Page 56 of Daredevil Lady and the Mysterious Millionaire (The Hidden Hearts Collection #3)

Twenty

R arely did Cynthia Van Hallsburg throw open the doors of her white marble townhouse for entertaining.

But when she did, her invitations were eagerly sought, her affairs very exclusive.

The dinner party she had arranged for tonight, however, had become almost too exclusive.

Half of those invited hadn’t put in an appearance, and the rest had only come out of vulgar curiosity.

The whisperings had already begun. Mrs. Van Hallsburg was very much aware of that fact as she stood at the entryway to her best salon, but her icy composure revealed nothing of her dismay.

Her guests clustered in polite conversation by the piano, or by the red lacquered Japanese cabinet, or near the decorative sculpture designed by Karl Bitter. The chatter was low-key, well-bred except for the furtive glances occasionally directed toward their hostess.

The rumors were already thick about town, spurred on by the scurrilous articles being run in the New York World, written by that barbaric red-haired reporter friend of John Morrison’s.

It was all coming to pass just as she’d feared. Charle Decker’s clumsy plot had sparked off an intensive investigation. Not even her clever disposal of Charles had been enough to stop it. She should have shot the fool years ago, not now when it was already too late.

She was obliged to admit she had been less than careful herself.

A self-mocking smile touched her lips as she thought of the newspaper article that reported the little detail that threatened to undo her.

Decker’s death appeared a most unlikely suicide, the paper said.

His right hand had been found holding the gun, which made it quite awkward, considering he had been shot through the left side of the head.

She had put the gun in the wrong hand. It was enough to make one laugh, tripping herself up on a tiny detail like that.

So clumsy, so careless. Yet that wouldn’t have been enough to cause her concern.

It was that other report that did it, about someone claiming to have seen a woman slipping away from Decker’s house late that night.

No fingers were pointing her way yet, but she feared some sort of evidence might have been found connecting her to Charles’s illegal activities.

The police had been making discreet inquiries about her bank accounts.

She was fast coming under suspicion. She knew it, and, she feared from her guests’ uneasy behavior, so did everyone else.

It took all her rigid years of social training to keep her carriage erect, the smile frozen on her lips. She almost wished for once she could be ill-mannered enough to exhibit some of John Morrison’s bluntness.

“You’ve satisfied your vulgar curiosity!” she wanted to shriek at her guests. “Now get the hell out.”

No one was coming to arrest her tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow. But she had to face it. It could come to that. Time was running out. She was going to have to make some plans and soon.

Her anxious reflections were interrupted by the butler appearing at her elbow, forcing his back into a stiff bow.

“Should dinner be served yet, madam?” Chivers cast a dubious glance at the half-filled room.

“We may as well,” she murmured. “I doubt anyone else is coming.”

As the butler began to retreat, she called him back, adding in a whisper, “See that half of the settings are removed, the table rearranged.”

There was no sense in making her humiliation obvious. The butler appeared to understand, although he delivered his, “Very good, madam,” with a slight smirk.

The fellow had never dared show such insolence before, she thought with a frown.

Likely he was already on the lookout for another post. She had spent a lifetime maintaining a proper distance from everyone, but now she sensed them all drifting from her, as inexorably as the ebb of the tide.

It was hard to admit, but she found the sensation a little frightening.

She was about to encourage her guests to move into the dining room when she heard a thunderous summons at the front door. Perhaps she had not seen the last of the arrivals after all. Although she had never held up dinner this long before, she could afford to wait a few more minutes.

Lingering by the door, she prepared to greet the latecomer more graciously than she would have under ordinary circumstances. But she heard no approaching footsteps, only the unthinkable sound of raised voices in the front hall.

She excused herself and stepped down the corridor to see who had caused the disturbance.

She drew up short. She shouldn’t have been surprised.

No one would have the temerity to manhandle her butler other than John Morrison.

He had the manservant all but pinned to one of the towering Corinthian pillars as he shoved his way past into the hall.

John was ill-dressed as always, his Prince Albert coat rumpled, the tight set of the fabric seeming scarcely enough to contain all that masculine energy straining beneath.

Dark strands of hair tumbled across his brow, his eyes darker still, flashing with anger.

He was in one of his rages. Distasteful as she found such a display of emotion, she couldn’t suppress a tingle of excitement as well.

Morrison was like a slumbering volcano of power, raw and untamed. After their last, embarrassing scene, she had never wanted to see him again, yet now she was glad of the sight of him. Never had she been so fascinated by any man. Never had she hated anyone as much.

Although quaking, her butler continued to insist, “Madam Van Hallsburg is not available this evening.”

“Then she’d better get available,” Zeke said crudely. “Fast.”

The butler had made a dive to summon some footmen to his aid when she intervened. “It’s all right, Chivers. You may admit Mr. Morrison.”

It was an unnecessary command, for Zeke’s head had snapped around at the sound of her voice. He came charging in her direction.

“Good evening, John,” she said, maintaining a calm that for once she didn’t feel. “I thought that I had at least taught you not to attend a party when you haven’t been invited.”

“Your party be damned. I want to talk to you.”

This wasn’t one of his usual blustering rages. His mouth was taut with some suppressed emotion, his eyes hard, accusing. She felt a prickling of, if not apprehension, at least of warning.

“We were just sitting down to dine, but I suppose I could spare you a few minutes.” She turned, beckoning for him to follow her.

She led him into one of the house’s smaller parlors much favored by her late husband for its dark furnishings and gloom-ridden atmosphere. She seldom bothered with the chamber, so consequently the air in the room was stale. Even the lamp she lit did little to dispel the darkness.

Zeke became a little more subdued. Whether it was owing to the funereal aspect of the room, or to Mrs. Van H.

’s customary chilly demeanor, he couldn’t have said.

He had been carried to her doorstep by a fever pitch of emotion.

But now face-to-face with the elegant, self-possessed woman, what Tessa had told him seemed incredible.

He waved aside her offer of a drink. Refusing to be seated, he paced in front of the hearth, no longer so certain where to begin.

“What is so urgent, John?” She favored him with a brittle smile. “Surely it cannot be that you have come to your senses over that little circus girl, that you have been reconsidering what I offered you?”

“No!” The mere reminder of her offer sent a shudder of revulsion through him, especially as he considered the possibility that what Tessa had told him was true.

“I only came here because I need some questions answered, questions about some information I received.”

She looked wary, but at the same time almost resigned. “I see. You must have been talking to your friend Mr. Duffy.”

“Duffy? What the hell has he got to do with this?”

“Why, I thought— Then I am afraid I don’t understand.”

“I’ve come to you about something my sister told me.”

Zeke could find no way to approach the matter subtly. In his usual blunt manner, he laid out for Mrs. Van Hallsburg everything that Tessa had said. She listened in silence, with no more reaction than a flicker of an eyelash. She made no effort to confirm or deny any of it.

“Well, is it true?” Zeke demanded. “Did my mother ever come to see you?”

“Your mother? Oh, you mean that dowdy little Italian woman.”

“I mean Sadie Marceone.”

When she still showed no inclination to reply, he barked, “Answer me, damn it.”

“There is no need for you to be coarse, John. I have every intention of answering you.” She shrugged. “Yes, your Mrs. Marceone called upon me. But don’t expect me to remember all the details. It was a long time ago, just after she adopted you.”

Her lip curled. “Those ridiculous people from the orphanage sent her to me, and after my father had paid them a goodly sum to keep quiet about your ancestry. I warned him it wouldn’t work. As far as I know, there is only one effective way of silencing people.”

Zeke stared at her, chilled not so much by her words as her manner. She was confessing it was all true, just like that, as calmly as though these facts of his life held no more meaning than reading off the social register.

“Then you are admitting you’ve always known about me—who I was?”

“My family managed to follow your progress, even when you ran away from the orphanage.”

Did they? Zeke thought with a surge of bitterness. They had known when he had slept in the gutters, pawed through garbage in search of something to eat, fled for his life from the blades of some street gang. She had known.

“And my father too? Did he know what became of me?”

“I suppose he did, if you believe the dead can look down upon you.” She sounded almost bored by the entire discussion. “What is all this sudden fuss about your birth, John? You never expressed much interest in your parentage before, at least not to me.”