by Sandra Jones
Walking along the darkened promenade, Dell slipped her hand inside her reticule and curled her fingers around the gun, feeling the comfort of the trigger. If Quintus had figured out their scheme, she’d take care of all their troubles.
Not altogether different than Uncle Reuben’s moonshine equipment, the engine room was a large expanse of pipes at the heart of the Queen. Yet unlike Reuben’s disorderly rubble, the steamboat’s crew kept the area pristine and freshly painted with the floor shining—even in the captain’s absence. Dell felt the weight of sadness in her heart, so common the last few days. Each time she rounded a corner of the tidy ship, she expected to see Rory’s grinning face where he belonged.
Keeping a hand still on the pistol, she glanced about, hearing nothing. The boilers were silent, the circular faces of gauges resting at zero, and the usually sultry air was cool, waiting for the next river passage. Then rounding another corner, she stopped short.
A dark-haired man with powerful shoulders slouched in the officer’s cane chair by the large brass telegraph with his back to her. Quintus stood facing him, and seeing Dell, his silver head lifted with a hellish smile.
“There she is.” He fished in his vest pocket for something.
As she came closer, she saw the two weren’t alone. Laughton squatted in the corner, grinning from the shadows. His gun was holstered, his posture relaxed. Clearly, these fools didn’t consider her dangerous. Nor should they after she’d worked so tirelessly earning her stepfather’s trust.
Quintus produced a cigar and lit it. “I told you I’d find Campbell, my dear. I thought you’d like to come down and welcome him back yourself.” He exhaled in the face of the man sitting in front of him.
Her gut plunged as she came around the chair and looked down into the seated man’s face.
Rory.
At least she thought he was Rory. His hands were bound to the arms of the chair in ropes, and his clothing was the same she’d brought to the Pomeroys a week earlier. But his face was swollen with an ugly gash above one eye, the eyelid puffed shut like a goose egg. His hair—which she had thought dark from behind—she realized now was stained and matted with blood from a second cut high at the hairline, no longer seemed like the same soft golden waves her fingertips itched to touch. His undamaged eye stared at her without recognition.
Miraculously, she hadn’t squeezed the trigger of the gun in her bag, but every nerve in her body screamed two words when she glanced back at Quintus. Shoot him!
Laughton chuckled at her reaction, throwing her back to her senses. She snapped her mouth shut, and forced her face to relax while her heart slammed her ribs.
“Not very pretty anymore, is he, miss?”
Dell ignored the gunman’s cackling jest and glanced at Rory again. Her stomach roiled with empathy. He watched her through his good eye, his mouth an emotionless line. Dear God, what have they done to you?
Her body began to tremble with rage and panic. She choked on a sob and willed away her emotions. No! She couldn’t lose her wits. Pulling a gun here would be suicide against Moreaux, supposedly a lightning-quick shot.
She took her hand out of her bag slowly, and tried to smile. “I can’t believe it. I thought he was long gone.”
“Caught him at the wharf,” the gunman gloated, and she couldn’t help noticing how remarkably unscathed the man looked.
The last time they’d fought, Rory had worn more of Laughton’s blood than his own. Rory wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t have come back without a gun in his hand, and if he’d been armed, Laughton would be a corpse.
“I told you he’d return. Claims he ran through all his money.” Quintus sneered and gestured at Rory with his cigar. “Wants his job back—or so he said. But he won’t say where he hid the boy. What do you think?” He made a wide, cautious circle around Rory.
Realization suddenly sank in, and her stomach lurched. They need me to read him.
Dell found the irony of Rory’s timing undeniable with him showing up on the same night Bartholomew was to board the Queen and play at Quintus’s table. She surveyed him closer, clinging tight to her bag to keep from reaching out to clutch his hand or caress his cheek. Hell, injuries or not, she longed to throw herself into his lap and wrap her arms around his neck. He looked so good to her eyes!
Swallowing around the lump in her throat, she squatted before his chair. His open eye continued to track her steadily. Relief coursed through her. He hadn’t been hit hard enough to lose his senses. But…why didn’t he say anything?
She flicked her gaze up at Quintus meaningfully and back to Rory. Then she put ice into her voice, mocking him. “You couldn’t whip your way out of a paper bag now, could you, Rory?”
Nothing.
His eye seemed to smile at her, the way he always looked when he teased.
Hope zinged through her. This could be another of his crazy plans.
She scowled and made her tone angry. “So you’ve got nothing to say for yourself? After all your gambling, losing Jeremiah, your whoring…” She waited for some reaction. Laughton shifted behind her in the uneasy silence. Say something—anything—before they hit you again! His long body just slouched before her, as casual as ever. Bluffing. She felt it in her bones. He was playing the bluff of his life—of all their lives. And as his partner, the same as in their card games, she would follow his lead.
“Serves you right!” She stood, wheeling around to hide her stinging tears.
“Boss, I think he’s scared to say anything to her.” Laughton pushed away from his corner and stalked closer.
Quintus regarded Rory through narrowed eyes and stroked his mustache with the hand holding the cigar. “Hmm. Yes, I believe you’re right. He doesn’t want her finding Asa for us. Probably has more money somewhere too. He’s wise to hold his tongue. Wish I’d done that more often with Eleanor.” He snorted at some memory.
Dell considered where she’d like to put her first bullet in the awful man’s body. Head, heart, or crotch?
Laughton removed his gun from its holster and started for Rory. Dell gritted her teeth, bracing for the blow that would betray her true feelings. If Laughton hurt Rory again, she would likely kill the brute.
Yet if the gunman hurt her, Rory might give up Asa’s hiding place at the Pomeroys’ to defend her.
“Mr. Moreaux?” Balfour called, suddenly entering the room. “Bartholomew Wainwright’s here.”
Moreaux barred Laughton’s progress toward Rory with an arm. “Wait. There’ll be more time for that later. Don’t bloody yourself just yet.” Quintus sighed, clearly unsatisfied. “Let’s go play cards. I’d hate to lose the opportunity with Wainwright, and that’ll give the captain some time to regain his memory.”
She crossed her arms over her bag unable to take her eyes off Rory and his penetrating stare.
Laughton double-checked Rory’s restraints and followed his boss out of the engine room. Dell lingered, the last to leave, putting her heart in her eyes. She couldn’t stay or speak without being caught, but leaving him this way crushed her through and through.
In passing, she furtively brushed her fingers against Rory’s, feeling her soul pull as if snagged on a rusty nail head. His mouth curved at the contact. He snatched her hand, giving it a reassuring stroke of his thumb, then just as quickly released her to go on her way.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Bartholomew had requested a private room, but Moreaux denied him, demonstrating his confidence that he wouldn’t lose in front of the crowd. Dell wasn’t surprised at the slight, and she doubted Bart was either. The adversaries were familiar with each other’s vanities. None of Quintus’s taunts would send the old man away now. He’d come this far—he wouldn’t leave the Queen without facing Quintus.
Dell clung to Bartholomew’s arm when he arrived, playing the role of the affectionate lover, but when the brewer put down his cane and sat at t
he poker table opposite Quintus, her boss indicated she should back away from his chair with the slant of his head.
Feigning chagrin and a carefree attitude that belied the frantic tempo of her pulse, she eased into the vacant seat between them, sitting beside the silver tray holding the house’s playing cards. Cold decks were bound in festively colored ribbons, amply stocked for a long night. The two other players at the table were both suckers, hand-picked by Quintus. Rufus O’Hara, a textile manufacturer, and Hugh Vance, owner of a local opera house—amateurs, neither had played the game before with such wily cardsharps.
Dell glanced between the professionals, comparing the men as she stroked Bart’s sleeve. Quintus was the more sophisticated with his carefully groomed mustache and swept-back hair, while Bart looked as if he’d rolled out of bed and dressed in the dark. Knowing her partner, he had probably done exactly that. His snowy crown made wild, white barbs sticking out in all directions. Dell coughed behind her fist to hide a nervous smile.
She longed to whisper in his ear that Rory was on board, tied up and badly beaten but still playing the game. Bart needed to know in case gunfire broke out so Rory wouldn’t be endangered. However, she couldn’t take the risk of the action—she might lose Quintus’s trust now when even a lover’s murmurs might look questionable.
Yet she prayed her performance in the engine room had solidified the bastard’s confidence in her once and for all. No doubt, Rory had believed it would, along with the other things he’d done to make her more believable—his supposed betrayal of her with Miss Spencer, losing Jeremiah and the rampant gambling.
He might’ve gotten himself captured on purpose, too, but to what end? How much good could he do tied to a chair and bleeding? He might have broken bones, could be dying—despite the reassuring touch he’d shared with her.
Now Quintus held the upper hand: Rory, the man she loved.
Around their table, playing resumed after the pregnant pause for the old-timer’s entrance. Dell had picked up on subtle glances from the other gunmen in the room. She pinpointed Bart’s hired guns, one in each corner. Kit hadn’t come along, surprisingly, but with him being their best hope at beating the monster in a gunfight he couldn’t be far away.
“Christ, you look like death, Wainwright.” Quintus took a drag from his cigar. “You’re well on your way to joining Mary in the afterlife, I take it.”
Bart folded his hands together and regarded Quintus with a remoteness Dell had come to understand and even admire in the austere widower. “I’m in no hurry.” His gaze cut to Dell and his mouth curved. “Just been a little preoccupied of late.”
Bless him! She grinned. He had controlled his lying gesture perfectly.
Quintus’s eyes widened to a small degree. No doubt, he had some misgivings about the game she’d failed to soothe. With three cons at the table, no one was willing to let their guard slip for an instant.
Play began with the two suckers winning. They lined the pot for the next three hands with Bart and Quintus each winning. Dell stayed out, observing. This game was all about settling old scores, and with that understanding she didn’t feel the least bit slighted for not being able to join the men. Besides, before the game, Bart had stated his preference that women should watch, not play, but Quintus had no idea how involved she was in every bet, having orchestrated their every move.
The wagers escalated as the evening progressed. Quintus was dealer on the next hand. Perspiring, O’Hara dropped in a deed to property in Illinois, and Vance, soaking up whiskey like a sponge, wagered twenty thousand dollars.
When it came to his turn, Bartholomew froze, glaring across the table. He’d already lost thousands, performing his part of the charade perfectly, and now offered the final bait to reel in the monster. “The Queen is your house, Moreaux, and these are your cards. All I have left to wager is my home or my business. I’d be a fool to risk those in such circumstances.”
Quintus shrugged. “I’m sure you exhibited moments of bravery years ago in the wild as well as cowardice. Every beast knows when to turn tail and run from the better predator.”
“If you weren’t wearing a gun you wouldn’t be talking to me like that.” Bart leaned back, cupping the pommel of his cane in one big hand.
No! That’s your sign! He’ll know you’re up to something. She had to distract Quintus from Bart’s slip.
“Have the lady deal.” Bart’s suggestion—earlier than they’d planned—made her jump with surprise.
Fire lit behind Quintus’s eyes, obviously wanting nothing better than to have her as his dealer as they’d discussed. “I don’t know if that would be a good idea. You and the chit seem to be friendly…”
The suckers murmured in agreement. Everything was going according to plan. Even Quintus was following his cues.
“I’m sitting right between you. Look”—she held up her hands, showing her bare arms—“nowhere to hide cards. I can’t possibly cheat any of you.”
O’Hara nodded. “She’s okay by me.” Vance reluctantly chimed in too.
Bart sighed. “I don’t cotton to women dealing cards, but I’d rather it be Philadelphia than you.”
Quintus’s eyes shifted between them. Dell held her breath, trying to hide her nervousness.
Finally Quintus nodded and passed her the old deck. Dell put the warm cards aside and reached into the tray of beribboned stacks, selecting the one with the red satin binding. Her fingers untied the knot. Steady now.
She shuffled, feeling the familiar deck in her hands, reliving a hundred memories of the times she’d done the same. The day she’d predicted Liza Martin’s grandmother’s passing, thus convincing the girl she should marry her good beau and get out of the house before her father’s next beating. The time she’d convinced Paul Sharpe to move out of his house, which he’d built poorly, just before the big flood swept it downriver. And the first time she’d laid eyes on the cards when her mama had spread them facedown across her big bed and made Dell memorize exactly which card was which.
Her mama made her own lot in life, marrying Quintus for his money. She could’ve used her skills—no, her love—for the game and played for herself, but she didn’t. She could’ve left this life for a man who made her happy, like Rory made Dell happy, but she didn’t. She stayed until she got too sick and her child was in danger.
Bartholomew wagered his Illinois brewery and Quintus put the Dark Enchantress against it. Bart’s risk was greater and they both knew it, but with Quintus’s business in the red, he didn’t have the money to match.
When Quintus called for a new card, Dell slid the ace of spades from the deck. Eleanor had hand-shaved the cards herself, making this one minutely smaller in perimeter.
As expected, the bastard won the hand. Vance and O’Hara both declined a rematch and left the table looking shaken from their loss.
Wainwright put everything he had into his role. “That was the first business I ever owned. Me and Mary bought that land and built the building. She and I lived in one of the rooms while I ran the business. We brewed the first Dillard’s Peak beer there.”
Quintus’s mouth quirked up in mock sympathy. “Perhaps I’ll give the place to the city to build a museum.”
Bart slammed his fist on the table. “That’s why someone needs to bring you down, Quintus! You don’t respect other people’s property. I worked my fingers to the bone for my business. I didn’t wager it lightly. I wish for once you’d see how it felt to lose something you held dear…”
Moreaux snorted and then held out his smoke, examining it. “These are fine cigars. I have a case in my office I would hate to lose—”
“Christ, you think you’re so brave, but you’re nothin’ but a coward,” Bart growled.
“I wagered my packet. It’s a very good vessel.”
“It was a weak bet and you know it. You don’t have the spine to put your money where your mouth i
s!”
Quintus held his gaze for a long moment. “Whatever would induce me to do that? You yourself said only a fool would make such a wager.”
Bart shifted.
Dell touched his hand reassuringly as she collected his cards.
He glanced at her and then leveled a look back at Moreaux. “I aim to take this lady of yours and marry her, if she’ll have me. I’ll offer her a better life than you ever could.”
Quintus’s mouth curled, and he waved a dismissive hand. “She’s not my natural daughter, obviously. She can do as she wishes. May the two of you have many years of hap—oh, well, maybe not years.” He laughed.
“I won’t have her thinking I’m a coward. If you have the balls, I’ll put up my company against your ships. One more hand, for old time’s sake. May the better man win.”
“Bart!” Dell feigned the appropriate surprise. “That’s an awful idea! You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
“I’ll still have my health if I lose. And we have each other. ’Sides, Wainwrights aren’t cowards!”
Dell felt the room pressing inward. The three of them were drawing an audience from Bart’s noisy challenge. There were so many people in the room—too many innocent lives if someone were a poor loser. The games at the two nearest tables had ceased and Zeb, along with his euchre players, were turned in their seats. Customers were still coming in through the front door. Trap entered as she watched, alongside a young man she didn’t recognize.
Focused on Bart, the monster purred, “So you’re saying you would bet your business…your entire business…against my boat. The Queen Helen cost me—”
“Naw.” Bart wagged a finger at him. “That’s exactly my point! When it’s your own possessions, you dodge the bullet. Be a man, Quintus! Dillard’s Peak is worth more than your whole fleet and you know it.”
“The fleet?” Moreaux’s eyebrows flew up.
Oh God. Dell froze mid-shuffle. They were asking too much. Perhaps Rory had it wrong and his boss couldn’t be goaded into the bet.
