Flora's Wish (33 page)

“Thirty?”

She shrugged. “We planned to travel the word first. And five years seemed like plenty of time to see everything at least once. His mother thought the whole thing amusing. Mine thought Simon was my perfect match. So, we were humored. Encouraged, actually.”

Her smile dipped slightly at the corners at how simple that all sounded. How very easy it might have been to do as Grandfather asked had things not taken such a terrible turn for the worst with Simon and the fever that took him so quickly.

“If only I had the wisdom of a nine-year-old again,” she said softly.

A moment passed as Flora looked beyond the chandeliers and champagne in the dining room to see the beautiful simplicity of the moon floating above the tree line through the high windows.

“What happened to the other three?” His question, though gently asked, still jarred her.

“Being a Pinkerton agent, I thought you'd know.”

“I know what the file says.” He paused to shift positions. “I'd like to hear it in your words.”

“Always investigating.”

“A hazard of the job,” he said without any sign of apology.

“All right.” She let out a long breath. “My first fiancé, Graham, and I were far too young to be considering marriage, but my mother had just died and…well, I suppose people marry at seventeen and do just fine. I'm not sure we would have.”

When he nodded, she continued. “Graham asked me to marry him while I was away at Dillingham Ladies Preparatory. We wrote the most romantic letters back and forth.” She paused to smile. “He was quite the writer.”

“What happened?”

“His father and mine had a dispute over the price of indigo crops. Though we'd already announced our intention to marry, Father forbade me to see him.” She shrugged. “We decided to run away together.”

Lucas smiled. “So you have a history of eloping.”

“Well, I have a history of attempting to elope. This one didn't work out, obviously, though it wasn't because the groom didn't show. Unfortunately we only got as far as Memphis. Father hauled me home, though I was none too happy about it.”

“And Graham?”

“He wrote me twice promising to come and get me.” Flora paused. “And then he stopped writing. A few weeks later he was found in an alley in a rather seedy part of Natchez. Apparently there had been a robbery, though his body must have been dumped there, for he certainly did not frequent that sort of area. At least not that I knew of.” She shook her head. “I didn't want to know the details. I'm sure you can find them easily enough.”

“And fiancé number three?” he asked. “How did he meet you and then his Maker?”

She slanted him a look. “I met Alan while visiting my aunt in New Orleans. He and Winny were friends. He died…”

“Go on.”

She knew what he would think, but the truth was the truth. “He was shot while hunting.”

“And who was this man hunting with?”

“Well, there were a few boys from Tulane. He was attending school there.”

“Anyone else?” He shifted positions in the chair. “Was your cousin Winthrop hunting with them? Apparently he likes that sort of thing.”

Even if she were to deflect the question, Mr. McMinn likely already knew the answer. “He was,” she said with a look that dared him to make any further accusations. “And if it makes any difference, I wanted to believe Winny did it. I blamed him at first, quietly and privately, and I think other family members did as well. But we all closed ranks and saw to it that we provided a unified front until the scandal blew over.”

“What made you decide it wasn't him who pulled the trigger?”

Flora sighed. “Because apparently Alan was killed by his own gun. The man who found him said he thought the weapon had either misfired or he dropped it.”

“Neither are likely for an experienced hunter.” He paused. “How long had this man been hunting, Flora?”

“Truly, Mr. McMinn…Lucas. Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want to see if protecting people you care about is a habit of yours or just a one-time event that applies only to Will Tucker.”

She crossed her arms, closed her eyes, and sighed. On the other side of the room, the orchestra had switched to an upbeat waltz that had people jumping up to fill the dance floor. For a moment, she considered making an attempt to redirect Lucas's attention toward dancing. Or anything other than this macabre topic.

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You lost one fiancé to a mugging. Definitely not something you could have any part in.”

“Correct.”

“Then there's an unfortunate illness that took fiancé number two.” When she nodded, he continued. “And fiancé number three had a hunting-related death that left some unanswered questions.”

“Yes, though in both Graham's and Alan's deaths—”

“I know, you believe them to be accidents. Duly noted.” He paused. “Now by my count, we have one more. What happened to fiancé number four?”

“Logan was stuck by lightning.” She shook her head. “You certainly can't blame Winny for that.”

“Nor would I unless the circumstances warrant.” Lucas paused. “Where was he when this happened?”

“Actually, he was with Winny. They were riding horses at the time. Winny was unharmed and able to go for help. Unfortunately, there was nothing the doctors could do.” She paused. “Having been struck yourself, you surely know how it is with such an injury.”

He did. Fortunately, his injuries hadn't taken his life, though it had given him a healthy concern for thunderstorms. Unless Flora Brimm was nearby.

Lucas cleared his throat and returned his thoughts to the question at hand. “So by the time help arrived, courtesy of Cousin Winthrop, Logan was dead?”

She lifted her gaze to meet his. “It wasn't like that—”

“You don't know what it was like, Flora. You weren't there, were you?” She shook her head as he reached down to move his queen. “Checkmate. Now let's talk about our plan for finding your next fiancé alive, shall we?” He rose and offered her his hand. “Walk with me.”

She fell into step beside him, as much to placate the man who was making such awful assumptions about Winny as to prevent any further contact with the Lennart ladies, who were watching from their table.

Just when she expected him to turn right to exit the room, Lucas led her forward to the dance floor. “Oh, no,” she said. “I can't. That is, we shouldn't, should we?”

“Flora,” he said as he leaned in so close she could smell the scent of peppermint on his breath. “We already have. Twice. But never an entire song without an exit to interrupt it.”

Her laughter sufficed as an answer as he whirled her into the crowd. For all his rough edges, this Pinkerton agent was an expert on the dance floor. His touch was light but firm, and they moved through the maze of dancers as if they were the only ones on the floor.

It was exhilarating to be led, to think about nothing but holding on tight while the music flowed around them. When the song ended, she paused to clap, though she truly hated that it was over.

“All right,” she said as she made a move toward the exit. “Now we've danced an entire song. Time to exit.”

The first chords of the next song chased her, as did Lucas McMinn. “Not quite yet,” he said as he wrapped his arm around her waist and slid her back toward him. “I don't know about you, but this one's a particular favorite of mine.”

She easily fell into step as the beautiful and elegant strains of “Beau Soir,” literally translated as “Beautiful Evening,” rose in a haunting melody. “Why, Lucas McMinn,” she said in her best boarding school voice, “I had no idea you were a fan of Debussy.”

He did not immediately reply, giving her cause to close her eyes and allow the music to once again sweep her away. This song, this tribute to the end of the day with its celebration of youth and happiness, had once been her favorite. Dancing in this man's arms to a three-piece orchestra on a rumbling steamboat's dance floor had once again elevated the tune to that status.

And then he began to sing. Softly at first, so soft that Flora was unsure she'd heard him, and then rising as the song rose. His French was impeccable, his tone a wonderful rich tenor that embraced the French lyrics as if he had lived them himself.

“
Magnifique
,” Flora said. “
Je ne savais pas que vous parliez Français.
”

He appeared surprised, almost as if he hadn't realized he had been singing. “Thank you,” he said with a measure of what appeared to be embarrassment. “I speak passable French. My mother was…”

“Was what?” she asked as she spied the three Lennarts eyeing them with more than a little curiosity.

“A lovely woman.” He shook his head and began moving toward the edge of the dance floor. “Never mind. I think it's time to exit.” At the staircase, he nudged her toward the door leading to the exterior balcony.

Her heart lurched at the thought of once again standing alone in the dark with Lucas McMinn. A rough-around-the-edges lawman who sang in flawless French and played a decent game of chess. Who knew what other secrets he was keeping from her?

F
lora knew one thing for certain. The kiss she preferred to ignore absolutely could not happen again. And in the moonlight, with no one to chaperone them, it was probably not a good idea to keep company with a man who tempted her so.

She was engaged to be married. The fact she did not exactly know the revised wedding date meant nothing. Above all, she must keep her head clear and her heart unencumbered. For eventually she would learn to love Will Tucker. Or, failing that, at least learn to have a long and suitable life as his wife. Thinking of a kiss that set her heart thumping and her toes curling would never do.

And yet, as the recollection of how the moonlight had slanted across Lucas McMinn's handsome features rose, all she could think of was how very soft his lips had felt against hers. How very strong his arms had been as he snatched her back from what surely would have been certain death had she fallen through the broken railing.

To dislodge her errant and disobedient thoughts, Flora shook her head. She also firmly looked anywhere but directly at Lucas.

“Something wrong?” he asked as he held the door open for her.

“No.” She saw other couples promenading down the walkway and relaxed. Up ahead, someone had mended the broken rail with some nails and a piece of board. Flora studiously averted her eyes until they had passed the scene of her near miss with trouble.

No, she amended as she gripped Lucas's arm for support as the steamboat shuddered. Trouble had come after the broken rail.

“All right,” the object of her thoughts said when they reached an empty seating area at the far end of the balcony. “We are agreed that you and I are both working on the same side in this matter of Will Tucker, correct?”

She looked up at the Pinkerton agent, his dark hair tossed by the breeze and his bowler hat in his hand. If only things were different and Lucas McMinn was not a lawman with a grudge… She sighed. Things were not different.