Jo Goodman (12 page)

It was Emily who returned a few minutes later to inform her employer that Decker Thorne was nowhere to be found.

* * *

Jonna was able to walk with a cane after two days of bed rest. She had suffered her confinement, rather than embrace it. Conducting the business of Remington Shipping from her bedroom, in spite of Dr. Hardy's orders to the contrary, Jonna managed to see that contracts were honored and cargoes were held.

Decker never explained his disappearance from the house that morning, and Jonna, less sharp from the effects of the laudanum, forgot about it until after he had sailed. As the days passed it didn't seem so important.

It was not that she didn't think about Decker Thorne. On the contrary, and somewhat to her annoyance, Jonna found his likeness appearing in her mind's eye at the oddest moments. She told herself it was because she had entrusted him with
Huntress
and a valuable cargo of rugs and rum. He was returning with cotton, for which the New England mills were paying the best money in two years for a shipment. She concentrated on that when she thought of him. It was less troubling than remembering the kiss in her kitchen.

Grant visited her daily while she was confined to her room and came for dinner when she was able to move easily up and down the stairs. After meals they would retire to the music room, where he would play the spinet. Jonna shared the bench and turned the sheet music, and while she watched his beautiful hands move over the keys with fluid grace, she thought of Decker's lean fingers sliding over her ankle, his hands disappearing under the hem of her gown, his thumbs caressing the undersides of her wrists.

"I'm leaving for Charleston tomorrow," Grant told her ten days into her recovery. "I hope you understand I wouldn't go unless it were absolutely necessary."

Jonna looked past Grant to the doors of the music room. A maid was framed in the entrance, holding a tea service in front of her. Her dark eyes betrayed her uncertainty. Jonna motioned her to enter. "Bring the tray here, Mattie. I'll pour."

Mattie nodded once and proceeded into the room slowly, carefully balancing the tray with its delicate china cups and heavy silver service. She set it down on the table beside Jonna.

"Thank you," Jonna said when the girl simply stood there. "You may go."

The young woman didn't respond immediately. She smoothed the front of her neat apron in a perfect imitation of the housekeeper. Her wide mouth was tremulous, and there was heat rising in a face that was the color of cocoa. It was difficult for her to keep her hands from pressing her cheeks.

"Yes?" Jonna asked. "What is it?"

"Miz Davis tol' me to ask if there's anythin' else."

"And now you have," Jonna said. "Please tell Mrs. Davis that nothing further is required."

"Yes, ma'am." Mattie did not so much take her leave of the room as flee it.

Jonna began to pour tea while Grant, who had watched the exchange with interest, got up to attend the doors that Mattie failed to close. "Where do you find these girls?" he asked as he returned to the settee. He took the cup and saucer Jonna held out to him. "That one can't have any experience in service."

Jonna set the silver pot down and stirred sugar into her tea. "I couldn't say. Mrs. Davis hires all the help. But you're right about Mattie. She doesn't have experience. Mrs. Davis has been training her these past few days, and I think she's coming around. She's just nervous about pleasing me."

"That, at least, I can understand."

Jonna's head tilted to one side as she regarded Grant consideringly. "Now what do you mean by that?"

"Well, my dear, you cannot be the easiest employer to work for. You seem to change your staff as regularly as you change bonnets, and with no more consideration."

"What
are
you talking about, Grant?"

"I haven't seen that one colored girl who served us dinner a few evenings ago."

"You must mean Tess," she said.

"Yes, I think that was her name."

"And I'm certain that's still her name," Jonna said tartly. "If you're really interested in what's become of her, you'll have to get the details from Mrs. Davis. I believe the girl was let go because of some missing silver. And before you ask, her friend Emily elected to go with her. Apparently she thought her friend was wrongly accused."

"Well," Grant said somewhat stiffly, "you
did
have Decker Thorne staying in this house."

"Are we going to argue about that again?" she asked. "I'd really rather not."

"It doesn't have to be an argument."

"Not if I agree with you, it doesn't."

Grant leaned back on the settee and raised his cup. His distant and dark eyes regarded Jonna over the rim before he drank. "When does
Huntress
return?" he asked.

"A few days from now," she said. "No more than a week."

"You're confident he'll return with your ship."

Jonna poured more tea for herself and spoke when she could do so lightly, without sarcasm. "I don't think he'll steal the clipper, Grant. It's not as if he could slip it into a pocket and not be noticed."

Grant set his cup and saucer aside. "You're too trusting, Jonna. He's not his brother."

"I've always been aware of that," she said. "But it's an interesting observation coming from you. You never bore Colin any particular fondness that I can recall."

"My concern was the amount of influence he had on Remington Shipping. He and Jack Quincy were allowed to manage your holdings much too freely."

"Which is precisely as my father intended," Jonna reminded him. "Your family, on the other hand, particularly your father, would have liked nothing better than to take over Remington. I haven't forgotten that, Grant. I haven't forgotten that it was your father who thought a marriage between us would solve his financial problems and negate the concerns about my youth and inexperience."

Grant's head snapped back as if he'd been struck. "My God, Jonna. Have you been thinking this way since I proposed? Is that why you won't give me an answer?"

"I've given you an answer," she said. "The answer is no. You simply ignore it."

Grant took the cup and saucer from her then he took her hands in his. He leaned toward her, his handsome features compelling her to listen. "My father's been dead four years now. You can't think I'm influenced by his wishes in regard to marriage. I was just a young man when he conceived that idea, and you were little more than a child. The financial problems that he thought a merger could solve have long since been righted by me. They've never been a factor in my proposal to you. We're not those young people anymore, Jonna. Sheridan Shipping is a solvent enterprise and will continue in just that vein, with or without a firm connection to your business."

Jonna searched his face. She found she very much wanted to believe him.

"Who put this idea in your head?" Grant asked, giving her wrists a small shake. "Did Jack or Colin make you think you aren't desired for yourself? That I could only be interested in what you have and not who you are? Don't you know how often I think of you or how much I want you?"

Jonna raised her face, her eyes unwavering in their regard. "Do you want me, Grant?" she asked softly. "Would you love me?"

Grant stared back at her, wondering what she was about.

The boldness of Jonna's words was at odds with the flush in her cheeks. "I mean would you make love to me?"

"Now?" He came to his feet. "Here?"

"Now," she said. "Here, if you like. My bedroom, if you prefer." She stood and took a step toward him, holding out her hand.

Grant's astonishment faded as his beautiful smile lighted his face. He took her hand and pulled her into his arms. Hugging her close, he kissed the crown of her dark hair. "Your sense of humor always confounds me," he whispered. "You never let on." His mouth moved to her ear. "I should take you up on your outrageous suggestion, you know. Ravish you right here on the settee and not give a damn which one of your maids walks in on us." His hands moved up and down along her back then he held her from him long enough to study her face. "If you could have managed the thing without blushing," he said, "I might have been taken in." His smile was more teasing than wicked. "I might have taken you."

Jonna found herself held loosely in his embrace again. Her cheek rested against his shoulder, and his hands lay lightly on the small of her back. She could feel his breath stir her hair.

"It's a good thing I know you so well," he said deeply.

"Yes," she said. "Isn't it?" She pushed gently at his chest to free herself. Her features were perfectly composed, and the color that had crept into her face was gone now. Taking his hand in hers, she urged him back to the settee and picked up the threads of conversation as if there had never been a moment's interruption. "Tell me about Charleston," she said evenly. "How long will you be gone?"

* * *

Michele Moreau had never cared for the term "fancy house." If there must be a euphemism for her brothel, then she preferred it simply be called an establishment. That was less painful on the ears of the well-bred Charleston ladies who sometimes had to hear of it. Though the business was discreetly run, any married man who sought refuge or comfort there ran the risk of discovery. He could learn that his wife had always known about Michele's establishment and that she had grown up knowing about it. The knowledge had been passed from mother to daughter just once, usually on the eve of the daughter's marriage then never spoken of again.

Michele Moreau was sensitive to the wife's dilemma, so she did not mind when they used the euphemism.

The two men sitting at a table by themselves did not have a care for such things, she knew. They did not represent her usual clientele as neither of them was married.

Michele idly ran an index finger along the edge of her bodice and straightened the pearls at her throat. She did not have to glance in the mirror above the bar to have confidence in her appearance. She knew that at fifty she was still a handsome woman and that many of her regulars would be surprised to discover she was not ten years younger. It was not often that she experienced any regret about aging. These two men made her think of that now. If she had not liked them half so well she would have thrown them out for the inconvenience they caused her emotionally.

She walked over to their table and placed her hand on the back of an empty chair. Her slim, jeweled fingers tapped lightly on the uppermost wooden slat. Their conversation ceased, and they raised their heads simultaneously. "Gentlemen," she said, basking momentarily in their welcoming smiles. "You might at least invite a girl to sit with you. My other customers may think you find the women lacking; worse, that you only have eyes for each other." Her glance darted between them, her own eyes dancing with humor. "And if that were true I swear I would have my best girls jumping out windows in despair." She touched them both on the shoulder. "Do not flatter yourselves over much. They are only silly girls, after all."

"Aaah, Michele," Decker said, laying his hand over hers.
"Vous êtes trés amiable."

"You know I don't understand a word of French," she said. But her handsome face was alight with pleasure anyway. "Come. I will let you use my private rooms. I would have taken you there immediately if I had seen you come in. You should have asked for me."

Both men rose and followed the madam to her private apartment at the rear of the house. She gave them brandy to drink from her bar and saw to it that they were comfortable before she left them alone.

Decker leaned back in the large leather chair he'd been shown to. It held the faint rich fragrance of cigar smoke, and he wondered if it was Michele's vice he smelled or that of one of her customers.

Graham Denison watched Decker's attention wander about the room. "It's quite something back here, isn't it?" he asked. "Less is never less with Michele. And more is never quite enough."

It was true, Decker thought. Michele's apartment was opulent to excess. Tapestries hung on the walls, and the floor was overlaid with Oriental carpets. Porcelain and jade figurines crowded the marble mantelpiece and every other available surface. Heavy gold tassels held back blood red drapes at each window. The furniture was large and thickly upholstered in brushed velvet. There was more of it than the room could strictly handle.

"I take it you've been here before," Decker said.

Graham nodded. He had a reserved smile that did not always reach his eyes, and a flinty, blue-gray stare that rarely let others see past his guard. His Southern drawl was tempered by a New England education, and he could use either accent to great effect. With Michele Moreau he had a voice like honey over velvet. With others it was clipped Yankee tones that offered no quarter. Occasionally, with someone he respected and trusted like Decker Thorne, it was a smooth mixture of the two. "It's good to be seen here from time to time," he said. "Not just when I need to be."

That brought them to the reason for their meeting. "I know someone who wants to meet Falconer."

"Oh?" Graham rolled his snifter of brandy between his palms. "Who would that be?"

"His name is Grant Sheridan."

Graham was thoughtful. He had dark brows and even darker lashes. He stared at the brandy in his hands, his eyes shaded by his lowered lids. "I know him, don't I?"