Perry knew how to disappear.
There was a stirring from one side of the room, the hiss of a sliding panel being drawn back. A man walked in, wrapped in dignity, his dark silk suit dull in the dimness. Two hatchetmen followed, and a smaller individual with wire spectacles and a humble air.
The boss seated himself in the carved mahogany chair and regarded Perry for a length of time undoubtedly meant to intimidate. Perry met his dark gaze unflinchingly. Inspection apparently completed, the boss signaled to one of his men and spoke swiftly in another language.
The bespectacled man moved up, bowing. "The master wishes to know if you will have tea, sir."
"I'm afraid I haven't time for pleasantries. I'm here on a matter of business. To our mutual benefit."
The interpreter repeated some approximation of Perry's words to his master with much humble posturing. The boss was either bored or annoyed; he uttered a few terse comments and waited for his man to render them in English.
"The master wishes to know what you want with him."
Perry leaned back in his chair. "You may tell your master that I know what you're planning to do about Mr. O'Shea, and I think I can be of help to you."
The interpreter was a little less efficient in his work this time, and his boss less happy. "And what," he said, "makes you so certain you can be of use to us, Mr. Sinclair? We have many outsiders working for us already."
"Because I know O'Shea very well. I'm his closest friend, as it happens."
The boss leaned back, stroking the expensive silk of his jacket. "And so?"
"I also know about his secret operations," Perry said. "The ones that have been so inconvenient to your business. I have reason to believe he's organizing another raid, and I may be able to provide you with details."
"I see."
"And if that's not enough, I may be able to get rid of him for you. I'm well aware that you can't afford to go about your… attempts on Mr. O'Shea too obviously unless you want the police down on your head. Some of them do remain uncorrupted and only require a good reason to put an end to your very profitable transactions." Perry smiled coldly. "I can take care of O'Shea without any risk to you. But only if you leave it to me and don't interfere."
"And what do you expect for this… service?"
"As I said, you run a very profitable business. I need money. I'm sure we can work out a mutually satisfactory agreement."
When the translation was done the boss sat very still in his chair while the hatchetmen shifted and looked as if they'd like nothing better than to make use of the weapons for which they'd been so aptly named. One of them even leaned down to speak into the ear of his boss, making a chopping motion with his hand.
But Perry knew he'd succeeded when the boss signaled again and the interpreter scurried out to return with an exquisite tea service on a delicate enameled tray.
"Perhaps we may be of aid to each other," the boss said. His servant presented a steaming cup to Perry and returned to his master. "Now we shall seal our bargain."
Perry took the fragile cup, inhaling the subtle fragrance. And waited.
The boss sipped his tea. Perry did the same without further hesitation.
If the tong leader had decided not to trust him, he could easily have poisoned the tea. No one knew Perry had come here; few would ever miss him. But the risk was worth taking. The stakes had gone too high.
There was absolutely nothing left to lose.
Chapter Sixteen
Tell her the joyous time
will not be stayed
Unless she do him by
the forelock take.
—Edmund Spenser
SHE'D BLOWN IT but good.
Mac felt a trickle of sweat run down the front of her bodice as she watched the masked and costumed society couples perform a quadrille on the Gresham's elegant parquet ballroom floor. She plucked at her elbow-length gloves, longing to peel them off. In spite of open windows and the late hour, so fashionable for nineteenth-century balls, the room was stifling. Ten pounds more or less of ball gown didn't help—even though it left the upper part of her arms bare and plunged in front a little too low for comfort.
At least she'd put her foot down at the idea of a full costume. The half-mask she wore had the advantage of making her feel a little more anonymous. Caroline's instruction during the past two weeks hadn't appreciably improved Mac's talent for dancing, so Mac was relegated to the status of wallflower for every dance but the waltz.
Thank God. Six weeks in the past and she still felt as if she were on a movie set.
The movie set of a historical farce, at that. A farce in which she, the heroine, had messed up history and couldn't seem to put it right again.
Everything had gone downhill after Caroline's rebellion at Cliff House and Mac's confrontation with Liam on the beach. She'd hardly had two words from Liam since, even though she'd been at the Gresham home so often she might as well have moved in.
And she hadn't seen Perry at all. It was as if her great-great-grandfather had literally disappeared—a circumstance that made Mac extremely uneasy. Her careful questions to Liam had been ignored, and Caroline had clammed up and looked on the verge of tears when Perry's name was mentioned.
It had been a thoroughly lovely fortnight. Liam hadn't let Caroline out of the Gresham mansion. The big surprise was that Liam not only allowed Mac to see Caroline, but had actually encouraged long visits. And those visits were almost always in his presence, since he'd made himself a part of the furniture from dawn to midnight every day. Mac suspected he'd decided she was the lesser of two evils—though given their last conversation, she was amazed that he'd let her within spitting distance of his precious ward.
Or maybe he thought he'd rather have Mac underfoot than out conspiring somewhere with Perry. He permitted Caroline Mac's company because he wouldn't let her have anyone else's until the ball, except a few girlfriends for occasional tea or a brief gossip. And, of course, the indispensable dressmaker.
Mac had learned more than she ever wanted to know about Victorian female gossip, fashion, and etiquette. Caroline had seesawed between "perfect ladyship" and moody silences, treating Mac either as a long-lost friend or a hopeless rustic who didn't know Spanish lace from Irish.
She might not win an Oscar for "Best Modern Woman Impersonating a Victorian Lady in a Historical Drama," but at least Mac wasn't giving herself away badly enough to be thought anything but eccentric by Caroline's friends.
That's me. Eccentric Mac, who knows damned well she doesn't belong here. And she also knew damned well that time was ticking away. Literally. She was treading water pretending to be what she wasn't in a society that wasn't hers. And until she found a way out of this mess, she was stuck here.
It wasn't just her heart she'd be leaving in nineteenth-century San Francisco. If she could leave…
She pushed that thought away and snapped open her fan. No point in thinking about how she was supposed to get home until she had a reason to.
There was one good thing to think about. Liam may have been ignoring her, at best being frigidly polite—but he wasn't conceding much more to his bride-to-be. Mac hadn't seen any sign that he'd asked Caroline to marry him. He certainly hadn't tried to reprise his kiss at Cliff House. To the contrary: he seemed bent on making himself as much a living example of menacing and omnipresent implacability as was humanly possible. If there was love on Liam's part, Mac hadn't observed it.
She flexed her feet in their dancing slippers, longing for her sneakers—or even her worn-out hiking boots. Damn it, where was Perry? Caroline had been confident that he would never miss her birthday ball, no matter what had caused his long absence.
Mac was reasonably sure Caroline was right. If Perry were able to come.
Good grief.
The quadrille ended, and the hired orchestra struck up a waltz. Mac faded back against the wall, determined not to be dragged out again by some well-meaning, tailcoated male who would grab a peek down her décolle
tage.
Her vigilance was rewarded. She was left alone to watch Liam walk onto the ballroom floor—Liam, leading Caroline to the center of the room. A Liam who had never looked so elegant—or so much like a cat among pigeons. Or a tiger pretending to be a house cat.
He wore his black and white, perfectly cut evening clothes as well as he'd worn khaki and canvas in the jungle. This was not his milieu, but when he stalked forward crowds parted for him like the Red Sea before Charlton Heston. He was the ideal blend of danger and elegance: Tarzan visiting his estates in England, James Bond in the rough, a fair-haired god of Adventure. A woman would have to be blind not to notice.
Caroline wasn't blind. And you'd never know from watching them dance that Liam had been cold and Caroline sullen for most of the past two weeks. Liam's dancing wasn't elegant—it was powerful, sweeping Caroline about the room like a feather in a hurricane. And Caroline was an exotic bird in her costume gown of brilliant green silk and burgundy satin ribbons.
At the moment they were very much a couple, though Liam was almost twice Caroline's age. Both fair-haired and pale-eyed, both gorgeous, both from the same century.
And Caroline gazed at Liam, flushed and laughing, as if she were transfixed by the wild stare of a frightening and fascinating predator…
Damn, Mac thought with feeling. Damn damn damn damn da—
"You aren't dancing, Rose?" someone asked from the general direction of a nearby potted plant.
She knew the voice, though the man who came up beside her was wearing a black cape and a mask that covered most of his face.
"Perry?"
He raised a gloved finger to his lips. "Quietly, my dear. I doubt Liam would be pleased to see me here."
Mac eased farther back against the wall and pretended not to notice him. "Where have you been?" she demanded in a whisper.
"Ah. I'd wondered if my absence would be noted."
"Noted? That's putting it mildly. Liam's been grim as death, Caroline's been sulking, I haven't been able to get an explanation out of anyone, and now you turn up in disguise—"
"All with good reason, I assure you."
"Such as? Maybe the fact that Liam was pretty mad at you following that stunt you pulled at Cliff House? I'd say that backfired for sure."
"It was hardly a 'stunt,' as you put it. There is a purpose in everything I do."
I wonder, Mac thought. "In that case, seeing as we're allies, maybe you could fill me in. Liam has virtually locked Caroline away. You've left him a completely clear field."
"I've been well aware what goes on in the Gresham and O'Shea households," he said coolly, "including your lack of progress with Liam. It was your intention to attract his interest, was it not?" He smoothed his immaculate white waistcoat. "You assured me you'd do anything to win him from Caroline."
"I don't see how I could have done much of anything, with Liam stuck to Caroline like glue. I've only seen him in Caroline's house—Hey, wait a minute. What do you mean, you know everything that goes on?"
"I have my methods. And kindly don't gape, Rose."
She looked back toward the dancers. "Somehow I don't like the sound of that."
He shrugged. "One of us has to look out for our mutual concerns. I'd hoped that in my absence you might find it easier to deal with Liam. Plainly that was not the case."
"So what did you want me to do? Kidnap him?"
"That might not be a bad idea," he muttered.
The small hairs rose on the back of her neck. "Excuse me?"
Even from several feet away Mac could feel Perry's intensity—an almost palpable aura she usually associated only with Liam.
Determination. Tenacity. Ruthlessness.
"You didn't disappear just to make it easier on me," Mac said. "We were supposed to work together on this. If I don't know what you have in mind—"
"I have in mind to stop Caroline from marrying Liam," he said. "And I'm afraid it has become necessary to take more drastic measures to assure it doesn't happen."
There was a flat certainty in his words that chilled Mac through the layers of stifling gown, though she'd been thinking along the exact same lines. "Why now?" she asked.
He touched his upper lip, and Mac realized with a shock that he'd shaved his mustache. "I told you that Liam was planning to propose on her birthday. After tonight he'll no longer have control over her fortune, but he wields enough authority and influence over Caroline that I fear she will accept him."
"Then why didn't you take the risk of asking her yourself?"
"She isn't ready." Perry paused to observe Liam and Caroline dancing—watching with an almost frightening concentration, as if he could reach out and pluck Caroline from Liam's arms by sheer force of will. "The situation is delicately balanced. To push the issue now would play into Liam's hands. She needs time."
"Which we don't have."
"The carriage accident complicated matters considerably—"
"Carriage accident?" Mac interrupted. "What are you talking about?"
"The Beautiful Blue Danube" rolled by uninterrupted for several excruciating seconds.
"Then Liam didn't tell you?" Perry said. "I shouldn't be surprised. I knew you weren't in the surrey when the accident occurred, but—"
Mac closed the space between them in a few awkward strides and barely restrained herself from grabbing the satin edges of his cape. "What the hell are you talking about?"
He told her in so many dry, colorless words. Mac searched his eyes.
"How did it happen?"
"My sources tell me the axle was sawed halfway through."
She went very still. "Then you're saying it was deliberate. Someone wanted the carriage to crash."
And it must have happened after he dropped me off. Damn it, Liam, why didn't you give me some clue…
"Someone," she said coldly, "wanted to kill Liam."
"So it would seem. And judging by your expression, Rose, you're remembering Liam's accusations at the Palace, and wondering if I had anything to do with it."
Her eyes narrowed. "You disappeared after this so-called accident—"
"Given Liam's earlier suspicion and our recent contretemps, it wasn't difficult to guess where he'd assign the blame for the latest mishap." He held her gaze steadily. "Come, Rose. If I bore Liam such fatal ill will, why would I volunteer this information and earn your suspicion as well as his?"
He had a very good point, and yet—"How can I be sure? I hardly know you."
"But you of all people should understand what it is to be falsely accused of a crime. If I wanted him dead, I would have found a far more efficient means of committing the deed. Either you trust me, or we are both in very hot water."
What he said made a grim kind of sense. Somehow she couldn't see Perry trying to kill someone and making a mess of it not once, but twice.
"Even if I take your word," she said, "Liam won't."
"All the more reason for me to remain incognito—for the time being. That is in your hands, Rose. Do you trust me?"
"I don't have much choice. But I warn you, Perry—" She stared him down with fierce determination. "If you try to hurt Liam in any way, you'll regret it."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "I wonder if Liam appreciates what a vigilant protector he has in you, Rose. You would make a formidable enemy. But have no fear. There is no need to kill Liam to secure Caroline's happiness." He glanced quickly about the room. "You must be prepared to act quickly and do whatever is necessary if we're to keep this marriage from taking place."
"And what do you think will be necessary?"
"The dance has almost ended. I can't linger here. I have my own work to do." He was distracted as the music finished in a grand Viennese flourish. "I hope you were not exaggerating the attraction between you and Liam. You may have a chance to put it to the test very soon."
"What—"
"Be ready for my message."
"Wait! If you had nothing to do with the accident, then who—"
; But he was already gone. The waltz was ended, and Liam and Caroline had left the floor. Mac spotted Caroline gossiping with a group of girls her own age, fully absorbed in the activity.
And Liam—Liam was crossing the room at a brisk pace, headed for the wide double doors to the rear of the chamber. The Gresham butler, Biggs, was waiting for him. The two men slipped out of the room with a definite air of secrecy.
Mac's mind was full of Perry's news of the carriage accident, his claims of innocence, and the frightening implications that arose from those assumptions.
Regardless of what had happened in the jungle, someone had acted against Liam here in San Francisco. Someone had tried to kill Liam in the guise of an accident. He wasn't a subtle man; she wouldn't be surprised if he'd made a number of enemies throughout his life.
If Perry was innocent, then someone else had a motive. That person could, at this very moment, be arranging another attempt.
And it was entirely beyond Mac's control to interfere. Unless…
She didn't hesitate further. She had to find Liam—irrational, perhaps, but she had to make sure he was all right. She retraced the way Liam and Biggs had gone, hugging the wall and hoping no one noticed.
There was something to be said for being a wallflower. Her departure went unremarked. She got the heavy ballroom doors open without undue difficulty and closed them behind her. A dark wood-paneled hallway ran along the side of the ballroom; all Mac could hear was the echoing sound from the ballroom itself.
Until she caught the unmistakable timbre of Liam's voice from somewhere down the hall. The sound started a hum in her body just below where her snug bodice ended.
She pressed a hand to her belly and walked toward the origin of Liam's voice. It came from behind a closed door—and there was another voice in the room with it, faintly accented.
The door was thick, but it was not impermeable. It was also open a very convenient crack. Another chance to develop my newfound skills at eavesdropping, Mac thought wryly. She did a quick scan of the hall to make sure it was empty and pressed herself as close to the door as she could.
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