Pure Sin

by Susan Johnson

  “Our pleasure,” Adam replied. “Maybe Flora can win some more of our money.”

  “Only yours, Adam,” the banker said with a chuckle. “She plays too rich for my blood.”

  Flora and her father rode into Helena at midafternoon. They’d kept a steady pace from the camp on the Yellowstone, stopping to sleep for only a few hours the previous night. Henry, Alan, and Douglas followed, the entire party dust-covered and warm—the fall day cloudless and bright with sunshine.

  Flora drew eyes as she passed down the street, dressed as she was in trousers and a tailored shirt. Women rarely rode astride; female legs were generally concealed beneath voluminous skirts, and an armed woman was unusual enough to elicit stares. The fact that the leather of Flora’s rifle and pistol holsters had a well-worn sheen only added fascination.

  The wide brim of her flat-crowned western hat shaded her face, but her beauty was unmistakable, as was her luxurious auburn hair tied with a narrow black ribbon at the nape of her neck. Even had she not been dressed and armed like a man, her splendid looks would have drawn attention.

  Some townspeople recognized her from her previous visit. Helena society was small. Others who stopped to gaze at her from the sidewalks bordering the main street wondered who she was. Her name passed from those who knew to those who didn’t, the flurry of question and answer, tittle and tattle, following in her wake as the party from the Yellowstone rode down the sloping street to the livery stable.

  “That’s Lady Flora … her father’s riding beside her … an earl from England … they travel all over the world.”

  “Ellis Green was sweet on her.”

  “She took the count from Aspen Valley for two hundred thousand at Harold Fisk’s one night … five-card draw … plays poker like a man.”

  “Don’t look like a man.”

  “Count didn’t think so either, rumor has it.”

  Tucked between the Miners’ Bank and the new law offices of Cordell Harper, Letitia Granville’s millinery shop had a bow window with a clear view of the street. And since Cordell’s voice carried through the open doorway as he stood outside his office with his law clerk, Letitia and her two customers took note of the horsemen riding by.

  “Damn, she’s a beauty. She could have any man in the territory, even if she weren’t titled and rich as Croesus.” Coming from Cordell Harper, who had the most avaricious mind in town, the compliment suggested the infinite measure of Flora’s beauty. “Howdy, Lady Flora!” he shouted. “Hey, over here! How-de-do!”

  When Flora turned with a smile, Letitia’s customer seated at the small mirrored table momentarily stiffened, and her pale-blue eyes narrowed into grim slits. A second later the Comtesse de Chastellux untied the pink silk bow of the bonnet she’d been trying on, lifted it from her blond curls, and, handing it to the plump proprietor hovering over her, coolly said, “Charge it to my husband and send it to the Fisks.” Putting her mauve velvet toque back on, she swiftly adjusted the languid fall of feathers, cast a practiced glance into the mirror to see that the tilt of the bonnet was properly perched over the curls on her forehead, and rising, walked from the shop without a word.

  “Did you see that?” Letitia whispered to the principal’s wife, keeping one eye on Isolde’s departing form. “Her husband’s lover …” The milliner’s rotund form quivered with excitement.

  “I saw the count and Lady Flora dancing together the night they met at Judge Parkman’s in Virginia City,” Effie Humphries fervently declared, “and I swear, Letitia dear, those two raised the temperature in the room a good thirty degrees. Every lady there had to dab the sweat from her upper lip when they walked outside.”

  “I heard the stories of what happened then!” Mrs. Granville’s voice was breathy with scandal. “Where do you think the countess is going?”

  “If we’re careful to stay out of sight,” the principal’s wife whispered, putting her finger to her mouth in warning and indicating the doorway with a nod of her head, “we can watch.”

  Isolde paused on the sidewalk for the brief time necessary to survey the street in the direction Flora had ridden, her nostrils flaring at the sight of the riders dismounting at the livery stable. As if scenting her prey, she drew in a breath, smiled, and moved determinedly in their direction.

  “Why don’t you go ahead to the Planters House?” the earl said to Flora as he began unbuckling his saddlebags. “We’ll be along shortly.”

  “I won’t even politely demur,” Flora replied with a faint smile. “A soft bed sounds heavenly after a day in the saddle.”

  “Maybe you could order some lunch for us,” her father suggested, lifting his saddlebag free. “And something cool and wet,” he added with a grin.

  “Done,” Flora responded with a nod. “Do you think Adam’s still here?” she asked. Although his trail led them to Helena, once in town, it was impossible to follow.

  “I’ll find out,” her father assured her. “Go, now. It’s been a long ride.”

  She had the loose-gaited stride of a horseman, Isolde disdainfully noted, taking in Flora’s long-legged tread as she moved up the gentle rise toward the Planters House. Although with her mannish attire, it shouldn’t be surprising. Adam had been out in the wilderness too long, his wife spitefully thought, her stylish high heels delicately clicking down the wooden sidewalk. He’d lost his taste for femininity.

  Or perhaps the earl’s daughter had found a new way to amuse him. Could it be Adam had tired of conventional females? Regardless of the reasons, Isolde tartly thought, she wanted the hussy—whatever her appeal—to understand that Isolde de Plesy de Chastellux would remain the Comtesse de Chastellux. Adam’s title was hers by marriage, and she wasn’t about to relinguish it simply because he’d taken a fancy to his newest bed warmer.

  Isolde’s pale curls caught the sunlight, so Flora noticed her when she was still some distance away.

  “Damnation!” Flora swore. Even though she knew Isolde was in the territory, what the hell were the odds she’d walk into her at this precise moment, on this afternoon in Helena? Damn! What bloody bad luck!

  Just walk by, she cautioned herself. Ignore the countess. A modest number of pedestrians populated the immediate vicinity. Surely, under the circumstances, Isolde wouldn’t make a scene.

  But she steeled herself.

  Seconds later Isolde stood blocking her way, the width of her crinolined skirt a bar to Flora’s passage, her posture aggressive, her chill gaze taking in Flora’s unusual clothing. “Does he like you dressed like that?” the Comtesse de Chastellux scornfully inquired, insult in every syllable.

  “Better than he likes you in any attire,” Flora calmly replied, although she experienced a sudden longing for her riding quirt to mitigate Isolde’s derisive sneer. “Now, why not stand aside?” she went on in a carefully neutral tone. “There’s no point in conversing. We’ve no grounds for agreement on anything.”

  “We’re sharing the same man,” Isolde murmured with malicious sweetness, leaning slightly forward so her elegant skirt swayed like a silken pendulum. “Surely that’s common ground enough.”

  “We’re not sharing anything except the air in Helena. You don’t have him to share.”

  “A court might disagree.”

  “But a court can’t give him back to you. Why not let him go?” Flora quietly suggested. “You don’t love him.”

  “An inconsequential emotion,” Isolde replied with a contemptuous snap. “We’re irrevocably married.” And she noted with gratification the sudden flaring pain in Flora’s eyes.

  “All good wishes, then, for a prosperous future,” Flora softly murmured, sensible of the futility of their conversation, beginning to move around Isolde’s spreading skirts.

  Lifting her furled parasol, Isolde stopped her.

  “You’ll never keep him,” the countess coldly said, holding the flat of the parasol against Flora’s waist. “Even if he survives Ned’s plans for revenge, he’ll tire of you, as he has all the others. Females have al
ways kept him company—in great numbers. But, then, you knew that, didn’t you?” She smiled faintly at the distress she was causing. Flora had gone quite pale.

  “We’re having a child,” Flora said into the small silence, wanting the cold, brutal woman to know, defending herself against Isolde’s cruelty with a brutality of her own.

  “Really.” Not a flicker of emotion registered on the mannequinlike face. “It’s not a very original ploy.”

  “It’s not a ploy at all, but a great miracle. I don’t expect you to understand.” And taking the wrapped silk of the parasol in a hard grip, Flora wrenched the ebony handle from Isolde’s gloved fingers.

  A flinching shock suddenly displaced the countess’s haughty disdain. “Look,” Flora said with a small sigh of restraint. “Why not find someone else to harass? I don’t want Adam’s title. Mine is quite sufficient. You can remain the Comtesse de Chastellux with my blessing.” She placed the parasol against the brick wall of Sherman’s Emporium.

  “While you publicly usurp my position, you impertinent jade!” Isolde spat. Finding herself braver as she snatched up her parasol, she heatedly added, “I’ll see that you rue the day you crossed my path. I’ll see that you’re cut from society.”

  “Society rarely interests me,” Flora replied. “But when it does, rest assured, my fortune allows me continuing entrée. You certainly know that incontrovertible fact, Isolde. Money opens all doors. Oh, by the way,” Flora said with a grin as she began walking past Isolde, “my tits are getting bigger already.”

  She shouldn’t have said it, she thought. She’d suppressed the flip remark several times in the last few seconds. It was unladylike, perhaps unkind, certainly too irreverent for such a seriously daunting occasion.

  But then she saw Isolde’s expression alter to a vivid, lethal intensity, and she didn’t mind anymore that she’d been uncharitable.

  “I should have had you killed in Saratoga,” Isolde said so softly, it sent a small chill down Flora’s spine.

  Half turning back to the lady who was dressed for the Parisian drawing rooms and boulevards, Flora said, “Go home, Isolde. Go away.” Her voice dropped to a murmur. “I won’t let you win. And I can kill you myself if I wish.”

  There was a distinct sputtering sound behind her as she resumed her journey to the Planters House. A minor victory of sorts, Flora thought with a smile. How often, she wondered, had Isolde been left speechless?

  Chapter Twenty-five

  When Adam, Molly, and Henrietta walked out of the dining room of the Planters House, Flora and Lord Haldane were in the lobby. The earl, having arrived shortly after Flora, was at the front desk arranging for a room, while Flora waited for him in a comfortable chair. Lounging with her head against the padded back, she first caught a glimpse of Adam from under the veil of her lashes.

  Her eyes snapped open, her mouth curved into a smile, and she was rising from her chair when she saw him turn to his right and put his arm around Molly Fisk, who came into view from behind a fluted pillar. As they moved down the passageway leading from the restaurant, Henrietta appeared on Adam’s left, and Flora’s smile abruptly vanished.

  Gazing at the friendly scene, she cautioned herself to restraint—no doubt some reasonable explanation existed.

  Adam immediately saw Flora as she emerged from behind one of the numerous potted palms decorating the lobby, and, considering her unexpected appearance, she gave him high points for poise. “You’re a long way from camp,” he calmly said, dropping his arm from Molly’s shoulder, taking in her dusty trail clothes with a swift glance. “I thought you were staying on the Yellowstone.” The faintest rebuke lingered in his tone.

  “Obviously,” Flora retorted. “Am I interrupting anything?”

  “Adam was kind enough to take us to lunch,” Molly interceded. “We’re celebrating the imminent departure of my houseguest, the Comtesse de Chastellux.”

  “Celebrating?”

  “Isolde’s leaving for Europe tonight,” Adam said.

  “Are you sure?” Skepticism arched Flora’s brows. “I just saw her on the street, and she seemed intent on maintaining her position here.”

  “Accept my apologies … then … for Isolde.” His last, he hoped. “She’s always difficult.”

  “More than difficult, I’d say. I wouldn’t count on her leaving.”

  “Perhaps she simply wanted the last word,” Adam suggested, taking Flora’s hand in his, not wishing to dwell on Isolde’s presence in Montana. Flora didn’t seem unduly upset by her encounter, and by nightfall his wife would be gone. “She won’t want to be here once the weather turns cold,” he said, explaining Isolde’s departure plans in a highly edited recital, “and an early snow could close some of the travel routes. She’d never take the chance of missing the Parisian season. So I think she’s actually going this time,” he declared. “Thanks in large part to Molly’s assistance in arranging for Isolde’s trunks and luggage. This lunch is small payment for her aid,” he said with a smile.

  “How very strange this must seem to you,” Flora said to Molly, understanding the reason for Adam’s cheer. “But thank you very much.”

  “We’ve our share of strange stories out here on the frontier, Lady Flora,” Molly replied. “Some of them pretty violent, and the countess never did take to the country. She always complained about the dust,” Molly added with a smile, surveying Flora’s utilitarian clothing coated with trail dirt.

  “I’m afraid she wouldn’t approve, then,” Flora noted, glancing down at her coated boots and trousers. “But I only just arrived and haven’t had time to change yet.”

  Adam quickly surveyed the lobby. “You didn’t come alone, did you?”

  “Of course not,” she calmly replied. “Papa’s arranging a room, and Alan, Douglas, and Henry are still at the livery stable.”

  “You shouldn’t have ridden that far. Are you tired? You must be, and hungry too, I suppose,” he said with a grin, her appetite prodigious since her pregnancy.

  He suddenly seemed unaware of the others, his concern obvious, the affection in his voice low, intimate, causing any third party to feel de trop. “I think we’ll be on our way now,” Molly obligingly said. “Thank you for the lunch, Adam, and our best wishes and congratulations to you both.”

  “Adam told you about the baby!” Flora exclaimed. “We’re ecstatic, aren’t we darling?” she jubilantly said, gazing up at Adam.

  Choking, Adam disguised his shock with a small cough. “Absolutely thrilled,” he manfully agreed.

  “We’re expecting in the spring,” Flora explained, obviously elated. “Or at least that’s what Spring Lily tells me. I’m a total novice. Adam had to convince me finally that it’s true.”

  Molly would have liked to have witnessed that exchange, entertained by the notion that the man who’d been caution itself when it came to his choice of amorous partners—always preferring women enlightened about birth control—had to explain impending motherhood to his naive lover. “How opportune the timing,” Molly graciously declared. “Spring is a perfect time to have a baby.”

  “Anytime would be a perfect time,” Adam said, pulling Flora into his arms in full sight of everyone in the crowded lobby.

  “You’re making a scene,” Flora murmured, gazing up at him with a languorous smile.

  “Now I’m making a scene,” he corrected, lifting her into his arms, smearing his black frock coat and embroidered vest with the fine gray dust from her clothes. “Good afternoon, Molly, Henrietta,” he said with a dismissive nod and a lighthearted smile. “We have a few things to discuss.” And strolling away toward the stairs, he kissed her as an audible gasp from onlookers momentarily silenced the buzz of conversation in the luxurious lobby.

  “He’s really, truly in love with her, Auntie,” Henrietta mournfully declared, watching Adam carry Flora up the flight of red-carpeted stairs in great, long strides. “Did you see how he looked at her? How he smiled at her when she said they’re having a baby? I’ll never have
him now,” she lamented.

  “I’m afraid you’re right, darling,” Molly commiserated, patting her niece’s gloved hand. “It’s a shock to me as well. I never thought I’d see the day when Adam Serre fell in love. Although I’m pleased for him. He’s had his share of misery the last few years. If the countess was going to stay much longer,” Molly averred, “I’d kill her myself. You needn’t worry, though, darling,” she soothed. “You’re young, pretty, and very rich. You won’t lack suitors.”

  “But none as wickedly handsome as Adam,” Henrietta fretfully replied.

  “Let’s think about this on our way home,” Molly suggested, taking her niece’s hand and moving toward the street entrance. “What do you say to having Ellis Green over for dinner tomorrow? He’s certainly an attractive man. I know it’s short notice, but your uncle will ask him for us. Now, who else could we invite? Do you think Maud Henley would like to come with her new husband? Or perhaps that nice Mr. Belton.”

  “Oh, Auntie,” Henrietta sighed, marginally restored from her doldrums. “Do you think Ellis Green would ever notice little old me? He’s so handsome.”

  “I’ve a feeling he’ll not only notice you but like you immensely,” Molly assured her. Henrietta’s millionaire father would be of distinct interest to Ellis, she knew, for Ellis had political ambitions, like all his family. He’d understand with that male practicality that made politics the art of compromise how useful it would be to align himself with a family as influential as Henrietta’s. She’d have Harold mention to Ellis when he invited him that Henrietta’s very generous marriage portion also included a stately home in Washington.

  “He’s ever so tall,” Henrietta cooed, “and his manners are divine.” A smile lifted the curve of her large mouth. “What should I wear, Auntie?”

  Apparently her heart wasn’t permanently damaged by Adam’s loss, Molly dryly noted. But at eighteen, whose was?

  “You shouldn’t have come,” Adam said, kicking the door of his hotel room shut, “but now that you’re here, I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather spend the afternoon with.” His smile was very close.