Watching Eagles Soar (21 page)

“You forget our agreement,” Alex said.

Kitty interrupted. “Let me deal with this.” She faced the man in the black suit. “You will be paid after we collect our money. Not before.”

The man swung around a table and came toward her, stopping so close that Kitty could smell the sour mixture of perspiration and tobacco that rolled off him. The flickering lamplight reflected in his black eyes. She forced herself to hold her place. She would not be intimidated by Edward Alsop, a broken-down actor they had found in a squalid boardinghouse after they spoke to the manager at the Orpheum Theater about hiring an actor for a private performance.

“Now,” he said. “I want my money now. Or maybe I'll help myself to your precious black diamond that's nothing but a worthless piece of glass. You won't be able to palm it off onto any suckers if I take hold of it.”

“You wouldn't do that.” Alex jumped to his feet with more alacrity than Kitty had seen in the five years they had been traveling around Europe, bilking rich Americans with one scheme or another. Investing in Congo gold. Wyoming diamond mines. Buckingham Palace, to help out the old queen who couldn't let her subjects know that she was broke.

“You think not?” Edward Alsop started to reach for the piece of glass dangling from the gold chain on Kitty's neck just as Alex planted a fist against his jaw that sent the man sprawling across the table.

“Get out,” Kitty said. She was behind the sofa, barely aware of how she had gotten there. An impulsive movement, she realized, that overcame all the years on the boards, playing one inane minor role after another, waiting for the big chance that never came. She gripped the piece of glass, aware of the edges cutting into her palm. The black diamond scheme was their way out of all of it—the drafty, musty theaters in a hundred towns she didn't want to remember, the crummy boardinghouses and cold puddings and moldy chops. They had been in a dank pub, sipping warm beer, when Alex—in a stroke of brilliance, she had to admit—hit on the black diamond scheme. They had found a glass blower in Chelsea who produced a dozen pieces of black glass. Tomorrow they would sell the sixth piece. They were sure to sell the seventh in San Francisco. Then back to Europe. Amsterdam, perhaps. Copenhagen, Berlin, Madrid. The trick was to keep moving. Never return to the same city.

Edward Alsop had managed to roll sideways off the table and was staggering to his feet, keeping a wary eye on Alex, who stood over him, fist raised. Then he began backing up, crashing against the edge of a chair and righting himself before he stumbled over to the cabinet. He yanked open the door and pulled out the black cloak they had purchased in New York to give Alex the authentic look of a Russian prince.

“No policeman's gonna stop me in this, aye?” Alsop said. “They're still crawling over this hotel, but they're gonna see a fine gentleman exiting the front door. You got one hour, understand?”

“What are you talking about?” Alex started toward the man, but Edward put up his hand.

“What're you gonna do? Beat me to death in this fine hotel? That won't look so good for a Russian prince, now, will it? Think of the headlines. ‘Prince Murders Poor Actor.' Some reporter gets nosy and starts asking questions and the word is out. Prince Orlovsky is nothing but an imposter from across the pond, never seen St. Petersburg. What's more, his daughter isn't any princess. She isn't even his daughter. Oh, my. All your grand plans broken into pieces of glass. One hour, that's all you have to give me what's due. I'll be taking myself to a fine hotel. The Oxford will suit. I'll be having a glass of wine in the bar. There's an alley right outside. I'll expect to meet you there in one hour.”

“Be reasonable,” Alex said. He stood his place, but Kitty knew he had backed off. “We'll come to your lodging and pay you tomorrow. Surely you can wait one day.”

Edward snapped up the cloak and pulled the collar about his ears. He was right, Kitty thought. He did look the part of a gentleman. “If I do not see you in one hour, I will come to the fine mansion on Pennsylvania Avenue and inform Mr. J. J. Brown of the rapscallions under his roof. Do I make myself clear?” The man turned around and opened the door, allowing the cloak to sweep about in a half circle as he made his grand exit. The door slammed behind him.

Kitty let out a burst of air. “We have to take care of him,” she said.

“He's calling our bluff.” Alex waved at the door as if he were swatting a fly. He walked over to the cabinet and started dragging out the suitcases. “The buggy should be here any moment.”

“Did you hear me?” Kitty walked over and planted herself next to him. “He'll ruin everything.”

Alex pulled himself up straight and took hold of her hands. “Let me worry about Edward Alsop.”

“Oh, yes! Like you worried about that giant-headed idiot in London that missed the shot and nearly killed you, then threatened to call the bobbies if you didn't pay double, which he maintained he had earned since he hadn't killed you?” She yanked herself free, pulled a dark cape off a hook in the cabinet, and threw it about her shoulders. Leaning over, she opened a valise and withdrew a small, pink satin bag. She undid the clasp, took out an ivory-handled pistol, and examined it a moment. “I'll take care of Edward the same way I took care of that idiot.” She slipped the pistol back into the bag, stretched out her hand, and said, “I'll need coins for taxis.”

Alex rummaged in his trouser pockets and dropped several coins into her hand. “Whatever shall I say when the buggy arrives?” A plaintive, defeated note had come into his voice.

“I am a Russian princess, you fool. The driver will expect to be kept waiting!”

* * *

T
he clock had chimed three times before Molly heard the clip-clop sounds halt on the avenue. She rushed over to the window, pulled back the drapery, and watched the buggy draw up in front of the house. The prince stepped down first and held out his hand to steady the princess as she came down the steps. Molly could see the suitcases piled in the back, and Stanton, huddled on the bench, bent over with the cold, a muffler wrapped around his neck, the reins caught in his gloved hands. She stepped back and poked J.J., who was snoring in his chair. “They've arrived,” she said, feeling slightly giddy at the thought of a Russian prince and princess staying in her home.

The guests were fatigued, pleading not to be regarded as impolite but longing to retire. Princess Katerina—“Her heart, you know,” said her father—looking pale and drawn. Mary Mulligan, the maid, showed them to the guest rooms on the second floor, and Stanton made three trips up the back stairs with the suitcases. There was the noise of rummaging about, suitcases thumping the floor, and doors closing until, finally, the sounds subsided into the drifting nighttime peacefulness of the mansion, and Molly and J.J. climbed the stairs and fell asleep in their own bedroom.

The royal guests had already departed when Molly came downstairs the next morning and found J.J. in the dining room, intent on the
Rocky Mountain News
and sipping at his coffee. “Eager to be at the First National Bank when the doors open,” he explained. “Stanton drove them in the buggy.”

Molly went to the sideboard, poured a cup of coffee, and slid a pastry onto a plate. She settled across from J.J. “Did you hear anything last night?” she said.

“Wind knocking against the windows, I suspect.” J.J. folded the newspaper to an inside page and kept reading.

“I thought I heard footsteps in the corridor,” Molly said.

“Oh?” J.J. looked up. “Perhaps the princess felt unwell and her father went to check on her.” He looked sideways, studying the light filtering through the stained glass window. “She seemed to be feeling okay this morning.”

Molly had just gotten up to pour a second cup of coffee when the buggy rumbled up the drive to the carriage house in back. J.J. got to his feet and announced that he intended to spend the morning doing research in the Miners' Club library. He leaned across the table, winked at her, and disappeared into the hallway. A few minutes later, the buggy rolled back down the drive, sending little vibrations across the wood floor. She heard the front door open and slam shut, followed by the sound of the horses clopping into Pennsylvania Avenue.

She threw herself into preparations for the evening's soiree. So much to do, and so little time! She made a list of the members of the Sacred 36 that she intended to invite, with Mr. and Mrs. Crawford Hill at the top. Any society event of importance had to include Louise Hill. No more than five couples, Molly thought—an intimate soiree with the prince and princess—but the list quickly expanded to ten couples, then fifteen. She drew a line below the last names—Mr. and Mrs. David Moffat—then set about writing the invitations on fine linen stationary with the intertwined initials MB embossed at the top. As soon as the buggy returned, she instructed Stanton to deliver the invitations to each mansion.

Then she called Mary to the upstairs sitting room and went over everything that needed to be done: furniture dusted and floors mopped, silver platters set out, the best Irish lace tablecloth draped over the dining room table, fresh flowers everywhere.

An hour later Molly went downstairs to the entry where the crank telephone was mounted on the wall and placed a call to the best caterer in Denver. She had to shout over the static and repeat herself to order the evening's menu: Deviled eggs, not shriveled eggs. No. No. Not lamb capers. Lamb kabobs. Strawberry tarts, not candied hearts. She felt her jaw clench as she hung up. Candied hearts and lamb capers and shriveled eggs, indeed!

* * *

M
olly stood in front of the fireplace, her arm linked in J.J.'s, and surveyed the small crowd of guests. Beautiful women in shimmering gowns and men in tailored suits moving back and forth between the front parlor, drawing room, and dining room, candlelight flickering on the red wallpaper, Chopin wafting from the symphonia and the catering staff nodding and bowing as they offered silver platters of hors d'oeuvres. And in the center of it all, Louise Hill herself, chestnut hair piled high, diamond earrings sparkling, wearing the black-and-white striped gown that the
Tattler
had called the “Frenchiest thing in Denver.” She had engaged the prince in conversation some time ago, and he still seemed enchanted, leaning in close, not taking his gaze from her, throwing back his head from time to time to emit a strained laugh at something she had said.

Molly stood on tiptoes so that her lips brushed J.J.'s ear. “My dear,” she said, “we have finally made it.”

“Made it?” J.J. pulled away and smiled down at her. “Don't you know, Molly, we made it two years ago?”

“But all this,” she said, waving toward the guests. “I never dreamed . . .”

“Of course you did. You always dreamed.”

Molly smiled. Oh, J.J. had always understood. From the very first, when she had agreed to step out with him in Leadville. He had called for her in a wagon, and she had sent him away until he could call in a carriage.

She went back to surveying her guests and tried to ignore the uneasy feeling that pricked her skin like the bubbly Champagne spilling over her. The soiree was supposed to be a celebration, but she was afraid that the prince's efforts to borrow funds had not met with success. An hour before the guests were due to arrive, a messenger had brought regrets from Mr. and Mrs. David Moffat and Mr. and Mrs. George Kassler, the bankers. Fifteen minutes later, the royal guests had returned to the mansion, a pinched look about the prince's face, a grayish cast to the silver hair and goatee. He had begged her pardon. He and the princess—“Her heart, I fear”—required time to rest before the evening festivities. He had placed an arm on his daughter's shoulders and guided her up the stairs, and for the next thirty minutes Molly had heard the floorboards crackling overhead as her guests, instead of resting, had paced about.

She had found J.J. in his study poring over a thick mining book that she guessed he had borrowed from the Miners' Club library. “I believe the prince has been disappointed,” she said.

J.J. had slammed the book shut, sat back in his chair, and clasped his hands over his chest. The gold chain of his watch shone against his blue waistcoat. “The black diamond is worth no more than fifteen thousand,” he said. “Hardly enough collateral for a loan large enough to rescue a Russian estate, I suspect.”

Molly sank into the black leather chair next to the desk. “The diamond is all they have,” she said. “What will they do?”

“I'm afraid his plight can't be helped,” J.J. said. “I'll offer him fifteen thousand. I doubt it will do much good.”

Molly had remained in the chair for several moments. She could hear the caterers bustling about in the kitchen downstairs, the noise of cabinets opening and closing, china and silver clanking together. Finally she had gotten up and gone to the bedroom to dress in the new red gown the dressmaker had delivered that afternoon—the most beautiful gown she owned. She had surveyed herself in the full-length mirror, imagining the way the black diamond would sit just above the lacy neckline.

Now it seemed as if the conversation between the prince and Louise had settled into a more serious vein. Princess Katerina and Crawford Hill had joined them, four heads bent together, brows furrowed, voices lowered to whispers. Molly threw a glance about the drawing room. Louise had a way of dominating any gathering. If she was glad, the other guests were glad. If she disapproved, if she became bored, if she was worried—well, she set the tone. The soiree could succeed or fail on her whim.

Molly had just let go of J.J.'s arm and started toward the little group when Prince Orlovsky rang a spoon against the flute of Champagne he was holding. “Please, everyone,” he said. “May I have a moment?” He waited until the buzz of conversations died back and heads swiveled about, eyes fastening on him. He lifted the flute. “Here's to our hosts, Molly and J. J. Brown, who have bestowed their generous hospitality on Princess Katerina and myself.”