“Lucinda.”
“Why if it isn’t the eminent Dr. Mason. Here to solidify your societal standing?”
Considering their past, Henri really didn’t want to explain everything to Luci. It was easier to give a simple answer, even if it wasn’t entirely true. “It seemed the proper thing to do in the wake of Father’s death.”
Lucinda crossed herself and bowed her head for a moment before responding. “A wise course of action indeed. It will be nice to have you back home and taking your proper place as a lady.”
Henri’s lips twitched. William Mason had shipped her off on the Dark Hawk for not being enough of a lady—too loud, too opinionated, too smart for her own good. She had absolutely no intention of giving up her career to sit at home and play wife to some man. No. She was coming home to open a medical practice and lay claim to the position given to her by birth. At least it would mean something good would come of her father’s death. Of course, she had to ensure the Dark Hawk was taken care of in the meantime. So far, her hunt for a replacement medical officer had proven fruitless, and she would not send those reckless fools into the air without someone who knew their way around an infirmary.
Luci’s father stood on the stage, a row of men behind him—the wolf first in line. “All the men on this stage are heroes,” Mr. Cartwright bellowed, his voice echoing through the ballroom and tearing Henri from her thoughts. “One saved half a dozen people from a burning building. One shot down the man who invaded the Senate, intent on killing as many as he could. Heroes, ladies, every last man. And one of them could be yours for the remainder of the evening with a donation to the children’s shelter.”
She wouldn’t have paid any mind to the ordeal at all, except her mother had given much time and money to the children’s shelter, believing with all her heart that those young people were the future. Henri would do no less. Plus, she couldn’t help but think a certain wolf didn’t want anything to do with the women here. At the very least she could save him from an hour spent pandering to one of them. The perfect target for a chunk of her inheritance.
“First on our list of heroes,” Cartwright continued, “is the gunman I mentioned. Marshal Carson Alexander saved dozens of our leaders with a single shot.”
Shooting the right man indeed. Interesting that Cartwright failed to mention Carson had also saved a secretary the would-be-assassin had used as a shield. In this room, though, her life mattered less than those of politicians. The thought made Henri sick. Think of Mother and the children. Instead, Carson’s blue eyes filled her mind and she shivered.
“Shall we start the bidding at five dollars?”
Without another thought, Henri raised her hand.
“Five to the lovely butterfly. Six? Do I hear six?”
Bidding went several rounds before women started dropping out. At last it was just Henrietta and the multi-hued peacock who kept raising the bid in one-dollar increments. Outside, the clock chimed. It was getting late, and, without a replacement, Henri had to leave with the Dark Hawk when it departed in the morning.
“Sixty.” She raised a hand, wanting this over and done with.
“Sixty-one.” A peacock feather bounced in the air.
Henri huffed out a breath. She had too much to do tonight for this idiocy. “One hundred dollars.”
Cartwright looked as if he choked on his words. “One hundred? Do I hear more?” The peacock feather drifted toward the floor. “One hundred going once. One hundred going twice. Sold! To the lovely butterfly. Please register at the exit.”
Henri gave a curt nod, her lips twitching as she caught sight of Carson’s grin. She didn’t have time to stay and partner with him for the remainder of tonight’s dancing, but perhaps next time or, better yet, once she was home for good, she could make it up to him. Gathering her skirts, she edged her way out of the press of women.
Lucinda’s shoes tapped right behind her. “I saw the way you looked at him, Henrietta.”
“And?” She signed the register with her bid and took a note in order to transfer the funds when she stopped at the bank the next day.
“If you’re serious about establishing your place in society, I do hope you’ve set your sights somewhat higher than a federal marshal. I understand the attraction, of course, as he is quite handsome, but you know he’ll never do.”
“Do for what, precisely?” Henri spun to find Lucinda’s mask off, her eyes filled with genuine concern, lips pressed in a perpetual pout.
“For your husband.”
“I’m not worried about finding a husband. And if I was, there is nothing wrong with Marshal Alexander.” She glanced toward the door, wishing she’d brought a wrap and praying her carriage was nearby.
Lucinda’s hand fell on her arm. “Your money doesn’t matter, Henrietta. If you don’t have a husband, they’ll shun you. You need a man—a respectable man—if you plan to stake a claim here.” She bit her lip, her brows pulling together. “People have been talking about your... eccentricities again since your father’s passing. Rumors about where you’ve been for the past few years have been floating around. They tolerated you before—because of your parents. If you want them to keep turning a blind eye to the things you do, you need a husband.”
Though Henrietta very much wanted a family, the thought that she would need one had never occurred to her. Perhaps Lucinda was still her friend after all. No one else had bothered to warn her. Henri swallowed hard, nodding. She wasn’t ready for this. And how was she supposed to find someone “respectable” who would allow her to continue her experiments? Or start her own medical practice? It wasn’t as if feminist men of substance were easy to come by.
She had a feeling Carson would have allowed and even encouraged such things, but Lucinda was right. Hero or not, he’d never do. Which meant it was best if she paid her donation and never saw him again.
* * *
Carson watched as Henrietta walked out the door.
No.
She’d paid to spend the rest of the gala with him; she couldn’t just leave. Hell, after the time they’d spent together, she couldn’t just leave. To hell and back with the dancing.
After clambering off the stage in the most dignified fashion he could manage, he wound his way to the exit. Outside, he whipped off his mask. The wind tore his hair from its tie as he twisted his head back and forth. There! Without a care for proper behavior, he ran to the steam carriage she was climbing inside. “Henrietta!”
She turned to look at him, her mask still firmly in place, but the next thing he knew, she was safely ensconced inside the black carriage. The driver shut the door and climbed into the front. A billow of steam told him the man was about to pull away, when Carson’s hand finally clamped down on the curtained window. “Wait.”
Henrietta rapped on the pane in front of her, and the steam engine cycled down to a low burbling. “Is there a problem? I thought you’d appreciate that I helped you avoid more time with one of the debutantes, or worse, one of their mothers.”
“I’d appreciate it more if you came back inside for the dancing you just paid for. We could make plans and—”
“Perhaps another time. I’m afraid I have some pressing engagements to tend to for the foreseeable future.” She reached through the window, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw for a second before she snatched her hand away. “I had a lovely time with you tonight, but I’m sure you have duties that don’t involve crazed lady scientists with their rogue clockworks and society plans. Good night, Marshal Alexander.”
He tried to wrap his head around her sudden shift to formality. What happened to the woman who faked a swoon just to help him escape the ballroom? The one who teased him about being a wolf in sheep’s clothing? “The wolf is gone, Henrietta. It’s just me now.” She didn’t say anything, hiding in the shadows of the carriage. “How will I find you?”
> When her voice came, it was tight—false like her smile had been most of the night. “You won’t.”
This time when she tapped on the window, the carriage pulled away. He called her name, feeling like the prince after the ball, but without the comfort of Cinderella’s slipper to confirm she’d been real. His fist clenched empty at his side and he stalked back into the hotel. He didn’t know what had happened in the few minutes between coming downstairs and Henrietta’s departure, but he didn’t want to let it go. In the ballroom once more, he made his way to the ledger, but the winning bidders circled it waiting their turns.
Mr. Cartwright shrugged on his frock coat with the help of a young brunette woman in a hummingbird mask. He frowned as Carson failed once more to get the attention of the clerk manning the ledger. “Something wrong, lad?”
“I was just trying to find out the name of the woman who placed the winning bid for me. She left before I could speak to her.”
The girl answered before Cartwright could. “She’ll pay what she bid. Just...leave Henrietta alone. Things are hard enough for her right now.”
“Lucinda, hush. Henrietta you say? Marshal, as rude as my daughter was, I have to agree with her. Between the loss of her father and her own peculiar habits, Henrietta Mason is a difficult woman to pin down.”
“Mason? Did you say Mason?” Carson’s mouth went dry. The daughter. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Studying in Europe was the last he’d heard. Damn it to the seven hells, if he’d had Mason’s daughter in his arms all night...
“Yes. Senator William Mason passed on about six months ago. I assume you heard about it.”
He had, and he’d been trying to track down any of the man’s connections ever since. Tonight he’d allowed the closest one to slip right through his fingers. Obviously the file he’d collected on Henrietta Mason had been filled with something other than the facts. A problem that had to be remedied immediately, especially if there was any chance other people had more accurate reports. Carson needed to find her—and not just because she’d made him feel alive for the first time in years—because if he didn’t protect her, she might not be alive for long.
Chapter Three
Henri reached up and tucked a curl back into her coiffure before allowing her gaze to sweep over the bare space. Her father’s lab used to be a place filled with so much excitement and joy. Now, with the equipment and many of the clockworks auctioned off—and the rest in crates on the Dark Hawk—it was vacant, hollow. The ghost of her laughter a dim thing here amid the dust and emptiness.
She wished for the millionth time since he’d died atop the Rocky Mountains that she could erase her father’s memory as easily as she’d dispersed his things. She hoped once all ties were gone, she’d finally be at peace. No more reminders of what he’d brought on the Badlands in his quest for gold, or how she’d never been good enough in his eyes. Not a son and not nearly enough of a lady.
The gala last night only served as another reminder of how right he’d been. She fit in nowhere—not yet, but she would. She’d fight the devil himself to do her mother proud.
But no matter how hard she tried, her father haunted her both asleep and awake. She clutched her side. The bullet wound had healed, but if she thought too hard about that night on the mountain, a phantom ache spread through her muscles. Bad enough seeing his face as he died at Ever’s hand. Or even the disdain when he shot Henri. The worst though, was the absence of humanity in his eyes when he murdered Ezekial.
And that was the part she could never forgive herself for. As much as Henri might not have approved of his lifestyle, she’d had a grudging respect for Ezekial. Without her assistance in her father’s schemes, he wouldn’t have been on that mountain. If not for her, Zeke would still be alive.
Pained thoughts of him brought back the more recent memory of leaving Carson on the street last night. He never should have taken off his mask. Now his image was burned on her mind—a real man, not some memory she could pretend didn’t exist. His crooked smile and the way he hadn’t given her any quarter made every place he’d touched her tingle. He was a man—so very like Ezekial—who would stand toe-to-toe with her and never budge. Strange how in all the time on the Dark Hawk she’d never seen Zeke as anything other than a nuisance. Then again, the resemblance between the two men was superficial at best, brought on by sadness and loss.
Carson was far more in tune with her. During their secret conversation, he’d managed to lure her into a sense of security she hadn’t felt since her father’s betrayal. Something about his bumbling through the gala touched the part of her that had never quite fit society’s mold. She and Carson were nothing alike, but somehow—absurdly—in that moment they were the same.
Which made it all the more painful to think about the way she’d left things. No explanation. No apology. She needed someone more suitable, and he deserved someone less cowardly.
Still, she thought of the warmth of the marshal’s fingers on her skin and even that tiny recollection sent a shiver of longing through her as she wished for something good and positive in her life again. Like everything though, it would come at a cost. She had few friends and no family left to lean on. But two things she did have were money and status, and by God she would cling to that until her dying breath.
Grinding her teeth together and trying to forget the big, blond man, Henrietta let out a slow breath and checked to ensure the last of the research files were secure in her bag. As soon as she had time, she’d sort through them and destroy all trails leading back to the gold in the Badlands. It wasn’t much, but keeping the knowledge from anyone else was the very least she could do to destroy her father’s legacy of greed. Maybe then she’d start being able to sleep at night again. Maybe then she could focus on building her own life.
She rubbed a weary hand across her eyes as she made her way through the empty lab. Halfway across the room, she froze as the door leading outside opened and a shadow filled the entry. Carson? She’d worked through the night to ensure she’d be gone before he had any opportunity to find her. She squinted. No, this man was far too small to be the marshal.
“Dr. Mason?”
So much for keeping her father’s plans and the truth of his death a secret. Someone knew—there was no other reason a stranger would be here after all this time.
She shifted her eyes from one corner of the space to another. The only other door was at the back, and it led to an alley. While she might make it to the space between the buildings, she’d never outrun him all the way to the street. Henri squared her shoulders and stepped forward, striding purposefully to the door. If she couldn’t run away, she’d get as close to the street as possible instead. Then at least if she screamed, someone might hear.
“I’m Henrietta Mason. If you’re looking for my father, I’m sorry to tell you he passed away a few months ago.”
Five paces away from the door, his voice stopped her cold again. “I’m not here for your father, Dr. Mason. I came to speak to you.”
Henri swallowed hard and raised her voice in hopes the driver waiting outside would hear. “Oh. Well, certainly, Mr....”
The man stepped inside and gave a genteel bow. “Tobias St. Clair. I was your father’s attorney.”
Her driver hadn’t shown yet, and the man still stood between her and the door. At least she could see him properly now. Around her own age, black hair slicked off his face to reveal dark, penetrating brown eyes that seemed to see straight through to her tortured soul and not in a kind way. Unlike Carson’s stare, this man seemed intense, almost devious. Henri fought the urge to look away, instead adopting the haughty air pounded into her by the society dinners of her youth.
“I don’t know who you are, Mr. St. Clair, but I met my father’s lawyer when his will was read. Anson Merriweather is, at the very least, old enough to be your father. If you’ll pardon me, I have a prior enga
gement I must get to.”
His hand fell on her arm as she tried to brush past him. Long fingers, nails buffed to a shine—definitely not someone who worked with his hands. “I’m his other lawyer. The one who handled his business dealings.” He let his hand drop to his side. “Before he died, your father spoke to me about creating a foundation with some of his money, and I wondered if you might be interested in carrying through with his plans. Otherwise, we need to make arrangements for the funds he left at my disposal.”
More money, but never enough to secure her position in the world on its own. Plus, her father had never been a philanthropist. Unconvinced, Henri sidestepped toward the door. Wary as she was though, she couldn’t suppress her curiosity. “What sort of foundation?”
“While he was proud to have passed his knowledge on to you, your father knew that for the United States to become a true power in the world, we had to begin training the next generation of scientists now.” Tobias pulled a sheaf of papers from his briefcase. “To that end, we had taken the first steps toward a foundation to provide promising but underprivileged children the means to attend schools able to give them the best scientific education possible.”
Henrietta watched Tobias as he spoke, and mentally scoffed at the bogus compliment. She knew her father too well to believe he’d said any such thing. The man seemed genuine enough about the charity, only...helping the less fortunate had never been something that drove her father. Not as a senator, and certainly not as a scientist. Such things had been more her mother’s forte. At least until she succumbed to the cancer that destroyed her body.
There was a possible connection, and it made a tiny amount of sense. The proposed foundation paired Father’s love of science and Mother’s work with underprivileged youth. Her father might have been planning this as a tribute to his late wife.
Seleste deLaney - [Badlands 02] Page 3