by Lisa Bingham
Billings grinned. “Nope.” He spat a stream of tobacco into the dust at their feet. “I killed me the first guard t’ get careless. He came out t’ the ditch t’ take a piss, an I slit his throat fer his troubles. Didn’t know I was supposed t’ wait fer someone yer own size.”
“Never mind. Just keep your eyes open and your weapons ready.”
Watkins stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I’ve been drinking with a couple of the guards each night at the Red Palace. Be careful. There are rumors that a U.S. deputy has been working undercover in the inner cell-block for about a month now.”
The news caused Stone’s first real twinge of concern. “Do they suspect us? Do they know we plan to break The Judge out?”
He shook his head. “From what I could tell, he’s investigating the warden on prison conditions. Squat-looking fellow, bald, round spectacles. Watch out for him.”
After checking the chambers of his own revolver and grabbing the dead guard’s rifle, Stone sauntered toward the west portal. According to Watkins, the day shift had ended five minutes before. He was hoping that if he moved slowly and easily, the rest of the prison employees wouldn’t pay him much attention as the night staff took their posts and the others made their way home.
His heart pounded in a heavy, measured beat as he moved from the shadows, retracing the path the now-deceased guard had made only a few minutes before. He kept his head low, his hat tugged over his brow, his shoulders hunched while his fingers stroked the hammer of his revolver with careful precision.
He managed to make it inside unchallenged. Dodging the other officers intent upon the guards’ quarters, he stepped into an alcove, pausing only briefly. Mentally, he identified his location from the diagram of halls that Billings had sketched in the dust and forced him to memorize.
The heels of his boots rapped out a slow, steady rhythm as he wound through the corridors. Left. Two rights. At the first iron-barred checkpoint, he kept his head down and rubbed at his nose with a huge red handkerchief, thus covering most of his face. The chubby guard barely glanced his way, letting him into the next set of corridors.
Deeper and deeper he moved into the stone penitentiary. The air about him was rank with misery and sickness, open chamber pots, smoke, and delousing fluid. The familiar odors caused Stone’s skin to crawl, reminding him all too effectively that he’d escaped his own unfortunate incarceration mere months before.
Turning left, he made his way to the far set of cell-blocks: those reserved for the most dangerous criminals. He touched a finger to the brim of his hat, nodding to the man on duty, keeping his head turned away. When the man stumbled over the task of finding the appropriate key, Stone studied him carefully, wondering if this was the deputy Watkins had warned him about.
“Warden wants t’ see you,” Stone muttered once he’d been let through the iron bars.
The squat man’s brows rose in surprise. “Me?”
“I’m t’ spell you ‘til you return.”
The deputy squinted at him, then shrugged and surrendered his keys. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Take your time.”
The iron gate clanged shut and the rotund man hustled down the corridor. After selecting the proper key, Stone took a lump of soft wax from his pocket and made an impression of the instrument, then carefully put the wax away again. Moments later, he walked to the far cell.
The tall man who had been penned up for nearly half a decade glanced up from the book he’d been perusing. The cool gloom only intensified the angular planes of his face, the lean length of his body.
“How are things progressing, Stone?” he asked.
He grinned. “Right on schedule.”
“Good. What about Kensington?”
“He… agreed to fall in with our plans.”
“He put up a bit of a fuss, hmm?”
“Nothing that couldn’t be handled.”
“What does he know of his responsibilities?”
“Nothing more than you told me to tell him. He thinks he’s preparing for another gambling junket.”
“Good.” Judge Krupp’s pale eyes grew steely, determined. Cold. “Well? What else have you to report?”
“Our contact in the governor’s office has put Grey in charge of the counterfeiting investigation. He arrived in Chicago two days ago. According to what my men there have been able to determine, he’s on extended leave and intends to take a holiday—of course, we know differently, thanks to our informant. Grey has booked a suite at the Grand Estate. A private car has been pulled into the railway yard and was put at his disposal. As soon as Kensington books passage, Grey will be on the same train, under the guise of taking a ‘vacation.’ ”
The Judge nodded. “Good. Tell your men to watch him in the mean time. I want to know where he goes and whom he talks to. If you get any more information, report immediately to me.”
Stone clutched the bars, leaning closer as he murmured urgently, “Are you sure this is the way you want to handle things? The boys and I could have you out of this place in an hour. We could be on our way out of the country by dawn.”
The Judge made a tsk-ing sound. “Patience, Stone. Patience.” His gaze strayed to the line drawing he had tacked to the wall of his cell. Of the man who had put him in Exeter, who was responsible for his plight. Jacob Grey.
“I’ll stay here at Exeter until the time is right. Otherwise we might tip our hand.”
Stone could hear distant footfalls. Probably those of the returning deputy.
“I think you should reconsider. Let’s get you out tonight, get you to Canada, Mexico. Then you can come after Grey. The man’s been made a United States marshal, for hell’s sake!”
“No matter.” Krupp’s lips grew hard. “Jacob Grey made a mistake all those years ago. A mistake for which he will pay. The time has long since come for him to fulfill that debt. If it takes another day or two in this place—or even a year—I’m more than happy to comply.” His lips twitched. “Besides… we’ve gone to a great deal of effort to bait the hook. We must act now while our quarry is determined to bite.”
Stone’s hands clenched in frustration, but he signaled his agreement.
“Now get out of here before that fool guard catches you. I’ll expect to see you again soon, Stone. Very soon.”
Chapter 6
“How is Lettie feeling, Alma?” Amelia looked up from her needlepoint as her sister entered the sitting room. They’d been at the McGuire home for nearly two days now, and a scowl continually creased Alma’s features.
“We shouldn’t have come, Amelia.”
Amelia’s heart sank in her breast. “I was afraid of that.”
“I finally convinced Lettie to stay in her bed and sleep in a bit longer, but it took all my coaxing to get her there.”
“She’s not feeling any better?”
“Not a bit—but she won’t admit it, won’t admit that the last month of her ‘waiting in’ is uncomfortable at best. Backaches, warning pains, nausea, swollen ankles…” Alma clicked her tongue. “And we’re not helping a bit. As long as we’re here, she thinks she has to take care of us, entertain us, for fear we’ll be disappointed with our trip.”
“Oh, dear.”
Alma eyed her sister, considering. “There’s one more thing,” she stated hesitantly.
“What?” Amelia could barely breathe the word.
Alma rushed to sit in the chair beside her, bending low. “I found this on her nightstand,” she whispered, pulling a crumpled note from her pocket.
“What is it?”
“A letter from Jacob.”
“Lettie must have been pleased to get it.”
“She hasn’t seen it yet.” Alma glanced over her shoulder as if fearing she would be overheard. “The maid brought it in with her tea, but Lettie had already fallen asleep.” She hesitated before saying, “I thought it might be important… so… I…”
“What does
it say?”
Alma straightened in affronted dignity. “I am not prone to reading mail intended for other people.”
“Of course not.”
“But…” she drawled conspiratorially, “with the tea kettle so close to the edge of the flap…”
“The steam must have…”
“Pried it open a bit.”
“And you…”
“Peeked. Just a peek.” She fumbled with the letter in her hand. “I’m only too glad I did.”
“Why?” Amelia breathed in trepidation.
“Jacob is in trouble.”
“Oh, no!”
“Seems he’s working undercover with some sort of immigrant girl. He needs Lettie’s help.”
“What kind of help?”
“He didn’t say, but it sounds awfully hush-hush to me.”
“But Lettie is in no condition to come to his aid!”
“Exactly. And this note will bring her nothing but worry if she sees it.” Alma stood up and paced to the window, her ponderously corseted bosom preceding her like the bowsprit of a ship. Stopping, she tapped her lips with her index finger. “Amelia?”
“Yes, Sister.”
“Are you game for an outing?”
“Whatever for?”
Alma turned. “I think we should take a little trip into town.”
“Shopping?”
“Perhaps. But first, I think we should call on our beloved Jacob Grey.”
“Get up.”
The brusque masculine command was followed by the rude stripping away of Fiona’s blankets. Fiona jumped, sleep scattering as she automatically grasped the sheet in order to prevent herself from being completely uncovered.
She cracked one eye open at the man responsible for her awakening. Her comment on his own grooming habits had evidently caused at least some sort of discomfort on his part. Jacob Grey appeared to have just stepped from a bandbox. His dark hair had been neatly combed, his jaw freshly shaven. He wore a clean chambray shirt, black suspenders, and brown woolen trousers. His well-oiled gunbelt completed the outfit. She hadn’t heard him enter, making her wonder how long he’d stood there, how much he’d seen.
“Go… away.” The words were uttered with quiet precision as she dragged a bolster over her head.
Firm fingers burrowed beneath the pillow, yanking it free. “We’ve got no time for your grumpiness, Fiona.”
“And I’ve no mind fer yer dad-blasted cheerfulness!” She scowled at the way he towered above her in an unconsciously arrogant stance, feet braced apart, hands on hips. “Are ye always so chipper at the crack of dawn?”
“I’ve been up for hours.”
Noting his smug expression, Fiona felt an immediate foreboding. Invariably, such an obvious show of pleasure from Jacob came at her own expense. “What exactly have ye been doing all that time?”
“Gathering the necessary equipment.” His dark eyes sparkled noticeably as he studied her from head to toe. In an instant, she became aware of her disheveled hair and sleep-flushed skin. Far from being discouraged by the sight, he added most silkily, “Today, Fiona, we are going to see to it that you become a lady.”
A lady. How he harped on that concept—as if she were of some unknown gender and origin, without a clue as to what she should do.
“I’m gettin’ tired o’ yer insinuatin’ that there’s something so wrong with m’education that it’s going t’ take a team of instructors t’ fix it. I think I showed ye adequately enough that I can play the role ye’ve given me. Mr. Peebles didn’t suspect.”
“Mr. Peebles is a sweet, old, nearsighted man. He took one peek at you, draped in a sheet as you were, and lost all proper reason.” Jacob leaned his hands upon the bed, causing her to roll ever so slightly toward him. “Had you worn any clothes at all, he might have taken proper notice of the way an Irish brogue kept filtering into your speech. But since he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the velvety flesh of your shoulders, I doubt he would have noticed if his hair had been on fire.”
Her lips tightened in pique and she scraped the covers more tightly to her body, hoping to hide the very shoulders of which he’d spoken. Jacob might not admit it, but Mr. Peebles was not the only man who found it hard to focus on much else than a measure of bare skin.
“So what are ye plannin’ t’ do? Hire a host o’ ladies’ maids to train me t’ yer standards?”
“I’ve sent for my sister to help. In the mean time my deputy, Rusty, and I should be able to handle the first stage of the polishing process.” He squinted at her as if she were to be cataloged piece by piece for further instruction. “After all, there’s not too much wrong with your appearance that Mr. Peebles’s creations can’t fix.”
“Ye make it sound as if I’m a piece o’ mutton needin’ some finery t’ make me decent.”
He paid no heed to her outburst but continued without pause: “As for the rest, a little coaching should do the trick.”
Grasping her wrist, he tugged her—sheet and all—from the bed and towed her into the bathing room. “Fix your hair and put on that dress. I managed to borrow it from one of the chambermaids.”
He gestured to an awful, sun-bleached calico gown draped over the side of the tub. She could only imagine how he’d managed to fanagle the garment from the unknown woman. The thought of him sweet-talking some pretty little maid caused an inexplicable pang of jealousy.
“I’ll not be wearin’ a stranger’s clothes.”
“You will—even if I have to stuff you in it myself.”
He was resolute. She knew that. The stubborn line of his jaw gave ample evidence of the fact.
“Get… dressed, Fiona. When you’ve finished, join Rusty and me in the sitting room. We’ve ordered breakfast, so you’ll want to hurry.” Slamming the door, he left her to digest his autocratic orders.
Damn the man. Her fingers curled into the linens and she hiked them a little more securely about her chest. Sniffling, she weighed her options.
“Remember the pardons, Fiona.”
The words wafted to her from the other room as if Jacob had read her very thoughts.
“Go to bloody hell, lawman,” she whispered under her breath. But she didn’t say it loud enough for him to hear. At least she had the sense for that.
It took only a minute to tug a brush through her hair, then don the cotton dress. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she grimaced. Jacob might think himself an expert on women, but he obviously had a thing or two to learn about sizes. The dress exposed a far too healthy expanse of her leg, ending at a point midcalf. The waist was too loose, the bust too tight, and the sleeves far too short. In this getup, she would be mistaken as a boxcar orphan, not a wealthy British widow.
Pursing her lips in disgust, she threw open the door and marched into the other room. “Ye expect me to wear this? This?”
Jacob didn’t even bother to glance up from his meal, but his red-headed companion choked on a piece of ham, then sat for some time coughing, trying ever so hard not to stare at the buttons straining at her bosom.
“Sit down, Fiona.”
The imperious order came from Jacob.
“I—”
“Sit down or you won’t be fed at all.”
Deciding that in this case a good meal was worth far more than offering a piece of her mind, Fiona crossed the room to settle into the only remaining chair. She’d had nothing to eat for days but the apples, oranges, figs, and nuts she’d taken from the basket left by the hotel.
Wiping his mouth with a napkin, Jacob poked a thumb in the direction of his companion. “This is Rusty Janson, my deputy. If he gives you an order from me, take it as gospel.”
Fiona considered the man with his curly red hair and freckled complexion, but she didn’t respond. Rusty stared at her as if he’d just sat on a tack and considered her partially responsible. The odd mix of surprise, dread, and unease was disturbing.
Jacob shifted, regarding he
r consideringly. “Sit up straight.”
She complied, but only because all of the food had been placed on his end of the table.
“You don’t look much like a woman of quality.”
“Well, ye don’t act much like a man of refinement.”
He grinned but did not offer a rebuttal.
“Go ahead and eat, then we’ll get started.”
She waited for him to offer her a plate, but he did nothing of the sort, returning to his perusal of the paper folded on the table and his own generous helping of fried eggs and bacon.
“Eat. Eat!” he ordered when she remained still.
“But ye’ve given me nothin’ fer breakfast!”
“There’s tea and toast in front of you.”
She stared down at the meager fare, then at the men’s plates, which were heaped with food. “That’s all I get?”
“A true lady eats like a bird.”
“Who told ye that nonsense?”
A dark light of warning entered his eyes. “My mother—God rest her soul—was a lady through and through, Fiona. I don’t think I saw her eat a hot meal in all her days.”
“Probably because ye forced her to fetch and tote yer meals so much she never had a chance,” she grumbled under her breath.
He must have heard the comment, because his eyes narrowed in warning. “Eat what you’ve been given, Fiona, or do without. I don’t care. Simply remember that for the next few weeks, you are to do everything—everything—I tell you to. Otherwise your father will be cracking rocks in the prison quarry.”
Her chin tilted to a mulish angle, but she knew she’d strained the bounds of his good graces. Taking some toast in both hands, she purposefully shoved the piece midway into her mouth, chewing noisily, and creating as much of a spectacle as she could.
“Like a bird, Fiona. Eat like a bird. Otherwise Darby Kensington won’t even glance at you, and I’ll have no need to report favorably to the governor for your reward.”
