Love in Disguise

by Barbara Baldwin

“Max!”

  He laughed and went back to his meal, leaving her with knots in her stomach just thinking about making love to him. That seemed to be all she did think about.

  * * *

  After dinner, Max spread his papers across the table. He needed to get a handle on the extent of Dillon’s thievery before they reached San Francisco. He hoped to settle the matter without drawing the authorities into it, but he would call them if needed. He listened to Abby hum and glanced over to where she sat in the window seat. She held some papers on her lap, leaning back against a cushion. A frown marred her features and she chewed on the nub of a pencil. She then scribbled on the paper, began humming again, and the frown disappeared. He wondered what she worked on, but knew she would tell him when she was ready. One thing he’d learned about Abby was her willingness to share. He snorted, thinking that applied also to her very righteous opinions on women’s rights. His groin tightened when he recalled the precious gift she’d shared with him last night and her passion again this morning. He would never get enough of her. She was beautiful and she meant the world to him.

  “Have you found me so dull and easy to ignore already?” he asked, drawing her attention away from whatever she wrote. He wanted her to talk to him. She looked across the width of the room. A gentle smile brightened her features.

  “Oh, Max. Regardless that Mary Wollstonecraft equated a husband to a convenient piece of furniture; I would never view you as anything so inconsequential as that.”

  She came across the room to settle on his lap.

  “Although you do provide quite a comfortable seat.”

  She laughed when he tickled her, and he delighted in the sound. He kissed her neck, working his way up her throat to her lips. Just when he kissed one corner of her delectable mouth, she turned on his lap, surveying his papers.

  “What are you working on?”

  “Information Monty gave me. Most of the merchandise from the warehouse can never be traced. It was probably quickly sold along the wharf by Dillon and his cohorts. I hope that some of the other items, like the ten crates of Sharps rifles, will be discovered by one of the agents I have working on this case.”

  “You think Dillon has a partner?”

  She leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table as she read his lists.

  “Probably only hired thugs for the warehouse job. I can’t see Dillon sharing half a million dollars with anyone.”

  “Oh, Max, that’s a fortune. Whatever will your father do?”

  “The merchandise can be replaced, if I can recover the majority of the money.”

  “What did Dillon do with the money?”

  He frowned.

  “That’s the crux of the problem. Getting that kind of money transferred from the business involved Jerome Smith and Monty. According to Monty, by the time they discovered the mining venture was bogus, the money had already been transferred and was irretrievable.

  “That makes me think there was an inside person at whatever bank they used. Monty will be looking into that when he gets to Boston. I have to find a way to get the money from Dillon’s San Francisco bank.”

  Abby looped her arms around his neck, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  He felt lighthearted under her effused confidence in his ability.

  “I think this calls for the good Reverend Fishbone, and his new wife, Abigail, to make an appearance.”

  “Hmmm, Jonas and Abigail Fishbone. It does have a certain ring to it, doesn’t it?”

  She laughed.

  “Good Reverend, I have a confession to make.”

  He caressed her stomach with his palm, recalling her last confession when she’d told him she loved him. What could he do but play along?

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m guilty of the sin of obsession,” she said on a breathless little sigh. She leaned back, and he slid his hand upward to cover her breast.

  “What are you obsessed with?”

  She gave him a seductive smile.

  “You.”

  His heart began to thump recklessly. His manhood swelled against her bottom when she squirmed on his lap.

  “But that’s not all.”

  “There’s more?” His voice squeaked.

  “I’m also guilty of overindulgence and I’m selfish. I want you all to myself. Will you forgive me?”

  “If I say yes, will you curb your obsessions?”

  She nodded solemnly.

  “I could try.”

  “Then I can’t forgive you because I’m guilty, too. I have these cravings.”

  She managed to unbutton his shirt and slid her hand beneath the fabric. He inhaled sharply at her touch, knowing if he had a hundred years with her he would still want her.

  “Yearnings,” she breathed the word close to his ear.

  “Vagrancies,” he concurred, kissing a heated path along her throat.

  “Obsessions,” she panted. “Maybe they’ll burn themselves out.”

  “I certainly hope not,” he growled, standing with her in his arms. Purposeful strides took them to the bedroom.

  * * *

  Abby’s first impression of San Francisco was that of a beehive. The train station was a hub of activity with people bustling in all directions. While Max made arrangements for their luggage, she watched people. They appeared to be from all walks of life and cultures. She laughed as a little man with a pigtail down his back chattered away in a foreign language to the mule he had attached to a small wagon. She wondered if the animal understood what was being said to it.

  “Ready?” Max was back at her side.

  “Where are we going?”

  She took his arm and walked to the waiting carriage.

  “Palace Hotel on Market Street.” He answered her and gave the driver directions at the same time.

  “It’s more elaborate than a poor man of the cloth can afford, but we can always say we are honeymooning.”

  “I think before we begin this masquerade, I’d better purchase clothing more in keeping with the role of Mrs. Fishbone.”

  He looked at her silk dress and flowered bonnet.

  “You look fine.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “If we’re going to continue this partnership, you really need to acquire some fashion sense.”

  He frowned. “Abby, when I said we were partners, it regarded our personal life, not my business. I refuse to continue to put you in danger. You are only here—”

  “Because you need me.”

  “Because I love you and couldn’t imagine being away from you,” he said, surprising her with his openness.

  She kissed him on the cheek.

  “Regardless, you do need me for this and you know it. I think it will be great fun to go on these adventures with you.”

  “I think I would rather know you’re at home waiting for my return.”

  She shook her head.

  “I doubt Susan B. Anthony would agree that is where I should be.”

  “But where does Mrs. Grant think she should be?”

  Abby turned to gaze at her husband. He was the love of her life and she knew there was only one place for her. If the suffragists and independent thinkers of her time knew Max, she was sure they would agree.

  “I want to be by your side, forever, no matter where that is.”

  “And if I was a poor fisherman?”

  “Then I would be a fisherman’s wife.”

  “And if I decided to run for politics?”

  “I think I would make a delightful president’s wife,” she replied with a grin.

  “President? Wouldn’t I have to begin by being a representative?” he asked when he handed her down in front of the Palace Hotel.

  She laughed. “It’s all a matter of having the right connections.”

  She gifted him with a smile.

  “Connections, and the right wife, of course.”

  She walked ahead of him into the hotel, delighting i
n the masculine chuckle she heard behind her. It really didn’t matter what Max did as long as he was happy. And being a dutiful wife, she would see that he got what he deserved and more.

  * * *

  “It wasn’t difficult finding where Dillon lives,” Max remarked, holding the chair for her at supper.

  “It only took a few discrete inquiries at Sutro & Co., Dillon’s bank, to find he lives with his mother, who is apparently a well known matron in San Francisco.”

  He sat across from her and poured the wine.

  “Gustav Sutro gushed profusely when I informed him I wanted to deposit quite a large sum of money into an account, but needed to know that the money was secure. Once I told him John Dillon recommended his firm, he fell all over himself trying to assure me they were reputable.”

  Before Abby answered, she forked a huge portion of beef onto Max’s plate.

  “Can you trust him?”

  “Probably.” He shrugged.

  “He didn’t give any indication he knows the origins of Dillon’s large sums of money.”

  A knock on the door of their suite interrupted the conversation. Since they knew no one in San Francisco, Max cautioned her to silence while he went to the door. From where she sat, she tried to peer around the curtains that draped the archway between rooms, but heard only muted voices. Curious, she tiptoed to the curtains, reaching a hand up to move them back enough to see.

  “Squawk!”

  “Ouch!”

  She squealed at the same time a screech erupted from the other side of the curtains. She pulled her hand back to find her finger bleeding where something had bitten her.

  “Let me see that.”

  Max stepped forward. He took her hand then dabbed it with his handkerchief.

  “Abby, meet Phoenix and Cutter.” He didn’t look up as he made the introductions. “Phoenix, this is my inquisitive little wife, Abigail.”

  He wrapped her finger in the handkerchief, then lifted it to his lips, giving her a gentle kiss.

  “Who wouldn’t have gotten her finger pecked if she’d stayed put.”

  The man gave her an apologetic smile.

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry that Cutter, here, nipped you. He watches my backside and does tend to be a bit protective.”

  She shouldn’t have been surprised upon seeing a man with a colorful parrot on his shoulder standing in the entrance to their hotel room. Max did have a rather strange collection of associates. She put on her brightest smile and best manners.

  “Good evening, Mr. Phoenix, won’t you come in?”

  His contacts tended to keep in the background for the most part, but she’d found them interesting and unique. This man had a colorful parrot on his shoulder that created a striking contrast to the man’s own dark complexion. He looked foreign; his dark hair cut short, his near-black eyes giving nothing away. He wore buff-colored pants, a white shirt and soft leather boots clear to his knees. When he turned, Abby noticed a knife tucked into his boot. His deep voice brought her attention back to his face.

  “Thank you, ma’am, but I only came to impart information.”

  “You think we have a few days, then?” Max asked the man. As he spoke, he casually draped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to his side. She loved the possessiveness of the gesture.

  “Only a few,” the man answered.

  “Ship’s leaving a week from tomorrow, if you’re inclined to take the sea route back.”

  Max shook his head.

  “Sorry, but eight days on a train is infinitely better than weeks on a boat.”

  “Ship,” the man corrected.

  Max laughed, stuck out his hand to shake Phoenix’s in farewell, and saw him to the door. When he returned to the table, Abby poured them coffee.

  “You certainly have a host of unusual friends.”

  “Acquaintances and business associates,” he said. “It’s important to know people—men with eyes and ears in significant places.”

  “Are you a spy?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t believe you are, but I also don’t think you would tell me if you were.”

  He laughed.

  “You’re right. But I will tell you Phoenix says Dillon is currently out of town, which makes it very convenient for us.”

  “In other words, it’s time for Reverend and Mrs. Fishbone to pay a pastoral visit to the good Mrs. Dillon.”

  * * *

  Abby sent a note to Mrs. Dillon’s residence the next morning and by luncheon had been invited to afternoon tea. She nervously raised the knocker, Max’s instructions pounding in her head enough to give her a headache.

  “Don’t ask questions. Don’t try to snoop,” he’d reiterated while riding over in the carriage with her.

  “Get a feel for the house and try to make sure you’re invited again when I can accompany you.”

  She’d docilely acquiesced to his demands, nodding each time. Right when she stepped from the carriage, he touched her arm.

  “Abby?”

  She turned, waiting for yet another set of instructions.

  “I love you.”

  Then he was gone, promising to return for her in an hour.

  She smiled. Just like everything he did, once Max started loving her, he jumped in completely and now was quite open with his affections.

  “Madam?”

  Abby’s thoughts refocused on the task at hand when the butler opened the door, stepping back for her to enter.

  “Mrs. Dillon awaits you in the parlor.”

  As he led the way down the hall, Abby craned her neck to see into each room they passed, memorizing the floor plan. Whatever she thought John Dillon’s mother would look like, the lady quickly dispelled her preconceived notions. The petite woman who warmly greeted her was vivacious and friendly, and Abby had a hard time reconciling her with the evil image of John Dillon.

  “Mrs. Dillon, thank you for seeing me.”

  Abby greeted her politely then sat in the wingback chair across from a low table.

  “Call me Winifred, dear. I’m delighted to meet you. Tea?”

  “Please.”

  Abby let her gaze drift around the room while the older lady poured refreshments.

  “You have a lovely home.”

  “Thank you. My husband did well in land speculating back in the fifties and left me quite comfortable.”

  “Do you have children?” Abby asked because it would be an expected question.

  “My son, John, is away on business.”

  She said no more, and Abby noted a touch of sadness in her voice. Mrs. Dillon changed the subject.

  “Your note indicated your husband is a minister and you’re here to start an orphanage, but you look familiar. May I ask your maiden name?”

  Considering she and Max were married, her parents no longer had a say in her future. Besides, San Francisco was a continent away from Boston.

  “My parents are Keven and Violet O’Brien of Boston.”

  Winifred Dillon smiled and nodded.

  “I thought so.”

  At Abby’s surprised look, she added. “It was a great pleasure to hear you play at a soiree your mother held, for your birthday I believe.”

  Her face lit suddenly.

  “Perhaps I can help you and your husband. I don’t believe it immodest to say I am well connected in this town. Would you consider playing for a few of my intimates? It would be a fundraiser for your orphanage. I know just the people who would pay for the privilege of hearing you play.”

  Abby was taken back.

  “I don’t play…anymore.”

  She didn’t like deceiving this lady, for regardless of her son’s behavior, she actually liked Winifred Dillon.

  “Nonsense. The way you play isn’t something you forget. And besides, think of the money.”

  “Could it be done quickly?” Abby asked, remembering that Dillon might only be gone a few days.

  “I don’t mean to sound greedy, but—
” She hesitated, searching for a reason for her hurry.

  “Oh, yes, the children. You must be in a hurry to help those poor orphans.” Winifred supplied the answer for her.

  “My friends and I are always looking for entertainment and causes. I believe it could be arranged, say for Friday?”

  “That is most generous of you.”

  “Nonsense. I’m delighted I found you first. You’ll be wonderful and will make me the most sought after hostess in San Francisco.”

  * * *

  “Well, it appears you’re the toast of San Francisco,”

  Max stated, dropping the Morning Call onto the bed beside Abby.

  “Mrs. Dillon didn’t waste any time letting everyone know she would be entertaining.”

  She perused the article in the “Social Gossip” column, right on the front page of the daily paper.

  “Max, are you sure this will work?”

  He stopped midway in pouring a cup of coffee and cocked a brow at her.

  “Don’t tell me you can’t play the piano, I know better. Besides, according to Mrs. Dillon, you’re the most celebrated pianist ever to grace the lowly streets of this fair city.”

  Abby didn’t care for his tone. She slid from bed, pulling on her robe. She came to him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

  “Something is wrong. Are you upset that I never spoke about my musical ability?”

  Max set the coffee he’d just poured back onto the table. He untangled her arms, though she tried to hold on, and took her hand to lead her to the couch. He sat, pulling her onto his lap. He absently rubbed her arm.

  “No, I am not mad at you.” He sighed. “And I know how well you play. I just can’t guarantee Dillon won’t return before Friday. I can’t even guarantee he isn’t hiding in the city and reading the same newspaper.”

  “But you will be there.”

  She kissed him, sliding her hands beneath his coat to caress his chest. Max hesitated only a second before lifting her from the sofa to carry her to their bed without breaking contact with her soft lips. The merest thought of her sent him into a mindless frenzy where he constantly wanted to touch her. He slid her robe from her shoulders and pulled her silk gown over her head. He vowed nothing would happen to her. Her skin shimmered in the early morning light. She was so perfect, so soft and feminine, and all his. His gaze followed his hands as he caressed her breasts then slid down her body. She stood straight and proud, offering herself to him as she had from the very first. It was only now that Max truly appreciated the uniqueness of that gift.