He shook his head and tossed a leather satchel at Rosalind. She caught it easily, as long-forgotten childhood games rose to help.
“Carstairs, take this to McPherson in the office,” he ordered. “I’ll watch for my sister from here.”
“Yes, sir.” Rosalind took the leather satchel inside the office, realizing Hal had given her one last chance to change her mind and run from both him and the detective.
It would be easier to hide, now that she’d seen that idiotic portrait, which bore almost no resemblance to her. It was only good as a memento of the expensive ball gown her godmother had chosen. That nonsensical dress had been heavier than a sack of coal, with its seed pearl and semiprecious stone embroideries. And utterly dependent on a fancy French corset and tight lacing to provide curves.
Hal Lindsay hadn’t seemed to notice any lack. In fact, he’d been distinctly appreciative of her bosom after extricating it from her men’s clothing. She blushed at the memory.
He’d also protected her from the detective and offered her a chance to escape Kansas City, where Lennox’s tentacles crept closer and closer. She’d be a fool if she didn’t take Hal up on it—whether or not it meant sharing his bed again. And she’d do her best to be a first-rate cub pilot, of course, no matter what she thought of boats and water.
“Mr. McPherson?” she asked inside the office, instinctively pitching her voice a little deeper.
The clerk frowned at her for a moment, then relaxed. “Carstairs, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir, but I now have the honor to be Mr. Lindsay’s cub. He sent this packet for you.”
McPherson accepted the satchel. “Thanks. I’ll tell O’Neill, the Belle’s clerk, to refund your passage on the Star.”
Rosalind touched her hat in gratitude. “Thank you, sir.”
“Good luck.”
“Good day to you, sir.” She escaped into the open air, relieved that her costume and her new role had survived McPherson’s inspection.
She found Hal talking to a short, stout, but very well-dressed man outside the office. Cicero paced along the boardwalk, always within a few steps of his human. Rosalind took up her own station behind Hal’s left shoulder, comforted by his closeness.
He acknowledged her presence with a single glance, but made no offer of introductions.
Rosalind listened patiently to the conversation—something about buying Hal’s land to build more stockyards in the “West Bottoms”—and watched the railroad track atop the levee. Better to study that than the water beyond.
Suddenly a whistle blew, lighter and sweeter than a riverboat’s whistle. Rosalind’s eyes lit up as a single Central Pacific railroad engine chugged into sight along the levee, from behind the railroad bridge. An elegant private railcar—custom-built by Pullman, insisted her expert eye—followed it, the small assemblage finished off by a single caboose.
A private train, the epitome of wealth and comfort. She hadn’t had the pleasure of traveling on one of those since her father’s death.
She sighed reminiscently, remembering the elegant seating, the Brussels carpet, the soft bed that easily cradled even her long frame. And the personal chef and steward, the private telegrapher to capture the latest world and business news, and the engineer, who always delighted in showing her the latest shiny brass gadget. Jeremy and Jackson playing yet another prank as her mother laughed, Richard and her father in long conversations about railroad routes, the long chess games with her father or brother…
“Interesting proposition, Coates. But now, I have a sister to meet and a boat to catch. We can speak again when I return from Fort Benton,” Hal said briskly, shaking hands with the stout gentleman. “Come along, Carstairs.”
Rosalind shook off her reverie, touched her hat politely to Coates, and followed Hal up the levee. He set a brisk pace and reached the tracks on top, just as the little train halted, exactly at the steps leading down to the wharf boat. A very smooth stop, too, sign of an excellent engineer. A moment later, a diminutive lady burst out of the private car. “Hal!”
Rosalind blinked. Cicero began to bark.
“Viola, my dear.” Hal hugged the woman and spun her around, grinning at her the entire time. Cicero barked again, as if begging to join them.
Seen together, the family likeness was amazing, with brother and sister sharing the same blond hair and dark blue eyes. But each represented a very different gender. Viola looked capable of dancing on water lilies, especially in a fine Parisian carriage dress, which emphasized her delicate beauty rather than overwhelming it. In contrast, Hal was the epitome of masculinity, in his crisp linen suit, and he looked more than capable of wrestling a bull to the ground.
A tall, lithe gentleman disembarked behind Hal’s sister. Black-haired and blue-eyed, he had the elegant beauty of a Renaissance painting and had been clothed by the best English tailors. Even with those looks and clothing, he moved with the easy grace of an experienced fighter.
Rosalind’s poker-player instincts came alert. This fellow was not someone to trifle with.
He smiled fondly at Hal and Viola and then glanced around, assessing his surroundings like a wise man in a wolf trap. His eyes narrowed when they encountered Rosalind.
A chill ran up her spine. Had he recognized her as a woman? Surely not, since she was wearing her broad-brimmed planter’s hat, which shadowed her face so well. She set her jaw and looked straight back at him.
His mouth quirked, and he saluted her with two fingers.
Rosalind nodded briefly and made a mental note to stay as far away as possible from him.
“William, my love, say hello to my brother.” Viola caught the newcomer by the elbow and urged him forward. The two men shook hands and hugged. Finally, Hal stepped back and beckoned Rosalind forward.
“Viola, William, this is Frank Carstairs, my cub pilot. You can rely on him for assistance, should the need arise. Carstairs, this is my sister and her husband, Mr. and Mrs. William Donovan.”
“Carstairs,” Donovan acknowledged with a nod.
“Mr. Carstairs,” Viola murmured and held out her hand. Her gaze was as direct as her husband’s, but gentler.
Rosalind shook hands, careful to keep her grip as strong as possible, and tried to remember where she’d heard the name William Donovan before.
“Viola, this is Cicero, my new companion.” Hal indicated the terrier, who was cautiously sniffing the lady’s skirts.
“And very glad I am to meet him, too.” Viola smiled at her brother, then squatted down. She crooned softly in a strange language. Cicero’s ears came up, and his tail wagged briskly. A moment later, they were fast friends.
“Hal, you remember Abraham and Sarah Chang.” Viola stood up and indicated two servants, soberly clad in black livery, who were rapidly transferring luggage from the private car to a cluster of roustabouts. “They were a great help to us when we were in London and Ireland.”
“Of course, I do. Good morning, Abraham. Mrs. Chang.” He gave the couple a quick, and very friendly, nod, which they answered with deep bows. Seen from the front, they were both of Oriental descent, piquing Rosalind’s curiosity. She would have expected Negro servants or perhaps Irish, instead.
“And now, let me introduce you to my boat.” Hal turned toward the Cherokee Belle, his face alight and Cicero prancing alongside. The stream of passengers had slowed to a trickle, as a few shabbily dressed men picked their way down the levee.
Suddenly, a woman’s voice rang out from the street behind them. “Hal, my dear son!”
“Mother?” Hal spun around.
Viola stiffened, catching Rosalind’s attention. Donovan took his wife’s arm protectively and patted her hand, his expression severe.
“Dear God in heaven,” Hal muttered. It sounded more like an invocation of the Almighty’s aid than profanity.
A cold wave ran down Rosalind’s spine. She turned to look.
Desdemona Lindsay was hastening up the levee, her smile broad under an ornately feathered hat.
Cic
ero growled.
Behind her, Captain Richard Lindsay oversaw a hack disgorging a pair of Negro servants and a multitude of expensive, perfectly matched steamer trunks and hatboxes. Goodness gracious, were the Lindsays planning to join the Cherokee Belle?
At that horrifying thought, Rosalind’s gambler’s nerves came to her rescue. Her countenance settled into the same impassive consideration she’d use for two wretched hole cards.
Hal’s jaw tightened before he spoke again. “I’m sorry, Viola, I had no idea they were coming. Carstairs, escort my sister and her husband onboard the Belle. They’re staying in the California stateroom. Starboard side, all the way aft. The Changs are in the Iowa stateroom, directly forward of the California.”
“Yes, sir.” Rosalind hoped her response didn’t sing with relief. “This way, please.”
“We’ll look for you onboard, Hal,” Viola said quietly, then went down the stairs quickly, with the surefooted ease of someone accustomed to unsteady footing. Her husband followed her after a last, long stare down the levee’s other side. Rosalind brought up the rear, barely escaping ahead of Mrs. Lindsay’s arrival.
Cicero barked with the unmistakable note of a dog that meant business. Hal sternly called him to attention, and the terrier quieted reluctantly, uttering a few reflexive growls.
“Mother dearest, how—pleasant to see you,” Hal greeted her formally. “When did you arrive?”
“Darling son, we arrived yesterday afternoon after the most tedious journey from Chicago. I was so exhausted, I spent the rest of the day sleeping to recover my strength.”
Desdemona’s brazen lie so startled Rosalind that she missed a step on the uneven wooden planking leading down to the Belle. Donovan spun around, quick as a cat, but she recovered herself without his aid. He looked her over narrowly, then cast a single long, searing look up the levee. Finally, he nodded and went on again, without once saying a word.
Rosalind followed him, equally silent, only to stop dead when she reached the stage, the thin ribbon of wood and steel connecting the Cherokee Belle to the wharf boat and dry land.
Dear heavens, it was time to board another boat. She’d refused a London Season rather than endure an ocean voyage. Even months on Mississippi riverboats had barely made the species tolerable.
A first-class packet, a brag boat, a solid steamer…But all the compliments she’d heard couldn’t make that white and gold pile of lumber enticing. It didn’t matter whether they sailed an inland river or the Atlantic Ocean. Boats sank and people drowned.
For a long moment, Rosalind relived that fateful last voyage with her family, as they sailed for Manhattan to rejoin her father. The yacht pitching violently in the nor’easter as salt water poured in the door. Mother lying motionless on the cabin floor, her skull bloody and dented where she’d been thrown against a post. The twins, Jeremy and Jackson, pulling Rosalind out of the bulkhead’s wreckage. Her older brother Richard lashing her to a mast, as Jeremy and Jackson tried to hold on to the lifelines. The icy water beating and tearing at all of them, while Richard made her swear that she’d survive. She had to tell Father, no matter what happened, how much they all loved him.
Then the mast had snapped and swept her brothers away in a cloud of canvas and sea foam.
She didn’t remember much more of that long night, mostly how the water attacked her again and again. No stars, no moon—just the wind and rain and salt spray lifting her up, then dashing her into the depths.
The next thing she remembered was Father talking to her, his voice a hoarse thread of sound as he held her hand. He’d cried like a baby when she whispered his name. And they’d wept together when she gave him Richard’s message.
“Carstairs.” Donovan’s voice was soft, very gentle, and subtly Irish, as if he were soothing a skittish horse.
A long shudder ran through Rosalind.
Then she stepped, very deliberately, onto the Cherokee Belle, and turned to look back at the levee. If nothing else, she would be farther away from Lennox on a riverboat than ashore.
Standing at the Spartan’s rail, Nick Lennox lowered his telescope and allowed himself one final glare at the Cherokee Belle, as he rubbed his throat. Overhead, the Spartan’s calliope roared out an arrogant military march.
“Boats,” he muttered angrily, tapping his brother’s swordstick on the deck. He silently damned Crédit Mobilier for firing him and later blackballing him from every Union Pacific train and any railroad doing business with the Union Pacific, simply because he’d been found in bed with two directors’ wives at the same time. He’d managed to reach Kansas City through a combination of bribes and blackmail. But those options had run out, and the only way left to reach Omaha was by boat.
A slow, inefficient, dangerous boat.
“A train would be better. But at least Lindsay and Donovan are now where we can watch them,” Eli Jenkins observed from beside him. He bore an uncanny likeness to Boss Tweed, with the same enormous belly, continuous cigar smoking, and frequent false smiles. His smiles concealed his thoughts, just as his gaudy clothing hid his rapacious appetite for drink.
He had been a superb advance man for the Central Pacific, where Nick had first heard of him, until they fired him for padding his accounts once too often. His fall from grace had inspired him to attack his former bosses as often as possible. He’d fallen on Nick’s invitation to help destroy William Donovan, a major shareholder in the Central Pacific, with all the enthusiasm of a rat attacking a pound of cheese.
“And they should both be dead within the week, thanks to my new friend,” he added with commendable enthusiasm.
“What a pity,” Nick observed with mock piety and shared a smile of perfect understanding with Jenkins. If the two murderers weren’t dead in a week, then he’d obtain that precious ledger, the key to ruining Donovan, once he reached Omaha.
“Any chance of more funds to gain other friends?” Jenkins asked quietly, contemplating the Belle’s main deck.
Nick snorted. “Perhaps if this one doesn’t do the job. Finding one willing to help was hard enough and his price was ridiculous.”
“True.” Jenkins blew another smoke ring. “Or the Good Lord may look down and smite our enemies, hip and thigh instead, saving us the effort.”
Nick smiled reluctantly. Divine intervention would be far cheaper than what had happened so far. He’d spent every penny he had to hound Donovan, then looked for more. As one of Rosalind Schuyler’s bankers, Nick had sucked what he could from Cornelius Schuyler’s estate. Then those greedy charities had insisted that the heiress was dead, given her long disappearance, and demanded Old Man Schuyler’s estate as residual legatees. The courts hadn’t agreed, but they had stopped all withdrawals from the estate until the clumsy female was proved dead.
He needed every last penny now, which meant marrying the Schuyler bitch before she turned twenty-five and gained control of her inheritance. Foolish old man, permitting a mere female to manage that much money.
Her inheritance was the best way to avenge Paul. Beloved Paul, the best brother any boy could hope for. And the O’Flaherty brothers as well, Paul’s trusted bully boys. They had been Nick’s good friends, especially the youngest brother, and could have found the Schuyler chit anywhere, even in the filthiest gutter. Now Paul and the O’Flahertys were six feet under, destroyed by Donovan and Lindsay in that isolated little Arizona mining town.
His throat tightened. “I’m going below,” he announced.
Jenkins nodded peaceably. “And I. A poker game should have started by now.”
Nick slammed his telescope shut and headed for the stairs. A knot of men blocked his way, chatting leisurely as they strolled.
Nick shifted left, then right. No room to pass on either side. Jenkins cleared his throat. They paid no attention. Perhaps it was simply due to the loudness of the boat’s rickety engine and paddlewheel. Still, Nick Lennox hadn’t been ignored since he was at Columbia.
He thrust his swordstick between the hindmost man’
s legs. The fellow stumbled and lurched forward. His friends staggered then went down like ninepins, encouraged by a push from Jenkins. Nick and Jenkins stepped over and around them neatly, murmuring wholly insincere concern, as stewards and other passengers rushed forward.
Nick forgot them before he reached the grand saloon. Jenkins lifted a hand in farewell and turned toward the bar, where a dozen men were gathered around a table and a pack of cards.
Nick closed the door to his stateroom and poured himself a glass of brandy from the decanter. At least he still had enough money for a private stateroom. If the Schuyler chit were his wife, he’d be rich enough to travel like a king and order Donovan’s death with a raised finger.
How could he find the bitch? None of the railroads, which supposedly knew her best, had had any luck. Pinkerton’s men were bumbling, expensive fools, who bleated about unsuccessful visits to every rail stop, stage stop, and city. Nick had questioned her servants personally, but had learned nothing useful.
He’d searched the haunts of the gilded rich—Manhattan, Long Island, Newport, Saratoga—and found nothing. Advertising a fifty-thousand-dollar reward from Denver to California had harvested only con men, each promising, then failing, to produce the missing heiress.
Where the hell was she?
He’d hunt for her himself, of course, while he was on the Spartan. Inquire about her, post a reward in the local towns, and so on. No point in asking for her on the riverboats; her terror of waterborne transport was too deep-rooted to permit her to actually board one. He’d seen her near hysterics when tricked into stepping on a Brooklyn wharf.
Those steps would cover this Indian-infested wasteland only as far as Omaha, the furthest point in his journey through this benighted desert. Jenkins would search as far as Sioux City, the highest railroad crossing over the Missouri. One of them would find her; they had to.
And then he’d teach her exactly how she needed to behave, starting with a proper appreciation of his cock. Desdemona Lindsay had some excellent tricks; maybe he’d have her teach that young bitch how to honor him.
The River Devil Page 9
