Reckless

Manfully Deegan tossed off the rest of his whiskey. “I’m fortified,” he assured. “And who might the actors be?”

Garrett ducked in a reflexive move as a chair sailed across the room. “The cast includes myself, of course, my brother Ellery, and a beautiful innocent named Sybil Tilbury.”

Deegan signaled the bartender and tossed greenbacks onto the bar. “Two bottles of yer finest rotgut,” he said. ‘The squire’s spinnin’ me a fine tale as he sees me safely home. Were you wishin’ after the return of yer wallet, yer lordship? It seems to be a trifle empty.”

A dazzling parade moved past the window where the shadow crouched, dark clothing blending with the natural shadows in the garden. It was fortunate that the night was damp. It kept the revelers indoors and made observation so much easier.

The women in their jewel-colored gowns were unaware of the threat. The men in their onyx black suits never sensed the danger. They talked, flirted, danced, drank—unaware that another watched.

Gowns of watered silk, bedecked with lace, ruffles, ruching and ribbons, were on display, the carefully draped aprons caught up and drawn back into elaborate cascades that drew attention to a woman’s form. Trains trailed or were held outstretched to whirl with the steps of a dance. The elegant ebony tailcoats of the men moved in sync with the gowns, sailing with the rise and fall of the music, and occasionally a flash dazzled as lamplight caught the glitter of gold or silver threads woven into the pattern of a waistcoat. It was the moving, glowing fabrics that had life, not the people. Yet, at the moment, it was the people who held the watcher’s attention.

The stiffly starched fronts of the shirts held the prey at attention, and the corsets squeezed the soon-to-be bereft into improbable shapes. Weskits and waistlines strained across expanding torsos, clear evidence of the comfortable life-style enjoyed by the guests.

Candles and gas jets fought for prominence, creating pockets of alternating light and dark. The light was sought by women anxious to display a new bauble, a new gown, a new beau. The dark was the habitat of lovers, of stolen moments, of stolen caresses and murmured lies.

The shadow watched them all, carefully noting which of their jewels the ladies wore. The garnets of one guest were nice but could never compare to the bloodred rubies of another. The watery glint of aquamarines flashed by as a gallant swung his partner in an enthusiastic polka. A new debutante paused near the window, the light falling softly on her gently curved neck and the modest necklace of matched pearls that graced it. The possibilities were endless. It was so difficult to make a final choice. So delightful to plot the method by which to reap.

A man glanced out the window, his eyes seeming to meet those of the thief. He started away, looked back, then signaled to one of the waiters, motioning to the window.

The shadow melted away moments before two men with lanterns arrived to comb the garden for intruders. The thief waited just out of sight, enjoying the chase. Fools, that’s what they all were. It was so easy to play this game.

“You see anything?” one of the searchers called out.

“Hell, no. I think Stokes was seeing things. Had a bit too much champagne punch, if you ask me.”

“I don’t know. Claims he saw someone peering in from the bushes.”

“A cat most like.”

The shadow waited. So it had been Elmer Stokes who had raised the alarm. He would pay for that. What bauble had his wife worn? Had it been the jade or the fire opals? Did it matter? The victim had been chosen.

The parlor door barely closed behind Wyn before Hilde-garde Hartleby tossed aside the latest copy of Demorest’s Monthly Magazine and gazed excitedly on the folded newspaper in her guest’s hand.

“Not another robbery!” she breathed, sinking dramatically back onto the sofa, one hand pressed to the string of jet beads that lay against her breast. “What was it this time?”

Wyn tossed her friend the news sheet and reached up to unpin her plumed walking hat. “Don’t you mean who?”she asked.

Hildy refrained from reading the story. “Let’s make it a game,” she urged. “If I know what was taken, I wager I’ll know the who.”

Wyn unbuttoned her light coat and tossed it casually over the back of a chair. Since the pernicious state of Hil-dy’s finances made it impossible to pay wages, she had lost both housekeeper and housemaid. Those friends who came to visit the young widow quickly learned to make themselves at home.

“You must admit, Wyn, there is no one who knows the contents of the jewel boxes of our set better than I do,” Hildy insisted. Her soft brown hair was arranged in playful curls that spilled from a knot at the crown of her head. Despite the deep mourning color of her gown, there was nothing mournful about the flush of excitement in Hildy’s cheeks as she leaned forward in anticipation. “I used to make lists of my favorites and give them to Oswin hoping that he would visit the same jewelers,” she admitted. “If anyone can match the pieces with the person, it’s me.”

“All right,” Wyn agreed, reclaiming the newspaper and settling into the deeply cushioned chair across from her friend. They had played together in the school yard as children, and had attended their first ball arm in arm. Young men had clustered around them both, vying for favors. As inseparable as they had always been, Wyn had still been stunned at the news Hildy had whispered one evening soon after their presentation. She had promised her hand to Oswin Hartleby, a wealthy man nearly forty years her senior. “But, why?” Wyn had demanded. “Because I’m tired of being just comfortable,” Hildy answered. “I want to be rich.” Her wish had been granted, if only for a handful of years.

Wyn scanned the newspaper until she found the story about the most recent theft She had come to visit Hildy nearly every day since her bereavement, making an effort to cheer her friend’s lonely hours. Hildy had always been a social gadfly and the constraints of widowhood had depressed her nearly as much as the loss of the Hartleby fortune.

“Here it is.” Wyn rustled the paper, making a production of refolding it. “The thief walked off with opals,” she announced.

“Hmm.” Hildy tapped a finger against her lips in thought. “Cordelia Earlywine or Olympia Stokes.”

“There’s more.”

“More?” Hildy’s eyes widened with pleasure. They were a deep sapphire blue and surrounded by long, curling lashes.

“Diamond cravat pin, diamond shirt studs.”

Hildy jumped in her seat. “Stokes!” she shouted.

“If it were possible,” Wyn said as she tossed the newspaper aside, “I’d wager on your ability to pinpoint the robber’s victims using nothing more than a description of the missing jewelry.”

“Perhaps there is a future for me with one of those detective agencies,” Hildy suggested. “Do you think Mr. Pinkerton would hire me?”

“Only if you could name the thief as easily as you do the victim,” Wyn answered.

Hildy sighed. “Well, that I can’t do. If I could I’d have my diamonds back.” Petulantly she leaned back into the cushions of the sofa, apparently no longer interested in the robbery now that the latest victim had been identified. “Have you heard from Pierce?”

Wyn stretched her feet out, studying the toes of her shoes where they peeked from beneath the dark green pleats that trimmed the hem of her skirt. Her brother had been in Boston a month and in that time she’d received two letters, both assuring her that her money was being put to excellent use. Earlier that day a telegram had arrived. “He’s on his way back. The liner is nearly finished. We sail in three weeks.”

Hildy bounded back up, squealing with excitement before sobering once more. “Oh, but, Wyn! Whatever shall I wear? I refuse to traipse around in funeral black. Oswin has been dead three months, which is quite long enough to mourn him in my opinion. I have resolved to travel in half-mourning.”

Deciding she would prefer to delay hearing how Hildy intended to finance a new wardrobe, Wyn tried changing the subject. “Did you write to Rachel?”

Three years before, Hildy’s sister had made the coup of the social season by marrying Sir Alston Loftus and moving to his ancestral home in England.

“Oh, Rachel and Lofty will be expecting us,” Hildy assured, casually unconcerned. “I told them in my letter that we’d be on our way before they could reply, but there’s a standing invitation. Now…” She resettled on the couch, her expression changing to one of serious intent as she reached for the magazine she’d abandoned earlier. “I’ve been thinking,” Hildy said, and quickly leafed to the fashion section. “Oswin only left me the use of the house, so I can’t sell it, but his will wasn’t as specific about the furnishings. If I sell off the heavier pieces, I should be able to get at least a decent start on a new wardrobe. Enough to travel with at any rate.”

“What if the Hartlebys object?” Wyn asked.

“I won’t tell them,” Hildy said, dismissing her late husband’s middle-aged offspring. “Will you be using your dressmaker before we leave? What do you think of this pannier overskirt? Too overdone?”

Resigning herself to the planning of her friend’s ward-robe, Wyn moved over next to Hildy on the sofa and was soon discussing the merits of bunting for a lightweight excursion costume.

Pinkerton operative Magnus Finley hung back as his suspect paused at the corner to let a freight wagon rumble by. It wouldn’t do to be discovered. It had taken weeks of intensive field investigation and paperwork to get the case to this point He couldn’t afford to lose it all now through a careless step.

The dray passed, the horses trudging on down the street, hooves dropping in weary thuds. The driver’s face was as long as those of his team, his expression just as dull. He made no effort to hurry the animals but sat hunched forward, his hat pushed to the back of his head, the reins dangling in his hands.

The suspect waited until the wagon was well past before attempting the street. Magnus continued following without crossing. He was fairly sure of the final destination. He’d dogged the same footsteps along this same path for a week now as the suspect spent a good deal of money. The largess manifested appeared to indicate that the jewels had been sold rather successfully.

Which was extremely odd since none of the known fences in the city claimed to be aware of a recent sale.

If the thief had found a buyer, it wasn’t just the Stokes woman’s opals that had changed hands. The Hartleby diamonds were still unaccounted for, as were sets of various other precious and semiprecious gems.

Numerous operatives had been put on the job as one robbery followed another. Clients ranging from weeping widows to blustering businessmen had descended on the Pinkerton office demanding results. The local police had not reclaimed the jewels nor had they indicated progress in learning the thief’s identity. But Finley thought he’d discovered a vital clue. Until he could prove his suspicions, he was playing his cards close to his vest.

The suspect entered the expected doorway, the shop of a valise and trunk maker. Finley settled in the mouth of an adjacent alley. He knew from experience that it would be an hour or more before his quarry left.

The door swung open and closed a little later as a young boy emerged, hastily pulling on a sack coat and donning a cloth cap. He gave a quick glance up and down the roadway before heading toward Market Street.

Finley snapped open his pocket watch and consulted it He began to think about dinner, considering various restaurants where he could eat and still keep one eye on the person he trailed. There had been no deviation in the suspect’s schedule in the seven days Finley had been on the job.

A cab rattled up, the wheels clattering noisily, the horse’s hooves striking the pavement sharply. The boy from the shop hopped down from the back of the vehicle and dashed inside. Moments later he returned, struggling with a small trunk. The shop door swung open again as Finley’s suspect and the shop owner emerged and stood watching as the baggage was wrestled aboard.

The boy tugged on the brim of his cloth cap when a coin exchanged hands. The suspect took a warm leave of the luggage maker then murmured a direction to the cab driver and climbed into the interior. After his employer, returned to his work, the shop boy remained gazing after the retreating vehicle, a look of longing in his face.

Caught without transportation to follow, Finley went in search of information. He crossed the road, staring down the way as the cab rounded a corner neatly and was lost from sight. “Somebody’s in a might hurry,” he remarked to the boy.

“Train ta catch,” the youngster said wistfully.

“Wonder where to?” Finley mused. “Sacramento, I’ll bet”

“Further,” the boy insisted. “Headin’ ta the East ta get on a ship.”

Finley shrugged as if in wonder and moved on. He’d barely put the corner of a building between himself and the boy when he took off at a run.

Chapter Three

To Pierce Abbot Shire Shipping Line San Francisco

Brother dear,

You may run up the flags and pop the champaign. Loath as I am to admit it, you win our wager. The Boston relations are indeed deadly dull. How a social butterfly like yourself ever managed to retain your sanity in their company for an entire month is quite beyond comprehension. Undoubtedly they were the true impetus that kept your nose to the proverbial grindstone.

Hildy and I did enjoy one bit of excitement during our blessedly brief sojourn. Someone nipped off with the family sapphires.

My own modest cache of gems remained untouched, possibly because it is so modest. No, I don’t regret selling off the better stones at the last minute to keep you flush with the bank. I believe in your scheme as I always avowed.

Besides, the boat is quite a delight and I will enjoy the profits more than an untouched dowry or all the gemstones in the world.

The captain made us quite comfortable. I’ve been proclaimed the reigning BELLE for the maiden voyage—who better qualified than this confirmed old spinster?

Shall report all the dazzling details of the trip upon docking in Liverpool.

Your loving sister,

Wyn

Aboard the Shire Liner Nereid

Boston Harbor

Eve of Departure

Garrett stood at the ship’s rail, sable wings of hair whip-ping to blind, his sight as he stared out over the vessels bobbing in the sun dappled bay. The majority of passengers lined the Nereid’s rails, where they could wave excited farewells to friends and relatives. He had taken a stance away from them, savoring his privacy for a brief while longer. Soon the ocean liner would ease away from the pier, leaving the tainted city skyline far behind. However, the social conventions that it represented would sail with them, the state preserved intact, neatly compartmentalized by the price paid for a ticket. His own place among the elite was guaranteed, if not by the location of his state-room, then by his name and the honored invitation he had received to dine at the captain’s table.

He had Deegan to thank for that. Garrett grinned grimly. He would have his revenge on his friend later. For now he was content to stare out to sea, his companions limited to the squawking gulls. His loyal and determined Patroclus was no doubt among the first-class passengers making up to yet another heiress.

There was an autumnal bite in the breeze. It wafted inland off the choppy waters calling to the primeval core of a man and drawing forth the memory of ancient passions in his blood. Although the New England air carried a different scent and taste on its currents, Garrett remembered having felt this particular call before. It had been when he’d taken ship from the shimmering, parched sands of Egypt, running from the fears and impotency he’d felt there. He had stayed at Sybil’s side for three long, sleepless days as her spirit lingered in her fevered, emaciated body. The day he left Sybil and North Africa behind, there had been a pleasant Mediterranean breeze filling the ship’s sails, healing his battered soul with a promise of hope. Back then the world had lain open and new before him, a host of untasted adventure available, and his for the sampling. This time Garrett felt as if Neptune’s wind had snatched away that brief hope, and was searing his soul rather than healing it

He’d kept his mind on other details in the weeks since receiving the wire from home. Consulting with bankers, he’d arranged backing for the mine he’d visited in Brazil and the railroad he’d helped survey in Mexico. Deegan had pitched in, making travel arrangements, writing letters, to all intents and purposes assuming the duties of a secretary. But, although he was doing the work of one, Galloway refused to officially accept the post when it was offered once more. He preferred to remain a companion, albeit a nearly constant one. Within a week, they’d been on a train bound for Wyoming Territory, and from there, along the steel rails to Boston town.

In all, it had taken seven weeks to put his affairs in order. Garrett wished it had been longer. He still wasn’t prepared to face a life at Hawk’s Run.

Perhaps he never would be.

Once he’d thought of this voyage as his last reprieve. The final chance he would have to be the man he wished to be. The arrangements Deegan had made destroyed that hope.

“Damn, but you live under a lucky star,” Galloway had announced upon their arrival days earlier in Boston.

Having nursed depression over his future with the better part of a bottle of whiskey the night before, Garrett hadn’t felt particularly lucky. He’d managed to crawl out of bed and dress, but the drapes in the hotel suite remained tightly closed against the light of day. He barely squinted at his friend before closing his eyes again and covering them with his arm. “I’m quite sure that star fell on me last night,” Garrett said.

“So happens I’ve got a friend who runs a shipping line,” Deegan rambled on enthusiastically. “I checked in with Pierce’s office here and they’ve got berths available on a steamer pulling out on its maiden voyage.”

“Just what I deserve. A coffin in steerage,” Garrett groaned.

Deegan went to the window and threw the drapes open to let the sun spill in, bringing with it glorious pain to Blackhawk’s already throbbing head. “Hell, no,” Dig had insisted. “I told them who you were and got the Shire Line’s equivalent of the President’s Suite.”

His destiny was beyond recall now. His trunks had been delivered aboard the Nereid earlier that day and were resting untouched in the elaborately decorated stateroom. Rather than enjoy the comforts his station in life afforded, Garrett had opted for an isolated corner of the deck in the hope that the breeze would renew his spirit.

Since it had turned traitor, he watched a pair of gulls ride the wind currents.

They looked stationary, as if they were toys suspended by strings, their wings spread wide, their bodies dipping occasionally as the master puppeteer manipulated wires to give them a semblance of life.

Fate was his puppeteer, Garrett mused. Deegan was the current stage manager, pushing him to assume the mantle he had shunned in the past. The estate itself would complete the transition, closing all doors behind him. There would be few moments like this in the coming days, the coming years. He had a part to play. His lines were rusty from disuse, but he’d been born for the role. Bred for it. The richly appointed stateroom, the hand-tailored clothing, the seat at the captain’s table—they were the props, they set the stage. From this day forward he was no longer a man like any other, he was Blackhawk of Hawk’s Run.

The gulls tired of their game. One folded back its wings and dove into the water only to emerge with dinner in its beak a moment later. The other bird fluttered out among the anchored fleet of merchantmen and soon disappeared from sight.

The steam-powered engines had come alive during his reverie, Garrett noticed. They sent a thrumming through the ship that translated itself through the boards of the deck. There was no turning back now. No chance to lose himself. He was committed as never before.

The crowds at the rails nearest the dock sent up cries of excitement, of pleasure, of farewell. With the roar came a shift in the air. The weight in his soul lightened briefly. He’d misjudged Neptune after all. Perhaps if he stayed on deck long enough, the breeze would continue to offer his heart this temporary surcease.

If the brief miracle was the providence of the wind, that is.

Underlying the tide of distant, raised voices was the soft, nearby whisper of silk. The pungent aroma of the bay was replaced by the subtle scent of spring flowers.

Even without the sensory clues, he was aware of the woman’s presence. He had felt her arrival.

She stood the length of two deck chairs away, her stance nearly a replica of his, her forearms resting on the ship’s rail as she gazed out at the dancing waters. A ridiculously flamboyant Gainsborough hat was pinned securely over her spilling flaxen curls. The stiff breeze had spun out a few strands so that they tossed like loose ribbons around her shoulders. She was tall and slender, her figure enhanced by the narrow cut of her suit, the fitted jacket, long waistline, draped apron and green-striped fabric all obviously chosen to draw a man’s appreciative eye.

She sighed with obvious pleasure when the ship pulled away from the dock.

Her eyes were closed when she lifted her face toward the bay breeze. Bright, wind-whipped color touched her cheeks, her lips parted as if she anticipated a lover’s kiss. She breathed deeply a moment, savoring the taste of the air. And with her action, his interest was further pricked.

It had been weeks since he’d indulged his carnal appe-tites and the matter of selecting a willing partner had al-ways been a most enjoyable part of the game. A journey of eight days lay ahead of them. Dalliance with a lovely woman would ease the despair in his heart. Or at least keep it at a distance until they reached England.

This one was a remarkedly beautiful woman. Incredibly long, dark lashes lay like unfurled ebony fans against her rice paper skin. They were exotic and at odds with her breeze-tossed blond tresses.

When her lashes lifted, it was to reveal eyes the shade of thickly wooded pine forests, mysterious, shadowed and intriguing. They widened in surprise, clouding with confusion, when she realized Garrett was staring.

“I hope I haven’t intruded on your thoughts or disturbed your solitude,” she said.

Her voice was cultured, her accent that of the western American coast rather than the eastern from which they sailed. There was a faint throaty purr in her tone that reminded him of a contented feline. Or a satisfied mistress.

‘’Not at all,” Garrett assured. “My official claim on this section of decking has yet to be filed at the assay office.”

Her amused smile started a pleasant tightening sensation in the pit of his stomach.

“My appearance was timely then,” she said.

“Most, from my view,” Garrett agreed. “My own company was becoming a bit of a bore.” He nodded toward the hallooing of the crowd. “No one to see you off?”

She shrugged and stared out over the water again. “It’s doubtful they could even find me in the crush.”

Because she wore gloves he had no inkling as to whether she wore another man’s ring. He guessed that she was traveling without a male escort, for any man would be a fool to let this beauty out of his sight.

“Besides,” she added, her voice growing nostalgic, “I’m one of Trident’s hedonists. My grandfather was a ship’s captain and I seem to have inherited a love for the feel of the wind on my face and the taste of the sea on my tongue.”

She was a most unusual woman, Garrett mused.