by Susan Wiggs
Blue didn’t bother explaining that all he’d come for was a drink. He sensed a hum of panic in the air. “What’s the matter?”
A maidservant scurried across the lobby. “She’s in the ladies’ parlor, and we don’t know what to do.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Vickery, sir. She collapsed.”
“Where’s her husband?”
“We don’t know. They meet here often for supper, though. We all thought he was on his way. She was taking tea with Mrs. Hatcher—”
“Clarice was here?”
“Yes, but she left. And Mrs. Vickery seemed perfectly fine.” She brought him to the parlor and then stepped back, her nervous fingers folding accordion pleats in her apron. Mrs. Vickery lay supine upon a chaise, unmoving and ghostly pale. Her lips and fingertips appeared distinctly bluish in tone. Lacking a stethoscope, he pressed his ear to her chest. After a few seconds, he said, “Help me loosen her dress and corset. For God’s sake, hurry.”
The maid worked swiftly to open Mrs. Vickery’s dress and loosen her corset laces. “She’s so cold,” she said, holding Alma Vickery’s hand.
“What did she have to eat? What did she drink?” Blue asked.
“As I said, sir, she took tea with Mrs. Hatcher.”
“I want her head level with her heart,” he ordered, shoving aside the corset and lowering his patient’s shoulders. Then he looked at the maid. She was a bland little woman, had probably worked for the family for years. “Listen,” he said, “she’s under the influence. Trying to protect her reputation now will do far more harm than good.”
“Champagne was served, but she’s a member of Ladies Temperance,” she said. “Perhaps she took some laudanum for her nerves.”
“Whose preparation was it? A patent medicine? Where’s the bottle?”
“I don’t know, sir.” The maid was on the verge of tears.
A commotion sounded in the hallway. Then Dr. Vickery arrived, his coat undone, his eyes wild. He was breathless from rushing. “Becca, what’s the matter?” he demanded. The maid moved away, and he spied his wife. “Alma, dear God, what have you done?”
Blue thought his choice of words was odd: What have you done?
“I’ve only been here a few minutes,” he said. “Her breathing’s slow and shallow. Her pupils don’t respond to the light.”
“No, for the love of God, no.” Vickery’s hat bounced and rolled across the floor as he bent over his wife.
“Is it laudanum,” asked Blue, “or does she eat the substance directly?” He peeled down Mrs. Vickery’s dress sleeve and found what he’d expected: a small, purplish wound on the inside of her bare arm. “Oh. I see.”
“Don’t say it,” Vickery murmured. “Damn it, man, I know.”
For a moment, he and Vickery locked gazes over the poor woman. Then they took action, working for what seemed like a long time, hauling her up and moving her around the room, though she sagged like a broken doll between them. After a while, Mrs. Vickery coughed and vomited. Her eyes were slits of semiconsciousness.
With a trembling hand, Vickery bathed his wife’s face and brow with a damp cloth.
“Fremont.” Alma Vickery murmured her husband’s name in a faint whisper. “Oh, my dear Fremont.”
He set aside the handkerchief. “Ah, thank God, Alma. You’re awake.”
Blue counted her pulse, checked for fever. Her wispy hair was plastered to her brow with sweat. Mrs. Vickery stared at him blankly, then turned to her husband. “I feel so horribly strange, Fremont. I beg you, get me my medicine. That is all I need, and then I’ll feel better.”
“Let’s go home, dear. I’ll take you home now.” He lifted her up, straining no more than he would to carry a small child.
“I want to stay at the club, Fremont,” she said, her mood shifting uncannily. Her eyes glowed in the electrical light.
“Let’s go home,” he repeated. “I can take better care of you there.” He ducked his head and didn’t look at Blue as he and the maid helped her out of the room.
An unseasonable chill bit the air as Blue left the club. Was that what love did to a man? he wondered.
He was nearly home when he realized he never did get that drink.
Isabel had always considered herself a courageous woman. She’d sailed stormy seas and climbed treacherous mountains, haggled with dangerous traders in crowded foreign marketplaces and faced both sharpshooters and gambling sharks in high stakes contests.
But she had never asked anyone to love her.
The very prospect made her tremble. She stood in the darkened upstairs hallway, listening to Bernadette’s sturdy tread on the stair as the housekeeper went to her quarters for the night. On the floor above, Lucas made no sound. Isabel pictured him lying on his bed or perhaps staring out the window, probably sulking about the fact that his father had forced him to give up the shooting contest.
The hour was early. She knew Blue would be in his study downstairs, where he retreated each evening, unless he was on duty at the Rescue League. Her pulse pounding, she stood in front of the polished oak door. Then she took a deep breath and knocked.
“Yes? What is it?” he asked in a distracted voice.
She resisted the urge to flee. Instead, she forced herself to go in. He wasn’t at his massive rolltop desk, as she’d expected, but stood in the middle of the room as though he’d just been pacing the floor. He’d removed his jacket and waistcoat. The white shirt she’d admired earlier gaped open at the collar; the sleeves were rolled back to the elbows. His deep blue cravat lay discarded on a chair. A shock of wheat-colored hair tumbled over his brow.
“What do you want, Isabel?” he asked.
“There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.” Dear heavens. Was that really her voice, with that humiliating tremble of uncertainty?
He folded his arms across his chest. “Go on.”
She remembered how she’d felt when those muscular arms were wrapped around her, holding her close. Yet now they formed a barrier. “Do you think perhaps we could sit down together?”
A long, unbroken alarm sounded, making her jump. The doorbell, she realized, half-relieved, half-frustrated by the interruption. Rather than waiting for Bernadette to answer the door, Blue strode to the foyer.
He opened the door, and Clarice Hatcher swept into the house. “There you are, Theodore,” she said. “I was hoping you’d be at home.”
“Is something the matter, Clarice?” he asked.
“It certainly—” She spied Isabel and pruned her lips into a grimace. “Miss Fish-Wooten. Or have you reinvented yourself again? Should we call you Florence Nightingale today?”
Isabel directed an imperious gaze at her, giving no indication that the taunting words and knowing look posed a threat. They were rivals for Blue’s heart, and they both knew it. That was the source of Clarice’s animosity. Yet she seemed to possess some inner knowledge of Isabel—or perhaps that sprang from Clarice’s sharp instincts.
Isabel hid a flutter of apprehension behind a haughty look. “Hello, Mrs. Hatcher. It’s so kind of you to come in person to congratulate me on winning the tournament.”
“What’s the matter, Clarice? Are you ill?” Blue asked again. The edge in his voice conveyed clearly that he was in no mood for a rivalry of any sort.
“I’m not ill, Theodore. But I’ve come to you on a matter of some urgency.”
Isabel wondered what sort of “matters” Clarice and Blue had between them.
“Then you should have said so.” He looked disheveled, his eyes weary and his hair tumbling over his brow.
Clarice led the way into the parlor without waiting for an invitation. “I had meant to discuss this in private, Theodore,” she said, “but it involves your houseguest, so she should hear this as well, though I’m certain she’ll deny it.” She pinioned Isabel with a glare. “Theodore, you are harboring a dangerous criminal under your roof. I feel compelled to tell you this for your own safety. She could be stealing you blind
—or worse.”
Isabel laughed aloud, although her stomach clenched. “Oh, for goodness sake. Are you mad? Why would you make such an accusation?”
Something shifted in Clarice’s regard—a flicker of inspiration. “Because I’ve found evidence to prove that you’ve done nothing but lie since you appeared in San Francisco, seemingly out of nowhere.” She pursed her lips in superior fashion. “Isn’t that right, Miss Dawkins?”
Isabel felt the blood drop from her face to the bottom of her gut.
“Who the devil is Miss Dawkins?” Blue demanded, his patience fraying at the edges.
Clarice jerked her chin at Isabel. “Ask her.”
Isabel struggled to appear confused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do,” Clarice said, each word edged in cold steel. “I’m talking about the Isabel Dawkins who grew up in a workhouse. An object of pity, of course, until she turned into a petty criminal who lied her way into an aristocratic household, learned the ways of the gentry and then stowed away on a ship to New York. That is the Isabel Dawkins I’m speaking of.”
No. No. No. Isabel’s pulse thundered in her ears, and she raised her voice to drown it out. “Goodness, you are quite a yarn spinner, Mrs. Hatcher.” She sneaked a look at Blue, praying he’d exhibit shock and disbelief. Instead, his face was a granite mask. He wasn’t surprised at all to hear this.
“I’ve long had my suspicions,” Clarice declared. “I finally guessed the truth when I saw your handwriting on the tournament entry form.” As she spoke, she retrieved a calf-bound book tied together with string. She loosed the string with a flourish. “I have the evidence right here.”
Clarice opened the book to reveal pages covered with Isabel’s neat handwriting. Stuck between the pages were a certificate and a creased and scarred placement card.
Isabel froze, watching through a fog of horror. This could not be happening. It could not. If she moved, it would all be real. She felt sick. Blue didn’t understand yet, but she knew exactly what he was about to learn. The book was a terrible keepsake, a record of her shameful life before she’d turned herself into someone else. Why, oh why, had she dragged it around all those years, a memento of misery, a memorial to the mother who had dumped her like an unwanted kitten in a sack?
“Let me see that.” Blue grabbed the book.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” said Clarice. “This is a placement card for St. Anselm’s workhouse in Fish Street in the town of Wooten, Norfolk. It’s all chronicled in this book, you see.”
Isabel wanted to scream a denial, but she couldn’t. She was unmasked, naked before them. She watched Blue’s face, but could not fathom his thoughts as he read over the evidence of her deception. She burned with humiliation, but something bigger was at stake. A different sort of horror broke over her. She grabbed the book from Blue and held it in front of her like a shield.
She stared at Clarice. This time, recognition hummed between them so palpably that she wondered if Blue sensed it. She felt ice cold with fear and suspicion. “Where did you get this, Clarice?”
“I’m certain I don’t know. A servant came across it somewhere.”
Isabel turned to Blue. “My belongings went missing the night of the shooting. Only someone who was there could have found them.”
“Shooting?” Clarice said. “Heavens, Theodore, she’s burying lies beneath lies. Really, this is all too—”
“Shut up, Clarice,” Blue snapped, startling them both. “There was a shooting. A police officer and Isabel were both wounded.”
“I wouldn’t know the first thing about that,” Clarice said, “except for what I’ve read in the papers.”
“Then I’ll need to speak with the person who found this.”
“You’ll do no such thing.”
“Would you rather I brought in the police?”
Isabel took a chance. “I don’t believe there was any servant involved.”
Clarice sniffed. “So now you’ll accuse me of the shooting.”
“Are you confessing to it?”
“I’ll not dignify that with a reply.”
“But it’s all so fascinating,” Isabel said, struggling to regain her balance. She had nothing more than a hunch about Clarice, but she was desperate. “Your timing is simply uncanny. You just happened to contrive some terrible story about me because I’ve discovered the truth about you and Dr. Vickery.” One look at Clarice’s face told her the bluff was working. “Perhaps that’s what we should be talking about, your association with Dr. Vickery and your ties to the Far East Tea Company.” She was scraping together bits and pieces of information, pretending she knew more than she did.
Clarice turned bright red. “This is preposterous. Theodore, I came here with the best of intentions, to prevent you from being swindled. Why would I bring this out into the open if I knew it was so closely connected to a horrid crime?”
“That’s an interesting question, Clarice.” Blue spoke with calm conviction. “I imagine it’s because you believe you have enough money to buy your way out of trouble. Isn’t that what you always say?”
“I refuse to listen to this another moment,” said Clarice with a queenly sniff. She left in a swirl of silk skirts and indignation.
“Are you just going to let her go?” asked Isabel.
“Would you like her to stay? The two of you were getting along so well.”
Isabel held the book tight against her. “She attacked because she’s cornered. Couldn’t you see that? She was part of what happened to me that night. But not all of it. I didn’t bring up Dr. Vickery by accident. I saw them together today at the shooting match, and I assure you, they’re more than passing acquaintances. They were both there that night, Blue. The sound of his voice brought it all back. No matter what you think of me now, you must believe that. One of them shot two people.” She held her breath, willing him to believe her.
“You’re asking me to point the finger at a fellow physician and a woman I’ve known for ten years.”
She wanted to dissolve into tears, but forced herself to stand still, to regard him without flinching. “Yes.”
He hesitated only a second. “Get your cloak. We’re going to see Rory. He has more experience separating lies from truth than I have.”
Thirty-Eight
As a criminal lawyer, Rory would advise him as to the best way to go about this—as if there was any good way to do it at all. He had a number of unanswered questions, Clarice’s presence at the hospital, for example, shortly before Nathan Skinner died, and the fact that Mrs. Vickery had collapsed after taking tea with Clarice. Then there was Vickery’s secret about his wife. Those facts, coupled with Isabel’s suggestion of an involvement in the opium trade, would give Rory plenty to chew on.
But in fact Blue’s mind—along with his heart and every other part of him—was preoccupied with the woman beside him. Since the moment they’d gotten into the buggy, she hadn’t stopped talking. He wasn’t really listening, because she was remarking on Clarice’s fanciful imagination and the lengths the jealous widow went to in order to discredit Isabel. Dousing a glimmer of sympathy, he reminded himself that this woman had lied to him from the first moment she’d stuck a gun in his back.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.
“You’re a chameleon, Isabel. You’ve never lived an authentic moment in your life.”
“How would you know that? You’ve only known me one summer.”
“I haven’t known you at all. I’ve known some self-invented fraud who calls herself a lady adventurer.”
“I am an adventurer. I can be whoever I choose.”
He turned his face away from her and concentrated on the road. “How about choosing to be yourself for once?”
She fell silent. Didn’t move a muscle. He kept glancing at her, watching the lamplight slip over her in pale waves as they drove down Broadway, but she neither moved nor spoke. Finally he had found a way to stop her from talking
. And that was to hurt her.
The expression on her face had an unexpected effect on him. “Isabel—”
“Are you sure that’s my name?” she asked. “Why don’t you go and ask Clarice what to call me?”
She’s not hard to love, he thought, remembering Eliza’s words the night of the charity ball. She’s impossible.
Only because she’s making it so, said a deeper, wiser voice inside him.
As he pulled up to the elegant building that housed Rory’s bachelor’s quarters, he wondered if he would let her get away with it.
June came awake slowly, though she did not remember falling asleep. Then a terrific headache possessed her, and she reached to press her hands to her temples.
Her hands were tied.
She tried to call out, but there was a piece of cloth stuffed in her mouth. She tried to spit it out, but it was held in place by a cord tied around the back of her head. She whimpered, but it sounded like a hiccup. She wept, but the silent tears did no good, so she forced herself to stop. Whimpering and crying were not going to save her.
She was alone in the damp, dark place. No, not quite alone. The place was infested by rats—she knew that sharp reek. Artificial light leaked through the slats of a rough wooden door. The room had an earthen floor and tall ceiling, and was littered with wooden crates. She tried to puzzle out her location. She smelled old brick and dank earth and seawater. Sounds from outside confirmed it—she was at the waterfront, across from the wharves. She recognized the unmistakable creak of great vessels pulling at their moorings, and the quiet chuckle and croak of roosting birds.
She heard footsteps, quite close. Struggling to her feet, she shuffled forward across the uneven floor. Pressing her face to the door, she peered between the planks. A man stood in an alley beneath a conical beam of light spilling over an awning. He wore an old-fashioned peaked hat with a long pheasant feather stuck in the brim.
His name was Mr. Abner Punch. He and his partner, Charles Pisco, were the two most notorious crimps of the Barbary Coast. Everyone knew who they were, everyone except the hapless greenhorns they pressed into shipboard service. June was terrified, but she was also confused. She had been afraid they would sell her to a Chinese tong. But instead of being brought before a fat-cheeked tong boss, she was dragged here. This could not possibly mean anything good for her.
