Jo Goodman (3 page)

Garret offered only a look of disgust in reply. "You wasted a Harvard education."

"Do you mean to say they didn't teach you gambling, whoring, and drinking at William and Mary?" Graham asked blandly. He raised his glass and eyed his brother consideringly over the rim. "I'd say you're the one who hasn't made good use of his education."

Garret ignored the barb. "Now I can add thief to your list of pastimes."

"Thief? Because of the earring, you mean? Hardly, Garret. It was given to me."

That set Garret back. "I don't believe that for a moment. Mother would never—"

"Mother didn't. Grandmother did."

"She wouldn't. It wasn't hers to give."

Graham shrugged. He didn't care if he was believed or not. Garret could check his story easily enough and discover he was telling the truth. The earring in question belonged to their mother, just as Garret had pointed out. Its value to Evaline Randolph Denison was purely sentimental. She never wore the earring since the mate had been lost years ago. From time to time she spoke of having the pearl stud and dangling gold drop made into a pendant so she could wear it around her neck, but she never did anything about it. She seemed satisfied to keep the earring in her jewelry chest and take it out occasionally to admire. The earring and its lost twin had been fashioned exclusively for her sixteenth birthday and debut ball. The gold drop had been engraved in a delicate flourish with her initials. This was part of her attachment to the piece, knowing that it was one of a kind.

Evaline valued its uniqueness but the earring always invoked a misty-eyed reminiscence of the cotillion that was held in her honor. There was a certain intrinsic value in having this opportunity to remind them all how she had been sought after and fought over. Graham wondered if he would have heard the story so often if his mother hadn't lost the earring's mate that very first night they were presented to her. She would have worn them then and familiarity might have softened her memories. The fact that her parents, who had made a present of them to her, had died a short time later only added to the poignancy of the recollections.

Graham wiped his brow again, then the back of his neck.

"Grandmother thought I should have it." She had said it was time Evaline stopped dwelling on the past, but Graham didn't mention this. "I went to her for money, and the earring's what she gave me."

"But you didn't sell it."

"I didn't have the chance." Not that he would have anyway.
And damn her,
he thought not unkindly,
Grandmother had known that.
"Mother's going to have to be told. I'm surprised she hasn't missed it already."

"Mother's retired to her room this last month. Perhaps she has missed it." He regarded Graham frankly. "Or perhaps she can't bear what's become of her son."

Graham shook his head. "Mother takes to her room if her egg is overcooked. I won't accept that I'm the cause."

"Nothing unusual in that." He sipped his bourbon and noticed that Graham was no longer nursing his. "Drink up. I don't know why you're looking out of sorts. Seems to me that you're devil-may-care now, and I'm left to make your apologies."

"I suppose you should be used to it." Graham thought the words didn't sound quite right. He heard them as if he were standing in a tunnel.

"Are you all right?" Garret asked. He removed Graham's drink out of his reach. "I think you've had enough." He grinned. "Who would have thought I could drink you under the table?"

"Perhaps they taught you something at William and Mary after all." Graham's own grin was decidedly lopsided. He was quite pleased that he had gotten the sentence out. It was a bonus that it made sense. He squinted and made a study of his brother's features. Three bourbons had not noticeably affected Garret.

"There's... one... other... thing," Graham said with great effort. He looked around the tavern to see if anyone was taking an interest in his conversation. In the time he had been at the table with Garret a few men had come and gone, but the majority of the crowd was unchanged. A pair of bull-necked men stood at one end of the bar trading stories and buying each other drinks. The trio at the table in the corner were still playing cards. They only looked up when they needed to catch the barmaid's eye. A few men sat alone, but they were the exception. Gilpin's was a place for camaraderie. There was a boisterous shout followed by some hearty laughter. Someone called to Gilpin himself to settle a wager.

Graham's head swiveled around, and his eyes returned to Garret. His brother was watching him closely. Was he waiting for him to say something? Graham wondered.
Had
he been saying something?

"You said there was one more thing," Garret prompted.

Now Graham remembered. "That's right." The two words came out as one. "One more thing." Graham's drawl was more evident now. "I figure I was betrayed on my last run on the Railroad. Shot at, too. Almost killed. You wouldn't know anythin' about that, would you?"

"I do believe you're making an accusation."

Graham's head throbbed when he nodded. His vision was blurry now; his limbs felt weighted. Every minute that passed brought on some aching awareness to a new part of his body. "Believe I am," he said softly.

"Tell me where you lost the earring, Graham."

The change in subject was difficult for Graham to follow. "Don't know ex... eggsact... Don't know."

"You must have some idea."

"Boston, I reckon." He could hardly hold his head up now. His shoulders slumped.

Garret swore softly as Graham's head thumped on the table. "Boston," he said in disgust. "I'll be sure to tell Mother you lost her earring to the Yankees." Grasping a handful of Graham's thick hair, Garret lifted his brother's head a few inches off the table. He was out cold. He let go and Graham's forehead thumped hard again. Garret raised his hand and motioned to the trio of card players in the corner. They tossed down their cards and joined him immediately.

"Get him out of here," Garret said quietly. There was no chance that he would be overheard. No one, save for the men who were waiting for his signal, were particularly concerned with anything they witnessed. Graham Denison certainly wasn't the first patron at Gilpin's to slide into a stupor. The only question in the mind of some of the regulars was if Graham had passed out before his head hit the table or if the blow knocked him out. It might have been worth a wager if they thought Graham was going to be around to set the matter straight.

Garret indicated to the men that they should get moving. "We'll settle outside. I want your assurances he's not coming back to Charleston." He looked at each man squarely. "Ever."

* * *

He came awake with a start. Sitting up reminded him how much pain he was in. He lay down again and closed one eye. Someone had already managed to close the other one for him. He explored the swelling gingerly. Even the lightest pressure from his fingertips made him groan.

He let his hand fall back to his side and flexed his fingers. They didn't feel bruised or broken. Hadn't he put up a fight at all? Then he wondered who he would have fought. Names and faces eluded him now.

Taking inventory of other body parts revealed a rather extensive list of injuries. In addition to the swollen right eye there was a lump on his forehead, dried blood under a possibly broken nose, a split lower lip, and ringing in his ears. And he had found all that before he got as far as his neck. Below his Adam's apple he discovered he had two ribs that were bruised or cracked, a dislocated collarbone, and swollen testicles.

Whoever it had been had worked him over good. The why of it wouldn't come to him.

He considered his legs next. They were sore but had largely been spared. His left thigh had received a few kicks, probably misplaced, he decided, when his attacker had aimed for his groin, but other than that he believed he could walk unaided. Where he might go was an unknown to him.

He applied himself to the problem of where he was. There were voices, footsteps, overhead. He was lying on the floor, but there were hammocks strung up in the room. They swayed as if a breeze were circulating around the four walls. There was no breeze, though. The air was close, stifling. The hammocks continued to swing.

It was natural, he supposed, that he hadn't noticed the room was rocking at the outset. It wasn't that he had been entirely unaware of it, but that he had misunderstood the cause. From the very first roll he had assumed there was a problem with his balance, something connected to the ringing in his ears. Now, as he watched the hammocks continue to swing, he realized there was too much rhythm in the motion. The room and its contents weren't spinning, merely swaying.

He was on board a ship. He couldn't imagine where.

With body parts accounted for and his immediate surroundings identified, he put himself to the task of making some sense of it all.

That was when he realized he didn't know his name.

Chapter 1

Boston, May 1850

"This is cold." Berkeley Shaw's fingers unfolded almost convulsively. She felt as if she were shivering, yet except for the involuntary movement of her hand, she was entirely still. "I don't see how I can help you." Then, to be perfectly clear, she added softly, "Any of you." She was conscious of being the center of attention, of the five pairs of eyes leveled on her slightly bowed head. With some effort she raised her chin and allowed her glance to sweep the gathering before coming to rest on the only familiar face. She said nothing, but her eyes pleaded.

Anderson Shaw was immediately sympathetic. He supported the underside of his wife's extended hand in his own before he removed the object lying in the heart of her open palm.

The first thing he noticed was that it was not cold at all. One dark brow rose faintly in Berkeley's direction. For the space of a heartbeat solicitousness was replaced by censure. His disappointment in her effort went unnoticed by the others, but he knew Berkeley would register it as a tangible force. Even as he thought it, she swayed ever so slightly on her feet. For now it satisfied him.

Anderson let his eyes fall deliberately on the earring he now held and examined it in detail. It was as exquisite as he had been led to believe. A lustrous pearl stud was set in a golden crown. A raindrop of pure gold, delicately engraved with the letters ER, dangled from the stud. He knew he held a fortune in his palm. What he didn't know was if it was priceless.

"ER?" he asked as he returned the earring to its owner.

Decker Thorne's fingers folded over the earring. He placed it in his vest pocket without looking at it. A moment later his hand raked his thick, dark hair, and his attention shifted slowly, with a measure of real reluctance, from Berkeley Shaw to her husband. "Elizabeth Regina," he explained.

Anderson whistled softly, appreciatively. "That would make this..." He paused, searching his memory for the years in which Elizabeth ruled England. "What? Two hundred? Three hundred years old?"

"A little more than three hundred," Decker confirmed. His watchful blue eyes settled on Mrs. Shaw again and he waited to see if she would respond. There was no disappointment when Berkeley remained silent. It was exactly what he expected. He glanced sideways at his wife, and his expression spoke eloquently:
I told you so.

Jonna Remington Thorne pretended not to notice. It was not in her nature to give in so easily, least of all to her husband when he was looking vaguely superior. Decker had taken the less difficult approach to this interview with Anderson and Berkeley Shaw. He had been cynical from the moment she had suggested it. She was the one who had held out some hope and who risked the most keenly felt disappointment.

No, she amended, that wasn't entirely true. Her gaze strayed to her sister-in-law. Mercedes Thorne had reached out to lay her hand over her husband's forearm, comforting Colin and in turn, being comforted. Jonna knew Mercedes had risked hoping as well. Colin, like Decker, had steeled himself against it. Perhaps it
was
time to give up.

The problem was, she wasn't certain how one went about surrendering. She had been the head of the Remington Shipping empire since she was fifteen. She was thirty now. The second half of her life had been devoted to running the Remington line, the first half to learning how. It was not an exaggeration to say that none of it could have come about without Colin and Decker Thorne. Colin had saved her life when she was a babe in arms. Years later Decker had saved her heart.