by Sandra Jones
Kit snickered into his fist, trying not to look at his beleaguered uncle.
The older man slapped the cards down, revealing her guess to be correct. “Blast it, woman! I’m not playing you. I’m playing Quintus. He won’t know the difference. I’ve played better opponents.”
“Yes, but not opponents who cheat with Moreaux’s skill.”
“And not opponents who have a seer in their employ,” Kit added gently.
Bartholomew took up his cane and sighed gustily. “I’m not ready. I won’t be ready tomorrow, either.”
Dell froze mid-reach for the cards. To soothe his ruffled pride, she spoke more gently. “Another hand, sir. You’ll get the hang of it. I’ll do Moreaux’s tells again—see if you can spot them.”
“No. I’ve thought about this.” He stood, taking up his coat as if to leave. “I need more time. Tell Quintus I’ll play him in a week. If he won’t agree, the game’s off.”
He limped out of the dining room.
“But, sir?” Dell dropped the cards. A disturbing flutter rose in her chest.
“Philadelphia, he’s right.” Kit caught her hand, preventing her from following his uncle as he quit the room.
She whirled around to try to tug free. She had to make him understand. While they were playing games, Moreaux’s gunmen were searching for Rory and Asa.
Kit tightened his grip on her and rose. “Listen. I know you’re anxious to help your friend, but Uncle Bart’s been dwelling on this rematch for years. He wants it to be perfect, and it will.”
“What if Quintus won’t wait? What if we leave port?”
“It’s a steamboat, dear lady, and this is St. Louis. Moreaux must return.” His lips formed a reassuring smile, and he ran his thumb across the back of her hand soothingly. Kindness shone in his eyes, and she felt her trust for him growing despite her worry. “My uncle and I’ve been discussing how this thing will play out. We’re planning for whatever Quintus might do when he loses. And trust me…he…will…lose.”
Easing her hand from his grip, she nodded. “You’re right. More time—I’ll deliver the message. He won’t be happy, but he probably won’t be surprised either.” That would give her more opportunities to earn the gambler’s trust—both gamblers.
“Would you feel better if I”—he caught his lip between his teeth, coloring—“if I paid a visit on our captain friend again? To see how he’s faring? I know you’re not at liberty to visit him, and I thought you might feel uneasy—”
“Yes! Would you? I mean,” she collected her reticule from the table, struggling to keep her voice indifferent, “he’s armed, but Moreaux’s men are looking for him. And he won’t know Bartholomew’s asking for more time.”
“Of course.” He touched her shoulder gently and winked. “We’ve got to keep Campbell in the plans. I’ll check on him immediately after I deliver you to the Queen.”
It would’ve been better for appearances if Bartholomew drove her to the wharf in his barouche since she was pretending to be his mistress, but she’d bothered the old man enough for one day. She followed Kit out, hoping they’d made the right decisions. When they reached the dock, she reminded him to be discreet. He promised he would make sure no one followed him, and with the tip of his hat, he drove away, leaving her to return to the Queen alone.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dell sat across from Quintus, her reticule heavy in her lap with the weight of the hidden pistol and her mother’s cards. Through the last three hours of poker playing, she’d fought tears and hatred, vowing she could end it all—could simply pull the trigger with a steady hand and send the devil straight to where he belonged. How Rory had endured so many years serving the bastard, she couldn’t begin to imagine.
When she’d left Rory at the Pomeroys’ earlier that morning, he’d been more open than ever before. He’d told her things that she doubted he would ever repeat about his childhood. Nor would she ask. But the fact that he’d shared his darkest secrets meant he trusted her.
She wouldn’t let him down.
The last player at their table folded. He excused himself, and Dell raked in her winnings. She felt Quintus’s unholy stare, and revulsion fermented in the pit of her stomach.
“How do you do that?”
She glanced up at him, pasting on a complacent smile. “Excuse me?”
“Eleanor never told me her methods no matter how hard I tried to squeeze them out of her, but you can tell me. How do you read people with such finesse?” He stroked his salt and pepper mustache with manicured fingers, and his eyes narrowed. “I consider myself an excellent observer of opponents, but I only notice bald-faced lies and bluffs. This last fellow…you’d only just met him and here after three hours of idle conversation, I believe you could find your way about his house blindfolded.”
Flattery coming from him failed to please her, but she he knew he hadn’t intended to compliment her. He expected an answer—perhaps to steal her ability and use it against a foe.
“Charlatans never share their secrets.”
His jaw tightened. “I regret calling you that. You’ve brought in a good deal of money these past few days.” His black eyes followed the patrons passing between the tables. “You may be the best thing my ex-captain ever did for us.”
She had to steer the conversation away from Rory. If her composure slipped and she showed any emotion over his name, all would be lost. “What are your plans, sir? Now that he’s gone, who’ll take over for him?”
“Zeb will do. The pilot’s long in the tooth, but he won’t give me any trouble. The crew will listen to him.”
“What about Trap? He’s not the talker Rory is, but he’s better with passengers than Zeb, especially if you ever run into any trouble with the law.”
“I don’t trust that one. He was too close to Campbell.”
Remember your role. Stick to the plan. “You know, if you want the Irishman’s obedience, you possess a bargaining chip. Molly works for you, doesn’t she?”
His eyes glinted with appreciation. “Yes. I see your meaning.”
Dell picked up three cards and began laying the foundation for a tower—a trick she’d learned from her mother to get a patron’s mind distracted. “Trap will be obedient. He’ll give you less trouble than Rory did.” She balanced the first card in the stack, and selected a new one from the deck. “I know you want to play Bart, but we’re leaving port. He says he’d play you in a week if you stayed. His calendar is full the next few nights.”
“You heard this yourself—he wants to play me?”
She gave him a half-smile. “He’s easy to goad. I might’ve mentioned to him I didn’t think he ought to face you. You’re the best gambler on the Mississippi, after all, and I’d hate for him to lose—”
Quintus made a mock stab to his heart. “Ah, cruelty thy name is woman! Nothing barbs the old grunt worse than an affront to his male pride. You do understand him, don’t you?” He lifted his sherry glass and sipped to her.
Disgust slithered around in her stomach. Oh how she hated this man!
“So if you’d like, I can coax him on board the Queen in a few days. But only if…well, you did promise to pay me…”
He folded his hands on the table, his eyes tightening with each card layer she added on her stack. “Wouldn’t it be more lucrative for you to leave me and stay with him? I mean, you’re a smart girl. Like you said, he’s lonely. If you make his poker stiff, it wouldn’t take much to make him your husband.”
Dell scowled as she dropped a jack into place. “Oh, God. Me? Marry that old codger?”
Quintus chuckled. His eyebrows lifted as his stare fixed on something or someone over her shoulder by the front door. “Have you figured out his tells?”
“Yes. And I’ll give them to you for a price.” She followed his look and saw Viv coming in, making a line for their table. She had to be quick
before they were interrupted. Turning back, she said, “I know how much Bart’s worth. We could make a fortune. He won’t play me—finds it ungentlemanly to play a female. But I know he’d play you. Especially if he thought I was helping him.”
“Bonjour, Vivenne,” Quintus purred, inviting the madam to his knee.
Viv shook her head at the offer and leaned to whisper in his ear. She covered her mouth, watching Dell from the corner of her eye. The lines in Moreaux’s face deepened, his eyes gone black as coal.
As the madam straightened, the gambler’s gaze rotated to Dell. “I suppose you knew about this.”
“What?” She placed the next card instinctively, holding his stare.
“Tell her, Vivienne. What you just told me.”
The woman brushed her fallen hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand and her fingers trembled. Catching Dell’s look, she hid them quickly, planting fists on her hips. “I have just come from a private game at the brothel. You-know-who was there, and he’s not alone.”
Bartholomew? Kit? Dell held the next card above the tower as she studied the madam. The woman’s glazed blue eyes narrowed, and suddenly Dell knew her discomposure came from jealousy.
“Rory?” Dell’s lace glove snagged a corner of the tower and the conglomeration fluttered to the table.
Viv and Quintus shared an unreadable expression. “Oui.” Viv braced a hand on the back of the gambler’s chair. “The captain was playing cards with my customers—uninvited—and he’d brought another woman with him.”
Her stomach sank. To behave so thoughtlessly while Asa and their plans, everything, rested in the balance. What was he thinking—to go to Moreaux’s own establishment—where any of the gunmen could find him? And who was the woman?
Viv’s lips pinched to an angry thin line. Quintus’s eyebrows lowered as he eyed Dell warily. “Tell her the rest, Vivienne dear. I’m sure she’ll be interested to know.”
The rest? How could there be more?
“He ran out of money. He wagered a title to a slave he said he had down in Memphis.” The madam broke off in a string of French words Dell needed no translation for understanding. The madam spoke the truth. Of that, Dell had no doubt. There was nothing but honesty and vengeance in her body language.
The room spun. She gripped the sides of her seat as shock rolled over her. It was the same feeling she’d had in her stepfather’s office when she’d first returned to the Queen Helen, but her corset wasn’t too tight this time. She closed her eyes against the motion.
Rory. How could he betray her? And Jeremiah too? No doubt the title Viv spoke of could only be the one he’d purchased off Ephraim. How could he do such a thing?
“For the love of God,” Quintus growled.
Dell’s eyes opened to the sight of a glass of sherry being scooted across the table at her. She wrapped a hand around the glass, taking comfort in the solidness of its form while all else blurred and distorted in her vision.
“Poor thing.” Viv sighed and her cool hand covered Dell’s.
No. They had to be wrong.
Rory would never gamble with Jeremiah’s freedom. He hated slavery as much as she did. It had to be a trick of some sort, though he’d never discussed it with her. Maybe Kit knew what was going on, or they’d planned something together when he’d gone to the Pomeroys’ to check on him.
She blinked hard, restoring her sight.
“Is he still at the brothel?” Quintus demanded.
“No. He lost everything so quickly. I came here as soon as I could.” Viv touched Quintus’s shoulder; her worried gaze pinned on her one remaining benefactor.
Rory had to know Viv would come running to her boss, and he rarely lost a game.
What are you up to, Rory?
She’d trusted him. Still did, though she hated being left in the dark again. “Bastard.” The muttered word slipped out, and her cheeks heated for her lack of restraint.
The table suddenly shook as Quintus lifted his arm, signaling Balfour from his post at the bar. The gunman hurried over. Quintus made Viv give them the names of the card players from Rory’s game. Moreaux indicated he knew each one.
Dell’s stomach knotted.
“Seek them out and inquire after Campbell,” he ordered. “See if the captain mentioned where he’s staying. I want him and the boy found. Bring them back tonight.”
Balfour left, and Quintus took Viv’s hand, holding it on his shoulder. A new card player approached, but Quintus waved him away with an air of disinterest.
He gave Viv a brief hug. “I’d like you to hear this idea of Philadelphia’s. The chit thinks she can get my old friend Bartholomew Wainwright to come for a visit.” The madam’s eyes widened briefly, then she smiled. “Come, ladies. Let’s go to the office and share a bottle of something strong and satisfying.”
She stood reluctantly. Gambling without Rory held no appeal, so the choice between playing cards or drinking with Viv and Quintus made no difference.
Yet as the gambler turned from the table, she noted a sparkle of interest in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Perhaps it was her reaction to the news of Rory’s betrayal…or perhaps he was eager to discuss his old nemesis.
Whatever the cause, the monster smelled blood in the air.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Rory bid goodnight to the young woman in the carriage, handing her a hundred dollars for being his escort for the night. In the darkness of the early morning wharf, he caught the glimmer of her smile and a trace of her disappointment, but there was nothing he could do for it.
Nor did he want to.
The only woman he wanted at his side, in his bed, or beneath him was Dell, but for now that wasn’t possible.
With final instructions to the driver, he paid for Miss Spencer’s return to her home and gave another bill for him to collect her again in the afternoon.
Then tipping his hat to the redhead once more, he turned toward the river where the newly-ported Brighton, a sidewheeler out of Ohio, gently kissed the dock, and he listened for the carriage to pull out of sight as he made his slow descent.
It was far too early to board. Unfortunately, he didn’t know the Brighton’s captain well enough to rouse him or the clerk to ask for the fare south, but Miss Spencer needn’t know that. As far as the woman knew, he was already boarding to leave at daylight. His hotel was a stone’s throw from the wharf, and he would pass the time there while it wasn’t safe to be seen at the docks.
Eying the waiting sidewheeler, he felt the grim twist of his gut. This had to be the worst idea he’d ever had, yet there was no other way.
If the other players in his plan followed their roles, all would be well. Quintus would be ruined, Bartholomew would run the fleet, and Philadelphia would be safe with her future secured.
He was even tossing Kit a bone. Rory chuckled to himself, picturing his friend’s reaction when Miss Spencer would arrive on his doorstep later that afternoon. Sending her to the Wainwrights to receive the rest of her payment for the night was a stroke of genius. The lady was comely enough for Kit to find the money, surely.
As long as Rory kept his distance from Dell, she wouldn’t know what his intentions were, and if she didn’t know…neither would Wainwright and Moreaux.
His brief humor evaporated as guilt gnawed at his insides. Dell’s reaction to Miss Spencer’s news wouldn’t be pleasant. If Dell assumed he’d taken a new paramour, in her eyes it would equal betrayal. Together they’d loved, and he’d promised his protection. He’d meant every word…and more.
When he was with Dell, he was a new man. The way she made love to him, allowing him to chase his demons as he drove into her, spilling his seed deep inside her soft, wet channel—it was the only time he felt complete and unsullied. He’d only ever experienced such feelings in his fantasies before he’d met Dell.
He would give an
ything he possessed to stay in that time with her forever.
However, her dreams of the future were different, and her altruism made him worship her all the more.
But if he had to break Dell’s heart to keep her safe, he would. Her tears—if she cared enough about him to cry—would assure Quintus they were finished as lovers. At any rate, she shouldn’t assume he was honorable.
He’d never claimed to be.
A new driver waited at the docks to escort Dell to Bartholomew’s the next afternoon. Anyone was preferable to the uncouth Herbert Ottenheim, but an inkling of unease had her clutching her reticule, with her gun inside, a little tighter as they rode through the streets of St. Louis.
She’d left the Queen in a bundle of nerves, desperate to talk to Kit and see what he knew about Rory—whether Vivienne had painted the details of Rory’s betrayal accurately or not. Passing Walnut Street where the Pomeroys lived, her heart sped to see a cluster of youths begging money off a shopkeeper. Asa wasn’t amongst them, but he easily could have been if he hadn’t been hiding from Moreaux.
She leaned back in her seat and turned her mind to the street lads, trying not to worry about Rory, which would lead to tears. She’d shed enough of them last night. Instead, the children’s plight gave her something to ponder. Strapping, sharp youngsters like Asa…they had so much promise and yet wasted everything with idle time. It was the same in Posey Hollow. When boys weren’t working for their parents, they wound up getting into trouble. Stealing, fighting and, here on the river, gambling. She’d thought by becoming a teacher she could help children learn to read in a classroom. But what about these street urchins—orphans like Rory or Asa? These port cities were rife with youths who never darkened the doorway of a school with a prim, starchy teacher like Rosemary Hughes. There had to be some way to reach out to those who wouldn’t or couldn’t come to a schoolroom.
Uncommonly determined, both Jeremiah and Rory had sought to better themselves with reading. Jeremiah had come to her for help, while Rory had taught himself to read. But most boys wouldn’t bother. Money was the biggest issue. If they were hanging out at the wharf and on every street corner begging money for food, they wouldn’t use their precious coins to buy books. Thankfully, her mama had begun to teach her before she’d passed away. Then, later, she’d had to trade odd jobs and sell fortunes to have enough money to buy a book she’d wanted, but she’d not had to worry for meals and shelter.
