Silken Promises

by Lisa Bingham

  He eyed them curiously. “Of course, madam.”

  “We’ve a carriage outside. Our luggage has been strapped to the rear.”

  “You’ll be needing a room then.”

  She smiled. “No. Thank you.”

  “No room?”

  Amelia shook her head, echoing breathlessly, “Oh, no. But thank you all the same.”

  “Then where—”

  “Just follow us, young man,” Alma said. “Just follow us.”

  Jacob had just let himself into the Ambassador Suite, finding it empty of the Beasleys and Fiona still locked in the bathing room, when he heard the rattle of the doorknob. Whipping his revolver from his holster, he flung open the portal, leveling the weapon at the unknown assailant on the other side.

  The porter, loaded with baggage and satchels and all manner of feminine frippery, uttered a breathy prayer and sank to his knees, the paraphernalia he’d been carrying scattering to the floor.

  “Now really, Jacob. That wasn’t in the least bit polite.”

  Before Jacob could summon any sort of an answer, Alma Beasley used the tip of her parasol to push the point of his gun away, then strode into the room, Amelia close behind.

  He scowled in their direction. “I thought I told you to stay here until I got back.”

  Alma patted his arm in a patronizing manner. “We just ran out to pack a few things. Now we’re here to stay. Where is she, boy?”

  Jacob stared. “Who?”

  “The girl we’re to help!”

  “I—”

  She didn’t wait for a response but turned to the porter. “Bring those inside. You can stack them against the wall for now. Jacob, make sure you give him a handsome tip.”

  “Miss Alma, I—”

  “We would have stayed here like you said,” she continued without pausing, tugging her gloves from her fingers, “but we felt that time was of the essence. Therefore we went back for our things.” She whirled to confront him. “Well? What are we to do?”

  Jacob stared at them in growing dismay. “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t. Men seldom do.”

  He had no idea what she meant by that comment.

  “How did you know I was… that I…”

  “Your letter to Lettie,” she interrupted. “You really should have called on her yourself, you know.”

  Amelia’s head bobbed in agreement. “She misses you desperately.”

  “And she’s ill, you know.”

  “Ill?” Jacob repeated.

  “Well, not ill, exactly, but not right as rain, either.” Alma paused importantly, “She’s about to have a baby.”

  “But she already has two,” Jacob stammered, still not quite sure when he’d lost control of this situation.

  “They’re not babies any longer, you fool.” Alma smacked her parasol on the floor. “You’d know that if you ever bothered to visit.”

  “Or write,” Amelia added.

  “But—”

  “Nevertheless, we received your summons for help, and we are here in Lettie’s place. Where is she?”

  “Who?”

  “The girl, the girl! My word, Jacob. If you can’t get your wits about you any more than this, how can you ever perform your job properly?” Jacob had no opportunity to respond before she gestured with an imperious finger. “The tip.”

  The porter who’d nearly been shot between the eyes was finished with his work. A fair pile of trunks and satchels had been stacked neatly against the wall. Not wanting the man to tell any more tales than necessary, Jacob gave him a handful of greenbacks, pushed him into the hall, and slammed the door. No sooner had it closed than there was a timid knock.

  “Blast it all to hell, I already paid you enough money to—”

  The words died in Jacob’s throat when he wrenched open the door to expose Mr. Peebles. The man stood uncertainly, a box clutched to his middle, astonishment crossing his features.

  Immediately, Jacob stiffened. Mr. Peebles believed Fiona to be an extremely wealthy woman of class and decorum—and Jacob to be her lowly bodyguard. How could he possibly explain to this owl-eyed man that the commotion he’d heard was completely innocent?

  “Mr. Peebles,” he shouted a little too loudly, hoping that Fiona would hear and come out of the bathing room. “Hello.” The little man started at Jacob’s abrupt greeting. Jacob attempted to put him at ease with a smile, but if anything, it merely made the man more nervous.

  “I’ve got the first change of clothing as requested,” Peebles offered hesitantly. “I told Fiona that I’d bring it by this afternoon.” He flicked a glance at the two elderly women. “Oh. Good afternoon, ladies.”

  Jacob had to give them credit for their abilities at play-acting. Alma didn’t miss a beat as she extended her arms in welcome.

  “Come in, Mr. Peebles. Come in.”

  “If I’m not intruding.”

  “Not at all,” Amelia gushed. “We’re the young lady’s new chaperones. Pardon the mess, but we’ve just come ourselves.”

  “Is Mrs. McFee in? As I said, I spent the night finishing one of her gowns and thought she might appreciate having suitable garments to wear about town today.”

  “How nice.” Alma drew him inside, jabbing Jacob none too subtly in the ribs in the process. “Jacob, why don’t you go get our dear girl.”

  Jacob couldn’t move. With each instant, the scene grew more horrible. “I—uh… she’s in the other room.”

  After nearly two full, painful minutes of waiting in uncomfortable silence, Mr. Peebles eventually asked, “Could I see her?”

  “Hmm?” Jacob asked vaguely, as if he had no idea what Mr. Peebles was asking.

  “Mrs. McFee—could I see her?”

  “Why?”

  “As I said, I have her things.”

  “Leave them.”

  “But… but…” The tailor became a little nonplussed. “I can’t! There are final fittings to be made. A tuck here. A tuck there.” He held the box more tightly. “Can I see her?”

  Jacob sighed. “I … don’t think so.”

  Mr. Peebles’s eyes grew wide and horrified. “Is there something wrong?” he whispered, stepping closer.

  “Wrong?”

  “Are we in danger?” Mr. Peebles inquired, peering around him as if Fiona’s supposed murderer lurked in some unseen corner.

  Swearing silently to himself and damning the situation altogether, Jacob took matters into his own hands. “No, Mr. Peebles. Mrs. McFee is merely unavailable for a fitting at this time. If you’ll just give me the box.”

  Mr. Peebles clung to the container as if it were a foundling child. “I think… I should wait until I can give these garments to Mrs. McFee herself.”

  “Nonsense. She’s… finishing her bath. I’ll simply take this to her.”

  The tailor’s eyes rounded in shock at such a proposition. The Beasleys gasped at the suggestion.

  “I mean, I’ll take it into the other room. Leave it outside her door.”

  A brief wrestling match ensued, as Jacob tried to take the box and Mr. Peebles held it tight, but Jacob managed to jerk the container out of his hands.

  Barely able to conceal his frustration, Jacob marched into the other room, slamming the bedroom door behind him and thumbing his nose at what Mr. Peebles might think of that. The Beasleys would manufacture a story to tell him, he was sure.

  Tapping on the panels of the bathing room, he waited for some reply. Nothing.

  “Fiona?”

  Nothing.

  “Fiona, come out this instant.”

  There was still no answer.

  “I have something for you. Mr. Peebles brought a gown for you to wear.”

  He thought he heard a stirring.

  “I think you should try it on.”

  “Why? Ye’ll never let me go anywhere.”

  The words were mumbled, but he heard them nonetheless. Setting th
e box on the ground, he untied the twine that held it shut and lifted the lid.

  “You should see what’s here. There’s a dress, some socks, a pair of drawers—”

  “Don’t ye be rifling through me things!”

  “I’m paying for them.”

  “Some high-falutin’ banker is payin’ fer them, according to our original agreement.”

  She had him there.

  “So don’t ye’ be puttin’ yer grubby hands on me delicates.”

  He nearly snorted aloud in amusement at that. As if Fiona McFee had ever owned anything “delicate”—as if she even knew the meaning of the word.

  “You’d better come out then and see them for yourself.”

  “No.”

  He sighed. “Fiona—”

  “Not unless ye agree to take me somewhere once I’m in ‘em.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “Ye can, but ye won’t. Drat it all, I’ve been cooped up in this hotel fer days. I need t’ get out!”

  “It wouldn’t be prudent.” Not with Darby so near and Fiona still looking like a waif.

  She remained quiet for half a minute. “I don’t know what that… ‘pru-dent’ word means, but I don’t care. I’m not a hen to be kept in a coop. I need fresh air an’ the feel o’ the wind on m’ face. I need a good dose of spring—”

  “It’s the middle of August.”

  “—summer, then! What does it matter? M’ heart is achin’ t’ be out in the open.”

  “This is Chicago, not the wide open spaces of Kansas—and don’t you be trying any of that poetic rhetoric on me, Fiona. It won’t work. My sister gave me enough of that when we were younger, and it has no effect on me.”

  He heard no retort, no sound of any kind for some time.

  “Fiona?”

  “What!” The word was sharp. Bitter.

  “Come out.”

  “Not until ye agree t’ take me somewhere—anywhere. Just fer an hour.”

  “No.”

  “Then ye can wear that dress yerself and say yer the blasted Queen of Sheba fer all I care!”

  “I’ll have your father—”

  “I’m beginnin’ t’ believe that m’ father an’ I would have a better time of it in jail. At least there they’d feed me three times a day—an’ not with no blasted weak Yankee tea!”

  She’d called his bluff—and apparently she knew it. There was no time to ask another woman to help him. Even if there were, where would he find another female cardshark that he could hold under his thumb?

  “I’ll take you out for thirty minutes. We’ll go for a drive.”

  “An hour.”

  “Forty-five minutes, and you can wear your new clothes.”

  He could almost hear the flywheels turning in her brain.

  “Ye’ve got yerself a deal, lawman.”

  Less than an hour later, Fiona’s heart was beating with an unaccustomed excitement as she was led from her suite into the hall. Finally—finally—she was to be allowed outside—and not just dressed as a simple working woman, either. She wore the suit that Mr. Peebles had made for her.

  Jacob didn’t like the costume. She’d known that from the moment she’d appeared fully dressed. A nearly palpable wave of disapproval flowed her way with each step she took.

  He had the sense to hide his reaction, introducing her to the two old women who claimed to be her chaperones. She was confused by their arrival. Jacob had made no mention of supplying companions, but she supposed she should have expected something of the sort. Jacob was concerned about propriety—and in truth, she was a little glad that she had the elderly women to buffer some of the tension between her and Jacob.

  The minute the Beasleys and Mr. Peebles rounded the bend of the staircase, Jacob stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  “Great holy hell, Fiona. What are you wearing? You look awful.”

  “Thank ye very much,” she offered pithily.

  “I told you to order something nice.”

  Fiona glanced down at her severe ebony suit and frowned. As far as she was concerned, there was nothing about her appearance to inspire such language. She had dressed with great care for her role as a British widow. She’d carefully donned each item: coarse linen drawers and a knee-length chemise, a stiff black corset and corset cover, three lawn petticoats and two of black chintz, a bustle, bustlepad, black underskirt, bodice, and swag. The entire ensemble had been finished with thick black cotton hose, leather boots and gloves, and a broad-brimmed bonnet.

  Fiona knew she had made no mistakes. Society dictated that a woman in mourning should wear no colors that could be seen by the outward eye. Black wool covered her body from neck to toe—although she had forgone the use of a veil, since she already felt as if she would expire from the weight of her costume.

  “Ye ordered me t’ dress appropriately. This is the proper outfit for a British widow in full mourning.”

  “You’re dressed like a crow.”

  She didn’t glance in his direction, but she felt the way he studied her body from the tip of her severe black bonnet to the high-necked suit with its dead-on row of jet buttons, the unadorned draped skirt, and practical black hightop boots.

  “I’m attired like a woman o’ grief.”

  “I hate it.”

  “Yer opinion isn’t really an issue, now is it?”

  “Part of the plan we’ve developed is for Darby Kensington to notice you. He’ll never take a second glance in that getup.”

  She sniffed in disdain and tugged at her sleeves. “On that, ye are wrong. Men are intrigued by women in mourning.”

  “Who gave you that idiotic idea?” he whispered. Placing a hand at her waist, he ushered her down the stairs. “Hell. We’ll simply have to make some adjustments to your wardrobe before Mr. Peebles can get any farther.”

  She glared at him suspiciously. “What exactly do ye plan to dress me in? Feathers?”

  “If necessary.”

  They had reached the last few steps when Jacob suddenly took her wrist, forcing her to stop.

  “Wh—”

  “Kensington.” The name was but a puff of breath.

  She immediately knew who Jacob referred to. She’d seen enough gamblers in her lifetime to know the type. Darby Kensington was tall, broad-shouldered, with waving gold hair and a carefully trimmed mustache taught to curve at the tips and a neatly groomed goatee. He fairly reeked of money and swaggering assurance.

  She sensed the way Jacob’s attention diverted from their prey to focus on her.

  “He’s very handsome, don’t you think?” Jacob asked. By his very tone it was evident that he expected her to deny such a thing, to show she could remain unaffected by his charm, but Fiona couldn’t prevent needling him.

  “I suppose.”

  “He’s also very good at cards.”

  She tilted her chin to a regal angle. “Not good enough.”

  Darby Kensington turned from the desk, his ebony walking stick tapping out the closing distance.

  Jacob’s grip tightened. “Come along. It’s too soon for him to see you.”

  She glared at him. “Ye mean I’m not enough of a lady?”

  “Exactly.”

  His response irritated her beyond belief. What under the holy stars did he want of her? She hadn’t said hell or damn in at least an hour, she’d washed the lye from her skin and combed the tangles from her hair. For the past few minutes, she’d taken great pains to walk as if a poker had been shoved up her arse—just as Jacob had insisted before they’d left the room—and he still wasn’t satisfied.

  Jacob must have sensed a portion of her thoughts, because when she took a step forward, he scowled at her. “Fi-o-na,” he warned. “Don’t.”

  She flashed him an innocent smile. One worthy of the cherubs she’d once seen painted on the walls of Saint Michael’s Cathedral. “Don’t what?”

  Any warnings he might make were far to
o late. Darby Kensington had climbed the first tread. Fiona, seeing the opportunity, pretended to stumble, gasped, and threw her arms around the gambler’s waist to catch herself.

  Behind her, Jacob swore, grasping her shoulder and snatching her free.

  “Are you all right, madam?” Kensington inquired, but he didn’t quite look at her face. Indeed, after a cursory examination of the woman who’d all but collapsed at his feet, he returned his attention to his mail.

  All of Fiona’s old instincts bubbled to the fore at his rudeness. Was she of so little consequence that this man wouldn’t even meet her gaze? Was she so lowly, he couldn’t take the time to see for himself if she was bleeding or sick or in need?

  “Of course I’m all right, ye big—”

  Jacob wrapped his arm around her elbow and pulled her after him.

  “So sorry, sir. She’s not quite used to these new shoes.”

  Not allowing Fiona to respond, he dragged her out of the lobby, past the Beasleys, Mr. Peebles, and their carriage, not stopping until they’d reached the side alley and its vestige of privacy. “I told you not to call attention to yourself!”

  “The bloody bastard didn’t even have the courtesy t’ see fer himself if I was all right.”

  Jacob sighed in irritation and planted his hands on his hips. “What did you expect, dressed up like a bat?”

  Her eyes widened in disbelief. “This is a very pretty dress.”

  “For a maiden aunt.”

  “Mr. Peebles copied the latest styles.”

  “Making them as severe as possible in the process.”

  “But ye told me to dress like a widow!”

  He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Maybe in the future you could refrain from delving so deeply into deep mourning.”

  She blinked, a bit of her hurt dissipating beneath the hidden meaning of his words. “Do ye mean t’ say I can wear some o’ the colors then?”

  “I think your dearly departed husband has been gone long enough for that.”

  “A little blue?”

  “And purple and rust.”

  “Hmmm.” She liked that idea, liked it very much. Black had never really been her favorite choice in clothing. It was far too… far too…

  Practical.