Scarlet Lies (Author's Cut Edition): Historical Romance

by Jo Goodman

  "If it will place me in your graces, Miss Hancock, I could list them for you."

  "Alphabetically?" she asked dryly.

  Ryland gave a shout of laughter. "That may take a bit longer."

  Brook stopped walking. "I'm afraid it will have to wait, then. Here comes Phillip now." She tried to withdraw her arm, but Ryland held her fast. "Must you be difficult, Mr. North?"

  "It's on my list," he said, unperturbed. "Between dictatorial and disagreeable."

  Brook was hard pressed not to laugh again. She raised her free hand to touch Phillip's forearm as he stopped in front of her. "Phillip, permit me to introduce Mr. Ryland North. Mr. North, this is my dear friend Mr. Phillip Sumner."

  "North," Phillip said tersely, jerking his chin in acknowledgment of the introduction.

  "Sumner."

  Brook did not understand the almost instantaneous animosity that existed between the two men. She would have thought Phillip would be more gracious, especially since he was determined to cheat Ryland North out of his money. Surely she had mistaken Phillip's paling reaction when he had learned Ryland North's name. "Mr. North was kind enough to provide an escort in your absence, Phillip."

  "Very good of you, sir," Phillip said without the slightest indication of sincerity.

  "My pleasure."

  Phillip stiffly held out his arm to Brook. "Come, m'dear. Dinner will be served soon. I know you would like to freshen before going to the dining room." His glacial expression swept Brook from head to toe. "Where is your hat?"

  "It was swept overboard," she said, slipping her arm away from Ryland.

  Phillip watched Ryland's grin turn mocking. "No matter, I shall buy you another when we return to New Orleans."

  Brook ignored Ryland's attempt to catch her eye. "Thank you, Phillip. That's very kind of you," she said sincerely. "Good day, Mr. North." Without waiting for a reply she turned her back on Ryland and let Phillip escort her to the room they shared.

  "You're acting very odd," she said when Phillip shut the door. Brook sat down at the vanity, picked up a brush, and began giving her hair several punishing strokes. "Is Ryland North not the man you thought he was? Is that the cause for your foul mood?"

  Phillip sat on the edge of the tester bed and slipped his forefinger and thumb along the crease in his smoke gray trousers. "He is precisely the man I thought he was... and more."

  Brook glanced past her reflection in the mirror, pausing in her brushing. "What is that supposed to mean?"

  "It means there will be a slight change in our plans."

  "A change?"

  Phillip waved her concern aside. "Nothing that need involve you. I will handle it." He leaned back on the bed, propping himself on his elbows. "He was taken with you. That, at least, is a good sign."

  Brook shrugged. "Perhaps." She put down the brush and swiveled in her chair to face Phillip. "Why not choose someone else? I don't trust Mr. North, Phillip. He carries a derringer. If he catches you out, well, you know you are not a very good shot."

  "That's why I'm an excellent cheat and why I have you to cover my back." He smiled, trying to tease a like response from Brook. When she merely laid her arms across the back of her chair and rested her chin on her hands, he gave up. "You're so gravely serious today, Brook. Not that you aren't at other times, but you seem especially worried now. When you agreed to leave that hotel room in New Orleans and accompany me on this little side trip, you knew what I would expect. I can't like it that you're having second thoughts now. You could have waited for me to return with the money for our passage home."

  "And not know when you would return? If you would return? No, that wouldn't suit me at all."

  "I wouldn't have abandoned you."

  Brook's expression softened as she realized she had hurt Phillip's feelings. The thin line of his mouth drooped at the corners, and his chin fell forward on his chest. "I didn't mean that it would be deliberate. I just feel more confident of your card skills when I'm there to protect your back as you say. Come," she cajoled, "is Mr. North as rich as you first thought?"

  "Richer." He gave his head a little jerk, tossing back a lock of wheat-colored hair that had fallen across his forehead. "He's carrying a great many notes with him."

  "Paper money?" Her upper lip curled derisively.

  Phillip gave a short bark of laughter. "Oh, Brook, you have a true San Franciscan's contempt for any currency that isn't gold or silver coin. Don't worry, the banks will honor those greenbacks, and they'll be perfectly acceptable for booking our passage home. Not only are we going back to Frisco, we're going to go in a modicum of comfort." He sat up, leaning forward and making his hands into one fist. His earnestness took the hard edge off his sharp jaw and made him look younger than his thirty-nine years. "And, darlin', when we do return we're going to have enough to buy into the Silver Rose. We'll be Abe Logan's partners, not his lackeys."

  Brook left her chair so hurriedly that it tipped over backward. Falling into Phillip's outstretched arms, she kissed his cheek, his chin, and placed a great smacking kiss full on his mouth. "Do you mean it, Phillip? You're not teasing me? There's that much money?"

  "There's that much," he laughed. "Really, Brook, you're wrinkling my trousers."

  Brook scooted off his lap. "Odious man." She smoothed the folds of her own gown. "Abe's partners," she said softly. "Imagine. I won't have to sit at the gaming tables every night, will I?"

  "No, not every night. Perhaps only a few times a week. Just to let the customers see you and continue to hope you'll leave me."

  She laughed at that. "And you won't have to deal cards," she added emphatically. "Or serve drinks. You can take care of the accounts. Oh, you must. Abe will cheat us of the profits otherwise." She frowned as a thought occurred to her, "You don't think Abe will go back on his word, do you? What if he doesn't honor his promise to let you in once you make your offer?"

  "Abe Logan's an honorable man in his own fashion. His reputation is his word. He won't retract his offer." Phillip put his arm around Brook and gave her a little shake. "He wants out of running the house on a day-to-day basis. Lord, he's been doing it for almost twenty years, ever since the rush. It's our turn, Brook, our turn now."

  "Will he miss the money much?" she asked soberly.

  "Who? Abe?"

  Brook shook her head. "No. I meant Ryland North." Her head bowed, she missed the grave turn of Phillip's expression.

  "No, dearest. If I have my way Ryland North won't miss his money at all."

  Brook took that to mean that Ryland would recoup his losses at some later time. The thought eased her mind. She decided that in future years when she looked back on the days she spent on the Mississippi she would most likely regret cheating old Jake Geary more than she would Ryland North. "Will you engage Mr. North in a game this evening?"

  "Yes. Would you rather I didn't?"

  "No, I think we should get it over as soon as possible. I assume the Mary Francis is making a stop tonight."

  "Yes. Some little no-name town. We'll dock for the better part of the evening, give the locals an opportunity to come aboard, dine, gamble." His mouth skewed to one side and he shook his head. "Why am I telling you this? You're familiar with the routine."

  Maddeningly familiar, Brook thought. "We'll leave this boat with the money and wait for the next? Just as we did with the Miss Alice?"

  Phillip's hand threaded through Brook's hair and curved around the back of her neck, applying reassuring pressure. "Something like that. Now, now, don't worry," he told her when she began to object to his less than satisfying answer. "I told you there were some changes. Let me take care of them, Brook, and you. I've not made too bad a job of it all these years. Are you going to start complaining now?"

  "I'm not complaining." Brook laid her head against Phillip's shoulder. "Perhaps it's not such a bad thing after all that your business in New Orleans didn't pan out."

  "Spoken like a true miner's daughter," he said, referring to her use of the prospector's slang
that was so common in San Francisco.

  "That's what I am."

  And so much more, he thought. If you only knew the half of it.

  Dinner was a resplendent affair, and though Brook ate everything Phillip ordered for her, she tasted very little of it. For his part Phillip seemed to enjoy the fare immensely. He had changed his clothes and looked every inch the refined gentlemen in his black frock coat and trousers. The studs of his pleated white shirt gleamed in the candlelight. A triangle of white silk adorned the pocket of his double-breasted vest. His walking stick rested at his side. As was his custom he always kept it nearby when he played cards. It was his lucky piece, he said, but Brook knew that in this case luck was the six-inch stiletto blade that could be released from the tip by pressing the crystal-knobbed head.

  Phillip leaned his head closer to Brook. "Smile, darlin'. You look unconscionably lovely this evening."

  Brook pretended he had said something amusing and laughed accordingly. When her laughter faded, her smile did not. "We'll have to hope that Mr. North thinks so," she said, adjusting her cameo necklace above the heart-shaped bodice of her gown.

  "How can he not? You are perfection itself."

  That outlandish flattery did cause Brook to laugh with genuine amusement. At Phillip's direction she had dressed in her best gown, a marine blue silk with an elaborately draped overskirt that was drawn up in the back and fell in a train behind her. She certainly felt elegant, though hardly perfection itself. Her heavy hair had been pulled back and piled high, giving her a regal bearing that she carried as if she had been born to a tide. If not for the tendrils of dark hair at the back of her neck and her temples, which stubbornly refused to become part of her coiffure, Brook thought the style would have suited her. As it was, she longed to yank out the pins and let fashion be damned. Imagining Phillip's stunned reaction if she were to do just that, Brook applied herself to the plate of cheese and fruit set before her and stopped allowing her thoughts to wander.

  Without warning she felt the skin on the back of her neck begin to tingle and a frisson of alarm shot through her. Raising her glass to hide her conversation from the others who shared her table, Brook addressed Phillip. "Don't look now, but has Mr. North entered the dining room?"

  Phillip leaned nearer and fingered one of Brook's gold-and-pearl drop earrings. Without seeming to he glanced over her shoulder. "He's here. How did you know?"

  "I just knew."

  Phillip drew the pads of his fingers across Brook's bare shoulder. "Women's intuition?"

  Ryland North's eyes never strayed from Brook as he was seated in one corner of the dining room. "How can she let him paw her?" he muttered, unfolding his napkin on his lap.

  The steward bent at the waist. "Pardon, sir? I didn't hear your order."

  Ryland's head snapped up. "What? Oh. Bring me a bourbon. A double." As soon as the steward had hurried away Ry's attention was drawn back to Brook. The elegance of his setting, the darkly paneled walls, and the scent of beeswax and bayberry candles might not have existed at all. In other circumstances he would have enjoyed the luxury the Mary Francis offered. His gaze narrowed as he watched Brook tilt back her head and laugh at something her companion said. He could imagine the long white line of her throat, and suddenly his fingers ached to tighten around it. The bourbon was placed in his hand, and Ry's fingers tightened around the tumbler instead.

  The drink licked at the back of his throat, burning it, then settled heavily in his empty stomach. His cocky thoughts of the afternoon came back to him. Numbered himself among the immune, did he? His smile was wry. Perhaps it was better that he learned he was still vulnerable to a certain kind of woman. And Brook? She would have to learn a lesson, too. He would see to it.

  Phillip stood, dropping his napkin on the table. He nodded politely to his dinner companions and made his excuses as he assisted Brook to her feet. "I am going to try my luck at the gaming tables. I'm afraid I will have to deprive you of Miss Hancock's presence." There was some murmur of displeasure from the men at the table, but Phillip saw that at least one female passenger forgot herself long enough to visibly show her relief.

  Brook stood in the curve and shadow of Phillip's narrow body, felt his hand on her waist, and pasted what she hoped was a congenial smile on her lips. When she turned, Brook found herself being contemptuously regarded by Ryland North's dark eyes. She stiffened slightly and let her own gaze drift over the hard contours of his face. He had sand in him, she'd give him that much. His face had character, grit. Brook wondered what he had seen in his life to give him the odd mixture of rawness and reserve. Ryland North was not classically handsome the way Phillip was, but there was an arresting cast to his features that drew the eye. The straight Roman nose, the heavy-lidded eyes, and the faintly derisive twist of his mouth gave Ryland an aura that could be perceived as amusement or arrogance.

  Brook felt certain it was not amusement throwing his face into stark relief. He was looking at her as he had this afternoon, in the moment before he had returned her hat, as if he wished she had been underfoot instead of her absurd little headpiece. Brook had never believed Ryland had stepped on her hat because he didn't like it. He had stepped on it because he didn't like her. She accepted the excuse because she simply couldn't afford to argue with him and because she enjoyed any mind that was so sharply inventive. Constructing an alibi on the spur of the moment was the hallmark of a survivor, and Brook's respect for survivors was unbounded.

  Ryland stood as Brook and Phillip approached his table. Copper lights in his hair flashed, caught in the flickering candle flame. His shoulders straightened, taut beneath the smooth lines of his black swallow-tailed coat. The gold chain of a pocket watch extended across his white brocade waistcoat. Tailored black trousers emphasized the long, muscular length of his legs. Brook's eyes rested on the black string tie at Ryland's throat until she saw him clear it. A peculiar feeling of cowardice swept her, and she defiantly lifted her gaze.

  Ryland nodded shortly. "Miss Hancock. Mr. Sumner."

  Brook merely smiled and let Phillip answer for her. "North. We're on our way to the gaming tables. Perhaps you'll join us later."

  "Perhaps," Ryland agreed noncommittally. "Do you play, Miss Hancock?"

  Brook knew she had been insulted. A lady could watch but never played. Not poker. The fact that Ryland asked the question was meant to put her in her place. Brook almost smirked. She knew her place, but she doubted if Ryland understood it. "No, I prefer to watch. Especially a game with skilled players. Phillip is very good, Mr. North. Are you?"

  Ryland didn't so much as blink at Brook's suggestive wording. It has begun, he thought. "Yes, I'm good," he said, matching her intonation. "Very good."

  Brook nodded slightly, a queen giving approval to one of her courtiers. "Then I shall look forward to your play."

  Phillip bid Ryland good evening and led Brook to the gaming room with more haste than was his usual style. "Don't flirt with him," he hissed as they stood at the entrance to the crowded gaming room. Half a dozen tables were already in use, and a number of people milled around the room in search of a particularly interesting match. Phillip noted there was a faint stirring as some of the passengers became aware of his entrance. The smoky haze that rested above the players seemed to shift for a moment. "What are you thinking?"

  Brook continued to face the room, her eyes scanning the games in progress and the participants. "Flirting is harmless enough, Phillip. You taught me that."

  "I never taught you about a man like Ryland North, m'dear. Mind yourself or you'll be in over your head."

  A teasing smile curved her mouth. "I like it when you're so protective of me," she said. "You will save me from his evil clutches, won't you?" Brook expected Phillip to respond in kind, mimicking her melodramatic air. She was surprised when he answered seriously.

  "You can depend upon it." In the next instant he was patting her arm with a negligent solicitous air, his mind on another matter entirely, the incident with Ryland and Br
ook set aside or forgotten. "Now, tell me which game is best for our purposes."

  Brook was prepared for Phillip's question. He depended on her ability to find the correct game, and she was unaware of ever having disappointed him. "The table on the far left. Three players. Low stakes. If Mr. North joins you there will be no trouble taking them out of the game. The man with his back to us is cheating." She shook her head disparagingly. "Badly. Look, that's the second time his money slid off the table."

  Phillip watched the man bend over to pick up a few bills and deftly palm a card from somewhere in the vicinity of his shoe and trouser cuff. It was a rather crude ruse but completed with enough panache that it would have been difficult to detect. "Amateur," Phillip said under his breath, his voice filled with quiet contempt. "I'll have to put a stop to that. I don't want any violence at the table. I'll take the empty chair beside him. You sit a little behind me to the right. When he—"

  "I know what to do, Phillip."

  Phillip had the grace to look sheepish. "My apology."

  "Accepted."

  "Good. Shall we?"

  There was no difficulty in gaining entry to the game. Jeff Beatty, the novice cheat, appeared quite pleased with himself, though Phillip thought his pleasure was due as much to Brook's presence as it was to the opportunity of fleecing the newcomer. The other men seemed to welcome the chance to recoup their losses, or at least lose to a new face.

  Brook was too familiar with the change in Phillip once he began playing to take much notice of it. He would appear relaxed, his expression bland, giving away nothing, yet beneath the table the muscles of his legs would be bunched and his stomach would be coiled so tightly that later he would be sick. The occasional gracious smile and the careless wave of his hand when he folded his cards hid the intensity with which he approached the game that was not at all a game to him.

  Without seeming to, Brook concentrated on the other players. The man on Phillip's left had the unlikely name of John Paul Jones, but his good-natured, open face was easy to read. His excitement translated into a few beads of perspiration on his upper lip, which he quickly wiped away with his handkerchief. Brook knew to expect something better than three of a kind when he reached into his pocket.