No one else knew her real name or where she had come from. She’d made up several stories and told them all at various times with a wink and a smile. The wealthy patrons of Victoria House didn’t care where the madam was from. All they really wanted was a bit of intrigue, so she told them she was a runaway countess, or the long-lost granddaughter of the famous pirate Jean Lafitte. Once, a rumor had started that she was an illegitimate Russian princess, and she hadn’t bothered to refute it. If they believed the stories it was because they wanted to. Because of her accent, most assumed she was a Southern belle whose family had been displaced during the war. She never confirmed or denied anything. The stories were good for business, because they kept her mysterious.
The truth would not be good for business. As a matter of fact, the truth could very well get her and Able killed. The shock of that settled into her bones as she walked to stand behind her desk, staring down at the letter. The words written in black ink on the parchment sent cold tendrils of fear curling down her spine. She shivered and forced a deep, even breath to keep the terror at bay. She refused to allow one simple note to paralyze her with fear.
But it was jarring, because she’d never received a note like this since her escape. It was certainly plausible that someone from her old life had tracked her down, even after all this time. It was also true that she’d made many enemies in her line of work—namely men who wanted the fortune she managed—and would relish bringing her past rushing back to meet her. Harvey came to mind immediately. Had he somehow had a hand in this? Was this a move to push her into accepting his friendship?
Well, she wasn’t a sixteen-year-old runaway anymore. She had ways to fight back now.
Able walked in with a wary expression on his face. She’d sent word for him to meet her here before she’d gone to talk to Hunter and Zane. It was unusual for her to call a meeting with him this late at night, especially when they were so busy.
“Is there something wrong?” he asked, his gaze searching her face.
She waved her hand to the empty chair across from her. Some part of her wanted to hold off the sharing of the letter as long as possible to keep things as they were before she’d found it. Her peace of mind might be shattered, but that didn’t mean she had to involve Able. Only she did have to involve him. The letter affected him as much as her, so it was only right to tell him. He took in a deep, fortifying breath as if he knew what was coming and unbuttoned his coat as he sat down.
“I thought you should know that I received this today.” She held up the letter. “Someone is claiming to know who I am.”
His jaw clenched and his dark eyes hardened. “Who sent it?”
She shook her head. “It’s anonymous.”
He held out his hand and she gave the letter to him, dropping the parchment as if it had burned her the second he took it. His brow furrowed as he scanned the letter and tightness squeezed her chest. Glory realized that she was holding her breath, hoping against hope that he’d find something she had missed that would tell them the letter was a hoax, so she let it out and felt her muscles relax.
A knock on the open door drew her attention. Hunter came in followed closely by Zane. Hunter was tall at just over six feet, but Zane towered over him by a few inches. His large frame was strapped with lean muscle, matching Able in sheer powerful strength. If not for Zane’s darker coloring marking his native heritage, she’d imagine there was at least one Viking ancestor in his lineage.
Despite his size, his appearance wasn’t the most striking thing about him, at least not for her. It was his eyes. They were so dark they were nearly black and looked at her with an intensity she didn’t know how to interpret. It was almost as if he could see past the role that she played. As if he was the only one who could look through the brothel madam costume and wonder at the real woman beneath.
The longer she was around him the more she craved that. He was looking at her now as he closed the door behind him. She couldn’t stop herself from staring at the pink scar that started just above his right eyebrow, went down over his cheekbone, before drifting off into his hairline. Time and time again she’d wanted to ask him about it but hadn’t. She knew what it was like to have scars you didn’t want to talk about. Luckily hers were hidden, but she could only imagine how she’d feel if someone questioned them. So she stayed silent on that point out of both respect and self-preservation. The less she knew about him the better. He was an outlaw and she was the madam of a brothel. There was no future for either of them, especially not together.
“Thank you both for coming,” she said, returning her attention to Hunter. He was always the one out of the band of brothers who’d taken the lead in dealing with her. “Please sit down.” Noting there was only one chair available since Able occupied the other, she added, “There’s an extra chair in Charlotte’s office.”
“There’s no need,” Zane said, crossing his arms over his chest as he came to stand behind the empty chair. He gave a nod to Hunter, and his friend sat down in the chair.
“I’ve asked you here because I’ve received a rather disturbing letter.” The paper crinkled as Able finished reading it and handed it back to her. A glance at his face told her nothing of how he felt. If he was worried he was careful not to show it. “Well, perhaps I should simply read the letter so you’ll understand.”
At Hunter’s nod of encouragement, she took a deep breath, loath to read the words again. There was no help for it though, so she plowed forward.
“‘I know who you are. You will understandably doubt my claim, so allow me to elaborate. It is my preference not to give too much away in the event someone else finds this letter, so I will simply say that I know you are from South Carolina. I know that you arrived in Helena in 1876 with nothing but the funds you managed to steal, along with your grandmother’s quilt.’”
Her voice trembled, so she paused to clear her throat. Those were details anyone could guess, she reasoned.
“It’s common knowledge among the staff that I sleep with my grandmother’s quilt and anyone could guess about the South Carolina bit,” she said.
Able nodded in agreement. “Keep reading.”
She took a fortifying breath and continued. “‘I know your true name. I know the details that caused you to run away. I know from whom you ran.’”
She paused as that vile man’s image came to mind. Justin Dubose. Every day that passed she resisted thinking about him, but he was always there lurking in the shadows of her memory. She feared that he always would be.
When she paused, Hunter said, “It’s a clever attempt at extortion, but there’s no solid information to prove they do know who you are.”
His handsome face revealed no hint of alarm. Perhaps that meant she was overreacting, or perhaps it meant he simply didn’t understand the severity of her danger.
Biting her lower lip, she read to the end. “‘Please do not misunderstand my intention. I was hired to find you. I have no personal stake in your recovery. My goal is simply to give you the opportunity to stay hidden. Should you choose to take that opportunity I will disappear with my payment, never to be seen again. Should you refuse, then I have no choice but to report my findings to my employer. The choice is yours. If you wish to stay hidden, have five thousand dollars directed to the account number and bank below. You have one week.’”
There was no signature, only an account number and the address of a bank in Chicago.
The
