by Sandra Jones
“He’ll be looking for someone to punish. I’ll offer him the opportunity with Wainwright and the game of a lifetime. I can do this, Rory.”
He reached for her face and brought her back for another kiss. Then he stood, returned his gun to his belt and opened the door. He peered cautiously outside, probably making certain no one was around to see them leaving together.
Parting ways on the deck, Rory grabbed her hand and reeled her back for another kiss. “I’d rather take a hundred bullets than leave you here, angel,” he said against the top of her head as he held her tight.
She pressed her face against his heart, and felt the first tear breach her defenses. “It’s only for now.” She lifted her mouth to his for one last kiss, then whispered, “For luck.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
As daylight poked through the cracks in the cabin curtains, Dell turned her face into her pillow. She’d cried through the night, and now her throat burned as if she’d drunk pure moonshine. She couldn’t have slept if she tried. One of Moreaux’s men came for her, demanding Rory’s whereabouts. Convincing him she’d been abandoned had been easy. One look at her shattered appearance told the story.
Moreaux wouldn’t be dissuaded as easily, she bet, so she’d lain awake the rest of the night dreading what was to come. It gave her time to think and remember.
Most times, her mother had smiled to see Rory coming around, thankful for him taking a precocious six-year-old off her hands for some childfree hours of peace and quiet. But during those last few days of sickness and bed-rest, Mama had gone sour on the boy, yelling at him for no reason, sending him away even when he only wanted their company for dinner or a friendly game of ecarte.
All the signs had been there. Dell had just been too young to know what was happening.
She shuddered to think he was being abused right under their noses. Looking back now, she was certain her mother had discovered the truth and had tried to keep Rory from telling her. All those times Rory had come around asking to go exploring the docks, offering bribes of penny candy for her time, and yet Mama had said no. Her mother had been content to live with Quintus, enjoying the prestige and wealth that came with being his wife, until the sexual assaults began. That must have been the final straw, not her illness. She was jealous, afraid of being replaced by children…
Instead of aiding Rory, she’d simply left him.
To think her mama had said Dell would be a more “respectable” person by staying away from steamboats and gambling. Maybe her mama had no idea what it meant to be decent and respectable! If it meant running away and turning her back on others at home, she would rather not travel down that path.
It sickened her knowing her mama had done such to Rory.
Dell had her gifts, those talents her mama had once been proud to share. Although Dell had sworn to leave her tricks behind her when she’d left Posey Hollow, her sight was the only useful thing her mama had given her.
She vowed she would do whatever she could to resolve the damage her mother had caused.
After dressing, she headed out to find Moreaux. Hatred curdled in her stomach so that by the time she spotted the bastard casually sipping chicory in the dining room, she fought the urge to take up a knife from one of the tables and bury it in his black heart. The men who usually shadowed him were absent—probably out scouring St. Louis for Rory and Asa. She prayed the pair were somewhere safe.
She breathed deeply, rhythmically, calming her anger as she strode through the dining room. Win him over. Don’t spoil things now.
His cold eyes ran over her as she approached him, and his expression became a grimace by the time he studied her tear-stained face. “They told me you were still here. How come you didn’t run off with Campbell and the boy?”
“I wasn’t invited. He chose Asa over me.” She tossed her head, forcing herself to look him in the eye. Sickness rose in her throat, imagining all the abuse the man had inflicted on his helpless wards. She pushed her thoughts to the farthest corner of her mind. “I looked for him last night after I left the salon, but he was already gone, I guess.” Please God let no one contradict that.
Quintus snorted. “You two were bedmates and he didn’t tell you anything about his plans to leave?” He lifted his eyebrows. “Couldn’t you divine it, charlatan?”
“Oh, I knew he was tired of me, but I was through with him too.” She had to make Quintus trust her. She settled into the chair across from him, and steeled herself against the fearful tremors that threatened to betray her fear and revulsion for the man.
What reason did she have for being done with Rory? Vivienne. Her blood steamed just thinking about the woman having her claws in him. Most likely the gambler knew Rory and Viv were lovers. With a handful of words Dell could plant the seeds of speculation that would have her stepfather directing his anger toward his mistress. She’d used lies and mind-tricks all her life, but never to cause another person harm. She had no regard for Vivienne, but it wouldn’t be fair to cause a rift between the moll and the man who supported her brothel.
No. She’d choose greed over anger, a motivation Quintus would appreciate.
”Madame LeBlanc was right. She said men would pay a lot to sleep with me. Christopher Wainwright even made me an offer, but I refused him.”
Something in his expression shifted. He dabbed at his mustache with a napkin, still watching her through steely eyes. “I suppose now you’re going to lament about your lost virtue, how you were saving yourself for a husband or some such nonsense. Do I look like a damned chit? Go cry about it to one of the girls.” He tossed his napkin into his plate.
“Well”—Dell forced her mouth into a smile—“I’m certain I can do better than that gunslinger or your ne’er-do-well captain. I just wanted your say in the matter. I turned down Wainwright because I’d rather have his uncle—he’s wealthier—but only if you don’t mind me leaving the Queen for a few hours each afternoon while we’re in port. I should be able to repay you for Jeremiah afterward.”
His lips pursed in thought.
Without waiting for an answer, Dell rose and turned to leave.
The gambler spoke to her back. “Has Bartholomew made you an offer? I highly doubt it. He’s been married to the grave for years.”
She glanced over her shoulder and gave him another wry smile. “Unlike you, he said I reminded him of my mama. He wants a lover who’ll take him back to happier times, someone who knows him—his thoughts, his secrets. He’ll be mine for the whistling.”
She took another step away, but his voice stopped her again.
“Yes, I’m beginning to see the resemblance myself.” His chair drew away from the table. “Does he know about your gift?”
She turned around, folding her arms over her chest. “No. I didn’t think I was at liberty to tell anyone.”
He stood. “You’re not. And that bastard Campbell had better not tell him either if he knows what’s good for him.” He circled the table and approached her. “I expect the captain will be back. These boats are his life, and he enjoys wealth, same as anyone. Without me, he’s got nothing.”
A few days ago, she would’ve agreed that Rory would be more worried about money than anything else. How wrong she’d been.
Watching her closely, Moreaux asked, “How would you like to double what Wainwright gives you?”
Rory watched the Queen Helen from a distance, lurking behind the freight waiting to be loaded on a barge. The decks were quiet, the remaining guests waking late after a night of gambling. He’d taken a huge risk coming this close to the steamboat during daylight hours when anyone might see him. But he couldn’t stay away, either. Worrying for Dell’s safety had overwhelmed him since the moment he’d parted with her.
When he’d left Asa that morning, the boy had been happily consuming Mrs. Pomeroy’s biscuits and chocolate gravy. He hadn’t spoken much of the event that led to
their departure from the Queen, and Rory wouldn’t hurry him. His silence demonstrated his understanding that whatever Moreaux had planned for him in that cabin, it wasn’t pleasant.
If Asa asked—when he asked—Rory was prepared to tell him his own story of the boss’s abuse. Perhaps he should’ve done that to begin with. He’d kept quiet when Thomas had come aboard, and look where that had gotten him.
Rory would have to live with that guilt for the rest of his life.
Now if anything happened to Dell…
Presently the dining room door opened. His heart gave a hard wallop as Philadelphia walked out, head high, back straight and proud. He caught himself smiling as a weight lifted off him. She was safe.
He tracked her movements until she disappeared inside their stateroom. Motion at the stern end of the boat caught his eye. Balfour, one of Moreaux’s men, had been watching Dell, as well, probably making sure Rory was nowhere in sight. Unease tightened its tentacles around him.
Damn. Did she know she was being watched?
She was smart. She’d be cautious. Still, it wouldn’t be good if they managed to follow her to the Pomeroys’ house.
Leaving her with Quintus made him feel shameful, reminding him of how he felt when Eleanor left him all those years ago, though he knew it couldn’t be helped this time. If Dell was being watched, the gambler didn’t trust her, and for the plan to work, his confidence must be unshakeable.
Perhaps there was something Rory could do to further erase the trace of doubt in Moreaux’s mind. If he could make a show of his complete severance of all connection with her—and Dell do the same—maybe then she would earn the monster’s faith.
Rory had a notion how he could produce the results he required, but Dell wouldn’t understand. In a short time, the woman had become the light in his dark, dirty existence, so now the thought of angering her—hurting her, possibly—seemed unthinkable. That she had even considered his crazy scheme after all he’d put her through astounded him. It only further confirmed what he’d known in his heart since finding her in Posey Hollow—
The lady was one-of-a-kind.
But she could say anything she wanted and he’d never believe they could have any future together. She was meant for grander things, like Eleanor had always said. Maybe he’d been wrong to try to tempt her into becoming a gambler. If she wasn’t sorry she’d ever set eyes on him, she soon would be.
Barrels lined the walls of the warehouse from end to end, a veritable fortress of the brew. Dell tilted her head back, admiring the vast operation of Bartholomew’s Dillard’s Peak Brewery. Her Uncle Reuben would’ve surely thought he’d died and gone to heaven from the production rate of the place.
As she and the businessman walked the aisle, workers moved back and forth, carting in new barrels. On the short carriage ride from the Wainwright house into the city, they’d passed wagon after wagon loaded with barrels of Dillard’s Peak Beer, the drivers all nodding to their boss. The business had been one of the few in the city to survive the great fire of forty-nine and the pandemic outbreak of cholera the same year, so the old man seemed thankful, if not slightly convinced his success was God’s way of marking the name Wainwright for divine invincibility and providence in all matters.
Earlier that afternoon in Wainwright’s parlor when she’d paid her first social call on the man, she’d felt his hesitation. He was still wary of anyone connected to Moreaux, for whatever reason the two had fallen out years before. Then she’d mentioned Uncle Reuben’s still and his eyes had lit up. He’d been quick to invite her on a tour of the brewery. Now she fell into step behind him, pausing when he did, listening as he shared.
With his hands on his hips, he turned to face her, closing his eyes and inhaling. He smiled and regarded her. “What do you make of my place so far, Philadelphia?”
“I never imagined so much beer could be made and consumed.” Dell followed his actions, enjoying the aroma of the place. It reminded her of the yeast bread she’d cooked at her aunt’s on special occasions. Her mouth watered. “It smells much nicer than our putrid corn mash.”
He chuckled. “I imagine so.”
Although she enjoyed the businessman’s company and the many shared experiences of frontier life they had to talk about—such as the intricacies of distilling—she wanted to keep him focused on the reason she’d paid him the visit: planning the card game. “Perhaps we should go somewhere more private to talk.”
Once inside the messy room that was the heart of Wainwright’s empire, Dell took a chair opposite the man. She sighed, relieved to be rid of the constant feeling of being watched. So much rested on her shoulders now, so much she could lose if Moreaux didn’t buy their act.
“I hope Kit and Rory met without any trouble.” She chewed on a fingernail. With only two more nights in port, they had to work fast. She would need to practice several games, teaching him how to note Moreaux’s signs.
Each hour she spent apart from Rory felt like an eternity.
“Don’t worry about my nephew. Kit’s sharp. He might act like a dandy, but he’s a bear when it matters. He’s been after me to face Quintus again for a while. Another German friend of his, a newspaperman, lost a lot of money to Quintus last year. When the idiot accused him of cheating, Quintus put a new hole in his face. Kit’s been adamant about doing something ever since. What do you think about Rory Campbell? Can he be trusted? He’s worked for the man all his life.”
A day ago she would’ve had doubts as well, but now her mind tumbled over images of the destruction of the cabin, the gun in Rory’s grip, and the hatred in his eyes. “Yes. He feels no loyalty for Quintus.”
“I won’t be made a fool of by Moreaux again. If I face him, I want it to be the last time. I have to be absolutely certain…can you gain Moreaux’s trust?”
Dell glanced at the frosted window, wondering if Quintus’s lackey hovered somewhere near. She’d felt him following her since she’d left the Queen. He didn’t trust her yet, but she prayed he soon would. “A decent performance or two would help. I need to appear like I’m your mistress. The ride back to your home should provide a public venue for our spectacle.”
He nodded solemnly, but she felt no indignity for his unenthusiastic response. Both of them belonged to another.
Reddening, he tugged at his shirt’s buttoned collar, and changed the subject. “Kit tells me you’re going to be a teacher.”
That dream—ever-present in her thoughts until a few days ago—now seemed foreign. “Y-yes. When I have enough money, I aim to go to the Cumberland School for Young Women.”
He nodded. “I know the place. A reputable institution. And you’re to be commended for your choice of vocations. Helping unlearned pupils is no easy task.” His gaze ran over her, as if inspecting livestock. “You’re a good deal hardier than these simpering city women. I should know—my wife was one. If she’d been stronger…well, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my life, it’s you gotta have a good woman by your side. I’ve been trying to convince my nephew of that for years, but you might change his ways sooner. If Kit wants to press his suit for you, I won’t impede him.”
Her stomach dropped. “For me? Oh, but surely he wouldn’t—”
He stood and came around the desk for her. His smile warmed his aging face as lines webbed across his cheeks. “He’s a Wainwright. He knows a valuable opportunity when he sees one.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dell gave Bartholomew a lover’s embrace, then dismounted the carriage to make the walk up the gangway to the Queen. Some of the crew watched her from the ship’s rails, Trap, Molly and Zeb among them, hatred darkening their faces.
Her stomach filled with guilty unease. It couldn’t be helped. She tossed her head and marched past, making a show of re-buttoning her dress. The more people thought she was done with Rory, the better.
As she walked along the promenade, passing t
he sneering expressions of the crew, Balfour left the rail and hurried toward the dining room.
Perfect. She had no doubt he would share what he’d seen with Quintus.
She waited in her cabin the next two hours, dressing herself in a lurid emerald gown so low-cut it barely contained her nipples. Then after two shots of rum for fortitude, she looped the strap of her reticule over her wrist and made her way into the salon.
There were more than a few empty chairs tonight, but she would only sit at one table, Quintus’s.
One of Viv’s ladies played the piano, distracting most of the gamblers, but not the boss. Moreaux used the distraction to his advantage like everything he did, watching the three other players at his table while their heads were turned. Dell slipped into an empty seat across from him, nodded pointedly at the preoccupied player to her left, and wiggled her pinkie finger in a sign the boss would recognize—his opponent kept his high card on the far right of his hand.
“Good evening, Philadelphia.” Quintus brought his cigar to his lips, a smile in his voice. “What a pleasure it is having you at our table tonight.”
After the usual introductions to the players, she watched them finish the round. Her gestured tip to Quintus allowed him to fold before the man on her left played his ace. Disappointed, he collected his small winnings and left the table to join the action elsewhere.
“May I?” She opened her reticule as the remaining players anteed and raised her eyebrows at Quintus.
“Have you any money?” He pushed a few bills to the center of the table, then removed the cigar from his mouth. “I’m afraid I’m watching every extra cent I have now that I have to hire a new captain.”
One of the other players glanced at her, apparently knowing her connection to Rory.
“Oh, I have money.” She controlled her reaction, smiling as she withdrew a fat wad of money Bartholmew had given her from her bag. “How much can you boys afford to lose?”
