by Sharon Ihle
Libby stepped into the elevator, awed to find that like everything else in the magnate's home, the car exuded his vast wealth. Three small paintings depicting idyllic mountain streams were hung among several gilt-framed mirrors along the interior walls. The wainscoted redwood had been recently polished, rubbed with linseed oil, Libby thought, recognizing the scent of a compound also found in her favorite aroma, that of printer's ink. After the conveyance lurched to a start, within a matter of seconds she was standing in the hallway of the second floor of the Savage mansion, her stomach feeling as if it had been left behind, somewhere closer to the first floor.
"Come," said R. T. to Donovan, his long strides eating up the long hallway much faster than Libby could. "Let's go into my study, where we can have a little privacy."
Moments later, when Libby stepped through the massive arched doorway leading into the private library, father and son had already taken seats across from one another at a small, intimate table for two by a window overlooking one of several courtyard gardens. R. T. waved to Libby without really looking at her.
"Take a seat anywhere you like, Miss Justice. Or, if you think you'd be more comfortable, you may wish to return to the party. Just pull the rope near the elevator door, and my man will take you back down."
"Oh, goodness, no. I need to sit for a moment to catch my breath." Trying not to look too agog over the ostentatious display of embroidered purple and gold velvet draperies, shelf upon shelf of leather-bound books, and frescoed walls set off by purple satin furnishings, Libby reclined against a gilded chaise longue not far from where the men sat, and pretended disinterest in their conversation.
"As I was saying, Son," R. T. continue,; "now that you've seen a little more of the house, I imagine it's quite a shock for you to discover how well we've lived all these years, while you most likely, have lived a little differently. Just exactly what business are you in?"
"I'm half-owner of a gambling theatre here in San Francisco. I do all right."
R. T. nodded thoughtfully. "How long have you lived in the city?"
Donovan shrugged, looking uncomfortable with the line of questioning. Maybe, Libby mused, Lil was wrong to worry about what secrets might be traded between the men.
"I've been here a while."
"And your mother?" R. T. asked so quietly, Libby almost couldn't make out the words. "We haven't even had a chance to talk about her. How is she?"
Taking her cue, Libby jumped to her feet. "Shouldn't you two get back downstairs to greet the rest of your guests? We've been gone a spell."
R. T. turned to her, smiling, but somehow, not smiling. "I'm sure they're fine. You may join them, if you wish." Then he returned his attention to Donovan. "Go on and tell me about your mother, Son. How is she?"
"She's doing fine, thank you," he answered noncommittally. "Healthy and just as beautiful as ever."
"Umm, I rather assumed she would be." R. T. closed his eyes, as if savoring some private memory, then opened them to resume his queries. "Where is Lillian now, still 'mining' the miners in mother lode country? Or did she come along to San Francisco with you?"
Libby had been squinting at the subject of an oil painting that took up almost the entire wall above the marble fireplace, and trying to make out the blond woman's features without resorting to her spectacles. When she heard R. T.'s question, she quickly asked, "Who's the pretty lady in the picture, Mr. Savage? Your daughter?"
His gaze pointed, R. T. shot her a thin smile. "The lady is my wife, Olivina. She'll be amused that you think she's young enough to be my daughter."
Libby laughed, hoping she didn't sound too nervous. "That makes her Donovan's stepmother, then, doesn't it?"
"Yes, and I'm sure that amuses her, too." R. T. sighed heavily. "I guess this really wasn't the ideal time for our little discussion after all, Son. Perhaps later, when most of the guests have gone home, we can have that private chat."
Feeling that she'd done the job assigned to her, and done it well, Libby forced a cheerful expression as she followed the men back downstairs to the party. This time, and for reasons Libby wasn't clear about, R. T. bade them use the circular staircase—which not only made for a difficult descent for her, but gave her a momentary attack of vertigo in the bargain.
Once they returned to the ballroom, R. T. pointed out to Donovan a small group of gentlemen who were laughing and talking. "Your friend, Miss Justice, has been wanting to talk with Francis. He can be pulled away from his cronies long enough to make her introduction. Do you mind seeing to that? Olivina is signaling me to join her, and if you know women..."—he paused to wink. "I think I'd best go see what she wants—now." Then with a short nod in Libby's direction, he turned and started across the freshly waxed floor.
"I'll be right back," Donovan said to her, excusing himself. Returning a moment later, he presented his half brother to Libby. "This is Francis Savage, managing editor of Savage Publishing. And, Francis, I'd like you to meet Miss Liberty Ann Justice from Laramie, Wyoming Territory."
Obviously catching the pun that could be made of her name, Francis repeated it, grinning just a little. "Liberty Ann Justice, is it? How charming. It's very nice to meet you."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, too, Mr. Savage." Libby shook his hand, warming to him immediately. Francis bore only the vaguest resemblance to Donovan, and even so, she thought, the similarities were more in manner than actual looks. But something about him—the same sort of thing that drew her to his brother—made her feel at ease, as if she could trust him. Sure that her troubles would soon be over, Libby decided to get their business out of the way as quickly as possible. "Your father said that I should make an appointment with you so we can get together and discuss my newspaper, the Laramie Tribune."
"I'm very much aware of your newspaper and your recent problems. Please, on behalf of Savage Publishing and myself, accept my condolences on the loss of your father."
"I appreciate that more than you know." She looked beyond the brow furrowed with concern to the man beneath, and knew instantly the sympathy he offered was sincere.
"As for your efforts," Francis continued, "I must personally commend you for the excellent treatment you gave that heart rending story a couple of years back—I believe the article concerned a poor Irish girl who'd gone mad, and murdered her half-breed husband's uncle."
"Oh, yes, I remember it well. Thank you for your kind words. The story was about John and Lacey Winterhawke, but she wasn't really mad and she didn't murder his uncle. His death was ruled an accident. The Winterhawke family still lives nearby and comes into Laramie fairly often. I think they have three or four children now."
"It's nice to have a story with a happy ending, isn't it?"
"Oh, yes. I just wish all of them did." Relaxing even more, she said, "Speaking of my stories, I have some questions regarding the editorial guidelines I'm expected to follow, and wonder if—"
"Excuse me for interrupting, Miss Justice." The warmth had gone out of his tone, making him sound like Donovan whenever he was trying to talk her out of doing what she wanted to do. "But I'm afraid there's really no point in setting up a meeting."
"Please, call me Libby." She sensed that anything she could use to her advantage—even something so small as inviting him to address her more personally—could help.
"Libby, then." Francis looked distinctly uncomfortable. "I wish I had better news for you, but Savage Publishing has a very strict policy against promoting equal rights for women."
"I'm aware of that, Mr. Savage, but I was hoping you'd see your way clear to letting me—"
"Please." He held up one hand, then glanced at Donovan with a look that positively cried, "Help". If she hadn't been so worried on her own account, Libby might even have pitied the poor man. "My hands are tied in this matter. There's really nothing I can do to help you in regard to editorial policy. If you have any other concerns, say of a financial nature...?"
Finances were the last things on her mind. The very last. "I don't think you understand h
ow important this is to me, or what a service I can provide to—"
"I really hate to keep interrupting you this way, but I must. There's absolutely no point in going over your request again, Libby."
"But, why not?"
He looked at her as if he wanted to cry. "You leave me no choice but to inform you that, should you run even one more article or editorial in favor of women's rights, I'll be forced to close the doors of the Tribune faster than your suffragist friends can cry 'foul'."
Chapter 10
The elder Savage had of course hired San Francisco's finest orchestra to entertain his guests. Throughout the afternoon and early evening, the musicians pretty much kept to the more mellow tunes by such composers as Tchaikovsky and Brahms. At the precise moment Francis finished his statement, however, they happened to strike up a rousing rendition of "I'll Be Ready When the Great Day Comes."
Had he not noticed that Libby's hands were curled into fists, and been concerned that she was thinking of doing unto his brother as she'd done unto his mother, Donovan might have commented on the irony of it all. Instead, he hooked elbows with Libby, and pulled her away from Francis as he said to him, "If you'll excuse us, please? That's the song we've been waiting to dance to."
Donovan managed to whip Libby in an arc that took her out of range, view, and even hearing distance of his brother, before she finally balked at his interference. "Turn me loose." She yanked free of his grip. "I don't want to dance with you, so leave me alone."
"Relax, Lippy, and don't worry—I don't want to dance with you either." Glancing around for an area where their conversation couldn't be overheard, he prodded her toward the gurgling fountain, cautioning her along the way. "If you want to keep so much as a sliver of a chance to change the company policy, I suggest you keep your complaints to yourself for the time being."
Tears stung the backs of Libby's eyes as Donovan marched her across the room, but she refused to give into them. Heeding his advice, she muttered low and under her breath, "Oh, what's the use of keeping up pretenses? You heard what your brother said. I don't even have that sliver of a chance, and you know it."
There wasn't much Donovan could say to that. He didn't know a thing about the newspaper business, or Francis really, but he sensed the man had done all he could. As for Libby—although he wasn't one who paid much attention to women's politics—he did know how very much equal rights and the crusade to achieve them meant to her. Even now, broken-hearted as she must be, she was tough to the end, her eyes moist, but filled with as much rage as hurt. He thought he'd washed his hands of Miss Liberty Ann Justice, and several times over, too, but Donovan suddenly found himself enlisting in her army of one.
"Maybe all isn't lost. There must be a way for us to get your point across."
"Us?" She blinked back a tear.
"If you don't mind a little help."
Fresh tears glistened in her eyes, so Donovan glanced away to give her enough privacy to put herself together. As he looked over everyone else in the room, his gaze caught on the brilliant display of opulent jewels at the throats of society's most elite women, who were huddled together in conversation. Settling on the most outrageously ostentatious female of them all, Olivina Blair Savage, Donovan decided that Libby's plight suddenly didn't seem quite so futile.
He turned to her with a big grin, relieved to see that she was dry-eyed. "Don't give up the ship just yet, madam editor. There's one angle you haven't thought of—other women." Nudging her to glance over where his "stepmother" was holding court with the other ladies of prominence, he asked, "Do you remember what R. T. said about going to see what his wife wanted, and the way he emphasized the word, now?"
Libby frowned. "Yes, but—"
"Didn't that comment give you the impression that her opinion carried a little weight with the man?"
"Sure, it did. But I also remember that Francis is the managing editor of the Savage newspaper empire, while your father just sits in his chair and rakes in all the money. I don't see what difference it makes, whether he values his wife's opinion or not."
"Don't be so sure. I've been watching this family closely all day." Boy, had he been studying them—that and trying to imagine himself squeezed into the family portrait. Donovan could hardly believe it was true—not simply to learn that he finally had a family to call his own, but to find that it was this one, the prominent Savage clan. The very idea boggled his mind. "Believe me," he went on to say, vaguely smug in his assessment of his father, "nothing happens here or at Savage Publishing that R. T. doesn't oversee or approve personally."
"You really think he makes the final decisions about everything?" Libby glanced at him with anticipation. "Including the Laramie Tribune?"
This was the look he liked best: the scheming, calculating, alive with intelligence woman who would not back away from her ideals for anyone—man or woman.
Resisting a sudden urge to steal a kiss, Donovan said, "I'd bet my last dollar on it—and coming from me, that's about as fine a recommendation as you can get."
Libby snapped her head around toward the women so fast, one of her artfully arranged curls tumbled down to the center of her back. "Which one is Olivina?"
Admiring her predatory instincts, he laughed as he said, "Damn, Libby—can't you guess by looking at them?"
"I'm trying, you fool." Whispering, she glared at him. "I can't see, remember? I'm not about to put my glasses on here either. Now which one is she? The blur in the middle or the blur on the left?"
Still laughing, Donovan reclaimed her hand. "Come on. I'll introduce you, but after that, you're on your own."
Thankfully, Donovan took his time with the introductions, giving Libby ample opportunity to study the two women who could be most important to her cause. As Olivina clasped Libby's hand in greeting and offered her a warm welcome, Libby realized why Donovan thought the woman so easy to spot. She stood out like a raging prairie fire at midnight. Not only was Olivina a stunningly beautiful blond, but her slender figure was highlighted by a tightly fitted dress made of cream satin embroidered with beads of every color imaginable. The extra-long train, which was gathered twice to form two bouffant puffs below her waist, was also made of satin. Its deep rose color matched the diamond and ruby parure at her throat, as well as her cream satin slippers, which sported buckles studded with diamonds and rubies. With every little movement, no matter how slight, she glittered like a life-sized gemstone. Libby had never seen anything quite like her.
"And this is my sister, Susan," she heard Donovan say. Barely able to tear her gaze from Olivina, Libby turned to R. T.'s youngest child, who, though elaborately gowned, was a far cry from the sparkling display of her stepmother. She wore a low-cut evening dress of sea-foam green silk trimmed with white lace and large clusters of roses in pink, cream, and deep burgundy. Just the toes of her green satin slippers peeked out from beneath yards and yards of lace underskirts. But, as far as Libby could tell, her only jewelry was a single diamond pendant shaped like a teardrop.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Justice," she murmured. A coil of coffee-brown hair dangled along one of Susan's creamy shoulders, swinging like a pendulum every time she moved her head. Between her reticent manner and her appearance, there wasn't much about Donovan's half sister to remind Libby of him. But then Susan offered a warm smile, the familiar expression around her mouth drawing much more than Libby's gaze, and asked, "Will you be visiting our city long? Maybe I could show you around."
"Oh, I wish I could join you, but I'll be leaving soon, I'm afraid. I'd really like to take you up on the offer, but I don't see how I can." And she meant it, too.
"Excuse me for interrupting," said Donovan, doing just that, "but I think I'll leave you ladies and go about getting a drink." He tried to duck away, but one of the women, a countess something from a country he couldn't remember, placed a restraining hand upon his forearm.
"Don't rush off just yet," she said in a perfectly modulated voice. "Please promise first that you'll conside
r coming to my party next week. We're hosting the Young Gentlemen's Ball this year, and you simply must attend, or the single ladies, my daughter among them, will be very disappointed."
"In that case, I'll have to make every effort to be there. I try never to disappoint a young lady." Donovan thought he heard a groan coming from the left of him where Libby was standing, but before he could check on her, the countess was patting his arm again.
"Do be sure to look up my husband, the Earl of Dufferin, and give him your card, so we can send you a proper invitation."
Donovan wondered briefly if the matron would be so anxious to include him in her party if she knew his card was the jack of diamonds. Grinning to himself, he promised, "I'll just go see if I can't find your husband now. Maybe I can talk him out of one of his cards, while I'm in the area." With a slight bow, he made a hasty departure.
Libby, who'd been watching Donovan's performance with decidedly less enthusiasm than the countess, glanced back to the other ladies to find Olivina in the midst of studying her—and with a good bit of curiosity apparent in her pale blue eyes.
"Donovan said that you were here visiting San Francisco, but he neglected to mention where you hail from or what connection you have to him." She flipped the jewel-encrusted wrist that held a Louis XV fan. "I can't say I recall knowing a Justice family here in California."
"I'm from Laramie, in Wyoming Territory, ma'am." Libby allowed the pause as Olivina exchanged glances with the other ladies. She managed to smile in spite of their obvious pity. "As for Donovan, my only connection with him is through Savage Publishing. I run the Tribune in Laramie."
"Run?" Olivina delicately fanned herself. "I'm not sure I understand."
"I'm the editor of the Laramie Tribune, ma'am. That means I'm in charge of getting the newspaper out on a daily basis and writing the editorials."
"Gracious, me. That sounds like quite a large responsibility for a woman, Miss Justice."
"Running an entire newspaper isn't a particularly easy chore for a man or a woman, but I've managed to do it, and even at a distance, as I've had to do for the past two weeks." She smiled sweetly, making up her mind to test and maybe even push the woman a little. "And please, call me Libby. Most of my friends do, and most of them also belong to the National Woman Suffrage Association. What about you and your friends, Mrs. Savage? Are you members?"
