by Denise Eagan
“Is that so?” she said with a wide smile. She propped herself up on her hand, too, to look him square in the eyes. “Why, then I suppose we are well matched, are we not? Perhaps we ought to make arrangements to do it often?”
Often . . . damn but he’d forgotten the safes! “Yeah,” he said moving to grab the box. “That’s why I moved to the hotel. Sorry I didn’t tell you, but you were sleeping and somebody could’ve found a letter. We’d better talk about how to avoid, uh, complications. I ought to have used these just now. And last night too.” He gave her the box.
“Complications?” she asked, opening it. “Do you mean a baby? Why, I have already—oh! They’re French safes, aren’t they? I found a box under Port’s bed several years back. Next to a truly filthy magazine that Drew Hathaway sent, illegally, mind you, from London. The Pearl I think it was called.”
His eyebrows jerked up. “The Pearl? Port had that?”
“He did,” Star said, her eyes sparkling. “He’s not nearly as prim as most people think. Did you never wonder why he married at twenty?”
“No,” he said slowly. “You read it, I bet.”
“Some. I could not look Port in the eye for two weeks. It, uh, detailed some matters that until last night I had thought must be fiction . . . You know,” she said biting her lip, “it occurs to me that I oughtn’t to talk of this to you.”
He chuckled. “Don’t know why not, you seem fine talking about everything else. So listen, we’ll use these for now on, O.K.?”
“Agreed. I have my own devices as well. A sponge and syringes, although not as . . . not with any harsh solutions.”
“Sponge? Did you use it just now?”
“Yes. Not last night, however. I couldn’t very well prepare for what I didn’t know was coming, could I? I did use the syringe this morning, however.” Her blush darkened. It made him smile and started a strange tickle in his chest.
“O.K. Still, it could already have happened—”
“Perhaps, but I am in my ‘safe period.’ We’ll know for sure in three weeks.”
He didn’t trust that method of contraception at all. Melinda’s second child had been conceived when was “safe.”
And if Star was carrying his baby?
Marriage. His heart quickened. She’d have to marry him, wouldn’t she? Even if she didn’t love him, even if she hated the notion of marrying, even if he was just a rancher and not good enough for Society. A baby changed everything.
Damn, he oughta have tossed the safes.
He could stick ’em with pins. . .
She still had the sponge.
“O.K.,” he said. “I guess we’ll talk about that if it happens.”
***
Star laid The Count of Monte Cristo upon the parlor sofa. It was her favorite book, but she could not seem to concentrate on it, not when she was sitting upon the very sofa where she and Nicholas had enjoyed so much pleasure but three nights earlier. Just the thought of it made her tingly and warm. She must wait another twelve hours before those passions could be relieved again, as they had been every night since he’d taken her on the sofa. Three nights in his arms, followed by lovely, nightmare-free sleep.
Sighing, she slid her feet to the ground and shoved them into slippers. Port looked up from his newspaper, watching her over a pair of steel-rimmed glasses. “It is reprehensible the way you remove your shoes in the parlor, Star.”
“And it is ridiculous that a man of your age insists upon wearing reading glasses,” she said, rising to cross to the bow window. Although she was still sore from last night’s passion, her mind was curiously at peace. Who would ever have believed that spending a night in bed with a man would provide such marvelous ease?
“Without them I get headaches,” he said turning the page of his newspaper. “You know, I’m feeling a trifle empty. I believe I’ll ring for a tea tray. Would you like some?”
“If you’re going to ring, yes. Scones would be nice. Oh, and some clotted cream.”
“Your appetite, Sister, is also reprehensible,” Port said, amusement tumbling through his voice in spite of the lecture in his words. He crossed the room to pull on the bell.
“It’s not my fault the good Lord saw fit to make me so tall,” she answered mildly as she pushed aside a lacy white panel to look outside. Still raining, still cold. Her eyes acknowledged the angry grey ocean, but her heart saw sunshine and warmth. Because of love, she surmised, enhanced by sexual fulfillment. It made her former feelings for Nicholas seem like mere shadows of love. Did he feel it as well? At least a little? Oh but he must; a man could not behave that way toward a woman if he did not harbor some lasting sentiment, could he?
Recollection surfaced, of his kisses, of those intimate touches and the marvel of him moving inside of her. She sighed dreamily. As expected, he was the most remarkable of lovers, at least by her way of thinking. No poetry or serenading, but his erotic whispers of encouragement thrilled her more than flattery ever could. She suspected most men would not offer such encouragement. Most men would wish a woman to be but a passive recipient in bed. Or entirely focused on him. Not Nicholas. He treated her as an equal participant.
An equal. She frowned as the word hit home. Was that how Lucy Stone and Henry Blackwell’s relationship, their marriage, worked? Like her and Nick’s nightly excesses did?
No. No, Henry and Lucy were of similar minds as well. Nicholas and she, however, were not. He did not agree with the movement, even though he had said he’d vote for her. How his eminently logical mind reconciled those two vastly different ideas, she didn’t know. It was likely, however, believing as he did, that Nicholas would not approve of his wife working for the movement. He certainly would not encourage her as Blackwell did Lucy Stone. Quite possibly, she thought with a sinking heart, he’d forbid it. A partnership between lovers was far different from one between spouses, and even the limited partnership they had must end when Nicholas returned to Colorado.
A knock sounded on the door. Their young maid, Lily, entered, carrying a long, oblong box. “For Miss Star, sir,” she said to Port. “And you rang for something else?”
Flowers? Star wondered, with a ridiculous leap of her heart. Oh yes, Nicholas had sent her flowers! Perhaps he did love her and if he did, was there hope for something greater?
“A tea tray, if you would please,” Port answered. “And my sister has requested scones and clotted cream if cook has them?”
Flowers were not discreet, of course, and they were trying to be discreet. Oh, but she didn’t care! She’d throw discretion in the face of Mrs. Astor for proof of Nicholas’s love.
The maid nodded. “Yes, sir. You know she keeps them around for Miss. And a vase, maybe?”
“Why yes, thank you, Lily, that would be splendid,” Star said, pulling off the box’s ribbons as Lily left. What sort of note would he send? Would it say “Love Nicholas?” If he felt so strongly, perhaps he would visit again next summer. Perhaps their limited partnership need not be so limited after all. Smiling joyfully, she pushed aside the tissue paper.
Black. Roses. Dyed black roses.
The blood in her hands turned to ice. Her lungs tightened. Her breathing emerged in short, rapid bursts.
“Star? What is it?” Port asked, crossing the room. “Black roses. I’ve never seen such a thing. Not particularly romantic are they?”
She regarded him. He appeared quite composed. “Have you angered one of your admirers, my dear?” he asked, raising his eyebrows over eyes gleaming with mirth. “I have warned you time and again that such flirtation was bound to cause difficulties.” He pulled out the card. “Ah—from Romeo. ‘You belong to me.’ It seems our man is a trifle vexed.”
From Romeo. Not Nicholas. Not an expression of love, but of menace. A shudder rushed over her body, driving away her elation. “It sounds threatening, doesn’t it?”
Port shrugged. “No, why do you think so? I own it strikes one as possessive, but as for threatening, he signs the card ‘love Romeo’.”
Port gave her shoulder a quick squeeze and then returned to his seat to retrieve his newspaper.
“But,” Star objected, even as her muscles relaxed a little, “after the Bible passages and the telephone call that you took . . . well, doesn’t ‘you belong to me’ imply a threat?”
“Why, anyone in love feels some degree of jealousy, Star. If anything, the Bible passages prove that Romeo is no threat. He warned you against your speech, but did nothing to prevent it. Moreover, those are high quality roses and one does not get roses dyed cheaply, you know. That proves his devotion, does it not? I suspect he merely wishes to convey his displeasure over your flirtations these last weeks.”
Except that he had attempted to prevent her speech.
“Still, if it would set your mind at ease,” Port offered, glancing up from his paper, “you could telephone the florist. I suspect our man, Romeo, sent a messenger to purchase the flowers for anonymity’s sake, but you never know. Perhaps the florist can tell you who he is.”
“You know, that is a capital idea. I’ll do it immediately.” She crossed the parlor to pick up the phone.
The florist, however, could reveal nothing, for Port was correct, Romeo had covered his tracks well. Perhaps, she thought as she rang off, perhaps it was time to tell her family of the trunk, and to tell Nicholas about the calls and the flowers. She had promised him.
They would, all of them, agree that she must quit her work.
Pictures of Minnie, broken and bleeding, rose in front of her eyes, followed hard on by Bella’s eyes, dark with revenge, and the hollow-eyed expression that had permanently settled upon their father’s countenance. How could Star fail them, fail future victims, by quitting over something as silly as a secret admirer? What were black roses or cut up clothing in comparison to the wounds Minnie endured? Nothing. Nothing at all.
She sat on the sofa and fingered a rose petal. Romeo knew where she lived, but other than that, he had little access to her. She’d not planned any public appearances until after Newport’s Season. For six weeks, her family, friends and Society would surround her. It could not hurt to hold this to her chest for a little longer. She could continue her article writing and no one the wiser.
She set her back. No doubt six more weeks would see the man weary of his devotion. No, she had no good reason for anxiety. She was safe, quite safe. Far, far safer than the victims for whom she fought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I hate and I love. Why I do so, perhaps you ask. I know not, but I feel it and I am in torment.
Gaius Valerius Catullus, Carmina
Those who’ll play with cats must expect to be scratched.
Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote de la Mancha
So this, Nick thought as he watched Lee shoot several balls on the billiard table into the pockets, this was happiness. Not, as he had thought, the quiet peace of a mid-winter night in front of a fireplace, a glass of brandy in one hand and a good book in the other. That was contentment. Contentment was gentle and warm.
Happiness set a man’s blood to bubbling.
“Beat you again, Nick,” Lee said with a grin. “Fourth time in a row. Not on your game tonight, are you old man?”
No, he sure wasn’t, not when Star, in a pretty, green dress with her hair hanging loosely around her, stood across the table from him, watching the game with a gleam in her eyes. His mind was focused on the minutes between now and the next time he’d be alone with her. Not, tonight. Three nights of her monthly flow, she’d told him. Then tomorrow night, eleven p.m., she’d come knocking on his door and stay just as late as he wanted.
That, his heart answered, would be forever.
Love was happiness.
“Reckon I’m just tired with all the fiestas you Easterners are always going to,” he said.
“Well then,” Lee joked, “I suppose I’ll skip the next game and hand my cue over to Del. It’s been some time since he’s beaten anyone.”
The billiard room was long and narrow, with chairs along one wall, on either side of a fireplace, and windows lining the other wall. The windows were dark now, but during the day, the light made it easier to play by. At the far end of the room was an additional grouping of chairs, a couple of tables holding glasses and liquor decanters, and a bookshelf. Port sat in a chair, propped against the bookshelf. In the chairs along the wall sat Jane, dressed in her usual pink and lace, and Huntington, who’d arrived just that morning for a three-night stay.
He didn’t look happy. No wonder, that. Love didn’t mean happiness for Huntington. Not with his wife, who he loved but was not in love with, or Star, who he was head over heels in love with.
She’s mine!
“Someone address me?” Del asked, looking up.
“I did,” Lee said, laying his cue on the table. “I thought you might enjoy a round with Nick, here, seein’ as how a drowned cat could beat him right now. Port’s already had a turn at him. As for Star,” he said with a chuckle. “Well, we’ll leave that sleeping dog to lie, shall we?”
“What? Am I a dog now, Lee? How uncharitable of you!”
Lee grinned, wrapped his arm around his sister, and gave her a one-armed hug. “No, but you’ve beaten poor Nick at everything from tennis to chess. Let’s allow him some pride, shall we?”
“He beat me at rowing.”
“And shootin’,” Nick interjected.
“Sure, I’ll play you,” Huntington said, rising.
“Of course you will,” Jane snapped. “You claim that you came to visit me, but you never truly stay with me, do you?”
He scowled down at her. “We are in the same room. I shall be but ten paces from you, which is much closer than Philadelphia, if you think about it.”
“But you’ll be talking to Nick and not to me,” she pouted.
“I can do both.”
“I’ve got an idea,” Nick interrupted hastily. “Why don’t I play you too, Jane? That way you can laugh together over killing what Miz Montgomery’s left of my pride.”
Jane lifted her head haughtily. “Thank you, but I don’t play billiards. It is an unladylike game.”
Star, who’d been racking up the balls, straightened. Eyes burning, she turned toward Jane, and Nick grimaced, waiting for the explosion. “It most certainly is not. Games are not assigned a sex.”
Huntington shook his head in disgust. “That was exceedingly rude, Jane.”
“Whether a game is one of luck or skill or both, women have as much ability to play it as does a man,” Star continued as she chalked a cue.
Jane turned to her husband, her face mottled a deep, ugly red. “You have the same beliefs as I do. You taught them to me!”
“Taught them to her?” Star sputtered. “Caldwell Huntington, how could you?”
Damn. It was escalating. Nick’d seen those two go at each other. It could get rough. Although he’d never mentioned it to Star, he’d spied bruises on Jane’s wrists some mornings following an argument. On Del’s, too.
He looked to Lee for help, who shrugged, reached into his waistcoat pocket for a cigar, and eyed Port.
“My point has always been, Jane, that for some women—” Huntington started.
“Some women?” Jane snapped. “You mean Star, for whom you make every exception as always. I however, you believe lack—”
Port gave Lee an almost imperceptible nod.
“Speaking of which,” Port interjected smoothly, dropping his magazine in his lap. “Have any of you heard of Romeo’s latest attempt to fix Star’s interest?”
Lee frowned as he puffed on his cigar to light it. Huntington and Jane, successfully diverted, turned to Port. Nick’s shoulders tensed.
“Pray tell, who is Romeo?” Jane asked.
“Star’s secret admirer,” Lee replied.
“Oh!” Jane exclaimed, the anger melting from her face. “You have a secret admirer, Star? Why how very romantic!” She sounded both enthralled and jealous.
Nick stared at Star, who avoided his gaze. She expertl
y knocked a ball into the corner pocket and then shrugged. “It’s not all that romantic, Jane. On occasion his letters are plain irritating.”
“I find them entertaining,” Port said with a touch of amusement in his voice. He leaned over to the table next to him and poured two drinks. “Romeo fancies himself quite adept at the written word and appears to enjoy a very close association with adverbs and adjectives. Brandy, McGraw?” He held out the sifter. Nick took the three steps to retrieve the offered glass.
Lee chuckled. But as Nick turned, taking a quick gulp of his drink, he marked wariness in the laughter. Wariness that cut straight to Nick’s bones.
“And how long has this been going on, sugar?” Huntington asked, sitting back down and laying his arm across the back of his wife’s chair in a casually possessive manner. Even from across the room, Nick could see Jane stiffen.
Star studied the table, moving left, then right, gauging her best shot—and refusing to look at Nick. “For several months. Port’s making more of it than it deserves.”
Nick wanted to holler that a trunk full of confetti-clothing was a helluva big deal. Instead, he took two more gulps of brandy and clamped down on his jaw until his teeth hurt.
“He’s telephoned as well,” Lee said.
“Telephoned?” Nick asked, startled.
“We think it was him,” Lee said. “Your best shot is probably from that corner, Sis. Yes, I answered the telephone a couple of times,” he continued, “to a man asking for Star. When I inquired as to his name, he rang off.”
“That happened to me once, also,” Port said. “Poor man is besotted by a social butterfly. Presently, he’s become so frustrated as to send flowers.”
“Flowers?” Nick asked. If Romeo sent flowers, he’d have ordered them from somewhere, a clue that Keller could investigate, along with the telephone calls. It might move the investigation forward. So far, they’d hit nothing but dead ends.
“Why yes,” Port said. “Roses, as you would expect from a man in love. But here is the inventive part. Our Romeo has been so frustrated by his flirt of a lover, that he had them dyed black to get Star’s attention.”