To Love a Scoundrel (42 page)

From behind them, Brent loomed up out of nowhere and increased his stride to a near gallop as he growled, "That's it."

By the time Skinner and Jewel heard the remark, Brent had already torn the gray striped cravat from around his own neck and looped it over Skinner's head.

Nearly garroted, the vile gambler clawed at his throat, desperately trying to loosen the silk noose, but the pressure increased as his assailant dragged him off the street and into a deserted alley. Once in the shadows, the garrote loosened for just a second before something cold, hard, and metallic crashed against the side of his head. Then there was only icy darkness.

"Holy hell, Brent, have you gone completely mad
?"
Jewel cried out as she dropped to her knees at Skinner's side and pressed her fingers to the hollow of his throat. "What if you killed him?"

"I hope I did," Brent said, kicking the man squarely in the shin with the toe of his boot. "That son of a bitch doesn't deserve to live after putting his greasy hands and mouth on you."

"Hush," she insisted, still searching for the man's pulse. When the faint but steady signs of life bumped against her fingertips, she sat back on her heels and sighed. "He's not dead."

"Well, I can sure as hell take care of that," Brent threatened, waving the gun he'd just bashed against Skinner's head.

Jewel climbed to her feet and ran her fingers along Brent's arm until she reached the hand holding the pistol. "Darling," she said in a reassuring whisper, "put the gun away. I'm all right, and Skinner's out cold. Nothing's really ruined here. I was just supposed to keep him busy long enough for Harry to get Monique out of the saloon, anyway." She glanced down at the unconscious man. "I'd say we've managed to do that."

Recognizing the signs of insanity in his behavior, Brent took a long calming breath. Then he holstered his gun and pulled Jewel into his arms. "He
touched
you."

"He kissed me Brent, but he didn't hurt me. If I promise to boil every spot he touched for ten minutes before I go to bed tonight, would it make you feel better?"

Brent grumbled to himself, then stomped over and kicked Skinner in the ribs. At the corresponding rush of air and strangled groan, he said, "Now I do."

"Then come on," she said, shaking her head. "Let's get out of here before someone comes along."

But Brent held back. "I may have gone too far. I don't think we should leave him here wondering why he was dragged across town or thinking about who may have set him up." Then he snapped his fingers and hunkered down beside his old enemy. After gingerly opening the man's stained vest, he reached inside the pocket and pulled out several gold coins. Then he dropped them into his own pocket, and tied Skinner's hands behind his back with the cravat he'd donated to the cause.

"Brent," Jewel said through a strangled whisper. "You can't do this. I can't be involved in an actual robbery. Do you realize what you're doing?"

"I think I do," he whispered back, joining her and glancing around the corner. "We'd better go now before he wakes up."

"In a minute," she said, turning her back on him and lifting her skirt. Jewel removed the large orange and brown checkered shawl she'd tied around her waist like a petticoat. She wrapped the shawl around her shoulders like a fichu, adjusted it over her low neckline, and stepped back out onto the boardwalk.

Plaiting her loose hair into a long braid as they walked back toward Jackson Square, she continued voicing her displeasure. "Do you have any idea of the spot you've put me in? I'm a Pinkerton agent. I can't go around robbing people just to make things look better."

"You didn't rob him. I did," he said, proud of his logic.

"That's just wonderful," she muttered. "And what am I supposed to do? Turn my head as if nothing happened? Act on the side of the law when it suits me?"

Brent glanced over at her and frowned, no longer convinced he'd come up with such a great plan. Then the impressive triple steeples of the St. Louis Cathedral caught his gaze from across the street. His honey-brown eyes twinkling as he revised his earlier strategy, he excused himself. "You wait right here, Miss Pinkerton. I believe our good friend, Skinner, is about to make a healthy little donation to the neighborhood church."

Without waiting for her reply, he dashed off, navigated the circular park directly in front of the immense structure, then bounded up the steps leading to the high-arched doors.

When Brent returned a few minutes later, he pulled his empty pockets inside out and gave her a dimpled grin. "Happy?"

"Almost," she said with a grudging smile. "Go back to the ship and I'll be ecstatic."

"No. Not for all the sugarcane in Louisiana. You need me around, whether you want to admit it or not. Where do we go next?"

Jewel spun on her heel and began walking back toward

Bourbon Street. "I'm going to the hotel, Mr. Connors," she said over her shoulder. "You are not."

"We'll just see about that," he promised as he popped a toothpick into the corner of his mouth.

But Jewel ignored him and increased her stride. Digging into her reticule for the spectacles and the hairpins she'd purchased earlier, she kept up her hurried pace until she flounced into the lobby of the magnificent St. Louis Hotel. Wandering over to the center courtyard, she ducked under one of the moss-draped trees in the lush gardens and donned the glasses. Then she wound her braid into a coil at the nape of her neck and fastened it with a handful of hairpins. Satisfied that these important changes transformed her into a woman who bore little, if any, resemblance to Marabelle, Jewel stepped back out into the lobby.

She spotted Brent lounging on a settee. Most of his features were buried in the pages of the newspaper, but as she neared him, she felt his watchful gaze from over the top edge. Muttering to herself, she climbed three flights of steps and finally arrived at the door to Harry's suite.

After knocking as she turned the doorknob, she poked her head inside the room and announced her arrival. "Excuse me, Faathah?"

Harry wheeled away from the brocaded chaise longue and waved his sable paintbrush in the air, "Yes, daughter? Do come in."

"So sorry to disturb you," she said softly, the picture of a reticent young woman who knew her place. "The manager has requested your presence in the lobby, sir. Something to do with my plea for a more private room."

"Is that a fact," Harry boomed, playing the artistic temperament to the fullest. "Who do they think they are dealing with? Did you tell them; you are the daughter of
the
LeBonde?"

"Yes, sir, I did, but still he insisted that you come to him and make the arrangements yourself."

Dramatically slamming his paintbrush onto his palette, Harry ignored the few splatters of yellow raining down on his shoes and the thick white carpet. He turned back to Monique, his arms spread wide. "You see the indignities a great artist must endure, my dear? Please forgive me, but my daughter's privacy is of the utmost importance to me. I shall return shortly."

Monique shrugged and pulled the strategically draped length of crimson organdy up across her shoulders. "I guess it'll be all right, but I got to get back to the Purple Turtle 'fore too long, you know."

"No, no, my dear girl. Do not move." Harry brought his hands up and rushed to the long couch. "Relax if you must while I'm gone, but please do not change your pose. It will take us all that much longer to reposition you when I return."

"Oh, sorry, Mr. LeBonde," Monique said, nervously glancing around as she tried to remember exactly how she'd been fashioned across the hard little couch.

"I shan't be long—I promise," Harry said, spinning toward the door. As he neared Jewel, he winked and said, "Be a dear, daughter, and keep Miss Monique company while I'm gone. And make sure she doesn't move a muscle."

"Yes, Faathah, I shall." Jewel casually walked over toward the canvas Harry had propped against the easel in the center of the suite. Glancing at the door connecting the extra bedroom to the living room, she checked to see that it was tightly closed, then smiled at the girl before turning her gaze to the painting.

What she saw forced her to rely on her dramatic talent. The only sketching Harry had done, except for a few lopsided clouds and an off-center globe representing the sun, was the outline of an oval face. The crude features of this rudimentary portrait comprised a single hair growing out of the top of the head and a pair of unmatched eyes. The pupils—two dots staring in at each other—completed Harry's portrait of a cross-eyed moron.

Pressing her quivering lips together, Jewel forced her gaze away from the cartoon and drew a huge lungful of air before she trusted herself to address the woman on the chaise longue. "Is this painting for someone special, or are you one of Faathah's models?" she asked as casually as she could.

Monique giggled, trying to conceal her nudity from the obviously pristine young woman. "Shucks, I don't think I could ever be anyone's model. I'm having this done for my beau."

"How nice," Jewel softly breathed as her gaze flickered between Monique and the drawing. How could this woman,
any
woman, allow a man like Skinner to become so important in her life, much less
touch
her? she wondered. What good could her future possibly contain?

Feeling sorry for Monique and knowing such emotions could only jeopardize her assignment, Jewel made a great show of studying the painting and observed, "I'll just bet your beau is the kind of man who can really appreciate Faathah's work."

Monique shrugged. "Sure. Rudyard Skinner knows just about everything about anything."

"Rudyard?"

Monique giggled and slapped her hand across her mouth. "Don't know if you'll ever meet up with him, but if you do, don't say that name and don't tell him I told you. I'm not even s'posed to know it."

Jewel fought the urge to roll her eyes and began to fidget instead. Just how long did it take a man of Harry's talent to creep into the adjoining room, remove the necklace and the garments they would use to alter their appearance, and then return to the studio and save her from this inane conversation?

Harry burst into the room then, answering her questions and relieving her of her burden all at once.

"This is the most ill conceived and poorly staffed hotel I've ever had the misfortune of visiting," he complained, striding forcefully into the room. "But I believe you will find your newest accommodations more to your liking, daughter."

Harry turned his attention to the chaise longue, apologizing profusely, "If you'll have the grace to excuse me once again, Miss Monique, I shall show my daughter to her quarters and make certain she is safely ensconced in her room before I resume work on your portrait."

"Well..." She hesitated, glancing out the window at the setting sun.

"I shan't be more than five minutes, my dear. If I am, I invite you to return to your fine establishment of employment."

Monique shrugged, and a wan smile lifted her worn features. "All right. I guess I can wait around a little longer."

"This masterpiece," he said, pointing at the canvas, "will most assuredly be worth the wait, wouldn't you say daughter?"

In complete control of herself, Jewel gazed at the cartoon as she cocked her head this way and that. Then she finally said, "I can honestly say that I've never seen anything quite like it, Faathah."

"There, now, you see?" he said, addressing Monique. "You have nothing to worry about."

And with that he took Jewel by the arm and led her out of the suite, carefully closing the door behind them. Once they were a few feet down the hallway, he began speaking rapidly and barely above a whisper. "On the couch ahead, your bonnet and my top hat. Get them while I dispose of my beret and smock."

Working quickly, Jewel and Harry performed the simple chores, then met again at the top of the stairs. While he positioned his top hat, she tied the long ribbons of her plain brown bonnet beneath her chin and made certain her shawl covered every inch of her bodice.

Offering his arm, Harry turned to his daughter and said, "Come with me, my darling. We have a steamship to catch."

Chapter 20

Back aboard the
Delta Dawn,
Jewel and her father sat in Brent's office and watched as he locked his mother's heirloom necklace in the wall safe. With a sigh of relief, he replaced the oil painting he used to hide the vault, then turned toward to his accomplices.