He’d also seen her only as a man, as had everyone else since her flight from New York. No sidelong glances at her chest, no lingering survey of her mouth, no quick lunge to open a door for her. Nothing like that from Bellecourt.
“Bonsoir, Taylor. As you suggested, I brought Monsieur Carstairs with me.”
“Bellecourt.” The two men shook hands before the host turned to Rosalind. He was a slender man, standing half a head shorter than Rosalind. But his black eyes saw and remembered every turn of a card, as she’d learned on the Natchez two months ago. “Glad you could join us, Carstairs. We can use a square player like yourself to keep the boys toeing the line.”
“It’s an honor to join you, sir,” she answered, firmly returning his handshake. Her brother Richard had spent hours teaching her how to grip like a man. She missed him bitterly every time she shook hands. “I’m sure every player who enjoys your hospitality is a credit to the game.”
“Kind of you to say so, Carstairs. But my wife’s been waiting to make your acquaintance. Eleanor, my dear, allow me to introduce Frank Carstairs.”
“Welcome to our home, Mr. Carstairs. Please consider it yours while you’re in Kansas City,” Mrs. Taylor murmured in a rich southern drawl, offering her hand. She was slightly shorter than her husband and as round as he was lean, with merry brown eyes.
Rosalind blinked at the generous welcome. Why on earth would a respectable woman offer a poker shark the freedom of her home? She’d heard of southern hospitality, but had never been its recipient before.
“It’s an honor to be here, ma’am,” she answered, keeping herself to the most masculine possible activity as she shook her hostess’s hand. She was always afraid a woman’s gaze would spot the clever tailoring that she hid behind. Thankfully, Mrs. Taylor was apparently yet another female who saw only Frank Carstairs.
“The honor is ours, Mr. Carstairs,” the older woman responded easily before turning to Bellecourt. “Antoine, how good to see you here again. Thank you for that marvelous French champagne. It made toasting our youngest’s betrothal very special.”
Bellecourt bowed and waved off the thanks. For a moment, he seemed to be more a beloved uncle than the tough but jovial river pilot he’d been on the drive here.
Rosalind handed her hat and gloves to the Negro maid at the door, with only a moment’s qualms. She’d gone without a hat’s protective shadow at other games and had never been recognized as a woman. Surely, no one would notice this time.
A few minutes later, all four of them were passing through the house on their way to the card room. Taylor and Bellecourt led the way, while chatting amiably about horses. Mrs. Taylor had claimed Rosalind’s arm, a service Rosalind was accustomed to providing in her role as unattached gentleman. It had taken years of mimicking her brothers to learn the social graces appropriate to a man.
“Were you on deck when the Pretty Lady struck the snag, Mr. Carstairs?” Mrs. Taylor asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I was taking my morning constitutional when it happened and saw the entire incident.”
As she walked, Rosalind glanced briefly at the mansion’s interior, whose spare white and gold elegance contrasted in so many ways to her family home’s more modern dark lavishness. These furnishings were elegant but comfortable, with rich Oriental carpets covering the floors and family portraits gracing the walls, all shining in the soft lamplight.
“Was it a sawyer, Mr. Carstairs, or a planter?” Mrs. Taylor asked, as she automatically twitched her skirt around a child’s pull toy.
Rosalind smiled privately. One day, she, too, would be happily and easily dodging her children’s toys. She’d raise them as her parents had reared her: the center of the universe, not a social necessity. “Definitely a sawyer, Mrs. Taylor. I distinctly saw it swaying back and forth in the current, like a cat waiting to pounce.”
Mrs. Taylor shuddered. “Dreadful things. I remember the first time I saw the Devil’s Rake. All those barren branches reaching out for our boat, like the hands of the damned as they pass into hell. It was truly a horrifying sight and I was deeply grateful for the shelter of my husband’s arms.” She paused to compose herself. “Was there much panic on the Pretty Lady when she struck the snag?”
“Very little, ma’am. Captain Morris promptly beached her on a riverbank, allowing everyone to reach shore safely.”
“Mr. Taylor said you were quite the hero and rescued a child.”
Rosalind shrugged. “It was nothing, ma’am. A few little ones had returned to the Pretty Lady to watch the river, while their parents worked to save their few possessions. Most of them raced to their parents when summoned. I merely noticed the one remaining lad and returned him to his family.”
Mrs. Taylor raised an eyebrow. “You’re very modest, Mr. Carstairs. I heard you edged across shattered planking, barely an inch above the river, to save that little angel from the fast rising waters. As a mother, I must thank you.”
Rosalind flushed bright red and bowed, unable to find words as she remembered how close the raging river had come to her and the boy. Every step she’d taken on those unsteady boards had reminded her of the last time she’d seen her brothers, when they’d fought the nor’easter to pull her from the yacht’s cabin. And the hours afterward, when she’d struggled to stay alive despite the towering waves and winds.
Mrs. Taylor’s next words brought her back to the present. “Now we’ve reached the card room and you need to think of more interesting matters than an old woman’s conversation. Just remember that you’re always welcome at James and Eleanor Taylor’s house.”
She patted Rosalind’s arm and turned down another hallway, without waiting for an answer.
Rosalind’s mouth twisted as she glanced after Mrs. Taylor’s retreating back. Apparently she’d been accepted into the family, despite being a gambler.
She turned to follow Bellecourt and Taylor. After this morning and evening’s surprises, she was more than ready for a poker game’s familiar complexities.
Two more steps took her into the card room, a very serene place, with its pale green striped wallpaper and floral carpet. Three walls were almost entirely composed of modern screened windows, lightly veiled by sheer lace curtains, while a fireplace and the entrance door occupied the fourth wall. A round mahogany table held pride of place in the room’s center, encircled by eight highly carved chairs upholstered in pale green velvet, which matched the wallpaper. Thankfully, the chairs looked sturdy and comfortable enough for a full night’s card play.
A handful of gentlemen stood by a sideboard, chatting comfortably as a Negro houseman created a mint julep.
A shock slammed into Rosalind, harder than the Pretty Lady had hit the snag: Hal Lindsay was conversing with another gentleman by the window. Her pulse skipped a beat. For the first time, it betrayed her in a card room, as it had once before in a gilded Manhattan ballroom last Christmas.
Seen this close, he was just as appealing as he’d been in New York. He truly did enjoy a Viking’s fierce beauty and coloring, highlighted by the knife scar on his jaw. He had the attractions of a self-made man, too, since he was famous for making his fortune without a penny from his wealthy family.
God forbid he should recognize her. If he returned her to New York…But she couldn’t think about that, not and maintain her disguise.
Rosalind silently cursed her luck. She didn’t need this sort of distraction when she was about to join the best private poker party in Kansas City. And she certainly couldn’t afford to spend any time wondering what he’d look like without his exquisitely tailored clothes.
She wrenched her attention back to Taylor, who was now making an announcement to the room at large.
“Gentlemen, this is Frank Carstairs, a gentleman I met on the Natchez this winter. He’s a square player and will be sailing on the Cherokee Star so you have a few days to take his measure.”
The other men murmured their responses, as they looked the newcomer over. Rosalind bowed politely, privately amused at
being introduced as an honest player. She did prefer legitimate methods of winning, even though Father had made sure she knew the dishonest ways as well.
“Let me introduce you to the other gentlemen, Carstairs. Starting on the left, Captain Peter Johnson of the Osage Queen and Mack Benton, his engineer. Phillip Logan, pilot of the Palestine Belle. Thomas Ratliff, a medical doctor who’s our token landlubber.”
Each man nodded as Taylor mentioned him, greetings Rosalind managed to return smoothly.
“Finally, Hal Lindsay, a licensed Missouri and Mississippi pilot and owner of a half-dozen first-class packets.”
“Carstairs,” Lindsay acknowledged the introduction. His voice was just as she remembered: a deep gravelly rumble that sent a delighted shiver down her spine.
“My pleasure, gentlemen.” Rosalind bowed again. Thank God, Lindsay hadn’t recognized her, and her reaction to the big pilot seemed to have gone unnoticed.
“Would you care for something to drink, Bellecourt? Carstairs? We have mint juleps, wine, or stronger spirits. There’s also coffee or tea, if you’d prefer,” Taylor invited.
Rosalind glanced around and saw that Benton was drinking coffee. She accepted the same from the houseman, pleased she’d been given the option to stay sober.
“How’s the new dog, Lindsay?” Bellecourt asked, his voice carrying easily across the room.
Heads swiveled in interest.
Lindsay raised an eyebrow. “Sleeping at the house.” He took a long swallow of his julep in its frosty silver mug.
Jaws dropped. The room, which had been softened by amiable chatter, was shocked and silent. Even the houseman froze, caught in the act of adding sugar to a silver drinking mug, as he stared at Lindsay.
Rosalind scanned the men’s faces, trying to understand.
The doctor started to laugh. Others snickered. “Another stray? And this one is still with you? Thought they always left within an hour, Lindsay, same as your women.”
Lindsay snorted. “He’s just staying a little longer than most. Samuel will take him to that animal lover’s farm in Independence tomorrow.”
Bellecourt chuckled, his eyes dancing. “Voyons, this dog has lived with him for six hours, twice as long as the previous record. I’ve got five dollars that says the mongrel sails with him tomorrow.”
Johnson laughed, and the rest quickly joined in. “You’re losing your grip, Lindsay. You always said dogs, like children, were best avoided by men of sense.”
Lindsay flushed slightly, but managed a response. “Just a small detour on my path to heaven, friends. By the time I return, the terrier will be gone and the sole topic of conversation will be you bemoaning your married states.”
The men laughed at that prophecy and teased Lindsay a bit more before Taylor firmly brought them back to the business at hand.
The party took their seats at the table, chatting amiably, as gold and greenbacks emerged to be exchanged for ivory chips, all elegantly monogrammed with a “T” for Taylor. Rosalind adjusted her charcoal gray trousers automatically, the gesture well-practiced during her months of hiding from Lennox. Then she settled her frock coat around her, so she could easily reach the Colts in her front waistband and the knife up her right sleeve. Just another set of movements she had performed hundreds of times since fleeing her guardian’s Fifth Avenue mansion.
Finally settled, she glanced around the table to see the arrangement of players. Simple curiosity triggered that scan; she hadn’t played with these men often enough to have any preferences for who would lead or follow her during a hand. Taylor to her left, then Bellecourt and Johnson. Benton, on her right, followed by Logan and Ratliff and—
Rosalind cursed silently, but kept her face masked: Lindsay would be directly opposite her. God willing, the cards would take her mind from him. As it was, he was far more interesting to her feminine side than David Rutherford had ever been, that coward who’d fled at the first sign of trouble.
Yet she’d once seen David as a marvel of masculinity. He’d enlisted after Ball’s Bluff and served as a staff officer for three years, while other wealthy men bought substitutes and stayed fat and safe. She’d thought him a hero and enjoyed intimacies with him, in anticipation of their planned nuptials.
Hero. Bedroom.
Lindsay was a great wartime hero, as well as a very fine figure of a man. How would he treat the lucky woman in his bedroom?
A fiery lash jolted her, from throat to breasts to loins.
Her eyes widened. Her twin Colts shifted against her waist, reminding her of her masquerade.
She took a slow swallow of her hot coffee as she brought herself under control. She couldn’t sleep with Lindsay, or anyone else, no matter how much her body clamored for the blinding, ecstatic release of physical pleasure.
“Seven-card stud is the game for tonight, gentlemen, and the rules are posted on the wall,” Taylor intoned with the ease of long habit as he shuffled a deck of cards.
Rosalind glanced at the professionally lettered placard that Taylor indicated. She’d seen its like more than once in gambling dens and quickly absorbed its guidance.
“Remember, there are no wild cards here; this is a game of skill, not chance,” Taylor went on. “Ante is a half dollar; full bet is a quarter-eagle. All minimums will double at midnight, and again at two for those still playing. Any questions?” Taylor asked.
Rosalind shook her head and waited, chips neatly stacked in front of her. Two dollars and fifty cents for a full bet during a hand’s first round of betting, doubling to five dollars when the fifth card was dealt. Doubling again at midnight, and once more in the early morning, to drive out casual players.
High stakes, but not the richest game she’d played as a professional gambler. Her two hundred dollars’ worth of chips should be more than enough, without touching her hidden bankroll. Four months of running had taught her to always carry money, tucked away in more than one place.
Each man tossed a single chip, as ante, into the center and Taylor dealt the starting hand, two cards facedown to each player and the third card faceup.
Careful as ever not to let anyone else see her cards, Rosalind quickly checked her two hole cards and found a pair of queens. With the ten of diamonds as her door card, she had a splendid hand and an excellent chance at taking the pot. She could feel Father’s ghost at her shoulder, beaming in anticipation of a win.
Her pleasure didn’t show on her face as she set her hole cards neatly on the table before her, beyond suspicion of tampering, and waited for the betting to begin.
The two of hearts lay in front of Lindsay, the lowest card visible, so he’d have to play—and bet—first. He studied his hole cards—his strong, elegant hands much too visible for Rosalind’s comfort—then shrugged and tossed a quarter-eagle chip into the center.
Rosalind pondered Lindsay’s move, given that a deuce was a surprising card to bring in a bet. Lindsay was either bluffing, had something very interesting hidden in his hole cards, or was simply a friendly guest, graciously betting in the first round. Since nothing about Lindsay struck her as either particularly gracious or inclined to bluff, she’d put her money that he held good cards.
Taylor handed Lindsay an elegant buckhorn-handled knife, acknowledging Lindsay’s role as the first player to bet in this hand. “You’ve got the buck, Lindsay. Ratliff?”
The doctor, who sat to the left of Lindsay, shook his head and tossed his cards down. “Fold.” He settled back in his chair with the comfortable air of someone intent on watching splendid entertainment.
Logan also quickly folded, but Benton considered the cards on the table with the calm surety of a seasoned gambler. He had a reputation for playing cards as aggressively as he built steam in his engines. Then he, too, tossed down a chip, betting a quarter-eagle on his jack of diamonds and hole cards.
Rosalind simply bet a quarter-eagle and waited for the other players to build up the pot so she could take it. The sheer contentment of being at a poker game once more wrap
ped around her like a sable cloak.
Hal folded on fifth street when Taylor dealt him his fifth card, yet another spade. He’d originally been dealt three hearts, hoping to see a flush if the gaming gods delivered him two more hearts. It hadn’t happened, and now he settled back to watch McKenzie and Benton—and the visiting poker shark—battle over the pot.
Watching Bellecourt and Benton at a poker table was often the best entertainment available in a Missouri River town. Oh, Hal enjoyed poker well enough but not as much as those two did. Sometimes in port, he would bathe, eat dinner, and maybe have a woman at the local bawdy house. Then he’d return to the local gambling den to see the end of Benton and Bellecourt’s nightlong struggle.
Thank God, both of them were gracious losers, unlike Nicholas Lennox. Losing a big poker game could drive that dandy into a killing rage. Hal still carried a scar on his jaw from stopping Lennox in New York, when that scum had tried to carve up a nymph du pave after dropping five thousand dollars in a Tenderloin gambling den.
But tonight Carstairs was giving Bellecourt and Benton a run for their money. He’d received a ten of hearts to match his door card, the ten of diamonds, just in time for the doubled minimums at fifth street. His style now resembled the clear-eyed aggression of a mountain lion stalking an antelope.
Bellecourt matched Carstairs’s wager, creating a larger pot than usual for this early in the evening. Hal raised an eyebrow, then returned to studying Carstairs.
The man had seemed spooked when he was introduced to Hal, a familiar reaction. Many men were uneasy the first time they met someone significantly taller than themselves. Now that Carstairs’s focus was on the cards, he was an entirely different fellow. Disciplined, aggressive, crisp in his speech and movements. Calm even when a disappointing card was dealt, like that trey of hearts on fourth street.
Altogether, he was exactly the sort Hal had sought for his gunboat crew. He was a bit slender for naval duty but not too much so. Many of those gangly ones could surprise you with their stamina during action, despite seeming as weak as a woman.
The River Devil Page 4