by Lisa Bingham
“Of course I’m in here,” she snapped, just as a heavy object smashed against the planks and the portal flew wide, whacking the opposite wall, then shuddering to a halt.
Fiona stood stunned. He’d broken down the door! Calm, controlled, implacable Jacob Grey had smashed the lock to smithereens. When he turned his attention in her direction, his untoward behavior fled from her mind, replaced by the immediate necessity of covering herself against the scalding heat of his eyes.
She whipped a damp bathsheet about her body, tossing him a scathing glance. “Ye could have knocked. Ye didn’t have t’ kick the blasted thing in!”
He took two steps into the room, then stopped, breathing hard, his muscles visibly relaxing. “You didn’t leave.”
“Of course I didn’t leave! Have ye lost yer ever-lovin’ mind? Ye told me t’ stay, and I did. Ye told me t’ bathe, and I did.”
“I didn’t think you’d listen to my instructions.”
She snorted, and he obviously felt compelled to defend himself. “You’ve never followed my orders yet.”
“Perhaps…” she drawled, brushing past him like a queen robed in wet linen, “that’s because ye never had anything all that important t’ say.”
She opened her mouth to add an even more scathing remark but stopped in her tracks when she passed the threshold leading to the main room and caught sight of a little man with a valise cowering next to the door leading into the hallway. “Hello.”
He started at her greeting, then smiled tremulously, adjusting the wire-rimmed spectacles that were perched upon the tip of his nose.
“This is Mr. Peebles,” Jacob muttered, planting a hand in the hollow of her spine and pushing her into the room to confront the stranger. “Mr. Peebles is a tailor newly come to Chicago. I’ve hired him to help with your wardrobe, but he needs your measurements first.”
Fiona grew still, a slow anger building within her. Not so much because of the shy man who stared her way, or because she stood in front of him wearing nothing but a bathsheet, but because of what he represented. “A tailor? Ye’ve hired a tailor? Damn ye, Jacob Grey, I—”
Jacob took her by the elbow and drew her into the bedroom, shutting the door behind them.
“Fiona, if this is going to work at all, you’ve got to guard your tongue. Especially in front of strangers!” He opened his mouth to speak, paused, then asked, “What smells in here?”
Fiona stamped her foot on the floor, but the gesture lost some of its power when muffled by the carpet. “Blast it all to hell, Grey, I told ye I wouldn’t stand for yer insulting attitude!” She drew herself to a regal height but was still forced to look up at him. “Ye leave me here fer over a day! I’ve had nothin’ t’eat but a bloomin’ fruit basket, nothin’ t’ wear but a blasted sheet—”
“That’s where I’ve been.” He poked her in the chest. “Finding someone to clothe you.”
She growled in frustration. “Blast it all, have ye no ken of what ye’re doin’ t’ me? Regardless of my wishes, ye’ve brought a no-nothing man t’ garb me. Not a woman, not a seamstress, not a couturier, but a man.”
“I am not insulting you. I told you, this entire situation demands the utmost discretion—”
“A tailor?”
“—therefore we need someone who doesn’t have a tendency to talk—”
“A tailor!”
“—such as a woman is prone to do. You know how they like to spread gossip.”
After digesting his remark that women were no more capable of holding a secret than a sieve of storing water, Fiona stared at him in utter amazement. How had this man survived so far without having some woman crack him over the head with a skillet?
“Mr. Peebles will fashion some lovely clothes, I assure you. He’s told me that he’s made women’s—Blast it all, Fiona, what is that smell?”
“He’s made what? What has this man made?”
He waved a dismissing hand. “All that stuff and nonsense females use. He shouldn’t find our order for garments too difficult to fill. After all, how different can women’s wear be from fashioning a suit?”
“Jacob Grey, ye are so… so…” Refusing to bow to his level and sling a few insults of her own concerning the hardheaded stupidity of lawmen in general, she decided on a more direct form of protest. Drawing back her foot, she kicked him in the shins, then, without pause, opened the door and sailed into the sitting room.
Mr. Peebles jerked as if he’d been caught doing something he oughtn’t be, when in fact he’d done nothing at all but stand by the door, hugging his valise to his torso as if it were a foundling child.
Realizing that this was her first contact with someone who would not know her as an Irish immigrant accustomed to living hand-to-mouth but as a wealthy British widow, Fiona paused, then summoned her most gracious airs. Haughty social graces were no trouble to assume after years of watching those who “had” from the position of one who “had not.”
“Mr. Peebles, pardon our manners.” She offered him a coy smile and the slightest of winks. Walking toward him, she extended a hand, bonelessly draped from the wrist. “How lovely t’ meet you.” Despite her attempts to speak like the queen herself, a wee bit of brogue escaped.
The stooped, curly-haired man had been steadily inching his way sideways to the door, but he stopped now and offered her a tremulous smile. When she did not chide, he reluctantly took her hand in a grip that was little more than a sandwiching of her fingers between his own.
Fiona waited, waited, until he’d summoned enough nerve to bend and kiss the delicate knuckles. Beaming, as much because it was expected of her as through sheer delight at having her role believed so readily, she said, “I understand you are going to make my wardrobe.” There. That was better. One whole sentence without a trace of the Irish.
Peebles reluctantly released her and swept his bowler from his head, obviously embarrassed at not having done so earlier. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Have you studied the current modes? I am a woman of fashion, you know.”
If this little man with his receding hairline and corkscrew curls doubted her claim, he made no signs. Indeed, he appeared inordinately pleased to be in her company, despite her obvious deshabille.
Hiking his valise a little higher, he quickly said, “I shall endeavor to do my best to see that your new things meet your expectations, madam. In fact, I’ve taken the liberty of bringing my sample case with me, as well as some of the newer issues of the fashion gazettes loaned to me by the hotel. If you don’t see what you need, I’d be happy to order whatever you require.”
He believed her to be a wealthy British widow. Fiona couldn’t prevent the smile that teased her lips. The next few weeks would be exciting indeed if everyone else proved to be so easily fooled.
“How very clever of you to think of everything in advance, Mr. Peebles.” Relaxing in his company, she linked her arm through his and drew him to the settee. “Come and show me what you have.”
As they settled upon the cushions, she offered little more than a glance at Jacob, who was limping into the room. But when he continued to stand just on the periphery of her vision, his features clouded in an ominous scowl, she realized that he was not about to disappear and leave her alone with Mr. Peebles to complete their orders.
Mr. Peebles touched the bridge of his nose, fiddled with his spectacles, and glanced nervously over the rims. Seeing his obvious distress and the evident confusion as to how to regard their relationship, Fiona asked, “Mr. Peebles, have you met me—my bodyguard, Mr. Grey?”
The tailor’s keen eyes jumped from her bath-flushed cheeks to the man in question. It was obvious that he’d heard the way Jacob had forced his way into the bathing room, then their later scuffle of wills. “Yes, indeed. We have met. Earlier. That is to say, this afternoon.”
“Mr. Grey was kind enough to arrange your services while I washed the grime of travel free.” She met his gaze and bobbed her head encouraging
ly, hoping the funny little man would take her explanation at face value and not probe deeper for some kind of scandal.
“I see.”
“Do y’ see, Mr. Peebles?” she returned quickly, earnestly, then concentrated again on proper diction. Peebles appeared somewhat startled by her rejoinder, and she leaned closer as if confiding a secret. “I’m afraid you must excuse his brash behavior. Sometimes Mr. Grey grows a little overzealous in his job.” She touched his hand, and the man’s eyes widened. “My life is in danger.”
“Really?” he breathed.
“Oh, yes. I’ve had threats—letters, telegrams—you know about that sort of thing.”
It was obvious that Mr. Peebles had no idea about anything of the kind, but he whispered, “Oh, yes.”
“I’m afraid I’ve been forced to take drastic measures.”
“Oh, dear.”
“I’ve left my country, my home, my family.”
“Oh, my.”
“I’ve come all the way to Chicago, and still… I’m being terrorized.”
The little tailor blanched. “How awful.”
“If not for Mr. Grey, I would be dead.”
He gasped.
“Yes, Mr. Peebles, dead.” Having obviously scared the man, she straightened and smiled. “So you see why I keep him on, despite his horrible manners. Mr. Grey might be a bit of a brute, and at times he displays the tact of a bull charging through a china-shop window, but he is very large, very strong, and carries a very big gun.”
Mr. Peebles’s eyes grew as round as a pair of goose eggs.
“A woman in my position, a stranger to this country, cannot be too careful. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Mr. Peebles nodded emphatically.
“Even if Mr. Grey can be quite boorish at times.”
She knew Jacob could hear each word she said, despite the confidential level of her voice. However, he gave no sign. No sign, that was, except for the slight glitter of his dark eyes. Unable to resist one last jibe, she sighed. “It is so difficult to find good help, don’t you think?”
Mr. Peebles nodded as if he quite agreed and, moreover, he sympathized with every fiber of his being.
She grinned and patted his arm. “You’re really quite sweet, Mr. Peebles.”
The man positively blushed.
“I’m pleased you were able to help me during this distressing period of my life.”
“Mr. Grey said your things were lost in transit to Chicago.”
Fiona didn’t even blink at the simple lie Jacob must have told him. “Yes. My trunks were clearly marked, but alas, they are probably on their way to China by now.” She gestured to the sheet wrapped about her torso. “As you can see, I’ve nothing—literally nothing—to wear.”
Mr. Peebles’s chest puffed out in importance. “Then we must get to work right away.” He hefted his sample case on the table in front of the settee and flicked the catches. “I borrowed a fabric book from a seamstress on Oak Street. We should be able to find something suitable that I can have sewn for you by morning. That will see you through until I can finish the rest of your wardrobe.”
“How very clever of you to think of such a thing.”
Mr. Peebles tried to smother a look of infinite pleasure but failed miserably in the task. Fiona took the opportunity to meet the gaze of the man who glowered at them from the corner. “Mr. Grey, since we’ll have no need of you for the time being, would you be so kind as to arrange for a tea tray to be brought up to the suite? I’m frightfully thirsty, and I should think Mr. Peebles would care for some refreshment as well. Wouldn’t you, Mr. Peebles?”
The cherubic tailor beamed. “If it’s no trouble.”
“No trouble at all.” She met Jacob’s gaze, read the flicker of irritation deep inside, but pursued nonetheless. “Be a dear fellow, Jacob, and ask for some sort of cakes or sandwiches as well.”
Judging by the scowl creasing his features, Jacob had clearly intended to stay and mastermind the entire fitting session. But she’d effectively trapped him in his own web of lies. If he remained, Mr. Peebles would wonder why he had disobeyed her orders. If he left, he would have to trust her not to make a spectacle of herself. Amusement tickled her insides as she realized that Jacob thought such an occurrence a very real threat.
“We shall be fine for the few minutes you’ll be gone, I assure you. The door will be locked, and if my assailant should try to murder me, Mr. Peebles will provide protection. Won’t you, Mr. Peebles?”
“Oh, I don’t—”
“There, you see? It’s all settled.”
She could see the way Jacob fairly seethed at her very clever manipulating, but he growled, “Very well,” and charged to the door.
“Don’t be gone too long, Mr. Grey.”
He turned just before closing the panels.
“That is one thing, madam, upon which you can depend.”
Jacob stormed from the room, barely restraining the urge to hurl the door closed behind him. He had the sudden, uncomfortable feeling that he’d just created a monster.
Blast Fiona’s impudence, he thought as he stomped down the hall. Had she forgotten so soon that he was the man in charge? Had she forgotten that this wasn’t some parlor game to be enacted, but a serious attempt to apprehend a dangerous criminal?
Trust her to adopt some Mary Queen of Scots attitude in an attempt to gain the upper hand. Mr. Peebles had taken one look at her tousled hair and damp, linen-wrapped body and melted into a spineless puddle of solicitude. By the time Jacob returned, she would have the man twined about her little finger and jumping through hoops.
He snorted aloud, startling a chambermaid who was leaving a room down the hall. Ignoring her wide-eyed stare, he marched past.
This wasn’t the first time Jacob had seen a gentleman show this peculiar reaction to Fiona McFee. In the past few years, Jacob had been in contact with her father’s marks enough to know that—despite what Mickaleen may have done—his daughter had always been held in the highest regard. She was considered to be a lovely girl, an angel, a dear.
Angel his ass, he thought bitterly, remembering the way she’d held out her hand to let the little tailor kiss her. Kiss her. He hadn’t been in the room more than a few seconds and she had him taking orders. How she did it, Jacob couldn’t entirely fathom. He only knew that after a minute or two in her presence, people gravitated toward her, hung on her every word. That was one of the reasons the governor had decided she would be the woman to help in this matter. He’d met Fiona McFee twice at official soirees at which her father, masquerading as British royalty, had appeared, and he invariably referred to her as “that delightful child.”
But she wasn’t a child.
Jacob stopped short midway down the main staircase. His steps became slow, deliberate, as his attention turned inward, to analyze the complex swirl of emotions he had experienced in the past few hours.
Fiona had always irritated him. That fact was as constant as the sun that rose and set each day. But somehow, things had changed between them. Each time Jacob saw her, he couldn’t squelch the erratic thoughts that wriggled into his head. Thoughts that were entirely inappropriate. Thoughts that were entirely…
Sensual.
“Was there something you needed, sir?”
Jacob started, realizing he’d made his way to the front desk without being aware of his own movements. Tapping his finger on the marble counter, he wondered what this man would think if he demanded to know what had occurred to change the Fiona McFee he’d once known inside and out. The one with scraggling braids and skinned knees. The impish minx with a flaring temper. What had happened to her—or to him—to suddenly complicate this entire situation?
“Sir?”
“Tea.”
The man stared at him blankly, and Jacob scraped his thoughts together and frowned. “Could you please send some tea and refreshments to the Ambassador Suite?”
“Yes, sir!” At the
mention of the hotel’s most prestigious set of rooms, the clerk snapped to attention. Jacob glared at the man, realizing that here lay another conquest merely waiting for Fiona’s attention.
“For how many, sir?”
“What?”
“The tea.”
“Two—no, three!” Jacob quickly corrected. Bloody hell, he wasn’t about to leave her alone with Mr. Peebles. If the two of them became too chummy, there was no telling what she might do. No telling at all. “Can you put something to eat on the tray as well?”
“Of course, sir. Sandwiches, cookies, tarts?”
“Yeah.” He ignored the way the man’s brow rose in confusion and wondered if there were some special protocol to ordering tea. His sister would know. Lettie had always concerned herself with learning the social graces, but Jacob hadn’t the time for such nonsense. Didn’t have the time for it now.
Lettie!
His mood instantly lightened. He had to get in touch with his sister. So far he hadn’t even told her he was in town, but she would forgive him for that oversight. She would help him. She would know how to bring Fiona to heel. Moreover, she would know just how to turn that damp, Irish caterpillar upstairs into a genteel society butterfly. Fiona might have Peebles momentarily fooled, but a sophisticated gambler would prove another matter.
Jacob leaned close to the clerk, as if imparting a secret, and asked, “Do you have a boy I can hire to deliver a message?”
The clerk automatically lowered his tone to a discreet murmur. “Of course, sir.”
Jacob took a sheet of hotel stationery and the gilt-tipped pen, dipped it in the ink provided on the swivel-based registration platform, and scrawled his note. After blowing on the ink so that it dried, he folded it in half.
“Have the boy take this to Mrs. Ethan McGuire at Twenty-Twenty Bunburry Cross.”
This time both brows rose. “Mrs. McGuire? The poet?”