Yawning away the last bit of sleep, Amanda stretched her neck one way and another, then entered the dining room. She might need more than one cup of coffee this morning. Was Maggie this weary after last night’s intrigue at the Grigg house?
But as soon as her foot crossed the threshold, her step faltered. Ensconced in a chair at the far end of the big table, her father gripped an open newspaper as if it kept him afloat. Which it did. He could no more navigate life without his precious business section than a ship without a rudder. Strange, though. He usually took breakfast hours before her.
“Good morning, Father.” She crossed the room and pecked him on the cheek, his whiskers as prickly as his usual disposition.
He mumbled something, more a rumble than a greeting, without pulling his eyes from the newsprint.
She retreated to the sideboard and reached for the silver urn, steam yet curling out the spout. Good. Nice and hot. After pouring coffee into her cup and stirring in some cream, she seated herself opposite her father. “I am surprised to find you at home this late in the morning.”
The paper lowered slowly, revealing Charles Carston’s face inch by inch, from the white hair crowning his balding head to the frown folding his mouth nearly to his necktie. “Indeed. I should be at the office, but I need to speak with you, Amanda.”
His gaze pierced like a flaming arrow. She swallowed a mouthful of coffee for fortification, heedless of the burn. Had he found out about last night? “Sounds ominous.”
“It is.” He folded his paper, crease after crease, using the methodical movement and the tick-tock of the mantle clock to batter her nerves.
Finally, he laid the Pioneer Press beside his plate. “I’ve heard rumors, Amanda.”
She set down her cup, sickeningly awake without having finished it. “Oh? What rumors?”
“A tale of inappropriate behavior … by my daughter.”
Her stomach twisted, and she shoved her cup away. How had he found out about her escapade of the previous evening? Maggie couldn’t have told, for she’d be censured as well. And certainly not Joseph. She pressed her napkin to her mouth, hiding her trembling lips. Who else could’ve seen her?
She lowered the napkin to her lap, clutching onto it as tightly as he had the paper. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Father.”
“Mr. Warnbrough saw you traipsing about city hall the other day, unaccompanied I might add. Do you know what kind of women frequent city hall alone?” His fist slammed the table, rattling the water glasses. “Harlots!”
She stifled a flinch. Barely.
“Betrothed or otherwise, it is not seemly for you to be seen chasing after Joseph Blake in public.” His eyes narrowed, pinning her to the chair. “I am ashamed of you.”
Her stomach rebelled, queasiness rising up to her throat. Could he never think the best of her? “But I did nothing of the sort.”
“You deny an eyewitness?” Red crept up his neck, like a rising thermometer about to explode. “One of my esteemed friends?”
“No. I deny your conjecture.” She shoved back her chair. Breakfast now was out of the question. “I was not ‘chasing after’ Mr. Blake. Honestly, Father, what kind of daughter do you think you raised?”
“Then what were you doing?”
She turned from his awful glower and stared out the window. How dare the sun shine so merrily on this horrible morning? She’d have to tell him about the Grigg project, but it was too soon. Too uncertain. Not yet a conquest she could offer him to gain his regard.
“I asked you a question, Amanda.”
He left her no choice. Inhaling until her bodice pinched, she slowly faced him. “As chairwoman of the Ladies’ Aide Society, it is my assigned duty to acquire the deed to the old Grigg estate by the end of the month.”
“The Grigg house?” His brows met in a single line. “What on earth for?”
“I had an idea to turn it into a school. An institution.” The more she spoke, the deeper his scowl—and the stronger her determination to change his disapproval to admiration. “The Grigg home will provide a safe place where children of need can receive an education without wilting beneath the scrutiny of those who deem them unfit to be taught.”
He shot to his feet, his chair rearing back from the sudden movement. “Why this obsession with the poor? Surely you know the Warnbroughs and others frown upon such associations. We must play by society’s rules. Furthermore …”
His voice droned on while he paced the length of the table. Her eyes followed the movement, and she gave the appearance of listening, but truly there was no need. She’d heard this tirade so often she could stand at a podium and present it with as much gusto as he.
“… Or find ourselves counted among the outcasts. You are a lady of upstanding circumstance. Why can you not be happy with dinners and dances?”
Disgust choked her as much as the aftertaste of her coffee. She stood and tipped her face to frown up into his, despite her being shorter than him by a good six inches. “And why can you not soften your heart toward those less fortunate? Life is more than entertainment, a fact the privileged have a hard time understanding.”
“That privilege, Daughter, I have worked long and hard to achieve.” His words bled out as if from a deep, jagged cut. “Yet you dare undermine all that I’ve accomplished, knowing from where I’ve come. I do help the poor, more than you’re aware, but I will never—ever—live amongst them again.”
Her vision swam, and she forced back tears. It was a sharp blow, one that stung. Not only was she not the son he’d always wanted, but she was an ungrateful, spiteful daughter, as well. She padded over to him and placed a hand on his sleeve. “I didn’t mean that, Father. I know you’ve worked hard. Please—” Her voice broke, and she swallowed. “Forgive me.”
He pulled from her grasp and stalked to the door without so much as a backward glance.
Swinging down from the carriage in front of city hall, Joseph closed the door behind him. Too bad it wasn’t as easy to shut out the ruckus of itinerant merchants, hawking their goods like carnival barkers on State Street. Strange that Craven didn’t change the zoning around here, for his office faced the busiest side of the road.
He retrieved a coin and paid off the cab driver just as his friend Henry Wainwright charged toward him.
“The hero of the day!” Henry’s meaty hand slapped him on the back. “Congratulations on finally breaking that Hofford case.”
Joseph shot him a sideways glance. “A little premature, don’t you think?”
“Hah!” He shoved a newspaper into his hands. “Don’t play coy with me, Blake.”
What the devil? Shaking open the front page, he focused on a bold headline: FINANCIER CHARGED WITH EXTORTION.
Scanning further, he read: “Last night in a swift move by City Attorney Joseph Blake, the underhanded dealings of the Hofford Financial Group were finally brought to an end as Phillip Hofford was taken into custody.”
What? The words were like rocks cast into a pond, sending out ripple after ripple. How could that be? He was still waiting on a deposition from his informant, Hofford’s brother-in-law. This made no sense, especially since he’d spent the evening secreting Amanda home from the Grigg house, then dining with her.
He continued. “Blake cast a wide net to entrap the unscrupulous Hofford, enlisting the aid of other departments and even that of the city council, chaired by Mr. Willard Craven.”
The newspaper drooped in his hand. Craven. He should’ve known. But why would Willard help him with this when the man did nothing but thwart every effort to shut down the brothel? He scrubbed his jaw with his free hand. Could it possibly be a peace offering?
He rejected the idea immediately. Men like Craven didn’t go out of their way to help anyone for such a trivial ideal as peace. Something smelled as rank about this as the fresh pile of horse droppings landing on the cobbles behind him.
“Drink tonight at the club?”
Henry’s voice derailed his train of thought. “Sorry. What?”
“I said, meet me at the club for a celebratory drink tonight?”
Club. Craven. Their last meeting barreled back. Craven hadn’t linked his name to the brothel, as promised, but instead dished it to the press by tying him to an extortion case. A very public way of sending him a message. Bribery in the open, for all to see. Leave it to a degenerate like Craven to come up with the idea of hush publicity.
“Did you even hear me?” Henry asked.
He shoved past his friend and wove his way through businessmen and legal aides. Darting into the lobby, he took the stairs two at a time. This early in the day, the scent of coffee and aftershave clung to the men he passed, until he neared Craven’s office. There cigar smoke tainted the hall like a yellow stain. Joseph shoved the door open. No secretary graced this single room. Craven wasn’t important enough, which almost made Joseph smile.
He strode from door to desk and slapped the paper onto the mahogany. “I’m only going to say this once, Craven, so listen up. I cannot be bought.”
The man’s waistcoat jiggled as he chuckled. “My dear Blake, think of it as one colleague helping another. You were stuck. I merely gave you a push—or rather, I pushed Hofford’s brother-in-law. I should think you’d be grateful for the positive publicity.”
He clenched every muscle to keep from leaping over the desk and grabbing the man by his collar. “I don’t need your help,” he choked out. “I need you to get out of my way.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Willard stabbed out his ever-present cigar into an overflowing ashtray, little poofs of gray exploding past the edge. His smile flattened into a straight line. “I’ll stay out of your way, as long as you stay out of mine.”
“Are you threatening me?” His voice cracked, but it couldn’t be helped. Who in their right mind threatened a prosecuting attorney?
Willard tented his fingertips, tapping them together in a systematic rhythm. “I prefer to think of it more like a promise.”
“Well I have a promise for you, Craven.” The muscles in his hands shook with the force of keeping his fists at his sides. “I will find out what it is you’re hiding. There are no secrets that time will not reveal.”
Leaning forward, Willard jabbed his fat finger onto the date of the newspaper. October 21st. Just two weeks from the election. “Too bad time isn’t on your side.”