Robin Lee Hatcher (31 page)

At long last, Northrop rose from his chair. “Very well, Mr. Walker. I’ll bring my daughter down to see you. And when she has told you of her plans, I shall expect you to leave this house without further trouble. Is that understood?”

“If that’s her decision, I’ll go.”

Libby didn’t turn this time when she heard the key in the lock. She remained at the window, staring down at Remington’s carriage, hardly daring to breathe as she waited to see him leave the house.

“Olivia.”

She felt an eerie alarm slide up her spine.

“Olivia, Mr. Walker has come to see you.”

She turned slowly, fixing her father with a suspicious gaze. “You’ll let me see him?”

“Yes. He wants you to tell him that you’ve made your decision to marry Lord Lambert. He wants you to tell him I’m not forcing the marriage and that it’s of your own choice.” He moved across the room to stand before her. He placed his index finger beneath her chin. “Before I take you downstairs, I must remind you what might happen to Mr. Walker if you fail to send him away.”

You don’t frighten me
. But that wasn’t true. He terrified her. “Have you no heart at all?” She took a step backward, pressing her thighs against the windowsill. “Don’t you care for anyone but yourself?”

“Very little, my dear. Now, shall I tell you what to say to your devoted young man?”

“I won’t marry Spencer. You cannot make me.”

“Ah, but you
will
marry Spencer, and I
can
make you do it. You’ll marry the viscount for Mr. Walker’s sake . . . and for your mother’s. If you don’t want either of them to come to harm, you’ll do as I say.”

“Mama?” She shook her head. “You wouldn’t hurt her. She’s your wife.” But even as she spoke the words, she realized she was wrong.

“You’ll go downstairs and tell Mr. Walker that you have made your decision. You are going to marry the viscount. If you don’t do as I say, Olivia, your beloved Mr. Walker will find himself in deep water before nightfall. And your mother . . .” He left the threat unfinished.

What choice did she have? Remington . . . her mother. How else could she protect them from the man who stood before her?

She met her father’s eyes with an unwavering gaze of her own. “When I was little, I yearned to win your love. I wondered what was wrong with me. Why you couldn’t care for me.” She lifted her chin. “But you cannot care. You have sold your soul to the devil and he has poisoned your heart.” She stepped around him and headed for the door. “Someday your transgressions will catch up with you, Father, and you’ll find the price you must pay for them is more than you possess.”

Libby walked swiftly, with her head held high. She didn’t look back to see if her father followed.

On the second-floor landing, she paused and glanced down the hall. Was Mama locked in her bedroom too? Was she all right? Libby moved on, descending the stairway to the ground floor. Her mind searched for an idea, some sort of plan, some way to warn Remington of the danger he was in.

God help me,
she prayed as she walked down the hall.
Keep him safe.

Remington heard her footsteps seconds before Libby entered the study. His pulse quickened at the sight of her.

She moved toward him with purposeful strides. “Father says you wanted to see me.”

Remington glanced over her shoulder. Northrop stood in the doorway, his arms folded in front of his chest. Glancing back at Libby, Remington said, “I’ve come to take you away from here.”

“I can’t go with you.” She drew a quick breath. “I’m going to marry Spencer.”

He stepped forward, took hold of her arms, and drew her to him. He stared down into wide green eyes. “Is that what you want?”

Her voice grew softer. “It’s what I must do, Remington. And you should take the money Father owes you and return to the Blue Springs. Go away from Manhattan. You don’t belong here.” She drew a breath, then said in a stronger voice, “Tell Sawyer I love him. Tell him not to forget Libby Blue.”

Libby Blue. That was it. That’s what was different about her. She wore her hair in a braid, like Libby, and her gaze wasn’t cool and remote. There was passion in her eyes. He could read love in their depths—and warning too.

His instincts hadn’t been wrong. Something was very much amiss here.

“Libby?” he asked softly, testing the name.

“Yes.”

In that one word, he heard her confession of love.

“Leave with me.”

“I can’t.”

His fingers squeezed gently. “I understand, Libby. I’ll go, since that’s what you want me to do.”
But I’ll be back
for you. Don’t be afraid. I’ll return.

He could only hope that she understood as he released her and walked out of the study.

Thirty-One

THE VANDERHOFF MANSION LOOMED SHADOWY and large above Seventy-second Street. Thin clouds blew across the three-quarter moon, and shadows and moonlight played a ghostly dance over the stone facing of the house.

Standing across the street, Remington stared at the third-story window, fourth from the left. Sawyer said that was where he’d seen her. Remington hoped it was her bedchamber.

Moving stealthily, he crossed the street and entered through the front gate, then slipped around the side of the house, heading for the servants’ entry. At two in the morning, no one was likely to be awake. God willing, Remington could get up to the third floor, wake Libby, and then lead her out. Her absence wouldn’t be discovered until she was called to breakfast.

The servants’ entrance was locked, but it took Reming-ton only a couple of minutes to open it. He was grateful the door was kept well oiled. It opened and closed without a squeak.

He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before moving into the kitchen, then made his way beyond the pantry and the laundry room, searching for the back staircase. He found it beyond a large, swinging door. A gas lamp, turned low, cast a dim yellow light on the narrow passageway.

Glancing up, he took a deep breath and began the ascent, praying the boards wouldn’t creak beneath his weight. When he reached the third floor, he paused and found his bearings. After a moment, he followed the hallway that would lead him to the chambers facing the street. He stumbled over a chair left in the hall but caught it before it could topple over and send up an alarm. He breathed a sigh of relief as he righted the chair.

He looked up and down the hall, then at the door in front of him. This had to be the room. Libby’s room, and the key had been left in the lock. Once more he glanced
right, then left. All was silent. With a faint click, he turned the key and opened the door, slipping inside and closing it behind him.

The large four-poster bed was to his left, a giant spiderlike shadow in a room filled with shadows. With blood pounding in his ears, Remington moved toward it, his steps silenced by a thick carpet.

A hand over her mouth brought Libby awake. Terror shot through her, and she tried to pull away, thrashing with her arms, kicking with her legs.

“Libby, it’s me.”

She quieted, and his hand slid away.

“Come on. We need to get out of here.”

She sat up. “Remington.” His name slipped from her lips, a verbal caress, filled with hope.

Then he was holding her, kissing her, pushing her hair back from her face. She clung to him, savoring the moment, glad for it, no matter how brief. She breathed in his warm, masculine scent and felt comforted by how familiar it seemed to her.

He lifted his mouth to whisper, “We’d better go. We aren’t safe yet.”

“Remington, I can’t leave.” Although she couldn’t see him, she sensed his surprise. “Father’s threatened to hurt my mother if I don’t do what he says. And he’s threatened to kill you.”

He drew her up from the bed. “We’ll take your mother with us. You’ll have to show me where her room is.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue with me, Libby.”

Her heart fluttered. “I won’t. I’ll never argue with you again.”

His chuckle was barely audible. “I doubt that.” He kissed her. “Now hurry.”

She grabbed her dressing gown from the stool at the foot of her bed, slipped her arms into the sleeves, and tied the belt securely around her waist. In the dark, she found a pair of house shoes and put them on. “I’m ready.”

He took hold of her hand and led her toward the door. “Where will we find your mother?”

“Second floor, down the hall to the right.”

“And where’s your father’s room?”

“Beyond it one door.”

He turned the knob. “Once we’re out in the hall, not a word. Understood?”

She nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see her in the dark.

He opened the door, and Libby found herself holding her breath. She tightened her grip on Remington’s hand as he led her along the hall to the servants’ staircase. They descended one floor, and she was thankful for the dim light of the gas lamp, left burning in case one of the Vanderhoffs should ring for something in the night. She was thankful because it afforded her a glimpse of Remington, and she took courage from the sight of him.

When they reached the second-floor landing, he turned to her. “Wait here,” he said, his mouth beside her ear.

She shook her head.

He ignored her. “If anything goes wrong, run for it. Get to my place, then send for David Pierce. He’s a judge here in the city and an old family friend. Mrs. Blake will know how to get in touch with him. David will be able to help you. You can trust him.”

She shook her head again, gripping his hand, refusing to let go.

He kissed her cheek. “It’ll be all right, Libby. I won’t be long.”

Libby felt a sudden
whoosh
of air, then heard a sickening sound, flesh against flesh, bone against bone. Remington jerked free of her hold and went crashing to the floor. She saw his assailant. The brute moved with terrible swiftness, driving his boot into Remington’s kidney—once, then again and again.

“Remington!” She tried to intercede but was stayed by the fingers of another closing around her arm.

“I’m afraid your young man is wrong, Olivia.” Her father turned her to face him. “He will be a long time in returning.” He stepped toward Remington, lying prone and still on the carpet. “You should have heeded my warning, Walker.”

Remington started to speak, but her father’s hired thug kicked him again.

Libby groaned, as if she’d been kicked too.

“No one stands in my way, Walker. When they do, I eliminate them, one way or another.”

“Like you did . . . my father?”

“Your father?”

Remington tried to sit up but received another kick for his efforts. Gasping for air, he said, “Jefferson . . . Walker.”

Libby strained against her father’s grasp, to no avail.

“JW . . . Railroad,” Remington added.

“JW? Well, I’ll be.” Her father released a harsh laugh. “You should have learned something from Jefferson. He got in my way too.” He shook his head. “And now you’ll share his fate.” He looked at the man standing over Remington. “Dispose of him, Caswell.”

“No, Father! Don’t!” She tried to twist free. “Please, I beg you, Father. Don’t hurt him anymore. I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t harm him.”

As if he hadn’t heard her, her father turned and pulled her with him up the staircase.