Fatal as a Fallen Woman (2 page)

Horatio Foxe and Francesca Curran turned on her with identical beady-eyed stares and suddenly Diana felt an overwhelming desire to laugh. The two of them had the look of a pair of buzzards contemplating some poor soul lost in the desert and dying of thirst. Her lips quirked but she managed to fight off the bubble of hysterical laughter.

"Oh, dear," she murmured when she'd recovered a little. "I must be more overwrought than I realized."

The thin and wiry Foxe strutted closer. She'd always thought he resembled a bantam rooster.

"You're white as a sheet," he informed her.

Diana glanced at Mrs. Curran. With her bright curious eyes and tendency to collect shiny objects like those thimbles, what else could she be but a magpie? 

"You look," said the magpie, "as if a goose just walked over your grave."

The words put an end to Diana's strange flight of fancy and vanquished every trace of humor. She sobered instantly. "So it has, Mrs. Curran. My past has come back to haunt me."

 And the past, she realized, must be dealt with before she could go forward into the future. One finger at a time, she released her grip on the dispatch until her right hand was free to search out the letter in her pocket. Slowly and deliberately, she ripped it in half. She would not be mailing her acceptance of Ben Northcote's proposal of marriage. Not today. Perhaps not ever.

* * * *

Horatio Foxe insisted on accompanying Diana as far as Weehawken Terminal, where a combination of five ferry slips and sixteen passenger tracks linked New Jersey to every conceivable destination. She meant to catch the first train headed west.

Ordinarily, she'd have spent the ten-minute crossing watching the variety of water craft on this stretch of the Hudson River—everything from oyster sloops to transatlantic liners. But on this trip, she scarcely glanced up from the point on the rough wooden railing in front of her where silk-gloved fingers occupied themselves worrying loose a splinter. For the most part, this activity also allowed her to ignore Foxe's fulminating glare.

"You're a fool to rush off half-cocked like this." He stood close beside her, one hand on her elbow and the other clamped to the rim of his bowler to keep it from being blown away. Diana's brown straw hat was securely anchored with pins, but her thin gray illusion veil filled and deflated with every gust of salt-tinged air.

"What else would you have me do? My mother is suspected of killing my father. I can scarcely ignore her plight." Diana risked a sideways glance and saw that irritation had scrunched Foxe's features into a formidable scowl.

"Send a telegram to Denver."

"To say what? And if she's in jail, she may not be able to receive or send messages." 
Arrest imminent
, the dispatch had said. Denver's police chief had been quoted, vowing to have Elmira Torrence in custody by nightfall. That had been two days ago.

Diana's grasp of the legal system was shaky. She didn't cover trials, had never visited a prison, and didn't want to. She'd stuck to writing about the commission of crimes and the capture of the criminals. Though she supposed it was short-sighted of her, her interest had always stopped with the villain's arrest.

"If she's already in jail, you may arrive too late to be of any use," Foxe said.

Diana's hands tightened on the rail, causing the splinter to imbed itself in her thumb. "There will have to be a coroner's inquest, and a grand jury indictment." She knew that much about the law. "And a trial."

Stories of "frontier justice" swirled through her mind as she extracted the shard of wood, removed her glove, and gingerly sucked at a small bead of blood. The breeze seemed suddenly colder, raising goose bumps on the newly exposed flesh of hand and wrist.

The Denver Diana had known as a child had been a wild and unsettled place, full of gamblers, saloons, and the occasional lynch mob. A well-brought-up female wasn't supposed to know about such things, but servants talked and girls just approaching womanhood were curious.

Diana remembered
all
the details of the most scandalous event of the year she'd turned thirteen. Two fallen women had fought a duel over a man. It had taken place on the outskirts of Denver and when it was over it had been the man who lay bleeding from a gunshot wound. That victim had lived, though. There'd been no arrest or trial, let alone a lynching.

Diana wanted to believe that Denver was more civilized these days, but she had her doubts. If Elmira Torrence had sufficiently outraged the local citizens by brutally murdering her former husband . . . or if they
believed
she had killed him . . . anything could happen.

Foxe gave Diana's arm an awkward pat. "Have you considered that your mother might be guilty? Accusations of murder are not made lightly. What if she did kill him?" 

Diana did not want to think about that possibility, let alone talk about it, but Foxe's question deserved an answer. "My mother is not a demonstrative woman, but she's always had strong views on duty and loyalty. She supported my father in anything he wanted to do, even disowning me, because she was brought up to believe it is a wife's duty to defer to her husband in all things. She'd never strike out at him, no matter what the provocation."

Foxe gave her a sideways glance and a sardonic smile that showed far too many tobacco-stained teeth. "People change, Diana. You haven't seen her in years. You didn't even know about the divorce. What if the sheer disgrace of it pushed your mother into an uncharacteristic act of revenge?"

Diana frowned. Foxe's words reminded her that she and her mother had never been close. Diana's impetuous marriage had been all it took to shatter the tenuous familial bond that had survived her years away at school. Did she really know her mother, or what Elmira Torrence might be capable of doing?

An incident from Diana's childhood surfaced, unwanted, to taunt her. She'd been five or six. The Torrences had not been wealthy then and Diana's mother had been obliged to take in laundry to make ends meet. One of the miners had made a suggestion—the adult Diana understood what it must have been even if the child Diana had not—and her mother's reaction had been to clout him on the ear with one of the heavy iron tongs she used to fish clothes out of boiling water. He'd bled profusely and there had been talk of an arrest for assault—and a great deal of cussing—but most of the men in the mining camp had felt Elmira's action was justified and nothing further had come of the incident.

The memory made Diana shiver. It was proof her mother's prodigious self-control could crack, releasing pent-up frustration. But kill William Torrence? Murder the man she'd have continued to regard as her husband, divorce or no? Never. Diana wouldn't believe such a thing unless she heard it from Elmira Torrence's own lips.

A sudden shift in the wind carried smoke into Diana's eyes. Foxe had lit one of his noxious cigars. "She won't look for your help," he mumbled around the obstruction in his mouth. "She may not even want it. You don't have to go."

"She'd contact me if she knew how. That she doesn't is my fault. I could have written to them at any time. Besides, it hardly matters if Mother expects me to come to her or not. She's all the kin I have in the world. What else can I do but offer her support in her hour of need?"

"So you're rushing across the country out of a sense of duty?" Foxe sounded skeptical.

"That's as good a reason as any." Diana hoped there might be more left between them, even after a six-year estrangement, but no matter what happened when she saw her mother again, she knew she would not be able to live with herself if she didn't go to Denver.

"Balderdash!" Foxe turned away from her to stare in the direction of the rapidly approaching New Jersey shore. "You don't owe your mother a thing."

"I owe her life," Diana snapped. "She gave birth to me, raised me, loved me in her own fashion. And if she was obliged to divorce Father, she has suffered enough. You know how divorced women are reviled by society, and the good opinion of Denver's upper crust—the people they call the 'sacred thirty-six'—was important to her."

"So you're hell-bent on haring off to Denver when you'd planned, in a day or two, to board a train for New England. Does this mean the engagement is off?"

"It wasn't on. Not yet." She smoothed a hand down the skirt of her gray flannel traveling suit. The feel of the soft fabric soothed her.

"Did you send for him?"

"Of course not. There's no time to waste waiting for him to get here. Besides, I can't ask Ben to leave his brother when Aaron was near to death such a short time ago."

"He'd come if he thought you needed him."

"That's precisely why I can't let on that I do. And I don't. Not really." She put temptation behind her, along with Manhattan's shoreline. She could handle this crisis herself. "I'll deal with my family's problems on my own. Ben and I aren't married yet, so the Torrences shouldn't be his concern."

"He'll see things differently," Foxe warned.

"That can't be helped."

"At least send him a telegram before you leave." The ferry had docked but neither of them left the rail.

"I already have."

"You told him what happened?"

"Only that I have to go away for a little while." His brows lifted in an expression of mockery that exasperated her. "Do you intend to help me with my bags or not?"

"Why else am I here?" Foxe reached for the heaviest pieces in the pile by her feet and followed her toward the gangplank. "If he's expecting a letter agreeing to his proposal of marriage, he won't be put off by a telegram."

"He'll have no choice. I didn't tell him where I'm going."

"So you're running away without an explanation? Northcote's not going to like that." Foxe made a tsking sound.

"I won't involve Ben in this! It's not his problem."

She'd considered dispatching a detailed explanation to Maine, but there was very little to report until she discovered what had really happened in Denver. Worse, if she told Ben what she did know, he'd want to rush to her rescue. She couldn't allow him to make that sacrifice. He was a physician with patients who needed him.

More importantly, his family needed him. Diana refused to deprive Aaron Northcote of either his brother or his doctor. Aaron had suffered grievous injuries because of her. The least she could do was make certain he had the best of care until he was fully recovered.

Foxe escorted Diana to the platform where her train waited before he spoke again. He made a valiant attempt to inject a teasing tone into his voice. "I think you're just looking for a reason to get out of marrying into the Northcote family. A few minutes in that old woman's company would give anyone second thoughts."

By "that old woman" he meant Maggie Northcote, matriarch of the clan. Diana's smile was genuine if rueful. "She'll turn you into a newt if she thinks you've insulted her. She was doing research into magic spells when I left."

Foxe gave a theatrical shudder. "Woman's mad. Ever think Northcote might like an excuse to visit Denver?"

"Maggie's merely eccentric," Diana informed him, echoing the opinion she'd heard over and over again during her time with Ben. "And such comments won't make me change my mind. I don't want any of the Northcotes involved in this. You're not to interfere." She jabbed him in the chest with one finger for emphasis. "No letters or telegrams sent to Maine on my behalf. Understood?"

Foxe threw his hands in the air and cast his eyes toward Heaven. "I won't write a word to him, not even if he tries to contact me."

"Good. See that you keep that promise." She had to shout to be heard now above the noise on the platform, and fight not to cough as they were engulfed by a shower of gritty cinders and billowing black smoke from the engine.

Foxe cleared his throat. "Might help if you kept your position with the
Independent Intelligencer
. Make it easier to get information if you go in with a reporter's credentials." He could not quite hide the cunning look on his narrow face or the speculative glitter in his eyes.

"Are you by chance suggesting I send you a firsthand account of my mother's trial?"

Foxe feigned surprise at the suggestion, but Diana was not deceived. This was what he must have had in mind all along. Annoyed, she gripped her tweed bag more firmly in one hand and seized the hatbox with the other, prepared to stalk away the moment she located a porter to collect her Gladstone bag and gripsack. She'd packed her books, additional clothing, and assorted memorabilia in the Saratoga trunk and left it in Mrs. Curran's basement.

"You'll need money," Foxe reminded her.

"I have what I'd saved for my wedding gown." Mentally she bade farewell to the confection of white corded silk and point lace that had featured in recent daydreams.

"Cost of a wedding gown, eh? Well, that might last a day or two."

Diana whirled around to glare at him and found herself staring at the train ticket in his hand. "I am perfectly capable of paying my own way!"

"Part of the deal if you're still in my employ." He talked right over her sputtered protests. "Diana, listen to me. As far as I'm concerned, you never left your job at the
Independent Intelligencer
. File whatever reports from Denver you wish and I will pay you for them. Return to New York when you can. Anytime you want to reclaim it, your desk will still be there in the city room."

"You just want a juicy story."

"Scandal sells newspapers," he reminded her, but with a sheepish look on his face.

In spite of herself, Diana was touched. In his own way, he was trying to look out for her. "You are a terrible man, Horatio Foxe."

She kissed his cheek, tacitly accepting the arrangement. What choice did she have? She had almost no money of her own. That was why she'd been working for him in the first place.

Foxe mumbled an excuse about needing to get back to the office and retreated, setting off at a brisk pace along the platform. He hadn't gone ten yards before he abruptly reversed direction. By the time he reached Diana's side once more, he'd produced two magazines from a bulging pocket.