She started to deny it, but knew it would do no good. “So,” she said coldly, “I cannot even trust Thackery. When did he tell you?”
“He didn’t.”
“Then how do you know?”
Saint shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Now, where is it?”
She looked mulish, and he grabbed her reticule from the dresser and riffled through it. She said nothing, merely stared at him tight-lipped.
There was no gun in the reticule.
“Where, Jules?”
Now was the time for a lie, she thought, squaring her shoulders. Otherwise, he would tear the room apart looking for it. “I decided that Thackery was right. I don’t need a gun. He will protect me.”
Saint stopped, turned very slowly, and looked at her. “Are you telling me the truth?”
She shrugged pettishly. “Why shouldn’t I? I told you, I realized it was silly for me to have it. Besides, I don’t know the first thing about derringers.”
“I see. Just what did you do with it, Jules?”
She held his gaze steadily. “I threw it in the ocean this afternoon.” She lowered her eyes quickly. That wasn’t a good lie at all. All he had to do was ask Thackery.
“If,” he said, “I discover that you aren’t telling me the truth, I will thrash you.”
She said nothing, merely twiddled her thumbs.
“What I should do is buy Thackery a leash. A short one.”
She shrugged, still saying nothing, and kept her eyes on her thumbs.
“Another matter,” Saint said after a moment. “I understand you paid a visit to Maggie the other day. No, let’s not repeat how I found out. Suffice it to say that I did, quite by accident. Would you care to tell me why you went to a brothel?”
“I wanted to meet her. Chauncey Saxton told me how very nice she was.”
“She runs a brothel,” Saint said. “It doesn’t matter how nice Maggie is. If you wish to make a friend of her, you will invite her here, you understand?”
“She won’t come here.”
“Then that’s an end to it.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I said,” Jules said very calmly, “that I shall do as I wish. And that’s an end to it.”
“Jules, listen to me.” He stopped, knowing that nothing he said would make any difference. He knew she was stubborn. He simply hadn’t guessed how stubborn. And she thoroughly disliked him, so why should she care what the hell he thought about anything? He suddenly remembered Victoria, her body viciously beaten by a mean drunk. God, he hated prostitution. Even willing women could be brutalized, just as Victoria had been. “Several months ago, Maggie called me to the brothel. One of the girls, Victoria is her name, had been badly hurt.” He paused a moment, realizing that he didn’t have her complete attention. “Actually,” he continued, his voice hard, “the man had not only beaten her, he had used her unnaturally, and torn her.” Should he be more graphic? He couldn’t bring himself to be. “I had to stitch her up, Jules. She was ill for several weeks.”
“Why are you telling me this? It is terrible, of course, but it has nothing to do with me.”
He frowned. “I don’t know. I don’t want you hurt, Jules.”
“Then why did you go visit Jane Branigan?”
“She wanted to speak to me, that’s all. Nothing more.”
“About what?”
“It’s not important.”
“Are you going to sleep here tonight?”
“Your mind,” Saint said, clamping down on his body’s instant response to her words, “jumps about more unpredictably than that strange animal in Australia. No, I’m sleeping downstairs. I’m expecting a patient, he’s coming up to see me from San Jose.” That was a bloody lie, but what else could he tell her? No, I won’t sleep here or I’ll strip off your nightgown and force you. Again. And this time you wouldn’t be asking me to, since you know . . .
“Good night then, Michael.”
He merely nodded, and turned to leave.
“You needn’t be quiet when you leave to see Jane Branigan,” she called after him. “I’m a very heavy sleeper.”
A muscle moved convulsively in his jaw. “Good night, Jules,” he said, and strode from the bedroom.
Jules heard the front door open and close some fifteen minutes later. She turned off the lamp beside the bed, flipped onto her stomach, and cursed into the pillow.
It was only a week until Christmas, and the days had shortened drastically. It was only a bit after four in the afternoon, and Jules had to move to the window to read the letter. It was from her sister, Sarah. It was a taunting, rather petty letter, in which Sarah described in great detail her wedding to Tory Dickerson, a visiting planter from Oahu. “Good for you, Sarah,” Jules said aloud to the silent parlor. “Now maybe you’ll be just a little bit happy.” She folded the letter, then took it up to Thomas’ room, propping it up on his pillow.
She was alone, Lydia having left an hour earlier to buy some Christmas presents.
She wandered about the house, gazing into Michael’s surgery. There were several glass-fronted cabinets, two chairs, a desk, and a long table, where, she supposed, he examined people. She studied the bottles in the cabinets, but without much interest, for she recognized only a few of the labels. He’d been gone most of the day, called by David Broderick’s servant to come to his house. Broderick, it seemed, had broken his leg.
She grabbed her cloak, gently placed her derringer, now loaded, into her reticule, and stepped out into the growing darkness. She didn’t see Thackery. Perhaps he was off visiting Lucas. She had told him at noon that she wasn’t going out today. Well, so much for him. She would take care of herself.
She would go visit Maggie. Certainly it was too early for Maggie to be entertaining men. Her eyes narrowed as she walked toward Kearny Street. Where are you, Mr. Jameson Wilkes? I’m not a virgin, not anymore, but I certainly would like to see you!
She became aware of the number of men staring at her. She raised her chin. There were catcalls and whistles and some lewd comments tossed her way, but she ignored them, staring straight ahead. She saw some women, gaily dressed, and knew they were prostitutes. She had nearly gained Portsmouth Square when she heard an astonished voice from behind her.
“Good God! Jules, is that you?”
She turned slowly, recognizing Brent Hammond’s voice.
“Hello, Brent,” she said. “How are you this fine day? No fog, but Michael tells me there’s not much during the winter. It’s getting dark so much earlier now, isn’t it? How is Byrony?”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Brent said, eyeing her speculatively. Where was Thackery?
“I’m visiting Maggie.”
“Like hell you are!”
“Your language is foul, sir, and it’s really none of your business. It was nice seeing you. Now—”
“Stop, Jules! Does Saint know what you’re up to?”
“Up to?” Jules raised a supercilious brow. “I am a free person, Mr. Hammond. I am out walking and visiting, just as I suspect your former slaves can now do. Good day, sir.”
Brent ground his teeth. Then he smiled, his charming, seductive smile. “Very well. Do allow me to escort you to Maggie’s apartment. I’m certain she’s very anxious to see you, particularly here.”
Jules was nonplussed. Finally she nodded. Brent took her arm and led her through the alley to the back entrance of the Wild Star. When they reached the top of the stairs, he steered her to the left.
“A moment, Brent. Maggie is—”
“I imagine that Maggie is visiting Byrony,” Brent said smoothly. “Come along.”
Of course, Maggie wasn’t in the Hammonds’ apartment. Byrony was seated in front of a glowing fire, reading. She looked startled, then pleased, greeting Jules warmly and offering her a cup of tea.
After the amenities, Brent said to his wife, “I will come back in a little while, love. You and Jules can visit.”
“How lovel
y. Give us at least an hour, Brent.”
Jules was in a quandary. The major reason she’d wanted to visit Maggie was her husband’s taboo. But how could she tell the glowing Byrony Hammond that she didn’t want to stay? She gave Brent a crooked smile.
“Just so,” Brent said softly to her. “Later, ladies.”
He tracked Saint down in front of his house, Saint having just returned from the Brodericks’.
“How nice to see you, Saint,” Brent said blandly. “My, do you happen to know where your wife is?”
Saint waved a hand toward the house. He paused, seeing no lights in the windows. He frowned. “All right, Brent,” he said in a resigned voice. “Where is she? What has she done this time?”
“Why, she’s with my wife,” Brent said. He added, “Of course, when I just happened to see her, she was on her way to see Maggie. Thanks to my perfidy, she is with Byrony, her guns spiked, as it were.”
“Damn,” said Saint.
“Yes. I guess my next question is, where is Thackery? Your wife was quite alone, trying her best to ignore all the very interested men.”
“Jules very probably lied to him and told him she wasn’t going out of the house. Thackery will have a fit when he finds out.”
“And you, Saint?”
“I don’t like fits.”
“No, you don’t, do you? But marriage seems to have brought you as many confusions and complications as it brought me. I don’t know what’s going on, Saint, and you’re probably dying to tell me to go to hell—”
“Why?” Saint asked, sighing. “You did well by my wife, and I thank you. Lord knows, I can’t seem to handle her.”
Brent eyed his friend closely. “You might try thrashing her,” he said.
Saint laughed. “Yes,” he said, “yes, I just might. Well, I’m off to fetch my errant wife. Thanks again, Brent.”
Before he could leave, Thackery returned, a laughing Thomas with him.
“Hi, Saint,” Thomas said. “What’s going on? There aren’t any lights in the house.”
Thackery said very quietly, “Tell me where, Dr. Saint, and I’ll go fetch her.”
Perhaps it would be better, Saint thought, if Thackery got her. “She’s at the Hammonds’ apartment, above the Wild Star.”
Thackery nodded, touched the brim of his hat, and strode off into the growing darkness. Saint turned to his brother-in-law. “Lydia should be back soon. You hungry, Thomas?”
“Yes,” Thomas said. He laughed suddenly. “I won’t be seeing Penelope this evening. She tried to give me orders about a certain something, and I informed her . . . well, I told her she could spend some time alone to think about her woman’s modesty.”
“Good God, Thomas,” Saint said as they went into the house. “Whatever did the girl want you to do?”
Thomas looked thoughtful as the two men went into the parlor. Saint lit the lamps and took off his coat. He looks tired, Thomas thought. Damn Jules anyway. Whatever is that little twit up to?
“Drink, Thomas?”
Thomas nodded. “Sherry, please, Saint.”
The two men relaxed a moment, drinking in silence. Saint said again, “What did Penelope want you to do?”
Thomas raised twinkling eyes to Saint’s face, and Saint started. There was a good deal of similarity between that impish look and Jules’s.
“She wanted me to make love to her.”
“Penelope? Good God!”
“Exactly,” Thomas said. “I told her she should be ashamed of herself.” He grinned in fond memory. “She is, of course, quite desirable.”
Saint could think of nothing to say.
“She wants to marry me, you know, and since I’m as elusive as hell, I suppose she thought she would compromise me.”
“And what did you say?”
“I told her no, and that this evening I was going to spend the night making love to a woman who expected nothing from me. For a while there, I thought she would expire with hysterics.”
Saint shook his head. “Thomas, the gentlemen of San Francisco salute you!”
Thomas sat forward in his chair, his glass between his knees. “Bunker wants me to come to work for him in the foundry. I’m not certain that’s what I want.”
“Doing what?”
Thomas shrugged. “Probably a glorified office boy to start with. Somehow, working for my father-in-law doesn’t seem too smart a thing to do.”
“No, I would agree.”
“I want to be a doctor, Saint.”
Saint leaned back, his arms behind his head. “I think,” he said finally, “that you should determine if that is really what you want by working with me. I could teach you a goodly amount. If you decide in, say, six months that you wish to continue, I think you should go back East, to Boston or New York, for your formal training.”
They continued discussing the pros and cons until Lydia arrived. Ten minutes later, they heard Jules’s voice. Thomas watched Saint’s face harden, his eyes glitter.
“Well,” Thomas said, rising quickly. “I think I’ll be going out now. I’ve got to spend some time with Morton David, an interesting man. Of all things, he’s an actor, Shakespeare and all that.” Thomas paused a moment in the doorway and said quietly, “Good luck, Saint.”
Saint heard him greet his sister with an affectionate “You look like hell, Jules. Go comb your hair, you look a fright.”
Jules knew Michael was in the parlor, but she didn’t want to see him. She went upstairs and stayed there until after Lydia had left. She heard him call to her.
She eased into her chair at the foot of the dining table. He handed her the several dishes, saying nothing.
“I trust you had an interesting day,” Saint said finally, laying down his fork.
“No, not really,” Jules said.
“Oh? You found Byrony boring?”
“No, she was quite charming. She wanted me to ask you if she could come by tomorrow.”
He nodded. “Certainly.”
He wasn’t angry and it made her very wary. “Michael,” she said, taking the offensive, “I am bored! I do nothing except sit around and brush my hair!”
“Fine, I’ll dismiss Lydia and you can take over her duties.”
That shut her up, Saint thought, but only for a moment.
She thrust her chin upward. “So, if I can’t be anything else, you’ll allow me to be your housekeeper!”
“What else do you want to be?”
“Would you pay me what you pay Lydia?”
Elusive chit, he thought. “Probably not—you haven’t her experience or skill.”
He sat back and watched her, knowing he’d spiked her guns.
“You think I’m afraid to work?”
“Jules, I don’t think you’re afraid of a damned thing, more’s the pity.”
Yes, she wanted to tell him, she was afraid of more things than she could count. Why wasn’t he angry with her, yelling at her, for going to see Maggie?
She blurted out her last thought, “Aren’t you angry with me?”
He nodded. “Yes, of course.”
But he didn’t care enough to yell at her, she thought. She didn’t know what to say. She watched him rise. He’d opened his shirt at the neck and she coud see the silken tufts of hair on his chest. He was so handsome, she thought, her eyes going down his body hungrily. But he didn’t love her, he didn’t even like her, not anymore. She gave him nothing but trouble.
“I’m going out,” Saint said. “Incidentally, Jules,” he added, halting a moment in the doorway, “Thackery will be here.”
“Ah yes, my jailer. Give my regards to Mrs. Branigan.”
He paused and said, his voice hard, “You will cease using Jane as a bone of contention between us. She is a fine woman. I admire her and respect her, but that is all.”
She lowered her head, saying nothing.
21
January is a brooding month, Jules thought, pulling her cloak more closely about her. The air was thick with sw
irling fog and a chilling drizzle that made her bones ache with cold. She thought of Maui, pictured herself running along the beach, the warm trade winds in her face. She wondered if she’d ever become accustomed to this bitter climate. She supposed with a shake of her head that she should count her blessings. After all, she could have ended up in Toronto.
She’d managed to lose Thackery. She’d gotten quite adept at it over the past couple of weeks. She was hunting again. It added excitement to the game to think she was also the hunted. Wilkes was there, waiting for her, just as she was searching for him. She knew it, she could practically feel his presence.
It was odd, her thinking continued, even as her eyes darted about her as she walked, but Wilkes had become the focal point of her life. It was odd and, she realized, rather pathetic. But she had nothing else.
Both Thomas and Lydia knew that Michael slept in the parlor. Lydia had said nothing, but Thomas had not been so reticent. Indeed, she thought, seeing his face in her mind’s eye, he’d been appalled and angry.
“What the hell is going on, Jules?”
She’d merely looked at him, not at first understanding his attack.
“Saint,” he nearly shouted at her. “Your husband, little sister. I find to my chagrin that my brother-in-law, the owner of this damned house, is sleeping like some sort of extra guest downstairs! What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” Jules said.
That had brought him up short. His features softened just a bit. “Look, Jules, I realize that all is not well with you two, but you don’t even allow him to sleep in his own bed?”
“He doesn’t want to,” Jules said.
“Oh, come on, Jules.” Thomas said in disgust. “You’re not exactly a troll. I don’t understand any of this.”
“It’s very simple, Thomas,” Jules said, her voice hard. “Michael didn’t want to marry me in the first place. He had to, if you’ll remember. In terms of sleeping with me, he’s not interested.” That wasn’t precisely true, but all the rest of it was hardly Thomas’ business, after all.
Thomas looked shocked. “He’s never slept with you?”
“Once. That, it appears, was more than enough. Now, Thomas, is there anything else?”