Chapter 11

The storm of the day before had broken the heat wave, but it was still August and the humid, heavy warmth of the afternoon lingered in the quiet bedroom even though it was late. Julia was aware of that, aware their bodies were damp with sweat, but she was too utterly drained to think much about it. She murmured a protest when he withdrew from her, but couldn’t manage to open her eyes until he lifted her off the bed and into his arms.

He kissed her, which distracted her from the question of where he was taking her, and the next thing she knew she was being lowered into wonderfully cool water. One of the maids had apparently readied the bathwater before they’d come upstairs, though she hadn’t noticed the light on in the room. The tub was large, which was a good thing; he never could have joined her in a smaller one.

She looked at him bemusedly in the bright light of the bathroom, and said the first thing she could think of. “We’re getting water on the floor.” She was vaguely grateful her hair was still up.

Cyrus eyed the small waves lapping over the rim of the tub and shrugged. “I’ll have to remember,” he murmured. “A bigger tub for the new house.”

“Is this decent?” she asked, grappling with a dim idea that it wasn’t.

He leaned over to kiss her, his wet hands sliding up her arms to her shoulders. “Of course it is, love.” Then his smile faded a little, and his eyes grew intent. “If you don’t want me to join you like this—”

“No.” She felt the heat of a blush rise in her cheeks, which was, she told herself, absurd. “No, I—I like it. I think.” She had yet to feel at all shy or self-conscious with him, which surprised her. And she didn’t feel humiliated the way she had whenever Adrian had looked at her naked.

“Good.” He kissed her again, then reached for soap and a washcloth. “I want to take care of you, sweetheart. Will you let me?”

Julia could only nod a wordless acceptance, still bemused by him and by herself. It seemed there was much more to intimacy with a man than she’d known or even suspected, and this new experience was both strange and very pleasurable. He handled her body with a gentle, familiar touch, kissing her often in a teasing way that made her smile at him. He clearly enjoyed touching her, yet he was also matter-of-fact with the mechanics of bathing so she wasn’t made to feel at all self-conscious.

She even returned the favor, a bit timid at first but encouraged by his pleased smile. She hadn’t caressed him when he made love to her, mostly because her own emotions and sensations had overwhelmed her, and now, for the first time, she became aware of a need to touch him. She loved the way his hard body felt under her soapy hands, and when she realized he was becoming aroused, the knowledge sent a dart of pleasure through her.

“I can’t seem to get enough of you, my sweet,” Cyrus murmured, a familiar heat kindling in his black eyes. He drew her closer in the tub and kissed her, his hands stroking her body with none of the earlier matter-of-factness. And her body certainly understood the difference.

She was still touching him, slowly exploring both above and below the water’s surface, her desire building so quickly that she was only mildly surprised when she realized—

“Here?”

“Here,” he replied huskily.

He saw her naked back for the first time that night. It was after he’d pulled himself from the tub reluctantly and wrapped a towel around his lean middle, then held another open for her.

“Come on out, sweetheart.”

She had forgotten her scars and did not worry about rising naked from the water or stepping out of the tub—only wondering if her trembling legs would hold her up. She’d never felt so blissfully spent, and stood a bit dazedly as he gently dried her. It wasn’t until he began to turn her that she stiffened.

He went still and waited, looking gravely into her eyes. She wanted to refuse him, but couldn’t somehow. After a long moment she slowly turned her back to him, unconsciously bowing her head. There was only a brief pause before he began moving the thick towel gently over her back, and he didn’t say a word.

After the way it had hit him so hard to see only part of her scars, Cyrus had braced himself to see all of them. But there was no way, he acknowledged now, to be even remotely prepared for the evidence of such cruelty. No way to look at what had been done to her and not feel intolerable rage and agony tearing him apart.

Adrian had chosen her back as his target, and that terrifyingly fragile, delicate area from the nape of her neck to her waist bore the atrocious brand of his insane rage. The broader welts of a strap were only faint marks, healed now; more awful were the thin white scars of some kind of whip, crisscrossing her back, and the tiny pale crescents that were the wounds of a ring or buckle. There were so many.

Cyrus dried her gently, then wrapped the big towel around her and drew her back against his body, holding her. “My poor darling,” he murmured. “What you’ve suffered…I’m so sorry, love. No wonder you’ve been so afraid.”

A little shudder went through her, and Julia let her head fall back against his shoulder as she relaxed in his embrace. “I’m not afraid of you,” she whispered, realizing it was true, realizing she trusted him. Some part of her, she thought, had always trusted him. “I know you won’t hurt me.”

His arms tightened around her, and he kissed her shoulder. “Never,” he promised in a low voice.

They stood silently for a time, the closeness creating an aura of peace and contentment. When they did move, it was slowly, and they were still silent. Cyrus took her hair down and brushed it for her. He let the water out of the tub and turned off the lights while she went into the bedroom, and when he rejoined her she was waiting for him, naked under the sheet.

He turned out the lamp on the nightstand and slid into bed beside her, drawing her into his arms. She cuddled close with a little sigh, so weary that giving in to the need for sleep was like tumbling into a well of warm darkness. Her only clear thought before that pleasant state claimed her was a wistful yearning. She wished she could love him.

Cyrus slept deeply as well, but only for a few hours. It was before dawn when he woke abruptly, something pulling at him. He got out of bed, careful not to wake Julia, and crossed the dark room to one of the windows. This room was at the front of the house, facing the street, and in the predawn hours all was dark and silent outside. The night was still, warm, humid.

It took him a few moments to realize his eyes were intently probing the darkness, and when he did, he had no idea what he was looking for. A threat, he thought. Danger. But he saw nothing except the normal shadows of night.

There were two Pinkerton men in his house playing the roles of footmen while they watched over Julia and Lissa; two more shared the task of keeping guard outside; yet another investigator was working to find the answers—and the evidence—Cyrus needed to identify his enemy. He should have felt some sense of security, of safety for those he loved, because he had taken every possible precaution. Instead, his strongest certainty was that whatever was meant to happen would.

There were things he could change. He knew it, had known it for a long time now. But his own future was set, marked in a pattern he could see only vaguely and had little hope of altering. The next few months would be critical, he felt it with everything inside him.

And he felt, for the first time, a kind of loneliness. He had said to his old friend and attorney that he couldn’t be complete without Julia; he wasn’t complete, and he’d never been so aware of the empty place inside him. She had given him her body, and, astonishingly, she had given him her trust, but unless and until she gave him her love, he’d never be whole.

“Cyrus?” Her voice, soft and drowsy.

He turned away from the window and the nebulous danger he felt out there, and went back to her. She made a sound of contentment when he rejoined her and drew her into his arms, her delicate body utterly relaxed. She was already deeply asleep again, her head pillowed on his shoulder. He held her close, one hand stroking her back gently. He could feel the scars.

Adrian might be roasting in hell, but Cyrus knew there was another man just as guilty of sick cruelty, just as responsible for hurting Julia—and he was still walking around alive. He was worse than Adrian had been, not so much demented as evil. Cyrus could almost feel the darkness, almost smell the rotten odor of corruption. But what disturbed him most of all, what had begun to torment him, was the growing conviction that there was some deep connection, some bond, between him and his enemy.

He held Julia in his arms and stared into the darkness of night. He didn’t sleep again for a long time.

Adrian Drummond was buried on Sunday with surprisingly little fanfare. The mayor of Richmond was laid to rest in the cemetery of his family’s church with few well-wishers in attendance to bid him good-bye. Reporters far outnumbered the mourners, and though his fellow councilmen showed up, they had clearly agreed among themselves to betray no emotion and make no comments to the press. They were successful on both counts.

Neither the widow, her sister, nor Cyrus Fortune attended the funeral.

The evening edition of the city’s newspapers contained numerous articles running the gamut from a rancorous interview with an ex-employee to a summary of Drummond’s will—which had been read, in private, to those his attorney summoned to hear the details. The story concerning the will was a definite spur to gossip, especially since it accurately stated that Drummond’s widow and sister-in-law inherited nothing. Drummond, it seemed, chose to leave his money to his political party.

That information wasn’t news to Cyrus, and since Julia wanted nothing at all from her late husband, it suited her perfectly, but it gave the people of Richmond something else to talk about. Those outside the social circle the Drummonds had occupied talked the loudest; those who had known the couple, or thought they had, were more quiet and thoughtful.

On the following Friday afternoon Julia Drummond married Cyrus Fortune in a private ceremony in the neighborhood church. The bride was attended by her sister, the groom by his best friend, Noel Stanton, and the only guests were Felice Stanton and Mark Tryon.

The newspapers, uncharacteristically subdued, ran simple announcements followed by the information that the newlywed couple had chosen to postpone a honeymoon trip.

The people of Richmond shook their heads, but since rumors had been flying thick and fast from the day of Drummond’s death, no one knew what to think. Most settled down to await developments, puzzled and curious—and unusually reluctant to judge.

“But Cyrus, I don’t need a footman.” Julia kept her voice low, partly because the stalwart young man in question was only a few feet away, waiting by the door to accompany her. She was venturing out alone for the first time since Adrian’s death and less than a week since her quiet marriage. It had taken her this long to get up the nerve to show her face in public without the comfort of Cyrus’s presence. They had walked in the park a few times, and he’d taken her to the new house more than once, but since they hadn’t encountered anyone they knew during those outings Julia’s courage hadn’t been put to the test.

She thought it was time. Lissa was out with friends, Cyrus had an appointment at his office in the city, and she needed to do some shopping. He had arranged accounts for her and Lissa at a number of shops as well as providing extremely generous allowances for both of them.

He seemed reluctant to have her go out alone. He betrayed his feelings by a subtle, almost imperceptible tightening of his handsome features, but Julia knew him better now and she caught the fleeting expression.

“Humor me,” he said lightly, smiling down at her. “Take Nelson along with you.”

Julia drew on her gloves, a twinge of unease disturbing the peace she’d found these last days. “Why?” she asked finally. “Because of what happened to Helen? Is that why you’ve hired a footman to stay with Lissa and a footman to stay with me?”

Cyrus hesitated, then nodded. He bent his head to kiss her, a gesture that no longer made her feel the slightest bit embarrassed no matter who was watching, and said, “It’s partly that, yes.”

“Partly? What else?”

He was stroking her cheek gently, as he so often did, and for a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he sighed. “We’ll talk about it later, all right, sweetheart?”

Julia felt uneasy about whatever it was, but her trust in Cyrus had been growing steadily and she was able to smile at him. “All right.”

He kissed her again, lingeringly this time. “And don’t stay out too long in this heat,” he said.

“No, I won’t.”

Cyrus stood looking after her even when the closed door hid her from his sight. He hated letting her go out without him. The fear of losing her was with him constantly now, a coldness that never eased. He’d made no progress in identifying his enemy, and his odd instincts told him there wasn’t much time left. But those same instincts also told him he would bring about the very thing he wanted desperately to avoid if he didn’t allow Julia as much freedom as possible: he would lose her.

He had done what he could to keep her safe without locking her up with an armed guard to stand watch. All he could do now was trust in his precautions—and wait.

Julia was aware of her unobtrusive escort, though not particularly troubled by his presence, and the worry about what Cyrus hadn’t told her was also on her mind, but most of her attention was focused on keeping her chin up and her expression calm. She wasn’t wearing the social mask she had created during her first marriage; that had been a lie and she was determined never to lie—to herself or anyone else—ever again.

When the first acquaintance she passed on the sidewalk tipped his hat with a murmured greeting and slight smile, she felt a bit more secure, and by the time she had visited two shops her confidence was much steadier. People she knew spoke to her, guardedly perhaps, but without condemnation, and no one asked awkward questions or looked at her as if there were any reason she should feel defensive or defiant.

When she returned home just over two hours later she was smiling, bemused but intensely relieved; her happiness with Cyrus had grown stronger with every passing day, and she’d wanted nothing to mar that.

“I’ll take these upstairs, ma’am,” Nelson murmured, indicating the several boxes he carried.

“Thank you, Nelson.” She drew off her gloves as she watched him ascend the stairs, and turned in surprise as Cyrus came out of his study. “I thought you had an appointment,” she said.

“I did, but it didn’t last long.” He put his hands on her small waist and pulled her to him, kissing her, then smiled down at her. “How about your meeting with public scrutiny?”

“It was…surprising.” She absently smoothed his lapels. “Everyone was perfectly polite. Was that your doing?”

Cyrus lifted an eyebrow at her. “How on earth could it have been?”

Julia felt her smile growing as she gazed up at him. “I don’t know, but I have a strange feeling it was another one of those things you wanted—and got. Like magic. Perhaps I did marry the offspring of a warlock after all.”

He was smiling, but there was something unusually hesitant in his black eyes. “Would it bother you if that turned out to be true?” he asked lightly.

Despite the tone, his question was serious. It was a strange question, yet she was curiously unsurprised by it. And her reply was made almost without thought, matter-of-factly. “No, of course not. How could it? Wherever your…magic came from, there’s no doubt it’s a—a positive force. If anyone knows that, I do.” She reached up to touch his cheek, aware of an odd urge to comfort him. “How could anything about you disturb me?” she asked him softly.

Cyrus wished he could see love in her beautiful green eyes, hear love in her gentle voice. But he didn’t. She felt trust, desire, and gratitude—perhaps even caring—but not love. And it was the one gift he could not get, no matter how often or winningly he asked for it.

He hugged her briefly, reminding himself they’d been together a very short time, and that she had a great deal to put completely behind her. “You realize I have no idea who or what my father was?” he asked, keeping his voice casual.

She nodded, still looking up at him. “Yes.”

He wanted to avoid, if possible, telling her what he knew of his elusive enemy, at least until he had more information. He didn’t want to disturb her peace, or worry her unnecessarily, but he did want her to know about the cane, about his fruitless search so far for some clue to his beginnings. So he said now, “Shortly after you and I met, I received a package. Why don’t you come upstairs with me, and I’ll show you what was apparently a gift from my father.”

Julia was surprised, and intrigued. She was even more intrigued when she saw the cane. Though he remained casual about the subject, she knew he was disturbed about it—how could he not be? She had no answers for him, but during the following days she found herself going often to his wardrobe and taking out the cane, studying it intently. It seemed familiar to her, as if she’d seen it, or one like it, before, but she couldn’t remember when or where.

During those next days she became so accustomed to being accompanied by her footman whenever she left the house on her own that she completely forgot Cyrus had any reason other than Helen’s murder for asking her not to go out alone. There were so many other things for her to think about.

Cyrus was busy, but he managed to spend time with her during the days, and at night he made love to her with a desire that seemed to grow more intense each time. More than once he woke her in the morning making love to her. It no longer either surprised or shocked her that she could feel such incredible pleasure; she was simply grateful and delighted she could.

It wasn’t until the second week of her marriage that Julia realized there had been one argument Cyrus hadn’t used in persuading her to marry him. In all truth, it hadn’t occurred to her he might have made her pregnant, until the familiar cramps woke her just after dawn one morning. She slipped from their bed, careful not to wake him, and gathered up her nightgown and dressing gown; she always slept naked now just as he did, but kept her sleepwear near the bed in case of need. She went into the bathroom and softly closed the door.

Her cycle was extremely regular, and her body so sensitive to its rhythms that the discomfort she felt now heralded rather than accompanied her monthly flow; she wouldn’t begin to bleed for hours yet, and once she did the cramps would diminish. As usual, she felt hot and restless, and along with sharp twinges in her lower abdomen there was a dull ache in her back and deep in her pelvis.

She put on her nightgown and dressing gown, and splashed water on her face, then paused to gaze into the mirror above the basin as she realized that her body, in its normal cycle, was signaling the absence of new life. She wasn’t pregnant. The wave of disappointment she felt surprised her in its intensity; she hadn’t known until that moment how much she wanted to have a child. Cyrus’s child.

Adrian had desperately wanted a son, and all she’d felt about it was her sense of duty as his wife; she had been aware of no urge to be a mother. Cyrus had said nothing about children, but she wanted them so fiercely it hurt now to know she wasn’t pregnant already. She wanted to feel his child inside her.

“His child,” she whispered, vaguely aware of the shock on her face but with no clear idea of what she was feeling. It was the strangest sensation, as if she were poised on the brink of some understanding just beyond her reach.

Then a soft knock on the door distracted her, and the peculiar feeling faded.

“Julia? Are you all right, sweetheart?”

She dried her face and went to open the door, smiling up at her concerned husband. “I’m fine. Sorry I woke you.”

He shook his head slightly, dismissing the apology, and his eyes were intent on her face. “You’re in pain.”

She supposed the discomfort she felt might have been visible, but doubted it. He simply knew, just as he seemed to know so many things. Still smiling, she murmured, “One of the trials of being a woman.” By now she knew Cyrus well enough not to expect him to react as Adrian had—and she had a better understanding of just how abnormal her first husband had been. Adrian’s attitude toward the perfectly natural female cycle of her body had been open disgust.

Quick understanding flashed in Cyrus’s black eyes, and the concern remained. He put his arms around her gently, one hand slipping down to massage the small of her back in a steady rhythm. “I’m sorry you’re hurting, love. Can I help?”

The ache in her back diminished under his touch, and she was barely aware of the murmur of pleasure she made as she relaxed against him. He hadn’t gotten dressed, and she rubbed her cheek against the thick, soft mat of hair covering his broad chest as her arms went around his waist. “That helps,” she said.

“You should rest,” he said after a few moments, still massaging her back gently.

Julia tilted her head back to look up at him, slightly amused but warmed as well. “I’m fine, really. In a few hours there won’t even be an ache.” She hesitated, then said, “I didn’t think about it until just now, but do you want children, Cyrus?”

“A little girl with green eyes,” he said promptly, smiling.

That surprised her. “I thought all men wanted sons.”

“Not this man.” He bent his head briefly to kiss her, then looked down at her gravely. “I’d love to have a child with you, sweet, girl or boy, but having you is what matters to me. I don’t want you to feel it’s your duty, or any of that nonsense. We don’t have to have children if you’d rather not. There are ways to prevent it happening.”

She could think of only one way, and the very idea of no lovemaking absolutely appalled her. She didn’t realize it showed so clearly in her expression, until he grinned down at her.

“No, my love, I don’t mean separate bedrooms—or even beds, if it comes to that.”

“I should hope not,” she murmured, her face hot.

Cyrus chuckled and kissed her again. “I’m so glad you agree with me on that point. No, I meant other ways. If you’d rather not have children, we’ll talk about those ways.”

Julia was staring intently at a point somewhere near his chin. She was mildly curious to learn how to prevent a pregnancy, but not interested enough to ask at the moment. “I want a baby,” she said almost inaudibly. Your baby. Why couldn’t she say that, she wondered, say it was his child she wanted?

“Are you sure, Julia? You’re still very young; we could wait a few years, just to be sure it’s what you want.”

“I’m sure.” Her eyes met his, steady and certain.

He smiled crookedly. “Then we’ll relax and let it happen, if and when it does.”

“If?”

“Not all men are able to father children, love,” he told her seriously. “And some women are barren. We’ll have to wait and find out if we can have a baby together.”

She wanted to tell Cyrus she’d be happy with him even if they didn’t have children, but somehow the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she managed a nod and smile, and kept to herself the puzzling inability to tell him how she felt.

From his secure vantage point, he watched the house, the rage growing and twisting inside him. Bastard. The bastard had deflected the blows aimed at him. He was virtually untouched, and he was guarding his new wife with all the care of a man who had more than a suspicion of a threat.

He knew. Not all of it, no, but enough. The “footmen” he’d hired were detectives, like the men who guarded the house at night, and they were very, very good at their jobs. Neither the woman nor her sister was ever alone.

The watcher stood at his window, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, unable to admit even to himself that he felt as much panic as rage. But the knowledge was there, burning like a brand in his mind. He was losing control, all the threads slipping from his fingers. He’d made a bad mistake in pushing Drummond when he had. The man had gone over the edge, and in so doing he had freed the woman.

And him…He was in love with her, a fact he didn’t trouble to hide from anyone. Somehow, he’d won her trust. They were married now. Mated. A bond existed between them, a tie that gave the bastard added strength. He was almost…complete. Almost able to see the truth. When that happened, he would recognize his twin, and move immediately to destroy him.

The watcher wanted to howl, to rant and rave and tear something apart with his hands. His twin had been blind, but so had he, and he hadn’t known it. He had discounted the importance of the woman except as a vessel for new life, never realizing it was her union with his twin that was the binding thread of fate. Like his own hate, love was the core of his twin’s strength; now that he loved, he was stronger, and when she loved him he would be whole.

And invincible.

A muted sound erupted from the watcher’s throat, low and primal. His lifeless eyes, empty even of the rage that was malignant inside him, stared through the window while the brilliant, dark brain behind them coldly considered.

He had to kill the woman. It was the only way, now, to destroy his twin.

August ended more pleasantly than it had begun, with frequent afternoon thunderstorms damping the heat of summer. Autumn arrived early, blowing cooling breezes through the drying leaves prematurely in September, and by the end of the month it was obvious summer was over.

For Julia, the passing days were almost dreamlike. With Lissa back at school, she and Cyrus had more time alone together, and her confidence as a woman, as well as his wife, grew more secure with every passing day. He talked to her, and listened when she talked, his interest in her thoughts and opinions unfailing. He began teaching her to understand business matters, saying it was her right as his wife to have a complete knowledge of his affairs—now their affairs—and he was both patient and thorough in teaching her.

He continued to encourage her blooming sensuality, making love to her with tenderness and passion. He taught her to laugh again, teasing her with obvious delight.

And he gave of himself so completely that the only shadow on Julia’s happiness was the barrier she knew existed inside herself. It was deep within her, a wall around her heart, and no matter how often she tried to break it down, it stood firm. There were times, brief moments, when she thought she could reach through it, but she was never able to.

Some instinct, hardly understood, told her there were victories that couldn’t be gained by force, and that she had to be patient, so she tried. Whenever her awareness of the barrier began troubling her, she found something to occupy her mind.

There was always something. She was spending a great deal of time now at the new house, which was nearly finished. Cyrus had given her a completely free hand with decorating, offering his opinions when she asked but showing behind a gleam of amusement the traditional male indifference to colors and furnishings. Felice, who had become Julia’s first real friend, said that Noel had found sly ways of keeping her busy during the first months of their marriage, and it had proven to be a wise tactic. She had emerged from her guarded shell without even being aware of it.

“And so are you,” Felice said with a smile, “in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I have.” Julia looked up from a jumble of fabric and wallpaper swatches on the worktable set up in the foyer of the new house. They were alone for the moment, though the sounds of hammers and saws came from other parts of the house as the carpenters completed the final interior work. “Part of me wants to hold back,” she confessed. “To wait and see. I’m not afraid Cyrus will hurt me, it’s just that…”

Felice nodded. “I know. When you’ve been knocked down often enough, it’s difficult to believe it won’t happen again.”

“But what am I waiting for?” Julia asked, bewildered. “I trust him.”

After a thoughtful moment Felice asked, “Has Cyrus lost his temper with you?”

“No,” Julia replied instantly. She hesitated, then added, “He was angry when he…when he saw my back, but he wasn’t angry at me, and I knew it.”

“Then that’s what you’re waiting for.”

Julia felt a faint shock. “I don’t want him to be angry with me,” she protested.

“No, but you’re afraid to trust him completely until he is angry and still doesn’t hurt you.”

It made sense once Julia thought about it. Since she’d been with him, Cyrus had never so much as raised his voice to her. In fact, his voice held a gentleness that seemed only to have deepened during the past weeks, a constant and consistent part of his personality. She trusted his gentleness, but since she had never felt his anger, how could she trust that?

Somewhat helplessly, she said, “What am I supposed to do, deliberately make him angry at me?”

Felice sat down on the third tread of the stairs, and sighed, a look of rueful amusement on her face. “You know, I’m really not sure you even could. From what Noel’s told me, Cyrus has never had a temper, and the only time I’ve seen him in a bad mood was when he was upset because the two of you couldn’t be together. You may never see him lose his temper with anyone—much less you.”

“Then what can I do? Felice, I don’t want to hold back, not with him.”

The older woman shook her head. “I don’t know. Unless…Well, if you could somehow convince yourself he simply isn’t capable of becoming violent, even in the worst of situations, then that would probably do it.”

Increasingly anxious, Julia thought during the next days about what Felice had said. Cyrus frequently told her he loved her, and she believed him; more and more she was painfully aware of the responses she wanted to make and couldn’t. The barrier inside her stubbornly resisted the words that represented the ultimate act of faith and trust.

She told herself he wasn’t capable of violence, not Cyrus, but no matter how insistently she tried to convince herself, there was still a tiny doubt, a wary hesitation in her mind. What if he were?

October brought chilly winds and rains, and no resolution for Julia. She was kept busy with the house and the few social functions she and Cyrus chose to attend, still surprised by the guarded acceptance she encountered. By the third week in October the house was virtually complete and the moving had begun. One by one, the rooms in the city house were emptied and closed, the furnishings hauled out to the new house. The valuables Cyrus had packed and stored before their marriage were also moved, as well as innumerable trunks and boxes filled with items that wouldn’t be needed until they were settled in the new house.

Cyrus said they should have stayed in a hotel during that final week of the month when both houses were in total confusion, but since Julia enjoyed the bustle and needed to supervise all the activity anyway, he didn’t insist. He did complain once, mildly, when he discovered every pair of shoes he owned except the ones on his feet had been packed and moved to the new house two days before they were due to take up residence there, but only laughed at Julia’s guilty dismay.

Moving day was chilly but sunny, and with numerous hired wagons as well as extra workmen to do the loading and transporting, the last of the furniture was taken out to the new house by midafternoon. All the servants, as well as both Julia and Cyrus, were kept busy arranging and unpacking, and it wasn’t until nearly five o’clock that Julia realized something had been left behind.

She was in the master bedroom, working with one of the maids to unpack the last of the trunks, and as she hung one of Cyrus’s coats in his wardrobe she noticed what was missing.

“Cathy, did you pack that long, narrow wooden box I left on the windowsill in the old house?”

The young maid looked up, frowning a little. “No, Miss Julia, I don’t remember seeing it.”

The cane. It had been left in the old house. Julia hesitated, then went to the window and looked out. The bedroom was at the rear of the house, and she could see Cyrus down below talking to a well-dressed man who was apparently a business associate; she’d seen him coming and going a few times during the past week. She turned away from the window, thinking, and rapidly made up her mind.

“The buggy’s still hitched, and tied out front; I’m going to drive back to town.”

“I’ll fetch Nelson,” Cathy said, beginning to get up from her kneeling position beside an open trunk.

“No, it isn’t necessary. He’s helping Stork downstairs. I can make the trip in an hour or less, and be back by dark. Finish up in here, would you, please, Cathy?”

“Yes, Miss Julia.”

Julia found her gloves and a coat, but didn’t bother with a hat. She went down the curving staircase and crossed the foyer, hearing the sounds of busy people but encountering no one. The front of the house was deserted, all the wagons and extra men gone now, but the horse and buggy she usually drove was there.

A few minutes later she was on the road to Richmond, the horse moving at a brisk pace. She had a faintly guilty thought that Cyrus wouldn’t like her going back to town alone like this, but she was less worried by that than by what could happen to his cane, left in an unlocked house. She had every hope of being able to get it and return before he even knew she was gone.

There was little traffic, and she made good time. She pulled the buggy over to the sidewalk in front of the house and used the tether block, then went inside. Empty now, there was an almost eerie feeling of vastness and silence in the house, and Julia wasted no time in heading for the master bedroom. She caught a whiff of kerosene as she went up the stairs, and paused for a moment before continuing on, a little unnerved. All her instincts told her to get out of the house, and she could feel goose bumps breaking out all over her body.

Definitely hurrying now, she went on to the bedroom, and felt a sharp pang of relief when she saw the box just where she’d left it on the windowsill. It was half hidden by the drapes, which was probably why no one had seen it. She went to the window and lifted the lid of the box, relieved again to see the dull gleam of gold and polished wood.

“Hello, Julia.”