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

by Adrienne deWolfe

  But Cass was less interested in the fiddle than the leather-bound volumes that stretched to the edge of the oak rafters. He scanned for disturbed dust. Scratches. Fingerprints. Worn bindings. Anything that might indicate one of the books had recently been removed from its shelf.

  A smart thief, who didn't have a suitable buyer, would distribute his cache in several hiding places. A cocky thief, who'd purged the household of witnesses, would continue to use hiding places that had been convenient in the past. Cass figured Goddard fell into both categories.

  Finally, he spied what he'd been looking for: a spine bound in nondescript brown with slightly worn gilt lettering. The volume jutted about a straw's breadth past its neighbors. Titled, Frygt og Bæven, which to Cass's mind was gibberish, the work was authored by some foreigner named Johannes de Silentio. More to the point, the book was situated on the fifth shelf, which was too high for Wyntir but within stretching distance for a man of Goddard's height.

  I've got you now, you bastard.

  Eagerly, Cass reached for the book. When it rattled in his fist, his anticipation sharpened. Which stolen treasure had he found? The Heart of Fire? Mephistopheles's Jewels? The Namdaran Emeralds?

  Before he could find out, footsteps echoed in the hall. They were coming closer fast. Muttering an oath, he shoved the book back into place and blew out the lamp. He barely had time to jump for a rafter and pull himself up among the spider webs before Wyntir burst into the room.

  Chapter 19

  "Look, Tahoma! It's Lady Coyote!"

  Sadie groaned, her smile growing strained, when she spied Lilybelle. The impish dowager plowed through a field of jewel-colored ball gowns to corner her and Mace in the conservatory.

  "Howdy, stranger!" she greeted, shamelessly ogling Mace below the belt. "I'm Lilybelle. My friends call me Lil. I own most of the banks in this town. Who are you?"

  To his credit, Mace managed to keep a straight face. "Signora." He did the whole heel-clicking, waist-bending bit, and somehow, the monocle never popped from his eye. "I am Don Niccolaio Brianza Assante, Barone di Monte Somma. At your service."

  "I sure do like that last part—about being at my service." Lilybelle wiggled suggestive eyebrows over her rose-tinted spectacles.

  Sadie coughed into her fist.

  "So tell me, Baron Montezuma—"

  "Monte Somma," he corrected her politely.

  "Whatever. You gonna marry this gal?"

  Sadie was sure her cheeks turned fire-engine red.

  But Mace remained as suave as ever. "Alas, signora. Lady Fiore insists I behave like a proper cousin."

  "No kissing?"

  "Not even a peck."

  Lilybelle shot Sadie a reproachful look. "Haven't you learned anything from me?"

  Sadie wondered if she could plead insanity and throttle the pest. "Perhaps I shall have better luck this evening," she conceded dryly.

  "That's the spirit." Lilybelle nodded, stroking her fox's snout. "Tahoma thinks you're all right—for a coyote. You just say the word, and we'll fix you up with a nice Navajo. Or maybe that raccoon exterminator. I reckon he's around here somewhere."

  Sadie cleared her throat, glad Mace wasn't privy to that nickname for Cass. "Signora, have you seen Wyntir since the engagement toast? The darling seems a bit... distracted this evening."

  "Head-over-heels is more like it. I expect I'd be that way, too, if a fella put a rock that size on my finger. Last I heard, she went looking for chamomile. Butterflies in the stomach, poor child."

  "Che peccato," Sadie murmured, her eyes narrowing speculatively.

  Wyntir's behavior had been peculiar all evening. Absent-minded, agitated, and a shade too pale under her rouge, the young heiress had complained privately of a headache. When Goddard insisted that she drink a willow-bark tisane, she'd snapped:

  "Quit telling me what to do! I'm not a child anymore!"

  Sadie had wanted to applaud Wyntir's new-found backbone, but she'd restrained herself. If Goddard somehow intuited that he was a suspect, he might get spooked and flee. Or worse, harm Wyntir.

  Lilybelle, meanwhile, was making a hideous face and shooing away a waiter with a champagne tray. "You ever try that stuff?" she asked Mace. "Tastes like burnt wood. And the bubbles go straight up your nose."

  "Perhaps a fruitier vintage would be more to your liking, signora."

  "I'm fruity enough. Or haven't you heard?"

  Mace blinked. Sadie imprinted the moment on her memory. For the first time in their acquaintance, she witnessed her wiseacre boss at a loss for words.

  He bowed again.

  Lilybelle elbowed Sadie in the ribs. "Does your cousin tip over that way a lot?" she whispered.

  "All the time," Sadie whispered back.

  Lilybelle flashed her mischievous grin. "Seems like I should go stand behind him then. To see the show."

  Blowing kisses, Lilybelle wandered off to find a better vantage from which to watch Mace's butt.

  "You're blushing, carino," Sadie purred.

  His lips twitched. "American women. They are—how you say—spirited."

  "I find her charming."

  "Gloating does not become you, mia cugina."

  She chuckled.

  "Ah. Our foreign dignitaries," a lazy Boston accent greeted behind her shoulder.

  Sadie stiffened.

  Mace's eyes glittered.

  In that moment, another historical first occurred: Sadie was glad to have Mace by her side. She might not like him, but she could admire his cool head in a game of cat and mouse.

  "Are you enjoying yourselves in my home?" Goddard had the audacity to ask.

  'It's Wyntir's home, you parasite!' Sadie wanted to shout.

  However, the stakes were too high to give her temper free rein. She forced cordiality into her tone.

  "Si, dottore. It has been a lovely party. But where is your fiancé? Surely you have not lost her so soon."

  "The kitchen, I believe. Something about finding another candle for her cake." He turned his keen, assessing stare on Mace. "You honor us by attending our little celebration, Lord Assante. Lady Fiore did not mention she had a cousin coming to town."

  "Ah, business. She is a stern mistress, no? A few, stolen moments of leisure are all she permits. But what of you, signore? Will you and your charming bride travel abroad for your wedding tour?"

  The key to a convincing undercover performance, Sadie reflected, was to ask questions while volunteering as little as possible about your invented background. Usually, this feat wasn't difficult. What civilian didn't love to blather about himself?

  Goddard, however, was an expert on human behavior. Even if he didn't suspect she was a Pinkerton—yet—he would recognize Mace's attempt to deflect questions and conclude something was amiss. As a master of disguise, Mace was canny enough to understand his risk.

  Sadie's scalp prickled as the secret enemies fenced, every word dripping with politeness, every nuance crackling with danger.

  "I suspect we'll postpone our travels until next winter," Goddard said. "Denver can be so bleak that time of year. What is your take on Punta del Nasone as a destination?"

  "Your bride, she is fond of rigorous hikes? During blizzards?"

  Goddard's eyes hooded. Sadie's heart tripped. She'd never even heard of Punta del Nasone. Thank God Mace had, because Goddard was clearly testing him.

  "Breathtaking country, I hear. But perhaps better traversed in the summer," Goddard agreed silkily. "I understand you hail from Campania. Rather rugged terrain for vineyards."

  "Ah, but it is a multi-faceted region—like a jewel! You have heard of Avellino?"

  "Where the renowned reds of Taursis cluster on the vine."

  "Taurasis," Mace countered enthusiastically, deftly navigating another landmine by correcting Goddard's pronunciation. "You and Signorina Wyntir must travel there, dottore. Then you will witness for yourselves the finest black Aglianico in all of southern Italy!"

  Sadie was secretly impressed. Mace had d
iffused a third bomb, one which would have blown her cover sky-high. She'd had no idea that red wine came from black grapes.

  "I daresay a vintner must know his competition," Goddard recovered smoothly.

  "The vintners of Taurasis put our humble family cellars to shame," Mace said. "Fiore has agreed to help me tour possible new holdings in California, where—it is said—the land yields great wealth. But I tell you what you already know, eh? You traveled west to seek your own fortune, and you found Signorina Wyntir."

  Goddard's eyes narrowed at this double entendre.

  "Cousin Nico is an expert on all manner of sparkling things—wine, women, and jewels," Sadie interceded lightly. "You are men of similar passions, dottore. I was greatly impressed by your choice of diamonds. Such fire! Such brilliance! Much like the love you bear dear Wyntir."

  Goddard inclined his head, but his smoldering gaze moved far too leisurely up her bodice, like an unwelcome caress, before it reached her eyes. "It takes a woman of passion to recognize the fire of the spirit," he said. "Come. Let us drink to love, friendship, and good fortune."

  Sadie tensed as he snapped his fingers. A waiter in swallowtails materialized almost immediately, bearing an uncorked bottle of Chateau Lafite-Rothschild and three empty glasses.

  As if the toast was pre-planned.

  Uneasiness coiled in her belly as Goddard prepared the first glass of vintage Bordeaux. Etiquette dictated he pour a sample for his guests—in particular, Mace.

  But Mace wasn't privy to the warning Fowler had blurted that afternoon: "Eat nothing. Drink nothing, unless it is poured by your own hand."

  Sadie intercepted the crystal, scooping it from Goddard's fingers. Better safe than sorry.

  "Mmm," she purred, gazing seductively into her host's eyes. She didn't know whether to be terrified or triumphant when she watched the dark fires kindle there.

  Like a European sophisticate, she went through the sanctified ritual of the taste. She swirled the burgundy liquid. She inhaled with deep appreciation. The smell of normal tannins was all she could detect. But then, poison didn't always have a scent.

  Her lips curved in a luscious, crotch-swelling smile. She hoped Goddard limped in pain for the rest of the night. "But you tease us, dottore," she accused playfully. "Nico, isn't he the most darling of pranksters?"

  Trusting her lead, Mace played along. He chuckled, tapping a finger on the side of his nose. "Ah, you test us, mio amico." Inhaling deeply, he waved the bouquet from Sadie's glass toward his face. "Flowers, black truffles, red fruit..." He tsked. "But where is the cedar, you devil?" Like a good-natured sport, who realized he'd been played, Mace gestured expansively and "accidentally" swept the bottle off the tray. It toppled to the tiles with a resounding crash.

  Sadie took her cue. She jumped back, contributing to the chaos by tossing her Bordeaux across the waiter's knees. "Oh mio dio!" she cried, acting mortified.

  Mace did her one better. He spewed a stream of rapid-fire Italian, waving his arms and slapping his forehead with his hand. She had no idea what he was saying about their messy faux pas, but it sure sounded authentic.

  Surrounded by gawking guests, all breathless with waspish anticipation, Goddard had no choice but to swallow his dish of crow. Graciously, he declined Mace's effusive offers to pay for the Bordeaux, the crystal, the carpet, the waiter's uniform—"Anything that Signorina Wyntir should require to repair her spoiled evening."

  "No harm done," Goddard assured Mace with a wintry smile. "The splatter was contained. Humphrey will tidy up the glass."

  In fact, the butler did materialize at Goddard's side in that moment. He was carrying a broom and dust pail, but the clean-up seemed the least of his concerns. He murmured urgently in his master's ear.

  "The dogs, you say?" Goddard's brow darkened. "Very well." He nodded brusquely to Mace and Sadie. "Enjoy the festivities. We'll be cutting the cake shortly."

  Sadie watched in speculation as Goddard headed for the foyer, where he conferred with a snow-dusted groomsman. The servant looked nervous. He kept twisting his cap in his hands.

  "What do you suppose that's about, mia cugina?" Mace whispered, careful to keep up appearances. There was an old saying in the detective business: the walls have ears.

  Sadie shrugged, watching a frowning Goddard dismiss the groomsman and stalk for the kitchen.

  Suddenly, Mace jerked his head toward the central staircase. Sadie followed his gaze. She glimpsed Wyntir's sky-blue skirts disappearing through a door on the second level.

  "Go," Mace whispered urgently. "I'll sound an alarm when he returns."

  Sadie nodded.

  Hiking her gown, she hurried after her young quarry. By the time she reached the top of the stairs, she heard the muffled sounds of thumping and clanking.

  "Carina?"

  Knocking once, she pushed through the library's doors. She spied Wyntir kneeling in a puddle of china-blue satin near the raised lid of the window seat. The younger woman started, shoving something under her skirts. When she turned, the guilt on her face was unmistakable.

  "F-Fiore! Why aren't you downstairs?"

  "Because you are not downstairs, carina."

  The chamber was cavernous, filled with hulking shadows, none of which Wyntir's tiny pool of lamplight could dispel. Sadie suspected the younger woman was trying to conceal her presence; why else would she keep the wick so low?

  Wyntir raised her chin a notch. "I have a headache. I told you."

  "Ah. But I fear you will find no willow bark tisane in a window seat."

  Some of the color returned to Wyntir's cheeks. She averted her gaze. "I needed some time to feel better, is all."

  "Come now, carina," Sadie cajoled. "We are friends. You do not need to pretend with me. Something is troubling you. How might I help?"

  Wyntir's bottom lip trembled. "I really could use a friend," she whispered, dashing away a tear.

  Sadie's heart turned over. "Then we shall sit, si? And we shall talk. Come. Join me by the fire, where it is warm."

  Sadie tried to keep her smile reassuring when Wyntir pushed down the window seat and hurried, like an anxious child, across the cavernous room. Clutched in Wyntir's white-knuckled fist was a blue-gingham book, its size only slightly bigger than her hand. Leaf fragments trickled from the pale green pages. The scent was unmistakable: mint.

  The journal!

  But something else was wrong. As Sadie waited for Wyntir to carry the book—and the lamp—closer, she was plagued by a fresh rash of goosebumps. She couldn't quite put her finger on the reason...

  Then she sucked in her breath. Faintly, ever so faintly, she detected the aroma of cinnamon mixed with cloves, sandalwood mingled with leather.

  Cass!

  "Wh-what's the matter?" Wyntir whispered, halting like a nervous filly by her side.

  "Nothing," Sadie lied.

  Her lover was close. So close. She could sense him like an earthquake in her soul. A dozen questions screamed through her brain at once. How did he get in? Where was he hiding? What had he found? Did Goddard suspect?

  But she forced herself to rein in her galloping emotions. She didn't have the luxury to worry about her renegade lover. If anyone could fend for himself, it was Cass. Wyntir was the one who needed her help.

  "However, I am worried about you!" Sadie crooned with sisterly affection. "You are missing your party!"

  "Oh, Fiore." Wyntir sank forlornly beside her on the settee. "I wish it was yesterday."

  "Did you quarrel with Dante?"

  "No." Her brow furrowed. "At least, not that I remember," she added uneasily. She clutched her journal closer, seeming to draw strength from it. "But there are so many things I don't remember. And now I'm getting... scared."

  "You mean confused," Sadie counseled, hoping to nip panic in the bud.

  "Y-yes." Wyntir drew a shaky breath. "Confused."

  A great, crocodile tear rolled down her cheek. Her face looked like porcelain, and when Sadie gripped her hand, Wyntir's bones f
elt just as fragile. Sadie tugged a handkerchief from her reticule.

  "Thank you." Wyntir sniffled, dabbing at her eyes. "Today started like a dream. The best kind of dream. I was excited about my party. I wanted Dante to propose. He was so secretive about the ring. Honestly, I didn't think he would ever give me one.

  "I wanted to buy a few things—stockings and such—so I rode into town. I was scheduled for an early appointment with my seamstress, but I ran into someone, literally, at the Windsor. Boxes flew everywhere. He was such a gentleman; he offered to pay for the damage. He called himself Don Dominar, Marqués de Oro Gran Polla. A Spanish caballero with the most magnificent eyes. Like polished sapphires. They twinkled when he laughed..."

  A muscle ticked in Sadie's haw. Lord Dominant, of the Grand Golden Cock, eh?

  Cass, you louse!

  "When I confessed it was my birthday, he took me on a sleigh ride. I've always wanted to go sleighing with a beau, but Dante..." She shrugged helplessly. "He doesn't do anything that isn't planned for days. Or practical."

  Sadie filed that tip in her memory.

  "Anyway, Don Dom and I sipped the most refreshing coffee. He called it a toddy. I felt wonderful. I practically floated home. But after a few hours, the headache started. And... I started to remember things."

  Now Sadie was starting to see the bigger picture. Cass had set out to get Wyntir drunk so he could break Goddard's spell!

  "What kind of things, carina?"

  "Dreams. Horrible dreams. Only now, I'm not so sure they were dreams, because I remember writing them in my journal."

  She tapped a shaking finger on the inscription, in mint-green embroidery: "You're the Sister I Always Wanted. Love, Minta."

  Sadie struggled with her composure. "So... you have been reading your journal."

  Wyntir blanched at the idea. "No! Not yet. I only just discovered it when you walked through the door. I'd lost it, you see. For months. Isn't that strange? Forgetting something so special?" Wyntir's brows knitted. "I must have blocked it out of my mind, for some reason. But during tonight's champagne toast, I had a flash of memory, as clear as a picture. I was sitting on that window bench, writing. And crying. So I figured I should look under the cushion."