by Lisa Bingham
She shook her head, her lips slipping into a slow, cocky grin—the tacit answer proving more emphatic than the most elaborate boast.
“Have you been gambling at all in Illinois for the last year or so?”
“Not that I can recall. It’s more of a hobby than a vocation. As strange as it may appear t’ ye, my father frowns on women playing cards in public.”
Jacob settled into the chair. For the first time since cornering Fiona, he felt a slow thrum of satisfaction.
“I’ve been asked to offer a pardon—for you and your father—in exchange for six to eight weeks of your time, if you would be willing to play cards. In public.”
“Why?”
“I have a little job I want you to do.”
“Is it legal?”
He shot her a pithy glance, and she said, “I never thought ye’d make deals either. Why should I assume yer still on the right side of the law?”
“I’ve been made U.S. marshal.”
“It hasn’t stopped others from using such a title for their own gains.”
Jacob had to concede that point. “I assure you that everything I plan to propose is completely above board.” Seeing that he had her attention if not her agreement, he sheathed his revolver. “Recently the states of New York, Illinois, and several of the western territories have been plagued by a wave of counterfeit bills made with such skill and exact detail that they are nearly impossible to detect by anyone other than an expert. For two months, over a half-dozen lawmen have been trying to trace the source of the currency. We believe that we’ve narrowed the possible culprits down to one man, a Mr. Darby Kensington of New York.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Our suspect is a gambler, working out of several cities and states by way of the tourist trains that travel from New York, Chicago, Denver, and finally San Francisco. I need someone to join the guests, get close to the man, and gain his confidence. That person should also have enough skill at poker to involve him in a lighthearted game of cards, then make him lose heavily enough to risk making more money to pay off his debts.”
“That person being me.”
“If you’re agreeable.”
She rose from the bed. Jacob stiffened, then relaxed when he saw she only meant to pace rather than run away. His idea had intrigued her enough to make her listen, but she obviously still had her doubts.
“I take it this man is a typical gambler—smooth, elegant, educated.”
“Yes.”
“Then how do ye propose that I snare him into yer little trap?” She gestured to her worn undergarments. “I’m not exactly a case for charity, but I’m not the Queen Mum, either.”
“The governor has allotted a good sum of money to this cause. Whatever we need beyond that amount will come from other sources. I have some private connections with a banker who is willing to fund an appropriate wardrobe and whatever other expenses might occur. He’s seen enough of the phony greenbacks coming through his establishment that he’s willing to put his own stakes into having the man caught.”
She stopped in midstride. “I’d be given new clothes?”
For the first time that Jacob could remember, Fiona McFee’s mouth gaped. Suddenly he realized that her life had not been an easy one. She’d been dragged pillar to post by her father and forced to endure his never-ending flimflammery. Such a life wasn’t apt to supply pretty things. The clothes she owned were probably stolen, castoffs, or cheap substitutions of the current fashions.
Standing, Jacob prowled toward her, mustering all of the charm he possessed. “Just think of it, Fiona,” he commanded silkily. “New skirts and bonnets and shawls. Shoes and gloves and hair ribbons.”
She bit her lip, obviously tempted. “What about the things for underneath?”
If Jacob didn’t know better, he’d say a positive hunger gleamed in her eyes.
“We’ll buy whatever you think you’ll need. In silks and satins and laces, if you’d like.”
He must have gone too far because she frowned. “Ye must want me badly enough t’ promise all that.”
“I need you.”
“There are others who could do the job.”
“But none with your talent for larceny.”
He could see that she was weakening. Propping one hand on the wardrobe behind her, he leaned toward her, adopting his most conciliatory attitude. “We believe our suspect will be following his usual traveling patterns. If so, he’ll be taking the train scheduled to leave in mid-September. We have four to six weeks to get you ready—but if he changes his plans we may need to adjust accordingly. The actual train excursion and ensuing card games should only take about a fortnight. In all, you’ll be committing yourself to about six to eight weeks worth of work, but I need your answer today. If you say no”—he shrugged in obvious unconcern—“I won’t try to change your mind. But if you agree, we’ll begin preparing you for your part come morning.”
“My part?”
“In order to add to your… mystique and whet his appetite, we’ll attempt to pass you off as a British widow with a flare for cards.”
“British?” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. She tried to brush past him, but he blocked her with the wall of his chest. “Ye’ve picked the wrong woman, Grey. I’m no Brit.”
“No, but you are an actress.” He leaned closer, his words becoming intense. “I’ve seen you, Fiona. For years you’ve been riding with your father, acting out schemes that would make most women blanch.”
“If I’m with ye for six to eight weeks, where will my father be all that time? I don’t want him taken to some jail. He hasn’t been well of late.”
“We both know Mickaleen is as healthy as pig, but I’ll arrange for him to stay at the Liberty Hotel—with an armed guard, of course.”
“Of course.” Her lips pursed in thought. “What if ye haven’t managed to catch yer counterfeiter by the end of the journey?”
“You and your father will be free to go.”
“That’s all I have to do for the pardons?”
Jacob hesitated, not wanting to lie, but knowing that Fiona would not be satisfied with anything less than the whole truth.
“For the most part.”
“I don’t like the sound of that. What do ye mean, ‘for the most part’?”
“There is one final condition.” He opened his mouth, choosing his words carefully. “I’ve been ordered to accompany you, every step of the way, come hell or high water, and never let you out of my sight. Therefore, I’ll be boarding the train as your own personal bodyguard.”
“Don’t ye mean my ‘warden’?” Fiona asked in a fit of pique.
His tone became as hard as a bar of iron. “Call it whatever you like, I’ll be with you, morning, noon, and night.”
“Damn.”
“You didn’t exactly expect us to supply you with a new wardrobe, a healthy stipend, and a ticket west, and then trust you to your own recognizance, did you?”
“Ye have my father.”
“Touché.”
“Two-what?”
“Never mind. Will you do it, Fiona?”
In his estimation, Fiona remained silent for an inordinate amount of time. He knew that her hesitation wasn’t due to his failing to tempt her. She was merely a woman who had learned the value of caution. She’d been burned too many times in the past to simply snatch his offer at face value.
“Aye. I’ll do it. Provided ye remember that the only thing I’m bargaining is my time and my talents—not my body.”
He sighed. “How many times do I have to tell you that I have no designs upon your virtue? None whatsoever.”
“Not yet, lawman.” She stabbed him in the chest with a finger of warning. “But I know yer type, and I don’t trust ye any farther than I can spit, do ye hear?”
He frowned in disgust but didn’t choose to retaliate. “Go on back to the laundry. Finish your day’s work, collect your pay, then tell them yo
u’ve resigned.”
“What fer?”
“We can’t have anyone come looking for you.” Striding back into her father’s room, he retrieved his hat from the bed and planted it on his head. “I’ll be here to pick you up tomorrow morning, early. Be ready.”
She waited until he reached the door before asking, “What if I’m not?”
His jaw tightened. “I have your father. Don’t forget that. And don’t be forgetting who’s in charge.”
As soon as he’d slammed the door behind him, Jacob headed from the Honeycomb Hotel to a much seedier side of town. He took a tangled route in order to ascertain whether or not he was being followed, but by the time he reached the Liberty, he felt quite certain that no one had trailed him.
After entering through the servants’ entrance and climbing the rear stairs, he knocked on a rough door on the second floor.
“Who’s there?”
“Jacob.”
The portal opened a crack, then he was admitted into the dim interior. As in Fiona’s room, the curtains were closed, the air heated and stale, the mood oppressive.
“Where’s McFee?” Jacob asked curtly.
One of the two deputies who was guarding the room nodded his head to one side, indicating the small bedroom that adjoined the sitting area. Looking inside, Jacob noted that Mickaleen McFee was fast asleep on the narrow cot, a handkerchief covering his face, the hem lifting and falling with each puff of air exhaled from his lungs.
“How’s he been behaving?” Jacob silently closed the door to the room as he regarded his deputies.
“He yammered on about his daughter in the hands of heathens for about an hour, but once we brought in his meal and a bottle of whiskey, he settled right down.”
“Good.”
“This came for you a few minutes ago.” The deputy lifted a heavy satchel and set it on one of the tables. Jacob crossed to examine the contents, and the two men whistled when they saw the stack of greenbacks inside.
“What the—”
“Our expense money,” Jacob supplied before the man could finish his question.
“Where’d it come from?”
“A very wealthy banker. Ethan McGuire. And trust me: This stuff is real.”
“McGuire… McGuire… where have I heard that name before?”
“He’s married to my sister,” Jacob reluctantly supplied. He was relieved when the simple answer satisfied the fellow. It wouldn’t do for his deputies to divine that there was so much more to Jacob’s relationship with McGuire than family ties. He and Ethan had a past together, and such information could get a little sticky if any of his men pieced it together and began drawing their own conclusions. Ethan’s place in society depended on his keeping his past as quiet as possible.
“The man sent it over by messenger. I’d be bringing it myself, I should think,” the older of the two deputies stated.
In ordinary circumstances, Jacob knew that Ethan would have done the same thing. But, Ethan was out of state, gathering evidence as to the extent of the counterfeiting ring among his banking associates. Jacob had discovered that the money lenders had a reluctance to talk about just how much they’d been burned by the phony greenbacks, lest rumors began seeping into the population causing a run on the bank. Ethan had been more than willing to volunteer to nose around a bit.
Jacob’s lips twisted in a rueful smile. Who could have foreseen that the events of nearly a decade ago would come full circle in such a manner? It was Ethan McGuire who had been the Gentleman Bandit—the same thief who had stripped Jacob and left him in a field of foxtails to burn his backside in the midday sun. Then Ethan had retired from his career of wrongdoing, leaving Jacob thoroughly frustrated with the man because he had not been able to avenge the insult to his dignity—as well as to his modesty.
Much later, Jacob learned that Ethan had made every effort to become an honest man, disappearing from Jacob’s life entirely until a copycat thief had begun to mimic the Gentleman Bandit’s methods, forcing Ethan to return to Illinois to clear his own name. Upon his first hint of the man’s return, Jacob had pursued Ethan like a bloodhound, only to discover that Ethan had sought sanctuary with Jacob’s sister, Lettie.
What a mess that had all been. Robberies, murder, mayhem—and up to the very end, Jacob had believed Ethan responsible. Until fate had shown him that there was a far more sinister force at work. One created by a corrupt judge and his vigilante group, which he called the Star Council of Justice. After the true culprits had been uncovered, Jacob had been forced to make his peace with Ethan McGuire. A man now pardoned, a successful businessman, bank owner…
And Jacob’s brother-in-law.
Jerking himself from his memories, Jacob took a small handful of greenbacks from the satchel, then snapped the bag closed and locked it. “I’m leaving this here with you. Hide it, guard it, and for heaven’s sake, don’t let Mickaleen McFee know it’s here.”
Shoving the money into his pocket, Jacob headed out again, this time in the direction of the railway yard. But he couldn’t escape the irony of the whole situation—an irony that caused a heavy foreboding to settle into his chest. Ethan, Fiona, thievery, and pardons. The whole cycle seemed to have started again, this time with new players. In six or eight weeks, Fiona would have completed her end of the bargain, whether or not their man—Mr. Darby Kensington of New York—was caught. Then she would be on her way, to build a new life—just as Ethan had done.
But as he stepped from the curb and made his way through traffic, Jacob couldn’t escape the knot that lodged in his midsection. One that warned him that such a process may not be so easily completed.
The barouche rattled over the rutted streets, causing the three occupants inside to gasp and grab for any sort of handhold they could find. Once they’d rolled to more solid ground, Alma Beasley pursed her lips, righted her bonnet, and jabbed her hatpin more firmly into her delicately blued hair.
“Lettie, my dear, you shouldn’t have come to meet our train,” she scolded. It was obvious from the pasty color of Lettie’s skin and the sweat dotting her lip that the outing had not been an entirely wise decision.
Lettie waved a dismissing hand. “Nonsense, Miss Alma. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you both. I simply had to come.”
Alma exchanged glances with her younger sister—although she supposed that Amelia’s seventy-two years would not seem all that “young” to most folk.
Amelia, the smaller of the two, tried another tack, leaning forward to pat Lettie’s hand. “But what about the… b-a-b-y? Shouldn’t you be… incognito?”
Alma’s brows jammed together. “ ‘Incognito?’ What kind of nonsense is that?”
“You know, when a woman retires from society and… waits.”
“ ‘Indisposed,’ Amelia. A woman of breeding is ‘indisposed.’”
“Whatever.”
Alma rolled her eyes in disbelief, catching the way Lettie’s lips twitched in amusement.
“I’m fine, Miss Amelia. Really,” Lettie insisted. “I don’t get out much these days.”
She patted the roundness of her belly, shrouded in the all-encompassing cloak that was entirely unnecessary in the summer heat but that shielded her condition from anyone who might glance inside the carriage. A completely useless custom of society, in Alma’s opinion.
“The baby can only enjoy the outing.”
“Even if it makes you sick?” Alma demanded baldly. “You’re pale as a ghost and shaking like a leaf.”
“Indeed you are, dear,” Amelia echoed.
Alma leaned her head out the window. “Driver! Head straight for home and don’t spare the team! Miss Lettie isn’t feeling well.”
“Miss Alma, I—”
The old woman wagged a finger in her direction. “We came to help you, and help you we will—even if we have to confine you to your bed. You just sit back—and for heaven’s sake, part that cape a bit. Give the baby some air.”
“Wonderful. Ethan is in Saint Louis on business for another three days, or he would have been here to meet you. He asked me to give you both a kiss.”
“Flatterer,” Alma muttered.
Amelia blushed.
“The children?”
“Growing like weeds. They’re so excited you agreed to come and visit again.”
“We wouldn’t miss this trip for the world,” Amelia assured her. “And to time our holiday when you’re about to have your baby—why, we couldn’t be more pleased.”
“You must let us use the time to help you,” Alma stated firmly.
Lettie shook her head. “Nonsense. This is your vacation. I know you’ve been planning to visit the state garden exhibition for months. You’re to enjoy yourselves, do you hear?”
Alma sniffed but didn’t press. There would be time enough to change Lettie’s mind. “What about Jacob?”
A definite pause hung in the humid air. Alma and Amelia exchanged cautious glances.
“Has something happened?” Amelia asked when the silence continued overlong.
Lettie grimaced. “I shouldn’t worry. I’m sure he’s fine, but…”
“He hasn’t written?” Alma inserted.
“Or visited?” Amelia added.
“No.”
“Hmph.” Alma grasped her reticule more firmly in her lap and frowned.
“Oh, dear,” Amelia breathed.
“I’ve heard that he’s here, in Chicago, but… he hasn’t…”
“The cad,” Amelia grumbled.
Alma shot her a warning glance and rubbed Lettie’s arm. As she leaned forward, she caught a slight movement from the curb, a man stepping into the street. Tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed. She couldn’t be sure, but…
She straightened and tilted her chin at a determined angle. “Don’t you worry, dear. I’m sure he’ll be coming to see you soon.” Very soon indeed, if she had anything to do about it. She wouldn’t bet her money on that fleeting figure being Jacob Grey, but if he were in Chicago like Lettie had said, then Alma intended to find him. And once she did…
