Nan Ryan (30 page)

Nevada’s lovely face remained composed, her blue eyes calm. “What about him?”

Almost apologetically the older woman said, “Well, we both know that you were once in love with him and I’m just afraid—”

“Well, don’t be. I’m not. I am going to marry Malcolm Maxwell and I couldn’t be happier. Malcolm is all the things Johnny Roulette is not. I’m a very fortunate woman.”

“Now, dear, don’t misunderstand me. I, too, think Mr. Maxwell is a fine young man, but it’s just … well, Cap’n Roulette was—”

“A charming gambler who, because he needed my luck, afforded me the opportunity to become a lady. Johnny made it possible for me to move in social circles where I might meet polished, wealthy gentlemen like Malcolm.” She smiled serenely and added, “I’m sure he’d be quite proud of my accomplishment.”

“I suppose, still …” Miss Annabelle softly sighed.

“What is it?”

“You’re very sure you no longer care for the cap’n?”

“Yes,” said Nevada. “I’m sure.”

Miss Annabelle looked down at her gloved hands in her lap. “I knew a man like Cap’n Roulette once a long time ago.” She lifted her eyes to Nevada’s. “It changed my life forever.”

Shocked at the revealing statement, realizing she knew nothing of Miss Annabelle’s early years, Nevada touched the older woman’s arm, “Why, Miss Annabelle? Because you married him?”

“Because I did not.”

The two women rode in silence the rest of the way to the Maxwells’ Lucas Place townhouse.

As soon as Nevada had accepted Malcolm’s marriage proposal, Quincy Maxwell promptly decided on a late summer wedding, stating that mid-August would be acceptable. That would give her six months to plan the festivities. Then she insisted that Nevada and Miss Annabelle move immediately into the Lucas Place townhouse to prepare for the wedding—no need for them to return to faraway New Orleans.

So now on a bitter cold day in mid-February, exactly six weeks after Nevada and Malcolm had met at the Ledets’ New Year’s Eve party, the two women were on their way to the Maxwells’.

Malcolm was not at home when they arrived, but Quincy threw open the big front door, cheerfully welcomed them inside, and showed them up to their rooms, saying, “Our home is now your home.”

She introduced them to the small staff—a middle-aged rather sour woman called Lena who did the cooking; Minnie, the maid; and Blake, a stringy fellow who wore a constant expression of disdain, the Maxwells’ butler. The aging gray-haired black driver was not introduced but Nevada had previously heard Malcolm address him as Jess.

Stryker had gone back to New Orleans alone, closed down the apartments, and had all their belongings shipped to St. Louis. When he returned he disappointed Nevada by saying that he would live in a residential hotel room near the Maxwells’ home.

“But, Stryker,” she had said, “you must remain here on staff and—”

“When you’re married, then we’ll see.” He awkwardly patted her slender shoulder. “Rest assured, Nevada, I’ll be around, if you need me.”

“Very well, but I shall continue your pay.”

“No, Nevada. I’ll find something. Don’t trouble yourself about me.”

Nevada and Malcolm were sought after by St. Louis’s chic hostesses. Fetes were given in their honor and they graciously attended, but Malcolm confessed to his beautiful bride-to-be that he much preferred the meetings of his poetry-reading club and musical evenings in the townhouse’s spacious paneled library, with its marble fireplace and shelves of leather-bound books and the gleaming concert-grand piano.

Nevada preferred the parties and excitement and gay crowds, but reminding herself that she was a very lucky young woman, she went out of her way to be hospitable to Malcolm’s learned academic friends. Especially to Richard Keyes, the young, dark, talented pianist and composer who, at twenty-eight, played with the St. Louis symphony and was Malcolm’s dearest friend.

Nevada knew how important a best friend could be. Where would she be without her dear, talkative Denise? She sensed that Malcolm found Denise’s constant chatter annoying, but he never complained. She’d certainly not complain about Richard Keyes’s occasional brooding presence at the townhouse.

On a windy day near the end of March, while Malcolm was at the university and Miss Annabelle and Quincy were shopping, Denise came over for the afternoon. Upstairs in Nevada’s room, Nevada, listening while Denise filled her in on all the latest gossip, went to stand at the French doors.

The tall doors opened onto a double-tiered gallery that overlooked the winter-brown lawn, and at the far edge of the yard a white summerhouse looked desolate and lonely. Beyond the gazebo, a white
garçonniére
, the curtains all pulled, looked lonelier still.

Her gaze was drawn, as it often was when she was alone in her room, to the silent guesthouse. Nevada frowned, recalling the day she had asked Malcolm about it. He had seemed uncomfortable and immediately changed the subject. Since then she had noticed that. Minnie cleaned the unused place twice a week, but no one ever stayed there.

Interrupting her girlfriend’s monologue, Nevada said, “I wonder if … if anyone ever lived in the
garçonniére.
”

Denise joined her at the French doors. “Doesn’t look it. Is it locked?”

“Yes, but I know where they keep the key.” She began to smile and looked at Denise.

“Let’s hurry,” said Denise.

Nevada jerked the French doors open and the young women, not waiting to don wraps, dashed out onto the balcony, down the back steps, and across the broad yard. When they stood before the guesthouse Nevada told Denise the key was on the ledge above the door. Her tall girlfriend found it, put it into the lock, and turned.

Holding on to each other as though they were in a haunted house, they inched into the dim interior. They felt their way to a window and when Nevada pulled back the drapery, light flooded the large room filled with heavy, masculine furniture. A huge bed dominated the far wall, a fitted counterpane of gray velvet pulled tightly smooth across it, the gleaming mahogany headboard rising to a height of at least three feet on the gray-blue wall.

Dropping Denise’s hand, Nevada went to the tall armoire, opened the doors, and gasped. Men’s clothes hung in a neat row. They were fine clothes—or had been once. Examining a jacket, she said, “These clothes have been here a long time. They’re out of fashion.”

“Do you suppose they belong to Malcolm?” Denise asked.

“No. No, they are not to his taste and, besides, they wouldn’t fit him. They’re too large.”

“Look at this,” said Denise, standing before a chest of drawers. She held a framed picture in her hand.

Eyes wide, Nevada hurried to her. She stared at the faded daguerreotype. A man and woman were smiling. The woman held a baby in her arms. The child looked to be no older than a year. The man was dark-haired and huge. The woman was fair and pretty.

Nevada took the picture and raised it closer to her face. She studied it with interest and had the strangest feeling that she had seen the man before.

“I know him,” she murmured aloud.

“Who is he?”

Nevada slowly placed the image back on the chest and frowned. “I don’t know.”

“You just said—”

Nevada shook her head and laughed. “How could I know him? Of course I don’t. I couldn’t. Let’s go back to the townhouse, I’m cold.”

28

A bitter-cold winter at long last turned into warm, welcome springtime in St. Louis, Missouri. By late April it was possible and pleasant for the inhabitants of the old river city to sit on their galleries in the evenings and enjoy the balmy Mississippi breezes.

At the Lucas Place townhouse on a fine April evening, Nevada stepped out onto the veranda to join her fiancé. Rising, Malcolm came to her, took both her hands in his, lifted them and kissed the warm palms.

“I’m a lucky man,” he said, his voice soft.

Nevada smiled at him. Malcolm brushed a kiss to her cheek. He smelled not unpleasantly of peppermint and expensive hair tonic, but while his soft lips moved over her cheek, Nevada’s eyes closed. Painfully she recalled the scent and taste of Johnny Roulette, the mastery of his hard, heated lips.

“I’m lucky too, Malcolm,” she said, opening her eyes, willing Johnny’s image to leave her. She squeezed his hand and nodded yes when he asked if she’d like to sit for a while on the gallery.

Malcolm led her to a padded sofa and they sat listening to the night sounds, holding hands in the shadows while silvery moonlight bathed the well-manicured yard beyond the broad porch.

Nevada sighed and told herself that she
was
lucky. Lucky, even if the slender professor whose tapered fingers laced loosely through hers was not the most exciting and passionate man a woman might imagine. He was certainly one of the most intelligent, considerate, kindest.

And safest.

The sexual danger exuded by the reckless, charming Johnny Roulettes of the world was missing in the gentle, controlled Malcolm Maxwell. Nevada was glad it was so. When she thought back on her unforgivable animalistic behavior with Johnny, she was appalled. Not only by the fact that she had allowed him to make love to her the first night they met but also because thereafter she had brazenly thrown herself at him, her great passion for him clouding her judgment. Such disgraceful conduct seemed strangely foreign to her now.

Malcolm made it easy for Nevada to keep her wits about her. He was ever the refined gentleman, and so she was quite naturally ever the refined lady. Alarming physical attraction, of the kind she had felt for Johnny, was absent in her relationship with Malcolm, and that suited her fine.

She now had exactly what she wanted. An attractive aristocrat with wealth and position who cherished her and wanted to marry her. With Malcolm Maxwell she would have a good home, security, and children. And if blazing ardor continued to be missing, even after they were man and wife, it mattered little. The dizzying sensations of carnal ecstasy quickly paled beside the agonizing pain of shattering rejection.

So Nevada sat in the warm April shadows with her intended, feeling a sense of peace she’d never before known. Early-blooming roses below the front steps sweetened the heavy night air and fireflies came out to dart dizzily atop the trimmed hedges, and as Malcolm spoke in his soft calm voice Nevada gave silent thanks for her good fortune.

“Would you like to stroll in the moonlight?” Malcolm asked, after a comfortable lull in their conversation.

“Mm, not really. It’s nice here.” She cuddled more closely to him, leaned her dark head on his shoulder. And raised it immediately. “Wait—yes, yes, I would. Why don’t we walk out to the
garçonnière
and …”

“No. Certainly not.” Malcolm’s tone of voice bordered on sharpness.

Nevada stared at his unsmiling face. She laughed nervously and said, “Malcolm, why ever not? The guesthouse is the only part of the property you’ve not shown me and … and …” Her voice trailed off.

Malcolm’s delicate features relaxed. He squeezed her hand. He said, “Nothing there to see. The
garçonnière
hasn’t been used in years. I should consider having it torn down, I’m sure we won’t be needing it. We’ve plenty of room for our guests in the main house.” He smiled and added, “As you well know.”

“Mm, that’s true,” said Nevada, smiling, knowing she could pursue the subject no farther. Still, she was curious. Ever since she and Denise had sneaked inside the
garçonnière
that windy March afternoon, she’d been fascinated by the mystery and secrets it contained. She’d find Jess, the old black man, alone someday and ask him about it.

As he had done down in New Orleans, Stryker quickly, quietly acquainted himself with the city of St. Louis. From the riverfront docks to the Broadway Street taverns, from the downtown Soulard markets to the tree-lined boulevards of Clayton, the big man got around—he listened, looked, learned.

On a rainy afternoon in early May, Stryker’s wanderings found him across the street from Washington University. It was shortly after two in the afternoon. Stryker looked up, noticed a tall, slender chestnut-haired man descending the steps of the ivy-covered university. Squinting, he recognized Professor Malcolm Maxwell. The professor hurriedly unfurled an umbrella, lifted it above his bare head, and dashed toward a waiting carriage where an aging black man sat atop the box.

Stryker watched as Malcolm spoke to the driver, then climbed quickly inside the covered carriage. A suspicious sort by nature, Stryker considered it strange that Professor Maxwell would be leaving the college so early in the day, especially since Nevada had commented that her fiancé never arrived home before six.

Intrigued, Stryker turned up the collar of his rain slicker, walked to the hitching post, unlooped his mount’s reins, and swung up into the saddle. Following at a respectable distance, Stryker trailed the Maxwell carriage as it clip-clopped along rain-slippery Washington Avenue. Mildly curious, he continued to follow when it turned left on Grand, drove to Page, and turned yet again.

Before a rooming house on Page Street the slow-moving carriage pulled over to the curb and stopped. Professor Maxwell alighted, dashed up the walk, and disappeared inside the red brick building while the carriage and driver once again waited. A block away Stryker dismounted, tethered his horse, and walked slowly toward the red four-story building.