by Sandra Jones
Rory shoved the chair to the table, rattling the silverware and his boss’s fine china. He was beyond caring. Was it too much to hope that the young Wainwright might put a bullet between Moreaux’s eyes first?
His boss and the elder Wainwright had been sworn enemies for years, both refusing to face each other over a card table after the last time Quintus cheated the man, but neither would request the duel. Too much pride and vanity on the line. Instead, Moreaux would rather end the life of his enemy’s nephew, a likable young man Rory’s own age and a crack-shot if the rumors were true.
Yet no man stood a chance against Moreaux’s deadly quick draw.
“Where’s the boss? I have something that might change his mind.”
“You found Eleanor?” Zeb dropped his fork, splattering mashed potatoes across the crystal water goblets.
“No. Better than that.” He had to prepare his boss for the shock of seeing Eleanor’s daughter again. Or rather, to make the meeting go smoother for Dell. Rory shared a brief summary of his trip with Zeb. “Perhaps he’ll reconsider his challenge to Wainwright to save face with her daughter.”
Or perhaps the bastard would prefer ruminating on how he would exploit her talents. Either way, meeting the grown-up Philadelphia had to be more exciting to the Monster than another meaningless killing.
Zeb picked up his fork and pointed it at Rory while speaking in a grave tone. “You best go into town for the night. I won’t tell a soul I saw you. Moreaux’s staying at Broughton until we ship out tomorrow, but I wouldn’t go there. If he knows you’re back, it’ll be you who’ll duel. Not him.”
Rory closed his eyes, overcome by weariness. “I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten, but I won’t dodge him. I know what needs to be done.” The seed of an idea took root in his mind. He sighed and opened his eyes again. With an authoritative tone, he said, “See that Philadelphia gets settled in a stateroom. Send Molly to her. And don’t break the news about the duel and leaving port just yet. She might bolt.”
He had no fear of guns or dying. Although he had no quarrel with Kit, he would face the deserving opponent if he must. What he did regret in spades was promising a pair of flashing dark eyes that he’d protect her.
He couldn’t protect anyone if he died on Bloody Island.
Nothing looked the same, and yet everything felt familiar.
While it was still a floating white palace, the Queen Helen wasn’t quite the mythical Mount Olympus she’d pictured in hazy memories, a hedonistic playground for immortals like Bacchus and Aphrodite, yet a few of the showboat’s real occupants seemed nearly as beautiful by her estimation.
After an awkward reunion with Trap and later with Zeb, a pilot who’d grown a little older and rounder since she’d last seen him, she’d been escorted to her room for the night, a stateroom on one of the ship’s upper decks. Trap’s wife, Molly, a stunning thirty-year-old woman with flowing chestnut hair, attended her, making sure her chamber had everything she required.
Dell also had forgotten the opulence of the steamboat’s rooms. Her new bedroom’s walls were covered in decorative scalloped brocade, and a chandelier dangled from the ceiling in the middle of the room where a posh bed stood. Even the floor, covered from wall to wall with a plush beige rug, looked more comfortable for sleeping on than her old bed. She’d been denied girlish fantasies living with her aunt and uncle, forced to work rather than make herself comfortable. Now she longed to enjoy the bed’s sumptuous covers and pillows and sigh with pleasure, perhaps reliving Rory’s kisses and the wild, falling sensation they’d given her.
“All right then, dove.” Molly sighed. “You got your mirror in the cabinet there and some perfume and powder. The crew will bring you a bath whenever you want. If there’s anything else you need, let me know.” Dell swallowed her disappointment when the woman sank into the room’s lone upholstered chair and continued to stare instead of leaving her.
Dell sat lightly on the edge of her bed facing her. She wouldn’t open her luggage until the woman was gone—not wanting anyone to see her shameful lack of possessions. Trap’s wife wore a low-cut blue dress fitted so tightly to her body that her breasts swelled like two fresh-baked pastries. Her hair glistened on one of her shoulders, and Dell could barely contain her envy.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Aware she was also staring, Dell dropped her gaze and fiddled with her traveling dress. The cuff of her long sleeve had snagged on a splinter of the gangway’s rail. Meeting her stepfather in such a pitiful state seemed unthinkable. “Would you happen to have any sewing materials on board? Maybe a needle and thread?”
The woman’s eyebrows flew up. “Sewing? Me? Lord, no. I have a seamstress in every port for such things. Send your frocks to the city with one of the men. That’s what the rest of us do.”
Unfortunately, Dell wasn’t exactly sure what she’d wear while her good dress was being repaired. She’d brought her work clothes, the frumpy gray bags she suddenly dreaded removing from her luggage. “That’s all right. I’ll make do. It’s just for tonight.”
She’d learned from Zeb that some of the crew stayed in cabins on the boat, while some chose quarters in port. Quintus was currently in his city home, while Rory stayed on the Queen Helen.
Molly’s knees shuffled under her skirt and she leaned forward as if she’d just realized something. “You’re wearing that tonight? Godallmighty no.” She popped up and came to Dell, sinking to the bed beside her. “The boss is throwing a party for Mayor Hickman of Memphis. Trap says you’re one of us now, so the boss’ll want you to dress for his patrons. Let me get a look at your waist.” Her pale hands spread across Dell’s waistline, taking a measurement.
She shook her head. “I needn’t leave this room. I’d only be in the way. I’m just staying overnight. I shouldn’t—”
“Of course you’re coming.” She grinned. “Close enough to my size, I should think. I’ll bring you a few dresses that should fit. And I can do your hair.”
Dell’s scalp tingled as Molly’s hands unpinned her coiffure and freed her wavy tresses.
“You’re very lovely. Not at all what I imagined, mind you, from what I’ve always heard about Mrs. Moreaux, but I can see why the captain was so bent on bringing you back.”
Dell flushed. “Please don’t think that Rory and I…” The words “are lovers” stuck in her throat. She rubbed her suddenly clammy hands on her skirt. “He’s very loyal to my mother’s husband, but I’m not—”
Molly chuckled. “Don’t worry. We take care of each other ’round here. Who could blame you for climbing into the captain’s bed? Not me! Likely, Quintus won’t care either.”
“Oh, but we’re not! We haven’t—”
“Madam LeBlanc is the only one who might feel ill toward you. Not that it matters,” Molly continued, ignoring Dell’s protests as she pulled her bag into her lap. “That’s her own damned fault.” She shrugged and casually perused the bag’s paltry contents.
“Madam LeBlanc?”
She withdrew one of Dell’s dresses, wrinkled her nose, and pushed it back inside. “Quintus’s moll. She keeps a brothel in St. Louis, but”—she lowered her voice and leveled her blue eyes at Dell—“we all know the only unloaded gun Quintus carries is between ’is legs, so to speak, so Rory keeps her bed warm.”
Dell played with the top button of her dress, recalling Rory’s claims of expertise in “lots of things.” Perhaps this was another way the captain “cleaned up” after Moreaux. She prickled with distaste for the lurid arrangement, but it didn’t surprise her that Rory had a lover. “Does Quintus know?” She cringed inwardly, hating to think she might have to keep Rory’s affair a secret.
Molly glanced up from her exploration of the bag, giving Dell a soul-searching look. “Probably. Maybe. But hell if I’d be the one to ask him about it. You haven’t known the boss for a long time, have you?”
“No. It’s been thir
teen years. I really don’t remember much about him.”
Frowning, Molly continued to push through Dell’s articles. Her silence made Dell squirm inside, considering her stepfather in a new light—as a boss who had a lover he wouldn’t sleep with, not caring if another man took his place. Then Molly sat back with an intake of breath. She withdrew Dell’s mother’s cards from the bag and held them in the air with an excited smile while the shabby red ribbon trailed down her bare arm like a rivulet of blood.
“Well, dove, I can already tell he’s gonna like you.”
The next three hours, Dell waited in her stateroom. The first hour went quickly enough with Molly bringing her several dresses to try on, and she’d stayed to see her dressed and her hair done. Then the woman had left, needing to tend to her own attire for the soiree.
Pulled to one side and bound in Molly’s pearl-tipped pins, Dell’s brown waves cascaded along her bare shoulder. Wearing a shoulderless ruby dress that pooled around her legs, Dell had floated back and forth across the chamber to the sound of Molly’s self-congratulatory praise. Beneath the rich fabric, a corset hugged her curves, pushing her small breasts up for all to see above the scalloped neckline. At first she’d refused the garment. She couldn’t wear something so scandalous, but her new friend insisted, saying her boss preferred that his customers stay distracted by scantily clad women in his gaming salons. Dell understood. A distracted card player was easy-pickings.
Now bored and anxious, she sat on the bed making faces at herself in the mirror. Perhaps they’d forgotten to fetch her. Maybe Quintus was too busy. Or maybe he wasn’t happy with Rory for bringing her back with him. She wasn’t his natural child, after all. Zeb had mentioned the boat was leaving by sunrise the next morning. She wanted to ask if she could borrow enough money to stay in a boarding house in the city. She would only need enough to keep a roof over her head while Jeremiah recovered. In the meantime, she could find work—honest work, not fortunes—and save money, perhaps earning enough to travel north. Or she could simply ask Rory for passage on the Queen Helen or another of Moreaux’s ships to Illinois. Surely he wouldn’t deny her that since he’d brought her so far.
The knock came at last. Trap stood outside, his cap held in hand. He looked her over with approval gleaming in his eyes. Dell squashed down her disappointment that he wasn’t Rory.
She followed the Irishman in silence down the stairwells and along the darkened deck. She could hardly breathe beneath the boning and tight laces of Molly’s undergarment. Her head started to pound as their footsteps echoed against the metal steps. Inside the lower levels of the boat, yellow lights flickered inside what must be the salon and the meeting rooms. Voices lifted and a piano tinkled some melody, but the gaiety of the mayor’s party within failed to cheer her current mood.
Dread, cold and harsh, squeezed her lungs.
Should she judge her stepfather before she even knew him? She had her mama’s insistence she shouldn’t return to him. But she didn’t know if Quintus had done anything wrong to warrant her fear or anger except what her aunt had said, “He makes a moonshiner look like a Catholic saint.” And she’d told her that because her mama had apparently sent a few letters describing the debauched gambling lifestyle on the steamboats years earlier to Aunt Ida. Of course, Dell had heard Molly’s distressingly frank tale about her stepfather’s mistress and his impotence, but that ought to cause Dell sympathy for the man. Not fear.
Perhaps he’d spanked her as a child. Yes, that would make her wary. Any discipline prior to Ida and Reuben’s beatings had probably been light, though she wouldn’t have thought so as a child. And Rory’s comments about the man’s enemies hadn’t helped.
Rory, the Devil’s Henchman.
If the captain was the henchman, then Moreaux was the devil. His crew treated Rory with apprehension and respect.
Trap stopped in front of a door and knocked before escorting her inside. Dell chased the butterflies in her stomach with the sweep of her hand as she approached the men in the room. Seated behind a massive mahogany desk, a salt and pepper head bowed over open ledgers, while Rory, swathed in black from head to foot, stood to the side. Only his tamed, golden hair lightened the darkness of his mien. His emerald eyes followed her approach, fixed on her face with an unreadable expression, before dropping lower.
His lips parted to speak at the same time that the man behind the desk looked up. A sensation of deja vu clawed into her with ferocity. Dell’s flesh broke into a cold sweat, and the room turned on its axis before she fell into oblivion.
Chapter Eleven
She became aware of Rory’s presence first when she came back to herself. He had a strong arm wrapped around her, his palm against the flat of her stomach, while his other hand cupped her elbow. She was completely slumped against him as he spoke to someone.
“…malnourished. You had only to see Eleanor’s family to understand the gravity of her situation.” He settled her into a chair and pressed his hand against her cheek. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”
He pulled away, but Dell caught his sleeve. His arm tensed beneath her fingers. She rasped, “Whiskey?”
His lips twitched. “Of course.”
She pushed herself up on the arms of the velvet wingback and blinked to restore her vision past the black dots dancing in her sight. “I’m so sorry. I’m not used to traveling.” Or the underthings, but the men needn’t hear that complaint. A pair of scissors applied to the delicate satin lacings would fix her as right as rain, but that would have to wait until later. She ran the back of her hand across her cool, damp forehead, and regarded the man sitting across from her while Rory poured her a glass of whiskey at the bar.
Moreaux’s long, elegant fingers turned the pages of a ledger, seemingly undisturbed by her presence. In a white shirt and burgundy brocade vest with a matching cravat, the silver-haired dandy sipped from a tiny crystal glass. Beside him sat a tray with two decks of cards tied in satin ribbons and a caddy full of faro chips. A box with a handle sat on the credenza behind him, half-forgotten beneath his discarded top hat, its wood carved and decorative with the outline of two pistols.
He spoke without looking up, “Obviously a wasted trip.” He then addressed Rory as he crossed the room. “At least you’re back in time to make yourself useful to me tomorrow.”
Her stepfather would acknowledge her presence. She’d not come so far to be ignored. “Thank you for the use of your stateroom, Quintus.” His name felt odd on her tongue, but she remembered calling him by his first name, having never been allowed to call him “Father.” She cleared her throat and accepted the liquor from Rory’s hand. He offered her a sympathetic smile and leaned casually against the side of her chair. She tossed back the drink, welcoming the slow burn and combustion in her gut. “Has the captain told you he saved a good man, an acquaintance of mine, from a possible hanging?”
Quintus Moreaux’s fingers paused over the page he was reading, and he lifted his flint eyes to regard her with transparent derision. He spoke in a cool voice, ignoring her question. “You look nothing like your mother. When you were a child, your hair was the color of hers, bright as sunlight in tiny spiral curls. By the time you reached four, you’d grown so dark, no one could tell you were the same girl anymore.”
Dell thrust her glass at Rory and sat arrow straight. The tips of her ears went hot. “How—”
Rory clamped a hand on her shoulder, cutting her off. A smile in his voice, he said, “I told you Eleanor taught her the trade. Philadelphia’s name was known at every port along the White River. They said her predictions are stunningly accurate.”
Quintus picked up a chip in his left hand and began to turn it across his knuckles as he watched her from beneath his craggy silver brows. “Doubtful. This waif? What can she do?”
Dell’s skin warmed beneath Rory’s hand. His curbing grip loosened, and he stroked her shoulder blade reassuringly.
&nbs
p; Although she hadn’t meant to turn to her tricks again—ever—she could hardly sit and take the dismissal of this man. She was Eleanor’s daughter, after all, and her mama had died moving her away from the gambler she thought unfit to raise her child. Now Dell’s pride stung with thoughts of the way Rory had found her—so far from Mama’s world of privilege on the Mississippi. Yes, she’d been poor, left to neglectful guardians, but despite it all, she’d educated herself, worked hard becoming the prodigy of her talented mother. She would show them she was worth the sacrifice her mama made.
“I’d be happy to give you a fortune, but first, might we all have another drink? I’m so parched.” She looked up at Rory from beneath her lashes. He obediently went to the bar and returned with three full glasses. Dell held hers to her lips and watched as the men tossed theirs back. When they were finished, Dell took a deck of cards from the tray. Newer than hers, they felt slick and unwieldy, but they would do. She shuffled and spread the deck before her on the shiny wood desk. “Choose one, but don’t look at it.”
The gambler-boss set his faro chip aside and selected a card on the very end of the side to his left. He dropped it on top of his ledger. His mouth pursed ruefully. A skeptic, then. Her mood lightened.
Skeptics were her bread and butter.
Rory’s sleeve brushed her arm as he hovered close, and his gaze studied the spread of cards with interest.
“Choose another. This time turn it over.”
His manicured hand selected a card. He flipped over an ace of diamonds. His dark eyes met hers.
“That’s for money. You have a large sum of money at risk or…maybe you already did.”
He shook his head, scowling. “Campbell, any carnival charlatan could tell me that. You’ve brought me nothing.”
