At the sound of her voice, Marcel turned toward her. A smile played on his lips until he saw Payton. He grabbed a large kitchen knife and waved it at him. All the while, he shouted in French.
Too startled to react, she watched in horror as Payton, whose behavior had turned just as menacing, took a few steps toward the chef. He shouted at Marcel in the same foreign language. The other occupants in the kitchen, although just as startled as Julia, didn’t have a problem rushing from the room.
The memory of Payton pulling a knife from the chest of a dead man jolted her into action. She grabbed his arm and attempted to drag him from the kitchen.
Marcel put the tip of the knife next to his own ear. He uttered a swishing sound and motioned with the blade across to his other ear. He waved the knife at Payton once more.
She understood his threat. “What is he so upset about?”
Payton’s angry glare faded when he looked at her. “He saw me coming out your window early this morning.”
“Oh, dear.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Marcel never spoke to Betsy, but she worried just the same. “What’s he going to do?”
“He threatened to slit my throat if I break your heart.”
“He’s worried about me?” She felt a twinge of shame. Her only concern had been that he might tell Betsy about Payton being in her room. “What did you say to him?”
“I told him it was none of his business.”
“You shouldn’t have said that. He’s always been kind to me.”
Marcel looked to be about fifty years old. Gray hair stuck out from beneath his white cap. His stature was slim and slight, but the intensity of his personality made up for his lack of height.
“In some ways, he reminds me of my grandfather.”
Payton’s anger vanished. A smile tugged at his lips. “Then I guess I’ll have to tell him the truth.”
He turned back to Marcel and spoke in a softer tone. His arm slipped around Julia. He glanced at her occasionally while he conversed with the chef. She didn’t understand anything he said, but the look in his eyes revealed the passion with which he spoke.
When he finished, Payton gave her a kiss as gentle and as tender as the first they’d ever shared. He released her slowly and walked out of the kitchen.
“This man—he treats you good, no?”
“Marcel,” she said in surprise. “You speak English.”
“But of course.”
“Then why haven’t you—”
“This woman—Betseé—she is evil.” He paused long enough to cross himself in a religious gesture. “I never speak with her. I cook what I please.” He spoke in French again, his tone harsh until he once again spoke in English. His voice gentled. “This man, what he say to me, it is how you feel also?”
She shrugged in uncertainty. “I couldn’t understand anything he said. I only speak English.”
“Language does not matter when a man speaks it from his heart. Do you not see? Or do you want I should tell you?”
Julia wondered just how much she wanted to know about Payton’s feelings for her, but she couldn’t resist finding out. “Yes, please tell me.”
His expression changed to something akin to Payton’s when he had spoken to Marcel about her. His tone changed also, as though he imitated the sensual heat that had been noticeable in Payton’s voice.
“He say, you are his woman, his life, his love. He regrets that he must leave you for a while, but he returns quickly. And when he does, he will take you from this place and never more leave your side. For to him, you are like the stars in the heavens. Without either, he is lost in darkness.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Julia darling.”
A groan rumbled in her throat, but she trapped it behind her pressed lips. She considered going back into the kitchen to get away from Sylvia, but she had work to do. “I’m much too busy to talk now.”
Sylvia ignored her remark. “What did you do to the captain?”
“We didn’t do anything,” she said quickly, hoping the heat creeping into her cheeks wasn’t noticeable.
“Then why did he leave in such a rush without bothering to say goodbye?”
“Oh, has he gone?” She tried to press a surprised look on her face.
“Yes, he has.” Sylvia let out an exasperated sigh. “Have you quarreled again?”
“What makes you think we’ve quarreled?” she asked vaguely.
“It’s written all over your face. Your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are...” She gripped Julia’s wrist to prevent her from turning away. “There’s something different about you. You have this peculiar rosy glow in your cheeks. And your hair has come loose from your braid. If I didn’t know you better, I would think the captain has just ravished you.”
Nervously, she smoothed back her hair. “That’s absurd. I’ve been in the kitchen with Marcel.”
“He could have bent you over the kitchen table and had his way with you there.”
“Don’t be crude.” She jerked her arm free of Sylvia’s hold.
“I can’t help it if the truth is crude. So tell me,” she asked eagerly, “did he take you there in the kitchen?”
“Who? The captain? Or Marcel?” Perhaps if her language reflected the same vulgarity as Sylvia’s, it might cause her to abandon the subject. “You’re always saying how hot blooded those Frenchmen can be. Perhaps Marcel lost his head and tossed me on the table amidst the food and dirty dishes so he could have his way with me.”
“Oh,” she murmured, “that does sound titillating, but more than likely, it was that hot-blooded captain. I seriously doubt he would take you in the kitchen, though. He probably whisked you off to some secluded spot for a quick tryst. I only hope he kept his wits about him and took precautions.”
“You mean like locking the door?” she asked in reflection of her earlier concern.
“No. I mean, like preventing your pregnancy.”
Sylvia strolled away, a smug look on her face. Julia knew shock appeared on hers. After making love to Payton last night, and then this afternoon, a baby may very well be growing inside her belly.
“Bloody hell,” she whispered out loud. “What has that plundering pirate done to me?”
After she thought about it, Julia realized she couldn’t blame her present predicament totally on Payton. Last night she had been the one who’d started the seduction, the same as she’d done just a short while ago.
As for taking precautions, perhaps he didn’t know how to go about that anymore than she did.
Regardless, Payton wasn’t the kind of man to shirk his responsibilities. If she did carry his child, she knew exactly what he would do. He’d force her to go away somewhere with him so he could set up a home for her and the baby. Then he’d sail off in his ship while she waited for him to return to them every year or so.
That couldn’t be her fate. Waiting for Payton to return, worrying about him everyday, would surely kill her.
Being pregnant would also interfere with her plan to find her brother’s murderer. She couldn’t very well sneak about Betsy’s house with a large, protruding belly.
She shook her head to chase away her thoughts. She wouldn’t worry about a child until discovering if she was in that condition. That proof would happen soon enough. Just a few short weeks. By then, she’d know for sure.
As if in a daze, she went about her work. She instructed the servants to replace the trays when the food disappeared. Ordered more wine brought up from the cellar when the supply got low.
Some time had passed before she noticed the activities around her. A commotion broke out amongst the guest. Loud voices echoed across the yard, drawing her attention to a group of about a dozen people gathered together on the far side. A lady shrieked in horror. Julia saw a man stumble backward and fall to one knee.
Betsy Collins stood near him, her ebony cane held high over her head. Someone intervened; it looked like Gerald Baxter. He stepp
ed in front of the fallen man, and Betsy backed away.
Two others assisted the man to his feet. Blood trickled down his forehead from his scalp. He stumbled across the yard with the help of the men and crawled into a carriage. Many of the guests followed after them and left in their own conveyances.
Olivia Baxter hurried across the lawn to her. “My dear, I want you to leave with me now. We can send for your belongings later.”
“What’s happened? Did Mrs. Collins strike that man with her cane?”
She waved her hand through the air, as if the details were unimportant. “A terrible scandal has erupted. It’s not good for you to stay here.”
“A scandal?” she repeated. “It’s a little late for that. I thought everyone knew she’d owned a brothel before she moved here.”
“It’s worse than that. They’re calling her a traitor. It’s come out that her son was involved in selling guns and cannons to the Confederacy. They suspect she’s also involved.” Olivia slipped her arm around Julia’s waist and guided her across the lawn. “Several families in Sacramento lost loved ones during the recent rebellion. They’re accusing her of making a profit from their deaths.”
Julia knew exactly how they felt. Her own brother had been killed so Dunbar and Hennigan could make a profit.
When she realized Olivia lead her to a carriage, she resisted the effort. “I’m sorry, but I cannot go now.”
“You can’t stay here. It may become dangerous. Threats have been made. I don’t want you caught in the middle of a vicious fight.”
Olivia had no idea the danger in which she was involved, but Julia didn’t want to cause her more concern.
“Payton will be back in a few days. I’m certain that when he returns, he’ll take me away from here, but I can’t go right now.” Another week was all Julia need. She felt certain Dunbar would contact his mother soon.
“Oh, my dear, I worry about you so.”
“Nothing is going to happen to me.” She put her arms around the lady and gave her a hug. “I’ll come and visit tomorrow after church.”
Olivia nodded before joining her husband at their coach.
Julia looked around at the deserted yard. Betsy and Sylvia stood by themselves. A few people lingered near the tables, but she felt certain once the supply of liquor vanished, the remaining guests would also leave. She headed into the house. Marcel needed to stop the food preparation. The guests were gone, and the festive garden party had come to an end.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Payton stood in the open doorway of the Double Eagle Shipping Company. When Nicholas Stover saw him, his eyes opened wide. He rushed toward him, grabbed Payton’s arm, and jerked him into the office. Stover leaned out the doorway. His head darted about in all directions before he straightened back up. Still holding Payton’s arm, he shut the door and pulled him along a corridor to an office in the back. He collapsed into a chair behind the desk. Only then did he seem to take a breath.
The man’s frantic behavior worried Payton. The message he’d received from Stover requested he come to San Francisco right away about a matter of mutual concern. His gut reaction, after being dragged though the office, told him the matter was Lawrence Dunbar.
Stover grabbed a half-full liquor bottle from the bottom drawer. As he poured a goodly amount into a coffee mug, whiskey sloshed onto the papers strewn about his desk, but he didn’t bother blotting it away. His hand trembled as he raised the mug to his lips.
In a single gulp, he downed the contents. He slapped the empty mug on the desk with a thud, flopped back in the chair, and let out long sigh. “I’m not a drinking man, but I needed that.”
“Is this about Dunbar?” Payton asked.
Stover’s head came up with a snap. He reached for the whiskey bottle but didn’t pour another drink. “I wish to God it was. Then maybe all this dirty business would be over with.”
He felt his forehead wrinkle as his confusion increased. If this wasn’t about Dunbar, then what had put Stover into such an uproar? He grabbed a chair and took a seat. “Why don’t you calm down and tell me what this is all about?”
Stover clutched the whiskey bottle in his hand and held it on his thigh. “A man came in here a few days ago. He knew old man Hennigan was dead and wanted to talk with the widow.” His gaze darted to the bottle balanced on his leg. He leaned forward and grabbed the cork.
“What did he look like?” Payton asked.
He shoved the cork into the bottle and stowed it back in the drawer. He plopped his elbow on the desk and placed his chin on his fist. His eyelids narrowed. “He was a little weasel of a man.”
Payton let out a heavy sigh. He could see Stover’s anxiety, but he needed specifics. “Can you tell me how he looked? Was he tall? Short?”
“His name was Ritter. And that description fits him.” He glanced at Payton. “Do you know him?”
“A little weasel?” He mulled the image over in his mind. “Dunbar had a second mate that might fit that description. Seems he had a piece of an ear missing.” He touched his right hand to his ear. “No, the left side.”
“That’s him.”
“Do you know what he wanted with the Widow Hennigan?”
“Blackmail.”
Payton sat up straighter in the chair. “She told you that?”
“No.” He shook his head vigorously. “I wouldn’t let him near her. Told him she was in seclusion due to her grief, and he’d have to talk to me.”
“Appears as though he talked,” Payton speculated.
“He demanded money. Otherwise, he’d go to the law.” Stover relaxed back in his chair. “He proceeded to tell me all about the old man’s illegal activities. I pretended like I didn’t know anything. Said it didn’t matter because the company was going belly up, and the widow didn’t have any money.”
“The company’s going broke? Has the scandal about Hennigan’s activities gotten that bad?”
He made an attempt to grin. “I exaggerated to Ritter, but it’s only a matter of time. The widow is in debt. She wants out and is selling the company cheap just to pay the bills.”
“How did Ritter take the news about there not being any money?”
“Not good. I told him to go to the authorities if he wanted.” He let out a bark of laughter. “I knew he won’t get within ten leagues of the law.”
Stover’s voice lowered to a hush. “Problem is, I’m not certain he believed that I didn’t know anything. He threatened me.”
“He threatened to blackmail you?”
He shook his head. “Threatened to kill me. He claimed the old man had a bundle of money stashed away somewhere that belonged to Dunbar. He seemed to think I knew where it was.”
Payton was tempted to ask if he knew, but from the frightened look on his face, he figured that wasn’t possible. “Why didn’t you go to the law yourself if you’re that concerned about him?”
“I thought about it, but then I decided to send for you. If Ritter thinks the old man had money that belonged to Dunbar, the only person who could’ve told him was Dunbar. That means if he shows up in San Francisco—”
“Dunbar will be looking for the money, too,” Payton finished for him.
“Exactly,” Stover said. “And that’s what has me worried. I thought with the old man dead, Dunbar wouldn’t have any business here, but now I’m not so certain.”
“I see your point. I’d assumed that with Hennigan dead, Dunbar’s mother would be the only person he could get money from. That’s why I went to Sacramento so I could keep an eye on her. But this changes everything. If Hennigan stashed money somewhere that belonged to Dunbar, he’ll come here instead. He may not even contact his mother until later.”
“What do you think we should do?”
“I guess the first thing to do,” he said as he rubbed his hand over his chin, “is learn all I can about that little weasel Ritter.”
****
Payton took a deep swallow of the cool beer and slammed the mug on the table
. For the last two weeks, he’d navigated up and down the Barbary Coast trying to find anything he could on Ritter. He’d wandered around, going from one tavern to the next. A few men had seen Ritter around, but knew very little. One piece of information mentioned was the man kept to himself and didn’t have any friends.
But persistence rewarded Payton. Last night, Ritter had stumbled into the tavern where he waited, but Payton didn’t approach him. Instead, he’d observed him from a distance in order to learn everything he could before pressing him for information. He wanted to find which taverns Ritter frequented, were he lodged, and how he spent his money—if he had any.
The night had been very productive. The only cash he had was what he gained by picking pockets or rolling drunks. He didn’t gamble and didn’t buy his own drinks—unless he had no other choice. A few times, when he seemed hard pressed, he’d strike up a conversation with a stranger and pretend to know him. Occasionally, the person would buy him a beer. But his usual manner to get a drink without paying was to slither around the tables or bar until someone walked away. He’d sneak in and grab the unguarded drink. Then he’d quickly down the contents. Stover’s assumption of him seemed accurate. Ritter fit the description of a little weasel.
Payton scratched at his unshaven face with his fingernails. The beard stubble irritated his skin, but he couldn’t shave. In order to gather information, he needed to blend in with the other men. Rumpled clothes and the start of a beard made him look like any other seaman waiting for a ship. He’d even donned a black knit cap instead of his captain’s hat to help act out the part.
Tonight, he waited for him to reappear at the tavern. The lodging house where Ritter spent his nights lay only a block away. Most of the men in his circumstance paid twenty-five cents a night to sleep in a room with a half-a-dozen bunks and the same amount of men.
Ritter chose to pay twice that amount for a single room so he could have privacy. He appeared to be a man who wanted to remain invisible, which struck Payton as odd.
Payton's Woman Page 18