His lips carved out a small, vicious smile.
Dance, Lucifire. Dance like a dead man at the end of a rope. Because that's exactly how your thieving days will end.
Tossing aside his burned-out smoke, the man turned on his heel and walked into the bitter blast of autumn, his Inverness cape fluttering behind him like dark, sinister wings.
Chapter 4
Raw, primal fury.
That's what Sadie felt when she woke at dawn to learn Cass had betrayed her. She cursed his name in every language she knew. She hurled bars of soap and tins of throat lozenges at the door, imagining the target was his head. She even considered kicking out the window glass he'd sneaked through, until she realized she'd have to bathe in sub-zero temperatures in the suite's ridiculous, gold-leaf tub.
Panting from exertion, she halted in front of the mirror and glared at the traitorous tears, streaking her cheeks. Poor little idiot, she scolded herself. Did you really think a dyed-in-the-wool womanizer could care for you? That a lifelong outlaw could resist the temptation of the Pinkerton jewels?
With a shaking hand, she touched the slender gold chain gleaming against her throat. Two weeks ago, Cass had loved her so completely, she'd been unable to speak a coherent word. In the aftermath, he'd draped this chain around her throat to hold her lost button-pendant, the only remaining memento of her father, Roarke Michelson. With the ice fortress melting around her heart, Sadie had been so overcome with love, she'd feared she might blurt the truth by singing a reprise from her song:
"Always yours I shall be,
Born for you... Destiny."
A tiny sound, like a wounded animal's, tore from her throat. Unable to bear the memories, she ripped the pendant from her neck, pocketed the button, and hurled the chain out the window. Her muddy, tear-streaked reflection curled its lip at her.
Love is a weakness, and romance is for fools. You got exactly what you deserved, Sarah Jane Michelson.
Flushed with shame, she couldn't bring herself to ring for bath water. Instead, she suffered the chill of the drinking water in her pitcher as she performed her morning ablutions. By the time the clock on her mantle was chiming the breakfast hour, she had repaired her makeup and twisted her hair into a puffy updo that trailed a sausage curl over her right shoulder.
For her gown, she'd chosen a coffee-brown walking dress with ivory stripes—not her best colors, even if they did make her watery, brandy-colored eyes look as bright as moons. She reminded herself she hadn't come to Denver to seduce a mark; she was supposed to be playacting a widow. Besides, the less attention she attracted from randy men, the better she could concentrate on her mission.
Just as she was gathering her gloves to leave the room, she heard a suspicious scuffling in the hall. Warily, she approached the door, her fingers itching to trigger the .32 strapped to her forearm.
To her surprise, she found her boss, Mason "Mace" Ryker, squatting to inspect the raccoon prints in the sawdust that was sprinkled over her threshold. Hastily, she glanced up and down the hall. Spying no other sign of Collie or Vandy, she released her breath.
Damn. She had enough troubles. She didn't need to worry about some smart-mouthed kid and his masked moocher getting arrested by a bloodhound like Mace.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded.
Still squatting, the senior agent tipped back his bowler. He had hair the color of dirty straw, a jaw like a dimpled hatchet, and oversized fists that didn't need brass knuckles to crack bones. She'd seen Mace flatten larger men with a one-two-punch and never break a sweat. And yet, despite all his years of boxing, his nose remained unbroken—a feat which secretly impressed her.
"When you didn't attend last night's lecture," he answered in his gravelly, Chicago accent, "I thought you were dead."
"Sorry to disappoint you."
Amusement registered on his features. The pugnacious detective's pine-green gaze trailed up her skirt, passed her empire waistline, lingered for a moment on the demure lace that fluttered over her ample breasts, and finally focused on her eyes. Nothing had the power to irritate her more than an ogling from Mace Ryker. She'd heard rumors that the 33-year-old bachelor attended church between Pinkerton cases—probably to pray for darker beer and bustier women. God knew, Mace wasn't any saint, although he did his fair share of judging sinners. Mostly her.
"Someone got up on the wrong side of bed," he cajoled. "Late night?"
"I fail to see how that's any concern of yours."
"An aristocratic temperament suits you."
"So delighted you approve. What do you want?"
"Let's start with an invitation to come inside."
Biting her cheek to swallow annoyance—he was her boss, after all—she obliged, sweeping her arm toward the room.
Rising to his five-foot, ten-inches of muscle-packed brawn, Mace stepped past her, crunching throat lozenges underfoot. His eyebrow rose as he spied the broken tins and dented soap bars littering her rug.
A slow heat rolled up her neck. "What did you expect? You dropped in unannounced. I didn't have time to tidy up."
He didn't look convinced, but he must have had other things on his mind, because he didn't comment. Reaching beneath his Inverness cape, he withdrew a folded Rocky Mountain News. "Care to explain this?"
With a theatrical flourish, he let the bottom half of the newspaper drop to reveal the front page headline:
Contessa's Emeralds Snatched:
Denver Has a New Prince of Thieves!
Choking back an oath, Sadie grabbed the Rocky's morning edition from Mace's hand. The article read:
"Shortly before the dinner hour last night, an anonymous source reported that the Contessa di Montaldeo was burglarized by the most dastardly of villains.
"Calling himself the Daredevil, the thief scaled the five-story Windsor Hotel to climb through the Contessa's window. This brazen reprobate escaped with the Contessa's entire travel-collection of heirloom jewelry, a heist estimated at more than $300,000 dollars.
"Daredevil's demonstration of braggadocio has led police to compare him with Maestro, the mysterious night prowler who pinched the Heart of Fire from the mansion of Lt. Governor Horace Tabor just 11 short days ago..."
Sadie was seeing red before she finished the sentence. I'm going to kill Cass!
"Well?" Mace demanded.
"Well what?" she fired back.
"Judging by your lack of ornamentation—" his impertinent stare dropped once more to her breasts "—the story's true."
"Your job is to hunt for the Namdaran jewels, not chase sensational rumors in a newspaper."
"Spoken like a dame with something to hide."
"Don't be absurd."
"So you can produce the emeralds?"
Sadie's mind raced. As much as she wanted to punch a hole through Cass's spleen, she didn't want Mace to break every bone in her ex-lover's body. Nor did she want Cass locked in a Colorado penitentiary for the next 20 years—even if he did deserve it. She had a conscience, after all.
"Everything's under control, Mace. I told Cass to leak that story to the newspaper. I didn't expect the article to be printed so soon, that's all. Don't worry. It's all part of my plan."
"Your plan?"
She hiked her chin. "What, you think I let Cass drug me with kisses and steal those emeralds? You insult my intelligence."
Mace looked skeptical, which fanned her ire.
"If you spent less time questioning my integrity," she snapped, "and more time hunting for evidence, we might know why Minx is dead!"
"Your integrity isn't in question," he said dryly. "Just your common sense where Cassidy is concerned."
"So you came here to insult me, is that it?"
Bold green eyes locked with hers. She knew he was trying to strip away her pretenses, to find the truth beneath her lies. Mace wasn't just a sledgehammer with his fists; he could shatter a man's will under interrogation.
But Sadie had 28 years of hard knocks to strengthen her resolve. She'd be
damned if she let another arrogant, high-handed male make her question her competency as a detective. Like a mountain defying Armageddon, she stood her ground.
Finally, to her immense satisfaction, Mace grunted and dropped his eyes.
"Since you failed to show up at the lecture hall last night," he said, thumbing through a small, leather-bound notebook, "I took the liberty of doing your job. And while I was searching the desk in Baines's office, I found a journal with a record of his hypnotism experiments. At least one of the subjects will be familiar to you: Wyntir Greyfell. After her father's suicide, Wyntir began to suffer bouts of anxiety."
Sadie was surprised by this revelation. "Why would Wyntir want to consult Baines, when her guardian is a psychiatrist?"
"Maybe Baines's lap is more comfortable."
"Honestly. Must you reduce everything to its lowest common denominator?"
"The dame met Baines for six weeks in an office with a couch." Mace shrugged and spread his hands. "You do the math."
Sadie rolled her eyes.
"In Baines's desk, I also found several boxing stubs," Mace continued, "a betting form for a horse race, and the name of a bookie. Looks like our good professor runs with a rough crowd—Cortese Thomson among them. In fact, Cort was skulking around the lecture hall last night, looking suspicious."
"Who doesn't look suspicious to you, Mace?"
"So you and Cort are old friends?"
Sadie gritted her teeth. She didn't know what irritated her more, that Mace assumed she dropped her drawers for every scumbag in Creation, or that Mace was probably envisioning her butt-naked right now with Mattie Silks' Fancy Man.
"If I knew Cort that way," Sadie said tartly, "Mattie would have blown off my head already. She's fond of pistol-duels with rivals. But Cort does know me in the sense that he used to visit the Long Branch Saloon and watch my stage show."
Sadie frowned as realization dawned. Damn. If I'd gone to the lecture hall last night, Cort would have recognized me. Cass saved me from getting my cover blown!
"So it's a good thing you went to bed early," Mace deadpanned, as if guessing her thoughts.
She shot him a withering look.
"And while you were getting your beauty rest," Mace added, flipping two more pages in his notebook, "the museum curator was found hanging from an oak tree in front of his office window."
"What?"
"Looks like a suicide. Renfield left a note. He claimed he could no longer live with himself for bringing international shame upon the citizens of Denver. Apparently, he never got over the museum break-in. That pain-in-the-ass had the police turning this city upside down for the Namdaran Emeralds, when they should have been looking for Minx," Mace added grimly.
Sadie shared his upset. But she was confused by his report. Malcolm Renfield was renowned as a fussbudget, who did everything by the book. He'd served long, glowing tenures as a museum curator in prestigious institutions, located in St. Louis, Philadelphia, and Boston, despite the fact that at least two of his administrations had suffered break-ins before. In each instance, Renfield had turned into an avenging angel, using his own money to hire the Pinkertons. Sadie's colleagues had apprehended the thieves within days and recovered the relics. So why would Renfield give up hope on the Namdaran Emeralds?
She asked Mace these questions.
"Beats me. Ask your psychiatrist friend." He slid his notebook into the inner pocket of his frockcoat. "The police shook down all the fences, but they're not talking, of course. The police also crawled all over the exhibits, the curator's office, and Renfield's home. If there was any hope of finding those emeralds, the boys in blue probably bungled it. Curious, though."
"What's curious?"
Mace shrugged. "Two pocket watches were discovered on Renfield's corpse. One attached to his vest. One dangling from the buckle of his shoe. He must have dropped the watch when he jumped out the window. When the night watchman found him, the timepiece was playing that old hanging dirge, Tom Dooley."
Sadie shivered. She knew the lyrics well. Occasionally, at Dodge City's Long Branch Saloon, a lonely cowboy had asked her to sing about the ill-fated lover, who'd murdered his mistress and was sentenced to hang from a white oak tree. Renfield must have been one creepy guy.
"So you're poking your nose into my Maestro investigation because you think he masterminded the Namdaran theft?"
"Now you're catching on," Mace said dryly. "Where did Cassidy go when he left here last night?"
She tensed at the question. "You think Cass is Maestro?"
"I think you have a hard time giving straight answers about your outlaw lover."
"Ranger lover," she snapped. "And I expect Cass went to the newspaper office."
"It doesn't bother you that Mattie and Cassidy are old friends?"
"Every man in this town is an old friend of Mattie's. I'd question a gent's manhood if he wasn't."
"Lucky Cass," Mace taunted. "Seems like he's got the longest leash in town. Poor Cort has to worry about getting his head blown off if he so much as winks at a skirt."
"Mattie would never plug Cort. He owes her too much money."
Mace smirked. "Ah, the course of true love never did run smooth."
A muscle ticked in Sadie's jaw. She didn't doubt for a moment he was referring to her and Cass.
Mace started rummaging in his frockcoat again. He withdrew a slender, velvet box.
"What's that?" she demanded.
"Open it and find out."
She reached for the black box the same way she might have reached for the wrong end of a Pinkerton parasol—the kind that fired a dart from its tip.
But when she cracked open the box, she was surprised to find innocent-looking, perfectly matched strings of iridescent beads. Nestled amidst the pearls was a brilliant, topaz teardrop that flashed with the fire of the sun. The pendant was the size of a silver dollar!
"What are these beads?" she demanded suspiciously. "Laudanum pellets? Smoke bombs?"
"Pearls," Mace answered dryly. "I figured a contessa wouldn't waste any time spending her dead husband's fortune to replace stolen jewels."
"Uh... right." She wanted to kick herself. "Did you expense these?"
"Gotta keep Agent Scarlet Diva safely undercover." Mace winked. "By the way. The next time you see Cassidy, tell him to keep his mitts off that necklace. Otherwise, Lucifire's gonna have a damned hard time drawing his guns—with ten broken fingers."
Sadie shot Mace a dagger's glare, but he was too busy turning for the door to see it.
Alone once more, she re-opened the box. Ignoring the voice in her head—the one that scoffed at her for being a pushover for pretty rocks—she eagerly lifted the necklace from the velvet. The pearls were heavier than she'd expected, good quality, with perfect luster. She'd never owned real pearls, much less a genuine Imperial topaz. Over the last 28 years, she could count on one hand the number of times a man had gifted her with jewelry. The vast majority of baubles she'd worn had been fakes, accessories for a dancing costume. Whenever she'd been lucky enough to wear real rocks, they'd been part of a Pinkerton disguise and therefore, subject to return.
A small smile curved her lips as she clasped the necklace behind her neck. Wistfully, she fingered the beads, glowing with a soft luminosity in the morning light. Pearls went with everything. This triple strand set off to perfection the creamy column of her throat, while the topaz matched her eyes. Her boss had a good memory for color. But then, he should. He was a detective. Mace had been trained to recall details.
Like the puffy red skin around my eyes?
She muttered an oath, leaning closer to the mirror to rub out the smudged kohl beneath her lashes.
That's when she realized that Mace hadn't answered her question about the business expense.
Chapter 5
Later that morning, Sadie sailed past Cass in the hotel lobby and furtively flipped him the bird. That's when she received a welcome surprise. The freezing rain had driven Enoch Fowler's tent circus o
ut of Jewell Park. Now his spook show was performing at the Windsor.
No wonder Cass was loitering near the assembly room!
The hotel was being mobbed by camp followers, thanks to an advertisement in the Rocky and the industriousness of a street-urchin army, which Fowler had paid to hawk flyers.
No one was happier about the new location than Sadie, who'd dreaded the idea of returning to the Big Top to freeze her bustle off. Now all she had to do was bide her time—and give Cass the cold shoulder, of course. She hoped the reprobate got frostbite from her glares.
She found a seat near the center of the packed house. Forcing herself to concentrate on her mission, she decided she was ready for any nonsense Fowler might dish out. After all, she'd learned to tolerate the idiosyncrasies of the Pinkie Chief, Wilma LeBeaux, who happened to be a Cajun Mambo. Wilma burned herbs and sewed poppets to ward off evil spirits. She also required Sadie to wear a gris-gris around her neck whenever she entered Wilma's house. Sadie didn't believe what Wilma believed, but she humored the Cajun because she loved her like a mother.
At precisely 10 a.m., Fowler took the stage amidst enthusiastic applause. He was an energetic, middle-aged man, with a commanding voice and captivating smile. Standing six-feet tall, with a gleaming ebony mane that shimmered with blue highlights, he led a prayer of thanks to the Lord—and also to his sponsors, which included some hair tonic company. Sadie wasn't surprised to see the vast majority of his audience was female.
Next, Fowler announced that he wasn't the show's headliner. With great fanfare, he introduced Rebekah, whom he praised as "a young protégé with an ancient wisdom." The adolescent adopted a mouse-like demeanor as she perched on a stool at the center of the stage.
"Relax, dear child," Fowler boomed in his resonant show-boater's voice. "Relax and allow the spirit of our Lord to speak through you."
Dance to the Devil's Tune (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 2) Page 5