Poseidon's Daughter

by Diane A. S. Stuckart

  If Malcolm noted her scrutiny, he gave no sign. In the same mild, cultured accents he'd affected in his role as Sir John Abbot, he added, “I understand the effect was entirely unintentional, merely the result of whitewashing over red Georgia brick.”

  She shot him a questioning glance, unwillingly noting as she did so that he cut a distinguished figure despite his borrowed attire. In keeping with his formal air, he had abandoned the white linen bandage he'd worn these past days. Her conscience was eased by the fact that the angry red welt where the bullet had creased his temple had faded. A lock of dark hair spilling over his brow concealed any evidence of his injury.

  Once again, he was the dashing Englishman whom she'd met in her library a seeming lifetime ago...and as always, she was on her guard against him.

  Now, he shrugged in response to her unspoken query and lightly explained, “I have found that it pays to learn as much as possible about one's surroundings, on the chance that information might one day prove useful—if only to impress the ladies.”

  “I fear it will take more than a smattering of local history to impress me, Mr. Northrup,” she replied in a stiff tone that she hoped masked her sudden nervousness.

  It was still not too late to change her mind, she reminded herself as she tore her gaze from him to focus on the bank's bright facade. All she needed to do was send the Englishman on his way—a bit worse for wear, perhaps, but otherwise unmolested—and her mad scheme would be at an end. She could return home to her New York City brownstone to spend her days amid her books, rather than indulge in what some might judge to be little better than a treasure hunt.

  But if she did so, she would be letting her father's work vanish with him and that, she could not do.

  She readjusted her black, high-crowned hat with its jaunty rose-colored ribbon. A stray wisp of blond hair had escaped her tight crown of braids to dangle damply against her brow. Resolutely, she tucked that lock back into place. She would see this matter through to the end, she vowed, no matter how many rogue Englishmen she had to face down in the process.

  By now, the carriage sat sedately parked on the cobbled avenue. Christophe clambered from his perch alongside the driver and pulled open the door. Malcolm ignored his offer of assistance, however. With lordly grace, he climbed from the coach and then reached out a gloved hand to Halia.

  She hesitated. What if the man had only pretended to cooperate with her, and even now was prepared to snatch her bodily from the carriage? How better a way for him to exact his revenge for the events of the past few days than by kidnapping her?

  Then common sense reasserted itself. Surely even so bold a villain as he, would not attempt any such mischief with the stern-countenanced Christophe standing almost on his heels...especially since Christophe had her pistol tucked beneath his calico shirt. Chiding herself for her missish behavior, she raised her chin to regal angle. Then, clutching in one hand her oversized reticule—deliberately chosen for the fact it could readily hold a large amount of cash—she lightly clasped Malcolm's proffered hand with her other.

  She promptly realized she had made a mistake.

  Even with two thin layers shielding their flesh, the contact between them was nothing short of electric. Like sparks crackling from a cat's stroked fur, was her first unsteady thought as she half stumbled from the coach to meet his dark gaze with a wide-eyed look of her own.

  Malcolm, she realized, must have experienced a similar jolt of sensation, for she glimpsed a swift play of emotion across his features. Surprise—a response he swiftly suppressed—and then a spark of some more heated sentiment burned in his whiskey-dark gaze.

  They stood, fingers entwined, for the space of several heartbeats, and Halia fleetingly recalled that incident in the ship's cabin the morning before. Then, he had pinned her to the berth in a manner meant to be threatening but which instead had been fraught with an unfamiliar if exciting intimacy. Something of that same emotion now flowed between them again, a heightened awareness of each other that neither could escape...nor deny.

  Then Malcolm's expression rearranged itself into one of bland tolerance. Both relinquished their hold with more speed than good manners dictated, he with a muttered curse and she with a sighing release of the breath she had not realized she'd been holding. Fighting a blush, she drew aside and waited while Malcolm attempted the same courtesy with Lally.

  Lally would have none of it, however. Disdaining his proffered hand, she fixed him with a glare that would have sent a lesser man stumbling back. With queen-like grace she alighted from the coach to join Christophe.

  “We two, we be waitin' here for you,” the latter assured Halia. His look was for Malcolm, however, as he gave the concealed pistol a meaningful pat and added, “And we not be expectin' any trouble.”

  “Might I suggest we proceed, then?” Malcolm replied. “The longer we stand here, the more notice we draw to ourselves...and I am certain that undue attention is the last thing Miss Davenport wishes.”

  With a mock gallant bow, he gestured her to precede him. She swiftly complied, grateful that he had not compounded her earlier discomfiture by offering his arm. In that, at least, she had learned her lesson and would keep a good arm's length clear of the man from now on. As for what was to come, she must appear outwardly calm, no matter that her insides were churning like a storm-tossed sea.

  A moment later, they stood inside. Halia blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust from the blinding brightness of the street beyond to the churchlike dimness within. The heat seemed less oppressive here, no doubt because of the modern electric fans dangling from the ceiling above. Their faint whirring sound as the broad blades stirred the still air called to mind the chatter of cicadas that was an integral part of a Southern summer.

  Soon, however, Halia could make out details around her. In counterpoint to its fanciful facade, the bank's interior reflected the stolid elegance of an establishment dedicated to the making and lending of money.

  To one side stretched a gleaming brass railing, behind which lay an impressive length of mahogany counter. Manning each of its half-dozen windows was a young clerk accoutered in the requisite black sleeve garters and green eyeshade. Directly opposite them lay a series of glass doors etched with elegant gold script and leading to the offices of the bank's more senior employees.

  Halia took in all this with a single and, she hoped, casual glance, before turning her attention to her fellow customers. Most were dark-suited, mustachioed gentlemen of middling years and humorless visages. All were conducting their business in the hushed tones normally associated with libraries and houses of worship.

  A portion of her earlier tension eased away. These stern-faced men hardly appeared the sort who concerned themselves with others' affairs. As for the officious guard posted before the massive steel door of the main vault, he appeared more bored than watchful. Not that she need fear him, she swiftly reminded herself. She was not here to rob the place, merely to relieve one of its customers of money that was not his.

  Even as she made this determination, a balding, bespectacled man well past his sixth decade stepped forth from behind the glass door marked President. With a brisk nod, he drew himself to his full height—a mere half-head taller than Halia—and started in their direction.

  “Why, Sir John,” he greeted Malcolm in precise tones as he halted before them and offered his hand. “Indeed, it has been some time since we have last seen you.”

  “Six months, I would venture, Mr. Burnett. I fear my various ventures have kept me busy of late.”

  So he was Sir John to this man, as well, though she would not hazard to guess which surname he might be employing this time.

  Frowning, Halia waited while Malcolm condescended to the democratic gesture that was the handshake. Then, deliberately, she stepped forward. Knowing the Englishman as she did, she would not put it past him to conclude their transaction with not so much as a reference to her presence.

  But he did not ignore her, after all. Still, his tone
reflected barely checked boredom as he waved a careless hand in her direction.

  “I suppose I must introduce this charming young woman at my side. Burnett, might I present Miss, er, Bertha Jones-Smith, of New York City. And this, my dear Bertha, is Mr. Aloysius Burnett... late of that most charming city of New Orleans.”

  “Good day to you, sir,” she said, swiftly transforming her grimace at Malcolm's words to a tight smile. Really, but the man was most trying! Before leaving the ship, she had instructed him not to use her true name in dealing with the bank officials. Though he had complied with the letter of her request, his choice of aliases left more than a little to be desired.

  Burnett appeared to note nothing amiss in her manner, however, but merely made a dutiful bow over her hand. “A pleasure, Miss Jones-Smith. And might I take it that you are a friend of Sir John's?”

  “Actually,” Malcolm interjected before she could reply, “Miss Jones-Smith happens to be my...betrothed.”

  He choked ever so slightly over that last word, and Halia suppressed another ripple of annoyance. Surely the idea of marriage to her was not so disgusting a fate as all that! As for the banker, his sour expression softened into what she guessed was meant to be a smile and turned back to Malcolm.

  “Your betrothed? Indeed, I had no idea. My felicitations to you both.”

  “Quite,” Malcolm drawled, effectively cutting short any further expressions of congratulations. “Indeed, I fear it is this current happy state of affairs that brings the two of us here today. There are a few arrangements that we must make.”

  “But of course. Monies to be transferred, household accounts to be opened—”

  “Actually, Mr. Burnett, what I wish to do is make an immediate withdrawal of all my money.”

  “Immediate withdrawal? All your money?” the banker choked out and visibly blanched, while a fine beading of perspiration promptly ringed his wide forehead.

  Taking swift pity on the man, Halia sought to soften the blow.

  “Indeed, Mr. Burnett, we mean no ill reflection upon you or your establishment. It's just that the money is needed elsewhere at this time.”

  “A-All your money?” that gentleman faintly repeated, his gaze never leaving Malcolm as he whipped a snowy square of linen from his breast pocket. Using one hand to dab with the handkerchief at his brow, the banker gestured with the other in the direction of his office. “Perhaps we might take a seat and discuss the matter.”

  With the air of a condemned man on his way to the executioner's block, Burnett escorted them past the glass door to a pair of tufted, red leather chairs set before a broad mahogany desk. He saw them settled, then shut the door again before all but collapsing into his own high-backed seat.

  “All your money?” he ventured yet again, as if the repetition might finally bring him a different reply. When Malcolm merely inclined his head, the banker sank further into his chair.

  “A sip of water, perhaps,” he murmured to himself. He swiveled and reached an unsteady hand toward the pitcher and matching glass on the credenza behind him. Crystal clinked against crystal as he poured himself a shaky glassful and proceeded to down the contents in a single gulp.

  While the man strove for calm, Halia shot Malcolm a surreptitious glance. He appeared quite unmoved by Burnett's plight, an expression of polite expectation blandly etched upon his face. For herself, however, she could feel the guilty color start to burn upon her cheeks. It had never occurred to her that, in carrying out her plan against the Englishman, she might be forced to cause others distress.

  Finally, however, Burnett rallied enough to favor them both with a sickly smile.

  “Ahem. Do I understand you correctly, Sir John, that you wish to close out your entire account with us?”

  “Every bloody cent of it,” Malcolm replied in a cheerful tone. “And I…we prefer cash, rather than a bank draft. And we should like to conclude the transaction immediately, if you do not mind.”

  “But that is quite impossible.” The white handkerchief fluttered to the desktop in an unconscious gesture of surrender. “Why, we are speaking of almost one million dollars.”

  One million dollars.

  Halia bit back an awed gasp. That was almost twice the sum she had thought the Englishman to have had tucked away, money enough to fund a dozen such expeditions as she now planned. Why, with what would be left once she concluded her own venture, she could set up a scholarship for young women, dedicate a small wing in her father's memory to the New York City Public Library, fund an expedition to...

  So caught up was Halia in sudden visions of philanthropy that it was a moment before she realized Malcolm was addressing the banker once more.

  ”—our charming Miss Jones-Smith is quite insistent on that point. There are all manner of furbelows she claims to require, not to mention her desire to refurnish my home from top to bottom prior to the wedding. And given the circumstances, I fear I am obliged to indulge her.”

  “But, Sir John,” the banker persisted in a tone of growing desperation, “you of all people surely must realize what such a decision entails.”

  “Indeed, I do, Mr. Burnett., but I believe I shall charge you with the task of explaining the situation to my, er, betrothed.”

  “Explaining what?” Halia interrupted as confusion and no little trepidation began to take hold. “If the money belongs to Mr. Nor--that is, Sir John, why can he not just have it back?”

  The banker cleared his throat. “It is quite simple, my dear. The money is not here to give him.”

  ~ Chapter 7 ~

  “Not here!” Halia's eyes widened and her anxious gaze flew from Burnett to Malcolm and then back again. “But where did it all go?”

  “Why, it is invested, of course. Surely you did not think that we kept all that money simply lying about.”

  But that is what she had thought, why she had embarked upon this mad scheme, at all.

  Rightly interpreting her silence as assent, the banker sighed and leaned forward with a self-important air. “Let me explain. This bank, like any other, makes its money by investing the assets of its clients in various trusts, real estate ventures, commodities trading, and so on. As the bank realizes a profit, it returns its clients a portion of those gains. Payment, so to speak, for the use of their money. That, Miss Jones-Smith, is the nature of banking, and that is why I do not have the money to give you just now. In a few days, perhaps ...”

  He trailed off, and a cold hand of despair clamped over Halia's heart. Here, she had risked limb, if not life, to reach this point in her journey, only to learn it had all been for naught! If only she had thought to ask.

  Then realization dawned, and she swung about to face Malcolm. He met her glare with a bland look, but Halia did not miss the gleam of satisfaction in his dark eyes.

  “Why, you knew all along that this would happen, you fiend, you cad, you—”

  She broke off when she caught Burnett's look of well-bred surprise. Reminded of the role she was playing, she choked back the righteous indignation that rose like bile in her throat and strove for composure, even as her thoughts swirled wildly.

  No wonder the Englishman had not demurred at the idea of coming to the bank. He had known from the start that his ill-gotten funds would remain safe from her.

  Malcolm, meanwhile, favored her with a conciliatory smile that neatly masked his triumph. He addressed her in fond tones. “Do calm yourself, my dearest Bertha, for all is not lost. Once we are married, you can fritter away my fortune to your heart's content.”

  “But that will be too late, dearest,” she replied in a sugared tone that was quite the equal of his. “You know that I had certain... plans already in place.”

  “But one does not always get what one wants,” he countered and settled with a satisfied air in his chair.

  Halia slumped back in her own high-backed seat and swiftly considered her options. Should she expose him right now for the fraud that he was—losing any hope of recovering any of the ill-gotten mone
y—or should she play out her role awhile longer?

  In the end, Burnett's advice decided her.

  “Please, do not distress yourself, Miss Jones-Smith,” that man primly urged, his composure restored, now that he no longer risked the imminent loss of Malcolm's fortune. “I do believe Sir John has a small sum tucked away in one of his personal accounts that might serve for now.”

  ”A small sum?” she repeated with a flicker of hope.

  The banker nodded. “Approximately ten thousand dollars, I would venture.”

  Halia straightened in her chair, rapidly recalculating the basic expenses that her expedition would entail. The amount the banker had offered was sufficient to cover the cost of securing a boat, a crew, and supplies enough to last several weeks...or even months, if she were judicious in her expenditures. Though the sum was quite a bit less than she had planned upon, it likely was the most she could hope for by this point.

  “I do believe you are right, Mr. Burnett,” she finally said, allowing herself a small satisfied smile. “The amount will serve quite well.”

  “Ah, then our problem is settled. Shall I presume, Sir John,” he added with a look back at Malcolm, “that you will authorize me to make this withdrawal in the young lady's name?”

  Malcolm sat silent for the space of several heartbeats, his look of complacency momentarily stiffening into an expression that was less pleasant. Then, with a bored wave of one hand, he deigned to reply.

  “Very well, give the bloody money to her, then,” came his ungracious response.

  The clipped words, so unlike the urbane tones he employed as Sir John Abbot, drew a small frown from the banker. Then, just as quickly, Malcolm regained his earlier air of bland congeniality.

  “Do let us get on with it, then,” he told Burnett. “I have no doubt that my, er, betrothed, is eager to begin spending my money.”

  “Quite so.”

  With alacrity, the banker rose and stuck his bald pate past the glass door, gesturing as he did so for one of the clerks to attend him. While Burnett engaged that young man in swift conversation, Malcolm turned back to her with the same convivial air.