The Widow's Secret. Sara Mitchell

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      A burly gentleman standing beside them glanced around. “The old watchmaker, I heard,” he muttered.

      “Here.” Micah pressed his handkerchief into her hand. “Breathe deeply. You’ll be all right.” Concerned, he watched her sway, watched her struggle for composure, and fail. Consigning propriety as well as his profession to the nether regions, he slipped a supporting arm about her waist, and all but carried her backward, out of the milling crowd, to the edge of the sidewalk, where he propped her against a telephone pole.

      Eyes wide, unblinking, she dabbed at her temples with his handkerchief, its deep indigo-blue color a startling contrast against her red hair. After several deep breaths, a tinge of pink crept back into her cheeks. Solemnly she looked up at Micah as she returned the handkerchief. “I’m all right now. It’s a dreadful shock. I behaved like a silly goose. Thank you for…” Her voice trailed away and she bit her lip.

      “Violent death is always a shock—for most people.” When her body shuddered, Micah debated with his conscience for the space of two heartbeats before giving in to the overwhelming urge to protect. “Come along.” He took her hand, surprised by the way her fingers tensed, then clung. “There’s nothing you can do now. I’ll take you home. A lot has happened to you in the past twenty-four hours.”

      “Mr. MacKenzie? Do you believe M-Mr. Hepplewhite’s death is connected with that man, the one who dropped the pocket watch in my shopping bag?”

      Before Micah could scramble for an answer, they were interrupted.

      “Operative MacKenzie! Been looking for you for going on two hours now.” A burly policeman approached, looking annoyed. “Who’s this?”

      “I’ll be along in a moment, Sergeant Whitlock,” Micah said as Mrs. Tremayne pulled her hand free.

      He watched in admiration as she metamorphosed from fright to fearlessness, spine straight and chin lifted, her lips stretching in a social smile aimed between the two men. “I won’t take any more of your time. Obviously, you both have more pressing matters to attend to. Don’t worry about me. I’ll take a streetcar home.”

      “No, you won’t,” Micah contradicted, only to be interrupted by Whitlock again.

      “Coroner’s been ordered to wait until we ran you to earth. If I’d known you were out courtin’, I’d have told him not to bother.” His hand tightened on his billy club. “Now you’re here, you git yourself inside and do your job, Mr. Government Agent, else you can whistle for any more cooperation.”

      “Sergeant…Whitaker was it?” The widow Tremayne focused on the police sergeant, who seemed to suddenly shrink in size. “For your information, Operative MacKenzie has been about his duties. He was considerate enough just now to attend to me, which is more than I can say for any other gentle man in this motley crowd. All of them preferred to satisfy their prurient interest in a man’s death instead of coming to the aid of a lady. You may tell the coroner that Operative MacKenzie will be on his way—shortly. Now if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to express my appreciation without you looming over us.”

      His face red as a brick, the sergeant glowered at Mrs. Tremayne, then swiveled to shoulder his way through the crowd.

      “Well.” Micah scratched behind his ear. “You certainly put him in his place.”

      “He was rude. And something of a bully. I’ve never had much use for bullies.” A forlorn uncertainty settled around her like a creeping gray fog. “Am I likely to be arrested now?”

      “No.” At least not in the immediate future. “You’ve committed no crime, you handed over the evidence and you have cooperated fully. However—” he hesitated, the internal debate waging a bloody war “—I think you, and Katya, should pack your bags. Until we learn the circumstances surrounding Mr. Hepplewhite’s death, I’m going to need to keep an eye on you.”

      “You think I’m somehow responsible for his murder?”

      “I’ve changed my mind.” He reached for her hand once more, tightening his grip when she tried to wriggle free. “Apparently you can be a silly goose. Or hasn’t it occurred to you that, if Mr. Hepplewhite’s murder is connected to the forged currency Benny Foggarty gave you, you might be in grave danger?”

      “You want…Are you saying you’re trying to protect me?”

      “Don’t look so astonished. You’re a widow, living alone, with only a mute maid who doubtless, like most day servants, returns to her boardinghouse at night. Why wouldn’t I want to protect you?”

      She’d looked less traumatized when she thought he might be about to arrest her. “Because—” her voice turned tremulous as a young girl’s “—because the thought never occurred to me.”

      “Well, get used to it, Mrs. Tremayne. I don’t know yet whether your involvement is by happenstance or design. But either way, you’re now under my protection.”

      “As an operative for the Secret Service?”

      “Partly.” He held her gaze with his as he slowly lifted her hand until it was inches from his lips. “But also as a man.” Every nerve ending in his body rioted as he fought the urge to bring her hand those last two inches. “I’ll take you home, then I’ll return here. I hope you and your maid are efficient packers, Mrs. Tremayne. I have a ticket on the Richmond, Fredericksburg and Potomac leaving Byrd Street Station first thing Friday morning. You and Katya will be accompanying me back to Washington.”

      Chapter Five

      Washington, D.C., 1894

      Through the window of the ladies’ hotel on F Street, Jocelyn and Katya watched Operative MacKenzie swing aboard a streetcar. He was on his way to a meeting with the chief of the Secret Service, and Jocelyn’s muscles were skeined together in painful knots. “Do you think he’s an honorable man?” she asked Katya, who nodded with more decisiveness than Jocelyn felt. She waited in silence while the maid wrote on her tablet.

      Is very good man. Likes you.

      “Rubbish. He’s behaved like a gentleman, but he’s no different from anybody else. I’m under investigation, that’s why he brought us to Washington with him.” The knowledge chafed, yet not once during the six-hour train journey from Richmond had he treated her like a criminal.

      Of course, neither had he accorded her the familiarity he’d extended when she’d all but swooned in front of Clocks & Watches. Since Chadwick, Jocelyn had not handled death with any degree of equanimity. Swallowing, she tried to banish the memory of the faces of the crowd, ghoulishly craning for a view of Mr. Hepplewhite’s body, found sprawled in the stairwell that led to his upstairs apartment. Operative MacKenzie had refused to share any further details, but Jocelyn’s vivid imagination needed no embellishment.

      Katya scowled and wagged a sheet of paper in her face. Is differernt. Sees YOU, not hare.

      “Dear Katya, it doesn’t matter, especially if Operative MacKenzie’s chief believes I’m involved with some notorious counterfeiting crowd.” She stared blindly down to the street below, watching the soothing motion of a white-coated street sweeper pushing his broom. Perhaps if she went for a stroll…

      Katya followed her, and Jocelyn sensed her reluctance to end the discussion. “By the way, СКАЧАТЬ