by Eloise Alden
Where had she been? He hadn’t seen her since that afternoon in the chemist shop and he’d looked. In fact, the promise of seeing her had made his commitment to his grandmother bearable. He’d come to town, watchdogged his baby sister, tried to find his missing cousin, and he hoped to bump into Verity Faye just as he had that morning by the display of Lifebuoy soap. The scent now conjured her memory; he’d taken to thinking of her whenever he bathed, a thought that even now heated his neck. He’d only held her a moment and their conversation had been brief, yet, whenever he used Lifebuoy soap, he thought of holding her. He’d hoped for longer conversations, more holding opportunities.
But it hadn’t worked out that way. Sure, he found the shop where Verity worked and had been very successful in conversing with the aunt, a middle-aged woman with a generous bustle. But whenever he’d asked after Verity, the aunt, a chatterbox, had puckered her lips and the flood of communication hit a dry spot. Stunned by the woman’s sudden silence, he’d left, but the next time he returned with flowers and a heavy arsenal of charm. To no avail. Verity wasn’t sick, wasn’t married, and wasn’t in.
And now he found her outside Steele’s hotel room, fumbling with the door, and any second the goons would reappear and find her trying to pick Steele’s lock with a bent hairpin. She wore a black gown that looked like it belonged to her barge-shaped aunt, the lace and crinoline sagging around her shoulders. He found the ribbon bunching the fabric around her waist unattractive and yet alluring.
She couldn’t be Steele’s accomplice, could she?
He had plans for Steele’s room and didn’t want an audience or interference. Although he had sought out Verity, he didn’t want her in harm’s way. He watched, waited, and hoped she’d grow frustrated and return to her aunt and to a life without Mr. Steele.
Verity paused, looked around, pushed the spectacles back on her nose and resumed her work. Trent stepped away from the plant for a closer look. Her dark hair had been tucked into a simple bun, but a few errant strands curled down her neck. A pink flush stained her cheeks. She caught her lower lip between her teeth.
The floorboards creaked and Trent turned to watch Steele’s henchmen, Lector and Orson, amble down the hall. Verity had also seen them, and when she started, the black dress slipped and exposed a rounded shoulder. She pushed her back against the door and straightened the dress. Despite his impatience, Trent smiled as the bifocals slid down her nose.
He wondered what she would say to the goons. Did she know them? Did they have a working relationship? He considered what they could do and say to her and then abandoned his place behind the potted plant.
“Wrong room, my dear,” Trent said, his voice thick with false laughter. He held out a hand, praying he was a better actor than his sister. “We’re over here.”
Verity’s cheeks flamed red. She groped the lock behind her skirt, undoubtedly trying to extract the hairpin. “Goodness,” she said. “That would have been embarrassing.” She let Trent take her hand and pull her across the hall and away from the burly men.
Her hand, cold and small, shook in his grasp. She radiated with nerves. Not Steele’s accomplice then. Unless, of course, she was trying to double-cross him. Interesting.
Trent bristled under Orson and Lector’s stares. He pulled her to him. “Hand me your key, darling.”
“Pardon?” she stammered, clutching the hairpin.
Trent gave the goons a tight-lipped smile before meeting her gaze. “Your key,” he repeated, grasping her arm. She felt soft and fragile and smelled of cinnamon. Her eyes widened in surprise and alarm when he tightened his grip.
“Of course.” She slipped him the hairpin.
Within seconds he’d unlocked the door to room twenty and pulled her inside. He closed the door and locked it with a loud click.
She shook off his hand, and he let her go. She rounded on him, her voice a whisper. “What are you doing?”
Trent took a step back, but couldn’t help grinning at her. He liked the flash in her eyes. She reminded him of his sister’s fiery-tempered cat. “I’m saving you.”
She placed her hands on her hips. “From what? From you?”
“I say,” he said. “This isn’t much of a thank you.”
“I’m supposed to thank you for pulling me into a strange hotel room?”
Her voice rose an octave and he smiled, remembering her practiced baritone. Put that way, she did have a point, but he wasn’t about to concede. “You’re much safer here with me…although, if you’re worried you should have brought your measuring stick. And you still owe me for the shipboard tussle with Wallace.”
She stopped glaring and for a moment looked contrite. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
Verity rolled her eyes. “I thought so. What is it with men? Always squirreling for a fight?”
Squirreling? If he had to be an animal, he wouldn’t choose to be a squirrel or any other sort of nut collector. “What I’d meant was it’d been my pleasure to help you.”
She blushed, avoided his gaze and glanced around the room. A pile of slips and petticoats sat on the bed. Face paints and bottles of rouge scattered the top of the vanity. A pile of trunks, each bearing a woman’s name, lined the wall. A variety of wigs in a host of colors sat on pegs; they looked like a faceless audience.
“I suppose the cloak and dagger, or should I say breeches and felt hat, is the saner, more feminine approach.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to employ sane or feminine wiles, Mr. Michaels.” Then she asked in a smaller voice, “Whose room is this?”
“It’s the dressing room,” Trent said. “I know someone on the stage.”
She planted her feet and crossed her arms. “I’d like to leave before someone needs to change.” She dipped her head toward the door behind him. Beneath her breath she added, “Although some change might do us well.”
“You think I need to change?”
She shrugged and looked pointedly at the door.
“I’m not the one in costume,” he told her.
“I’m not in costume.”
He had his own agenda and plans for Steele’s room and he needed to be sure Verity wouldn’t get in the way. He couldn’t allow her to attract the attention of Steele’s henchmen, so he folded his arms across his chest and shook his head.
Verity drew herself up, pushed the glasses higher onto her nose, and braced her shoulders. Although she had impressive height for a woman, he knew she couldn’t match his strength, and he doubted she would want to try. Chloe and her cohorts on the stage had to use paint to achieve this girl’s pale and rosy complexion. He frowned. Besides the glasses, something else had changed since he’d last seen her. “Your hair…”
She touched her hair, tucking the escaping curls back into its knot.
“Didn’t it used to be brown?”
“No.” She shook her head and her eye twitched.
Useful, he thought, smiling; she has a tick when she lies. “Yes,” he said, considering the curls and fighting the urge to reach out and touch a loose tendril. “I’m sure it was a honey color, a hint of red.”
“You must have me confused with someone else.” She tried to move past him and he stepped left to block her path. She stepped right and he followed. A sigh escaped her lips and her shoulders squared as she redoubled her efforts to out-maneuver him. His smile broadened as he blocked her way. “But you consider yourself disguised.” He tipped his head considering her. “Why?”
She placed her hands on her hips. “Because I’m wearing glasses and I blackened my hair!”
He shook his head. “Why are you disguised? That’s just one question. I’ve actually quite a few.”
“And I don’t have to answer any of them.”
“You will if you want to leave.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “I’ll call the constable.”
“No one will hear you over the noise below.”
She nodded toward the door. “The two men outside
will.”
Trent leaned back against the door. “Are you seriously interested in their help? I happen to know they aren’t particularly nice men.”
With her hands clenched at her sides, she frowned at him. “And I suppose that you are the king of polite society.”
“Perhaps just the prince.” He paused, grinning. “Prince of Polite.”
“Of course, the king would at least explain why he’s detaining me in a hotel.”
The smell of cosmetics filled the closed space, making the walls seem closer. Straining, he heard the heavy footsteps of Lector and Orson move down the hall, and let his breath out in a slow, inaudible whistle. They’d been lucky. He lowered his voice. “Why were you attempting to break into Steele’s room?”
Her eye twitched. “I thought it was my room.”
“This isn’t the first time you’ve commandeered Steele’s quarters,” he continued, ignoring her lie. “Steele’s dangerous. What’s your connection to him?” His mind raced. Could she be his daughter? Sister? Surely, not his wife. He’d heard Steele’s wife had died by her own hand not too long ago. There had been, he supposed, ample time for Steele to remarry. Of course, a wife wouldn’t need bent hairpins.
She cocked her head at him. “Maybe I like dangerous men.”
He didn’t smile. “I doubt that very much.”
“I’m here with you,” she offered.
“Ah, but not by choice.” He stepped away from the door.
She sucked in her breath, clearly fighting the temptation to try and bolt for the door, but she stood her ground. “Right,” she said drawing out the lone syllable. “Why is that?”
“You seem to make poor decisions. Breaking into Steele’s room would have been foolish. His goons would have—”
“I didn’t know he had guards,” she said.
“Now you do, so I suggest—”
She put her fists on her hips. “You misunderstand. You don’t get to make suggestions.”
He stared at her and felt his mouth drop open. “I could have let those men take you-”
“And lock me in a room?”
She wasn’t letting him finish any of his sentences. “Well, yes—”
“And then I’d be exactly where I am now. Held hostage by a strange man.”
“I’m not strange.” Finally, a full sentence, but one he disliked. Just saying he wasn’t strange, conversely, made him seem so. Some things shouldn’t be up for discussion or question.
Verity folded her arms across her chest. “Well, that’s debatable and a matter of opinion.”
Trent fought down his rising anger and frustration. The evening wasn’t going at all as he’d hoped. His plans couldn’t wait and they couldn’t be postponed any longer. “Let me escort you to your coach.” He held out his hand.
She looked at his proffered hand with disdain. “Thank you, but I walked.”
He dropped his hand. “You walked?” He looked at the drizzle streaming down the windows. “In the dark? In the rain?”
“It wasn’t dark or raining when I left.”
Trent put his hand on the doorknob. “But you must have known both were inevitable.”
“Are we going to spend the evening discussing the likelihood of Seattle rain? I’m afraid I’ve more important things to do. Please excuse me.”
He stood, watching her, anxious to leave and yet reluctant to let her go. Heaven knew when he’d see her again. “We’ll leave as soon as you tell me what you hoped to find in Steele’s room.”
“Steele?”
He shook his head. “Try again.”
“He’s a handsome man.”
He remembered his gram’s maxim, it’s easier to attract flies with a honey jar than with a bottle of vinegar. Verity, with her lips pursed looked like she’d swallowed a slug of vinegar. That wouldn’t do. He needed to win her over. Trent rolled his eyes and held out his arm. This time she took it. He tucked her hand close to his side and led her out the door.
In the lantern-lit hall, he could see Lector and Orson lounging near Steele’s room. Orson had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing a multi-colored snake tattoo circling his massive forearms. Lector wore an absurd red bowtie that should have made him look less dangerous, but it didn’t. The tie emphasized the man’s log-like neck. Trent swallowed and admitted to himself that his task neared suicide. He drew Verity a fraction closer, liking the feel of her against him. He wondered if Steele ever felt the same and he fought a wave of jealousy.
Verity smiled a trifle too brightly, her eyes lingering on the hulking men. Orson and Lector straightened, stood and moved away from the door
Trent strode faster. The two men were watching him. He could feel their gazes on his back.
“Oh, very well,” she said, after a quick look at his face. She had to skip to keep up with him. “I wanted to know if he had an interest in—” her voice dropped to an almost inaudible tone, “Lucky Island.”
Out of the line of sight of Lector and Orson, Trent picked up his pace. She trotted at his side.
“I’m sure he does,” Trent said. After all, most moneyed men in Seattle had an interest, or two or three, in the prestigious brothel.
She cut in front of him and raised her eyebrows. “A financial interest?”
Trent stopped, ran his fingers through his hair, and asked, “You’re interested in Steele’s investments?”
She batted her eyelashes, obviously thinking. When a couple passed them on the stairs, she bumped against him. Her hair tickled his chin. She smelled of pie. His mouth began to water and he hoped she wouldn’t know, or guess, that he wondered if she tasted as good as she smelled.
He took a deep breath, acknowledging that time and opportunity were passing and as delightful as it was to spar with her, he had reasons of his own for breaking into Steele’s room. After the couple passed out of sight and earshot he said, “I’ll visit Steele’s room.” Then, unless she suspected, he added, “For you, but only if you promise to return to your aunt.”
They moved through the nearly deserted lobby, the rustling of Verity’s skirts betraying their haste. On the other side of the doors leading to the auditorium, Trent heard the fading aria and dying organ.
The third act would begin momentarily and he wanted to leave before his sister began her solo. Her performing on the Seattle stage still set his teeth on edge. He’d been vehemently opposed to her role in the plan.
Verity motioned to the cloak check. “I need my things. You mustn’t wait for me.”
“I’ll wait.” He fished in his pocket and drew out the token for his cloak. Then he took Verity’s token and handed both to the girl behind the counter. Verity cast him a nervous, curious look, but held her tongue while her cloak and umbrella were retrieved. He felt he could read and predict the questions flitting through her head as he folded his cloak over his arm and drew Verity outside to resume the conversation.
“Why would you risk breaking into Steele’s room?” Verity asked as they passed through the outer doors and paused beneath the stoop. He held her cloak while she tucked it around her shoulders. Trent nodded and led her to the sidewalk. The rain fell on his bare head and trickled off his ear. Fog was forming on the lenses the glasses perched on the edge of Verity’s nose.
“For you.”
Verity tightened her lips and lowered her eyebrows as if she didn’t believe him. “Why?”
He nodded at the dark gardens. Beyond the maze of boxwood hedges, cherry trees in full blossom, lilacs in fat clusters, a rose trellis scaled the hotel wall and stopped inches below a shuttered window. “I think I’m a better climber than you. As delightful as it would be to watch you on the trellis.”
She didn’t say anything but scowled as they made their way down the walk. Rain dripped from the eaves in fat drops that fell with a loud kerplunk. Horses jingled their harnesses and coaches rolled through the muddy streets with sucking sloshes. They stopped in front of a black and silver coach and Trent knocked on the door. A curtain twitche
d and then the door swung open.
“Sir?” Mugs stuck his curly head out the door.
“Could you be so kind as to deliver Miss Faye to—”
The sound of rain, horses, and wind whistling through the coach filled an awkward pause. Trent finished, “To wherever she’d like to go.” It didn’t matter if she didn’t tell him her address. If she were no longer living with her aunt, he’d get the directions from Mugs and see her again, soon. He pressed her hand. “Goodnight, Miss Faye.”
CHAPTER 6
Brazilian nuts need to be shed of their bitter, papery brown skin. Toasting will improve the flavor of all nuts and make them appealingly crisp.
From The Recipes of Verity Faye
While the organ wailed in its pit and the dancers stomped on the stage, Trent stood outside the Grand Hotel, huddled inside his cloak against the drizzle. He’d been watching Steele’s window for several minutes—he’d been watching Steele for much longer. The man sailed in and out of Seattle with regularity and he usually had a young female in attendance: a niece, a goddaughter, always a respectable explanation for a situation that bordered on shady. The one hiccough in the pattern had been Verity. Why had she masqueraded as Steele on the ship? Why had she tried to break into his room?
Verity and the revolving females had sparked Trent’s curiosity and he wondered if Steele had ever accompanied Gracey. She’d disappeared a little more than a month ago sending his imperturbable grandmother into a frenzy that increased daily.
Trent had, perhaps, an unreasonable confidence in the rose arbor’s ability to carry his weight, but, given the surge of anger he experienced every time he thought of Steele’s female menagerie, Verity breaking into Steele’s room, and what could have happened should she have been discovered, adrenaline pulsed through him and pushed him upward.
While a cloud passed in front of the moon and the organ music climbed to a crescendo, Trent scaled the wall of The Grand. His boots crushed roses and thorns poked through his leather gloves. Coming level to the window, he pushed open the shutters and hoisted himself over the sill.