by Jo Goodman
Tension began to slowly seep out of the cords in Walker's neck. He put one hand to his nape and rubbed, feeling the pressure ease. The carriage swayed gently as it left the park and took the main thoroughfare toward the heart of the city. Walker leaned back against the soft leather cushions. It was dark enough now that the driver had lighted the outside lamps on the carriage. A mixture of twilight and lamplight bathed Skye's face. Her features were more relaxed than they had been at any time since waking this morning. Most notably the edge of anger that had sharpened her eyes had disappeared. No glance in his direction any longer held an accusation.
"I always assumed," she said thoughtfully, "that our first meeting was somehow related to Parnell. It's odd to discover he had nothing to do with it."
"Only indirectly," he told her. "I was in the city with him on business. He required some supplies for his work, and I had gone to a number of places to order them. I suppose I was seen then."
"You don't seem convinced."
He wasn't and he should have realized she would see it. "I returned once to the hotel room where Parnell was supposed to be waiting for me. He wasn't there. I had an idea where he might have gone, so I made some inquiries. No one admitted that they had seen him, but I'm fairly sure that's how I was seen."
"I'm not certain I understand. Where did you go?"
"Brothels."
"Oh."
He saw she was trying to be very worldly about this information. Only the faint flush in her cheeks betrayed her. "He told me later that he had been to the Sever Sisters, but the madam denied it when I was there. I don't think it really matters. The men who came after me could have seen me there or at Josie's or at any of the other places I visited. When I realized I was being followed, I couldn't return to the St. Mark." The memory of the chase that had ensued prompted a small smile. "I led them back and forth across lower Manhattan for over an hour before heading north to the park. They weren't easily frustrated. I finally had to turn and make a stand."
Skye pressed her hands against her middle. It was easy to call up the vision of that night and it still had the power to make her insides clench. "And now you're here again," she said. "They could find you."
"I haven't been frequenting any brothels on this trip," he reminded her. "I've spent most of my time at your place or at the St. Mark."
"Until today," she said. "Today you went out."
He was saved replying as the cab slowed then stopped. "We're here," he said.
Skye had been too absorbed in Walker to take note of their surroundings. She looked out now. "That isn't the St. Mark," she said.
"Delmonico's," said Walker. "Dinner first."
They were shown to a secluded table, a place where they could see others but not necessarily be seen. It wasn't for social status that Walker had arranged for dinner at one of New York's premiere restaurants. Walker gave the steward the wine order soon after they were seated.
Skye smoothed the edge of the crisp white tablecloth with her fingertips. She was finding it difficult to meet Walker's eyes. "Are you certain you wanted to order that wine?" she asked, risking a small glance in his direction. "I could make a fool of myself again."
"You've never made a fool of yourself," he said. "Even when you were pie-faced."
"Gallant," she said. "But a lie, I'm afraid. I'll do better this evening."
"I'm not worried." And he wasn't.
The wine arrived and Walker tasted and approved it. The steward filled glasses for both of them. Skye waited until the steward had disappeared before she tasted hers. It was a cautious sip. She set the glass aside while she examined the menu and didn't pick it up again until Walker had ordered for both of them.
"Was this Jay Mac's idea?" she asked, raising her hand in a sweeping gesture to indicate the restaurant.
Walker's eyes followed the graceful turn of her wrist and fingers. She could make the most mundane movement take on extraordinary beauty. She seemed totally unaware of it. Heads had turned when they'd entered the restaurant, and Walker would never believe it was because they all recognized Jay Mac Worth's bastard daughter. It wasn't her tarnished pedigree that people noticed; it was the powerful, unaffected spirit of her life they responded to. The wide smile. The bright eyes. The energy of her gestures. Skye, at her most demure, wasn't entirely successful in smothering these attributes. She fairly radiated life.
Delmonico's, it seemed, had been a good idea. And it had been his own. "I thought you might enjoy it," he said. "Was I right?"
Skye realized that he wasn't entirely sure of himself. Yes, she thought, he was definitely courting her. She wasn't immune to that sort of flattery, but she was also wary. She hadn't drunk enough wine to forget their earlier conversation. Was he trying to save their marriage or simply trying to get her back into his bed? And, Skye wondered, would she know the difference? "I'm enjoying myself," she told him. "I like Delmonico's. Their ballroom is spectacular. Have you seen it?"
"I've never been here before."
Skye noticed he was perfectly at his ease. On the occasions when she had dined with Daniel he had been so worried that he would make some gastronomic faux pas, like ordering the wrong wine or asking for a sorbet flavored with rum when Maraschino was considered the correct choice, that their pleasure in the experience was dimmed. Skye didn't care that much for convention, but in his own way, Daniel could be mired in it. She forgave him that because he was also willing to flout it enough to bring her to Delmonico's in the first place. "You must have been to places like it in London," she said.
"Not in London," he said. "In Paris."
"You've been to Paris?" She could not keep envy out of her tone. "I begged Jay Mac to let me make a European tour, but he was adamant that I should finish school." Cream of artichoke soup was set before her. Skye raised her spoon and skimmed the surface. She encouraged Walker to do the same. It was delicious. "A good choice," she told him. "Tell me about Paris."
He began to describe the city, the people, but Skye held up her hand and shook her head.
"I can read about that," she said. "In fact, I have. I want to know why you were in Paris."
"Before I was sent to London, I was attached to our embassy in Paris."
"Diplomatic aide?"
"For lack of a better description."
"Another affair to set right?" she asked drily.
He shook his head, his smile wry. "The French don't care about that. I was asked to help them recover a painting stolen from the Louvre."
She was skeptical. "They entrusted that to an American?"
"It was agreed I had the best chance of getting it back, since the theft had been perpetrated by Yanks. There was a fair amount of national honor at stake."
"I never heard about the incident."
"I'm not surprised. No one wanted it brought to the attention of the public. The French were embarrassed by their failed security measures, and you can understand the embassy's embarrassment. The theft was the mastermind of an assistant to the ambassador himself. No one knew that in the beginning. When it came out, it was decided that it was in everyone's best interest to keep the entire incident quiet."
"How did you recover the painting?"
"I stole it."
She couldn't temper her smile. "You're not a diplomatic aide," she said. "You're a thief."
Walker wasn't offended. His tone was more philosophical, revealing he had long ago come to terms with his particular talents. "It's probably more true than not." He watched her carefully, but Skye gave no indication that she found the information troubling.
Their soup was whisked away, their wine was refilled, and a light bass filet was placed in front of them. It flaked easily under Skye's fork. "I'm not aware that we have an embassy in Baileyboro," she said.
For a moment he didn't understand. "Parnell," he said heavily, with some reluctance. "Parnell is personal. I took a leave to come here and work with Parnell."
Skye didn't understand what that meant, but their location wasn't
conducive to discussion. Although they enjoyed a modicum of privacy, the waiters moved in and out of hearing range. Their conversation was easily detectable by anyone who wanted to listen. "It can wait," she said, and then added significantly, "until we're alone."
Over the next eight courses, Skye absorbed everything Walker shared with her. It was like putting together a quilt with diverse and colorful patches of fabric. The pattern took shape slowly, but it existed when one looked for it. It was held together by a common thread and the undeniable order of the arrangement. As unlikely as it seemed in the beginning, in the end, the colors and small scraps of fabric shared a singular harmony.
"I was five when my parents decided to become missionaries. Until that time we shared a house with my mother's mother on Beacon Hill." The address indicated old money, prestige, and acceptance in the upper stratum of Boston society. Walker knew that Skye would understand. "My mother's younger brother was there also. Most of what I recall about my childhood includes him one way or another. Grandmother was everyone's idea of a matriarch. She was the absolute ruler—fierce, stern, cold. I rarely saw her. She was uncompromising about the role of children in a home. The main rule was to have as little to do with them as possible. I can't say that I minded. On the rare occasions our paths crossed, I remember being quite afraid of her. I swear the only reason she knew my name was because I was her sole grandchild."
Skye didn't believe he was exaggerating. She ate slowly, taking in his every word.
"My father and mother spent much of their time involved with the church. That didn't find any favor with Grandmother. She believed in Sunday duty and generous contributions. Her Protestant ethic was about work and not about faith. She removed my parents from her will just hours after they announced their decision to take up a China mission. I celebrated my sixth birthday in Shanghai."
"What about your uncle?"
"He had his own interests and didn't want to come with us. I know my mother asked him. He felt obligated, I think, to stay with Grandmother, though they didn't get along in any fashion. The family money was in shipping and my uncle was the first to admit he had no business sense. Grandmother was forced to sell off pieces of it after my father withdrew, when my uncle wouldn't take it up. The money supported my uncle's projects over the years. He always had something he was working on. None of it suited Grandmother. She thought he was a wastrel, perhaps even a little mad. She was astonished, I think, that she had sired him."
Skye could hear it in Walker's voice, the assurance that his uncle was the least mad person he knew. "You must have written over the years," she said. "To know so much about him."
"We did. Mail delivery was inconsistent at best. We would go for months at a time without hearing anything from Boston, and then we would be flooded. I cared more about the news from home than about my parents. They were very satisfied with our life in Shanghai. The mission consumed them. They counted themselves responsible for over two thousand converts."
"Two thousand," she said softly. "They must have been enormously pleased."
Walker's tawny brows were raised. He shook his head. "Not with millions of souls to be saved," he said. "And that was only in the province of Nanking. My parents felt that their life's work could never be accomplished. It didn't stop them from trying, however. Even then I was part of the diplomatic corps." Walker's smile was wry. "My father liked to think of himself as an ambassador of God's."
Skye smiled because he expected it and because he wasn't expecting her pity. She imagined that Walker had been more alone in Shanghai working beside his parents than he had been in Beacon Hill with his uncle. "You never had any brothers or sisters?"
"None who lived." His voice lowered. "My mother miscarried at least two times that I know of while we were in Shanghai. She thought it was because she hadn't done enough. It led directly to her decision to join the leper colony. It was her way of atoning for some imagined sin."
"So they left you behind on the mainland?"
"I was supposed to return to Boston, but money for my passage never arrived. My uncle could be a little vague at times. I imagine he forgot he was supposed to send it."
"A little vague!" she exclaimed softly. Skye was amazed by what had happened, as well as by Walker's calm acceptance of it. "But you were just a boy. How could he forget his responsibility to you that way?"
"He forgot most things when he was working. He had a passion for his projects that rivaled my mother's. The focus was simply different."
"What sort of work?" she asked. "You never said."
"Didn't I?" A sampling of cheeses and fresh fruit had been set in front of him. Walker chose an apple slice and chewed it slowly while Skye waited for an answer. The time had come. "He was a tinkerer," he said.
"A tinkerer?" she asked blankly. "An inventor, you mean? Like Jonathan Parnell?"
"Not like him," Walker said. "Exactly like him."
Skye frowned. "What?"
"My uncle is Jonathan Parnell."
Chapter 14
The carriage ride to the St. Mark was made in silence. Skye found it easier not to talk than to talk and not raise her questions. For his part, Walker was not in a particular hurry to complete the account. He took his time at the desk, registering them as Mr. and Mrs. Walker Caide with a little fanfare and flourish. The clerk was the same one who had been on duty several nights before, the same one with whom Skye had carried on a flirtation. Now Walker noticed that his wife did everything she could to avoid the poor clerk's eye. As for the clerk, he seemed to be the victim of a tickle in his throat. It was the only thing that could account for all his incessant clearing of it.
Their suite was on the fifth floor and they rode the steam lift with three other hotel guests and the lift operator. The crowd kept Skye from saying what she thought of Walker lingering at the front desk. She didn't have difficulty communicating it with a sideways glance.
On the threshold to their rooms, with the bellboy looking on and the lift operator still poking his head into the corridor, Walker picked up Skye and carried her inside. The action actually rendered her speechless. Her eyes, on the other hand, were flashing.
Their bags were deposited inside their bedroom, and Skye looked around while Walker tipped the young man. Jay Mac had seen to fresh flowers in all the rooms. There was a bucket of champagne chilling on the bedside table and a box of chocolates in the sitting room. The bathing room had a large enamel tub and an entire shelf filled with bath salts and perfumes. Fresh towels were stacked beside the washbasin. A single red rose lay on top, imparting its fragrance into the fabric.
The bedroom was large. Even so, the enormous bed captured most of the space. Skye didn't spend any time dwelling on that feature. Her eyes skimmed past it to the balcony, then the armoire, the dresser, and the oval mahogany table and Queen Anne chairs. Every piece of furniture gleamed with polish and reflected the deep burgundy and cream accents of the wallpaper, bedspread, and mantel shawl.
The sitting room had several conversational areas that were defined by the arrangement of wing chairs and sofas and a love seat. After Skye had removed her hat, gloves, and coat, she selected a chair beside the fireplace. Walker was still in conversation with the bellboy in the other room. She couldn't imagine what he had found to discuss, but when the young man came through the room on his way out, he was having a difficult time controlling his smile.
"What was that about?" she asked Walker, as he began to lay the fire.
He didn't answer her. When he finished with the fire, he brushed off his hands and removed his jacket. The silver threads in his vest glinted in the firelight. "Would you like champagne?"
"I'd like to be able to think clearly," she said.
"Champagne is good for that." He brought in the bucket from the bedroom and two crystal glasses. "This was your father's idea," he said. "In case you were wondering." He uncorked the bottle.
Although she was prepared for the popping, Skye still flinched. She ran for a towel when the bubbles sp
illed over the lip of the bottle and mopped up the excess on Walker's hand and sleeve. "You've got some right here," she said, then dabbed at his jaw with the edge of the towel. She drew it away slowly, aware his eyes had darkened and his body was still.
"And you have some here," he said lowly. He bent his head and touched the corner of her mouth with his lips.
Skye didn't move. Even her breath was held. She didn't respond to the kiss in any way that he could see. Only she was aware that her heart had skipped a tortured beat. "Walker," she said softly. "I don't think—"
"All right," he said. He took a step back, poured the champagne, and handed Skye her glass. He didn't touch his rim to hers, having no idea what a proper toast might be for this occasion. He doubted Skye would toast her own seduction, and it was premature to hold out for a happy marriage, not when his wife had set down rules about sharing the bed. Walker put down the champagne. Skye had returned to her chair, but Walker chose the sofa. He loosened a button on his vest and rolled up his sleeves. His long legs were stretched out in front of him. "You have more patience than I would have credited," he told her, after he had tasted his champagne.
"You'll tell me in your own time," she said. "I've learned that much. I don't know that I like it, but I can respect it." She raised her champagne glass and wrinkled her nose as the bubbles floated upward and tickled her. Skye rubbed the end of her nose and curled her legs beneath her. Yards of hunter green fabric spilled around her. She smoothed the fabric over her lap and waited even longer for him to speak.
When he began, she realized that not only would it be in Walker's own time, but in his own way. His first comment wasn't about Jonathan Parnell at all.
"I was free to go most everywhere I wanted," he said.
"With my parents involved in the mission, I enjoyed fewer restrictions in China than I had endured on Beacon Hill. Most foreigners stayed close together and didn't venture into the countryside. Except for the missionaries, there wasn't much of an effort to learn about the people who were their hosts. Some countries, like England, actually negotiated spheres of influence."
