Jo Goodman (10 page)

"Yes."

She showed him a shy smile and ducked her head, embarrassed that he was still staring at her. "Thank you," Berkeley said.

Grey felt as if he'd signed a pact with one of the devil's cleverer minions. Whatever they had just bargained for, it wasn't his soul. He didn't have one to give. "Back away," he said.

Berkeley's head came up. Not sure she had heard correctly, she merely regarded him curiously.

"Downwind," he said. When she still didn't move he pointed to his nose. "You smell like fish."

"Oh." She took a few steps sideways and to the rear of him. "Is this better?" she asked.

He nodded. "Come along. And for God's sake, don't talk so others can hear you."

Careful not to get underfoot as she followed him, Berkeley maintained what she hoped was an unoffensive distance. The tabby that had been run off by the Sydney Ducks found her again and was not at all put off by her fish perfume. The cat curled in and out of Berkeley's legs and pawed playfully at her one bare foot.

Grey stopped when he reached the scow he had rented. "Wait here," he told Berkeley as he jumped aboard. It was when he landed that he turned and saw she was holding the cat. It was a bundle of purring, brindled fur in her arms, and she was allowing it to lick her face. "Get rid of it," he said.

Berkeley put the cat down and shooed it away. It scrambled away a distance of four feet before it paused, turned, and began to stalk her bare foot again.

Grey shook his head in disgust. "It wouldn't do that if you wouldn't wriggle your toes. Where's your shoe?"

"I'm not sure." She looked around the wharf for some evidence of it just as the tabby pounced on her foot. A shiver went up her spine as the damp, slightly rough edge of the cat's tongue licked the underside of her toes.

Grey saw the feline's little pink tongue flick once, then he saw Berkeley's unembarrassed, sybaritic response. God help him, he thought, when her eyes closed and a breathless sigh of pleasure escaped her parted lips. She wasn't merely trouble; she was dangerous. "Do you have your letter?"

"Hmmm?" Berkeley's wistful smile disappeared as she opened her eyes and found her rescuer scowling at her. "I'll try to get rid of her again," she promised quickly.

"Forget the cat; give me your letter."

"Oh, but I want to go out to the ship myself," she said. "I should speak to the captain personally."

Grey couldn't imagine what she thought she had to say to the clipper's master or why she thought she would be allowed to say it. "I'm not going to the ship," he said. "And neither are you. Now, do you want the skipper of this scow to deliver your letter or not?"

In answer, Berkeley turned away and reached inside her flannel shirt. From under the loose bindings that covered her breasts, she pulled the last letter Anderson had written. She stared at the folded and sealed paper and wondered if she should send it at all. She knew the contents by heart:
Mrs. Shaw and I regret to inform you that no significant progress has been made in locating either Mr. Denison or Mr. Thorne. Our most promising lead has not (in the vernacular of these environs) panned out. We extend our best regards and continue to pray that we will have something more encouraging to report next month.

Anderson had composed it on the ship, before they had gone as far as Panama. He had intended writing all six of the progress reports the Thornes had requested during the voyage—just to get them out of the way—but other things had distracted him. He had sent off the first one himself a month after their arrival. This was the second. If there were more, Berkeley didn't know about them. She would have to try her hand at composing one, but this letter gave her another month to think about it. She couldn't hope to copy Anderson's bold scrawl even if she could duplicate the tone of his missives. The next letter would have her signature. It remained to be seen if she would have the encouraging report Anderson promised they were praying for.

"I'm waiting," Grey said with more patience than he felt. "Or are you writing it now?"

When Berkeley turned back she was holding out the letter. "May I at least give it to the skipper?" she asked.

He realized with some small shock that she didn't trust him. Apparently she was afraid he'd read it. Having enough of that nonsense, Grey took the letter out of her hand. He glanced at the name above the waxy seal.
Mr. and Mrs. Decker Thorne.
"There's no address."

"I know," she said.

"The captain of the clipper will know what to do with this?"

"You said it was a Remington clipper."

Grey nodded.

"Then he'll know," Berkeley explained.

When she didn't offer anything more, Grey simply shook his head and sighed. "Wait here while I talk to the skipper."

Berkeley obeyed, more or less. She picked up the cat and moved a few yards down the wharf so her angled view allowed her to see both Grey and the scow captain. She watched Grey hand over the letter and some coins. The two men talked a bit longer, then Grey shook the skipper's hand and headed back to the wharf. If he noticed that she had moved, he didn't mention it as he stepped up onto the dock.

The scow's crew lifted the ropes, keeping them dockside and the large, square-ended, flat-bottomed boat was pushed away from the wharf with slender poles. Berkeley stood long enough to watch it negotiate the passage between two listing, abandoned hulks, then she sat down on the edge of the wharf.

Grey looked down at her. The hat brim hid her hair and head completely from his view. Her legs were swinging lazily over the water. She looked every inch the urchin boy she had pretended to be. "Your letter's been delivered," he said.

"Yes, thank you." Holding on to her hat with one hand and the cat with the other, she looked up at him. Her expression held no trace of guile. "I didn't realize it would cost so much to have it taken out to the clipper."

"How long have you been in San Francisco?"

"A week or so shy of two months."

"And you've been masquerading as a boy for all of it?"

"Not all," she corrected. "Just most."

"God," he said feelingly, looking away from those fathomless green eyes. "You need a keeper."

"I know," she said simply. She paused, uncertain now. "I don't suppose you would—"

"Hell, no." He cut her off before she reeled him in. No rod, he thought. No hook. No line. But she
was
fishing. "You told me you were going to get rid of the cat."

She continued to stroke the tabby as if she hadn't heard him. "What are they bringing you from the ship?"

"I don't know." He hunkered down beside her. "It depends where it's been."

"You should get upwind," she said.

At first he didn't understand, then he realized she was referring to her fish odor. "It's all right. I'm used to it now."

"It's why I can't get rid of the cat," she said.

That was true enough, Grey thought, but it didn't explain why he was still hanging around. He took out his telescope again and peered through it. "She's the Remington
Rachael,"
he told her. "That doesn't help me know her last port of call. Would you like to see?"

Berkeley was immediately wary. "Really? You mean you'd let me?"

A small crease formed between Grey's dark brows. "I asked, didn't I?"

"Yes, but... I mean..." She put the tabby in his lap and took the scope. "Thank you." Berkeley put the glass up to her eye quickly, before he could catch sight of the tears forming there. He couldn't conceive that what he had done was any great kindness. To Berkeley it was the first act of sharing she'd witnessed in a profoundly selfish city.

"You might have to adjust it." He reached over and showed her how to turn the sight.

"Oh, yes. I see. Why the ship's almost as close as my hand."

He found himself smiling at her amazement. "How old are you?" he asked again.

Berkeley realized how stupidly childlike she must have sounded. "About thirty minutes older than the last time you asked me, Mr. Janeway." She told him she needed a keeper, but he hadn't understood. She'd been sheltered in a peculiar fashion most of her life, but that didn't make her young.

Grey didn't press her. She was a curious mixture of candor and innocence. "What can you see?" he asked.

"The scow's pulling alongside the
Rachael.
The clipper crew is reaching out to her with poles."

"Grappling irons," he corrected. "To keep the scow in place while they load her." He scratched the tabby behind her ears and she stretched complacently in his lap. "Can you see anything else? Rolls of carpet, perhaps? Crates that look as if they'd be large enough to hold mirrors?"

"That's what you're waiting for?" She could only imagine the scope of his wealth if he was waiting on treasures like carpets and mirrors.

"If
Rachael's
coming from the Orient, then she could have my carpets. The mirrors will be there if she's called on London. And if she's been home to New England, I could also have the draperies and linens I ordered." Grey stood again as he heard the close approach of a wagon. "Sam!" He lifted one hand, partly in greeting, partly to stop the driver's advance. "I didn't know if I'd be seeing you after all."

Sam Hartford tipped his hat upward with his index finger and wiped his brow. A fringe of salt-and-pepper hair was pressed damply to his forehead. The fine creases at the corners of his eyes deepened as he squinted in the sunshine. "Had to unload the lumber first," he said. "Got it all stacked when I heard there was a Remington ship in the bay. Knew you said you wanted the wagon here if one came in." Sam pulled his hat back in place and pointed to the tabby dozing contentedly in Grey's arms. "Never figured you for liking cats, Mr. Janeway. You pick up that stray today?"

Grey's eyes slid away from Sam and returned to Berkeley.

Sitting there with the scope still trained on the clipper, her legs swinging in fits and starts, she seemed oblivious to his exchange with his driver. "Two strays, Sam. And they picked me."

Beneath the shadowed brim of her hat, Berkeley Shaw smiled.

Chapter 3

The work on the Phoenix fell into a lull when the men saw the approaching wagon. "By God," one of them called, surveying the height, width, and depth of the crates on the flat bed."He's brought the mirrors with him!" That announcement was followed by whistles and a smattering of applause from the workers on the scaffold.

"Why are they so excited about the mirrors?" Berkeley whispered. She was sitting in the back of the wagon, just behind the driver's bench, and she had to get up on her knees to make herself heard by Grey and Sam Hartford.

Grey ignored her, but Sam answered. He glanced over his shoulder and looked down at the upturned face. "Because they think they know where they're goin', lad." He winked as if Berkeley should understand that. When he received only a blank look, he added, "Above the beds, don't you know?"

Under the brim of her hat, Berkeley's eyebrows lifted. She sank slowly back to the bed of the wagon as Sam reined in the team in front of the Phoenix.

"Heard enough?" Grey asked her a moment later. He had waited until Sam was out of earshot attending the horses before he posed the question.

Berkeley's eyes scanned the building in front of her. Unlike the other structures on Portsmouth Square, this one was brick, not wood, and it stood a story higher than everything around it. Reflected sunlight on the rows of windows made them wink at her. Men on scaffolds were putting finishing touches on the trim, and one man, directly center of the building, was staining the naked breasts of a ship's figurehead.

"And seen enough," Berkeley said. "I think I made a mistake." She struggled to a crouching position in the crowded wagon, scooped up the cat, and started to climb over the side.

Grey grabbed her by the collar and hauled her back in. Berkeley lost her balance, fell solidly on her bottom, and caught her hip on the sharp corner of one of the crates. "Be careful," he said tightly. "You'll break one of the mirrors."

Tears sprang belatedly to Berkeley's eyes. She ducked her head to keep them from sight and hoped her sniffle was lost as the horses whinnied and snorted.