Free The Firebrand by Susan Wiggs Page A

that's something."
    Lucy glanced at the card, then froze in amazement. She was looking at a name she hadn't seen in a very long time, but one she had never forgotten. Mr. Randolph B. Higgins.

Chapter Seven

    "Mr. Higgins?"
    Rand glanced up from his desk to see his secretary in the doorway to the office. "Yes, Mr. Crowe?"
    The earnest young man crossed the room and held out a small note. "A message from Mrs. Higgins, sir."
    "Thank you, Mr. Crowe. Do I have any other appointments this afternoon?" "One more, sir. It's about a loan extension." He set down a flat cardstock file,
    bound with a brown satin ribbon. "One of those loans in the batch you acquired
    from Commonwealth Securities."
    "Thank you," Rand said again, keeping his expression impassive. He never betrayed his opinion about a professional matter, even to his secretary. It was this fierce discretion that had secured his reputation in the banking business, and he wasn't about to compromise that.
    In the years since the fire, Rand had discovered within himself not just a talent for banking, but a passion for it. He welcomed the responsibility of looking after people's money and embraced the task of lending to those who demonstrated a brilliant idea, an acute need or a promising enterprise. Sometimes he thought his love of banking was the only reason he'd carried on following those shadowy,
    pain-filled months after the fire.
    When Crowe left, Rand opened the note, written in a fine, spiderweb hand on cream stock imported from England. At the top was the Higgins crest, a pretentious little vanity created by his great-grandfather decades ago. The gold embossed emblem of an eagle winked in the strong sunlight of late afternoon. Rand stood by the window to read the note.
    Another invitation, of course. She was constantly trying to broaden his social horizons, trolling the elite gatherings of the city like fishermen trolled Lake Michigan for pike, and setting her netted catch before Rand.
    The trouble was, he thought wryly, that after a while the catch began to stink. It wasn't that he had no interest in social advancement—he knew as well as anyone that, in his business, connections mattered. It was just that he found them tedious and, deep down, hurtful.
    This evening's soiree was a reception for a popular politician, arranged by Jasper Lamott, who also happened to be on the board of the Union Trust. Lamott's group, a conservative organization called the Brethren of Orderly Righteousness, was raising funds to oppose a bill before the legislature giving women dangerously broad rights to file suit against their own husbands. Like all decent men, Rand was alarmed by the rapid spread of the women's suffrage movement, which was causing families to break apart all across the country. He believed women were best suited to their place as keepers of hearth and home, with men serving as providers and protectors. Perhaps he would attend the event after all. He would most certainly make a generous donation to the cause. The fact that women no longer knew or respected their place had brought him no end of trouble, and he supported those who labored to correct the situation for society in general.
    Taking advantage of a rare lull in the day's activities, he turned to the picture window, with its leaded fanlights. Resting his hands on the cool marble windowsill, he looked out.
    It was a dazzling spring afternoon, the sunlight shimmering across the lake and illuminating the neatly laid-out streets of the business district. Across from the bank was a park surrounded by a handsome wroughtiron fence. In the center, a larger-than-life statue of Colonel Hiram B. Hathaway commemorated his heroism in the War Between the States. Slender poplar and maple trees lined the walkways. The green of the grass was particularly intense. Newcomers to town often commented on the deep emerald shade of the grass in the rebuilt city. Some theorized that the Great Fire of '71 left the soil highly fertile, so