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  Tapping the fan against her palm, determination narrowed Rachel’s gaze. I must understand his reasoning! The Samson family had few enemies—her father personally tended that truth believing the best way to cultivate wealth was to cultivate partnerships rather than competition. Rachel gave a brusque nod. She would locate the gentleman and do whatever it took to ease his conscience.

  The carriage creaked to a halt and broke her reverie. She smoothed all expression from her features and tucked away all thoughts and emotions. Only then did she accept the footman’s help from the carriage.

  Memories abounded upon the grounds of the massive three-level mansion of her familial roots. Located on a large plot of land near Boston Commons, the mansion stood as her father’s resolution to be the best. Everything from the carefully laid oak floors, the tightly mortared stone of the chimney, and the finely woven imported tapestries had been specifically consigned for the Samson estate.

  Rachel stepped forward, ascending the stone steps leading to the front porch. As she crested the stairs, the large white door with the oppressive brass lion-head knocker opened to reveal the tall form of Oliver, the family butler.

  “Good morning, Miss Rachel,” he greeted, his thinning gray hair and bright blue eyes a welcome familiarity. “I hope your journey was safe and pleasant.”

  “Thank you, Oliver.” While Oliver didn’t seem as tall, Rachel noted that everything from his trim suit to his highly polished shoes remained the same. A smile teased her lips as she handed him her gloves and hat.

  “It’s nice to have you home again, Miss.”

  Offering him a smile and a brief incline of her head, Rachel passed him to the front hall. Memories by the dozens pressed at her, demanding her attention the same moment she attempted to usher them away. When Rachel paused at the foot of the stairs leading to the second story, she could almost see the past visions of herself and her childhood friend sliding down the railing.

  “Excuse me, Miss.”

  “Yes, Oliver?” she asked absently, unable to break her gaze from the happy scenes of a distant past.

  “The master has requested your presence in the study as soon as you’ve freshened yourself from your trip.”

  Rachel blinked, drawn back from the visions of her childhood to the present requirements of duty and expectation. She looked to the butler as she drew her control more completely around her. “Thank you, Oliver.”

  He bowed and turned down the hallway leading to the kitchen at the back of the house.

  That title of “master” acted as a presentiment to the expectations she herself would be held to: a deference to his role as head-of-household. Rachel’s brow furrowed and she turned on her heel, crossing the hall to the doorway of her father’s study. After a light knock and a brusque “Enter,” Rachel opened the door to step inside.

  Situated directly off the main hallway for easy access, it was a true businessman’s office. Nearly the entire wall to her right held bookcases filled to capacity with law books, economic nonfiction, and histories of past successful tycoons. Included, also, were biographies from every imaginable walk of life. On the wall to her left hung letters from prominent businessmen and board members, framed and carefully positioned beside photographs of these same people with her father.

  Hand momentarily gripping the brass handle of the door, Rachel forced herself to release it and walk with a steady gait to the center of the room. Dark leather chairs sat opposite her father’s desk and a dark burgundy oriental rug adorned the black walnut hardwood floor. Drawn burgundy velvet curtains heightened an effect of a dragon’s cave, reminding her of times as a child when she lived in dread of the room.

  Her father, Henry Samson, leaned against the broad desk, palms downward, with a focused scowl upon the scattered papers of his desk. He could easily be considered an attractive and athletic 54-year-old businessman, though he was constantly surrounded by an aura of brusque intensity. With pepper-black hair and hazel-green eyes, the persona she saw so clearly now had certainly helped build his empire. She, however, also remembered a different side to his character. One that had chased monsters from under the bed and behind the curtains. One that had spoken to her with gentleness and kindness–

  Ushering the memories away, Rachel calmly greeted, “Hello, Father.”

  He looked up, and his eyes widened. “Good God! Rachel? You’ve grown!” He stepped forward and embraced her, the action catching her completely by surprise. When compared to past actions, how could she possibly have expected an outwardly warm welcome? He had barred her return for her mother’s funeral!

  Yet the intermingling scents of gourmet coffee and tobacco overwhelmed her with the surge of pleasant memories. Swept up in the flood of pleasant yesterdays, her arms surrounded him in a return of his embrace. Eight years had been such a long time, and the familiar scent and warmth took her back to the happy times before–

  He wanted you to become someone else.

  The memories fell away and Rachel dropped her arms to her sides. Her father pulled back, a shadow falling across his countenance as he cleared his throat and moved away from her. He motioned to one of the leather chairs opposite his large desk. Rachel accepted. The intensity of his regard reminded her of the headmistress at school.

  He leaned back against his desk, arms crossed. “Did you have a pleasant trip?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Excellent.” He retrieved his pocket-watch from his vest and checked the time, the action causing Rachel a whisper of intrigue.

  “Is something amiss?”

  “Why do you ask?” He returned the pocket-watch with an absent motion.

  “You gauge the time. Will you need to away for a meeting?” How poignant the memory of how her father prioritized business before all else.

  “No, no. The meeting was scheduled for yesterday, though the other party did not arrive, and I haven’t yet received word as to the reason for their absence.”

  Curiosity shuffled away the haze of irritation. “New client?”

  One side of her father’s mouth lifted in a somewhat sardonic smile. “Our relationship is a bit more complicated, unfortunately.”

  “Complicated, you say?” His continued ambiguity teased curiosity to intrigue.

  He chose a cigar from the mahogany humidor on the front left corner of his desk, the deliberate motions of the action brimming with hesitation. “I had not a chance to inform you of all plans quite yet.”

  “What plans would those be, pray?”

  “I intended to have the two of you meet over lunch. Then he and I were to discuss the situation during supper.”

  The cold hush of suspicion lifted the hairs of her neck. “Why not now?” she posed, her tone firm yet respectful. “If I am at all involved, I should know beforehand.”

  “Of course,” her father allowed with a slight incline of head. “Hence the shared meal.”

  Rachel felt a stronger surge of irritation. She never tolerated obscurity or ambiguous answers from classmates or the student government. Direct responses resulted in direct action. Besides, politicians were profuse enough, serving mostly to stagnate government and delay any true progress. Her stand had always been that the school did not need to take it upon itself the training of more.

  Gathering back her calm after a brief mental warning, Rachel attempted a different approach. “This is appreciated, to be sure, but would it not be best if I were fully informed as to what type of complicated relationship you and the gentleman share that affects my person?”

  To Rachel’s surprise, her father paused before finally answering, “I’m not free to discuss it at the moment.”

  Her eyebrow twitched as she continued to regard him. Her father did the same, and just as calmly. “Father, the point of my training was to prepare in me a mind perfectly capable of not only managing complicated relationships, but to know how best to utilize them. What would be the point of eight years of study if I am not given cause to use said training?”

&nb
sp; He didn’t respond.

  “If you truly wish me to be a part of this business,” Rachel continued, easily holding his hazel-green examination, “then you would do well to tell me of this and other complicated relationships so that I can be better prepared to manage them.”

  Her father pulled several puffs from his cigar before stating, “He’s your betrothed.”

  The delicate bamboo spokes of her fan broke within her grasp. “What?”

  Henry Samson’s calm and complete scrutiny of her countenance didn’t waver. “The son of a friend, we’ve had you two promised since you were born. You’re to be wed the end of this month.”

  For only the second time in her life, Rachel’s heart and soul collapsed with the weight of his betrayal. “Wed?”

  “Arranged marriages are common,” her father informed, “and as I’m not about to let any jackanapes come and meddle his way into our business affairs, it was deemed necessary here.”

  Betrayal dwindled, indignation sparking her eyes to life. “‘Business affairs’?” Rachel repeated coldly. “Is that what this arrangement is to you? A business transaction?”

  A shadow fell across his features, and the muscles at his jaw danced. “You’re my only child, Rachel, and I have every intention of managing your affairs to their best capacity.”

  “My affairs regarding men are none of your concern,” she informed, “neither is the man I might choose for the role of groom. I shall marry whom and when I choose. Not before, not after, and certainly not when you deem me ready, much as a trainer with his bitch.”

  “Rachel Byron Samson, I will not—”

  “Just as I will not accept a man of your choosing for my husband,” Rachel insisted. “Whether he is the wealthiest, the most highly qualified, or the most intelligent matters little. This particular choice has no relevance to that of our business practices.”

  His lips drew taut. “You will accept this match, Rachel, or you will no longer be included in the matters of this family’s business practices.”

  Rachel bolted to her feet. “You have no right!”

  “I have every right. If you do not marry the man chosen for you, I shall write you out of my estate. Love and familiarity are luxuries the rich cannot afford. The thought of business comes first. Always.” He motioned sharply toward her. “You are this family’s only hope for the future and I will not see that go to waste.”

  Rachel tilted her chin upward, eyes narrowing. “So I am capable of running the business but cannot choose my own husband? I am amazed at the weight of trust you place upon me, dear Father. How shall I meet the expectations?”

  “Don’t take that tone with me.”

  “Tone?” Rachel asked, fighting back the shrill overtones. “You bend and manipulate my life as if I were an object or possession and worry on my tone? You have no right to control me as if I were still a child, and I refuse to yield each and every time my opinions collide with yours. I am no longer a child of fourteen, Father! I am a grown woman who has proven her worth in the realm of business. A woman who continuously demonstrated her prowess in major investments, graduating with high honors. You invested in my training, so you had best expect that to include an independent will and mind.”

  Rachel turned on her heel and strode out the door, only just preventing the slam behind her, and escaped upstairs. Her step faltered at the entrance of her room, and she could only stare in horror.

  French porcelain-faced dolls leered at her with smiles as forced and shallow as those seen in New York and Paris. The pink ruffles and lace of her canopy bed ridiculed her assumed role of ‘heir’, reminding her of that air of femininity which doomed her to be viewed as another empty-headed heiress. Innocent watercolors of a three-person family mocked her. Small chairs and well-dusted tea sets seared images of laughter and good times into a numbed heart. A heart of business.

  “How–” Rachel nearly retched as she clutched the doorframe. “How can he believe this is who returned?” For the child she saw in the room would never be welcome in the world of business she had decided to conquer.

  ~~~

  Brown eyes glared out the carriage window as the gentleman nervously tapped an empty pipe against his leg. When Miss Rachel Samson discovered her father’s plans…. I can’t let this happen. Not like this.

  He sat forward, running a hand through his raven-black hair before irritably chewing the end of his pipe. When we meet, I’ll simply tell her…. He grimaced. Tell her what exactly, old man? The scowl darkened his brown eyes to black. An objection had to be voiced, he knew. But he also knew that anything said to her father would be waved aside as if spoken by a child. As Rachel said, no one questioned Henry Samson.

  The gentleman scoffed, taking the pipe from his mouth to slip it back into the inner pocket of his suit-coat. I’ve seen her more in the past few days than her own father in these last eight years! Is it not, then, my… my duty to protect her? As a gentleman? As a… a comrade? He gave a brusque nod as the carriage pulled to a halt outside the Samson estate. Stepping down, he took a moment to straighten his charcoal jacket, mumbling, “Courage, old man. Courage,” before making his way to the front entry. There the family butler accepted his hat and gloves. “Good morning, Oliver. How has life treated you?”

  “Very well. Thank you, sir. Yourself?”

  The gentleman smiled. “Doing well. Doing well.” He motioned down the hall. “Available?”

  “Yes, sir. Just.” Oliver led the gentleman forward. “How was your trip?”

  The gentleman cleared his throat as Oliver opened the study door. “Very interesting, and let’s leave it at that.”

  “Yes, sir.” Oliver bowed and closed the door behind him.

  Henry Samson greeted the gentleman with a scowl and an irritably voiced, “Robert, what do you think you’re doing?”

  Robert swallowed his reluctance and summoned his resolve. He refused the offered chair. “Mr. Samson, we need to have a talk.”

  One eyebrow twitched as Mr. Samson prompted, “Regarding?” The action reminded Robert greatly of the man’s daughter.

  “Your daughter.” Dear Lord, give me the words, he prayed, barely restraining a grimace at his predicament.

  An eyebrow rose as Mr. Samson adjusted his position against his sturdy wooden desk. “And?” he pressed, crossing his arms.

  Careful, old man. “I ask for your permission to court her.”

  Mr. Samson sharply straightened. “You what?”

  “Sir, hear me out,” he pleaded, arms raised.

  “Hear you out, Robert? What in blazes are you talking about, ‘permission to court’?” Mr. Samson scoffed. “You know as well as I do a betrothal is in place. What’s the point of–”

  “The ‘point’ is that she deserves this choice,” Robert said. “If you force this path upon her, you will only press her to stand against everything the betrothal signifies of today’s society: control, submission, dependence.… You’ve had her trained and taught to be dependent upon one person: Herself. That has ingrained in her an initial suspicion of the motives of everyone around her. If you persist in this betrothal, you will only jeopardize the relationship between husband and wife as well as father and daughter.”

  Mr. Samson narrowed his gaze as he watched Robert’s expression. “Robert Trent, what have you done?”

  “Nothing, save kindle a friendship with a highly intelligent woman.”

  “And how did you accomplish this when she’s been abroad?” he prompted.

  His ears felt as if they burst into flame. Robert cleared his throat. “We rode together the first two days of her journey home.” No need to confess life at the party.

  “Robert–” Mr. Samson clenched his jaw. “You were told not to interfere.”

  “‘Not to interfere’?” Robert repeated, incredulous. “I offer her friendship and support and it is interference? She confessed a feeling of camaraderie–the first she’s likely had in years–and it is interference?” Robert scoffed. “Good night, man! Yo
ur daughter deserves truthfulness. If this negatively impacts your plans, so be it!” Robert drove the accusation at the older man with each sharp movement of his finger. “Mark my words, sir. Should you tell her of this betrothal, she will despise and mistrust everyone involved, yourself most of all. What good will come of that?”

  “When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it,” Mr. Samson warned in a dangerously calm voice. “Until that time, you will abide by the plans in place while keeping any opinions you might have to yourself.”

  “Mr. Sa–”

  “Robert, I suggest you leave and gather your senses. You are dangerously close to jeopardizing your future.” Then he moved around his desk to sit within the large leather chair and see to the business papers and reports scattered about his desk.

  Robert clenched his jaw before storming from the room, slamming the door behind him. “Good night, what a stubborn fool!” With his daughter likely the only casualty. It was unthinkable the choices the man had made in order to allegedly protect his family legacy. “And warning me on my opinions? The man’s a pompous a–”

  “Sir!”

  Robert shifted his position at the call by a familiar voice. As suspected, Rachel descended from the second story, the appearance of her inviting a lump of guilt to settle in the soles of his shoes. Her eyes sparkled as bright as he remembered, and a slight smile caressed her lips. A seldom-seen expression, if he remembered correctly. Robert swallowed hard. No escape, old man. The time has come for confessions.

  ~~~

  Rachel had stood within the doorway of her room for several silent minutes, unable to think or feel anything until she heard the slamming of a door. The unexpected jolt caused a twitch as her attention shifted from the haunting memories to the recognized voice that sharply stated “Good night, what a stubborn fool!” At that, her head snapped up and she rushed from the doorway to see, as expected, the gentleman from the train. Standing stiff and stern in the hall, his expression glowed red with anger. “And warning me on my opinions?” he groused. “The man’s a pompous a–”