Natchez Flame (29 page)

An hour passed with agonizing slowness. Brendan paced the floor and looked outside a dozen times. He had almost decided to go back to Egan’s and wait for his return when Chris rapped lightly on the door and walked in.

“Chris! Thank God you’re all right.” Feeling a rush of relief, Brendan rose to his feet.

“You look like hell,” Chris said without preamble, noting the smudges beneath his friend’s eyes and the
tension that lined his forehead. “Worry about me? Or trouble with your lady?”

“Both, I’m afraid. It appears my efforts with Priscilla came too late. She’d made up her mind to believe the worst, but even if I hadn’t already lost her, the way I treated her tonight would have been the crowning blow.”

“Sorry to hear it, my friend. I had hoped things might work out.”

Brendan just nodded. “What about Egan?”

“His meeting with the mayor ended about five minutes after I got there. From there, he headed straight for the Iron Butterfly.”

“Iron Butterfly? What the hell is that?”

Chris chuckled softly. “Fanciest whorehouse in Natchez. Caters only to the wealthy, and it’s all kept very hush-hush. Even Egan, as careful as he is, wouldn’t have to worry about a place like that.”

“How long was he in there?”

“Long enough to take his pleasure. He patted one of the girls on the bottom as he left, and there wasn’t much doubt about what they’d been doing. I followed him home, and that’s where I left him. Figured I’d better get back and check in.”

Brendan paced the Aubusson carpet. “It doesn’t make sense, Chris. Why would Egan go to a whorehouse? With a woman like Priscilla to warm his bed, why would he want to?”

“Obviously, it’s just as you thought—he isn’t sleeping with her yet. The way things stand between you two, she probably hasn’t invited him.”

“A man like Egan doesn’t need permission. Besides,
I was wrong. Priscilla said that last night she …”

Chris cocked a brow. “Priscilla said what?” he asked, but Brendan didn’t answer.

Instead, he mentally replayed their angry conversation, trying to recall her every word, every expression—then he grinned.

“She’s lying. She told me the marriage has been consummated, but it hasn’t. If I hadn’t been so damned mad, I would have seen it on her face. She could never win a hand at poker.”

“Are you sure, Bren? Maybe that’s just what you want to believe.”

Brendan shook his head. “From what Priscilla has told me, Egan wants sons. That’s the reason he married her in the first place. He hasn’t been to her bed because he wants to be sure she’s not carrying my child. A man like Egan would want to be damned certain the baby was his—not somebody else’s.”

Chris’s hand came up to his shoulder. “If she told you that, even if it isn’t the truth, maybe it’s what she wants. If it is, you’ve got to resign yourself.”

Brendan remained unconvinced. “You don’t know her like I do. She’s confused right now. Egan’s got her convinced I’m some kind of monster. She’s got no money, no friends, nobody to turn to…. She’s so damned inexperienced, she doesn’t even understand what happens between us whenever we’re together. She’s ashamed of the way she feels, of the things we’ve done. She feels guilty for betraying Egan when it’s Egan who’s betraying her—and has been all along.”

“What you’re telling me is that she loves you, whether she knows it or not.”

Brendan flashed a second grin. “Exactly.”

“Then I’d suggest you get her out of there. Before she does something she really will regret—or Egan does.”

“But where would I take her? I sure can’t bring her here.”

“Why not? It’s private; no one in the world would look for her at Evergreen. You’ll have time to get things worked out.”

Brendan searched his friend’s face. “She can’t stay in the main house. Too many visitors, too many people going in and out each day.”

“She can stay here with you. If it weren’t for all this trouble, she’d be your wife already. Besides, she may need your protection.”

The thought of having her there made his heartbeat quicken. “I don’t know, Chris. It might be dangerous, and you’ve done so much already.”

“Just get her here. Sue Alice and I will make sure she’s taken care of until you get the evidence you need on Egan. In the meantime, I’d suggest you get some sleep. If you’re going to convince her what a prize you are, you’ll need all that rugged masculine charm the ladies can’t seem to resist.”

Brendan laughed aloud. He’d get her there, all right. And once he did, he’d make her listen. One way or another!

Priscilla survived the dinner party they attended at Auburn, a lovely mansion owned by one of the city’s most prominent families.

She was getting very good at hiding her emotions, and even better at playing the role of dutiful spouse. All she had to do was sit quietly, listen to Stuart’s practiced political banter, and nod whenever it seemed appropriate. He appeared more relaxed this evening, but she wasn’t quite sure why. Afterward they had come home and said their usual good-nights in the hallway. Priscilla had tossed and turned for hours, then finally fallen into an exhausted sleep.

Now, with the morning sun pressing down on her in waves of yellow heat, her eyelids still refused to open.

“It is time you woke up,
Madame
Egan.” Charmaine Tremoulet, her gangly French maid, shook Priscilla’s shoulder. “The day passes and you are still sleeping.”

What business is it of yours? Priscilla thought nastily, then remembered she’d told the tall graying woman not to let her sleep past ten.

“All right, Charmaine, I’m getting up.” Her strained evening of socializing had certainly taken its toll. That, and her shamefully wicked encounter with Brendan.

Priscilla tossed back the pale blue silk coverlet. “I’d like a bath,” she instructed, “a nice hot one.” Maybe it would help. She forced a smile and slipped into the mauve silk wrapper the tall woman held.

“M’sieur
Egan has already left. You should have gotten up sooner.”

“I’m sorry you don’t approve.” The woman grated on her nerves something awful. Stuart had hired her, and like the others in his employ, Charmaine bowed and scraped at his every command. She saw only his
charming manners and the coins that crossed her palm.

Charmaine called for the upstairs maid and arranged for the bath, then turned to the bureau and began to choose Priscilla’s undergarments, which she laid atop the bed. The bedchamber, lavishly furnished with Oriental carpets and gilded mirrors, blue-tasseled floor lamps, and silver doorknobs, seemed every bit as overwhelming as the rest of the house. Priscilla preferred a more simple design.

“You will be going out?” Charmaine asked, opening the ornate cherrywood armoire.

“I’m not sure yet. For now, I’ll just wear the blue muslin.” Summer had just about ended, except for the hot spell they’d been having for the past few days.

“The apricot dimity would be more—”

“The muslin is cooler.”

“Oui, Madame.
After your bath, we will dry and curl your hair.”

“Fine,” Priscilla said, with growing irritation, “but none of those tight little curls Stuart likes. I want it softer, more natural.”

“But the curls are very stylish. Your husband wishes—”

“I don’t care what Stuart wishes. He’s got meetings all day, so I won’t have to worry about it.” Lord in heaven, she got sick of pleasing Stuart—of taking orders in general.

“Oui, Madame.
Whatever you say.” There was censure in the lift of the woman’s thin gray brows, but Priscilla ignored it.

The upstairs maid, a short, brown-haired girl named Betty June, arrived a few minutes later. “Mr.
Jaimie has come to see you. He wants to know when you’ll be down.”

“Tell him I’ll be ready in half an hour.”

Unlike Charmaine, who grumbled from dusk till dawn, Betty June was a cheerful girl. She willingly left to deliver Priscilla’s message. At least she’d have Jaimie for company. Stuart didn’t seem to mind their friendship. It was almost as though he expected Jaimie to look after her. Of course, Jaimie had little else to occupy his time. It was Mace Harding who usually went with Stuart, unless he left the house alone.

Half an hour later, as promised, Priscilla descended the curving staircase in her simple blue muslin dress, her hair arranged in soft brown curls at the shoulders.

Jaimie waited in the front parlor. “Mornin’, Miz Egan.”

“Good morning, Jaimie.” She wished he would call her Priscilla, but Stuart wouldn’t like it, and both of them knew it. “Would you care to join me for breakfast?”

“No thanks, ma’am, I’ve already eaten. I just stopped by to tell you I’d found out some about Miss Conners, just like you asked.”

In the dining room, with its gold-flocked wallpaper and gold silk draperies, Priscilla sat down in a carved mahogany chair and motioned for Jaimie to do the same. Negro servants brought them coffee in gold-trimmed porcelain cups, along with ham and biscuits for Priscilla. The succulent aroma made her mouth water, though she hadn’t thought she was hungry.

“So what did you find out?” she finally asked, after a few tentative bites.

“She lives with a fella named Caleb McLeary, over at the Middleton Hotel.”

“Is he some sort of relative?”

Jaimie cleared his throat. “No, ma’am, not exactly.”

Priscilla’s eyes went wide. “You mean she’s his mistress?”

“Caleb says she’s his niece, but everybody knows the truth.” Jaimie’s gentle features grew taut. “Word is he mistreats her some. Gets drunk and beats her.”

“That’s terrible. Why does she put up with it? She’s a beautiful woman. Surely she doesn’t have to stand for that kind of behavior.”

“Seems she hasn’t got much choice. You see, she comes from under the hill. Worked at a place called the Painted Lady.”

“A saloon?” Priscilla asked.

Jaimie reddened. “Sort of.”

“Oh my.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Priscilla—I mean, Miz Egan. From what I gather, Miss Conners has had a rough life. She lost her ma and pa when she was five—”

Priscilla’s chest tightened.

“There was some kind of scandal involved, but her pa’s relatives kept things quiet. Besides, that’s been nearly twenty years ago. Nobody seemed to remember.”

Priscilla set her coffee cup down and it clattered noisily against the saucer.

“Her real name’s Rosie O’Conner,” Jaimie finished. “That’s all I know.”

Not Conners
—O’
Conner.
Irish. It had an oddly familiar ring. The pressure in her chest grew tighter, making it hard to breathe. “I know this is a little crazy, but I was wondering … if it wouldn’t be too much trouble … maybe you could do a little more digging.”

“Do you mind my askin’ why?”

“If I knew, I’d tell you. It’s just a feeling. Something about her….”

“She takes a walk every mornin’ about ten. Maybe I could talk to her, get to know her a little.”

“Don’t tell her I put you up to it.”

“To tell you the truth, I was planning to talk to her anyway.” Jaimie grinned, stretching the freckles on his face.

“Caleb McLeary might not like it.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “He’s not her husband. And until he is, she doesn’t have to answer to him.”

Priscilla fell silent. Rose wasn’t married to McLeary. A few simple words that changed a woman’s life completely. If she had it to do over, would she marry Stuart again? In her heart she knew that she would not.

“The Meyers job went off without a hitch, just like I said.” Caleb McLeary sprawled in a rickety wooden chair in the store room. “You worry too much, Egan. Why don’t you relax and enjoy life a little?”

“Went off without a hitch?” Stuart repeated, incredulous. He stood several feet from McLeary, every muscle tense. “For God’s sake, man, there were bodies all over the river! This whole operation is getting way out of hand.”

Caleb just laughed. “So someone got spooked and started shooting. It wasn’t our fault. What the hell were we supposed to do?”

“The problem is you just don’t care anymore. You’ve got the meanest gang of cutthroat river rats under the hill, and you don’t think anyone can stop you. Well, I’m telling you, Caleb, the mayor’s forming a vigilante committee. They’re going to crack down on all this smuggling and murder, and they’re going to crack down hard. I suggest we cut bait and drift for a while. Let things cool down. You get rid of some of those no-goods who work for you, send the rest out of town, and when things get quiet, we can start back up again. Ease into it gently, no murder, no mayhem, just a little flatboat robbery here and there, a wagon load of goods stolen along the Trace.”

McLeary just scoffed. “You got your money, you don’t have to worry. I need a bigger stake.”

Unconsciously, Stuart’s hands fisted, but he forced himself under control. Outside the door, a burst of raucous laughter filled the silence in the room. Mace Harding shifted his eyes from McLeary to Stuart and back again. Jake Dobbs, McLeary’s man, eased back against the wall.

“So how do you plan to keep the vigilantes off your back?” Stuart finally managed to ask.

McLeary came out of his chair, wearing a look very near excitement. “I plan to make one last haul—the biggest cache of plunder ever taken on the river. Your man at the shipping office sent word just this morning. The
St. Louis
will be moving downstream loaded with bales of fur, barrels of flour, whiskey, and hardwood—and a big shipment of gold to the
federal troops in New Orleans. We take the
St. Louis,”
he said, pronouncing it
St. Louie.
“I’ll retire, your precious reputation’ll stay intact, and we’ll all wind up rich men. What do you say?”

It was tempting. More than tempting. His problem with McLeary would be solved—one stray bullet among a barrage certainly wouldn’t be noticed. The robberies and murders would end—or at least his connection to them. And his fortune would swell considerably, since his usual percentage for providing the information would increase by Caleb’s share.

“Taking a steamboat that size won’t be easy. What have you got in mind?”

McLeary walked over to the scarred wooden table and unrolled a map of the river. “She’s been shifting real bad lately. Big sandbar building at the 370 mile marker.”