Stealing Mercy (8 page)

He pocketed Rita’s jewels and tossed the others into the safe. The angry surge that had carried him up the trellis sent him back into Steele’s room. He dismissed any thoughts or yearnings for immediate revenge. He debated on whether or not to contact the law, Sheriff Calhoun, his grandmother’s nemesis. What would his gram advise?
leave before getting caught
.

With an ear cocked for movement outside the door, Trent returned the safe to its hidey-hole, slid the floorboards into place and replaced the carpet. He didn’t know when Steele would next check the safe, but he hoped that it would be soon. Thinking of Steele finding the theft made him smile. As he eased out the window, shut the blinds, scaled the trellis, he imagined Steele opening the safe. An ordinary thief would take all the jewels and an ordinary man in Steele’s position would break into a sweat.

But Steele was no ordinary man.

A shadow loomed on the dew sparkling grass. The cloud that had been covering the moon had been chased by a cold wind. The long, hulking shadow turned in Trent’s direction. Hanging from the trellis with no place to hide, Trent swung out his boot. All his anger and aggravation slammed into Orson’s face. As Orson stumbled, Trent felt relief to see the familiar snake tattoo curling around the man’s wrist; at least he hadn’t booted an innocent man.

Orson stumbled and then regained his balance. Trent jumped down in time to take a blow to the face. What had Mercy said? Fists at the ready? Although pain clouded his vision, he saw Orson cocking his right paw for another strike. Too late, he lifted his arm to block Orson’s throw.
My fists aren’t always ready
, he thought as his head thundered in pain. He blinked, realizing he couldn’t see out of one eye. He ducked in anticipation, stomach muscles clenched for the expected blow. He braced his legs, lowered his head, and leaned in for the fight. Orson’s fist slammed into his gut, another landed on his chin, and as Trent reeled, he caught a fleeting glimpse of an umbrella whizzing through the air.

Rose Arbor, Washington

Like many Victorians, the Michaels’ home has a porch that wraps the front and sides. Wisteria, eons old with twisted vines as thick as my arm, clings to the porch eaves. Fat rain drops dot the purple petals. Beyond the porch the world looks shimmery green.

Locals call the Michaels’ place the big house. At one time it’d stood alone in a valley of buttercups and horses. The land had been a horse ranch for many years, but during the depression it’d been divided and sold into parcels. I live in the 1930’s craftsman’s bungalow that Gregg’s parents had built on land purchased from the Michaels.

I glance at Odious and wonder what he knows of his great-grandparents. I hold the books close to my chest as we climb the steps down to the garage. He clicks a fob, lights flicker and the car beeps.

Naturally, he drives a Mercedes. I sink into the plush leather and settle the books on my lap so that their spines face my door. The diary looks nothing like a library book. A solid piece of tanned leather binds the pages and a thong wraps around the book. If the Odor looks carefully, he’ll instantly recognize the theft. My heart beats faster when he steers towards the library.

“
I live on French and Elm.”

He gives me an apprising look and to my relief, takes the following right turn. “On the corner?” he guesses.

I nod.

“
You’ve the house with the flowers.”

“
Yes.”

“
Your garden’s gorgeous.”

“
Thank-you.” I get that a lot.

The windshield wipers beat out a staccato and the luxury car splashes through the puddles dotting the black top. Neither of us speaks until he pulls the car beside my gate. I sigh in relief. “Thank-you, Mr. Michaels, you’ve been very kind.”

“
I wish you wouldn’t call me Mr. Michaels. It makes me feel ancient and I assume I’m not that much older than you.”

I have my hand on the door. In minutes I’ll be reading the diary. The longing is like the promise of a granny smith apple, it makes my mouth water. “I’m the same age as Dot,” I tell him.

“
Then I’m no more than a year older.” He smiles.

Actually, he’s almost two years older. I know this from my genealogical research, but see no need to tell him or prolong our conversation. “Thank-you again, Errol.”

“
You’re welcome, Bette.”

And it isn’t until I’m in my house, curled into Gregg’s chair beside the fire, a quilt tucked around my knees that I realize that he knew my first name.

CHAPTER 8

Cold Tea compresses and cucumbers ease the pain and reduce the swelling of a black eye.

From The Recipes of Mercy Faye

Cold damp seeped through Mercy’s slipper shoes. She stared at the man at her feet. In his bloody position, he reminded her so much of Steele that she shook. The umbrella slipped through her fingers and landed beside him. A trickle of blood oozed from behind Orson’s left ear. She took a deep breath and blinked back tears. Wringing her hands, she told herself she had done the right thing, but the horror of past and present experiences kept her rooted in numb shock.

Trent touched his bloody eye with his fingers. “Well done,” he said. He bowed his head and smiled. “I owe you.”

Mercy raised her eyes to Trent. “Perhaps we’re even.” She tried to return his smile. She wanted to focus on him because he was tall, blond, blue eyed, with skin the color of health, but all she could see was Steele lying bleeding on the floor of her tiny New York sitting room.

Would she ever be free? How far would she have to run? Would she have to leave Seattle? She didn’t have another aunt. Selling her jewels, finding somewhere to live on her own, she didn’t think she could do it. She’d already come so far. The thought of starting over, again, made her head pound. Pressing her fingers to her temples, she tried to think.

Trent scooped up the umbrella, took Mercy’s arm and steered her away from Orson. She stumbled after him.

“You’re a murderous little thing,” Trent said.

“I know,” Mercy muttered as she let him pull her through the gardens of The Grand. Roses bloomed along the path and climbed arbors. Moonlight trickled through the boughs of dogwood trees and lilacs and cast speckled shadows on the brick path. How different the night could be if it not for Orson lying in a pool of blood.

“Shouldn’t we stay and make sure he’s alright? Call a doctor?” Her voice quivered and she cleared her throat to hold it steady.

“He’ll be alright, well the same as he was before. Whether you thought him right or not is debatable.” Trent twirled the umbrella. “Is it made of lead?”

“It’s forged iron.”

Trent stopped on the sidewalk, inspecting the umbrella she’d bought for protection from more than the weather. He opened and closed it several times. “It looks so harmless--”

“I bought it in Brazil,” Mercy said, her voice holding steady.

“Is that where you boarded the ship?” When she didn’t answer he said, “You’re a funny person, Mercy Faye.” His curiosity was almost tangible. She could see it in his eyes.

The theater crowd spilled onto the sidewalk carrying the scents of alcohol, tobacco and sweat. The tide of men and a few well-dressed women swarmed around them, looking for their coaches. Mercy watched them with envy. Most of their faces were lit with smiles. They looked happy, relaxed, a few inebriated. She wondered if she’d ever feel at peace again. Had that ease of conscience died when she’d left Steele for dead in New York? Had he taken more from her than her home and livelihood? “I don’t find thwacking people humorous,” Mercy whispered, clutching Trent’s arm.

“Well, I found it useful,” he said into her ear. He walked her the short distance to his coach and placed one hand on her elbow and the other on the small of her back. She felt his warmth through the layers of linen and silk.

She balked. “I shouldn’t be seen alone in a closed coach with you.”

Trent held her arm and moved his hand to her waist. “Nor should you be caning goons, but this is Seattle, not New York.”

She didn’t reply, so he continued, “Conventions are different here.”

“But I’m not,” she said over her shoulder as he lifted her into the coach. She wondered how he knew she’d come from New York and what else he knew of her.

“Of course you’re not.” He dropped onto the velvet seat beside her. “It’s very conventional for a well-bred young lady to bean villains in dark hotel gardens and attempt to break into locked hotel rooms with bent hair pins.” He turned to address his driver. “I thought I’d given you instructions to take Miss Faye home.”

He shrugged. “She didn’t want to go, sir.”

A velvet bag slipped from Trent’s waist coat and a pearl necklace spilled onto the dark seat. With his back turned, Trent couldn’t have noticed. It reminded Mercy so much of her mother’s jewelry, she wanted to touch it. When Trent turned to face her, his cape covered the necklace.

Mercy shifted, looked out the window and drew her shawl closer, suddenly cold. Trent watched her and she tried not to shiver beneath his stare. Could the jewelry belong to his wife or a betrothed? Or had he stolen them? Had he taken them from Steele’s room?

“Why are you interested in Steele’s investments?” he asked again, his voice smooth, low and yet authoritative.

In the filtered moonlight streaming through the coach windows she saw the outline of his strong jaw, the tension in his arms, shoulders and neck. Lounging against the velvet lined cushions he looked at ease, but something about him reminded her of a large cat, ready to pounce. A creature that could turn from purring to predatory. His golden hair had a barely controlled look: wavy, thick and just long enough to tie in a short queue at the back of his neck.

She tried to smile and tilted her head as she’d seen Eloise do countless times. She pasted on the wide eyed expression of a practiced coquette and fluttered her eyelashes.

He studied her. She tried to hold his gaze, but after a moment had to look away. He wouldn’t be teased. “What aren’t you telling me, Miss Faye?”

She watched as they pulled from the curb, away from the gaily dressed theater patrons. She could taste her disappointment; she’d thought she’d be happy in Seattle. She adored her aunt, she enjoyed working in the shop; she loved her new friends. She looked at Trent, wondering if circumstances had been different if they could have become friends. Perhaps they still could. Assuming, she thought with a glance at the velvet bag poking out from under his cloak, he wasn’t a thief. Assuming she could stop Steele from ruining her new life. Remembering Georgina’s request, she said, “I’ve questions for you as well.”

Trent pressed back into the seat. “Indeed.”

Mercy leaned forward, swaying with the motion of the coach. “A man doesn’t scale a trellis to search another man’s room on just a lady’s suggestion.”

“No?”

“No. Why did you climb a rose trellis in the rain?”

They pulled in front of the house on Lily Hill, a lone candle burned in the window. Mercy’s heart contracted with love for her aunt. She’d be worried. If Steele continued to be a problem, Mercy would be jeopardizing Tilly.

If she had to leave, where would she go?

Trent reached out and took Mercy’s hand. He’d taken off his gloves and she felt the gentle pulse of his blood. Her own temperature rose to meet his and her face warmed.

“Tomorrow I’ll come by. If you’ll share with me what you know about Steele, I’ll share with you what I’ve found.”

He still held her hand. She wanted him to release her, yet she couldn’t pull away. “You found something?”
Other than jewels?
She suspected he wouldn’t be interested in sharing jewelry.

“I’m not completely useless,” he said, his lips turning up at the corners.

Mr. Mugs snorted from behind the curtain. She’d forgotten the driver and had thought they were alone.

Trent tightened his grip on her hand. “As I hope to prove tomorrow.”

“When you’ll share with me what you’ve found.”

“When you’ll share with me what you know.”

CHAPTER 9

Remedy for Insomnia:

1 tsp. chamomile flowers.

1 tsp. hops.

1 tsp. valerian root.

1 cup of boiling water.

Steep for 45 minutes, strain and drink 1 hour before bedtime.

From The Recipes of Mercy Faye

Trent let himself into the small townhome he shared with Chloe on Queen Anne Hill. From the back window he had a view of the city and the ships bobbing in the Sound. Cold, he lit a fire in the grate and then poured himself a brandy, noticing for the first time the color perfectly matched Mercy’s hair. The true color of her hair. He tossed the drink back and felt it burn down his throat as he warmed before the fire.