Free Blind Trust by Susannah Bamford

though she did not bear her. And she is engaged to be married. To a man she loves, a man I like and respect, who happens to be from a socially prominent family here in New York. The scandal of my wife’s departure might jeopardize that alliance—and my daughter’s happiness. I withdrew my resignation.”
    Tavish nodded. “I see.” He pictured the daughter; the intelligent face, the luxuriant hair, the creamy complexion. He’d like to know the girl was able to marry a man she loved. With that sardonic intelligent look in her eye, he’d bet she would have a hellish marriage any other way.
    Hinkle clasped his hands tightly. His eyes went flat and angry. “If I could find a way to crush them I would, by God. I have been a scoundrel, in my way. What millionaire has not? But they have threatened the happiness of my family. And they have done it with such contempt, such …” He shook his head. Then his eyes blazed at Tavish. “That I do not forgive!” he shouted. He lowered his voice. “But I am trapped like an animal in the snare they have laid, and I blame myself for that. I had nothing to do with the bribe exorted from your town, Mr. Finn, nor with the death of your friend. You have my word.”
    Tavish nodded.
    Hinkle looked down and noticed his cigar was out. With a grunt, he began to relight it.
    Tavish puffed on his own cigar. “Perhaps I can ask you some questions,” he said.
    Hinkle nodded. He looked suddenly exhausted, his face white and pinched. “I am ready, Mr. Finn,” he said.
    â€œOf course you should have come,” Columbine Nash said to Darcy. She was even more beautiful by daylight. Her complexion was fresh and clear as a young girl’s, though Darcy was aware she must be in her mid-thirties. Her light brown eyes were enormous, almost green in the bright early afternoon sun slanting through her parlor curtains. “I must confess I saw you at the window, and I told Bell to admit you. I did so want to see more of you at the ball. We’ll have tea, won’t we, even though it’s a morning call. I’ve always thought it so silly to refer to a ‘morning’ call when you can’t properly arrive until after lunch, don’t you? And you mustn’t think of staying only fifteen minutes. I won’t stand for it. How do you like my little sitting room? All of the furnishings are rented, with the house. They’re hideous, I know. This flowered horror underneath our feet—isn’t it a disgrace?”
    While Darcy wondered if she should answer, and how, in fact, she could do so gracefully without complimenting the truly atrocious carpet, Columbine fussily adjusted curtains that must have been a rich ruby at one time. Now they were a dull maroon. Beige tassels that must have once been gold hung drearily down, appearing to have been worried at by a too-eager puppy. But the room was welcoming somehow, strangely free of clutter, the bibelots and whatnots Darcy had come to expect from sitting rooms. There was only the shabby furniture, a few odd treasures—a bowl in robin’s-egg blue, a round crystal, a paper knife with a handle of ivory—and books piled on every table and shelf, and even on the floor by the windows. There was a copy of what must have been every daily newspaper in New York by Columbine’s chair, a pair of spectacles lying askew on top of them. In the corner, a secretary was piled with correspondence. A lone letter lay on the floor by the chair.
    As Columbine fiddled with the curtain, Darcy felt the cool shadow touch her face with relief.
    â€œTea, then, Mrs. Statton?” Columbine asked.
    â€œI would love some tea.”
    â€œAnd cakes,” Columbine said, ringing for the maid. “What would tea be without cakes? Americans have to learn about tea, I think. They’ve barely caught on to us. Oh, dear. Bell was already making tea, she said, and it isn’t coming. Bell