Ladies of Intrigue Page 16

  And he’d have to—or he’d be out of a job by month’s end, his sister’s death still unavenged.

  Chapter Two

  Most of the shameless maples had already disrobed for their coming marriage to winter, but a few discreet maidens refused to shed their orange and red leaves. Amanda lifted her face and relished the spot of colorful brilliance in front of the ruined Grigg house. Surely if God created such beauty in the midst of ashes, He could do anything … like help her—for it would take heavenly assistance to accomplish the plan she was about to undertake.

  A small flame of guilt kindled in her heart, and she closed her eyes. Forgive me, Lord. For indeed, He already had helped her at dinner last Friday night. Not a miracle of Red Sea proportions—for Father had been snappish over her tardiness. But at least he’d not made too big of a scene, especially when Joseph took full responsibility for their lack of punctuality.

  Behind her, carriage wheels rolled to a stop, and her eyes popped open, pulling her back to the present. Was she ready for this?

  “This is an interesting venue for our Ladies’ Aide Society meeting.” Maggie’s voice turned her around.

  Her friend’s glance drifted to the burnt gatehouse. She crossed the boulevard and stopped on the drive next to Amanda. “What are you up to?”

  Direct as always—which is what she loved most about Mags. No guile. No secrets. Amanda smiled. “I had a wonderful idea.”

  Maggie’s lips pulled into a pout. “If it involves the Grigg house, then it might be your last idea as chairwoman. The place is positively haunted.”

  A parade of lacquered carriages rolled up the street, one by one stopping to let out an array of colorful gowns. One in particular was more stunning than the rest.

  Maggie shook her head. “I’m surprised Lillian agreed to meet here.”

  “She didn’t … exactly.”

  Maggie pulled her gaze from the women swarming their way. “How did you manage that?”

  She shrugged. “I sent a note to her driver, along with a little incentive.”

  Maggie’s brows drew together. “I hope you know what you’re doing, dearest.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. So did she.

  Lillian Warnbrough, one part peacock, the other lioness, led the remaining nine members of the Ladies’ Aide Society to a standstill in front of Amanda. Without so much as a “Good afternoon” she started right in. “I demand to know why we are meeting outdoors like common laborers.”

  This was it. Lord, give me strength. Amanda stiffened her shoulders—and her resolve—then flashed a smile. “Ladies, I have a surprise for you.”

  Lillian faced Amanda with a thundercloud of a scowl. “Do not tell me you’re thinking of holding the fall festival here.”

  “No, of course not.” It was a struggle, but she held on to her smile, albeit tightly. “I’ve found our next project, the Grigg home.”

  Lillian sniffed, the closest she ever came to an outright snort. “I hardly think removing a blight in our neighborhood would be looked kindly upon by the”—she waved her hand toward downtown—“less fortunate.”

  Her smile slipped. The only type of aid Lillian liked to supply was that which benefited her. Amanda bit the inside of her cheek lest unkind words slide out with her proposition.

  Counting to ten, she smoothed her skirts before she spoke. “I suggest we renovate, not remove. While it’s true we’ve helped the poverty stricken with their housing, I feel there is more work to be done. And aid is what our society is all about, is it not?”

  Some ladies huddled closer, clearly interested. The rest looked to Lillian for her response.

  But Amanda charged ahead before anyone could object. “We shall remake the old Grigg house into a school for the downtrodden.”

  Lillian’s head shook before Amanda even finished. “Ridiculous. There are already schools. Many, in fact. This is a waste of time.” She turned away.

  “You’re right on that account, but children of the poor do not attend those schools. Did you know there is an ordinance excusing the absences of those unable to dress properly?”

  Lillian whirled back, a gleam of victory shining in her eyes. “Opening another school will not change that.”

  Amanda sucked in a breath. If she could pull this off, not only would the poor of St. Paul receive an education, but her father might finally see that she—a woman—could do something of value. She clasped both hands at her waist and stood taller. “True, yet we will not only provide the institution, but the uniforms as well. It’s a victory for us in that there will no longer be a decrepit piece of property driving down costs of the adjoining lots, and an even bigger triumph for the poor children who will receive an education. And in the grand scheme of things, you must agree, Lillian, this would be a huge conquest against ignorance and destitution.”

  A few birds chirped. What leaves remained rustled in the breeze. But no one said a word. Not even Lillian.

  Amanda lifted a helpless gaze to Maggie.

  She smiled back. “I think it’s a wonderful idea.”

  Lillian huffed. “I suppose it has its merits.” She stepped so close, the sparks in her eyes burnt holes in Amanda’s confidence. “But know this: I will not have your little scheme interfering with our fall festival. It’s tradition, something you seem to have a hard time grasping.” She retreated a step to stare down her elegant nose. “There is no possible way we can arrange a respectable dinner and ball by mid-November if we do not begin plans by the first. So, I counter your proposal. If, as chairwoman of the society, you produce the deed to the Grigg house, then we parcel out the renovation to the lowest bidders.”

  For the first time since the meeting began, the tension pounding in Amanda’s temples began to slip away. Success was at hand.

  Lillian narrowed her eyes. “If you cannot secure the deed by the end of October, however, this little endeavor is over. In the meantime, the rest of us will begin working on the festival.”

  What? She threw out her hands. “How am I to purchase a lot on my own in less than one month? How am I to even find the owner?”

  Lillian quirked a perfectly arched brow. “You concede, then. Good.” She spun, her hat ribbons hitting Amanda on the cheek. “Come along, ladies. We have a festival to plan.”

  “No!”

  Lillian spun back. “What did you say?”

  For a second, her knees trembled. She glanced over her shoulder, picturing the many lives that would be changed from this renovation. This had to work.

  She lifted her chin. “I shall have the deed in my hands by the thirty-first.”

  A wicked grin pulled up the sides of Lillian’s pouty little mouth. “A fitting deadline to purchase a haunted house, is it not?”

  Striding through the front door of the Minnesota Club, Joseph swept off his hat. He gave a brief tip of his head at the coat check as he draped his topcoat over his arm. He wouldn’t be here long enough for that. Hopefully.

  “Mr. Blake! What a pleasure.” The maître d’, Pierre François, rushed from his podium. He greeted Joseph with a firm handshake and an accent that was no more French than Joseph was a Shetland pony.

  “I suppose it has been awhile, eh, François?” He patted the man on the back. “How goes it?”

  “Ahh, you know. A little intrigue, a lot of tips.” He waggled his eyebrows. “And good thing you’ve kept hold of your topcoat. Ze club is a little brisk tonight, despite the hearth fires.”

  “Don’t tell me you still haven’t replaced the boilerman?”

  “Oh-ho-ho … ’zen I will not.” François chuckled. “Though I hear tell a new one is soon to be hired. Let us hope he is not très incompetent, or it will be a long winter. Now then, how can I be of service to you tonight, monsieur?”

  Joseph peered past François’s shoulder, into the lounge area of the gentlemen’s club. From this angle it was impossible to see much. He cut his gaze back to François. “I’m looking for Mr. Craven. Is he here?”

  “He
is.” François nodded. “Shall I direct you?”

  He held up a hand. “No need, thank you.”

  As he slipped past the maître d’, he pressed a coin into the fellow’s hand. He strode through the grand pillars standing tall on either side of the entrance and entered the ornate receiving room of the Minnesota Club, the haunt of movers and shakers. The room reeked of bourbon, smoke, and far too much power. A chill snaked up his pants leg. François wasn’t kidding about the sorry state of warmth in here. It would be a very long winter if they didn’t get that boiler going.

  Ahead, a few senators huddled at a table, playing a game of five-card draw. Near the hearth, a tycoon and a judge warmed their backsides while engaging in an even hotter debate. How many deals were struck in this room? How many underhanded schemes?

  Across the room, near the servants’ door, Willard Craven sat ensconced at a table between two gas lamps. The brilliance illuminated splotches of red on his fat cheeks, a skin problem he’d acquired from too much malt liquor. In fact, everything about the man was too much. The white satin bow tie and winged collar. The jeweled rings flashing on his fingers. His ego. He watched Joseph approach, the cigar in his mouth flaring to a hellish color as he puffed away.

  Joseph stopped two paces from him. “A word, if you please, Craven.”

  “Well, well …” Willard punctuated the air with his cigar, pulling bureaucrat wannabes into his orbit. “Witness, my dear fellows, a rare sighting of the attornicus maximus, a creature who generally hides in a cloister of righteousness and justice and who seldom partakes of company carrying the faintest whiff of debauchery. Tell me, Blake”—he rolled the cigar between forefinger and thumb as he spoke—“have you finally stepped down from your pedestal to rub shoulders with us wretches?” With his free hand, he snapped his fingers. “Porter! Another chair, please.”

  Joseph halted the porter with a shake of his head. “No need. This won’t take long.”

  “So, you’ve not come to drink or game?” Craven took a drag on his cigar and blew out a puff of smoke. “I thought not.”

  Such dramatics. It was a struggle to keep his eyes from rolling. “You know why I’m here, Craven.”

  The big man shrugged, the shoulders of his tuxedo rolling with the movement. “Can’t imagine.”

  “Your little meeting of the zoning commission doesn’t fool me. There’s a rat at city hall, a pack of them, and you’re the leader.”

  “Pish! It’s always a conspiracy with you.” Craven chuckled then tamped out his cigar in a crystal ashtray. “There was nothing more devious about that meeting than astute revenue generation. Profits were down on business, and residential property taxes are on the rise. Changing the zoning will be a boon to the city.”

  Of all the bald-faced lies. Joseph clenched his hands into fists, fighting to keep them at his side. “Hours before I was to sign and deliver an injunction? You expect me to believe that?”

  “Come, come, Blake. Why don’t you trade your sour grapes for a glass of Bordeaux?” He lifted his hand to once again snap his fingers. “Porter—”

  Joseph grabbed Craven’s wrist, squeezing until the bones ground beneath his grip. “I don’t know how you discovered what my next move was going to be, but I’ll save you the trouble of wondering what I shall do next. I’m coming for you, Craven. Mark my words, I will uncover the real reason you protect Hannah Crow.”

  Wincing, Craven jerked his hand away and shot to his feet. Red crept up his neck, matching the splotches on his face. “Back off, Blake, or I’ll see your name linked to the brothel in a way you won’t like. I wonder what your pretty fiancée will have to say about that.”

  The threat cut deep, exposing a raw nerve he did his best to always keep hidden. If Amanda or—God help him—her father knew of his family’s history with brothels, his aunt’s dire prediction would come true: “No respectable woman will have you if the truth is known.”

  He sucked in a breath, nearly choking on Craven’s leftover cigar smoke. Any show of weakness would be blood in the water. His lips pulled into a sneer. “She’ll never believe your lies.”

  “Why, my dear fellow, I’ll be so convincing that even you will doubt yourself. And a scandal attached to the great city attorney will not bode well for the mayor’s re-election now, will it?”

  Joseph gritted his teeth, hating the way Craven’s words burrowed under his skin.

  Craven leaned forward, the stink of tobacco and whiskey fouling the air. “The loss of your job, the loss of your love … Tell me, is shutting down one house of ill repute worth so much?”

  Chapter Three

  Grabbing her hat with one hand, Amanda leaned over the side of Joseph’s phaeton, closing her eyes against the thrill of speed. A completely brazen act, the breeze teasing out bits of her hair, but so irresistible. How could one pass up facing a glorious Sunday afternoon when winter would soon squeeze the life out of everything?

  She glanced back, expecting a raised-eyebrow reprimand from Maggie. But her friend was a small dot, blocks behind, riding in Mr. Rafferty’s lumbering coach.

  “Chicken and an apple pie?” A low whistle traveled on the wind.

  She snapped her attention back to Joseph and caught him in the act of lifting the lid on the picnic basket at their feet. She batted his arm with a fake scowl. “No peeking, sir.”

  A mischievous grin stretched across his face, highlighting a single dimple on his cheek. “Be thankful that’s all I’ve peeked at.” He aimed a finger at the hem of her gown.

  Her gaze followed to where he pointed and—great heavens! She bent and snatched the fabric from where it had snagged up near the railing, exposing the lace of her petticoat and far too much of her stockinged leg.

  Tucking the fabric between her calves and carriage, she straightened out her gown and her dignity—then promptly changed the subject. “I met with the Ladies’ Aide Society on Monday.”

  “Oh? And how does it involve me?” He winked—and a thrill charged through her.

  Even so, she pursed her lips into a sulk. “You make me sound like a criminal.”

  His eyes twinkled, the lift of his brow altogether too handsome. “And you are skirting the question.”

  “I was merely conversing. Any fiancé would take interest in the matters of his betrothed.”

  “Ahh, but you forget I am used to divining truth from felons. So judging by the contents of that basket”—he leaned close and nuzzled her neck—“the smell of wild rose perfume, your gown of blue, all of which are my favorites, you are about to ask me for a favor. You needn’t go to so much trouble though, love. I would grant you anything.” He swept out his free hand as they rumbled down the hill, into the innermost part of the city. “Even up to half my kingdom.”

  “Well …” She nibbled her lower lip. Maybe now was as good a time as any. “It’s not exactly a kingdom that I want.”

  “But you do want something, hmm?”

  “Yes.” She flashed him a grin. “And you’re the man to help me get it.”

  She darted a glance from road to sidewalk, building to building, and when satisfied no pedestrians looked their way, she stretched up on her seat and kissed his cheek.

  “Well now.” His gaze smoldered down at her. “How can I refuse that? What is it you want?”

  “The title to the Grigg house.”

  The gleam in his eyes faded, and he faced the road. “Why would you want that?”

  She frowned. Would he need as much convincing as Lillian? “I’ve had the most wonderful idea. What if the decrepit Grigg house was made into a school for the poor? With uniforms and hot lunches and the chance to leave poverty behind? Think of the possibility.”

  Perhaps he was thinking of it, for a muscle tightened and loosened on his jaw. But he said nothing, just kept a firm hold on the reins as they wove their way through the innards of St. Paul.

  She touched his sleeve. “You will help me, won’t you?”

  “Whoa, now.” He spoke to the horse—or did he?
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  “Joseph?” She stared at him. For the first time in their relationship, an alarm bell rang.

  “Look at that.” He pulled the horse to a stop and angled his head.

  Leaning forward, she followed his gaze. They’d stopped at a crossroads. On the corner nearest them, a young boy, more dirt than skin, held out a torn newspaper, equally as filthy. His cries to sell it competed with a much larger and louder boy on the opposite corner. At the younger lad’s feet, a babe in a basket whimpered, lusty enough to be heard in the phaeton. Want and need haunted the caverns of their hollowed cheeks. Their clothes, rags really, hung off their bones like garments pegged to a clothesline.

  Amanda’s heart broke. These were exactly the kind of children she wanted to help. She turned to Joseph. “Is there not a law you can enforce to keep little ones at home with their mother?”

  He shook his head. “It’s very likely their mother is off working, as is their father.” His tone lowered to a growl. “If there even be a father in the home.”

  “Surely something can be done.”

  “I cannot right all the wrongs of the world.” He gazed down at her and tapped her on the nose. “But I can right this one.”

  Tying off the reins, he hopped down from the carriage.

  What was he up to?

  Joseph strode from the carriage, pleased for the diversion. If Amanda knew who really owned the Grigg title, his card house of helping brothel girls would collapse. He squatted in front of the younger boy, who was four, possibly five years old. The purple beginnings of a shiner darkened one of the lad’s eyes. The other was swollen from tears, salty tracks yet visible on his dirty cheek.

  “Buy a paper, mister?”

  Pity welled in his throat, and he swallowed. “Tell me true, lad, did that boy”—he hitched his thumb over his shoulder, denoting the news seller on the opposite corner—“steal your papers?”

  Without warning, the lad kicked him in the shin. Pain shot up to his knee. Little urchin! He stifled a grimace and avoided glancing back at Amanda, who surely hid a smile beneath her gloved fingers. Well, so much for donning his gallant-knight armor.