by Lisa Bingham
Drat and bother. He was right. By rebelling, she only defeated her own purposes. She had to focus her mind on what was important: liberating her father. Until then, she would have to bite her tongue and hold her temper.
Taking a few calming breaths, she washed the bread down with a good dose of weak tea—no milk, no lemon, no sugar had been provided—the tepid fare having obviously been prepared by an American cook. Glancing down at the crumbs littering her plate and the nearly finished piece of toast, she sighed. She really shouldn’t have consumed things so quickly. Her stomach rumbled at that bare offering of nourishment. Blast it all, it wasn’t fair! Those two men sat across from her, dining on enough food to feed a battalion, and all she was allowed was a bit of bread and a cup of black tea.
“I want more, Jacob.”
“No.”
“But I’m hungry.”
“You could stand to lose a pound or two.”
At that statement she huffed in fury, rising from her place and planting her hands on the table. “Ye ill-mannered, arrogant… bastard! I’ll have ye know I’m fit as a fiddle.”
“Not by the looks of that dress.” His eyes flicked to the straining buttons. His red-headed deputy choked on his coffee.
She self-consciously tugged at the offending garment. “If ye’d bothered to get something that fit properly it wouldn’t hang this way.”
“Clothing is clothing. You’ll have a new set soon enough.” Tugging at the napkin that had been tucked into his collar, he rose. “As for now, it’s time to get to . work.”
He pushed her into the center of the room.
“Sit.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Sit.”
“I’m not a dog to be—”
“Just sit down in the damned chair, Fiona!”
Grumbling invectives under her breath to keep from coming completely unglued, she complied.
“Rusty, get over here.”
The deputy grabbed a handful of bacon and did as he was told.
“What do you think?”
Fiona didn’t know what they searched for, but she was getting tired of having these men ogle her like she was a piece of meat.
“I think she needs to slide forward a little,” Rusty suggested hesitantly.
“Perch on the edge of the chair, Fiona.” Jacob waited until she’d obeyed, then asked, “Now what?”
“She ’ppears too… relaxed. In my experience women are usually stiff as a board.”
“Straighten up.”
They paused to study the effect.
“Better. Better. Now take shallower breaths.”
“Glance down.”
“Hands on your lap.”
“Curl the fingers.”
“Tilt your chin.”
“Eyes up.”
“Shoulders straight.”
“Put your—”
“Enough!” She sprang from the chair. “Are ye tryin’ t’ turn m’ body into a solitary cramp?”
Jacob and Rusty exchanged glances.
“Maybe we’ll start with walking.” Jacob took a book from the side table. “Put this on your head.”
She complied, but only because she’d happened to see that there were still two strips of bacon left on the platter at the far end of the table. If she could walk that way without alerting suspicion, she was sure that she could snag the pieces and shove them in her mouth without these men being able to stop her. Such measures rankled, but the hollow pit of her stomach demanded them.
She balanced on her head the book—a very heavy, thick, awkward tome of poetry.
“Hands down.”
“Relax your fists.”
“Chest out—no, you’d better keep it in.”
“Shoulders back.”
“Walk.”
She didn’t wait for a second invitation but lunged forward. The book fell to the floor with a thud, but she paid it no mind and rushed to the table, where she managed to grasp the bacon, two rolls, and a butter knife. Retreating to the corner of the room, she held her makeshift weapon out in front of her.
“Don’t come any closer. I agreed t’ be yer puppet, but I didn’t agree t’ starve in the process. Nor did I agree t’ be ordered about by a couple of men who don’t know what they’re doin’.”
Jacob’s lips thinned in impatience. “We’re simply trying to rub a few of the rougher edges off your personality, Fiona.”
“There’s nothin’ wrong with me edges.”
“There’s plenty wrong if we’re going to fool Kensington.” He prowled closer. “If you’re not willing to cooperate, I can do without you. It’s not too late for me to find someone else. To lock you and your father up for good and give the pardons to someone else.”
Her heart sank. He’d bested her. Once again he had the upper hand in the argument.
“Put the food down, Fiona.”
“But—”
“Put it down.”
She reluctantly did as she was told, but not until she’d hidden a piece of bacon in the pocket of her dress.
Jacob nodded in approval and drew her into the center of the room. “Pick up that book and let’s start again.”
By lunchtime, Jacob knew that they were all in trouble. Instead of helping Fiona to tap into her natural sources of feminine wiles—those same silken machinations she’d used with Mr. Peebles—he and his deputy had managed to underscore her self-consciousness and nervousness. So much so that by midday she was stumbling about the room like a gawky adolescent. So far there had been no messages from Lettie. He could only hope she wasn’t off on some recital tour, thus leaving him completely without proper help.
“Hell, Fiona. Try,” he muttered in frustration.
The moment he said the words, he knew he’d made a mistake. If there was one thing he couldn’t fault her for, it was her effort to follow orders. After he’d issued his threat, she’d been as meek and biddable as a lamb and as tireless as a draft horse.
Her head dipped and he thought he saw a slight sheen of moisture in her eyes. A thick remorse settled in his belly. After all he’d done to undermine her confidence, he’d hurt her feelings as well.
“Fiona, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
She whirled at him then, her chin proudly lifting. “Ye don’t say. Ye’ve been doin’ a mighty fine job of it all day.”
“Maybe we should take a break. Have some lunch.”
Her eyes brightened somewhat. “Could we go downstairs?”
“No.”
“But I’ve been cooped up in this blasted room fer hours and hours and hours!”
“You’ll stay here ‘til you’ve been properly trained. I told you that.”
“Trained. Trained?” She marched forward to poke him in the chest. “Ye and yer deputy don’t know spit about what yer doin’. Are ye aware of that fact? Neither one of ye would know a proper British aristocrat if she bit ye in the arse. An’ I’m tired a playin’ these games that get us nowhere.”
She jabbed him again, but he grasped her wrist and pulled her tightly to his chest. “If you’re so knowledgeable about the gentry, then why don’t you act like one instead of sashaying through this sitting room with all the grace of a swayback mule?”
Her mouth opened, but no sound emerged. This time Jacob couldn’t deny that the glitter he saw in her lashes was due to her tears.
“Fiona, I’m sorry. I know you’ve been trying.”
She didn’t hear him, or if she did, she chose to ignore his apology, whirling and rushing into the bedroom. Seconds later, he heard the slam of the bathing-room door and the audible click of the lock.
“Now you’ve done it,” Rusty drawled. “Once a woman barricades herself behind a locked door, there’s no gettin’ her out without some sweet-talkin’ or some mighty expensive presents.”
“Fiona?” Jacob marched into the neighboring chamber and pounded on the closed door. “Come out of there.”
&
nbsp; “No.”
“I’m sorry about what I said.”
“No ye’re not.”
“Fiona—”
A knock at the outer door caused him to frown, wondering if his altercation with this woman had caused such a fracas that the manager had been sent to complain about the noise.
Swearing under his breath, Jacob strode into the sitting room just in time to see Rusty admit two elderly women, one tall and stout, the other small and spry.
He stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth dropping open. Good hell almighty. The Beasleys.
He barely had time to assimilate the fact before another of his deputies dodged through the threshold. “Jacob! We’ve got trouble.”
Jacob agreed wholeheartedly. He’d grown up with the Beasleys while living in his mother’s boardinghouse. They were delightful women, fun-loving and a little bawdy, but heaven help them, wherever they went, trouble followed.
“Jacob!”
At the second call, he turned his attention to the middle-aged deputy. “What!”
“Darby Kensington just rolled into town.”
“Shit.” He scooped up his hat and strode to the door. Pointing to the two women, he ordered brusquely, “Wait here.” Then he was gone, thundering down the servants’ staircase with his deputies trailing behind him.
The wake of silence that ensued was nearly deafening. At long last, Alma and Amelia Beasley locked gazes.
“So…” Alma drawled.
“Mmm,” her sister echoed.
“It appears that our dear Jacob is in distress.”
“Yes indeed.”
Alma took a deep breath, holding it thoughtfully, then releasing it in a rush. “Come along, Amelia.” She swept into the hall.
“But Jacob told us to stay here.”
“We’ll be back soon enough.”
“Where are we going?”
“To gather our things. We have a mission, Amelia. One that needs our immediate attention.”
An hour later, Jacob was waiting by the base of the stairs as Rusty Janson strode toward him.
Rusty received a few odd glances as he made his way through the main lobby of the Grand Estate. With his red hair, freckled skin, and dusty shirt and chaps, he appeared decidedly out of place in the elaborate marble and gilt lobby. But the bowlegged fellow didn’t notice the attention he garnered as he charged in Jacob’s direction.
“We’ve got trouble, all right.” He glanced about him, then lowered his voice to a confidential tone.
Jacob became immediately alert. “What’s happened?”
“The information we’ve received was right: According to the men who’ve been following Kensington since we stumbled onto him at the railway station, Darby came in on the morning train. He made two stops—one at a tailor’s and another at a rather upscale bordello. Both times he took a heavy satchel with him—as if he was afraid to leave it in the carriage with his driver. After his time at Rosie’s, he went back to the railway station, of all places.” He snorted in disgust. “Blast it all to gol-durn hell, he booked tickets for the next excursion!”
“Damn.”
“He’s leaving in little more than a fortnight.”
Jacob felt a slow horror seep into his veins. A fortnight. A fortnight! He’d counted on at least a month to turn Fiona McFee into a lady. Now he had half of that to see her groomed, instructed, and clothed.
He growled, looking skyward as if searching for divine inspiration, but there was nothing upon the frescoed ceiling to provide his answers. Nothing at all.
“Oh, hell. Guess who’s just arrived, Jacob.”
Both men saw a tall, striking gentleman with sandy hair and a well-trimmed goatee walk through the door, followed by a host of servants struggling to carry an assortment of small trunks and satchels. One carpetbag, however, remained firmly in Kensington’s own grip.
“Do you think he followed you?” Jacob asked, as he and Rusty casually turned their backs to the registration desk.
“Doubt it. He’s been carryin’ on like a drone in a hive for most of the afternoon. Never seen such drinkin’ and high-fallutin’ shenanigans, I tell you.”
“You and your boys keep an eye on him, Rusty. If he leaves the hotel, I want to know about it.”
“Yes, sir.”
The retinue turned from the desk and made its way to the stairs. Jacob’s gaze sliced after his suspect, watching his distinctive gait, the elegant swing of his walking stick.
“When Wally spells you, Rusty, I want you to make arrangements for the railway car we’re using to be prepared for the same excursion train Darby plans to take.”
Rusty stared at him in dismay. “You can’t possibly mean you’re goin’ anyway. Not so soon.”
Jacob’s jaw firmed.
“We’re going. If I have to dress that woman in readymade and tie her to my hip… we’re going.”
Infused with a sense of urgency and mindful of the ever-ticking clock, Jacob took the hotel stairs two at a time.
The task ahead of him seemed insurmountable. Somehow, in a few paltry days, he had to turn Fiona McFee into a lady. She had to talk like one, walk like one, and smell like one. In addition, she would have to be briefed on the situation with Darby Kensington and supplied with the information concerning her alias.
Jacob had learned long before not to underestimate his foes, and he had a bad feeling about Darby Kensington. There was much more to the gambler than what met the eye. Since Jacob had begun to trail him, he’d felt a wriggling unease settle deep in the pit of his stomach whenever he was near the man. Such instincts in the past had only led to trouble.
Automatically resting his palm on the butt of his revolver, he paused at the second landing when he realized that his haste had caused him to nearly overtake the man. Standing behind one of the polished stairwell supports, Jacob studied him again.
As the gambler waited for the hotel servants to open his room, Jacob noted that he was fastidious in his dress, carefully groomed, and artlessly handsome. Nevertheless, Jacob didn’t like him. Even though there had been no hard proof that Kensington was the culprit responsible for the counterfeit bills, Jacob knew—knew deep in his bones—that the elegant gambler was responsible. There was something about his smarmy attitude and easy way with women that set Jacob’s teeth on edge. If ever there was a fellow destined to live his life behind bars, this one was. But he was also smart. Jacob had to give him that much credit. So far the only hope Jacob had for trapping and apprehending Kensington was a half-educated Irish street urchin with a talent for cards.
The unease Jacob had felt earlier returned. Heaven help them all if her masquerade didn’t work. With Darby Kensington staying so near, they would have to be doubly careful. She mustn’t be seen until she’d become an elegant widow through and through.
And for that, he feared he was going to have to enlist the help of the Misses Alma and Amelia Beasley.
Gerald Stone followed the now familiar pathway through the corridors of Exeter Prison until he reached the inner cellblocks. Approaching the bars that separated him from his long-time friend and employer, he waited for the judge to acknowledge him.
“Everything’s in position?” the judge asked, marking the page of the book he’d been reading and placing it on the floor.
“I received the wire. Kensington is in Chicago. He’s booked passage for the next excursion.”
“Good.” The judge’s eyes glittered in the gloom of his chambers. “Then the next time we see each other…”
“I’ll be taking you with me.”
Chapter 7
“Come along, Amelia.”
Alma Beasley stepped from the carriage and sailed toward the door leading into the Grand Estate. Little more than an hour had passed since they’d come to confront Jacob Grey, only to be abruptly abandoned. After discussing the situation between themselves, they’d decided that Jacob needed help much more severely than his note had let
on. Therefore, she and Amelia had arrived with reinforcements.
Stepping into the lobby, Alma didn’t bother to glance behind her to see if her sister was in tow. There was no need to check. She and Amelia were more than sisters, they were kindred spirits. Wherever one went, the other invariably followed.
The door whisked in its circle with a whack, whack of its leather-edged panes. Hearing a squeal behind her, Alma paused, watching as the diminutive Amelia barely had the opportunity to dodge free. The contraption was left spinning in unmitigated glee.
“So sorry, Amelia.”
Breathless, Amelia waved away her concern. “Lead on, Alma dear.”
Smacking the tip of her parasol against the marble floors with each step, Alma marched across the lobby floor, surveying the vestibule like a practiced general, taking in the other guests, the bellboys, the maids, and the clerical staff.
“Who do you think could let us back into the suite upstairs, Sister?” Amelia asked, her voice breathy from their haste.
“That man over there.” Alma used her parasol to point to the manager, who stood behind the front desk. He had his back to the women and was methodically stuffing receipts into the pigeonholes that corresponded with the numbers of each room.
Not hesitating another moment, Alma sailed toward him, her parasol clacking. Amelia followed as quickly as she could, but since she lacked at least a foot of height when compared to her older sister, she was forced to adopt a pace that approximated a sprint.
“Young man!” Alma extended her hand, ringing the brass bell on the counter with such force that the clerk started, the papers bursting from his hands and sifting to the floor like snow.
Whirling, he attempted to adopt a mask of calm.
“Yes, madam.”
Upon their first real look at the middle-aged man and his raw-boned good looks, Alma’s militant attitude immediately softened. She cast a glance at her sister, who smiled and returned the silent message. Then they both beamed at him as if he were a prince royal.
Leaning closer, Alma adopted a confidential tone. “I wondered if you could help us.”
