Christie (21 page)

until we can find out from Fredericksburg."

"I'll be traveling there immediately, sir," Garrett had replied, "but one more question, Mr. Rutledge. Do you know if there were any other exporters at the time who were competing with you to supply the English company?"

"Yes, Mr. Randall. There was only one—a small company—although they've grown some since then. Located right here in New York. The New World Trading Company. They were no real threat to us at the time, but as I recall, it was their activities which helped make it so difficult to make up those lost portions of our order."

Garrett had thanked him, then, for being of more help than he could imagine, and saw him out to his carriage, promising to bring Christie and call on him once more before they sailed for Fredericksburg.

Now, as he sat musing over their conversation, Garrett's spirits were high. The first important break in years! The New World Trading Company— Harper's firm! It was circumstantial, of course, but the evidence pointed toward the tobacco deal of that time as being at the heart of his quest for a motive and, ultimately, the murderer. Rutledge's anonymous factor
had
to be the man! Now, if only the other middle agent could be found and persuaded to reveal that one's identity . . . With a single movement Garrett was out of his chair- and with his characteristic catlike grace had crossed to the French windows.

If he had been looking carefully, he might have noticed the hired carriage now turning the bend in the distance as it drove steadily with the large gray horse tied behind. But as it was, Garrett's thoughts
were bent inward, while he gazed, unseeingly, out at the street.

He felt himself a fortunate man at that moment. The first important clue in years to come hard on the heels of the most delightful night of his life. Smiling to himself, he thought of their time together, stopping to go over the details, savoring them in his mind all oyer again. My God, but she had been perfect! Always before, he had thought that only an experienced woman could bring any great satisfaction to his bed, but last night had disproved this to him completely. His mind fastened briefly on a picture of her face as it lay beneath him, flushed from passion at his love-making, and his smile broadened. His little virgin had given him more joy in this one night together than he had ever known from a woman!

Still savoring the sweetness this recollection brought, he turned abruptly, and with eager steps, made for her chamber, wondering casually why she hadn't appeared yet.

Then, as he opened the door, he knew something was wrong. The room was empty of any signs of someone living in it. Slowly, he walked toward Lula's door.

"Lula!" No answer.

Brusquely, he pushed it open. It, too, had no signs of occupation. Staring in disbelief, he noticed the door which led to the servants' stairwell had been left ajar. Then he turned and walked back into the room that had been his wife's. Flinging open the doors to the large closet, he found it bare of any clothes. Tearing open the drawers to the dresser on the

opposite wall, he knew he would find them equally empty, and when he did their bareness seemed to jeer up at him in cruel mockery.

Slowly, as if in a dream, he looked around the room, his eyes at last fixing on the folded piece of ivory paper on the mantel over the small fireplace. His hands gripped it tightly as he unfolded it, his mind already informing him of what it would contain. The neat, graceful handwriting seemed to leap off the page as he read,

Garrett—

I am leaving. By the time you read this, I should be well away from here. Please do not try to find me. I do not wish to be found. Our marriage was a mistake.

Please do not censure me too harshly for this. It is something I must do.

Good-bye, Christianna

P.S. I do not know too much about divorce, but a man should find it relatively easy, I should think, to secure one on the basis of a wife's desertion.

With a fury only barely controlled, he crumpled the paper and threw it into the fireplace. How dare she! What madness was this? Leaving! The fires of injured pride began to work in him as he pushed aside the deeper emotions that threatened to surface, burying them deep within him as he once had some other feelings he did not wish to confront. Where
could she have gone? She had no money. Then he recalled that Lula might still have some money he had given her for any additional expenses his wife's wardrobe might incur. Damn! And that black wench and her son had gone with her!

Quickly, he sought for any possible routes they might have taken. Of course! She had to be going to Rutledge. Well, he would hurry and seek them out there, and when he did, she would regret this!

His mind filled with murderous thoughts, he turned on his heel and raced out of the suite, stopping only briefly to take care of his bill downstairs.

Noting the empty stall next to Jet's, his mind boiled over in a renewed burst of anger. Of course she would be sure to take that damned, beloved horse of hers! As he rode out in the direction of Rutledge's lodgings, he worked at sorting out his scattered thoughts in a deliberate attempt to replace fury with reason.

He could have sworn their wedding night together was spent with as much enjoyment and satisfaction on her part as on his. He had believed her to have given herself completely to him, meeting his passion equally, without reservation! Well, this would teach him what a false little bitch a woman could be! Again, his thoughts turned black as he was filled with the desire to wring her soft little neck with his hands. She'd never get away with this! She'd rue the day they'd ever met when he found her—if he found her—and it was with this last thought in mind he quickened his horse's pace as he reached the street where Rutledge dwelt.

Rutledge greeted him at the door wearing his hat and carrying his cane, as if in readiness to leave.

"Mr. Randall! Er—do come in! As you can see, I was just about to make my way to our offices. Was there something you forgot to pursue from our conversation of this morning?"

Stepping into the antechamber, Garrett quickly looked around and through the open doors to the chamber beyond, hoping to catch signs of a hasty arrival. Finding none, he turned to face Barnaby.

"My wife—is she here?"

"Your—Christie? Why, no, Mr. Randall. Why should she be? Didn't I just leave your hotel in the assumption she had been there, with you? How—"

"Barnaby, the fact is, she's fled. Gone with only a note to say she was leaving me. No further explanations."

"Left you, you say? But whatever would have caused her to do that? This is very alarming, Garrett."

He used the familiar first name carefully for the first time, having picked up the use of his own with the same minute attention to detail he gave every aspect of his life, for Barnaby Rutledge was a man whose attention to nuances had built his fortune.

"I say alarming because I'm afraid I have no idea where the girl is either, and that means she must be at large, even lost, somewhere in this strange city. We must find her at once!"

Garrett was stupefied to discover Barnaby knew nothing of Christie's whereabouts, and his furious thoughts of moments before gave way to a sudden gnawing fear that, alone as she was, with no male
protection, she could be prey to any number of dangers.

Carefully, he scrutinized the face of the older man, searching for any clues that he might be lying for her. But Barnaby\s blue eyes, schooled from years of careful business maneuverings, told him nothing.

"I'm going to search the city," he said. "In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you would agree to remain here. She may yet turn up." Then turning quickly to leave, he added, "I'll return in a few hours to see if she's here or if you've had a message from her. Will you stay?"

"Of course, Garrett," replied Barnaby, and flinging one last sentence down the stairs after Garrett's hastily retreating figure, he added, "Good luck, my boy!"

When he was sure Garrett had gone, Barnaby went to the servants' quarters behind his private rooms and, unlocking the door, admitted a shaken Christie and a disgusted-looking Lula.

"Hmraph," snorted Lula. "All dis skulkin' aroun' 'hin' back do's. Wheah you put yo' se'f-respec', chile?"

"It's precisely because of my need for rediscovering some self-respect that I'm here, Lu. Uncle Barnaby, I'm sorry you had to lie for me. You know it's something I wouldn't ask you to do unless I were desperate—" She broke off into a quiet sob.

"There, there, child. Desperate straits require desperate measures. What we need to do now is to get you away from here before your husband returns. And we are in luck! Although I detest the man, there is someone in New York at this time whom we both
know. I ran into him at dinner the other evening and have been busy dreaming up excuses not to join him in his invitation to dine together, but now I think I shall make my visit to your uncle, Philip Stanhope."

"Uncle Philip—here?"

"Aye, Christie, in New York on some bank-related business. How glad I am that he long ago gave up his mercantile pursuits. Keeps us from running into each other as often."

Christie had, years earlier, learned of Barnaby's antipathy toward Philip, but had chosen to assign it to one of the several eccentricities that must come with being an old bachelor. Everyone else loved Uncle Philip, herself included. His company was always charming and infinitely preferable to that of Aunt Margaret or their two affected daughters. Now, learning he was here in New York, she was as overjoyed as she could be in her present state of mind. Philip Stanhope could not refuse to take her with him and see her safely home!

But at the thought of Windreach and facing Charles, her face suddenly grew somber. How could she face her father after all that had happened? She would need time to ponder that.

Barnaby called his servants to see to the transfer of their luggage, then turned to speak to Lula after he had done so.

"Is that boy of yours disguising the gray as I instructed him?"

"Ah reckon, Mistah Rutledge."

"Please go and check on it, won't you? And let's pray it doesn't rain again until you're all safely out of New York! I wouldn't say that ink's waterproof!"

Lula hurried to find Jasper, leaving Barnaby alone with Christie.

"Now that we've a moment to talk, Christie, I want you to tell me whether you're absolutely sure this is the correct course to follow. Think carefully, girl. This is your future and your life we're about."

"Uncle Barnaby, you'd be the only person who knows me well who would question my leaving a man who doesn't—cannot—love me. How can I make it any clearer to you, you wonderful old bachelor! Living with Garrett Randall while he's married to his—his revenge! It's something I cannot bear to even think about, sir. Please try to understand." She bit her lower lip and looked away.

Barnaby did understand how she felt. But he also felt he understood her well enough to hold his peace concerning his real feelings in the matter. Garrett Randall would be good for her and when he came to love her one day, as he perhaps already did a bit, would probably have the capacity to make her the happiest woman alive. They were a magical match, these two, with their readily visible strengths and noble spirits, but both so very proud!

No, he chose not to tell Christie of what Garrett had told him of her importance to him, despite the other matter. In her pride, she wouldn't believe him anyway. Let her find out for herself—if he could only be sure she would do that. Ah, but she had to! Christie Trevellyan had always learned things by firsthand experience—and seldom the easy way!

Chapter Fourteen

Philip Stanhope was in his hotel suite preparing some last-minute notes related to a foreclosure his bank was about to make. His mood was cheerful as he checked the final figures and he hummed a nameless little tune as he dipped his quill into the inkwell. He was quite pleased with himself today, and smiled inwardly as he thought about his own suitability for the job at hand, reflecting on those unusual qualities he knew himself to possess that made this so.

There were any number of men in his line of work—or any other, for that matter—who found themselves limited by their inability to deal with matters such as this, those aspects of their businesses which they often termed "the dirty work" involved. But such had not been the case with him! Indeed, he mused—stopping for a moment to survey the neatness of his penmanship as he went over these things in his mind—it had been his very willingness to plunge headlong into cases of property foreclosure and equally delicate matters commonly regarded by his confreres in banking as "distasteful" which had given him his start in the banking business when he

had first made the change from mercantile pursuits some twenty years earlier. At first, as a newly hired junior bank manager, he had been assigned such work simply by being low man in the pecking order; but soon thereafter, when it was discovered how easily he dispatched these tasks, indeed, even volunteered to undertake additional ones, the word quickly reached the right ears that here was a man who could prove highly useful to the firm, and Philip's star was on the way-up.

Now, as he reflected on all of this, Philip's pale lips curved into a thin smile. It was all so very ironic! How astonished they would all be if they knew the real reasons for his engaging in such endeavors. They would probably not believe that a man could actually relish such work! And yet, he thought smugly, he did. Not that it had ever come to so overly dramatic a matter as throwing widows and orphans out on the street. No, such tales were only for storybooks. But there was such a good measure of satisfaction in gaining retribution from those who failed to meet their obligations! Meeting obligations was a fact of life Philip had learned all about the hard way, and once he was placed in a position of being the exactor in such matters, the young Mr. Stanhope had gone about things with all the energetic zeal of a religious convert.

He was about to ruminate further on these matters when there came a knock at the door. When his man opened it and he saw Barnaby Rutledge standing there, Philip leaped to his feet and came forward.

"Barnaby, old man, this is indeed a pleasant surprise! Do come in!"

"Thank you, Stanhope. Sorry to call without warning, but I have some urgent business to pursue with you. May we speak privately?"

Philip gestured to dismiss his manservant and invited Barnaby to sit down.

"No thank you," came the reply. "I haven't that much time."

There was a brief pause, as if he had a doubt about something and then, thinking better of it, dismissed it from his mind.