by Martha Hix
You are not yourself, Susan. Not at all.
There was no guessing why.
Burke had a selection of black shirts—pirates always did—so she cut the sleeves and the tail of one, put it on, and got a length of black ribbon to make a waist belt. Beforehand, she’d pinched Keep Smile’s favorite stocking cap, black.
In no time she was atop the second-floor rail fronting the residence, had climbed into the overgrown vines that laced the wall, and gotten into the narrow crawlspace between this house and the next. The moment in which the street guard turned to pace west to the Royale property’s boundary, she darted east.
With the same verve that took her into the sultry night, she rushed toward rue de la Levee. Dodging riders and carriages, and drunks and pickpockets, she edged by the cathedral and skirted Jackson Square.
A man standing in front of the Pontalba Apartments brought Susan to a halt. Her mouth went dry. Is my mind playing tricks? No. She recognized him. The thin, ruddy man was the stranger who’d helped as she escaped Orson!
Rufus West. The accused.
He caught sight of her before she could back away. Swinging a cane, he approached. He didn’t look at all sinister. “Fancy seeing you, Mrs. O’Brien. Best wishes on your recent marriage.”
Should she trust him? How did he know about her marriage? Very suspicious. “Th-thank you.”
He surveyed her mannish attire. “What brings you into the night? Where is your husband?”
“I—I really must be going, sir.” Burke had searched in vain for this man. If Rufus West were truly evil, then she must help her husband. Susan made waste of the few feet separating her from the might-be villain. Her fingers touched a pitted cheek. “I want you to know something. I thank you for helping me escape Natchez.”
While startled at her close contact, West did not draw back even when she circled a finger into his hair.
“Since it turned into marriage for you,” he said, “I’m delighted to be of service.”
“Why don’t you come by rue Royale for tea?”
“Thank you. But your husband wouldn’t welcome me. He maimed me when I borrowed to pay the debts of my mother’s last illness.”
She didn’t believe West for a moment. Burke wouldn’t do such a thing without strong provocation.
It was no accident that she pulled several hairs from West’s head as she deliberately drew back her fingers to lift them in shock. He flinched. She kept hold of those few strands.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I’m ever so sorry, sir. I meant to sympathize but caused physical discomfort instead. Forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, milady.” He stepped back, turned, and walked away, swinging that cane.
She tucked his hair into a britches pocket. If necessary, she would send it with Zinnia to the lady of St. Ann.
For now she must continue with the quest that had brought her into the night. Susan dashed on. A steam whistle mooed in the night from the Mississippi when she stopped at the glass storefront of Seymour Pyrotechnics and Inventions.
Rain began to fall.
Not unlike a child pressing its nose against the window of a candy shop, not unlike the child she’d been so many, many times in front of this very laboratory, she peered to the back.
The assistant, a middle-aged chap with big ears and stooped shoulders, had a fire built under a retort machine and was bent over an experiment. Something bubbled through the coils, but Susan couldn’t have cared less about the experiment.
Her eyes sought another corner. It was empty.
Susan found a hidden key and let herself in.
“Who goes there?” Beeton wanted to know.
“It is I.” She stepped into the laboratory. “Susan.”
The assistant got up so fast that the retort teetered. “Your father is away. I told Captain O’Brien that.”
So, Burke had been there. Why? When?
“Where is Father?” she asked, knowing Beeton wouldn’t lie.
Beeton’s kind face showed sympathy. “He and Mr. Everton have vacated town.”
“To get away from me?”
“Partly so.”
What was the other part? She reached Beeton’s worktable. A gas burner sat atop it with a kettle at the ready. She touched the handle. “May I make you a pot of tea, Mr. Beeton?”
A pregnant pause lapsed before Uriah Beeton allowed, “A spot would be nice.”
It was past the midnight hour when Susan began her return to Royale Street. The rain had stopped to allow fog, thick as pea soup, to roll in. Her feet felt as if they had been cast in stone, so slow was her advance.
Even before she reached Royale and the lair in which she had made love with Burke O’Brien, Susan heard footfalls behind her. Her heart raced. Was it the guard? No. He would have admonished her for breaking out of the cage. Would her throat be slit in the night?
“So, wife, you’ve decided to come home.” Those sharp-edged words gave a modicum of peace.
She whirled around. Burke stood about ten feet from her, a hat pulled low on his brow. Quelling the urge to run into his arms, she walked slowly to him. “You didn’t buy the dynamite.”
“Thank God.” He tossed his hat in the air. “Hallelujah!”
But you won’t want to hear who did.
Presenting her back, she made her way through the rain that began to fall again. “Susan,” he called. Her feet stopped moving when his hands touched her shoulders, not taking them, but patting them lightly. She sensed that he stepped back.
“Burke, we need to talk. What I have to say needs privacy, not a public street.”
“Fine. We’re almost home anyway.”
Only in location. Susan feared much would distance her from Burke once she confronted him with the sinister truth.
Twenty-two
The cloud in his wife’s usually clear gaze told Burke something was very wrong.
Dammit, why this? He brought news, both excellent and staggering. Reports must wait. Yet he’d banked on a more enthusiastic welcome, absence having made the heart grow stronger . . . and the libido wilder.
He dismissed the guards as Susan rushed into their home and veered into the sitting room. He followed. Stopping at the pianoforte, she hugged her arms and stared down at the keys. She might be discomposed, but she looked splendid, even with butchered trousers molding her behind and Keep Smile’s cap hiding her abundant tresses.
Burke ambled to her stiffened spine and forgot everything beyond the personal. “Did you miss me?”
She rounded on him. “I’ve been to the laboratory.”
“I know where you were. I found you. Followed you home. I spent an ungodly hour before that, searching the streets, expecting to find your nose in a sewer ditch.”
“I couldn’t stay here. Nothing can keep me caged for long.” Unfolding her arms, she turned aside to hit middle C on the keyboard. “I also ran into Mr. West.”
“Dammit, Susan! He’s the reason for the guards. How can I keep you out of harm’s way if you defy me?”
“He did nothing to harm me.”
“Where was he?”
“Jackson Square.” Her eyes slanted upward. “I think he’s evil.”
“You said I didn’t buy dynamite.” Burke asked quietly, “Where do I stand in your thoughts?”
“I choose to believe in your innocence. Your absence was a horrid time for me, since I wanted to trust you but couldn’t work it through on my own. I needed confirmation that you are what I believed in. Hearing the veiled knavery in West’s voice reaffirmed my belief in you. You are good and kind, an honorable and trustworthy man. I was very, very wrong to accuse you.”
A high wall scaled, considering how little faith she’d known in her life. Never had anyone given her reason to trust. Yet Burke had concerns. “Why aren’t you flying into my arms?”
Lashes drifted down, and a shiver racked her shapely body. “Beeton sold dynamite to Throck.”
“That’s not what Seymour told me.�
� Yanking off his frock coat and tossing it to the pianoforte, Burke strode to a wing chair. He plopped down and he shed his cravat. The air stifled his lungs; he got buttons free at his neck. “I went by the laboratory before I left for Natchez.”
She flinched at the destination, but Mississippi was better left for later, much later. Velma hadn’t been in Natchez.
That was the bad news, or some of it.
He said, “Seymour denied selling or losing dynamite, or teaching anyone to set it. I wonder whom he lied to. Me or you.”
She paced the floor twice, stopping to smash the side of her hand down on musical keys. Discordant sounds crashed. “He lied for your benefit. He’s left town. But he’s ordered Beeton to disavow any knowledge of dynamite. He would deny the truth to protect you, since he believes Throck acted under your order.”
“Throck did not. He wouldn’t. He had no reason.”
“I don’t give a snap about Throck at the moment.” She yanked the cap away, golden hair spilling. “I am hurt. My father would do for you when he turned his back on me.”
“Could that be because he loves you?” Burke abandoned the chair to take her fingers and bring them to his chest. “His interest in me is—was—that of a customer highly interested in his designs and experiments. I never called him a crackbrain.” She never did to his face, she mused. “Could be because he did it for us. Perhaps he wants to give our marriage a chance.”
“I don’t think so. Sometimes I feel as if contentment is beyond my reach. Everyone I held special is either gone, turned their back, or betrayed me. I have the awfullest premonition. I feel I’ll lose Pippin. And—well, there is a terrible emptiness within me.”
Burke had the strangest urge. Suddenly he wished for that damned magic lamp. If Aunt Phoebe were to offer it at that moment, he’d wish for Susan’s happiness, wherever that might take her. No doubt his golden bird would fly the cage.
At this moment he realized he loved her enough to make the worst sacrifice. For her happiness he would set her free.
But not yet.
By damn, he would do everything within his power to make her mate in the birdcage more attractive.
Framing her face between his hands, he said, “I would never do anything to hurt you.” I love you. Should he tell her? He couldn’t chance it. A premature declaration might send her flying away in fear of a loving cage. “You’ve become very special to me. You always were. From the moment you picked glass out of my hand. I always wanted to be with you, Susan, and with Pip. But I wouldn’t have messed with another man’s wife. If you’ll recall, I asked you over and over again if you had divorce plans. If I hadn’t been interested in you, would I have cared?”
“Pr-probably not.”
Her reply gave hope. He had to give the rest of the plea his all. And did. “Furthermore, until Aunt Phoeb hoisted her petard, I’d been giving thanks that you weren’t tied to magic. Susan O’Brien, you were always magic to me.”
Her eyes shimmered with tears as she wrapped an arm around his neck and buried her cheek against his rapidly beating heart. “Thank you for telling me that. It makes a difference.”
He kissed her, loving the taste of her lips and the recesses of her mouth, but when their embrace had its end, he hesitated at taking the next step.
He wanted to break the news certain to remedy what ailed her. “Susan, you’ve been cleared in the Paget murder.”
The sunshine smile too long denied came back to him. Shouting her elation, she shoved Burke to the rug and covered his face with loud, smacking kisses. “You are a wonder, Captain O’Brien. A true wonder! Thank you.”
He’d have rather had a declaration of love. But he had her passion and respect, which was not a bad state.
“The sheriff has the murderer?” she asked moments later. “Who? Tell me, Burke. Who did it?”
That he wouldn’t get into. Not that night. “How can you ask such a question when your husband has a two-week hard-on for you? You know, Susie Black-Eyes, we’ve never baptized this rug . . .”
She took a corner of her bottom lip between her teeth, worried it. A mischievous grin lifted those lips. “It would be a shame to leave it untouched.”
How did he ever get so lucky? he wondered glibly. By magic. “This is a rainy night, my lovely. A man ought to wear a raincoat.”
“How can you think of such like that when your wife has a two-week hunger for you?”
They christened the rug.
The rug had been a delightful place to make love, soft and almost comfortable. It suited Susan well to rest there, nude and in the dark, the lamp oil having burned out. Secure in her husband’s arms, she allowed herself to revel in pure joy.
You have the passion and protection of a fine man. Count your blessings.
Her fingers sliding up a taut chest, she nuzzled his shoulder. “We should dress,” she whispered, and went for discarded clothes. “There’s something else to tell you.”
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
She set the clothes aside, steeling herself for firecrackers. “Burke, I have something of Rufus West’s. Strands of his hair. I want to take it to St. Ann.”
“No hoodoo.”
“What would it hurt to get luck on our side?” she asked.
“No hoodoo.”
“But we could send Zinnia with the hair, have her order a doll. We could control West’s spirit.”
“No hoodoo. And you are to stay as far away from the Eel as possible. Susan, he’s wanted for Paget’s murder.”
She swallowed a call to the deities. “How can that be? Orson had no link to you.”
“The community of the Mississippi River is small, not unlike a village of kinfolk,” Burke said. “The Eel was in Natchez on a gambling trip. He calculated it to coincide with the Yankee Princess’s arrival. That’s why I left a sleuth in Natchez.”
“You left a sleuth?”
“I did, but that’s another issue.” Burke centered on the subject. “West went to the circus to collect a debt. He got a lagniappe with you. He thought it was my birthday, knows I love blondes. He’s no fool—he figured you could drive me crazy. I’d want you, but wouldn’t want to touch you.”
“What a clever fellow.”
“It’s a fact he went back to Paget for his money. Your fortune-telling friend, Carmelita, as well as several others, saw him return. They also witnessed him striking Paget.”
Susan rubbed her brow. “All this time I’ve not been accused. All these weeks while I’ve fretted—”
“Not true. The carnival folks scattered after the murder. They were afraid no one would listen to their kind. The sheriff caught up with Carmelita and the lion tamer two weeks ago.”
“Are they all right, Carmelita and Dereck?”
“People listened to them. Your cohorts are fine.”
“I am much relieved. Especially for Carmelita.” Discussion of the soothsayer stirred Susan’s fears for another dear lady. “While you were gone, Burke, I wrote Aunt Phoebe and asked her to visit.”
“That’s good.”
Dawn began to break, daylight lustering the honesty in his face. She didn’t wish to mention the situation at Barataria. An accused and Aunt Phoebe. Plus her sister. If Burke knew more than one aunt was in the vicinity, well, Susan wouldn’t spring that on him just then. “You must be hungry. Why don’t we go to the kitchen and I’ll fix you a big breakfast?”
“Not yet. I see a look in your eyes, wife. We’re not moving from this spot until you say what’s on your mind.”
A reluctant admission issued forth. “I expected a somewhat different reply than ‘that’s good.’ There is a cloud over Throck. Aunt Phoebe could be in danger.”
“Bullshit.”
“I hope you aren’t harboring such a festering resentment that you’d endanger her simply as payback for the magic lamp.”
Burke scratched his unshaven jaw. “That’d mean I don’t believe in Throck. I do, and I’ll prove it somehow.”
Susan tr
ailed a vein that stood up on a precious forearm before her fingers curled on Burke’s elbow. “Can you honestly say Throck never gave you reason to doubt his jolly facade?”
A stretch in time passed before Burke responded. “I . . . I once saw him beat a man senseless for jeering at the name Shirley. And Throck was friend to West. Years ago Throck lived in the same boardinghouse with West and his mother.”
“West mentioned the lady. He said you broke his hand when he wanted to borrow money to pay her debts.”
“Hogwash. I paid his mother’s doctor bills. Paid them myself. Way before West dipped into the till.”
“I knew you’d have a reasonable explanation.”
Burke rubbed his brow, further admitting, “Throck always takes up for West. Perhaps I do need to make a few inquiries. Looks like I’d better have a showdown with my first mate. I’ll go down to the Bay.”
“Eat and rest before you go.”
“I didn’t mean now. Today is for my wife and boy.”
She smiled. “We’d like that.”
“First . . . where is West’s hair?”
Reluctantly she took it from the britches pocket. Burke got a lucifer, took both to the fireplace, then the stench of burning hair filled the sitting room. “Get the picture?”
No hoodoo. No easy answers to horrid problems. With a sigh of defeat she nodded and got into yesterday’s clothes. By the time they went upstairs and had washed, she had a better attitude.
Dressed for their day, they laced fingers and went downstairs, just in time to answer the milkman’s knock. But the delivery sat waiting on the banquette. The O’Briens had a visitor.
An elderly man, a hound dog at his heel. Someone who could be in touch with Phoebe O’Brien in the snap of a finger. He was Fitzhugh O’Brien, venerable cotton factor from Memphis.
Burke’s grandfather.
Twenty-three
Patriarch of a family divided by three well-intended wishes, Fitzhugh O’Brien, better known as Fitz, tottered through the doorway at 21 rue Royale. While his grandson offered the courtyard, Susan vowed suspicions of Throck would not spoil this unexpected occasion.