Fatal as a Fallen Woman (3 page)

"Something to read on the journey," he said, shoving them into the open outer compartment of her tweed bag. She caught a glimpse of the masthead of one and saw that it was the latest edition of
The Journalist
, a professional periodical for those in the newspaper business.

The second offering was also unmistakable, thanks to the eye-catching color of its pages.
The National Police Gazette
was wholly inappropriate reading material for a lady. Even gentlemen claimed they only read it while they waited at the barbershop for a shave or haircut. Torn between annoyance and amusement, Diana thanked him and boarded the train.

Like it or not, it seemed she was still writing about crime and scandal for Horatio Foxe. And if her father's killer turned out to be anyone other than her own mother, she
would
file that story. In fact, it would be the best piece of reporting she'd ever done. She owed Foxe that much.

"Here you go, miss," the conductor said, indicating a private compartment.

"This can't be right."

But it was. Foxe had booked first class passage for her all the way to Denver. Although notoriously tight with money, he had spent a hundred and twenty dollars when he could have gotten her a standard-fare ticket for only eighty-five.

She sniffled audibly as she stowed her possessions and took her seat. She would need all her wits about her when she reached her destination, and she might not get much rest en route, even with one of Mr. Pullman's beds to sleep in each night, but Horatio Foxe's generous gesture would make a difference. Instead of arriving in a state of total exhaustion, she might just get to Colorado with a modicum of her ability to function still intact.

Diana fought against weeping, but it was no use. Now that she was alone, the emotions she'd been holding at bay forced their way to the surface. As the train pulled out of the station she succumbed to tears, indulging in a good long cry. Memories of her childhood came thick and fast as she sobbed. So did worries and doubts.

When the bout of despair and self-pity was over, Diana mopped her face and straightened her shoulders. Oddly, she felt better, but the improvement did not last. Before long, her vexation returned. What would she find in Denver?

She closed her eyes, attempting to put worry about her mother aside long enough to think calmly about the practicalities of journey that would occupy the next few days. Ben's face swam into the darkness behind her eyelids, his expression conveying both hurt and reproach.

She sought diversion in the passing scenery next, but the view from her compartment was not sufficient distraction to keep her from worrying about Ben's reaction to her telegram. Finally Diana resorted to giving herself a pithy lecture comprised of trite but true sayings.

"No sense crying over spilt milk," she muttered. It would be best if she tried not to think about Ben at all.

She retrieved
The Journalist
from her tweed bag and forced herself to concentrate on reading an article chosen at random. 

Diana's train was halfway to its first stop, at Rochester, before she turned in desperation to her only other choice of reading matter and discovered that her cantankerous, treacherous, sneaky editor had been even more generous than she'd realized. Tucked between the pale pink pages of
The National Police Gazette
, next to a story about a young woman's disconcerting experience in a dining car on the New York to Baltimore line, was an envelope with her name on it. It contained a bank draft for a hundred dollars and a letter of introduction to the editor of the
Rocky Mountain News
.

Chapter Two

Ben Northcote felt the pulse in his neck throb, a sure sign he was about to lose his temper. "Mother," he warned, "you are treading on thin ice."

"I only want what's best for you, dear heart." Maggie Northcote regarded him with annoying calmness from the far side of the front parlor of their Bangor, Maine home.

Although she was past fifty, she looked at least a dozen years younger and had a heart and mind so unique Ben despaired of ever predicting what she would do or say next. He'd expected her to be as concerned as he was about Diana. Instead she seemed bent on turning him against the woman he loved.

Posed like a queen on her favorite rococo sofa, the elaborate scroll work on the back framing her like a throne, she stroked the long-haired black cat on her lap. An enormous jade ring reflected light from the chandelier overhead with each sweep of her hand. 

"Any woman who'd send you a telegram like that one doesn't deserve to marry you. Look at you, all worried and upset."

His hand clenched on the crumpled ball in his pocket. He didn't need to look at it again to remember how the message read. Typical of the frugal woman to whom he'd given his heart, the missive contained only ten words, the maximum number she could send without paying extra: "MUST MISS DEADLINE. FAMILY MATTER. WILL EXPLAIN UPON RETURN.
DIANA."

He'd responded at once with a cable of his own, demanding details, but the reply had come from Diana's landlady, Mrs. Curran. Diana had gone away for a few days. Mrs. Curran did not know where, only that she'd left in the company of Horatio Foxe.

"It's plain to me she doesn't care enough about your feelings to take the time to write a proper letter, even if it's only to cry off. I say good riddance. Fussing about her whereabouts is just a waste of your valuable time."

"I thought you liked Diana."

"I found her most entertaining as a houseguest. And she was gracious about forgiving me for that little incident in the family crypt. But I'm not certain she'd have suited as a daughter-in-law. She's an intelligent young woman, I grant you, but flighty."

"That's rich, coming from you."

Ignoring Ben's rudeness, she chucked Cedric under the chin, then looked deep into the big cat's eyes, which were identical in color to her own. "I believe we have established a harmony of thought."

"You and Cedric, I presume," Ben muttered.
He
certainly had no idea how Maggie Northcote's mind worked. "If Diana doesn't contact me again within a day or two, I'm going to New York."

"What?" She jerked bolt upright, dislodging Cedric, who sent a baleful copper-eyed glare in Ben's direction before stalking off in a huff. "How can you even think of abandoning your brother? Aaron needs you close by. What if infection sets in? What if he has a . . . a relapse?"

There would be little he could do, Ben thought, but he could hardly say so aloud to Aaron's mother. His brother had been close to death, in spite of all Ben's skill as a physician. He would be convalescent for some time yet. He needed constant care and supervision, but Ben wasn't certain, now that the first medical crisis was past, that Aaron needed his older brother hovering over him every moment.

"I won't make any decision yet," Ben promised.

"She eloped when she married before, didn't she? That tells you something right there."

"It tells me Diana learned from experience not to rush when making important decisions. She didn't want to make the same mistake twice. That's why she went back to New York. To think things through."

"Well, there you are. She did her thinking and decided marrying you was unwise."

"No." The telegram hadn't said that, and it would have, he believed, if Diana had decided she didn't really love him. "Whatever is going on, nothing has changed the way she feels about me. I know her."

"Well, then, Ben, tell me this—what do you
know
about her background besides the fact that she went to work as a newspaper columnist after her husband died?"

"Not a great deal." He gave her a hard stare. "Don't tell me you're worried about Diana's family connections?"

"Her ancestry doesn't matter to me in the least. How could it when I am myself descended from a long line of witches, Gypsies, and vampires? But there must be something disreputable in her past. Why else refuse to talk about it?" Easing to her feet, she crossed the room to his side. Unblinking eyes regarded him with just a hint of reproach. "Ben, dear, you know I'm not one to criticize, but it seems to me that you might have thought to ask a few questions about her family."

"Why didn't you conduct an inquisition, if you were so curious about her?"

"Well, I didn't know then that you meant to marry her, did I? And I had a few concerns of my own at the time."

Ben scraped his fingers through his hair, knowing she was right. Besides, on her best day Maggie Northcote was self-absorbed. She'd only have "interviewed" Diana if she'd suspected there was a sufficiently dramatic story to be tweaked out of her.

What
did
he know? During their time together they'd had other matters to occupy them. Ben hadn't thought to ask about her parents. It came as a shock to him to realize he didn't even know Diana's maiden name.

"Her father disowned her for marrying Evan Spaulding," he said slowly. "She met Spaulding when she was at boarding school."

"Which one? Where?"

"I don't know, but she had a friend there. Rowena. Horatio Foxe's younger sister." That meant Foxe must know Diana's family background. So would Diana's actor friends from Spaulding's old company, but Todd's Touring Thespians were at present playing a series of one- and two-night stands all over the country. Ben had no idea how to contact them.

"What do you know about the husband?"

"He was a second-rate actor and failed entrepreneur who deceived her from the beginning."

Her brows shot up and she fingered the ring. "Indeed? She didn't murder him, did she?"

"No, she didn't murder him."

But Ben didn't know precisely how he had died, only that it had been after he'd left Nathan Todd's troupe of players to start his own company. Diana had told him about their horrendous journey from Denver into the Colorado mountains to . . . where had it been?

He couldn't recall the name of the town and doubted it mattered. Spaulding had died there a few months after their arrival, leaving Diana destitute. In dire need of employment to keep body and soul together, she'd turned to her old school friend and Rowena Foxe's brother had come to the rescue, hiring Diana as a regular contributor to his New York newspaper.

He'd have to contact Foxe, Ben decided. The editor undoubtedly knew where Diana had gone and why. Ben didn't much like the man, and he knew Foxe wanted Diana to stay on at the
Independent Intelligencer
, but surely he'd respond to an urgent telegram.

"A husband has a right to know."

"What?" Lost in thought, Ben hadn't been listening.

"How could you ask her to marry you when you knew so little about her? And after all the trouble she caused us, too!"

"She didn't know I was going to ask her to marry me until just before she left. She had no reason to confide in me." A short bark of rueful laughter escaped him. "It isn't as if I spent much time talking about the Northcotes." Diana knew as little of his childhood and youth as he did of hers. "She learned more about our family history from reading brasses in the crypt than she heard direct from me. I've got to go."

She caught his arm. "What do you intend to do? You can't follow her. You don't know where she's gone. And you have responsibilities here. Your brother—"

"Don't lecture me about responsibilities! You're the one who persuaded me to abandon my practice for months on end when it suited
your
needs." Shaking her off, he strode toward the door. "Don't worry, Mother. I'm only going as far as the Western Union office. Horatio Foxe must have some idea where Diana is. It won't take me away from my
responsibilities
to make a few inquiries."

* * * *

Diana changed trains for the last time at Cheyenne, a hundred and seven miles short of her goal. Her route had taken her from Weehawken to Rochester to Buffalo, then through Cleveland and Toledo to Chicago, at which point she'd had a choice of routes to Denver, one through Omaha and the other through St. Louis and Kansas City. Exhaustion had already set in when Diana made her choice. Another three days of constant worry and little rest had stretched her physical and mental abilities to their limits.

She'd hoped to find a telegram from Horatio Foxe waiting for her at one or more of the stops, but either he'd learned nothing new about her father's murder or the messages had missed her. When she arrived at Denver's Union Depot late in the afternoon of April 19
th
, eight days after William Torrence's death, she knew nothing more than she had when she started out.

Rumpled, short of sleep, and riddled with self-doubt, she stepped off the train and was immediately accosted by a touter from the Tremont Hotel. When he tried to snatch the Gladstone bag that contained a change of clothing and other essentials for long-distance travel, she kicked him, hard, with one booted foot. He danced away with a howl of outrage.

His colorful curses went unnoticed in the cacophony that surrounded the handsome stone train station. Runners from dozens of rival hotels competed to attract potential customers to their establishments. Ringing bells and beating gongs, they yelled out their pitches and hurled abuse at the competition. Those who had already corralled their marks, herded those hapless patrons outside, where a line of brightly painted hotel wagons waited. Larger hotels, like Charpiots, the St. James, the Windsor, and the American, owned their own conveyances, their names emblazoned on the sides. Smaller establishments sent rented wagons with removable signs attached. Hacks were at a premium, given the number of newcomers arriving in Denver on any given day.

The porter who had collected the rest of Diana's baggage cleared his throat. "If you'll tell me where it is you want to go, ma'am, I'll find you a reputable driver."

Diana produced a gracious if tired smile. One of the things she'd thought about during the endless journey west had been where she would stay in Denver. Her parents' house, she assumed, now belonged to her mother.

Difficult as it was for her to accept the fact of a divorce, she had no doubt that her mother had been the one to sue for it. She'd not have stood for unfaithfulness in a husband. If he'd committed adultery, as Diana supposed he must have, she'd have divorced him, though reluctantly. In such cases the wronged wife was the one who kept possession of the family home. In some rare instances, she even managed to retain her social standing. There was certainly a precedent for that here in Denver. Even on tour with a theatrical troupe halfway across the country, Diana had heard news of Senator Tabor's scandalous divorce and remarriage.