Tomorrow's Dreams (17 page)

“Sure 'nough. Spends just about every afternoon cozied up to a bottle and babblin' his woes to anyone who'll listen.”

“I take it you're none too impressed with Mr. Prescott?”

“Let's just say that I wouldn't trust him with the family fortune or my sister's virtue.”

“Any particular reason why?” Seth sampled the whiskey, then gave the bartender a quick nod of approval.

Assured of his boss's satisfaction, Monty picked up a clean towel and began to dry a load of glasses soaking in a tub behind the bar. As he worked, he explained, “Never saw a man with a bigger weakness for gamblin' than Miles Prescott. Never heard of anyone with less luck at it, either. Can't decide if the fella is careless or just plumb stupid. Heard tell his wife—”

Towel still in hand, he reached across the bar and thumped Seth on the back. “Stuff burns like a son of a bitch when it goes down the wrong way, don't it?” he commiserated.

Between hacking and gasping for air, Seth managed to sputter, “M-Miles is m-married?”

“Yep. But you wouldn't know it the way he's always sniffin' around Lorelei. Jealous as a dog with a bone over that gal.”

Seth cleared his throat several times. “So I've noticed.”

“Everybody's noticed,” Monty shot back, giving the glass in his hand a final rub and setting it aside. As he fished a tall tumbler from the water, he muttered, “Too bad his missus ain't around. Imagine she'd shorten his chain quick 'nough.”

“And where is Mrs. Prescott?” Seth inquired.

“It's kind of a long story. But if you've got the time …?” Monty looked at him hopefully.

“Sure. I've got the time.” Seth bowed his head over his glass, hiding his satisfied smile. He had a hunch that once he got the bartender gossiping, it wouldn't take too much effort to steer the conversation back around to Penelope.

Thus encouraged, Monty tossed aside his towel and set down the tumbler. After looking around to assure himself that they were out of earshot of eavesdroppers, he prefaced, “Keep in mind that Mr. Prescott was mighty drunk when he told me this story. But seein' as how it's harder for a drunk man to tell a convincin' lie than a sober one, I'm inclined to believe him.”

Seth made a wry face. “After observing Miles's acting, I doubt if he could tell a convincing lie, sober or drunk.”

Monty snickered at that. “True 'nough, Mr. Tyler.”

“Seth.”

“Seth,” the bartender parroted. “Sorry. I'm not used to callin' swanky gentlemen by their Christian names.”

It was Seth's turn to snicker. “Swanky gentleman is hardly a term I'd use to describe myself.”

“But—” protested Monty.

“But we're digressing,” Seth interposed smoothly. “You were telling me about Miles's wife.”

“Oh. Right.” Monty scratched the bridge of his nose as he switched his mind back to his previous train of thought. “Mrs. Prescott, yes. Learned about her just last Sunday night. Bein' the Sabbath and all, business was slow so I had time to listen when Mr. Prescott got the hankerin' to talk. Felt kinda sorry for him. He'd just lost big at faro and was worried about breakin' the news to his mama. Seems he promised not to gamble until his debt to the Shakespeare is paid off.” He paused to shoot his boss a questioning look. “'Course, you already know about the debt?”

“It seems that everyone in town knows,” Seth muttered, remembering all the people who'd made it their business to tell him about the debt in the last twenty-four hours.

“'Course they do. It's a small town. Everyone knows everything about everybody else. Wait till I tell you what I heard about that uppity new schoolmarm, Miss Skyler, and what—”

“I'd rather hear about Mrs. Prescott,” Seth cut in.

“Right. Sorry.” Monty grinned sheepishly. “Bad habit of mine, jumpin' on and off subjects like a leap frog on hot coals. Anyways …” He stroked his mustache, frowning. “Where were we?”

“Miles lost big at faro and was afraid to tell his mama.”

“Oh. Well, that's when he came over to the bar lookin' for a bit of fortification. After a few shots of Taos Lightnin', he took to spoutin' off about his wife. Said she's one of those overbred society gals with a pedigree longer than a twenty-mule-team freight wagon and a family fortune to match.”

“A society girl?” Seth repeated, incredulous: “What the hell would a debutante see in a dolt like Miles Prescott?”

“Flabbergasted the heck outta me, too,” Monty confided. “Accordin' to Mr. Prescott, the gal saw him in some play and fell head over heels in love with him. Says she showed up at the theater every night, just to get a look at him.”

Seth snorted. “I can just imagine how much the poor chit's adoration must have appealed to Mr. Prescott's insufferable ego.”

Monty shook his head. “Man's got an eye for a trim ankle and a pretty face. He says the gal ain't blessed with either. 'Course, her face looked a heap prettier and her ankles trimmer after he found out how much money her folks have.”

“It's amazing how money can magically transform an undesirable woman—or man, for that matter—into a creature of infinite appeal,” Seth observed sardonically.

“Amen to that,” Monty concurred. “Seems that gal looked downright fetchin' after Mr. Prescott lost a thousand dollars to a less-than-patient pair of cardsharpers. Said the men threatened to cut up his pretty face if he didn't pay quick-like. To make a long story short, he saw the gal as his chance to save his face, so he bedded her and then convinced her to elope with him.”

“I'm sure her family was thrilled to no end when they were introduced to their new son-in-law,” Seth interjected.

“Accordin' to Mr. Prescott, her folks put up a heck of a fuss. 'Course, by then, it was too late to do anything about it, 'specially since the gal was expecting his baby.”

Seth clicked his tongue between his teeth. “The whole thing sounds like a bad melodrama.”

“Maybe,” Monty intoned in a singsong voice. “But I betcha five bucks you can't guess how it all turned out.”

Intrigued by the challenge, Seth pulled a gold piece from his waistcoat pocket and tossed it to the counter. “You're on.”

“Shoot.”

After a moment's deliberation, Seth ventured, “I'll guess that the honorable Mr. Prescott took off with his bride's dowry, leaving the poor girl alone and pregnant.”

“Good try, boss, but no dice,” Monty chortled, snatching up the coin. “Mr. Prescott never got the dowry. Her folks wouldn't give it to him when they found out about the debt. Seems they were hopin' the cardsharpers would make their daughter a widow.”

“Looks like the sharpers disappointed them,” Seth commented, raising his glass to his lips.

Monty flipped the gold piece into the air and caught it in his palm, chuckling. “Only 'cause Mr. Prescott got outta there before they could get their hands on him. He's been hidin' out with his mama's theater company ever since. 'Course now that he wants to marry Lorelei, he'll have to go back to get a divorce.”

That disclosure was enough to make Seth choke on his whiskey again. “L-L-orelei and Miles?”

Monty leaned over and thumped his back again. “You're havin' a heck of a time swallowin' your liquor today. Maybe you ought to lay off the whiskey and try some Grizzly Bear's Milk.”

Ignoring the man's advice and his concerned expression, Seth demanded, “Lorelei hasn't encouraged that jackanape, has she?”

Monty dropped his hand from Seth's back with a sigh. “Naw. And that's another thing stickin' in his craw: Lorelei won't give him so much as the time of day.” Absently he resumed tossing the coin into the air. “'Course, she never pays much mind to any of the men. She don't flirt like the other gals.”

Seth watched Monty toss and catch the coin several times in quick succession, fighting his impulse to grab the man by his starched shirtfront and ruthlessly grill him about Penelope.

Fortunately the grilling proved unnecessary. Unprompted, the bartender volunteered, “All except for One-eyed Caleb, that is. Seen Miss Leroux and him whisperin' up a storm a few times.” With a suggestive wink, he sent the coin spinning high above his head.

Seth snatched the gold piece from the air and slammed it down on the counter. “Is that all Miss Leroux has been doing with this Caleb?” He cringed inwardly as soon as the words left his mouth. Damn if he didn't sound like a jealous lover. His mood darkened a shade as realization struck him: he was jealous.

Monty cackled and slanted him a sly look. “Got a hankerin' for Miss Lorelei yourself, do you?”

Seth leveled the bartender with a glower that clearly warned him to mind his own business.

A glower that the man blithely ignored. His smile broadening a hint, he mused, “Got your work cut out for you if you aim to turn that gal's head. 'Course”—he nodded at Seth's diamond and ruby watch fob—“seein' as how you're rich and not bad lookin', you might have a chance at that.”

Seth laughed and slid the coin across the counter to the bartender. “And as we've already established, enough money could turn Quasimodo into Prince Charming.”

Monty frowned as he slipped the coin into the pocket of his red silk vest. “Quazy—who? Don't think I've served the fella.”

“Quasimodo. He was a hunchback who was in love with a beautiful girl in Victor Hugo's book
Notre-Dame de Paris
.”

The bartender made a disdainful noise. “Ain't it just like a damn Frenchy to waste perfectly good paper writin' about a horny hunchback? Speakin' of horny …” His eyes took on an impish gleam. “It seems the saloon gals are all hot in the drawers for you. Overheard them gossipin' just this mornin'. They were chatterin' and sighin', sayin' how you're the most tantalizin' thing in trousers this side of the Mississippi. Seems you've got somethin' real interestin', and that somethin' ain't your money.”

He nodded in the direction of the blowsy blonde Seth had met the night before. “Desdemona bet the other gals ten bucks that she'd have you in her bed before the end of the week.” He tossed the woman a pitying look. “Guess she's gonna lose, seein' as how your heart's set on havin' Lorelei.”

“Not if Lorelei's heart is set on Caleb,” Seth ground out.

“Oh, I wouldn't give up on Lorelei just yet. She and Caleb don't seem to be on kissin' terms or anything like that … yet.” He injected an ominous note into the word
yet
.

Seth exhaled in a hiss. He'd see that
yet
never came.

“'Course, your big problem isn't gonna be winning Lorelei from One-eyed Caleb,” Monty continued. “It's gonna be—
ouch!
” Quick as a coward in a barroom brawl, he ducked behind the bar, reappearing an instant later holding a squirming black cat. Unceremoniously dumping the now yowling animal onto the counter, he scolded, “You know better than to claw my leg like that, Othello. I oughtta toss you out for the evenin' and make you miss out on your beer drinkin'. Serve you right for bein' rascally.”

Seth released a silent groan. Just when he'd finally gotten the conversation where he wanted it, Monty's attention was stolen by a beer-guzzling cat.

As if to confirm his suspicion, the bartender expounded, “Never seen a cat go for beer the way Othello does. Little fella spends every evenin' lappin' up spills from the bar.” Smiling at the cat, who was pointedly ignoring him in favor of eyeing Seth's glass, he finished, “Don't need a mop with Othello around.”

Almost out of patience, Seth reminded him, “You were about to list the difficulties in courting Lorelei. Remember?”

“Oh, right.” With obvious reluctance, Monty drew his attention from his pet and back to the matter at hand. “Well, the way I see it, your biggest problem will be gettin' her away from Mr. Prescott and Madame du Charme long enough to pay your addresses. That pair are like sap on a tree when it comes to stickin' to Lorelei.”

“Any ideas why they maintain such a close watch?”

Monty shrugged. “I imagine bein' in love with her is reason enough for Mr. Prescott. As for Madame … hmm … well, I suppose she's protectin' her bread and butter. Everyone knows that it's Miss Leroux's looks and talent that draws in the crowds. Company would be ruined if she ran off with some fella.”

Having at last reached the point where he could broach the mystery of Penelope's presence in Denver, Seth said, “I can't understand why Miss Leroux joined up with that second-rate bunch of hams in the first place. With her beauty and talent, she would be welcome in any theatrical company in the world.”

Monty stroked his mustache with his thumb thoughtfully. “Can't say as I ever considered the matter one way or another.” He shrugged. “Guess you'll have to ask her yourself. Guess—” He pounded his fist against the bar abruptly. “Othello! You take your paw outta Mr. Tyler's glass, pronto!”

Seth jumped, startled by the bartender's sudden outburst.

Clunk!
His forearm hit the glass.

Splash! Yowl!
The glass tipped over, drenching Othello with whiskey. Emitting a furious
r-r-r!
the cat hurled from the bar and scrambled beneath the roulette table, where he sat washing his liquor-spiked fur, growling between slurping licks.

Armed with his trusty bar towel, Monty promptly mopped up the spill. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Want me to pour you another?”

Seth looked up from his whiskey-drenched sleeve and shook his head. “What I want is to know how to get Lorelei alone.”

“So I figured right,” the bartender crowed. “You are set on courtin' Miss Leroux.”

“Maybe.”

“If that maybe means yes, then this is your lucky day.” The man's smirk was enigmatic enough to rival that of the Mona Lisa.