Jo Goodman (23 page)

"I'd like to go over it with you."

Berkeley considered closing the door and locking it. "You have a key to all the rooms, don't you?"

One corner of Grey's mouth kicked up. "Uh-huh." He was genuinely amused now and didn't mind that Berkeley knew it. He waited her out, watching her animated features change as she considered her options. "Thank you," he said dryly as the door opened wide to admit him. His eyes followed the trail of wet footprints from the doorway to where they disappeared into her bedroom. "If you'd like to finish your bath, I'll wait here." Grey watched, fascinated, as a wave of heat flushed Berkeley's porcelain-smooth skin. "You don't want the water to get cold."

The way he was looking at her made it difficult for Berkeley not to stammer. She stared at the paper in his hand rather than subject herself to his scrutiny. Knowing that she was being teased did not make her feel better; it only made her feel hopelessly young. "May I?" she said, holding out her hand.

Grey gave her the paper. He chose the ice-blue-brocade wing chair to lounge in while she unfolded the paper and studied its contents. Stretching out, his long legs extending toward the barren fireplace, Grey let his eyes wander around the room. The suite was not so different from the ones that would soon be occupied by the Phoenix's regular guests. The drapes were cut from the same brocade that upholstered the wing chair. The settee was a contrast in navy blue velvet. There was a small oval dining table near the window with a chair at each end. One of the chairs was pushed slightly to the side, and the table's walnut surface was littered with stationery, an inkwell, and several pens. Grey imagined the arrival of her bathwater had been the interruption that stopped her work. He wondered at the contents of the crumpled, discarded vellum sheets. It hadn't occurred to him that Berkeley would have need of a writing desk.

Grey's eyes didn't linger long on the table, but they strayed back there from time to time, his curiosity engaged. He continued to look about the room, noting the workmanship of the end tables, the vase of fresh flowers, and the handsomely carved box on the mantel. He was satisfied that Berkeley could be comfortable in this sitting room and in the whole of her suite, but he also was aware she hadn't done anything to make it her own. Not that he had any idea of how she could have accomplished that when she had been confined to the Phoenix.

Berkeley looked up from the paper and found herself being regarded rather distantly by Grey Janeway. His aquiline nose gave him a certain arrogant appeal. She tried to imagine what he was thinking and found that she couldn't. No one had ever looked at her in quite that way, as if she were more than a curiosity, but interesting in her own right. She folded the paper and returned it to him.

Grey didn't put it away. "You'll need to memorize it," he said.

"I already have. Excuse me." She disappeared into the bedroom, shut the door, and returned a few minutes later wearing a plain gray gown. The sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and the neck was open. A towel was draped around her shoulders, and she was combing through her damp hair. Her feet were bare. "Mr. Sam Brannan used to operate a general store. He's a Mormon elder but no longer one of Brigham Young's trusted confidants. There's a matter of money owed to the Lord in the form of tithes and Mr. Young would like to collect it. It would be a considerable sum now that Mr. Brannan is rich from the gold strike and the businesses he owns. Mr. Brannan is also head of the Vigilance Committee here in San Francisco, which he organized to run out the Sydney Ducks."

Grey smiled. Berkeley Shaw was a quick study. "Lorne Fitch?" he asked.

"Mr. Fitch is the president of the First Bank of California. He's building a granite-stone mansion northeast of the city. He owns shares in the railroad and in some piece of most everything else. He's married to Marilyn Adams, and they have four children."

Grey held up his hand. He had given her more information, but he was satisfied she knew it all. "Enough. I'm convinced."

"There's still Anthony Bottoms," Berkeley said. "He's a favorite of Miss Ivory DuPree."

"Enough," he repeated.

Berkeley made one final pass through her hair with the comb before she placed it on the mantel. She picked up the treasure box that Shawn had fashioned for her and carried it over to Grey. "I wonder if you would look at this," she said, opening the lid. "Do you think I could have it fashioned into a pendant?"

Grey said nothing for a moment. His attention was not on the box at all but on her. "You're still limping," he said.

"I'm sorry." She looked at her feet. Her weight rested mainly on her right foot. Uncomfortable with his scrutiny, Berkeley's toes curled. "I shall be careful this evening not to embarrass—"

Those wriggling bare toes undid him. "Do I need to have the doctor see you as well?" he asked irritably.

"No, I'm—"

"What did you do to yourself anyway?"

"I twisted it when I was running after—"

Grey interrupted her again, this time speaking with a clenched jaw. "Miss Shaw, will you
please
stop wiggling your toes?"

Berkeley came sharply to attention.

"That's better," he said. It was difficult not to smile. Grey pointed to the box. "Show me what you have there."

Berkeley tilted the open box toward him. The earring lay alone inside. The engraved letters were not immediately visible.

Berkeley nudged the golden raindrop so the delicately inscribed ER could be seen. She fixed her eyes on Grey while he studied the earring.

Grey drew it out of the box and laid it across his palm. "Is this yours?" he asked.

"In a manner of speaking."

"You stole it."

Berkeley didn't flinch at his conclusion. There was no accusation in Grey's tone and no judgment. There was also no recognition in his features as he studied the piece. Berkeley knew he could keep his thoughts guarded and his expression distanced, but she knew he was not without emotion. She didn't believe he could look at the earring and not reveal his connection to it—if there was one.

Her glance slipped to the table, where the evidence of her frustrating attempt to write to Decker and Colin Thorne was strewn across the polished surface. She had found no easy way to tell them that she knew Graham Denison was dead and Greydon Thorne had never really existed. She didn't have the proof they expected, but Berkeley had known both these truths when she had taken Grey Janeway's hand in hers.
He was not the man she had first thought he was.

Still, there were doubts. She found them unsettling because they were so unfamiliar to her. They made it impossible for her to reveal anything to the Thornes. There was a link between Grey Janeway and Graham Denison, but it was not one she was certain she wanted to share. It was that link that she wanted to be wrong about.

Her hope that it would come to pass ended when he merely returned the earring to the box.

"You should have taken the pair," Grey said. "Then you wouldn't have to worry what to do with the only one you have."

Berkeley closed the lid and replaced it on the mantel. "I didn't steal it. It was given to me, and whether you believe that is of no concern. I only wanted your advice."

"I know someone who can put it on a necklace. If you want, I'll take it with me." His dark brows drew together slightly. "Who's ER?"

"Elizabeth Regina," she said. "I was told the earring is one of a pair made for the queen's coronation."

Grey laughed. "I hope you didn't believe that."

"No, but I like the story."

"It would make the earring worth a great deal if it were true."

She nodded. "Priceless if I had the pair."

"Who gave it to you?" He was surprised by how much he wanted to know the answer.

Decker Thome's wry smile came to Berkeley's mind.
I trust you to make the right decision, Mrs. Shaw. This is the final test.
"Someone who trusted me."

The enigmatic reply did not satisfy Grey, but he refused to let her know he was bothered by it. He stood. "Show me your gowns," he said.

Berkeley was taken back by his abrupt change in subject, but she led the way into her bedroom and opened the armoire. She watched Grey examine the evening dresses critically, holding several of them up to her. He finally chose a rich green gown with short puffed sleeves and a deep neckline.

"I can't wear that," she told him. "Not this evening. Not for several evenings, I imagine."

"Why the devil can't you? It fits, doesn't it?"

"It fits. Of course, it fits. It was made for me."

"My point exactly."

"But not mine. I can't wear it because of the sleeves."

Grey pulled the gown out and hung it from a hook on the back of the armoire's open door. "What's wrong with them?"

"They're short."

"Sam says it's the fashion." A small crooked smile touched Grey's mouth. It sounded ridiculous to his own ears. Sam Hartford. Arbiter of fashion."All right, Berkeley, what's wrong with short sleeves?"

Berkeley found herself staring at him, staring at the smile that flickered behind his eyes. Suddenly she didn't want to tell him. "Nothing," she said. "I didn't think they would be right. The evenings are cool here, aren't they? And I don't have a proper shawl."

"You'll be inside," Grey said.

"I know. There'll be a crush of people. I probably won't feel chilled at all. I shouldn't have said anything about it. The gown's quite perfect, Mr. Jane—"

"Grey."

"Grey," Berkeley repeated quietly. "Really, it's quite perfect."

* * *

The doors to the Phoenix opened at six o'clock. The first guests were there by invitation. The Alcalde arrived with his wife. Sam Brannan came with his entourage of bodyguards. Bankers and businessmen and speculators and claim holders filed in. Outside, in Portsmouth Square, the uninvited carried themselves off gloomily to the El Dorado or the Palace or stood three deep at the windows to get a glimpse of the longest bar in San Francisco. By six-thirty two hundred of the city's most prominent citizens were enjoying roulette and faro and poker at the tables, toasting their reflections in the mirror-lined wall, and whispering about Grey's hostess, who had yet to make her appearance.

Chandeliers brightened the grand hall. There were fewer than twenty women in attendance, each of them with an escort. Among the black top hats and stiff collars, they flashed like starshine on a dark sea. Combs sparkled in their hair, and chokers glittered around their necks. The mistresses avoided the wives, and they all avoided congregating, thereby not inviting comparisons. Not one of them was looking forward to meeting Grey Janeway's new hostess.

Abovestairs Berkeley Shaw slipped out of Mike's room and hurried back to her own. He had been sleeping quietly when she entered his room but in time he woke and she modeled the gown Grey had chosen for her. Her awkward pirouette had coaxed a smile from Mike. She felt his forehead with the back of her hand and found it cool, not fevered. It was another encouraging sign.

Berkeley did not want to think about what waited below. The sounds had been filtering up the stairs and down the hallway for almost an hour. She had gone to Mike's room as much to deny the music and constant hum of voices as to assure herself that Mike was improving. Now it was more difficult to pretend that she couldn't hear, harder still to pretend she wasn't afraid.

Grey's steps announced his presence in the corridor. Berkeley was opening her door as he was reaching out to knock on it. "Please," she said, her fixed smile wavering ever so slightly. "Come in."

Berkeley thought that he shouldn't be so handsome or quite so much at ease. He was elegantly turned out in a formal black tailcoat and trousers. His waistcoat was black satin. In contrast his shirt and flat tie gleamed whitely. Gold studs flashed on his cuffs. He looked for all the world as if he wore these clothes daily, as if they more perfectly suited his leanly muscled frame than his own skin.

Grey's smile slowly appeared. "I believe I'm flattered," he drawled softly.

Berkeley flushed. "I'll only be a moment," she said quickly. "I need my gloves." She would have backed away and fled the room for no other reason than to compose herself, but Grey was standing there, shaking his head slowly and holding her in place with the strength of a look.

"If I may return the compliment," he said. The words were almost spoken in the manner of one asking permission. Almost. Grey did not want to take the chance that he would be refused, and he did most definitely want to return the compliment.

It was not the gown he noticed, but how she looked in it. Her skin was radiant against the rich iridescent shades of green in the satin. Her heavy cascade of pale hair had been lifted off her neck. It was smoothly curved at the back of her head and secured with ebony combs. Her beautifully sculpted throat was bare. The deeply cut bodice laid open most of her white shoulders and revealed the delicate line of her collarbones.

Grey watched her take a steadying breath, her reed-slender body swaying slightly. The cut of the gown accented her small waist and long leg line. It dipped fashionably low to expose the high curves of her breasts. Berkeley Shaw was not swallowed by flounces and trimming. The gown served her, not the other way around.