The soprano responded graciously to this public adoration. She blew kisses; she clasped hands; she patted toddlers' heads. When Sadie spied Sister Abigail, squinting happily in Dolce's wake, she deduced the reason for the scheduling mix-up: Sister Abigail couldn't see three feet in front of her nose. No doubt the woman had assumed, from Dolce's accent, that the soprano was the contessa.
Great. I can't approach Fowler now; Dolce will expose me as a fraud!
Tossing a dagger's glance at Rebekah—who was smirking in the most annoying way—Sadie ducked her head, turned up her coat collar, and hurried past the opera enthusiasts. In her haste to escape with her cover intact, she didn't notice how the Mexican roused himself to follow.
Twilight was rapidly stretching its tentacles over the Rockies. Sadie ducked behind a tower of cider kegs, located a discreet distance from the tent flaps. She didn't know where Fowler fleeced his lambs, but she reasoned his quarters couldn't be far.
Glad to spy no other stragglers, arriving late for the meeting, Sadie studied the grounds. About 20 yards from the Big Top, the makeshift boardwalk abruptly ended. Countless impressions in the ground told how hooves, wheels, and boots had trampled the grass that once carpeted the area. Now, only a few bedraggled islands of green rose amidst the frosted mud ruts. To the north, horses huddled for warmth before rough-hewn hitching posts. To the south, crisscrossing foot trails led to a road, which in turn disappeared into a stand of spruces.
Eureka. Sadie hiked her skirts. Hopefully, Dolce will keep Fowler distracted long enough for me to search his wagon.
Thunder rumbled. Brisk gusts of wind knocked tree limbs together, causing icicles to snap. Sadie shivered. A Texican by birth, she'd spent the last five months on assignment in her native state, sweating bullets in a drought. When headquarters had sent the urgent wire about Minx, Sadie had hopped the first train to Denver. She hadn't anticipated the need to adjust to a 50-degree drop in temperature overnight. Nor had she thought to stop at some emporium along the way to purchase a decent pair of boots. She'd been too busy ditching her favorite nuisance: a silver-tongued gunslinger, better known as "Eros in Spurs" in polite society.
And as Lucifire in my bed.
Her lips curved at the memory.
William "Cass" Cassidy was as hot as the devil's pitchfork with a temper to match. The snoop had learned how headquarters wanted her to investigate the disappearance of a fellow Lady Pinkerton—or Pinkie, as female agents were affectionately called. Cass wasn't the least bit convinced that women should wear badges, especially in a city where the chief of police was even more corrupt than its mayor. He'd insisted on tagging along for her protection.
Sadie had been equally insistent that Cass butt out of her Pinkerton affairs. He might be a newly minted Ranger in Texas, but in Colorado, he was still wanted for three counts of stage coach robbery.
Unfortunately, Cass had been determined to give her boss a piece of his mind. To prevent him from smashing Allan Pinkerton's face—or worse—Sadie had let the tawny-haired heartthrob tucker himself out, pleasuring her with whipping cream and drizzled honey. Shortly before dawn, while Cass had been recuperating from his erotic feast, she'd snapped manacles on his wrists and dumped his three lock picks—yes, three lock picks!—out the train's window.
Thus, while her lover had snoozed, blissfully unaware that he'd need a hacksaw to cut himself from his berth, she'd fled to Fort Worth's stage depot and had finally arrived for her debriefing in Allan Pinkerton's secret railroad car.
With any luck, Cass is still speeding his way toward sunny Laredo.
Sadie smirked at the thought.
But as she entered the grove of spruces, her amusement ebbed. Here, the bristling tree sentinels blotted most of the light from the sky. The deeper she roamed, the denser the shadows grew. When she finally entered a clearing big enough for a circle of wagons, her relief was short-lived. Judging by the wheel ruts, the abandoned wood piles, and the ashes scattered across the snow, Fowler's troop had camped here and moved on.
Damn. Where'd they go?
Teeth chattering, she hugged her muff to her chest and trudged a few yards further, wincing when her ankles wobbled on their spiky heels. She didn't know what bothered her more, the pits in the road or the unnatural silence of the conifer forest.
Suddenly, a twig snapped behind her. She gasped and turned. With her Smith & Wesson cocked inside her muff, she raked tawny eyes over the hulking shadows around her. Above the hammering of her heart, her straining ears could hear nothing but the soughing of the wind.
Then a white-tailed deer stepped onto the path.
Her breath loosed in a shaky rush.
'What were you expecting?' she scolded herself. 'An ax-murdering ghost from the spook show?'
She shoved her pistol back up her sleeve and yanked her foot from a hole. That's when she heard the ominous sound that every fashionable female dreads: the crack of a breaking heel.
Son of a—
She'd only just begun to curse when a fine, freezing drizzle pelted the top of her sable hat.
It's official. I'm in hell.
The deer fled, probably because she was hopping on one foot and swearing like a bawd in a low-rent crib. But as she tried—unsuccessfully—to snap her other heel, she heard the rattle of an approaching carriage.
Praise the Lord. He hasn't forsaken me yet.
The vehicle was coming fast. Through ice-encrusted trees, she glimpsed polished brass lanterns and a perfectly matched team of Morgans—sure signs of wealth. She didn't recognize the crest on the carriage doors, but she reasoned that hitching a ride with rich folk was better than limping a quarter mile back to the spook show on one heel.
As the carriage rounded the bend, she hobbled to the intersection and waved her arms like a windmill. The whip, whose hat dripped icicles, didn't look inclined to stop. And who could blame him? The way the rain was pelting down, she probably looked like she'd fished a drowned rat from the river and plopped it on her head.
Fortunately, the hansom's occupants were more altruistic.
"Good heavens!" a young female exclaimed, rolling up the isinglass curtain. "Stop the carriage!"
The whip muttered, but he obliged. The vehicle bounced to a halt, spraying sludge all over Sadie.
She scowled, wiping a dollop of mud from her chin.
Luckily for you, pal, my study of Riggoletto didn't supply me with the vocabulary to lambast coach drivers.
The door swung wide, revealing an attractive, dark-haired couple, dressed in evening finery. The gentleman sized her up, his right hand tucked inside his hip pocket. No doubt he gripped a pistol, which meant he travelled smart. Lawless bands of road agents weren't above roughing up a woman, forcing her to play decoy for a robbery. If Sadie wanted on that coach, she would have to invent a sob story—and fast.
"Oh, grazie, signore. Grazie!" she gushed. "I am hopelessly lost in your wretched, American wilderness, and I think I was being chased by il lupo. A wolf!"
"A wolf?!" The dainty, blue-eyed female, who couldn't have been a day over 21, looked aghast. "You poor darling! You must be Lady Fiore, the Contessa di Montaldeo! I read in the Rocky how you came to Denver to attend Rothchild's art auction."
The gentleman tossed his companion a warning glance. "Madam," he addressed Sadie more warily, "you are quite safe now. I see nothing to indicate that you've been followed."
"And even if you were," his companion chimed in staunchly, "Dante is a crack shot. He'd turn that wolf into a pelt for sure!"
"My ward is understandably biased," Dante said in a smooth, cultured baritone that suggested Boston roots.
Repairing his lapse in chivalry, he stepped into the drizzle and swept a formal bow. When he straightened, Sadie found herself locking stares with one of the most alluringly sensual men she'd ever met. He sported a beaver top hat and a form-fitting Chesterfield overcoat, which accentuated his broad shoulders and lean waist. His eyes were dark and mesmerizing, and the cleft in his clean-shaven chin
lent him an air of nobility. Sadie guessed him to be about 35 years old.
"Permit me to introduce my companion properly," Dante said. "This is Miss Wyntir Grayfell. And I am Dr. Dante Goddard, at your service."
Dante Goddard? The eminent psychiatrist?
Sadie's mood brightened at this stroke of good fortune. During her debriefing in Pinkerton's private railroad car, she'd learned how Minx had consulted with Dante, as well as a psychology professor, named Mendel Baines. At the time, Minx had been trying to determine if a wealthy dowager, named Lilybelle Welbourn, was as senile as her daughter-in-law claimed. More to the point, Minx had wanted to know if Lilybelle had been hoodwinked out of a fortune in heirloom jewelry by Enoch Fowler and his "spooks."
"Grazie, Dottore Goddard," Sadie said when he shrugged off his overcoat and wrapped it around her shoulders. The wool was heavy and toasty-warm. Dragging it closer, she enjoyed the civilized fragrances of him: applewood tobacco, lemon-spice cologne, and cedar hair tonic. "You and Signorina Greyfell are the answer to my prayers."
"We shall see you to your hotel," he assured her warmly. "Come."
But as Sadie stepped forward, her remaining heel skated on ice. One moment, she was flailing for dear life; the next moment, she was clinging to Dante's neck and sliding down a chest like Colorado granite. When their stares locked, she glimpsed golden flecks, like kindling fires, in his dark eyes.
She sucked in her breath.
After working for 11 years as a professional seductress, Sadie had thought herself immune to masculine beauty. But with Dante's arm locked around her waist, and her muddy pumps dangling helplessly above his shoes, she couldn't quite bite back a nervous giggle. His lips curved in a lazy smile, leaving no doubt he was accustomed to making females giddy.
"Grazie, dottore." Sadie's cheeks flamed. She vowed to take an ax to her traitorous heel at the first opportunity.
"Please. Call me Dante. All my friends do."
I'll bet your patients do too. While they're naked on your couch.
"And you must call me Fiore," she said gamely, recovering her composure. Might as well strike while the iron is hot.
He helped her into the carriage, and she settled beside Wyntir, who fussed like a mother hen, shoving a brassier under her seat.
"Lady Fiore, I'm sorry you've had such a fright," Wyntir said, uncorking a silver flask and reaching for a demitasse cup. "Turkish coffee? To warm you up?"
Sadie wasn't a big fan of café; tequila was more to her liking. However, she was willing to make an exception, if only to thaw the blood in her fingertips.
Suddenly, from the corner of her eye, she spied a flash in the drizzle. Seeking the source of that light, she peered through the window and scanned the embankment. Through the ribbons of mist weaving through the spruces, she spotted the man in the vaquero hat. He was holstering his gun.
Damn! I knew I was being followed!
"Fiore?" Dante prompted as the coach lurched forward. "Is something wrong?"
For a moment, she struggled with guilt, worried that she'd endangered civilians. Then she reasoned that the Mexican would have already plugged her if he was willing to risk a murder warrant to snatch her emeralds. No, he was probably biding his time, waiting to see where she lodged so he could search her hotel room for plunder.
Based on that assessment, Sadie guessed the Mexican couldn't be Maestro. Denver's Prince of Thieves had no qualms about leaving corpses in his wake. By accepting this mission, she'd also had to accept that her emerald bait would attract opportunistic riffraff.
With as much dignity as she could muster, she pasted on a smile for Dante and tried to forget how her curls were hanging in disarray and her skirts were dripping with slush. "Si, dottore. All is well. You are my hero. And you, signorina, are my angel. I am so grateful for your willingness to drive me back to the Windsor Hotel."
Wyntir blushed as she passed the steaming demitasse cup. "Think nothing of it, Lady Fiore. Any good Christian would have done the same. You see, Dante?" Wyntir added with a touch of asperity. "There was a reason to take the high road today. Just like Brother Enoch said."
Distaste flickered over Dante's face. "An inspiring message, to be sure—if one could overlook the messenger."
Sadie hid her amusement. Clearly, Dante thought little of Enoch Fowler, and that was another reason to like Dante.
"Dear Lady Fiore, please don't take offense," Wyntir said, her blush deepening to a pretty rose. "You traveled a long way, and went through a terrible ordeal, to hear the voice of God today."
Sadie decided to let Wyntir believe her romanticized version of the truth. "You must call me Fiore, carina. We are all friends now, si?"
Wyntir nodded, looking pleased. "I shudder to think what might have happened to you, if Dante and I hadn't come along. Were you harmed by that odious wolf?"
Sadie pasted on a martyr-like smile. "I am quite well. But my sable, I fear, has seen better days."
"And your necklace," Wyntir commiserated. "Your servants will be digging out the mud between all those diamonds and emeralds for hours! Goodness," the younger woman added, leaning forward to take a closer look at Sadie's collar. "That stud is truly stunning. I daresay it could rival the Namdaran jewels—which, unfortunately, you'll never get to see. They were stolen recently from our museum."
Sadie was well aware of the theft. Her supervisor, Mace Ryker (better known as Agent Sledgehammer,) was working that case.
"This trifle?" Sadie said in bored tones. She fingered the cushion-shaped emerald, which was roughly the size of a robin's egg. "My little bauble is hardly comparable to the Heart of Fire. Now that gem is worthy of your high praise. A maharajah's wedding gift to his true love? Ah, amare! But I read in the Rocky how the necklace was stolen from Signore Tabor's mansion. Che peccato—what a shame."
Wyntir nodded sadly. "A tragic affair. Horace is beside himself. His butler was like a second father to him."
"You know the lieutenant governor?" Sadie asked in some surprise.
"Oh, yes. He and Papa used to play billiards at the Gentleman's Sporting Club before... before..."
Wyntir's bottom lip trembled, and her eyes grew bright with tears.
Dante reached across the coach and gave her hand a squeeze. "You must forgive my ward," he said, offering Wyntir his handkerchief. "Mourning is especially difficult for a young woman who faces the holidays without family."
Sadie fidgeted. Nobody knew that truth better than she did.
"Fortunately," Dante continued kindly, "Wyntir has a great many friends to support her since Edmund's death. Why, all the First Families of Denver have RSVP'd for her 21st birthday party. The Moffats, Byers, Crokes, Welbourns—"
Sadie's interest increased exponentially. The Welbourns?
Wyntir's face brightened suddenly, as if a light bulb had switched on in her brain. "Dante, I've had the most wonderful idea! Fiore should come to my party! Since she's new in town, I could introduce her to all the important people, whom a contessa should know."
Sadie felt the warmth of Dante's approving gaze upon her face.
"I'm certain Denver's First Families would welcome you with open arms, Fiore," he said.
"Oh, do say yes!" Wyntir begged, giving an exuberant little bounce. "I'll send an invitation, of course, but the festivities will be held the Saturday before Thanksgiving."
Sadie was secretly thrilled that Wyntir had provided the social entrée to bait Maestro. "A birthday party would be a charming diversion," she purred.
For the rest of that journey, Wyntir couldn't stop blathering about her party. Every now and then, Dante would chime in with a droll observation about the guest list or a gentle reproach about the extravagance.
Sadie fixed a smile on her face and listened with half an ear. She kept glancing out the window and wondering if the Mexican was tailing the coach. The last time she'd had the nagging suspicion she'd been followed, a container of Greek fire had crashed through her window at Galveston's Satin Siren Casino and Saloon. She
'd barely escaped with her life, no thanks to Mace, who'd been posing as her pimp at the time.
At long last, the carriage rolled under the Windsor Hotel's porte-cochère. Sadie returned Dante's Chesterfield, and he handed her his calling card. She accepted it graciously, lingering in the hostelry's doorway to wave good-bye. The ploy allowed her to scan the courtyard for suspicious-looking characters.
To her relief, she spied no vaquero hats.
Then again, a man could remove his hat, and Larimer Street wasn't the hotel's only entrance.
Doing her best to ignore the disdainful sniffs and disapproving stares of the Windsor's illustrious guests, Sadie hurried across the lobby in her bedraggled sable. The hotel had been financed, in part, by Horace Tabor and modeled after the famous British castle, which was probably why one of the turrets flew the Union Jack. The hotel also happened to be one of Denver's fanciest, with mirrors made of crushed diamonds; a suspended dance floor (so couples felt like they were waltzing on air,) a shopping hall full of boutiques; one elevator; two grand staircases; and three restaurants, boasting legendary chefs from Europe.
Sadie's stomach rumbled at the thought. Too bad no maitre d will admit me while I look like a refugee from a mud hole!
At long last, the elevator bell dinged to announce her arrival at the fifth and final floor. She glanced warily down the hall toward her penthouse suite, which had served as Tabor's love lair until March. That's when he'd ignored the fact that he was still married to his wife of 26 years and had wed his mistress.
Men are such dogs.
Pressing a coin into the elevator operator's palm, Sadie dismissed the car and dashed for her door.
Thank God. The wax seal's still intact.
She bolted the lock behind her.
The rise of a full moon cast twisted, claw-like shadows across the rose-patterned wallpaper and the towering, black-walnut furnishings. She figured the spooky silhouettes had contributed to her renewed sense of unease. The flame in the lamp by her bed flickered at its lowest setting, just as she'd left it.
Dance to the Devil's Tune (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 2) Page 2
