Jennifer waited all morning in Chane’s office. Twelve noon came, and still Chane hadn’t arrived. She asked Chane’s secretary to call her as soon as Mr. Kincaid returned. She knew he could explain. She just wished he would hurry back and do it.
Reluctantly, she walked back to the Grand Ballroom to watch the beginning of rehearsal. She sat next to Bellini in the fifth row.
“How’s your brother?”
“Badly beaten.”
“Do you know who did it?”
Jennifer felt sick. “No, not yet.”
Watching as a spectator made her feel jumpy, as if the energy she usually used dancing had pooled inside her and turned to nerves.
At three o’clock one of the hotel employees came in and whispered to Bellini, who stood up and rapped his baton on the wood trim of the upholstered seat in front of him.
“No performance tonight,” his voice boomed. “Blizzard coming. If what they say is correct, it’s going to be a bad one. We’ll resume when weather permits.”
Grinning dancers looked at one another in amazement. They saw it as a chance to play hookey, to stay home and wallow in all the excesses dancers rarely had time for. They headed toward the dressing rooms, talking excitedly.
“Best get home before you get stuck here,” Bellini growled.
Jennifer didn’t know what to do. Peter needed her, but it was imperative that she see Chane, who might be within minutes of arriving. Unless he was trapped somewhere by the weather.
She walked past Steve Hammond’s office. He stopped what he was doing when he caught sight of her and waited respectfully for her to speak.
“Have you heard from Chane?” she asked.
“The telegraph wires are down,” he replied. “The last we heard, the blizzard had closed everything. You’ll be safe in the hotel. I wouldn’t try to leave here, though.”
“Thanks,” she said forlornly.
She walked toward the lobby. Frederick stood by the doors, waiting. Seeing her, he walked over. “Do you have a ride? Or are you staying here?”
“I don’t know. I want to go home…”
“I’ll take you.”
Something about his solicitousness made Jennifer uncomfortable. “I live in the other direction,” she said stiffly.
“This is no time to be huffy. You won’t get another cabriolet in this weather.”
As they headed toward the exit together, Frederick waved at Latitia Laurey. Jennifer scowled, wondering uneasily what Latitia was doing at the Bricewood again. It unnerved her slightly to realize that Frederick knew the woman. Frederick flushed. He would probably prefer she not know he was being courted by a rich and powerful woman. Frederick was not above succeeding however he could, but he always wanted everyone to think it was because of his great skill as a dancer. He tightened his grip on her arm, and she decided that her need to check on Peter outweighed her concern about Latitia, Frederick, and everything else except Chane. And he would not return today, anyway.
Through the arched doors leading out of the Bricewood, snow fell continuously. Frederick helped her into the small, covered cab. The driver’s coat and hat were covered with an inch of snow. He shouted at them, “You are my last passengers of the day.”
The wind howled so loudly and the snow swirled so thickly they seemed lost as soon as they emerged from the sheltering overhang. Snow swirled against the canvas window cover on her side. Jennifer tried to peer through the ragged, wind-driven flakes, and hoped the driver knew his way.
Wind rocked the cabriolet. She could hear the sounds of the horse’s hooves slipping occasionally on the icy street. At one point the driver stopped, jumped down, climbed the streetpost, and wiped snow off the sign. “Third Avenue! I thought we’d past that long ago,” he yelled as he clambered back on board.
Only two blocks to go. Frederick lived on East Twelfth and First Avenue, just a few blocks from the old Bellini Theatre. Even wrapped in her heaviest coat and bundled in blankets, Jennifer felt the icy coldness of the wind. They passed few buggies and almost no pedestrians. Apparently, the rest of the town had already stopped trying to travel.
At last they reached Frederick’s apartment. The driver jumped down and helped Frederick clamber out of the cab over the curbside snowdrift. Then he held his hand out to Jennifer.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m not getting out here. I live at Thirty-second Street and Fifth Avenue.”
He shook his head. “I may have misunderstood, but now that I see how long it’s taken, I’m not going back uptown again tonight.”
“I must get home.”
“Sorry. It looks like I just can’t make it.”
“But I have to get home.”
“I only live six blocks from here, and I ain’t going another foot more’n I have to. Five more minutes and my horse’ll freeze to death.”
Frederick cupped his hands to be heard above the roaring of the wind. “Come in. You can stay with me.”
“I have to get home.”
“Not in this weather!”
The driver looked cold and tired and sorrowful as he said, “You’ll have to be getting out, miss. My old horse don’t do well in the cold.”
Reluctantly, Jennifer climbed down. Frederick took her hand, and the two of them made their careful way across the icy sidewalk through blowing snow. Frederick unlocked the front door of the building.
The entry hall was dimly lit. His apartment was dark and cold. Frederick lit a fire in the fireplace. Jennifer filled the teakettle and lit the kindling in the iron stove in the kitchen. He had a typical dancer’s apartment—a place to sleep. A cold-water flat, it lacked many of the amenities.
Frederick added wood to the fire and they huddled before it, shivering.
“Do you have anything to cook?”
He laughed. “They’ll find our bodies here when the ice melts. I can see the headline now. ‘Lovers starve to death in spite of everything Frederick Van Buren could do.’”
“We’re not lovers.”
“Well, we damned sure used to be.”
“We’re not anymore.”
“Because you sold out.”
“Sold out?”
“You bought that bastard’s line, hook and sinker,” he said bitterly.
“I fell in love.”
“With his money.”
“My family has always had money. I didn’t need to marry it,” she said angrily.
“Not anymore, from what I heard,” he said smugly. “Your parents died penniless. And I’m not saying you’d deliberately marry for money. But you’re young and naive enough to be influenced by his money and power. You just haven’t seen yet what a blackguard he is.”
“Money alone does not make a blackguard.”
“No, we have to factor in his lying, cheating, and stealing, don’t we?”
“You’re just jealous because you’re almost twenty-nine years old and you haven’t made anything of yourself.”
“My, how you’ve changed,” he crowed. “You used to think that being a dancer was something.”
Jennifer flushed. “I still do, but—” She stopped before she admitted she didn’t think him that great a dancer.
Frederick must have read her mind. Anger flashed in his dark eyes. “He’s a lying, cheating blackguard, and he’s taking you for a ride. He’ll throw you over the same way he did Latitia just as soon as the next pretty face comes along. He’ll never marry you.”
“He already did,” Jennifer blurted.
“I don’t believe it.”
“Well, it’s true.”
“If a man of his stature had married, it would have been all over the papers.”
“We married on shipboard. No one knows. I’m keeping it a secret until I’ve had time to tell Peter. And you’d better not say a word, if you value what’s left of our friendship.”
“Oh, so it’s a friendship now, is it?”
Jennifer ignored him and walked into the kitchen. “You have the most barren pantry I’ve ever seen.” She opened every cupboard. They were all empty. Frederick went upstairs to borrow groceries from his neighbor. He returned with six potatoes, an onion with its top sprouted, a quart of milk, a pat of butter, and a loaf of stale bread.
Jennifer peeled the potatoes, then cut them up with the onion for potato soup and set them to boil. It was the only thing she knew how to make by herself. Frederick sat at the table and fretted about his mistakes in rehearsal.
Listening to his griping, Jennifer slowly relaxed. She had known Frederick for years. He might be less than a gentleman, but she was comfortable with him. Being trapped by the snow gave their adventure the air of an out-of-town performance. Jennifer worried about Peter and Chane, but she realized there was nothing she could do. The blizzard had taken control of her life. Somehow, they would all survive, and Chane would be able to explain.
Frederick found a bottle of red wine. “We’re stranded here,” he said happily. “Might as well enjoy ourselves.”
Jennifer refused the wine. They sat before the fire on Frederick’s thin rug. He questioned her about Peter, and she told him everything she knew about the beating.
“Kincaid did it,” Frederick said firmly.
“No, he didn’t.”
“What if he did?”
“He didn’t. And I don’t appreciate your saying he might have.”
Frederick rolled his eyes. “Sorry.”
By seven o’clock the soup was done. Jennifer seasoned it with a little butter, salt, and pepper. Frederick sliced the stale bread, and she toasted it in an iron skillet with the last of the butter.
It made a fine dinner. The soup was hot and filling. The toast was crisp and buttery. They ate ravenously. Outside, the wind roared and rattled the windows; inside, it was warm and cozy. A full stomach made Jennifer relaxed and sleepy even though it was still early. She hadn’t slept at all last night, except for a few minutes on the way to the hotel.
She curled up on the sofa and left the bed for Frederick. “Are you going to sleep there?” he asked. “You don’t have to. I’ll behave myself.”
Jennifer’s disbelief must have telegraphed itself to him. He scowled and turned away. “I hate that bastard.”
“Why are you acting jealous now? You were happy to be rid of me.”
“I was not!”
“Yes, you were. You didn’t once ask me to reconsider.”
Frederick flushed. “I was too mad.”
“Liar! Besides, you were already having an affair with your secret admirer!”
“She confused the issue, I admit that, but I always loved you…”
“Oh, spare me!”
“What do you know about it? You’re not exactly Miss Virginity.”
“How can you even mention your seduction of me. Especially after those awful lies and all that finagling on your part!”
Shamefaced, Frederick subsided.
Two days and nights passed in this fashion, and still the storm did not let up. Frederick continued to pout about her not loving him anymore; he seemed to be growing more and more maudlin about their past relationship. As she made her bed the second night, he grumbled sourly. “There was a time you would have slept with me.”
“We don’t want you walking those ‘hallowed halls’ again, though, do we?” she snapped.
“Jennifer, please don’t be mean to me. I love you.”
She knew that he loved himself more, but she kept quiet. Without warning he glanced over at her with such bitterness that it stunned her. “I hate Kincaid. You know good and well he had Peter beaten. It’s common practice in this town to whale the tar out of men who welch on their gambling debts.”
“Peter doesn’t gamble.”
“Maybe Peter doesn’t admit he gambles.”
“He doesn’t gamble. I know for a fact. If anything, it was probably that Derek Wharton he hangs out with. Derek is a known gambler, and a cheat, and a liar. He probably gambled under Peter’s name.”
“What a fool you are,” Frederick said bitterly, shaking his head. “Everyone in town knows that Kincaid employs thugs for the very purpose of beating deadbeats.”
“He isn’t like that.”
“Look, I wasn’t supposed to tell you this, but I got it on very good authority…” He paused, pressed his lips together as if he still might not tell her, and then sighed. “But I think I better.” He glanced up at her, as if gauging her readiness to hear this news. “Look, I know Kincaid ordered your brother beaten. I was trying to tell you without telling you. But I know it was not accidental or done by anyone else. Kincaid ordered it because he knows Peter is plotting against him. He may not have wanted him beaten so close to death’s door, but he wanted him hurt bad enough so that he would get the message.”
Jennifer’s heart felt like a lead weight. “How do you know that?” she asked. If Chane could do that, he was a monster.
Frederick frowned, and she knew he was trying to decide what lie to tell her. “A woman,” he finally said.
“A woman you are sleeping with?”
“You threw me over. What the hell was I supposed to do?” he asked bitterly.
Jennifer closed her eyes and shook her head in weariness. She didn’t care if he had six women. But she knew it would only hurt him if she admitted it. “It’s okay,” she said.
He stared glumly into the fire, looking thoroughly miserable. “I love you, Jennifer. I’ll always love you.” Without warning he started to cry, his face twisting with grief. “How could you be so blind and loyal to that bastard? Now you’ve married him, and he’ll take you away, and you’ll have babies until your body is as fat as a sausage and your ankles are swollen and falling over your shoes like those old Italian women in the market. You’re a ballerina, Jennifer, a butterfly. Other women can have babies, but you…you…God! You’re a dancer. Now…now you’ll never dance again.” His anger and grief overcame him and he doubled forward, crying like a furious three-year-old. And once started, he couldn’t seem to stop crying.
Filled with revulsion at the picture he had painted of her future, and filled with sudden tenderness for him, because he cared so much, she reached over and stroked his shoulder. Blindly, he pulled her into his arms. Crooning words of comfort, she held him, and he cried more softly now.
Frederick had always been intense. Before, they had been intense together, about their dancing. Now, he was hurt and furious that she had given it all up to do something he could never understand.
Still holding her, he slowly lay back onto the rug. As she stroked Frederick’s head, a sinking feeling started in her belly. Frederick was right. She had no business marrying anyone. But the baby inside her had trapped her. And with a man like Kincaid, there’d be other babies. A long string of them until she died or wished she’d died. She started to cry, too. She realized she had betrayed Peter and herself. The one she should have betrayed was Chane.
Frederick felt the resistance go out of her. “Hey,” he said softly, smoothing the hair back from her beautiful face. Tears cascaded down her cheeks. She wouldn’t open her eyes. “Hey,” he crooned, kissing her eyes, her cheeks, her lips. Slowly, without breathing, he pushed her skirts and pantalets aside and slid his hand up her thigh. Still she didn’t resist. He covered her mouth with his and kissed her for a long, slow time.
Part of Jennifer wanted to stop him, but part of her didn’t. The grief at Chane’s betrayal was too paralyzing. She couldn’t seem to move. Frederick nudged her thighs open, and still she couldn’t move. Part of her screamed at the violation, but part of her wanted to hurt Chane, to call him there so he could watch.
She let Frederick enter her, and it was like a small death, a suicide. But it felt appropriate. She wanted to die and kill Chane in the same breath. She wanted to punish herself for ever falling in love with him, and him for being the rat he was.
Jennifer felt caught in a dream—knowing it was a dream, but unable to stop it. Her face was stained with tears—every part of her cold and mean and grief-stricken. She felt no arousal at Frederick’s touch, but no guilt, either. It just seemed to be what she had to do to punish herself.
Chane paced the length of the parlor, stopped abruptly, and walked to the window. Outside his Pullman coach the ceaseless wind drove gusts of heavy snow against the windows.
At last he was on his way home. He’d found the proof he needed to clear himself of negligence charges in regard to the shaky bridge. Someone had removed a number of iron bolts in strategic places. It had taken two days to fix the bridge, mostly because they couldn’t find the right-sized bolts. But now it was done, and he was on his way home to Jennie.
Unexpectedly, the train slowed and stopped. The engineer struggled through three-foot drifts to his Pullman coach. Chane met him on the observation deck. “What happened?” he asked.
“A tree across the tracks. I’m afraid we’re stuck here until the railroad sends out a crew…”
“One tree?”
“Aye, but it’s a big one!”
It was big. Covered with snow, it looked like a circus tent.
“Do we have an ax on board?” Chane asked.
The engineer looked at him as if he were crazy. Chane laughed. He might be. But he couldn’t imagine sitting in the comfort of his private car while Jennie waited and worried at home.
Reluctantly, the engineer found the ax they kept on board for just such occasions. Chane picked the likeliest place to start chopping and raised the ax. At least he would not have to worry about having nothing to do tonight.
Jennie woke with a start. The lamp still burned on the table. Frederick’s head was still pressed to her breast.
At the remembrance of last night, bile boiled upward from her stomach. She clasped her hand over her mouth and scrambled to free herself from Frederick’s entangling limbs. She ran to the lavatory, where she doubled forward and vomited. She emptied her stomach, but the queasiness remained. She made tea and forced herself to drink some of it.
Outside, the blizzard continued to rage, and inside, Frederick continued to sleep. Jennifer felt sick at heart. Her marriage was over. And she had no idea how Peter was. Outside, the wind howled so loud it drowned out everything else. Her head hurt and even her skin seemed to ache. She realized she must have the influenza as well.
“I can’t rightly believe you cleared that tree off’n these tracks.”
Chane straightened and rubbed his back. He could barely credit himself with it, either, but he had chopped the tree in half at center track. With any luck at all, the train would be able to push its way through.
While Chane worked, the engineer and fireman had cleaned off the snow plow on the front of the locomotive.
“Let’s see if it works!” Chane yelled. He picked up the ax and climbed into the cab of the locomotive.
The engineer eased the throttle forward. The train strained hard against the two halves of the tree trunk, but they didn’t move.
“Back it up. Get some momentum.”
The engineer looked at Chane like he might be daft, but he reversed the Johnson bar. They chugged backward slowly for a quarter of a mile. “Okay. Let’s try it again,” Chane said.
“How fast?”
“We just want enough momentum to push the two halves of the trunk aside.”
The locomotive chugged forward at fifteen miles an hour. It hit the two stumps, shoved them aside, and kept going. One half rolled away and the other plunged into the culvert at the side of the roadbed. They were free.
The rest of the trip passed with agonizing slowness. The train had to push so much snow off the tracks, it barely covered ten miles an hour. It was going to be a long trip home.
Chane opened the apartment door with his key. He was three days late. He walked quietly, not wanting to wake Jennie, at least not with noise. At the thought of her lying only a few short steps away from him, his body forgot how tired it was. He had missed her every moment. His mind seemed distorted with missing her. He couldn’t believe he’d been gone only four days. It seemed a lifetime since he’d been with her.
The fire had burned low in the fireplace. He stopped and added two logs. Jennie might want to come out here. He didn’t want it to be too cold for her. She was too thin to stand the cold.
He crossed the parlor, strode down the darkened hall, and stopped at the door to his and Jennie’s bedroom. Carefully, he turned the knob and opened it. Aided by the dim light from the window, he crossed the floor and stopped. His gaze searched the shadows, but no form darkened the smooth, unruffled bedcovers. She wasn’t there.
Disappointment struck hard. He and his engineer had finally met one of the road clearance crews, and Chane had commandeered them to help him get through. They had risked life and limb to clear the track. He could have killed a good crew and himself as well. Fortunately, they’d made it, though there were men on track clearance who would likely never forget him. The ride across town from the train station had been even worse. It had taken four hours to make the twenty-minute trip from the station.
Jennie must have gone home. He couldn’t think why, unless, like him, she’d gone there for something and gotten trapped, as he had. He would just have to go find her.
He headed for the door and stopped. She might not appreciate his waking her at this hour of the morning. And being a new bride, she might not feel comfortable having him climbing into her bed in her brother’s house.
Women were funny about that. His own mother had been. He’d heard his father complain of her squeamishness a number of times. Sleeping in a strange bed always stirred the animal in his father and the prude in his mother. As a boy, he’d heard them arguing when they thought he was asleep.
In deference to Jennie, and to his driver who’d just about now be getting to his own bed, he’d better just get some sleep and go for her in the morning.
He undressed and climbed into bed, and despite his worry about Jennie, sleep came.
Chane woke with the sun streaming in the window. The room was cold, but his body felt impervious to it. He crossed the room and pushed back the heavy draperies. It was a clear, bright, beautiful day; the blizzard was finally over. Traffic was already building as carriages and buggies slogged through the heavy drifts. They’d soon beat it down to size. Nothing could withstand New York traffic for long. He’d slept too late. Mrs. Lillian must have let him sleep. He couldn’t imagine her not knowing he was home.
It must be eight o’clock. He never slept that late, but he’d been tired. He pulled on his pants and stalked into the library to use the telephone. At least he could speak to Jennie. He lifted the earpiece and waited for the operator’s voice to come on. Nothing happened. He realized the lines must still be down.
He dressed quickly and hurried downstairs to order a carriage. The hotel was usually bustling with people by this time. Today, the lobby was almost empty.
His carriage finally came. He gave the driver the address and climbed inside. It was slow going. They were stopped time after time by traffic jams caused by snowdrifts piled over fallen trees, overturned carriages, and in one instance, by the wall of a brick building that had collapsed from the weight of too much snow on the roof. At the fourth traffic jam, Chane worked with a crew that uncovered the body of an old man caught out in the blizzard. He was as brittle as an icicle. When Chane lifted the old man’s legs to put him in the work crew’s buckboard, ice crackled as if the ankles would break off in Chane’s hands.
What should have been a half-hour trip took five hours. Finally, clammy and sweaty from working on a half-dozen road clearance crews, Chane arrived in front of Jennifer’s house. He leaped out, bounded up the stairs, and banged the door knocker.
After a lengthy wait, Augustine opened the front door. “Is Jennie here?”
Augustine seemed to recoil visibly at the sight of him. “No.” Even her voice sounded withdrawn, surprised. She barely resembled the woman who had sniffed through their wedding ceremony only a few short days ago.
“Do you know where she is?”
“No. You’re not welcome here,” she said, trying to shove the door shut in his face.
“I’m married to Jennifer, and I’m not leaving until I see for myself that she isn’t here.”
“Haven’t you done enough?” Augustine said, grunting as she tried again to slam the door.
Chane pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Which room is hers?” he demanded.
“You aren’t welcome here,” Augustine said again, fear making her voice quiver.
His mind seemed to ignore her statement, even though part of him acknowledged hearing it. “I need to find her. She isn’t at the Bricewood.”
Augustine gasped in alarm. “We haven’t seen her in days.”
“How long ago?”
“Since before the storm.”
The woman might be lying to him. He stepped around her and took the stairs two at a time. Four doors opened onto the upper hallway. He opened the one closest to him. The room was darkened by pulled drapes, but he could see a man standing over the bed.
Startled, the man turned, dropping a pillow and pulling a knife. A bandanna hid the bottom half of his face. He flashed the knife at Chane and yelled, “Get back or I’ll cut yer gizzard out.”
Chane stepped away from the doorway, and the man edged past him and ran down the stairs. Chane heard Augustine scream and then footsteps pounding through the house, heading toward the back. Alarm for Jennie’s safety overrode all other concerns. He stepped over to the bed, afraid he’d see Jennie dead there.
To his relief, the still figure was that of her brother. Realizing he may have just seen the man who killed him, Chane grabbed Peter’s wrist and groped for a pulse.
Jennifer opened her eyes cautiously. For the first time in days her head was not pounding. The influenza that had held her in its grip seemed to be passing at last. Perhaps today she would have the energy to go home and see Peter.
Through the limp draperies straggling down on either side of Frederick’s parlor window, sun shone with painful brightness. She shoved the draperies aside. Traffic appeared to be moving for the first time in days. She hadn’t seen Peter since the night of his beating. The pressure to get back to him was a worrisome thing, though the flu had blunted most concerns except for her own survival.
Frederick had gone out, hopefully to buy groceries. She hadn’t eaten in days and felt weak and tired. She washed in the basin near the kitchen stove for warmth, then walked into the bedroom to get her clothes so she could dress in front of the fire.
A knock sounded on the front door. Jennifer opened it to find Simone there, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Simone…” The look in Simone’s eyes caused a cold place to form around Jennifer’s heart. “What is it?”
Simone shook her head. Tears flooded down her cheeks. “We just got word at the theater. I came at once. It’s Peter. He’s…dead.”
Chane rushed back to the Bricewood and turned it inside out looking for Jennie. He found one employee who thought he had seen her stepping into a cabriolet the afternoon the blizzard started, but no one had any idea where she was going or if she had gotten there.
Tom Wilcox turned up another employee, a bellman, who thought he saw her getting into a cab with one of the dancers—a young man. Tom Wilcox sent his men out to interview cabbies.
By four o’clock Chane had exhausted every lead. He and Steve sat in Chane’s office and tried to think where she could possibly be. Mrs. Lillian confirmed that Jennie had been missing since before the blizzard started, but she thought Jennie had returned home and been caught there by the storm. She had tried to call Jennie, but the lines had already been pulled down by the storm.
At four-thirty Chane’s secretary stepped into his office. “Excuse me, Mr. Kincaid.”
“Yes?”
“There’s a young man here to see you.”
Chane glanced quickly at Steve, then followed his secretary out into the hall. A thin young man in a cheap wool hat and coat stood beside George’s desk.
“Are you Mr. Kincaid?”
“I am.”
He handed Chane a large brown envelope. Chane fished a bill out of his pocket and held it out to the young man.
“Thank you kindly, sir,” the sallow-faced youth said, grabbing the bill. Then he backed away a few steps, turned, and broke into a run. Chane strode back to his office, picked up his letter opener, ripped the end of the envelope and pulled out a note and two photographs.
At first they were upside down and his eyes didn’t focus the patterns into recognizable shapes. Then, slowly, he turned them and recognized what he was looking at. It was a traditional pose; Frederick Van Buren was seated and Jennie was standing complacently behind him. It could have been any formal photograph, except that Jennie was naked, and so was Van Buren.
Chane’s mind became oddly analytical. He had seen a number of photographs of naked women—it was one of the first uses to which the camera had been put—capturing on film what should not be shared with anyone except the men who loved them.
But then his mind veered back into the personal again. He recalled an image of Jennie rocking in the rocking chair on the ship, holding her flat little belly and talking to their unborn child. Were these photos a hint of an ongoing affair with Van Buren? How could the woman who had been cherishing her unborn child go from that to another man’s bed? A wave of nausea swept upward from his stomach. He steeled himself to keep from vomiting, concentrated on the ticktock of the clock on the wall opposite his desk, forced himself to count the seconds until the urge to spew up his lunch passed.
He decided this must be a trick. Jennie couldn’t have betrayed him with her dance partner. These might be old photographs. She never claimed to be a virgin. And she was young and high-spirited. Perhaps these had been taken long ago.
Chane realized Steve was still standing behind him. He must have seen at least a glimpse of the photographs, since he was looking carefully at his shoes. Chane could not imagine sharing this information with anyone, not even Steve. But he’d need to tell someone, and he could trust Steve.
Who could possibly have sent these photographs, and what did they hope to gain? Was Jennie being held prisoner somewhere? He realized one sheet felt different from the others. It was a note. He slipped it on top of the pictures.
Jennifer Van Vleet is waiting for you at 358 First Avenue.
Kincaid, his mind corrected. Jennifer Kincaid.
He shoved the photographs back into the envelope. “I’m going out,” he said shakily.
Steve Hammond was appalled by the sudden change in Chane. His friend’s healthy color had receded, leaving him gray. “I’ll go with you.”
Steve looked determined, and Chane had no energy to argue. He might need Steve’s help. “All right.”
Simone insisted on staying awhile with Jennifer. But Jennifer was so grief-stricken, all she wanted was to be alone. Simone took her own grief with her back out into the frozen city.
Jennifer lay down in the front room where she’d slept these past few days. Tears flowed freely, but they brought no relief from the crushing grief that gripped her. Peter’s face filled her mind. The longer she cried, the more enraged she felt.
She lost track of time. A knocking sound startled her. It sounded like the front door again.
“Who is it?”
“Jennie, it’s Chane. Open the door.”
At the sound of his voice, her heart leaped into a wild, erratic rhythm.
“Jennie!” Even through the door, his voice commanded her. The sound became confused with the memory of their wedding. “Do you promise to love, honor, and cherish this woman until death do you part?” Her mind seemed to work oddly now, to spurt out thoughts in disjoined little bits and pieces.
“Jennie!”
Jennifer glanced at the clock on the dresser. Five-thirty. And already dark outside. A few days ago she would have thrown open the door and rushed into his arms. Now she walked to the chest of drawers where Frederick kept his revolver, took it out, fumbled with the cylinder until she was sure it was fully loaded, then put it into her skirt pocket.
Chane pounded on the door.
Every nerve in her body jerked. The pounding came again—bam, bam, bam.
Rage flushed through her with such heat she felt dizzy. Her fingers tightened on the cool, smooth metal of the revolver. She gripped it with one hand and turned the doorknob with the other. The door swung wide.
Chane loomed at her in the shadowy hallway. His suit was wet and rumpled. He looked as though he’d slogged through mud in it. His face was haggard and unshaven.
At the sight of her, Chane’s eyes glittered with unaccustomed hardness. Oddly impersonal, his gaze jarred her, and she realized that he probably had killed her brother.
Chane had managed to hold himself together this long because he knew that the second he saw Jennie, he’d know how things stood between them. And he was right. Looking into her eyes, he knew, and hope died in him. But part of him continued to function, to record information. She looked ill, pale and gaunt. And she’d been crying.
Despite the sure knowledge that she’d betrayed him, for one moment he wanted to reach out and pull her into his arms. He’d wanted her so badly these last few days that he could hardly bear to give her up just because he knew he had to. He wanted to hold her and bury his face against the silky sweetness of her hair and skin one last time. But of course he wouldn’t. Part of him knew better and felt ashamed.
Jennifer recoiled as he shook a brown envelope at her. “Take it. I want you to see…” Fire kindled in Chane’s eyes as he reached into the envelope and pulled out a picture. He shoved it toward her, demanding that she look at it.
Jennifer recognized it immediately as one of the photographs Frederick’s sister had taken last year. She had burned most of them before Frederick could stop her. Stronger and more determined, he had saved the others from her wrath. She had demanded he burn them, but he’d talked her into letting him keep them. Now, with Peter dead at her husband’s order, they were irrelevant.
“These are old photographs,” she said dully.
“Did you let Frederick make love to you?” Chane asked, his voice deadly quiet.
Jennie’s gaze wavered and dropped. Grief filled Chane. He felt sick with so much grief and pain.
Jennie reached into her pocket and pulled out the gun, which she pointed at him. “You killed my brother,” she whispered raggedly.
Chane looked down at the gun, but its meaning did not register in his mind. The pain of her betrayal was dull and sickening. It rose within him like a tide of filthy water. He felt suffocated by it. He’d been a fool to marry a woman who’d do this to him. A fool.
She hadn’t fired the gun yet, but a wound opened in him and throbbed with intense grief. This was worse than if she had died, because she was still here, needing to be dealt with. He had to talk to her, to arrange things between them, to acquit himself in a manner that wouldn’t add any more shame to what he’d done—falling in love with a woman who felt nothing for him, a woman who had betrayed his trust as if it were of no consequence. Latitia’s words lashed him. He’d been warned, and still he’d let it happen.
“How many ways can you kill a man, princess?”
His husky, pain-filled voice reached down inside Jennifer. He was trying to confuse her. The only important thing she needed to remember was that Peter was dead, and Chane had caused it. Her finger tightened on the trigger. A wave of dizziness almost overwhelmed her.
The gun was aimed at his head. Chane looked into the muzzle and sighed. “Your hand is shaking. You might miss such a small target.” He reached out and lowered the pistol until it pointed at his broad chest.
The gun felt too heavy. Jennifer could barely hold it.
“Here,” he said, tapping the center of his chest. “At this range, one bullet is all you’ll need.”
Jennifer’s finger squeezed on the trigger, and she felt it waver between holding its position and giving in to the pressure. In one second he would be dead. Her mind stripped away his dirty shirt. Once again she saw his broad, naked chest covered with crisp black hairs curling around flat nipples, furring the lean taper of his rib cage, swirling around his belly button.
If she pulled the trigger the way his sea green eyes dared her to, he would never use that tall, lean, clean-muscled body to lure another woman to her doom. One tug of her finger on the trigger and she would avenge her mother, her father, and her brother. Just a little more pressure…
Her consciousness closed down to a pinpoint of light at the end of a shadowy tunnel. She flung the gun away from her, sagged against the wall, and covered her face with her hands, crying raggedly. She’d had too much of death already today.
“What’s the matter, Jennie? No guts?” His rich, husky voice taunted her.
Jennie turned on him. “You dare mock me? After what you’ve done?”
“You’ll understand if I have Steve take care of you instead of doing it personally, won’t you?”
“Of course,” she spat bitterly. “You certainly wouldn’t handle these nasty little details yourself.”
For one second Jennifer was tempted to make Chane shoot her himself. But not even her rage and grief could stand up to the glacial scorn she could see in his eyes.
In the dark hallway, Steve wondered what was taking so long, when a distraught Chane emerged from the apartment.
“Take her wherever she wants to go. Give her whatever she needs. I don’t ever want to see her again.”
Steve frowned. “Are you sure?”
The look in Chane’s eyes stopped Steve. It was a look of such bitterness and determination that he flinched.
“I’m going to walk back to the hotel,” Chane said.
“Take the carriage. I can get a cab.”
“I want to walk.”
Chane strode through the snowdrifts blindly. Near Washington Square Park he became aware that someone was calling his name. He came out of himself enough to stop and look around.
“Mr. Kincaid!”
Chane finally located the person yelling at him. Derek Wharton, reporter for one of the yellow rags, stood beside Edgar Noonan, a man Chane disliked almost as much as Derek. Noonan turned furtively away, as if he didn’t want to be seen. But Derek strode toward Chane, a cocky smile on his pale face.
“Hey, Kincaid, I just heard that one of your bridges collapsed in Jersey. What do you have to say for yourself?”
For a moment Chane listened in silence, but the image he’d seen earlier, of Wharton and Noonan together, suddenly made sense to him. Noonan had been a saboteur during the Civil War. He had the engineering knowledge to disable a bridge. And he’d been known to do odd jobs for the Commodore.
Wharton and Noonan! Was it possible that Wharton, who was a known gambler, had run up gambling debts in Peter’s name? Had Noonan beaten Peter? Were these the enemies Jennie had alluded to?
Wharton stepped closer and poised his pencil over his tablet. “Tell me, Kincaid, how do you feel now that the tables have turned?”
A red veil fell between Chane and the world. With his left hand Chane grabbed Derek Wharton by the coat lapels; with his right, he hit him. Wharton’s fear only increased Chane’s rage. Once started, he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He just kept hitting him because it felt so satisfying.
He probably would have killed him, but Edgar Noonan ran over and tried to drag him off the limp reporter. Chane turned on Noonan, just as happy to hit him as Wharton.
The thought came to him that Noonan might have been the man in the red bandanna in Peter’s room. Noonan was big and meaty and he fought well, but even he was no match for Chane. Soon Noonan collapsed and fell back, but Chane kept hitting him until someone pinned his arms behind him.
Chane fought with all his strength, but the man yelled for reinforcements. Finally, panting and cursing, Chane recognized his coachman, Patrick Kelly, as one of the men holding him. Slowly, all the fight drained out of him.
“He knows us,” Patrick said. The pressure on Chane’s arms was released. He struggled into a standing position.
“I told you I’m going to walk back to the hotel,” Chane said.
“I’m beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but ye’re a bloody mess. Ye’ve a cut over that eye that needs tending…”