Page 42 of Daredevil Lady and the Mysterious Millionaire (The Hidden Hearts Collection #3)

Fourteen

C harles Decker had never thought his house on the avenue large or grand enough. Located a few blocks down from Central Park, it compared unfavorably with both the Vanderbilt and the Astor mansions.

But tonight, the hall, with its cold marble floors and tall pillars, appeared too looming.

A dozen doors led off of the foyer, chambers with exquisite furnishings, tapestries, shelves crammed with ancient vases and Grecian urns.

But the glass cases housing the antiquities he collected with such a passion were nothing more at this moment than places for an intruder to hide.

Clad in a satin smoking jacket shrugged over his shirt and trousers, his bare feet encased in leather mules, Decker crept through his own house, expecting Zeke Morrison to melt out of the shadows, his large hands lunging for Decker’s throat.

Decker gulped, longing to turn up all the gas jets, set the house ablaze with light, but he was too ashamed to admit to his own fears, so he took refuge in anger instead.

Damn that fool O’Connell to hell. Decker had conceived a brilliant scheme that would have rid him of two political enemies at one stroke, and that stupid Irish policeman had bungled it, allowing Morrison to escape.

Ever since the sergeant had disrupted Decker’s dinner to break the news to him, Decker had been bathed in a cold sweat that rendered his palms clammy with perspiration.

“Morrison got clean away, sir,” O’Connell had said. “We had the warehouse surrounded, but he escaped.”

“What did he do?” Decker had shouted. “Sprout wings and fly away?”

“No, saving your pardon, sir. He fled in a balloon.”

A balloon? A balloon for Christ’s sake! Even now, alone in the vast silence of his house, Decker had an urge to break into hysterical laughter.

Morrison had always been known as the mysterious millionaire of Fifth Avenue.

This would surely only enhance his reputation.

How or why he had been able to arrange such a fantastic escape, Decker couldn’t imagine.

He only hoped the damned thing would crash and that Morrison would break his neck.

Failing that, he wished the balloon would transport Morrison to the ends of the earth. But Decker feared that even if Morrison touched down in China, he would make his way back to New York with all speed and come looking for him.

As Decker made his way toward the rear of his house, the region of the servants’ quarters, he tried to shake off the notion.

Such constant fear of Morrison’s return was irrational.

There was nothing to connect Charles Decker, Esq.

, to the sordid murder of Stanley Addison or the assault on Morrison by two street ruffians.

But Decker feared that Morrison would know.

He would recall the threats Decker had made in his office that day.

At the very least, Morrison’s suspicions would be aroused.

Pausing outside the narrow hall that led to the kitchen, Decker rubbed his neck and swallowed.

It was as though he could already feel the brutal grasp of Morrison’s fingers closing on his windpipe.

Morrison was the sort that would choke first, ask questions later.

Not that it would matter much, for Decker had run out of plausible answers.

When a rapping came at the kitchen door, he nearly started out of his skin, although he had been expecting this late-night visitor.

All the same, the thought of unlocking any of his doors when he was alone in the house and unprotected, unnerved him.

He could shout his head off for help and no one would hear him through these thick walls, not with all the clatter of traffic out on the avenue.

He had always despised guns, so noisy and dirty, but he wished now that he owned some sort of firearm.

As he tiptoed through the kitchen, the domain of his superior French chef, he cast his eye over a costly array of culinary weapons, the blades of knives kept razor sharp, gleaming in the glow of the single lamp left burning.

He lingered long enough to possess himself of one just in case. As the rapping came again, a little more impatient this time, Decker moved toward the door. He nudged the curtain aside to peer through the latticed window, but the figure lurking upon the stoop was lost in shadow.

Shooting back the bolt, he inched the door open, his sweat-slickened fingers tensing about the handle of the knife. The night breeze swept in, bringing with it the scent of perfume and the rustle of silk.

Decker exhaled, some of his tension relaxing as he eased the door wider, permitting his visitor to enter.

The willowy form was definitely that of a woman.

Her clothing hidden by the folds of a black cape, her face by a dark veil, she seemed to have chosen her garb with a view to blending with the night, a most successful ploy.

But nothing could disguise that regal carriage as she stalked across his threshold.

Decker permitted himself a thin smile. He would wager this was the first time in her life that Cynthia Van Hallsburg had condescended to enter anyone’s home through the kitchen door, but it had been her idea, not his.

He did not greet her until the door was shut and securely bolted again. “Good evening, Cynthia.” He moved to kiss her fingertips as always, but her hands were encased in a pair of black gloves she showed no intention of removing.

“Aren’t you quite the figure of romance,” he said. “Asking for a midnight rendezvous, insisting I give my servants the night off. Our dealings in the past have never required this degree of secrecy.” He leered at her. “Can it be you have business of a more intimate nature in mind?”

“Don’t be any more stupid than you can help, Charles.” Her voice came from the depths behind the veil, chilling him.

He flushed at her snub, but told himself it didn’t matter, Cynthia had never been his kind of woman. He preferred them younger, warmer, more easy to awe and intimidate.

Yet when she removed her veil, revealing the aristocratic perfection of her features, the sculpted masses of ice-blonde hair, he stared at her with grudging admiration.

Nighttime was kind to Cynthia, the shadows soothing away those fine lines that revealed too much by the bright light of day.

At this moment, she appeared little older than the youthful beauty who had stunned society at her coming-out ball some thirty years ago.

Maybe he didn’t desire her, but she possessed a mesmerizing attraction for him all the same.

“Taking over for your chef, Charles?”

He didn’t gather her meaning until he realized he was still clutching the butcher knife.

“Why, no, I found this on the floor. Marceau is so careless.” He returned the knife to the counter, all the while feeling uncomfortable, as though she could see right through him, as though she knew all the nervous tension he had been prey to these past few hours.

He attempted to help her remove her cape, but she refused, saying, “Is it your intent to keep me standing in the kitchen all night?”

“No, of course not.”

He tried to lead her toward his front parlor, but she frowned. “I prefer your study. The windows there open onto the back of the house.”

“I suppose they do,” he said irritably. “But I don’t understand this great need for secrecy. So what if someone should happen to see you calling upon me? Everyone knows we are old friends, aren’t we?”

She didn’t answer him, and he thought he had seen more liking on the faces of some of his enemies. But he gave over arguing, deciding to humor her.

Preceding her into the study, he lit the desk lamp, while she made sure the brocade draperies were drawn tight.

The room was a little close, still smelling of his last cigar, but the surroundings were comfortable to him.

The shelves were well lined with books, not as many as that oaf, Morrison owned, but at least his were read occasionally.

Strolling over to a small sideboard, he offered Cynthia a drink, but she didn’t want it, so he poured himself a tall brandy.

He offered her a chair, but she didn’t want that either.

His nerves near to the snapping point from her cold silence, he plunked down behind his desk, no longer troubling himself to play the host or the gentleman.

“Well, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company this evening? That request you sent round sounded most urgent.”

Request? It had been like a damned command, and he was more than a little annoyed with how slavishly he had complied.

Instead of answering his question, she reached beneath the folds of her cape and produced a newspaper.

She laid it face up on the desk before him, the late edition of the New York World.

She tapped one gloved finger on the headline, an unnecessary gesture for his eyes were already riveted upon it: Addison Murdered: Killer still at large.

The story that followed was brief, providing more lurid details of Addison’s demise and Morrison’s sensational escape from the police.

Decker noted that the article mentioned nothing about balloons.

Obviously O’Connell had somehow suppressed that detail, finding it either too incredible to be believed or too humiliating.

As Decker perused the newsprint, he was aware of Cynthia’s eyes upon his face, fixing him like points of ice. He moistened his lips. “I didn’t know you subscribed to the World, Cynthia. It’s a working man’s paper. I would have thought the Post more up to your style.”

“I didn’t come here to discuss my taste in reading material.” She sounded calm, but Decker retained the impression that she was very angry. Yet with Cynthia, who ever could tell?

“Perhaps when you have done with your pleasantries, you will get around to telling me what all this means.”