Stealing Mercy (11 page)

She smiled. “Mr. Michaels, I have plenty of prayers.”

“Good, because you’ll need them.”

“Your third request?”

He was quiet a moment and then he pushed open the door of Neilson’s butcher shop. The air was thick and rank. “I was wondering if you would do me the honor of accompanying me to the Seafarer’s Ball.”

She stopped him outside the shop. “First, tell me what you learned.”

He glanced in the store and up and down the sidewalk. He waited while a pair of young women strolled past. They gave him beaming smiles and Mercy sideways glances. Then he pulled her to the side of the building to a small alley. He leaned against the building and watched Mercy’s face. “Steele is one of the owners of Lucky Island.”

Mercy let out a long slow breath. “I knew it. Who else?” She leaned towards him, so that no one else could hear.

“Mercy, you can’t save those girls. Most of them wouldn’t appreciate your interference.”

“But what if it’s true? What if girls are being abducted and pressed into prostitution?” Her fingers pressed into his arm and she realized she was beginning to sweat. She took a deep breath, willing herself to relax, but all she could think was
it could have been me, it might have been Belle and Melanie
. She had to stop Steele; she had to close down Lucky Island, if she could. She knew she couldn’t do it single-handedly, of course, but as Trent had said, she wasn’t without power. There had to be something she could do. Even if she just saved one girl, that would be something. And what if that one girl was Belle or Melanie? “Who are his partners?”

“Partner. Calhoun.”

“The sheriff?” Her voice came out as a squeak. She looked up and down the alley to make sure they were alone. Hopefully, no one else had heard. Her heart began to beat irregularly and she wondered if anyone could hear.

Trent nodded and then took her arm. “The ball?”

She closed her eyes. She’d promised Eloise that she’d accompany her brother to the ball. “I’m afraid I already have plans,” she said, tucking her hand around his elbow and guiding him to the butcher shop.

“Perhaps tonight then you’ll join me at the theater where my sister performs.” They paused in front of Neilson’s while Mercy tried to think of an excuse to stay at home with her aunt. She couldn’t very well admit that she preferred to the company of a good book and a cup of tea over the threat of being spotted by Mr. Steele. After all, she had just admitted to attending the ball, a date Miles had secured weeks before Mr. Steele’s arrival. She couldn’t very well spend the rest of her life dodging Mr. Steele and hiding out in her aunt’s front parlor behind a book.

The butcher’s door swung open, letting loose the odors of cured meat. Mercy wrinkled her nose and turned her head.

Trent chuckled. “Come now, it’s not that unpleasant.”

“No. I’m sure your sister is charming as--”

“Perilous Persephone.” Trent supplied.

Mercy hedged. “But, you see--”

“Mercy! Mr. Michaels!” Eloise stood on the opposite corner calling to them. She had a basket of herbs in one hand and a bouquet of lavender in the other. She waved the lavender in their direction and lifted a finger, indicating she wished to speak with them.

“Our friend, Miss Carol,” Trent said, still holding the butcher door open.

Mercy smiled watching Eloise lift her skirts and pick her way across the muddy street.

Moments later Eloise, laughing, laid her hand on Mercy’s arm and inspected her shoes for damage. “Goodness, this Seattle mud will be the ruin of all my favorite clothes!”

Trent grinned. “Is that what you needed to so urgently say? That Seattle’s mud wrecks shoes?”

Eloise gave him a slight scowl. “Don’t be silly. I wanted to invite Mercy to the theater tonight.”

“Ah, well then, you’re too late. I’ve already invited her, and if I’m not mistaken, she was about to offer a ‘that would be lovely but’ excuse.”

“You do not know what I was about to say--” Mercy countered.

Eloise twisted her lips, considering Mercy. “She’s very good at thinking up excuses.”

“Excuse me--” Mercy began.

“See, there she goes again,” Trent said.

“My dear, we just said you were very good with excuses, no need to practice,” Eloise tapped Mercy’s arm with the lavender. “And before you continue with your refusal, I feel I need to let you know that I’ve been told a certain someone will be there tonight.”

Mercy stared at Eloise, not comprehending.

Eloise leaned towards Mercy and whispered in her ear. “That man I want to meet. The man of my dreams, remember?”

The smells of the butcher shop came out and surrounded Mercy on a puff of a warm breeze and she felt her stomach turn. “From the sidewalk. The man who kicked the hound.” Her voice sounded hollow in her own ears.

“He did not kick a hound!” Eloise laughed.

“A mongrel, then.” Her gaze slid to Trent and she caught his eye. She watched a large brown dog slink past them and creep into the butcher shop. “Have you actually met this man?”

Eloise rocked onto her toes. “Miles is going to introduce him to me tonight.”

Upright Miles and Mr. Steele, Mercy couldn’t imagine a more diverse pair. She instinctively laid her hand on Trent’s arm and he covered her hand with his. No, she didn’t want to attend the theater, especially now that she knew Steele would be attending, but if she could somehow prevent Eloise and Mr. Steele from meeting…

“I have a box seat,” Trent began.

“You do?” Eloise asked, her voice rising a pitch.

“I attend all the performances,” Trent said, sounding dismal. “I can recite the entire first act.”

“Why just the first?” Mercy asked.

“Because I can usually manage to fall asleep by the second.”

“That’s it,” Eloise said. “Mercy, you must come and keep Mr. Michaels amused.”

“Mr. Michaels is amusing all by himself--” Mercy began, but her excuses disappeared when cursing broke out and a dog bolted from the butcher shop, a string of sausages hanging from his mouth.

Mr. Neilson, hot on the dog’s trail, burst onto the sidewalk, looked in both directions and then sprinted after the dog. His long white apron flapped between his legs as he followed the dog up the sidewalk and his large balloon-like hat caught the breeze and sailed into the mud. Seconds later a wagon rolled over the white hat, leaving it dirt-stained and misshapen.

Mercy then decided that sometimes people and things had to go places they would never choose. No matter the risk, she’d do what she could to prevent Eloise from meeting Mr. Steele.

*****

As according to plan, thanks to a misplaced pair of gloves, Mercy, Miles and Eloise arrived at Trent’s box seat moments after the lights went down and seconds before the curtain lifted.

Mercy slid into her seat and sent Trent, who sat beside her, an apologetic smile for their tardiness. Below, the organist in the pit pounded out a rousing tune that shook the walls. The red velvet curtains lifted with a small screech that tried, but didn’t succeed, in drowning out the organ.

Mercy took in the theater. The mornings at the bakery started long before dawn, and so her parents had never taken her to the theater or anywhere else that required staying out past nine. To be out in the evening seemed an incredible indulgence and luxury. Walls covered with trompe l'oeil murals, tapestry runners down the aisles, the balconies and box seats trimmed in gold leaf, the wall sconces and chandelier shimmering with light: the theater was a magical world.

Mercy cast a nervous glance at some of the women in the nearby box seats. They wore velvet, silk, heavy brocade, lacy shawls and mother of pearl buttons. Mercy smoothed down her dark poplin skirt, and pulled at her sleeves to hide her yellowing gloves.

Eloise wore a sapphire blue gown that matched her eyes. Her white gloves glowed in the near dark and had tiny sparkly buttons at the wrists. Mercy shifted in her seat. She loved her friend and knew Eloise didn’t care a fig for the state of Mercy’s finery, or lack thereof. Mercy scolded herself for her vanity and studied the program.

Trent leaned close and she felt his warmth. “My sister is the one facing all the perils.”

“How frightening for her.”

“And me,” he grumbled, sitting back in his chair.

The music swelled in a crescendo that seemed to last forever and then dropped to a quiet hush as Chloe, dressed in soft gray traveling suit, took the stage. The audience stamped their feet and roared in approval.

“She’s lovely,” Mercy whispered to Trent. “You must be very proud of her.”

Trent shot her a surprised look and murmured something that sounded like sinister sisters. Mercy lips twitched. She could tell from Trent’s behavior that he not only loved his sister, but that he hated her receiving so much male attention. He cringed with every wolf whistle and cat call.

“Just being on stage takes tremendous courage, let alone acting a part--” Mercy’s voice trailed away as the organ crashed into a minor key and a man dressed in black and twirling a cane took center stage.

“In case we are too dim to realize it on our own, the music heralds the villain,” Trent told her.

“He looks very dastardly,” Mercy said, noticing the man’s dripping moustache, oily black pompadour, and arrogant strut.

Trent looked pained. “That’s his name, actually.”

“No.”

“Yes, because the music and dialogue isn’t enough of a clue. Our villain is named Mr. Dastard.”

Mercy bit back a smile as Mr. Dastard took center stage and said, “My dear, I shall never forget the first day we met. Overcome by your beauty, I didn’t perceive your desperation.” He twirled his mustache.

Chloe, dressed in virginal white, touched her finger tips to her lips in an exaggerated surprise. “Desperation, sir?” She swung her valise in front of her as porters bustled around the mock train station.

“What else but extreme anxiety could bring about this madness.” Mr. Dastard leaned on his cane and motioned to the valise and train station. “The dreadful feeling of the time running out, like the sands of an hour glass, the surety of the world’s cold indifference --”

Mercy’s face grew warm when she saw Mr. Steele. He sat five box seats away and watched the stage with a sneer that someone might mistake for a smile. Beside her, Eloise sat a little straighter and Mercy knew that her friend had also caught sight of Mr. Steele. Eloise held a small vial in her hands. No bigger than her pointy finger, the vial held clear liquid.

The organ paused and then tore into the prelude, indicating the beginning of a song. Trent leaned forward and looked a trifle ill as his sister began to sing.

Chloe trilled. “Where I come from

Nobody goes;

And where I'm going

Nobody knows.

The wind blows,

The sea flows

And love will surely follow.”

“She’s darling,” Mercy whispered to Trent.

He scrunched the program in his hand. Mercy fought to the temptation to pat his knee. He leaned back in his chair and pushed his hair away from his face.

Dastard waited for her song of adventure to end and the crowd’s applause to die before he said, “Your courage will fade fast, like a sudden fire without fuel to feed its blaze. You’ll return without hope or friends.”

Chloe laughed and lifted her chin in the air. “My friends will not desert me.”

Dastard grabbed her hand. “I will be your one true friend. I will stand beside you.”

Trent whispered in Mercy’s ear, “As long as her inheritance waits in the bank.”

Mercy’s attention wandered back to Steele. Although she didn’t worry that he’d notice her in a crowd of so many, she pushed her chair further into the shadows and held a fan to shield that side of her face. Even with Trent, Miles and Eloise surrounding her, Steele frightened her and drew and kept her attention. She’d thought she’d freed herself from him the night in New York when she’d left him near dead and now, thousands of miles later, she worried that she’d never be free. Where ever she went, she’d always be looking over her shoulder, wondering. Afraid.

“Ah, money is the root of all evil, or in this case, villainy,” Mercy said, keeping her eyes on the stage while adjusting her chair.

Trent scooted his chair even with hers. His breath blew warm against her neck, but she didn’t turn to him, afraid that if she did she’d find him dangerously close. “The actual scripture is the
love
of money is the root of all evil.”

Mercy kept her attention focused on Chloe, now swinging her valise and bidding Dastard farewell. “Spoken like someone who has enjoyed a life of plenty.”

“Would you argue with Saint Paul?” Trent asked. “And you must agree,
plenty
is a relative term.”

“I can argue or agree as I want,” Mercy whispered. “Although, it is of course, impossible to argue with Saint Paul.” She turned to face Trent, and just as she’d suspected, she found herself gazing directly into his eyes.

“Because he is a saint?” Trent asked. He raised his voice as the curtain lowered and the house lights rose, signaling intermission.