The Horsemaster's Daughter (65 page)

W
hat a pathetic creature, thought Jamie Calhoun, studying the brown-haired girl in Butler’s arms. When the set ended, the lieutenant’s face reflected the relief of a witness to a mercy killing.

Observing the incident from a distance, with one shoulder propped against a gilt and fluted column, Jamie decided that the party had gone on far too long for his taste. The president and first lady had retired, but the bride and groom and their guests seemed determined to carry on the tedious celebration into the wee hours. Caroline Fortenay had her charms, but after that rude interruption in the garden, she had been avoiding him.

Politics, and a loose association with the groom, had brought Jamie to the White House for the occasion. Newly elected to Congress, he needed to form alliances and this reception afforded the greatest concentration of political influence in the Potomac watershed.

He wouldn’t have noticed the small, intense woman at all, but he’d been tracking Lieutenant Butler. An Annapolis man, dense as an andiron, but he had his uses. His father presided over the Senate, and therefore an association with the Butlers must be cultivated.

This evening, little business was getting done, save, apparently, between Senator Cabot and Vice President Butler. Seated at a round table, the two of them conspired like a pair of old pirates. They were the only males in the room who did not seem completely distracted by the arrival of the redheaded goddess.

The other women attempted to take the new arrival in stride, congregating at the buffet table so recently imperiled by the clumsy female dancing with Butler. The goddess had not been able to move far beyond the grand entrance, for a legion of male guests had made their way toward her, supplicants paying homage to a queen.

She was beautiful, Jamie acknowledged, looking over the heads of the crowd to study her. She was, in fact, quite flawless, with a lithe, willowy body and a face right out of a Renaissance painting. Of course, beauty had its limits, unless it was accompanied by more useful attributes. Jamie admired her as one might admire a piece of fine art, in a remote cerebral fashion that excited nothing inside him except a vague aesthetic appreciation. Yet the baser part of him assessed her with a crude lust.

He was about to go looking for Timothy Doyle, a reporter for the
Washington Post
who could always be counted on to fill him in on Capitol Hill gossip, when a movement caught his eye.

It was the other one, the little wren of a woman, cutting through the crowd with Butler in tow. Intrigued, Jamie helped himself to a flute of champagne and edged in closer.

“…my sister, Miss Helena Cabot,” the brown wren was saying.

Jamie came to full attention. Two important facts struck him. First, their name was Cabot. And second, the goddess and the wren were sisters.

They must be Franklin Cabot’s daughters.

Intrigued, he found Doyle at the fringes of a group of congressmen, eavesdropping on their conversation. Grabbing Doyle’s arm, he pulled him aside.

“Tell me about the Cabot sisters,” he said without preamble.

Doyle rolled back his lips in a wolfish grin. “A mismatched pair, wouldn’t you say? They’ve been gossip fodder for years, if you must know.”

“I must.”

“Honestly, it’s not that meaty. Rumor has it that he’s given the command. He wants to see them married, and married soon. Miss Helena will have no problem in that department, you’ll notice.” He nodded in her direction. “But the younger daughter? Abigail’s her name.”

“Abigail,” Jamie repeated, tasting the three syllables. Yes, she looked like an Abigail, watchful and earnest in her drab, old-fashioned gown, probably more at home with books and quiet, solitary pursuits.

“Yes, poor Abigail. An odd bird, always dithering around at the university. They say she’s some sort of genius—though clearly not on the dance floor.” He snickered. “I swear, seeing Butler leading her around was like watching a buyer with a cow at the stockyards.”

“That’s harsh, Doyle.”

“The capital’s a harsh place, especially for a spinster with an odd bent. I’m told Cabot would give anything to see them married off.”

“Anything?” Jamie’s interest sharpened. “His support in Congress?”

Doyle tucked a thumb into his tight cummerbund. “Give it a try, Calhoun. But be warned. Better men than you have attempted, and failed.”

“I’m not looking to marry,” Jamie said, his voice hard and flat. Given his history, a wife was the last thing he wanted, or needed. Or deserved.

“See that fellow there?” Doyle indicated a heavy-jowled older man speaking with Senator Cabot. “That’s Horace Riordan, the railroad millionaire. He’s been trying to influence the railroad bill for months. But it’s a funny thing about Cabot. It takes more than money to get his attention.”

“His daughters’ favor?”

Doyle winked. “Maybe.”

The beauteous Helena smiled and flirted with Butler, who lapped up her attention like a thirsty hound dog. The lieutenant probably didn’t intend to be rude, but the angle of his stance cut the lesser sister completely out of the conversation. Neither he nor Helena saw the woman’s face grow pale, then fill up with color. No one but Jamie saw the fragile tremor of her mouth, nor the way she conquered it by momentarily sinking determined teeth into her lower lip. An expression of weary resignation indicated that she had endured this before.

Jamie Calhoun had never been known for his chivalrous behavior; quite the opposite. But this vulnerable creature was Franklin Cabot’s daughter, and he was going to rescue her. In her undying gratitude, perhaps she’d give him access to her father.

Tossing back the last of his champagne, he handed the glass to a passing waiter and excused himself from Doyle.

“Miss Cabot,” he said, approaching them. “I’d be honored to make your acquaintance.”

Both women turned toward him, Helena with artless expectation and her sister with mingled distrust and annoyance. Butler narrowed his eyes, assuming a territorial stance in front of Helena.

Jamie sketched a bow. “How do you do? Lieutenant Butler, I remember you from the dedication ceremony for the Union Hall monument. You did a fine job standing behind your father on the podium, looking regimental.”

“Thank you, Mr. Calhoun.” Butler didn’t seem to catch the sarcasm. With practiced manners, he made the introductions. Helena greeted Jamie with the confidence of a queen, her emerald eyes sweeping over him in flattering appreciation. Gawky, blushing Abigail had eyes he could only describe as remarkable. Those eyes had been the first thing he’d noticed about her, after the sneeze. They were wide and clear, of a blue so intense it made him think of rich velvet. At the moment, her keen eyes regarded him with a deep and abiding suspicion. The goose. Didn’t she realize he had come to rescue her?

“Mr. Calhoun is newly elected to the House,” Butler explained to the ladies. “I’m pleased to say he’s a member of the right party.”

Jamie made himself look appropriately grateful. The fact was, he’d chosen the party based on their need for a candidate to fill a key seat in Congress. None of his constituents knew much about him. If they did, they’d probably run him out on a rail, decked in tar and feathers.

“And where is your home district, Mr. Calhoun?” Miss Helena’s voice was as attractive as the rest of her, so soothing it was almost bland.

“I’m a Chesapeake boy, ma’am. Born and raised at Albion Plantation on Mockjack Bay.”

“And how are you finding life in the capital?” asked Miss Helena.

“I like it fine, ma’am, though I fear I’ll soon be homeless. I’ve been living at a boardinghouse near Snow’s Park, but the place has been sold and must be vacated. I despair of finding new lodgings.”

Miss Helena’s face lit up, radiant as a Raphael Madonna. “You should come to Georgetown, then. Our neighbor, Dr. Rowan, lives alone in a large town house and, well, you know it’s just a crime what they pay even the most gifted professor. I’m certain he would welcome a boarder.”

“Helena,” Miss Abigail said, her voice harsher than her sister’s, her diction more clipped, “surely Mr. Calhoun doesn’t need our help in finding lodgings.”

“On the contrary,” he said, pleased to see opportunity opening with such ease. “I’d be grateful for any help.” He grinned down at her, pretending to have no notion at all that he’d displeased Miss Abigail.

The orchestra broke in with a long, tuning A. Butler snapped to attention like a guard on duty. “The ‘Emperor Waltz,”’ he announced. “Miss Cabot, if you would do me the honor.” He held out his hand to Helena.

Jamie should have given Abigail time to compose herself, but he didn’t. He turned to her too quickly and saw something he wasn’t supposed to see. Naked yearning and inconsolable heartbreak, coupled with a strange, almost weary joy. Her hands, clad in soiled gloves, knotted nervously together. She was the very picture of misery. He wasn’t doing a very good job of playing the hero.

“Miss Cabot, may I have the pleasure of this dance?” he asked, favoring her with a practiced bow and a smile that had worked on more women than he cared to remember.

She glared up at him, face pinched, eyes narrowed. “No, I think not, but thank you for asking.”

At first, the rejection didn’t even sink in. Only once in his life had Jamie been rejected by a woman. Of course, that episode had been eclipsed by the ensuing events. Since that day, he’d always believed being turned down by that woman had been both the best and the worst thing ever to happen to him. But he had never forgotten the brief, vicious sting of that feminine
no.

“You don’t care to dance?”

“No, thank you. I’ve never been fond of going in backward circles. In fact, I’m quite weary of it.”

“Very well. Then I’ll let you lead.”

She blinked in surprise. Her extremely blue eyes—surely her best feature—studied him with new curiosity. “That would be unorthodox.”

“It would. Do you disapprove?”

“No.” She craned her neck to search past him. “However, my father would.”

Jamie decided not to press his cause. Franklin Cabot was the whole reason for this tiresome game in the first place. “In that case,” he said, “I insist you mollify my bruised affections with a stroll in the gardens.”

She laughed aloud, a startling burst of merry sound. “I’m not like your other women. I think you would survive without mollification, Mr. Calhoun.”

“Why do you say that? I might be very fragile,” he pointed out.

She laughed again, even louder this time, drawing a few stares but seeming not to notice. “In that case,” she said, “I shall cruelly leave your shattered heart to be swept up with tomorrow’s ashes.” With that, she walked away. She had a curious gait, quick but uneven. Now she was fleeing again, but this time he wouldn’t let her go, couldn’t afford to.

“Please stop following me,” she said without slowing her pace or looking at him.

“I can’t help myself. You’re the most interesting person I’ve met all night.”

Another laugh, this one curt and bitter. “Then you’d best introduce yourself to more people,” she advised. “I warrant you can do better.”

He placed his hand beneath her elbow and steered her toward the French doors. “Your modesty is becoming, but unnecessary.”

At her pull of resistance, a surprising heat stirred between them, and he held her elbow more firmly. He hadn’t been expecting to feel genuine curiosity about her. Normally he preferred his women beautiful and brainless. They posed no challenge. No threat.

Abigail Cabot was not beautiful and she was far from brainless. She was short both of stature and of temper. Yet he found himself intrigued by her. He wondered what it would be like to explore the thoughts behind those vaguely unsettling, midnight-blue eyes.

“Believe me,” she said, “I’m not being modest.”

He guided her toward the northeast gate. “It’s an overrated virtue anyway.”

“I’m not going outside with you,” she said, trying to disengage her elbow from his grip.

He could tell by the flaming color in her cheeks that she was thinking of the private liaison she’d interrupted earlier in the evening. “Miss Cabot, your virtue is safe, I promise.”

“Why should I trust you? I don’t even know you.”

“Trust yourself, then. A man can’t take a woman’s virtue unless she surrenders it. You don’t appear to be the surrendering type.”

To his relief, she seemed satisfied with the comment. Dropping her resistance, she accompanied him out to the shadowy patio.

“Beautiful night,” he commented.

“Not really.” She angled her face to the night sky. “It’s only slightly above average.”

“Are you always this argumentative?”

“Just objective.” She pointed at a broad constellation. “The North American Nebula is barely visible tonight, the Double Cluster in Perseus is unimpressive and we can only see a glimmer of Barnard’s Loop.”

In most women, a smattering of knowledge was charming, but Abigail did not offer the explanation in order to charm him, he could tell. Nor did she possess only a smattering of education. She probably had an encyclopedic knowledge of the night sky, and God knew what else. The woman was beyond irritating—she was literal, contentious and prickly.

“Fine,” he said. “It is an average night. What of the wedding? Was it an average wedding?”

She pushed her finger absently at her lower lip, showing no comprehension of the fact that he was teasing. “Heavens, no. It was distinctly above average.”

“And why is that?”

“Because it was a love match.”

“Now,
that,
” he said with a chuckle, “is overrated.”

“Love?”

“Indeed.” He couldn’t begin to tell her how deeply he believed that.

“Then obviously you have never been in love, or you wouldn’t say that.”

If only she knew. But of course, she never would. “And you. You’ve fallen in love?”

She held his gaze with hers. “With every bit of my heart.”

Her absence of coyness and stark honesty inspired a stir of feeling that took him by surprise. And she was so completely misguided that he felt compelled to point out her error. “Lieutenant Boyd Butler,” he said, playing a hunch.