All in Good Time (31 page)

But no. She didn’t receive it with a smile of her own, thank God. In fact, she still looked as concerned as she had a moment ago. Was she willing to sacrifice herself for the girls she wanted to protect? Why did he even consider such a question? There was no doubt that she was willing to do all she could to help them.

Foster cleared his throat and had the good sense to look momentarily embarrassed. “All I want is a chance to have people on both sides of town consider me as more than a gambler and proprietor of vice. I want them to think I’m respectable. To do that, I’m going to need somebody respectable to act like they believe in me first. Somebody people might listen to.”

“Having me introduce you—even as my friend—to the polite side of the city isn’t going to do any good if you don’t follow it up with the right kind of behavior,” Dessa said. “Are you willing to act like a gentleman?”

“I may be a gambler, but I
am
a gentleman.”

“Are you?” She didn’t look convinced, and Henry thanked God for that, too.

Foster emitted a throaty laugh. “What do you expect? For me to really reform, just to join a bunch of crooks in Washington?”

“Gambling is illegal, Foster,” Henry said. “It may be socially acceptable in more parts of the country than society wants, but the fact is it’s technically illegal. How do you expect to win a campaign when you’re guilty of a crime every day of your life?”

“I’ve already thought of all this. Your friend Lionel has plenty of ideas, Henry. He knows I’m not guilty of anything unnatural, or he wouldn’t have come to me in the first place. I’m a businessman. As far as official city records go, I’ve been the proprietor of nothing but a dance hall all these years. That’s the worst anybody can say about me.”

“And those tables in front of the stage, instead of seats?” Dessa asked. “Don’t they prove what kind of business is done at the Verandah, despite whatever is ‘official’?”

Foster waved away her concerns. “I’ve already made arrangements to modernize the Verandah, so to speak. I’m getting out of the gambling business, at least until I see how the election goes. I’m even going to live at the Windsor.” He winked. “Everybody loves a reformed rake. I’m sure to win.”

“What about all the gamblers, Foster?” Henry asked. “You think they’re just going to forget what kind of place the Verandah has been all these years?”

“It won’t matter. There are plenty of other places for them to take their business.”

“That’s going to cost you,” Henry said. “You’re prepared for that?”

Foster shrugged. “I’ll still have the theater and the drinks.”

“Which are just as bad in some voters’ opinions.”

“Look,” Foster said with a hint of impatience, “I don’t need to be a saint to get elected.”

“No,” Henry said, “you just need saints like Miss Caldwell to tell everyone to vote for you.”

“Won’t hurt.”

“But, Mr. Foster,” Dessa said, “I’ve already told you I’d be willing to express public gratitude if you help me with the girls. Perhaps telling the public I’ve hidden the girls is our only option, if you can prevent a riot. Is my open gratitude all you would expect of me in return for your help?”

“That’s not very much for what I’d be doing for you, is it? I think the least you could do is agree to be seen around town with me a couple of times.” His gaze spread to take in her gown with a confident grin. “Especially now that you’ve got something to wear to Tabor’s?”

“Maybe . . .” She looked at Henry. “If Mr. Hawkins were to agree as well, and you were to keep whatever information you have about him a secret, we could both accompany you to the opera a few times during the course of the election season. It’s bound to make the papers—perhaps you could see that it does. Would that be enough?”

Silence followed, long enough for Henry to hold her gaze. Was she trying to save him, too, or had she just made her choice between him and Foster, and chosen him? It might not have been much of a contest for a respectable woman to choose a man with a mysterious past over one with a degenerate present, but Henry still sensed a whiff of victory.

Added to that was the first hint of a new sort of freedom; he realized he honestly did not care if Foster revealed his secret. He’d held it so long that the thought of not hiding it anymore seemed a relief. It was time to acknowledge that his pursuit of atonement hadn’t worked—but grace had. Grace from the same God Dessa believed in.

If he couldn’t help Dessa’s dilemma any other way, he could help her this way.

Foster wasn’t smiling anymore, but he looked satisfied enough. “I don’t care about ruining you, Hawkins. But if you agree to imply your support, I’ll keep my mouth shut. Agreed?”

Henry held out a hand. “It’s a good thing our ballots are secret, then, Foster. Because whatever I do in public may not match how I vote.”

Foster took his hand. Then, letting go, he reached for the door, but only to lean out long enough to call for whoever it was that must have kept the carriage at a standstill.

A moment later Foster’s man appeared, who was twice the size of Fallo. “Go, Thomas, and deliver that message to Yin Tung.”

The man did not reply, just nodded and disappeared before Foster even shut the carriage door.

“Let’s go to that little party of yours, shall we, Henry?”

Without a word, Henry tapped on the ceiling of the coach, and they started moving.

“One more thing, Mr. Foster,” said Dessa. Her voice held the first trace of sweetness since the evening had begun.

Foster aimed expectantly raised brows her way.

“For your reformed look to be taken at all seriously, it would be wise if you agreed to accompany Mr. Hawkins and me to church each week. Starting next Sunday?”

Foster grinned, tipping his hat her way. “A fine idea, Miss Caldwell.”

She smiled back. “Then perhaps your reform might become sincere. Whether you intend it to be or not.”

Henry only wished he could laugh as easily as Foster, and hope as easily as Dessa.

36

MR. HAWKINS’S HOME
just north of Fourteenth and Colfax was among the older mansions of the city, but also among the loveliest. Italian style and made of brick, complete with a cupola on the roof and a spacious carriage house in the yard. It boasted many tall windows with wide shutters on the first floor, latticed windows on the second. A pristine white porch greeted visitors at the front, underneath an arched portico where carriages could comfortably let off their patrons without thought of wind, snow, or rain.

Dessa knew wealthy families living along Fourteenth were already looking for a fresh place to live, now that so many commercial buildings were going up around them. They weren’t all that far from her own neighborhood on the edge of the Fourth Ward. From Pierson House benefactors, she’d heard that Brown’s Bluff was finally attracting the city’s finest. Now that construction on the state capitol building had begun at last, years after Mr. Brown had donated the land, the Queen City’s reputation would be ensured by the stately capitol adjacent to prestigious mansions planned for the vicinity.

As she took a step toward the tall, paneled door, Dessa wondered if Mr. Hawkins would soon be joining those who were migrating to the new height of society. It was easy to imagine him there, but even as the thought took shape, she wondered if whatever secret he held about his past would keep him from ever fully engaging in the society around him.

A footman opened the door before they’d reached the top step, and they were barely inside before a butler met them—while yet another footman divested Mr. Hawkins and Mr. Foster of their hats and walking sticks, and Dessa of her lace shawl.

“Sorry to be late to my own party, Barron,” Mr. Hawkins said.

“We were about to send out a search party,” the butler said, his tone light. “I’m happy to say your mother has been the perfect hostess.”

Mr. Hawkins’s brows rose appreciatively, as his gaze traveled past the wide foyer to the opening of what must be a parlor. He started to take a step, but stopped. Then, to Dessa’s surprise, he turned to her and offered his arm.

Barely giving Mr. Foster a glance, Dessa moved to Mr. Hawkins’s side, letting him lead the way into the party.

Dessa feared she would need far more concentration than she thought possible that evening: to remember names, participate in conversations, ask questions of some depth, and follow all the social graces necessary to fit in as a member of society instead of its servant. Thankfully she’d been tutored in suitable behavior, if only indirectly as a caretaker of propriety, making sure no one offended a member of one of St. Louis’s best families.

“Mother,” said Mr. Hawkins. He greeted her with a touch to her elbow and a kiss to her lightly powdered cheek—a greeting she seemed only too happy to receive.

“Ah, so there you are,” his mother said with a twinkle in her eye as her gaze welcomed both of them. “I was just telling Mrs. White not to be too surprised at your tardiness. If you’re anything like your father, I suspect you told your driver to take his time coming back once you’d fetched Miss Caldwell.”

Dessa might have glanced at Mr. Hawkins—she could feel his own glance her way—but a rush of shyness overwhelmed her.

To Dessa’s delight and relief, Mrs. Hawkins stood in a circle
comprised of the Whites and the Ridgeways. Mariadela sent her an immediate smile, one of welcome, followed by a glance of curiosity. Dessa nodded toward her, hoping they might find a moment alone before the evening was out.

But when Mariadela—and everyone nearby apart from Mrs. Hawkins—caught the first glimpse of Turk Foster, Dessa saw more than one surprised look. William’s was followed by a frown, and she was quite sure Mrs. Ridgeway gasped.

Unruffled, Mr. Hawkins made the introductions. “Turk Foster, a local businessman.” As if he were just another investor!

Though Henry introduced Foster exactly the way the man would have expected if he thought his scheme a success, he wasn’t the least irked. Foster would soon find out that Henry had no intention of bowing to his demands. Quite the contrary.

Now all he had to do was manage to get Dessa alone. Having entered with her on his arm as the de facto hostess or at the very least his especially escorted guest, then delivered her to a circle of friends, he felt her hand begin to slip from his arm. But he caught her fingertips gently, trapping her at his side.

“I wish to have a word with you as soon as we can get away,” he whispered.

She nodded without a trace of surprise. Perhaps she expected he might wish to speak to her, at least about Foster’s joint blackmail scheme. She had no idea that they would soon be free of every secret.

A friendly thump on his shoulder demanded Henry’s attention. “Well, so this evening brings one surprise after another. Starting with your lovely mother.” Lionel Metcalf bowed his head politely toward Mrs. Hawkins. “Though I hope it won’t appear rude for me to say that after knowing you all these years, Henry, I’m rather
surprised to learn you even have a mother. I thought you just appeared on earth one day, banker suit and all. But now to see you have such a family asset, I cannot for the life of me understand why it’s taken you so long to introduce her to Denver society.”

Henry held his mother’s gaze. “Yes, Lionel, you’re right. It’s been a foolish mistake not to have enjoyed my mother’s company all these years.”

“And as if that isn’t enough!” Lionel glanced past Henry, first to Dessa and then on to Foster. Henry had to credit Foster for at least looking like the fish out of water he was. “I cannot decide which has me more thunderstruck. Your inviting this ambitious fellow, or your having a lovely young lady at your side.” He bowed toward Dessa, adding, “Lionel Metcalf, at your service.”

Henry introduced Dessa properly, but even as he did so—seeing several others approaching to hear—his mind was already skipping ahead. He had so much to say, but he must wait for the right moment.

Dessa could barely rein in her whirling emotions. How was she to interpret Mr. Hawkins’s behavior, except to assume he meant others to think of her as someone he valued . . . personally? Even among all his peers? She knew as well as he that she was nothing like those around them—wealthy, important investors. He even knew how many mistakes she’d made in the founding of Pierson House.

But he didn’t know about
all
her mistakes. He had yet to know of her most personal, most embarrassing one.

Nor did he know that her father had been a poor schoolmaster who’d died an unknown, unrecognized soldier. Or that her mother had been the daughter of a tenant farmer who’d died penniless. That Dessa herself had been raised in an orphanage for the first
seven years of her life, or that she’d been a servant. All that would likely matter to his guests. But would it to him?

She looked away, barely hearing the conversation around her. If he knew, perhaps he wouldn’t be so willing to have her hand on his arm. She tried pulling away again, only to have him recapture her, with a smile that nearly banished all her doubts.

It was easy to see that Mr. Hawkins was eager to lead her out of the room. He tried twice but was caught each time by one couple or another, seeking to share their enthusiasm over his apparent transformation. From stodgy, isolated banker to one of them. A man with a mother and a woman at his side. They must soon expect his house to show a woman’s touch.

Henry and Dessa had nearly reached the threshold of the parlor when the butler—Mr. Barron, she believed he’d been called—came to ask if he might announce dinner, since they were already late in serving. Henry looked almost surprised and pulled a watch from his vest pocket. He nodded to the butler, but turned a regretful expression her way.

“Dessa,” he whispered, “I wished to speak to you before dinner, but evidently we’re not to have the opportunity. There’s something I must do, something I planned to tell you on the way here, in the carriage, before we were . . . sidetracked by Foster. I hope you can forgive me for not sharing with you first what I now feel compelled to share with everyone else tonight.”

She held his earnest gaze. “I have no right to expect such a thing. But, Mr. Hawkins—”

“Henry.”

She smiled. “Henry. Are you sure of what you want to do? I have a feeling this has to do with whatever Mr. Foster threatened you with tonight.”

He secured both her hands in his, even as others began moving toward the dining room. She knew protocol as surely as he must:
rank went first. Henry, as host, and his mother, as honorary hostess, would likely go in before many of the others. They had no time for this conversation, even as hurried as it was.

“Dessa.” His face was mere inches away, far closer than she expected in the presence of so many others. But he didn’t seem to care, and try though she might, Dessa had no will to stop him or to step back. “I must do this, for your sake as well as my own. You must have guessed by now that I have every wish to invite you into my life. There is much you need to know about me before deciding whether or not to accept the invitation. I wanted to spare you from having to react publicly, but it appears I have no choice if I’m to take this opportunity tonight. And for your sake, perhaps it’s best if you learn the truth with the others. That way you won’t be seen as having already accepted me in spite of it all.” His grip on her hands increased, and the look in his eye made everything—and everyone—disappear. Eagerness mixed with a hint of . . . fear? “After you hear what I have to say, I will understand if you want nothing to do with me. I pray that won’t be the case, but I’ll accept it if it is.”

Dessa kept her voice as low as his had been, holding his hands as tightly as he held hers. “There is nothing you can say that will change my high opinion of you. Please know that.”

He leaned even closer, as if he would kiss her right there, in front of guests who waited for the dinner procession to begin. Perhaps he was conscious of that, as he did nothing more than finish with a kiss to her cheek, nearly—but not quite—as chaste as the one he’d bestowed upon his mother earlier.

“Make no assurances until after you hear what I say when this meal is finished.”

Henry barely tasted the meal, though he imagined it to be another of Mrs. Gio’s finest. The fillet of beef with mushroom sauce could
as easily have been a bowlful of beans for the extent Henry savored it. Although Dessa was seated on his right-hand side and Lionel on his left—Foster’s plate had been added somewhere down the crowded table—Henry could not bring himself to partake in the conversation much more than he did in the meal itself.

As was customary from past investor dinners, the women did not excuse themselves for coffee to be served separately from the men. Never having had a hostess—while tonight there were arguably two—no one, including Henry himself, expected tradition to change. Which suited his purpose just fine.

He did not bother to pretend tasting his coffee. Instead, Henry stood, calling attention to himself without saying a word.

For a moment he simply scanned one side of the table, then the other, briefly noting Foster eyeing him curiously, perhaps with a bit of alarm. That vaguely satisfied Henry, knowing the man would not be pleased with what he planned to say.