And then: VAN ALAN.
Olive fell back on her heels. She hadn’t really expected to find it; she had even, in her heart, perhaps been hoping she wouldn’t. Finding something meant . . . well, finding something. Discovering the true story, forcing herself to act. She had spent the past year in righteous fury, trembling with the need to destroy the man who had destroyed her father and her family. And now the whole affair lay before her in a plain leather portfolio, the documented scale of Mr. Pratt’s perfidy, and all of a sudden she didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to bring the poisoned chalice to her lips.
Didn’t want this at all.
But you have to, she told herself, staring at the leather, the black block letters spelling out her own name, her own lost family. She could still hear the phonograph, straining through the floor below. Somebody broke out in hearty male laughter.
Thy almost blunted purpose.
She reached into the drawer and set her hands on either side of the portfolio.
The doorknob rattled.
In a flash, she slammed the drawer shut and turned the lock. From above the desk came the faint creak of hinges, a wedge of light from the hallway beyond. Olive swallowed back her heart and pressed her fingers into the floor, to keep her body from shaking.
“Olive? Is that you?”
Harry.
She let out a long column of air, the full contents of her lungs.
“Olive, darling. It’s just me.” The click of the door closing again. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get away. I had to make up an excuse about too much eggnog. I’m not sure if anyone believed me.” A chuckle. “You’re not hiding, are you?”
There was no point in pretending, was there? Olive rose slowly from behind the desk. Harry stood just outside the circle of light from the desk lamp, tall and reassuring in his black-and-white dinner dress, hair glinting gold.
“I didn’t want anyone to catch me,” she said shakily.
“Well, you chose the right spot. I never would have guessed if I didn’t see the light beneath the door.” He held out his hand. “Come along. I’ve got a special Christmas surprise for you upstairs.”
“A surprise?”
He came around the corner of the desk and took her hand. “Why, you’re shaking like a leaf. Poor Olive.” He kissed her hand. “You must be exhausted, and I’m keeping you up like a scoundrel. But don’t worry. That will all be over soon.”
“Over?”
Harry turned off the lamp, leaned down, and kissed the tip of her nose. “Just come with me, will you? I promise it will be worth your while.”
She had no choice but to follow him as he led her by the hand toward the door. He opened it, peeked out, told her the coast was clear, and drew her out before him into the empty glamour of the third-floor landing.
As he shut the door behind them, Harry gave a little shudder. “I never did like that room very much,” he whispered in her ear.
Fifteen
JULY 1920
Lucy
“Miss Young? Will you escort Mr. Ravenel to the elevator?”
“Yes, of course.” Lucy hastily pushed back her chair as the door to Mr. Schuyler’s office opened and her employer motioned to Mr. Ravenel to precede him.
The two were a study in contrasts, Mr. Schuyler fairer, thinner, taller; Mr. Ravenel with his velvety eyes and his rugby player’s muscles. He wore a suit in a lightweight fabric; the pale color brought out the sun on his skin, making Mr. Schuyler seem pale and office bound in comparison.
“Thank you for your assistance in this matter, sir,” said Mr. Ravenel, holding out his hand to Mr. Schuyler.
“Not at all, not at all.” Mr. Schuyler was smiling—smiling with his teeth, but not his eyes. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I have some answers to your questions. Miss Young?”
“Yes, sir.” With brisk efficiency, Lucy handed Mr. Ravenel his hat. “If you would be so good as to follow me?”
“With pleasure, Miss Young,” said Mr. Ravenel, and tipped his hat courteously to Mr. Schuyler. All very proper, all very correct. As the office door closed, he said in a lower voice, a voice for Lucy’s ears only, “I enjoyed our outing on Saturday.”
Lucy cast a quick, nervous look over her shoulder. Silly of her. It wasn’t as though there had been anything illicit about the outing. Not even her grandmother could find anything compromising about a walk in the park in broad daylight.