Dead Handsome

by Laura Strickland

  “At the jail—they hanged another man last night.”

  Clara felt Liam stiffen even though they were not physically touching. She glanced down at Cassie, but the child slept soundly, cheek against Clara’s breast.

  “How do you know?” Liam asked.

  “Well, I got wind of something last evening when I was finishing up in the kitchen. Old Tim came stumbling in—he’s the prison sexton—and more than half sober for once. He doesn’t show up unless they send for him, and they never send for him unless they’ve a job. I knew there hadn’t been any fights inside, and there was no one ill. So all my suspicions were aroused.”

  She waggled her eyebrows. “I’d been keeping my eyes peeled so long on your behalf, mind, it’s become instinct. I gave Old Tim a meal and pumped him for news. Not difficult to persuade him to say too much. He told me Maynard—that’s the warden—had sent for him on the Q.T. Could only mean one thing.”

  “Maynard,” Liam repeated viciously. “Can’t say I remember him.”

  “I never would have thought him on the take,” Ruella admitted.

  “Are you sure it’s him and not the commissioner who’s crooked?” Clara asked.

  “The commissioner rarely sets foot in the place. He’s usually wining and dining with his old-boy cronies. And Old Tim definitely said it was Maynard sent for him on the quiet.”

  “Bastard needs settling, then, doesn’t he?” Liam growled. “Needs to meet with some vengeance in the dark.”

  Clara and Ruella both stared at him. Clara’s stomach tightened. “You will not go there,” she told him. “Promise me.”

  He lifted his eyes to her, and she felt his emotions burgeoning like those of some wild, avenging angel.

  “Promise,” she pressed.

  He shook his head slightly; a dark lock of hair tumbled over his forehead. “I will not make you a promise I cannot keep.”

  “You can keep it! You are out of all that and have established a new life for yourself.”

  “Have I?” The smile that curved his lips looked bitter and rueful. “That man stole far more from me than my life. He stole my past, the memories of my mother and my father, all the grief and laughter ever I knew, my youth, and my home. He stole the man I was—for the sake of his greed! Now he’s done it again. And you expect me to sit on my arse and be comfortable here?”

  The panic Clara felt licked up, sharp and bright. “You’ll have to. Don’t you see the danger?”

  “Danger?” He jerked his shoulder and scoffed. Switching his gaze back to Ruella, he asked, “You sure about what happened last night?”

  Looking grave, she nodded. “I hung around after the kitchen was dark, to see, just as I did the night you, er—”

  “Died,” he supplied the word.

  Ruella shot a look at Cassie, but the child clearly slept deeply.

  “I heard it, when they hustled one of the men out from the cells and into the yard. I heard the sound when he—fell. There was no struggle. I think this one died clean. Then Old Tim’s cart trundled away. He headed to the waterfront. The body will be in the river by now.” She added, “You’ll not prove anything.”

  “I don’t need to prove anything. ’Tis not as if I’m planning to take him in front of a magistrate.”

  “You’re planning nothing,” Clara insisted.

  He ignored her. “Where does this paragon of a warden live? Surely not at the jail.”

  Ruella shook her head and looked at Clara, as if realizing belatedly what she’d done. “I shouldn’t have come here with this news. Truly, Irishman, it will do no good for you to hunt him down.”

  “How can you say so? ’Twill be a balm to my soul, provided I still have one. There’s an ethical question for you, Mrs. McMahon.”

  Upset beyond all reason, Clara snapped, “Of course you have a soul.”

  “Sure about that? I didn’t lose it when I died and started over new, like that mite in your arms? What makes up a man’s soul, anyway? If it’s his memories and all the things he’s learned along the way, then mine’s surely gone.”

  “Jesus,” Ruella murmured.

  Clara covered Cassie’s ear with the palm of her hand, as if she could protect the child from the blasphemy and from the emotions now zinging about the room. “Liam, let Ruella handle this. You will handle it, won’t you, Ruella?”

  Ruella’s eyes widened once more. “Me? How?”

  “Report your suspicions to the authorities. You’re in the perfect position to do so.”

  Ruella pushed back from the table. “And lose me job?”

  “We will be coming into our allowance soon, once Theodore straightens out the legal tangle. You can come back here to live, and work for me.”

  “You’ll barely have the brass, or the room, with all these sprogs,” Ruella jerked her head, “and him living off you.”

  “I can make me own way,” Liam retorted. “I’m that sure I must have some skills and abilities.”

  “And how would that look to my grandfather?” Clara could not imagine why she felt so upset, but her morning crumbled around her.

  “Like I’m an honest man of good intentions.” Liam leaned toward her and nodded at Cassie almost viciously. “I’m not that wee lass, wife, whom you can keep gathered up safe in your arms for all time. I’m a man, and I’ll live as a man or not at all.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Moonlight trickled in through the tall bedroom windows and crept across the carpet toward the bed. By its filtered radiance, Liam studied the woman who slept beside him.

  How lovely she looked, and how fragile, her slender shoulders bare, the swell of one small breast peeking from the cover. Her feather-soft brown hair, still ruffled from his fingers, clustered on her pillow, and her lips were swollen from the touch of his lips. Just seeing her at his side made him ache to have her all over again.

  It would be so easy to act on that desire, place his mouth at the tip of that breast and bring her once more to the peak of passion. How easy to lose himself completely in her and think only of the moment, since the moment was all he possessed.

  But what would that make of him? A half man? Less than that, because all he had was Clara—this small portion of his life, since he had lost everything else.

  What made a man a man? The ability to satisfy a woman, to couple with her so deeply they both tumbled off the edge of desire’s cliff and then flew? Or was it the culmination of all his thoughts, his feelings…his memories?

  He reached out and touched her breast very softly, just because he couldn’t resist, traced the sweet pink bud at its tip, which immediately hardened for him. Clara stirred slightly in her sleep and sighed, but slept on.

  Aye, and he’d worn the lass out quite thoroughly, which made this his perfect opportunity to slip away.

  But she held him—she held him there in the bed, there at her side, helpless as poor Cassie, who followed her like a hound pup.

  He, Liam, was no hound. He wasn’t even Liam McMahon, for God’s sake. And if he ever wanted to reclaim any part of himself, he needed to get out of the bed while he could.

  He slid from beneath the covers and stood, naked as born, gazing at his wife. What did he feel for her? He must have had women in the past, though they were now lost to him. He certainly possessed the skills necessary to please a woman and himself. As he’d said to Clara at the outset, he might even be married. She’d claimed at the time it didn’t matter since theirs would be a marriage only in name.

  If he were married, he committed adultery now, right enough. And couldn’t wait to do so again.

  Aye, for what he felt for Clara was need—deep and almost paralyzing. But he felt tenderness toward her, as well. Love?

  Frozen there, gazing at her, he admitted to himself he couldn’t tell. Along with his memories he’d lost all experience with his emotions.

  Hastily he turned away and donned his clothes, refusing to let himself gaze at Clara again: if he did, he would stay. Out he went through the room door, movi
ng like a shadow, down the stairs, and through the silent house. The entry hall lay full of gloom, and he reached the main door before a sudden clanking sound from behind startled him half out of his skin.

  “You need something, sir?”

  Damn. Dax stood in the shadows. How could Liam have forgotten the unit didn’t truly sleep? Now it stirred, and Liam heard the slight hiss and pop of its boiler heating up.

  “Air, Dax, I just need some air.”

  Dax trundled forward and “looked” at him with its molded, metallic eyes, though Dax didn’t actually see anything through them. A device in its forehead let it recognize objects and people.

  “Madam will not like it if you go out alone.”

  And that was a judgment call, wasn’t it? Just where did Dax’s loyalties lie? He, Liam, had been the one to save it from the scrap heap. Quickly, he said, “But you won’t be telling her, will you? You’ve no wish to upset her that way.”

  The unit seemed to hesitate. A small jet of steam escaped the joint at its neck and drifted upward like a thought.

  “Plus,” Liam added, “you will not wish to wake her. I’m sure you never awakened your last master.”

  Dax trembled. “You will not send me back to him, will you?”

  Ah, it would be easy to use the thing’s fear—if it truly experienced fear—to insure silence. Liam hadn’t the heart.

  Instead he said, “Do you prefer me to your old master?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I think you owe me your loyalty.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You will keep silent about me going out to catch some air. Just,” Liam waved his hand, “go back to sleep.”

  A cloud of steam erupted, indicating agitation. “I do not sleep. I go on standby.”

  “Then go back to standby. I’ll return soon enough.”

  “Perhaps I should accompany Sir.”

  Aye, and that was just what he needed, a rolling teapot steaming after him.

  “Go back in your corner and stay there until I return. That’s an order, mind. And keep quiet.”

  Before Dax could argue further, Liam slipped outside into the moonlight. Never was Virginia Street so quiet—all the steamcabs, workmen, and urchins, gone.

  A shiver traced its way up his spine. This must have been how it looked when Ruella brought him here in her barrow. Of course, it had been raining then, and no shadows thrown by moonlight.

  He thought about his conversation with Ruella as she left this morning. He’d caught her at the back door and laid his hand on her arm.

  “This man Maynard—where might he live?”

  Ruella had stared at him before she shook her head. “Don’t know.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “You can’t say that.”

  “I can.”

  She straightened and shrugged away his hand. A strapping woman. Liam wouldn’t want to go three rounds with her. But he meant to have the answers he sought.

  “Where does he drink, then?”

  “He doesn’t drink.”

  “Now, I know that’s a lie. He may drink brandy rather than that swill they serve men like me, but he drinks, sure as I’m breathing.”

  Ruella’s expression turned mutinous.

  Cunningly, Liam asked, “Attends a gentleman’s club, does he? Maybe one of those up on North Street?”

  “How do you know that? That there are gentleman’s clubs up on North Street, I mean? Your memory ain’t returning, is it?”

  Liam shook his head, though he couldn’t be sure. Occasionally, knowledge just appeared whole in his mind, like a rock dropped into a pool. “I’ve still no sense of myself,” he said truthfully.

  “But you mean to find it by way of revenge, I suppose.”

  He challenged her, “Do you think it right, what that man’s doing?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then give me his direction.”

  “He might attend a club called Sterling House on North Street. But you can’t go there.”

  “Why not? Don’t I look the gentleman?”

  Ruella’s gaze raked him. “Clara might fit you out in the clothes, but you’re no gentleman. As soon as you open your mouth they’ll toss you out on your ear.” Ruella couldn’t quite hide her sneer. “You’re no gentleman—you’re an Irishman.”

  “Your prejudices are showing.”

  “Just stating the truth. And I’m not the only one with prejudices—some of them justified.”

  “Meaning?”

  She leaned toward him and whispered, “He was another bog-jumper, that fellow they hanged last night.”

  ****

  So now Liam found himself tramping through the moonlight seeking vengeance not only for himself but his countryman or countrymen—who knew how many times Maynard had pulled this stunt? He did not doubt this city teemed with Irish, also immigrants from other parts of Europe, such as Ruella herself, as well as former slaves come north like wee Georgina. He could only imagine his fellow Irishmen got into their share, or more than their share, of scrapes and brawls. If Maynard took them in on the prison books, he could charge the county for them and then dispose of them and pocket their keep.

  But wouldn’t his higher-ups—the commissioner, for one—eventually inquire after these men, expect them to go to trial? Or did drunk and disorderlies not go to trial? Perhaps once hauled in, they served a standard sentence before being released.

  Or not.

  North Street was a broad avenue lined with upscale businesses and fine houses, most of the latter still lit even at this advanced hour. Liam could only hope the Sterling House would also still be in operation. Of course, that didn’t mean Maynard would be in attendance.

  As for getting tossed out on his ear, did Ruella think him a fool? He could put on a high-class Limey accent with the best of them.

  But he’d need some money before he pushed his way in. And he had no compunction, despite that owned by his wife, about stealing.

  The crowd of young bloods he encountered in front of one of the busier clubs had clearly been carousing—and gambling too, no doubt. They stumbled about on the curb, arguing over where to go next, daring one another to go down and throw potatoes at the police station.

  “Damned cops are all bog-jumpers,” the nearest said, and whinnied with laughter. “Make ’em feel to home.”

  “Excuse me, good sir,” Liam interrupted, practicing the accent while striving mightily to conceal his loathing. “Would you have the time?”

  The fellow fumbled about his person for his pocket watch. By the time he located it and decided it was “damned late,” Liam had the fool’s wallet in hand.

  “Thank you.” He ambled off down the street congratulating himself on selecting a mark who must have just won at cards, judging by the dollars bulging from the leather.

  The Sterling House boasted a broad façade and an air of staid gentility. Liam was glad to see the lights all burned, including two flanking the doors, and a doorman—a late model steam unit—stood in attendance.

  Could he make his way in? How hard could it be to fool a mechanical servant?

  He approached with a dignified gait and the doorman stirred. “Good evening, sir.”

  “Evening.”

  “Are you a member, sir?”

  “I am not, but I’m here to meet a member.” Liam took a deep breath and brazened it out. “Mr. Maynard.” He should have asked Ruella the blighter’s first name. But the doorman gave a polite bow as it contemplated the matter, then opened the door with a gentle puff of steam.

  “Mr. Maynard is in the card room, sir. Shall I escort you?”

  “No need. I will find my way. Is the bar still open?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, my good—er—man.”

  Liam sauntered in, feigning ease but with every sense alert. In the foyer he stood for a moment orienting himself. To the left, through an open doorway, he heard the soft clink of glasses that marked the bar. A flight of stair
s lay directly ahead, and another doorway opened from the right. The place smelled of floor polish and expensive cigars.

  Was the card room on the right, or upstairs? No matter, he was in, and he needed a drink.

  The bar, when he reached it, lay dimly lit and, at this hour, nearly empty. Two men sat at a table over drinks. Another fellow in the corner looked as if he was asleep.

  Behind the bar—

  Liam blinked at a sight he’d never before seen. The bartender was young, female, curvaceous, and apparently naked.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The sight of the naked, beautiful young woman behind the bar didn’t jive somehow with the staid exterior and quiet interior Sterling House presented. Liam imagined he must have encountered such a sight before—in a brothel, for one. But he couldn’t remember that now; if he’d visited such places in the past, the sights and pleasures were lost to him.

  The only woman he could actually recall seeing naked was Clara, and Clara, while eminently desirable, looked nothing like this.

  He approached the bar as if drawn by strings, his eyes busy all the while.

  The young woman had blonde hair in a riot of curls piled atop her head and another triangle of curls lower down, just visible when he peeked behind the bar. Her pretty, rosy face owed more than a bit of its color to rouge. If Liam wasn’t mistaken, the tips of her breasts were rouged, as well. Magnificent breasts, they sat large, high, and perky, and at the perfect height for a man seated at the bar to admire.

  “Good evening, sir. Can I get you something?”

  Liam could think of about ten things, and he reminded himself he was a married man. Wasn’t he? The ties between him and Clara remained strong and deep, but that did not keep a man from looking. He slid onto a stool and struggled to focus on her face. He very nearly forgot his fake accent.

  “Whiskey, please, my dear—the best you have.”

  She turned to fetch a bottle; her rear was as pleasing—almost—to view as her front. She poured a very small drink and set it on the bar in front of Liam.

  “A dollar, sir.”

  A dollar for one drink? Outrageous. But Liam supposed the whiskey was the least of that for which he was being asked to pay. He hauled out his wad of stolen cash, grateful the fellow he’d robbed had been so flush.