Wild Star (12 page)

“She has been with Ira and Irene for a number of years. She is protective, I suppose.”

“You need protection, believe me. If I weren’t with you, you’d be besieged by any number of hopeful men.”

“I love San Francisco,” she said. “All the noise and the activity. I know that I’m truly alive here. And all the men are very nice. They’re not forward, not really, just lonely, I think.”

“You’re looking remarkably fit,” Brent said, interrupting her.

“Why ever shouldn’t I?”

“Cut line, lady. For a woman who’s given birth, quite recently, I expect, you look very fine indeed.”

“Oh.”

“Although you are a bit skinny, I’d say.” She felt his eyes roving over her. “I would have thought that those lovely breasts of yours would be a bit fuller.”

“Please, Mr. Hammond, don’t—”

“You’re right, of course, Mrs. Butler. It’s no concern of mine, is it?” Damn her. He’d hoped when he saw her again that he would be able to look through her, with no stirring in his guts. “How long have you been back, ma’am?”

“Two weeks. This is the first time I’ve been downtown. That odd-looking man over there, who is he?”

Brent turned and smiled at Jeremy Glossop, a newcomer to San Francisco who fancied himself the epitome of a civilized gentleman. “He’s from England and a terrible gambler.”

“How is your saloon, sir? Where is it?”

“Near Portsmouth Square. The Wild Star.”

The sound of his voice made her feel incredibly warm. She didn’t want to leave him, not just yet, particularly when he was not insulting her.

“Is business good?”

“Quite. In a town like San Francisco, men have little else to do save gamble, drink, and whore. Of course, we are gaining culture by the day. By January, I hear we’ll even have some gaslights installed, to discourage thieves, of course. And realize, please, ma’am, that we have theater groups coming from all over the world to our fair city. Unfortunately, you missed Lola Montez. She’s living in the gold country now, I believe, in Grass Valley.” Why was he carrying on like this? Because you don’t want her to leave, you fool. She was staring up at him with such intensity that he wanted to rip her clothes off on the spot and ravish her. He laughed at himself. A woman who’d given birth as recently as she had couldn’t indulge in sex for a while yet.

“How is your child, Miz Butler?” He saw hurt in her eyes, and it angered him.

“Her name is Michelle,” Byrony said calmly. “She is quite well, thank you.”

“Does she look like you or your husband?”

“She has the look of the Butlers, I understand. Very fair with blue eyes.”

The look of the Butlers? Hell,
she
was fair; only her eyes were that soft green color, deep and mysterious. He wanted to ask her if her husband was good to her. Stupid thought. Her gown was expensive. Her doting husband probably gave her everything she asked for. And her husband probably understood well her promiscuous tendencies, else why would he have that huge Negro woman with her? To protect her or to keep her from making assignations with other men?

“Ah,” he said, “your protector.”

Byrony would very much have liked to dismiss Eileen with a magic wave of her hand. But she couldn’t.

She was gazing up at him with that lost, helpless look of hers, and he forced himself to shrug and say, “A pleasure to see you, ma’am. Do give my best to your husband.”

“Yes,” Byrony said, “I will.”

She listened to Eileen describe a bonnet she’d found, but her eyes remained on his tall figure until he was lost from her view.

Chauncey Saxton looked about the large dining table at all the other guests. Ira Butler had chosen well, she thought. The thirteen guests, for the most part, were kind people and were treating the new Mrs. Butler very well. Byrony looked lovely, gowned in yellow silk, a rich yellow that made her hair look like smooth honey and her eyes a vivid, sparkling green. A very nice girl, Chauncey thought, and understandably nervous. Her gaze turned to Irene Butler, seated now at her brother’s right. The little scene they’d been treated to upon entering the dining room still seemed to bother her. She was very quiet, speaking only rarely to anyone except her brother.

A ridiculous mixup, Chauncey thought, feeling compassion for Byrony, who’d tried to smooth it over. How could Irene have so improperly had herself seated at the foot of the table? Surely she was used to her brother’s wife by now. It was obvious that Irene hadn’t relinquished the mistress’s position to her sister-in-law, indeed, had taken for granted that it was her honored place. Poor Ira. It had been he who spoke quietly to his sister and removed her to his end of the table, leaving Byrony pale and smiling nervously.

Chauncey suddenly met the eyes of her nemesis, Penelope Stevenson, across the table, and gave her a sugary smile. A pity that the bouquet of flowers wasn’t just a foot to the left; then she wouldn’t have to manufacture that false smile. Bunker Stevenson, her wealthy father, was carrying on with a tale of his adventures in Panama. Chauncey’s eyes met Agatha Newton’s, seated on Byrony’s right, and Agatha winked. Bless Agatha. Chauncey had told her about Byrony, and that good woman was regaling her with her own special brand of charm.

“Do try the pork, love, I promise it won’t attack you.”

“I have and it didn’t,” she said to her husband.

“You look preoccupied, Chauncey. Is there some man I should begin to worry about?”

“Oh drat, I’d hoped you wouldn’t notice. But Bunker is so very—well, how can I put it?”

“Boring? Fatuous?”

“One of these days, Del Saxton, I am going to have the last word.”

She kicked him under the table.

“You’ve made no changes as yet I see, my dear,” Agatha Newton was saying to Byrony. “I’ve always thought that this room and the drawing room needed more of a woman’s touch. Of course, Irene doesn’t say boo without her brother’s approval.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Byrony said, her attention on Brent Hammond, who was flirting outrageously with a very lovely girl whose name Byrony wouldn’t soon forget. Penelope the Snob, Byrony had christened her, after the young lady had acknowledged meeting her with only the slightest nod of her head.

Agatha Newton, broad in the beam with a lovely, motherly smile, wished she could reassure the new Mrs. Butler. The girl was naturally nervous. After all, this was her first introduction to the people who counted in San Francisco. Pity that all of them counted, but what could one do? She followed Byrony’s gaze to the utterly delicious man next to Penelope Stevenson. She’d not met him before this evening, but had heard Horace speak of him. “Damned smart young man,” her enthusiastic husband had said on more than one occasion. “Old James Cora isn’t too pleased with the quick success he’d had with the Wild Star.”

What a handsome devil he was, Agatha thought, gently sipping at the very fine French wine from Ira’s cellar. She’d stare at him too if she were twenty years younger.

The tender pork tasted like year-old bread to Byrony. She hadn’t looked at the guest list, so it was her own fault that she’d suddenly lost her voice when Brent Hammond strolled into the drawing room. I must act natural, she’d told herself over and over. He means nothing to me, nothing. I can’t act like a silly twit, mooning over a man who despises me. I am a married lady, and that’s the end to it.

Dumb words that meant nothing. Thank God that very nice Tony Dawson was paying a lot of attention to Mrs. Newton. She was a very nice lady, but Byrony couldn’t think of anything to say. She heard the kind voice of Saint Morris, San Francisco’s finest doctor, according to Ira. She forced herself to turn to him. Like most of the gentlemen, he was young, not even thirty. He didn’t look like any doctor she’d ever seen in Boston, pampered and soft-handed. More like a lumberjack.

“I’d like to lay eyes on that baby of yours, Mrs. Butler,” Saint Morris said. “Ira hasn’t stopped raving about her. Calls her his little angel and all that nonsense new fathers say.”

“I take it you’re not a father, Dr. Morris.”

His dark brown eyes twinkled. “Been too busy, ma’am, to tell you the truth. At least that’s what I always tell myself. I meet a nice lady now and again, but I can’t seem to bring myself up to scratch. Call me Saint.”

“Only if you will call me Byrony. Were you truly christened Saint?”

“That’s a long story, Byrony. A long story indeed.” He gave her a big grin, revealing beautiful white teeth. “If I told you my real name, I expect you’d howl with laughter and call me a missionary.”

Byrony leaned toward him, enjoying herself. “Is it Horatio?” she whispered. “Or perhaps Milton or Percival?”

One of his big hands covered hers briefly, and he shook his head. “Ah, you should have known my dear mother. What a wit that woman had.”

“I see I’m getting nothing out of you, Saint.”

“Nope, not a thing. Delicious meal, but you’re not eating much, Byrony. If I believed in the efficacy of tonics, I’d prescribe one for you.”

“Ah,” she said, “so you didn’t come West in one of those covered wagons as a medicine man?”

“Not at all, more’s the pity. It would have been more pleasant if I had.”

“I suppose that’s another long, very interesting story you’re not about to tell me.”

“Delicious wine,” he said, giving her a lazy smile.

“Ira tells me you’re the best doctor in San Francisco.”

“True enough, I expect, but then again, there isn’t much competition. At least I do my best not to kill folk if I don’t know how to cure them.”

Saint watched her look from him to Brent Hammond. Brent was laughing at something Penelope was saying—polite man. Damnation, he thought, so the wind sits in that quarter, does it? Mind your own business, Saint. This Byrony’s a good girl and is simply enjoying looking at a handsome man. Look at Agatha staring at him. He’d just about dismissed it from his mind when he saw Brent’s eyes meet Byrony’s. Saint quickly gave his full attention to his dinner plate. He chewed thoughtfully on the pork, wondering about Brent Hammond. He knew her, it was in his eyes, and he was furious. Saint’s mother, bless her soul, had always accused him as a boy of being too fanciful. She was doubtless right. He was always seeing dragons when it was just fluffy clouds. Brent wasn’t about to poach on another man’s preserves, particularly if those preserves were another man’s wife. Still, he thought, life tended to be so bloody complicated. He felt an odd sort of protectiveness toward this young girl. He really couldn’t imagine her taking Ira as a lover, but then again, he couldn’t really imagine Ira being so foolish as to seduce a young lady. He said, to regain her attention, “Tell me, Byrony, who does the baby take after?”

She looked at him blankly, then seemed to draw herself together. “Michelle has the look of the Butlers, so Ira tells me, so I suppose, sir, that an angel is close enough to the truth. When I first met Ira, that was my thought about him. The angel Gabriel, to be exact.”

“Ah, but your particular angel is quite a businessman. If anyone could buy up stock in heaven, it’s your husband.”

“He is very competent, I understand,” Byrony said somewhat diffidently. She had little idea what Ira did. It was simply never discussed.

“Yes, indeed. You need to talk to Del Saxton or Sam Brannan if you want to know the scope of his abilities.”

“Sam Brannan frightens the dickens out of me. He’s so vocal.”

“That he is. He and Ira make a good team. Ira never raises his voice, and Sam rants and raves.”

“Ira is a very kind man,” Byrony said.

Why? Saint wanted to ask bluntly. Because he married you after he made you pregnant?

She added, “Doesn’t Ira bank with Delaney Saxton?”

“That’s right. Now, if you want your funny bone to collapse, it’s Del you want to talk to. I never can get in the last word with that man. Drives Chauncey crazy, but she gives him a good run for his money. You should hear them—Del with his lazy drawl and Chauncey with her starchy English accent.”

There was a brief lull in the conversation and Ira’s attention was caught by a sweet rippling laugh from his wife. He turned from Irene and looked down the table. Ah, Saint was amusing her, he thought, grateful. He’d sat Saint next to her on purpose. He knew Saint could get anybody to feel good. All in all, he thought, the dinner was going well. The food Naomi had prepared was delicious, the wine exceptional, most of the guests in good spirits. All except Irene. It simply hadn’t occurred to him that Byrony had never taken her rightful place at the table, not until this evening. He wouldn’t have noticed this evening had not Agatha Newton blinked in surprise at the seating. Damnation. Irene was hurt. The entire situation was so difficult for her, and he felt helpless much of the time, faced with two vastly different women who both placed demands on him. Having one of his minions go to San Diego to buy Byrony’s mare had been an inspiration of which he was justly proud. He knew she was riding all over San Francisco, many times alone, but he had no intention of stopping her. He had given her a small derringer and shown her how to fire it. She hadn’t blinked. He doubted she had any concept of what a bullet could do to a body. He winced slightly at loud laughter. Bunker Stevenson was off again.

Brent had determined before coming to the Butlers’ house for dinner that he would ignore Byrony. Above looking at her that one long moment, he’d succeeded, giving all his attention to Penelope Stevenson. He was amused by the girl’s antics, wondering what Maggie would think of the pretentious but quite lovely little twit. Ah, duchess, what irony there is in polite society. Here he was a gambler who kept a mistress, and was business partners and quite good friends with a madam. He was acceptable, but any
lady
would turn pale and faint were Maggie to be seated at her table, and all these so-called gentlemen would leer and make lewd jokes. He wondered what Byrony would think of Maggie, and nearly dropped his fork. Damn her anyway. And that ridiculous situation with the seating arrangements. She’d looked so helpless.