Forbidden

by Susan Johnson

  "I think she prefers Augustine, Your Grace, which might account for the current state of calm in your bedroom."

  "In your efficiency, Louis," the Duc said in teasing response, "why couldn't you take care of my Bourse trading as well and I wouldn't have had to lose my Cleopatra."

  "I was tempted to, but you know Legere… a martinet for protocol. And your orders were specific, sir. I was to see you were up again and dressed by ten. But forgive me for interfering in the Countess's morning—er—visit," he apologized.

  Etienne shrugged and smiled, conscious of the overriding urgency of a railway acquisition over Isme's lush body. Well, at least intellectually conscious. Isme did have considerable ingenuity in the art of inflaming a man's senses, although he was becoming impatient with her pouting demands. Today was simply another instance of her intruding into his private life without invitation. She'd surprised him by appearing in the Bois de Boulogne that morning as he rode with his son and friends in their customary fashion. Although not adverse to Isme's exquisite brand of sensuality, he preferred taking the initiative with women; he disliked being pressed. He particularly disliked intimations of permanence in a relationship—those initial small demands on his time, the possessive tones of censure, the inevitable claims of exclusivity.

  As heiress to estates in the Département du Nord, which happened to incorporate the largest coal reserves in France, Isme was familiar with having her wishes fulfilled. He didn't relish becoming the object of those wishes beyond a certain casual dalliance. And if she desired more than their unrestrained relationship of the past months, he did not.

  "When the Comtesse calls again, Louis," the Duc said in swift decision based on notorious experience, "I'm not at home."

  "For how long, sir?"

  "For the foreseeable future, Louis. Have the Chigi Cassétta she admired at Roussel's—the one painted by Raphael—sent to her with my compliments."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Put a necklace of those pink diamonds Chaumet delivered last week in the Cassétta with one of my cards."

  "Very good, sir." Louis's response was without a shade of expression. The Duc meant, of course, the cards signed for anonymous recipients in advance: Affectionately, Etienne. Since Roussel had proudly pointed out at a private snowing for the Duc last week that the Renaissance cassétta was one of a kind, Raphael had designed for his patron, the Sienese financier, Agostina Chigi, the lavishness of the Duc de Vec's gift indicated a definite conclusion to his affair with the Comtesse.

  The Duc's green gaze contemplated the sunshine-bright morning visible beyond the bank of windows illuminating his dressing room. "The sun came out," he mildly said, as if disposing of a mistress in a significantly expensive fashion was as prosaic an occurrence as his comment on the weather.

  "Yes, sir, about an hour ago."

  He hadn't noticed, preoccupied as he was with profligate sensation. "The ground should be drying out then." Walking the few steps over to the gold-footed tub ensconced on a museum-quality Shiraz carpet in the center of the room, he turned the taps wide open. Straightening, he asked, "Has Valentin called?"

  "Twice, sir. I told him you were still… busy."

  The Duc smiled. "Don't forget the pink diamonds now." Over the past weeks, Isme had given him considerable pleasure.

  Louis showed the smallest affront at the reminder.

  "Sorry." Etienne softly apologized for his gaffe. Louis was and always had been the epitome of efficiency. "Has Mr. Bouchart called yet?"

  "No, sir."

  Etienne frowned slightly. Bouchart was to have called at half-past nine with news of Germain Frères's selling price. Another brief look at the clock—five after ten—a deepening of the Duc's frown, then a shrug. The man Bouchart had been a curiosity from his first mysterious contact—perhaps some chicanery instituted by Germain, a ringer meant to delude or deceive, an unknown in any event, untrustworthy at best. He'd have Legere sell at 260, as previously indicated. About to send Louis off to see to Legere, the words half formed in his mind, he was about to speak when the phone rang. A feeling of exhilaration similar to that he experienced when winning extravagantly at Monte Carlo immediately seized him. He knew who it was, just as he knew before the dealer dealt him a card in baccarat he had a winning number.

  "I'll take it," the Duc crisply said.

  Reaching the phone set on a small table near the windows in three rapid strides, he answered, "de Vec here." His deep voice was softly muted, as if he knew Bouchart calling late was nervous and high-strung, needing to be steadied.

  Standing with the light from the window limning his broad-shouldered frame, his dark hair touched with iridescence, he spoke softly into the receiver. "Yes. Yes. No, that won't be necessary. Tomorrow? Yes. Thank you." He didn't move; even his breathing seemed in abeyance as he briefly acknowledged the information being given him. "They're selling at 275," he said, setting the receiver back into the cradle delicately, his fine nostrils flaring in a deep, satisfying inhalation of air. Experience and instinct were essential in dealing with the market, but it never hurt to have a disgruntled employee in your camp. He hadn't known if he could trust Bouchart; he still didn't completely. But… The Duc's mouth curved into a grin. "Tell Legere to wait until 273 before selling," he instructed, moving over to the tub and stepping into the rising water.

  Sitting down, he stretched out his long legs and lay back against the cool marble. "Mr. Bouchart will be round to the apartment here tomorrow for his fee." Submerging briefly, he came up out of the warm water, sleekly wet and smiling. "Set poor Legere's mind at ease now, Louis," he suggested, reaching for the unscented soap he preferred. "I'll dress myself."

  Within the hour, the Duc de Vec had gained control of his newest railroad line. He'd also divested himself—with a suitably memorable gift—from his latest paramour—a not unfamiliar circumstance in the life and times of Etienne Martel. After lunch at his club, he was being driven now at a leisurely pace to one of the nearer Parisian suburbs to play his daily polo match. The dulcet spring air drifting in through the open windows of his carriage matched the tranquility of his disposition.

  He was in extremely fine spirits.

  * * *

  Half a world away a scant day later, Daisy Black, ayoung Absarokee woman and one of only fifty female lawyers in America,1 stood in a courtroom in Helena, Montana, her expression composed, thinking for the countless thousandth time since trying this case before Judge Nott how the world would be a better place if he could be put out of his miserable ignorance and shot.

  It was not a facetious thought.

  Although two years ago Montana law had permitted women attorneys to practice in the state, Judge Ryan Nott, personally opposed to the new statute, had convened this trial by looking Daisy over with disapproval and saying, "Miss, what are you doing in my courtroom?"2

  When Daisy had attempted to answer, Nott had sharply cut her off: "Miss Black, if you dare speak, I shall hold you in contempt."

  Webster Drake, the opposing counsel, had had the grace to swiftly rise and intervene, pointing out the substance of the law as well as Daisy's substantial experience in court. Even then, overlooking Daisy's formidable record of successes in the courtroom, Judge Nott had discourteously suggested Braddock-Black Ltd. would be better served by a "capable" lawyer.

  Red-faced and frustrated he couldn't legally eject her from his court, he'd insisted on presenting his views on women in an inflammatory, avowedly antifeminist, tirade.

  "We cannot but think," he'd expostulated, ignoring the intent of the state law as incidental to his personal attitude, "the common law wise in excluding women from the profession of law. The law of nature destines and qualifies the female sex for the bearing and nurture of the children of our race" (at which point, his disapproval of Daisy's race was openly evident in his bitter, piercing gaze) "and for the custody of the homes of the world, and their maintenance in love and honor. And all lifelong calling of women…" His voice was beginning to thunder, his jowls q
uivering in sympathy. "… inconsistent with these social duties of their sex, as-is-the-profession-of-law…" A hint of purple tinged his cheeks, so rabid were his emotions. "… are departures from the order of nature, and when voluntary, treason against it!"3

  From that unpropitious beginning, his obstructive motives had never wavered. Throughout the course of the trial, Daisy had been reprimanded unnecessarily, spoken to with indifference or discourtesy, ignored and overruled countless times—an effort in futility, since the presentation of her witnesses and cross examination were brilliantly effective in citing the illegalities of Hanna Mining's incursions into Braddock-Black copper deposits. Regardless of Judge Nott's prejudices, the jury was being offered her evidence with skillful adept coolness. Daisy Black rarely showed her temper in court or otherwise. She'd accomplished the rare feat of sisterhood in a select minority of women lawyers in America by hard work and willful control of her emotions. Unlike whitemen, who were often viewed as emotional, loud, and rude, her Absarokee heritage nurtured restraint and courtesy. And she conducted herself with a composure and self-possession that had earned her the sobriquet "Iron-pants."

  Furiously provoked by the judge's last comment, her brother Trey was on his feet, leaning forward belligerently across the table reserved for Braddock-Black personnel, looking as though he were about to leap over the littered tabletop. His silver eyes were hot with anger, the set of his spine rigid, and only their father's hand on his sleeve restrained him.

  "Whether I'm married or not, Judge Nott," Daisy was reply-ing with equanimity to the judge's rude allusion she was single because she lacked the gentler graces of her sex, "has nothing to do with the intelligent presentation of this case or the fact that my speciality in mining law will make it difficult for Hanna Mining to profit by taking ore from Braddock-Black Limited. And as far as the gentler graces of my sex, I've seen too many married women of Montana ploughing and planting and driving wagon teams to consider languid femininity and delicate tea ceremonies a requisite for marriage."

  The jury guffawed, Trey sat back down with a smile on his face, and Hazard Black, father to the outspoken woman putting Judge Nott in his place, murmured to his son and the two other Braddock-Black lawyers seated at their table, "Nott just lost his appointment to the federal court." Hazard Black's enormous wealth made him a potent political force in Montana despite his Indian heritage. Judge Nott had seriously erred in insulting his daughter.

  Although born into a warrior culture and trained in warfare as a young man, in the decades since the whiteman had moved into Montana, Hazard Black had learned to deal with his enemies in a manner commensurate with the law. Fortunately, frontier justice was often not only moot, but informal and swiftly dispensed in a sparsely settled state where the nearest authorities were hours or days away. But-regardless of the whiteman's idiosyncrasies and restrictions imposed on the traditional modes of Absarokee justice, Hazard Black always paid his debts.

  Which point Daisy took issue with on the way back to the office later that afternoon, after court had been recessed for the day. "Just a friendly warning, Father. I don't need any vengeful retaliation for the judge's allusion to my being single. It was uncalled-for and more personal than his other forms of rudeness, but he's a simpleminded bigot I can handle myself." Daisy spoke in a moderate tone, as though she weren't warning off her father from some resolute masculine sense of affront. She understood the Absarokee operating rules on vengeance as well as he.

  The spring sun was no more warmly benevolent than Hazard's smile as he walked beside his daughter. "You did extremely well, dear. You don't need me to protect you from Nott's stupidity," her father replied, not inclined to argue his masculine code of ethics.

  Pleased her father seemed so amenable, Daisy politely reminded him she was no novice in dealing with male prejudice.

  "He's not the first," she went on, "to oppose women practicing law or advocate that a 'woman's place is in the home.'"

  "Or in a plush bordello like Ruby's," Trey sardonically added, his mouth curving into a grin. Keeping leisurely pace beside Daisy, he glanced down at his sister with amusement in his eyes. "Nott spends a lot of time there, insuring," he mockingly went on, "the double standard is alive and well."

  He'll have more time to spend there in the future, Hazard coolly thought—if he can afford it when he loses his appointment. Regardless of his affable reply to his daughter, Hazard intended to see Nott suffer for his rudeness. Hazard had spent a lifetime fighting for his clan's existence and a degree of equality in an unequal society. Luckily wealth proved effective in the fluid nature of American culture and the degree of that fluidity was markedly more unhindered in the West. Men who were penniless one day could be millionaires the next in the mineral-rich West and an individual's past was never scrutinized too closely. It wasn't healthy in a state that still settled a great deal of controversy with gunshot justice.

  "Actually, I was surprised he was stupid enough to take you on," Trey said to his father.

  "Perhaps he feels confident with Wainwright's support."

  The white ribbons trailing down the back of Daisy's straw boater fluttered from left to right as her head swiveled from her father to her brother—both tall, powerful men of action. "I don't want anyone taking on anyone over Nott's rudeness." Her classic chin came up in rebellious defiance. "I don't have to be defended. In a way, your interference is as gender-prejudicial as Nott's allusions to 'women's role.' I don't need male protection."

  His protection wasn't gender-based. Hazard protected any in his clan regardless of sex, but admitting that might give notice of his intentions, so he said instead, "I was speaking in general terms. You know Nott's expecting a federal appointment with support from Wainwright's money."

  "While you and Wainwright are mortal enemies over grazing land." Daisy's voice was without inflection.

  "Nothing so melodramatic. I just don't like him taking down our fences and killing our horses." Hazard's voice, like his daughter's, was mild.4

  More mild, Trey thought, than it had been a month ago when he and his father had stood toe-to-toe with Wainwright and his men up near Cottonwood Creek, Hazard's rifle barrel pressed into Wainwright's paunchy stomach. "Take another step on my land."

  Hazard had said then, his voice cold as the grave, his dark eyes ablaze with fury, "and you've solved my problem." Both Hazard and Trey could outshoot any man in the territory—a well-known fact—which allowed them the leverage they needed, along with Wainwright's quaking, ashen-faced fear, to see Wainwright's score of hired hands ride away. They'd taken Wainwright with them for a mile or so before releasing him, the Absarokee rules of warfare and taking coup precluding them from killing him in cold blood. "A damn impediment at times," Hazard had muttered afterward with a grin, "having been raised with honor."

  "Wainwright seems to have reconsidered lately," Trey declared, soft-spoken as a choirboy, his pale eyes gazing down at Daisy, as innocent. "He hasn't touched any of our fences in a month."

  "The injunction worked, then," said Daisy, an advocate of legal remedies for settling disputes. "At least as a first step."

  "It looks as though it may have," Hazard politely replied.

  Along with a lethal threat to his life, Trey refrained from adding.

  "Hanna Mining is going to lose too," Daisy said, her thoroughness in presenting proof of each incursion into Braddock-Black mining territory impossible to defend against. "The judgment against them should be considerable. I'm guessing well get our full five million." Daisy was in good spirits regardless of Judge Nott's resentment of her presence in his courtroom. She'd met with enmity before. It only served to toughen her up and improve her edge. Preparation of a case and competence in court were the only two qualities needed to win. Well… advocacy too, and she believed in their litigation. The jury was well-selected and fair, their claims were legitimate, and Hanna Mining had been bluffing from day one. Tomorrow, she'd begin her summation. "I don't expect the jury to deliberate more than a few h
ours. Where do you want the check mailed?" Her cheerful smile was as confident as her voice.

  When Daisy Black walked into her office overlooking the Montana Club facade a few minutes later, she came to a sudden stop just inside the threshold, mild surprise evident in the partial lift of her brows. Lounging on her black leather couch was Martin Soderberg, his long legs sprawled out before him, one arm loosely disposed on the tufted curve of the sofa back, his sandy hair tousled as though he'd ridden through a windstorm, his range-clothes in contrast, newly pressed.

  "What do you want?" she asked of the man she'd once considered marrying, before he'd precipitously married someone else two weeks ago.

  "I want to be friends."

  She paused for a moment, considering the complexities. "Fine," she said, civil and collected. '"We're friends."

  "You shafted Ryan nicely today in court."

  "Thank you. I didn't see you there."

  "I came in late, just prior," he said with a boyish grin she'd always considered his best feature, "to your pointed remarks on marriage in Montana."

  "Give my regards to Sally, by the way," Daisy said. "She must be pleased."

  "I will and yes, she is," he replied with honesty. They both knew Sally Newcomb was plain enough she would have married anyone. Instead her father had captured Helena's handsome young sheriff for her for the price of the Treasurer's office.

  "I'm assuming this isn't purely a social call," Daisy said, removing her straw hat, advancing into the large sunny room. Martin must be looking for political support, mending fences prior to the fall campaign, she thought, placing her ribbon-bedecked hat on a polished tabletop. While Sally's father could promise him the Treasurer's office, nothing was entirely guaranteed in the rough-and-tumble world of Montana politics.