“I’m sure you’re right, Claire.”
Apparently his smile was a little too warm for Claire because after blinking another couple of times, she turned red and dropped her gaze. A big sigh from Jedediah caught Tom’s attention and he smiled at his love-struck accountant.
“What do you plan to do with your evening, Claire? I have to go to town for a while, and it doesn’t look as though Jed here’s going to be much company for anybody.”
“I’m not certain, Mr. Partington. Perhaps I shall read for a while.”
“Sounds peaceful.”
Claire thought about Tom’s assessment of her planned evening’s entertainment as she crept off to her office and sank into her chair. Peaceful! She would never know another moment’s peace as long as she lived; she knew it. Her delight in Christmas had faded between the time she and Dolly had finished decorating and dinner, and Claire had been given plenty of time to revive her worries. They plagued her now as she stared out her window and hoped for lightning to strike her.
So fervently was she praying for a bolt from heaven that when a knock came at her outside door, it jolted her out of her chair. Her father! It must be her father, back with more demands! Claire flung open the door to reveal Dianthe and Sylvester, and her sigh of relief was so hearty she was surprised it didn’t blow them both over backwards.
“Oh, I’m so glad it’s you!” She felt not quite so desolate knowing her friends were on her side.
“‘Evening, Claire.” Sylvester sauntered past her, bearing a lily and several sheets of foolscap. He looked happier than Claire had seen him in months.
Dianthe drifted into the room as if borne on a fairy cloud.
“Claire, you must let me read you the first few pages of my latest book, The Wily Turk, Adolphus. I’ve modeled him entirely after your father, and I think it’s the best work I’ve ever done. After you left this afternoon, all I did was write!”
“My goodness,” Claire said weakly. She wondered how his customers had fared if he’d done nothing but write. It was a wonder Mr. Gilbert hadn’t gone out of business before now, with Sylvester manning his mercantile.
“I still don’t think Adolphus is a Turkish name, Sylvester,” Dianthe murmured.
“Nonsense! Who cares anyway? It’s my work, and if I say his name is Adolphus, who can say me nay?” He whirled around to confront Claire, who was closing the door. “What do you think, Claire? It’s an author’s privilege to name his characters, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so.” She’d named hers, and look at all the trouble it had caused.
“Well, I still don’t think it sounds very Turkish.” Dianthe looked a trifle miffed.
Sylvester waved his lily languidly as he took up his customary pose next to the fireplace. “It doesn’t matter. It’s a work of art.”
Claire wished she could be so sanguine about her own work. She sat with a sigh, glad at least to have company to take her mind off her troubles.
As if reading her mind, Dianthe leaned forward and placed her hand over Claire’s. “We decided to visit you this evening to give you courage, Claire, dear. You were so upset this morning.”
“Yes. Although why that should be I have no idea. Just think of all the raw material you have to work with—from your own family! Why, I should think any novelist worth his salt could write stories forever on your father alone.”
Sylvester’s handsome features spoke of disdain. Disdain, however, was so common an expression on his face that Claire did not take exception. Not that it would have made any difference. She wished she possessed Sylvester’s talent for ignoring anything but his art. Her own problems squatted in her heart like evil, sharp-clawed ghouls.
Yet she was awfully happy to have these kind friends visit her. “Thank you very much, both of you. I feel extremely fortunate to know I can rely on you for support.”
Sylvester lifted a brow, but Dianthe smiled sweetly, and Claire felt better.
Before Sylvester could begin to read from his latest manuscript, Dianthe, looking faintly embarrassed, asked, “Is Mr. Silver still staying with Mr. Partington, Claire?”
Claire’s brief bubble of security burst instantly. Did Dianthe return Mr. Silver’s obvious affection? This could prove to be a catastrophe for poor Tom Partington. On the other hand, how could she stand in the way of true love if that’s what this turned out to be? She decided to proceed very cautiously.
Ignoring Sylvester’s pointed glare, she murmured, “I believe he plans to stay through Christmas, Dianthe.”
Lowering her eyes, Dianthe murmured, “He’s a most appealing gentleman, isn’t he, Claire?”
“Mr. Silver?”
“Yes.”
“Well, yes, I suppose he is. Of course, he doesn’t hold a candle to Mr. Partington in manners or address or countenance.” As soon as she’d spoken, Claire frowned and wondered if she’d uttered the truth. Actually, Mr. Silver was quite handsome, had perfect manners, and was polite to a fault.
With a breathy giggle, Dianthe said, “But you have Mr. Partington all sewed up, Claire.”
Claire felt her eyes open wide. This was the second time today Dianthe had said something of this nature. Claire couldn’t imagine what maggot could have gotten into Dianthe’s head. “That’s absurd, Dianthe,” she said tartly. Then she wished she hadn’t spoken so harshly since Dianthe was trying to help her.
With a huge sigh, Claire went to fetch her mending basket and settled into her chair. “Let’s listen to Sylvester’s new book. Shall we, Dianthe?”
“All right, dear.”
Before Sylvester could do more than draw in a deep, dramatic breath, a knock at Claire’s hallway door was answered to reveal Jedediah Silver, who had come to keep Claire company for the evening. Claire welcomed him into her office with resignation. Well, why shouldn’t her plan to attach Dianthe to Tom Partington fail, too? After all, everything else in her life had already gone wrong.
# # #
When he visited Pyrite Springs after supper, Tom was dismayed when he unearthed neither hide nor hair of the portly, mustachioed gentleman he’d seen striding away from Claire earlier in the day. He asked at the Pyrite Springs Hotel and the Gold Nugget Inn, to no avail. It wasn’t until after he’d tried the telegraph office, the stage depot, the post office, been frustrated at all three, and decided to stop in at the Fool’s Gold Saloon for a beer that he found his quarry.
By that time the evening was well advanced and the man was embroiled in what seemed to be a endless poker game. Tom couldn’t imagine Claire becoming involved with a fellow who gambled. Observing from his post at the bar, he grinned at the barkeep and said artlessly, “New face in town, I see.”
Bruce Bing, the sociable barkeeper whose own mustaches were waxed almost as prettily as Tom’s prey, swiped at the counter with his damp rag. “Yup. Come to town yesterday on the stage. Friendly feller.”
“Looks like the game’s been going on for a while.”
“Yup. They been playin’ durned near all afternoon. That new feller keeps chinning’ and grinning’ and keepin’ ‘em all in stitches. Regular comedian, he is.”
“Know his name?”
“Well, now, I ain’t so sure. He’s stayin’ upstairs.” Bing winked hugely. “A guest of Miss Mildred, you understand.”
Tom gave a suitably sly grin. “Fast worker, is he?”
“I reckon. Never seen him till yestiddy, and he’s already Miss Millie’s guest.” Another wink let Tom know just how much Bing appreciated such a slick operator as the poker-playing, lively old comedian.
“Well, maybe I’ll mosey on over and see what’s going on at the table.” Tom flipped a coin to the barkeep, who smiled at his generosity.
The conversation around the poker table was animated. Tom sipped his beer and watched the man closely. The fellow was as smooth as a polished marble. His brown eyes twinkled, his teeth flashed, and he kept up a steady stream of amusing anecdotes, making sure his fellow poker players were constantly off guard, but s
o diverted that they didn’t object. If Tom didn’t suspect the man of having hurt Claire, he might have been entertained. He wished he could talk to the damned fellow, but the game seemed destined to go on for hours.
Patience was a virtue he’d developed on the plains, however, and he used it now. Pulling up a chair, he straddled it, settled his arms over the back, and watched the game for what seemed like forever.
It wasn’t quite forever. In fact, Tom’s patience was stretched only another hour and a half or so. At last, the game broke up and the man stood and stretched.
Grinning, Tom asked, “You won quite a pot there, sir.”
The fellow grinned back, and Tom could have sworn he was being assessed acutely. He felt like a side of beef for a minute. It was an uncomfortable feeling, and he counteracted it by standing and holding out a hand. “Tom Partington here. I enjoyed watching you play. You’re a skillful hand at poker, sir.” Tom was sure it wasn’t his imagination that made him think the man brightened when he divulged his name.
“Indeed I am, Mr. Partington.” He shook Tom’s hand. “Claude Monta—Montenegro here.”
Montenegro, huh? Strange name. “In town for long, Mr. Montenegro?”
“Alas, no. Just passing through.”
“I thought I saw you earlier this morning outside the mercantile, chatting with somebody. Now, let me see. . . . Who was it? Ah, yes. Miss Claire Montague, it was. You a friend of hers, Mr. Montenegro?”
“Montague. Montague.” Claude put on a show of thinking hard. “No, can’t say the name’s familiar.”
“No? My mistake. But come to the bar, Mr. Montenegro. Let me buy a stranger a drink. I don’t play much poker myself anymore, but I enjoy watching a skilled card player, and you’re one of the best I’ve seen in a long time.”
Claude’s grin was as toothy and benevolent as any Tom had ever seen. He didn’t trust the man already. What could this slick customer have to do with Claire? The awful thought struck him that he might be a former lover. Had he come back to plague her to return to him? Could it be this man whom Claire had been fleeing when she came to work for his uncle? Had she been fleeing anything? She was such a starchy, straight-laced woman, it didn’t seem possible somehow.
And yet, such a scenario might explain some puzzling things about her. Tom settled against the bar, called for drinks, and prepared himself for a long, interesting evening.
When he awoke the next morning with an aching head and a sick stomach, he still had to admit the evening had been interesting. Entertaining even. He’d seldom met anybody as amusing and engaging as the man who called himself Claude Montenegro.
He’d learned absolutely nothing, however, about his relationship with Claire Montague.
Chapter 14
The slippery scoundrel twirled his waxed mustache and smiled at Miss Abigail Faithgood. His expression might have been taken as benevolent by anybody unfamiliar with his black heart. Miss Abigail, however, knew the dastardly man well. It was he who had hired the band of villains from whom she and Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee had just escaped. It was he who threatened to kill her sheep so that he could take over her ranch.
“Good afternoon, Miss Faithgood. What brings you to town today?”
Miss Abigail squared her shoulders. “I imagine you are surprised to see me, aren’t you, Mr. Maguire? But your scheme bore no fruit, as you now know. I still live.”
His greasy smile still in place, Oliver Maguire murmured, “Now whatever can you mean, my dear girl?”
“I mean you’re a vile, despicable, evil human being who doesn’t deserve to exist on the same earth as the rest of us,” Claire muttered savagely.
Her pen dropped to her blotter, she put her elbows on her desk, and cradled her head in her hands. Beneath the manuscript page she was writing lay the telegram she’d received this morning from Mr. Oliphant, warning her about what had transpired on the train and apologizing abjectly. As if an apology would make a difference now.
“What am I going to do?”
She’d been doing her best to borrow a helpful tip from Sylvester and use her conniving father as a novelistic device. At least that way he’d be good for something. It hurt to write about him, though, even this little bit. What Claire wanted to do with her father was forget he even existed.
But how could she do that if he kept turning up? Granted, he’d only turned up once so far, but Claire knew that now he’d found her, unless she was prepared to flee Pyrite Springs, change her name, and take up residence elsewhere—preferably a foreign country—she’d never be rid of him again.
“Whatever will I do?” she moaned again.
At a tap on her door Claire snapped her head up, whisked her novel from her blotter and crammed it into her drawer, wishing she’d never brought it downstairs in the first place. She glanced up in time to see Tom Partington, looking not quite in perfect health, watching her curiously as he closed the door.
His grin was as beautiful as ever. “Hiding evidence of your embezzlement activities, Claire?”
She looked down at the corner of a manuscript page sticking out of her closed drawer and wondered why the Fates seemed to hate her so much these days. Quickly opening the drawer, stuffing the paper all the way in, and closing it again, she looked up and donned a bright smile. At least she hoped it was bright.
“You caught me,” she said lightly. “And here I was hoping to keep my nefarious scheme a secret for a little while longer.”
Tom chuckled and then winced. Claire’s heart lurched. “Are you feeling well this morning, Mr. Partington? You didn’t join us at breakfast.”
“No. No, I wasn’t quite up to breakfast, I’m afraid. I went to town last night and I fear I overindulged a trifle.”
“Oh.” Claire knew exactly what sort of overindulgence Tom referred to. Her father had euphemistically called his occasional bouts of drunkenness overindulgence. She’d never have suspected Tom of such regrettable habits. She felt her mouth tighten and made an effort to relax. It was not her place to judge her hero. That is to say, her employer.
“You look grieved, Claire. Please believe me when I say that such excesses are not at all commonplace, and I certainly don’t want to disappoint you.” He looked longingly at the chair across from her desk. “May I sit? Or have I sunk myself so far beneath reproach that you wish to be rid of me.”
Good heavens, did she appear that disapproving? Striving for an easy-going smile, Claire said, “Of course you may sit, Mr. Partington. And I assuredly do not disapprove of you, nor would I ever wish to be rid of you. I was just going over the, er, household accounts.”
Sinking into the chair with evident relief, Tom sighed and asked, “I don’t suppose Uncle Gordon hid his book profits in the household accounts, did he?”
Not quite daring to meet his inquiring smile, Claire murmured, “No, he did not.”
“Pity.”
Tom rubbed his forehead with thumb and fingers, and Claire felt a moment of compassion. It was only a moment though; she didn’t approve of the type of indulgence that resulted in headaches and mean tempers. She’d been victimized by gentlemen in such a condition too many times in her youth.
“Whew. I’m really not used to drinking, Claire. I like a glass of brandy or something every now and again, but I can’t even remember the last time I had a head like this.”
Claire deemed it prudent not to respond. She began to fiddle with her pen.
“But you see, I met this very intriguing fellow last evening when I stopped in at the Fool’s Gold Saloon. The same one I thought I saw you with earlier in the day. Turns out he goes by the name Claude Montenegro.”
Claire’s pen fell to the desk and she snatched it back up again. An odd feeling of numbness invaded her body and she began to perceive Tom as if she were looking through the wrong end of a telescope. Suddenly he seemed very far away. She dropped her pen again and clutched the edge of her desk so as to remain seated and not faint and slide into a heap on the floor.
“M-m-monten
egro?” she whispered, and frowned because that had sounded wrong—entirely too soft and shaky. She cleared her throat and tried again. “What an odd name.”
Tom winced once more and Claire realized she’d spoken too loudly.
“I don’t think it was his real one.” He shaded his eyes and looked as if it hurt to speak.
He’d been consorting with her father! Claire wasn’t sure she could stand hearing about it. On the other hand, she knew she couldn’t stand not hearing about it.
“Er, why should he be using a false name, Mr. Partington?” She schooled her face to betray none of the panic rampaging in her heart.
“I think he’s a confidence man, Claire, a bunco artist.”
“You do?” She stared at him, awed. She’d never known anybody to come to such a quick, shrewd, and accurate assessment of her miserable father. Then again, she’d never spoken to anybody about him before, either.
“Yes. I wonder why he’s in town.”
Was it Claire’s imagination, or did Tom look at her with an entirely too-perceptive gleam in his eyes. She dropped her gaze. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know, Mr. Partington.”
“No? Are you absolutely sure you don’t know him, Claire? Was he the one responsible for your unfortunate investment?”
Unfortunate investment? Ah, yes; she remembered that lie. Claire tried to laugh, a difficult thing to do with her mouth dry as cotton. “Good heavens, no, Mr. Partington. I have no idea who the gentleman is. Was. Is.”
Tom shrugged, a gesture that seemed to hurt. “Are you sure? I was certain I saw you with him yesterday morning.”
Claire tried to swallow the lump of cotton wadding in her throat. “Saw him with me? I mean me with him? Goodness gracious no, Mr. Partington. Whatever would I be doing with a confidence man?” She tried to appear innocent. She felt guilty as sin.
“Well, now, Claire, I don’t know. That’s what I was trying to find out, because you sure didn’t look happy when I saw you.”
Secret Hearts Page 20
