Page 2 of Heart on the Line

“Proof, Gracie.” His gaze met hers, and the mix of dread and determination in his eyes set her stomach to cramping. “Proof that Haversham’s first child didn’t die with her mother. Proof that Haversham tried to find her. Proof that the odd wording of his will makes his daughter an heiress and his son simply a business owner.”

“You found this proof in the library at Haversham House?”

Her father nodded.

“But if the documents are Mr. Haversham’s property, what can you possibly do about it?”

He dropped his gaze.

“Daddy?”

He jerked his hand away from her touch and paced away from the counter. “The documents were Tremont Haversham’s property, and he’s dead. If Chaucer’s not the true heir of the Denver mansion and its contents, then the documents don’t really belong to him, do they?”

The knots in Grace’s stomach twisted. “What did you do?”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself about. I just borrowed a couple books from the collection. Chaucer plans to sell them off anyway. It’s what he did with the art—had an appraiser come in a week after his father’s funeral, then sold the finer pieces at auction by month’s end. He has no respect for his father beyond the price to be fetched from his belongings.” Herschel paced back toward the counter. “The books I took were ordinary editions. Nothing of monetary value. He won’t miss them.”

Suddenly, the full satchel on her counter held a whole new significance. “You can’t just take them!”

Her father’s face hardened. “I can’t stand by while an injustice is perpetrated, either. Tremont Haversham was my friend, Gracie. More than a friend. If it hadn’t been for his influence, the university would have let me go during that dark time after your mother passed.”

Grace dropped her head. She remembered that time. Both of them steeped in grief. She’d been young with no real responsibilities, and her father hadn’t noticed or cared if the house went uncleaned or if dinner had burnt. But the melancholia had brought Herschel Mallory to the brink of unemployment. Papers and exams had gone ungraded for weeks. His clouded mind turned his organized lectures into meandering, meaningless forays. Students had stopped attending. Parents had complained. Board members had threatened. Only Tremont Haversham had spoken on her father’s behalf. Had taken him aside and reminded him of his responsibilities, made him see that destroying himself would only dishonor his wife’s memory. He had to pull himself together for his daughter’s sake.

She glanced around her tidy little office with its elegant oak furnishings and carpeted floor. Her stomach swirled. She owed Tremont Haversham a debt, as well. He was the investor responsible for hiring her. The hotel manager had insisted on a male operator even though she’d proven more skillful than the other applicants—until Mr. Haversham had convinced him to reconsider.

Grace’s father reached across the counter and captured her hand. “Tremont Haversham had a daughter. One stolen from him. One he desperately tried to find before his death. One, I believe, he loved very much.” His eyes softened as he looked at Grace. “I know what it is to have a daughter. And if anything ever separated her from me, I’d move heaven and earth to get her back.”

Moisture gathered behind Grace’s eyes.

“She needs to know her father loved her, Gracie. To have something to remember him by. I owe him that much at least.” He paused, then released her hand to pat the top of the leather satchel. “There are letters, too. Love letters between Tremont and his first wife. Chaucer would burn them if he knew of their existence. I can’t let that happen. The daughter deserves a chance to know her parents.”

Grace stared down at the telegraph blank, legal technicalities warring with moral responsibility.

“Send the wire, Gracie,” her father urged, his voice gentle.

She met his gaze a final time. The love in his eyes melted away the last slivers of icy indecision. She nodded, sat down at the key, and started tapping.

Two days later they waited in a rented, second-floor room in a nondescript boardinghouse. Across the street stood the café where her father was scheduled to meet the agent Detective Whitmore had sent to collect the documents. Whitmore had warned them not to trust anyone else with the evidence. Not even the postal system. Several parcels delivered to him over the last few months had shown evidence of tampering, and he had yet to discover the culprit. Best not to risk such valuable information falling into the wrong hands.

“Are you sure we can’t just turn the documents over to the marshal?” Grace clutched her father’s suit coat to her chest, the coat she was supposed to be helping him into.

Her father shook his head and glanced over his shoulder at her. “As far as the local law is concerned, the books are Chaucer’s property. They have no obligation to investigate whatever may have been found inside. They’d simply return the items, and Chaucer would destroy them.

“Detective Whitmore is right. We can’t trust anyone else. I’ll not hand the books over to anyone other than Whitmore or the man who carries his recommendation.” He attempted to smile, but the sad twisting of his lips did nothing to reassure her. “Come, Gracie. Help me on with my coat.”

Grace obeyed, sliding the wool sleeves of the slightly rumpled sack suit jacket over his arms and up onto his shoulders. She stepped around him and tugged on his lapels until the coat hung evenly on his slender frame, then smoothed them flat against his chest.

“Everything will work out for the best,” he said. “You’ll see. The only people who know about this meeting are Detective Whitmore and the Pinkerton agent he sent.”

And the telegraph operator who received our message as well as any others listening in on the line. Grace kept that disquieting thought to herself. Telegraph operators signed contracts of confidentiality, after all, vowing only to reveal message contents to intended parties. But operators were human. Susceptible to bribes or threats.

As were Pinkertons. She still didn’t like the fact that they had confided in the same agency that had men working for the Silver Serpent mine. Chaucer Haversham’s pockets were deep. All it would take was the quiet promise of a payday spread by the agents already in his employ to convince someone in the Philadelphia office to pass on any suspicious information.

But none of that could be helped. Her father was too noble to abandon a quest once begun. He was going to see this through, come what may. So she would see him through.

“You’re a good man, Daddy.” Grace glanced up from buttoning the top button on his vest. He always had something on his person coming undone—buttons climbing out of their holes, watch chains tangling, scraps of paper falling out of his pockets. She forced a smile to her lips. “Be careful.”

He smiled back, then leaned in and placed a kiss on her forehead. “I will, pet.” He winked at her then stepped over to the chest of drawers near the door to fetch his satchel. He lifted the leather strap over his head and fit the bag against his right hip, tucking it close to his belly. Then he settled his dark gray fedora on his head and straightened his posture. “Be watching for my signal.”