The Lady of Bolton Hill

Chapter 15





Maguire would not have done it,” Manzetti said with con- fidence. “Oh, he’ll burn things down, but he provides plenty of notice before he does it.”

Daniel sat at the table in Lorna’s kitchen, an untouched cup of coffee before him. All he cared about was hunting down who was responsible for last night’s fire, and the list was endless. Manzetti had risen through the same rank and file of steel workers as Daniel, and they were both personally acquainted with many of the men who now led the newly resurrected labor movement. If the fire related to labor, Eddie Maguire was the logical suspect. He was the leader of the cannery workers, and they had been known to organize riots in sympathy with other labor union  s. Plus, he had a reputation for violence.

“Can I get you another cup of coffee?” Lorna asked softly. He shook his head no, and Lorna withdrew to the far side of the kitchen. His smoldering anger was making her timid, but for once in his life he couldn’t rein it in to give her comfort.

“I still think it was Alfred Forsythe,” Daniel said. “What better time to strike at me than when he can point the finger of blame at labor? The instant I withdrew the company for sale, he knew he would have no chance at licensing our technology. If I were removed from the scene, the deal would have gone through.”

Manzetti shook his head. “But why burn your house? You said three shots were fired before the flames started burning. It sounds like whoever started it was providing a warning . . . making sure you were awake and could get out. If someone was trying to murder you, you’d have been killed before the flames were set. I think this is labor, not Forsythe.”

Daniel shot to his feet and began pacing in the small confines of the kitchen. “That doesn’t make sense,” Daniel said, his voice slashing through the air. “Labor hasn’t had enough time to issue their demands. You do not start burning houses until negotiations break down. We weren’t even close to that point.”

Manzetti kept talking, but it was hard for Daniel to concentrate. It wasn’t just a house that had burned down last night, it was the culmination of his dream. When Clara had stated he could simply buy new things to replace what was ruined, he’d had to fight the impulse to bodily throw her off the property. That house contained every musical score he had ever written. It contained the first rudimentary drawings for his patents and the original prototypes of his inventions. And it had the only photograph left in existence of his parents. The picture of his deliriously happy mother with her crown of daisies was burned and gone.

Perhaps that was for the best. Whenever Daniel looked at that photograph of his mother’s face bathed in joy, he wondered if it would have been better for her to have been struck dead that very day. How much better would it have been for her to die when she was happy, rather than sink into the wrenching despair that caused her to abandon every scrap of responsibility for her children and commit suicide? Did her goodness even count? Did the fact that she was a good Christian who loved her children even matter? From the day of his mother’s suicide, Daniel had never set foot inside a church. To do so would mean confronting those awful questions and abandoning his thirst for revenge. Pursuit of Alfred Forsythe had been the fuel that had motivated him all these years, and he had no desire to set it aside.

His mother’s suicide was just another curse in the long line of events that led back to Alfred Forsythe. His gut was screaming at him that the blame for last night’s fire also lay with Forsythe. At the root of most of the tragedies in his life lay the slithering ambition of Alfred Forsythe, and this had the same stinking air. Forsythe had been on the verge of wrapping his claws around Carr & Tremain, so close he had no doubt been counting the revenue that would soon be flowing into his coffers.

He pierced Manzetti with a hard stare. “We need to find out what Clara Endicott knows. She has been talking with Forsythe, and I would not put it past her to have begun speaking to labor organizers, as well. Bring her to my office so we can talk.” The very thought of Clara being entangled in this made his anger burn brighter. Clara had always represented a sanctuary where he could flee the responsibilities that weighed on him; now she was cavorting in the gritty underbelly of the world with his enemies.

The memory of the foul way he had treated her seared his mind. Last night he had given vent to the anger that festered inside his soul, but despite all that, she had vowed eternal loyalty to him. The sight of her anxious, sweat-stained face as she dared to confront him before the ruins of his house would stay with him the rest of his life. He had made no attempt to rein in his unwieldy temper, lashing out at her with reckless disregard. Somehow, he needed to figure out a way to keep the anger and pollution inside him from damaging the precious, gilded thread that tied him to Clara. If he did not protect that bond, it was in danger of snapping.





At noon the following day Clara heard the sound she had been dreading. The distinctive one-five-one pealing of alarm bells signaling another riot had begun.

It could not have come at a worse time. This morning she had received a message from Daniel requesting a meeting. Mr. Manzetti was slated to arrive within the hour to escort her to Daniel’s downtown office, where she hoped they could begin piecing together the wreckage of their relationship. Whether the meeting was to discuss the breakdown of their friendship or the trouble brewing for his company didn’t matter. It was all bound up in the same tangle of old history that needed to be resolved before Daniel could move forward.

Clara sat on the porch swing, waiting for Mr. Manzetti’s arrival. Clyde whittled a piece of driftwood with an impressive-looking knife. “Are you sure this is really an offer of truce Tremain is planning? He is a master at holding grudges. Not so much for extending an olive branch.”

“Then I’ll bring the olive branch,” Clara said. She swiveled on the porch swing so she could see him better. “Clyde, if you could have seen how proud Daniel was of his house, you wouldn’t be so flippant. He poured himself into every line of the design and filled it with things that can never be replaced.” Like a simple sketch on the back of a napkin that he had framed and displayed in a place of honor, and music he had written for her when he was still just a boy. “And it was more than just the things,” she continued. “I think Daniel was proud of the fact that he had been able to give his family a sense of security they never had. That was what the house represented to him.”


Clyde seemed unimpressed. “I’ve lived in a tent or under the stars for most of the last ten years. Forgive me if I’m not swamped with sympathy because your robber-baron boyfriend will have to buy himself a new mansion.”

She was spared a sharp retort when the distinctive clop of horse hooves signaled Mr. Manzetti’s arrival. She wondered if he would be as hostile as Daniel and his sister, but he sprang down from the carriage and tipped his hat to her as he approached the porch.

“Trouble brewing down by the mills,” he said, “but they won’t dare spill into Calvert Street where Tremain’s office is. Are you still willing to go?”

The newspapers warned civilians to stay safely inside when the riot alarm sounded, and it only made sense to be afraid of a riot, but nothing petrified her as much as the thought of losing Daniel forever. She lifted the hem of her skirt as she marched down the stairs. “Just try to stop me,” she said as he helped her into the carriage.

The carriage was sleek and well-sprung, but the interior smelled of smoke damage. She remembered that Daniel kept a stable a few acres down from his house, so at least his horse and carriage had been salvaged.

The roll of the carriage slowed as they traveled east on Mulberry Street. Clara sent a worried glance out the window, but aside from a snarl of carriages, there didn’t seem to be untoward trouble. The city was growing so rapidly that this type of traffic was becoming increasingly common. The little window at the top of the compartment slid open and Mr. Manzetti called down to her, “I’m heading down Greene Street to bypass this mess.”

Clara had been absent from the city for ten years and trusted Mr. Manzetti to know traffic navigation better than she, but on Greene Street carriages were caught up in something more ominous than an abundance of midday travelers. The riot alarms were sounding closer, and panicked pedestrians were hurrying amid the horses and carriages. Clara thought she heard a thump as something struck the carriage. She was about to lean forward and try to contact Mr. Manzetti when the carriage door was wrenched open.

A young man, or boy really, hurtled into the carriage. “Sorry, ma’am. Can I take cover in here?” He pulled the door shut behind him and slid into the seat opposite her. “The shops are all locking their doors and I’ve got nowhere to go.”

Despite the sheer panic written across his face, the boy was possibly the most beautiful youth she had ever set eyes on. White-blond hair framed a face with Nordic features and crystal blue eyes. It was impossible to tell his age, but she could detect the barest hint of whiskers on his smooth white skin. The boy looked fearfully out the window. “The trouble is headed this way,” he said as he pulled the lock closed on the carriage door. “It’s a good thing your driver turned around, or you’d be headed straight into the thick of it.”

Mr. Manzetti had turned the carriage with alacrity, sliding up onto the sidewalk in order to make quicker progress as they headed back up Greene. Clara tensed her fist in frustration. If she thought she could walk to Daniel’s office, she would do so, but it was several miles away, and it was impossible to know what sort of chaos lay between here and there. Heaven only knew how long Daniel’s conciliatory mood would last, and she had to get through to him today.

“Thank you for taking me in, ma’am,” the boy said. “I’ve never known the rioting to get this far north.”

The barest hint of a tremble shook the boy’s voice, and Clara felt a surprising maternal instinct to comfort him. “You don’t need to be afraid,” she said soothingly. “We may be stuck here for an ungodly amount of time, but we will survive.”

She was trying to remember how Daniel had jimmied those locks with her hairpins. If need be, she’d get out and find a way to seek shelter for herself and the boy in one of the locked buildings. A hint of relief flickered into her companion’s blue eyes as he sent a nervous smile at her. This boy could probably slay girls clear across the Atlantic with that smile. “My name is Clara Endicott,” she said, trying to ignore the increasing chaos outside the carriage window. “And who might you be? I must say you have a rather dramatic way of making an entrance.”

“Sorry again for that,” he said. The Adam’s apple in his thin neck bobbed as he nervously swallowed. “I’m Alex.”

The butt of a rifle smashed through the glass of the window and a thick arm reached through the opening, sliding the bolt and wrenching the door open. The boy hurtled across the carriage and clung to Clara as three men forced themselves inside. The carriage plunged to one side and almost toppled under the weight of the massive intruders.

“Get out of the carriage,” Clara said to the boy. “Move! They don’t want us, they want the carriage.” She tried to push the boy toward the door, but a Colt revolver was shoved in her face, freezing her movement.

“You’re not going anywhere, lady,” the man said in a voice that sounded like gravel. The revolver traveled closer to her nose, and she leaned back in her seat, the boy still clutched in her arms.

“Pointing a gun at women and children,” she said, amazed at the calm tone of her voice. “Your mother must be so proud.”

The other two men laughed, but Clara noticed they were armed to the teeth, as well. She didn’t know a simple belt could hold so many knives, clubs, and holstered guns. The carriage continued to careen down the street, and Clara had no idea if Mr. Manzetti was still in charge, or if he had leapt off to safety long ago.

The man pointing the gun found no humor in her comment and narrowed his scowl at her. “You don’t like a gun pointed in your face? Fine. I’ll keep it on the kid. See if that shuts up that smart mouth of yours.” And with that he shifted the gun to point directly between Alex’s terrified blue eyes. The boy’s fingers tightened around her waist, but he bravely met the gravel-voiced man’s eyes.

“You d-don’t have to hurt either one of us,” Alex said through white lips. “Just let us out of here.”

“Why don’t the two of you shut your face and enjoy the ride. We’ve got a ways to go.”

Now Clara was certain that Mr. Manzetti was no longer driving the carriage. They were flying through a back alley completely devoid of protesters. When the gravel-voiced man noticed her looking out the window, he nodded to one of the other men, who pulled the muslin shades closed. Somehow being inside the darkened carriage with nothing to see but the three terrifying men was even worse. Clara’s eyes drifted closed, and she sent up a prayer. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . . She drew a blank on the next line. For years, she had recited Psalm twenty-three when troubled, and now when she was most in need, the lines escaped her. Just please keep the boy safe. She was old enough to fend for herself, but this poor child was out of his element and completely petrified. She was, too, but somehow it was easier to endure terror as an adult than as a boy barely old enough to shave.

She shifted and swayed in the seat as the carriage swerved through the narrow city streets. She kept her arm around Alex’s slender shoulders, occasionally sending a reassuring squeeze his way.

At last the carriage slowed to a halt, and Clara felt her mouth go dry. She was about to find out if all they wanted was the carriage, or if they intended to murder her and poor Alex on the spot.


The door was pulled open from outside and the men began filing out. No rays of sunshine leaked though the open door, and when she stepped outside, she was amazed to see the horse and carriage were inside a huge, mostly vacant warehouse. Alex got out behind her, but she was too busy looking for Mr. Manzetti to focus on anything else. Another giant ox of a man was in the driver’s seat of the carriage, and there was no sign of Mr. Manzetti anywhere.

“Move out” came an order from behind her. Immediately the men assembled into a formation, and like a phalanx of Venetian soldiers, they boxed her in and forced her along with them as they strode deep into the warehouse. The echo of footsteps clattered throughout the cavernous space, and only a little weak light filtered through the dirty windows several stories above them.

At the far end of the warehouse a table and few chairs littered the corner. Crates were stacked up to enclose the space almost like a private room. Clara was shoved against a chair, which she took to be a request for her to sit. She did, not that she had any choice in the matter. Directly across from her the men were lined up as though in formation, arms folded across their beefy chests as they seemed to have no purpose other than to stare at her. There was no sign of Alex.

“Where is Mr. Manzetti?” she asked. “And Alex? What have you done with them?”

The gravel-voiced man stepped forward and grabbed a handful of her blouse, hauling her forward until she was nose to nose with his sweaty face. “I told you before to shut up, and if I have to remind you again, I’m slicing that tongue out of your head and sending it to Tremain and see if he’ll pay ransom for that much, at least. Have you got that through your thick skull?” With one arm he shook her like a rag doll, and Clara felt the coils of her hair coming loose and tumbling down the back of her head.

“Richards, knock it off.”

The cool voice came from the far side of the warehouse and her tormenter immediately dropped Clara back into her chair as a glimmer of fear shone in his eyes. “Sorry, Bane,” he mumbled. “It won’t happen again.”

Clara looked toward the voice, and her eyes widened in shock as Alex strolled forward, his beautiful face a portrait of serenity as he casually pulled out a chair opposite her. “Bring us something to drink; our guest looks thirsty. McGahee, get rid of the carriage and set the horse free.”

The men turned to do his bidding, but Clara could not tear her eyes off the boy. He seemed so young, and yet he calmly ordered men who were twice his size and age with the ease of a prince born into power. She couldn’t lose her nerve now.

“I’m not interested in something to drink. I’m interested in what you’ve done with my driver, Alex.”

“My name is Alex Banebridge, but call me Bane; everyone else does,” he said calmly. “And you really shouldn’t open your door to strangers, Clara.”

“You forced yourself into my carriage!”

“Let’s not split hairs. Do you care for coffee or tea? I’ve got both.”

She ignored the question. “So what is the plan? Are you hoping to ransom me back to someone? I’ll make it easy on you. My father will pay; Tremain will not.”

A smile lit Bane’s face, revealing an array of perfectly straight, gleaming white teeth. “Thank you for that piece of information, but we are planning on killing you, so there will be no need for any messy ransom notes. Paper trails are so bothersome.”

The breath froze in her throat and she stared in disbelief at the slip of a boy sitting before her. “Are you serious?” she finally managed to stammer.

“Afraid so. But don’t worry. I’m good at this and it won’t hurt. I can be very quick.” One of Bane’s thugs set down a pot of tea and two teacups. She watched in fascination as Bane leaned forward and poured out a carefully measured dose of tea and slid it across the table to her. He poured one for himself and took a sip. Surely he would not be drinking from the same pot if the tea were poisoned.

“It would be rude not to join me,” he said. He withdrew a watch from his pocket and noted the time while drawing another sip of tea.

“And you are such a stickler for manners, I see. Do you always take tea before bedtime? Am I to read you a story, as well?” She was surprised to see nervous glances being exchanged between the thugs who surrounded the table. Did they really fear this boy so much? She didn’t believe he was capable of killing her . . . if he wanted her dead, she would already be dead.

She took a sip of tea. It tasted fine, so she downed the entire cup. This kidnapping business had made her extraordinarily thirsty. “So who paid you to kidnap me? I’ve never seen you before, so someone must have put you up to this.”

“Obviously.”

“Who?”

He leaned back in his chair with feline grace, that creepy little smile back on his pretty face. “I don’t give information away for free; it is not good business.”

She was still thirsty and reached to pour another cup of tea, but Bane’s hand locked around her wrist like an iron band and slammed her arm to the table before she could touch the pot.

“No more tea,” he said.

“Stingy, are we? And you are about to come into such riches from your criminal enterprise today.”

One of Bane’s goons leaned forward. “I’ve seen Bane break a man’s leg for that kind of wise crack. You’d better watch it, lady.” Bane neither confirmed nor denied the comment; he just remained watching her so calmly it was impossible to read what was going on behind that oddly beautiful face.

But strangely, she didn’t really care. A rather delightful pressure settled on her shoulders and chest, making her feel expansive and brave. She glanced at the teapot and Bane’s hand still keeping her wrist locked to the table.

She had been drugged.

“So what was in the tea?” she asked calmly. It was easy to be calm, since nothing really mattered anyway. “Am I going to die from it?”

Instead of answering her, Bane opened his watch again. “Two minutes,” he reported, and one of his goons made a notation on a small notepad. “This batch is stronger than the last, so we ought to fetch at least ten percent more.”

“You drank it, too,” she said inanely.

Bane looked amused. “Of course I didn’t. The powder was in the bottom of your teacup before I filled it. Opium is a nasty habit. I don’t indulge.”

Bane kept talking, but she had quit listening. She was grateful the chair had a back because holding her head up was getting to be too much work. She slumped against the back of the chair and her head lolled to her shoulder. She kept her eyes open, though. The thugs were putting little gray cakes on the table, and Bane was grinding them into a powder. Was he some kind of drug runner? The way he took a tiny little instrument and held the powder to the light made him look like some kind of scientist. A dazzling, wicked scientist.

Her left side felt very heavy, and the floor was beginning to look more comfortable than this straight-backed chair.

“Better catch her,” she thought she heard someone say. But it was the last thing she heard before everything went dark.