She eyed him beneath her lashes. So many questions. It was her turn now. “How do you know about Mr. Abbott? Why do you harbor such interest in him?”
His shoulders twitched in a shrug. “Ye might say I’m also a collector.”
“Is that so? You were acquainted with him?”
“We crossed paths.” MacMasters turned away. Moving to the window, he peeled back the curtain a sliver.
“You know the man’s character…the boldness in his dealings?”
“That’s not the word I’d use to describe his enterprises. He made a lot of enemies.”
“You considered him an adversary?”
“No.” MacMasters turned to her. “I doubt the bastard even knew I existed.”
Johanna studied him. If he was lying, his face didn’t reflect it. “How do you know of him?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It does. At least to me.”
MacMasters shrugged. “The swindler was known from Dublin to Paris.”
Swindler? The word rang in her ears. Alarm chilled her blood, and she dug her nails into her palm.
“Surely you are mistaken. Mr. Abbott was a businessman.”
A bark of laughter rumbled from MacMasters. “That’s bluidy rich. The bastard had ye fooled, didn’t he?”
His tone prickled the hairs on the back of her neck. His words unnerved her. Still, she’d not let on. “I assure you Mr. Abbott had no need to fool anyone.”
“Nae, lass, he had better reason than most. The man was a thief. A scavenger who went after what he wanted without a care for others.”
Her insides roiled, as if caught in the grip of a great storm. She’d known her brother-in-law to be reckless, a gambler whose charm masked an arrogance he couldn’t entirely hide. Her sister had been swept away by that charisma, and despite his flaws, Richard Abbott had seemed a loving husband and father. Indeed, his affection for his daughter had served as his most redeeming quality.
But after Cynthia’s death, he’d grown aloof. Laurel had spent months in Johanna’s care, fearing she’d lost her father as well as her mother. His decision to cart the girl off to Scotland with him had been entirely unexpected, but he’d offered Johanna no cause for alarm. She’d hoped his plan to take a holiday with his daughter had signaled a desire to grow closer to the child he’d often left behind.
How very mistaken she had been. Somehow, it all made sense now. The man’s lack of caution with finances, as though he’d discovered a fountain of wealth he could readily tap. His frequent trips to destinations he didn’t care to divulge. His secretive ways.
Oh, she’d been such a fool.
If she’d known the truth, she would have dissuaded him from taking Laurel. She’d have found some way to stop him. What had he been thinking, plunging his daughter into danger? Or had he believed they’d be safe in Scotland? Had that even been his ultimate destination?
If only she’d known the true nature of his journey to the Highlands.
If only she’d insisted on keeping the child with her.
If only Laurel was safe and this nightmare was over.
She rubbed her temples, as if that would ease the sudden throb just below the surface. “You are wrong about one thing, Mr. MacMasters. Mr. Abbott was not a heartless man. He cared deeply for his family, for his wife and his daughter.”
“Daughter?”
She allowed a small smile to touch her lips. “So, there’s something even you don’t know about Mr. Abbott. He was a father. Quite an adoring one at that.”
His eyes narrowed and his jaw went taut. “Good God, that’s it—that’s why you’re here, traipsing about with men who’d slit yer throat, and smile while they did the deed.”
“Indeed. You’ve figured me out, Mr. MacMasters. I’ve come to ransom my niece. Perhaps if Mr. Abbott hadn’t loved his child, he would’ve left her behind in London. He wouldn’t have dragged the girl into a lion’s den. Laurel would be tucked up in bed at this hour, safe and content, and I would not be trapped here with the likes of you.”
…
If Johanna had plowed her fist into his gut, Connor might have been less stunned. Richard Benedict had had a daughter. Bluidy hell. How had his sources missed that crucial bit of intelligence? Somehow, the canny thief had managed to keep the existence of his wife and child cloaked, out of sight. He’d lived two lives. In one existence, he was Richard Abbott, businessman, husband and father. And in the other, he was a cunning blackguard who lied, cheated, and stole to fund his taste for fine things, using a name as fraudulent as the art he claimed had come from the brushes of old masters.
God above, it all made sense now. Johanna’s abrupt, almost frantic departure from London. Her willingness to do business with men like Ross and Munro. Her desperation to deliver the prize and conclude her bargain with the devil.