Clad in her best visiting dress of bronze satin, her hands folded demurely in her lap, Hannah sat in the drawing room at Cloister Point while her great-aunt poured tea. An outward picture of calm, inside Hannah was a mishmash of raw nerves. She sent up a prayer of thanks to Mama for her repeated instruction on a lady’s deportment during a formal call. Because not for anything would she give these rigid Easterners, blood kin or not, any reason to fault her upbringing, and thereby Mama.
Eyeing her great-aunt and great-uncle, two long-nosed, white-haired specimens, Hannah also counted herself grateful for the deferential silence in the room. She was supposed to be absorbing her grief and shock over just finding out her grandparents were no longer amongst the living. But she felt nothing for people she’d never known, people who’d declared their daughter dead just because they didn’t approve of the man she loved.
Instead, Hannah spent the moment fearing that any grief or shock she’d experience would come later at the hands of Slade Garrett. For certainly the man now knew she was a Lawless. Coupled with that terror was her discovery, on the way here, that her ribbon-tied hanky was missing from her handbag. Heaped onto that was her certainty that there was only one place it could be. And hence, she was left with the fatalistic acceptance that once it was discovered, she herself would no longer be amongst the living.
“You’re awfully pale. Are you quite all right?”
Hannah jerked her attention back to the moment, starting when she realized Cyrus was now standing over her, offering her a cup of tea. “I apologize, Uncle. It’s, um, just the shock of learning my grandparents have passed on.” She took the cup and saucer, merely holding them for the moment.
“So sorry to have to give you the news. It’s still a bit raw to us, too. Poor Hamilton and Evelyn. Only three months ago in a carriage accident. It doesn’t seem possible that my older brother is gone. And yet you say you heard nothing about it? Pity. We did send word. But wait. Your … mother sent you to us when? Perhaps you were already on your way here when she received word?”
“That could be. I’ve only just arrived in Boston.” She hoped he didn’t notice that hers was no real answer. Perched on the edge of a bird’s-eye-maple chair covered in blue damask, Hannah fingered the delicate china cup, bringing it to her lips. But as soon as her great-uncle turned away, she promptly set it down, unsampled, on a gold-inlaid table next to her chair.
So, her grandparents died two months before Mama and Papa had. Well, that didn’t change the facts or her evidence of Wilton-Humes involvement. It merely cast her suspicions onto Uncle Cyrus and his wife, Patience. Therefore, she’d taste her tea only after they drank theirs. Lord knows what they might be capable of.
Hannah darted a glance at her great-aunt. Seated on a medallion-backed sofa, the only large piece of furniture in the room other than Hannah’s chair, this sharp-eyed woman frightened her more than her uncle did. Because this imperious lady remained intimidatingly silent as she stared a hole through Hannah. Her chalky expression assured Hannah that she hadn’t missed her not tasting the tea. With every action a pointed one, the older woman picked up and sipped at her tea.
Just then, Uncle Cyrus cleared his throat. Hannah gladly gave him her attention, finding he now stood positioned beside the hearth and under portraits he’d said earlier were of her late grandparents. Looking up at them now, she saw only a cold man and a haughty woman who were complete strangers to her. How had these two produced a daughter as warm and loving as Mama?
“Quite the handsome couple, are they not?” Cyrus crooked an elbow up on the mantel, and went on as if he hadn’t asked her a question. “Still, it’s a shame your mother couldn’t have seen fit to allow you to visit while your grandparents were still alive. I think they would have found your striking resemblance to her quite … unsettling.”
Unsettling? Just as she’d hoped. Hannah feigned a dramatic sigh. “Yes. It is a shame. But then again, my mother was dead”—gasps from her aunt and uncle gave Hannah more satisfaction than was probably good for her—“to them all these years, since she married my father.”
“Quite. All those years ago.” Cyrus recovered beautifully, in Hannah’s estimation. “Your mother’s … defection was all the scandal. None of us ever recovered.”
“Oh, I’m sure it was awful for you, but you don’t appear to have done so poorly.” Hannah raised an eyebrow at the man and then did a slow sweep of the regal room. Just the furnishings alone—though surprisingly few in number—were probably worth more than the entire Lawless spread.
“Young lady?”
Hannah jumped. This was the first time Aunt Patience’d spoken since she’d entered the room. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Perhaps you’d best tell us exactly what your point is in coming here. Yours is a most unusual presentation. I find it quite odd that you would arrive within minutes of our own return from Nahant. And I don’t believe for a moment that Catherine sent you here. She detested us all. So, come, out with it.”
Hannah stared at the sharp old bird. Time for the lies. “You’re right as all outdoors, Aunt Patience. I do apologize for inconveniencing you with my presence.” Hannah paused, making a dramatic dismissive gesture at her own expense. “Oh, I never should have tried lying. I’m no good at it. But, you see, it is true that I came here hoping to confr—” A sharp thrill chased through her at her near slipup. “Uh, meet my grandparents. And now you tell me they’re both … gone. It’s all too sad.”
She looked down at her lap, twisting her fingers together and collecting her scattered thoughts. Taking a deep breath, she raised her head and pushed on. “I … well, I’ve had a falling-out with my parents. Life out West is just not for me. We had a terrible fight, and I left, telling them I intended to come here. I stopped along the way to visit with friends, so it’s taken me a while to arrive unannounced on your doorstep.” She peered intently at them. They were breathing, weren’t they?
With no encouragement or murmurs of sympathy from them, Hannah plowed another row of pure corn. “When my parents and I had our set-to, I up and told them that the Wilton-Humes family—every last one of them—could not be as cold and as hateful as they tried to make me believe you were. But Papa said you’d never accept me. And then he told me never to come back, should I darken Cloister Point’s doorway.”
She managed a long-suffering sigh here, turning purposely widened doe-eyes their way. “So you see, I made my choice. And now I’m at your mercy.”
Not one blasted peep did Uncle Cyrus or Aunt Patience make. Hannah wriggled in her chair when a trickle of sweat rolled slowly down her back. Had they turned to stone? Feeling a need to jog a reaction from these two, Hannah blurted out, “Oh, please don’t tell me he was right, that you’re greedy and grasping and back-stabbing and despica—”
“We take your point, young lady.” Aunt Patience then exchanged a look with Uncle Cyrus. “A rebellious child. How interesting, Cyrus. And she comes to us. I find that life’s ironies can be quite … satisfying.”
“Yes, quite, Patience dear.”
Hannah watched this bit of byplay between the two, assessing their reactions. They were falling into her trap. So, beyond the whoppers she’d already told, she figured now was the time to keep quiet. Either she’d get invited to stay or she’d be tossed out the door.
But apparently Aunt Patience wasn’t ready to welcome her into the fold just yet. “How unfortunate that your … set-to with your parents didn’t come sooner. As it is, we’re forced to be the ones who must heap more bad news onto your head. Your great-grandmother, Ardis McAllister Wilton-Humes, passed away six weeks ago.”
“Oh, no, don’t tell me that.” Hannah brought a hand to her mouth in genuine shock and sorrow. If Mama had loved that grand old lady, as Biddy’d told her and her sisters countless times, then Hannah held that same love in her own heart. And here she’d missed meeting her by six weeks. Realizing they were staring at her, waiting for her to say something, Hannah forced herself to speak up. “I’m reeling from all these deaths, as you must be. How did it happen—her death, I mean?”
Aunt Patience’s beady little blue eyes stared at her. “As you can figure, Grandmother Ardis was quite old. She didn’t see very well. On that awful night, she got up from bed, wandered into the hall, and fell down the stairs. Cracked open her skull. It was quite a gruesome … accident.”
Hannah clutched spasmodically at her own skirt. A coldness traveled up the back of her throat, closing it. She shook her head, feeling a terrible sickness invade her soul. These people are monsters. None of the deaths were accidents. They had Mama and Papa killed. She was suddenly sure of it, blindingly sure. And she’d just thrown herself on their “mercy”?
Aunt Patience added, “We’re still in mourning.”
“I see.” But she didn’t—not really. Because not one stitch of black clothing, not one wreath, or even an armband, adorned anyone or anything here. In mourning, were they?
Cyrus clapped his hands together suddenly. Hannah jumped as if he’d fired a gun at her. “Well then, with all the unpleasantness behind us, you must tell us how your dear mother is.”
That was twice he’d asked how Mama was. Could it be that they weren’t certain that their murderous plot had been carried out? Of course, she was acting on the premise that they indeed were guilty. Better to assume that and guard herself accordingly, than to be caught unawares and empty-handed. But Uncle Cyrus’s pointed questioning did confirm her belief that the only thing that could keep her alive was making them believe she thought everyone at home was alive and well. Hopefully, if they believed she didn’t suspect them of treachery, they’d feel no need to kill her. Especially if they thought her estranged from her parents and unlikely to contact them.
When she could see through the angry red haze that clouded her vision, Hannah answered her great-uncle. “My dear mother is not a topic I like to discuss—given my circumstances. I hope you don’t think me rude for saying so.”
“Quite the contrary, my dear niece. Forgive me for bringing her up. I assure you, we don’t spend an inordinate amount of time discussing her here.” He then exchanged a nod with his wife before turning back to Hannah. “Which means, I’m happy to say, you’ll find you won’t be discomfited while you stay here … for as long as you like.” With that, he came to attention, snapped his heels together, and bowed slightly to her.
Victory. It tied Hannah’s nerves in knots. She’d won her way in. Now to keep her body and soul together under this roof. She’d have to guard herself night and day against some “gruesome accident.” If her predicament weren’t so dire, it might almost be funny, for she was now truly the spider that got caught in its own web, only to put itself in danger of being eaten by bigger spiders. Rousing herself, she smiled in feigned delight. “Oh, thank you so much. You have no idea what this means to me.” And she meant that.
“Or to us.” Aunt Patience sized her up, looking like she was considering tasting her great-niece’s flesh.
Hannah’s insides roiled. The currents in this room threatened to pull her under. No one, including her, was saying what he or she meant. If she weren’t careful, she’d become just like them. But wasn’t she already?
Smoothing her expression, she jumped up and fluttered to each of them. She forced herself to clasp her aunt’s and uncle’s hands in turn. She even managed to plant a dutiful-niece peck on their cheeks. To her surprise, their skin was warm and dry. Unlike hers at that moment.
That accomplished, and wanting with all her soul to be out of their presence, even if only for a few hours, she minced to the middle of the nearly bare, spacious room, clasped her hands together at her bosom, and chirruped, “I can hardly wait to see my room. I just know it will be as lovely as the rest of Cloister Point.”
Aunt Patience smiled. “Yes. Your room. I’ve just the one for you, my dear. You should feel quite comfortable there. Your mother occupied it … while she lived here.”
* * *
Her mother’s room. Wasn’t Aunt Patience just the most thoughtful thing? With the drapes drawn against the day’s light, Hannah lay atop the Louis XV bed. Disrobed down to her chemise, she held a damp cloth over her eyes. Not one ounce of strength or bravado remained in her body after waiting for the room to be opened and then overseeing her own unpacking.
Legs flung carelessly wide, she groaned out her success in gaining entry at Cloister Point. If every encounter with her aunt and uncle proved as draining as today’s, she’d be a gray-haired, wizened old hag inside of a week.
Being manipulative and underhanded was hard work, she mused, for someone who hasn’t honed those … talents. Nagging at her too was the tiny doubt that she could be completely wrong. What if the burned scrap of letterhead was simply what remained of the letter Uncle Cyrus’d said he sent to notify Mama of the family deaths?
Hannah groaned. What if none of these people were guilty? What if Slade Garrett was just as he seemed—something of a rake, but a gentleman, nevertheless? And what about her aunt and uncle? What if they were just as they seemed—haughty but honest, truly suffering through wrenching accidental losses, and taking her in out of the kindness of their hearts and their shared bloodlines?
Lovely. She plucked the cloth off her eyes, rolled onto her side, and plopped the rag onto the rosewood nightstand beside her. Sweeping her hair to one side, she resettled herself on her back and laced her fingers over her abdomen. Staring into the gray thickness of the darkened room, she reminded herself that doubts and sudden attacks of timidity would be her downfall.
And somehow she didn’t see Jacey being so afflicted. Lucky for Cyrus and Patience that her younger sister hadn’t made this trip with her. Because Jacey would come in shooting and ask questions later. Picturing Jacey bursting into the refined drawing room, her six-shooter blazing, brought a smile to Hannah’s face. What she wouldn’t give for an ounce of Jacey’s spirit and grit.
Then, her eyelids drooped. Hannah rubbed at them. No wonder she was exhausted. She hadn’t slept well since she’d left home. The nights on the train were a numbing blur. Then last night at Slade Garrett’s, worrying if he would return to her room, was a nightmare. But now? And here? How was it that she could feel comfortable enough in this house to doze off? Especially not knowing if she was safe.
No, she’d better get up, better remain alert. But lying there in the quiet made her lethargic. She turned on her side, nestling her hands under her cheek. Get up, Hannah. Her eyelids drooping again, she fussed that she would in a moment. Surely a little nap wouldn’t kill her.
Maybe only moments elapsed. Maybe hours. She had no way of knowing which when she first realized she was awake. The why of that brought a frown to her face. What had awakened her? She blinked, trying to adjust to the dimness. A shadow moved at the foot of the bed. Hannah caught her breath and clutched at the quilted counterpane under her. Slowly exhaling, she asked, “Who are you? What do you want?”
The shadow’s answer was to grab her ankles and wrench her roughly to the side of the bed. Shocked into breathlessness, Hannah tried but couldn’t scream. Time slowed to a nightmarish, molasseslike sludge. Still clutching frantically at the bedcovers under her, fighting for her life, she twisted and jerked her legs. But to no avail. Her assailant’s grip tightened. The covers obligingly slid right along with her.
When her ankles were abruptly released, causing her legs to flop limply over the side of the high bed, Hannah tried again to twist away. But she was immediately gripped about the waist and hauled up hard against a warm granite wall—a man’s chest. Pushing against him, a yelp of terror escaped her. Did they mean to kill her so soon?
As if answering her terrified thought, he flexed his arm, tightening his iron grip about her back. The air whooshed out of Hannah’s lungs. Her feet barely touched the carpeted floor. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Her next scream died as a hollow echo inside her head. The man’s other hand closed tightly over her mouth. Dragging in precious, shallow breaths through her nose, she fought the paralyzing fear that seeped through her limbs.
“Make one sound, and I’ll snap your neck. Do you understand me?”
The rough, whispering voice, warm against her ear, chilled her to the bone. Reflexively gripping the man’s shirt with fisted hands, she managed to nod her understanding. But even through the thick haze of terror, she recognized the voice. Slade Garrett.
“Good. I’m going to let you go. And you’re going to sit right there on the bed while I let in the light. And you’re not going to move. Understand?”
She nodded again, half afraid she’d lose consciousness before he released her. For an interminable second, he didn’t respond. He just held her. Hannah could only blink and wait, and try not to smell the acrid scent of her own fear … and his ruthlessness.
“Make sure you understand, Hannah Lawless.”
His voice was no more than a growl when he said her name—her full name. Hannah stiffened, became even more still in his arms. But it was only when she finally slumped against him, defeated, that he released her, loosing her with no more regard than a child showed for a broken, unwanted toy.
She fell in a heap onto the bed’s softness. Unhurt but momentarily stunned, she didn’t move. Then, a sound caught her attention. As wary as any prairie dog peeking out of its burrow, she raised her head, pricking the dark with her need to hear. There. Again. Footsteps. His. Moving away from her. Toward the window.
Realizing this was her chance, reduced to whimpering yelps of relief, she finally thought to scrabble and scramble across the bed’s length. On her hands and knees now, she prayed for just one more moment of darkness to reach the nightstand. She’d put her pistol in the drawer before lying down—just in case something like this happened. If she could just get to it.
Desperation, as much as having to grope blindly, made her clumsy, robbed her of coordination. Her searching, fumbling fingers knocked a china knickknack to the floor, but finally her hand closed around the knob on the—
Light flooded the room, washing away her element of surprise. With a cry, Hannah jerked around, half sitting, half lying across the bed. Through the tangle of her hair, she saw him standing at the window. He faced her, his tall, muscular outline filling the narrow opening.
“Hannah, you disappoint me. You said you wouldn’t move.” Hands to his waist, his feet apart, and with sunlight filtering in behind him, his face remained in shadows. But not so dark that she couldn’t see the glitter of his eyes.
Hannah’d seen wolves with similar expressions … as they closed in for the kill. She knew better than to show fear to a wolf. “I guess I lied.”
He laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “I guess you did.” He then paused, as if allowing for a change in subject. “You should never have come to Boston.”
When he started toward her, when he steadily advanced with a measured tread, slowly closing the gap between them, Hannah’s heart lodged in her throat. He’s not going to let me leave this room alive. Having no more than thought it, she sat up straighter. That simple revelation had the amazing effect of calming her. She had nothing left to lose then, did she?
He stopped beside the bed, running his gaze over her as if her death were already a done deed. She looked up into his black eyes. “Are you going to kill me?”
“I should.” He then reached out, capturing a lock of her hair. Hannah flinched at the contact, turning her head away from his steely gaze. “But I’ve decided not to. You should know one thing, though—if I wanted you dead, you’d already be dead.”
Hannah’s heart leapt at his words. She didn’t doubt him for a moment. The bastard. Hating him for making her feel helpless, she raised her chin and forced herself to meet his unnerving stare. “Your … mercy just might prove to be your first mistake, Garrett.”
He quirked up a corner of his mouth. “We’ll see, won’t we?”
Hannah abruptly reached up to slide her curl out of his grasp. She watched him watch it slip through his fingers. Only when he raised his head and settled his gaze on her did she question him. “Did you ride all this way just to tell me you’re not going to kill me?”
“Are you daring me to try, Hannah?” Sounding threatening and incredulous all at once, he leaned over her, forcing her back … back … back onto the bed until she was lying prone under him, her hands clasped at her bosom, her legs trapped between his. He rested his big fists to either side of her shoulders.
Looming above her, pinning her in place, he raised the ante with an ice-cold stare. She tried to match his unblinking expression, but fear penetrated to her very soul. Her resolve crumbling, she jerked her head to the side, closing her eyes.
The increasing pressure on the bed told her he was leaning ever closer to her. Indeed, when he spoke—in a slow, drawling threat—his breath brushed over her temple. “Know this—I don’t make mistakes. So consider this a social call. You’re still alive, Hannah Lawless, because that serves my purpose. You’re no good to me dead. No, I want you to live a good, long time … so you can regret—every day of your life—having ever crossed my path.”
Chills of dread claimed every inch of her skin. He wanted her alive? Why? But no sooner were his words a memory than the bed shifted under her again. He gripped her chin, forcing her to turn her head back to him. “Open your eyes and look at me.”
Hannah opened her eyes, only to see him running his gaze over her prone figure, as if he hadn’t noticed until this moment that she was practically naked. And lying under him. For a moment, he settled his gaze on her nearly exposed breasts. Hannah was sure her heart would pound right out of her chest. But then he swung his gaze back to her face. “I’m going to let you play out your little game with your kin, Hannah. But you play it, sweetheart, knowing that I know why you’re here, thanks to that little lace hanky of yours.”
“No!” She raised her fisted hands to him. But he was quicker. He grabbed her wrists and forced her arms to the bed, where he held them pinioned above her head.
“I’m watching you. And I can get to you whenever I want—just like this. There’s nowhere you can run. And no one who’ll help you.”
A ragged sob tore from Hannah. Tears blurred her vision. Thinking of her parents’ senseless deaths, and this man’s part in them, she cried, “Why are you doing this? Why?”
“Because you’re a Lawless. Catherine’s child. For me, that’s reason enough.” He punctuated his words with a glare. But then, slowly, the angry light in his eyes dimmed … and then died. A new emotion, a new expression claimed his features and rendered his voice hoarse. “A Lawless. Goddamn you. Since I first saw you, I’ve felt things I—” After drawing in a tortured breath, he went on. “I will never forgive you for making me feel them. Never. I should want you dead. But you know what, sweet Hannah? I can’t think of a more perfect revenge than making you a Garrett. Only then can you know what hell is.”
With that, he pushed himself up and away from the bed. He stared down at her for another agonizing moment and then turned away from her. When he skirted the bed, she lost sight of him, but heard his retreating footfalls, muffled by the carpet. She heard the door open and then close … softly.
Struck dumb, as much by his words as by his attack, Hannah lay still as a stone and stared up at the ceiling. Unthinking, unfeeling. For a long time.
* * *
Two days later, late on a bright and windy afternoon, Cloister Point’s first floor stood in polished readiness. In the warm kitchen, a wealth of foods that hadn’t been seen here in countless months were being joyfully prepared. Soups and sauces simmered. Fish and fowl roasted. Breads baked, and fruits and cakes were glazed invitingly. Tonight’s event, a formal dinner and entertainment to welcome Miss Hannah Wilton Lawless to Boston promised a fabulous feast, tantalizing conversation, and polite entertainments.
Maybe for the ranks of the Brahmin, but not for the guest of honor.
She was supposed to be resting in anticipation of the long night ahead. But Slade Garrett’s … social call two days ago during that one nap of hers had cured her of that particular pastime. Napping all afternoon. She shook her head. The wealthy sure were a peculiar lot. What she couldn’t figure was—with everyone lying about, how’d they ever get anything done? Well, let them waste the best part of the day. Not her. So, more bored than tired, more driven than cautious, Hannah took advantage of the quiet for a stealthy mission.
In her stocking feet, she slipped out of her room and tiptoed past closed doors, aiming for the upper hallway’s far end. As she passed her great-grandmother’s portrait about halfway down, she transferred a kiss from her fingers to Ardis McAllister Wilton-Humes’s face. With tears misting her eyes as she stood there taking in the kind, strong face and black velvet dress of the only Wilton-Humes her mother had loved, Hannah let out a sigh and hurried along with her task.
Two days of peeking in doors had revealed that all the bedrooms were empty. And she didn’t just mean of people. She meant of furniture. Except for hers and—she assumed, since she hadn’t been in them—for Uncle Cyrus’s and Aunt Patience’s. Another peculiarity of the rich, she supposed, giving the thought a dismissive shrug.
No time to ponder on it now. Using great care, and stealing glances all around her, she opened the unpretentious door that hid the servants’ stairwell. Narrow and dim, the shaftlike descent also proved deserted. She figured the odds of that were good, seeing as how there were curiously few servants ever around, for a spread this big.
Biting at her bottom lip, she gripped the handrail and cautiously padded down to the first floor. Her other hand clutched her blue wool skirt’s pocket. Under her fingers, her first letter back home to Jacey and Glory formed a thick packet. Hannah couldn’t say why, but seeing the original, full-sized portrait of Ardis yesterday in her snoopings had triggered a memory that had grown into a suspicion, which had caused her to write home.
Perhaps it was nothing, or perhaps it was everything, but where was the miniature of that exact portrait now? It was the one thing Mama’d kept from her life at Cloister Point. Her most treasured memento, meant for Jacey after her death. She knew Jacey wouldn’t move it from Mama’s room without saying something. And now that she thought about it, Hannah certainly didn’t remember seeing it after … well, afterward. So, in her letter she asked her sisters to look for it. Because the tiny oil likeness kept calling to her, kept hounding her thoughts. It had to mean something. And, if it was missing, who had it? And why? What could it possibly mean to anyone outside their family?
With her thoughts carrying her to the first-floor landing, Hannah looked both ways down the long stretch of hallway. To her left, she heard noises—pots and pans banging, people laughing, dishes clattering. She paused a moment to sniff the air, so mouthwatering with the mingling aromas of tonight’s supper, and hoped the portions were bigger than what she’d been served here so far. But maybe with all the lying around everyone did, they didn’t need to eat much.
Crouching furtively, she looked to her right. No one. Good. She’d just have to take her chances in the main rooms. Her mind made up, she immediately went in search of Olivia. The chattery little downstairs maid, whom Hannah had embarrassingly encountered during yesterday’s snooping mission, had at least smiled at her and cheerfully explained the layout of the rooms. Today, Hannah was hoping she could find her and ask her to post her letter. Hopefully, the girl was dusting or polishing something. And was alone.
Treading lightly, Hannah silently approached and then opened the first door on her right. Cautiously peering inside, she recognized it as Uncle Cyrus’s office. One glance told her there was no Olivia. But happily, there was no Uncle Cyrus, either. Just thinking the man’s name drew her attention to his high-backed leather chair. Hannah poked her tongue out at it and then noiselessly closed the door, edging down the hall to the next room. The solarium. Hannah peeked in. Aunt Patience. She promptly drew back around the corner, her muscles tense, every nerve ending alive.
But all remained quiet in the bright, fern-bedecked room. Hannah risked another glance inside. Sitting in profile to the door, and with a tray of tea and cakes at her side, the older woman was innocently absorbed in writing in some sort of journal she balanced on her lap.
Hannah retreated around the corner again and leaned back against the wall. She must be trapped in an insane asylum. For why else would her aunt and uncle go about the most ordinary of ways, as if nothing were afoot? And include Hannah in every activity? They took their meals with her. They invited her on their rounds of social calls to all the best homes. They chatted amiably enough with her in the evenings. They even included her in their plans for future outings. All as if theirs was one happy family.
Which it most certainly was not. Hannah absently nibbled at her lower lip as she sought an explanation for their behavior. Well, there was only one—the Wilton-Humeses were evil monsters posing as harmless old folk until she lowered her defenses. All right, then, she wouldn’t lower them. But how was Slade Garrett involved in all this? And why was he? What did he stand to gain?
An ample dose of angry reaction raced over her nerves at the memory of his … visit to her room. How dare he speak of her mother and then accost her and threaten her with … marriage? How, and for what, would making her marry him figure as revenge? Well, if his barging into her room was his proposal, then he’d never see his revenge. Never.
Leaning her head back against the wall, feeling the weight of her commitment to her family, Hannah made a promise to herself. If she got out of this alive, never again would she take for granted the virtue of honesty, and never again would she think lightly of trust. Because there was not one soul in all of Boston she could trust to be telling her the truth.
And there’s not one soul in all of Boston you’re telling the truth to. Stung by her own conscience, Hannah grimaced. She hated the polite restraint, the superficial courtesy, and the mild demeanor forced upon her by her own charade. Instead, she yearned to scream and publicly accuse them all and shout and pound her fists, and demand answers and—
That was it! They were all waiting for her to make a move. What was it that despicable Garrett said … play your little game? She stared at the formal drawing room across from her. Wouldn’t she just love to play her own little game tonight? For the benefit of Boston’s finest. A shrug of guilty glee brought Hannah’s hands to her grinning mouth.
Did she dare? Think of the scandal. But wait … if her suspicions and accusations were public knowledge, wouldn’t that assure her own well-being? Wide-eyed, she straightened up. Yes, it would. A public accusation would render her untouchable. But how could she accuse them without evidence? That hateful Garrett now possessed the charred letterhead.
Then she had to find other evidence. As her mind raced with possibilities, she forgot about finding Olivia to post her letter. This was more important. Perhaps a document of some sort, she mused—a record of payment to the actual murderers? She slumped her shoulders. Would they be stupid enough to actually keep a written record of their foul deeds? Into her head popped the vision of their stationery she’d found lying in the fireplace embers at home. Yes, they just might be.
Now, where to find this evidence? Hannah turned her head, catching sight of Uncle Cyrus’s office door. If other evidence existed, it would be in that room. A grin born of pure calculation stole over her features. Before she could lose her nerve, she skittered back down the hall, sliding to a silent, shoeless stop as she grabbed for the doorknob. Darting a quick look to her left and right, and seeing no one, she inched the door open and slipped inside.
Turning her back to the room, which smelled of stale tobacco smoke and stuffy volumes, she soundlessly edged the door closed. Letting out her held breath, she turned around to face the office. Her gaze immediately lit on the desk that dominated the middle of the room. Quickly she went to it and began opening drawer after drawer, filtering through each one’s contents as she searched for … something, anything she could use against Uncle Cyrus and Aunt Patien—
The door opened. Hannah jerked upright, staring. “Aunt Patience!”