Tomorrow's Dreams (11 page)

“I'm sure you can.” His gaze never wavered from the near-naked form sauntering toward the door. “Titania?”

The girl paused.

“Thanks.” He tossed a gold coin to her, which she caught with practiced ease.

“Believe me, honey. It was my pleasure.”

Eyeing the exiting saloon girl with distaste, Penelope plastered herself against the doorjamb, scrupulously avoiding contact as she passed. As the woman disappeared down the hall, she let out a snort of disgust. “Really, Seth. Is that little trollop the best you could find?”

“I have no complaint. Her appetite was hearty enough,” he said, sauntering to the sideboard to study the untouched dishes.

Penelope sniffed. “I imagine you'll complain loudly enough when you find yourself with the French pox. It's excruciating, I hear. Especially when your man's part turns black and rots off.”

Seth laughed. “I'm sure you'd enjoy watching me suffer in such a manner.”

She sniffed.

He laughed again. “Sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart. But I have it on good authority that Titania is as clean as a freshly laundered sheet. Speaking of ailments, I thought you were too ill to dine with me. Nobody informed me of your miraculous recovery.”

Uncomfortable at having to add yet another lie to her already infinite list, Penelope reached down and fidgeted with the brass doorknob. “I decided that Floyd is”—
scr-e-e-ch!
the unoiled knob protested as she fitfully twisted it back and forth—“right. Perhaps what I need is a glass of champagne and some food. I haven't eaten”—
screech! grind!
—“anything since this morning, and not eating always gives me a headache.”

Seth winced at the shrill sounds emanating from the doorknob. “Then, why don't you stop lurking in the doorway and come eat something?” He motioned to the white-clothed table in the center of the red and gold embellished room.

As happy as a martyr on the way to the stake, she complied. “For the record, I wasn't lurking,” she grumbled, perching on the edge of a gilded “Fancy” chair.

“You have your definitions, and I have mine.”

“So you've been kind enough to point out.”

They lapsed into strained silence as Seth lifted the silver covers off the serving dishes. From where Penelope sat, she could see that there was antelope steak in mushroom sauce, wild goose liver in jelly, and what appeared to be some sort of fish, all accompanied by an eye-popping array of side dishes. When Seth pulled the cover off the last charger to reveal something she couldn't identify, she broke the silence. “What is that?”

He peered down at it for a moment, then smiled. “Lamb fries.” Glancing across the table to where she sat listlessly toying with her silverware, he added, “If I remember correctly, lamb is a particular favorite of yours.”

She nodded without enthusiasm.

Ignoring her marked lack of interest in the food, Seth picked up a plate, inquiring politely, “May I serve you?”

She sighed in resignation. “If you wish.”

Starting with a heaping serving of the lamb, he quickly filled her plate. After setting the food in front of her, he poured them each a glass of champagne, then served himself. That task completed, he settled into the chair opposite hers and began to devour his meal with gastronomic delight.

Penelope, on the other hand, merely stared at her plate, restlessly spinning her knife like a top.

“Why so nervous, Princess?”

She glanced up, startled. “I'm not nervous,” she lied.

“Sure you are.” He nodded meaningfully at her hands.

She jerked her hand from the knife and flattened her palms against the tabletop, willing herself to stop fidgeting. “That's ridiculous,” she muttered. “Why would I be nervous?”

“Good question. Why don't you answer it.” Seth took another bite of antelope steak. Chewing rhythmically, he transferred his gaze from his plate to her hands, watching with the fascination of a ten-year-old seeing a freak show for the first time.

Penelope frowned and followed his line of vision. Damn! Now she was wadding the tablecloth up beneath her palms. Stifling a frustrated groan, she balled her hands into fists and retorted, “I can't answer your asinine question, because I'm not nervous.”

“Don't forget that I've known you since you were twelve. Even back then you had that annoying habit of picking at everything in sight when you were nervous or upset.” He paused to take a sip of champagne. “So? Are you nervous or upset?”

“Neither! I'm merely bored with your questions.”

“I distinctly remember you agreeing to answer my questions when we struck our bargain.” Seth's gaze skewered her over the rim of his glass. “Of course, if you'd like, we could always renegotiate the terms”—his gaze traveled suggestively from her face to her breasts—“find a less
boring
way for you to fulfill your half of the deal.”

She gasped at his leering insinuation. “How dare you! What would my brother say if he heard you make such a crude proposal?”

“Who do you think taught me how to bargain?” Seth put down his glass and leaned forward, his eyes glittering with challenge. “Now, if you're a true Parrish, if you've inherited even an iota of your father and brother's legendary business acumen, you'll come up with an appropriate counteroffer.”

She sputtered with outrage. “I w-won't be your doxy!”

He made a clicking noise between his teeth. “Just as I suspected. You're a changeling child.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Shall I assume that you'll stick to our original bargain and answer my questions?”

She jerked her head once in grudging assent. He wanted answers? Fine. He'd get them. Fictional ones. After all, he hadn't specified that she tell the truth, had he?

As if reading her mind, he added, “Oh, and don't think to fob me off with lies. I intend to verify each and every one of your answers. Madame du Charme should come in handy for that.”

Penelope stared at him, horror-struck at what Adele might do if faced with his questions. If he pried too deeply into her business, and knowing Seth's propensity for thoroughness, he probably would, Adele might panic and take drastic steps to keep her crimes from being discovered. The results would be tragic.

Apparently her face reflected her thoughts, for Seth inquired, “What? Changed your mind again?” When she didn't reply, he snorted. “I'll take your silence for a yes. All right, then. If you won't answer my questions or be my doxy, how do you propose to uphold your end of the bargain?”

Penelope scrambled for something—anything—she could offer him. Money was out of the question, for even if Adele didn't demand every cent she made, she'd never have enough to buy his cooperation. The blasted man was richer than old Croesus himself.

“Surely you have something worth bartering. Some kind of skill or talent?” His gaze was unwavering as it bore into hers.

“Nothing that would interest you.”

“You'd be amazed at what I find interesting.”

“Well, let's see. I can sing and dance.” She looked at him hopefully.

Without so much as blinking, he rasped, “What else?”

“I write a fine hand, and I'm good with numbers. Perhaps I could help with your accounts?” She crossed her fingers.

“My solicitor takes care of that. What else?”

Sighing, she uncrossed her fingers, “I can draw and paint, and I've learned simple sewing. Oh, and I play the pianoforte.”

He yawned. “All admirable traits, I'm sure. What else?”

She was at a loss. When itemized, her skills did sound negligible. Feeling utterly useless, she murmured, “Effie says—”

“Effie?” he queried sharply.

“Euphemia Hotchkiss. She's the dramatic actress of our company. We share a room at the boardinghouse.”

He nodded. “Do continue.”

“Yes. Well. Effie says that I make the best face cream she's ever tried and that I'm particularly skilled at styling hair. Of course, you'd hardly be interested in such services.”

A calculating gleam entered his eyes. “Ever tie a man's tie?”

“I've helped the men in the company with theirs.”

“Ever shine boots or shave a man?”

“No to the former, and yes to the latter.”

“You've shaved a man?” His eyes narrowed. “Who? A lover?”

“Must you drag everything down to your own filthy level?” she snapped, picking up her knife. “For your information, I shaved Jake when he first returned home from the war. He was too ill to do it himself, and I liked helping him.” She stabbed a creamed artichoke heart with murderous intent.

“And I know for a fact that he actually survived your efforts. Excellent! We're finally getting somewhere.”

She looked up from her skewered artichoke, incredulous. “Where exactly are we getting to?”

“We're getting to the point where we can strike a bargain.”

“We are?”

He sighed. “It's a pity about your lack of Parrish business acuity. However, such skills aren't required by a valet.”

“Valet!”—
Clunk!
—She dropped her knife, artichoke and all.

“Valet,” he repeated. “Since my valet, Roper, has an inordinate fear of being scalped by what he terms ‘red-skinned heathen devils' and refused to accompany me here, I've had the tiresome chore of tending to my own needs.”

She sputtered wordlessly for a moment. “I-I hardly think it appropriate that I act as your valet!”

“Less appropriate than being my mistress?” He lifted one eyebrow tauntingly.

“Of course not. Being either is out of the question.”

He gave a dismissive shrug. “Then, we're back to where we started. You'll answer all my questions, and do it to my satisfaction.” Picking up his knife and fork, he sliced another piece off his antelope steak.

Penelope sucked in a shuddering breath. Whatever was she to do? Adele had warned her not to see Seth outside the Shakespeare, and being his valet would mean that she'd be seeing quite a bit of him … literally. But if she didn't …

“What do you expect me to do as your valet?” she hissed.

He seemed to consider her question while he finished chewing his meat. After swallowing, he murmured, “Don't look so worried, Princess. I promise not to make you shine my boots.”

“You're too kind.”

“A regular philanthropist, so I've been told.”

She snorted. “It's amazing how a few million dollars can instantly endow a man with all sorts of virtues.”

“Who said anything about virtue? But we're digressing.” He made a chopping motion in the air. “As my valet, you'll arrive at my hotel room every morning at seven sharp.”

“Seven!” she wailed. Why, most nights she didn't get out of the Shakespeare until almost two.

“Seven,” he repeated, ignoring her outburst. “You'll select and lay out my clothes, and make certain that my linen is well pressed. Though you won't be required to shine my boots, it will be your job to make sure the bellboy does it. Of course, you'll be expected to shave me, assist me with my bath—”

“Your bath! You can't be serious! You'll be naked!” Penelope felt her face turn redder than her flannel pantaloons.

“Of course I'll be naked. I'm hardly a nun who bathes in a linen shift.” He cocked his head to one side, viewing her with sardonic amusement. “Why the blushing and stammering, Princess? It's not as if you're not familiar with my naked body.”

If looks could kill … “Be that as it may, I have no desire to see or touch it again. Ever!”

“Pity. I was looking forward to having you scrub my …” his gaze stripped her with lascivious thoroughness, “… back.”

She gasped, outraged by his vulgar innuendo.

He merely laughed. “All right. If you won't bathe me, you'll have to agree to answer one simple question a day.
Every day
until the six weeks are up and we return to San Francisco.”

“But that's not fair!”

“Whoever said that life is fair?”

“But—”

“Do you agree or not?”

Crossing her fingers again, she desperately tried a little negotiating of her own. “Only if you agree not to pester the company with your infernal questioning.”

“Perhaps you're a Parrish after all.” He chuckled. “All right, then. I won't consult anyone else in the company if you promise to answer my questions to the best of your ability.”

She nodded. “I promise.” Of course any question that might endanger Tommy would be beyond her ability to answer, so technically she wasn't perjuring herself by agreeing.

“Then, it's a deal. You can start your duties the day after tomorrow. I'm staying at the American House on Blake Street.” He lifted his glass. “Now, shall we drink to our bargain?”

When she merely glared at him, he murmured, “If you don't have that glass in the air by the count of three, I'll assume that you've changed your mind again and invite the company to join us for dinner so I can begin my questioning. One.”

Penelope raised her glass with such force that the champagne bubbled over the rim and foamed across her hand.

Seth nodded. “Here's to clean boots and a question a day.” He touched his glass to hers with a bell-like ring of crystal, then drained the contents in one gulp.

Penelope angrily followed suit. The champagne was good. French. Expensive. But she refused to savor it. Slamming her empty glass down on the table, she snapped, “What now, master? Do you want me to grovel on my hands and knees and kiss your feet?”

Seth set down his own glass and leaned across the narrow table. Boldly and with provocative slowness, he traced the shape of her mouth with his thumb. “Oh, no, my sweet serving wench,” he purred. “Those lips are meant for much higher places and more pleasurable purposes.”