She was still nervous as she waited for Fox to show up.
What if he was not in his room when the boy got there? Even though Fox had been told to lay low and hold himself available, he couldn't stay in his room twenty-four hours a day.
Celia was lying down on the bed in her room, trying to force herself to relax, when the tapping came on the door.
She got up quickly and went to the door. "Who is it?"
"Preston," came the muffled answer.
Celia opened the door and let Fox slip through. As she closed it, she asked, "Did anyone see you coming here?"
He shook his head. "I don't think so, not unless that little ragamuffin was curious and followed me. But he seemed too anxious to go waste that money you gave him to do something like that."
"Good. I have a job for you, Preston." Celia opened her bag and took out some of Amos Powell's expense money. As she extended the bills to Fox, she went on, "You'll have to go buy yourself some better clothes."
"I'll very happily do that," Fox replied as he took the money. "This uniform of the common man that I've been wearing is dreadful."
Celia didn't comment on his superior attitude. That was just the way Fox was at times. Instead, she said, "I want you to see if you can get a job as a bank teller, so you'll need to dress like one. Very sedate suits, and a high collar, and so on."
Fox nodded, tucking the bills away. "I know what bank tellers look like," he said, somewhat impatiently. "Where am I going to be working?"
Celia told him how to find Warren Judson's banking establishment. "I can't guarantee that you'll get the job, but if you'll go down there today, I think there's a good chance you will. I want you to keep an eye on Judson. He seems to have some connection with Madam Henrietta." A possibility occurred to Celia. "He may even be the actual owner of the place. A respectable businessman like him would need some kind of front if he was going to own a parlor house."
Fox nodded. "I'll start right away." He glanced at her. "Do Landrum and Glidinghawk know about this?"
Celia shook her head. "They've ridden out on some sort of geological expedition for the commission. But there's no time to wait for them to get back. We have to take advantage of this opportunity right away, Preston."
"Yes. Indeed we do."
"You're sure you can handle it?"
Fox sniffed. "You seem to have forgotten who broke the Robber's Roost case. I can certainly handle an assignment like this."
Celia remembered Robber's Roost, all right. She remembered how Fox had almost gotten Landrum and Glidinghawk killed through his stubbornness, not to mention the way he had almost dumped the side of a mountain on her head. Some of the young man's plans had worked out all right, but it had been as much through sheer luck as anything.
"All right," she nodded, not wanting to argue with Fox. "Landrum and Glidinghawk should be back in town tomorrow. Try to stay in touch with us."
Fox left the room, visibly excited about going to work. He wanted to succeed as an undercover agent, Celia had to give him that much.
The business with Fox taken care of, that left her with nothing to do for the moment.
Nothing to do but brood about her approaching dinner date with Major Devlin Henry.
Celia wondered what this night would bring.
Devlin was punctual. It was exactly seven o'clock when he knocked on her door. That punctuality was the military man in him, Celia supposed.
He was as handsome as ever in his neat uniform. He was freshly shaved, and he smelled faintly of bay rum. Holding his hat in his hand, he smiled down at her and said, "You look lovely, Celia."
She was wearing a blue silk dress that went well with her eyes and hair. "Thank you," she murmured in response to the compliment. "Would you help me with my wrap?"
"Certainly."
Devlin held the short, fur-lined jacket for her, and then she settled a pert hat that matched the dress onto her red curls. "I suppose I'm ready," she said, although she knew she was far from ready to face Devlin's questions.
"I have a carriage waiting downstairs," he said as he slipped his arm through hers. "I think you'll like Maxwell's."
Celia wasn't worried about whether or not she would like the restaurant. Her main concern was just getting through the evening.
The carriage ride reminded her of the one a couple of nights earlier when Devlin had accompanied her from the train to her hotel. Again they sat close together, and she was all too aware of the warmth and strength within him.
"What do you think of Denver so far?" he asked when they had gone a few blocks. Celia was instantly suspicious of the question, but he sounded sincere enough.
"It seems to be quite a busy city," she replied. "And the mountains are lovely, there in the distance."
Devlin nodded. "That they are. But I'm not too fond of Denver itself, or of my assignment, for that matter."
"Oh? Why's that?" She might as well pump him for some information while she still had the chance, Celia thought.
Devlin smiled rather sheepishly. "Colonel Porter, the officer in charge here, and I don't get along very well. I do my job, mind you — I'm a soldier and I know how to take orders — but it's not a very pleasant situation."
"I can't imagine your not getting along with anyone, Devlin. You're such a friendly person."
He grimaced. "You don't know Colonel Porter. Or do you?"
"No, of course not. Why would I know some army colonel?"
"You know me, don't you?" Devlin shook his head. "Don't worry about it. Colonel Matthias Porter is no concern of yours, Celia."
He made a little more small talk, and then the carriage pulled up in front of the restaurant. It was a solid-looking brick building between a mercantile store and an express office. Through its large front windows, Celia could see customers sitting at tables covered with dazzling white cloths. There were candles on each table in addition to several chandeliers suspended from the beams of the ceiling. The people seemed to be enjoying their meals very much.
Devlin hopped down lithely from the carriage and then held up his hands to assist Celia. He supported her weight as if it was nothing as she stepped down.
"Here we are," he announced. Again he slipped his arm through hers and escorted her inside. As soon as the door of the restaurant was open, a wave of delicious aromas came wafting over them, making Celia smile.
A waiter in a fancy suit met them just inside the door. "Good evening, sir," he said solemnly to Devlin.
"I sent word to hold a table for Major Devlin Henry," Devlin told him.
"Of course, sir. If you and the lady will follow me."
The warmth of the restaurant was welcome after riding in the chilly night air outside. As she and Devlin followed the waiter's gliding path among the tables, she tried to unobtrusively scan the room and see if she recognized any of the other customers. As far as she could tell, everyone here at Maxwell's was a stranger to her. Not surprising, she thought, since she had been in Denver only two days.
The waiter seated them at a small table in a corner that was considerably dimmer than the rest of the room. In addition to the tall, slender candle in the center of the table, there was also a vase holding a single flower. Where anyone had come up with a fresh flower in Denver at this time of year, Celia didn't know. But evidently Devlin Henry had made more preparations for this dinner than simply reserving a table.
As he held the chair for her while she sat, Celia again caught a whiff of bay rum. He sat down across the small table from her, a smile on his face, and said, "I'm so glad you agreed to this dinner. I've been wanting to see you again ever since we left the train."
Celia found herself wanting fervently to believe him, wanting to believe that his only interest in her was romantic. But her every instinct told her that wasn't the case. The fact that he was so blatantly ignoring their chance meeting at Madam Henrietta's only made her more suspicious.
"But we did meet again," she pointed out. "We met at another establishment last night."<
br />
Devlin glanced at the waiter hovering nearby, and the smile on his face faltered for an instant. Then he recovered and said, "Why don't you start by bringing us some champagne, my good man?"
The waiter nodded. "Very good, sir." He moved off toward a pair of swinging doors that had to lead to the kitchen.
Lowering his voice so that he could not be overheard from the nearest table, Devlin went on, "I intended to discuss that matter with you tonight, Celia, but I thought it could wait until after we'd had dinner."
She decided to be truthful with him, at least in one respect. "I don't think I can enjoy my dinner, Devlin, so long as the subject is hanging over us like some sword."
He nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose you're right. And you do deserve an explanation. I was just so embarrassed at what you must think of me, to be in a place like that. And you're going to be even more shocked when you hear the reason I was there."
Celia frowned. He sounded as if he was the one guilty of the impropriety, not she. He certainly didn't sound angry with her because she had been at the parlor house.
Casting about for something to say, she told him, "I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation for everything, Devlin." She just wished that were true in her case.
"Oh, it's perfectly reasonable, but it doesn't reflect well on me, I'm afraid." He took a deep breath. "To put it bluntly, Celia, I was there because Henrietta used to be my wife."
Celia's breath seemed to stick in her throat. Her eyes widened, and she felt as if the floor had dropped out from under her. After a long moment, she managed to say, "Your . . . your wife?"
Devlin nodded miserably. "I told you you'd be shocked."
Celia felt a laugh starting deep inside her, and she frantically suppressed it. He was taking this so seriously. She knew his feelings would be hurt if she started to laugh. The confession had obviously taken a lot out of him.
Shocked? She had certainly never expected Devlin to reveal that he had once been married to Henrietta. She had considered practically every possibility except that. She had even wondered if they were brother and sister.
When she trusted herself to speak, she said, "You and she are no longer married?"
Devlin shook his head. "We were divorced three years ago. It was quite an ugly mess for a time. And it did nothing to help my army career, I assure you. But I've put all of that behind me now. It's a closed chapter in my life."
"Yet you were there in her house last night."
His hand clenched into a fist on the tablecloth. "It was a mistake, a foolish impulse I gave into. When I heard that she was here in Denver, I knew I should stay away from her, but curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to know how she was doing." He smiled again, this time rather bitterly. "Despite what she did to me, I still care for her in a way."
"What . . . she did to you . . . ?"
Devlin's face became bleak. "She made a fool of me — with another man. I'll say no more about it, Celia."
She reached out and put her hand on his, feeling the fist tense even tighter, then begin to relax at her touch. "We'll say no more about it," she agreed softly.
The waiter arrived with the champagne, and when they each had their glasses filled, Devlin lifted his. "To new friends," he said.
Celia clinked her glass against his. "To new friends," she agreed.
The champagne was excellent and completed the job of warming her. Devlin ordered the meal for both of them, requesting trout, potato, and salad. "It's not fancy," he said when the waiter was gone again, "but from what I've heard, the quality is very good."
"I'm sure it will be."
Celia's conscience began to gnaw at her, as she had worried that it would. Devlin had been honest with her — she was sure that he was telling the truth about Henrietta — and she had still not offered him any kind of explanation about her presence at the parlor house.
"Devlin," she said quietly, "you haven't asked me what I was doing there last night."
He gave a curt shake of his head. "That's none of my business, Celia."
"You have as much right to know about me as I have to know about you."
"No, Celia, I wanted to tell you about Henrietta, because I knew that you wouldn't . . . wouldn't pass judgment on me. You're not that kind."
"And neither are you," she insisted. She pressed on, "I was there for one reason and one reason alone, Devlin. I was inquiring about the possibility of obtaining employment there."
She felt herself blushing hotly as she said it. A part of her brain told her wryly that she was taking her cover identity too seriously. She was hardly an innocent virgin, after all. That state of affairs had been permanently altered during the first mission of Powell's Army.
Devlin looked down at the table, ever the perfect gentleman. "I have no right to make any comment on that, Celia," he told her. "I like you a great deal, but I have no claim on you — yet."
Celia's heart gave a tiny leap at the implication in his words. She wanted to impulsively lean across the table and give him a kiss, but he was an officer and a gentleman. Such brazen behavior would probably just shock him.
"There is something else I have to tell you, Devlin," she said, steeling herself to go on. "I'll be going back to Madam Henrietta's."
He nodded. "Whatever you wish."
"Because she offered me a job, and I have to go back to tell her I refuse."
A smile slowly stretched across Devlin's face. "You're not going to work for her?"
Celia shook her head and said, "I just decided tonight. I can't accept the offer."
Her hand was still resting on his. Now his fingers twined with hers and tightened. "I'm glad to hear it," he said. "It's not very gallant to say it, but Henrietta is not a good person, Celia. She's certainly not the person I thought I had married."
"I understand."
Celia felt the lightness of relief now that the air was clear between them. Each of them had been truthful, although Celia had certainly omitted several important portions of her story — such as being an undercover operative for the U.S. Army.
But she was sure now that Devlin had no connection with the assignment that had brought her here. From this point forward, any relationship between them could develop naturally and take whatever course it would, without everything being distorted by lies and deception.
And the burden of considering Madam Henrietta's offer had been lifted from her, too. Landrum had insisted all along that Celia follow Powell's orders and not go to work in the parlor house, but to be honest, she had been leaning in the direction of disobeying. That had seemed like the best way to get the information they needed.
But as Landrum had said, he and Glidinghawk had their posts within the commission, and now Preston Fox might also be on the inside — if Judson was involved in the case and if Fox had gotten the job in the bank. Celia wished she had had the chance to talk to Fox again before coming out to dinner. She wondered if he had been successful in his assignment.
The one overriding factor in her decision, however, was sitting across the table from her, smiling into her eyes.
She was falling in love with Devlin Henry. There was no way she could work for Madam Henrietta now.
The realization started a quiver of emotion deep within her. She was in love, really in love for maybe the first time in her life. There had been a man in Fort Griffin, of course, and she would never forget the gambler called Black Jack, but what she was feeling now for Devlin Henry was different. It was stronger, deeper.
Tomorrow night, she decided, she would go back to Madam Henrietta's and tell the woman what to do with her offer of employment. After that — after this case was over — Celia would have another decision to make.
Could Powell's Army get along without her?
Would Devlin want her as his wife?
Questions, so many questions. Celia's head was swimming with them — or maybe it was the champagne. Whatever, she was feeling as happy and giddy as she could ever remember feeling.
; "You've gotten awfully quiet," Devlin said. "What are you thinking?"
Celia smiled. "Good thoughts," she said. "Only good thoughts."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Good day, madam," Preston Kirk wood Fox said to the prune-faced old woman who had just deposited two whole dollars in her account. The woman moved away from the window, and her place was taken by a burly man who smelled strongly of horse manure.
Fox sighed and tried to keep a polite expression on his face. When working with the public, one had to have thick skin and a strong stomach. Still, Fox yearned for the days when he had been surrounded by military discipline. If the citizens of Denver had been under his command, he would have whipped them into shape soon enough.
"How can I help you, sir?" Fox asked the customer.
The man thumped a filthy canvas bag onto the counter of Fox's window. The jingle of coins came from within the bag.
"Had these buried in my stable," the man grunted. "Got to thinkin' I better come put 'em in the bank before somethin' happened to 'em."
Fox swallowed. "Do you have an account here, sir?"
"Not yet. Reckon I'd better start one, eh?"
"I suppose. Do you know how much is in this, ah, container of yours?"
The man shook his head. "Got no idea. You can count 'em, though, can't you?"
Fox closed his eyes for a moment. He considered how effective a few public floggings might be in bringing the public into line. Then he sighed again and said, "Of course. I'll count them."
The bank was busy this morning. There were four people in line at Fox's window behind the odorous stableman, and the other tellers were occupied with customers as well. Warren Judson's establishment seemed to be quite successful.
Fox wasn't sure why Celia suspected the man. Judson already seemed like a rather admirable individual to him, even though Fox had only met him the previous afternoon. The banker ran his business efficiently, with an eye toward maximum profits. If there was one thing that Fox admired, it was efficiency.
However, Fox remembered all too well his misjudgments of other people in the past. His ability to read character had never been his greatest asset, and he was reluctantly coming to realize that.
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