When he visited Peavey’s room and demanded to know how he was, Peavey hid under the covers and told him that the Moors were after him.
By the time he entered his own room and threw his key against the far wall, sending a considerable chunk of plaster dust dribbling to the floor, he was convinced that every person in San Francisco was insane, that he was fast joining their ranks, and that it was all Loretta Linden’s fault.
Naturally, since his mind had been so badly affected by her, he visited her every day for two weeks while she recuperated. He couldn’t help himself. It was a compulsion brought about by the aforementioned mental defect and, while he didn’t understand, appreciate, or want it, he didn’t even try to fight it. Malachai knew better than to court defeat by attempting the impossible.
November had sneaked up and overthrown October, and on the third afternoon of the month, and in spite of whatever better judgment he might once have possessed, Malachai sat with a bundled-up Loretta in her beautiful patio. The weather was crisp and clear and a breeze blew in from the bay, carrying with it all the scents of a world Malachai had traveled for years, along with the special perfume that was uniquely San Francisco’s.
As he sat there, it occurred to him, not for the first time, that, while he had enjoyed seeing the world and investigating its many mysteries, he was tired of traveling. It seemed strange to him that he was peering about him at Loretta’s garden and wondering if something like this wouldn’t be nice for his own home, the home he had been contemplating building—in San Francisco, by God.
Thoughts of domesticity, as foreign to him as had once been the far East, dribbled into his mind as he admired Loretta’s landscaped yard and patio and sipped, of all nonsensical beverages, tea. Sweetened. With milk. If anyone had asked him a month before if he could imagine himself sitting in a spinster’s patio and sipping tea, he’d have believed the question to be a joke.
Some joke. He lifted a flowery teacup and gulped. Tea. In a flowery teacup. He couldn’t stand it.
“I tell you it’s true,” said Loretta. She was able to frown again, Malachai noticed, and quite effectively.
“You’ve been telling me the same thing for the past several weeks.” He really liked this patio. It spoke to him. Needed a dog, but it was a nice patio. “Say, Miss Linden, who did your landscaping?”
“Landscaping?” Loretta looked at him as if he’d lost his mind, which was appropriate if she only knew it. “I thought we were talking about the stolen artifacts.”
Malachai sighed. “I just wanted to know who did your landscaping.”
“Somerset FitzRoy, why?”
“Just wondered. He did a good job.”
“He’s a genius,” Loretta said shortly, “but that’s not the point.”
“I suppose it is the point if we’re talking about landscaping.”
“Landscaping?” She stared at him, and he saw that she’d actually brushed some face powder over her cheeks to hide her yellowing bruises.
It was difficult for him to reconcile face powder with the Loretta Linden he’d come to know. To any other woman in the world, covering bruises with face powder would be only natural; for Loretta, it seemed like some kind of betrayal. Malachai was pretty sure he’d never understand the way her mind worked. But that wasn’t the point. “Yes. Is this FitzRoy character a local person?”
“What?”
“FitzRoy. Isn’t that what you said his name is? Is he a local merchant?”
“Merchant? What . . . he’s a friend of mine, actually. But . . .”
Ah. He might have guessed. “I see. Well, I’ll keep his name in mind.”
“In mind for what?”
Perplexed by her evident anger, he said, “Why are you yelling at me?”
“Because you’re not paying attention!”
“I’m not?” He’d thought he was.
“Don’t you even care?” She was indignant, as usual.
“About what?”
“About the cursed missing artifacts!” she screeched.
Malachai sighed. She just wouldn’t leave the damned artifacts alone. Drove him crazy with her perpetual frenzy about the damned artifacts. “Of course I care. I did all the work, remember? The police are working on the problem.”
“The police?” Loretta scoffed. She was good at that. “William Tillinghurst has the police in his pocket.”
He shrugged. “That’s good. If they respect him, I expect they’ll be diligent in searching for and finding the lost treasure and in pursuing the thieves.”
She pinned him with her beautiful brown eyes. He was glad they were once more unaffected by swelling. It had hurt his heart to see them swollen shut, imprisoned in puffy black and blue flesh.
Lord. There he went again. Until he met Loretta Linden, he’d been happy in the belief that he didn’t possess a heart. At least not the kind the poets were forever ranting on about. Now . . . well, he could only hope he’d get over this . . . this . . . infatuation, he supposed was a good word for it.
“Have you listened to a single thing I’ve said to you, Captain Quarles?”
“Why don’t you call me Malachai. It’s so much friendlier.”
She huffed, but said, “Very well, Malachai. You may call me Loretta.”
“Thank you, Loretta.” He hoped he’d endowed his thanks with the proper humility. Since she huffed again, he guessed he hadn’t. To hell with it. Humility wasn’t one of his primary character traits.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said accusingly.
“Which question was that, Loretta?” He liked the name Loretta for her. It wasn’t a name he’d taken any particular notice of before he met her. But it seemed to fit her somehow, being a trifle snappish and crisp, but pretty, too, in an odd way.
Lord, she had more hair per square inch than any other person he’d ever met in his life. His fingers itched to burrow into those thick, silky tresses.
“I asked,” she said sharply, “if you’d been listening to me.”
“Of course, I’ve been listening to you. Do you realize that you have more hair than any other woman I’ve ever met? Your hair is very pretty, Loretta.”
Her mouth fell open and stayed that way for a moment before shutting with a snap. “What does my hair have to do with anything?”
He shrugged and sipped more tea. Ugh. It had gone cold and now tasted even more vile than it had when it had been hot. “It’s very pretty, is all. It catches the sun, and it looks like there are red and gold sparkles in it.”
Her right hand lifted and patted her hair. She said, “Oh,” in a disconcerted sort of voice. “I . . . I . . . thank you.”
Waving away her thanks, he said, “Your eyes are beautiful again, too, now that they aren’t swollen shut. Too bad the skin around them is still green, but at least brown and green go well together.”
She gaped at him.
“Does your leg still hurt?”
She continued gaping for several seconds. Malachai didn’t have a clue what the matter was. He was only being polite, after all.
At last she burst out, “What are you trying to do?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You keep changing the subject!”
Honestly puzzled, he said, “What subject?”
“For heaven’s . . . I’ve been trying to talk to you about Tillinghurst having stolen your precious artifacts, Malachai Quarles!”
He sighed heavily. “Oh. That again.”
“Yes, that again,” she said indignantly. “I keep telling you that Tillinghurst is behind the theft.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Well? Don’t you want to know why?”
“Why what? Why he stole the loot?”
“No! Why I know he did it!”
“You’ve told me why.” He thought about that for a second. “Come to think of it, you haven’t told me why. You’ve only told me that you think he stole it, and I’ve told you that I think you’re crazy.” He shrugged. “Has anything chang
ed?”
Irate, Loretta cried, “I did, too, tell you why!”
“You said it was a feeling, if I recall correctly. Have you taken this feeling to the police? I’m sure they’ll rush right over to Tillinghurst’s place and arrest him. I suppose there’s a San Francisco law granting warrants to the police based on ladies’ feelings.” San Francisco was kind of a crazy place. It wouldn’t surprise him much if such a law really was on the books somewhere.
Angry now, Loretta leaned closer to him. “That’s not the only reason, curse you!”
The blanket she’d thrown over her shoulders slipped, exposing her arms. She was wearing a deep-green silk robe that shimmered in the fall sunshine almost as brightly as did her hair, and it clung to her various protuberances enticingly. Smiling with pleasure at the sight, Malachai said, “You ought to wear silk more often, Loretta. And that color is nice on you. Do you call that jade green?”
“What?”
“Is that jade green? Is that what they call that color of green? It kind of goes with the skin around your eyes, but I’m sure that greenish color will fade soon. At least you’re not black and blue any longer.”
To his disappointment, Loretta sat up in her chair and pulled her blanket over her shoulders. “You aren’t listening to a thing I say, are you?”
“Of course I am!” What was the matter with the woman? He was paying absolute attention to her. Lord, if his attentions got any more intense, he’d take the woman right here on her own patio, before God and her servants. Pathetic. He was pathetic.
“Oh, you drive me crazy,” Loretta said. “What’s the point in talking to you?” She threw her arms up, and her blanket slipped again.
Malachai was charmed. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I’ll prove it to you.”
“Prove what?”
Her eyes grew huge, and her cheeks turned crimson. From these symptoms, Malachai presumed he’d missed a clue again. Hang it all, though, it was difficult to concentrate on a conversation when there was so much delicious flesh teasing him. Besides, he hadn’t met a woman yet who was worth talking to.
“Prove what?” she shouted. “Prove that Tillinghurst is a crook, of course!”
“Ah.”
“Oh, you’re just impossible! I will prove it to you, though. You just wait.”
“I’ll have to wait, won’t I?” Waiting was becoming very frustrating, although he was pretty sure they weren’t talking about the same thing. With a sigh, he decided there wasn’t much he could do about it.
She glared at him for at least a minute, and neither of them spoke. Malachai was enjoying the view. He didn’t know what Loretta was doing—well, except for fuming, which was her natural condition—but he hoped she’d keep it up, because she’d apparently forgotten all about her blanket.
The back door opened, and she pulled her blanket up again. Disappointed but grateful for what enticements he’d been allowed to glimpse, Malachai turned to see which one of Loretta’s thousands of friends had come to call. A pretty blond woman, holding the hand of a pretty blond girl, stepped out onto the back porch. Malachai stood, thereby proving, if Loretta was paying attention, that he was a gentleman.
Ignoring him, Loretta jumped to her feet. “It’s the FitzRoys! I’m so glad you’ve come!”
“We brought you some books,” said the little girl. “Remember, we said we would.”
“I remember, sweetheart. You’re both dears to think of me.”
The pretty blond lady laughed. “My daughter selected the volumes, so prepare yourself for an education.”
Both women laughed. The little girl smiled, but Malachai sensed her heart wasn’t in it.
“I selected a number of books, both entertaining and educational, Miss Linden. Mama’s just teasing.”
She must be Eunice, Malachai deduced. Dr. Abernathy had told him about Eunice FitzRoy, the child genius. He smiled, prepared to meet the newcomers.
“Come over here and meet Captain Malachai Quarles. You remember I told you about Captain Quarles’ treasure-recovery expedition, Eunice.”
The child’s eyes brightened. “Oh, my, yes! Oh, Captain Quarles, I should be so happy to discuss your adventures on the high seas.”
So Malachai spent the rest of his visit with Loretta answering the most amazing set of questions he could have imagined, all posed to him by a nine-year-old girl. Eunice was almost—but not quite—enough to make him reconsider settling down.
# # #
Loretta was a little nervous, but not nervous enough to change her mind regarding her mission. She hadn’t dared tell Marjorie about her plans, because she didn’t trust her secretary not to blab. Marjorie always thought she knew best, but her decisions were invariably made according to her frightened, narrow-minded view of the world.
Well, Loretta was neither narrow-minded nor frightened, although she had to admit to the aforementioned trace of nervousness. It wasn’t, after all, her customary practice to climb over people’s tall black iron fences and snoop around in their gardens for stolen historical artifacts.
She’d prepared herself as well as she could for the adventure. She’d even gone so far as to don a pair of men’s trousers. No sense climbing fences in a dress, after all. Besides, why should women be forced to wear cumbersome skirts and petticoats? Her feminist soul took great joy in the freedom of movement her trousers allowed.
Her more conventional side, the one she tried to keep hidden from society and, more importantly, from herself, was grateful for the darkness under which she aimed to perpetrate her search. She’d have been mortified to have been seen in public wearing such scandalously revealing apparel.
She’d also brought along one of those newfangled, battery-operated torches—flashlights, some people called them. She’d attempted to stuff her hair under a cloth cap, but she had too much of it to stuff effectively. Therefore, she’d drawn her hair back into a bun and tacked it to the back of her head, and plopped the cap on top. It was dark, and she didn’t expect to be observed, so she felt sure her hair wouldn’t be a problem.
It had taken her a long, hard session of soul-searching and deep thought before she’d opted to take a cab and not her Runabout on the night’s adventure. Ultimately, she decided upon riding to Tillinghurst’s estate in a cab. If she awakened a servant to crank up the Runabout, the whole household would know about her adventure come morning—and if she cranked it up herself, the noise would probably awaken the whole household anyhow. Therefore, she considered taking a cab the more prudent course of action to follow.
And then there was the problem that should, by some remote possibility, anything happen to her, nobody would know where she was. After all, if Tillinghurst was a wicked criminal, he might not balk at murder. With that possibility in mind, Loretta decided to leave a note.
A shudder slithered down her spine as she pinned the note to her pillow. Marjorie would faint dead away when she read it, but at least they’d know where to find the body.
She told herself not to be ridiculous. There was no need even to think about bodies. Nothing was going to happen to her. She was only borrowing trouble and acting hysterical, two behaviors that were most unlike her. After giving herself one last severe inspection via mirror, she crept downstairs and out of the house.
When she gave directions to the cabman, she disguised her voice, which was perhaps unnecessary, but she didn’t want to take any chances. She also gave him a lot of extra money and extracted a promise that he’d wait for her outside Tillinghurst’s gated estate so that she’d have a ride home. She didn’t fancy being caught out of doors in her britches, no matter how enlightened she considered herself.
Besides which, if she ended up injured or dead, perhaps the cabman would tell someone.
Stop it!
Peeved with herself, Loretta frowned and tried to see the countryside from the cab’s windows. Given the state of night, she couldn’t do it, but squinting took her mind away from ugly thoughts.
Her heart spe
d up as the cab approached Tillinghurst’s estate just outside of the city. The area was rural and woodsy. It didn’t seem quite as welcoming as it had when Loretta had visited during the daylight hours. When she’d come here before, she’d enjoyed the twittering of the birds in the trees and the chattering of the squirrels. Now she wondered if the trees hid bears. Or, worse, human predators.
But that was silly. It was mere fancy that made the trees loom taller and darker and more menacing than she thought they should. Trees were trees. They couldn’t hurt her.
Anything hiding behind them might. Again, Loretta scolded herself for cowardice.
“We’re here,” the cabman said as his automobile rounded a bend in the road and the iron bars on Tillinghurst’s gate flashed in the headlamps. “You want I should let you out at the gate?”
“No,” Loretta said in her altered voice. “Go on about a hundred yards and pull over.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ma’am? Loretta stared at the back of the cabman’s head, dismayed. Fiddlesticks. She’d thought she looked so masculine, too. Well, it couldn’t be helped. With luck, no one else would see her.
Following Loretta’s instructions, the driver pulled over and stopped the cab in a small clearing among the bushes and trees approximately a hundred yards from Tillinghurst’s gate. Taking a deep breath for courage, Loretta slid out of the cab before the cabman could open the door for her. At least the moon wasn’t out yet, and it would only be a sliver when it showed up. And there was lots of shrubbery to hide her from any passing motorists.
Passing motorists? Loretta wondered at her mental processes. No one came out here at night.
Well, that was a good thing. She slipped into the bushes, noticing as she did so that they were quite dense. Thank God she’d worn long sleeves, or she’d have scratches to remind her of the night’s escapade from here to kingdom come.
Climbing tall iron fences, Loretta soon discovered, wasn’t a job for the weak-willed or unhealthy. It would have been easier for her to do if she hadn’t been laid up for the past two weeks, because her strength had ebbed substantially during her period of enforced idleness. Her determination was at least as strong as her body, however, and she managed to heave herself over the top of the fence after a struggle.
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