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 Obey

Devils MC Series, Volume 3

Lexy Timms

Published by Dark Shadow Publishing, 2023.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
OBEY
First edition. January 16, 2023.
Copyright © 2023 Lexy Timms.
Written by Lexy Timms.
Copyright 2023 By LEXY TIMMS
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any
means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of
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All rights reserved.

Obey
Devils MC Series #3
Copyright 2023 by Lexy Timms
Cover by: Book Cover by Design
DE VIL S MC S E RIE S

Pain
Ruin
Obey
 F IND L E XY TIMMS :

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 O B E Y B L URB

Learn to obey
before you command...
SARAYA THOUGHT THINGS were bad before. They’d lost important members of their club,
Knight’s crew had been decimated by arrests, and she and Knight were on the run from the cops,
hiding out in a house without any access to the rest of their club.
Now, she finds herself imprisoned at one of Devil’s safehouses without any way of contacting
Knight. Even worse, she knows what Devil wants. And it’s not a friendly handshake.
He wants her back, and he wants her to prove she’s sorry. And if she’s not going to play the game
he wants, she’ll lose her life.
She doesn’t know if Knight is coming, or if he even knows where she is, and though she used to
be good at handling situations without anyone watching her back, that was before Knight showed her
there was another way to live.
Knight knows there’s a war brewing with Devil—and has been for a long time—but he never
expected to have to rescue Saraya as part of that war.
The problem is, he doesn’t have the men. And he’s not sure he can gather them before she does
something to get herself in trouble.
When Saraya puts her plan into motion, Knight jumps to back her up, but will the two manage to
come back together in time... or will Devil win the war and kill them both before they can find each
other again?
 CO NTE NTS
Devils MC Series
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Obey Blurb
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
EPILOGUE 1
EPILOGUE 2
Devils MC Series
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 CH AP TE R 1

KNIGHT

I STALKED TOWARD THE wall, drew back my fist, and hit it, not caring how much it fucking hurt.
Nothing could hurt as badly as what was going on right now. Bleeding knuckles were nothing
compared to how sideways everything had gone since I woke up this morning.
“Are you actually telling me you don’t know where she is?” I snapped, holding my hand up and
staring at the blood oozing out of the cuts I’d just caused. “You have at least ten sources inside the
sheriff’s office, Numbers. And none of them are telling you anything?”
It sounded like a polite question. Or rather... It sounded like a calm question. Sounded like
something I was just asking with plenty of time for the answer.
The truth was, it was nothing like that.
Last night, I went to bed knowing that things had to change and that the change had to start with
me. My friends and Banshees were largely in prison, courtesy of the cops rushing us when we were in
the middle of trying to deal with Devil. My lieutenant was in the hospital and his girl was in lock-up.
My mentor was dead.
And I’d known that I had only one choice: Go to war. Gather the clubs in the area I knew I could
count on and manipulate the ones that I wasn’t so sure of. Make sure everyone knew exactly what
Devil had been doing—trying to kill his old lady with his fists—and what he’d done since—attacking
me without warning and killing members of my gang. I wanted every MC in the state to know what
sort of man he was, because once they knew that, they’d have no choice but to shut him down.
I’d been sure of it, and I’d gone to sleep knowing that meeting with the clubs I thought I could
count on was the logical first step toward a solution.
Then I woke up to a bed suspiciously empty of Saraya and went out into the house to find her
missing in action. The guards who’d seen her leave—and had tried to hide it—eventually admitted to
me that she’d gone.
She’d taken the bike I’d given her, and it had taken me only one guess to figure out where she
went.
To turn herself over to Devil. Try to end the war on her own.
 I hadn’t been willing to sign off on that, though, and I’d gone after her—which hadn’t come as a
surprise to anyone. The problem was, I’d been too late. I arrived just in time to see her, bruised,
broken, and bleeding, being shoved into the back of a car by Devil and his henchman.
Shoved into the back of a cop car.
I’d come racing back to the house where I was staying, dragging Remi with me and leaving Brock
where he’d fallen, and had immediately called Frank “Numbers” Rogers to me. He wasn’t one of our
prime members. More like an accountant on steroids who could massage any books that needed
massaging. He wasn’t the man I’d generally call when I was in a fix that involved guns or violence.
But he’d been a cop, once, and he still had friends inside the force. When I needed information
about which cop had stolen my girl and raced off with her, he was the one I thought of first.
I’d been really, really hoping he had better news for me than he did.
“No one’s saying anything, Knight,” he repeated. “Either they don’t know or they’ve been told not
to tell. I can’t tell who’s telling me the truth and who’s lying, but I’ll tell you this much: The entire
department has been paid off. Someone paid them to keep their mouths shut. No one’s even guessing.”
I hit the wall again. And then again. And then one more time, just for good measure. Then I spun
toward him, my knuckles screaming in pain.
“And you can’t get any of them to budge?”
He snorted a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “You don’t think I tried? I know how important
she is to you. I did everything I could, Knight. No one is talking.”
Right. No one was talking, which meant no one was telling us who had Saraya, or where Devil
might have gone, or what he might be planning. I wasn’t surprised, really. I’d already suspected Devil
had bought the cops.
I was just hoping Frank’s contacts would have blurred the lines a little bit and given him
something. More fool I, I guessed.
Devil must have given them even more money than I’d made available for Frank.
Shit.
Luckily, asking the cops where Saraya was and what Devil was doing hadn’t been my only plan.
I’d told Saraya once that I always had a Plan B, and Plan C, and this was no different. Sure, Plan A—
Ask the Cops—had been the simplest version.
That didn’t mean it was the only version.
 “So it’s war, then,” I muttered, my gaze clashing with Frank’s.
He pressed his lips together, thought for a moment, and then nodded. “Don’t see that you have
much choice.”
“I don’t.”
And that was the honest truth. I needed to know what Devil was doing. I needed to know where
Saraya was and how to get her back. And if the cops that were in bed with Devil weren’t going to tell
me...
Then I was going to have to figure out where she was on my own. So I could go get her back.

WE HAD MAPS AND LISTS spread out across the table in front of us, each one dotted with notes
and scratches, and I felt like my brain might be short-circuiting.
I’d been forcing way, way too much information into it. And the situation was so high-pressure
that I didn’t think I could give it the break it needed.
“Again,” I muttered. “We must be missing something.”
“We aren’t, Boss,” Frank muttered back. “That’s the problem.” His finger went to one list and
then another, pointing at the information as he recited it. “We have six other clubs in the area. Twenty-
four hours, max, for them to get to us. But half of them are ours and half of them are Devil’s. We can’t
count on the numbers going in our favor.”
Right. That was essentially what we’d figured out over the week. This was nothing new—and it
definitely didn’t help our situation. If we were going to go to war against Devil and his Steed, I
wanted to be sure we were going to triumph. This fight had been brewing for years.
Now that it was here, I was going to make sure we came out on top.
It was the only way to make sure Saraya came home safe, and Devil didn’t bother us ever again.
“And?” I asked sharply. “You’re our man with all the contacts, Frank. What else do you know that
you haven’t passed on yet? Give me some good news.”
The other man sighed, which told me he did have something he hadn’t told us yet. He had another
ace up his sleeve. I considered screaming at him about keeping it to himself. Putting me through the
stress of having to ask.
Then I decided that would probably be counterproductive. It also wasn’t my style.
I was friends with my guys, and I wanted to keep it that way.
 “The good news,” Frank finally said, “is that the clubs that are loyal to us are...”
“Are what?” I asked, suddenly worried about what he was going to say.
He grinned, the expression wolfish and wicked. “The clubs loyal to us have a couple men who
could easily be called superhuman,” he replied. “Real bad asses who don’t know how to lose. The
numbers might be close. But Devil’s not going to have the men we have. And that, my friend, is going
to make all the difference.”
That startled a laugh out of me, and it felt like the first time I’d laughed in about a year. “That’s
very, very good news,” I said.
He nodded, and moved quickly on to the next subject. “What do you want to do?”
Well, that was easy. “I want Saraya alive. I want to know where she is and what’s happened to
her. A cop took her but I’m betting he took her right to Devil. If he’s laid a hand on her, I’m going to
kill him. And I want the clubs in our area to have my back when I do it.”
“We can’t just go after Devil because we think he has Saraya,” Remi warned me.
“Like hell we can’t!” I shouted. “The man kidnapped her and shoved her into the trunk of a car!”
“And a cop had her at that time,” Frank answered. “You can’t prove Devil has her, Knight, and
you know it. You can’t attack him on a guess. Especially with the cops watching his back.”
I whirled on Frank, grabbed him, and hauled him up close to me. “That’s my girl, Frank, and
Devil has her. He nearly killed her before and now that he has her again, it’s going to be even worse.
You know it and I know it. You know I can’t let that happen. You know I won’t.”
Frank held his hands up, his eyes large and surprised. “Calm down, Knight. Calm down. I’m on
your side.”
I dropped him and took a step back, surprised at myself. This wasn’t me. This wasn’t me. But I’d
seen what Devil had done to Saraya before I met her, and the thought of him getting his hands on her
again...
It made me feel like I was coming apart at the seams.
“Give me options,” I ground out.
Frank, bless him, didn’t even blink. “Easy. We attack Devil without him realizing it. Do it behind
his back so he can’t pin it on us. Keep the rest of us out of jail, and save your girl.”
The world around me skidded to a stop at the sudden change of pace, and I gaped at him. “How?”
 That smirk again, and then: “The nuclear option. I have someone inside Devil’s operation, but
they’re not powerful. They can’t do much to help us. Not going to pull the trigger on a gun pressed to
Devil’s head or anything like that.”
“Then what good are they?”
Frank’s smile grew. “Information. My contact isn’t high up in the organization, no leadership
responsibilities. But that doesn’t mean they can’t feed us all the information we need.”
A spy on the inside who could give us information.
They might not be able to deliver Saraya, but they could tell me where she was and whether she
was okay.
Which meant I’d know where to go to save her—and how to hit Devil where it hurt, before he
even knew it was coming.
Yeah. That sounded about perfect.
“Make the call,” I told him, pushing myself away from the table and walking toward the kitchen. I
needed a beer and something to eat, because if this was real—if Frank could get me that sort of
information—then I had a trip to make and planning to do.
I was just going to have to try to keep my mind off Saraya until I got all the details in place. Once
I knew where she was, I could start thinking about how I was going to save her.
Until then, I needed all my focus on convincing the other clubs that this war was something that
concerned them, too.
 CH AP TE R 2

SARAYA

IT WAS HOURS BEFORE I was able to focus on the world again.

I came back to myself slowly, the world around me fitting itself back together in bits and pieces
like a puzzle that was somehow doing itself. The rough feeling of carpet under my cheek. The rub of
my jeans against my thighs. My shoes, which were pinching more than I remembered them doing.
And then the memory of how I’d gotten here. The early morning journey to the bank where I knew
Devil would be showing up to make a deposit. The darkness around me as I rode through the city on
my own.
The lies I’d told to Knight’s guys to make sure they didn’t follow me. The failed shots at Devil.
Him rising up off the ground and grinning at me when he should have been dead.
The hand coming down over my mouth.
A flash of Knight and Remi in the distance, their mouths open in shock.
Someone shoving me into the trunk of a car, and then the squeal of tires underneath me. A drive
that took ages while I fought to keep the panic down.
The knowledge that things were going very, very badly for me, and were probably going to be
worse.
And then the fists and boots that were waiting for me at the end of that trip. I didn’t know who it
had been or even where we were, but between the blows, when I was given seconds of reprieve and
was able to think, I realized one very important thing: They weren’t going to kill me. They’d been told
to hurt me as badly as they wanted but to keep me alive.
The thought hadn’t made the blows hurt any less.
But they’d given me the light at the end of the tunnel to hold onto as they came. Because I’d
learned long ago to ignore the physical pain. Put it on the other side of a wall and watch from afar as
it happened, to protect myself from it.
Particularly when I knew that at some point, it would come to an end.
I didn’t remember when it had, which probably meant I’d passed out while they were still beating
me. Now that I was awake, I started to realize that the pain was yet another puzzle piece. Or rather...
it was the foundation that all the other puzzle pieces were sitting on. A deep and consistent ache that
touched every part of my body, making it hard to breathe. Impossible to move.
Hard to think.
I groaned and tried to sit up, thinking that being right-side-up would at least make it easier to
engage my brain, but froze when I felt something around my wrist. I lifted my arm up and down,
experimenting, but yes, there it was. The cold kiss of steel on my skin and the sliding sound that came
with it.
Someone—whoever had brought me here, I supposed—had handcuffed me to something.
I was broken, battered, and lost, and I was also very definitely a prisoner.
I’d known things were going to be bad when I woke up, but this was...
“Devil,” I breathed. The beating, the rough carpet, the handcuffs...
It was classic Devil. Letting me know exactly where I stood and exactly what he could have done
to me. And demonstrating in the most direct way possible that I couldn’t get away from it.
I’d known there was a chance I’d fall into his hands again with my plan.
But I hadn’t truly thought it would happen. I’d thought I would be killed trying to kill him, and I’d
never accepted the idea that I might become his prisoner again.
Now that I was here, I was terrified.
And furious. This wasn’t how it was supposed to have gone. I’d had a gun, dammit, and though I
might be a horrible shot, I’d had a straight line right to his chest! I’d made that shot, he’d gone down,
and...
And he’d gotten back up.
Well. I might have failed the first time, but I wouldn’t fail again. And now that I was sure I was in
his camp somewhere, I had the ideal chance to take him out, once and for all.
First things first, I told myself. I had to figure out where I was and who was with me. I knew most
of his people from my time with his crew, and if he’d left guards with me, I was betting I’d know
them.
One look and I’d be able to figure out whether they were going to be of any use to me or not.
“Who’s out there?” I shouted. “Where the hell am I?”
Sure, they were stupid questions. No guard worth their salt would tell me who they were or
where I was. But they’d almost certainly taunt me, probably show their face.
 And that was all I really needed. To see who they were.
The door opened and a woman I only vaguely recognized appeared on the other side, all wild
black hair and strong features. Her eyes were black as night, her mouth drawn down in a frown like
talking to me was the last thing she wanted to do.
But if she was the guard on hand, she didn’t have much choice.
“Why are you shouting?” she hissed. “What do you want?”
Right. A man guarding me would have been more dangerous, perhaps, given how much bigger
they were, but I’d always found men to be easier to manipulate.
A woman—and one I didn’t know—could prove to be a challenge.
Or she could be a hidden ally.
“Bathroom,” I said clearly. “I need the bathroom. Now.”
The woman looked closely at me like she was trying to figure out whether I was lying, but didn’t
move.
“What do you think, you’re going to be able to tell whether I need to pee just be staring at me?” I
asked, letting a bit of humor leak into my voice.
I might not be able to make her feel sorry for me. She’d be too clever for that. But I was betting I
could make her sympathize with me.
She breathed out through her nose in something that wasn’t quite a laugh but also wasn’t as stern
as it could have been. “Bathroom’s down the hall,” she said. “First door on the right. And there’s no
way to get out of there except through the door. Which will be guarded.”
I tipped my head, wondering. That was a whole lot of information she hadn’t really needed to
give me. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I answered carefully.
Her eyes narrowed and her lips thinned, but she didn’t say anything else. Instead, she walked
toward me quickly, her leather pants squeaking as she walked. I eyed those pants, wondering if she
actually had a bike of her own. She didn’t look like the sort of woman who would wear such
uncomfortable pants just for fashion.
Or maybe she did. Her face was blank enough that I couldn’t get a good read on her. And
actually...
She was shoving a key into the lock on my handcuffs now, her hands steady at their job, and I
realized that in a moment, I was going to be free. In just a second, if I timed it right, I could jump up,
run for the door, and—
I twitched, my body moving ahead of my brain, and went with it, jerking my wrist out of the
handcuff and sprinting for the door before I could think any further. Get through that door, I realized,
and I might be home free. This woman might be the only guard here, and she didn’t look fast. I just
needed to get out of the house and into the wilderness, and I’d be able to hide.
Get away from anyone who took money from Devil. Find someone with a phone. Call Knight.
A hand jumped out and grabbed my wrist before I could get anywhere, though, and the woman
yanked me back onto my ass, twisting my arm and securing my wrist back to the bedpost.
“Stupid girl,” she hissed, slamming the handcuff closed and shoving my arm away from her.
“Stupid, stupid girl!” She jumped to her feet and stalked toward the door I’d been about to run for.
When she got to it, she whirled and stared down at me, her eyes dark fire and her mouth pulled down
in a furious scowl. “You. Don’t. Run,” she snapped.
Then she turned and was gone, the door slamming behind her.
Shit.

I’D BEEN ON MY OWN again for no more than five minutes, and realized that I actually did have to
go to the bathroom, when the door swung open again. This time I ducked back, unsure of what to
expect. I’d already made an enemy of the first woman and tipped her off to my need for escape. I’d
jumped from the frying pan right into the fire, and even worse was that I’d done it knowingly.
Stupid, idiotic, twitchy body. I should have waited longer to get up and run. Scratch that. I should
have gotten all the way to the bathroom and then sat in there and built a plan, rather than just trying to
scramble out at the first opportunity.
It had been too long since I’d had to run for my life, and I was out of practice. Too much time
being safe with Knight had dulled my instincts.
Safe with Knight.
I felt a crack run through my heart at the thought, then turned my eyes to the door, wondering who
the hell was coming for me now.
I was dead surprised when the same woman was standing there, a flush on her cheeks and her
eyes narrowed in what looked a whole lot like dislike. She threw something at me and it skidded
across the floor, coming to a bumping stop against the other leg of the bed.
 I didn’t look at it. I kept my eyes on the woman’s, trying to read her and figure out how angry she
really was. Was that glare actually meant for me, or did it mean something else? Could she still be an
ally?
“No bathroom breaks for you,” she said coldly. “You can use that from here on out. Don’t call for
me again. I have more important things to do than take care of you.”
The last word was a sneer, like she’d never met anyone as despicable as me, but the expression
didn’t touch her eyes.
Which made me think she didn’t actually believe it.
And she hadn’t turned me over to anyone else. Hadn’t told anyone what I’d done, I guessed, and
hadn’t called for anyone to come in and discipline me or teach me a lesson—which, I thought, was
what Devil would have suggested. I’d known him long enough to know that when a prisoner acted up,
he demanded that they be turned over to someone who could beat the rebellion out of them.
If there were other men here and she hadn’t turned me over to them...
It meant she was already breaking the rules Devil had probably set for her.
She stared at me for several moments longer, then turned and left without another word.
I watched the door close behind her, my mind touching again and again on the idea that she was
breaking rules, potentially to protect me, and then finally turned my eyes to whatever she’d thrown at
me. It had sounded heavy and metal, but it also hadn’t hit me, which meant she’d been careful with
how she threw it. Where had it...?
The moment I saw it, I felt the corners of my mouth tug up in a slight grin.
The woman might have barred me from the bathroom. She might not trust me enough to unlock my
handcuffs again. But she hadn’t left me without any recourse, like she might have.
She’d given me a bedpan. Not ideal, of course, and honestly kind of disgusting, but there was no
avoiding the simple truth that she’d realized she couldn’t trust me on my own and had given me an
option. She hadn’t sentenced me to peeing on the floor—or handed me over to the other guards for
discipline.
Instead, she’d brought me a safe way to use the bathroom.
And that right there made me feel like there might be a way out of this that didn’t involve my
death. As long as I could get her all the way onto my side before Devil showed up to kill me.
 CH AP TE R 3

KNIGHT

“THAT’S WHAT WE’RE THINKING,” I said softly, letting the other man talk through what he’d
been saying and come to his own conclusions. My eyes met Remy’s and I nodded slightly, letting him
know that things were going well.
Better than I’d expected, honestly. Jack the Skull Mason was president of a crew that hailed from
outside of Arizona—they did most of their business in Nevada—but they were in Arizona often
enough that I’d thought from the start that they would be important. When Remy and Frank put the list
together of clubs we needed to contact, his Hell Hounds had been right there at the top.
And they’d been a group under the ‘Might Side with Devil’ heading. Which was, as we’d
discussed, a problem.
I was on the phone now keeping him abreast of what was going on and trying to convince him to
stay out of it. Because if Devil and I could count on an equal number of clubs coming to our sides, it
meant we’d be equally matched. But if I could talk even one club out of coming when Devil called...
“This war between you has been brewing for years,” Jack said gruffly.
“That’s the truth,” I agreed, already liking where this was going. So far, Jack was coming to all
the right conclusions. He was doing my work for me—and he’d be a whole lot more likely to make
the decision I wanted him to if he worked it out for himself.
He made a sound that made him sound so much like an old grandpa that I had to bite my lip to
keep myself from laughing. “Truth is, I’ve always thought it would be better if you two could just get
it sorted out.”
The laughter left me immediately. Devil and I might have been friends once, but that was a long
time ago. Before he sold me out and lied to get me thrown in jail. Before he’d tried to take over my
crew while I was locked up.
Before he’d nearly killed Saraya, and then killed Tinker and Brock, right in front of me.
“That ship has sailed,” I growled, fighting to control my temper. I might be furious at Devil—
might want to skin him with my bare hands—but it wouldn’t do us any good for Jack to know that. I
was having a civil conversation with the man right now.
 Losing control would just lead to trouble.
Another harrumph from Jack. “You mistake me, son. I mean it would be better if you worked it out
without involving the rest of us.”
I nearly shouted with excitement at that, and stopped myself right in time. Because if Jack was
saying what I thought he was saying...
“So if we go to war—when we go to war—you think it would be better for the Hell Hounds to
stay out of it.”
“Devil and his crew are right on our border, and that’s made them our allies for a long time,” he
said evasively. “But if I could get someone steadier on that side of the state line...”
“Right,” I said softly. “I get it, Jack. What if I agreed to hand some of his territory to you? Make
your operation even safer?”
The question dropped into dead silence, and I thought for a long, tense moment that I’d made a
mistake. We needed this guy to agree not to come to Devil’s side for the war we were facing, and if
I’d overstepped my bounds already... If I’d made him think I was taking myself too seriously...
“Can’t say I like the idea of you controlling that much of Arizona on your own,” he finally said.
I couldn’t blame him. After all, he didn’t know whether he could call me a friend.
“Seems like giving you some of that territory is an easy answer, then,” I replied.
He grunted, and grew silent. I kept quiet too, giving him time to think about what I’d just offered
him, and let my mind fly through what had happened today so far. I’d spoken with all three MCs that
we thought we could count on, and I’d been right. I’d had meetings scheduled with them already,
before Devil took Saraya, and they’d already known what I was planning.
When it came down to it, they were on board. They hated Devil just as much as I did, and they’d
fight on my side. They wanted to see him run out of the state—or killed, which several of them
suggested as the preferable option.
I wasn’t opposed to the idea. He’d killed my best friends and stolen my woman, and the thought of
him having access to her again...
I flexed my hands into fists, anger burning through me at the nightmare of what he could be doing
to her right now, and willed Jack to give me an answer. The sooner he did, the sooner I could start
this war. Find Devil. Kill him.
Rescue Saraya.
 The need to get her back was an ember burning my skin, an itch I couldn’t scratch. It was a
driving, scalding need that followed me everywhere. I was counting the seconds until I saw her again.
And praying that she could last long enough for me to rescue. Praying that she’d keep that sharp
tongue of hers still rather than poking at Devil and forcing him into a move. I wanted to hit him before
he knew what was coming, and if Saraya tipped him off...
It could cost me everything. Including her.
“Jack?” I asked quietly. “Did I lose you?”
“Thinking,” he said gruffly.
That was great, but I didn’t have time for him to think all day. It was time to start pushing. “And
where are your thoughts leading you?”
He sighed like I was asking the world of him, but he also didn’t lecture me for asking. And that
made me think that he might be coming down on my side.
“Don’t much like the thought of you being so powerful in Arizona, Knight. Figure that’s a lot of
territory for someone so young. But I’ve never liked Devil. Never trusted him.”
“So if he calls you to back him up?”
Please say you won’t answer, please say you won’t answer.
That simple statement and I’d have everything I needed to start this. I’d be on the road to saving
Saraya within the hour.
“I can’t promise you anything,” he replied, evading my question neatly. “I don’t want to go to war,
not on Devil’s account. I’ll make a decision tomorrow.”
I fought hard not to argue with him, knowing that it was more than I’d been hoping for when I got
on the phone with him, but a charge ran through my body at how close we’d come to having exactly
what we needed... and how empty it felt to be hanging up without getting there.
“I appreciate that,” I said quietly. “You have my number.”
“Sure do. And Knight?”
I paused, tipping my head. “Yeah?”
“I was sure sorry to hear about Tinker. Man did some good work on one of my bikes. Good man.
It’s a loss for all of us.”
The tear in my heart, the one that had happened when Tinker fell, opened up at the words, and I
closed my eyes in pain. I hadn’t had time to deal with Tink’s death yet and that meant I didn’t have the
right armor up against a statement like that.
But the fact that he’d gone out of his way to say something made me think Jack wasn’t a lost cause
yet.
Even dead, Tinker was helping me run this club successfully.
“Thanks,” I whispered.
I hung up, and then, knowing there was nothing else to say, and turned to Frank and Remy. “He’s
going to think about it, but he doesn’t like Devil any more than anyone else,” I told them. “And he
knew Tinker.”
A smile touched Remy’s mouth and he shook his head. “Course he did. Everyone in this area of
the country knew Tinker.”
“And if he helps us, it’ll be because Tink did him a favor,” I noted, my lips turning up in a smile.
“Now, give me the news. Where are we at with Saraya? Do we know where she is? Is she safe?”
“No word yet from our man on the inside,” Frank replied quickly.
Not what I wanted to hear. “And the cop who took her?”
“We’ve been following him since he got back to town, Boss. No sign of Saraya,” Remy said. “She
has to be with Devil. It’s the only option.”
The only option. It was, but that didn’t mean I liked it. I hated that she’d gone off on her own the
way she had. Hated that she’d thought she had to do it by herself rather than talking to me about what
she was planning.
And I couldn’t stop blaming myself for it having gone so fucking wrong.
I’d been right there—right there. Close enough to see her when they were taking her away. I’d
seen the blood on her face and the rip in her shirt and the fury and terror on her face, and if I’d just
gotten there a little more quickly, just rode a bit faster or asked the right people the first time, maybe
I’d have been in time to save her.
Maybe she’d still be here with me, safe and sound. And we wouldn’t be going to war or trying to
get people like Jack Mason to agree not to respond when Devil called them.
I wouldn’t have this hole in my gut reminding me every second that it was my fault she was gone,
and that if she died, that would be my fault, too.
“Where’s the cop now?” I snapped, turning back to Remy.
“In town, I’m guessing,” he said. “Doing the things a cop does when he’s off duty.”
 “He got a family?”
He frowned, but shook his head. “Not that I’ve seen. Seems to be single.”
Well, that made the decision a whole lot easier. “Get rid of him.” I wanted that cop dead for
teaming up with Devil and taking Saraya and for handing her back to Devil. Any man worth his salt
could see exactly what Devil was, and yet that cop, that pig, had handed my girl to the man who
wanted to kill her. He’d stuffed her into the back of his car, done who knew what to her, and then
handed her back to Devil.
And I wanted him dead.
Remy didn’t even bat an eye. “You got it. Cars are getting awfully explosive these days.”
I huffed out a laugh. “Just make sure we don’t have any explosives on our hands afterwards. I
don’t need the trouble.”
Remy gave me a smile that held absolutely no humor. “You know I never get anything on my
hands, Boss. Leave it up to me.”
He turned and left without another word, ready to carry out my orders, just like he always did.
And I tried to feel better about that cop dying for what he’d done. I tried to tell myself that it would be
enough to hold me over until Jack got back to me and I knew whether we were going to war
tomorrow.
I reminded myself that I needed to be patient, and that I’d get Saraya back the moment I had
everything else in hand. I told myself that she was a smart girl who’d be able to take care of herself
until I could get to her. That she’d been taking care of herself for years before I found her the first
time.
But it wasn’t enough. Not even close. I wanted Saraya back where I could hold her, touch her,
hear that laugh and see those eyes. I wanted to know she was safe from the likes of Devil. And every
second that passed without that happening was a second too long.
Hell, I hoped she wasn’t doing anything stupid. I hoped she was laying low and waiting for me
rather than putting herself in danger. She’d already been stupid enough this week to last an entire
lifetime.
 CH AP TE R 4

SARAYA

I’D BEEN COLD FOR SO long, and so, so lonely, that for a long time, I didn’t recognize the feeling.
Or... No, ‘recognize’ wasn’t quite right, because I’d never felt the feeling before. It was that I didn’t
understand it. It didn’t make any sense to me.
But I knew that I liked it.
Then, after a long time, I realized what it was. I was warm. Warm and safe and so, so happy.
I smiled lazily and curled up, pressing back against the man behind me and pulling his arms
around me. This was what I’d been missing for so much of my life. A strong, steady man right behind
me, holding me tight and keeping me warm and safe. And not just any man. I focused on the body
against me, feeling the ridges of his pecs and the hardness of his belly. My fingers curled through the
long, steady fingers, and I reveled in the feel of his strength around me.
Warm. Safe. And so very happy.
They weren’t things I was used to feeling, but I could definitely get used to this. In fact, I had
gotten used to this. Sure, we lived a life that was full of doubt and danger, every day potentially
bringing violence with it, but even in the midst of all that, Knight was a steady, comforting presence.
A promise that I had a safe spot to cling to, a home to sleep in every night. And a man waiting for me,
who would never stop loving me or taking care of me.
A man who would never beat me, or sell me, or let his friends abuse me. A man who would kill
anyone who dared to lay a finger on me.
A man who was... shaking me? A man who was muttering my name again and again, in a tone of
voice that indicated not only stress, but also... fear?
Wait, what?
I came awake in a rush, the blurry pleasure of the dream disappearing so quickly it was as if it
had never happened. And in its place, pitch blackness. The scratch of a cheap quilt across my skin,
the scent of cigarette smoke. Bruises on my skin and acid in my stomach from not having eaten in I
didn’t know how long.
Fear. Frustration. Terror.
Another random document with
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Street would either drift into his arms or have ‘to step down and
out’—to abdicate the crown she has worn so long.” Vreeland
lumbered along, building up fanciful solutions of the mystery.
In the now almost incessant “duty service” near his beautiful fiancée,
Vreeland a hundred times endeavored to trace back James
Garston’s early life. But the blue-eyed Nixie who was soon to be his
wife only laughed merrily.
“Pray remember, sir, that Senator Garston is my guardian. After my
dear father’s death, my mother went abroad, and I was educated in
the ‘Sacré Cœur’ Convent at Brussels. Her death left me alone in the
world.
“‘Uncle James’ had been almost forgotten by me in the thirteen years
which we passed in Paris and Brussels, and as I left the West a
mere child, all my memories are the vanishing dreams of childhood.
All his social past is a sealed book to me.”
Vreeland was fain to be content, as the lovely ingenue concluded:
“All I know is that he has always managed my affairs, and that his
personal history is linked with the development of the whole region
west of the Rockies. Why, you should know his history from your
own Western wanderings.”
“Was he ever married?” timidly hazarded Vreeland. But, the young
society queen only laughed back.
“Ask him! And then ponder now the possibility of another marriage.
You are now, sir, to take me driving. The only marriage which
concerns you, is a joint affair.”
That afternoon, as they drove through the park under the
chaperonage of the amiable Mrs. Volney McMorris, Vreeland
unsuccessfully endeavored to allay his recent dissatisfaction at the
absence of any womanly background for the highly polished
“Western diamond,” which he was soon to win and wear for life.
The story of the young heiress was smooth enough and faultlessly
delivered. Vreeland forebore to “pump” Mrs. McMorris, for he was
well aware that she was “all things to all men,” and her voluble
explanations would carry no real conviction.
“She helped Alida Hathorn on to the very verge of ruin,” he gloomily
recalled.
“There might have been a marriage between myself and Elaine but
for her vicious intermeddling.
“She took that Isle of Wight story in commission and spread it all
over New York, while working both sides for coin—a woman Judas!”
While he returned the salutations of Messrs. Merriman, Wiltshire and
Rutherstone on the social parade, he was vaguely reflecting on the
uselessness of his crime as regarded the stealing of the hidden
paper and the tapping of the private wires, as well as the mail frauds.
It now followed him like his own shadow, and the paper was a source
of countless nightmares. If it were only safe!
“All that is useless now,” he growled. And he suddenly saw that he
was left in the power of Doctor Hugo Alberg, of Justine and of
August Helms, the janitor.
“There will be no speculation in ‘Sugar’ for months; the market is
dead, pending the reorganization and New Jersey reincorporation.
“My strange employer is away. She will not be here for months; and
she has also taken alarm at the presence of Garston.
“The whole lot of them will probably operate in a blind pool now.
There will be nothing for me to gain, and everything to lose in
running any further risks.”
He saw with concern that Alberg greatly missed his wealthy and
generous patient, and a few significant hints had proved to him that
the German physician was now “money hungry.”
“There is Justine always to be pacified, and that brute, Helms, too;
he will surely want money.
“Once married, and a fixture here, I am ‘nailed to the cross’ for
torture by these people—if they should turn against me.
“Fear will control Doctor Alberg at the last,” reflected Vreeland. “He
has been guilty of half-poisoning his patient.
“Justine I can surely rely on as long as I keep her pacified, but, that
brute Helms is steadily increasing in his money demands. Some
night, when drunk, he may blow the whole thing abroad.” And he had
caught a glimpse of Helms and Bagley diving into a saloon together.
It frightened him.
It was true that Helms had found his way down several times to the
Elmleaf to get money, in a half-fawning and half-threatening bluster.
And on several occasions when Vreeland was absent, the grave-
faced valet, Bagley, had joined the janitor, and in some hours spent
over the cups of Gambrinus had gained pointers which had given the
lively roundsman, Dan Daly, some very valuable hints.
There was in his cup of “bittersweet,” however, one great consolation
to the successful Harold Vreeland, whom all men now envied.
The impending union with Katharine Norreys would found his
fortunes on a solid basis; he would have the absolute protection of
the great speculative Senator, and the reports of his detectives told
him that Hugh Conyers was simply buried in his journalistic duties. It
seemed to be a lull in the war, even the pickets had ceased firing.
There were no conferences with Judge Hiram Endicott, and nothing
to indicate any activity among Romaine Garland’s friends.
Only one side of the whole affair remained dark to Vreeland. Even
Justine Duprez could not tell him how or why Elaine Willoughby had
openly taken her unacknowledged daughter to her house for shelter.
It was as yet a mystery as to whether fear, intrigue or accident had
brought the lovely girl into the opened arms of her still beautiful
mother.
“All I know,” said Justine, in a conference arranged for this purpose
by her now indifferent fellow-conspirator, “all I could find out was,
that this green-eyed cripple, this little sycophant Irelandaise, who
now is my tyrant, brought the tall girl late one evening to the
‘Circassia.’”
“It was a strange visit,” murmured Justine, “for she brought no
luggage, and that girl never left my mistress’ presence for a moment,
till she went away with the two Conyers.
“I am certain that Madame had never seen this girl in the seven
years of my employ. There were no pictures, no relics of childhood—
nothing. And I was always on the lookout for the mystery of
Madame’s life—”
Justine demurely dropped her eyes.
“Bah!” she cried; “a woman with blood as cold as a fish! No life, no
love; she cares for nothing but money.
“Among all of them, not a lover! I thought she was fond of the dead
Mr. Hathorn once, but he was soon on a level with the others.”
Justine’s voice was duly scornful.
“And then her tears and frequent fits of sorrow! That was the record
the whole of seven years.
“The last thing I saw of her—a stolen glance—she had this girl’s
picture in her hand, and was weeping over it.
“If she is a child of hers, she is probably a child of shame. She now
fears the exposure, and has gone abroad to hide the girl away
forever. Trust to Justine’s experience! I know these women saints.
They always have nibbled at le fruit defendu—hypocrites!”
Mr. Harold Vreeland fancied that he saw light at last. “I believe that I
can observe Senator Garston’s game. He would use this hidden fact
to force Elaine Willoughby into his arms. By Jove! she does fear him!
Perhaps Justine is right.
“And so, when I am married to Katharine, and Garston is free of all
social claims, if he alone knows her secret, it may be buried forever
in her marriage with him.
“To bring the proper pressure to bear, he must have the girl first. And
he would not be too good to bribe the girl with a fancied inheritance.
Once that the child is under his influence, Elaine’s proud heart must
either bend or break.
“For he will win his way to her side, even across the fires of Alynton’s
hate or the social ruin of Elaine’s good name.” Vreeland already
knew the iron will of the man who was driving ahead with
recklessness in the chase.
And so, armed with the deadly secret of the enormously powerful
cabal, the stolen document, Vreeland now knew that if brought to
bay, Elaine would perhaps be sacrificed by the secret syndicate,
despised by the undeceived Alynton, and then, with the secret of her
early life in Garston’s possession, be utterly at his mercy. “Yes, she
is in the toils,” he muttered. “There is no escape for her.”
It was at the wish of Senator James Garston, now lavishly liberal in
his preparations for his ward’s wedding, that the bridal was
postponed to the first days of June.
“All is going on well, Harold,” said Garston. “We have worked into a
thorough accord with all her representatives.
“And you will not find love-making with Katharine Norreys an irksome
task. I wish only to wait till I learn that Elaine Willoughby has landed
at Brindisi.
“Somewhere on the Continent she will surely meet this girl. I shall
have instant reports from my detectives. For so far, we have found
out Elaine’s route, but, the girl is still hidden.
“I wish you to go away at once on your wedding tour, and then to
keep Mrs. Willoughby in sight—within touch. I only want to meet the
mother and daughter face to face—only once. I will have my innings
then, and finish the whole matter in short order.” His face was
merciless now.
“Now, you will be no object of suspicion on your wedding tour; such a
happy voyage always explains itself,” he sardonically smiled. “The
moment that I am cabled for, I shall depart incognito. My work will be
quickly done when I find this sly woman and her child together. The
whole world is not wide enough to hide that child from me.” And
Vreeland drifted daily under Garston’s strong control; he was floating
with the tide, drunken with all his successes.
The days drifted along in all the preoccupation of daily business and
the growing bustle of the impending wedding.
Harold Vreeland was most agreeably surprised in the later days of
May by a cordial letter from Mrs. Willoughby, posted at Port Said.
Her congratulations upon his impending marriage were coupled with
her carte blanche as to leave of absence from the firm, and the
significant direction to leave Bagley in charge at the Elmleaf.
“We shall have business uses for the apartment during the winter,
and Miss Kelly will give Bagley all his orders and attend to the
accounts. I have directed Judge Endicott to present in my name to
your wife a proper reminder of the esteem which I have for her.”
The notification three days before the wedding, through Noel
Endicott, that Mrs. Willoughby had placed a year’s salary at his
personal disposal on the books of the firm, as an extra bonus,
carried away the last vestige of Vreeland’s haunting fears.
Nothing remained of the awkward episode of the inquiry as to the
stolen document, and Vreeland had already settled with Doctor
Alberg, and Helms with an affected liberality, for his absence.
Now socially entirely in the hands of Messrs. Wiltshire, Merriman and
Rutherstone, his three groomsmen, and having seen the resplendent
Mrs. Volney McMorris rally many beautiful Ishmaelites, married and
single, around his bride, Vreeland was moved forward to the altar on
the golden flood of Senator Garston’s splendidly liberal preliminary
entertaining.
The Western millionaire was touching up every cloud hanging over
Katharine VanDyke Norreys’ social haziness with a golden lining.
There remained but two things for the happy groom to do now.
The one was to have a last interview with Justine, who was now
reduced to a calm subserviency to the orders of the young “Private
Secretary,” and the other to effect a safe deposit in some satisfactory
place of the stolen document and its tell-tale copy.
He had decided to be liberal with Justine in money matters, and to
entrust her in his three months’ absence with the watching of Helms,
the janitor, and the disgruntled German doctor.
A famous plan suggested itself! Justine should feed out to these men
money, in his name, during his absence.
“And that, with the hope of more, will keep them true to me, as
rascals go, till I return.” He had once decided to dismantle the secret
connections with Mrs. Willoughby’s telegraph and telephone. It was
the subject of a long, introspective reverie.
But reflection had told him of a possible mistake. And perhaps in his
absence, Justine might glean from the detained correspondence
delivered at the “Circassia,” some facts to guide both Senator
Garston and himself. Yes, the “underground railroad” should not be
disturbed. Its existence was as yet concealed from all his enemies.
The use in the next winter of the “Elmleaf” rooms for a concealed
headquarters of speculation caused him to leave the wires in
position. “It might excite these people’s suspicions. I must appear to
trust them,” he decided, “and Garston may even make a million over
the private tips I can give him if I am up to their game.”
Suddenly it occurred to him that his own marriage might change the
situation, and yet, there were Elaine Willoughby’s recent orders.
“She means probably to hide her child, and then come back and be
Queen of the Street again,” he smiled. “The ruling passion. She has
the speculative mania still.” For it was clear to him now that the
presence of mother and daughter together in New York City was an
unnecessary risk.
And so, even on the threshold of his marriage Harold Vreeland
feared to trust his bride with the secret of the stolen document. They
were to live at the Hotel Savoy on their return, “so as to be near
Uncle James, at the Plaza.”
With a moral cowardice which he could not explain, Vreeland had as
yet declined to face the burning question of the stolen document.
The copy he had always carried secreted within the waistcoat lining
of his traveling suit. “I can easily leave that over in Europe,” he
murmured. “The original. Where shall I hide it?” He was long in the
dark.
But it was by a devilish impulse, aided by accident, that he found a
place in Justine Duprez’s rooms on South Fifth Avenue to safely hide
the dangerous original.
One of the plates of a door framing had sprung partly loose. A
sudden idea seized him. Her rooms were the safest place for many
reasons.
To gain time for preparation, he sent the old hag away on an errand.
Sealed in a cloth envelope, the paper was soon hidden behind the
upper framing plate, and with a hammer, covered with his kid gloves,
he drove the half-dozen old, rusted nails tightly home. And he gazed
in triumph at the neat device.
“They will of course think that she stole it, should it ever be found,”
he mused triumphantly, as he lit a Henry Clay and gloated over his
cunning.
“If the house should burn I am safe. In every way it would go up in
flames. If I should die, then it makes no difference to me what
happens. If she is caught—this would be damning evidence only
against her.
“And I would never dare to trust myself with either Garston or my
wife, and be found out in the custody of that document.
“Accidents will happen; I might fall ill, and now no matter what
befalls, it never can be traced to me.”
He grinned with joy as he contemplated depositing the copy abroad,
under an assumed name.
“It will there be safe from all American legal process, and the original
is here where I can use it if needed, and as it is, it can never be
traced to me.”
He carefully examined the exterior of the row of solid brick
tenements. They were good for a life of fifty years.
As he walked away, when he had “finished his letters,” and left a last
greeting for Justine, he stood upon the heights of an impregnable
position.
“It was a stroke of genius, that last idea of mine!” he gaily cried, as
his eye rested on an old woman who had just descended the stair.
He knew not the burden of her eager soul. She carried his fate!
Once around the corner, that old woman scuttered away to find
roundsman Dan Daly, for the peep-hole had covered a keenly-
glittering eye, even after Justine had left her sighing lover to his “last
bachelor letters.” And thus the hiding-place was known to more than
one.
But Vreeland hastened away in a triumphant glow of satisfaction.
The splendors of the Grace Church wedding, the gilded festivity of
the Waldorf wedding dinner, and all the countless preoccupations of
the impending voyage busied Harold Vreeland’s excited mind for
three days.
There were hundreds of valuable wedding presents to deposit in
safety, for society had showered gifts upon the successful interloper
with its hard-hearted, hollow flattery of success. It had been a
“society event,” and his face, with that of the beautiful bride, had
ornamented several “up-to-date” journals.
The flower-decked bridal staterooms of the “Campania” had received
Vreeland’s party, and Messrs. Rutherstone, Merriman and Wiltshire
were joining the bride and bridesmaids in the parting “loving cup,”
the table was covered with journals filled with the usual “glowing
accounts” and piled up high with congratulatory letters and
telegrams, when “Uncle James” drew the complacent bridegroom
aside.
In a private nook, he turned a scowling face to the happy Vreeland.
A yellow telegraph envelope fluttered from his hand to the desk as
he read again these disquieting words:
“She has telegraphed for a cabin on the ‘Normandie,’ and is coming
home alone. Took a special train from Vienna to Havre. All traces of
girl lost.”
“Vreeland,” growled the maddened man, “some one has betrayed
us. Wait at the Hotel Cecil, London, for my cipher orders.
“That woman is a devil in artfulness, and it is a fight to the death
now.”
Ten minutes later, the “Campania” was plowing down the beautiful
bay.
 CHAPTER XIV.

FOR THE CHILD’S SAKE!

The crowding passengers lounging on the decks of the “Campania”

and “Normandie” idly watched the fleeting waves torn up by the
ocean racers as they swept by each other in mid-ocean four days
later, but there were strangely agitated hearts, too, on the passing
steamers, when the signal flags were broken out.
For, the secret enemies now swept past each other at the distance of
a few furlongs.
“What the devil can the real motive of her quick return be?” angrily
mused bridegroom Vreeland, as he called up again Senator
Garston’s baffled fury on learning that for all his goading on, his
detectives had failed to locate the missing Romaine Garland.
He led his beautiful bride back to her room, and then left her to the
enjoyment of “Les Denis-Vierges,” while he eyed the fast-receding
“Normandie.”
“Another big deal in ‘Sugar,’” he suddenly thought, and he felt
himself perhaps hoodwinked by both Senators and the handsome
woman who had so artfully led him on to his fate. “It may be that they
all are fooling me; I may have been merely jockeyed away.
Mrs. Willoughby can work the ‘off side’ of her deals alone from the
‘Elmleaf,’ and the regular transactions will go on as usual through
our firm, really Alynton & Willoughby. Or, she may have picked up
another protégé. God only knows what a woman may do.
“They all have their secrets, by Jove! Senator Garston or this cool
devil, Hugh Conyers, may now turn up as the secret broker in my
place.”
It suddenly occurred to him that the powerful Western millionaire
might really be the favored lover, and Alynton, after all, only the dupe
of a growing passion. “I am powerless to go further now,” he
groaned, as he gazed at the rooms where his lovely and exacting
bride was “squeezing the orange of life” to its last drop. He had
found out, even now, that there were thorns upon his rosebud.
He was not yet entirely satisfied with the status of husband so
recently assumed. Still affecting all the delicacy of the lover, he had,
however, quite practically approached the subject of Katharine
Norreys’ investments “in the hands of Uncle James.”
And he soon found out that the exquisite form of his dazzling blonde
wife hid a resolute and undaunted spirit, an unruffled temper, and an
easy, natural defiance of all marital control. “Where did she get her
experience of life?” mused the startled bridegroom.
“You must go over all these tiresome matters, Harold, with Uncle
James, on our return,” the overwearied, fashionable bride answered.
“I have never entered into any details with him, and I supposed, of
course, that you and he had covered all this ground. I have only
asked him for money as I needed it since my return, and he has
always sent me his checks. It is for you, both business men, to
regulate such matters.” And she cast her eyes down again on her
entrancing book.
“Then you have no permanent bank account of your own?” moodily
demanded Vreeland.
“Why should I have one?” innocently replied Mrs. Katharine
Vreeland, “when Uncle James has always paid the bills and
furnished me all that I ask? I have never asked him for any formal
accounting.” Harold Vreeland was secretly nettled at her easy
carelessness.
“And if he were to die, if anything happened, you would then know
nothing of your own affairs,” said the dissatisfied husband.
“No more than I know now of yours, my dear,” calmly answered
Katharine, settling herself deeper in her cushions. “Uncle James
simply told me that you were a very rich man, and of course, I took
his word. I have not asked you to inventory your own possessions.”
She was turning an unusually interesting leaf as Vreeland walked out
of the cabin in a suppressed rage.
“We are both at sea, it appears,” was his disquieting thought, and
again the remembrances of that slender family tree of his lovely wife
annoyed him. It seemed to begin and end in the graves of the dead
parents, who were only gruesome shadows.
“I will go over this whole ugly matter with Garston at once, just as
soon as I see him,” was Vreeland’s mental decision. “Katharine is
either a child-wife of the Dora order, or else far deeper than the sea
that we are skimming over now.”
It came to him cogently that he had taken her “on trust” largely, and
that a current of life’s mysterious undertow had swept him along into
Senator Garston’s power. There was no going back, however.
“It is too late to hesitate now,” he mused, as he uneasily gazed back
toward America, well knowing that some giant game might be played
in his absence.
In the deal there would be no cards for him, however the luck might
turn. And there remained but one golden gleam in the gray clouds.
He had that paper with which to dominate Mrs. Willoughby. But, it
was a dangerous weapon; it might prove a boomerang.
“Justine Duprez stands between me and all harm. That was a
master-stroke! And so I can cut into the game as I wish, on my
return. The very first thing I shall do will be to get Katharine’s fortune
out of Garston’s control. He shall face the music. And yet, I can
afford no quarrel until that is all safe.”
In the month which followed this vain attempt at probing the financial
resources of the wife of his bosom, Mr. Harold Vreeland, at the Hotel
Cecil, London, found the beautiful Katharine’s money-spending
power to be something abnormal.
There was a rapid exchange of letters and cable ciphers between
Garston and the young broker spy, but the husband was never
enlightened as to the nature of the frequent telegrams and letters
passing between “Uncle James” and his ward.
It vastly annoyed him—this continued private commerce of ideas.
The questions of the husband were frankly enough met. “I have
always been accustomed to do exactly as I pleased,” the lady
remarked, with a bright, hard smile. Vreeland’s face hardened.
“And now, that you are married?” demanded Vreeland, angrily.
“I shall continue to do so, Harold,” his wife sweetly replied.
“If you would have me lead a Darby and Joan life, please to
remember that sort of thing went out with the ‘Rollo books’ and ‘Faith
Gartney’s Girlhood!’”
Mr. Harold Vreeland, the husband of a few weeks, soon realized that
while he was doing the clubs and music halls of London, his
resplendent wife had quietly gathered up quite a coterie of admiring
American men, generally conversationally lumped as “the Western
gang.”
These ardent cavaliers seemed to be all wifeless, and, strangely
enough too, without mothers or sisters. “‘Uncle James’ friends,” was
Mrs. Vreeland’s saving clause, when at last her angered husband
remonstrated at their increasing circle. He was beginning to be
agnostic as to her guilelessness.
And on their removal to Paris, where certain of these “friends” soon
after appeared, Katharine Vreeland bravely continued “to do as she
pleased,” and her now bitter husband partook himself to sparkling
wine and “the sights of Paris.”
He was driven along from day to day, for he had no reliable news
from the seat of war. He realized that he was alone in the world and
without one trusty friend. His wife was only a bright enigma.
“The lone-hand game has its disadvantages, I perceive,” was his
bitter secret comment, as he tired of the Hotel Continental—the
perfunctory drives in the Bois, the open summer amusements—and
visibly fretted at his wife’s endless shopping.
Even with Garston’s substantial bribe, he began to see that
Mrs. Katharine Vreeland’s “separate estate” was to become a very
“burning question”—in the near future.
She was a “money-eater” of the first class.
“Let us get back to New York,” he moodily said after one of a series
of wordy recriminations. “With all my heart,” placidly retorted the
“beautiful Mrs. Vreeland,” for she had now acquired that professional
designation in the journals and the cant phrases of the uneasy
floating “American circle” of Parisian high life.
Harold Vreeland was now mentally tired of the by-play of marital
fencing. He realized, in all their varied encounters, that she was
calmly superior at every clash.
Bright, bold and ready, she “came back at him” every time, and he
was quietly cornered by that flashing rapier, her tongue. What man
can prevail against that two-edged sword?
But one resource was left. He had run the gamut of sullenness,
persuasion, a bit of bullying, some pleading and even a touch of lofty
tenderness, but her point was carried high, her wrist easy, and her
blade opposed to him at every turn.
He could not avouch himself a mere fortune-hunter, and so, he took
refuge in an ominous and expectant silence. “I will get hold of her
estate, and then curb her extravagance,” he brooded.
His worst fears as to the “underground railroad” communications of
the “uncle” and ward were realized when he finally received a
positive request of Senator Garston for an immediate return.
“I want you at once. I wish to lay out our plans for the winter. And if I
am to trap this underhanded, intrigant Mrs. Willoughby, I must finish
my work before the opening of the session of Congress, and our
committees will begin soon to meet. Come on, with no delay.” The
words were almost mandatory, and they annoyed him strangely.
Returning from his banker’s with this letter, he found his wife’s two
maids busied in packing up all her effects. He was startled, but took
the defensive.
Something impelled him to keep the news to himself. “I am tired of
Paris,” shortly said his wife, as she recognized the drifting odor of an
absinthe frappée. “We can just catch the Gascogne, and so, I have
ordered all my bills sent in. You must attend to them, and then,
secure our passage.”
“Let me know their probable amount,” gruffly answered the husband,
as he departed for the steamer office. He was beginning to feel a
master hand now.
“She had the news before I received it,” he growled. “And I swear I
will make it my pleasing duty to bring ‘Uncle James’ to book, on my
return. I will get her property into my hands, and control it.
“She would beggar even a Vanderbilt, an Astor or a Goelet, if given a
free hand.” Vreeland aspired to the conquest of this defiant beauty in
rebellion.
It so happened that the game as laid out by “Uncle James” suited all
three; but, while he thirsted to see Justine Duprez once more and to
confer with Doctor Alberg, Vreeland was really anxious at heart to re-
enter the comparative protection of his Wall Street office.
“By Jove! I am at least between the lines there,” he mused. “I can
frighten both sides, and so, guard myself.”
It was on the Gascogne that he watched Katharine VanDyke Norreys
as the Count de Millefleurs (a young attaché going over on his first
appointment) bent over her steamer chair.
“This marriage has only hung a millstone around my neck,” he
resentfully brooded. “And I wonder if I was only brought in to relieve
‘Uncle James.’” It was a mean suspicion, but it clung closely to him.
He was now the prey of ugly thoughts, and fleeting fears disturbed
“the sleep of Richard.”
There were times when he feared for the safety of the document so
deftly hidden away. The copy had been artfully deposited (under
receipt) in a Belgian branch bank in Paris, under an assumed name,
and the banker’s receipt was now sewed in his waistcoat. “Thank
God! That is all safe!” he sighed.
He little reflected that one day, laughing over the “Agony Column” of
the London Times, his eye had paused at the name “Martha Wilmot.”
Some trace of familiarity, some fleeting memory caused him to read
the few lines.
“Handsome reward and the most complete immunity guaranteed.
Greatly to your advantage. Communicate in any way.”
The signature, “New York,” followed by an address, closed the
expensively placed announcement.
“Some relic of man’s folly and woman’s frailty!” he laughed. “The old,
old game goes on forever.”
And yet, he little dreamed that Hugh Conyers and handsome Dan
Daly were now the right and left hand men of Judge Hiram Endicott,
who was engaged in some very interesting metropolitan researches.
In far-away New York, there was the veiled duel of two fearless
intellects going on, even in the summer days, when the town was
empty.
Mrs. Elaine Willoughby was again the radiant mistress of Lakemere,
although she spent a portion of her time in town at the Circassia.
There was now a strange glow of happiness shining on the splendid
woman’s face, and the services of Doctor Hugo Alberg were
permanently discontinued.
It was impossible for the revengeful Teuton to learn the reason from
Justine Duprez. The courteous terms of Mrs. Elaine Willoughby’s
letter, inclosing a check for his annual account, were too
unmistakable to be misconstrued even by the dense German. It was
a congé not to be misunderstood. His Waterloo!
And, in a roundabout way he had also learned that Judge Endicott
and his nephew made up the whole social circle at Lakemere, with
Hugh Conyers as a permanent summer guest.
Hugo Alberg had sworn an oath that Harold Vreeland should recoup
him for the loss of his star patient. He now only awaited the return of
his proposed victim “to levy the Rhine dues.”
A visit to the South Fifth Avenue rooms where Justine had
vicariously entertained him in the old days, gave him the news, by
the mouth of the old denizen, that “la pauvre Justine” was tied down
at Lakemere.
“Some one have robbed ze lady last year, and now Justine is ze
prissonaire to watch ze garderobe all ze while; and only ze travail
and ze solitude! V’la tout! Pauvre Justine! Elle vent bien partir pour la
France.” The doctor hungrily awaited Vreeland’s return for a bleeding
process.
No one but the Frenchwoman herself knew how tightly the coils were
wound around her. Shaking in fear, left without the secret protection
of her traitorous tempter, Vreeland, she dared not try to break away
from Lakemere, for she now feared the gleaming wrist-irons.
To run away would be only to invite an instant arrest, and she panted
for the time of the winter’s gaieties. She would have a chance
perhaps then to slip away unknown.
Her plan was already formulated. A simulated illness, a last
“bleeding” of Harold Vreeland, and then, a return to dear Paris. Once
again on French soil, she would be safe. For Paris would soon
swallow her up. The vicious child would be hidden in the mighty
bosom of the Mother of all Wickedness.
“Ah! he shall pay,” she muttered, as her velvety eyes rested, lit up
with a strange fire, on the beautiful woman whose iron hand now
held her so firmly. “She and the Kelly—how I could drive a knife into
their hearts!” she hissed.
“But Justine must wait; gold first, gold—and then la liberté shall be
mine.”
When “Harold Vreeland and wife” were duly domiciled at the Hotel
Savoy, he was not astonished at the proximity of “Uncle James” at
the Plaza Hotel; but, even on the pier, when the Senator met them,
Vreeland noted the ravages of some overmastering passion in the
strong man’s face.
The eyes were brilliant and unsteady, there was a foreign irritability
in his abrupt manner, and Vreeland’s attempts at a tête-à-tête were
only met with a sharp command “to get inside his old business lines”
as soon as he could; and Vreeland, humbled, kept his temper.
“I must have you back in the traces again,” sharply cried Garston.
“And, I would get up to Lakemere to-night if I were you. See
Mrs. Willoughby, and get safe on the old basis.
“The stock market is humming, and I will soon have need of you in
Wall Street. I trust no one there but you.”
Harold Vreeland hastened away to the office, and found the same
unimpassioned greeting which had always characterized Horton
Wyman. And in the rush, they were now glad to have his aid in their
increasing affairs.
“You will go, of course, up to Lakemere to-night?” said Noel Endicott.
“I have already telegraphed your arrival to Mrs. Willoughby.”
In a stolen detour, Vreeland arranged for an early morning interview
with Doctor Alberg, and then he passed the “Circassia” on his way to
the train after dinner.
The flat demand of janitor Helms for “backsheesh” keenly angered a
man already enraged by “Uncle James’” quiet appropriation of the
first evening with that hawk-eyed free-lance of marital beauty,
Mrs. Katharine Vreeland, “whose remarkable loveliness had created
such a London and Paris sensation.”
“I will soon cut the Gordian knot between these two,” growled
Vreeland, as he descended from the waiting carriage at Lakemere. “I
will either have my wife and her property to myself, or else ‘Uncle
James’ will show his hand, to the very last card.” He was beginning
to be reckless in a blind jealousy.
The welcome of Mrs. Elaine Willoughby to her returned protégé was
merely a complacently cordial one, and yet, in half an hour, Vreeland
bore away the assurance of lulled suspicions and his continued
business relation.
“I shall soon call upon Mrs. Vreeland and assure myself by
inspection of her married happiness,” was the last greeting of the
hostess, whose other guests, if any, were invisible.
“I will send for you to the ‘Circassia’ next week, and give you my
general directions for some business which is impending.”
“That woman has found a new happiness. Her life is now complete,”
was the keen-eyed schemer’s comment as he sauntered away
toward the park gates, where the impatient horses awaited his
return.
A flitting form in the dusky garden walks led him toward the “lovers’
labyrinth,” behind the unforgotten summer house. His one friend was
on watch.
“Justine!” he gasped, and he hastened to stealthily join her in the
deepened gloom of the trees. A new fear smote upon his startled
nerves.
There was the velvet-eyed Frenchwoman in waiting, and her
passionate words, her panting breast and gleaming eyes told him of
an unbroken tie, the bond of their guilty past.