She didn’t want to travel down the path of her own heartache with him, so she steered clear, keeping to his story.
“It was very kind of the Fairfields to take you in,” she said.
He let out a humorless snort. “Good indeed.”
“They haven’t been good to you?”
Her eyes met his. She remembered them being a lighter green when she first met him. Under gaslight, with the sparkle of the chandelier overhead, they were the color of emeralds.
“Good enough, but anyone would be with the amount of gold they were given to take care of me. Since they’re my only living relatives, my parents left them money with the stipulation that they’d keep me in their charge until I could take over my trust when I turn eighteen.”
“It must have been a great deal of money for them to take care of a sick child,” she said.
“Eight gold bars.”
“Eight gold bars?”
She choked on the words and looked around, afraid she had spoken too loud. No one seemed to notice. Nigel still danced with Myrtle, and the Fairfields sat at a table talking to the mayor.
“One could live two lifetimes on eight gold bars.”
“Not the way Lavina and Hubbard spend money. They’re likely to blow through the whole thing and dip into my trust when they’re done.”
“They can’t do that,” Westie insisted. “There are laws.”
“Lucky for them, they know a former lawyer who’s excellent at finding loopholes.”
Ben Chambers, of course. She remembered Nigel mentioning that he’d been a property lawyer before he became mayor. No doubt he knew his way around tied-up estates.
“Mrs. Fairfield was a good mother to you, wasn’t she?” Westie asked, hoping to find some glimmer of light in James’s childhood since his parents’ passing.
He shrugged. “She made sure I ate well, went to the best schools, and had the best doctors. If I were to get sick and die, they would lose everything. She wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to me—at least not until I’m eighteen and sign my will.”
“Why do you stay? Why not stay with friends for a time? As bright and charming as you are, I’m sure there’s someone.”
A smile erupted on his face. “You think I’m bright and charming?”
She looked away from him, feeling her face heat up. “You’re all right, I suppose.”
James spun her round and round on the dance floor. Despite being overheated and feeling a bit faint, she was surprised how much she was enjoying his company.
“I’m afraid there’s no one. Being a sickly child didn’t allow me much time to make friends. . . .” His words trailed off. “Are you all right? You’ve gone pale suddenly.”
James stopped spinning her, but Westie felt as though the room were still moving.
Her legs started to wobble. James held her tight as she collapsed in his arms.
“I think Bena may have tied my corset a little too tight.” It felt as though her ribs were being crushed..
She put her head against his chest. He smelled of spiced cologne. She’d never liked the false smells of perfume before, but didn’t mind it on him. “Will you walk me to my seat, please? I need to rest a bit.”
James walked her to her table and helped her to her seat. She liked the attention somewhat. It wasn’t often someone treated her like a lady. It wasn’t often she acted like one.
She smoothed her skirt around her, feeling better once she sat.
“I’ll go get you something to drink.”
While James fetched her drink, she looked around at the other guests. There were humans and creatures alike. Nigel invited creatures to all his social events to keep politically neutral. Westie had never minded their presence in the past as long as they didn’t hog the booze. Now dry, she still didn’t mind. The socialites’ discomfort upon seeing the creatures amused her.
Banshees, ghouls, elves, and werewolves had shown up. There were also vampires. She’d almost missed Costin sitting in his dark corner with his posse all around him, long hair nearly covering his face. He looked paler than usual. His cheeks were gaunt, and there were lavender pouches beneath his eyes as he trained them on her, following her every move as though there were an invisible web that linked them together.
Isabelle slipped into the seat beside her. “You look positively green,” she said.
Good, Westie thought, thankful for the distraction. At least Isabelle couldn’t tell she was flushed.
“I feel like all the colors in the world mushed into brown paste,” Westie said.
“You can’t get sick—you’re a debutante,” Isabelle said.
“I wasn’t aware debutantes were immune to illness.”
Isabelle plucked a garlic-stuffed olive from the hors d’oeuvres on the table and delicately put it into her mouth. “Well, they are.”
“Why aren’t you wearing the dress I had fitted for you?” Westie asked.
Isabelle was wearing an off-the-shoulder red silk dress with a plunging neckline, much like the one Lavina had worn when she landed in Rogue City. The bronze owl earrings were the only thing Isabelle wore of the ensemble Westie had given her.
“That old thing?” Isabelle took a cheese ball from the platter and bit into it with a grimace before she spit it into her napkin. “Lavina says red is all the rage in the city.”
That old thing? That old thing had been a cherished gift from Nigel. Westie had spent her entire allowance to have it cut up and fitted to Isabelle’s smaller frame, ensuring that Westie would never be able to wear it again. Isabelle threw it away to look like Lavina. Westie wanted to rip the bronze owl earrings from Isabelle’s ears but contained herself. At least those she could get back after the dance.
Westie sighed. “So Lavina likes red. How . . . appropriate.”
Isabelle was about to bite into another garlic-stuffed olive but thought better of it. She cupped her hand to her mouth, breathed into it, and sniffed. The result left her face crushed.
“That’s garlic in the middle of that olive. I thought it was a pimiento. Why didn’t you warn me? Now I’ll have garlic breath when I dance with James.”
“Is James on your dance card?”
Westie was surprised by the jealousy she felt. Knowing there was no love lost between the Lovett heir and the Fairfields had changed the game. He was smart, and he hated the Fairfields as much as she did. It was possible he could be an ally in the war against her family’s killers.
Isabelle removed her small leather-bound booklet from her cleavage. “Well, no, but there are a few spots open should he want them.” She gave Westie a curious look. “Do you mean to keep him all to yourself?”
“What? Of course not.”
Isabelle snagged the fan rudely from Westie’s copper fingers, nearly ripping it.
“This is your dance card?” Isabelle said. “Why is everything you own more beautiful than everything I own?” she complained while studying the list of names on the fan. She looked up with a mischievous grin. “I was wondering why none of the other girls had James’s name on their cards. It looks like someone is squirreling him away for herself.”
Westie snatched the fan back.
“It’s not like that. I have no interest in James Lovett.”
“That’s obvious enough.” Isabelle studied a glazed carrot round carefully and gave it a sniff before dedicating herself to eating it. “Everyone knows you’re waiting for Alistair.”
Alistair walked into the room just then. His mask was repaired and gleaming in the gaslight. Isabelle’s lip curled in disapproval.
“I don’t get what you see in him,” she said as she looked around the appetizer tray for more treats. “I just don’t get it.”
“He’s not yours to get,” Westie snapped.
Isabelle smiled, raising her hands to pantomime surrender.
When Alistair saw Westie, he waved. He moved through the crowd, politely acknowledging guests he knew, then breathed a sigh of relief when he sat down beside h
er.
With a roll of her eyes, Isabelle left the table to seek out more popular company.
“What’s her problem?” Alistair asked.
“She’s a bitch.”
He nodded.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
The compliment meant nothing. He told her she was beautiful each time she wore a new dress. It was good manners. Nigel used to say her beauty was like a spider’s web. Those poor, poor boys, he would say. But what good was beauty if it couldn’t capture the heart she wanted?
“I look stupid.”
He studied her dress without argument.
“Your face is pretty,” he said.
She waved off the shallow comment with a swish of the fan she held between copper fingers.
He took hold of it. “When do I get my chance to sweep the floor with that hideous gown of yours?” After reading the names, his face turned ashen. He had obviously found Cain and Hubbard Fairfield on the list. “I suppose it’s a good thing Nigel had me hide your parasol.”
“So that’s where it went to.”
“I agree it is good strategy to befriend James Lovett, but your dance card suggests he’s courting you.”
She thought about her dance with James, his unfortunate story, those deep eyes. “Spending time with James won’t be the worst way to get information about the Fairfields.”
Alistair gave her an intense look that made her fidget. “Sounds a little like you fancy the heir.” He turned away from her. “Wouldn’t that be something? Imagine the fortune you’d inherit if the pair of you wed,” he said.
“I hate it when you use Nigel’s British words. What man uses a word like fancy?”
He didn’t seem to care if she and James walked out together. The thought hurt her more than she cared to acknowledge. Suddenly she lost her taste for the food being carried out of the kitchen by servers, as well as the taste for music and dance.
James wove his way through the dancers to reach her. “There you are.” He held a champagne flute. “I had to calm Mrs. Fairfield. She’s a bit cross that she wasn’t seated at the debutante table.”
Westie took the flute from James, stared into the familiar bubbles, and heard her stomach gurgle. Alistair took it from her before she could get sick.
“It does seem rude,” Westie said. “I’ll have to make it up to her.” She looked around, noticing Nigel had put the Fairfields at the opposite end of the room from Westie’s table. Smart man, but she wouldn’t learn anything by avoiding them.
“I’m sure Lavina will get over it. She’s not one to hold a grudge,” James said.
No, but I am, Westie thought.
Alistair stood and pushed his chair back. He was a head taller than James and wore a similar tailcoat, with a black shirt beneath instead of white.
“I believe the Lovetts and Fairfields aren’t friends of Westie’s. They have no claim to her table,” Alistair said.
James didn’t seem intimidated by Alistair’s greater age and height and seemed not to fear the mask as everyone else did. Instead he smiled, washing his face in a brilliant glow.
“Yes, which is why I feel honored to be placed right beside the debutante,” James said.
Westie looked down at the place cards, and just as planned, James was seated next to her with Nigel on the other side. Alistair wasn’t even at her table.
Alistair’s mask began to hum with his heavy breathing. There was no sign of the gentle boy she was used to when his eyes narrowed. In that moment she could see why everyone feared him.
Twenty-Four
From across the room Westie watched Alistair and Nigel argue. Alistair’s face turned red as he maniacally pointed a finger in Nigel’s face.
“He looks mad,” James observed with a hint of amusement.
“I’ll say.”
By the curious looks on the faces around her, Westie could tell the guests wished they could hear what was being said. The band had become the runner-up in entertainment. Westie looked toward the kitchen. While everyone was distracted by the argument, Bena slipped out of the kitchen into the great room, prowling like a cat without anyone noticing.
Westie held her breath as Bena slid her hand into Lavina’s handbag. There was no going back now.
She glanced back as Alistair put his hands down and stalked out of the room. When she looked toward Bena again, she was gone. Westie’s breath burst from her lungs.
After the meal, the dancing resumed. Ignoring the sneering crowd, Westie danced with the Wintu men. They didn’t know any proper dances so they just made it up as they went, and Westie enjoyed trying to keep up with them. She also danced with James twice. Afterward she found the sheriff and was curious about what had happened with Nadia.
He was dancing with his wife when she approached. “May I have this dance?” she asked.
The sheriff muttered a curse. “Must I?”
His wife hit him in the arm. “Don’t be rude,” she scolded. It was clear who the authority was in the relationship.
The sheriff, with the face of a man caught in the rain, took Westie by the hand. As they danced, Westie said, “Have you found anything concerning Nadia’s attacker?”
He looked away from her, toward the crowd. “Not yet.”
“I know you won’t believe me, but there are still cannibals out there, and I think Nadia was attacked by one.”
The sheriff made an exaggerated noise of annoyance. “Not this again.”
Westie held a hand up, trying to sound reasonable instead of nettlesome. “I don’t blame you for not trusting me. Back when I accused that man of being a cannibal, I wasn’t in my right mind. But I’m sober now. You don’t have to believe me, but can you please just keep an eye out?”
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll look further into Nadia’s case as long as you stay out of it.”
“Deal!” Westie kissed his cheek, hardly able to contain her excitement. Perhaps if he pushed Nadia further, she might remember details that would lead the sheriff to Lavina. It was more than she’d expected to get. With a grumble he went back to his wife.
On her way back to the table, Nigel approached her with a man she didn’t recognize.
“Westie,” Nigel said, “I’d like to introduce you to my banker from Sacramento, Amos Little.”
The man had a white slick of hair on his head, a matching mustache, and a stature befitting his name.
“How do you do?” Westie said, still glowing from her conversation with the sheriff.
“Oh, fine,” he said, all smiles until the mayor walked by. The two of them stared each other down like two dogs with their ears pinned back. Westie’s curiosity was piqued when she saw the exchange. “I just wanted to meet the debutante before I head back to the inn.” Amos’s posture eased when the mayor disappeared in the crowd.
“You’re leaving already?” Westie said, hoping he’d stay long enough for her to learn what the cold look between Amos and the mayor was all about. “The night is young.”
Amos put a hand on his belly. “Afraid I must. This blasted ulcer is acting up again.”
“I’ve given him a treatment and a sedative to help him through the night,” Nigel said, patting him on the back with a sympathetic frown.
“Unless you feel like dragging my body around the dance floor with your machine after I’ve passed out, I best be off,” Amos said.
Westie winked at him. “Wouldn’t you know, that’s how I get all the men to dance with me.”
Chuckling, Amos said, “I doubt that very much,” and shuffled off toward the exit.
“What was that between the banker and the mayor?” Westie asked Nigel after Amos was gone.
Nigel pursed his lips. “I haven’t the faintest idea, but I’m sure two of the most powerful men in the valley are bound to butt heads at some point.”
Though curious, Westie let it go for the time being and took Nigel up on his offer to dance. She thought it was a fluke that he’d stomped all over Myrtle Grey’s toes, but alas, it
was not.
While Nigel spun her around the room, Westie watched Olive Fairfield dance on her father’s feet. The love she saw in Hubbard’s eyes as he twirled his child around reminded her of her own father. She inwardly reprimanded herself, furious that she’d even let Hubbard near her father, even if it was in her head.
Olive spun and laughed while her cornflower-blue dress floated around her and her golden locks danced about her little round cheeks, pink with merriment. The father and daughter looked so utterly normal, almost sweet.
After her dance with Nigel, a new song began. She was about to check her dance card to see who was next when she looked up and saw Isabelle’s face bright with happiness as she danced with Cain across the room. Westie’s heart came to a sudden halt, and so did her feet. Other dancers bumped into her, glaring until they noticed it was the debutante.
Her legs began to move again. She headed toward the couple, ripe with anger but no plan, and was jerked to a stop when someone grabbed her flesh arm. She spun around to find Nigel. He looked at Westie, then back at Isabelle and Cain. She tried to pull away from him, but his grip was tight.
“Do not make a scene,” he warned her. “Tell Isabelle that Cain Fairfield has a reputation for whoring, nothing more.”
He was close to her ear, breath blistering against her skin, and when he spoke his s’s were too crisp. That was all she heard.
When she finally wriggled free of him, Westie smoothed her skirts and gathered her wits before she stepped up to the smiling couple. Cain was like a monument beside Isabelle. He was broad through the shoulders like his father, with the sharp, predatory features of his mother. He wasn’t ugly really, but he was no James. There was no hint of family resemblance between the Fairfields and Lovett. Still, youth made everyone appealing to some. Money made everyone appealing to most, which Westie gathered was the reason behind Isabelle’s sudden interest in Cain. His evening attire reeked of money. He wore tall boots with brass buckles, and a matching tailcoat with gold-and-diamond buttons on the cuffs.
His hair was oiled and slicked like James’s, and it was the same dark color too instead of his usual gold. It made Westie wonder what the true color of James’s hair was. Though Cain wore his hair in a similar style as James, it made him look more like a rodent than ever before. If there was one thing that could distract Isabelle from a person’s looks, it was money.
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