“You need to engage in something useful, Daughter,” Frederick pressed, not for the first time. He wanted her to work with him, receiving his clients and conducting them into his presence. Topaz wondered if he sensed the latent ability inside her.
She would rather cut off her own toes than work with him.
“I do engage in something useful, Father.” She conducted classes in self-defense in the back rooms of some of Buffalo’s taverns, including the Eagle Club and Nellie’s, both on Niagara Street, teaching women to protect themselves.
Frederick sniffed. “If you’re talking about the instruction you give, I don’t consider that a fit occupation for you, consorting with harlots and other low women.”
“But they’re the ones who are in jeopardy every day and every night, out on the streets alone. Patrick Kelly, from the Irish Squad, says crimes against women in that part of the city have actually declined since the women there have acquired a few self-defense skills.”
“The Irish Squad.” Frederick repeated it and gazed at Topaz intently. Sometimes she thought she could feel that dark gaze plumbing the depths of her mind. “You do realize automatons are nothing but soulless machines in disguise.”
Topaz looked at Phillip, her father’s personal steam unit, who did everything for him and now hovered solicitously at his side. Phillip had once taken a blast from a steam cannon, thereby saving Frederick from assassination by a religious fanatic. Topaz wondered if that kind of sacrifice required a soul.
But Phillip’s expression didn’t change. Of course, being molded from metal and implanted with glass eyes, it couldn’t change.
“I like Patrick Kelly,” she said with a shrug. “He has a wicked sense of humor.”
Topaz had once danced half the night with the automaton police officer. He’d plied her with enough Irish whiskey to successfully seduce her, had he been capable of it.
Which he wasn’t.
“I do not think—” Frederick began, only to be interrupted by his wife.
“Topaz, you cannot marry an automaton. Why waste your time with one? As for the streetwalkers”—Dahlia shivered delicately—“you must be careful not to catch something from them.”
“Yes, Mother.” Topaz glared at Sapphire who, no doubt glad her antics rather than his now received scrutiny, ate in silence. He returned her look with a derisive gleam.
Sheer stubborn defiance made her add, “Though you know, Mother, I’m not the marrying kind.”
“Nonsense.” Dahlia waved a dismissive hand. “You simply have not met the right man. I firmly believe there is someone for everyone. Frederick, my love, how about your new associate?”
Frederick froze with his spoon halfway to his mouth. So unusual was it for him to falter in anything, Topaz took notice.
Blithely, Dahlia went on, “He is unmarried and extremely wealthy, so you said.”
When Frederick still did not answer, Topaz leaned her elbows on the table and asked, “What associate is this?” Not that she was interested but for the fact that she rarely saw her father discomfited.
“An investor,” Frederick said shortly. “I hardly think, mon petite,” he addressed his wife, “Danson Clifford is the sort of man with whom we would wish our daughter to form a lifelong bond.” He frequently called his wife mon petite, an appellation he would never apply to Topaz.
Dahlia could be obtuse. “Why not, Frederick? You are already associating with him.”
“That is business—not family.” Frederick sounded so repressive, Topaz found her interest well and truly stirred.
“Just who is this Danson Clifford?” she asked.
“Nouveau riche,” Sapphire supplied and wiggled his eyebrows.
“We are nouveau riche,” Topaz pointed out. “Father never ceases with telling us how our ancestors came here, fleeing ethnic cleansing, without a penny to their names.”
Frederick had regained his composure; he smiled. “I have earned everything we enjoy, through my hard efforts.” He looked at his wife. “And, mon petite, if Topaz is ready for marriage, I can find her a much better match than Danson Clifford.”
“Why? What’s wrong with him?” Topaz pressed.
“Nothing is wrong with him. But he would not be my first choice for son-in-law.”
Dahlia took up the theme, and Topaz realized she’d landed on dangerous ground. “If you truly do wish to find a husband, Topaz, you could not hope for a better opportunity than Mrs. Rexinger’s Valentine’s Day ball next month. She’s invited every eligible man in the city.”
“I don’t wish to find a husband.”
“Well, you should think about it. You don’t want to remain on the shelf too long. I hear that nice Mr. Fitzgerald will be there.”
“Irish,” Frederick denounced, not quite under his breath.
“But wealthy Irish,” Dahlia persisted.
“He’s a brainless idiot.” Topaz had met carthorses with more wit and far more charm. “And Father, why should you object to the Irish, who for the most part, like us, came here with nothing?”
Sapphire gave her a look; they both knew the futility of baiting Frederick over his prejudices or any of his strongly held beliefs. One might argue with him but never win.
Frederick answered with deliberate patience, “Yet we have raised ourselves.”
Yes, Topaz thought indignantly, by providing services that to many in the city smacked of the fortunetelling done in the old country, and fleecing people in what might be considered just a more elaborate version of their ancestors’ activities.
She needed to get out of this house. The easiest route would be marriage, but she didn’t see herself taking that path. She sighed. At least the conversation had distracted her father to the point where he didn’t seem likely to sense Romney Marsh’s presence in the house.
Romney Marsh. Just thinking of him made Topaz’s pulse leap. She wanted to see him in the flesh so badly it hurt.
But first she needed answers to a number of questions: why had he been shut away in Grayson? Why was he, an Englishman, here in the city in the first place?
And why did just thinking about him elevate her pulse?
Her father glanced at her almost as if he sensed her rampant emotions.
“The time will come, Daughter, when you can no longer play at your life and will need to make a decision either for marriage or to take up some worthy occupation. I will tolerate nothing less under my roof.”
“Then, Father, perhaps the time has come for me to leave.”
Chapter Seven
“Where are you going?” Romney slid the question into Topaz’s mind even as she set her hat on her head—a different hat this time but just as rakish as the top hat she’d worn this morning.
He’d watched her change her clothes—though he supposed any decent bloke, in spirit or in the flesh, would have looked away—and ached all the while to touch.
Outside the bedroom windows, dark had fallen; the panes of glass once more reflected the interior of the room, along with Miss Hathor’s image. She wore a low-cut crimson gown with a golden corset, all worked with embroidered flowers, and a black velvet cloak. The hat, a jaunty little cap, dangled jet beads that rode on her forehead just above her eyes.
“Out,” she replied shortly. She had been in a vile mood since luncheon; he could sense that much.
Now he protested, “It’s a foul night.” Snow had started falling some time ago, and a cold wind rattled the windows. Cold, dark, and dangerous. Why would she go out in that?
She adjusted the hat to a better angle and turned her gaze on the place he hovered. “I don’t care; I’m not staying here all evening. I thought I might ask around, pose some questions relating to your plight.” She hesitated before adding, very offhandedly, “Come with me, if you like.”
“Where, precisely?”
“The waterfront.”
Romney wavered quite literally in the air; he felt the separate sparks of energy from which he was made shiver and coalesce.
&
nbsp; She said softly, “I’d like you to come.”
She slid the stiletto into her pocket, but her eyes—those incredible amber eyes spiked with black lashes—never left him.
“Topaz,” he began. “May I call you Topaz?”
“Since you’ve seen me naked—and more than once—I think you might as well.”
He didn’t need reminding. He wondered if those who tended his body back at Grayson marveled over his near-constant state of arousal.
“Topaz, while I appreciate your efforts on my behalf, I would not have you venture out on such a filthy night, and to such a redoubtable district, for my sake.”
She faced him fully. “You may have seen me naked, Romney”—she paused and asked sarcastically—“May I call you Romney?”
“Of course.”
“You may have seen me naked, but you obviously know little about me as yet. I’m stubborn. And headstrong.”
And beautiful.
Her chin jerked up, and her eyes flashed as if she’d heard the thought. Christ, maybe she had. He consisted of nothing but thought, now.
“Flattery, my good Romney, will get you nowhere.”
He moved closer, vibrating in the air. “But you are beautiful; you have to believe that.”
“And you are in desperate need of my assistance. A word of warning, Romney: don’t play me.”
“You think I am?”
“False compliments always smack of manipulation. Now, are you coming with me or not?”
****
Snow swirled around them as Topaz stepped from the steamcab, the white flakes chased by a cold wind directly off the Niagara River. Among all the dives on the waterfront, this one had to be the worst. Clapped together from what looked like reclaimed planks, it jumped with the beat of live music. A crooked sign over the door declared it to be Nellie’s.
Romney had to concentrate hard to keep from being scattered by the wind. “Here?” he objected.
“Here.”
“I don’t much like the look of the place.”
“I don’t much care what you like, Mr. Marsh.”
She paid the cab driver, who took off in a flurry of snowflakes, and marched inside, not waiting to see if Romney meant to follow. He did, trailing her like a steamie’s breath.
The interior pulsed with light, warmth, and energy Romney could feel. A bar built of packing crates dominated the wall on the left. Men—and a few women—stood there elbow to elbow. Directly ahead, on a small stage, a band consisting of a fiddler, a concertina player, and a mandolin man had set up; the music they turned out—traditional Irish—sounded like a heartbeat.
Small, round tables occupied the remaining floor space along with patrons, some standing in groups and some dancing.
A big, redheaded man in an open-necked shirt turned when they came in and thrust his whiskey glass into the air.
“Miss Topaz! Come and dance with me.”
Topaz smiled. Romney, who now consisted of pure emotion, didn’t like the way that smile made him feel.
“Who is he?”
“Patrick Kelly, the king of this place.” Topaz started forward and met Kelly in the middle of the floor. To Romney’s intense consternation, they embraced.
“Welcome!” Kelly exclaimed. “Now we will have some fun.”
“How are you this evening, Patrick?”
“Full of steam, as you see. May I buy you a drink?”
“You may. My usual, if you’d be so kind.”
The patrons crowding the bar made way for Kelly the way the Red Sea had for Moses.
“Rum,” Kelly ordered. He leaned close enough to touch Topaz’s ear with his lips. Strangely, Romney sensed no lust from him.
Had he, Romney, been that close to Topaz’s white neck he’d have been unable to resist a kiss.
“Your drinks are on me this evening, Miss Topaz. Consider yourself the queen of this place.”
“How kind of you, Patrick.”
“I am honored to have you here.”
The bartender slid a glass of dark liquid across the bar to Topaz. She downed half of it in a gulp before Kelly seized her hand.
“Come. Let’s dance.”
Like an unstoppable force, the two of them moved to the center of the floor. Topaz removed her black cape with a flourish and deposited it at the nearest table, revealing the crimson gown with its golden corset.
The musicians, noticing the couple, struck up a wild tune. Topaz placed her hand in Kelly’s, and they stepped out vigorously.
Romney, afire with consternation, hovered helplessly and watched. He had seen Topaz fight with her stiletto; he had seen her conversing with her brother and with the shopkeeper; he’d fancied he began to know the woman. Now, though, another Topaz Hathor emerged—an abandoned creature with flying hair and whirling skirts who could chug rum like a sailor.
He couldn’t be the only man watching the flash of her ankles beneath her hem, or the movement of her breasts beneath the low-cut bodice, but he must be the only one who knew precisely what she wore under that gown—very little. Her feet in their ankle-high boots kept perfect time with Kelly’s large feet, and a look of fierce joy possessed her face.
Wild and beautiful, Romney thought. But she’d clearly forgotten him. And when the dance ended to applause, she went and sat at a table with Patrick Kelly. The two of them put their heads close together and began an intimate conversation.
So was this, then, the man in her life? And if so, what could he, Romney, do about it? He wanted to sock the big Irishman in the jaw but lacked that capability; nothing more than a swirl of energy, pure emotion, he could only pour through the room to their table and hover like some frustrated, invisible eavesdropper.
Was Topaz aware of him? She gave no indication other than a flicker in his direction from her incredible eyes. All her attention focused on Kelly.
And Kelly—his big hand rested on the table near her fingers. Romney struggled to overcome his reactions and find out something about this man who might well be a rival.
A handsome devil, and no mistake. Yet Romney still sensed something off about him. Or rather a lack of something.
He looked at Topaz as any man might, his gaze resting on her generous breasts as he called the bartender and ordered yet another rum. Did he hope to ply Topaz with liquor, get her tipsy, and take her upstairs to some sordid room such as usually existed at these sorts of places?
In agony, Romney hovered and watched while Topaz drank her rum and Kelly played with a glass of what looked like Irish whiskey, drinking very little of it, keeping himself sober for later, no doubt. And Romney began to burn with jealousy.
He didn’t like the way it made him feel. He didn’t often fall victim to his emotions; rather he had an orderly mind, one that kept both thoughts and feelings in line. He vaguely remembered he’d come to this city on a mission of some importance, one which required the application of logic; yet since arriving here he’d been subjected to the horrors inside Grayson, so drastic they had separated him from his flesh.
Now he consisted of nothing but emotion, a virtual cloud of it.
He needed a body—his or somebody else’s—so he could impose himself between Topaz Hathor and Patrick Kelly. Maybe punch the big Irishman in the nose, though it looked a tall order.
The music started up again, and several couples took the floor. Would Topaz and Kelly join them? Part of Romney wished they would, just so he could watch her move once more. But they sat talking, now deep in an intense discussion. And Romney experienced a new kind of torment.
He looked around the room, his energy touching on patron after patron. The place had become still more crowded since Topaz and he had arrived; now there were no empty tables, and people stood in groups, talking and laughing. A few women danced—none of them could touch Topaz for beauty.
In the corner sat a man, head resting on his hand, gaze bleary, who watched the scene. A cadre of empty glasses on the table in front of him explained his half-conscious state. A mad id
ea blossomed through Romney’s formlessness.
Could he? Should he? At the moment, fired by his jealousy, he felt powerful enough to do most any damn thing, including take over the body of another. Not a badly set-up bloke, either—looked like a dandy down on his luck, most likely some wealthy wastrel gone slumming on the waterfront.
Romney drifted toward him. The fellow had fair hair not unlike Romney’s own, but there all resemblance ended. Romney knew his body lying back at Grayson might be considered reasonably good-looking. This bloke had heavy features now slack from the effects of the liquor.
But he looked up when Romney hovered over his table, as if he sensed his presence. Maybe he did; possibly the large amount of liquor he’d consumed had lowered his natural barriers to the supernatural.
Sheer madness, what Romney had in mind. Yet he needed physicality, and he needed it now.
“Excuse me, mate.” He projected the words into the inebriated man’s mind and saw him start. “But do you mind if I just snatch your body for a while?”
Chapter Eight
“May I have this dance?”
Topaz, in no mood to be interrupted, glanced up in annoyance when the fellow spoke. She and Patrick were deep in conversation; she had just begun telling him her suspicions concerning what might be taking place in her father’s basement and intended to enlist his assistance with investigating Grayson.
Her eyes narrowed. She recognized the fellow as a rich boy who sometimes frequented Nellie’s—young and too impetuous for his own good. His sort frequently came to grief on the waterfront. Topaz could hardly believe he hadn’t already been robbed and dumped in an alley.
“I’m busy,” she told him.
“But I like the way you dance.”
“You and every man in the room,” Kelly said. “Be off, lad. We’re busy talking.”
The idiot, failing to take warning, stepped closer and eyed Kelly as if measuring him up. Surely even a drunken dandy couldn’t be so stupid.
“I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Dance with me. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Sheer Madness Page 4