The question was unexpected, and Alisha stalled a moment or two before she offered a casual shrug. “I didn’t tell him everything. I only told him Caleb wasn’t the father— which he wasn’t. I suppose I could have told him she was the leavings of a Yankee colonel who thought he could commandeer more than just the use of our home for a few weeks … but I didn’t think he would really want to know that part … do you?”
Amanda grew paler, scarcely able to believe what she was hearing. Her head swam with a sudden violence and made her sink down on the edge of the settee.
“Obviously not,” Alisha continued with quiet venom, “since you apparently didn’t want him to know who the real mother was either.”
Amanda’s lips parted slightly. “You may have given birth to Verity, but you were never her mother.”
“And never wanted to be,” Alisha spat. “Had I known at the time how easy it would have been to get rid of her, I never would have agreed to go to New Orleans, never would have gone through the hell of giving birth, or let you have her so you could pass her off as the daughter your poor dead husband never knew.”
“You don’t mean that,” Amanda said, shaking her head slowly.
“Don’t I? Do you have any idea how much I loathe the sight of that child, knowing where she came from, knowing the pain and humiliation she put me through? Can you even imagine how much I loathe seeing the two of you together, the stoic mother and orphaned daughter, happy as two little periwinkles in a patch? You don’t think I would have gotten rid of her? Well, I would have. Just like that,” she said, snapping her fingers. “I only rue the day I let you and Ryan talk me out of it.”
“Then thank goodness we weren’t around this time. Now you have nothing to rue at all.”
Amanda’s sarcasm earned her a long, hard stare.
“And how do you know," Amanda continued, "even if Wainright gets his money, that he won’t come back again in three months or five months or a year, demanding another fifty thousand dollars to safeguard your sordid little secret?”
“I will take steps to ensure he doesn’t dare.”
“When? The next time he crooks his finger and orders you into his bed?”
Alisha clamped her mouth firmly shut and tried unsuccessfully to keep the hot sparkle of tears out of her eyes. They were not, Amanda realized with a sad shock, prompted by either remorse or shame. They were tears of anger, hatred, and bitter jealousy.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “But I won’t do it. I can’t.”
Alisha’s eyes widened. “What do you mean you can’t do it? Of course you can.”
Amanda shook her head. “It isn’t worth it.”
Alisha gasped. “But you heard what he said. You heard what he is threatening to do.”
“You should have thought of that before,” Amanda said without emotion. “You should have thought about the possible consequences long before you ever went to see the doctor, never mind before you ever came to see Wainright for the first time.”
Alisha’s face flooded an ugly red. “I’m your sister! You can’t let him ruin me!”
“You ruined yourself.”
“If I am ruined, you will be ruined too.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Amanda said, and stood.
“I’ll take Verity back! I’ll tell everyone I’m her real mother—what difference will it make then—and I’ll take her back!”
Amanda’s face turned to stone. “I would kill you before I would let you touch her. I’ll kill you if you even breathe such a threat to me again.”
Alisha recoiled from the chilling promise in her sister’s voice and tried desperately to regain control of the situation. “But … you can’t do this to me!”
“You’ve done it to yourself … again … only this time, I won’t bail you out.”
Amanda turned toward the door, but Alisha was far from finished. “How dare you! How dare you act so noble and righteous and pass judgment on me!”
“I’m not judging you,” Amanda sighed. “I’ll leave that to your husband. As for your lover—or lovers, whoever they might be—ask them if it was worth it.”
Alisha’s reply came out in a hiss of venom. “Oh, I’ll ask, all right. I’ll take them aside, one at a time, all of my lovers … beginning with your husband.”
Amanda’s hand froze against the door jamb.
“That’s right, Amanda dearest. You heard correctly. Your Yankee husband, the very bold and very virile Michael Tarrington. In the end, not so different from Wainright either, except of course, he wasn’t satisfied to try just one twin.”
Amanda swayed a little and had to tighten her grip on the jamb. “I don’t believe you,” she whispered. “You’re lying.”
“Am I? I guess you’ll just have to ask him then, won’t you? He would never lie to you, would he? Ask him about the night we all spent together under one roof as one big happy family. Ask him where he spent the night after you sent him away with his tail between his legs. Ask him what we did under the moonlight for three long glorious hours. I swear I was so sore the next morning, I could barely walk, let alone wave a sweet good-bye from the veranda.”
Amanda felt her heart sinking slowly down into her belly.
“He was drunk and he was rough,” Alisha continued. “But I got a little rough myself—maybe you saw the scratches on his neck? Here—” she said, stabbing a finger at her own throat and tracing it down to her collarbone. “I tried to fight him off at first, but he was too strong and too angry … did you really turn him out of your bed? At any rate, he said one twin was as good as the other and he could always claim afterward he didn’t know which one was which. By then, of course, he had his clothes off and he was inside me and … frankly … I might never have said anything at all”—her eyes narrowed vindictively—“if it wasn’t for the child.”
Amanda’s heart stumbled to a halt.
“Karl is impotent, you see, so I couldn’t very well pass the thing off as his, now could I?”
Amanda’s chest felt as if an iron band was tightening around it. She was staring out into the hallway and the oddest thing—a single, bright mote of dust—caught her attention and held it through a slow, spiraling descent.
“After all, I was only trying to do you a favor,” Alisha added mawkishly. “I was only trying to think ahead to the consequences of bringing yet another bastard into the world that you might have to raise.”
Wainright’s low chuckle intruded on the taut silence. He had come back into the library unnoticed and unheard, in time to witness the final exchange between the two sisters.
“My, my, such devotion,” he murmured. “Your friends and family will be so proud to hear of such a fine example of sisterly love.”
Amanda turned and stared helplessly at Alisha, then Wainright.
“The Queen docks tonight. The game is scheduled for tomorrow night. Shall I make inquiries on your behalf with Captain Turnbull, or would you prefer to work out the arrangements yourself?”
Tears shimmered along Amanda’s lashes and slipped out the corners unchecked.
“I … have to go now,” she said in a whisper. “I’m … not feeling very well.”
“By all means, rest up,” Wainright said solicitously. “I can’t have my own Mississippi Queen at less than peak perfection.”
Amanda fled to the sound of his laughter. She stumbled slightly at the gate and caught the edge of her skirt on the iron grating, but she hardly paused long enough to yank it free. She ran all the way to where the carriage was parked, cutting and weaving past the startled pedestrians, seeing them only as a blur through the thick film of tears that blinded her.
The ride back to Briar Glen was no less of a blur and she was glad Michael was away. She was equally glad Mrs. Reeves asked no questions when she announced that she was going home to Rosalie for a few days. Indeed, she helped pack up Verity's clothing and waved them off as they drove down the road.
Ryan was working out in the fields, which made it easier t
o deliver Verity into her mother’s safekeeping and explain that she preferred the child stay with her grandparents while Michael was away and Sally was recuperating. It was not all lies, she told herself. Mrs. Reeves had enough to do without chasing after an energetic four-year-old. It only remained then to retrieve the small trunk she had left stored in her old bedroom and to order the coachman to take her back to Natchez. She dismissed him in front of Judge Moore’s modest town home where, thankfully, neither the Judge nor Dianna were there to witness her arrival or detain her with questions. From there, she was able to hail a hansom cab to take her to the small, nondescript hotel she had frequented as Montana Rose.
The first thing she ordered was a steaming hot bath; the second was a bottle of brandy. She desperately needed the heat, inside and out, for she had never felt so chilled, so empty, so utterly alone before. She had not allowed herself to dwell on Alisha’s charges and accusations during the course of the afternoon, but now, in the privacy of a strange room, in a strange tin bath with the smell and decay of the Natchez waterfront permeating the walls, the bedding, the very air she breathed, she could detach herself from what had become real to Amanda Tarrington and remember the way things had been as Amanda Courtland.
Living apart from Alisha, she supposed she had forgotten her sister’s penchant for treachery and deceit. Or at least relegated it to the past, where it belonged.
Yes, Amanda dear, I was ill And for a viciously outrageous fee, the illness was cured.
Amanda closed her eyes. She sipped on her brandy and pressed her hand flat over her own belly, sensing the new life growing within her, unable to imagine the extent of Alisha’s hatred or desperation that she could do something so cold-blooded, so … final … without showing the slightest qualm of remorse.
Amanda refilled her glass and sank deeper into the bathwater, hearing the ghostly echo of Michael's voice this time.
When I get back, there are some things we have to talk about.
Things?
Obviously she wasn’t the only one with secrets. The least of his was the fact that Briar Glen was heavily mortgaged and he had persistent creditors. The worst was that he had made love to her twin sister.
Were those the things he wanted to talk about? Were those the things that had kept him so distant these past many weeks?
Amanda stared into the amber liquid in her glass and rolled the contents from side to side, watching the clear, runny legs form on the glass and slide back down to the bottom. She stared until the bathwater cooled and the skin on her fingers and toes had turned to crepe.
She would go on board the Mississippi Queen and she would buy a seat in the game. She would play as if her life depended upon it … because it did. Fifty thousand was not impossible with the right players, but she would settle for forty, thirty, twenty … even ten would be enough to take her and Verity away from Natchez. Wainright could choke on his greed for all she cared. Alisha could wallow in self-pity. Ryan, Mother, Father … they would survive. Rosalie would survive; it had for over a hundred and fifty years.
As for Michael Tarrington?
He would have to pay for his own sins. She had enough of a burden paying for everyone else’s.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Montana Rose paused in her familiar spot under the arched entryway that led into the main salon of the Mississippi Queen. The tables were, as usual, crowded to capacity, but she felt no exhilaration, took no pleasure in the sights and sounds of money, power, and rivalry. If anything, she felt tawdry and uncomfortable in the low-cut emerald gown. Months ago she had thought it elegant and rich, the velvet luxuriant, the flounces and tucks an extravagant necessity to win attention. Now she felt like glaring back at anyone who stared too long. The gown was too tight, the bodice pushed her breasts too high, and the velvet, even though it had hung out all night and she had brushed and steamed it through most of the afternoon, was shiny in places where the cheapness of the fabric was beginning to tell.
There was a showboat docked adjacent to the Queen, and frequent bursts of applause, music, and singing echoed across the jetty, becoming lost the instant one stepped from the deck into the din of the gambling salon. Where Montana stood, she could still hear both the music and the shouts of the gamblers. It was distracting—almost as distracting as the knowledge that Wainright was on board the showboat, enjoying the one performance even as another was about to begin. He had met her on the dock and handed her a fat sheaf of money—ten thousand in cash—and wished her luck with a flat, oily grin. Montana had been more unnerved by the meeting than she cared to admit, and did not notice Captain Benjamin Turnbull until he was standing beside her.
“Goddamn, girl. Aren’t you just the sight for sore eyes,” he exclaimed, planting a large, furry kiss on the back of her hand. “I was beginning to believe some of the stories I’d heard. Some said you moved out West to San Francisco. Some said you’d grown weary of the game and retired. I even heard one story you’d fallen overboard and drowned.”
Montana smiled wanly. “I assure you, I am alive and well. As for retirement, I have been seriously considering it lately, although I’m not so sure San Francisco would be my first choice. I was thinking more of New Orleans or Baton Rouge.”
“New Orleans,” he said promptly. “I guarantee you would shine brighter than any star in the sky.”
“Ahh. But what if I didn’t want to shine? What if I just wanted to … slip out of sight for a while? A long while, with no one any the wiser for it?”
“My dear Montana.” He lowered his voice and raised the back of her hand to his mouth again, tickling her with his beard as he murmured, “Should you want to slip away … should you want to vanish completely, you can count upon my utmost discretion to make any arrangements you require.”
“There would be two of us. Myself and a child.”
His eyes betrayed the faintest glint of surprise before descending again into the warm, dusky cleft between her breasts. “It could be done.”
“How much would this … discretion … cost me?”
He smiled and straightened. “I make it a point never to talk business with so many large ears flapping around. If you are serious, we can discuss this later on tonight after—I presume—you have concluded your own enterprises.”
“I would be pleased to meet with you later, Ben. And you’re right. I was hoping for a little excitement in my life tonight. Anything interesting going on?” she inquired casually, gazing slowly around the main salon.
“The usual,” he said with an easy shrug. “Fat, lazy businessmen with nothing better to do with their time. Couple or three might interest you.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s about it,” he agreed.
Montana met his gaze directly. “I heard there was a big game tonight. An exclusive.”
“Where the blazes did you hear that?”
“Is there?”
Ben frowned, drawing his bushy black eyebrows into one solid, thick line. “Hell, Montana, it’d cost you five thousand just to walk into the room.”
“I brought ten,” she said, patting the fringed satin reticule that hung from her wrist. “Can you get me in?”
Turnbull scratched fiercely at his chin. “I don’t know—”
“For double your usual percentage, of course.”
His eyes narrowed. “Set yourself down over there. I’ll see what I can do. No promises, now.”
“None expected,” she agreed, and found a seat at an empty table along the wall. She followed the captain’s burly shoulders through the crowd and up the staircase that led to the second-level tier of curtained alcoves. He disappeared into one of the private booths and was gone so long she began to worry she would not be admitted.
Twenty minutes later Captain Turnbull emerged.
“I had to wait for a hand to play out,” he explained when he joined her. “A goddamned big one too—twenty-two thousand and change in the pot, by my estimate. You sure you want to swim in them waters with f
ive hungry sharks, all out for blood?”
“Will they take me?”
“Two of ’em knew your name already. Two didn’t want any part of fussing with a woman.”
“And the fifth?”
“He’s got eyes like a dead fish and hands quick enough to draw a gun as soon as an ace. Said as how he didn’t care so long as your money was green.”
“Paul Whitney,” she murmured.
“You know him?”
“We’ve met.”
“Well then … at least you’ll know what you’re up against.”
“So I’m in?”
“You’re in.”
Montana stood and accompanied Ben back across the salon. They climbed the stairs in silence, and at the top, he stopped her again. “I’ll check on you as often as I can, but if it gets too hot in there for you—”
She reached up and patted one of the hairy cheeks. “I can take care of myself. But thank you for worrying.”
“Yeah, well, ain’t a one of them in there angels.”
The hissed warning came just as the curtain opened and a hostess hustled through balancing a tray of empty bottles and dirty dishes. She recognized Montana and nodded to the captain as she held the curtain aside for them to enter.
With Ben’s caution still tickling the nape of her neck, Montana saw, seated under the glare of the hooded oil lamp, the pale, cadaverous visage of Paul Whitney. He was dressed all in black as he had been at their last meeting, the wide brim of his hat shielding both his eyes and the angry white scar that traced from one temple to the other. He looked up as she entered and their eyes met. He kept staring as she came fully into the private room, his hands working instinctively to stack the enormous pile of chips he had won into neat columns.
“So. We meet again, Miss Rose,” he said in a cold, lifeless monotone. “No limits and we don’t allow credit of any kind. Cash only. Five grand to buy in and when that runs out … so do you.” He stacked the last chip and leaned back. “In or out?”
“In,” she said, and started to open her reticule, her mind already scanning back over their last encounter. She remembered his ploy of playing hands where he only needed to draw one card. She also remembered the small pearl-handled derringer he had produced in the blink of an eye.
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