Scandal on Rincon Hill (30 page)

“Oh, aye. I hope that I am a good friend to you, Sarah,” he said, his voice soft yet strangely intense. He started to say something else, then seemed to think better of it. Muttering unintelligibly, he broke off his scrutiny and once again raised the menu.

When we had ordered, Robert sat back in his chair, seemingly more relaxed than when we had entered the restaurant. I knew him well enough, however, to recognize the line of tension between his eyes, and the way he had pulled his mouth into a taut line. Guessing, incorrectly, as it turned out, that his unrest stemmed from our return visit to Madam Valentine's parlor house, I decided to let sleeping dogs lie, and made no comment. Instead, I quietly sipped my wine and examined our surroundings, along with our fellow diners.

The restaurant, which called itself the “Black Bull,” was of moderate size, and decorated in an overstated Wild West motif. Every wall contained paintings of mountains, valleys, and deserts, all of them depicting animals in their natural habitat. Above a large brick fireplace—its flames providing a welcome warmth from the cold outside air—had been hung the head of a massive black bull, its huge horns towering halfway to the ceiling. Most of the tables around us were occupied, and at the far end of the room, a raised, circular stage held a piano and sufficient space for a small musical group. Although the stage was currently unoccupied, I wondered if we would be treated to some sort of entertainment.

“Did you enjoy the theater?”

Robert's question took me by surprise. “Excuse me?” I said, turning in my seat to find him once again regarding me with those curiously probing eyes.

“I asked if you and Pierce Godfrey enjoyed the theater last Friday night?”

“Yes, very much,” I replied. “It was a splendid production of
The Merry Wives of Windsor
.”

“How long will Godfrey be in town?”

“He didn't say, although I'm sure he'll stay through the holidays, at least.” I studied his face, trying to make sense of his odd expression. I had expected him to go on about tonight's business at the brothel. Instead, he was asking me questions about the theater. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugged his broad shoulders, then said evasively, “No particular reason. I was just wondering.”

As I have stated on more than one occasion, I cannot abide ridiculous verbal sparring. “Robert, why don't you simply tell me what's bothering you?”

He started to speak, but was interrupted by the waiter bringing our food. I waited until the man had left, but when Robert showed no signs of returning to my question, I prompted, “Come now, Robert, what is it? Why are you behaving so peculiarly?”

He shifted in his chair, but still seemed reluctant to speak. Then, visibly gaining courage, he blurted, “Just how important is that man to you, Sarah?”

I regarded him quizzically. “What man?”

“Pierce Godfrey, of course.” He was looking at me in exasperation. “Who else would I mean?

“I don't understand. Why would you ask me a question like that? Pierce is a good friend, of course. I'm certain he would like to be your friend, as well, if you treated him more civilly.”

He kept his eyes fixed on mine. “Are you sure he doesn't mean a good deal more to you than just a friend?”

“More than a friend—? Robert, what in the world are you getting at?”

“Oh, for God's sake, woman, open your eyes. The man is in love with you. You can't be that blind to his feelings. He may be a rogue, and for all I know a thief on the high seas, but when it comes to you he wears his heart on his sleeve.”

I felt my face flush. This was the last thing I'd expected Robert to say. I had been careful never to mention Pierce's marriage proposal to anyone, not even Samuel, and above all, not to my parents. Nor had I divulged his plans for our future, the future I could not imagine us ever sharing.

I was fumbling about trying to think of some way to respond to this startling statement, when Robert cleared his throat and went on, “I see that I have upset you, and I'm sorry. It was not my intention.”

“Was it not?” I replied, anger beginning to replace my shock at his temerity. “It's my turn to wonder at your own naïveté, Robert, if you truly did not expect such a personal, and uncalled-for, remark to cause me distress. Moreover, I do not see how my friendship with Pierce Godfrey can be any of your concern.”

“I have apologized for irritating you, Sarah, but I stand by my words.” His own temper was rising, and his voice had grown so loud that a couple at the next table turned to stare at us in disapproval. “Of course Pierce Godfrey is in love with you, any idiot can see that. Furthermore, however much you try to deny it, it's clear from your face that you're every bit as aware of his feelings as am I. And I consider it to be very much my business, if you must know.”

“Please,” I hissed, “lower your voice. You're making a spectacle of yourself. What has gotten into you anyway?”

Instead of answering my question, he went on with his diatribe, this unusual show of emotion causing his craggy face to mottle with color. “I may not always agree with your tactics, but I have long considered you to be an intelligent and practical woman, not vulnerable to a handsome face and a flattering tongue. You should see yourself when you're in the presence of that blackguard. It's—it's disgusting! It is almost as if the man has cast some kind of spell over you.”

“That is entirely enough, Robert,” I warned him, discomfited to note that even more diners had turned in their chairs and were looking in our direction. Lowering my voice, I went on, “You're allowing your imagination to run away with you, and it is most unbecoming. I assure you that Mr. Godfrey has not cast a spell over me. The very idea is ludicrous.”

I stared at him over the candlelight. “I realize that you do not approve of Pierce, but why are you making such a fuss simply because he and I attended the theater together? And what do you mean by saying that it is very much your business?”

His angry expression changed to one of chagrin, as if he had stuck his foot in his mouth, and was without a clue how best to pull it out again.

“I, ah—As you just admitted, I'm your friend,” he answered, rather lamely in my estimation.

“Robert, you're making no sense whatsoever. Tell me what is really on your mind.”

He made a move as if to stand up, then, remembering where he was, sank back down in his seat. Robert is a restless man, especially when he is under duress. I knew by the tight set of his jaw that he was longing to be on his feet, pacing the room, perhaps, if that were possible. Then, as if set free by the opening of a floodgate, the words came tumbling out.

“You should know by now how much I care for—That is, you surely must realize the nature of my feelings for, for—” He ran a large hand through his coarse red hair, causing it to stand up in little clumps like a field of sun-ripened cornstalks. “You're a stubborn, opinionated, often reckless woman, but I find myself hopelessly in—” He gulped uncomfortably, and came to an abrupt halt. “Blast it all, Sarah, I just—well, I just don't want to see you make a fool of yourself over that scoundrel.”

I found myself incapable of uttering a single word; all I could do was sit there and stare at him. What in the world was he going on about? Why was he behaving so strangely?

Before I was forced to reply to this astonishing speech, the room was suddenly filled with the sound of piano music. I looked toward the small stage, to see a man seated at the piano, his fingers lightly tripping over the keys. An attractive young woman with a bright head of red hair stepped out from behind the piano, and after a spate of polite applause from our fellow diners, began to sing.

I was so bowled over by Robert's words, and the need to say something, anything, to break the awkward silence that hung between us, that I foolishly blurted out the first thing that came into my head.

“That singer could be your sister, Robert. Her hair is the same color as yours.”

He regarded me as if I had suddenly lost the use of my faculties. “That singer cannot be an inch over five feet tall, if that. I am six
feet four inches. My two sisters are at least five feet nine or ten in their stocking feet. And as to that woman's hair color, if it didn't come straight out of a henna bottle, I'll eat my hat.”

His eyes went again to the tiny singer, then came back to me. Once again, it was impossible to read his expression. “Oh, and it's nice to know that my hair reminds you of an overripe pumpkin patch.”

T
he remainder of dinner was strained; the cab ride home seemed interminable. When we finally reached my house, Robert silently assisted me out of the cab, then walked me to the door. Even in the dim spill of light from the gas lamp, I could tell that he was still disgruntled over what had happened at dinner. Unfortunately, I had no idea what I could possibly say that would make everything all right between us again.

“Good night, Sarah,” he said a little stiffly. He paused a moment, as if he might be about to say something else, then turned to go.

Without thinking, I took hold of his arm. “Robert, wait.” I still didn't know what to say, I just knew I couldn't let him leave with this awful tension still between us.

Prompted by instinct more than reason, I stood on my tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Robert,” I told him softly. “For everything. Your friendship means more to me than I can say.”

“Oh, aye,” he replied, that strange tone back in his voice. “We're good friends, Sarah. I just wish—”

Again, he hesitated, then mumbled something beneath his breath that I could not make out.

“Oh, damn it all anyway,” he suddenly blurted and, placing his strong arms around my waist, pulled me against him and kissed me full upon the lips.

It was no ordinary kiss. Certainly, it was a far cry from the sort of kiss one might share with a friend. In fact, I was completely shocked by the passion of the embrace. Unable at first to move, I felt
him increase the pressure of his lips on mine, and his arms tightened as he roughly pulled me even closer to his chest.

When one of his hands circled the back of my head to lift my face closer to his mouth, I was astonished to realize that my fingers, entirely of their own volition, had slid into the thick hair at the nape of his neck. What was I doing? a small, distant voice demanded. This was nothing like the Robert Campbell I knew. Dear Lord! This was totally unlike sensible, controlled, no-nonsense Sarah Woolson!

Feeling as if the world had suddenly gone insane, I could only stand there dazed when he finally broke off the kiss. My head felt slightly woozy and I stood rooted to the spot, afraid that if I moved so much as an inch I might fall flat on my face. I was still trying to catch my breath when he abruptly turned and, without a word, hurried back into the waiting carriage.

I stared after his departing cab, waiting until my body had regained some semblance of normalcy, before I attempted to move. With none too steady hands, I used my key to open the front door, and stepped inside.

To my relief, I saw no one inside the foyer. I could hear the sound of voices coming from the parlor, but the last thing I wished to do was to talk to anyone.

Quietly, I hurried up the stairs, went to my room, and closed the door.

I
awoke early the next morning, still weary from yet another restless night's sleep. My natural inclination was to escape someplace where I could be alone and sort through the events of the past ten days—especially the recent episodes with Pierce, and with Robert the night before.

By the light of day, last night had an illusory quality about it, as if it hadn't really happened. Robert's behavior had been so utterly unexpected, that it would have been simple enough to think back upon it as a dream. But, of course, it hadn't been a dream. It was a reality I would have to seriously attempt to unravel. But not this morning.

Entering the brougham Eddie had waiting for me outside my house, I did my best to concentrate on the morning's undertaking. In a few minutes we would pick up Brielle and little Emma at Madam Valentine's parlor house. I would require all my wits to see us through the upcoming encounter with Gerald Knight.

That morning I had donned a woolen cape and small velvet hat against the December chill, adding a colorful scarf to my costume in order to soften the effect of my rather severely cut suit. When I had first opened my law practice, I had commissioned several of these suits to be made for me—in gray, midnight blue, and brown.
Each gown was designed with concealed pockets, a tapered waist, and as little bustle as fashion would permit. All three were at once functional and professional, yet not entirely lacking in femininity. Such was the delicate balance I strove constantly to achieve in order to foster client confidence, while not appearing in any degree masculine to my male colleagues. I could not afford to forget that I was one of only three female attorneys currently practicing law in the entire state of California!

I will not deny that I was nervous. After all, this might be our only chance to sway Mr. Knight's feelings toward his daughter. It was impossible not to worry about the outcome, especially given Brielle's sudden surge of hope that once he saw the child his “heart would melt.” Not for the first time, I wondered if Robert hadn't been right after all. The last thing I wanted to do was add yet one more disappointment to the poor girl's life.

As planned, Brielle was waiting for us when Eddie and I arrived. I was pleased to see that she had dressed little Emma in a soft blue baby gown, complete with a matching bonnet trimmed in white lace that truly did bring out the clear blue of her eyes. The little girl was snugly wrapped in a lovely cream-colored blanket which, Brielle informed me, had been crocheted by one of Madam Valentine's “girls.” Hiding my surprise that a lady of the evening could be so accomplished in housewifely duties—when I could not knit four stitches in a row without dropping two of them—I limited my comments to praising the fine, intricate craftsmanship of the piece.

Because we were transporting a small baby, I instructed Eddie to drive at a more sedate speed than was his wont. Much to my surprise, he actually did make an effort to take most of the corners on all four wheels, and managed to subdue his natural inclination to pass any traffic which stood in the way of his forward progress. Even at this modest (at least for Eddie) pace, we managed to pull up in front of the large, modern-looking building that housed the
Daily Journal
shortly after ten o'clock, the time I had deemed optimum for finding the newspaper owner ensconced in his office.