Love's Fortune (35 page)

Here, as in Pittsburgh, Wren felt out of step with everything around her. Strange sights and sounds bumped up against her at every turn. She’d come so far. And for what? A hard, cold lonesomeness crept in instead of the satisfaction she’d expected, compounded by the shock of meeting Du Breon.

“Mademoiselle, you come to me all the way from Pittsburgh in winter? And you claim to be a Ballantyne, no?” In a small shop on Vine Street, he regarded her with bleary eyes and tapped his balding head. “Are you . . .
folle
?”

Insane?
Her smile was sheepish. “Maybe a little.”

“And is your grandfather
the
Silas Ballantyne?”

She nodded, gaze roaming the dusty room before returning to him. “My father, Ansel, is his son. He’s in search of the lost Guarneri you wrote us about, only I’ve come in his stead. I’m staying at the Park Hotel.”

His expression clouded. “I sent you no letter, mademoiselle.”

“Are you not Du Breon?”

“I am, but I know nothing about the Guarneri you speak of.” His gaze traveled from her confused face to her violin case. “But I see you carry an instrument. Might I see it?”

She set the case on the counter, desperate to make sense of the situation. This man hadn’t sent a letter and had no
knowledge of the Guarneri, yet his name was Du Breon and he was here where the post said he would be . . .

She took a deep breath, finding comfort in the familiar. “I have a rare violin known among collectors and musicians as the Nightingale.”

“
Non!
You jest.
The
Nightingale?”

The silver clasps of the leather case gave way beneath her practiced hands. As she lifted the lid, her whole world shifted. She gasped, the pride and pleasure her instrument always brought a dim memory. Within the case’s velvet lining was an imposter, a common Mirecourt, inferior in every sense. She stood mute, mind spinning.

Bennett.

Deep in her spirit she knew. Somehow he’d tricked her, robbed her of her sole joy and comfort. The Nightingale was no longer hers but someone else’s. Though she didn’t know whose or how, she knew why.

“Not the Nightingale,
non
? Yet an instrument still worth appraising.” Taking the violin from her trembling hands, Du Breon began to inspect every detail, spectacles hiding his intent squint. “I have a buyer here in the city who may happily pay what this Mirecourt is worth. But I advise you to return to your hotel till I have time to contact him and arrange for a potential sale on the morrow.”

Fighting tears, she returned the instrument to its case, unable to hide her distress. Worn down by weariness and the cold hard fact that the Nightingale was missing and the Guarneri was far beyond her reach, she turned away, thanking him but making no promises about tomorrow.

The violin shop was not easy to find, tucked in a tight corner at the end of a dingy alley, raising James’s suspicions
before he’d even stepped inside. Dust motes danced in the air at his entry, and his nerves were raked by the frantic jingling of a bell above the door. He stood quietly for a moment, adjusting to the shadows, willing the paralyzing wariness inside him to ease.

Violins of various shapes and sizes lined the walls, but the shop smelled old, neglected. Not the place one would find a rare violin or even inquire about one.

“Bonjour, monsieur.”
An aged man emerged from a back room, a bow in hand. “Are you in need of a violin? Some sheet music, perhaps?”

“Neither.” Still suspicious of some deception, James took a last look about the shabby room. “I’m looking for a young woman by the name of Rowena Ballantyne, who is in search of a rare Guarneri violin.”

A slow awareness spread over the shopkeeper’s face. “I am Pierre Du Breon, and I know the very one you speak of. She came here yesterday asking about the same.”

“And?”

“I have no knowledge about the violin she hunts for.” He raised his palms entreatingly. “I sent no letter to Pittsburgh.”

He’d expected as much. A ruse and little more. The men who meant him harm had lured Wren here . . . him here. James shot a look at the front door, tension tightening inside him. Cane Run and its remoteness had never sounded as appealing as now.

In the stilted silence, Du Breon’s cordial mood shifted. “Do you mean trouble,
monsieur
?”

“I simply mean to find her. And I’ll reward you handsomely for your help.” Taking out his wallet, James removed a few bills and set them on the worn counter.

“You mean her no harm? She is such a charming young woman . . .”

“No harm, I assure you.”

Coming nearer, Du Breon set aside the bow and pocketed the money.
“Merci.”
Turning toward the back room, he spoke in rapid French. A shop boy appeared in a stained apron, smelling of varnish. “Take this man, Mr. . . . ?” His gaze returned to James.

“Sackett.”

“Take Mr. Sackett to the hotel where Miss Ballantyne is staying. They have business.”

“Oui.”
The boy exchanged his apron for a cap and led James out into the misty Cincinnati morning.

Sunrise found Wren eating breakfast in a secluded alcove of the hotel’s dining room, the only guest up so early. Despite the heaviness in her head from lack of sleep and the blistering ache in her heart, she was thankful for one matter. Away from Pittsburgh, the memory of James had lost some of its sharp edges. Bennett filled her thoughts instead, bringing a different kind of anguish.

Why hadn’t she known he’d retaliate in some way for her broken engagement? Having denied him what he most wanted, he’d taken something from her. She should have hidden the Nightingale, should have sent a note to Malachi by Mim instead of someone from the stable. Though she couldn’t be sure, she felt a servant had betrayed her.

Beyond the wide dining room window, a boy sped past, driving a tiny cart down the busy thoroughfare, a costumed monkey on his shoulder. Street vendors were already peddling their wares in a swirl of competing fog and sunlight.
Musicians commandeered corners, sending sleepy notes into the morning air. A multitude of people were passing. Women in fancy dress and plain cotton shifts, men in caps and top hats . . .

James.

Her fork dropped with a clatter. Here? Why? As her mind raced and fumbled to explain his appearing, she reached for her reticule, suppressing a wild desire to wave at him through the window. When she looked up again, he was gone. Had she only imagined him, then?

A sudden commotion in the foyer—the opening and closing of a door—confirmed she hadn’t. He’d found her after several hundred miles and a blur of days. Why?

“Good morning, sir. Are you inquiring after a room?”

James’s low, measured reply sent a tremor through her. “I’m looking for a young woman by the name of Rowena Ballantyne.”

“We’re not in the habit of giving out confidential information about guests—”

“In this case you need to make an exception or I’ll have to involve the police.”

A slight pause. “I understand, sir.”

From her vantage point in back of the dining room door, Wren watched the clerk examine the hotel roster. “There is a Rowena, sir, but it doesn’t appear to be the lady in question. Only a Miss Nancarrow . . .”

Wren didn’t wait to hear more, already moving toward a back exit. She’d told no one where she was staying except the shopkeeper, Du Breon. An unwise confidence. Obviously he’d told James she was here.

Bent on escape, she nearly collided with two men at the door who brushed past rather rudely, obviously intent on
some pressing business. One grunted what sounded like an apology, casting a brief glance at her violin case. Why
was
she still carrying it? For its familiar feel? Cold comfort. There was little of value within.

With that thought she stepped into the street. The hustle of the city, so like Pittsburgh, so unlike the calm of Cane Run, overwhelmed her. She wanted to shrink from the noise and the dirt, wincing at the abrupt sound of popping behind her. Loud and insistent, it ceased as quickly as it began.

Hurrying down a back alley, she tossed aside the desire to retrace her steps and throw herself in James’s arms, erasing every mile and ugly memory, every speck of lonesomeness that lay between them.

Papa had sent him—or Bennett and Andra. Perhaps even Malachi. Well, he’d come in vain. She wasn’t going to be found. She’d made up her mind, and James Sackett had no part in her plan.

“A Miss
Nancarrow
?” James repeated, staring at Wren’s signature in the hotel register. Elation and frustration pulled at him. Perhaps she was less naïve than he’d thought.

The hotel clerk inclined his head toward the dining room. “Miss Whoever-she-is was eating breakfast a few minutes ago.”

Wren—within reach? James swung toward the dining room, barely aware of a commotion in the hall.

“Ah, Mr. Sackett . . . at long last.” The voice, a rough grumble, held unmistakable challenge.

Chilled, James turned toward the sound, instinctively feeling for his pistol. Two darkly dressed men stood at both exits, derringers drawn.

All the air left his lungs.
Lord, help.
Was his life to end here, now? Like this?

All thoughts of Wren dissolved in the ensuing noise and smoke. The ceiling and wall behind him took a pounding of bullets, plaster and paint shaking down around him.

He fired back once, twice, and heard someone shout. Then a swift crack to his skull and he blacked out.

Wren’s walk to the levee was more of a run, and she clutched her valise and violin case till her grip grew stiff about the leather handles. Overcome by the landing’s carnival-like atmosphere, she sidestepped horse droppings while trying to stay clear of cargo and wagons. The next outbound southern steamer was at ten o’clock, or so a passenger schedule told her.

The fog that had greeted her when she’d arrived two days before was rushing in again, wrapping her in its misty embrace. Disguising her. Or so she hoped. She prayed the police weren’t out looking for her. Feet swollen in her too-tight boots, cape soiled from the grime of travel, she looked anything but a Ballantyne, even a Nancarrow. Her bonnet hid her well with its broad silk brim, but her fiddle case looked a bit out of place, like a huge finger pointing her way.