A Match of Wits

by Jen Turano

  “You made me shave my chest one time.”

  “True, but only because that gown I needed you to wear was somewhat low-cut, and, well, you’d have looked silly with chest hair.” She took a step closer, and as she did so, a wonderful scent of lilacs tickled his nose. “Now then, be a good boy and let me get on with this. We can’t very well allow your mother to see you looking like a wild man.” She waved the scissors in front of his face. “There’s really no need to worry. I’m certain I’ll do a more than credible job.”

  Zayne narrowed his eyes. “You don’t have any brothers, so how can you make that claim? Whose hair have you cut?”

  “I’ve never cut a man’s hair before, but I did have the opportunity to sheer a sheep in Nebraska, and how much different can it be?”

  “You know, Agatha, the truth of the matter is that my mother will be thrilled to simply have me returned back to New York. I don’t think there’s any need for you to touch my hair.”

  “You also need to lose the beard.”

  Zayne shuddered. “You’re not shaving me. Putting a razor in your hand would be almost as foolish as giving you a piece of dynamite.”

  Agatha’s eyes turned chilly. “I don’t recall offering to shave you, and really, I would have thought that by now you’d be over the whole dynamite thing.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever recover from that. You do remember the troubling little fact that you destroyed my livelihood, don’t you?”

  Agatha moved closer, the skirt of her gown brushing against his leg. He felt the strangest heat flash through him but consoled himself with the idea he was only getting nervous because scissors in Agatha’s hands could be construed as a weapon.

  “Your family is one of the richest families in the country. Why, up until you had your accident, you were perfectly content to work by your father’s side, as well as Hamilton’s, growing your railroading business. I certainly didn’t destroy your only means of securing a living.”

  “Since our railroad reached the West Coast a few years ago, there’s not that much more growing to do.”

  A sharp rap on his head had him gritting his teeth.

  “Stop being so surly. It’s unbecoming, and I know for a fact—given all the traveling I’ve done of late—that there’s still plenty of need for new railroad lines.”

  “Maybe you should join my father and brother, then. I’m sure they’d love working with you every day.”

  “Sarcasm is almost as unbecoming as surliness,” she said before he heard a snip and saw a long piece of matted hair plop to the ground.

  “This is a bad idea,” he muttered.

  “It’s not. You’re just being difficult, but . . . Good heavens.”

  “Good heavens, what?”

  Agatha moved closer. “The scissors are stuck.”

  “I guess you’ll have to stop.”

  “Nonsense, I can’t just leave them there. I’ll have to use the knife.”

  Before Zayne could protest, Agatha pulled a shiny and lethal-looking knife out of her pocket and proceeded to saw off more of his hair. “This is so matted and dirty, it almost looks black instead of dark brown.”

  “I probably should have sought out a barber sometime during the past several months, but there wasn’t much need to worry about my appearance up in the mine.”

  Agatha stopped sawing, stepped away from him, and caught his eye. “I don’t think I’ve actually said this out loud to you yet, but I really am sorry I blew up your mine.”

  He opened his mouth to argue but noticed the true sincerity in her eyes. Agatha was, and had always been, impulsive, annoying, and far too much trouble, but she really was a kind woman at heart, something he seemed to have forgotten.

  “I know,” he finally said.

  She grinned back at him. “That was hard for you, wasn’t it?”

  He returned the grin. “Incredibly.”

  “You’re considering forgiving me though, aren’t you?”

  His grin faded. “I don’t know if I’d go that far, Agatha. You did lose me a fortune in gold.”

  “I had nothing to do with Mary robbing you.”

  “I’m not talking about the pittance I kept on my belt, but what I’d stored in the mine.”

  “You stored your gold in that mine instead of in a bank?”

  Not caring to discuss that subject again, since Mr. Blackheart had already made him feel slightly less than intelligent, Zayne dropped his gaze. “If you’re going to finish my hair before we reach New York, you’d better have at it.”

  She stepped closer, the scent of her perfume tickling his nose again. He wasn’t positive, but he thought he detected the slightest trace of violets mixed in with the lilacs.

  He’d forgotten how she always smelled rather delicious.

  A jolt of something disturbing slid down his back, and for a moment he thought it was a reaction to his troubling thoughts, until he realized Agatha had dumped half a pot of water over his head.

  “Was that really necessary? I’m soaked to the skin.”

  “You’ll dry by the time we reach New York, and I thought the water would help with the matting. I still can’t get the scissors out because the tangles are so thick the knife won’t go through that part.”

  As Agatha struggled to remove the scissors, Zayne tried to ignore the warmth that was seeping into his skin from the closeness of her body. Deciding he needed something to distract him, he searched his mind for a safe topic of conversation.

  “Did I mention to you that Matilda’s sleeping under the bed in here?”

  A grunt was Agatha’s only reply before there was an ominous snap. She stumbled backward, righted herself, and smiled as she waved the newly freed scissors at him. “Got them, but I do think I took out a huge chunk of your hair in the process.” She reached out and ruffled his hair right before she began attacking it again. “Not to worry though. I’m sure I can blend it in so no one can tell. Now, what were you saying about Matilda?”

  “Ah, well, she’s sleeping under my bed, but . . . let’s get back to my hair. I’m not going to be bald, am I?”

  “You’d look very handsome bald, because you have such a strong face. And if you were missing a large chunk of hair—not that I’m saying that’s the case—well, it would just draw more attention to your eyes. They’re a very nice shade of green, unusual even.” She let out what sounded remarkably like a giggle. “Did I ever tell you about the time I overheard some ladies sighing over how long your lashes are?”

  Zayne frowned. Agatha never giggled, nor did she flirt, which is exactly what she seemed to be trying to do at the moment, which meant . . . His eyes widened. “I really do have a bald spot, don’t I?”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s completely bald.” Agatha cut off another piece of his hair. “But baldness aside, I have something else I need to discuss with you, because Drusilla and I have been mulling over your situation.”

  All thoughts of flirting immediately disappeared. “What situation?”

  “The mess you’ve made of your life.”

  “My life is hardly a mess.”

  “I understand it’s easy for a person to embrace denial, but it’s time for you to stop that. You need a purpose, Zayne, and Drusilla and I have very kindly found one for you.”

  “You’ve found me a purpose?”

  “Indeed, and it’s a very noble one.”

  He refused to groan out loud. “And . . . ?”

  “Drusilla and I are going to help you track down that Willie person—you know, the man you bought the mine from—once we get settled and all.”

  “And why exactly would we track Willie down?”

  “So that you can return his mine to him.”

  “What makes you so certain I’d be willing to turn over a lucrative mining venture to a man I legitimately purchased it from?”

  For just a brief second, he felt Agatha stiffen, but then she started cutting his hair again, although she did so rather too enthusiastically. �
�I’m going to pretend you didn’t just ask that question.”

  “It was a legitimate question, Agatha.”

  “It’s too late. I’m not going to be able to help you,” she mumbled.

  “For the millionth time, I don’t need you to save me.”

  She completely ignored his statement. “The Zayne I used to know was a compassionate man. A man who wouldn’t have blinked at what I just suggested because it’s the right thing to do.”

  “I don’t know many businessmen who’d willingly turn over a profitable venture simply because of a compassionate nature.”

  Another handful of his hair fell to the ground. “You could at least try to find Willie and offer him some type of partnership with you.”

  “We’ve been over this before, Agatha. I purchased the mine from him, sight unseen.”

  “True, but since I blew it up, it’s going to take a lot of time and money to get it up and running again. If we could find Willie, maybe he’d be willing to go back to Colorado and get things moving. You told me he was responsible for making those tunnels. You’re in no shape to do it, so . . .”

  As Agatha continued speaking, Zayne couldn’t help but conclude she had a very good idea. He had no intention of completely abandoning his mine, had only agreed to go back to New York because she’d been so demanding . . . and he’d wanted to see his family . . . and the snow would soon start falling in Colorado, if it hadn’t already. But . . . Willie had done a fine job setting up the tunnels, and if he could be found, he would be the perfect man for the job.

  “I think you might be right.”

  Agatha froze. “Did you just say you think I’m right?”

  “Well, I wasn’t actually listening to everything you were saying, but I think you’re right about finding Willie.”

  “And you’ll turn over the mine to him?”

  “No, but I wouldn’t be opposed to bringing him on as some type of partner.”

  “Why won’t you just give him the mine?”

  “Because as you said, it’ll take money to get it running again, and I’m pretty certain Willie doesn’t have any of that.”

  “Oh, good point.” Agatha leaned down, smiled, and caught his gaze. “Thank you.”

  His breath caught in his throat. Why, he couldn’t really say, but before he could think of a response, or even get a sound out of his mouth, the door opened and Mr. Blackheart walked back into the room.

  “We’re about an hour out of the city,” he said. “I thought I’d see how Mr. Beckett’s transformation is coming along.” He walked across the room and winced. “Hmm . . .”

  “It’s not that bad,” Agatha argued.

  “Give me the scissors,” Mr. Blackheart demanded.

  “But I’m not finished, and Zayne and I were right in the middle of an important conversation.”

  “It’ll have to wait. His mother will be appalled if she sees her favorite son looking like this.”

  “You think I’m my mother’s favorite son?” Zayne asked.

  “Of course you are,” Agatha said before Mr. Blackheart could reply. “But that has nothing to do with Drusilla and me helping you find Willie.”

  “Shouldn’t you go collect the rest of your belongings since we’re almost to New York?” Mr. Blackheart asked.

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?” Agatha countered.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m going to have to give Mr. Beckett a mirror soon so he can begin shaving, and once he sees what you’ve done to him, your life will be in danger. Since it’s my job to keep you alive, I’m going to suggest you leave this room, immediately.”

  Agatha considered Zayne’s head for a moment, wrinkled her nose, and let out a whistle as she began to walk toward the door. Pausing to wait for Matilda to scamper to her side, she looked up and winced when she caught his eye. “Just remember, you look better than you did thirty minutes ago, although that might not really be saying much.” With that, she opened the door and disappeared.

  “How bad is it?” he asked.

  “Oh, it’s not that bad,” Mr. Blackheart said. “Nothing I can’t fix.”

  “Why did you make me think it was, then?”

  “Don’t get me wrong—at the moment your hair looks hideous. But again, I can fix it, because I’m somewhat talented when it comes to cutting hair.”

  “Why didn’t you offer to cut it in the first place?”

  “Hmm . . . that’ll give you something to think about, but not right now. Now we need to discuss a situation that’s arisen, and I’ve come to the conclusion I’m going to need your help.”

  “A situation?”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Blackheart eyed Zayne’s hair. “After speaking a few minutes ago with Drusilla, not that she was overly generous giving me many details, I think we’re going to have to move forward with the idea of you playing the invalid.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can’t protect Agatha if she’s roaming around derelict parts of the city trying to find that Willie character.” He blew out a breath. “From what Drusilla disclosed, Agatha believes if you make matters right with Willie it’ll help you recover, which means she’s focused now on finding the man and won’t be easily dissuaded.”

  “But there’s nothing wrong with me, except my leg, of course, and Agatha has no reason to believe I need help recovering.”

  Mr. Blackheart quirked a brow. “Right, because it’s completely normal for a gentleman to turn his back on everything he cares about and dig in the dirt for months on end with only his sulky attitude for company.”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’ve been sulking. And my digging in the dirt, as you so quaintly put it, was beginning to turn profitable before Agatha blew everything up.”

  “Be that as it may, Agatha’s determined to save you.”

  Zayne frowned. “So what exactly do you expect me to do?”

  “Let her.”

  6

  Agatha looked around Grand Central Depot, relishing the sight of so many people bustling past her. She’d missed the city, missed the energy it held, but now, finally, she was home. She tugged Matilda’s leash and pulled the pig away from something she was trying to eat off the ground before turning to Drusilla. “It’s wonderful to be back, isn’t it?”

  Drusilla, for some unknown reason, had once again pulled out her opera glasses and was peering off into the distance. “Yes, ah, wonderful.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m looking for Zayne and Mr. Blackheart. I have no idea what could possibly be keeping them so long.”

  “I told you, Mr. Blackheart informed me when I went to fetch them after the train stopped that he had yet to make Zayne presentable and that they’d be along directly.”

  “We’ll be waiting forever, then, because . . .” Drusilla’s lips suddenly thinned as her scanning stopped. “Oh, for the love of . . .”

  “What?”

  Handing over the opera glasses, Drusilla rolled her eyes. “Take a look for yourself.”

  Lifting the glasses, Agatha turned in the direction Drusilla had been gazing and caught sight of Mr. Blackheart and Zayne in the distance. Frowning, she pressed the glasses closer to her eyes, as if that might change the image she was seeing. “Good heavens, what happened to Zayne? Mr. Blackheart seems to be holding him up and . . .” She lowered the glasses, wiped the lenses on her sleeve, and looked through them once again. “Hmm . . . I wasn’t seeing things. Zayne’s freshly shaven face looks like it’s soaking wet and it’s very pale.”

  “It’s pale because his face hasn’t seen the sun for months, buried as it was underneath all that hair.”

  “But . . . why do you suppose he looks so wet? You don’t think Mr. Blackheart encouraged him to bathe, do you? But . . . no, that doesn’t make any sense because surely he’d have dried off before leaving the train, wouldn’t he?”

  Drusilla suddenly let out a snort, a sound Agatha had never once heard come out of
the woman’s mouth. Pulling her attention away from Zayne, she settled it on her companion. “What?”

  “I think Zayne’s supposed to be perspiring—profusely.”

  “Supposed to be perspiring?”

  “Gentlemen have no subtlety when it comes to matters of a devious nature, and these particular gentlemen are definitely abysmal plotters.”

  “Well that certainly clears everything up for me.”

  Drusilla waved her hand impatiently toward the men. “I’m reluctant to admit that I think this fresh bout of madness might be my fault.”

  “You’re still being annoyingly vague.”

  Drusilla took hold of Agatha’s arm. “I hope you won’t be too distressed with me, dear, but I was beginning to have some concerns regarding the business of tracking Willie down, and . . . I made mention of my concerns to Mr. Blackheart.”

  “You’re consorting with the enemy now?”

  “Really, Agatha, Mr. Blackheart isn’t exactly the enemy. He’s been charged with the daunting task of keeping you alive, and setting you loose on New York to search for Willie isn’t exactly the best way to help him achieve that goal.”

  “And you believe voicing those concerns is what’s behind Zayne’s fragile and wet appearance?”

  “I have to admit I do.” Drusilla shrugged. “Given the fact that Mr. Blackheart didn’t have much time before we reached New York, I imagine what we’re seeing now is the only plan he was able to come up with on such short notice.” She patted Agatha’s arm. “Since you’ve been rather vocal regarding the idea you want to see Zayne recover, I think Mr. Blackheart has convinced him to assume a fragile demeanor in order to persuade you to offer to look after him until he gets better.”

  “That’s a horrible plan.”

  “True, but it would keep you off the streets if you were to agree.”

  Agatha lifted her chin. “I have no intention of agreeing. I didn’t travel back to the city in order to hide away from whatever danger might still be stalking me.”

  “You don’t want to spend more time in Zayne’s company?”

  “I thought we agreed you’d cease your attempts at matchmaking, Drusilla.”

  “I don’t recall agreeing to that.”