"He says his name is Lee Gordon and that he's a representative from your husband's bank."
"The bank? Don't keep him waiting, Powell. Send him in."
Powell returned to the foyer and stiffly ushered Lee inside. "Madame will see you now."
"So I heard," Lee replied with a grin as he removed his hat and followed the butler into the sitting room. Powell announced Lee, then retreated, as Mrs. Millen dismissed him.
The butler left the sitting room doors open, but Lee took it upon himself to close them.
"Mr. Gordon." Mrs. Millen rose from her chair behind her writing desk. She slipped her hand out of her skirt pocket and approached Lee as he finished pulling the doors closed.
He turned to face her. He had seen Mrs. Millen from a distance at the senator's funeral but he hadn't gotten close enough to discern her features. And she wasn't at all what Lee expected. She was younger than he imagined and tiny, less than five feet tall, with blond hair and blue-green eyes.
Dressed completely in black mourning and veil, Mrs. Millen resembled a younger, slimmer Queen Victoria. She was small in build and stature, but her voice was impressive. It was deep, well-modulated, and regal, and with a hint of Great Britain about it. Lee had the feeling she practiced her speech in front of her mirror, practiced ordering lesser beings around. She came to a halt in front of him and extended her hand for him to kiss. "I'm Cassandra Millen."
Lee stared at her fingers shrouded in her black lace half-gloves and declined the role of subject. He didn't lift her hand to his lips, but shook it instead. "Lee Gordon."
Cassandra Millen shot him a dirty look, turned, and walked back to her chair and seated herself. "I understand you've come from the bank about my late husband's account."
"No, ma'am." Lee smiled his most charming smile.
"But Powell said…"
"I confess to misleading your butler, Mrs. Millen, in order to gain an audience with you."
"What are you?" Mrs. Millen jumped to her feet. "Some reporter for some scandal sheet? Have you come here looking for a story?"
"No, ma'am, I've come to tell you that I already know the story. I work for the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, and David Alexander retained me to—"
"Get out! How dare come into my house under false pretenses and mention that man's name?"
"I dare because I know the truth about David Alexander and your daughter, Caroline. I know that there was nothing between them. I know that your daughter died giving birth to your grandchild—a daughter whose name was legally recorded as Lily Catherine Alexander on the seventh day of January, eighteen hundred seventy-one in a courthouse in a little town on the outskirts of Philadelphia. I know Lily's real father was a married Shakespearean actor named Tristan Darrow, and that Tristan Darrow had intimate relations with your daughter, Caroline, while he was traveling with a London touring company. I even know the times and places."
"Don't be lewd," she snapped.
"I'm not being lewd, Mrs. Millen," Lee explained. "I'm being honest."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said. "I don't know anything about a Shakespearean actor. I only know that David Alexander took advantage of my child. Where did you come by this sordid information? Who told you this pack of lies?"
"Caroline," Lee answered softly.
"That's impossible. Caroline is dead."
Lee pulled the journal out of his pocket.
Mrs. Millen gasped.
"Recognize this?" Lee asked. "It belonged to your daughter, Caroline. According to the inscription, you gave it to her for Christmas in the year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and seventy. She recorded her thoughts and deeds every single day until the first week of June when you and Senator Millen sent her to stay with an acquaintance in that little town outside of Philadelphia."
"Oh, my God," Cassandra breathed. "Where did you get that? And what do you plan to do with it? Blackmail me too?"
"Caroline gave her journal to a friend for safekeeping. Your daughter recorded all the intimate details of her romance with Darrow and she was afraid you might come across the journal and read it."
"I would never!"
"She didn't feel she could take the chance. And her friend only agreed to part with the journal after your husband"— Lee chose his next words deliberately—"killed himself."
"You must be mistaken," Cassandra Millen insisted. "My husband died of heart failure."