Kissing Comfort (10 page)

“No, Mr. Travers. I won't be staying long.”

“Very well.” He made a point of not hurrying from the room, leaving both parties to stew in silence until he shut the door and moved out of their hearing.

Comfort glanced around the room, noticing the bed was turned down but too neatly pressed to have been slept in. She went to the foot of the chaise, liking the superiority of height and the safety of distance.

“Well, Mr. DeLong, I'm here, and it seems you went to some trouble to make that happen.”

“I went to surprisingly little trouble. Travers delivered the pen and paper and lap desk, and Billy Powell delivered the note. I did compose the message, however, but that only required a single draft.”

“Your handwriting is very like your brother's.”

“I expect that's because we had the same tutor.”

Flattening her mouth, Comfort let her impatience show. “What do you want?”

“Company.”

She blinked. “Company?”

“Yes. Is that so astonishing? My mother and brother abandoned me, and you heard Travers for yourself. His idea of biting wit is to sink his teeth into my flesh. So, yes, I want company.”

She regarded him suspiciously. “
My
company?”

“You're the only one I invited.”

“I can bite, too.”

“And I know it.” He waved a hand to indicate his position on the chaise. “How did you manage it exactly? As I heard you tell everyone within earshot, I was fine . . . until I wasn't.”

“So you brought me here for an apology.”

Bode shook his head. He made a pass through his dark copper hair with his fingertips. “You may make one, of course, if you are moved to it, but I'd rather hear how it was done. Better yet, I'd like you to show me.”

“You're serious?”

He inclined his head a fraction in her direction and simply regarded Comfort until her skeptical expression faded.

“It's a ridiculous idea.”

“Perhaps.”

When it didn't appear that he would waver, she reluctantly agreed. “I suppose I can demonstrate, but you will have to imagine that I have an adversary.”

“Perhaps not.” Leaning over, he grasped the teak handle of the bell and shook it. “Give him a moment.”

Comfort raced forward and snatched the bell from Bode's hand, silencing it against her midriff. “What are you thinking?” she whispered harshly. “Mr. Travers wears a brace.”

“It's for the purpose of a demonstration only. I don't want you to hurt him.”

She set the bell well outside of Bode's reach. “I won't do it, and if he heard your summons, I want you to send him off.”

“Oh, very well, but I'm telling you, he'd be game for it.”

“I don't care.” She watched the clock on the mantelpiece, and when two long minutes passed without Travers appearing, she finally relaxed. “He didn't hear it.”

“More likely he ignored it.”

Comfort thought she'd be wise to do the same but found herself unbuttoning her gloves and jacket. For good measure, she removed her bonnet and laid it on the seat of a wing chair. She raised her arms as they had been during their dance.

“You were holding me so,” she said. “And taking me through a turn. You made it easy for me to stay in the cat stance.”

“The cat stance?”

As she lowered her hands, the line of Comfort's mouth turned uncertain. “You know. Like a cat. Light and ready to move.”

“Show me.”

She hesitated. She would have to raise her skirts.

“You didn't do it with your hands. You used your feet.”

“Actually, I used both.”

Bode looked pointedly at the hem of her walking dress and waited her out. When she lifted it high enough to reveal soft kid boots and a pair of finely turned ankles, his expression didn't change. “All right,” he said. “Now what?”

“Do you see how I'm bearing my weight on my rear foot?” she asked. “Notice how it's angled. The tip of my forward foot is raised and the heel rests lightly on the floor. That's the cat stance.”

“I see. And you were moving around me like that while we were dancing?”

“Only the once,” she said. “Only after I warned you.”

He remembered. “And then what?”

Comfort looked around again and spied a ladder-backed chair behind a writing desk. She went over to the desk and moved the chair back and forth to gauge its weight before tipping it on its rear legs. The carpet rippled as she dragged the chair to the chaise.

Raising her hem and assuming the cat stance once more, Comfort glided effortlessly through a graceful circle step and demonstrated how quickly she'd caught Bode off guard by upending the chair. Her reflexes were sound, and she grabbed the chair before it thumped to the floor, much in the way she'd grabbed and supported Bode.

“Show me again,” he said.

She compressed her lips, considering. “Just once more,” she said finally. Looking away from him, she began humming softly, repeating several measures of the waltz the musicians had been playing when she and Bode danced. She held up her skirt, this time not hampered by a train, and made two elliptical revolutions around the wing chair and the writing desk before she moved in on the ladder-backed chair. Comfort had considerable momentum this time, and her glide and kick lifted the chair more than six inches off the carpet before she caught the front lip of the seat and set it down gently.

Flushed, as much from the pleasure of her performance as the exertion of it, she turned on Bode. The flush became the color of embarrassment when he began to applaud.

“Don't,” she said, shaking her head. “The worst thing I've done is shown you how very little encouragement it takes for me to behave so foolishly.”

He stopped clapping but kept his palms pressed together and rested his chin on his fingertips. “Your engagement to my brother aside, I don't believe you've ever done anything foolish in your life.”

“You don't know me very well.”

He turned thoughtful. “Why is that?”

Comfort shrugged. “That is the sort of question you have to answer for yourself.”

“Fair enough.” He nodded to the wing chair. “Will you sit? There are tea and sandwiches.” When he sensed her hesitation, he added, “Please. I would like it. Really.”

“All right. For a little while.” She returned the ladder-backed chair to its place and removed her bonnet from the seat of the wing chair. She laid it beside her jacket and gloves on the chest at the foot of the bed. “Do you take sugar? Cream?”

“Neither.”

“You probably prefer it with a touch of whiskey the way Uncle Newt does.”

“More like a touch of tea with my whiskey.”

She poured the steeped tea from the pot into a delicately fluted china cup. “That's more like Uncle Tuck.” She extended the cup to Bode and made sure he had it securely in his palm before she released it. Taking both cream and sugar for herself, Comfort tested the taste before she sat. “Would you like a sandwich? Mrs. Deltry makes excellent ones.”

“No, thank you. But help yourself.” He waited while she selected a petite watercress sandwich. “Do you know all my mother's staff?”

“Not all, I'm sure. But many of them.”

“How does that happen? I'm not sure Alexandra knows them.”

“I know the ones that have accounts at our bank.”

Bode's short laugh made the cup rattle in its saucer. He steadied it. “So it's business, then.”

“Good business.”

“Perhaps. Black Crowne's never done business with Jones Prescott.”

“I know.”

“Do you expect that will change once you and Bram are married?”

“I don't see why it would, and you should know that Bram and I don't discuss money.”

“I'm sure you don't, but you might consider having that conversation before you exchange vows. It could be . . .” He paused, searching for the right word. “Illuminating.”

“There's no point. I doubt Bram could shed any light on Crowne Shipping and the DeLong finances if he held a candelabra over the book of accounts. Everyone knows you and your mother make all the decisions, and as you've chosen to work with Croft Federal just as your father did, I don't see Bram's marriage influencing the relationship you have with Mr. Bancroft.”

Bode's left eyebrow lifted. “A candelabra?” He appreciated the picture she brought to mind. “If only you exaggerated,” he said, his mouth twisting wryly. What Bram knew about figures mostly related to the female form. That education was compliments of dance halls and brothels, and perhaps from observing their own father in pursuit of what was under every woman's skirt. He hadn't learned it in the classrooms at Harvard.

“What did you study at Oberlin?” Bode asked suddenly.

Comfort couldn't follow the change in subject, but she supposed that didn't matter. “Mathematics.”

“Really.”

“Really,” she said, repeating his intonation precisely. “Statistical calculation and analysis. Probability. The evaluation of risk. Applications for business, economics, and engineering. My degree says liberal arts, but all of my concentrations were in math.”

“Remarkable.”

Comfort felt another warning was in order. “It's just that sort of condescension that contributed to you lying on that chaise.”

Bode arched an eyebrow at her but said nothing. He sipped his tea.

Comfort took another dainty sandwich, cucumber this time. “Your eye looks worse than it did last night.”

“I know.”

“Did someone give you ice for it?”

“Ice. Beefsteak.” He pointed to the plate of sandwiches. “Cucumber slices.”

Comfort regarded her sandwich uneasily.

“A different cucumber entirely, I'm sure.”

Hungrier than she was skeptical, she plopped what was left of the bite in her mouth. “What about your back? You couldn't rise when I came in.”

“It will be fine. I'm going to work tomorrow.”

“Do you think that's wise? It doesn't appear that you were able to sleep in your own bed.”

“That's not my bed. At least it hasn't been for years. My bed has some support, like this chaise.”

“Then it's true what they say about you?”

“Enlighten me.”

“You sleep on a bed of nails.”

“I eat them, too. And spit rust.”

She laughed and realized quite suddenly that she was enjoying herself. Perhaps it was that he only had one steely eye. The intensity of the blue-violet glint had been reduced by half, and he hadn't so much as turned it on her once.

“What do you do at your offices?” she asked.

“As little as possible,” he said. “I prefer being away from them. My interest is the ships. Talking to the masters. Inspecting. Looking over the cargo.”

She was certain he had employees for those things, so if he did them, it was because he really wanted to be out of doors.

“There are meetings, I suspect.”

“Mm. Too many. Deals. Contracts. Agreements to be settled with a handshake.” He felt his jaw tighten. “Or with the turn of a card.”

“That really happens?”

“Sometimes.” He wanted to shrug, but his shoulders were suddenly too tight to make it appear careless. He sought a neutral tone instead and was glad to find it. “It's San Francisco.”

She nodded, understanding. She'd seen lots of valuables traded or sold in the gambling tents and mining camps, and she'd been witness to what never should have been bought or sold in the cribs and whorehouses.

“Bram told me you used to be master on the
Artemis Queen
,” she said. “Do you miss it?”

“Sometimes.” Almost always, he could have said. Admitting it would have been indulgent. “What do you know about the
Artemis
?”

“What everyone knows, I suppose. She's your flagship. The most beautiful ship in the fleet. At least I think she's the most beautiful. I don't know if that's what makes her a flagship.”

Bode wondered if she'd accept an invitation to go aboard. He didn't extend the offer, though it would have been interesting to see her reaction. The
Artemis Queen
was weeks out from completing her China run. There was still plenty of time to consider it. “What do you do at your offices?” he asked. “Besides learn the name of every person who has an account at Jones Prescott.”

“I review the city papers from the previous day so I can follow up on the important stories. News out of the legislature and governor's office, for instance. Railroad expansion. Who is getting federal land grants. All of the things that influence interest rates and investments.”

“What else?”

“Well, I read and approve loan applications. Uncle Tuck and I decide how we'll deliver payrolls to the mines. What routes, which stage drivers we'll use, or if we'll send the money by train. We always have to consider robbery. Uncle Tuck has a special sense for it. Not robbery,” she said quickly. “But for avoiding it.”

“I had no idea,” he said. “About any of that.”

“Uncle Newt and I discuss investments. That has always been his strength. He can look over fluctuations in the market and know exactly what funds he wants to transfer. With the telegraph the market is no longer just local. We can make transfers with our agents in Chicago, St. Louis, and New York.”

“Is he ever wrong?”

“Of course. More often than he's right. But it's not like he's pushing all his markers to the center of the table and betting against the house. The distribution of money over a variety of investments of varying risks helps soften the blow of a single failure. Even a catastrophic one.” Comfort realized she was rattling on about a subject that would have had Bram plotting his escape. It wasn't fair that she'd taken advantage of her captive audience. “I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that. It was probably every bit as painful as the stitch in your back.”