“How soon can you make them?” Maggie asked in return.
“If’n I can borrow coupla’ Dollie’s girls, who are quite fine seamstresses, a week. But if I stop all other work it’ll cost ya.”
“Don’t worry about the money,” Maggie said. “Lorelei and I will take care of that.”
“Not the lady?” Hetty raked Serena with a suspicious glance.
Serena flushed under Hetty’s beady gaze. “I’m in rather a difficult situation,” she admitted quietly. “You may have heard that my husband is missing. I have to do something to support myself while I am here and the only thing I can do is sing.”
Hetty nodded her head. “I heard ‘bout Mr. Randolph. Well, yes. I c’n work on this. Leave it to me, honey. I’s sure I can work with yo’ drawin’s and if not, I knows where to find yo’.”
Tears stung Serena’s eyes. She had not for one moment ever imagined herself in such a predicament, nor that the most unlikely ladies would come to her aid. How many of her friends at home in England would have rallied to her side so readily?
Choked with sudden emotion, Serena held back tears. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she whispered.
“Oh, no need to thank us,” Maggie said stoutly. “We all enjoy a good sing song, don’t we Hetty?”
Hetty nodded her agreement but was looking Serena up and down. “If’n you’ll step back here and git that outfit off, I c’n take some measurements.”
Serena followed Hetty into the back room and removed her jacket. She hung it across the back of a chair, then removed her skirt and folded that, too, while Hetty rummaged on a work table for paper and pencil. When she turned around, she stared hard at Serena.
“Lordy, lordy. Whut’s that yo’ wearin’?”
Serena looked down at her underwear. “Oh, this you mean?” She indicated the garment that looked like a basic dress bodice with no sleeves or skirt and fitted over her breasts like a glove. “It’s called a corselet gorge. It’s an invention of Herminie Cadolle. They’re all the rage in Paris. It’s far more comfortable than wearing a full corset, which I haven’t done for years, but it still gives the bust a little support.”
“That’s no more’n a handkerchief,” Hetty mumbled, looking closely at the cut and fit of the garment. “But then, yo’se so trim ‘n perky ‘n all, you prob’ly don’t need nothin’. Now, hold yo’ arms away from yo’ body so’s I kin get t’ work.”
It didn’t take long for Hetty to collect the measurements she needed. While Serena dressed herself again, Hetty wrote the information down in her notebook then closed it with a resounding snap before returning to the store. Serena followed her.
“Go on now, both of ya.” Hetty was already pulling fabric off the shelves. “I’ll send word when I’ve got someth’n ready.”
Serena was deep in thought as they left. Maggie’s talk of the brothels bothered her. She couldn’t imagine Randolph visiting one but, being far away from home, might he have gone looking for an affectionate interlude, however brief? Had he visited any of them? If he had, would any of the women have done him harm? Would any of their regular customers have accosted him? She had heard of such jealousies.
The possibilities seemed endless, but maybe King would be careless with his conversation this evening.
The thought gave her some hope.
Chapter Eight
She took her time dressing for dinner having decided on wearing a high-necked cream lace blouse and a hunter-green satin skirt. Even though she had her suspicions about King’s intentions, she refused to lower her standards. She piled her hair high on her head, allowing a few ringlets to fall to one side. Ladies were allowed to be late, but how late was something Serena did not want to test.
Douglas King had a short fuse, she was sure. He waited for her in the foyer and she couldn’t fail to notice his clenched jaw and rigid stance as she walked down the stairs to meet him.
“No wonder you took your time.” His annoyance faded as his hungry gaze roamed over her from head to toe. “You look lovely.” He took her hand and kissed her fingers. An unpleasant shiver shimmied down her spine. She nearly snatched her hand away but caught herself and forced a smile instead.
“Shall we?” Serena indicated the entrance to the dining room and extricated her hand from his.
“First I have to collect something from the office,” he informed her. “Will you accompany me? It’s a very mild evening.”
He opened the door for her and Serena stepped outside, surprised to see a buggy pulled close to the boardwalk. He helped her take her seat then reached under it, pulling out a blanket which he spread across her knees.
“This should keep you warm if you do find it chilly.” He climbed up beside her and flicked the reins over the horse’s back. Its hooves pulled out of the mud with a soft, sucking sound and the wheels hissed as they rolled over the wet surface.
What could he possibly need to get from his office that he couldn’t have brought with him? Serena suspected an ulterior motive but could not imagine what that might be so remained silent throughout the short drive.
“I’ll only be a moment.” King halted the horse and hooked the reins into their keeper.
A chill that had nothing to do with the weather seeped into Serena’s bones. The street was dark and there were no lights on inside the mine office. King must know exactly what he wanted and where to find it. Or had he left her alone in the dark street for a purpose? She immediately chided herself for being fearful but then jumped when she heard the hollow reverberation of footsteps on the sidewalk.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone, Lady Buxton.”
Serena relaxed on hearing the sheriff’s voice, thankful that it at least belonged to someone she knew. “I’m not exactly alone, Sheriff Johnson.” She made her voice light with some effort. “I’m waiting for Mr. King, and here he is.”
“A problem, Sheriff?” King asked as he swung up onto the buggy.
“Just doing my rounds, Mr. King, like a good sheriff should.”
He spoke with some irony and Serena had the distinct feeling there was no love lost between the two men. The sheriff tipped his hat to her and walked away.
“Sorry about the detour, my dear, but I think you’ll appreciate the reason for it.”
She couldn’t think what he might have for her to appreciate and definitely disapproved of being referred to in such a familiar way. If agreeing to have dinner with him gave the impression he had carte blanche to address her in any way he chose, she would need to make him think again.
More traffic filled Main Street now. Light spilled out of some of the buildings. Serena heard the chatter of voices and clunk of heavy boots on the boardwalks. She was anxious to get indoors and it was with some relief she alighted from the buggy and allowed King to guide her into the hotel.
She led the way into the dining room where the few people already seated barely paid them any attention. Serena made her way to the table by the fireplace. King pulled out a chair for her.
“I assure you I am quite harmless,” he murmured as she took her seat, “but you may flee if you wish.”
Serena forced a laugh. If she were to discover anything from this man she had to appear relaxed. “I doubt that will be necessary, Mr. King.”
“Please, call me Douglas. We don’t need to stand on ceremony here, Serena. Titles in Cold Creek mean next to nothing.”
The waiter approached with a bottle of white wine chilling in an ice bucket. Serena raised an eyebrow.
“I took the liberty of sending a bottle across from the club this afternoon,” King explained as he took his seat opposite her.
He poured her a glass and she bit back the angry remark that sprang to her lips. He had not asked her if she wanted it, had not asked if she liked white wine, had simply taken it for granted that it would be to her taste.
“Is it not customary to ask a lady if she would like wine?” She gave him a hard stare.
“Your class grows up on it.” King put the
bottle back in the bucket. “Or should that be ‘with it’? I wouldn’t want you to find my grammar offensive.”
Serena chose to ignore his comment about class and smiled sweetly at him. “Oh, it’s not your grammar I find offensive.”
He gave no sign of recognizing her barb. She raised her glass, took a small sip of wine and rolled it around on her tongue before letting it slide down her throat. It was surprisingly good and she said so.
“You might be used to European wines, but this is from the Napa Valley and competes quite respectably. I like home-grown.”
He didn’t enlarge on exactly what he liked home-grown, but Serena had a fairly good idea. She watched from beneath her lashes as a smirk spread across his face. He obviously had little respect for women, and she wanted to be sure how she could play him. Irritate him a little, but not too much. Please him with a placating comment or inane remark.
“So, Mr. King,” she began but he flashed a look of annoyance at her and she immediately lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry, I meant Douglas. You must understand this informality is somewhat new for me.”
“You’re forgiven.” He reached over and clinked the side of his glass against hers. “It took me a while to learn the ropes in North America, too, but here we are, talking as equals.”
Never, ever, as long as I live will we be equals. Serena corralled her thoughts and smiled at him. “So, what was it that you fetched from your office that I am to appreciate?” she asked.
King reached into his pocket. “This.”
He held out his closed hand but Serena could see a length of chain dangling from beneath his thumb.
She extended her own hand over the table, holding King’s gaze as she did so. A small smile played over his thin lips as he opened his hand and dropped what he was holding into hers.
She felt the blood drain from her face as she looked at Randolph’s silver pocket watch.
“Where did you get this?” she whispered. She closed her fingers around the treasured timepiece, holding it tightly in her hand. It was still warm from being in King’s pocket.
“Randolph left it in his desk drawer,” King told her with a smile. “I thought you should have it.”
She clasped both hands around the watch, lowering her head, not wanting King to see any expression of doubt on her face. The watch was a gift from his father and Randolph carried it everywhere. He would never have left it in a drawer. The only way for the watch to be anywhere but on his person, was if it had been taken from him. And for that to happen, he must have had his pocket picked or been asleep. Or had King murdered him and pocketed the watch? If so, she would have to be more on her guard than ever.
“Thank you,” Serena whispered. “You must know this means a great deal to me.”
“I hoped it would,” King replied, satisfaction clear in his voice. “Now, here is our first course. I do hope you enjoy chicken and mushroom tarts.”
The pastry was light and fluffy, the chicken moist and the mushrooms finely minced, but it might have been sawdust for all Serena tasted of it. King’s conversation buzzed in her ears and she hoped her responses were appropriate, for she could barely think of anything but Randolph.
Her glum demeanor finally registered on King and he laid down his fork with a sigh. “I appear to have distressed you where I only meant to give comfort.”
“No, the fault is mine,” Serena conceded. “I am still fatigued from traveling and worried that Randolph is not here.”
“Well, perhaps we should call it a night?” King offered. “I promise I won’t hold it against you. We can arrange another evening.”
“Thank you for being so considerate.” Serena pushed back her chair and stood up, sensing King’s fury with her but doing his best not to show it. Their waiter immediately appeared.
“Is something wrong, sir?” he asked King.
“No, not at all. The lady is simply tired.”
Serena walked ahead of him, head down. She waited for him to catch up with her and apologized as profusely as her conscience would allow.
“Think nothing of it, Serena,” he said. “Perhaps I was hasty in inviting you to dinner. Am I forgiven?”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Serena told him, knowing her answer left her wide open to another invitation. “You gave me something my husband treasured and for that I thank you.”
She wished him goodnight and went upstairs. She ran along the hallway to her room where she sank into a seat beside the still-glowing fire. Taking out the watch, she turned it over and over in her hands, ran her fingers over the elegant engraving on its back.
For Randolph on the occasion of his twenty-first birthday. From your loving Father.
King was treating her as if she were already a widow, but Randolph couldn’t be dead, he just couldn’t. Her brow furrowed. There was more, much more to Randolph’s disappearance, she was positive of that. King was hiding something, something that he was involved in and that Randolph had discovered.
That could be the only answer.
Filled with new resolve, Serena rose from her chair and went to the wardrobe. She slipped the watch into the breast pocket of Randolph’s tweed jacket, tucking it against her photograph.
“You’ll need this when you come back,” she whispered.
Chapter Nine
“You good to go, Mr. Randolph.”
“Thank goodness for that,” Randolph replied as John Woo finished inspecting the now healed wound on the back of his head.
“You listen good to old Chinky man.” John Woo shook a warning finger under Randolph’s nose. “If head ache, or eyes not see right, you say to Min you need me.”
Randolph nodded. “I will. And thank you, John, for everything you’ve done for me.”
“One more thing,” John warned. “You follow way I tell you, and when see daylight, wait. Let eyes rest, then go on bit more. Wait. Go slowly. You been in dark long time. Muscles must remember how to work eyes.”
“I’ll be careful,” Randolph promised him. “Any news from town?”
He was busy picking up the canvas bag that was now filled with food and missed John’s hesitation.
John did not like being untruthful. Sheriff Johnson had impressed upon him how important it was that Randolph not know his wife had arrived. It’s the only way to stop him from doing something hasty, Johnson had said. So John said nothing and simply shook his head.
Randolph shrugged on the coat John brought for him, but put the hat and gloves that went with it into the bag. He would need them soon enough once he was above ground. John told him the weather was mild but, this being mountain country, they both knew how that could change in the blink of an eye. He put out his hand and after a moment John Woo took it. The handshake served as a silent goodbye. Without another word Randolph switched on the flashlight that John brought him. Its beam illuminated only a short distance into the all-encompassing gloom, but he carefully followed it along the dark tunnel.
At intervals he shone the light upwards, making sure he had head-room. Having just recovered from one bump on the head, he could ill afford another. The light revealed square-cut roof props at regular intervals and, above them, dusty wooden boards tied to cross-beams.
Randolph walked quickly. The air current in the tunnel seemed to come from a different direction now, and wafted more strongly over his face. There must be a cross-drift cutting into this tunnel. He shone the beam of the lamp along the walls and up over the ceiling, stopping at regular intervals to turn the light off and wait. He didn’t know how soon he would see the first glimmer of daylight and needed to conserve the battery. The tunnel curved upwards and soon he panted with the effort of going uphill. Nowhere near as fit as he had been, he stopped frequently, resting against each roof prop as he reached them. Once, he stumbled over a long-forgotten shovel and cursed into the darkness when he nearly fell.
He stopped again to catch his breath, and then continued. When the footing leveled out, he turned off the lamp and sat down. Sweat
beaded his forehead and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.
John Woo had told him to take it easy, but the urgency to leave this miserable place forced him to take a deep breath and stand up. Then he realized the darkness was not so complete, that he could now see degrees of black. He peered ahead and then saw the faintest point of light, the first daylight he’d seen in more than two weeks. He slung the bag over his shoulder and stumbled along, anxious now to get to the end of the tunnel. The light grew brighter and he stopped, allowing his eyes to adjust as John told him but the delay irked him.
Shards of light pierced the gloom, leading him on, teasing him, luring him closer to the mine entrance. He wanted to run, to feel the fresh air flow over his face and have the sun warm his skin. But, the closer he got to the portal, he saw that he was still not free. The entrance to the mine was enclosed in a boarded up adit. The light that beckoned him filtered between the gaps in the planks like pale fingers trying to pry them apart.
“No!” he roared, slamming his fist against the timber. He followed this with a kick of frustration against the lower boards. The sound of his boot connecting with the boards was nothing more than a hollow thud, but pain from the impact shot up his leg and left him dizzy. He pushed against the door and heard the rattle of a chain on the outside.
“No, no, no!” he yelled into the gloom around him. He rested his back against the door, panting as he watched the dust he’d raised dance down the sunbeams gliding through the space between the top of the door and its frame. He bent over, resting his hands on his knees as he gulped for breath and gathered his wits.
His breathing gradually steadied. His pulse slowed. He hauled himself upright again and ran his hands through his hair, then looked around. In the dimness he could just see the outline of a cot against the wall to his left. He was lucky not to have walked into it and crack his shins. Cans of peaches, now covered in dust and cobwebs, were stacked on a shelf above the bed.. An abandoned, and equally dusty, Winchester rifle lay across the bed. Randolph completed a quick search of the area using the flashlight, but could find no ammunition to go with it.
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