Читать книгу Charity House Courtship - Renee Ryan - Страница 13

Chapter Five

Precisely three hours after arriving home from the Hotel Dupree, Laney bypassed the tellers, skirted along the high railing on her left, then charged toward the bank owner’s private office. Unwilling to wait for a response to her knock, she turned the knob and pressed forward. “I’m here to discuss my loan.”

Thurston P. Prescott III didn’t bother looking up as he waved his fleshy hand in bored indifference. “There is nothing more to say, Miss O’Connor. My terms stand.”

Outlaw, she wanted to scream. Cheat. Just yesterday, he’d adopted that same thinly veiled scorn, then shamelessly called in her loan six months early. No warning. No viable explanation. Merely the end of all her dreams for the children.

Exhaling slowly, Laney forced aside her hostility and coaxed her lips into a pleasant smile. “I have one final item to address.”

His attention riveted on the papers before him, Prescott scratched his salt-and-pepper beard and patently ignored her. Laney widened her stance, calling upon the patience she’d lost the day before while standing in this very spot. The constant, even ticking of the wall clock beat in stark contrast to the banker’s furious scribbling. The rich smell of polished mahogany and perfectly aged leather extolled power, ownership.

Laney refused to be intimidated.

She poked at the stack of papers nearest to her, sending them scattering to the floor. “Oh, my, look what I’ve done.”

Prescott’s head snapped up. Frustration knitted across his bushy brows. “I thought I made myself perfectly clear. As of this morning, you now have two days left to come up with the money.” He dipped his pen in the inkwell on his left, then returned his gaze to his paperwork. “You know the way out.”

Oh, no. He wasn’t sending her away yet. Not before she’d settled her loan. “I will take only a moment more of your time.”

Silence was his only reply.

Laney released a small sigh of satisfaction and plucked the neatly wrapped bundle of money from the hidden pocket in her skirt. “Perhaps you’ll be interested in what I have to say now.”

With a steady hand, she set the sizable pile directly where he’d fastened his attention after dismissing her so coldly.

In one swift movement, he snatched the money off the desk and looked up. His small, sharp eyes hardened. Sputtering, he flung his ugly glare from her face to the money in his hand and back again.

“It’s all there.” Laney granted him her most pleasant smile. “All five hundred dollars.”

For a moment his gaze filled with disdain, but then he set the money back on the desk and cleared his expression of all emotion, save one. Suspicion. “How did you come upon this much money in one day?”

A flicker of conscience ignited, making it no longer possible to escape the truth any longer. Yes, Judge Greene had owed Laney the money for Johnny’s room and board over the past three years. And, yes, he should have been paying all along for his son’s care. But that didn’t make what Laney had done the most ethical of routes she could have chosen to raise the money.

She’d used the man’s former “friendship” with her mother—as well as his current one with several other women in Mattie’s brothel—to insist he pay off his debt. Worse, Laney had led him to believe she would make his life difficult if he didn’t do so at once.

That had been wrong. Justified, perhaps, but wrong.

Forgive me, Lord.

Drawing in a slow breath, Laney fought to keep the shame out of her voice as she spoke. “Does it matter where the money came from?”

Eyes narrowed, Prescott slapped both palms on his desk and leaned forward. “Yes, Miss O’Connor, it matters significantly. I must know, without a single doubt, that every dollar of this money is truly yours.”

Laney sighed. She should have been prepared for such a reaction. But she’d been so relieved Judge Greene had cooperated without a fuss she hadn’t thought much further. After convincing Katherine all was well, she’d changed clothes, helped with the children’s morning routine, then hurried to the bank.

Tired now, and more than a little frightened, she did what came naturally. She fought for what was hers. “Telling you where or how I got this money was not part of our agreement. All you said was that I had to pay off my loan in three days. And there is my payment.” She pointed to the money.

A succession of creaks and groans exploded in the air as the banker shifted his considerable frame into another position. Resting his elbows on the chair’s arm, he steepled his fingers under his chin. “Did you steal it?”

“No.” The very idea.

“Then I’ll ask just one more time, before I throw you out of my office. Where did you get the money?”

How she detested that smug condemnation in his eyes. A man like Prescott, with his fancy clothes, obscene wealth, and judgmental nature exemplified all that threatened her children’s chance of a secure future. “Let’s just say I have a...benefactor.”

Now why had she said that, as though she were a woman cut from the same cloth as her mother? She had no doubt Marc Dupree would positively go apoplectic if he heard what she’d just claimed, all but confirming his bad opinion of her.

Disturbed by the direction of her thoughts and that she’d think of the handsome hotel owner at a time like this, she batted at a stubborn curl falling loose from its pins below her hat. What did it matter what Dupree thought of her? If she’d done her job properly last night, and had fully misled him into thinking she lived on The Row, she would never see the man again.

A pity.

No. Not a pity. A blessing.

Studying her with narrowed eyes, Prescott rose from his chair and made his way around the desk.

Laney threw her head back and held his stare, refusing to stir as the banker drew closer. No matter what happened in the next few minutes, she would not let this man see how much she abhorred his self-serving attitude. The one that led him to give and take money whenever it pleased him.

“You have a...benefactor?” He practically spat the word.

“I do.”

“You expect me to believe some misguided soul gave you five hundred dollars? Your friends on The Row may help you out on occasion, as well as a few saloon owners, but I know for a fact that none of them have the kind of money you just delivered here today.”

Laney swallowed back a nasty retort and concentrated on remaining calm. “Is it so hard to comprehend?”

“I find it impossible. No one would give money to you or that...home...of yours. A place filled with illegitimate children with mothers working on The Row.” His face inflated with fury. “It’s beyond repulsive.”

Laney recoiled at the callous words. “No child is repulsive.” Let these little ones come to me. “There are many people in Denver who see the need for my orphanage.”

“You mean the shamed mothers of your kind who need a place to discard their brats.”

Her knees buckled at the venom in his tone. Hands trembling, she grasped the side of the desk to steady herself. This man, with his refined eastern accent and overfilled belly, had never cared about Charity House. Or the children. But surely, he held a fondness for one of them. “What about your son?”

“Don’t ever mention that boy in my presence again.” His rage reverberated in his voice.

“But I thought you wanted to provide for Michael’s future, if not for the other children.”

“That was never my intention.” Prescott’s lips twisted in a snarl. “He’s Sally’s problem, not mine.”

Hypocrite. Just like the men who’d come to Laney’s mother, wanting their pleasure and paying handsomely for it, then cursing her unholy profession once back in their daily lives on the righteous side of Hollady Street. “If that’s how you feel, then why lend me the money in the first place?”

“Simple.” He let out a bitter laugh. “I knew you could never pay back that much money in time. I gave it to you so you would fail. And then Denver would be rid of you and your brats for good.”

He’d wanted her to fail? He might as well have grasped her heart and squeezed the very life out of it. She clamped her lips tight shut, shunning the weak tears that would proclaim her despair to this man. All this time, Laney thought Prescott had loaned her the money for the benefit of his six-year-old son. She’d been wrong. So...very...wrong.

“It doesn’t matter what you think,” she said, realizing the truth as she spoke it out loud. “You signed our agreement. That makes it legal. You can’t deny me the right to pay off my loan.”

He blinked, his insults held in check for the first time during their association. Sensing victory, Laney clutched her small advantage and pounced. “Take the money and let’s be done with this distasteful business between us.”

Prescott paused. “I’ll have to count it.”

Hardly daring to breathe, Laney nodded. “By all means, take your time. My morning is yours.”

As he rounded his desk and lowered back into his chair, a sense of euphoria built inside her.

Almost there.

Counting one bill at a time, he made slow work of checking the amount.

Almost there. Almost there.

His gaze unreadable, Prescott set the last bill on top of the pile and looked up at her.

“You lose, Mr. Prescott.” Laney allowed a full smile to lengthen across her lips. “And now I own Charity House.”

I own Charity House. The thought coiled in her head, making her dizzy with relief.

All she had to do was endure a few more tense moments in this awful man’s company and she’d never have to deal with him again.

“Before I leave this morning I want the deed to Charity House. And I want you to put in writing that I have no more debt owed to this bank. Or to you.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

What? “Why not?”

“You’re short the full amount.” He patted the stack of money.

“Short?” That couldn’t be correct. “The full amount is there, all five hundred dollars. I counted the stack myself, just this morning.”

“You didn’t include the interest.”

Every fiber of her being froze at the look of pleasure on Prescott’s face. “Interest?”

“You can’t think I would have given you three extra days on your loan without a penalty.”

He had the audacity to look sorrowful now, as though the matter was out of his hands. A lie. They both knew he was the owner of this bank. He could add or subtract any terms he liked, on whatever whim suited him.

“Have you no decency?” she whispered, trying to reconcile the man standing before her with the one he presented to the good people of Denver. He attended church every Sunday, pretended piousness while in the pew, and then conducted shameless usury the rest of the week.

“How much interest are you talking about?”

“Ten percent.”

She gasped.

“But to prove I’m a fair man, I’ll extend your loan through the end of the month without adding any additional fee.”

Fifty dollars. He wanted an additional fifty dollars in less than three weeks. It might as well be five thousand. How would she ever raise more money, when she’d already tapped all her normal sources, a few not-so-normal, and then one more?

She’d failed. When she’d come so close to victory.

And somehow Prescott knew she had no more resources at her disposal.

No. No. She couldn’t give up. Not with nearly three weeks left to formulate a plan. Surely Laney could find the extra fifty dollars in the allotted timeframe. She could go to the children’s mothers, again, or even Mattie Silks herself. Laney could cut costs to the bare bone, or maybe find a job.

What sort of job would pay that kind of money?

Something...anything...

Please, Lord, show me the way.

“All right, Mr. Prescott. I accept your terms.” As if she had any other choice. “You will have the additional fifty dollars by the end of the month.”

“Good enough.”

Not by half. Laney had learned her lesson. She knew better than to walk out of this office with only a verbal agreement between them. Not this time. Not ever again.

“Before I go,” she said, “I want the new conditions of my loan in writing, spelled out in clear language, signed by us both with at least two witnesses present.”

Owl-eyed and motionless, he blinked up at her.

Laney held his stare, boldly, fearlessly, silently calling his bluff as though they were in a high-stakes poker game with both their livelihoods on the line. “I’ll wait while you draw up the document.”

* * *

Hours of walking countless streets and alleyways in the wee hours of the morning had helped Marc’s anger simmer to a low boil. He’d searched the length of The Row—Denver’s notorious red-light district—but had not discovered Miss O’Connor’s brothel or her alternate place of business.

The slippery woman had vanished completely and the suspicion that she was not what she seemed thrashed to life all over again.

Where was she? And more importantly, what could have possibly birthed that look of desperation in those beautiful, expressive eyes? Had she incurred a sizable debt that required quick payment?

A possibility, to be sure.

Perhaps that shifty banker Prescott would have some answers. Not long after moving to Denver, Marc had discovered the man’s uncanny knack for asserting himself into almost every major financial transaction in the city. If Laney O’Connor owed money to someone in town, there was a high possibility Prescott would know the particulars. Or worse, had involved himself in the matter personally.

Marc wouldn’t wish that cruelty on anyone, not even Miss O’Connor.

When he entered the bank, the clerk told him he would have to wait his turn to speak with Prescott. The owner was already conducting business with another customer.

None too happy, Marc thrust aside his impatience and sat in a chair facing the glass-encased office split into three sections by polished wooden planks. The elegant interior of the bank called to mind his youthful days in New Orleans, before the war had destroyed the opulence in which he’d been born. He knew it was a time that could never be regained. Yet the soothing memories of that simpler life flooded his mind, sending a sharp homesickness for family, and what might have been.

He’d lost so much, not just the only way of life he’d ever known, but far too many loved ones as well. Perhaps that explained why he’d been fooled into thinking he could reclaim some of his joy with Pearl by his side.

Pearl. What a debacle their marriage had been.

If only he’d caught up with her before she’d died in that train wreck, he wouldn’t feel such regret, or such disgrace. But after three arduous years of searching, the last two conducted by an overpaid Pinkerton agent, Marc still didn’t know where his wife had hidden the remaining portion of his fortune. All he knew was that she’d spent the bulk of the money in Cripple Creek during the first few months after she’d left him.

Unwilling to allow the melancholy he’d banished years ago to return this morning, he diverted his attention back to Prescott’s office. At the sight of the woman jerking her chin at the banker, Marc straightened in his chair.

He knew that particular gesture, and that defiant angle of delicate female shoulders. The familiar prickling on the back of his neck confirmed her identity more surely than if she’d turned around to face him. “Laney O’Connor.”

Outfitted in a pale pink, really very homely dress, she still managed to catch his attention and hold it fast.

The moment she squared her tiny shoulders and jutted her nose in the air, Marc stood.

No wonder he hadn’t located the woman on The Row. The little con had been conducting affairs of a very different nature this morning. Was she starting her own brothel? That would explain the odd, hushed-mouthed reticence of the madams he’d questioned throughout the night and early-morning hours.

How he wished it weren’t true, but what else would explain the need for such a large sum of money, money she was using to conduct business with the shadiest banker in town? Marc could hardly bear the thread of disappointment braiding through him.

Surprisingly heavyhearted, he continued to watch Miss O’Connor deal with Prescott. She shrugged in response to something the man said, and then turned to look out the office windows. Her gaze roamed the bank in the same cool, calculating manner she’d used to survey Marc’s hotel last night.

He took a step forward, ensuring she saw him when her gaze crossed in his direction. The instant those amber eyes met his, he nodded. Her wide-eyed flush prompted him to add a bit of sarcasm to the moment. He delivered a two-finger salute.

She shifted her stance, shot him a frown and then purposely turned her back to him. Her slight tremble told the true story of her reaction to his presence in the bank. She should be worried.

The time had come to finish their conversation from last night, with Marc the ultimate victor. And he knew just how to orchestrate his triumph.