by Lisa Bingham
“Very well. I’ll talk to Mr. Peebles.”
She took a step, but he stopped her, linking her arm through his own so that she wouldn’t charge ahead full steam.
“No, Fiona.” He sighed. “It’s become patently clear to me that neither of us is properly suited to prepare you for this endeavor.”
She eyed him curiously.
His mouth pursed as if he’d been forced to take a bitter medicine, but then he schooled his features into a mask of determination.
“I suppose that since my sister is unavailable…” He glared at the two elderly women who had followed them out of the hotel and were waiting eagerly next to the curb. “We’ll have to make do with the Beasleys.”
Their ride through town was a brief one—just enough to satisfy Fiona’s craving for a bit of fresh air. Then Jacob hustled her back to the hotel, taking the rear staircase this time.
He waited until Fiona had retired for the night before confronting the Beasleys. Standing at the threshold to the sitting room of the Ambassador Suite, he demanded, “Well, how much do you already know?”
The two women exchanged glances.
“Only what you said in your letter,” Alma responded carefully. “All we know is that you’re working undercover with an immigrant woman.”
“Her name is Fiona, Alma. We discovered that this afternoon.”
“Yes, Fiona.”
“We also know that you need our help in… refining her a little,” Amelia stated.
“As well as serving as her chaperones.”
Jacob sighed. That about summed things up in a nutshell. “You seem to know most of it.” He took three steps into the room. “Now it’s time you were told the rest. Then, once you are completely aware of what’s involved in… helping me, you can make up your mind whether or not to stay.”
Chapter 8
“Supper!”
Dub Merritt hooked the ring of iron keys to his belt, then took a battered tin tray of food from a dented iron trolley and strode toward the last cell at the end of the rear corridor. His shift at Exeter Prison had been a long one, causing his back to ache and his feet to throb, but he had only these last few meals to deliver, then he could exchange his uniform for a cool nightshirt and sleep the brunt of the afternoon away.
Thank heavens he only had one more week of working undercover in the prison. Once his report on Warden Carmichael’s extreme disciplinary practices had been made to the governor, Dub could return to other assignments and—with luck—the fresh country air he loved.
Sighing, he rapped his cudgel on the bars. A dirty stream of sunlight studded with dust motes shot across the narrow cubical, illuminating a cot, a pitcher, basin, chamber pot, and a single chair. Times being what they were, room in Exeter was sparse, forcing the inmates to share two, sometimes three convicts to a room. But this little space was residence for a single fellow. A tall angular prisoner with a shock of gray hair who, by virtue of his nature and his reputation, had the iron and stone area to himself.
Dub knew all about this man—every lawman in the state knew about him. He’d once been a circuit judge. But he’d forsaken his noble calling to form a vigilante group known as the Star Council of Justice and had terrorized most of Illinois under the guise of apprehending those who had somehow escaped the law’s influence. Dub knew only a portion of the details regarding his crimes, but it was said that The Judge had killed for money. Dub tended to believe such claims. There was an aura about The Judge, a sense of lingering power that caused the other convicts to call him “The Judge” behind his back—and “sir” to his face.
“Rise and shine, Judge!” Once again Dub rattled the iron bars with his cudgel and slipped the tray with its bowl of broth and a sliver of rye bread beneath the door. “Eat it now, or I’ll be feeding it to the dogs, y’ hear?”
For a few seconds there was no movement, causing Dub to squint at the shape half shrouded in shadow, half streaked with sunlight. “Judge?”
Just when his heart began to quicken ever so slightly in alarm, the man rolled over and stared at his captor, his eyes a piercing steel gray that echoed the glint of the iron chains of his suspended bunk. For a flickering moment, his gaze was filled with a stark hate, a bitter determination. Although Dub sensed the emotions were centered inward, he took an involuntary step away, then frowned at his own display of nervousness.
“Be up and about, mind you,” he warned briskly.
The Judge got up, unfolding himself bit by bit, until he stood tall and slim and lean. The buttery glow from the window streamed over the side of his face, illuminating the craggy features that were always impeccably clean and groomed no matter what the hour.
He retrieved his meal, his movements revealing an innate grace. One that was bred into a man by old money and a thorough education.
“Thank you, Dub.”
Ever polite, ever solicitous. It was enough to give a man the shivers, Dub thought as he nodded awkwardly in acknowledgment and returned to the trolley of similarly laden trays. Once there, he shot a quick glance over his shoulder, wondering how, while the other prisoners foundered and sickened on the weak fare, this man—ex-judge, murderer, and thief—had managed to stay so hale and hearty on the meager diet.
“Was there something you needed?”
The Judge had caught him in his scrutiny. Even though it was Dub who stood on the proper side of the bars, he found himself strangely defensive.
“No, no. Enjoy your meal.”
Enjoy your meal. He scowled in disgust at his own remark. This man was a prisoner—the worst sort of criminal. He had turned on his own kind. He’d betrayed his fellow lawmen.
But even as something within Dub warned him to go, he found himself watching in fascination as The Judge withdrew a linen napkin from the box of personal belongings beneath his bunk. He sat down, spread the square of fabric over his lap, then proceeded to eat his meal with the care and deliberation of a guest at the finest of hotels. The whole time he tasted, chewed, and enjoyed, his eyes were trained upon a clipping he’d glued to the opposite wall. The tiny scrap of paper displayed a line drawing of the man who had uncovered The Judge’s perfidy and brought him to heel: Marshal Jacob Grey.
Turning away, Dub resisted the urge to cross himself. He was not a superstitious man; he prided himself on that fact. Yet he could not deny that as he stared at The Judge, he felt as if a goose walked over his grave. There was something about the man, something deep in his eyes. A glint of purpose that did not bode well for the object of his concern.
Wrapping his fingers around the handle of the trolley, he pushed it, the wheels squeaking and complaining the entire way, toward the outer door. Just as he was about to leave, the portal opened from the opposite side, admitting Dub’s replacement for the next shift. He didn’t know the man’s name, but after spending only three weeks at Exeter, that was not unusual. His face was familiar, at least.
“Merritt.” The angular man nodded, the visor of his cap casting his face in an odd sort of shadow. The cuffs of his jacket seemed to have been hemmed far too high. “Any trouble today?”
Dub straightened and hooked his thumbs around his suspenders. “Not a bit. Quiet as lambs. The heat’s got them dead on their feet.”
“Mmm.” The unfamiliar guard propped the heavy door open with his toe. “What an apt choice of words.”
Unable to assimilate what the man meant to do, Dub watched in astonishment as the stranger drew his revolver from his holster and aimed it at Dub’s chest. Dub’s arms lifted in reflex, his legs buckled. An explosion of sound reverberated, the noise bouncing on stone and seeming to echo again and again. Dub felt a searing pressure strike his ribs, felt his limbs give way, then the smack of his body striking the rough rock floor.
Oh, God. Oh, God. The prayer slipped silently from his lips. A warmth began to spread over his chest, down his side. His eyes squeezed closed, then flickered open again when he heard the sharp rap of bootheels next to his head.
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The man who had shot him stepped over his prone body without bothering to glance down. He moved with the casual, cocky assurance of a person who knew that Fate intended to work to his advantage.
The sound of the gunshot had roused the other members of the cellblock, and the prisoners rushed to extend their arms through the bars and gawk.
The guard lifted his revolver, sighted. Dub’s eyes closed tightly again, blocking out the horrible vision he saw, one clouded by a haze of pain and denial. But he couldn’t dam the sounds, the shots, the thud of a prisoner dropping to the ground, another, another, another.
Dub choked on a sob. Oh, God. Oh, God. But God didn’t hear him—or perhaps He did. For as The Judge carefully removed the line drawing from the wall and walked from the room with a casual disregard for all that had occurred…
Dub knew he was the only man alive.
“She’s very beautiful, Alma.”
“Lovely.”
“We should have no troubles as her chaperones.”
“No troubles at all.”
“However, I shouldn’t think a little matchmaking would be amiss.”
“No indeed.”
“I’ve always longed to attend a fall wedding.”
At the word “wedding,” Fiona’s eyes popped open, immediately taking in the darkened room, the closed draperies, and the two shadowy figures hovering near the foot of her bed.
She automatically grasped the sheets, pulling them tightly to her throat. Was she forever to be caught unawares first thing in the morning? But this time there was no need for protecting her modesty from a gentleman’s eyes. The Beasleys beamed, pleased that she had woken up.
“Good morning, my dear,” Alma offered.
“Good morning!” the tiny one echoed, wagging her fingers in an added greeting.
Feeling disoriented, Fiona sat up in bed and propped her shoulders on the headboard. Still clutching the blankets, she stared at the pair as if they had been conjured from some sort of dream.
“I do believe we’ve frightened her, Alma,” the little one whispered in a voice that, despite its tone, could have been heard quite well in the opposite room.
“Nonsense, Amelia.” The larger woman marched to the far side of the room, where a pink-papered box had been left near a pile of assorted trunks—those belonging to the Beasleys, she supposed. Fiona rubbed her eyes and pushed the hair from her forehead, wondering who had brought the baggage into her room, and when. Had she slept so soundly that all manner of visitors had crept into her bedroom? Or had the things been brought by only one person? Jacob?
The thought caused a strange tingling sensation to plunder her veins. She still had no nightclothes to wear, so she had been forced to slip beneath the clean sheets completely unclothed. If Jacob had come into the room, how much had he seen? What had he thought? Had he gazed at her, studied her?
“You’re a little pale, my dear. Aren’t you feeling well?” The question came from Amelia, who had noiselessly approached and now patted the top of her head. At a glance, she knew that the question had been uttered with real concern.
“I’m a bit confused,” she answered, her gaze bouncing from one woman to the other.
“Don’t you remember, dear?” Amelia’s apple-withered face bunched into a web of tiny wrinkles as she grinned. “We’re to be your chaperones.”
The events of the last few days rushed to the fore, and with them the complex tangle of emotions. The Beasleys. Alma and Amelia. Jacob had left her to their care.
“Jacob has since found rooms for us across the hall.”
“But the manager let us in here this morning so that we could store our things.”
Manager? Fiona clutched the covers even more securely.
“He was very congenial.”
“Very handsome.”
“And so young—only mid-fifties, wouldn’t you say, Sister?”
“That would be my guess.”
The two turned their attention to Fiona.
“Tell me, dear: Was your father a pastor? Or did you just return from some sort of religious mission?”
“Mission?”
“Your dresses.” Amelia grimaced. “I don’t mean to be rude, but they must have come from charity barrels or something of that sort. Only Mr. Peebles’s creation seems fit for wearing—although I’d say it’s a trifle severe.” When Fiona didn’t answer, she made a dismissing gesture. “No matter. We’re here to help you. You’ll be needing to shop.”
“Shop?” Fiona glanced from one elderly woman to the other. “But Mr. Peebles—”
“Has enough on his hands with finishing your suits and gowns. We’ll need to spend some time gathering your accessories,” Amelia inserted.
“You’re just confusing her with your prattle, Amelia.”
“I don’t mean to.”
Alma sniffed and lifted the lid of the pink box, pushing aside a layer of tissue paper. “Nevertheless, perhaps we should wait until later before offering any more comments.” She crossed to the bed. “Come along, dear. We’ll see to it that you have a bite to eat, then we’ll help you dress.”
Fiona opened her mouth to explain to these women that she had no clothes other than the garments they thought were part of a charity donation and the black suit they’d complained was too “severe,” but Alma shook her hands and the creation she held fell to the floor in a slither of silk and lace.
“Oh.”
It was the only sound Fiona could manage to push from her throat. Never in her life had she seen such an exquisite garment. The wrapper had been formed of raw ivory silk interspersed with hand-stitched lace and cut-work. Beneath, another lining of pale pink silk enhanced the gossamer quality of the robe.
“Come along, dear. We haven’t much time.”
Somewhat shy of her nakedness, Fiona edged toward the side of the bed.
“She’s quite bashful, Alma,” Amelia murmured sotto voce.
“A proper young lady to the bone,” Alma commented in satisfaction. “Close your eyes, Amelia.”
To Fiona’s infinite amusement, the two elderly women squeezed their lashes tightly shut and waited. Needing no further encouragement, Fiona slipped from the bed and slid her arms into the waiting garment, wrapped the edges around her body, and tied the shiny pink sash.
Daring a peek, Amelia sighed. “Lovely.”
Alma’s head bobbed in satisfaction. “Definitely a color you should wear to attract the men.”
One of Fiona’s brows rose. “Men? What men?”
“Why, any men, of course,” Amelia answered as if the question was a moot point.
Fiona was unable to completely assimilate the woman’s remark. Alma had taken her arm and steered her in the direction of the small table and chair in front of the window. Motioning for Fiona to take her seat, she proceeded to fling the curtains aside.
“Jacob told me not to open—”
“Nonsense. You’re much too pretty to be hidden in the dark.” Planting her hands on her hips, Alma surveyed the room, then turned her attention to Fiona. “Eat, girl,” she ordered, motioning to the tray. “You’ll need your strength for the day ahead. After all, there are things to do, places to go, and gentlemen to snare.”
How could Fiona confess that at that moment, wearing this delicious silk wrapper, she found herself inexplicably wishing she could snare one single man’s attention: Jacob Grey’s.
By the time Fiona had dressed and she and her chaperones had finished breakfast, Jacob still hadn’t made an appearance. The Beasleys were far from concerned, however, telling her that Rusty had dropped by to report that Jacob had business to tend to that day and Fiona was to dedicate her time to studying with the Beasleys.
Amelia patted her hand when the mere mention of Jacob’s name caused Fiona’s heart to sink, a fact that must have been mirrored in her face.
“Is there a problem, dear?”
“Problem?”
“You a
ppear troubled.”
She hesitated, then said, “I don’t know how much he’s told you about… my situation.”
Alma harrumphed. “We’ve been told all we need to know—and I must say, Amelia and I are shocked.”
Fiona’s eyes widened, wondering what Jacob had said to them. “Shocked?”
“He should have come to us sooner—as if he and Rusty know anything about the genteel training required of a lady in this day and age.”
Amelia nodded decisively. “Indeed.”
A spark of hope was kindled in Fiona’s breast. “Exactly! I tried to tell him that very thing. But Jacob…” She sighed. “He doesn’t like the way I walk or the way I talk. He says that I need lessons in how to be a lady.”
The two women pursed their lips in dismay.
“Oh, my.” Amelia sighed.
Alma sniffed. “I had no idea the man was so dense.”
When Fiona’s brow creased, they rose from their seats, circling her and studying her up and down. She became overtly conscious of the tight coronet of braids she’d fashioned of her hair and the somber mourning gown she wore. The same one that Jacob had hated the day before.
“Obviously, we have a thing or two to prove to Mr. Grey.”
“Quite.”
“And that tailor… If this is an example of his work, we’d best keep close tabs on him.”
“I dare say, we’d best take over altogether.”
“Indeed.”
“The effect of the hair will need to be softened.”
“As well as that suit.”
“She’ll need proper underthings.”
“Shoes.”
“Hats.”
“Fans.”
“Gloves.”
Alma squinted, then said, “It shouldn’t be difficult.”
“Not at all,” her sister echoed.
Fiona stifled the urge to retreat from them as they examined her so intently. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s quite simple,” Alma stated, puffing her bosom out in great importance. “Men are glorious to look at, delightful to hold, and oftentimes dumber than an ox. They have no concept of what makes a woman… a woman.”