Perfect Stranger

by Duncan, Alice

  The music ended at last, and she could no longer put off facing Jorge. She dreaded this. But she had to change into her costume for the ragtime demonstration with which she and Jorge were going to thrill the audience.

  Slipping backstage, she stopped, closed her eyes, sucked in about three gallons of air, and wished she were already rich and in control of her very own dance academy. She wished so even harder when she opened her eyes to see Jorge awaiting her, fists on hips, scowl in place. She sighed deeply and braced herself.

  “What do you do with your husband?”

  Isabel blinked. “What do I do with him? What do you mean, Jorge? I don’t have a husband.”

  “What do you do with this . . . this man you affection? You marry with him?”

  “Er . . . yes. I mean, I hope to marry him. One day.”

  Jorge sneered. He had a superb sneer. “He not ask you yet? Huh! He not ask you yet. I know. But you affectionate him. Bah! He is not the one for you. I—” he pounded himself on the chest. “I am the one.”

  No, he wasn’t. “I’m sorry, Jorge. I’m not sure what will happen, but I do know that I dearly love the other man. I . . . I’ll have to talk to you later about it.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Who?” Good question. She’d like to say Somerset FitzRoy, but she wasn’t sure he really gave a rap about her. “Uh . . . I don’t think . . .” Her words trailed off.

  “Huh.” He stalked behind his changing screen. “I know how to take care of this. In Argentina, we know what to do in this cases.”

  Isabel, behind her own screen, felt her eyes grow wide and her heart thud painfully. Holding onto the edge of the screen, she peered out from behind it, but she couldn’t see Jorge. “What do you mean? How do you take care of these things?”

  “We have our ways,” Jorge said ominously.

  Alarmed, Isabel said, “Don’t you dare do anything to anybody, Jorge. I haven’t even told you who it is. And I won’t, either, if you threaten to do anything to him.”

  “There is no one,” Jorge said smugly. “I know it.”

  “There is, too!”

  “No. You won’t tell me, so I know you lie.”

  “I’m not, either, lying!”

  “Huh. You only shy for me. You not be shy long. I know how to treat a woman.”

  Good Lord! Isabel felt panic beginning to snatch at her nerves. “No! I mean, I’m not shy. I love another man, Jorge!”

  “Huh.”

  She could hear him smirk from clear across the room. “It’s the truth!”

  “Huh. You can’t tell me the name, because he has no name. He nobody.”

  Almost beside herself, Isabel blurted out, “It’s Mr. FitzRoy!”

  Silence issued from Jorge. Isabel could have kicked herself.

  After a moment, Jorge said, “FitzRoy.”

  Isabel, her heart hammering, said, “Yes.”

  He said, “Huh” again.

  Beginning to worry about Somerset, Isabel said hotly, “I mean it, Jorge. Don’t you dare do anything to Mr. FitzRoy.”

  “Huh.”

  “Jorge?”

  “What?”

  “I mean it.”

  “Huh.”

  “Jorge!”

  The dancer flipped his hand in the airy gesture he made when he wanted things to go away and stop bothering him. “Huh.”

  Isabel figured that was about as much assurance as she was liable to get from that source this evening. Lord, Lord, why has she mentioned Somerset’s name? Why hadn’t she made up a name? What did it matter, as long as Jorge believed her. She was so stupid sometimes, she could scarcely believe it.

  When she got home that night, she had terrible dreams in which Somerset FitzRoy showed up at Loretta’s front door with a knife in his back. It was she, and not Eunice, who woke, trembling and teary-eyed, in the middle of the night.

  # # #

  Somerset sat at the desk in his library, working on a plan for a garden he’d been hired to landscape, but his mind wasn’t on his work. The hour was approaching eight in the evening, past the time he usually ate dinner, and he was contemplating dining at the Fairfield. He’d already told his housekeeper he’d be dining out, but he hadn’t decided where to do it yet.

  The Fairfield seemed to call to him, sort of like Lorelei calling to a poor, bemused boatman on the Rhine. The Fairfield was where he wanted to dine. The problem was that Isabel might get the wrong idea if he ate there every dashed night. Or she’d get the right idea, which might be worse. Or, then again, it might be better.

  It would help if Somerset had a single clue as to how she felt about him. He’d tell her he loved her in a second, if he thought he had a snowball’s chance in hell of her loving him back. But he wasn’t fond of rejection or humiliation.

  If he was madly in love with her and she only faintly liked him, he didn’t really want to know it. He didn’t think his ego, which wasn’t nearly as large as Jorge Savedra’s, could stand the pain.

  Suddenly, he lifted his head at the sound of someone hammering on his front door. Whoever it was must be pounding hard, because his house had thick walls and he couldn’t ordinarily hear people when they knocked. He stepped to the door of his office and peered out in time to see his housekeeper, Mrs. Prendergast, hurry to open it. He was as flabbergasted as she when he beheld Isabel Golightly standing on his front porch, looking agitated.

  She cried out when she saw him, “Oh! Thank God! You’re here! And you’re alive!”

  Whatever that meant. “Isabel!” He cried, rushing out to see what was wrong. Recalling his manners, he said, “I mean Mrs. Golightly.”

  “Oh, I don’t care what you call me!” she cried. Glancing at Mrs. Prendergast, she asked, “May I come in? Something dreadful has happened!”

  Resuming control of himself and his household, he smiled at Mrs. Prendergast. “I’ll take care of this, Mrs. Prendergast. Thank you.”

  The housekeeper sniffed once, then turned and headed back to wherever she spent her waking hours. Somerset didn’t know. The keeping of his house was a mystery to him. “Yes, please, Mrs. Golightly, come in. You seem to be upset.”

  “Upset? Upset! I’ve never been more upset in my life!” She sucked in a deep breath and passed her hand over her porcelain brow. “No, that’s not true. I was more upset than this when I thought Eunice and I were going to drown.”

  “I’m sorry you’re distressed.” Stuffy, Somerset. Unbend, will you?

  “I’m better now that I’ve seen you. I’m so glad you’re well.”

  Confused but gratified, Somerset said, “Thank you.” He squinted at the clock in the hallway. “But aren’t you supposed to be working right now?”

  “Yes!” She shrilled the word, then passed her hand over her forehead again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout.”

  “Come into the parlor,” Somerset suggested. He’d never pegged Isabel Golightly as an hysterical female, but perhaps he’d been mistaken. And why had she expected him not to be well? “Let me pour you a sherry or a bit of brandy to calm your nerves.”

  “Nothing will calm my nerves,” Isabel avowed as if she were pronouncing a death sentence on herself.

  Somerset led her into his parlor and guided her to the inglenook where two chairs were artistically arranged before the fireplace with a table between them, the detective novel he’d been reading residing there at an angle pleasing to his eye. He switched on the table lamp he’d bought at Tiffany and Company in New York City. The shade was a masterpiece of stained-glass irises, and the light from it glowed in soft colors that brought out the richness of the black-cherry wood from which the chairs were crafted.

  Gesturing at one of the chairs, he said, “Please take a seat, and tell me about it. Perhaps we can solve your problem between us.” He gave her a smile that he hoped would encourage her to unburden herself. He didn’t know what had happened to upset her, but he wanted to slay it for her, whatever it was.

  She took off her hat, flung it onto a wi
ndow seat nearby, and was about to sit down, when she took note of the room into which Somerset had led her. With one hand on the arm of the chair and the other clutching a small handbag to her bosom, she said, startled, “My goodness, what a beautiful room!”

  Beaming with genuine pleasure, Somerset lifted a decanter and poured some sherry into a tiny cut-crystal stemmed glass. “Thank you. I’m glad you like it. I designed the house, you know, and furnished it myself.”

  He was proud of this house. Not only had he designed it and the grounds himself, but he’d had it furnished in the Craftsman Mission style, and it was both uncluttered and elegant. None of your Victorian frou-frou for him. Strictly Stickley, had been his motto when selecting furnishings. He’d wanted to be able to live in harmony with his choices for years to come, and he loved the rich woods Stickley used. All the furniture complemented the polished cedar floors, Oriental and Indian rugs, and the clean lines of the house.

  Isabel sat slowly, her eyes huge as they surveyed her surroundings. “I didn’t know that. You did a beautiful job. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a room that . . . that . . . appeals to me so much.”

  Aha. If she wouldn’t marry him for himself, perhaps she’d marry him for his house. It was a thought, anyhow. He handed her the glass. “Why don’t you sip this and tell me what happened to put you in such a state.” Not that he minded particularly. Whatever it was that had upset her had sent her here, to him, and Somerset considered that a very good thing.

  She sipped a tiny bit of the honey-colored liqueur and wrinkled her nose. Exercising great restraint, Somerset didn’t grab her, tuck her under his arm, and run upstairs with her. She’d never know what she did to him. Well . . . if he was lucky, she’d find out someday. Smiling at her fondly, he said, “It’s supposed to be excellent sherry. It shouldn’t produce nose wrinkles.”

  “What?” She looked at her glass, then looked at Somerset and laughed. Good sign, he decided. “Oh, I didn’t mean to wrinkle my nose at your sherry. I guess I’m not accustomed to drinking wine. Or anything else of an alcoholic nature, for that matter.”

  “Perhaps it will help soothe your nerves,” he ventured, wondering if she’d ever tell him what the matter was. Not that he cared, particularly, as long as she stayed here, with him.

  Her delicate eyebrows tilted down over her beautiful blue eyes. They were the color of—dash it, he still didn’t know exactly which flower did them justice. Perhaps he’d have to hybridize one for her himself. “I’m sorry I barged in on you, Mr. FitzRoy—”

  ”Please call me Somerset. I think we’re well enough acquainted by now to use first names.”

  Her cheeks, warmed by the glow of light from the stained glass lampshade, bloomed a pretty pink. “Thank you. Please call me Isabel.”

  “Gladly. You have a lovely name, Isabel.”

  “Thank you.” She took another sip of sherry in an attempt to drown her embarrassment. Then she took a deep breath and blurted out, “Jorge has disappeared.”

  Taken aback, Somerset paused in the act of pouring himself some sherry. He turned to stare at her. “He what?”

  “He’s disappeared. Vanished. Mr. Balderston has sent some of his people out to look at him, but I fear he may not come back.”

  Puzzled, although not especially worried, about this state of affairs—in truth, he felt rather like applauding—Somerset took his sherry and sat in the chair next to Isabel’s. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  Isabel put her glass down on the table, making sure she placed a coaster on the shining wooden surface first. “I don’t understand, either. All I know is that he didn’t show up for work tonight. I thought perhaps he was miffed with me because I’d refused his proposal.” She gave him a quick glance. “Not that I believe I broke his heart or anything, but you know how big his head is.”

  “Yes, I’d noticed that about him.” He hoped the son of a dog had drowned in the San Francisco Bay, although he’d never say so, since he understood how upset Isabel was.

  “And I . . . well, I thought I’d ask you if you’d seen him.”

  “I?” Confused, Somerset paused with his sherry glass halfway to his lips. “Why did you think I might have seen him?”

  “Because . . . because . . .” She stood abruptly. “Oh, it’s all insane!”

  She started pacing in front of the two chairs. She looked quite charming there, stamping back and forth on his imported Bokhara rug. Fitted right in, in fact. Somerset approved.

  But that didn’t answer his question. He shook his head in an effort to clear it of irrelevancies. “Did he state an intention of coming here?” he suggested, perplexed.

  “No.” Isabel strode to another table, where she picked up Somerset’s first published book, Flora of San Francisco. He was proud of that book, as he was proud of his house. The colored plates were gorgeous, too. “My goodness, did you write this book?”

  “Yes, indeed. My first effort. I drew the illustrations, as well.” He hoped he sounded modest and unassuming. The truth was that about the only things he was proud of were his work and his house.

  “I had no idea,” Isabel whispered. “Why, you’re truly an expert in your field, aren’t you?”

  “I suppose I am.” Even more modestly. He was in danger of fading into the woodwork if this kept up. Deciding to assert himself a bit, he said, “I am considered an expert on the flora of my adopted state, and especially that of San Francisco and vicinity. I give lectures at the university sometimes.”

  “My goodness.” She turned and gazed, wide-eyed, at him.

  It took some effort, but he managed to remain seated and didn’t leap up and take her in his arms. Trying to get the conversation back to some sort of manageable state, he brought up Jorge again. If anything could dampen his ardor, it was the slick Argentine. “But why did you think he might come here, Isabel? We aren’t exactly close friends or anything.” He had to fight the impulse to strangle the fellow most of the time.

  She gestured wildly, “Because of something I said! Oh, it’s so stupid! And it’s all my fault!”

  Isabel had seldom felt this helpless. Evidently, Jorge hadn’t come after Somerset with a dagger or a gun or anything. And now Somerset wanted to know why she believed he might have done so. She couldn’t tell him it was because she’d told Jorge she was going to marry him. The whole situation was insane.

  But she had to confess. Somerset needed to know so he could watch his back, in case Jorge truly was going to try to kill him. The entire mess was too mortifying for words.

  However, Isabel had never shirked a duty in her life. She’d made plenty of mistakes, some of which, like this one, she owed to her impulsive nature, but at least she knew when and how to face the consequences. With a deep, unhappy sigh, she sank into the perfectly magnificent chair she’d vacated a minute or two earlier.

  Somerset smiled encouragingly. He was so kind. Isabel loved him madly. Passionately. She wished she’d accepted his proposal when he’d offered it, even if he hadn’t accompanied it with words of love.

  Staring into her lap, she murmured, “When I refused his proposal, I told him it was because I was going to marry you.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw him jerk in his chair, spilling a few droplets of sherry onto his tweed trousers. Oh, dear.

  “Uh . . . I beg your pardon?” He made a couple of tentative swipes at his trousers, but didn’t seem concerned that the sherry might stain them. He appeared too astonished to think about it, actually.

  Daring to look him in the face—after all, if she was going to be responsible for his dastardly murder, she ought at least to face him when she warned him about it—she said, “I’m so sorry, Somerset. When I refused Jorge’s proposal of marriage, he demanded to know why. I tried to put him off with vague references to someone else, but he demanded to know whom. When I couldn’t tolerate his pestering another minute, I said it was you.”

  “Me?”

  She nodded.

  His smile grew larger. Tha
t’s because he still didn’t understand. Isabel worried her lower lip between her teeth. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Please don’t be sorry. If only you meant it, I’d be the happiest man on earth.”

  She blinked at him. “You would?”

  “Yes. I want to marry you, Isabel. I already told you that.”

  “But . . . you were only being nice to me.” Remembering the problem at issue here, she waved her hand as if to clean the slate between them. Although she longed to pursue the other subject, it was Somerset’s imminent demise that was important now. “Anyhow, that’s not the problem. The problem is that Jorge threatened to kill the man who had engaged my affections.”

  “Good God.”

  “Yes! So don’t you see? I practically threw you to the wolves, Somerset! I’m so, so sorry! I didn’t even think when I mentioned your name that Jorge might kill you!” Again, guilt and worry overwhelmed her and she rose from her chair to pace. “He claims that’s what people do in the Argentine.”

  “Good God.”

  “It’s all my fault,” she went on. “It’s because I’m so concerned about that contest and the money. I wanted him to enter the contest with me, and I was afraid when I refused to marry him that he wouldn’t. When he kept after me about it, I thought that if he knew it was you, he’d understand and still be willing to be in the contest with me.” She whirled around and threw out her arms. “I’ve endangered your life for the sake of a contest! Oh, Somerset, I’m so sorry!”

  He rose from his chair and came to her. She expected him to start pacing along with her, but he didn’t. Isabel gasped when he threw his arms around her and hugged her hard.

  “Stop worrying about it, Isabel. I doubt that Jorge will do anything at all to me. Not that you aren’t worth a murder or two, but I expect he was only blowing off steam.”

  Because she couldn’t help herself, she hugged him back. She fought the impulse to close her eyes and melt into his arms. They were so strong and he was so big, and she felt so good there. Protected. Cared for. Loved.