by Eloise Alden
Without aid of moon or stars, Trent had to let his eyes adjust to the inky darkness. He brushed bits of leaves and petals off his clothes as he looked around the room. A lone beam of light shot out from under the door leading to the hall and fanned across the floor. Steele’s room appeared identical to the room he’d just shared with Verity, minus the face paints and trumpery and with the addition of a large traveling chest. How many goons had it taken to lug that around?
He didn’t bother with the chest. While a pair of footsteps sounded in the hall, Trent stood still and silent beside the wardrobe, searching for a safe. The footsteps paused outside the door and then resumed. Trent let out his breath and then noticed a wrinkle in the throw rug. He kicked it back and inspected the wooden planks marching together in perfect symmetry. He bent down for a closer look and, as he had suspected, two of the boards were missing pegs. Trent’s heart picked up speed as he pulled his knife from his belt and wedged it between the boards. Removing the slats, he found the safe. No bigger than a bread box, he easily lifted it from its nook and tucked it beneath his cloak. Then he made his way back out the window, but rather than taking the trellis, he scooted along the eaves and jumped to a second story balcony.
He’d intended to break the lock but had a better idea. In the shadows, away from all eyes, except those of a large tomcat who had come to watch, Trent worked Verity’s hairpin against the safe’s lock. The pin bent and snapped. Trent softly swore. He wanted to tell Verity of the uselessness of her weapon; he wanted to tell her she had to stay away from Steele and hotel rooms. He wanted to tell her everything he suspected Steele of but he also feared he’d never see her again and therefore would never be able to tell her anything at all.
He shook the safe, the hairpin dislodged and, much to his surprise, the lock clicked open, spilling the safe’s contents onto the balcony. Trent tucked a leather packet of what appeared to be business papers into his breast pocket before he turned his attention to a collection of velvet bags. He upended a small one and a pair of diamond earrings caught a moonbeam. Quickly, not wanting to dwell on the woman who had probably disappeared along with her jewels, he returned the diamonds and bag. The third bag held a pearl and diamond necklace with matching earrings. His heart stirred as he held the gems. Exhilaration at having come one step closer to Gracey mixed with dread. Her disappearance had been easier to bear when he hadn’t a thought or a guess of her probable fate.
He pocketed Gracey’s jewels and tossed the others into the safe. The angry surge that had carried him up the trellis sent him back into Steele’s room. He dismissed any thoughts or yearnings for immediate revenge. He debated on whether or not to contact the law, Sheriff Calhoun, his grandmother’s nemesis. What would his gram advise? Leave before getting caught.
With an ear cocked for movement outside the door, Trent returned the safe to its hidey-hole, slid the floorboards into place and replaced the carpet. He didn’t know when Steele would next check the safe, but he hoped it would be soon. Thinking of Steele finding the theft made him smile. As he eased out the window, shut the blinds, and scaled the trellis, he imagined Steele opening the safe. An ordinary thief would take all the jewels and an ordinary man in Steele’s position would break into a sweat.
But Steele was no ordinary man.
A shadow loomed on the dew-sparkled grass. The cloud that had been covering the moon had been chased by a cold wind. The long, hulking shadow turned in Trent’s direction. Hanging from the trellis with no place to hide, Trent swung out his boot. All his anger and aggravation slammed into Orson’s face. As Orson stumbled, Trent felt relief to see the familiar snake tattoo curling around the man’s wrist; at least he hadn’t booted an innocent man.
Orson stumbled before regaining his balance. Trent jumped down in time to take a blow to the face. What had Verity said? Fists at the ready? Although pain clouded his vision, he saw Orson cocking his right paw for another strike. Too late, he lifted his arm to block Orson’s throw. My fists aren’t always ready, he thought as his head thundered in pain. He blinked, realizing he couldn’t see out of one eye. He ducked in anticipation; his stomach muscles clenched for the expected blow. He braced his legs, lowered his head, and leaned in for the fight. Orson’s fist slammed into his gut, another landed on his chin, and as Trent reeled, he caught a fleeting glimpse of an umbrella whizzing through the air.
#
Cold damp seeped through Verity’s slipper shoes. She stared at the man at her feet. In his bloody position, he reminded her so much of Steele that she shook. The umbrella slipped through her fingers and landed beside him. A trickle of blood oozed from behind Orson’s left ear. She took a deep breath and blinked back tears. Wringing her hands, she told herself she had done the right thing, but the horror of past and present experiences kept her rooted in numb shock.
Trent touched his bloody eye with his fingers. “Well done,” he said. He bowed his head and smiled. “I owe you.”
Verity raised her eyes to Trent. “Perhaps we’re even.” She tried to return his smile. She wanted to focus on him because he was tall, blond, blue eyed, with skin the color of health, but all she could see was Steele lying bleeding on the floor of her tiny New York sitting room.
Would she ever be free? How far would she have to run? Would she have to leave Seattle? She didn’t have another aunt. Selling her jewels, finding somewhere to live on her own, she didn’t think she could do it. She’d already come so far. The thought of starting over, again, made her head pound. Pressing her fingers to her temples, she tried to think.
Trent scooped up the umbrella, took Verity’s arm and steered her away from Orson. She stumbled after him.
“You’re a murderous little thing,” Trent said.
“I know,” Verity muttered as she let him pull her through the gardens of The Grand. Roses bloomed along the path and climbed arbors. Moonlight trickled through the boughs of dogwood trees and lilacs and cast speckled shadows on the brick path. How different the night could be if it not for Orson lying in a pool of blood.
“Shouldn’t we stay and make sure he’s all right? Call a doctor?” Her voice quivered and she cleared her throat to hold it steady.
“He’ll be all right, well the same as he was before. Whether you thought him right or not is debatable.” Trent twirled the umbrella. “Is it made of lead?”
“It’s forged iron.”
Trent stopped on the sidewalk, inspecting the umbrella she’d bought for protection from more than the weather. He opened and closed it several times. “It looks so harmless.”
“I bought it in Brazil,” Verity said, her voice holding steady.
“Is that where you boarded the ship?” When she didn’t answer he said, “You’re a funny person, Verity Faye.” His curiosity was almost tangible. She could see it in his eyes.
The theater crowd spilled onto the sidewalk carrying the scents of alcohol, tobacco, and sweat. The tide of men and a few well-dressed women swarmed around them, looking for their coaches. Verity watched them with envy. Most of their faces were lit with smiles. They looked happy, relaxed, a few inebriated. She wondered if she’d ever feel at peace again. Had that ease of conscience died when she’d left Steele for dead in New York? Had he taken more from her than her home and livelihood? “I don’t find thwacking people humorous,” Verity whispered, clutching Trent’s arm.
“Well, it was useful,” he said into her ear. He walked her the short distance to his coach and placed one hand on her elbow and the other on the small of her back. His warmth traveled through her clothes and layers of linen and silk.
She balked. “I shouldn’t be seen alone in a closed coach with you.”
Trent held her arm and moved his hand to her waist. “Nor should you be caning goons, but this is Seattle, not New York.”
She didn’t reply, so he continued, “Conventions are different here.”
“But I’m not,” she said over her shoulder as he lifted her into the coach. She wondered how he knew she’d come from New Y
ork and what else he knew of her.
“Of course, you’re not.” He dropped onto the velvet seat beside her. “It’s very conventional for a well-bred young lady to bean villains in dark hotel gardens and attempt to break into locked hotel rooms with bent hairpins.” He turned to address his driver. “I thought I’d given you instructions to take Miss Faye home.”
The man shrugged. “She didn’t want to go, sir.”
A velvet bag slipped from Trent’s waist coat and a pearl necklace spilled onto the dark seat. With his back turned, Trent couldn’t have noticed. It reminded Verity so much of her mother’s jewelry, she wanted to touch it. When Trent turned to face her, his cape covered the necklace.
Verity shifted, looked out the window and drew her shawl closer, suddenly cold. Trent watched her, and she tried not to shiver beneath his stare. Could the jewelry belong to his wife or a betrothed? Or had he stolen them? Had he taken them from Steele’s room?
“Why are you interested in Steele’s investments?” he asked again, his voice smooth, low, and yet authoritative.
In the filtered moonlight streaming through the coach windows she saw the outline of his strong jaw, the tension in his arms, shoulders and neck. Lounging against the velvet lined cushions he looked at ease, but something about him reminded her of a large cat, ready to pounce. A creature that could turn from purring to predatory. His golden hair had a barely controlled look: wavy, thick, and just long enough to tie in a short queue at the back of his neck.
She tried to smile and tilted her head as she’d seen Minnie do countless times. She pasted on the wide-eyed expression of a practiced coquette and fluttered her eyelashes.
He studied her. She tried to hold his gaze, but after a moment had to look away. He wouldn’t be teased. “What aren’t you telling me, Miss Faye?”
She watched as they pulled from the curb, away from the gaily dressed theater patrons. She could taste her disappointment; she’d thought she’d be happy in Seattle. She adored her aunt, she enjoyed working in the shop; she loved her new friends. She looked at Trent, wondering if circumstances had been different if they could have become friends. Perhaps they still could. Assuming, she thought with a glance at the velvet bag poking out from under his cloak, he wasn’t a thief. Assuming she could stop Steele from ruining her new life. Remembering Georgina’s request, she said, “I’ve questions for you as well.”
Trent pressed back into the seat. “Indeed.”
Verity leaned forward, swaying with the motion of the coach. “A man doesn’t scale a trellis to search another man’s room on just a lady’s suggestion.”
“No?”
“No. Why did you climb a rose trellis in the rain?”
They pulled in front of the house on Lily Hill; a lone candle burned in the window. Verity’s heart contracted with love for her aunt. She’d be worried. If Steele continued to be a problem, Verity would be jeopardizing Tilly.
If she had to leave, where would she go?
Trent reached out and took Verity’s hand. He’d taken off his gloves and she felt the gentle pulse of his blood. Her own temperature rose to meet his and her face warmed.
“Tomorrow I’ll come by. If you’ll share with me what you know about Steele, I’ll share with you what I’ve found.”
He still held her hand. She wanted him to release her, yet she couldn’t pull away. “You found something?” Other than jewels? She suspected he wouldn’t be interested in sharing jewelry.
“I’m not completely useless,” he said, his lips turning up at the corners.
The driver snorted from behind the curtain. She’d forgotten about him and had thought they were alone.
Trent tightened his grip on her hand. “As I hope to prove tomorrow.”
“When you’ll share with me what you’ve found.”
“When you’ll share with me what you know.”
#
Trent let himself into the small townhome he shared with Chloe on Queen Anne Hill. From the back window he had a view of the city and the ships bobbing in the Sound. Cold, he lit a fire in the grate and then poured himself a brandy, noticing for the first time the color perfectly matched Verity’s hair. The true color of her hair. He tossed the drink back and felt it burn down his throat as he warmed before the fire.
Who was this girl? Where had she come from? Why was she interested in Steele’s involvement in Lucky Island?
Soon, Chloe would return. He needed to decide how much he would tell her. Chloe loved Gracey with a passion. Incapable of being lukewarm, Chloe approached every situation with a gung-ho or oh-no fervor. He loved his sister, but he was glad she hadn’t yet returned from the theater. He needed to think.
Trent settled into a reading chair and poured the pearls into his hand. They twinkled and he wished they could tell him the story of how they’d traveled from Gracey’s neck to Steele’s safe. Could Steele have gotten them through innocent means? He thought of the other bags of jewels and his stomach clenched. Did each pouch represent a missing girl? Maybe the jewelry belonged to Steele’s infamous dead wife, but he didn’t think so.
He had never met Claris, but he’d heard whispers. Strong, intelligent, a ruthless businesswoman, what had she ever seen in the womanizing Steele? Rumor claimed she held the purse strings and marital reins equally tight.
Trent pulled out the leather packet he’d stolen from Steele’s safe and flicked through the contents. All the contracts had Steele’s name, but only the later ones bore his signature. The earlier contracts had been signed with a strong, flourishing pen, unlike Steele’s sketchy scrawl. Steele had been involved in a number of business dealings over the years, but what surprised Trent the most was the identities of his cohorts. Recognizing the signature of Sheriff Calhoun, Trent realized his grandmother had been right about not going to the sheriff.
He pulled out the purchasing contract for on the property on Lucky Island and smoothed it out. After a moment, he tossed the papers to the floor, pulled off his tie, kicked off his boots and let his head fall back against the chair. What could Verity Faye want from Steele?
When he closed his eyes, he saw her holding that ridiculous umbrella and staring at him with eyes bright with unshed tears, pink cheeks, black hair vanishing against the night sky. In his dream she tried to tell him something, but then, like Gracey, she disappeared.
#
Because her body cried for rest, Verity hoped to sleep, but her still-tense muscles couldn’t let loose even after she’d slipped between the cool sheets. In her mind, Verity replayed the dialogue with Trent. She rolled over and put the pillow over her head, trying to make his mocking smile and curving lips disappear. Heat spread through her as she relived the pressure of his hands holding hers, the feel of his body against hers. This won’t do, she thought, curling into a ball, tucking her legs into her gown. An involvement with Trent, a relationship with anyone, would be impossible as long as Steele remained. Perhaps Steele is just passing through, never to return, the hope comforted her, her tension eased and finally, her fatigue caught up with her racing mind. Determining that she only had to wait for Steele to leave, Verity slept.
But he starred in her dreams.
Central Park. Springtime. Blue skies dotted with fluffy white clouds. Dandelions, buttercups, tulips and crocus. A bear growled at the peacocks wandering past his cage.
“The bear is visiting from Russia,” a child beside her said. “Supposedly, it can dance.”
Verity replied, “It does little but lumber and complain.”
“It seems unkind to allow these flocks to congregate around the bear,” Steele said.
“He looks very well fed. I’m sure he’s not tempted by a few sheep,” Verity replied, sizing up the animal that resembled a furry tree stump.
“I don’t like the sheep,” the child said before moving away to watch the one-man band.
Verity silently agreed. The sheep were the color of slushy snow and had stragglers hanging from their wool. They moved and smelled like a sluggish
creek and littered the paths. She much preferred the goats; they had intelligent eyes and darted about as if they had a sense of humor, if not a sense of purpose. Humor, frankly, was a much-underrated attribute and she’d begun to despair of Steele’s.
“Temptation,” Steele murmured. “I understand temptation.”
Verity considered him. Rich, handsome, charming, why did he set her teeth on edge? When did she realize the jitters he sent her were unpleasant? “Are you fond of mutton? Should I warn the sheep?”
He turned to her and ran a finger down her bare arm, sending a shiver across her back. “I’m fond of buttons, undone buttons in particular.”
Verity woke in a sweat, her breathing labored and heavy. With sleep a distant and unpleasant memory, she flung back the covers and swung out of bed. The floorboards felt cold and solid against her feet. She covered the small room in ten strides. She needed answers, she had decisions to make, she had to be on solid ground.
A cheery quilt on the feather bed, a night table large enough for a book and candlestick, a wardrobe bursting with clothes, she loved her new home and she wanted to stay. She thought about Trent and how it felt to be close to him in the warm, secluded coach. He’d foiled her plans earlier, but was there still time? She went to the window and watched a pink sunrise tinge the sky.
Six thirty a.m. Was it sane? Had she completely lost her mind?
Crouching, she pulled the worn knapsack out from under the bed. With shaking fingers, she drew out her father’s clothes.
CHAPTER 7
A healthy breakfast will not only provide energy for the day but will also promote concentration, problem-solving skills, and eye-hand coordination.
From The Recipes of Verity Faye
Trent had been wrong. She was good at trellis climbing. Of course, it held more risk in the breaking day as opposed to the dark night, but Verity moved quickly and quietly and soon landed on the second story balcony. Not Steele’s room, but close. She hunched beneath the railing so she couldn’t be seen by anyone other than a lazy Tomcat that watched through slit eyes while he completed his morning bath.