An Undercover Detective's Bride Page 3

  Roughly a half-mile from the train station sat what appeared to be the city’s only hotel. A four-story establishment, nearly as impressive as anything he might see in an eastern city. He stepped inside and admired the stately architecture, the genteel nature of the worker behind the front desk.

  “Why yes, sir, we have a room available.” The young lady beamed, her cheeks pinking when she met his gaze. Dark eyes twinkled before she averted them, blushing more deeply. “How long do you plan on staying with us?”

  That was an interesting question, one which he had no answer for. “I’m uncertain, to tell the truth. It could take two days, it could be a week or more. Is there any way to secure a room for an undefined length of time?”

  “Of course there is.” The girl smiled. “So long as we have an idea in advance of how long you intend to extend your stay.”

  “I’ll do my best.” He asked himself if she would be worth questioning, then thought better of it. The girl was attractive enough to distract him, and she had clearly taken an interest in his attention. She would only serve to steer him away from his mission.

  His room was on the second floor and would serve his purposes nicely. While there was nothing grand about it—he hardly earned a wage impressive enough to afford anything lavish—it seemed comfortable and clean. He was easy to please.

  What would please him most would be a hot bath. It felt as though the smoke, the dirt which sifted in through the window even when he’d only opened it a crack, and the odors of the countless nearby fellow passengers, all combined and had ground its way into his very skin.

  He removed his clothing, it would have to be cleaned, somehow, as it was rumpled and smelled of sweat. While it was acceptable, even typical, of him to wear such stained clothing while undercover, he was not at present infiltrating a gang.

  Like the one in Baltimore.

  He’d brought two suits along with him, both of which he hung in a narrow chifforobe. His shoes were in need of a shining, his suits needed brushing. He had to fit in here.

  He had to look entirely unlike himself, at least, the version of himself which had existed back there. No telling who he might cross paths with here. He didn’t wish to be recognized.

  Hence the pains he’d taken to grow out his beard. Hence the fact that he had allowed his hair to grow out somewhat, had taken to parting it on the opposite side. He even carried a pair of spectacles which provided no assistance to his already perfect eyesight. He found that they sufficiently disguised his appearance.

  This was nothing new. He had taken these pains in the past, going so far as to rub soot on the backs of his hands and over his cheeks when pretending to live as someone of poor means. He had dragged new garments through the muck, grinding them over broken glass, all to help himself blend in.

  Blending in here, in this booming city where he was meant to be little more than a casual stranger who came and left while making few acquaintances and leaving no one behind who might remember him, meant dressing as a young man of the day did. It meant speaking neither too softly nor too loudly. It meant enjoying refreshment, but never to the point of intoxication.

  It meant asking questions without pressing too hard. People tended to remember those who pressed too hard while asking even the most innocent questions.

  All of this was well within his realm of expertise. If it weren’t, his Uncle Robert never would have agreed to allow what he had at first described as a reckless, foolhardy notion.

  It was simply that he found it difficult to trust anyone other than himself. He knew what he was doing, he believed in the skills which he had honed over the course of several years of work. He did not have to second-guess anyone’s opinions or actions. He did not have to think for two.

  Though it might have been nice to have a little companionship on the cross-country journey he’d just completed. There was nothing quite so lonely sitting by oneself, staring out the window of the train as it passed through miles and miles of nothing but flat, empty expanse. Nothing quite so saddening as admiring the glorious sunrise with no one to share it with.

  However, he highly doubted that any of his uncles’ other agents would be the type to admire a sunrise. That was not the sort of thing men talked about.

  No, he would’ve needed a woman sitting beside him. A woman with sensitivity and appreciation of life’s simple pleasures.

  There was only one woman in the world he could imagine sharing his thoughts with on such matters.

  The woman he had come to find.

  He thought back to the telegram he’d sent to his Uncle Robert upon arrival. Arrived Carson City. Intend to begin search once settled in. Will report findings immediately.

  There was only so much a man could do after a grueling journey such as the one he had just completed.

  Only the thought of her being out there somewhere, unaware of the danger into which she had fallen, kept him moving.

  He would find her, though it would take a bit of finesse.

  For according to reports, he was not the only man in town in search of Rachel Reed. And it would not do for his rival to know he was not alone.

  4

  The first surprise Rachel received upon entering the house was the sight of her older sister coming down the stairs. She looked a great deal better than she had over the two days spent in bed, not to mention the previous fortnight in which she’d looked tired, drawn, pale.

  “I didn’t expect to find you out of bed.” Rachel touched a hand to her cheek, feeling her temperature. “You don’t have a fever. I’m glad about that.”

  “I never truly did,” Molly reminded her with a weak smile. “Only a brief flash of warmth every so often. My stomach and aching head have been the bigger problem.”

  “But you’re feeling better?”

  “A considerable bit.” Yet the fatigue in her voice was evident. It worried Rachel to no end, Molly was a wonder, someone who could go and go and never tire. That was how it seemed, at any rate.

  “Did you visit the newspaper?” she asked, which came as no surprise. Leave it to her to turn to thoughts of work.

  “Yes, and I hope you have a great deal of time you wish to fill.” Rachel plopped the thick, heavy envelope into her sister’s outstretched hands.

  While anyone else might have appeared crestfallen at the sight of so much work, Molly’s eyes lit up. “I think it can be managed.” She carried the envelope to the study, where Rachel joined her.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked, turning on the oil lamps until the entire room glowed with warm, inviting light.

  Molly raised an inquisitive brow on sitting behind the long desk. “You’ve never expressed interest before. Why the sudden offer?”

  Why did she insist on always looking for answers to questions no one else would think to ask? Rachel chewed her lip, turning her back and busying herself with unpinning and removing her hat so as to stall for time. “I… thought that looked like a tremendous lot of work. With you feeling poorly, I didn’t wish to see you overexert yourself. You tend to do that.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” was Molly’s wry reply. “I suppose if you wouldn’t mind sorting through the pieces for me, I’d appreciate it.”

  If she’d asked Rachel to rewrite every single word on every single page, it would not have been too great a task. Anything was better than reflecting on the all-consuming dread which had plagued her since her departure from town. If anything it had grown larger since then. Heavier.

  The more she could distract herself, the better.

  “How would you like them sorted?” She unbuttoned her plaid jacket with its tight-fitting waist and sleeves, breathing a slight sigh of relief once she was free of the garment and down to her shirtwaist. Granted, true freedom could not be enjoyed while still at the mercy of her whalebone stays, but at least she could move her arms more easily.

  She’d had little chance of indulging in Phoebe’s sweet cakes when the threat of bursting a seam lingered in the back
of her mind. If she were a man, there would be no call to waste a moment’s thought on such matters.

  “Hmm…” Molly looked through the pile. “You might separate them into local matters and national matters, to start, and then pick out anything of a time-sensitive nature.”

  Rachel got to work, carrying a stack of paper to her favorite chair and settling in. What a relief, having an excuse to distract herself.

  Though it couldn’t last forever. The image of the bearded man was never far from the forefront of her mind.

  Unaware of this, Molly asked, “How were things in town? How is Jesse?”

  “His normal, charming self,” Rachel grinned in spite of her anxiousness. “He showed off a garter snake. His latest pet.”

  “They truly ought to find a dog for that child,” Molly snorted. “Something to tire him out.”

  “It would take an entire litter of puppies to tire him.” Rachel sorted through local concerns, the tale of a rash of robberies along the stage from St. Louis qualified as national news and was written as an editorial calling for increased penalties for such heinous crimes. Nothing urgent. She put it aside, then placed in a separate pile the announcement of a new hotel proposed to be built in town. It would mean more jobs, not to mention more space for travelers. It seemed there was never any end to them.

  Such as the Tall Man, who was now Tall Bearded Man.

  She shook her head, squeezing her eyes tightly shut for a moment as if that would be enough to help rid herself of the memory.

  The next article caught her attention, and she found herself reading rather than skimming the contents. “Did you hear of the killing of that politician in Baltimore? You remember, the one everyone was certain would be the next mayor? I believe we even saw him at the last ball, though you weren’t there to meet him.”

  Molly tapped her pencil against her chin. “Oh, yes. There was so much excitement over him. Corey and I worked on numerous articles surrounding his ascent.”

  “Mr. Edward Langley, thirty-eight years of age,” Rachel murmured, shaking her head as she continued to read. “It all sounds rather gruesome. Murdered in his bed. Everyone felt he showed so much promise.”

  Molly made a skeptical noise. “Not everyone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We weren’t allowed to print a great deal of what we heard, unconfirmed reports and the like, or interview subjects who refused to go on the record. But from what I remember, there was a great deal about Mr. Langley which seemed suspicious.”

  “Such as what?”

  “Such as the rumor that he had ties elsewhere. That he was covertly working with several rather secretive groups, that his policies would benefit them rather than the city at large.”

  “What groups?”

  She shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. We were never able to find much, and then there was the matter of coming out here.”

  Rachel returned her attention to the article, reading with even greater interest now. She forgot that she’d been tasked with getting the work sorted.

  Another name all but leaped from the page, grabbing her attention. “Edwin Byrne,” she whispered.

  “What’s that?”

  She barely heard her sister’s question. She hadn’t known she’d spoken aloud, in fact. “The name. A close contact of Mr. Langley. Documents bearing his name were found hidden in Langley’s home. I’ve seen it before. I saw it several times, though normally just the surname. Occasionally, it was E. Byrne.”

  “Where did you see that?”

  “Telegrams.”

  “Rachel.” Molly sounded downright scandalized. “You read the contents of telegrams?”

  Rachel fixed her with a withering look. There were times when she beggared belief. “How else was I to transmit them? The customers handed me their slips, and I delivered the messages to the telegraphists. Many was the time I had to confirm the contents thanks to sloppy handwriting. No, I rarely, if ever, paid a moment’s attention to the contents. They were only words to me, one after another. But I do know that name.”

  “I suppose it’s common enough,” Molly shrugged. “In all likelihood, nothing more than a coincidence.”

  “Yes. I suppose you’re right.” But she didn’t believe it. Not for one moment.

  Not when the man she’d seen in town was the same man who’d sent the telegrams featuring this name.

  It seemed she wasn’t meant to forget him, after all.

  “My head aches.” She made quick work of the rest, separating them without paying more attention than necessary. How could she pay attention when the world was crashing down around her?

  “Did you get too much sun today?”

  “No, I don’t think it’s that. I believe I’ll lie down.”

  “Cate and Holly should have supper ready shortly.” Molly peered at her over the rims of her reading glasses. “Do you want me to call for you?”

  “No, they might hold some aside for me, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.” Not that she could imagine having the appetite to eat a bite. Not when her stomach was in knots.

  Molly would demand to know more if she said she wasn’t hungry.

  Her legs shook so on her way out of the study, it was a wonder she made it to the stairs in the front hall. She took them one at a time, her hand gripping the heavy wooden banister all the while. Holding on for dear life.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence. The murder of that politician—three weeks earlier, according to the article—followed by the appearance of the man from the telegraph office.

  What were the odds of him arriving in the same city as her? Thousands of miles separated Baltimore from Carson City. There were so many other cities in between, not to mention those to the north and south.

  No. He was there. In town. She’d told almost no one where she and her sisters were destined to live. There had hardly been time, after all. Everything had happened so suddenly.

  When she reached her bedroom—the one she’d slept and played in during the first few years of her life—she collapsed onto the bed without bothering to remove her shirtwaist or skirt. She simply didn’t have it in her.

  Think, think. Think it through. Yet there was so much to think about. How was she to keep it straight?

  The notion of writing out her memories came to mind. A way of getting it all down on paper, so she could look back through and make sense. If there was any sense to be made.

  She made it to Molly’s room on tiptoe, knowing her sister kept a supply of paper on hand in the rolltop desk should the desire to work strike her.

  Lewis was still out with the hands doing one thing or another, so the chance of being discovered was slim.

  Moments later she was behind the closed door once again, a half-dozen blank pages before her and a pencil in hand. Where to begin?

  When had she first met him?

  Three weeks prior to the ball, she wrote. It was easy to remember since she’d asked herself if that stretch of time was sufficient to know a man before attending an event with him. I managed to concoct an excuse to mention the ball and whether he would be in attendance. He said he would not.

  How that had disappointed her. But she was getting ahead of herself.

  The office was slow. We made pleasant conversation, enough to make me believe he might be interested in me. He wrote out his message. I skimmed it and asked to confirm the spelling of the name Byrne, as his writing was slightly sloppy. He asked if it was a name familiar to me. I asked if it should be. He laughed but offered no reply.

  That had been a Tuesday, she recalled. He’d returned two days later.

  I was glad to see him again. He was very handsome, brown hair, the bluest eyes. A sure smile. He asked questions about me, lingered longer than he might have needed to. I noticed only the initials EB were mentioned this time and thought he might be trying to spare the extra letters.

  It was another week before he returned. I had given up hope of seeing him again. We were very busy when he first stop
ped in, he left, then returned later when the office was quiet. I found that strange but kept my thoughts to myself. It seemed he was anxious to send his message when there weren’t so many people around.

  She wanted to slap herself for being a silly fool. At the time, she’d wanted to believe he’d postponed his telegram because of her. Because he’d wanted the chance to spend time talking with her, away from the crowd of strangers milling about, preparing their messages. Delivery men picking up telegrams as they came in.

  “Vain,” she whispered with no small degree of disappointment. “Vain and childish. Just as he thought you were.” Why else would he have made a point of being friendly? He’d wanted to divert her attention from the contents of his messages, of course.

  Once, just once, Langley’s name had been mentioned. That was the fourth visit. He noticed the way my brows lifted in surprise at the sight of such a familiar name. Asked if I knew the man personally. I laughed and told him nothing could be further from the truth. I lived with my sisters, we had lost our mother. We certainly did not travel in refined circles. He said something I thought was strange at the time.

  “It might surprise you, the circles certain people travel in. Some have two faces, one they share with the public, and one they keep to themselves,” he’d said.

  She shivered as she wrote this down, just as she had shivered that day. Until then, he had been nothing but charming and gracious and even a bit flirtatious.

  He had never spoken so seriously before. It was then that I began to question the nature of his work, a question I did not dare voice to him, but one which ran through my mind over the following days. I saw him just once more, the day before the ball. Two days before we were set to leave for Carson City. I didn’t know we were set to leave, the letter from my sister arrived that very day, and I read it upon my return home from the office. As it turned out, that was my last day at the office. I never expected not to return, but I had no way of knowing we’d be forced to stay at the ranch.

  He asked during our last encounter whether I would be interested in visiting a nearby café to enjoy a cup of coffee with him or perhaps a small meal. I was so pleased, so excited, that it never occurred to me not to accept. I was certain of his being enamored with me. I realize that was silly now, these many months later. It is more likely that he wished to learn more of what I may have known about Mr. Langley. Or he might have wished to test me, to see if I recalled the messages he had sent regarding this Byrne fellow.