Authors: Illusion

Emily French (22 page)

BOOK: Emily French

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Sophy’s next call was to the bank. Matt Tyson greeted her warmly. “What brings you here, Sophy?”

Sophy was aware of a curious tightness in her chest, but when she spoke, her voice was very controlled, businesslike.

“A desire for information. I’d like to check the securities and records of large debits in the bank accounts. The first essential thing is to have a look at checks drawn in favor of the same firms and to get access to the bank statements. Can you arrange that?”

Matt’s smile of greeting died. There was a small pause. He cleared his throat. “You intend to challenge my figures, perhaps?”

Sophy shook her head. She flashed him a quick smile. “Oh, no,” she reassured him. “I’m sure your accounts are all quite accurate.”

Tyson clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “What’s the problem, then?”

Sophy lifted her chin, and her eyes, full, unwavering, met his. “There’s no problem, Matt. I’m merely seeking confirmation.”

“Are you, then? Confirmation of what?” There was an edge to his voice.

“Have I your assurance that you’ll listen to what I have to say?”

Not sure how to answer that, Matt became poker-faced. “Obviously you want something from me, but I have no idea what it is.”

“That’s all right for now. Can I assume that I can...talk to the clerk who tallies the accounts?” She put her hands together.

“Depends about what.”

This was it. She kept her eyes on his face. “I don’t want Charles Lethbridge to know I have been seeking your assistance, Matt. It’s best if you don’t know too much more.”

“He will never know,” Matt said bracingly. He took hold of Sophy’s hand and pressed it to his mouth. His eyes were twinkling as he handed it back. “
My
lips are sealed, Sophy. No need for deception, either. I’m sure Seth will agree that this is a case of
least said, soonest mended.”

Sophy released her breath with the air of a rider to hounds who has cleared a formidable fence. “Thank you, Matt,” she murmured in a low voice.

Seth knocked lightly. Charles looked up from his papers. His desk was littered with folders and flimsy sheets. He raised a hand in greeting. “Hi.”

Seth closed the door behind him. “Am I disturbing you?”

“Not at all. I am used to being harassed” Charles raised a hand in token surrender.

Seth tossed his hat and gloves onto a chair. “Out with it, Charles.”

“You’d never believe me. I—” Charles stopped in mid-sentence. “Forget it. I think I’m going to be in enough trouble as it is.”

“With whom?” The ebony cane twirled through the air, neatly hooked its target, the silver tip clattering against the wall.

The designer stretched out one hand. “You see all this? It’s my monthly accounts. I
hate
getting monthly accounts. I’m already two months behind, heading for three, and the tradespeople are on my back.”

Seth hoisted himself onto one littered corner of the desk. He stretched his leg up, then down. Sophy insisted the exercise strengthened the damaged tissue.

He paused mentally to hover on some invisible brink. It was an odd sensation. His fingers rubbed his thigh, as he sat intently staring at his leg, and tried to analyze the feeling.

The fingers dug into muscle, and his stomach tightened abruptly. He could never yield to what was burning up his heart! Indeed, he could not. For if he did, he would be naked, exposed, then he would shatter, be open to all hurt, pain, loving....

And yet...

Seth drew a long, long breath. Errant thoughts arrested, he raised the leg again, and contemplated the polished toe of his boot. “Are you saying I don’t pay you enough, Charles?”

Charles flushed a dark puce red. “Hell, no. It’s just that Abigail has no idea how to live within her means.” He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck and heaved a sigh.

In spite of himself, a grin welled to the surface as Seth thought of his wife. He throttled it. Bright, reckless, impudent female! Life with Sophy was never dull!

“Women can be the very devil at times.”

Seth thought about that for a minute. The ghost of an idea danced around the periphery of his consciousness. He was thinking of Sophy, of what she had said to him, the pact they had made.

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll take these papers home tonight and get Sophy to give them the once-over.”

The designer rubbed his chin, and looked out the window. “It’s still blowing a gale.”

“Changing the subject, Charles?” Seth scoffed.

He glanced around at piles of small boxes and cartons. All were filled to overflowing with fabric samples and pattern designs. There were stationery compartments, holding letter headings, envelopes and oddments, some in black print, some in red, and there were several different designs of printing.

“Sophy’s a very clever lady.” His voice was even. “Suspects someone wants to damage our export trade in their own small way. Any ideas?”

“Bloody hell.”

There was a long pause. Seth picked up a small wooden block marked “O.K. to Pay.” It served as a check between the Paterson plant, which placed the orders; the warehouse, where goods were delivered; and the agent, who paid the bills. Accounts were stamped and initialed in both the buying office and receiving warehouse.

“I’m off to Paterson tomorrow. I want to check some orders with George. The suppliers are querying his last requisition.”

“Bloody hell,” Charles repeated again. “When will the paperwork be processed?”

“It must be before the deadline. It can be at no other time. We must be ready.” He rolled the block between thumb and forefinger.

“But how?”

Seth swung his leg to the floor, and limped over to collect his cane. He stood tense, poised, motionless. When he spoke, his voice was heavy.

“That I don’t know, but I’m taking Sophy to Paterson tomorrow.”

Sophy’s final call was to the factory on Forty-First Street. Seth was attending a meeting about the Water Street tenements, so she knew the designer would be alone.

Charles was sitting at his writing table, facing the door, with books and papers scattered in front of him. His elbows were on the table, his hands clasped under his chin.

She reached the desk, casting a shadow. Charles glanced up and started with surprise, even appeared to know a moment of discomfiture. He stood up slowly, and closed the ledger.

“I didn’t hear you come in, Sophy.” The moment of discomfiture past, Charles became the gracious host seeking to put his employer’s wife at ease. “Seth has left. Did you want something?”

A fine tingling feathered along her spine. Sophy stood there, reminding herself that it was important for her to follow her instincts.

“Seth mentioned that you were preparing a proposal about producing paper dressmaking patterns in conjunction with Ebenezer Butterick. Is it in order for me to have a look at it?”

Charles did not smile in response. For some minutes, he showed no reaction at all. In fact, Sophy couldn’t read anything in his narrowed eyes.

“No,” he said finally.

For an instant Sophy hesitated, aware of the repressive quality of his expression. Unconsciously her chin angled a fraction higher. “I’d have thought, if you put your mind to it, you could turn a blind eye.”

“It’s out of the question. Matter of ethics.”

Sophy swallowed. Looked away. At least the man was consistent. He knew she was on to something, no doubt about it, but what was his game?
Was
Charles Lethbridge the enemy?

The questions flung themselves at Sophy. Her tongue went dry and tasted suddenly of lemons. She bit her lip. To be able to differentiate an enemy from a friend was not easy.

White-lipped, every fiber in the whole, lean length of the designer was taut. It seemed interesting that this man should be under so much stress. What was he frightened of? An inquiry into questionable practices?

“I strike you as a selfish brute, hmm?”

“Not selfish. Single-minded. Gifted people generally are.”

“I appreciate the compliment, Sophy,” Charles said, apparently oblivious of her sarcasm. “Flattery is the one thing designed to put a man in a good humor.”

“Perhaps if I were permitted to read that report, I’d get to know you better and you’d receive an entire catalog of humor.”

“It’d be an exercise in logic and deduction, no doubt.”

“Perhaps. It’s a matter of trust, isn’t it?”

When she glanced back quickly, it was to find Charles casually handing her the report. But there was an amused smile at the corners of his mouth. As if he knew she was wasting her time!

Wishing the butterflies in her stomach would find someplace to settle, Sophy flipped open the album. She read the proposal. It was interesting. In fact, the idea was almost brilliant. Charles had an easy prose style, and he didn’t waste words. The description was factual and thorough.

Charles had signed it, heavily, in ink.

Her mind leaped to the truth.

It was as if red-black gunpowder exploded in Sophy’s head. Her mind was whirling. It was more than just this moment. It was all the moments of Seth having to wait, of not knowing.

Charles had the devil of a lot to answer for.

Some of the tension seemed to ebb from Sophy. She felt a peacefulness wash over her. It was like a complicated jigsaw puzzle, incomprehensible until one missing piece—the key—was produced, linking all the pieces together.

Sophy felt the truth of it at the core of her being.

Seth tilted his head slightly, looking over the linen and crystal at his wife. Sophy sparkled. The gaslight streamed down on her dark head, making the crimson silk of her dress shine as if it were jeweled. Her flawless skin, magnolia tinted with honey, held in either cheek a flush that owed nothing to artifice.

She turned her head, and her black hair gleamed in the low light. The hollow of her throat was filled with darkness. Seth felt as if he could drink the darkness from that hollow.

Catching his eye, Sophy pressed a tooth down on her underlip. Incalculable creature. Watching her wide uplifted look and those parted lips, so invitingly red, Seth lost himself in the urge to rush to the other end of the table and kiss his wife.

Sophy had swept him as it were with a fan of flame. She had made him live. There was no doubt about it, Sophy was perfectly to his taste. Hers was a face to stir the blood.

His eyes still holding hers, Seth offered her a silent toast, the grip on the stern of his glass rather fierce. In return, he received a smile so radiant that he was momentarily dazzled.
Tonight,
she promised, the smile like a caress.

There was a knot in his stomach at the thought. This, too, was pain, but sweet, swelling into pleasure. There was no defense against that smile. Soft, gentle, relentless. A rare and precious thing, to be savored slowly, in silence.

Seth shuddered deep and painfully as he remembered to breathe again. A diamond glittered briefly among starched ruffles descending his shirtfront as he inhaled.

His burning blue gaze pierced Sophy, making her shiver. It was as though he had touched her. Her whole being stirred in response. She flushed, aware that the hot color started as low as her breasts and rose upward. It was a heady sensation, a sweet drenching madness that sent the blood in a wild unreasoning race to her heart. Struggling to control her runaway pulse, Sophy threw him a smile.

“I don’t think that dreadful man should be allowed to get away with it.”

One eyebrow arched. “What dreadful man?”

“Why, Charles Lethbridge, of course. He let me have a look at the Butterick proposal, but wouldn’t let me near the books. Not proper, be says. I think he could have been more helpful. Matt Tyson and Richard Carlton were most cooperative.”

Seth’s attention was focused on Sophy, on the mobile curve of her lips, the fine, soft line of her throat. “So you discovered nothing?”

“Not really. I’m no nearer the proof that we so badly need.”

“Am I to take it that you have found something, then?” He shifted restlessly and took another sip of his wine.

“Naturally I’ve formed my own opinion, but you may not agree with that.”

“It is always dangerous, Sophy, to have a preconceived idea.”

Sophy was aware of an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. He raised his eyes to meet hers again, and Sophy found it took an effort of will not to lower her own against that hard gleam.

“It seems to have some basis, though. Charles is an expert designer, and could forge anyone’s initials or falsify any documents. He has the motive.”

“I am quite sure that Charles is trying neither to embezzle from the firm, nor to murder me.”

BOOK: Emily French

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