by Kari Trumbo
“My driver should be here shortly. I don’t think I’ll be going again after tonight. Then we can go back to enjoying our evenings.”
“I best not read about you in the paper tomorrow, and my father better not either.” Constance snuffled.
A light rap on the door had Constance running as Frances finished the last pins to her hair.
“Miss Arnsby, your driver awaits.” The dour old man sniffed regally as if she’d either used too much rose water...or perhaps not enough.
“Thank you, Morton.” She gave herself one last look in the mirror. Her borrowed dress fit perfectly, a light lavender that set off her eyes and made her hair almost sparkle. It cinched tightly all down the bodice, then flowed out in a grand skirt. She’d never worn anything so elegant, allowing a smile to slide onto her lips. She hoped, perhaps a little wickedly, that the Englishman looked like Mr. Davidson. It wouldn’t be so hard to beg a kiss if he did. It would be like a dream come true.
In the foyer, she couldn’t find Mr. Davidson. He hadn’t come in for her. All the better. Constance’s father probably knew Mr. Davidson and it would be difficult to explain.
“Behave yourself, Frances,” Constance whispered as she draped her shoulders in a light shawl made of some frothy material that slid through her fingers then handed her a small handbag. “I put my derringer in there, just in case.”
Frances blinked rapidly to hide her surprise, and her pulse tripped over itself. She’d never so much as held a gun before. Would it go off in her purse? It weighed more than she expected as she gingerly took the bag and held it away from herself.
She took in a deep breath and focused on taking slow steps and not letting her bag swing in her hands. What was Constance thinking? Had she taken to carrying a gun around? The driver waited next to the small but elegant chaise. Her footsteps stalled. It wasn’t Mr. Davidson. Couldn’t be. The man waiting was a common livery driver, his shirt too ill-fitting to see his form. Unease coiled deep in her stomach at the thought of facing the evening unprepared, alone. Mr. Davidson had promised… The man tilted his head up and familiar blue eyes met hers. It was Mr. Davidson…in disguise.
“Come Miss Arnsby, we mustn’t be late.” He held out his hand to help her up the wheel, and he took a step closer as she climbed. She’d never been alone with a man in a carriage before and was grateful he’d opted for something open, so she didn’t feel trapped inside. She probably wouldn’t be as lucky with Turner. How would she make it through the evening where she was expected to entertain a man so much older than her?
He sat next to her and collected the lines, flicking them over the horses. “Are you ready for your evening, Miss Arnsby?” His soft conspiratorial voice did strange things to her insides, her jittery stomach did a somersault, and she pressed her hand to her waist to calm it.
She shook her head. No. No, she wasn’t. “I can’t do this. I’ve never been alone with a man before. I’m not ready for this, Mr. Davidson. Please, don’t ask me to do this.”
“Why, look, you’re alone with me right now, Miss Arnsby. And no harm has befallen you. The fact that you’ve never been alone is the crux of the issue with your book. And, what do you mean you can’t? It’s all set up. He’s waiting for you. You’ve prepared and you’ll be in the company of people at all times.” Mr. Davidson’s arms tensed next to her. She could feel his shoulder muscles ball against the thin muslin wrap over her arm. She knew he wouldn’t strike her, but she’d never noticed such physical attributes on anyone before.
Frances gripped her reticule tighter. “I don’t like new things. I like to tell myself that I do, but when I’m faced with them...” She clamped her mouth shut, remembering the derringer in her bag. Another new thing that terrified her. This day was overflowing with them.
“It isn’t like you have to romance him, Frances. Let him lead the way. That’s the whole point. You need to experience life.”
She plunged her hand into her reticule and yanked the gun out, unable to keep the thing any longer. “I can’t keep this.” She handed it to him.
Mr. Davidson hollered and yanked on the lines, his eyes wide. The horses whinnied in protest at his treatment. He wrenched the pistol from her hands and shoved it into the back of his belt.
“What do you think you’re doing?” His eyes flashed. “You can’t take a gun on an outing with Turner! What if you shot him?”
Her stomach dropped somewhere near her feet. “I didn’t want to. Constance sent it with me. I’ve been nervous since she handed it to me. Even more nervous than I was about meeting Turner.”
He patted his belt as if to make sure it was still there and frowned down at her. “I’ll give that back to you when I pick you up tonight. And Miss Arnsby…” He glanced at her. “You’re a young thing, but if you feel uncomfortable, ever, just look around. There will always be someone nearby to help you.”
She nodded, but her stomach was still in knots. She had to do this or never be a writer. A deep breath steadied her. “I’m not as young as you seem to think. I’m just wary. I can do this.”
Mr. Davidson gave her a small smile. “Yes, you can.”
She forced herself to take measured breaths as Mr. Davidson drove them down Seventh, past the mercantile from earlier, and beyond St. Joseph Street where the Buell building sat regally with its fascinating copper dome. She’d almost managed to calm herself when Mr. Davidson leaned over, his scent of mint and coffee spilling over her, and whispered, “There’s the carriage, that one, with the crest.” He motioned to an elaborate rig waiting by the Harney Hotel.
The hotel was a great three-story brick structure with a broad front, large windows, and intricate cornice on top. The main entrance was crowned with a wide open, railed porch above it.
“Oh, it’s lovely.”
“You’ll be writing English romance before you know it.” He laughed, and the sound caught her off-guard. He seemed to be doing that a lot, whether it was the dreams she’d had or his real presence, something about Mr. Davidson fascinated her far too much.
She had to rein in the thoughts of Mr. Davidson. He wasn’t courting her, hadn’t offered to teach her himself. He’d set the job to the Englishman. Perhaps he was right, maybe the Englishman would have her writing about beautiful gardens and lavender-covered country sides soon.
Clive led Frances over to Turner, the plan faltering in his mind as he saw the dandy’s fine clothes. Though they were cut and tailored to perfection, there was a ruggedness Clive hadn’t counted on, and Turner was younger than expected. Would his presence of regality and masculinity make Frances more or less comfortable? Turner was closer to twenty than twenty-five, but it still put him at much older than what he guessed Frances to be, though the minx had never admitted her age. When she saw Turner, she turned white as a sheet and clutched Clive’s arm tightly. At her nervousness, something shifted in his gut. He couldn’t let her back out now, but his mind was abuzz with warning.
“Remember, you can do this, Frances,” he whispered in her ear, both for her and for himself. “You want this as your career. Romance. You can do it. Just let him lead.” At her look of unabashed fear, his growing alarm pummeled him. It didn’t help that Turner also looked at her as if she were some prize stag. He climbed down from the carriage and helped her from her seat, then put his hand to the small of her back, breathing in her scent of lavender, rose petals, innocence, and the slight pungent odor of the powder from the derringer. Everything in him told him to direct her right back up into the carriage and deliver her home. Far away from Turner. But he couldn’t do that now and still hope to keep his job. Turner would complain. Loudly. He’d never had a complaint against him in ten solid years of reporting. It wouldn’t start now.
She nodded but didn’t answer him nor fight against him as he moved her forward. He almost wished she would, she’d been stubborn every other step of the way. Why did she have to be so docile now?
The distinguished Englishman waited by his carriage, his arms crossed over his ch
est.
“Good evening, Mr. Turner. This is Miss Arnsby. She’ll be accompanying you for the evening.” Acid burned at the back of his throat. What was he doing? He’d never been this nervous about a job and he’d put himself in some perilous situations over the years.
Clive simmered at the way Turner’s eyes lit on Frances—and seemed to devour her from feet away—nor the way he curled his lips into a smile. “Well, the Dakota’s have women as lovely as their hills.” His English accent grated against Clive’s ears. Turner held out his hand to Miss Arnsby, and Clive gave her a slight nudge forward to keep from grabbing her by the waist and hauling her back to Charity House. She slapped him with a fowl glare and he almost laughed, but he knew what he had to do now and thank the good Lord he was prepared. He couldn’t just leave her to face Turner alone, not with the man acting as he was.
“The newspaper has reserved a table in the dining room for you here at the Harney for six o’clock sharp. Then roller skating at Derthick’s following. I’ll pick Miss Arnsby up from there when you’re finished, say, around nine?”
Turner’s face fell. “Are you saying she’s not mine to keep? At least I get her for an hour all to myself for a ride in the carriage.” Frances pulled her hand from Mr. Turner’s and turned to search Clive’s face. Utter terror turned her lavender eyes a piercing blue.
“No, I’m sorry.” He bowed to Turner out of respect he didn’t much feel. “Miss Arnsby, I’ll see you again in a few hours.” He tapped the edge of his eye to remind her she could look for help. If there had been any doubt about tagging along before, there wasn’t now. Turner’s last comment soured his stomach.
Turner ignored him and snaked his arm around Miss Arnsby’s waist. She pulled away from his touch but not far enough for Clive’s taste as Turner led her up into the carriage. At least he released her waist to hold her hand as she climbed into the carriage, but would he be gentlemanly enough to stay on the proper side? Doubts clacked around inside him.
Clive dashed inside the hotel as soon as they disappeared and collected the bag he always left waiting at the head desk, then ran into a back room to change his clothes. Taking an extra moment to tie his string tie properly, he thought about what he’d sent Miss Arnsby into. Now he wouldn’t even have the time to find another story anyway. He’d have to play nursemaid. She just wasn’t old enough—and Turner wasn’t gentleman enough—to be left alone. He’d have to convince her to just give up her dreams of being a romance writer and try again when she was a little older. Or he should’ve just offered to do the job himself. He shook his head, pondering the ridiculousness of that thought.
His rig waited for him just where he’d left it. He jumped up into the seat and flicked the lines, urging the horses faster as he searched for Mr. Turner’s monstrous carriage. Frances would be the most vulnerable alone with Turner. Hopefully, nothing happened. Clive should’ve just done the job he’d been assigned. Covering a foreigner wandering about town had, frankly, been of little interest. At least he could keep watch over her, and she might have a good time. He would be without a companion that night, but it would be easier to hide in the crowd alone.
The carriage had disappeared. He’d searched the city for over a half hour and now it was nearing time for them to return to the Harvey. He reached the hotel and saw the carriage as it came to a stop to drop off the pair. He left his own rig and horse with the valet by the door, allowing him to run inside and find a seat where he could see Frances, but not be seen by Turner. He directed his server to where he’d like to sit, and she complied.
Using the menu card, he hid his face and stared at Frances, willing her to see him. She’d relaxed a little and was chatting with Turner now. Her shoulders sloped down to beautifully graceful arms encased in a cloudy fabric. He hadn’t really bothered to notice her delicately curved neck until tonight, when it was bared for his view. The low-slung neckline of the gown made her a look older than he’d thought her to be, but still too young to be seduced by a randy Englishman. Her blond hair was piled into a lovely cascade on her head. No wonder Turner had been smitten. Clive swallowed hard. He’d thrown her into the lion’s den. Even he’d have trouble resisting Frances looking like that, and his career had been his bride for ten long years.
Turner reached across the table and held out his hand. Frances smiled and laid hers atop Turner’s. She was either taking her role very seriously or had relaxed enough to enjoy herself. That should have been enough to make him calm down, but he couldn’t. He’d bent the menu card in his fist where he held it.
The server appeared at his table. “Mr. Davidson, good to see you this evening. What can I get for you? And is this business?”
It took a miracle to tear his gaze from Frances, but he nodded. “I’ll have the usual. Charge it to the newspaper.” He stared at the menu for a moment. How long had he been holding it and hadn’t even noticed?
“Can I have your menu, sir?” She held out her hand. He sighed and handed it over, immediately sorry for the state it was now in. “Sorry about that. I have a lot on my mind.”
Her mouth raised in a knowing smile. “Of course you do.”
How could he let this one job get to him? He glanced up, searching for lavender, and his heart slammed up into his throat. Frances and Turner weren’t at their table. He scanned the room as discretely as possible, but with each passing moment, bile climbed into his throat. What had he done? Clive rose to his feet and slowly made his way around the whole room, glancing at each table and down each hall. They were gone. How would he ever find her?
Chapter 5
Frances watched Turner’s eyes as they crept slowly over her for seemingly the hundredth time that evening. She barely held in her shudder. He wasn’t ugly to look upon, but he was no Mr. Davidson. His eyes didn’t crinkle at the edges, his hair wasn’t dark enough, and he seemed rather slow-witted in comparison. Though perhaps that was because he spent most of his time perusing her body. If she had learned anything that evening about men, it was that she didn’t want to be near them.
“Miss Arnsby,” he reached across the table for her hand. “The hills are so enchanting. I’d rather spend time looking at them then the inside of this hotel. This is where I’ve been all day, waiting for the evening. I’d like to have my man bring our food to the plot by the river. We can have a picnic, if it would please you?”
And Mr. Davidson had said romantic words didn’t exist. At least she’d have something to tell him this evening, that was certain. Turner’s hand was cool under hers, and now that his eyes had finally met hers, they were almost pleasant. When he acted as if she was a person, he was almost charming. The dining room was full, safe. Though, if they were outside, she wouldn’t be alone. She’d never seen the streets of Rapid empty. “That would be lovely, Mr. Turner.”
He stood and held out his hand for her. Many people craned their necks and stared as they left the restaurant, and she was glad of the fact that no one would know her. If any woman from the area had been in her place, there would be talk. But no one in Rapid City knew her name. For all they knew, he’d brought her along from England. As Turner led her outside, a rig that looked exactly like Mr. Davidson’s sat just in front, reminding her of her purpose. Mr. Turner didn’t seem to notice the chaise as he rushed them along to their carriage, almost too fast for her to keep up.
Once he had her sitting in the seat facing forward, he climbed in and sat facing the rear, as propriety dictated. “So, Miss Arnsby, are you from the area? What sorts of attractions should I experience before I make my way home? I’d hoped to do some hiking, hunting, perhaps even pan for some gold—should the opportunity arise. You Americans, with your new money, so quaint. I want to experience everything I can.”
Now was the time she wished she’d knew the area better. She’d only been in Rapid City for a week, and most of what she knew to do was within the city. She’d come for two reasons: Constance and to get published. Sightseeing had been at the bottom of her to-do list. Though Rapid was t
he gateway to the hills, the place most known for tourism in the area, she hadn’t even bothered to look around.
Mr. Davidson had not prepared her for this question, hadn’t even told her what else the newspaper had in mind for Turner to do. “I’m not from the area, though nearby. I think there are some hot springs, a couple theaters, restaurants, cigar shops, a library, and book shop. I don’t know any trails.” She hesitated. Just how much did he know about the paper that set up all these outings for him? “I’m sure you could have someone get tickets for you, or join you, wherever you’d like.” As long as she didn’t have to go again. The feeling of sitting at the edge of a precipice about to be shoved off was more appealing than avoiding the eyes and hands of the Englishman.
He reached over and patted her knee, the movement a little too familiar for her liking. “Well, I certainly don’t want to go anywhere alone. Why don’t you tell me where you’d like to go for the next week and I can make sure we get there, together.” He sat with his arms draped casually over his legs, the sleeves of his shirt hitting him exactly at the wrist, and his suit coat showing just a quarter of an inch above it. Every piece of his clothing was cut perfectly, not a stitch out of place. Yet, something was lacking.
“I...” Her mouth went dry. Just what had Mr. Davidson agreed to? She’d thought this would be an evening, maybe two, but only if she agreed. She couldn’t go out every night that week. That would be terrible. Constance would never allow it.