Duke of a Gilded Age (32 page)

He sighed. “What if I confessed I’ve grossly exaggerated my sporting abilities to garner favor with girls? Would that shock you?”

Despite herself, Belle finally laughed.

“I can see you think me quite capable of it.” Stephen chuckled, opened his arms, and pulled Belle into a comforting embrace. “Actually, the fact you aren’t perfect makes me like you all the more. We’re quite suited to one another.”

As Belle clung to him, a sense of affection and gratitude warmed her heart. Steven Van Eyck may be a little vain and shallow, but he’d saved Wesley’s life.

“You’re very kind, Mr. Van Eyck,” she said.

She lifted her face to give him a smile, and suddenly his lips captured hers in a tender kiss.

Physically sickened, Wesley stared at Belle and Stephen as they embraced. He faded into the shadows, his relief at finding Belle replaced by searing jealousy and despair. She’d misled Louise about her grandfather, and apparently she’d lied to
him
about her feelings for Stephen Van Eyck. The throbbing pain in his ankle was nothing compared to the wound in his heart.
What a naïve fool I’ve been! Belle is less trustworthy than a fox!

The empty passageway between deck cabins provided a temporary refuge while Wesley tried to collect himself.
I must speak with Mr. Oakhurst to let him know where Belle is…and then I believe I’ll pay a lengthy visit to the bar.
He headed inside, so distracted by his own misery that he paid no attention to the two waiters coming toward him. Instead of stepping to one side, they blocked his path.

“I beg your pardon,” Wesley said, annoyed. “May I pass?”

In the next moment, he was staring at the barrel of a revolver. Although the man holding the weapon was presently clean-shaven, Wesley knew him right away. His companion had shaved off his black mustache, but Wesley recognized him too.

“Randolph and Fife,” he said.

Randolph laughed. “Smith & Wesson is all you need to know.”

Belle pulled away from Stephen. “Please don’t misunderstand, Mr. Van Eyck. That kiss was for Wesley.”

Stephen scratched his head. “I’ve the greatest of respect for the man, but don’t expect me to pass it on.”

“What I mean is, you rendered him a great service and you have my gratitude.”

“But not your affection?”

“I
do
feel some affection for you, but as I told you earlier, my heart is much engaged elsewhere.”

A frown passed over Stephen’s handsome visage. “Are you quite sure? You wouldn’t want to leave a window open just a crack?”

“I’m quite sure of
my
feelings, Mr. Van Eyck, but not of his.” Belle averted her eyes.

“Then it’s Wesley, after all.”

“It doesn’t matter. After tonight it’s a hopeless case.”

Randolph gestured toward the door with his weapon. “Get outside and keep quiet.”

Wesley quietly released the catch on his walking stick. “I’m afraid I can’t walk very well,” he said, to play for time.

Fife produced a Derringer and trained it at Wesley’s chest. “I could shoot you where you stand, if you like.”

Cavendish lurched into view just then, disheveled and unsteady. Randolph and Fife quickly pocketed their weapons. The valet’s normally perfect hair was mussed, his shirt had been pulled free from his trousers, and even his waxed mustache drooped on one side. When he caught sight of Wesley, he planted his blue glass knobbed walking stick in the carpet and struggled to stand upright.

“If it isn’t His Grace.” Cavendish’s words were slurred. “I thought you’d be at dinner.” He swayed too far to one side, and staggered into Randolph. “Oops, sorry my good man.”

Cavendish is feigning drunkenness!
Wesley thought.
He was stone cold sober less than an hour ago.
Nevertheless, Wesley narrowed his eyes as if he were angry. “Cavendish, you’ve been drinking.”

“Just a little tipple to go along with the baseball game.” Cavendish giggled and gave Wesley an exaggerated wink.

“A double header?” Wesley asked.

“Batter up,” Cavendish replied. “And you’d best look sharp.”

Before Randolph and Fife realized what was happening, Wesley slid his blade free from its sheath and held the tip to Fife’s throat. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

At the same time, Cavendish whipped his own sword out and brought the sharp edge down across Randolph’s forearm. The man screamed as he went down on one knee, clutching his wound.

His hands up, Fife backed away from the point of Wesley’s blade.

“Stay where you are!” Wesley ordered.

Wesley moved to follow, but his ankle caused him to lose his balance. Fife grabbed his Derringer and got a shot off before Cavendish bounded over to run him through. Wesley flinched as the small caliber bullet embedded itself in an oil painting inches away from his head. Randolph, bleeding from a slashed arm, managed to pull the revolver from his pocket with his left hand. As he trained the weapon on Wesley, Mr. Oakhurst appeared.

“Watch out, lad!”

Mr. Oakhurst pushed Wesley to the ground just as a gunshot echoed throughout the corridor. When Wesley looked back, Cavendish had stabbed Randolph with his sword, and the man had crumpled to the ground.

“Are you hit, Cavendish?” Wesley exclaimed.

The valet, grim-faced, shook his head. “No.” He wiped his blade on Randolph’s jacket. “And you?”

“I think I’m fine,” Wesley said. “Mr. Oakhurst, you just saved my life again.”

“I’m glad,” Mr. Oakhurst murmured. “But I’m afraid—”

He leaned against the wall and then slid down into a sitting position. Cavendish’s eyebrows drew together as he jumped over Randolph’s dead body and went to Mr. Oakhurst’s aid. Wesley scrambled to his feet…and stared with horror at the rapidly spreading red stain on Mr. Oakhurst’s pristine white vest.

“Get Mr. Vane,” Cavendish said.

Panic rooted Wesley’s feet to the ground.

“
Move
, Wesley!” Cavendish commanded. “There’s no time to spare!”

Despite his sprained ankle, Wesley began to run.

Chapter Twenty-One

Polka

W
ESLEY
K
EPT
A T
ENSE
V
IGIL
with Belle, Stephen, and Cavendish outside the surgeon’s office, which was converted into an emergency operating room. In the wee hours of the morning, Mr. Vane finally shooed them away.

“Mr. Oakhurst is stable. I’ll send word, Miss Oakhurst, if there’s any change for the worse.”

A bleary-eyed Cavendish headed to the deck cabin while Wesley and Stephen escorted Belle to her room.

“I shan’t sleep a wink,” she said.

“Please try,” Wesley said.

“It won’t do your father any good if you make yourself ill,” Stephen added.

Although she nodded in agreement, Wesley knew Belle was in for a difficult night. After her door closed, Wesley and Stephen doubled back toward Stephen’s cabin.

“I feel responsible for Mr. Oakhurst’s injuries,” Wesley murmured.

“Nobody could possibly blame you, Wesley. Miss Oakhurst doesn’t, does she?”

“She’s too distressed at the moment to be assigning blame, but she may yet come to that conclusion.”

“I doubt it. I hate to admit this, but her regard for you is insurmountable. I gave it my best shot, but so far she finds me resistible.”

“You needn’t spare my feelings. I saw the two of you kissing earlier.”

“You saw that, did you? Don’t take this the wrong way, but Miss Oakhurst said that kiss was for you. Seems she was grateful I saved your neck. Gave me second thoughts about having done so, I must admit.”

A ray of hope shot through Wesley, warming him more thoroughly than a bottle of twenty-five-year-old scotch. Stephen laughed at the grin of delight on Wesley’s face.

“Cheer up, Wesley. She may yet change her mind. You’ve made headway, true enough, but you’ve her pesky fiancé to contend with.”

“They’ve not been engaged very long. When Sir Errol is presented with the situation, surely he will step aside.”

They reached Stephen’s cabin then. As he reached for the doorknob, Stephen paused. “It may be callous of me to say it, but I’m not sorry Fife and Randolph are dead.”

“Neither am I. If that makes me a bad person, so be it.”

Every creak Wesley heard that night woke him from a fitful sleep. In the morning, the dark smudges underneath his eyes revealed his exhaustion. He dressed quietly, so as not to disturb Cavendish, and slipped out to his mother’s cabin. She was not quite ready to go to breakfast, so Wesley sank into a chair in the sitting room to wait. The next thing he knew, Lady Frederic was shaking him awake.

When they entered the saloon several minutes later, heads swiveled in their direction, and there was an audible pause in the general conversation.

“Obviously, everyone has heard about the events last night,” he whispered to his mother.

“I’m beginning to dislike being the center of attention,” Lady Frederic replied.

“Believe me, so am I.”

Although Wesley had anticipated Belle wouldn’t be at breakfast, he was surprised how keenly he felt her absence. Furthermore, so frequently did passersby interrupt with questions and inquiries about the attack, Wesley couldn’t enjoy his food. He appreciated their concern, but he would’ve liked to finish his eggs before they went cold. He finally glanced down at the congealed mess on his plate and tossed his napkin on the table.