The Northern Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  He’d be Rachel’s last choice to help her with her real dilemma, of course. But he might be able to find her a man who would.

  Also, he came from a very compassionate family. His mother, for example, was a great patroness of children’s charities, although her private life was whispered about.

  Surely he’d ensure a warning would reach his employer, once she managed to send it to him.

  If she only knew where he was.

  Across town, Lucas Grainger followed his father, Thomas Lawrence Grainger IV—or T.L.—through Chicago’s best hotel and wondered what trial the old devil was planning for him this time.

  At least Mother wasn’t here. In that case, he’d have been certain he was about to descend through the nine circles of hell.

  Christ Almighty, how clearly he recognized signs of the old trap closing around him, starting with the Old Man’s false cordiality all evening. He’d always fought battle after endless battle with his parents, usually about what role he’d play in the family business.

  He’d been tutored throughout his childhood, rather than going to prep school like his brother Tom and other boys of his parents’ social circle. The greatest fight with his parents had come when he’d learned that they expected him to attend the University of Pennsylvania and live at home, rather than follow Tom to Princeton. Unable to dissuade them, he’d run away and joined the western Union army, the farthest from Philadelphia. He’d taken great pains to become a private in a state militia as close to the front as possible, in order to remain isolated from any of his father’s contacts in Washington. It had worked: By the time Pinkerton’s men had found him, he’d become a hardened veteran and his parents were no longer willing to display him to their fashionable set, since they abhorred the reek of common soldiers. Later, he’d transferred to the regular Army’s cavalry, having found a life that he loved.

  It had been two and a half years since their last battle, caused by his father’s fury that Lucas hadn’t resigned his Army commission in order to return to Philadelphia and join the family empire.

  If he didn’t need his family’s business contacts, he’d leave now. When Donovan had suspected the Davis Trust was swindling him, Lucas had vehemently objected, given his prior service with Elias Davis during the War. He’d suggested that Albert Collins, the principal trustee, was more likely the fraud’s author, not Rachel Davis, Elias’s widow. She’d corresponded with him, first as a proxy for Elias and later in her own right, primarily discussing politics and books. He found it impossible to believe that anyone with such pungent opinions about political bribery would have embezzled money from one of her beloved late husband’s business partners. He knew damn well she hadn’t lost her wits from grief either, no matter what the gossips said.

  And she was so young, little more than twenty-three years of age. Too damn innocent to know how to protect herself from fortune hunters who’d stop a lady’s correspondence…

  A muscle ticked in his jaw.

  Dammit, if he hadn’t been traveling so much, he’d have realized her letters had ended abruptly with no explanation and would have helped her. But first, there’d been that expedition into Colorado for the Spanish gold, then he’d brought the horses safely out of Memphis, and settled them in California. Somehow, yet again he hadn’t been able to help a woman who needed him!

  Donovan had agreed that Lucas could be correct and sent him to investigate it further. So Lucas had cabled his brother, asking for the loan of a private railroad car and the Graingers’ commercial connections to test the Collins clan’s desperation for money.

  Given assurances of those resources, he’d come to Chicago with a wardrobe suitable for Boston’s finest circles; a logical precaution, if he was to seek out all of Collins’s weaknesses. He hadn’t expected to find waiting here both the Empress, the Grainger family’s legendary private Pullman—and his father.

  But by then he’d already learned that Albert Collins and his son had also journeyed to Chicago, a thousand miles closer to the Bluebird Mine. Why? For them to come here, when they’d never gone more than two hundred miles west of Boston, stank to high heaven.

  Worse, there was Rachel Davis, who for some impossible reason had traveled to Chicago with Collins. Her idea of an enjoyable winter evening included translating Cicero, singing with her mother and sister, or ice skating. None of those could be performed on a cross-country train trip, especially alone with Collins and his son.

  So why was she here? To marry one of the Collins men, as so many rumors said? He doubted it, given her acute intelligence and the son’s unsavory reputation.

  If gaining an answer to that question meant being polite to his father, he’d manage to do it, by God.

  So here he was, to learn what the devil his father really wanted from him in exchange for the Empress. He’d guarantee that almost any request would start another fight between them, given their past record. The only question was whether the price would be too high for him to stomach.

  He was slightly grateful—although wryly unsurprised—that the demand hadn’t come during their dinner in that public dining room.

  As befitted his father’s view of the Graingers’ role in society, the luxurious sitting room was the centerpiece of the best suite in Chicago’s best hotel. The large room was a rich tableaux of brown and gold masculine comforts, from the lavishly upholstered chairs to the large marble fireplace, the thick Brussels carpets, and the lamps casting hissing, golden gaslight over all. Even the brilliantly polished spittoons were well placed to ensure that a gentleman could always find one, while not having to worry overmuch about knocking one over if under the influence of Demon Rum.

  Lucas dropped his top hat onto a side table and carefully draped his evening cloak beside it. The elegant display should remind him to be patient, rather than use his typical street language over the old autocrat’s demands.

  T.L. Grainger IV was often held up as a fine example of what the world called “the splendid Grainger men.” He stood a few inches shorter than either of his sons, his once black hair now white, but his features retained their eaglelike sharpness. Few had ever successfully tricked or cozened him into doing anything he didn’t choose to.

  His youngest son usually acknowledged the family likeness.

  T.L. handed Lucas a fragile crystal balloon glass, half filled with a rich golden elixir, and settled into his own chair with a similar glass.

  Despite himself, Lucas sniffed appreciatively. Courvoisier cognac, the finest brandy in the world. Perhaps there might be a few good reasons for reentering the Grainger fold. He leaned back in his chair and pretended to admire the cognac’s color. Even so, damned if he’d start the conversation.

  “You’ve done very well for yourself out in California,” the elder Grainger mused. “Those Central Pacific shares you bought five years ago have gone up noticeably.”

  Lucas somehow managed to show only polite gratification, rather than shock. His first compliment from his father? What was this leading up to? He inclined his head. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I understand you’re traveling a great deal throughout the West. Are you searching out more investment opportunities for yourself?”

  Lucas frowned slightly. How could he tell him that he was the chief troubleshooter for Donovan & Sons—the most challenging, enjoyable position he’d ever held? That any opportunities to make money by himself, for himself, were merely the icing on the cake? “I, ah—”

  His father leaned forward. “Or are you seeing a young lady?”

  Lucas stiffened. Dammit, couldn’t they be alone for five minutes without restarting that old inquisition? Was it already time for a lecture on returning to the family fold and finding the proper breeding partner? “Certainly not.”

  “Indeed,” T.L. mused, his gaze very sharp on Lucas’s face. “I understand there are some beauties in California.”

  Lucas gritted his teeth, recognizing a conversational pit opening in front of him. He smiled slightly, adopting the gentle
manly countenance used when declining to discuss a lady in any terms whatsoever.

  “At least you’re not chasing some female with more looks than breeding.”

  Lucas very nearly threw his expensive brandy in his father’s face at this dismissal of every woman in California, including all of his friends’ daughters and sisters. The only thing more predictable than his father’s demands was the Old Man’s snobbishness, his absolute certainty that only a very few families produced daughters suitable for inclusion in the Graingers’ bloodline.

  At least his father forbore to pursue the topic further, permitting Lucas’s pulse to resume a normal pace.

  T.L. grunted and swirled his cognac, letting the light dance in its depths. “The family’s Wilmington branch just bought a very fine bank. You might have heard of it—Tallmadge’s Bank.”

  Lucas didn’t quite blink. It never paid to show the Old Man when one of his topics alerted you, as did any direct mention of money by the old banker. “Really? That must be worth at least half a million.”

  “Closer to a million.” His father lifted his glass in salute and all but purred when he drank the fine brandy.

  Lucas sipped at his drink, warily considering the gambit. “Why did old Tallmadge decide to sell out?”

  “He wrote off his son-in-law as a bad investment and decided one of my brats would be a better bet.”

  Every hair on the nape of Lucas’s neck stood up. Settled for only two generations in Wilmington, the Tallmadge family was barely accepted at Mother’s larger parties. Surely they weren’t good enough for the family dining salon, let alone the family Bible. “What does Mother say to that?”

  “She gave me a matched pair of bays, in thanks for finding the chit.”

  Lucas raised an eyebrow and waited, waves of ice rippling over his skin. If his mother was pleased, it wasn’t because he’d enjoy it.

  “Miss Tallmadge will be the perfect daughter-in-law,” Lucas’s father pronounced, hoisting his brandy snifter in celebration. “It’s taken me years to find someone like her. Young, rich, virginal—and, best of all, her name is Martha.”

  The name sent the old misshapen guilt roiling through Lucas. He fought it back, as desperate and nauseated as the first day he’d tasted its sourness, until he could stare at his father—and saw triumph written across the older man’s countenance.

  “No.” His voice was little more than a rasp. He would rather die than have the name Martha uttered daily in his own home. He’d lived too long with his mother hurling it at his head.

  The Old Man considered him for an instant, like an auctioneer studying an unbroken horse. Then his expression shifted to coaxing.

  Lucas immediately shuttered his countenance, as if he stood in a gunfight. His fingers tightened on his glass’s fragile crystal stem. His dirk’s long, lean blade pressed against his forearm and his pocket Navy Colt hung against his hip. If he wasn’t wearing fancy dress, he’d have the joy of his heavier Army Colts to deal with this. The world narrowed to the all too smug man watching him from across the table, encircled by a red haze.

  “A million dollars, Lucas,” T.L. crooned softly. “Think it over carefully.”

  He didn’t need to; the money wasn’t a bribe—it was closer to poisoned bait. Lucas swirled his brandy, until his breathing came back under control. He took another sip, set his glass down on the table and pushed it away, not wanting anything to cloud his senses. He wouldn’t speak—couldn’t think—of Martha.

  “My brother Tom,” he pointed out carefully, “is married with four children and another on the way.” Sweet Jesus, did he really hope that the Old Man was speaking of Tom?

  “Possibly all of them girls. Someone else needs to provide sons to carry on the Grainger name and you’re the only one who can,” his father snapped out.

  “Like hell!” Lucas slammed out of his seat, his fists clenching and unclenching. All the shouting matches he’d had with his parents over the years roared through his head, deafening him. Did his father still truly think of him as only a means to an end, the breeder of the next generation?

  A moment later, T.L. also rose and spoke more sweetly, offering what he must see as inducements. “Tallmadge’s Bank has excellent western connections—in St. Louis, Denver, especially San Francisco.”

  Lucas sucked in a deep breath and tried to relax. It would take every ounce of public and private influence to learn why Rachel Davis was in Chicago with the Collinses, not in Boston, where she belonged. He could not afford to throw aside the Grainger family, no matter how little his father had ever accepted him.

  “And old Tallmadge’s granddaughter is a pretty young girl. You’d be able to mold her into whatever sort of wife you want.”

  “Dammit, sir, stop!” As if a pliable virgin would ever—could ever—interest him, even under these circumstances!

  When he could finally control himself, he enunciated every word very clearly. “I swore to you back in 1862, before I ran off to join the War, that I would never provide the world with another example of the farce known as a Grainger marriage.”

  “It’s your duty to settle down and start a family,” his father roared. “You must end your whoring around.” Lucas pounded the table, making the crystal dance. “Why do I need to stop? Did you, at any time in my life? Did Uncle Ned or Aunt Alice? Or Grandfather? Did Mother, even if she calls her paramours ‘solace for past sorrows?’ When did any of you honor your marriage vows for longer than a few days? We’re a family of notorious adulterers and I have it in my blood from both sides.”

  His father flushed, his head jerking back as if struck. Lucas had never spoken so bluntly about the family vice before. He wouldn’t have done so now, if Mother’s longing for another Martha hadn’t been so harshly brought up.

  There was a long, angry silence.

  The Old Man gathered himself back together and glared at his son. “At least consider your duty to the family name! Your older brother has provided only females, thereby endangering us. As a girl, your sister Hortense is of no help.”

  Lucas flung up his hand. “My brother has four daughters, which proves he and his wife are young and fertile. There’s time aplenty for them to provide an heir for your branch of the family. After that, my cousins are doing more than their share to provide the next generation of Graingers. Do you have anything else to discuss?”

  “Uncle Barnabas should never have left his fortune to you. Independence has gone to your head.” The older man glowered, looking like an angry bear. “You must come home to Philadelphia and start a family, Lucas. It’s where you belong.”

  “No.” Only loyalty to his older brother, the one family member he’d ever been able to speak somewhat freely to, kept him from saying never. He’d always dreamed of a warm family that would welcome him home every evening—but not at the price of marriage or a return to Philadelphia.

  “I came here for our family’s private Pullman and her entire crew.” He repeated his demand. “Are you willing to discuss that—or do I need to ask Fisk or Vanderbilt for one?”

  “You wouldn’t dare! The gossip would be appalling if you asked one of them for aid.”

  Lucas lifted an eyebrow and waited, keeping his expression impassive. In some ways, it didn’t matter what his father answered. Fisk and Vanderbilt, those two great railroad tycoons, would leap to give him a private railroad car, whether freely—to tweak the Grainger patriarch’s pride—or hired.

  But a small part of him, hidden deep within for decades since a summer afternoon by a still mountain pond, hoped his father would help him on this adventure.

  T.L. Grainger IV stared at him, as if clearly seeing him for the first time as an adult. “Very well,” he said slowly, “you may have the Empress. I’ll cable Stewart in Philadelphia, telling him to make sure you have the maximum assistance possible from the railroads.”

  Lucas bowed slightly, hiding the unaccustomed relief flooding his veins. “Thank you, sir. I am deeply appreciative of your generosity.”


  Chapter Three

  Western Iowa, the next afternoon

  Another gust of wind slammed against the train, making the luxurious private Pullman shiver until the fringes on every sofa and chair’s arms and skirts danced madly. It was the latest—and frighteningly, a dying example—in a year of wicked storms. The lamps’ crystal shades clattered, sending the gaslight skittering across the overhead murals and bouncing across the room through the series of mirrors. Only the lavishly upholstered furniture and opulent Brussels carpet were stable, like boulders too massive to be affected by a storm.

  Albert Collins stared blindly at the flat, featureless landscape outside, alternately hidden and revealed by billowing snow. Maitland Collins paced up and down the aisle, shooting impatient glances at Rachel.

  Rachel considered him from under her eyelashes, careful to pretend an interest in her Bible. So far that had been enough to prevent a proposal of marriage and her subsequent refusal—and Maitland’s almost inevitable angry eruption, which she’d seen happen far too often when he was blocked.

  She desperately needed a more permanent alternative.

  She hadn’t been able to escape from the train. Every time it stopped, there’d been at least three of the Collins’s thugs watching the private car’s exits. A mouse might have disappeared into the surrounding prairies but not a cat, and certainly not a grown woman.

  If only she’d been able to study Latin at Mount Holyoke and be valued for her wits by someone, instead of her bank balance. But she’d known when she married Elias that she might one day find herself a widow beset by fortune hunters. She simply hadn’t expected them to be so vicious and persistent.

  The train jerked again, rattling china and silverware until cutlery jumped across the table. The teapot teetered and she grabbed for it, barely stopping it before it fell into the aisle. The cream pitcher fell over, splashing everything in its path with rich white droplets, including both Collins men.