Victorian Dream

by Gini Rifkin

  “It’s a shade lighter than my other weapons,” Colt said, hefting the revolver. “Could have used this back in ’46, eh friend?”

  “It couldn’t have hurt,” Walker agreed.

  The men appeared lost in a shared memory, indicating they were longstanding friends with an intertwined past.

  “Is your weapon already in production?” Trelayne asked, breaking the silence.

  “It surely is, ma’am,” Colt acknowledged, cradling the pistol in his arms. “She’s a .36 caliber beauty with a lovely seven and a half inch rifled barrel. A six shot like the Dragoon, but a bit more diminutive in size.” As he spoke, the glow of pride and enthusiasm returned to his aura.

  “You sound like you’re extolling the virtues of a woman rather than a weapon,” Walker joked.

  “Either one can cause a man considerable pain,” Colt ventured. His voice had lost its teasing edge. Walker stood a little taller and glanced down at the floor. Again Colt perused Trelayne with a speculative air.

  “How many grains of powder would you recommend?” She issued the question with genuine interest, as well as an attempt at furthering the conversation.

  “Around twenty-eight grains,” Colt replied. “She’s accurate up to fifty yards, depending on who’s shootin’. But the most remarkable and innovative aspect of my creation, is the fact all the parts are interchangeable, and preloaded cylinders are available.”

  “Is that important?” Aunt Abigail interjected.

  “Absolutely. It will revolutionize the gun industry. If’n something breaks, you replace that part, not the whole darn pistol. Makes protection available to the common man as well as the rich. The equalizer, it’s been called.” As he spoke, he broke the pistol down into three parts, barrel, chamber, and frame. Then he quickly reassembled them. “Child’s play,” he quipped.

  “It certainly is a formidable looking piece,” Aunt Abigail added. “Will you be in England long, Mr. Colt?”

  “Well, I reckon I’ll be around a few months.”

  “You must see your way clear to visit us at Royston Hall,” she graciously offered. “When you come, you might bring along a few of those. We’ve a shooting range outback, and we women pride ourselves on being as proficient as the men. Perhaps you could give me some personal instructions.”

  Trelayne’s eyes widened at her aunt’s innuendos. Did she detect a glow of interest as well as adventure in her demeanor?

  Samuel handed the pistol off to Walker. “You can depend upon it, dear lady,” he promised, ambling closer. “Care to mosey around a bit? There’s sights here I’ve yet to see.” Boldly taking her aunt by the elbow, Samuel Colt escorted her to the nearest exhibit.

  Stunned and openmouthed, Trelayne stared at Walker.

  He shrugged. “Don’t look at me. When he puts his mind to it, Samuel has that effect on women.” He slid the pistol under his belt, giving him the air of a highwayman, then extended his arm. “Shall we join them?”

  “I was hoping you’d ask.”

  As they turned to follow, a group of onlookers blocked their advance. The rowdy bunch seemed to materialize out of nowhere, crossing their path without care or concern. One man stepped backward, and jostled into her. Off balance, and caught in the too long hem of her dress, she nearly fell on her face. Without missing a heartbeat, Walker gathered her close. Cheek to cheek, a whimper of pleasure escaped her, and she relished the urge to nestle her head against his shoulder.

  The group rushed on, leaving them standing alone. She should push Walker away, but she held fast, yearning to wrap her arms around his neck and seduce his mouth with hers. To prevent answering the wicked desire, she pressed the fingertips of her gloved right hand to her lips, creating a barrier not to be crossed.

  Walker stepped away from her. “We’d best move on,” he suggested, his voice thick with emotion.

  She nodded, glancing straight ahead, afraid to meet his gaze; afraid if given half a chance she would drag him off behind a potted palm so they might continue where they had left off. Lord above, she felt positively bold and brash and barely able to contain the shameless ideas threatening her good senses.

  In silence, they meandered past McCormick’s reaper and a very unromantic hydraulic press. Then to her surprise, Walker tightened his grip on her elbow and urged her off the walkway and into the shadow of one of the hulking iron contraptions.

  She felt light headed, and her cheeks grew warm with the unstoppable heat caused by his intense perusal.

  “That’s some hat you’re sporting,” he said.

  His unexpected comment took her off guard, leaving her confused. “You don’t like my new hat?”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t like it, just that it was really something.”

  “That’s a bit vague. Something can mean good or bad.”

  He canted his head and studied her more thoroughly. “It’s unique, I’ll give you that.” He flicked a finger at the bright bow and scarlet ribbons cascading down one side of the creation. “And unexpected.”

  “Do you like surprises?” she ventured.

  “Not generally,” he admitted. “But I do like discovering new things, taking my time, savoring each revelation, wondering what will come next.

  Capturing her left hand, he toyed with the buttons on her glove. Entranced, she waited restlessly, conjuring naughty images of what he might try to discover next. One by one, he slipped the buttons free, splaying open the soft leather. Cool air slipped beneath the material as he rolled down the top, exposing her skin. The pulse in her wrist jump beneath the pressure of his fingers. Raising her hand to his mouth, he whispered something, but she couldn’t catch the words, only the feel of his breath on her bare skin. He lowered her hand, and little by little peeled the kid leather away, turning it inside out, sliding the softness over her knuckles, down her fingers, off the tips. She wished he would undress the rest of her just as completely and slowly—oh so slowly, one little piece of clothing following another.

  “Your fingers are cold, Trelayne,” he said, cozying her bare hand between his strong warm ones. “But I’ll wager there’s fire in your heart.”

  Speechless, she strangled the moan threatening to escape her. There was fire in more than just her heart, and it was near to burning out of control. Was it proper for a woman to ravish a man? For that was exactly what she wished to do.

  A hint of smile lingered on his mouth, but his eyes darkened, and there was nothing humorous about the way his gaze made her feel.

  She wished to speak, but words escaped her. Rarely at a loss as to what to do or say, she tried to recall what she’d been taught in deportment about keeping up lively conversation and witty dialogue. Nothing came to mind to cover a situation in which her body ruled her mind. All she could think about was what it would be like to kiss this man, make love to this man, be naked beside this man.

  “Fires can be dangerous,” she murmured.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Especially the ones that burn long and slow and incredibly hot.”

  Illustrations from the books she read in secret seared across her mind—scandalous, wonderful imaginings.

  He leaned in closer. She swore he was about to kiss her, could feel his breath and the tiniest tickle of his mustache as his mouth hovered oh so near her lips. Then he straightened, his expression one of confusion, even consternation. He looked like a man delirious with fever, just come to his senses.

  “We should find the others,” he suggested, releasing her from the spell she was under. It was the last thing she wanted. Couldn’t he tell, didn’t he know?

  “Out of all the wonders here tonight,” he reassured, “spending time with you is what I shall remember most.”

  ****

  Barefoot and wrapped in a counterpane, Trelayne shuffled across her bedroom and stared out the window. She should go to sleep, but then the evening would be over—an evening of unparalleled experiences.

  Walker had almost kissed her. And as they continued to make turn after turn around t
he Crystal Palace, he had held her ungloved hand rather than her elbow. She couldn’t recall what they had seen, but she remembered the feel of his large, strong, and capable hand as she envisioned it touching other parts of her body.

  What would it feel like to stroke the forbidden parts of a man, and claim them as one’s own? She and Pen had worn thin the pictures in their purloined books and novels. Did all men look the same? The majority of their bodies were beautiful, but their special parts were foreign and rather fiercely grotesque. Craving to put into practice what so far had only been theory, she squirmed with pent up eagerness and mounting desire.

  Leaning her forehead against the windowpane, seeking the cool relief it offered, she peered at the night sky. Heavy and full, tonight the moon seemed to lumber rather than sail across the inky blackness. As it now dipped behind the trees, the last of its ethereal glow slanted across the autumnal landscape. It turned the foliage a pearly gray and the cony hopping across the yard to sterling silver. The whole world was enchanted since Captain Walker Garrison had entered her small portion.

  A peaceful bliss wrapped around her tighter than the comforter. Then it wavered. It felt wrong to be so contented when her parents were still struggling to recover from their grievous wounds. Yet she knew they would want her to be happy and not moping about growing thin with worry. And they had sent Walker to watch over her—sent him to care for her. It seemed safe and sensible to unquestionably trust him. But was it foolish to undeniably fall in love with him.

  There, she’d admitted it. She was falling—no, had fallen—in love with him. The declaration made her feel worse rather than better. She knew next to nothing about him. He was a man of anonymity, a foreigner, a big tall gorgeous American who looked like he had tamed the Wild West single handedly, and then conquered the Seven Seas. She shook her head. No man could live up to such a romantic image. But somehow, in her heart, she thought Captain Garrison would try.

  Chapter Eleven

  For the second day in a row, Walker idled away his time at the tobacconist.

  Fortunately, it was a comfortable atmosphere, granting an unobstructed view of the chocolate shop across the street. It was also a long shot his efforts would be anymore fruitful today than they had been yesterday. Still, what other clues did he have to follow?

  All hope hinged on a name scribbled on a boarding roster and the foil wrappers found in New Bedford so many miles away. He supposed it was possible he would never track down the man who had murdered Seaman Barkley and injured Philip and Ophelia. No more attempts had been made on their lives or his. Maybe one killing was enough to satisfy whoever was behind all this.

  Either way, it left him with a belly full of discontent. He didn’t cotton to loose ends and unsettled scores. Getting to the bottom of all this weighed heavily on his mind. How he felt about Trelayne was also taking its toll. The memory of nearly kissing her flashed through him. He grew hard at the recollection. How he’d burned with the desire to take her in his arms, to kiss her, and do so much more. And unless he was completely adrift at sea, she’d harbored the same intentions.

  When this nasty business was put to rest, maybe courting her properly wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibilities. She’d captured his imagination, given him the gift of contemplating the future rather than just the next hour or the next day. There was a great difference between staying alive, and actually wanting to live.

  Up the street, a hansom cab turned onto the lane and came into view, and his thoughts jumped back to the present. Straightening to his full height, he stepped closer to the window. Well lookie-there, it was none other than Lucien Lanteen, and he wasn’t alone. At the confectionary, the coach drew to a halt and rocked as the larger of the two men stepped down. The stranger headed toward the store as the carriage and Lucien rattled out of sight.

  A growl rumbled in the back of Walker’s throat. On general principle, Lanteen made his mustache bristle and his hackles rise. The man seemed slippery as a sidewinder, and just as dangerous. And his familiarity with Trelayne was a worry. Did she reciprocate feelings beyond friendship toward the Englishman? Deep down he felt the man was somehow involved, but discrediting him would be difficult. A delicate task demanding solid evidence. Of which he had none.

  The thought of a relationship existing between Trelayne and this English dandy put his stomach in a knot, and it was becoming harder to dismiss his own sentiments where Trelayne was concerned. Of course, his feelings should be irrelevant. He was here to protect his partner’s daughter, not fall in love with her. Anything else would be dangerous, causing him to lose focus and make mistakes. He couldn’t afford to blunder. But not falling in love with Trelayne was one battle he thought he might lose. It had been a long time since feelings like these had stirred his heart and soul. He liked it, and it scared him.

  The man re-emerged from the shop, popped a chocolate into his mouth, and tossed the wrapper aside. Walker crossed the street and followed at a discreet distance, snagging the gold embossed foil along the way. His pulse quickened. The wrapper was the same as those he carried. If this man was Grimsby, the puzzle pieces were beginning to fit together nicely. It reinforced the logic Lanteen was involved, but it wasn’t solid evidence.

  The big burly man with the penchant for sweets looked a nasty piece of work, an unlikely acquaintance for the St.Christopher’s uppity solicitor. However, he did fit the role of henchman extremely well.

  His quarry lumbered down the walkway and turned in at nearby pub. The sign swinging over the entrance held the image of an angry black bull. Removing his hat, Walker slipped inside and scrunched down on a bench in a shadowed niche behind a timbered upright. The place was all but empty smelling of brew, tobacco, and men who did manual labor for a living. The person he followed swaggered across the room to the table closest to the tavern keeper’s station.

  “You’re a bit early, Grimsby,” the grizzled old proprietor quipped. “Ain’t even noon.”

  Walker’s gaze narrowed. It was him.

  “You don’t want my business, I’ll go elsewhere,” Grimsby shot back.

  “Ha, you’ve been banned from nearly every pub in town. The Black Bull’s the only one will have you.”

  “Just give your red rag a holiday, and set me up. And none of that queer Nantz and crank either. I want the good stuff.”

  “I takes offense at that,” the elderly barkeep snapped. “I don’t water my gin. You well know that. If I did, I wouldn’t have so many coves losing their grinders and blackening their glims with fighting every Saturday night.”

  “Aw right, aw right. Please accept my deepest apology,” Grimsby sneered. “Now give me a bloody drink. I got a long ride ahead of me.”

  “Where you heading?” the purveyor asked, as he poured.

  “South,” came Grimsby’s vague answer. “Got me a job down there will pay off big. Maybe big enough to retire.”

  “That’s what you said afore you went to America,” the other man razzed

  “That didn’t exactly work out as planned. And I told you that on the quiet. This time is different.”

  Grimsby lowered his voice, and Walker missed the next bit of the conversation. Damn. Keep him talking, he willed the tavern owner.

  “You’re full of tales of glory, Bart. I think all that chocolate you eat has rotted your brain as well as your teeth.” The man hooted at his own jest, and swiped at the table with a semi-clean rag.

  “Aw, what do you know?” Grimsby jeered, at full volume. “I’m glad to be going to Brighton so’s I won’t have to be ogling your ugly mug or drinking your piss tastin’ brew.” With that, he drained his glass, threw down a few coins, and stomped out.

  When the coast was clear, Walker settled his hat in place and sauntered up to the table Grimsby had vacated. “I could go for a pint,” he said. And hopefully a bit more information.

  The tavern owner eyed him suspiciously, but filled the request.

  “That Grimsby’s quite the character,” Walker said, test
ing the waters.

  “A bad character,” came the unexpected response.

  “I thought he was a friend of yours,” Walker pressed.

  “With friends like that a body wouldn’t need enemies. That’s an interesting topper you got there mister. You from America?”

  “That’s where I call home,” he acknowledged.

  The old man nodded. “Our Mr. Grimsby has recently returned from there his very self. Or so he says. That why you asking about him—he get hisself in trouble over there, too?”

  “What do you mean, ‘too’?” Walker probed.

  “Too, is what I mean. It’s simple enough,” the elder man replied irritably. “He’s in trouble everywhere he goes. That’s understood. If trouble ain’t there waitin’ for him when he arrives, he ferrets it out like a pig in a truffle patch. He likes trouble. He invented trouble.”

  “Slow down.” Walker chuckled at the pub keeper’s theatrical display. “I get the idea. Do you happen to know where he’s going?”

  “Where he’s goin’? Why he’s probably gone lookin’ for more trouble. Ha. That’s a good one ain’t it?”

  “Indeed. But I’m serious. The man owes me money, and I heard him say he was into something big with good times coming. I’d like to be there when it happens and get what’s due me before he spends it or disappears.”

  The old man pondered a moment then seemed to come to a conclusion.

  “Is it a considerable sum? If it ain’t,” he advised, not waiting for a reply, “you’d best chalk it up to experience, and leave this one alone. Bartholomew Grimsby’s an unpleasant person what will do almost anything for a price, and that includes murder.”

  Rather than a warning, the words came as music to his ears. Grimsby definitely sounded the culprit responsible for injuring his friends and killing his crewman. The exact why of it was still unclear, but that could be sorted out later. And he knew the ruffian hadn’t conjured the plan alone. He appeared suited to following orders rather than conceiving and implementing grand schemes. That’s where Lanteen came in. Of course, sharing a carriage ride wasn’t proof they collaborated on the crime. What he needed was a witness. Someone who knew they worked side by side in dirty dealings and worse.