Natchez Flame (26 page)

That wouldn’t happen with Caleb. If necessary, Caleb intended to clash with society head on. With enough money, he vowed, he could buy his way in. Rose hoped when he tried, she’d be very far away.

*  *  *

“The city is lovely, Jaimie, but I think we ought to be getting back.” Priscilla fidgeted on the carriage seat but forced herself to smile.

“But we’ve only been gone an hour. Why don’t you do some shopping? The boss said I should take you over to Spencer’s Millinery. Wouldn’t you like a new bonnet or something?”

Before she could think up a convincing argument, Jaimie had instructed the driver to pull to the edge of the road. He jumped down lightly, rounded the carriage, and reached up to help her down.

“I really don’t think—”

“It isn’t very far. The walk will do you good.” His freckled hand enfolded hers, and he urged her to step down.

“Oh, all right,” she conceded, knowing it was Jaimie who was really enjoying the outing. It wasn’t his fault the carriage ride had stirred such a hazy array of memories and unanswered questions that she felt disturbed and out of sorts. It wasn’t his fault that when she wasn’t struggling with the past, she was fighting thoughts of Brendan and trying her best not to cry.

Brendan.
He had hurt her so badly, for a while she’d been able to forget him. Lately, his image had surfaced again and again, and only her stubborn determination had saved her from a round of bitter depression.

The ride had been Stuart’s idea, and Jaimie had readily agreed. He had been pleasant and cheerful, pointing out sights he had seen on a prior trip with Stuart, lifting her mood and making her smile. He
was intelligent, she confirmed, and even fairly well educated. He’d grown up in Charleston, he told her, gone to school till he was fifteen, then struck out on his own.

“Me and the boss met in Galveston,” he said. “Fella was cheating him at cards. I spotted it and told him so. He hired me right on the spot.”

“You like him, don’t you?” Priscilla asked.

“It isn’t a matter of like. It’s more that I like what he stands for. He means to make Texas the greatest state in the Union. I mean to be there when he does.”

Priscilla smiled at that, liking Jaimie, and thinking again what a complex man Stuart Egan was. She turned to start up the street, determined to enjoy herself no matter how difficult the task, took two steps, and bumped headlong into a woman walking the opposite way. The woman’s stack of boxes went sprawling off the boardwalk and onto the cobblestones, and her pretty yellow parasol dropped from her long-fingered hands.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the dark-haired woman apologized, stooping to pick up the boxes.

Jaimie knelt down and so did Priscilla. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said, “it was mine.” Priscilla replaced the lid on a hatbox that had come open. “Jaimie, why don’t you carry the packages home for Miss … ?”

“Conners,” the woman said. “Rose Conners. But that isn’t really necessary.”

“Hello, Miss Conners, I’m Priscilla Wills.” It never occurred to her she was now Priscilla Egan.

“Wills?” Rose repeated, her eyes fastened on Priscilia,
and the color seemed to drain from her pretty oval face. “Priscilla Wills?”

“Why, yes. My family used to live here—Joshua and Mary Wills? Maybe you’ve heard of them?” Rose appeared to be just about Priscilla’s age. Since they died when Priscilla was six, Rose couldn’t have known them, yet her expression said that she had.

For a moment Rose just stood there, then her chin came up and she squared her slender shoulders. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know.” A tight smile lifted one corner of her mouth. “Thank you for your generous offer of assistance,” she said to Jaimie, lifting the boxes from his arms. “But as I told you before, it isn’t necessary.” In a froth of yellow polka-dot skirts, she stiffly marched away.

Priscilla stared after her, noting that Jaimie did too, his warm gaze fastened on the feminine sway of her hips.

“What was that all about?” Priscilla asked.

“I don’t know, but she sure is pretty.”

Priscilla didn’t answer. There was something about her … something in her eyes … or maybe it was her face. Some long-dead memory stirred, tried to push its way to the surface, but another part of her mind staunchly shoved it back down.

“I’m sorry, Jaimie,” Priscilla said at last. “I guess the trip up the river took more of a toll than I thought. Would you mind very much if we went to the milliner’s another time?”

“Of course not, Miz Egan. I should have listened to you in the first place.”

Priscilla smiled faintly and let him guide her toward the carriage, but her mind remained on the
woman named Rose, on her abrupt change of manner at the mention of Priscilla’s name, and the odd swirl of memories that continued to push for admittance to Priscilla’s mind.

She hadn’t begun to conquer her troubled thoughts of Natchez, she realized as the carriage rolled along.

When they passed the constable’s office with its thick-walled, ugly-looking jail, Priscilla’s heart constricted, and she conceded a second painful admission: memories of the tall, Texas gunman were no less easy to combat.

They rode in silence the rest of the way home. Only the Negro driver’s, “We here, Mr. Jaimie,” brought her back from wherever she had been.

“Would you mind doing me a favor, Jaimie?” she asked on impulse when he rounded the carriage to help her down.

“Sure, Miz Egan.”

“Would you find out what you can about Rose Conners? I’m kind of curious about her.”

Jaimie grinned as if she’d just done him a favor. “Be glad to, ma’am. I’ll look into it this afternoon.” He helped her down, and they walked the brick path to the house.

The streets of Natchez buzzed with the elegantly dressed and socially elite. Carriages rolled past, high-stepping horses tossed their glossy manes, and long, plumed feathers danced out the windows on wide-brimmed ladies’ bonnets.

Beneath a blanket of stars, Brendan strode down the far end of Main Street, turned at the corner, and headed toward the lights blazing from the mansion in the distance.

Wearing borrowed clothing—an expensive black swallowtail coat, a little snug in the shoulders but otherwise an excellent fit, and a burgundy waistcoat and black broadcloth breeches—he was dressed in fine fashion for the evening. That Christian Bannerman, a long-time friend of his brother Morgan, was just about his same size was another stroke of luck among a lengthy stream of good fortune.

Under different circumstances Brendan might have smiled.

The trip from Corpus Christi had gone off without a hitch. With the delays Egan had suffered, first in getting to Galveston, then waiting to catch a steamer, then the days Egan spent in New Orleans, he’d damn near caught up with them sooner.

Once he got to Natchez and located Chris, finding them here had been easy. Chris Bannerman was a
prominent member of Natchez society, the only son of the wealthy Natchez Bannermans, and a rich man in his own right. His mansion, Evergreen, where Brendan occupied the bachelor quarters in the rear, gave splendid testimony to the money Chris had made as a cotton planter.

Two days ago, Chris’s wife, Sue Alice, had discovered the Egans’ name among the guests invited for the Friday night soiree at Melrose. With the man’s uncanny political instincts, there was no doubt he and Priscilla would attend.

Brendan stepped up his pace, but passed the house and kept on walking. He’d go ’round the back and come in through the garden. Even if somebody saw him, dressed as he was, he doubted they would stop him. Once he got in, he’d find an out-of-the-way place where he could watch for them. As soon as he got a chance, he’d pull Priscilla aside so they could talk.

A hard knot balled in Brendan’s stomach. What had happened to her in the days since they had parted? What kind of punishment had a man like Egan extracted?

He couldn’t wait to see her—had thought of little else for the past long weeks. He prayed she’d be unharmed and that she’d continue to be all right until he could work things out.

The knot in his stomach grew tighter. If Egan had hurt her, so much as laid a hand on her—

It wouldn’t be long before he found out.

*  *  *

“We’d better be going.” Stuart stood in the hallway outside her bedchamber door. “We’ll be fashionably late, as it is.”

Dressed in immaculate black swallowtail coat, a snowy white shirt, and wide white stock, Stuart definitely looked handsome. His hazel eyes ran over her shimmering emerald gown, cut daringly low in front, veed at the waistline, and so tight she could scarcely breathe. There was warmth in his expression—and something else. Priscilla wished, not for the first time, she could feel some answering warmth.

Instead, she accepted his arm and swept down the hall, down the stairs, and into the foyer, feeling a sense of duty, nothing more.

His stylish black calèche awaited them out in front, a red-liveried servant sitting in the driver’s seat. Stuart helped her aboard, and she settled against the tufted red velvet seat. Against the clip-clop of horses’ hooves over the cobblestone streets, they made the same sort of small talk that had marked their relationship from the start.

With fond remembrance, Priscilla thought of the letters they had written to each other for more than two years. What had happened to Stuart’s interest in her thoughts and dreams? Where was the gentleness she had sensed in him?

Fleetingly, in hopes of renewing the bond they’d once shared, she considered mentioning the woman named Conners she had met that afternoon, but Stuart’s mind seemed elsewhere, and some other nebulous feeling held her back.

It wasn’t long before the lights of Melrose, just off Main Street, loomed in the distance, the sounds of
gaiety and laughter floating across the late September air. The house, a blend of Greek Revival and Georgian architecture, rose up among impressive manicured gardens, and a host of black-clad servants ushered an endless stream of guests inside.

“Good evening, Stuart.” John McMurran greeted Stuart in the foyer. “So glad you could make it.”

“It’s a pleasure to be here, John.” Stuart returned McMurran’s firm handshake. “I’d like you to meet my wife, Priscilla.”

“How do you do,” she said, wondering why every time Stuart introduced her that way, something squeezed inside her chest.

McMurran’s wife nodded in greeting, and the women chatted amiably for a while. A few moments later, she and Stuart drifted into the massive salon, where couples danced beneath ornate chandeliers. The mansion felt very French, with brocade draperies and carved rosewood furniture. There were fireplaces of Egyptian marble, huge mirrors framed in gold leaf, and a remarkable circular table held up by carved marble birds whose eyes gleamed with jewels.

“Shall we dance, darling?” She recognized Stuart’s words for the command they were and let him lead her onto the dance floor. After several lively tunes, including a schottische and a polka, he paused to introduce her to some of the guests, and a circle of gentlemen began to ask her to dance. It was fun for a while, this freedom from Stuart’s often-taxing presence. Priscilla laughed as she hadn’t in weeks, enjoying the men’s attention, forgetting her troubles, if just for a while.

Eventually, she began to tire.

Searching for a means of escape from the graying professor named Martin Duggan who had captured her for a second waltz, Priscilla scanned the room in search of her husband. Dozens of Negro servants scurried past carrying silver trays crowded with champagne goblets or an array of exotic foods, and beautifully dressed men and women danced or chatted, filling the room, but she saw no sign of Stuart.

“I believe this dance is mine,” said a hard male voice from beside the thin professor.

“Sorry,” Duggan apologized, reluctantly releasing her hand. “I suppose I
was
taking advantage.”

Priscilla swayed on her feet, feeling the pressure of the tall man’s grip. His menacing presence loomed like an ominous force, yet she could not move away. Not when the pale blue eyes looking down at her with such hostility held her rooted to the very spot.

“You must be insane,” she whispered, forcing herself to meet his icy gaze.

A mocking smile curved his lips. “For wanting to dance with a beautiful woman? I hardly think that’s crazy.”

“What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

His hold grew tighter on her hand while his fingers bit into her waist. Without waiting for permission, he swept her onto the dance floor.

“Such a greeting,” he taunted. “And I’d expected words of love, maybe even some weeping.” He smiled, but it never reached his eyes. “Damnably disappointing.”

Priscilla nearly stumbled. Only his hard grip kept
her from falling. “Why did you come here? What do you want?”

“I came to rescue you, sweetness. I was under the mistaken impression that you cared a great deal for me. I expected to find you pining away—I even feared for your safety.” He scoffed. “Instead I find you dressed in silk and clinging to Egan’s arm—or dancing your traitorous little heart out. You’re quite the belle of the ball.”