MacLeod sipped his drink. “Well, this Gounod is better than some I’ve heard. That Austrian abomination you dragged me to the night Robert and Gina met—what was his name?”
“Lost and forgotten, thankfully.” Fitz laughed. “This music sits well, I think. The actor singing Mephistopheles is beyond his range, though. But the Marguerite—as Monsieur Gounod would say, ‘magnifique.’” He kissed his fingertips and clutched his heart.
“Hugh was telling me that this man Faust is one of our kind, Mr. MacLeod,” Danny said. “He promised me the truth of the story later.”
“Hold him to that promise, Danny. It’s quite a tale. Even without the music.” Duncan swirled the liquid in his glass. “Do you think that Johan has seen this particular version, Fitz?”
“It’s ‘Jack’ now.” Fitz corrected.
“Jack?” Duncan raised an eyebrow.
“He’s living in Oxford, running a bookstore. ‘Jack Faust—Fine Books at Fine Prices.”
Duncan shook his head. “And the student body no doubt is taking endless delight in teasing him about his name.”
“You know Johan, Highlander,” Fitz replied. “He’s more stubborn than that mule we encountered yesterday. And still determined to be the most guilt-ridden Immortal alive. He keeps the name to ensure that he’ll be teased—it’s part of his never-ending punishment.”
The interval bell rang, and Fitz added, “Actually, he’s one of the few of us who make you seem lighthearted.” Duncan glowered, as Fitz took his glass and placed it on the bar. He urged his two friends back toward their box. They joined the crowd. Fitz excused himself, to answer a call of nature, he said.
In a moment, the lobby fell silent. The heavy interior doors closed. Fitz moved quietly across the thick carpet. He could faintly hear orchestra sounds. He glanced briefly to the right. MacLeod and Danny should be settled in their seats by now.
Fitz turned left.
All through the first act, he had done all he could to direct MacLeod’s attention toward the stage or the orchestra or the floor below. Anywhere but the box directly across from theirs.
For there, half-hidden in the shadows, an elusive vision in what looked like rose-petal satin, sat the woman whose coach had nearly run them down on the dock.
Fitz first knew she was there when he heard her silvery laugh. Casually, he glanced at MacLeod. The Highlander was watching the stage intently. Casually, he raised his opera glasses. Casually, he trained them on the box opposite.
It was she. And she was alone.
Now, the act done, the interval over, MacLeod and Danny out of the way, Fitz was about to alter that situation. It was, to his mind, an affront to nature that a woman so lovely be alone. Once more, Hugh Fitzcairn to the rescue!
He paused just behind the heavy curtain that marked the entrance to her box. He adjusted his scarf, ran his fingers through his hair, and stepped forward.
Indeed it was her. And the dress was rose-petal satin. She smiled up at him and held out her hand. He took it and bowed.
“Why, Hugh Fitzcairn. Whatever took you so long?” she said with a light drawl.
Startled, he raised his head. “You remember me then, my dear?” Her eyes were, he noted, as blue as his own. “But how did you know I was coming to you?”
Then he felt it—the unmistakable presence of another Immortal. He turned, as the curtain was once more swept aside, and a familiar voice answered his question.
“She knew because I told her to expect you, ye great oaf,” Duncan MacLeod said.
Duncan found Claire Benét fascinating. She was beautiful—fine-boned and petite, with honey-gold hair and sky-blue eyes. She looked fragile. But after only a short time spent with her, Duncan suspected that she was anything but.
She lived in a huge suite of rooms, on a higher floor of the same hotel where the three Immortals were staying. She invited them all to join her there after the opera, for a late supper. Danny had declined. He’d made plans to meet the man who’d helped him to fight off a pack of would-be thieves the night before.
Fitzcairn bade him take care, and went with Duncan and Claire. Their banking business had been done that day, so they were no longer prisoners of their own quarters. A thief might carry away some clothing and other odds and ends of gentlemanly attire. But their money and anything else of worth was now safe behind steel doors.
The three sat now, still in their evening clothes, in an enormous formal dining room. Claire’s rose-petal gown matched the delicate tint of her lips and cheeks.
She rang a small silver bell, and a servant appeared.
“We’ll be havin’ our coffee in the sittin’ room, Anna. And brandy for the gentlemen?”
“The lady’s presence may be intoxicating enough,” Fitzcairn said.
Duncan smiled. “Sometimes he speaks the truth. But if the lady would join us, brandy would be welcome.”
She grinned. Not a sedate polite smile, but a full-out grin.
“The lady would love to join you. Three glasses, Anna. And the cut-glass decanter on the second shelf.”
They adjourned to the sitting room. Though it was no larger than the one in their suite, Duncan noted that it was much more richly appointed. Some of the furnishings were actual antiques. He had, for instance, sat on a chair much like the one Fitzcairn now occupied a hundred years before. When it was new. Other pieces were new, but imported from the Continent.
The brandy glasses were the thinnest of crystal—Duncan had a fleeting thought of Danny—and the brandy was beyond superb.
Whoever Claire Benét was, she was very, very wealthy.
“So,” she said, making a wry face, “we’ve been talkin’ on all evening about the opera, and the city and the weather. I think that you’ve been very kind to me—you’ve not so much as mentioned the word gold. But now, before I just lose my heart completely to you both, I have to know—when does your ship leave?”
Duncan laughed. “Our ship is the Portland. It’s scheduled to depart in three days’ time. But it seems less and less likely that we’ll be on it.”
He told her then, with regular interruptions from Fitzcairn, of their plight.
“Today, we even stooped to bribery,” Duncan admitted.
“Yes,” Fitz added, “only to find that we were dealing with the sole honest employee of the North American Trading and Transportation Company.”
Duncan winced at the memory. “He threw us out of his office. Said that if we didn’t go immediately, he’d summon the police.”
Claire laughed her silvery laugh. “An honest booking agent! What next on Schwabacher’s Dock? A unicorn? I will have to tell Uncle Witherspoon of this!”
Fitz looked up sharply. “Would that be Silas Witherspoon?”
“Why, yes. Don’t you tell me, Hugh Fitzcairn, that you know Uncle Witherspoon?”
“No, my dear Miz Benét, I do not. But since we have been in this fair city, I have often seen his name in the local newspapers. The Times, the Post-Intelligencer—”
“Uncle Witherspoon,” Claire said, “is a rather prominent man in Seattle, it is true. In fact, he owns one of those papers. You might have met him tonight. Unfortunately, he had a more pressin’ engagement. Involvin’ Mrs. Witherspoon.” She grinned, and poured another brandy.
“On the other hand, had he been there, it might have been awkward. Three can be company, under certain circumstances. But four would most surely be a crowd.”
Duncan raised his glass. “Uncle” Witherspoon, indeed! He wondered if Mrs. Witherspoon knew about Claire.
Their eyes met as they drank.
As it turned out three was company only during the day. At the end of the evening, Claire Benét did not care for crowds. It was Duncan who began spending nights as well as days with the lady. While her “Uncle” did have first call on her time, she made it obvious that she was her own woman. Though it had been a long while since anyone had struck her fancy, she was free to pursue that fancy wherever it might lead.
Fitz sh
rugged and made the acquaintance of the diva who had sung Marguerite.
The Portland did indeed leave without them. The supplies they had bought lay waiting in a warehouse by the dock.
And the days passed.
“Tell me, Hugh. What was the fault with the boat you looked at this morning?” Danny demanded, angrily. As time went on, he’d gone from morose to frantic.
His teacher sighed. “The Eliza Anderson hasn’t been to sea in years, Danny. She was used as a gambling hall. I’m no sea dog, it’s true. But even I could tell the bloody scow wasn’t fit.”
“If it’s not been one thing, it’s been another,” the young Immortal said. “It’s MacLeod himself that insisted we had to be on our way before the month ended. And where is he? Not down on the docks, that I can see.”
“He’s been following a lead or two on his own, Danny. Claire Benét is well connected—”
Danny interrupted him with a rude noise and an even ruder comment. He’d not taken the Highlander for a man who lived off rich women. But since he’d started bedding the blond lady with the fine carriage and the grand suite of rooms, he seemed to have lost all interest in their quest.
“Mind your tongue, lad,” Hugh said, sharply.
Danny scowled. Hold your temper, boy-o, he thought. MacLeod is Hugh’s oldest friend. It’s not in his heart to criticize the man.
“What are these leads, then?” he asked. “If there’s some plan being made, sure and I don’t know of it.”
“We do need to talk, the three of us,” his teacher responded. “MacLeod was supposed to see some politician today. We both should know what came of it. And I have an idea about trying our luck in Tacoma.”
“I’ve one better,” Danny said. “There are men with tickets in their pockets to be found wandering the waterfront after dark. They’d be easy prey for the likes of us.”
“Thievery?” Hugh was taken aback. “I would hope that it wouldn’t come to that. And MacLeod would have none of it, you know.”
“He had a part to bribery, did he not?” Danny retorted. “It would be that much worse?”
But Hugh was adamant—taking advantage of mortals was out of the question. Danny lost his temper then, and the quarrel that followed was a bitter one, by far the worst exchange that the two had ever had.
It ended only when Danny tore from the fine room, his throat thick with despair, his eyes blurred with tears of frustration. He headed for the Golden Nugget. There at least, he could drink and dream, and keep the vision of the grand house with the colored-glass windows alive for a few hours more.
Danny was gone the whole rest of the day. Alone in the suite that night—Duncan was four floors above—Fitz fretted to himself. He knew where the young Immortal was—in some dockside bar. He could find him, fetch him back. But—he remembered his own wild days. Danny’s passion was for fortune; Fitz’s was for romance. In pursuit of that passion, he had done some things he’d always kept to himself. Though, on long nights alone, he would sit in the dark and remember. Those splendid foolish years spent serving the cause of that tragic woman who sought to be queen of both his land and the Highlander’s! He had done some night deeds then he was not proud of now.
Ah, but she had been bonny!
Best let the lad make his own mistakes, Fitz decided, earn his own midnight memories. He’s in no danger. He’ll return.
Which he did, the next morning, disheveled and sick from drink. Fitz cared for him, as he had on the boat, and left him to sleep.
He was settling down with his pipe and a cup of tea when Duncan came in.
“Top o’ the morning to you, as young Danny might say,” Fitz greeted him.
“Is he back?” Duncan asked. “I know you’ve been worried. We could go down to the waterfront—”
Fitz pointed with his pipe. “In there. Sleeping the night off. He’ll be none the worse later on. Although”—he laughed—“he got himself a tattoo along the way. An extremely colorful rainbow with an overflowing pot of gold at the end. That will be a surprise when he wakes, I’ll wager.”
He smoked silently as Duncan poured coffee and sat down opposite him.
“The lad was a bit overwrought yesterday,” Fitz said. “But he did pose a valid question. What do we do next?” He watched MacLeod closely. Despite his defense of his friend, he had begun to wonder himself how much of the man’s passion for this adventure had been burned off in Claire Benét’s arms.
Duncan sighed. “This is the second time this morning I’ve had this conversation. I told Claire that the congressman she’d sent me to wasn’t able to help us.”
“And did the beautiful Miz Benét have any further suggestions?”
“The beautiful Miz Benét thinks that gold fever is a disease worse than the pox. She listened. She was not overwhelmed with sympathy.”
Fitz shrugged. “She’s not yet grown weary of your manly charms. Give it a day or two.”
Duncan leaned back and closed his eyes. “I think I’ve just been insulted. But I’m too tired to take offense.”
“We must do something about that, laddie,” Fitz replied. He rose and solemnly poured the contents of the cream pitcher on Duncan’s crotch.
Later in the day, Duncan found a pale rose envelope on the floor of the suite. Obviously, it had been pushed under the door. Inside, handwritten in a flowing script, was a dinner invitation for that evening. It was from Claire Benét, addressed to all three of them.
At eight o’clock sharp, they presented themselves, dressed for dinner, in the formal dining room.
Claire was wearing fuchsia velvet, garnets at her throat and ears, as she presided over what was arguably the best dinner Duncan had ever had.
The conversation was pleasant, superficial. Fitzcairn kept up most of it. Danny was withdrawn, sober but brooding.
Duncan felt oddly ill at ease. He tried to catch Claire’s eyes, but she avoided his gaze. He knew that somehow, something that had barely begun was about to end.
Finally, Claire rang the tiny bell and ordered coffee for the sitting room. There was no suggestion of brandy.
After they had settled, she began to speak. There was a note of amusement in her voice.
“First off, I have to say that I know what it is to be poor. I was born poor. And I did what I had to do to change that.” She paused, looking them over one by one, with her penetrating blue eyes dancing with intelligence. Her gaze lingered longest on Danny.
“I don’t believe in luck, or the easy way. And I do believe that those who are lookin’ for the easy way are fools.”
She shook her head, made a small tsk sound. She stared directly at Duncan. “Y’all aren’t fools. But it seems you are helpless victims of these foolish times.” She sighed.
“I guess not a soul is immune. Why, even Uncle Wither-spoon, though he has no earthly need for more wealth, has been feelin’ a touch of the gold fever. Of course, considerin’ his age, he can’t go prospectin’ himself.”
She paused, rang the little bell, and whispered something in Anna’s ear. “So, I convinced him today that the next best thing to bein’ there would be to stake some deservin’ group of argonauts.”
The three Immortals were silent, their coffee untouched.
“Uncle Witherspoon has a good-sized yacht. Named the Belle Claire.” She grinned then. Duncan caught his breath. “He’ll lend it to you, with a full crew.”
“Were it up to me, my dear Miz Benét, I would do whatever you might command, simply for the pleasure of seeing you smile,” Fitzcairn said, with a bow of his head. “But from what I’ve heard, Silas Witherspoon is quite a shrewd businessman.”
Claire rewarded him with a smile.
“A businessman who owns a newspaper, Mr. Fitzcairn. ’Member? Folks are just wild to read about this gold-rush business. Uncle has been tryin’ to get one of his regular reporters to go north to cover it, just like the papers back East have done.”
She paused as Anna returned, with a bottle of vintage champagne and four chill
ed glasses.
“Problem is, those that want to go prospectin’ don’t want to be bothered with writin’ about it.” She poured the sparkling liquid carefully, filling each glass to the brim.
“So I just told him what a very experienced journalist Mr. MacLeod was. How he’d even run a newspaper himself a few years back in Davidsonville.” She handed the glasses around. Duncan brushed her fingers lightly as he took his.
“Uncle Witherspoon was most suitably impressed. Why, any reluctance he’d had to allow y’all the use of the Belle Claire just dissolved away when he found out that Mr. MacLeod would be sendin’ back regular dispatches!”
She raised her glass.
“A toast then, to success. I do most sincerely hope that y’all find what you’re lookin’ for.” Her voice was light, but there was a shadow in her eyes.
Fitzcairn and Danny raised their glasses. Fitz looked bemused, Danny stunned. Duncan hesitated.
Claire grinned widely at him.
“It will take a day or two to get the boat ready, of course,” she said.
He clicked glasses with her and returned the smile.
This part of the country held so many memories for him already, good and bad. Claire Benét, her golden hair, silver laugh, and elfin grin, would soon be yet another.
In a day or two. Meanwhile, there was still tonight.
Chapter 4
A sword cutting the darkness. Danny knew what he had to do. Lucas Desirée had told him. He raised his blade to meet the Challenge—and Jim Foster was there calling his name, breaking his concentration. He shouted at Foster that he must stand clear. But it was too late. The sword bit deep into his heart. As he died, he saw the face in the darkness. It was the face of the stranger, the first Immortal he had fought to the death. His vision blurred and the face was Lucas Desirée’s, Duncan MacLeod’s, Amanda’s, Hugh Fitzcairn’s. Then, a burst of light brought him awake. But before he opened his eyes, he saw. It was his own face …
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