“Perhaps,” Evelyn replied, though she had serious doubts. No amount of good fortune could bring true happiness to an unprincipled businessman who relied upon the universe to determine his success. Mr. Dupont was a victim of his own lack of integrity. It was obvious in the emptiness of his establishment. Mr. Barrie was doing something right, and Evelyn could guess it had to do with more than pretty girls. For one thing, he must be more attuned to the needs of his customers, rather than bringing them wine they had not requested, in place of the food for which they had come.
It was no matter. Evelyn was still hungry, but she felt her body relaxing. She looked down at the keys of the piano and ran a loving hand along the surface, feeling very satisfied with its discovery. The wine was tasting better and better, and the permission to play this piano was priceless, priceless…
She had not yet finished her glass, but she felt the warmth of the alcohol as it crept up her neck and into her cheeks. There was also a slight tingling sensation happening somewhere behind her forehead.
She should probably stop drinking. After all, the last time she drank was with that beautiful, insufferable Brock Donnigan, and her judgment had been severely impaired. She did not want to make the same mistake here, now. Not that she was in any danger of being wooed into Mr. Dupont’s arms. The idea alone made her gag. She must not think of such things, lest she get sick all over the piano. That would be a tragedy, indeed.
“It was a lovely wine, Mr. Dupont,” she told her most inadequate host, “but if I am to make it back to camp, I must not have any more.”
Mr. Dupont eyed her closely.
“You are not staying in a hotel, then?” he asked.
“Heavens, no. I am not as privileged as that. The hotels are all full, so we are sleeping in a tent, on the ground, yet again. I say, I have never slept on the ground so much in my life.”
She set her glass upon the top of the piano and stood, using the keys for support. A sudden conglomeration of notes filled the room, and a startled Evelyn pulled her hand away at once.
“Oh dear,” she said. “I am terribly sorry.”
Mr. Dupont chuckled and rose from his seat, snatched Evelyn’s glass, and drained it. Evelyn watched with a slight expression of disgust.
“You say ‘we’,” he said. “I wonder, where is the rest of your party?”
“At camp, of course,” Evelyn replied. The volume of her voice was a little louder than usual, and as she discovered there was much more she wanted to say, she waved a hand through the air. “Except for Lucius. He’s supposed to be my guardian. But you know, I don’t know where he’s gone off to. He doesn’t know I am here alone, and even if he did, I’m not entirely certain he would care. We had a bit of a falling out, I’m afraid, and this morning, he just up and disappeared. I don’t believe he’s taking his position very seriously anymore. But at the moment, I do not wish to complain, for this is the first bit of freedom I have had in a very long while.”
Mr. Dupont nodded with understanding, and something like pleasure.
“I see,” he said, musingly. “So you have nobody to look after you?”
“Nobody,” she conceded. “And that was the way I wanted it when I left camp. But I should be getting back now. I am in desperate need of something to eat, and as you have offered me nothing, I should be on my way.”
There were beans back at camp, and Josephine made wonderful beans.
“I am leaving now,” she told Mr. Dupont, as she tried to ignore the way the room seemed to spin. “Thank you for the wine.”
Mr. Dupont took a step between Evelyn and the entrance, causing her to totter back on her heels for fear of clashing into him.
“You are welcome, Miss Brennan. But if you should decide to stay, which I hope you do, I have the most wonderful cut of veal, complete with regional peppers and spices, which I had intended to prepare for you.”
Evelyn stopped moving, while her mouth began to salivate.
“Veal?” she asked, nearly breathless. How long had it been since she had tasted such a delicacy?
“My wife’s family recipe,” Mr. Dupont nodded. “French, naturally. And so delicious my knees grow weak at the thought of it.”
Evelyn felt her own knees growing weak. The food here in Panama was significantly better than the meager portions given upon the Steam Rose, but still it lacked the richness of the meals the Flynns’ cooks had provided in New York. Evelyn longed for lobster that swam in butter and garlic, or chilled cucumber melon soup, or whipped potatoes and gravy. She dreamt of lamb smothered in rosemary, and duck so tender it fell apart upon her tongue, and veal…veal…
“Indeed,” she murmured.
Mr. Dupont rounded behind Evelyn and placed his hands upon her shoulders.
“Yes, I should like to introduce you to my wife,” he continued. “She loves music, you know. The two of you must talk while I prepare the food. But you mustn’t be surprised.”
Evelyn took a second to take the bait, for her thoughts were still trained upon the prospect of veal.
“Surprised about what?” she finally asked.
“If she asks you to stay, of course.”
“Stay?”
Mr. Dupont chuckled and shook his head.
“How silly of me to forget,” he said. “As I told you earlier, I had to let our piano man go. So unfortunate, but we could not pay him, and the man didn’t appreciate music the way you do. He was only here for the money, and insisted he would not play for free, no matter how my wife begged him to stay. A pity. My poor old girl was devastated, as you can imagine, for she herself does not perform, but has an ear for music, and great appreciation for all the arts. But now, you are here, and it would mean so much to Mrs. Dupont, and myself as well, if you gave us a performance.”
Evelyn gasped, and the sudden rush of air to her lungs caused her to feel dizzy.
“A performance!”
To stay and perform! And enjoy a plate of savory meat! It was tempting, certainly, but what of the others? How many hours had Evelyn been gone already? And what would her friends think if she was gone still more hours? Where, indeed, was Lucius? And why hadn’t he come looking for her? If she never returned, would he come at all? He had little reason to. She knew she had wounded him deeply. There was no denying that. Her behavior had been despicably indulgent, then heart-breakingly cold. Her actions denied Lucius the very thing he had come to want most: closeness. With her. And as admirable, as sweet as his desires were, she could not grant them. It would ruin everything if she did.
“Your talent is unmistakable, Miss Brennan,” Mr. Dupont continued persuasively, disrupting her intoxicated reverie. “Please do not withhold your abilities from those of us who seek to cherish them.”
“But Mr. Dupont, I have not practiced in over a month, and I have not had a looking-glass in weeks. I am dusty, and shabby, and my fingers are stiff from want of use. I am in no condition to perform.”
Mr. Dupont gave her shoulders an encouraging little squeeze. Through the fog that was quickly collecting in her brain, she seemed to remember she did not quite care for this man, and she dipped one of her shoulders to dodge his touch. He did not take the hint, however, as his warm fingers continued to press into her.
“No matter, Miss Brennan, no matter. Appearance is what my wife does best. She will have you looking beautiful in no time. And as for practice, my dear, I heard you play at the beginning of this hour, and I heard nothing but utter perfection. You need not worry about that.”
She realized now she was walking, and Mr. Dupont was guiding her. A distance was growing between her and the entrance, and closing between her and the stage. She was led to the curtain, and before she could protest, Mr. Dupont closed the heavy fabric behind them, and she saw nothing but blackness.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Lucius?”
Brock Donnigan’s opponent was staring at him with distant, empty eyes, an expression that reflected the status of his purse.
Lucius was broke
.
Brock had seen it a hundred times. This was the kind of man who Brock reveled in breaking, the kind of man who thought he was invincible, until proven otherwise. A titan in the clouds, cast back to earth at the strike of a serpent. They never saw it coming, never suspected the rugged, poorly dressed vagabond of such cool talent. Gloating and vanity had a way of revealing one’s weaknesses, and Brock had no intention of blowing his cover.
He watched as the others tasted victory after victory; sometimes he even allowed himself to lose a small fortune here and there. Mostly he feigned disinterest. Then, when the time was right, the others would not hesitate to place their riches upon the table. Brock Donnigan was not one to worry about: they had beaten him before, and he wasn’t much for cards anyway. He was just getting a little feisty. It was nothing a little intimidation couldn’t fix. Frighten him into folding, or call his bluff. His cards couldn’t be as good as he suggested.
But Brock Donnigan hadn’t held a job in ten years. Poker was his profession. Of course, no one ever suspected that. Once they learned about his poor, drowned family- who were, in fact, very much alive- they stopped asking questions. No one wanted to be insensitive to a man with a tragic past. Talk about the weather, or the decline of the English language, or slavery. Anything but the man’s personal life.
Lucius’ face was flush with bewilderment. In a second or two, the truth would sink in, and he might throw a punch, or start to scream, or pull the knife from his boot. Brock was prepared for any of these scenarios. As a victor, he had been attacked on a number of occasions. Lucius was pugnacious even before he was a loser, so Brock anticipated something of a fight. However, Lucius was also so drunk he could barely sit up straight. There was no telling whether or not he was aware of what had just happened. He might simply pass out, and Brock was ready for that, too. The laugh was already on his lips.
Lucius did none of these things. He had thrown a punch and swung a knife over lesser offenses. But this was no small thing. This was not a trifle, or a frustration remedied by angry words or a blackened eye.
His money was gone. All of it. And Evelyn’s too. His purse was wasted, and that would not do.
It simply would not do.
Lucius fumbled desperately for one final bet. He found it, crumpled in his trouser pocket.
His and Evelyn’s tickets to California.
“Another hand,” he told the table.
Brock cocked an eyebrow.
“Have you got anything left to wager, Mr. Flynn?”
“I want another hand,” Lucius repeated. “Dealer, our cards, please.”
Brock smirked.
“You gotta buy in, mate,” he said.
Lucius looked frantically to those who had gathered to watch.
“The ante,” he said. “I just need the ante. I will repay you.”
They stared back at him, unmoving.
“For God’s sake, lads,” he cried, “have you not been entertained at my expense?”
All were silent.
Brock watched Lucius unblinkingly as Lucius pulled out his tickets and slammed them onto the table.
“There’s my goddamn ante,” he said. “And my final bet as well. Take it or leave it, Mr. Donnigan.”
Brock stroked his rough chin and studied his opponent. He had to admit he had wondered if Lucius would bet his passage, but Brock had not been entirely certain Lucius possessed tickets to California. Many men simply bought their passage from port to port as ships passed through. Just as Brock had done.
Lucius had just seen the ante and raised it considerably, without even knowing what his cards would be. He was desperate, of course, and desperation trumped all forms of sensibility when a man found himself clinging to naught but a whisper of hope. It had been Brock’s hope that he might bring Lucius this low. Indeed, Lucius was not merely low; he was breaking. And this was Brock’s opportunity to crush him completely.
“All right, mate.” Brock rifled through a stack of bank notes and tossed a few on the table. He figured the amount was comparable to whatever Lucius had paid for those tickets, plus a little extra. Why not? He was feeling lucky. No, he was feeling unstoppable.
Both Brock and Lucius held their breath while their cards were distributed.
Lucius should have known better, he knew this. But without any money, those tickets were next to worthless anyway. He and Evelyn would arrive in California and what then? Walk to the gold fields? Eat weeds and dirt? What were they supposed to do without money? And who knew when their damn ship to California would even arrive? They might very well die of starvation before then!
Lucius’ eyes were bloodshot. Maybe that was because he was forgetting to blink. He looked hard at his cards as he fanned them out.
Nothing. He had nothing.
He tried to think of what he could do with nothing. But that was just the problem. Lucius could not think at all. His brain was muddled. His instinct for survival had given rationality the boot. Lucius was alone with his terrified self, and he could not see an escape.
One trade was allowed, and Lucius didn’t have anything greater than a nine. Not a single face card! Could he trade all his cards? No, that was called a fold, and Lucius would not fold. To fold was to forfeit, to forfeit was to surrender, and Lucius would never surrender.
He held on to his four and five and slid the rest to the dealer. Every one of his movements was followed by Brock’s gaze.
That no good son of a-
“Mr. Donnigan?” the dealer asked. “Your trade?”
“I’ll stay,” Brock replied, never taking his eyes off Lucius.
He was trying to intimidate Lucius, but Lucius knew this. It was a waste of energy, really, because Lucius was far beyond being intimidated. He was treading the brink of insanity.
The dealer produced three cards for Lucius, and Lucius examined them, one by one.
An ace! Blessed mother of Jesus! And a five! The third card was rubbish, but that didn’t matter. He had a pair with an ace high. He stood a chance, however meager.
“All right, Donnigan,” he said. “Let’s get the truth out on the table, shall we?”
Brock smirked the infernal smirk that Lucius had come to loathe. Brock said nothing, but laid his cards face up on the table.
No royalty. That was a good sign.
The suits were all different. Also a good sign.
No wildcards. All right.
DAMN IT.
Brock had two pairs. Not just one. Two.
It was done. It was over. Brock had won.
No tickets meant no California. No California meant no gold. No gold meant nothing. Lucius and Evelyn had nothing. And nothing meant staying in this wretched city. Indefinitely.
Red with rage, Lucius thoughtlessly flung his cards across the room.
Brock tisked.
“Aw, Lucius, you would spare me a victor’s gloat by not showing your cards? Bad form, my friend.”
“I want it back, Donnigan!” Lucius shouted. “I will get it back.”
“You see,” Brock chuckled, “that’s your problem, Flynn. You leave nothing to the imagination. You’re not only predictable, you tell everyone just what it is you intend to do. You can try to get your money and your passage back, but you’ve got nothing left to gamble.”
The others joined him in his mockery of Lucius, and if there was one thing Lucius hated more than anything, it was being mocked. Laughed at. Ridiculed.
There was too much time lost in the seconds it took to fetch one’s knife and cross the distance to one’s opponent. Too many things could happen, not the least of which being the escape of said opponent. Brock could evade a knife. His eyes were sharp, betraying his sobriety. He had ordered one beer that afternoon, and it sat untouched before him.
Lucius did not possess the wherewithal to wield a knife. He was too slow. And drunk. Oh yes, he knew he was drunk.
Such a fool. He was such a damned fool.
He considered his options. There were some things he knew
he could not do. He could not return to camp. He could not face the others. Not like this. Not innocent Josephine, tragic Adele, honest Samuel, helpless Bartholomew. And not Evelyn. Oh God, especially not Evelyn. What would he tell her?
He had spent a lot of time around Americans lately, and he knew what one of them would say.
“Prepare to be here for the long haul, honey.”
But, no. No! Evelyn would kill him. He had done the unthinkable. Committed the unforgivable sin. Even if he killed himself first, she would track down his body and cause it some other sort of mutilation. He would be the dead man, but she would be the ghost who haunted him.
He needed options. Options! Think, Lucius.
The knife was out, and a punch would not do enough damage to that mammoth of a man who was Brock Donnigan.
So what could a fool like Lucius do?
A fool could cause a distraction, snatch the money, and run. A fool could hang his head and walk out the door. A fool could burst into tears, or hang himself, or tie a stone around his feet and jump into the sea. Evelyn would not find him there.
But a fool could also pull the trigger of a gun.
This sudden burst of clarity brought a smile to Lucius’ lips.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said.
Brock had anticipated many manners of attempted revenge, all of which were brash and violent. They would be failed attempts, of course. One could not expect a hopeless boy like Lucius to succeed against a brute like Brock. Still, conversation took him completely off guard.
“Oh?” was all he could think to reply.
“I’ve got some promises to keep,” Lucius began. “I told you I would get my money back.”
The first thing to do was negotiate. Hold a trial, of sorts. Take back the upper hand by giving Brock options. He could return the money, or rather call it forfeit.
This was Option Number One.
“Good luck with that” Brock scoffed. “Oh, forgive me. You haven’t got any luck left, have you?”
Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series) Page 32