Nan Ryan (31 page)

In the small foyer Malcolm Maxwell shook out his dripping umbrella and mounted the stairs to the second, then on to the third-floor landing. At the end of a dimly lit hall he rapped lightly on the door. When it swung open he stepped quickly inside.

Stryker drew up even with the rooming house and glanced warily at the waiting carriage. The driver was already dozing, the rain dripping from the lowered brim of his hat. His narrowed eyes on the building, Stryker stepped through the gate and went up the walk.

Inside, he inquisitively followed the wet footprints left on the uncarpeted wooden floor by the man who had entered just before him. Those footprints led upward and stopped before a door on the third floor at the very end of the corridor.

Frowning, Stryker stood directly before that wooden door. He heard arguing, exasperated male voices growing louder. Then Professor Maxwell’s distinctive voice, raised in anger, saying, “Because, I have told you, those are the conditions of Louis’s will!”

Stryker’s narrowed eyes widened. He leaned closer, but the voices again became muffled. He could not make out what was being said. He finally turned and walked quietly away. He went back outside and to his horse. Shaking his big head, he rode away, baffled and uneasy, feeling as though his niggling suspicions were warranted.

It was uncanny, but from the beginning he hadn’t been comfortable with Nevada’s choice of a husband. He didn’t know exactly why, but he had been strangely uneasy since she had first told him she intended to marry the mannerly college professor.

Now he was downright worried.

Stryker felt helpless. Something was very wrong, but he was not certain what. The only thing he was certain of was that Professor Malcolm Maxwell was not the right man for the young, beautiful Nevada Hamilton. But he didn’t dare say as much to her.

Stryker was still troubled when he reached the riverfront. The rain had stopped. The sun had come back out, hot and bright, glinting on the snowy white steamer,
White Magnolia
. She’s early, Stryker thought to himself. The
Magnolia
, up from New Orleans, was not due until sundown.

Hired on as one of the strong backs to unload her cargo, Stryker dismounted, tossed the reins and a coin to a small black boy, and shrugging out of his rain slicker, rushed forward. His strides long and determined, he was hurrying toward the berthed
Magnolia
when all at once he stopped short. He squinted. He stared. He opened his mouth to call out, closed it without saying a word.

Stryker started to grin.

Not thirty yards ahead on the wooden landing a man sat on an overturned cotton bale. Coatless, his wide shoulders slumped in an attitude of easy relaxation, he smoked a long, thin cigar and seemed to be totally unbothered by the rapidly heating afternoon sun beating down on his bare dark head.

The sun was just beginning to set on that same warm May evening when Maxwell, having just arrived home and apologizing profusely for his tardiness, smilingly escorted Nevada into the high-ceilinged dining room where Miss Annabelle and Quincy were already seated, awaiting the young couple.

Quincy Maxwell was at the table’s head. Miss Annabelle sat at Quincy’s right side, her back to the room’s arched doorway. Malcolm hurried Nevada around the long table, drew the chair out for her across from Miss Annabelle, then took his own place opposite his mother.

“Terribly sorry I’m late,” he apologized to the two older ladies. “An interminable meeting after regular classes.” He shrugged helplessly.

“You must be exhausted, Professor Maxwell,” offered Miss Annabelle, unfolding her linen napkin.

“I didn’t realize there was a faculty meeting today, dear,” said his mother.

“I must have forgotten to mention it.” He again smiled at Nevada. “Never mind that now. I’m here and I wish to propose a toast.”

He lifted his stemmed glass of port. The others followed suit. He said, “May we always know the happiness and peace we enjoy this evening.”

They drank of the wine and the leisurely meal began. The conversation was pleasant and light. Nevada was chewing a succulent bite of rare roast beef when suddenly Quincy Maxwell’s heavy sterling fork slipped from her hand and fell to her plate with a loud clatter.

All talk ceased.

Startled, Nevada jerked her head up to see what Quincy was staring at. She swallowed convulsively, almost choking, and her own fork went the way of Quincy’s.

There in the arched doorway, a muscular shoulder leaning against the polished jamb, stood Johnny Roulette.

When he’d attracted everyone’s attention and all were alarmingly aware of his presence, Johnny languidly pushed away from the door and, smilingly devilishly, strode on into the room, advancing on the shocked group.

Her open mouth rounded into an O of disbelief, Nevada heard Johnny say in that deep, familiar drawl, “Ah, how grand to be back in the bosom of my dear family. It’s been too long. Much too long.”

29

Nevada stared. Miss Annabelle stared. Quincy Maxwell stared. Malcolm Maxwell stared. The startled diners were totally’speechless. Every one of them.

Quincy, her face fiery red with emotion, glared at the presumptuous intruder, gripping the arms of her chair and shaking her head as if in denial of his existence. Malcolm, an expression of extreme contempt on his face, rose from his chair so swiftly, he overturned his wineglass. Nevada, immobile, a hand at her tight throat, gaped at the tall imposing man, thinking she must surely be losing her mind.

Only Miss Annabelle, as silent as the rest, looked pleased to see him. Her delighted gaze followed Johnny when, grinning impishly, he walked directly to the head of the table, leaned down, and pressed his tanned jaw to Quincy Maxwell’s scarlet cheek.

“Mother of mine! So glad to see me you’re speechless? I’m touched,” he said, laughing as he circled the table. He stopped beside Miss Annabelle’s chair and looked down at her with true affection. “Miss Annabelle from Louisiana! Wonderful to see you again, my dear.”

“Cap’n Roulette,” murmured Miss Annabelle, her eyes shining, her hand lifting to his. “I—I had no idea …” She cast a puzzled glance at Quincy Maxwell. “I didn’t realize that you—”

“Were a member of this fine old southern family?” Johnny finished for her. He squeezed her hand, released it, and walked around to the still standing, clench-jawed Malcolm. Patting the shorter man’s slender shoulder, Johnny said, “Professor, you failed to tell your visitors you had a baby brother? I’m hurt. Truly hurt.”

“What are you doing here, John?” said Malcolm coldly, twisting away from the dark, laughing man.

Johnny shrugged. “I was homesick.”

“You expect us to believe that?” Malcolm said, a vein throbbing on his high pale forehead.

Quincy Maxwell found her tongue at last. “You’ve no right to—”

“Never so surprised to see anyone—” exclaimed Miss Annabelle.

“Can’t just walk in here and—” Malcolm muttered.

Everyone seemed to be talking at once, but Nevada heard little of it. Her heart was pounding furiously and her brain was spinning with confusion. Johnny Roulette and Malcolm brothers? Quincy Maxwell Johnny’s mother? Dear God, no! It couldn’t be, it couldn’t. But … then what was Johnny doing here? Why had he shown up in St. Louis, of all places? What had she ever done to deserve this horrid turn of events?

“Sure I can. This is my home, or had you forgotten?” Johnny said calmly to Malcolm, and his smiling eyes dismissed the irate academician.

Nevada felt all the breath leave her tense body when those black, teasing eyes finally came to rest on her. Would he give her away? Would he recklessly pull her world out from under her? A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm her. Dear Lord, would Johnny brag to his brother that he had … had …

Johnny now stood directly beside her chair. In a low, soft voice he asked, “And who, may I respectfully inquire, is this lovely young lady?” Dark eyes flashing, he reached for Nevada’s cold, stiff hand. He bent and pressed a kiss to it, managing as he did so to wink almost imperceptibly at her.

“She’s Miss Marie Hamilton,” Malcolm said irritably. He motioned for Johnny to release Nevada’s hand.

Johnny ignored him.

Malcolm went on, “Now that you’ve greeted everyone, perhaps you’d allow us to finish our meal in peace.”

Eyes never leaving Nevada, Johnny replied, “Surely your guests won’t mind if I share the meal. Would you, Miss Hamilton?”

Nevada swallowed with difficulty and, trying in vain to free her cold hand from Johnny’s large warm one, started to speak.

Before she could utter a word, Johnny addressed the bristling Quincy: “Have Lena set another plate. I’m starving.” With one last secret squeeze of Nevada’s hand, he released it and drew up a chair beside her.

Quincy Maxwell’s regal nose wrinkling with disgust, she said sharply, “We try to preserve a measure of decorum here. Your suit is badly wrinkled and your—”

“Ah, yes, my valet forgot to press it,” said Johnny, unruffled. “And I shall have to be very severe with him.” His dark eyes twinkled. He sat down, turned to Nevada, and said, “Miss Hamilton, I’m afraid you caught me on a bad day.” His long fingers skimmed over a darkly whiskered jawline.

Her own appetite gone, Nevada was forced to sit there while Johnny began to eat heartily, blithely ignoring the obvious displeasure of the Maxwells.

Clearing his throat, Malcolm looked from Miss Annabelle to. Nevada and said, “I know you both must be a bit curious.” He inclined his head toward Johnny. “John is not actually my blood brother. You see, when I was three years old Mother married John’s father, Louis Roulette. She was a widow, Louis Roulette a widower, and …”

Nevada listened distractedly to Malcolm’s explanation and learned that Johnny Roulette’s father, Louis Roulette, had married the widow, Quincy Maxwell, more than twenty-five years ago. He had moved his bride, and her young son, Malcolm, into the townhouse with him and his own son, two-year-old John Roulette. Louis Roulette died not a year later.

Dazed, Nevada nodded and smiled and tried to comprehend. It wasn’t easy. The news was too new, too shocking; and besides, the big dark man sitting so close to her commanded her attention. Nervous but keenly alert, she too had immediately noticed that the usually meticulous Johnny was frightfully unkempt. Cautiously observing him from beneath lowered lashes, Nevada noted that the rumpled gray suit was not all that was wrong with his appearance.

The French cuffs of his fine silk shirt were slightly frayed. His preferred gold studs had been replaced with inexpensive mother-of-pearl. His handmade Italian shoes were badly in need of a shine. His rich black hair was a trifle too long, touching the collar of his shirt, and the nails of those beautifully tapered gambler’s fingers were clean but ragged.

In spite of herself Nevada experienced a fleeting instant of triumph. She
had
been his luck! Without her he was a loser.

“I suppose you’ve been losing at cards again”—Quincy Maxwell’s words were coated with venom—“and that’s why you’re here.”

“Why, Mother,” said Johnny, “how can you always be so suspicious of my motives?” He turned his attention immediately back to Nevada. “Miss Hamilton, it’s so fortunate that you, for whatever reason, are visiting my dear family. Promise we shall become better acquainted?”

Flushed, Malcolm promptly set Johnny straight. “You shall have every opportunity, John. Miss Hamilton has agreed to become my wife.”

Johnny didn’t so much as lift a dark eyebrow in surprise. He smiled and said, “How grand. When is the happy day?” His black eyes impaled Nevada.

“More than two months away. I’m sure your profession will have taken you away from St. Louis long before then,” said Quincy Maxwell with cool authority.

Johnny grinned at the quietly seething chestnut-haired woman. He leisurely took a drink of water from a gleaming crystal goblet. He patted at his black mustache with a snowy white napkin. He announced, with the same cool authority she had demonstrated, “I wouldn’t dream of missing the wedding.” He turned to Malcolm, “Congratulations, big brother. Need a best man?”

Nobody got a great deal of rest at the Lucas Place townhouse that night. Well past midnight Miss Annabelle was still lying awake in her bed, wondering at the coldness of a family who would fail to mention the existence of one of its own members. Wondering as well why Johnny had never spoken of them. Wondering why Quincy had resumed the name Maxwell after the death of Johnny’s father.

In Quincy’s spacious bedroom suite, she and Malcolm were huddled together, whispering. Quincy was assuring her anxious son that Johnny’s unwanted presehce would not endanger their well-laid plans.

“You are worrying needlessly, darling,” Quincy soothed. “How many times must I assure you that John Roulette doesn’t know the terms of his father’s will?”

“I realize that, Mother, but you know John’s way with females. If he’s to stay here for two months, there’s the possibility that Marie—”

“Malcolm, Malcolm! Have you so little confidence in yourself? Not to mention in Marie? Darling you’re twice the man John Roulette is, and let me assure you, a highborn, cultured young lady like Marie would never be attracted to a common scoundrel like John Roulette!” She shook her head.