Midnight Star (6 page)

Gregory Thomas shrugged elaborately. “Who knows? Money, as I’m certain you are discovering, my dear, makes people behave in execrable ways.”

“You don’t like Paul Montgomery,” she said flatly.

“You are becoming much too perceptive, Chauncey. No, I will admit to it. I dislike the man heartily. I have for many years now. I do not trust him.”

More facts to sift through. “Why?”

“My reasons have nothing particularly to do with you, my dear, thus I will keep them to myself.”

“Very well, sir, I will not press you. None of it will really matter soon in any case. In exactly
three weeks I will be sailing on the
Eastern Light
to America.” She shrugged. “Who knows? Perhaps I shan’t return to England.”

He shook his head at her, perplexed.

“The
Eastern Light,
” she explained kindly, “leaves from Plymouth on the thirteenth of November.”

“Chauncey, stop playing games with me!”

“Games?” She raised an eyebrow. “I have told you often enough that I wish to travel. Now, enough about my plans, Gregory. You were quizzing me about contracts, remember?”

Gregory sighed. He wished Chauncey had confided her plans to Frank Gillette. He reluctantly drew himself back to Chauncey and her question. “Not exactly contracts, Elizabeth. A good lawyer can handle that. It’s the people involved that are important. You must learn everything about anyone you intend to become involved with in a business venture.”

“Yes,” Chauncey said, nodding her head, “I understand that, Gregory.” Indeed she did, she thought. Her eyes glittered. She could taste the revenge now. How she would savor it as she watched Delaney Saxton ruined!

“I do have several more questions about transferring funds, Gregory,” she continued. “If I decide to travel around a bit in America, how can I be certain that my money will be available to me when I wish it?”

“It’s a bit difficult, particularly in America. Not in large cities like New York or Boston, to be certain, but if one goes farther west of Chicago, honoring drafts becomes a bit hazardous. I, of course, will provide you with names of men whom
I trust, and banks that have endured during the currency fluctuations.”

She was not that ignorant about San Francisco anymore. “If I decide to travel beyond Chicago, then it appears I should carry my money with me.”

“It’s true. What several people of my acquaintance have done when traveling to more uncivilized areas is to turn their money into gems. Diamonds most often. They’re easy to hide, don’t alert thieves, and are easy to turn back into currency. But, my dear, I cannot imagine that you would ever want to visit such places.”

“Likely not,” Chauncey said blandly. “But it never hurts to know about such things, does it?”

Delaney Xavier Saxton dismounted from the broad back of his stallion, Brutus, and stood on the corner of Second Street and Bryant, gazing with pride at his gray-stone-faced house, one of the most impressive additions to South Park. And it was nearly always sunny here on the southern slope of Rincon Hill, the San Francisco fog rarely wrapping it in a thick blanket of white. After nearly a year he still enjoyed contemplating the impressive structure with its wide portico and deep-set stone steps. He was pleased that the architect, Archibald Grover, had been able to reproduce his father’s home in Boston from the rather amateur drawings Delaney had made for him. Although he hadn’t thought so at the time, the devastating fire of June 1851 that had destroyed his first home had been something
of a blessing. His new house had permanency; no fire would destroy it. It was a house that would become a home, with a wife and children filling the now-vacant rooms with laughter and joy.

The thought quickly turned his expression to a frown as Penelope Stevenson came to mind. Penelope, with her lovely face and dainty figure. She already treated his house with proprietary complacency, as did her mother and wealthy father, Henry Stevenson. Henry, known to his business cronies as Bunker, was beginning to press him, intimating in that brash, loud voice of his that his little girl could have her pick of eligible men.

It was true. There were still few marriageable ladies in San Francisco. The majority of women were whores, rich men’s mistresses, or tight-lipped matrons who sought continually to improve the society of the city with their endless subscription balls, charity dinners, and Shakespearean productions. Penelope was quite pretty, Delaney thought objectively, pretty when her little mouth did not pout or turn down sullenly at the corners. And for some reason, she wanted him. Why was he still hesitating to ask that fatal question? He shook his head, knowing well the answer. He didn’t love Penelope. She was eighteen years old, still childish in so many ways, capricious, vain, utterly spoiled by her doting father, and an outrageous flirt.

“Mr. Saxton, do you want me to take Brutus to the stable?”

Delaney turned at the sound of Lucas’ deep, rumbling voice.

“Yes, please, Lucas. The old fellow needs a
good rubdown.” He added ruefully, “And I’ve been a poor master, standing here like a fool, woolgathering.”

“Miss Stevenson and Mrs. Stevenson will be here soon, sir, for tea.”

Delaney snorted. “Tea, for God’s sake,” he muttered. “As far as I know, Mrs. Stevenson has not one whit of English blood in her fat veins.”

Lucas’ bland expression didn’t change. “Lin Chou has made cakes, but I don’t think they’re particularly English. Made with rice.”

Delaney laughed. “I suppose I had better see to improving my appearance. I’m certain Mrs. Stevenson won’t approve of male sweat.”

“Likely not,” said Lucas. “You were at the post office, sir?”

“Yes. I’ve a letter from my brother in New York.” He saw Lucas’ face drop and said with more optimism than he actually felt, “Not a letter today from your sister, Lucas. You know the mails as well as I do.”

“Aye, I know.” But Lucas was disappointed. His sister, Julia, lived in Baltimore. Lucas had written her dozens of letters, begging her to join him in San Francisco. She would agree in one letter, only to put him off in the next.

Delaney patted Brutus’ glossy neck and strode into his house. His booted steps sounded loud on the Chinese granite entryway, and the large chandelier overhead rattled with his movement. He climbed the beautiful carved oak staircase to the upper floor. His bedroom was enormous, the floor covered with several beautiful carpets from China. The huge bed was made of rosewood, as were the night table and armoire. Possessions, he thought,
standing quietly for a moment in the middle of the room. At last I have all the possessions I could wish for, and still . . . A large high-backed sofa faced the marble fireplace, with two wing chairs flanking it. Delaney sank down into one of the chairs and pulled his brother’s letter from his waistcoat pocket.

“Dear Del,” he read, “I hope this letter finds you in your usual good health. Actually I will be glad if this letter finds you! Giana is doing splendidly, as are Leah and Nicolas. My life is never dull, I can promise you.” Delaney skimmed the next page of the letter that dealt with Alex’s business and suggestions to Delaney on investments he might consider. “Speaking of investments, brother, I’m enclosing a clipping from the London
Times.
Wasn’t Sir Alec FitzHugh one of the men who invested in your mine in Downieville? It appears he’s quite dead, has been, as you can see from the clipping, for nearly ten months now. Unfortunately, Giana and I hadn’t noticed it. In fact, she was wrapping a gift to send to her mother when she came across the paper, and wondered if you knew about his demise. I trust you were duly informed long ago by his lawyer.” Delaney laid down the letter and gazed into the empty grate of the fireplace. No, he hadn’t been informed by Paul Montgomery, Sir Alec’s solicitor in London. Every month he sent a bank draft to Montgomery, quite large amounts, for the mine had proved a true find, as Delaney had known it would. Why hadn’t Montgomery written to him? Perhaps he had, Delaney thought, remembering his comment to Lucas about the chancy mail system. Hadn’t Sir Alec had a daughter? Was
Montgomery simply giving her the money now? Still, he should have notified me, Delaney thought, slowly rising from the chair. He had heard about his own solicitor’s death, which had occurred before Sir Alec’s. He didn’t like coincidences.

As he bathed and changed into a frilled white shirt and a black frock coat, he mentally composed the letter he would write to Paul Montgomery. He was somewhat distracted when he greeted Penelope and her mother some thirty minutes later in what Mrs. Stevenson persisted in calling his drawing room.

“My dear Mr. Saxton, how delightful to see you again! Penelope has missed you sorely, sir! How nice of you to invite us for tea.”

The woman was as loud and vulgar as her husband, but Delaney’s smile never faltered. “My pleasure, ma’am. Penelope, you are looking lovely, as usual.”

He took her small slender hand and raised it to his lips. He could see her preening at his courtly gesture. “Won’t you ladies please be seated? Lucas, you may serve the tea and cakes.”

Mrs. Agatha Stevenson was large-boned, her bosom overpowering. She persisted in wearing the most youthful of French fashions, gowns of daring colors decorated with quantities of ribbons and furbelows. Delaney silently hoped that the chair she chose would crack under her weight. How she and her equally large and clumsy husband had produced such a slender daughter was beyond him.

“English tea,” Mrs. Stevenson said complacently, adjusting her bulk in the creaking chair.
“Did you not tell us once, Mr. Saxton, that you were in England several years ago?”

“Oh yes, Del, do tell us about it,” said Penelope, her brown eyes wide with interest. “How I should love to go there.”

“First the tea, ladies,” Delaney said, signaling to the expressionless Lucas to wheel the cart to Mrs. Stevenson. “The cakes,” he added blandly, “are Lin Chou’s creation. I trust you will find them as delicious as I do.”

“It could not be otherwise!”

“They look marvelous, Del!”

Delaney almost grinned when Mrs. Stevenson bit into the rice cake. Her jowls quivered, but of course she could say nothing now. Lin’s rice cakes, flat and delicately browned, were more decorative than edible.

Why not impress the hell out of them? he thought, and with a nonchalant air said, “I returned to London in the company of my brother’s mother- and father-in-law, the Duke and Duchess of Graffton.”

“Oh,” Penelope said, sitting forward in her chair. “Royalty!”

“Not quite, Penelope,” he said blandly. “In any case, I spent an enjoyable several months in London, and managed at the same time to conduct a goodly amount of business.”
With Sir Alec FitzHugh, among others, who is now dead.

“Oh, Del, do tell me about the Tower of London,” Penelope said in her breathless high voice. “Is there still blood about from all the people beheaded there?”

“No blood. The English are quite fastidious about things like that, you know.”
It was Montgomery
who pressed for Sir Alec to invest. Why didn’t the man write to me of Sir Alec’s death?

Delaney felt a veil of boredom begin to descend. Surely teatime in England never lasted so bloody long! Did he really want to marry a chit who was only eighteen years old, and as empty-headed as a gourd? “Jesus,” he muttered.

“What did you say, Del? . . . Nothing? Well, let me tell you our news. Mama is giving a formal ball in three weeks and everyone will come! We’re all going to wear masks—Papa insisted.”

Delaney nearly spilled his tea. Masks! How could the girl and her mother be so ill-informed? Mr. Stevenson wanted everyone in San Francisco to attend his wife’s ball, and that would necessarily mean that many of the ladies who would grace the function weren’t ladies at all, but the men’s mistresses. But Mrs. Stevenson did know, he silently amended to himself, watching the older woman shift uncomfortably in her chair as her daughter gibbered on. Anything, he thought, to fill the Stevensons’ ballroom.

At last Delaney heard the Stevensons’ carriage pull up in front of the house. He did not call for Lucas, but saw the ladies out himself. He returned Penelope’s exuberant wave, walked back into the house, and made for the kitchen. The door was partially open, and he paused a moment at the sound of Lin Chou’s giggle.

“I tell you, Lin,” Lucas was saying to the slight Chinese girl, “the old behemoth couldn’t say a word about the rice cakes. Mr. Saxton spiked her guns again, having her admit how marvelous they were before she took a bite.”

Delaney could picture Lin nodding her head in
a quick birdlike movement. “Rice cakes are very delicacy, Lucas. Are you certain you not try another one?”

Delaney heard her laugh sweetly again, a sound he would not have heard from that of the silent, terrified girl he had rescued six months earlier from a filthy crib on Washington Street. He had bought her, as a matter of fact, at an auction. He had no idea if she had already been prostituted on her voyage from China. And of course he couldn’t ask her. It would result in a loss of face that she could not endure. Thank God, Lucas had taken her under his mighty wing. Delaney grinned, remembering the gibe from Sam Brannan about Delaney taking in outcasts. “A chink whore and a one-legged pirate, Del! Jesus, man, don’t you fear waking up with your throat cut? Or contracting some vile disease to rot off your privates?”

Delaney turned away from the kitchen and made his way to the library, his favorite room, built exactly to his specifications. It was a smaller model of the Duke of Graffton’s library in London, replete with heavy dark leather furniture and three walls lined from floor to ceiling with bookcases. A thick red Aubusson carpet made the room less austere. It made it elegant. He tried for a moment to picture Penelope in this room and failed utterly.

For God’s sake, man, he told himself silently, you’re twenty-eight years old! You’ve got to marry someone, and Lord knows there are slim pickings in San Francisco. It occurred to him as he sat down behind his massive desk that if he did marry Penelope he would not give up Marie
Duchamps, his French mistress. He spent several moments in vivid imagery of Marie, soft, beautifully white, lying naked on her bed, her arms open to receive him, her dark eyes dreamy with anticipation. She was faithful to him, at least he hoped she was, for the last thing he wanted was to contract the pox. He could already see her petulantly tossing her thick black mane of hair when he told her he could not take her to the Stevensons’ ball. He shrugged, thinking he would have one of his employees escort her. Jarvis he could trust. Jarvis didn’t like women.

He pulled out his stationery, dismissed both Marie and Penelope from his mind, and bent to the task of writing to Paul Montgomery in London.