Nan Ryan (32 page)

Unconvinced, Malcolm said, “Mother, plenty of well-bred women have been so drawn to him, they’ve—”

“Very well. I know, I know.” She waved her hand for him to be silent. “Marie Hamilton is not some bored wife or lonely widow. She’s a very bright, very sweet and innocent young lady and I sense, from her unveiled aversion to him at the dinner table, that she’ll not fall under his spell.”

Malcolm nodded reluctantly. “Perhaps you are right.”

Quincy rose from the velvet chaise lounge, came to him, and standing directly before him, said, “Of course I am.” She smiled and added, “You must show Marie plenty of attention, Malcolm. When you aren’t at the university, be with her. Don’t let her out of your sight.” She lowered her eyes, then lifted them. “Be more physical, darling.”

“Mother!”

“I mean it. No law says you have to wait until after the ceremony to make love to the girl. Take her to bed.”

Again Malcolm exclaimed, “Mother!”

His mother simply smiled, kissed his cheek, and said, “Remember, my darling son, we want the girl pregnant just as soon as possible.”

At the other end of the corridor Nevada, still dressed, paced her room, her heart beating erratically, her thoughts tumbling over one another in a jumble of confusion.

“Damn, damn, damn!” she muttered under her breath, wondering how her luck could be so abominable. So this was Johnny’s mysterious past! Of all the families in all the cities in all the world, why did Johnny Roulette have to be a member of this one? Would his sudden appearance keep her from becoming a member of it herself?

Nevada gritted her teeth.

If Malcolm and his mother were to find out she was a fraud—not a blue blood whose innocence was intact but a low-born river child who had been to bed with Johnny—they’d … She squeezed her eyes shut and made a face.

She could not let that happen! She couldn’t let Johnny ruin everything. She would get him alone as soon as possible, beg him, if necessary, to go away.

Nevada’s eyes flew open and suddenly she smiled.

Money!

That was the answer. Johnny Roulette was flat broke! That’s why he was so unkempt, why he’d come here. He had no place else to go. His luck had turned sour. He’d lost consistently and had completely run out of money. Tapped out!

Nevada had most of the money they had won in London. She’d give it to Johnny in exchange for his agreeing to leave immediately. Such relief flooded her that she spun around giddily, sure she’d come up with the answer to all her problems.

She hurried to the French doors, peered out across the yard to the
garçonnière
where Johnny had gone directly after dinner. She frowned. There were no lights on inside; obviously he was in bed asleep. She wished he were awake. Wished she could slip out there right this minute, give him the money, and tell him to be gone by sun-up!

In the white guesthouse, Johnny Roulette was very much awake. Stretched out on his back in the big mahogany bed, he smoked contemplatively in the dark.

He had no idea how the hapless Nevada had come to cross paths with Malcolm Maxwell, but there was little mystery as to who was behind the romance between the mismatched pair.

Quincy Maxwell had been trying to push the reluctant Malcolm into marriage for the past five years and Johnny knew the reason. The bulk of Louis’ Roulette’s fortune was still intact. The terms of the will stated: “The first male heir to marry and produce an offspring is to be the beneficiary of my estate.”

Johnny grinned in the darkness.

Quincy had no idea that Johnny was aware of the conditions of the will. But he was and had been for years. Ever since the old black slave Jess, overhearing a conversation between Quincy and Malcolm, had learned of it and told him.

Johnny chuckled to himself.

Much as she wanted to get her hands on the Roulette fortune, the snobbish Quincy Maxwell would be embarrassed and outraged if she were to learn that Nevada was passing herself off as a southern aristocrat. If the truth surfaced, Nevada would find herself promptly kicked right out on her delectable little derriere.

Johnny stubbed out his smoked-down cigar in a crystal ashtray and closed his eyes. He was, it seemed, the only one in residence who had nothing to hide. The household, and the city, knew him for what he was.

A degenerate gambler. A known rake. A constant embarrassment to the respected Maxwells.

Totally relaxed, Johnny Roulette grinned, sighed, and fell asleep.

30

“I want you to leave, Johnny Roulette,” Nevada told him hotly the very next morning when she managed to catch him alone for a minute in the foyer of the townhouse.

“Might I have my morning coffee first?” he teased, reaching out to pluck absently at the lace encircling a puffed sleeve of her pale green summer dress.

Irritably brushing his hand away, Nevada pressed on. “I know why you’re here. You’re broke!”

Johnny laughed good-naturedly. “After all I spent on your education—all those lessons wasted.” He sighed dramatically, “Try expressing it
low on funds
or
temporarily without means. Broke
sounds a bit crass and—”

“I have money, Johnny,” she cut in. “Enough to stake you to a game downriver and—”

“Will you go with me?” he interrupted.

“Will I—what are you talking about?” She glanced nervously around, terrified she’d be caught talking to him.

“To find a game. Sit on my right side, rub my shoulder, bring back my luck.”

“And risk being seen with you? Certainly not!”

“In that case …” He shrugged and started to step around her.

Frantically she grabbed his shirtsleeve, stopping him cold, her blue eyes flashing fire. “If I agreed to sit in on one game with you, would you clear out then?”

“Then? When exactly is
then
? Define
then.
”

“Damn you!”

“Whoa!” He shook his dark head as though shocked. “Dare you talk that way before the learned Professor Maxwell?”

“If I give you all the money I have—and it’s thousands—will you clear out? Leave St. Louis for good?”

Johnny tilted his head and scratched his chin thoughtfully. Before he could answer they heard Malcolm’s footsteps as he descended the stairs, and Nevada, alarm leaping into her eyes, whirled about, lifted her skirts, and hurried toward the dining room with the sound of Johnny’s deep, irritating laughter taunting her.

Johnny was still laughing when he sauntered into the dining room. Nodding good morning to Miss Annabelle and Quincy, he went to the sideboard and began filling a china plate as Malcolm entered and greeted everyone.

Taking his place at the head of the table, Malcolm frowned at Johnny’s broad back and commented, “You’re up awfully early, John. Does this mean you have a job of some sort?”

A full plate in his hand, Johnny turned slowly about, grinning. “Bite your tongue, Professor.” He circled the table, set his plate down near Nevada’s left elbow. “I forswore working when I was fifteen.” Johnny slid agilely down into the chair, smiled at Nevada, shook out a napkin and draped it over his right knee.

“What then, may I ask, are you doing up so early?” said Quincy. She cast a smirking glance at Johnny and added, “I don’t recall you ever rising before the middle of the day.”

“That’s true,” answered Johnny, favoring his stepmother with a wide grin, “and I do extremely dislike altering the habit of a lifetime, but the fact is I have a bit of business to conduct downtown this morning.”

Mother and son exchanged anxious looks.

Malcolm, setting his coffee cup back in its saucer, said, “Oh? May I inquire what kind of business?”

Johnny looked his stepbrother squarely in the eye. “Sure. Go right ahead,” replied Johnny, then said no more.

Malcolm’s green eyes narrowed with annoyance, but he tried again. “Anything I can help you with?”

“Not unless you’d like to cosign my note. I’m going to the Planters National Bank to see about a loan. I’ve run a little short of money.” He cut into a stack of hotcakes dripping with maple syrup.

“If you get the loan, will you be leaving?” Nevada blurted out. Then she caught herself and quickly amended her question. “Ah, I mean, if you aren’t planning on seeking local employment, I suppose you—”

Johnny chewed and swallowed. “Seeking employment? Miss Hamilton, I had assumed that by now your fiancé had apprised you of the fact that his little brother never seeks employment. You see, I’m a gambler. That’s my profession.” He leaned lazily back in his chair and, still looking directly at her, said, “Fortunately, gambling can be found anywhere.” He paused for effect. “Even right here in my old hometown.”

“You’ve never”—Malcolm directed Johnny’s attention back to him—“remained in St. Louis for very long.” Malcolm smiled as an indulgent parent might at a wayward child. “As I recall, you generally get restless after only a few days and drift on.” He poured cream into his coffee from a small silver pitcher. “What would make this occasion different?”

Johnny’s black eyes cut quickly to the small dark-haired woman seated stiffly beside him. Looking boldly at Nevada, he said, “Nothing.” He leaned back up to the table. “Everything.” His gaze swung back to his stepbrother. “Call it maturity, if you will. Truth is, I’m tired of roaming. I intend to stay right here for the rest of my days.” Smiling, he turned his full attention to the plate of hot-cakes before him.

Feeling for all the world as if she were suffocating, Nevada called on all her reserve to show that nothing was amiss. She casually turned the conversation to the upcoming monthly meeting of Malcolm’s Shakespeare Society and saw her fiance’s tense face relax a little.

“I’d almost forgotten,” said Malcolm, smiling at Nevada. “It is next week, isn’t it? A nice group. Father Leonine is back from Italy and Bess Thompson has returned from her country place.”

“Good. I’m looking forward to meeting them both. I thought we’d serve some of those little sandwiches that … that …” Nevada paused, her train of thought momentarily nudged off the track by a hard, heavy knee leaning impertinently against hers. “And … we could also have … ah—”

“Some of that delicious peach brandy,” Miss Annabelle quickly spoke up.

Quincy joined in. “Yes, yes, the peach brandy and perhaps some of those …”

Nevada was forced to sit there and smile and nod, while Johnny’s sinewy thigh pressed hers familiarly beneath the table. She slid hers away. His determinedly followed. She gave it another try. His foot was on the hem of her skirts. She was trapped. He was taking full advantage of it. She was furious. He was enjoying her fury. She wanted to kill him.

Johnny turned an innocent, questioning look on her. “Is something wrong, Marie?” he asked, interrupting his stepmother’s idle chatter.

“Why, not a thing, Mr. Roulette,” answered Nevada evenly, quietly seething.

Johnny grinned. “Well, as I said; I must go downtown.” He wiped his mouth, tossed his napkin on the table, and laid a hand on the back of her chair. “I was thinking,” he said pointedly, “that it would sure be nice to have some company.” He paused.

Nevada held her breath.

Johnny felt, through his tight trousers and her full skirts, the tensing of her slender body. He knew she was petrified that he was going to suggest she go with him. “Would you care join me …”—he looked across the table—“Miss Annabelle?” He could almost hear the whoosh of air rushing out of Nevada’s bursting lungs.

“Why, I … yes, Cap’n Roulette, I would like to accompany you downtown,” said Miss Annabelle. She looked at Quincy Maxwell. “That is, unless you have plans, Quincy.”

“No, not a thing. Ride along if you’d like,” Quincy said graciously. Then frowned when Johnny rose and came to pull out Miss Annabelle’s chair. To him she said, “Surely you don’t mean to go out in public dressed as you are.”

Johnny’s blousy-sleeved white linen shirt, open at the throat, pulled snugly across his wide shoulders and broad chest, while a pair of fawn-hued trousers stretched almost indecently tight over his lean flanks and long legs.

“I was lucky to rummage up these,” said Johnny. “I couldn’t find my matching jacket”

His stepmother remembered exactly what had happened to it. Lacing her fingers together beneath her chin, she said, “You got into a fist fight in one of those horrid gambling dens one summer night seven years ago. You were brought home around dawn with your face and your suit jacket bloody and torn.”

Johnny smiled, remembering. “Ah, you’re right. I was celebrating my twenty-second birthday. Let’s see, the Red Garter, I believe it was. Or perhaps Lavender’s? What a time I had!”

Quincy was nodding encouragingly, delighted that the crude, crass John Roulette was carelessly confessing to behavior she found abhorrent. Behavior she was certain Miss Annabelle and Marie would also find abhorrent. It wouldn’t take them long to understand why she and Malcolm felt as they did about John Roulette. He was, and always had been, disrespectful, rebellious, and frivolous. He was, she found, also arrogant, lazy, and vulgar.

“You don’t mind if Miss Annabelle and I ride along with you this morning, do you, Malcolm?” said Johnny.

Malcolm had no choice but to say yes. “Very well, but we’d best be going. I’m due at the university in a quarter of an hour.” He turned to Nevada. “Walk me to the carriage, Marie?”