Perfect Romance

by Duncan, Alice

  Loretta swallowed a gasp of surprise. Was the cursed captain interested in Marjorie and not in Loretta at all? Loretta’s heart suffered a sharp spasm before she told herself not to act like a sniveling lunatic.

  Even if he were interested in Marjorie, Marjorie would put him in his place in no uncertain terms. While Marjorie was the most conformable of women, an aspect of her personality which Loretta found frustrating under normal circumstances, she was equally adept at delivering cutting remarks designed to keep people, and especially men, at bay. She’d demonstrated this ability often enough on Jason Abernathy. Not that Jason didn’t deserve it, since he was forever teasing Marjorie.

  Besides all that, if the captain favored Marjorie and if, by some remote possibility, Marjorie returned his regard, it was nothing to Loretta. Absolutely nothing. Less than nothing.

  “Why are you staring at my secretary?” she demanded imperiously.

  Malachai shifted his gaze to Loretta. After a pulsating second, he said, “Why? Are you jealous, Miss Linden.”

  Loretta gave the captain a scornful look. “Don’t be any more of an egotistical male creature than you can help being, Captain Quarles, I beg you.”

  “I’ll try,” murmured Malachai in a parody of submission.

  Loretta couldn’t suppress her huff of annoyance. “For your information, I’m very protective of my staff. I won’t allow my secretary to be . . . to be made sport of.”

  “Now why,” demanded the captain, his good humor fading, “would you suppose I would make sport of your secretary?”

  Because he was a fiend and a brute? Although Loretta believed that to be true, she had no real proof. “Because you’re staring at her.” It was weak, but it was the truth.

  “Don’t be an utter fool, Miss Linden.”

  And with that, and with a preoccupied expression on his face, Malachai strode away from Loretta, who was left gaping in his wake. Damn him!

  When she observed Mr. William Tillinghurst at the other end of the Moorish hall, slightly behind Marjorie, who still stared at the armor as if enthralled, she calmed down considerably. Perhaps it wasn’t so much that the captain found her company boring that made him leave her side, or that he was interested in her secretary, as that he wanted to talk to his partner. She watched the two men, trying not to appear as though that was what she was doing, and saw that they didn’t appear to be particularly happy to see each other.

  What did that mean? Had their partnership suffered a rupture? Had the captain finally, after professing scorn for her suggestion, begun suspecting Tillinghurst of treachery? She wished she could overhear their conversation.

  With that desire in mind, she moseyed over to Marjorie and stood next to her. The exhibit of armor was closer to the two men than Loretta had been at the fertility case.

  She wished she hadn’t thought of the case in exactly that way.

  Under her breath, she spoke to Marjorie. “I’m sure Tillinghurst is the one.”

  Slowly turning her head so that she could see Loretta’s face, Marjorie said, “I beg your pardon?”

  Loretta narrowed her eyes at Marjorie. “Don’t act the innocent, Marjorie MacTavish. I already told you what I think.”

  After expelling a big sigh—it sounded like one of resignation—Marjorie said, “Och, aye. You believe it was Mr. Tillinghurst who took some of the treasure. Without any proof, and with absolutely no other reason for thinking so than your intuition.”

  “It’s not intuition,” protested Loretta. “It’s a knowledge of human nature. And of Tillinghurst. I never did like that man.”

  “Aye, of course. Well, that means you must be correct about him being a thief.”

  “Is that sarcasm I hear in your voice, Marjorie MacTavish?”

  Marjorie glanced at the ceiling and managed to look martyred. “Perhaps.”

  “Well, you can stop it, because I’m right, and I’ll prove it.”

  “How?”

  Loretta was sure Marjorie believed she’d asked a stunning question, but Loretta had already given the matter some thought, and she wasn’t put off. “I’ll show you.”

  And with that, she took her secretary’s arm and hauled her toward the two men who were still whispering at each other several feet away.

  Chapter Seven

  Hearing the approaching clack-clack of two pairs of female shoes—busybody shoes, damn them—Malachai turned and scowled at the ringleader of the duet. “What?”

  Loretta brought herself and her reluctant secretary, whom she was dragging after her, to a halt and scowled back at him. Malachai figured that was fair, since he’d scowled first.

  He was still annoyed, however. He had a lot of things to discuss with Tillinghurst, and his partner had been rather elusive of late. Although he still considered Loretta’s suggestion that Tillinghurst had stolen the artifacts outrageous and not worth the breath it took to explain it, he wondered if Tillinghurst might know more about the theft of the treasure than he claimed. Malachai himself considered Tillinghurst something of a worm and didn’t much like him, although he hadn’t thus far believed him to be crooked. Damn Loretta Linden for planting ideas in his head!

  Tillinghurst, noticing the women and pasting on a syrupy smile, said in his smooth, high-pitched, tinny voice, “Now, now, Malachai, you need to develop some manners. You’re a favorite in society now, you know. Can’t be snapping at the ladies.” He removed his own expensively detailed derby hat and executed a slick bow. “How do you do, Miss Linden? And Miss . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Malachai sneered inwardly. William Tillinghurst didn’t acknowledge people’s secretaries as a rule. Even if he and Miss MacTavish had been introduced at the Lindens’ party, Tillinghurst would have forgotten all about so insignificant a personage.

  Smiling sweetly, which sent Malachai’s deception-detection instincts on high alert, Loretta returned Tillinghurst’s bow with a bob of her head and said, “This is my secretary, Miss Marjorie MacTavish, Mr. Tillinghurst. And I’m fine, thank you.”

  “Ah, good. And how do you do, Miss MacTavish?”

  “I’m well, thank you,” Marjorie mumbled.

  “I have a question for you, however, Mr. Tillinghurst.”

  Malachai’s suspicious instincts were instantly heightened by the guileless expression on Loretta’s face as she spoke to his partner. Malachai knew good and well that Loretta suspected Tillinghurst of dire dealings. She wouldn’t be smiling benignly at a man she believed capable of theft unless she had ulterior motives. Would she?

  He watched, both fascinated and worried. He didn’t trust Tillinghurst. And, damn it, he didn’t trust Loretta Linden, either.

  “I’ll be happy to answer your question, Miss Linden.” Tillinghurst’s countenance took on the aspect of a grinning ferret. Malachai wouldn’t have been too awfully surprised if he’d lunged and sunk his teeth into Loretta’s pretty, prying nose.

  She pushed her eyeglasses up that nose a little. “I have a knife I’d like you to appraise for me, if you’re able to do such things. I believe its origin to be Moorish.”

  Both Malachai and Tillinghurst were taken aback. Malachai’s own attention sharpened significantly, and Tillinghurst’s grinning-ferret look vanished and his eyes popped. Almost at once, Malachai’s surprise was replaced by profound suspicion. He squinted at Loretta keenly, but her face betrayed nothing of the deep intrigues of which he suspected her.

  Had she come here expecting to find Tillinghurst? Had she planned this so-called “Moorish” knife ploy in advance? Completely fascinated, Malachai gazed on as if he were watching a play—perhaps farce was a more appropriate word it.

  “A Moorish knife?” Tillinghurst sounded bewildered. “Well, I’m not the world’s most knowledgeable collector of Moorish artifacts, Miss Linden, but I’ll be happy to take a look at it for you.” He and Malachai exchanged a baffled glance. “Er . . . perhaps Captain Quarles would be a better person to ask.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Malachai at the sam
e time that Loretta said, “I doubt that.” The two of them frowned at each other, then Loretta turned again to Tillinghurst.

  “I’d appreciate your help, Mr. Tillinghurst. My father speaks so highly of your collection.”

  And then, to Malachai’s total shock, the woman fluttered her damned eyelashes at Tillinghurst! Malachai could hardly believe that Loretta Linden, of all independent firebrands, had actually done such a thing. The effect was only slightly hampered by the fact that one had to view the astonishing gesture through Loretta’s spectacles.

  Now he knew for a certified fact that she was up to no good.

  “He does?” Tillinghurst looked doubly dumbfounded.

  “Yes.” Loretta’s smile would have turned any man into a puddle of slop, unless he’d had prior experience with her.

  Malachai wanted to snatch her up, turn her over his knee, and spank her luscious bottom for being so outrageous. Didn’t she know that William Frederick Tillinghurst was a villain when it came to women? Another squint at her told him that she did, and that she didn’t give a care.

  “I see.” A hem and a haw followed this murmured comment from Tillinghurst. Then he seemed to pull himself together, and he smiled back at Loretta. His smile wasn’t nearly as sweet as hers had been, but it fell short of a grinning ferret. If Malachai were to put an adjective on it, he’d have called it longsuffering. Odd, that. Tillinghurst didn’t normally put up with anything at all, much less idiotic queries from militant young females.

  Loretta turned her smile’s volume up a notch. Malachai shut his eyes and shook his head.

  “Well, I’d be delighted to look at your Moorish treasure, then, Miss Linden. Er . . . do you have the knife with you?”

  “No. I didn’t know we’d be bumping into you today. May I bring it to your house? Marjorie here is something of a student of Moorish art, and she’d love to see your home. Of course, I’ve been there with my family, and I’ve told Marjorie about it. It’s filled with interesting artifacts from all over the world, and she’d be so fascinated.”

  Marjorie uttered a stifled squeak, and Malachai distinctly saw Loretta’s elbow shoot out and poke her, hard, in the side. The secretary’s hand came up to rub the sore spot before she could stop herself.

  Interesting. Very interesting. What in the world was the little minx up to? But that was a stupid question. Loretta was planning, somehow or other, to search Tillinghurst’s estate, although what she expected to find there was anybody’s guess. Because of their business association, Malachai had all but lived there for weeks and hadn’t found any lost treasure. He hadn’t been looking, naturally, but still . . . And how did she expect to accomplish a search if she did manage to get Tillinghurst to invite her over? Did she think he’d offer to let her snoop around?

  “You want to visit my home?”

  If Tillinghurst’s look had been directed at him, Malachai thought, he might very well give up an intended visit. Not Loretta Linden. She ignored the pained expression on Tillinghurst’s face, gave him a beaming, and highly idiotic, grin, and pretended she’d misunderstood him. “Oh, thank you! That would be wonderful!”

  Another noise, not quite a squeak and not quite a moan, escaped from Marjorie’s lips. She covered the sore spot on her ribs before Loretta’s elbow could connect again.

  “When should we visit you?” Loretta asked, as bold as brass. Malachai could only stare at her in amazement.

  Making a vague gesture with his bony white hand, Tillinghurst said, “Oh, any time, I suppose.”

  “This afternoon?” Still, Loretta’s face betrayed only innocent eagerness. A little stupidity, perhaps. Insanity, maybe. Probably insanity, actually.

  “This afternoon? Why, I . . . that would be fine, Miss Linden. I should be home by about three-thirty this afternoon. Captain Quarles and I are taking luncheon at the Fairfield.”

  “Oh, the Fairfield is a wonderful place to dine,” exclaimed Loretta with renewed idiocy. Malachai stared at her hard, trying to figure out exactly what game she was playing. “One of my very best friends used to dance there.”

  “You have a friend who danced at the Fairfield?” Malachai broke in. This was too rich. It was too absurd, even for the demented Miss Linden.

  She gave him a cool glance. “Yes. Isabel FitzRoy. She had to support her daughter, you see, and dancing was the most profitable way she could find to do it.”

  Malachai had to hand it to Loretta. She wasn’t stupid, no matter how much she pretended. She’d correctly interpreted the expression on Malachai’s face. It said that he had a low opinion of women who had to support themselves, mainly because in his experience they were generally strumpets.

  Her bosom swelling in outrage, Loretta said, “She, Marjorie, and I were all aboard the Titanic, and we all escaped with little more than our lives.”

  “You were aboard Titanic?” This time Malachai’s voice conveyed shock, his amusement having been vaporized at the mention of that greatest of oceanic catastrophes. He even stopped staring at her bosom.

  “Yes. We were. And Isabel and Marjorie were good enough to come to San Francisco with me after the tragedy. Isabel was a widow with a young daughter whom she had to support, and she needed to secure a job. I was instrumental in getting her employment at the Fairfield, dancing with customers in the dining saloon.” She stood up as tall as a five-foot-nothing woman could stand, and lifted her chin proudly. “Isabel is a wonderful, professional dancer. It was a very good job.”

  As if she hated to agree but couldn’t help herself, Marjorie said, “Aye, it paid ever so much better than most jobs, and Isabel was able to save her money and open a dance academy here in town. Amazing Graciousness, it’s called. All the best people send their children there.”

  “Exactly,” said Loretta, nodding firmly.

  “My goodness,” said Tillinghurst. Apparently those were all the words he could think of that were suitable for polite company, because he stopped speaking after uttering them.

  Malachai, who didn’t suffer from delicate sensibilities—not that he believed Tillinghurst did, either, but Malachai’s partner did care about what people thought of him—said, “Good God, Miss Linden, you continue to astonish me.”

  She looked up at him with one of the best sneers Malachai had ever seen on a female face. “Do I? And why should Mrs. FitzRoy’s choice of employment surprise you, Captain Quarles? Or are you one of those men who believe women shouldn’t be allowed to support themselves with well-paying jobs, even if they’re on their own in the big, ugly world? Perhaps you’d approve if Isabel had scrubbed floors for a living?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Miss Linden. I’m only surprised that a lady—” He put some emphasis on the word. “—should be consorting with a dancer. Dancers have . . . ah . . . a certain reputation.”

  “Only because men label them!” Loretta cried, indignant. “Isabel FitzRoy is as fine a woman as I’ve ever met!”

  Another noise issued from Marjorie. Glancing at her, Malachai saw that she had paled considerably and looked as if she’d just as soon be somewhere else. Small wonder. Marjorie MacTavish seemed quite conventional a person to be hobnobbing with Loretta Linden.

  Then again, he supposed a secretary didn’t have much control over her employer’s behavior. If a woman had qualms about an employer’s words or actions, she’d either have to put up with them or quit, and Malachai had to acknowledge that Loretta was right about employment. Women’s options were limited. For good reason, if you asked him.

  Nobody did.

  “I’m sure she is,” Tillinghurst said soothingly, shooting a black look at Malachai.

  Malachai raised his hands, as if giving in to superior forces. “I’m sure of it, too.” He made certain he didn’t sound sure.

  Loretta slapped him with another vicious scowl. Malachai was almost glad her manners were too good for her to slap him physically. Not because he feared she’d hurt him, but because they’d probably be kicked out of the Museum of
Natural History if they engaged in fisticuffs in the Moorish hall, and he needed to study the collection some more. His initial perusal had persuaded him that even more of the artifacts were missing than he’d originally believed, but he wanted to investigate the exhibit again and question the curator, before doing anything.

  It would help if he had a single clue what he could do about the theft, but he’d think of something. He always did.

  Suddenly a brilliant notion occurred to him. “I say, Tillinghurst, why don’t we invite the ladies to take luncheon with us at the Fairfield?”

  This time, he was fairly certain the noise escaping Marjorie was a moan.

  After the barest hint of hesitation, Tillinghurst said, “What a good idea, Captain.” He bowed at the ladies once more. “Would you care to dine with us, Miss Linden? Miss Mac . . . ah . . .” He plainly hadn’t bothered to remember Marjorie’s name, so he fluffed the final syllables.

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Tillinghurst, but I’m afraid we won’t be able to join you. Thank you so much for asking.”

  Loretta didn’t once glance at Malachai, who had suggested taking the ladies to luncheon. Malachai wasn’t surprised, although he did murmur, “Coward,” under his breath.

  She heard him. “We,” she said pointedly, and this time she looked directly at Malachai, “have many things to do this morning.”

  He pulled out his pocket watch and squinted at it. “It’s not morning any longer.”

  “Nevertheless, we have things to do.” Turning back to Tillinghurst, she said, “Thank you very much, Mr. Tillinghurst. We’ll be over to see you at about four this afternoon.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” said Tillinghurst, sounding a trifle overwhelmed.

  Malachai had an urge to applaud. It wasn’t just anybody who could put one over on William Frederick Tillinghurst.