail. A cool gust of wind touched the back of his neck and set the leaves in motion again. Around them, the forest held the usual whistles, chatters and trills of birds, animals and insects. Nothing out of the ordinary.
“Eh, what is it, Yorke? Are you coming?”
Shaking off his unease, Yorke rejoined the waiting Hartendy. “I thought I saw something. Another deer perhaps.”
“Maybe, but I rather think they’ve flown the area after that gunshot.” Hartendy thumped Yorke good-naturedly on the shoulder. “No matter. Once we catch up with the others, I’m certain we’ll get another go at something else for the game bag.”
The Railroad Baroness Page 17
