by Sandra Jones
The idea had merit, but it was too lofty a goal. “He wouldn’t wager his whole fleet in a hand of cards. Surely.”
Rory’s gaze riveted back to her. “Sure he would. He’s bet the packet before, a fortune in stocks, the brothel, even, and stacks of cash that’d make your toes curl.” He licked his lips, leaving her no doubt he was relishing the memories with the lust of a gambling heart.
She pulled her hands free, suddenly wary. “You want me to help Wainwright win by double-crossing Moreaux?” Her words came out in a hushed tone. If that was what he was asking, it was treacherous, dangerous, and the result of everything Quintus had trained him to be.
Ruthless.
The corner of his mouth pinched as if he weighed his next words. Dell felt a steady thump in her chest as he answered slowly, “I’d very much like you to h—”
The front door opened, and the sound of approaching footsteps had Rory putting distance between them.
Ottenheim joined them, followed by Kit.
The younger man greeted her with a wide smile, and he scooped her hand up for a quick kiss on the knuckles. “Welcome, Philadelphia. Please come inside.”
In the wake of the revelation of Rory’s plan, Dell woodenly followed the men into the house. Ottenheim disappeared in the foyer, while Kit escorted them into a warm sitting room, appointed with luxurious furnishings she would’ve appreciated if she had the ability to focus. But all she could think of as she sat on a love seat opposite Rory and Kit was how right her mother had been to remove her from this life.
Her years in Posey Hollow had been harsh without many happy times, but she’d been safe. It had been a reasonably honest life—fortunetelling notwithstanding. She’d kept husbands from spending too much money at the saloons, wives from working themselves to the bone, young girls from getting pregnant too early, and had even gotten rid of the brutal Ephraim, if only for two years. She’d felt good about herself for the lies she sold.
This plan of Rory’s seemed based on revenge and greed. Quintus was cold-blooded, but she had no cause to ruin him.
Presently, Kit blathered on about his uncle’s business, how he sought new enterprises for his investments, and always seemed to have a nose for the most lucrative opportunities. She nodded when he glanced her way, barely listening. Rory watched her through pensive eyes, and she found she couldn’t hold his gaze for long. After last night and now, feeling so caught up in a spider’s web, she was apprehensive and unsure of him, her feelings, and everything else. Maybe—God forbid—he’d even seduced her to secure this scheme against his boss.
She wanted to talk to him alone, to reason with him. If he would use his energy for benevolent purposes, she would deny him nothing. But this plan—if indeed it was his plan to deceive Quintus—was without merit.
“Ah, there’s Uncle Bart.” Kit rose.
Rory stood as well, looking expectantly toward the door where a man had entered. The atmosphere of the room changed instantly as if all the warmth fled through an open window as a lanky man dressed in black crossed the room, wielding a cane that seemed more for looks than necessity. Rory clenched his hands at the small of his back, his tense shoulders telling Dell this was no casual visit, no polite call for tea and cake. She felt the hair on the back of her neck rise as the businessman took the last chair in the room.
Although his suit was finer than any Dell had ever beheld, Bartholomew Wainwright looked as if he’d be more at home in Posey Hollow than in a parlor. The garment fit him poorly with sleeves slightly too long and the cut too loose. He had a shock of soft-looking white hair, worn long to his collar, and a thick growth of gray beard covered his swarthy face from cheekbones to neck. Shrewd eyes returned her stare, then combed her from head to toe.
Still standing, Kit gestured toward her. “Uncle Bart, this is Miss Philadelphia Samuels, the young woman I’ve been telling you about.” Kit motioned for them to sit.
Dell perched on the edge of her seat, clenching her knees tightly together.
The man had his nephew’s vibrant blue eyes, now rounded with humor. He scoffed, “You mean the woman who spanked you, boy!” He chuckled at his own remark, leaning forward on the pommel of his walking stick. She imagined he would’ve been very handsome when he was Kit’s age and groomed up a bit. To Dell, he said, “You don’t go by Moreaux’s name. I can’t say as I blame you.”
“He’s no blood relation to me.”
Rory’s face softened a fraction at her reply. Elbows on his knees, he hung on her responses, but how far would she be able to help him when she wasn’t sure she wanted to help at all?
Bartholomew stroked his beard. He wore a wedding ring, but where was his wife? The house was quiet, almost reverently so. A clock ticked somewhere in another room.
“Young lady, I knew your mother. She was a cunning woman with an eye for the game. Rory and Kit tell me you’re cut from the same cloth.” He took in her hair, probably comparing her to Eleanor, much the same as Quintus had. After a length, he sat back. “I’d be interested in seeing what you can do.”
All three sets of eyes watched her intently.
Everyone seemed to want something from her. First Rory, then Moreaux, and now Wainwright. It was getting tiresome—especially after the way she’d been treated this morning. Their constant demands tightened around her like a yoke. She lifted her chin, bristling with pride and indignation. “I’ve done nothing but play parlor tricks for you gamblers since I’ve returned. If you knew my mother, then you’ll know I’m no parrot to be strutted into the room and asked to perform.”
She exhaled and leaned back into the plush cushion of the love seat. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so curt. Rory needed this man to help him leave Moreaux. But it was high time Rory understood she wasn’t a pawn any more than he was one to his boss.
Bartholomew turned to Rory. “I thought you said she would work for me. I’m not walking onto the Queen to be left on tenterhooks for Moreaux to devour.”
Rory glanced her way, pinning her with reprimanding look. “Dell’s an excellent seer. Moreaux is already singing her praises—something we all know he rarely does.”
“And his praise is well-earned from what I witnessed.” Kit folded his arms across his chest and regarded her warmly. “I’d much rather have Philadelphia as a friend than an enemy.”
“I’m not anyone’s enemy.” She shook her head gently at Kit, feeling guilty for her sharp tongue.
“Are you certain of that?” Rory said, voice short. His eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you’re waiting to see what price will be paid for your services.”
Dell frowned, fuming inside. He was angry. Good. Let him be. He should’ve told her sooner what he had planned for her.
Bartholomew’s face split in a lazy grin. “Of course she is. She’s Eleanor’s daughter.” He ran a hand through his thick mane. “I’ve waited twenty years to give that man his due. If I take Moreaux’s fleet, I’ll give you a cut, gal. Hell, if you’re as good as what these two say, you can work for me too. I’ve made more than a few business deals in parlors. A good seer on my arm might be beneficial. How much would you want for helping me bankrupt Moreaux?”
“Your money doesn’t interest me, sir.”
“No,” Rory agreed, cutting in, and folded his hands thoughtfully beneath his chin, “but you’re anxious to free Jeremiah. Wainwright knows Judge Cobb. He could have him emancipated immediately.”
You’ve already agreed to free him! She wanted to shout at him. Quintus was supposed to free Jeremiah in return for her working for him.
Kit clapped his hands together with finality. “There you have it. You can work for my uncle who’ll help your friend, pay you, and even hire you, if you choose. And Uncle Bart,” he directed his solemn gaze at the man, “they might wish to know what will become of the captain’s crew.”
“They’d work for me under the captain. I’ve never owned a
steamboat, but I know how to treat employees. I could use the fleet to ship my beer up and down the Mississippi, and I’d expect Campbell to manage the crew as they needed.” The older man exchanged an unreadable look with Rory, and his hand passed over his beard again. “But I can see this plan isn’t going to work. If you’d brought me Eleanor, we could’ve done something together, but not with this chit.”
Dell let the remark slide off her skin. He was goading her—a method that probably worked for him in business, but not with her. Rory rubbed his jaw, frowning. Something about his scheme didn’t sit right with her. There was more to it—beyond the betrayal of Quintus—but she couldn’t put her finger on what it could be.
Her gaze took in the room again. The place had been cleaned, a maid’s touch. But the parlor—and its owner—lacked the warmth of feminine influence. Without stopping to think, she asked Bartholomew, “When did your wife pass away?”
Wainwright’s sharp gaze flew to Kit’s, who shrugged. “I didn’t tell her, sir.”
After getting the same reaction from Rory, the older man sighed, dropping his gaze. “Four years ago.” He turned the head of the cane in his hand. “And I’ve missed her every day since.”
Dell nodded. “I’m sorry.” She’d read him. He’d told the truth, and even if she hadn’t identified his tell, she would’ve heard the honesty in his quiet answer.
Bartholomew stared at her for a moment and then turned to Rory. “How long will you be in port?”
“Three nights. Games each night, of course.”
“Good.” He pushed himself up, relying heavily on the cane this time. “That’ll give the gal time to consider the deal.”
He ambled out of the parlor, and the room issued a silent sigh of relief.
Kit flashed another of his easy smiles. “My apologies. Uncle Bart spent many of his formative years in isolation as a fur trader. I hope you’ll overlook his social deficiencies.”
Dell forced a sympathetic smile and nodded. Her trade in both the fortunes and the whiskey had taught her to tolerate all sorts, so the socially awkward brewer didn’t cause her any discomfort.
Rory, on the other hand, had her mind and body in a jangle of mixed emotions. He gave her a black look as she tried to return Kit’s civil conversation, clearly displeased. If she could get at his thoughts, she knew she would find she’d disappointed him somehow, and that made something inside her sink.
But why? Had he given her any reason to want his approval?
Sure, he’d rescued Jeremiah, saved her from a murderer, from drowning, and then hypothermia. He’d displayed moments of compassion and tenderness, leaving her breathless with exhilaration from his care. He’d held her, made love to her, given her pleasure last night that she’d never thought possible. But she should not trust him.
Especially not now that she stood either as a bridge or a barrier to get what he so obviously desired.
She interrupted Kit, “I think I’d like to go back to the Queen. I’m a little out of spirits.”
He colored. “I’m sorry. I’ll call Ottenheim—”
“Please, that won’t be necessary.”
Rory stood. “I need to return separately so Moreaux won’t know we were together.”
“I’d be happy to escort you myself, Philadelphia, if you’d like.” Kit smiled kindly and helped her to her feet. “I’ll just go ask the footman to bring my carriage around.”
As soon as the younger Wainwright left the room, Rory’s hand closed around her wrist. “Why are you playing?” he rasped.
His grip held her fisted hand between them, not harming her, yet his desperate demeanor set warning bells off inside her. How he’d banked so much irritation without her knowing, she couldn’t fathom. His narrowed eyes reflected his anxiousness, and unless she was mistaken, hurt too. But what was the cause?
“I’m not playing. I’m an open book. You’re the one holding back.” She returned his glare. “I was brought here against my will. What do you expect?”
He gave her a sharp tug, bringing her into him. His eyes glittered with anger as he searched her face. “This meeting was important! Wainwright has refused every request Moreaux’s made for a rematch until now. And I’ve always given you a choice, Dell. If you hadn’t said what you did about the old man’s wife, he would’ve dismissed our plan entirely.”
“Your plan. Not mine. This whole trip has been nothing but a gambling scheme, hasn’t it?” Her gut tightened with unease. “You came after my mother, hoping to persuade her to return to plot revenge with this man. Then when you found she was dead, you brought me into your machinations. And since you didn’t think I would agree—which I wouldn’t have—you conveniently neglected to tell me until now. What part of my character makes you believe I would give any consideration to ruining a man I hardly know nor have any cause to harm? And just how far will you go to make me part of this?”
A line hardened across his brow and his troubled eyes bore down into hers. She saw his indecision. Her pulse beat frantically against the fingers squeezing her wrist. Even now, feeling as angry as she did, she wanted him to end this greedy plan and tell her how right she was. Wanted to embrace him and kiss him and let him kiss her back. If she could only hear him say it would satisfy him enough to quit working for her stepfather. Rory had his health, his life, and he had…
Her.
“Dell, your character is nothing like mine,” he agreed quietly. “Except that we both love to gamble. I can see it in your eyes. It’s the way folks like us survive when we ain’t got no one else.” His voice broke softly, his words slipping back to the uncultured roots of the lost boy from Tennessee. “Maybe I’ll make a decent man someday, do something selfless, something to help other people if I had the opportunity…with Moreaux gone. His money’s not important to me, neither. But you and I take risks others won’t. I took a risk on you, angel. Won’t you take one on me?”
Yes. The answer formed in quick response to his earnest question. That would’ve been so easy to say. He was a smooth-talker, and she’d best remember that. Right now, with his grip loosening and his thumb coaxing her to comply with gentle caresses across her pulse-point, she had only to open her mouth and she would agree.
On top of everything else Rory made her feel, she felt responsible for him too. Like she could somehow make up for her mother’s abandonment of him with this one favor.
What had made her mother leave him? She would probably never understand.
“Damn it, Philadelphia. If you knew Moreaux better, you’d think twice about giving him your mercy.” He let go of her, braced his hands on his temples, and closed his eyes against some thought. When he reopened them, he’d shuttered his emotions. His chest rose and fell, as he appeared to collect himself. “I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to, but I pray you’ll think it over.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her close, kissing her. Her heart beat harder, responding automatically to his presence and touch. His tongue traced her bottom lip and she opened for him, yearning for the intimacy they’d shared the night before. He deepened the kiss, giving her tongue a quick flick as he sidled closer and slid a hand down the arch of her back. She leaned into him, and felt his hands tighten on her, holding her closer as if she would somehow slip through his fingers.
Much too soon, he pulled back, though still embracing her, and he pressed a lingering kiss against her forehead. “We’ll talk this evening.”
Kit’s returning footsteps sounded at the door. Rory released her and moved away.
Dell rubbed her arms as emptiness swept over her, torn between helping Rory and saving herself.
Chapter Twenty
Thinking about the gamblers’ greed and dreams of retribution left Dell with a headache that afternoon. She retired straight to her room, aching with the decision she would have to make.
Not that it would make anything b
etter, she knew, but she grabbed Rory’s bottle of rum and a glass, thirsting for something to take the edge off what had been a harrowing day. After replacing the stopper in the bottle, buttery vapors from the glass drifted to her nose, and her body’s response was instantaneous.
Rum would remind her of Rory forevermore, she supposed. His scent, his taste. Her hand curled around the glass, bringing it closer to inhale as her eyelids fell shut, awash in memories of last night. His gentle hands, his worshipful words praising her spirit and beauty. Her stomach tingled pleasantly—
Pow-pow-pow.
The sudden staccato of gunfire made Dell jerk, and the glass dropped from her hand to clunk on the hardwood floor. She flew through the door and out of the bedroom, her mind whirling with thoughts of Rory returning from Wainwright’s alone and Moreaux’s men, Laughton and Balfour, with their pistols on their hips.
What she found when she reached the deck wasn’t a gunman at all, but Asa. The boy had a shiny new pepperbox revolver and aimed it at a row of cans set across the deck railing.
“Good lord, son, give me that!” She took the pistol from his loose grip. “We’re in port. There are too many people around for you to be out here target shooting.”
Asa grinned. “Ain’t she a beaut, though? It’s not nearly as accurate as the captain’s, but it’s mine. Quintus gave it to me.” He patted his hip where a new holster hung low, barely holding onto his bony pelvis. “I’ve always wanted one, but Rory said I had to wait until I was sixteen.”
She examined the gun and removed the last round. “Very wise of him. Is the gift in exchange for your holdout device?”
Asa frowned as she returned the empty weapon to him. “Quintus says every boy needs a gun when he becomes a man. He always gives his boys gifts.”
Dell rolled the bullet between her fingers. She knew Quintus had brought Rory home from an orphanage just a year before she’d left. Had there been others? “Asa, how many young men has Mr. Moreaux raised?”
He holstered the gun. “I’m the third that I know of after Rory. There was a boy before he brought me here, but he died. Consumption. There might’ve been another. I don’t know.”
