Kissing Comfort

by Jo Goodman

  “Four months.”

  “Six weeks.”

  “Three months.”

  “Six weeks.”

  “Two months.”

  “That’s eight weeks, Bram.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Very well.” She was not gracious in concession. “But if I learn before then that you’ve been a visitor anywhere in the vicinity of Pacific Street, I will break the engagement immediately. If there is gossip about you, whether it’s whoring or gaming, I will break your thumbs. You understand that would be painful, I imagine.”

  Bram had sense enough not to laugh. There was nothing in her expression to indicate that it was an idle threat. Comfort rarely spoke about her childhood, and there were likely only a dozen or so people who knew some of the truth, and only three that knew all of it, but in spite of the success of Jones Prescott, or perhaps because of it, there was always talk. The fact that the talk was mostly whispered seemed to lend it credence. It was possible that Miss Comfort Kennedy, she of the well-modulated voice and correct manner, might indeed know a thing or two about breaking a man’s thumbs.

  “Painful,” said Bram. “Yes, I understand.”

  Comfort did not indicate that she was satisfied. She simply gave him her back and began walking toward the garden.

  “Comfort.”

  She didn’t turn. “Don’t follow me, Bram.” She could almost feel his hesitation. He wasn’t used to being held at bay, and she had never had cause to do it before this evening. She was afraid the balance of their easy friendship had shifted, and if that were so, it fell to her to keep Bram from realizing it. She could not make herself that vulnerable. “Make some excuse for me. You’ll think of something.” Well outside of his hearing, she added, “You always do.”

  Even before she stepped onto the garden path, she heard the music swell and then recede as the door to the salon was opened and closed again.

  She wondered how Bram would explain her prolonged absence, but the thought didn’t occupy her. He had a gift for making explanations, and one would come to him far more easily than one would have come to her. His knack for making the most outrageous behavior seem reasonable, even acceptable, fascinated her. She could admit, at least to herself, that she was a little envious of his talent. Except in matters of virtually no consequence, she had an almost compulsive tendency to tell the truth. Lying came hard to her, and there were times when that was more curse than blessing.

  Comfort veered away from the fountain. The steady rush of water was pleasant to her ears; the spray was not. She circled to the far side and followed the flickering torches all the way to the back of the garden. A hedgerow, carefully tended to take on a shape that was probably painful to its leaves and branches, bordered the rear of the property. Comfort removed one of her elbow-length gloves and ran her palm along the top of the hedge as she skirted the perimeter. She walked slowly, occasionally stopping to breathe deeply from the scent of the bay far beyond her. The ocean called to her from the opposite direction, still farther away, and in her mind she called back, taking the first tentative steps to the water’s edge. A ship was waiting for her, a Black Crowne ship, bound for . . .

  Adventure, she supposed. Yes. Bound for adventure.

  “You look as if you wish yourself anywhere but where you are.”

  Startled, Comfort instinctively shied away from the voice. She required only a moment to recover her wits and the glove she’d dropped. Straightening, she stared down at the intruder, a circumstance that was made possible because he was lounging on a stone bench some three feet away.

  “I might say the same of you,” she said. It was difficult not to show her agitation as she pulled on her glove.

  “I’m exactly where I wish to be.”

  “Your place is inside, Mr. DeLong. Your mother is expecting you. Her entire guest list is expecting you.”

  “And yet, I am here.”

  She noticed that he didn’t stir. He remained in a half-reclining position in the corner of the bench, an arm extended across the scrolled back, one leg drawn up at the knee and the other stretched and angled in her direction. He regarded her without any particular interest, as if he were already bored by their brief exchange. It made her wonder why he’d spoken in the first place. She might easily have passed without noticing him. Almost immediately, she corrected herself. For reasons she did not entirely understand, failing to notice Beauregard DeLong had never been possible.

  Comfort was glad of the shadow play across his face. His eyes were a most peculiar shade of blue-violet, and to be the subject of his study was to be pinned in place by twin points of light glancing off polished steel.

  “Are you going inside?” she asked.

  “I haven’t decided. Are you?”

  “I’ve been inside all evening, Mr. DeLong.”

  “Bode.”

  Comfort acknowledged this preference with a slight nod. She couldn’t imagine that she’d ever be that familiar with him. From Bram she knew that his older brother’s name had been too much of a mouthful, even for a child as precocious as Beauregard was alleged to have been. He repeated what he thought he was hearing all around him. Beauregard DeLong. Beau DeLong. Bode Long. The most difficult part of the story for Comfort to imagine was that Beau DeLong had ever been a child.

  “Would you like to sit?” asked Bode.

  As he didn’t move, Comfort considered the invitation suspect. She had never thought of him as someone who embraced formalities, so perhaps it was only that he was tired of looking up at her. “No, thank you.”

  “As you like.”

  Bode didn’t shrug, but it was as if he had. Comfort wondered that he could communicate so much carelessness in so few words. Nodding again, this time as a parting gesture, Comfort took the first backward step to remove herself from his presence. She came up short when he spoke.

  “I noticed you and Bram in earnest discussion on the portico.”

  Comfort stared at him and said stiffly, “You should have made yourself known.”

  “Perhaps. I thought it impolite to interrupt.”

  “It is far more impolite to eavesdrop.”

  “It is. And so I came over here.” A short, soft laugh rose from the back of his throat. “You don’t believe me.”

  She didn’t deny it. “I suppose I’m wondering at what point you left.”

  “Do you imagine listening to your conversation with my brother was a temptation? I assure you it was not. My only thought was escape. I saw you, and I left. And why wouldn’t I? Your presence there gave me another opportunity to avoid that crush inside. Who are all those people?”

  “Your friends.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Your mother and Bram say they are.”

  “Then they must be.”

  Comfort sighed. “You’ve known about this party, haven’t you? For how long?”

  “Just about as long as my mother.”

  She smiled a bit ruefully. His answer was not unexpected. “I suppose her excitement made all the secret planning perfectly transparent.”

  “Something like that.”

  Comfort had hoped for a less enigmatic reply. “You’ll be appropriately surprised, won’t you?”

  “Is it important to you?”

  Not understanding the question, she frowned. “To me? It’s important to your mother.”

  “I’m certain it is, but that’s not what I asked.”

  “I don’t see why it matters.” When he said nothing and let silence become a burden, she answered. “It’s important to me because it will give your mother pleasure. She deserves that.”

  “We are all deserving.”

  “I hope so.”

  Bode tapped the back of the bench with his index finger. “What has your part been?”

  “My part?”

  “Mother elicited your support. She can’t have a secretary to help her manage her affairs, so she relies on those trusted people within her sphere of influence.” He paused, ar
ching an eyebrow. “Are you going to tell me she didn’t rely on you?”

  “I assisted her with the guest list.” One corner of her mouth lifted. “And the menu.” The quirky line of her lips became more defined. “And the seating arrangements.” Laughing softly, she added, “And I auditioned four separate stringed orchestras before I hired this one.”

  “Then you’re also invested in the success of this party.”

  “I suppose I am.”

  He considered her answer for a long moment before he made his decision. “Then you’d better help me up.”

  Comfort stared at him. “Help you—” She stopped talking and rushed forward to lend assistance when he began to push himself to his feet. There was no mistaking that standing required his full attention and effort.

  Comfort took his right arm and brought it around her shoulders, supporting him as best she could. She was tall, but he was taller still, and the fit presented no difficulty for either of them.

  “What happened?” she asked. “Where are you injured?”

  “My back.”

  She glanced at him, saw his grimace when he stepped forward, and paused to allow him to catch his breath. “Can you make it with only my assistance? Perhaps I should summon more help.”

  “I hobbled here on my own. Your support is sufficient.” To prove it, he took a more confident step. This time his lips didn’t twist into a perversion of a smile. “By the time we reach the doors, I’ll be able to walk unaided.”

  Comfort kept her doubts to herself. She slid an arm around his waist to steady him. “You haven’t said what happened.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  Recognizing that she held the upper hand, no matter how briefly, Comfort decided to take advantage. She stopped cold and halted his forward progress. For the first time since happening upon him, torchlight bathed Bode’s face, and when Comfort’s glance swiveled sideways, she saw clearly what the shadows had concealed.

  His face was distorted by the swelling in his left cheek. It was only a matter of time before it took over his eye. Dried blood defined a slash just below and a little to the right of his chin. A cut on his forehead disappeared into his hairline.

  She sighed with great feeling. “Did you give as good as you got?”

  “At least that good, I hope.”

  “The police? They were notified?”

  “And further delay my arrival? No. I didn’t make a report.”

  “I see. What happened to the miscreant who assaulted you?”

  “Miscreants,” he corrected, offering a slim smile. “All away, I fear, run off by a gang of young ruffians who then relieved me of my money and what remained of my dignity.”

  “Then you’ll have no justice.”

  “It seems unlikely.”

  Comfort braced herself to take Bode’s weight again. “I think we should use an entrance other than the salon.”

  “That was my intention before I came upon you and Bram. The first side door I tried to use was barred.”

  “Bram insisted. He was concerned that with so much attention on the salon, the rest of the house was ripe for plunder. I think we’ll find the servants’ entrance open. If not, I can slip inside the salon and find someone who will open it.” She slowed their progress as they reached the fountain and invited him to rest for a moment.

  Bode refused the offer. “Too many kinks to work out,” he said. “It’s better if we keep going.”

  “Very well, but if your back seizes again, allow me to shoulder more of your weight.” She was uncertain of his response. It might have been laughter; it might have been a growl. Neither communicated cooperation. When she considered it, it was rather astonishing that he’d asked for her help at all. That must have pained him every bit as much as his back.

  “Where were you assaulted?”

  “Not more than fifty yards from the Black Crowne warehouse.”

  “So you were on your way home.”

  “I was on my way here.”

  The distinction was not lost on Comfort. Bram lived in the family home with his mother. Bode lived above the shipping offices on Montgomery Street and had done so since returning from the war. Comfort was not privy to the reason Bode chose to live apart from his family, and Bram was often uncharacteristically tight-lipped where Bode was concerned. Her encounters with Bode had always been brief, mostly in passing, and for her at least, accompanied by a fine element of tension that annoyed her and appeared to amuse him. Bram made a point of steering her clear of Bode when he was around, but she had a niggling suspicion that this was done more for Bram’s sake than hers. “Will you recognize your assailants if you see them again?”

  “Which ones?”

  “The ones that waylaid you first.”

  “Then no, but I think I know where to find the young ruffians. They might be able to identify the others, if they can be compelled to talk. On principle, they’re against speaking out.”

  “Honor among thieves?”

  “More likely fear of retaliation if any one of them talks. And by retaliation, I mean disfigurement or death. My attackers were probably Rangers.”

  The Rangers were the most fearsome of the gangs operating in the Barbary Coast. No one faced them down, although the newspapers regularly pointed out their vices, reported the harrowing accounts of their victims, and called for them to be rounded up and expelled from the city.

  Comfort felt Bode’s eyes on her again, as though trying to decide what she knew or had heard about the Rangers. Had he meant to shock her or prove to himself that she could not be shocked? If it was a test, she had no idea whether she passed or failed. She was relieved when they reached the portico and Bode indicated that they would go on. They were more than halfway to their goal.

  “You were fortunate to have survived the encounter,” she said evenly. “I’ve never heard of the Rangers being run off by anyone.”

  “That occurred to me also, but those boys swarmed like locusts.” He gestured toward the servants’ entrance. “The kitchen will be as crowded as the salon,” he said. “But I think I know all of the staff. I can’t say the same for the guests.”

  Comfort ignored that. If the guest list included people he did not count as his friends, he was still acquainted with them. They were business associates, men of power and influence, traders, bankers, railroad men, politicians, and speculators, and Beau DeLong stood shoulder to shoulder with them. They’d come to wish him well, and quite possibly to use the opportunity to settle some bit of business, but mostly they’d come to wish him happy on his thirty-second birthday.

  “There is considerably less hesitation in your step,” she said.

  Bode nodded. “You can ease away if you like.”

  “When we reach the door.”

  They negotiated the stone steps that led down to the kitchen with considerable care. Comfort was glad she hadn’t abandoned him. He was favoring his left leg, and she suspected the injury to his back was now radiating pain as far as his knee.

  “I understand the bruises and cuts to your face,” she said. “But what happened to your back? Were you kicked?”

  The truth was less palatable. “Tripped.”

  “You tripped or you were tripped?”

  “Is that an important distinction?”

  “Perhaps not to you, Mr. DeLong, but I would like to know if there’s amusement to be had at your expense or if I must continue to feel sorry for you.”

  “I stumbled over my own feet trying to avoid the point of a knife.”

  “Well,” she said, vaguely disappointed. “It’s difficult to know how to respond to that.” Comfort reached for the door and turned the knob, testing whether she’d be able to ease it open. At first she thought it was barred, but a second push made it give way. “If you don’t want to be seen, I can manage to distract the staff long enough for you to take the back stairs to your old bedroom. I’ll send Hitchens to you. He’ll see to your cuts and draw you a bath.”

  “Send Sam Travers. Hi
tchens will report to Alexandra straightaway.”

  It struck her oddly that he referred to his mother by her Christian name, but she didn’t comment. “All right.” She looked him over, gauging his ability to manage the staircase on his own. The narrowness of the passage would assist him, because he could brace himself on either side as he climbed. “Shall I tell Bram that you’ve arrived?”

  “No.” He touched his swelling eye. “There will be no hiding this. Does any reasonable explanation come to mind?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Comfort wondered what it was about his brief, mocking smile that drew her attention away from his eye. “Bram is the one you should ask.”

  “Yes, he is.” He fell silent for a moment. “No matter. Something will occur to me.”

  Regarding the whole of his battered face again, Comfort meant her smile to be encouraging, but she suspected it lacked confidence. She had never heard anything about Beauregard DeLong that led her to believe he had a facility for telling less than the bald truth. It made him feared. Indeed, all evidence to the contrary, now that he’d set his jaw tightly enough to make a muscle jump in his cheek, he was not a man who had been beaten. She did not think he had ever needed her help, or perhaps anyone’s.

  Disquieted by his steady, frank regard, Comfort felt her smile fading. For the second time in the course of the evening, she wished herself anywhere but where she was. Giving him the faintest of nods, she turned away to slip into the kitchen, where the activity remained loud and furious. She hadn’t taken a step when she felt Bode’s fingertips brush her elbow. She wanted to ignore him. Instead, she looked back.

  “Does my brother know that you’re in love with him?”

  Of all the things he might have said, this question was easily the least expected. Comfort knew what it was to have the blood drain from her face, and she felt it again now. A chill crept under her skin, and beneath the smooth crown of her ebony hair, her scalp prickled.

  “Yes,” she said. She spoke quickly, too quickly, and it made her wonder how he would interpret it. She swallowed, all but choking on the lie, and was unnaturally pleased that she could meet his gaze directly. On the heels of that hubris, she realized that it was truer that she couldn’t look away. She did what was left to her and made her features expressionless. “That is, I should hope so. He announced our engagement this evening.”