Almost a Lady Page 5

  Willow mulled it over for a moment, weighing her options carefully. But in the end she really had only two choices. Quit her job and, if she was lucky, find a position at a laundry house or as a governess. Or stay on with the Agency and—as painful as it might be—work with another (less competent, she was sure) investigator.

  "You, sir, drive a hard bargain. But I agree."

  Just then, someone tapped softly on the frosted plate glass of the office door.

  "Come in,” Robert called.

  Willow kept her eyes on Robert, not bothering to turn around even when she heard a man move in behind her. An attitude of firm competence would set the tone with this so-called investigator.

  "Willow Hastings,” Robert said, “allow me to introduce you to Union Pacific Officer Brandt Donovan."

  Chapter Seven

  Willow whirled around. And promptly dropped her parasol. "You!" she hissed.

  Brandt Donovan's mouth fell open. He thought he would have lost his tongue if it hadn't been fastened in back of his throat. "You!" he breathed.

  "You know each other?” Robert asked innocently.

  "Yes,” Brandt responded affirmatively.

  "No,” Willow answered at the same time just as strongly.

  Brandt saw icy daggers aimed at him from sparkling violet eyes.

  "We met briefly,” Willow amended.

  "Where?” Robert asked.

  "Jefferson City,” Brandt said honestly.

  "St. Louis,” Willow said loudly, obviously trying to overshadow his answer.

  When Brandt gave her a questioning glare, she smiled prettily. “You must be mistaken, sir. I'm quite sure we met in St. Louis."

  Cocking her head toward Robert, she continued. “The train stopped in St. Louis for a few hours and I took the opportunity to visit one of my favorite millinery shops. That's where I purchased this bonnet.” Her hand fluttered toward the feathery concoction atop her head. “On the way out of the store, I nearly tripped on the hem of my gown. Mr. Donovan was kind enough to catch me before I embarrassed myself by falling flat on my face. I never did thank you properly, did I, sir?"

  "No thanks necessary, ma'am,” he said, catching on to her little game, though he had no idea why she felt the need to make up a story in the first place. He would be sure to ask once he managed to get her alone.

  And he would get her alone.

  "Still, I do appreciate your assistance,” she continued. “If not for you, I might have seriously injured myself."

  "Well, I'd like to think that if I hadn't been there to catch you, some other gentleman would have."

  "True gentlemen are few and far between, it's sad to say. In fact—"

  "All right, all right,” Robert interrupted shortly. “Enough of this good-natured bantering. I appreciate that you saved her life, Mr. Donovan, and that she's thankful, but need I remind the two of you that there are more important issues at hand?"

  "You're right. Robert,” Willow said. “I'm sorry for losing sight of our true reason for being here."

  Brandt almost lost consciousness when he heard her apology. She sounded almost like a lady. What happened to the Willow Hastings he'd met in Jefferson City? The one who tempted and teased a man into aching arousal by shamelessly removing her stockings in front of him. The one who sang like an angel—then devilishly turned down his sexual proposition for fear of bruising him further.

  His hand almost rose to his cheekbone. The injury had pained him for a good week. But thoughts of Willow had lingered longer, and involved another kind of physical ailment entirely.

  "Willow. Mr. Donovan. If you'll have a seat."

  The three of them sat in silence for a moment while Robert shuffled papers on his desk. Then he clasped his hands in front of him and looked at them. “As you both know, one of our operatives was killed two days ago. Stabbed to death on a Union Pacific railway car just after it pulled into Grand Central Station."

  He passed them each a large brown envelope at least half an inch thick. “These are some of the photographs we have of the crime scene, along with notes taken by the investigators I sent. Some police information is included, and whatever else I thought imperative to the case."

  Brandt pulled out the contents of his envelope to study but noticed that Willow didn't bother opening hers. Which caused another question to pop into his head. Why was she here?

  "Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton, but why are you apprising me of the situation in Miss Hastings's presence? I'm not sure the subject is appropriate for a lady,” he said, aware that he used the word “lady” quite loosely. “Perhaps we should wait to speak of the case in private. No offense,” he added, sliding a glance in Willow's direction.

  Her lips pursed, but she said nothing.

  Robert cleared his throat and looked sideways, coloring three different shades of red. “Well, Mr. Donovan,” he began, “that's another reason I asked you in here. You see, Miss Hastings is . . . um, that is to say—I want you and—” He stopped to clear his throat.

  "Oh, Robert,” Willow said sweetly, batting her long brown lashes, “do let me tell him."

  Brandt's eyes narrowed. He smelled a rat. “Tell me what?"

  Willow came to her feet, that blasted grin painted on her face. She held out her hand. “Congratulations, Mr. Donovan. I'm your new partner."

  Brandt stood so fast, he nearly forgot to unbend his knees. He started to raise his voice, then forced his emotions in check. “I do hope you're joking."

  The cat-who-ate-the-canary-and-licked-clean-the-bowl-of-cream expression on her face told him she wasn't.

  "Not in the least, sir,” she replied. His eyes swung to the man behind the desk. “Tell me she's joking, Pinkerton."

  "I'm afraid not, Mr. Donovan."

  "I work alone,” he stated, though it had never been a particularly rigid requirement before.

  "So do I,” she said.

  "You're both more than welcome to work alone,” Robert said, “as long as you do it together."

  "My office telegraphed you that I would be looking into the incident, did they not?” Brandt asked of Pinkerton.

  "They did."

  "Then you are well aware of the fact that I have investigated such cases before. I am completely capable of doing so now—without dragging some simpering female along."

  Robert winced visibly. He opened his mouth to say something, but Willow cut him off.

  "You do not want to turn that corner, Mr. Donovan,” she told him, back ramrod straight.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and fixed her with a stern gaze. “And just why not?"

  "Because this ‘simpering female,’ as you so rudely put it, can investigate circles around you."

  "Please,” he scoffed. “Women belong at home, raising children and keeping their husbands happy, not tripping around in the detective business. I have five sisters,” he added, “so I know about these things. Each one of them was courted and wed and never let a silly notion enter her head about solving crimes, or working to make her own money, for that matter."

  Willow blanched. Her chest rose in indignation and a scarlet blush crept up her neckline. “You ignorant, foul-minded, obnoxious son of a—"

  "Willow!” Robert shouted.

  "—jackal,” she finished. “If you had any idea just who you were dealing with, you'd amend your low opinion of women."

  "I know exactly who I'm dealing with,” Brandt said in a deep, intimate tone. “If you recall, I got quite an eyeful when we first met."

  "Well, I wouldn't bet too much on your memory, Mr. Donovan, seeing as how your left eye was nearly swollen shut. Such an injury makes me wonder how good an investigator you really are. Perhaps I should be worried about working with you."

  Brandt bristled at that remark, most certainly aimed at his masculinity. He raised himself to his full height, towering over her as best he could since the top of the woman's head came even with his shoulders—higher if he included that damn hat.

  "I'll have you know that
I am a top-notch professional, Miss Hastings. I am head of Security for the Union Pacific Railroad."

  "And I'm Catherine the Great,” she retorted, “but that is of no consequence here. It's how you operate, not who you are, that matters in this line of work."

  "Is that right?” he challenged.

  She held his gaze, not the least intimidated by his height or breadth. “That's right."

  Behind them, Robert cleared his throat. “Are you quite finished?"

  Willow broke eye contact first, lowering herself with the utmost grace into her chair. “Quite,” she answered.

  "I take it you're not thrilled with the idea of working with a woman,” Robert said. It was a statement, not a question.

  Brandt answered anyway. “I'd rather work alone."

  "I agree,” Willow said. “He'll only slow me down, Robert."

  "I would slow you down?” Brandt regarded her with wide, disbelieving eyes. “I assure you, you would be running to catch up to my investigation."

  "I would be running to get away from the disgrace of your investigation,” she corrected, then turned her head to study the opposite wall with blatant disinterest.

  Brandt decided against putting up further argument. “Mr. Pinkerton, I cannot work with this . . . woman."

  Willow's head whipped around. A scoffing sound rent the air as she stared at him, mouth open, nostrils flaring. “Robert, I cannot work with this . . . man,” she shot back.

  Robert gave a long-suffering sigh. “I'm sorry you both feel that way. Because you either work on this case together, or neither of you works on it at all."

  Willow caught her breath. So that was the crux of it. She either worked with this mule-headed, arrogant ignoramus or she found herself another occupation.

  She glanced at Brandt through her peripheral vision. Where would stubborn refusal get her, other than kicked into the street like a cur?

  Robert implored her with a desperate expression. She inhaled deeply, counting to seven before a smile stretched across her tight lips.

  "Fine,” she said in a calm, decisive voice. “If Mr. Donovan will lower his standards and agree to work with me, then I guess I can do the same.” She waited only a heartbeat before adding, “My standards were never all that high to begin with."

  Brandt ignored her. “The Union Pacific will not be happy to hear that you refused to allow me to investigate,” he threatened.

  Her first inclination had been right, Willow thought: brainless Neanderthal. Never threaten Robert was very high on her list of things not to do.

  Robert's jaw clamped shut, all but chipping teeth. “I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Donovan,” he said in a tight, clipped tone. “But then, your presence is not really necessary. A Pinkerton operative was murdered. That it happened on a Union Pacific passenger car is fairly insignificant at this point."

  He stood, resting his closed fists on the desk. “Now, I am giving you the opportunity to investigate, as your company has requested. However, this offer hinges on your agreement to work with Agent Hastings. If you find this arrangement unacceptable, then I bid you adieu.” He held his hand out to Brandt.

  Au revoir. Bon voyage, Willow added silently. Don't let the door hit you in the back on the way out. Things were looking up. Robert would be so impressed by her ladylike behavior through all of this that he would assign her the case even after Brandt Donovan stormed out, refusing to work with a woman. Whoever said, “You can't have your cake and eat it, too,” didn't know a fig about the art of manipulation.

  "If that's your position,” Brandt said to Robert, “then I have only one thing to say."

  Willow stood, holding out her hand to Brandt. He was taking entirely too much time to turn down Robert's offer. “It was nice to see you again, sir.” That lie was the hardest she'd had to swallow in a while.

  "What is it?” Robert asked, continuing the conversation around Willow's rush to see Brandt Donovan on a train bound for Boston.

  Ivory teeth gleamed as Brandt grinned. He took her proffered hand and brought it to his lips for a light kiss.

  Uh-oh.

  "Where do we begin?"

  Chapter Eight

  Candles burned all around. The smell of flame and wax permeated the shimmering darkness. The uneven gray stones that made up the walls of this dark dungeon sent a sharp chill through the room.

  A whimper of fright reached his ears. He stared hard at the woman tied and gagged on the altar before him. Her arms were spread out on either side of her body, her legs bound tightly together at the ankles. A feminine replication of the crucifix that hung on the wall above her head, she represented a sacrifice like that of Jesus on the cross.

  She struggled against her bonds, trying to scream past the thick cloth stuffed in her mouth.

  "She is ready,” the man said to his companion, who stood alone in a dark corner. “Bring me my cloak."

  A cloud of black material fell about his shoulders. He reached up with gnarled fingers to fasten the clasp at his neck.

  "For your sins you must pay. To God you must repent.” He circled the altar, swinging the aspergillum back and forth over her naked form, sprinkling her flesh with Holy water. “Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo, et mundabor: lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor,” he chanted in the language of the Old Church. “Thou shalt sprinkle me with hyssop, Lord, and I shall be cleansed,” he repeated for her benefit. “Thou shalt wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow."

  The petite woman shivered in terror.

  He stopped beside her head, removing the cloth from her mouth. “For your sins you must pay,” he intoned. “To God you must repent. Do you regret your wicked ways?"

  Tears rolled from the girl's eyes, into the dark hair at her temples. She nodded weakly.

  "Do you regret your wicked ways?” he asked again, his voice gaining strength.

  "Y-yes,” she managed, teeth chattering with fear.

  "For your sins you must pay. To God you must repent. Repent. Ask God to forgive you your trespasses."

  "For . . . give me."

  "The Lord cannot hear you. Speak louder, my child."

  "Forgive me."

  "Beg His forgiveness for your sins.” His words echoed through the dungeon room.

  "Forgive me."

  "Forgive us, Lord, for we know not what we do!” From inside the cloak, he produced a long sword, its golden hilt engraved with a crescent moon. He grasped the weapon in his white-knuckled hand.

  "Again, my child."

  Her chest heaved with the effort to speak. “Forgive me.

  "Misereatur vestri omnipotens, Deus, et, dimissis peccatis vestris, perducat vos ad vitam aeternam. May almighty God have mercy upon you, forgive you your sins, and bring you to everlasting life."

  Raising the sword, he looked down into her terrified eyes. “Amen,” he said, and drove the sharp point home. Life's blood poured from her body as her heart beat its last.

  He removed the blade from her chest, wiping it clean with a soft linen cloth.

  "This child of God has been forgiven, Outram. Take her home."

  Chapter Nine

  Willow stormed into her room at the Astor House hotel, slamming the door closed with a clatter that reverberated off the walls. She hurtled her parasol across the room, just missing the flowered porcelain vase on the floor beside the fireplace.

  Moving from the sitting room into the bedroom, she continued to vent her frustration. Hat, gloves, shoes, all were thrown in one direction or another, their flight punctuated by curses aimed at Brandt Donovan.

  The only thing that didn't receive the full force of her fury was the portfolio of photos that Robert had given her, which she tossed with uncommon gentleness onto the bed.

  With an angry yank, she pulled open the jacket of her gown, hanging it and the matching skirt in the mahogany claw-footed wardrobe. Petticoats and corset soon followed, along with her silk stockings.

  By the time she stood in only her knee-length chemise, her anger had dissipated somewhat.
But she still hated Brandt Donovan with a passion. Her foot tapped impatiently on the thick mulberry carpeting, arms across her chest.

  Why did he have to be the only person in the state of New York reasonable enough to agree to Robert's ultimatum? Any other man would have fought it tooth and nail, too proud to work with a female operative.

  But not Brandt. He made it perfectly clear that he didn't like the idea of being on a case with a woman, but he wasn't going to let that small inconvenience keep him from doing his job.

  When he had turned to her and asked, “Where do we begin?” she'd wanted to smack the smug smile off his face. It had taken all of her willpower to bite her tongue and remain silent while Robert filled Brandt in on the Charlie Barker case. As soon as Robert had dismissed them, she'd stalked out of the office to the hotel without a backward glance.

  Brandt claimed to be a detective; let him discover where she was staying.

  Not that she cared to ever see him again. Her investigation would go much more smoothly without that boorish oaf getting in the way.

  She wrapped the red satin robe about her shoulders and moved to the bed for the file. Propping fluffy pillows behind her back, she crossed her legs and began sorting through the contents of the envelope.

  She spread the photos in an arc at the foot of the bed, paying little attention since she'd seen the crime scene firsthand. Then she started reading the enclosed profile of Charlie Barker. It included a wide range of facts: age, date of birth, family, details of his murder. But nothing that hinted as to why he'd been killed.

  Willow worried a thumbnail, clicking it against her front teeth, staring at all the information before her. She couldn't shake the feeling that Charlie's death had something to do with his last assignment. When she'd commented on his jumpiness, hadn't he told her that it was just a case he was working on? Why wouldn't Robert tell her what Charlie had been investigating? Surely he realized that the murder likely happened because Charlie stirred up a hornet's nest, got close enough to make someone nervous.