To Love a Scoundrel

by Sharon Ihle

"Absolutely. I've already forgotten it," she lied.

  "Fine," he said. "Now that I think about it, I believe you could even say that last night meant nothing to me."

  Jewel opened the door and stepped across the threshold, curiously piqued. She gritted her teeth and said, "That's perfectly wonderful news, and rest assured, last night meant nothing to me either, do you hear me? Less than nothing."

  Then, forgetting about her dreadful headache, she slammed the door in his face.

  Chapter 10

  "Zee seven of clubs on your queen of diamonds promises good fortune and happiness, but bids you bevare of zee opposite sex—hah. Truer vords vere never spoken." Jewel added impulsively.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Jewel looked up at the offended matron and rolled her eyes. "So sorry, Mrs. Astor. Sometimes zee cards take control." She looked back down at the table, hoping the explanation would satisfy the woman, and went on with her reading. "Now ve have zee ace of diamonds—humm. Zis means you veel soon receive a letter. Let us turn up zee neighboring cards to see from whom and about vat."

  She droned on with the reading, telling the woman what she thought she'd want to hear, automatically reciting the meaning of each card she turned up. But her mind was on Brent. Brent and the fact they'd studiously avoided each other for the past two days. When the Delta Dawn docked in Cape Girardeau the morning after the incident, as she now referred to that night, she had half expected him to demand she leave the ship. But it hadn't happened.

  The best she'd gotten from Mr. Brent Connors over the last few days was an occasional perfunctory nod. A couple of times she'd actually caught him staring at her, but then he would just salute her as if she were some kind of regimental soldier and go on about his business. Had what passed between them really been so insignificant to him?

  "Are you quite finished?"

  The nasal voice startled her, and Jewel realized she'd been sitting there staring at the three of clubs as if she expected it to come alive.

  "Pardon, madam, but zis is very interesting and I vant to be sure before I speak. Zee card says you veel be more zan once married."

  Mrs. Astor choked, and then began laughing into her diamond-laden fingers.

  Working to keep her expression impassive, Jewel watched as the rotund matron cackled like an egg-bound hen, her bovine breasts jiggling beneath the bodice of her black silk dress. When the cackles became occasional clucks, Jewel pressed her lace-shrouded fingers into a tent, and raised one eyebrow. "Zee cards never lie."

  "My, oh, my, Madam Zaharra," the society woman finally managed as she spoke through her perfumed hanky. "It's a good thing Mr. Astor didn't hear you say that."

  Jewel shrugged. "Send him over to me. Perhaps vee can determine ven your next marriage will occur."

  "Oh, my, my," the woman said through a chuckle, "you're quite impudent, aren't you?" Mrs. Astor dropped a couple of coins on the table, then labored at lifting her bulk from the chair. "Impudent," she went on, puffing for air, "but very entertaining as well. Thank you for the delightful card reading."

  "You're velcome," Jewel replied, her smile strained. "And please be sure to geeve my regards to your husbands—all of zem."

  The woman began cackling again, but once she was out of sight, Jewel collapsed against the back of her chair. She peeked around the end of the large partition Brent had installed to separate the men from the women, and glanced into the card room. The bar was crowded, but she saw no sign of Brent Connors or Harry Benton. She imagined that the shipowner would be up in the pilothouse, since the Dawn was due to dock at its next port in a matter of minutes, but where had Harry been hiding for the last two days? Although Jewel was an employee of the shipline and a confidante of the other workers, all she'd been able to learn was that he'd taken sick and was having his meals sent to his cabin. Was that true? she wondered, or was it part of another scam—a way for him to move about the ship in one of his famous disguises?

  "Good morning, my dear."

  Startled, Jewel lurched forward, nearly knocking the crystal ball out of the silver bowl. "Oh... hello."

  "So sorry, my dear. I didn't mean to sneak up on you," Harry said as he deposited a teacup and saucer on the table and eased his wiry frame onto the chair. "And how are you this fine morning? Better than I've been these last few days, I hope."

  "Oh?" she said, feigning surprise. "Have you been seek?"

  Harry's fine black eyebrows drew together. "Something I ate, I suspect, but I'm fine now." Then he leaned closer, whispering conspiratorily, "And listen, dear, it's all right with me if you don't use the accent. I am one of the few people who understand that you don't actually have to be a Gypsy to be an excellent fortune-teller. Interpretation is really all that matters, wouldn't you say, my dear?"

  "Ah... perhaps," she hedged, working to conceal her feelings, trying to forget he was her father. "Or perhaps you are still trying to prove to your boss that I don't belong on this ship. Is that it? Are you going to ask Mr. Connors to have me removed the minute we dock at New Madrid?"

  "Oh, goodness no, my dear." Harry began to chuckle as he remembered their prior meeting. He looked down and smiled. "I am not an employee of this ship. I happen to have first-class accommodations. Mr. Connors merely borrowed me for the purpose of learning whether you were a fake or not after I informed him about my extensive knowledge of fortune-telling."

  She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that Brent was, if nothing else, an honest man who would never be in a partnership with such a vile excuse for humanity as Harry Benton. But she had to consider the possibility that these two men—both constantly on her mind—were cut from the same cloth. If she acknowledged the danger they represented to her, perhaps she could avoid becoming too comfortable around either of them.

  "My dear?'' Harry said, puzzled by her frown. "I hope that information doesn't offend you. Mr. Connors only wanted to be certain you were authentic. I told him you were, and he must have believed me—your business seems to be thriving," he said, pointing at her cash jar.

  "What? Oh, yes, yes, it is."

  Harry rumpled his brow. "Perhaps I should return at another time. You appear to be somewhat distracted today."

  "No," she said too fast, with too much emphasis. Recovering quickly, Jewel lowered her voice and adopted her best professional manner. "That is to say, I am truly interested in proceeding with your fortune. I think we might even make some very interesting discoveries." She held out her carefully gloved hand and smiled, determined to disregard the fact that this man had all but cut out her mother's heart. "Your palm, Mr. Poindexter?"

  "Oh, no, my dear," Harry said. "I brought something much more interesting than my palm—I have my teacup from breakfast. The sign says you read leaves."

  "Yes, of course," she said crisply, nearly thanking him for sparing her the chore of touching him. Jewel picked up the cup and peered at the contents, then shook it and made circles with it. When the particles were properly spread out for reading, she upended the cup on the saucer, allowed it to drain for a moment, then turned it over and set it on the table.

  "There are a great many messages here," she began, hoping she could remember the different emblems represented by the leaves. "The ring here signifies marriage."

  Harry laughed. "I think you will find that it says such a state will never be a part of my life."

  Jewel slowly shook her head. "No, it says that you will be married. There's even an initial nearby, but I can't quite make it out—it's a little cloudy."

  "Cloudy? That is not a good sign, is it?''

  Jewel's expression was solemn and guarded. "It means you will most likely marry a very disagreeable woman."

  "Oh, my. Then I shall have to avoid this marriage at all costs."

  No longer able to look at him, resisting the urge to tell him he was probably safe from such a fate, that marrying anyone while behind bars was extremely improbable, Jewel peered down at the leaves. "Hmm," she muttered thoughtfully. "Here is an intere
sting grouping—a star surrounded by dots. This denotes—"

  "Children." He laughed.

  "Yes, and it means that your children may cause you grief and vexation."

  "Impossible, my dear," he said, still laughing. "I have no children, nor do I intend to burden myself in the future with any of the little gargoyles."

  Jewel narrowed her eyes, hardening her gaze until one green eye began to twitch. "Zee leaves," she said slipping into her Gypsy role, "say zat you have at least one child, sir."

  "Zen zee leaves," he mimicked, "are quite full of shit, my dear."

  Jewel gasped, and her mouth dropped open.

  "Oh, goodness—pardon me, my dear. I never use such language, especially in front of a lady." Harry reached across the table and patted her hand. "Just the thought of having children is quite distressful for a man like me. I do hope you'll understand and forgive the slip of my loutish tongue."

  She pressed her lips together and stared into Harry's smoky green eyes. You bastard, she said silently. You low-down rotten bastard. You can't even acknowledge me, can you? You won't admit, even to someone you suppose is a stranger, that you have a child—bastard that she may be. God, how I'd love to tell you that your daughter is sitting right across the table from you and that she'd like to stick her knife into your black heart.

  Alarmed by what he saw in the young woman's expression, Harry pushed his chair away from the table. "Goodness gracious, I hardly think a harmless expletive, uncivilized as it may have been, is worth such a countenance of rage. Perhaps it would be best if I took my leave."

  "Oh, no. Please excuse my manners," Jewel managed, barely able to resume her role and force herself to block out the past. Choosing to use the hurt and hatred to help her regain her advantage, she went on. "I'm afraid your words reminded me of a time best forgotten. They brought back some terrible memories of my childhood... things that cause me a great deal of pain."

  "Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry."

  "That's all right. How would you possibly know my own father thinks of me as an unwanted gargoyle."

  Harry gasped. "Oh, my. He actually said that in your presence?''

  Jewel folded her hands in her lap and gave Harry a cool stare. "He said it right to my face."

  "How terribly gauche of him." Harry slowly shook his head, then waved his hands in the air. "That's enough of that, then. You will kindly dispense with any further references to children, and I shan't mention my less than fatherly attitude toward them."

  "Agreed." Jewel bit the word off sharply as she returned her gaze to the cup. "Now then, where were we? Have I mentioned the roads yet?"

  "No. No, my dear I don't believe you—"

  Harry's words and Jewel's reading were both rudely interrupted as the Dawn bumped against the dock at New Madrid. Jewel looked into the cup, wondering if she could go on with her interpretations, but the movement had forced the leaves to coagulate. "I'm afraid it's too late for roads now, Mr. Poindexter," she exclaimed, tipping the china teacup toward him. "Would you like to try again with another—"

  "Not now my dear," he said, waving her off as he pushed up from the chair. "I had no idea we were so close to New Madrid or I'd have waited until this evening." He reached into his pocket, but Jewel objected.

  "You owe me nothing for this," she offered, knowing her best chance at trapping the man, of exacting her revenge, would come only if she presented herself as his friend. "Perhaps after the steamship leaves port this evening, we can try again."

  "Thank you, my dear," Harry said with a short nod. "Until tonight, then. For now I believe a walk around town in the fresh air will be of immense benefit to my health. Good day."

  "And good day to you, sir. Enjoy yourself." Jewel smiled up at him until he turned and made his jaunty way through the crowd. She impulsively made a face at his back before she returned her attention to the table and began to collect her cards and dice.

  While she closed up her tiny shop for the afternoon, Jewel began working on a way to trap Harry. Now that he was well, back out in the open, surely he was in the process of choosing his latest target. A criminal like Harry Benton must be beside himself with delight, she thought as she watched the bejeweled passengers file off the Dawn—he sure as hell had no shortage of potential victims on this ship. Would following him into town provide her with any clues to his intentions? Or could she best learn of his latest scheme by breaking into his room and examining his personal effects?

  While she was in the midst of indecision, Jewel's instincts unexpectedly jabbed at her subconscious. Brent was near; she could sense his presence without looking up. She knew his gaze was fastened on her even before she lifted her lashes and found his warm brown eyes. They were smiling, she noticed as he made his way toward her, friendly and inviting. What did he want from her today?

  "How's business, Madame Zebra?" he said as he sauntered up to the table.

  "I'm making a living," she said with a shrug.

  "Got time for one more customer?" he asked, straddling the high-backed chair across from her.

  "You?"

  Brent popped a toothpick into the corner of his mouth and grinned. "I never did find out just how much you know about fortune-telling."

  "Really?" she said, seizing the chance to learn more about his relationship with Harry. "I was under the impression your partner pronounced me authentic."

  "My... partner?"

  "Yes," she said, studying him for signs of duplicity, fighting the urge to reach across the table and touch him. "Mr. Poindexter, your expert on fortunetelling."

  "Oh." Brent laughed, remembering. "He's not my partner. He's a passenger I borrowed after he offered to test your methods. The Sebastian Steamship Line is mine, and mine alone."

  "If that's the case, then why Sebastian?" she asked. "I thought your last name was Connors."

  "It is. Sebastian is my middle name and my mother's maiden name. I used it in honor of dear old granddad, who sired seven ravishing young ladies but not one son to carry on his illustrious name."

  "How terribly... southern of you," she said through a quiet laugh.

  "Yes, I suppose it is. What else do you know about southern men?" He took her hand in his. "Anything besides a few drawled expressions?"

  In spite of her excellent instincts, forgetting all the vows she'd made to herself, Jewel finally dropped her guard and stared into his eyes, not as a detective but as a woman. A shiver darted up and down her spine, looking for an avenue of escape, as she pondered his words. All she knew of southern men, she'd learned from Brent Connors—and she knew far more about him than was prudent.

  Sputtering, tongue-tied, as she always seemed to be around him, Jewel shrugged. "I guess I don't know much more about you southerners than how to say 'y'all' and 'much obliged, suh.'"

  Brent laughed and pulled the toothpick from his mouth. "That's about all you need to know, at least as far as I'm concerned. Although I was born and raised in the decidedly southern state of Mississippi, I should inform you that I'm not exactly what most folks in these parts would call a true southern gentleman."

  "That makes us about even, then." She chuckled. "I'm not exactly your average Gypsy, either."

  As he joined in her laughter, Brent reached for her other hand and raised them both to his mouth. After kissing each finger through the black lace of her gloves, he murmured against the back of her hand, "God knows I've tried, but I can't seem to get what happened between us out of my mind. All I can think about is you and the way I feel when you're around. You been thinking of me, too?"

  Jewel tugged at her fingers, trying to withdraw them and any little pieces of herself that she'd unintentionally given him, but Brent's grip remained firm. "Don't," she said weakly. "Please don't say things like that, and please let me go. Can't we just be friends?"

  "We can be that," he said, looking up from her hands for a moment, "but we're also a whole lot more. I know it, and you know it, too."

  "No," she protested, shaking her head in a lame e
ffort to convince him. "We have to forget what happened in your room and make sure it never happens again."

  Brent stopped kissing her hands and looked into her eyes.

  "You don't mean that. I know you don't. Why can't you just admit it? You and I are made for each other—the perfect complement, a matched set."

  Unable to speak through the shudder his words prompted, swallowing the knot of truth in them, again Jewel shook her head. Then she finally said, "We're a match made in hell. No good can ever come from us. Now please—let me go."

  Dissatisfied, unconvinced by her answer, but too much the gentleman to ignore her request, Brent released her hands. "You're wrong and I intend to spend the rest of this voyage proving that to you."

  "Don't waste your time," she replied in a strange and tiny voice. "This is as close as I intend to get to you from here on out."

  His dimples firmly in place, Brent reached into his vest pocket and produced a coin. Flipping it onto the table, he said, "Wrong again. I'd like a palm reading. I believe that requires some physical contact, doesn't it?"

  Smiling back in spite of herself, Jewel nodded, giving him a silent tribute, then reached for his hand. She slowly ran one finger from the base of his palm to the tip of his index finger, drawing an exquisite gasp from him. Then she said, "Zis is zee heart line or zee cardiaca. It says here zat you should run like hell from any woman whose hair glows with zee color of fire, zat zose flames—"

  "Will incinerate me someday?" he interrupted, ready to meet the challenge. "Go ahead, Madame Ziggy. It seems I've kindled at least a small blaze in you. I'm prepared to fight fire with fire. I dare you to strike your match."

  * * *

  Outside beyond the docks a hansom cab rounded the corner and pulled to a halt a few blocks away from where the Delta Dawn was tied. Allan Pinkerton climbed down from the plush carriage and paid the driver. Then he walked toward the "floating wedding cake," wondering anew how he would present himself, wishing he'd been able to think of a disguise clever enough to impress his best female operative.