Chapter 1

1

F IFTEEN YEARS LATER

The Pinkertons trained their detectives to use any and all available resources when it came to procuring information pertinent to their cases, but Philip Carmichael still felt a twinge of guilt about using his fellow agents. Somehow he doubted Wendell and Harper would appreciate his cunning once they realized he’d duped them.

“I never thought you’d be one to chase the great white whale, Carmichael.”

Philip grinned as he propped a hip on the corner of Gregor Wendell’s desk. “I doubt Miss Radcliffe would appreciate your choice of metaphor.”

Wendell chuckled as he leaned back in his chair. “Prob’ly not, but since no one can find the slippery woman, her opinion’s not terribly relevant.”

Stanley Harper stood at the window overlooking Prairie Avenue, idly stroking his thick, dark mustache as he watched passersby go in and out of the Lone Star Hotel across the street. The agency didn’t have official offices in Houston, but Robert and William Pinkerton had arranged for a small space to be available for agents working cases in the area. Wasn’t much to it. Just a narrow second-floor room with two desks and a small filing cabinet in the corner. Bare floors. Bare walls. Nothing to induce a man to linger. Yet it provided a discreet meeting place to discuss Pinkerton business without worrying who might overhear.

“I didn’t think Radcliffe was hiring Pinks this time around.” Harper turned from the window and pinned Philip with a suspicious look. “Something ’bout being fed up with us not getting the job done the last four times. As if he expected us to pull the girl outta thin air with nothing but a name and an outdated description to go on.”

“I’m not fool enough to think I can do any better than what you and Wendell did.” Philip raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture, hoping to mollify Harper’s bruised ego. “The two of you are local legends for tracking down the woman who found that photograph of the missing heiress in her luggage. That move gave us our first break in the case. Thanks to you, we know the girl is somewhere between here and Little Rock, Arkansas. Or at least she was as of three years ago.”

Harper blew out a disgusted breath. “I traveled that rail line and stopped in every stinkin’ town along the way. Questioned every porter I could get my hands on. Took me near to a month, and I still came up empty. Radcliffe was so upset, he refused to reimburse my train fare. Said I could waste my own money on a fruitless endeavor, but he’d not have me wastin’ his. Cheap louse.”

Now they were getting somewhere.

“A man that wealthy cheating his employees out of their due?” Philip wagged his head. “Seems bad for business.”

Wendell scratched at a beard that was starting to gray a bit at his chin. “I ain’t sure the man is as wealthy as he lets on. He’s got all the trappings—fancy house, expensive suits, memberships at all the right clubs—but I’ve heard rumors that it’s his brother’s side of the company that’s keeping Radcliffe Shipping afloat.”

Philip had heard the same rumors. From what he’d been able to gather, Drake and Lowell Radcliffe had started Radcliffe Shipping together some thirty years ago. The two had capitalized on the cotton trade at first, investing in riverboats to travel the Brazos, Colorado, and Trinity Rivers to bring the product to market before shipping it back east out of Galveston. The War between the States brought hard times, but the Radcliffe brothers found a way to continue turning a profit. They were some of the first to invest in local Houston railroads, and by the mid-1870s, Radcliffe Shipping had become one of the richest companies in Texas.

At the height of their success, however, the two brothers had a falling-out and decided to go their separate ways. They divided their individual holdings and investments while each retained half ownership of the parent company. Until Lowell died in 1880. Lowell’s daughter inherited his shares, but since she was a minor, her shares were placed in a trust with her uncle as trustee, giving Drake sole control of Radcliffe Shipping.

Lowell’s wife inherited control of her husband’s subsidiary businesses. Fifty percent of those profits fed into Radcliffe Shipping’s coffers, and those funds were keeping Drake Radcliffe from declaring bankruptcy after a string of failed personal investments had pauperized the man.

Philip leaned forward slightly. “Do you think Drake’s search for his niece has more to do with money than familial obligation?”

Wendell shrugged. “Radcliffe professes to be devastated by the loss of his niece. Talks about how he owes it to his dead brother to keep searching until she is found and her kidnapper brought to justice. Hires a new round of detectives every few years. But I’ve been in the man’s house. Never spotted a single photograph of the girl. None of his brother, either. Has a big portrait of himself over the mantel in the parlor, though.”

Harper strode away from the window, his dark gaze peering at Philip as if he were trying to mine his motives. Philip forced himself to maintain his casual position—hip propped against the desk corner, hands relaxed, breathing even. It was natural for a detective to be suspicious. One wouldn’t be very good at solving cases if he took everything he encountered at face value.

Still, a little deflection might aid the cause. So before Harper started throwing questions at him, Philip threw one of his own.

“What do you think motivates Radcliffe, Harper?”

“Money.” Harper drew to a halt a few steps away from Philip. “He’s gotta have something to gain by her return. My guess is it’s something pretty substantial. It would have to be to offset the thousand-dollar reward he suddenly decided to offer for her return.” Harper tilted his head. “Is that why you decided to take this case, Carmichael? For the reward?”

Philip grinned even as his gut tightened. “I don’t know about you fellas, but I don’t plan to be a Pinkerton forever. A thousand dollars would buy a real pretty piece of land somewhere. Maybe I could finally settle down. Start a family.”

Ever since he’d been hired by the Pinkertons, he’d done his best not to break the ninth commandment. A man of faith shouldn’t follow the path of the Father of Lies, after all. Yet a man didn’t have to lie in order to deceive. Philip had gotten quite adept at weaving vague truths into a camouflage designed to mislead and, therefore, hide his actual intent. He used to take pride in his semantic subterfuge, but he’d grown weary of the constant word-watching and the bruises it left on his conscience.

“I wouldn’t go property shopping just yet,” Harper warned with a scowl. “Radcliffe will likely find an excuse not to pay out, even if you do manage to track the girl down.”

“Appreciate the tip.” And the insight into a man with murky motives.

Wendell slapped his palms on his thighs, then pushed up from his chair, Philip’s cue that the meeting had reached its conclusion. He rose from the corner of the desk.

“I appreciate you taking the time to bring me up to speed. Reading case notes isn’t the same as talking to the agents who worked the assignment.” Philip extended a hand to Harper first, then to Wendell.

Wendell grinned as he shook Philip’s hand. “Don’t suppose you’re looking for a partner, are you? I might be convinced to give finding the Radcliffe heiress another go. Especially if it means splittin’ that reward.”

“The lone wolf take a partner?” Harper scoffed, then shot Philip a sardonic glare. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Philip chuckled good-naturedly as he extricated his hand from Wendell’s grip. “You know how it is, boys. Old habits, and all that.”

He’d established a reputation at the agency for discretion. He always worked alone and was willing to take on the less sensational cases. Glory, power, recognition. He didn’t care about those things. A fact that made him attractive to a certain clientele. One desperate to keep their secrets out of the press. He didn’t particularly enjoy spying on cheating husbands or digging up dirt on potential investment partners, but the work was steady enough to keep him occupied so he didn’t have to hire out for the more questionable duties associated with the labor unions. That work was rife with corruption, and Philip wanted no part of it.

“I’d wish you luck,” Wendell said as he led the way to the door, “but it’s gonna take a lot more than luck to find Scarlett Radcliffe. That trail is as cold as they get.”

“Kinda makes me wonder why he’s wastin’ his time.” Harper raised a brow. “You uncover some new information, Carmichael? Or are you workin’ an angle?”

“No angle, I swear. I just want to bring Miss Radcliffe home.”

But not to her uncle.

Philip bid his two colleagues good-bye and collected his horse from the hitching post outside the building. In case his departure was being monitored, he guided his gray north on Main, then east on Congress, as if heading in the direction of the grand houses of Quality Hill. He wound through the area that housed Houston’s elite before turning south. Large oaks shaded the thoroughfares. Sculpted hedges and flowers formed decorative gardens, and women dressed in high-fashion gowns strolled along the walkways or drove about in open carriages, impressing their fellow socialites with their style and knowledge of the latest gossip.

A shudder twitched along Philip’s spine. He couldn’t imagine living a life where a person’s worth was judged by one’s finances, social connections, and fashion sense. Could anything be more superficial? These people had no substance, no purpose beyond themselves to give their lives meaning.

He rode Steele a full block before enough tension drained from his shoulders for him to relax back into his saddle. Rich people made him itch. Ironic since they also made up the bulk of his clientele. Maybe the itch had developed because he’d worked for so many, giving him the opportunity to witness their greed and selfishness up close.

Not all wealthy people possessed low moral standards and inflated egos, though. He’d met godly men and women of means who sponsored philanthropic endeavors such as building hospitals and schools, funding mission work, and establishing orphanages. But they seemed to be in the minority. Drake Radcliffe and his ilk were far more prevalent.

Which was why Philip wasn’t working for that Radcliffe.

Philip drew his mount to a halt outside a modest home on Jefferson Avenue. A handful of kids played in a yard down the street. A woman swept her porch next door, not giving him more than a cursory glance. An old man sat in a rocking chair smoking a pipe across the way. He raised a hand in greeting. Philip waved in return as he casually glanced down the road the way he’d come. No evidence that he’d been followed. The neighborhood seemed normal. Nothing out of place. Still, he walked his horse around to the back, finding a chicken coop and a shed that offered a bucket he could fill at the pump. Once Steele was situated and out of sight from curious onlookers, Philip strolled back to the front of the house and knocked on the door.

A stately man, likely in his sixties, opened the door. “Yes?”

“Philip Carmichael from the Pinkerton agency. I believe I’m expected.”

A smile creased the formality of the man’s bearing, and a hint of what Philip could only call excitement lit his eyes. “Come in. Mrs. Radcliffe awaits you in the sitting room.”

Philip stepped inside and pulled his hat from his head. He rubbed a hand over his short blond hair as he handed the hat to the butler. “I hope she hasn’t been waiting long.”

The man’s gaze drifted past Philip to an open doorway a few feet past the entryway. “About fifteen years, sir.”