Wild Star (19 page)

Brent grunted, and drank the rest of his whiskey.

“Keep swilling that rot, and you’ll barely be able to stiffen your tongue.”

Brent laughed, he couldn’t help himself. “You’ve a big mouth, Cora.”

“So Belle tells me,” he agreed, grinning.

“I don’t need your advice. Lord knows, I’ve had my share of women and their shenanigans.”

“All right,” James Cora said agreeably. “Here come two big spenders. They’ll not take you for more than ten dollars. Hey, Del, Dan. Come on over, boys. I’ve got a piss-ass gambler on my hands who’s lost everything but his boots.”

Del Saxton cocked a brow at Brent. “You look like shit,” he said.

“Thank you, Saxton.” He cast a blurry eye toward Del’s partner, Dan Brewer. “Sit down, don’t just stand there looking like an ass.”

“Same to you, Hammond.”

“Maggie told me I’d find you here,” Del said, sitting next to Brent. “She’s a bit worried about you.”

“Damned women. Tell her to mind her own business.”

“My, you’ve got a foul mouth tonight,” Dan said.

Brent wanted a fight, but not with Del. Lord, he was making a fool of himself. And it was all her fault. “I’m sorry, Del,” he said, drawing a tired breath. “Excuse my damned mouth. Shit, I don’t know what I’m even doing here.”

“Losing lots of money,” Del said. “By the looks of it. Look, Brent, you want to talk about it?”

Brent got unsteadily to his feet. “Nope. You might be my partner in that shipping business of yours, Saxton, but you’re not a priest. Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go find less demanding company.”

“What happened to him?” Dan asked as he watched Brent walk very slowly and very carefully between the tables to the front door of the El Dorado.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Delaney Saxton said. “Since we’re here, you want to lose your roll of dimes?”

“Celeste, just keep your hands to yourself. I’m not going anywhere, none of me.”

She gave a soft, amused laugh. Brent was sprawled in a large overstuffed chair, his legs stretched out in front of him. She unfastened the rest of the buttons on his trousers and gently closed her fingers over him again. “Such a little problem,” she said, stroking him.

“Thanks a helluva lot for the compliment.”

“My little
amour
doesn’t realize what pleasure is in store for him.”

“Your little
amour
is in the throes of a drunk. Why don’t you pour me another drink and keep your compliments to yourself?”

“I am a woman, Brent, not a miracle worker,” Celeste said. “Another drink and he would be as the dead. Now, hush.”

Brent sighed and closed his eyes.

“Ah, not so very little now,” Celeste said a short time later with satisfaction, raising her face to his. “Come, let me undress you.”

“I don’t want to move. I don’t want to think. I don’t want to have sex.”

“So stubborn. What happened, Brent? No one is gambling anymore?”

“Yeah, me. I lost a thousand dollars to Cora.”

“Very bad shape,” Celeste said, shaking her head. She regarded her handiwork and frowned. It took her a good ten minutes to get him stripped and into her bed. He cursed her, cursed the world, and fell, finally, sprawled spreadeagled.

“Now,” Celeste said, easing over him, “I’ll see to it that you stop your vile curses and moan just a little.”

Instead of moaning as he should, Brent muttered, “I’m a fool, a randy goat, with no sense at all. She’s nothing to me and soon she’ll be out of my life and my mind. Stubborn, foolish, so beautiful—”

He moaned finally when she eased him deep within her. He raised his hands to clasp her hips, and Celeste, looking down at his restless face, asked softly, even as she moved over him, “So stubborn? You mean she won’t let you bed her? Your Byrony?”

Brent arched up, his fingers digging into her hips. “No,” he cried. “Christ, you women have memories like traps. Stop raping me, Celeste.”

She slowed, her movements torture. “Hush,
mon cher.
You enjoy and forget that other woman.”

He did, for at least five minutes. He fell into a drunken stupor, but Celeste pulled him against her breasts, stroking his hair. His snores filled the silence of the room. My mighty man has fallen hard, she thought, and he probably won’t ever admit it to himself. She didn’t love him, but she was fond of him, and accounted him an excellent and quite generous lover. He’d sworn up and down, many times, that he would never marry, never let a woman get her clutches into him. “You poor fool,” she murmured, stroking her hands over his back. What had he meant when he said that she would be out of his life soon? Was she leaving? Was this the reason for his drinking?

 

“We will make all the necessary arrangements for you this week, Byrony,” Ira said.

The three of them were sitting at the breakfast table, tense and silent until Ira had spoken.

“You will abide by my wishes, Ira?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“You’ve given him—us—little choice,” Irene said.

Byrony took a bite of scrambled egg before she said, her voice filled with irony, “Can you imagine my remaining here, Irene? If you were I, wouldn’t you want to leave, demand to leave?”

“You have a very easy life,” Irene said. “You have the Butler name, all the clothes you want, social position—” She broke off at the incredulous rage she saw on Byrony’s face. “Well, I can’t imagine you being content as a shopgirl.”

“At least there won’t be any more lies, will there?”

“One gets used to lies,” Irene said.

Not an hour after breakfast, Byrony felt a wave of nausea. She clutched at her stomach at a sharp cramp, but it passed. The remains of the influenza, she thought, drawing a deep breath.

She accompanied Ira and Irene to church, as was their habit. After the service, she spoke to Chauncey and Del, agreeing to have lunch with Chauncey on Tuesday, exchanged pleasantries with Agatha and Horace Newton, and watched uncomfortably when Saint nodded politely to her, then studied her closely. She intended to spend the afternoon riding Thorny, but she felt so weary after lunch that she went to bed instead.

“Are you certain you’ve recovered from your influenza?” Ira asked her at breakfast the next morning, concern in his voice.

“Perhaps not entirely,” Byrony said. “I feel a bit tired.”

“Should I call on Saint? See if he can come by?”

“Oh no, it’s not necessary. I think I’ll just rest a little.” She toyed with her jam-covered toast. “I would like to leave by Friday, Ira,” she said.

“Yes, you shall,” he said.

 

“He’s mean as a rattlesnake,” Maggie said to Saint. “Say hello to him and he looks at you like you’re calling his honor into question.”

Saint grunted, then resumed his train of conversation before Maggie had interrupted him. “I don’t know what to do about Felice, except dose her on a little laudanum every month like I’ve been doing. She’s always had bad cramps, she tells me. She’s concerned that her profession might be making it worse.”

“Silly girl,” Maggie said. “How about a cup of coffee?”

He nodded. “Black, Maggie, please.”

When she was seated across from him, each of them with a cup of coffee, she continued her own train of thought. “I know it has something to do with Byrony Butler. Celeste, who has the warmest heart and the loosest mouth, told me that Brent was mumbling about ‘her leaving.’”

Saint’s head jerked up, just as Maggie had suspected it would. “That’s ridiculous,” he said, and immediately closed his mouth. God, ethics were tough. Where did one draw the line? Maybe it would be best if Byrony left. The poor girl deserved something out of life, something besides pretending to be the mother of another woman’s child. But Ira seemed so solicitous of her, at least he had at church yesterday. Jesus, they appeared the perfect couple.

“Would you talk to him, Saint?”

He heard the concern in Maggie’s voice, felt the same concern himself. He sighed deeply. “It’s none of my business, Maggie. None at all.”

“You’re his friend, aren’t you?”

“Yep, and as his friend, I won’t pry.”

“Just wait until he turns on you. Then you’ll want to do something, I wager.”

“What will you wager, Maggie?” Brent said from the doorway.

Maggie jumped. “Can’t you knock, Brent? Why, Saint and I might have been doing something very private.”

Saint choked on his coffee. He looked up as Brent crossed the room. He looked different, drawn, weary. He’d lost weight.

“I wouldn’t see anything I haven’t already seen a hundred times,” Brent said, sprawling uninvited into one of Maggie’s velvet chairs. “From the guilty look on your face, Maggie, my wager would be that you’ve been gossiping. Of course, all women are just born that way, aren’t they?”

“Don’t be so nasty, Brent,” Maggie said.

He cocked a dark brow at her. “Me, nasty?”

“The nastiest bastard I’ve seen in a long time.”

“Let’s have some peace, you two,” Saint said, raising his hand.

“How do you spell that?” Brent said.

Saint frowned. Maggie was quite right. Brent was behaving outrageously. He said “I ran into Ira Butler this morning.” He hadn’t, but he wanted to see Brent’s reaction.

It was swift in coming. Brent stiffened in his chair, his eyes narrowed, and he said through his teeth, “What the hell was that bastard doing?”

“Search me,” Saint said, and rose. “Thanks for the coffee, Maggie. Felice should wake up feeling just fine. I’ll see myself out. Brent, I’ve some free advice for you—medical advice, of course. Stop drinking.”

“Go to hell.”

“A saint in hell? Impossible.”

 

Chauncey faced Eileen at the front door of the Butler house.

“I would like to see Mrs. Butler,” she said again, wondering why in the world the woman was blocking her way.

“Mrs. Butler is ill, Mrs. Saxton. The doctor won’t let her see anyone.”

“Ill? What is wrong with her?”

Eileen shrugged. “You’ll have to ask the doctor, Mrs. Saxton. All I know is that she keeps to her bed.”

“Is Mr. Butler here?”

“No, ma’am. I must go now, Mrs. Saxton.” And with that, Eileen closed the door in Chauncey’s face.

“Of all the bloody nerve,” Chauncey said as she returned to her carriage. “Let’s go home, Lucas. Mrs. Butler appears to be ill, and no one can see her.”

Lucas frowned over Chauncey’s head as he gently assisted her into the carriage. “Still the influenza, ma’am?”

“I don’t know. I don’t understand it at all. She was supposed to have lunch with me today. She must be very ill indeed not to send me a note.”

“Well, you mustn’t worry, Miss Chauncey,” Lucas said. “Mr. Del wouldn’t like it.”

“I know. He thinks this is the very first baby to be born.”

But Chauncey didn’t forget about Byrony and mentioned it to Del that evening. When she finished, she asked, “What should we do?”

“Do?” he asked. “If she’s ill, I would imagine that Saint is seeing to her, Chauncey. Why are you so worried?”

Chauncey fretted with the fringe on her shawl—an item Del insisted she wear in the evenings to protect her from the nonexistent drafts in the house. “The Butlers’ servant, Eileen. She acted funny.”

“Tell you what, sweetheart. I’ll ask Saint what the trouble is. Tomorrow. All right?”

“Yes, thank you. I saw Lucas kissing Mary,” she added, a twinkle in her eyes.

“Oh Lord, now this is a story that I want to hear. Is it time for me to haul Lucas off to a corner and demand his intentions? Shall I prime my shotgun?”

“You’re being silly.”

“You’re probably right. Mary can handle him quite well without our interference. She is one tough woman.”

 

“He’s up in his office, Dr. Morris,” Nero said. “I don’t think I’d bother him if it ain’t real important.”

“Thanks for the warning, Nero. It’s important, or I wouldn’t risk my ears.”

“He beat the hell out of a drunk last night,” Nero added. “I had to haul him off the guy.”

“Good,” Saint said. “He ought to be too tired to go after my hide.”

He knocked on the closed door and heard a very reluctant “Come in. What do you want?”

Saint firmly closed the door and walked into Brent’s small office. He took his time seating himself.

“Well?”

“My, we’re irritable, aren’t we?”

“Saint, if you’re here at Maggie’s behest—”

“Oh no, not at all. I just wanted to hear what you know about Byrony Butler leaving San Francisco.” Aha, he thought, that got his attention.

“All I know is that she’s leaving. All right? Leave me the hell alone.” Brent closed his eyes. He felt so tired, so miserable, he couldn’t stand himself.

Saint relaxed further into his chair, crossing his long legs at the ankles. “It’s odd,” he said after a moment.

“What’s odd?” Brent said, straightening, his eyes intent on Saint’s face.

“She isn’t gone.”

“So,” Brent said, exhaling a deep breath. “She even lied to me about that. I should have known it was all an act, all—”

“She’s ill.”

Brent went pale. He jumped up from his chair and strode across the room to stand in front of Saint. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I ran into Del this morning. He told me that Chauncey went to the Butlers’ house but their servant wouldn’t let her in. Told Chauncey that Mrs. Butler was in bed and the doctor wouldn’t let her see anyone.”

“You’re her bloody doctor! What’s wrong with her, Saint?” Suddenly Brent drew back as if he’d been punched in the stomach. “She’s pregnant again, isn’t she? That is what’s wrong.”

“I doubt it,” Saint said. “Ira hasn’t called me. I don’t know who’s seeing to her.”

Brent mentally counted the number of days it had been since he’d last seen her. Four, no, five days. She’d told him she was well again, she just had a slight cough. “You’ve got to go see her,” he said.