Patricia Potter

by Rainbow

  Meredith had been a part of the system for five years now, and he had never been disappointed. She was exceptionally bright and mature, and she had a commitment rare in someone her age. Few young women would willingly pretend to be an addlehead and give up what should be among the richest years of their life for a friend…and an idea.

  The Underground Railroad was informal, with one person learning the sympathies of another and enlisting him to help the fugitives. There was no formal organization, no written list. A member knew of another, and that second person of a third, and on and on. Several, like the Parson, were aware of a complete network and passed on information to those who needed it. He kept Meredith advised of those who might help in the areas she visited, no more. Talk was not loosely bandied about. There had never been a betrayal of the Underground Railroad, and the Parson meant to keep it that way.

  “When did you get back?” he asked.

  “A few weeks ago…on the Lucky Lady.”

  His dark bushy eyebrows met in a slight frown. “The Lucky Lady?”

  “You know anything about it?” she said with an interest that surprised him.

  “Just rumors.”

  “About the captain, no doubt,” Meredith said disdainfully. “Or whatever he is.”

  “You didn’t like him?”

  “A more arrogant cruel man I’ve never met,” she answered heatedly.

  The Parson leaned back in his chair, obviously waiting for her to continue.

  “He has a slave. He’s been crippled and whipped.”

  “How do you know the captain did it?”

  “He as much as admitted it,” she replied. “And the slave told my maid.”

  “I’ve heard tales,” the Parson remarked thoughtfully. “You said he admitted it? You talked with him?”

  “He invited Opal and me to dinner. With slave hunters.”

  The Parson’s bland expression didn’t change. “That must have been interesting,” he observed.

  “More like loathsome,” she replied.

  His mouth cracked a small unusual smile. “Who were they?”

  “Brothers, name of Carroll. I drew pictures, and wrote descriptions for you to pass on.” She pulled out the sketchpad from her satchel and handed him two sheets. He looked at them carefully, noting the bold strokes, and admiring her work. She had a wonderful eye for both people and places. That she hadn’t seen more to the riverboat captain than she had surprised him. She was usually very intuitive.

  He leaned back. “Tell me more about this captain.”

  “He’s obviously a rogue and a blackguard in addition to being a gambler,” Meredith said, a small flush mounting her cheeks as she remembered his kiss.

  “He didn’t…try to take advantage of you?” the Parson asked hesitantly.

  Meredith deliberated. Could that angry, mocking kiss be considered an advance? She knew he had done it only in retaliation for her slap. And why had she slapped him? Not for anything he had actually said or done, but more for the naked invitation in his knowing eyes. An invitation some vulnerable part of her had wanted to accept.

  “No,” she said finally, but the pause made the Parson wonder.

  A silence hung between them for a moment, and he said a quiet prayer. He knew Quinn Devereux, just as he knew Meredith Seaton, and he recognized the simmering emotions both held in check. They were both of a passionate nature, or they wouldn’t be doing what they were doing. But they concealed that fervor under a cause, a very worthy cause to be sure, and he feared what might happen if the cover unraveled.

  He would, he realized, have to keep them apart. Already, he knew from Meredith’s flushed face that sparks had flown between the two. He raised his eyes heavenward in entreaty. He must keep them apart. Somehow. The problem was that both of these agents were uncommonly stubborn. God help him if they got stubborn together.

  But, the Parson was devious. He had learned to be so in the ten years he had been involved in the Underground Railroad. “I think Captain Devereux could be very dangerous,” he said slowly, conviction dulling the stab of guilt at his deception. “It would be wise to avoid his boat from now on.”

  She nodded. “He wanted to buy Daphne….”

  For the first time, she saw surprise flicker in his eyes, and she wondered about it.

  But he changed the subject and said no more about the Lucky Lady or Captain Devereux. Instead, he took her out to the small shed and watched her as she fed the red fox he had rescued from a trap two months earlier. It was almost well, and soon he would release it back into the wild. Then he studied her in interested silence as she sketched the playful animal and handed him the result.

  “I’ll treasure it,” he said slowly. “Have you finished any more paintings?”

  “I gave Elias one to sell several months ago.” She grinned suddenly, and the Parson thought how pretty she looked on the rare occasions when she smiled. “It was a rainbow…our rainbow.”

  “You finally found one, did you?”

  “I hated to send the painting away.”

  “Perhaps you’ll find it some day.”

  “Or another rainbow,” she said.

  “Or another rainbow,” he agreed.

  Chapter 7

  QUINN SHIVERED in the unusual chill of the morning as the deckhands loaded dry goods bound for New Orleans. The wharfs in St. Louis were, as always, a beehive of activity. In addition to the Lucky Lady, one other steamboat and a number of smaller crafts, ranging from makeshift rafts to flatboats, were docked there.

  He should have taken time to put on a coat, but these past days he had been seized by an impatience, even to the matter of rising in the morning.

  God, but it was bloody cold for early October. He caught himself. He had tried to train himself against using “bloody,” that particularly British oath, even in his mind. But too many things were coming back now. Why, damn it? Why?

  Perhaps it was the cold. The bitter, familiar cold.

  He had felt little else during the months at Newgate….

  It was easy to lose track of days, since he was locked up alone in a tiny cell with no window and no difference between day or night except for the changing of his guards. Letters were against the rules, he had been told, and he had bartered away his waistcoat in exchange for having a missive delivered to friends. He did not know whether it had been sent, although the guard said it had. But no one came.

  He felt buried alive. The money he had with him was confiscated when he arrived at Newgate, and he couldn’t purchase any comforts, not even food or a blanket. Because he was charged with murder, heavy leg-irons were clamped around his ankles. Lighter ones were available but these were denied Quinn, for they cost a certain sum he no longer had.

  Weeks after the duel, Lord Sethwyck appeared and viewed him with both hatred and satisfaction. Quinn knew he was filthy and pale and awkward with his chains. The man’s gaze moved slowly around his cell, to the hard bench that was its only furniture and the odorous can that served as a chamber pot.

  A guard held a lantern that almost blinded Quinn after the darkness. He rose and walked the few feet to the bars that caged him.

  The earl’s face told him he could expect no mercy.

  Quinn stood defiantly under his gaze, knowing that he little resembled the immaculate American of a few weeks before. His clothes were filthy, and his face covered with whiskers. His hair, he knew, hung lank and lifeless. And yet his chin lifted with defiance.

  “Your trial is tomorrow,” the earl said softly. “At Old Bailey.”

  Quinn’s hands clutched the bars of his cell. He’d been charged with murder and, with the earl’s influence, he would most likely hang.

  “I have an offer to present.”

  Quinn looked at him skeptically.

  “I don’t want my son’s name, my name, dragged through scandal,” Sethwyck continued. “Plead guilty, and I’ll see that you’re transported rather than hanged.”

  “Like hell I will,” Quinn said. “I wa
nt an open trial. Your son challenged me in front of witnesses.”

  The earl’s voice was cold, full of hate and venom. “It makes no difference who challenged whom. Duels are illegal in England. Besides, you will find that all the witnesses have disappeared except one who will testify you shot my son in a jealous rage…without justification. You think an English court will believe…an American against an English lord?”

  Quinn’s fists tightened in frustrated rage. “You’re bluffing. Why else would you want me to plead guilty?”

  “Because,” the earl said softly, “I don’t want my family name tainted. I don’t want…any unfounded rumors.” It was clear to Quinn then that the earl was afraid word would circulate that his son shot early, before the count ended. Even if the earl’s witness perjured himself, someone might believe Quinn.

  “It’s a chance to live, Devereux,” Sethwyck continued. “Your only chance.” He paused at Quinn’s silence, then his thin lips curved in a mocking smile. “Have you ever seen a hanging? It’s not pleasant. And you will hang, my boy, if you go to trial. I have seen to that.”

  Quinn believed him, believed that he could do anything he wanted. After the past months in Newgate, he didn’t question the man’s influence. But to plead guilty to something he didn’t do, to give away his freedom…

  Or hang. Dear God, he didn’t want to die. Particularly that way. He closed his eyes, trying to think.

  Quinn had heard of transportation, of Australia, and knew that many of those sent there had stayed after their sentences had been completed. It was a vast land, mysterious and…a prison colony.

  But to live! He was twenty-two years old and he did not want to die. He particularly did not want to die publicly at the end of a rope. His father, his brothers, would eventually learn of it. And that he could not bear.

  After sleepless hours, he made his decision. Once in Australia he could escape and get word to his family. He was a gambler. And now he was gambling he could beat the earl…and Australia.

  The next morning he sent a message to the earl, one, he realized sardonically, that would actually arrive at its intended destination. Hours later, he heard a judge, garbed in black robes, sentence him to “transportation for the term of your natural life…”

  “Capt’n?” Cam’s voice brought him back to the present.

  Quinn looked up, his blue eyes dark and brooding.

  “Mr. Jamison…he said to tell you we’re leavin’ now.”

  Quinn nodded. The whistle would sound, and the Lucky Lady would slowly pull from the wharf and turn around, heading downriver again. Toward New Orleans. Toward Vicksburg.

  Cam looked at him curiously. He had never seen Captain Devereux as distracted, as brooding as he had been in the past weeks. The captain seemed lost in a world that precluded even him, and despite their different situations he thought he knew Quinn Devereux better than most.

  He had seen the scars on Quinn’s back, thin scars that were barely visible now, but he knew they came from the same source as his own: a whip. He didn’t know the particulars. He hadn’t asked, nor had Quinn told him. But he suspected they were part of the reason Quinn was involved in the Underground Railroad and the main reason he, Cam, was now free. Their suffering had created an unspoken bond between them, although they retained a certain distance. There were too many shadows, too many wounds, in his own life and, he suspected, in the captain’s life, for either to be entirely comfortable with other people. Although Cam knew he would willingly die for Quinn Devereux, he had, by necessity, protected his heart and soul too long to surrender them easily, even to friendship. And Captain Devereux had never asked for more than his loyalty. Or, for that matter, even that. Cam had just given it. Out of gratitude. Out of respect.

  But there were things that, because of the raw pain they caused, were always kept hidden. Not buried, but hidden. Even from each other. Perhaps, particularly from each other.

  “Breakfast, Capt’n?”

  Quinn’s eyes lost their faraway look, and he grinned crookedly at Cam, sensing the concern under Cam’s words.

  “Aye,” he said. “It’s damn cold for October. Let’s go inside.”

  But Quinn’s memories didn’t disappear, and he didn’t understand why. He had often had nightmares at night, but usually sheer determination kept them at bay during waking hours. Something was happening to him, and he damned well didn’t like it.

  Perhaps he needed a challenge. A new challenge. He looked at Cam, and remembered Daphne. And his pledge to Cam. They would be back in New Orleans in two weeks. He would visit his brother and gather all the information he could about the Seatons. Perhaps the Seatons had cotton to be shipped; that would give him a good excuse to visit the plantation. And possibly Meredith Seaton’s brother would be more amenable to selling Daphne. It was worth a try.

  And it would be damned interesting to see what Brett knew about Meredith Seaton.

  Now that he had plotted a course of action, Quinn felt better. And, damn, but he was hungry. He heard the Lucky Lady’s whistle and felt the boat creak under him as the ropes, binding it to the wharf, were released. The boat strained toward the middle of the river where it belonged.

  Where he belonged. If he belonged anyplace at all.

  Brett Devereux regarded his brother warily. As a boy he had worshipped Quinn. He still loved his brother, but he no longer regarded him with the single-minded devotion of a young lad. He saw the faults and, while he restrained from commenting, he nevertheless could not quite conceal his disappointment.

  Brett, like his father and brother, had worried over the missing brother during the years when every attempt to locate him met with failure. Their father had spent thousands of dollars on private detectives; after nearly seven years they found Quinn; it took another year to bring him back.

  And when he returned his father and his oldest brother were already dead of fever in an epidemic that had swept New Orleans. Brett had temporarily assumed management of the bank. He had expected Quinn to take over the bank’s leadership when he returned, but to his amazement, Quinn showed no interest. After months of gambling and drinking, Quinn had obtained the Lucky Lady, which he treated like a toy.

  Brett knew only a little of what had happened to his brother. Quinn’s eyes grew icy cold whenever Brett had tried to find out more.

  It hurt, damn it. It hurt badly, for they were the only Devereuxs left.

  Quinn still smiled as easily as he had as a boy, but now there was a curious emptiness about the gesture, which never quite reached his eyes. Nothing seemed important to him, not their home, or their heritage. Nothing except pleasure.

  “Why,” Brett asked now, “are you interested in the Seatons?”

  “Cotton,” Quinn said. “We need to increase our shipping.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re getting interested in business?”

  “Don’t you approve, little brother? Your profligate brother finally settling down.”

  “Then come into the bank.”

  “Ah, Brett, the bank’s yours. I told you that years ago.”

  “I would be delighted to have you back. A partnership.”

  Quinn shook his head slowly, something inside him hurting as he watched the light leave his brother’s eyes. “The Lucky Lady is one thing, the bank something else. You may like staying in an office all day, but it’s too much like a cell to me.”

  Brett leaned back, taking his eyes from his brother’s face. Quinn had made the allusion before.

  “You wouldn’t be locked in it, you know,” he said carefully. “You can leave whenever you want.”

  “Not for me, Brett. I like the river. And as much as you disapprove, I like gambling. And I’m damned good at it. A whole sight better than banking.”

  “You could do anything you tried,” Brett said in one last attempt.

  “But I wouldn’t, little brother. I wouldn’t try, because I don’t give a damn about the bank. I never have.”

  Brett searched his brother’s face,
seeking something but not finding it in the ruthless, hard visage before him. They shared the same facial features, although Quinn’s coloring was darker than his own, but the resemblance ended there. Brett sometimes envied Quinn’s lean saturnine handsomeness; he knew his own girth was spreading comfortably, and he didn’t really regret it. He realized he knew a contentment that had evaded Quinn. Although often office-bound, Brett loved banking, and he adored his wife Betsy and their three children. The only burr in his life was Quinn, and that was because he wanted his brother to be happy, and he knew Quinn was not, despite his protestations to the contrary.

  “The Seatons?” Quinn reminded him gently.

  Something within Brett rang like a fire-alarm bell. “There’re many cotton plantations,” he observed. “Why the Seatons?”

  “I met Miss Seaton several weeks ago on the Lucky Lady. I was told her family owns one of the largest cotton plantations in the Vicksburg area.”

  Brett’s gut tightened. Surely Quinn couldn’t have any interest in Meredith Seaton. Dear God, the silly woman would be putty in his hands. Brett didn’t particularly like, or admire, Meredith, but she was under his protection, to a certain extent.

  “Don’t worry, Brett,” Quinn said, reading his thoughts. “She believed me perfectly odious.”

  For some reason, that did not comfort Brett. “What did you think about her?”

  Quinn shrugged. “What you said. Overdressed. Self-indulgent. Not very bright.”

  Brett felt better. He relaxed a little. Of course, someone with Quinn’s eye for the ladies wouldn’t be interested in Meredith. Maybe his brother was changing. Perhaps if he became more interested in the shipping business, it might lead him to the bank. Working with Quinn was Brett’s fondest dream. And respecting him again as he once had.

  “What do you need?” Brett asked.

  “An introduction to Robert Seaton. I met him long ago, but I doubt he’ll remember.”

  “I can do better than that.”