Jade Star (21 page)

“Joe saw her today. She bought a gun at Haverson's. I thought you should know.”

Saint stared at her, disbelieving. “He's wrong,” he said flatly. “There's no earthly reason for her to buy a gun. Thackery is with her all the time.”

“Joe assured me it was true,” Jane said. “That boy likes to fight, but he doesn't lie. You know that, Saint.”

“Hell and damnation! Sorry, Jane.” He set down the teacup and rose to his feet. “I don't bloody believe this!” He began pacing in ferocious silence, his brow knit.

“You should also know,” Jane continued carefully
after a few moments, “that she visited Maggie the other afternoon. I heard it from a man who came to pick up his shirts. He didn't understand why Saint Morris' wife was visiting a whorehouse.”

“Shit,” said Saint very softly. “Sorry, Jane.”

“There appears to be a serpent in paradise.”

Yes, he thought, the serpent was his damned manhood! Such a ridiculous thought brought a momentary smile to his face. A rigid serpent. He laughed, a harsh, grating sound.

“Saint,” Jane said, moving quickly to him and laying her hand lightly on his shoulder, “I'm sorry, but I thought you should know.” She regretted her sarcastic comment, and wanted to make amends. “Please, Saint, if you want to talk about it, you know I'm a good listener.”

“There's nothing whatsoever to talk about,” he said. “I suppose I knew things weren't going all that well, but there's nothing like keeping one's eyes closed, is there? No, don't answer that, Jane. I've got to be going. I have the dubious pleasure of having Penelope Stevenson to dinner this evening.”

“Good luck, Saint,” she called after him softly, but he didn't hear her.

Saint entered their bedroom close to an hour later. Jules was splashing like a happy, unconcerned child in the tub. He paused in the doorway, wondering whether or not to retreat. She saw him and fell instantly silent.

“Hello, Jules,” he said awkwardly.

Jules felt a wave of color wash over her cheeks. She sank down a few inches in the water. Why should I be embarrassed? she thought, suddenly angry. He
knows . . . everything. “I shall be finished in just a moment,” she said, raising her chin.

Saint made the mistake of allowing his eyes to leave her face. He felt an instant tightening in his loins at the sight of her soft white shoulders, the tops of her breasts. He swallowed, and backed up. “I'll be downstairs, Jules. I need a bath also. Just call me when you're finished.”

He disliked her so much he couldn't bear to be in the same room with her! She was sorely tempted to climb out of the tub and hurl the water at him. But she didn't. She said only, her voice nasty, “How sorry I am that you had to work so very hard this afternoon. What was wrong with Mrs. Branigan, anyway?”

He forced his eyes back to her face. He thought of the damned gun, of her visit to Maggie. Here she was attacking him like a shrew for his visit to Jane! For God's sake, he'd told her he wouldn't sleep with Jane anymore! His eyes darkened, and he said coldly, “Why, nothing at all was wrong with Jane. Nothing at all. Not everyone I visit is ill, you know.”

She wanted to yell at him, but she pressed her lips together and lowered her head. She heard his harsh breathing, heard the bedroom door slam, then listened to his retreating footsteps down the corridor.

“He's a miserable man,” she whispered, and hated herself for the wretched tears that trickled down her cheeks. “I guess that makes us about even, since I'm a miserable woman.”

 

Penelope had never before been in Saint Morris' house. It was dreadfully small and not at all well-appointed. Well, she was here and she supposed she must make the best of it. After all, Saint was Thomas'
brother-in-law. She greeted Saint with cool politeness and tried her rarely used charm on Thomas' sister. What wild red hair, she thought, thankful of her own smooth flaxen tresses.

“How nice to see you again,” Jules said, wondering for perhaps the dozenth time what Thomas saw in this dreadful girl. Her voice could chill the wine.

“Yes,” Penelope said. “Dr. Morris,” she added, gracefully inclining her long neck. “My parents send their regards.”

“How about a glass of sherry, Pen?” Thomas asked.

Jules watched Penelope turn a beguiling smile on her brother. Pen! Penelope's voice softened as much as her eyes. “Oh yes, Thomas, that would be very nice.”

Saint was markedly silent until the Hammonds arrived, full of good cheer and laughter. Byrony's stomach was well-rounded now, and her skin had that glowing, almost translucent look that some women gained when pregnant. “As I live and breathe,” Byrony said in a very sweet voice. “Penelope! How very delightful. How I wish the Saxtons were here also.”

Penelope didn't know what to do. She felt Thomas' hand on hers, squeezing, and she forced a big smile. “Hello,” she said. “It is very good to see you both again. Mother is so pleased with the amount of money we raised for your slaves, Mr. Hammond.”

“There are no slaves in California,” Byrony said sweetly.

“Yes, Pen,” Thomas added, “you must begin to listen and perhaps read the newspaper. It would give you all sorts of useful information.”

Brent Hammond was watching this interplay with
some interest. He said quietly to Saint, “Your brother-in-law has more guts that I. Does she always roll over and play dead when he tromps on her?”

“He does handle her,” Saint said, “and very well, it appears. I doubt you'll hear too many sly innuendos out of her tonight.”

“How is Thackery?” Brent asked abruptly.

“Fine,” said Saint. Brent followed his friend's gaze to Jules. She looked inordinately lovely in a dark green silk gown that was fashioned low on her white shoulders. Her flame-colored hair was intricately arranged in thick coronet braids atop her head. Curling tendrils framed her face.

“I spoke to him briefly before we came in,” Brent said. “He informs me that your wife is a handful. But when I questioned him further, he became as closemouthed as a clam. I fear he's shifted his loyalty to your little one there. He is, I suppose one would say, firmly in her pocket.”

Saint didn't want to talk about it. He didn't even want to think about it, at least not this evening. “Does Byrony have any more nausea in the mornings?” he asked.

Brent arched a questioning brow, but allowed the shift in topic. “No, she informs me she's healthy as I am, but fatter. You don't expect any problems, Saint?”

Saint did, but he didn't say anything. No sense in making Brent worry. If the child grew large, Byrony would have difficulties, for her pelvis was narrower than Jules's. “No problems,” he said aloud. “Just make certain I'm around a couple of days before she's due to deliver.”

“We'll be settled in Wakeville for the winter. You
don't mind trekking down? You'll stay with us as our guest. Jules also, of course.”

“That would be fine. And don't worry, Brent.”

“If you insist. Incidentally, Maggie was telling me that Jules—”

Saint raised his hand. “No, I don't want to hear it. I've already been informed. I intend to speak to Maggie tomorrow. Now, let's join the ladies and masterful, romantic Thomas.”

To her profound surprise, Penelope found that she was enjoying herself. Certainly the fact that Thomas squeezed her hand in a meaningful way occasionally under the table made her smile, but she hadn't imagined that she would actually enjoy having dinner with a gambler and a girl from Maui and a doctor. And a pregnant lady!

“. . . and then Limpin' Willie told me that he returned the hundred dollars to the man's pocket and sent him on his way,” Saint said. “He told me the fellow had one of my bandages on his arm. Thought I'd be upset if he did him in after I'd fixed him up.”

He paused a moment to let the laughter die down.

“I think you should run for mayor, Saint,” Byrony said. “You would gain more votes than any man in the history of San Francisco.”

“Saint,” Thomas said, sitting forward in his chair, “tell us the story about Napoleon and his one experience with a cathartic.”

“In front of the ladies, Thomas? And I believe you've already told it. Needless to say, he refused any further treatment of that sort.”

“What's a cathartic?” Penelope asked.

“The opposite of an emetic,” Thomas said, hooting with laughter.

“Thomas!”

“Yes, Pen?” Thomas asked, his face as innocent and guileless as his sister's was when she wanted to fool Thackery, Saint thought. Which evidently she had. She hadn't spoken one word directly to him all evening. He wanted to be alone with her. He wanted to yell at her and shake her. He wanted . . . Oh no, you damned randy bastard! Not that, not again.

He sat back and pretended to listen to Brent describe their progress at Wakeville. Lydia's roast beef sat like leather in his stomach, as had her attempt at Yorkshire pudding. He sipped at his wine, his gaze going to his wife's face.

What the hell was he going to do with her? He'd hurt her badly, but that didn't excuse her recent behavior. He supposed he would have to speak with Thackery, have the man keep a closer eye on her.

“Michael?”

He was jerked out of his fog. “What?” he said, turning to Jules.

“The ladies will be in the parlor,” she said, rising. He quickly stepped to her side and politely held her chair. She didn't look at him.

“We won't be long,” Saint said.

Another two hours passed before they were alone. Thomas left to drive Penelope home, and Brent, his voice light and amusing, claimed his fat wife needed her rest, which gained him Byrony's elbow in his ribs.

Saint said without preamble, “I want to talk to you, Jules.”

“I'm tired,” she said, moving toward the parlor door. “I'm going to bed. You know, Michael, it's that
rather large piece of furniture up in the bedroom. Good night.”

“Jules!”

He jumped to his feet and strode after her. “You come back here!” he shouted to her retreating back on the stairs.

Jules paused at the top of the stairs, curled her lip at him, and said coldly, “Oh no. It seems that the parlor has become your bedroom. I have no intention of speaking to you there.”

“Damn you,” he growled, and stalked up the stairs after her.

Let him come in, Jules thought, stomping into the bedroom. She stopped in the middle of the room, turned, and faced the open doorway.

Perhaps she should begin taking off her clothes—that would stop him in his tracks!

Her fingers went to the long row of buttons.

“Don't you dare,” Saint said, coming into the room. He paused a moment, then slammed the door closed behind him. “Leave those buttons alone!”

“Why?” she asked, unfastening yet another. “Would you find it so very repulsive? I thought doctors were quite used to seeing naked women.”

“I want to talk to you, not see you with nothing on but your hair.” What game was she playing, damn her!

Jules sat down on the swivel chair in front of the dresser, folded her hands primly in her lap, and began to twiddle her thumbs. “Yes?” she asked.

We used to be such good friends, he thought, staring down at her, his frustration mounting. She used to trust me, to . . . love me. No, not that, you ass! She loved you as a child would an older brother. He said, “Why did you buy a gun today?”

She started to deny it, but knew it would do no
good. “So,” she said coldly, “I cannot even trust Thackery. When did he tell you?”

“He didn't.”

“Then how do you know?”

Saint shrugged. “It doesn't matter. Now, where is it?”

She looked mulish, and he grabbed her reticule from the dresser and riffled through it. She said nothing, merely stared at him tight-lipped.

There was no gun in the reticule.

“Where, Jules?”

Now was the time for a lie, she thought, squaring her shoulders. Otherwise, he would tear the room apart looking for it. “I decided that Thackery was right. I don't need a gun. He will protect me.”

Saint stopped, turned very slowly, and looked at her. “Are you telling me the truth?”

She shrugged pettishly. “Why shouldn't I? I told you, I realized it was silly for me to have it. Besides, I don't know the first thing about derringers.”

“I see. Just what did you do with it, Jules?”

She held his gaze steadily. “I threw it in the ocean this afternoon.” She lowered her eyes quickly. That wasn't a good lie at all. All he had to do was ask Thackery.

“If,” he said, “I discover that you aren't telling me the truth, I will thrash you.”

She said nothing, merely twiddled her thumbs.

“What I should do is buy Thackery a leash. A short one.”

She shrugged, still saying nothing, and kept her eyes on her thumbs.

“Another matter,” Saint said after a moment. “I understand you paid a visit to Maggie the other day.
No, let's not repeat how I found out. Suffice it to say that I did, quite by accident. Would you care to tell me why you went to a brothel?”

“I wanted to meet her. Chauncey Saxton told me how very nice she was.”

“She runs a brothel,” Saint said. “It doesn't matter how nice Maggie is. If you wish to make a friend of her, you will invite her here, you understand?”

“She won't come here.”

“Then that's an end to it.”

“No.”

“What?”

“I said,” Jules said very calmly, “that I shall do as I wish. And
that's
an end to it.”

“Jules, listen to me.” He stopped, knowing that nothing he said would make any difference. He knew she was stubborn. He simply hadn't guessed how stubborn. And she thoroughly disliked him, so why should she care what the hell he thought about anything? He suddenly remembered Victoria, her body viciously beaten by a mean drunk. God, he hated prostitution. Even willing women could be brutalized, just as Victoria had been. “Several months ago, Maggie called me to the brothel. One of the girls, Victoria is her name, had been badly hurt.” He paused a moment, realizing that he didn't have her complete attention. “Actually,” he continued, his voice hard, “the man had not only beaten her, he had used her unnaturally, and torn her.” Should he be more graphic? He couldn't bring himself to be. “I had to stitch her up, Jules. She was ill for several weeks.”

“Why are you telling me this? It is terrible, of course, but it has nothing to do with me.”

He frowned. “I don't know. I don't want you hurt, Jules.”

“Then why did you go visit Jane Branigan?”

“She wanted to speak to me, that's all. Nothing more.”

“About what?”

“It's not important.”

“Are you going to sleep here tonight?”

“Your mind,” Saint said, clamping down on his body's instant response to her words, “jumps about more unpredictably than that strange animal in Australia. No, I'm sleeping downstairs. I'm expecting a patient, he's coming up to see me from San Jose.” That was a bloody lie, but what else could he tell her? No, I won't sleep here or I'll strip off your nightgown and force you. Again. And this time you wouldn't be asking me to, since you know . . .

“Good night then, Michael.”

He merely nodded, and turned to leave.

“You needn't be quiet when you leave to see Jane Branigan,” she called after him. “I'm a very heavy sleeper.”

A muscle moved convulsively in his jaw. “Good night, Jules,” he said, and strode from the bedroom.

Jules heard the front door open and close some fifteen minutes later. She turned off the lamp beside the bed, flipped onto her stomach, and cursed into the pillow.

 

It was only a week until Christmas, and the days had shortened drastically. It was only a bit after four in the afternoon, and Jules had to move to the window to read the letter. It was from her sister, Sarah. It was a taunting, rather petty letter, in which Sarah
described in great detail her wedding to Tory Dickerson, a visiting planter from Oahu. “Good for you, Sarah,” Jules said aloud to the silent parlor. “Now maybe you'll be just a little bit happy.” She folded the letter, then took it up to Thomas' room, propping it up on his pillow.

She was alone, Lydia having left an hour earlier to buy some Christmas presents.

She wandered about the house, gazing into Michael's surgery. There were several glass-fronted cabinets, two chairs, a desk, and a long table, where, she supposed, he examined people. She studied the bottles in the cabinets, but without much interest, for she recognized only a few of the labels. He'd been gone most of the day, called by David Broderick's servant to come to his house. Broderick, it seemed, had broken his leg.

She grabbed her cloak, gently placed her derringer, now loaded, into her reticule, and stepped out into the growing darkness. She didn't see Thackery. Perhaps he was off visiting Lucas. She had told him at noon that she wasn't going out today. Well, so much for him. She would take care of herself.

She would go visit Maggie. Certainly it was too early for Maggie to be entertaining men. Her eyes narrowed as she walked toward Kearny Street. Where are you, Mr. Jameson Wilkes? I'm not a virgin, not anymore, but I certainly would like to see you!

She became aware of the number of men staring at her. She raised her chin. There were catcalls and whistles and some lewd comments tossed her way, but she ignored them, staring straight ahead. She saw some women, gaily dressed, and knew they were prostitutes. She had nearly gained Portsmouth Square
when she heard an astonished voice from behind her.

“Good God! Jules, is that you?”

She turned slowly, recognizing Brent Hammond's voice.

“Hello, Brent,” she said. “How are you this fine day? No fog, but Michael tells me there's not much during the winter. It's getting dark so much earlier now, isn't it? How is Byrony?”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Brent said, eyeing her speculatively. Where was Thackery?

“I'm visiting Maggie.”

“Like hell you are!”

“Your language is foul, sir, and it's really none of your business. It was nice seeing you. Now—”

“Stop, Jules! Does Saint know what you're up to?”

“Up to?” Jules raised a supercilious brow. “I am a free person, Mr. Hammond. I am out walking and visiting, just as I suspect your former slaves can now do. Good day, sir.”

Brent ground his teeth. Then he smiled, his charming, seductive smile. “Very well. Do allow me to escort you to Maggie's apartment. I'm certain she's very anxious to see you, particularly here.”

Jules was nonplussed. Finally she nodded. Brent took her arm and led her through the alley to the back entrance of the Wild Star. When they reached the top of the stairs, he steered her to the left.

“A moment, Brent. Maggie is—”

“I imagine that Maggie is visiting Byrony,” Brent said smoothly. “Come along.”

Of course, Maggie wasn't in the Hammonds' apartment. Byrony was seated in front of a glowing fire,
reading. She looked startled, then pleased, greeting Jules warmly and offering her a cup of tea.

After the amenities, Brent said to his wife, “I will come back in a little while, love. You and Jules can visit.”

“How lovely. Give us at least an hour, Brent.”

Jules was in a quandary. The major reason she'd wanted to visit Maggie was her husband's taboo. But how could she tell the glowing Byrony Hammond that she didn't want to stay? She gave Brent a crooked smile.

“Just so,” Brent said softly to her. “Later, ladies.”

He tracked Saint down in front of his house, Saint having just returned from the Brodericks'.

“How nice to see you, Saint,” Brent said blandly. “My, do you happen to know where your wife is?”

Saint waved a hand toward the house. He paused, seeing no lights in the windows. He frowned. “All right, Brent,” he said in a resigned voice. “Where is she? What has she done this time?”

“Why, she's with my wife,” Brent said. He added, “Of course, when I just happened to see her, she was on her way to see Maggie. Thanks to my perfidy, she is with Byrony, her guns spiked, as it were.”

“Damn,” said Saint.

“Yes. I guess my next question is, where is Thackery? Your wife was quite alone, trying her best to ignore all the very interested men.”

“Jules very probably lied to him and told him she wasn't going out of the house. Thackery will have a fit when he finds out.”

“And you, Saint?”

“I don't like fits.”

“No, you don't, do you? But marriage seems to
have brought you as many confusions and complications as it brought me. I don't know what's going on, Saint, and you're probably dying to tell me to go to hell—”

“Why?” Saint asked, sighing. “You did well by my wife, and I thank you. Lord knows,
I
can't seem to handle her.”

Brent eyed his friend closely. “You might try thrashing her,” he said.

Saint laughed. “Yes,” he said, “yes, I just might. Well, I'm off to fetch my errant wife. Thanks again, Brent.”

Before he could leave, Thackery returned, a laughing Thomas with him.

“Hi, Saint,” Thomas said. “What's going on? There aren't any lights in the house.”

Thackery said very quietly, “Tell me where, Dr. Saint, and I'll go fetch her.”

Perhaps it would be better, Saint thought, if Thackery got her. “She's at the Hammonds' apartment, above the Wild Star.”

Thackery nodded, touched the brim of his hat, and strode off into the growing darkness. Saint turned to his brother-in-law. “Lydia should be back soon. You hungry, Thomas?”

“Yes,” Thomas said. He laughed suddenly. “I won't be seeing Penelope this evening. She tried to give me orders about a certain something, and I informed her . . . well, I told her she could spend some time alone to think about her woman's modesty.”

“Good God, Thomas,” Saint said as they went into the house. “Whatever did the girl want you to do?”

Thomas looked thoughtful as the two men went into the parlor. Saint lit the lamps and took off his
coat. He looks tired, Thomas thought. Damn Jules anyway. Whatever is that little twit up to?

“Drink, Thomas?”

Thomas nodded. “Sherry, please, Saint.”

The two men relaxed a moment, drinking in silence. Saint said again, “What did Penelope want you to do?”

Thomas raised twinkling eyes to Saint's face, and Saint started. There was a good deal of similarity between that impish look and Jules's.

“She wanted me to make love to her.”

“Penelope? Good God!”

“Exactly,” Thomas said. “I told her she should be ashamed of herself.” He grinned in fond memory. “She is, of course, quite desirable.”

Saint could think of nothing to say.

“She wants to marry me, you know, and since I'm as elusive as hell, I suppose she thought she would compromise me.”