Taking the High Road (6 page)

If she were able, Bridget would be flashing dimples. “Sure, we had a grand time. And you two? What were you after bein’ so serious about?”

“My impending marriage,” Cecelia answered. “Or not.”

“Or not? You mean—Mr. Josiah might not be the one for you, after all?”

“I’m beginning to wonder. Might be buyer’s remorse, Bridge.” Then, deliberately changing the subject to something more pleasant, “Would you and Max like a glass of lemonade?”

“Thank you, Miss Cecelia, but it’s gettin’ late and I’d better be on my way.” Max released his most agreeable clasp to stand, somewhat awkwardly in his ill-fitting suit, close by. “I thank you for a very enjoyable evenin’, Kitten. Would you—uh—might I come by tomorrow, if you’re free,” he went on, in a lower, confidential voice, “and take you to supper at the Fillmore Hotel?”

Bridget glanced quickly at her uncle for approval, which was given not begrudgingly but rather with resignation. “I’d like that, Max. It’ll be pure pleasure, eatin’ out on food cooked and served by someone else.”

“Okay, then. About 7:00? Okay, then.” Grinning, the infatuated miner took his leave by bumbling along to the front step. Nothing as bold as a good-night kiss, not even chastely on the cheek, with interested spectators to take in the scene, but at least a shy little wave that spoke volumes.

As did the sigh of pure delight that lifted Bridget’s maidenly bosom, along with her green ruffles. After Max had departed, to the sound of tuneless but cheerful whistling as he headed off down the hill, she murmured something about being tired and drifted away, up to her room. There to dream romantic dreams, no doubt, while she re-lived every moment of tonight’s engagement, from start to finish.

A comfortable silence engulfed the front porch. From somewhere off in the distance, a wooded patch on the city’s edge, came the lonely hoot of an owl; from another direction, the city proper, the barking of several dogs. Gabe had refilled his lemonade glass with another jigger of bourbon and set a lighted match to the very fine hand-rolled cigar retrieved from an inside pocket.

Cecelia drew in one long deep inhalation of San Francisco’s night air, a colorful mixture of damp and wood fire and pungent garbage from someone’s back yard.

“Cecie.”

Gabe’s voice pulled her from discontented musings.

“I need to talk t’you about somethin’, honey.”

“Mmmm. Now? I was just about to get ready for bed.” Tactfully, delicately, she hid a yawn behind the back of one hand. “You sound quite no-nonsense; is anything wrong?”

A puff of the cigar sent fragrant smoke upward and outward, as he shifted position as if to better elucidate. “Dunno about wrong, s’much, as information I’ve been keepin’ from you.”

“Information. What kind of information?”

“I didn’t tell you before, b’cause I thought the matter would never come up, you and me movin’ clear ’cross the country like we did.” Gabe shook his head with frustration. “I blame myself, Cecie. Guess I shoulda realized what might happen, though. Ain’t that always the way of it, how things just sorta pop up when you haven’t planned for ’em.”

“Gabe. You’re worrying me.” Feeling faintly alarmed as much by what wasn’t being said as by what had been, she reached over to lay her hand upon his. “What is it? What didn’t you tell me?”

He looked up, frowning, and sucked in a breath. Might as well lay all his cards on the table at once, and get this over with. “You got a brother, Cecelia. He’s found out about you, and he’s snoopin’ around to find out more.”

Her beautiful blue eyes dilated until only black pupil showed, and the high tinge on her cheekbones intensified to brilliant peony. “I don’t think I—quite heard you…”

“Oh, yeah, sugar, you heard me just fine. But, there, that’s the worst of it. So let me explain.”

Now it was he holding her hand, in reassurance and support, as he told the tale of her father’s loveless, thankless marriage, and the birth of his son, early on. “His name is Noah Harper, Cecie. He’s about eight years older’n you.”

Paul’s only son. His legitimate heir.

Paul had willed the bulk of his estate to his widow and their child. Plenty of money, plenty of savings, plenty of investments, plus a thriving corporation, to keep both of them in an extremely comfortable lifestyle. But apparently that wasn’t enough.

“I got friends back in Boston,” Gabe explained, after a minute. “I asked ’em to keep an eye on young Noah, and his doin’s, and let me know what he was up to. He’s sniffed out the fact that The Catherine Syndicate was left to you—prob’bly thanks to that—ahem!—high-and-mighty mother of his, and he’s on your trail.”

“But—but—” Cecelia was bewildered, “I don’t understand. Certainly he and I would never be best friends, under the circumstances, but Paul Harper was
my
father, too. Surely I deserve
some
assets from his estate?”

“Darned tootin’ you do, honey. And any good lawyer in court would agree. But put it down to greed. The two of ’em want every last penny they can get.”

His grip had tightened, but Cecelia, staring off into space while details slowly clicked into place, was unaware. “It’s that important?”

“Sure as hell is. Also—well, pride. Bad enough your paw was messin’ around on the side, accordin’ to Elvira Harper; but you even bein’ born was a real slap in the face for her. She’d want nothin’ more than to see you cut down to size, laughed at, pulled off that pedestal Paul put you on. Even if you are three thousand miles away.”

“Distance,” she murmured. “How foolish. We thought so much distance would solve any problems.” Her troubled gaze returned to his. “What am I to do, Gabe?”

He sighed. “For now, honey, there ain’t nothin’ you can do. We just gotta wait to see what might happen. And be prepared.”

It wasn’t at all clear exactly how they might be prepared. Cecelia only knew that somehow she must keep all this information to herself. Neither Josiah nor his snobbish, social-climbing mother could ever find out the truth about her inheritance and about her very sketchy background. Armed with such knowledge, who knew what damage they might cause?

It had been a long and tiring journey, enough so that John Yancey felt mightily relieved to finally alight on the shores of San Francisco Bay. Of course, he had traveled as the crow flies, in almost as straight a direction west as possible. Far from the luxurious, leisurely cruise taken by Gabriel Finnegan and his party, with stops at major ports for siestas and sightseeing.

John was a detective, after all. And a Pinkerton, at that, one of the most famous agencies of his time. He had gotten to be quite adept at tracking those he sought. Right now, through the behest of her half-brother, he was on the trail of one Cecelia Powell, an apparently charming thief who had taken no pains to disguise herself or her plans for the California trek.

Odd behavior, John considered. Anyone else fleeing the law would have at least changed their name and destination, as they worked their wiles on others as easily hoodwinked. Unless she had thought distance alone would keep her unfettered and at large, since so few would trouble themselves to follow her across the continent.

Cecelia Powell could think again.

While John might not resemble a bulldog, his tactics were similar. Once caught, he hung on and wouldn’t let go. Miss Powell had no idea what a force she had unleashed by stealing away a man’s rightful inheritance. Time to face the music.

“Well, hello, there, honey,” crooned a sultry voice at his elbow. “Just off the boat, are you?”

John was standing at the corner of Fillmore Hotel’s lengthy bar. An hour before, he had registered, settled his huge shabby carpetbag in the room allocated, and sponged off the grime of travel before joining what seemed like the rest of humanity in Fillmore’s inappropriately named Oak Tree Lounge.

 “I am, indeed,” he answered amiably. “And you are—?”

The saloon girl snuggled up against him, resting the weight and warmth of her substantial cleavage against his arm. “My name is Lurette. What part of the south do you hail from, stranger?”

A glance and a gesture brought the barkeep over with a shot glass full of brown fluid for John’s newfound companion. It wouldn’t be the whiskey he was paying for, John realized, but lukewarm iced tea. One more way to bamboozle the patron. For now, however, that was all right. He needed information, and what better place to acquire it than at one of the local watering holes?

“Want to join me at a table?” he invited.

Of course she did. And would, flouncing her short red petticoats with every step of high-heeled black boots. “Well, now, this is nice,” she approved, as he pulled out a chair for her and waited politely until she was seated. “You’re quite the gentleman, Mr.—?”

“John. John Yancey.”

“Well, good meetin’ you, Johnny. I’ve always said—”

“John.” His molasses-smooth drawl had gone cold as an Alaskan night, and his hand closed on her wrist with surprising strength. “Just plain John. And I’m from Charleston.”

“All right, all right. Just Plain John.” Carmined lips pulled awry, she rubbed at the faint mark left by his fingers and reconsidered her prospects. “And you’re from Carolina.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, Lurette, if I caused you any discomfort. It makes me a little cross if someone misnames me. Now,” John leaned back with one of his famous head-turning smiles, “tell me all about yourself. What’s a beautiful lady doin’ here, anyway?”

Several drinks later, having unobtrusively switched Lurette’s watered-down version for the real hard stuff, he had absorbed enough of her history to feel everything had been fully paid for, twice over. The bawdy-house girl, brought from New Orleans to the Gold Coast by her pimp, and then eventually abandoned for greener pastures: the only difference, in this case, being that the pimp was no sly shyster, but…

“…a real gentleman, like you, John,” said the girl with a soft hiccup. “Dressed so nice, sounded so good. We had fun together in N’yawlins, but after he got me here, he didn’t know me anymore. Tryin’ to be upper crust, I reckon…one of those nabobs.”

“Yeah, I’ve known a few of those,” agreed John, with unaccustomed grimness. So might the same story go for his Boston quarry? In fact, they were probably sisters under the skin.

Lurette was feeling comfortable enough around this soft-spoken man to trail her fingers up his sleeve to the elbow, and back down again over his hand. “So what’s your background, Just Plain John?”

“Oh, the usual, I reckon. Got me nine older brothers scattered across the country. And with all the unrest back east, I think there’s a war somewhere on the horizon.”

“War? Really? Glad I’m not there, then, to be in the thick of it.”

“Kinda thought the same thing myself, Lurette. So I lit out for the north and got hired on to an agency there.”

“Agency?” she scowled. “What kinda agency?”

“Pinkerton. Ever hear of it?”

“Hmph. Who hasn’t heard of that place? Why, they were trackin’ some guy way back in—” She broke off, eyes widened and rounded with dismay. “So that’s it. You’re here huntin’ somebody down.”

John smiled. And, oh, what an attention-getting, middle-roiling smile it was, engaging long-lashed eyes and facial muscles and a pair of provocative dimples. At the sight of it, Lurette could almost feel her bloomers begging to be loosened and possibly removed.

“I am,” he admitted. Long fingers moved his whiskey glass around on the table top. “And maybe you could help me. My client is willin’ to pay for all good information.”

“Pay, hmmm? Well, not that I’m such a gossip, but I do know lots goin’ on around here. So who are you lookin’ for, John?”
“Cecelia Powell. Well…that was the name she went by, back east. Not sure what she’s goin’ by now.”

Lurette pondered a moment, took another hearty sip, and pondered some more. Suddenly, spying a newcomer at the bar, she called out, “Jasper! Hey, Jasper!”

The man turned. A miner, by the look of him, with flannel shirt sleeves rolled up over a soiled union suit, braces attached to wool pants, and heavy dust-beaten boots, he flaunted a flaming red beard and curly hair as if he were proud of both. “Hey, there, Lurette. How you doin’?”

“I’m fine. C’mon over here a minute, will you?”

In the time it took Jasper to shamble toward their table, John had risen and reached out to shake his hand with introductions.

“John is lookin’ for a lady name of Cecelia. Didn’t you say you know somebody who knows somebody who—”

“Oh, yeah, sure do,” Jasper grinned. “Friend o’ mine knows Max Shaw. Remember him? Anyways, he just started seein’ a girl who works for the lady. Cecelia Powell. You’ve heard of her, Lurette—she runs that school up on the hill. Some kinda academy.”

“That’s the one!” Lurette nodded. “You’re right, Jasper. Thanks.”

“I appreciate your help, Mr.—um—Jasper. Buy you a drink for your trouble?”

“No trouble at’all, Mr. Yancey. But I will take you up on your offer of a drink. A man gets thirsty, out there, sweatin’ and slavin’ for gold.” Another easy-going grin, another handshake. “A coupla pards are over there waitin’ for me, Lurette, but maybe—later—maybe you and me—”

Flashing him a come-hither smile, she allowed the cap sleeve of her dress to slip slightly down one shoulder, baring promises of treats to come. Somehow, she felt that John Yancey was out of the running. Her next best chance lay with this likable individual. “I’ll be around, Jasper,” she assured him. “You just hunt me up.”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

From a long-distance sleuth, he became one closer to.

Once he started looking, Cecelia Powell wasn’t hard to find. Her name was plastered all over the Academy she had established, part of various legal documents at the courthouse, and mentioned occasionally in the various eating-places he frequented.

Very peculiar. Her behavior stood completely at odds with the criminal activity he’d been led to expect. Even this far from the scene of the crime, surely using a new name and background would have been imperative. But, no, everything she had and did was right out there, for anyone to investigate, mull over, and act upon. Very peculiar.