Dance to the Devil's Tune (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 2)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  Boone sucked in his breath. "Thunderation!" He sounded awed. "You finally did it."

  Cass's nod was grim. "But here's the rub. My hands are tied. I can't stop Maestro north of the Red River until I get my Marshal's commission. The best I can do is go undercover and help the police smoke him out of hiding. Can I count on your help?"

  A barn-sized grin split Boone's face. "Hell, yeah."

  They shook hands, and Cass passed the muleskinner a folded paper, wrapped in a greenback. "Here's your classified."

  "Keep your money, son. This ad's on me." Rising, Boone gathered his whip and hunter's cap for his barber's appointment. "By the way," he murmured in Cass's ear, "I got something better than diamonds. Belonged to my wife's Swedish grandmother."

  "Meatballs?"

  Boone laughed, clapping Cass's shoulder. "Just for that, smartass, you'll have to read the news in the morning edition, just like everybody else." He winked. "But I'm pretty sure you'll be

  amazed when you see how clever ol' Daredevil really is."

  * * *

  The next morning, Sadie sat idly outside Enoch Fowler's "Spook Room," waiting for her quarry to appear in the hotel lobby. Her goal was to secure a private appointment so she could set her trap. More to the point, she wanted to avoid Rebekah, who kept sending her away with claims that Fowler's waiting list was longer than the Colorado River.

  Sadie was growing weary of Rebekah.

  That's why she'd entrenched herself in the waiting area an hour early. She was hoping to corner Fowler and "implore his indulgence for a grieving widow, who wished to make a charitable donation."

  In the meantime, she had nothing better to do at 7 a.m. then watch bellhops push trolleys and maids mop the Windsor's black and white tiles. Eventually, a balding, auburn-haired gent in a tweed coat settled in the boot-buff chair. Ordinarily, Sadie wouldn't have looked twice at a middle-aged man with patches on his elbows, but she was bored.

  Patches tugged a self-rolled quirley from his pocket, sniffed it with pleasure, and flipped open a matchsafe. Sunlight glanced off the golden lid a heartbeat before her ears pricked to the faint, mechanical strains of an old African spiritual. She recognized the melody of She'll Be Coming 'Round the Mountain.

  Since the shoeshine boy had left his post to visit the privy, Patches settled more comfortably in his throne-sized chair to wait. Pocketing his matchsafe, he adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles and reached for the Rocky in his lap. Even at a distance of 20 feet, Sadie couldn't fail to notice the six-inch headline. It screamed from the page:

  Daredevil Strikes Again!

  Prince of Thieves Steals Swedish Crown Jewels

  Sadie was pretty sure her jaw hit the tiles.

  Hastily flagging down a newsboy, she purchased her own salacious copy. When she unfolded the rag, she learned, to her horror, that freighting mogul, Boone Wylie, blamed Daredevil for the theft of his wife's Faberge parure. The matched set of gold, pearl, and aquamarine jewelry included a tiara, earbobs, brooch, necklace, ring, bracelets and belt clasp. The parure had been designed for the late King Karl XV's favorite mistress, Tova. Tova, in turn, had gifted the set to her granddaughter, Astrid "Dimples" Gustavson, a former dancing girl at Denver's Bust-a-Gut Saloon and Wylie's wife of 10 months.

  As if this report wasn't sensational enough, the article then directed readers to visit the Classified Section for a "thrilling message," written by Daredevil to challenge Maestro.

  Cass, in his audacity, had penned:

  What's the matter Theater Prig? Lost your muse?

  You're 0 for 2 and counting.

  Let's see you beat today's headlines.

  The devil dares you.

  My God, Sadie thought, is he insane?

  Visions of Mace with a smoking gun in one hand, and a noose in the other, swam before her eyes. She was so alarmed by Cass's reckless gambit, she didn't notice the approach of the broad-shouldered gentleman in the form-fitting, Chesterfield overcoat until his shadow fell across her newsprint.

  "My dear Fiore, is something amiss?" Dante inquired, his brow furrowing as he scanned her face. "You look a tad peaked."

  Sadie struggled to pull herself together. Fortunately, she had years of stage experience to call upon. She loosed a mirthless little laugh. She fluttered a helpless hand over the newsprint in her lap.

  "Forgive me, dottore. But I cannot help but be saddened by this proof, in your American newspaper, that the polizia have not yet captured this dastardly Daredevil."

  "Ah." Dante nodded, his handsome features grave with concern. "I, too, found the headline disturbing. Unfortunately, the lack of progress in the investigation does not surprise me. At least half the police in this town are numbered among the criminals."

  Sadie gasped with an appropriate show of outrage. "But that is not acceptable! Why does the army not come and clean the blackguards out?"

  "In America, a governor must opt for other, more democratic remedies, " Dante said dryly, "such as our notoriously understaffed, federal marshals."

  Sadie sighed, shaking her head. "I do not think I shall ever understand your American politics."

  "I must admit—" a dimple flirted with Dante's lips "—Denver politics isn't the most cheerful topic. But I believe I have news that will brighten your mood." Reaching into his breast pocket, he withdrew three theater tickets. "I procured proscenium box seats at Dolce LaRocca's sell-out performance Thursday night. Pray allow me to escort you."

  Sadie had no need to feign delight. Box seat tickets? To hear the world's most celebrated soprano sing Marguerite? She was hard-pressed not to bounce on her seat.

  That's when she noticed Collie, her ever-present shadow. He was scowling and shaking his head at her. She did her best to ignore him, even though the boy was eavesdropping only about ten feet away. His chocolate-brown Stetson loomed like a harbinger of doom over Fowler's easel, which had been erected, along with its welcome sign, beside the entrance to the Baby Doe Room. As for Collie's irrepressible raccoon, Vandy was hiding in the sterling planter between his boots. She could see the Masked Moocher's snout, poking past the purple cyclamens.

  Pests.

  Sadie turned her shoulder on the scowling hillbilly and his coon.

  "Grazie, dottore!" She lavished her brightest smile on Dante. "I would be delighted to accept your kind invitation."

  Looking pleased, Dante took her cue to perch on the settee. "Splendid! I'm sure I don't have to tell you what a national treasure Dama LaRocca is."

  "Her singing, it is transcendent," Sadie agreed, although she'd never heard a European opera star and could hardly wait for the opportunity. "In Italia, we are as proud of Dama LaRocca as we are of risotto, Donatello's David, and the Colosseum."

  Dante chuckled at her boast. Joining in his laughter, she rocked forward, and their foreheads nearly touched. She caught her breath, arrested by the dark fires kindling in those mesmerizing eyes. When she realized she was blushing, the heat in her cheeks both disturbed and confused her. She was the one who usually flustered suitors, not the other way around. What was it about Dante that made her as giddy as a school girl? His magnetic smile? His debonair charm? The alluring spice of his cologne?

  She averted her gaze and noticed his well-manicured fingers, stroking the package he'd placed so decorously between their thighs. Wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine, the bundle was about the size of an illustrated novel, although it was several inches deeper.

  "You must tell me," she rallied in conspiratorial tones. "What's in the package? Is it a birthday present for dear Wyntir?"

  Amusement warmed Dante's midnight-colored eyes. "If it were, I'd plead the Fifth, since you and my ward are as thick as thieves. But no, I stopped by the tobacconist to purchase a humidor—"

  "Leave her in peace, you bugger!"

  Sadie blinked in surprise. When she turned her head, she'd expected to find Collie looming over her, playacting her champion. Instead, she discovered Patches, his fists clenched, his knuckles bloodless, and his fac
e mottled with outrage.

  She climbed hastily to her feet. "Signore, I do not believe we have met—"

  "Baines. Mendel Baines," he snapped in a grating, Boston accent. "And trust me when I say, you don't want anything to do with this parasite."

  Now Dante was on his feet. She glanced anxiously at Collie, who stood flexing his hand uncertainly above the Remington in his pocket.

  However, Dante showed enormous self-restraint. He did nothing more than curl his lip at his detractor. "You stink of gin, Baines. Come, Fiore." He offered his elbow. "Permit me to escort you—"

  "To wreck and to ruin!" Baines interrupted hotly. "Like every other damsel you distress." He turned to Sadie in a huff. "If I were you, madam, I'd run long and far from this libertine. Knocking you up will be the least of his sins."

  "Professor Baines." Dark fires smoldered a warning in Dante's eyes. "Since you seem determined to embarrass yourself, I suggest we continue this conversation outside."

  But Baines refused to back down before that burning, black glare. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, Goddard? You'd like all of Denver to think you were a paragon of virtue, with your fancy silk cravats and your fussy, high-brow manners. But Beacon Street knows better!"

  "What Beacon Street knows," Dante retorted acidly, "is that you were booted out of Harvard's hallowed halls for moral depravity and unethical research."

  "Liar!" Baines howled, swinging a fist.

  Dante ducked.

  As if on cue, the door to the Baby Doe Room swung open. Cass stepped into the lobby with a giggling, eyelash-batting Rebekah. For a moment, Sadie stewed, watching Eros in Spurs work his magic.

  But the commotion Baines was making couldn't be ignored. Her misguided savior was shrilling curses and throwing wild punches. Goddard was fitter and faster, but he seemed more intent on blocking blows than landing them. Sadie wondered if good breeding or the Hippocratic Oath forbade Dante to strike an assailant, who wasn't in his right mind.

  "What the hell?" she heard Cass mutter.

  He thrust Rebekah toward the safety of the assembly room and waded into the fray. So did two brawny, yelling bellhops. Eventually, the boys tackled the professor, while Cass shoved Dante away from the writhing bodies on the floor.

  Suddenly, the matchsafe bounced from Baines's pocket. Sliding across the tiles, it plinked its melody all the way to Rebekah's square-toed shoe. The child recoiled, as if bitten by a rattler.

  A police whistle shrilled. The circle of gawking spectators parted for the uniformed flatfoot, but by this time, the professor had been subdued. He flailed on his stomach, pinned by the bellhops. His nose was bleeding, his eye was swelling, and he looked like he'd wrestled a cyclone, thanks to his stalwart captors.

  Dante, on the other hand, didn't look much the worse for wear, unless one counted his off-center cravat and the sable curl that spilled so rakishly across his forehead.

  "You're under arrest!" the policeman barked, slapping cuffs on Baines.

  "You'll pay for this, Goddard!" the professor yelled. "You'll pay for everything, you smug son of a—"

  The policeman backhanded his prisoner, and Baines slumped, his head lolling. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

  Sadie winced at this police brutality. She couldn't help but feel sorry for Baines. Even so, she'd seen worse, far worse, in cow towns across the west.

  Rebekah, apparently, had not. Fowler's shell-shocked disciple quivered like a mouse, her cheeks as white as her starched bonnet. Sadie's maternal instincts stirred.

  But when she would have stepped forward to comfort the child, Rebekah's spine stiffened. Her dark eyes flashed like electrified steel.

  "Beware the devil's tune," she boomed at Sadie in a voice like crashing thunder, "or marked for death you will be, mourning a loss as terrible as your sister's!"

  Sadie gaped.

  Rebekah slammed the door and turned the key.

  Sadie's outrage surged, a welcome distraction from her plague of chills. Rebekah knows about Maisy? Damn you, Cass! You had no right to tell her!

  Nothing was more sacred to Sadie—nothing—than the memory of her precious, five-year-old twin. Maisy had fallen into the river and drowned, despite every desperate attempt Sadie had made to save her.

  Wounded to her core, she leveled a blistering glare at the lover who'd violated her trust. To Cass's credit, he turned gray under his tan.

  Dante moved toward her, straightening his cravat. Cass hastened to retrieve his fallen hat—and the matchsafe. He snapped the lid closed and slipped it into his pocket before halting before her in his slightly rumpled duster.

  "Are you folks all right?"

  The question was addressed to them both, but Cass's eyes were on her. Only her. Maybe because she was trying so hard not to cry.

  Dante seemed to sense her upset. He offered her his arm. She clutched it with trembling fingers.

  "My companion needs fresh air," he answered with impeccable chivalry. "Come, my dear. I apologize for the unfortunate disturbance. Allow me to make it up to you over breakfast."

  Sadie gritted her teeth. She knew if she unhinged her jaw, terrible things—unforgiveable things—would spew from her mouth to hurt Cass. To make matters worse, Dante, along with every bellhop, chambermaid, and snot-nosed guest in the hotel, would peg her for a trollop. Her cover would be blown.

  Fortunately, not even the pleasure of lambasting Cass for his betrayal could compete with her determination to find Minx's killer. She murmured her acceptance of Dante's breakfast invitation.

  Then, pasting on a frozen smile, she turned on her heel and stalked away from her very ex-lover.

  Chapter 7

  Twelve Hours Later

  Nursing a tequila bottle, Cass sat in the red-velveteen parlor of the Rockies' most infamous brothel. At 11 o'clock, Mattie Silks's house was doing such a booming business, the bouncer was turning away Johns. Even if Cass had wanted a rut, he would have had to wait his turn.

  To entertain her restless guests, Mattie had changed the musical program. The voluptuous blonde took center stage under an opulent chandelier. As she swelled her breasts to sing, a diamond cross glittered from her cavernous décolletage. Ironically, she was belting out the refrain of a bawdy ditty that Sadie had written—and made famous—four years ago in Dodge:

  "Purty Pansy Primrose, now that she's full grown,

  Will jump a randy tycoon like a dog jumps on a bone!"

  Cass grinned as the local gents hooted, waving their top hats and stomping their opera pumps in time to the fiddlers.

  Of course, Sadie's refrain would have been different in Dodge. "Cowboy," "wolfer," or "gambler" would have been inserted in place of "tycoon." But Mile High City wasn't a frontier town anymore, so Mattie had taken liberties with the lyrics.

  Yes, pleasing her guests was what Mattie did best. That's why she no longer had to rut in a tent. The former Kansas whore now owned a three-story house with a mansard roof and lead-paned mahogany door. Liveried wait staff, bearing sterling trays and crystal champagne flutes, passed Cass's table. On slower nights, beautiful girls in stunning gowns conversed about literature, politics, and stock prices. Lonely travelers from as far as France and Austria could feast on caviar and blue-winged teal in the first-floor restaurant.

  Tonight, Cass was hoping to overhear some useful gossip, thanks to Boone's front-page farce. Cass couldn't have been more pleased with the freighting mogul's invention. The story had helped him recruit other mischief-minded allies, who'd been only too eager to make headlines of their own.

  For instance, Mattie's arch rival, Jenny Rogers, had jumped at the opportunity to "rub the Mayor's nose in the muck." Apparently, he'd tossed her over for a rich virgin with a pristine pedigree. In revenge, Jenny had agreed to tell reporters that Daredevil had snatched her favorite "love token," a lavish gold table clock, which the mayor had swiped from his deceased in-laws' estate.

  Cass had also succeeded in recruiting Silas Tate, a steel tycoon, to Team Daredevil. A coupl
e of years ago (and with the help of Lynx,) Cass had rescued Silas's infant daughter from a Cheyenne raiding party. To return the favor, Silas had agreed to tell the press that Daredevil had run off with a priceless gold-and-ivory walking stick, once owned by King Louis XIV of France.

  Now all Cass had to do was recruit Dolce to his team—and write clever taunts for the classifieds.

  Of course, he recognized his advertising scheme had drawbacks. Success hinged on the crucial element that Maestro read Daredevil's taunts, got incensed, and tried to steal Mephistopheles's Jewels. But short of getting plugged for asking too many questions in the Underground, Cass didn't know how else to communicate with Maestro and lure him to take action.

  Preferably, against me.

  A blast of cold air buffeted the chandelier. Cass glanced toward the brothel's entry hall. He'd chosen a table with a view of the front door, mainly because he liked to know what kind of trouble might walk in.

  However, he hadn't been expecting this kind of trouble.

  A masked bandit with a striped tail streaked past Pug, the bouncer. As the raccoon galloped across the alabaster tiles, he trailed slushy paw prints all the way to Cass's chair.

  "Hey!" Pug yelled. "Come back here!"

  But Vandy's wicked little varmint brain was intent on making mischief. He took a flying leap. Cold, wet paws landed in Cass's lap.

  Aw, hell.

  A message was tied to the rollicking coon's collar. Cass grimaced, pushing a slurping tongue out of his face as he wrestled the scrap free. Unfolding the paper, he deciphered what proved to be an abysmally spelled message from Collie:

  Sady snuk in weering opra duds and a beered.

  Cass scowled. He could see the crown of Collie's chocolate-brown Stetson, gathering a heap of snow flurries.

  "Hey, Cort," Cass called to Mattie's Achilles Heel. She was so smitten by the gambler that whenever he rode his horse into her house and threatened to damage the dance floor, she gave him more spending money. "Tell Pug to let the kid inside, will ya? Collie doesn't want a rut. Just a drink."

  Cort grinned. He was seated at the next table, writing an utterly worthless I.O.U. to some whiskered dude, who apparently wasn't acquainted with the gambler's reputation. As usual, Cort's coffee-colored eyes were glassy, but for some reason, womenfolk considered him handsome. He had wavy black hair, a pencil-thin mustache, and an athletic build. In fact, Cort used to be a footracer and a guerilla fighter in the war, but these days, his fondness for opium usually kept him drooling on his butt.