Jade Star (22 page)

“And what did you say?”

“I told her no, and that this evening I was going to spend the night making love to a woman who expected nothing from me. For a while there, I thought she would expire with hysterics.”

Saint shook his head. “Thomas, the gentlemen of San Francisco salute you!”

Thomas sat forward in his chair, his glass between his knees. “Bunker wants me to come to work for him in the foundry. I'm not certain that's what I want.”

“Doing what?”

Thomas shrugged. “Probably a glorified office boy to start with. Somehow, working for my father-in-law doesn't seem too smart a thing to do.”

“No, I would agree.”

“I want to be a doctor, Saint.”

Saint leaned back, his arms behind his head. “I think,” he said finally, “that you should determine if that is really what you want by working with me. I could teach you a goodly amount. If you decide in, say, six months that you wish to continue, I think you should go back East, to Boston or New York, for your formal training.”

They continued discussing the pros and cons until Lydia arrived. Ten minutes later, they heard Jules's voice. Thomas watched Saint's face harden, his eyes glitter.

“Well,” Thomas said, rising quickly. “I think I'll be going out now. I've got to spend some time with Morton David, an interesting man. Of all things, he's an actor, Shakespeare and all that.” Thomas paused a moment in the doorway and said quietly, “Good luck, Saint.”

Saint heard him greet his sister with an affectionate “You look like hell, Jules. Go comb your hair, you look a fright.”

Jules knew Michael was in the parlor, but she didn't want to see him. She went upstairs and stayed there until after Lydia had left. She heard him call to her.

She eased into her chair at the foot of the dining table. He handed her the several dishes, saying nothing.

“I trust you had an interesting day,” Saint said finally, laying down his fork.

“No, not really,” Jules said.

“Oh? You found Byrony boring?”

“No, she was quite charming. She wanted me to ask you if she could come by tomorrow.”

He nodded. “Certainly.”

He wasn't angry and it made her very wary. “Michael,” she said, taking the offensive, “I am bored! I do nothing except sit around and brush my hair!”

“Fine, I'll dismiss Lydia and you can take over her duties.”

That shut her up, Saint thought, but only for a moment.

She thrust her chin upward. “So, if I can't be anything else, you'll allow me to be your housekeeper!”

“What else do you want to be?”

“Would you pay me what you pay Lydia?”

Elusive chit, he thought. “Probably not—you haven't her experience or skill.”

He sat back and watched her, knowing he'd spiked her guns.

“You think I'm afraid to work?”

“Jules, I don't think you're afraid of a damned thing, more's the pity.”

Yes, she wanted to tell him, she was afraid of more things than she could count. Why wasn't he angry with her, yelling at her, for going to see Maggie?

She blurted out her last thought, “Aren't you angry with me?”

He nodded. “Yes, of course.”

But he didn't care enough to yell at her, she thought. She didn't know what to say. She watched him rise. He'd opened his shirt at the neck and she coud see the silken tufts of hair on his chest. He was so handsome, she thought, her eyes going down his body hungrily. But he didn't love her, he didn't even
like her, not anymore. She gave him nothing but trouble.

“I'm going out,” Saint said. “Incidentally, Jules,” he added, halting a moment in the doorway, “Thackery will be here.”

“Ah yes, my jailer. Give my regards to Mrs. Branigan.”

He paused and said, his voice hard, “You will cease using Jane as a bone of contention between us. She is a fine woman. I admire her and respect her, but that is all.”

She lowered her head, saying nothing.

January is a brooding month, Jules thought, pulling her cloak more closely about her. The air was thick with swirling fog and a chilling drizzle that made her bones ache with cold. She thought of Maui, pictured herself running along the beach, the warm trade winds in her face. She wondered if she'd ever become accustomed to this bitter climate. She supposed with a shake of her head that she should count her blessings. After all, she could have ended up in Toronto.

She'd managed to lose Thackery. She'd gotten quite adept at it over the past couple of weeks. She was hunting again. It added excitement to the game to think she was also the hunted. Wilkes was there, waiting for her, just as she was searching for him. She knew it, she could practically feel his presence.

It was odd, her thinking continued, even as her eyes darted about her as she walked, but Wilkes had become the focal point of her life. It was odd and, she realized, rather pathetic. But she had nothing else.

Both Thomas and Lydia knew that Michael slept in the parlor. Lydia had said nothing, but Thomas had not been so reticent. Indeed, she thought, seeing
his face in her mind's eye, he'd been appalled and angry.

“What the hell is going on, Jules?”

She'd merely looked at him, not at first understanding his attack.

“Saint,” he nearly shouted at her. “Your husband, little sister. I find to my chagrin that my brother-in-law, the owner of this damned house, is sleeping like some sort of extra guest downstairs! What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Jules said.

That had brought him up short. His features softened just a bit. “Look, Jules, I realize that all is not well with you two, but you don't even allow him to sleep in his own bed?”

“He doesn't want to,” Jules said.

“Oh, come on, Jules.” Thomas said in disgust. “You're not exactly a troll. I don't understand any of this.”

“It's very simple, Thomas,” Jules said, her voice hard. “Michael didn't want to marry me in the first place. He had to, if you'll remember. In terms of sleeping with me, he's not interested.” That wasn't precisely true, but all the rest of it was hardly Thomas' business, after all.

Thomas looked shocked. “He's never slept with you?”

“Once. That, it appears, was more than enough. Now, Thomas, is there anything else?”

He saw tears sparkling in her eyes, and without another word gathered her in his arms. “This isn't right, love,” he said quietly, stroking her hair. “I'm sorry, Jules. Damn, after all that happened to you, well . . . is there anything I can do?”

She shook her head against his shoulder. “Don't embarrass Michael, please, Thomas. He doesn't deserve it, it's not his fault. He's making the best of a bad bargain.”

But there was something Thomas could do, and he had done it two days later. He'd moved out. The short note he'd left his sister simply said that it was time to make his own way. And he'd thanked her for her hospitality.

Thomas had been gone a week now, Jules thought, starting momentarily at the shadow of a man in an alley to her right. Nothing. Jules had moved that same day back into the guestroom.

And the siege of polite indifference had continued.

That voice, Jules thought, freezing. It was Wilkes! She was certain of it! She clutched her small derringer, fear trickling through her, fear and excitement. At last! Her eyes glittered in anticipation, her fingers tightened about the trigger.

But it wasn't Wilkes. It was a man, a very dirty man, dressed poorly, and he was drunk.

“Little girlie,” he said fondly, staggering toward her. “My Anna had red hair, like a flame, she did.”

“Get away from me,” Jules said, backing up a step.

“Anna?” he said, his eyes bleary, his voice shaking.

“No, I'm not Anna!” Jules said, and tried to pass him. He let her go, and she heard him make a whimpering noise behind her. Poor man, she thought. She turned slightly to look at him, worried that he might hurt himself. She jumped as two hard hands grasped her shoulders, jerking her around. This man was neither drunk nor dirty, and his eyes were alight with unexpected pleasure.

“Well, well, you're dressed awful nice, ain't you? Awful pretty, too. How much?”

“I am not a whore,” Jules said, her heart beginning to pound painfully. “Go away.”

“How much?” the man repeated. She saw in a detached manner that one of his front teeth was gold. “I'm rich and you're just too pretty to let go. Come now.”

“Go away,” she said again, and pushed her hands against him. He didn't even notice that one hand held a gun.

“It'a almost dark,” the man said, tightening his grip. “I don't mind the alley. Do you like it standing up? I won't pay you as much as I would if I could stick it in you in a nice bed. Come on now, little honey.”

She tried to jerk away from him, but it was no use.

Suddenly his hand was flattened over her mouth and he was dragging her backward toward the filthy, dark alley.

“Stop fighting me,” he hissed into her face. “I'll pay you, and you'll like it.”

He was strong, Jules thought blankly. Oh God, what had she done? She felt her heart pounding wildly, felt her mouth go cotton dry. He was going to rape her!

She felt his mouth pressing wet kisses on her face, felt his hands tugging at her cloak to get to her breasts.

“Stop it!” she screamed against his hand.

She felt his hand wild on her breast, kneading, pressing her back against a brick wall.

“You just hold still,” he growled at her, and lifted his hand from her mouth. She yelled, a high, thin
sound that broke off abruptly when his hand yanked up her skirts.

His hand was pressing against her stomach, jerking at her underthings. She started hitting him, and the derringer struck the side of his face. He drew back in stunned fury.

“You little bitch,” he said in utter astonishment. “Why'd you do that? You ain't nothing but a—” He stopped abruptly, seeing the derringer. He grabbed her wrist and jerked it forward. But she wouldn't let it go. There was a loud popping noise.

Jules watched as the man spun away from her, clutching at his shoulder. Blood oozed from between his fingers. He stared at her, his expression disbelieving. She dropped the derringer into her reticule and sagged against the wall.

“Mrs. Saint! What the hell—”

Thackery, whose practice was to keep well behind her, came bursting into the alley.

“My God,” he whispered, “you shot him!”

“He thought I was a whore,” Jules said, her voice calm, too calm, Thackery thought, eyeing her white face.

“What did you expect? Walking about by yourself, daring someone to come along . . . Oh damn!”

Thackery gathered the moaning man and hauled him upright. “Mrs. Saint, fetch me a carriage, now!”

Jules dashed into the street and yelled at a passing beer wagon. It cost her all the money she had to convince the man to drive them back home.

When Lydia opened the front door, she gasped.

“Get Dr. Saint,” Thackery said, and carried the man to Saint's surgery.

Saint was daubing iodine on a miner's leg. “Now,
there, Lewis, you'll be—” He broke off when the door burst open.

“Later, Lewis,” he said, and motioned for Thackery to put the man on the table. Saint said nothing, all his attention on the bullet wound. It was high on the man's shoulder, and the bullet had gone clean through. The man moaned and began to struggle. “Hold him, Thackery,” he said, not looking up.

“Damned little whore shot me,” the man muttered. He stared up at Saint, confusion and pain on his face. “Why would a whore shoot me? I told her I'd pay her. I ain't no liar.”

“Maybe she didn't like brown eyes,” Saint said, his hands busy. “Just hold still, you're not dying, for God's sake!”

“She shot me,” the man repeated blankly, his eyes dazed now from shock.

Saint got the bleeding stopped. He bathed the wound, spread on a thick layer of basilicum powder, and tightly bandaged the shoulder. “You'll be good as new in a week.”

The man merely regarded him vaguely, and Saint asked Thackery, “Do you know who he is?”

“With that beautiful gold tooth? Maybe the president,” Thackery said dispassionately.

Saint lightly slapped the man's face. “Name. What is your name?”

“Avery. I made me a good-sized strike. I was here celebrating, at the Oriental Hotel, and the little whore shot me.”

“At least he won't have to spend the night in the parlor,” Saint said. “Thackery, hail a hack for him and get him back to his hotel.”

“Dr. Saint,” Thackery began, knowing the time for reckoning had arrived.

“Well, what?”

“Before I get him out of here . . .”

Saint pulled his attention from the man and eyed Thackery.

“It's Mrs. Saint,” Thackery said. “She shot him.”

Saint said nothing. He didn't move. His face was an unreadable mask.

“She didn't mean to, but he was trying to force her.”

“Don't defend her, Thackery,” Saint said very calmly. “It isn't necessary. Get him out of here, please.”

Thackery lifted the man in his arms. Saint followed him silently, not looking at his wife, who was standing quietly in the entrance hall, watching.

When the front door closed, Saint walked calmly into the kitchen. Lydia was pounding at some bread. “I want you to go home,” Saint said. “Now.”

Lydia wiped the flour from her hands, her eyes studying Saint's face. She wasn't blind, nor was she deaf. “I don't know if I should,” she said.

“Leave, Lydia,” Saint repeated. “I won't kill her.” He gave a short, harsh laugh. “I'm a physician, remember?”

Lydia sighed. At least, she thought, he would speak to his wife. That, she supposed, was better than the deadening silence that pervaded the house.

Jules watched Lydia slip out the front door. She felt numb, blessedly numb.

Saint looked at her a moment, then said, “Come here into the parlor. You need a brandy.”

She followed him, standing quietly in the middle of the room until he pressed a glass in her hand.

“Drink. All of it.”

She did, and fell into a paroxysm of coughing.

He didn't touch her. Her face was red when she caught her breath.

“Finish it.”

She did, then thrust the empty glass at him. Very carefully Saint set it down.

He held out his hand.

Jules simply stared. She loved his hands, she thought vaguely. The fine sprinkling of hair, the long fingers, their blunt tips. She had loved it when he'd touched her, caressed her.

“Give me the gun,” he said.

She opened her reticule and looked at the very small instrument that could very easily have killed that man. She couldn't bring herself to touch it. She shuddered, unknowingly, and thrust the reticule at him.

Saint took the derringer, opened the chamber, and took out the second bullet. He then dropped the gun to the floor and stomped on it. Once, twice. It broke into three pieces, Jules saw.

“Now,” he said, “I believe it's your turn, Juliana.”

“Juliana?” she repeated.

“I believe,” he said, his voice as cold as Toronto winters must be, “that ‘Juliana' is more appropriate than ‘Jules' for a whore. ‘Juliana' is also more appropriate than ‘Jules' for a liar.”

His words broke over her, filling her with his disgust, and she began to shake; she couldn't help it.

“You might consider trying tears,” Saint said, making no move toward her. “Though this time, Juliana, I promise you they won't work.”

“No, no, I won't cry,” she said.

“Refreshing,” he said. He walked away from her—he had to—to the fireplace. He leaned his shoulders gratefully against the mantelpiece. “Would you care to tell me what happened?” he asked, his voice very polite, very calm.

“Nothing, not really. He pulled me into an alley.” Jules drew a deep breath. “I was frightened and we struggled. The gun went off by accident, Michael.”

“Such a short, almost boring tale,” he said. “Fortunate for your conscience that the man, Avery—not a bad fellow really, I imagine—won't die because you're a stubborn, witless little fool.”

As if drawn by a puppet's string, her chin went up.

“Would you mind telling me why you were out alone?” He waved a hand toward the window. “It's dark, and was almost dark when you were out there. Obviously you thought you'd lost Thackery.”

“Yes,” she said, “that's what I thought.”

“I believe I asked you a question, Juliana.”