“Good evening, Boggs,” Delaney said. “It’s elegant you are tonight.”
“Thank you, Mr. Saxton,” Boggs said grandly.
Delaney handed over his silk top hat and wandered upstairs to the huge ballroom. Glittering chandeliers cast dancing shadows on the guests, many of whom were whirling about in a rather fast-paced waltz. The small orchestra was settled at the far end of the ballroom upon a dais, playing their instruments with urgent gaiety.
Delaney recognized most of the guests immediately, though they were all wearing the required masks. As usual, there were more men than women present, even including some of the more questionable females. He saw Mrs. Stevenson, her iron-gray hair arranged in ridiculously tight ringlets about her broad face, two huge ostrich plumes rising at least a foot above her head. Penelope was surrounded by a group of men. He could hear her tittering at their compliments from where he stood. He scanned the crowd, realizing he was searching for Miss Elizabeth Jameson. He saw Marie dancing with the stiff-kneed Jarvis. Penelope could learn something about style from Marie, as could most of the ladies here tonight, he thought, unconsciously nodding approval of her yellow velvet gown. Her only jewelry was a diamond necklace he had given her at Christmas.
There she was, the mysterious Englishwoman in question—he was sure of it—standing next to Dan Brewer, while Dan, bless his heart, appeared to be shielding her from the onslaught of eager gentlemen. She was wearing an elegant gown of pale blue silk that fell away from her white shoulders. He scanned her form, objectively noting her full breasts and slender waist. “I take it all back,” he murmured to himself. “There is style.” He could tell nothing of her face, but her hair was lovely, an odd combination of colors, like the leaves in autumn back in Boston, he thought. He moved no closer, content to watch her for a while. Only when Dan left her to go to the refreshment table did Delaney approach. There were a half-dozen other men closing in on her, but he deftly made his way through their ranks until he stood in front of her.
“It is my dance, I believe, Miss Jameson,” he said calmly, and proffered his arm.
Chauncey eyed the gentleman standing so much at his ease in front of her. He was tall, slender, and well-dressed. His hair was a light brown, the color of rich honey, and rather longer than an English gentleman would wear. He wore no side whiskers or beard. His mouth was well-formed and his smile attractive.
At least he appeared utterly respectable, and he did know her name. A man of some importance, she supposed, for the other men had stood aside for him. Still, she frowned a moment before accepting him, her eyes going about the huge ballroom yet again. Where was Saxton? Dan Brewer had assured her that he would be coming.
“You know my name, sir,” she said, bringing back her attention to the gentleman.
“Of course,” he said. “I promise not to tread on your toes. Waltzing is one of my major accomplishments.”
Chauncey grinned and accepted his arm. She found that he was a surprisingly good dancer, his movements easy to follow, and he did not attempt to draw her close.
“I do not know your name, sir,” she said, gazing up at him. His eyes were a light brown, nearly the same color as his thick hair, with golden lights. Or were they more amber? It was hard to discern his other features because of his mask.
His eyes twinkled down at her. “I do not think you have a beak of a nose,” he said.
“A beak! No, I trust not. What an outrageous thing to say, sir.”
“True, but I was informed that it was indeed the case. By a young lady, of course. No gentleman, even if it were true, would so castigate an unmarried lady, at least not in San Francisco.”
“I am beginning to believe that you would, sir!”
“I?” A mobile brown brow shot upward a good inch. He smiled, revealing straight white teeth. “Never! I may be a blackguard, but I would never insult a lady who dances as well as you do.”
“I do not dance with blackguards, sir.”
“I beg to differ with you, ma’am. If you have danced at all this evening, blackguards have already numbered among your partners.”
How slippery he is, Chauncey thought. At least he has wit and doesn’t pretend that I am the most desirable creature in the world! She was silent a moment, remembering, and suddenly she missed a step.
“I suppose,” her partner said pensively, “that I should have asked if you were a treader of toes.”
“Not usually,” she said a bit stiffly, miffled at his lack of tact. “It is just that I was wondering who that man is standing . . . over there.” She pointed distractedly toward a portly gentleman laughing immoderately with a woman wearing a rather pointedly garish red gown.
“No you weren’t, not really,” Delaney said. “In any case, the gentleman is John Parrot, one of San Francisco’s esteemed financiers. Whom were you really looking at?”
“You are most forward,” Chauncey observed, frowning up at him.
“No, actually, I’m the mildest of souls. Ah, the waltz is drawing to a close. But look, Miss Jameson, there is a flock of hungry birds—roosters, more aptly, gazing toward you. I will protect you for another dance.”
Before Chauncey could say a word, he had swung her again into the next waltz. She started to protest, but her gaze was held by a short, rather stocky young man who stood in the doorway of the ballroom. Was that Delaney Saxton? He looked the part, at least from this distance. He appeared utterly arrogant and conceited, as if he were the royal prince surveying his kingdom.
She landed on her partner’s foot.
“Oh dear, I am truly sorry,” she gasped. “I promise you I am not usually so clumsy.”
“I suppose it is allowable, since you are an eccentric.”
Chauncey was startled into laughter. “Eccentric! Only very old, very wealthy people are allowed to be eccentric, sir. All others are simply crazy.”
“It is what I have been told, Miss Jameson. Why else would you come to San Francisco?”
She fell awkwardly silent, and his eyes narrowed on her still face. “A world traveler, then,” he said easily, disliking her sudden discomfort even though he didn’t understand it.
“Perhaps,” she said finally.
“If you would but tell me whom you are looking for, you would likely spare my body further pain. You just missed another step.”
“Oh, very well,” she said. “If you must know, I am wishful of meeting my banker this evening.”
“Your banker?” he asked carefully, his eyes going briefly toward Dan Brewer.
“Yes, his name is . . . Delaney Saxton. Mr. Brewer told me he would be present this evening. After all, he is supposed to marry Miss Stevenson. Surely he would not miss her ball.”
Delaney was startled into silence. How could a man Miss Jameson had never met before cause her such distraction? There would be time enough to tell her that it was he who was her banker. But not yet. He wanted to enjoy himself a bit longer. “Marry Penelope Stevenson?” he drawled. “Delaney Saxton? It is a strong possibility, I suppose. Tell me, did Dan Brewer give you all this information?”
Chauncey flushed just a bit. This man made her say things before her mind cleared them for utterance. “Well, not really. You see, Mrs. Stevenson and Miss Penelope came to visit me last week. It was they who told me of Mr. Saxton’s . . . intentions.”
“Hmm,” said Delaney. “Why are you so anxious to meet this fellow? He’s not at all prepossessing, you know. Terrible dancer, quite inarticulate, a buffoon in fact. Always laughs at stupid jests. Really, Miss Jameson, I beg you to forget the man. He’s an utter bore, I promise you.”
“Not an ounce of wit, then?”
“Less than an ounce.”
“You are in fact not a friend of Mr. Saxton’s, then?”
“Did I say that? Ah, such a pity the dance is over. I fear I must return you to your other admirers, ma’am. I wish you luck in fending off their attentions. But you really needn’t worry. They all hold ladies in almost reverent awe.”
“
You don’t appear to,” she said sharply.
“But then, I’m something of a bore,” said Delaney, smiling widely down at her.
She was striving to think of a retort when Dan Brewer bore down upon them. “You might at least tell me your name, sir,” she said, goaded, “before,” she added, “you take yourself off.”
“Perhaps later, Miss Jameson. Good evening, Dan. Did you come to provide protection for our newest lady?”
Dan Brewer smiled shyly at her. “Yes indeed. I’m glad you two have finally met. Miss Jameson, would you kindly honor me with this dance?”
“Met?” Chauncey exploded. “I have no idea who he is!”
Delaney gave her a devilish grin and wheeled about, striding confidently toward Miss Penelope Stevenson.
Dan Brewer laughed, shaking his head. “Ah, Del loves a good mystery! He’s quite a jokester, Miss Jameson. You’ll have to forgive him.”
Chauncey became very still. “Del?” she asked, her voice thin and high.
“Of course,” he said, cocking his head to one side. “My partner, Delaney Saxton.”
8
“You’re a fool, Chauncey, a hundred times a fool!”
“Ma’am? Forgive me, I didn’t hear what you said.”
Chauncey pulled herself together for her partner’s benefit. He was a shy young man who was dancing with her as if she were a fragile porcelain doll. “I was just . . . thinking aloud,” she said, forcing a thin smile to her lips. She paused a moment and waved a negligent hand toward Delaney Saxton.
“I understand, Mr. Hewlitt, that Miss Stevenson and Mr. Saxton will soon be giving San Francisco a wedding celebration.”
Mr. Hewlitt chewed on his lower lip, a nervous habit of long standing, Chauncey supposed. “I reckon so, ma’am. Miss Penelope is such a pretty little lady, and Del . . . well, everyone wants him to have only the best. Yep, I guess they’ll tie the knot soon.”
Everyone sings his blasted praises! Has he never shown his true colors here? She shook her head slightly in answer to her own silent query, remembering the saying the folk of Surrey fondly repeated: “No thief ever steals from his own house.”
The dance ended at that moment, and Chauncey again turned toward Delaney Saxton. He had just raised Penelope Stevensons’ small hand to his lips. When he straightened, he looked directly at Chauncey and gave her a bow and a wicked smile. She froze, wondering if he were going to approach her again.
But he didn’t. She danced until her feet ached. She met every lady worthy of that exalted title in San Francisco and endured every gentleman’s fulsome compliments. It was past midnight when Dan Brewer claimed her again for a waltz.
“Doesn’t everyone unmask at midnight, Mr. Brewer?” I want to see his face, look at his eyes.
Dan Brewer choked. “Well, no, Miss Jameson.”
“Why ever not, sir?”
He mumbled uncomfortably, “It just isn’t the tradition, ma’am, that’s all.”
It was Miss Penelope who told her why, some minutes later, when both young ladies had removed to the ladies’ retiring room to refresh themselves.
“Oh, that,” Penelope said, waving a small dismissing hand. “Mama couldn’t allow that.” She giggled at Chauncey’s look of bewilderment. “Many of the ladies here tonight aren’t ladies. Everyone knows it, but no one says anything if they are masked.”
“They?”
“Loose women,” Penelope said, quite unconcerned. “After all,” she continued matter-of-factly, “there are so many men here. What are they to do? Even Delaney has a French mistress.” She shrugged, not at all concerned. “Of course he’ll give her up after we are married.”
Chauncey was silent a moment, chewing over this startling information. “So,” she said brightly after a moment, “when do you announce your engagement?”
“After Del convinces me, I suppose,” Penelope said, eyeing the Englishwoman from the corner of her eye. She hadn’t missed the two waltzes Del had danced with her when he had first arrived.
Penelope was rather silly and vain, Chauncey thought judiciously as she patted several strands of hair back into place, but still, she didn’t want to hurt any innocent person. She forced herself to ask lightly, “You must be very fond of him. I thought him very . . . witty.”
To Chauncey’s surprise, Penelope shrugged her shoulders pettishly. “Oh, that! I can’t understand some of the things he says sometimes, and he just smiles at me when I ask him to explain. I like him well enough. Daddy thinks he’s quite a catch. And since he’s been to England—indeed, even has English relations, royalty almost—Mama thinks the sun rises on him!”
Chauncey could think of nothing to say to this artless speech. He has English relations. So that was how he managed to trap her father! But why, she wondered, didn’t Paul Montgomery know of these relations? She temporized. “I hope everything works out as you wish it to, Miss Stevenson.”
Penelope gave her a superior, confident smile. “Oh, it will, Miss Jameson. I don’t imagine that you will be in San Francisco much longer?”
Chauncey almost smiled at the hopeful note in Penelope’s voice. “We will see,” she said. “I find I am much enjoying your beautiful city.”
Chauncey pounded her hapless pillow, but sleep eluded her. She doesn’t love him, she thought over and over. I won’t be hurting her heart, only her pride. She supposed she reached her decision just as the sun was beginning to rise over the city.
It was so simple, really. So simple and final, you fool! She climbed out of her warm bed and padded on bare feet to the windows. I wonder if he is awake yet. I wonder if he liked me. He certainly seemed to, she thought, even though he had avoided her the rest of the evening. What if he loves Penelope Stevenson? What if I can’t win him away from her?
“Miss Chauncey! Up so early? Are you feeling well?”
Chauncey turned to see Mary, her dark hair disheveled, drawing the sash more tightly about the waist of her robe.
“No, I can see that isn’t it at all,” she continued, her eyes shrewd even as she yawned behind her hand. “You met Mr. Saxton.”
“Yes, I met him—indeed, waltzed twice with him.” She gave a self-mocking smile. “He is not quite what I expected, Mary. He does not look in the least . . . evil. At least I don’t think so, since everyone stayed masked. And he acts in the most lighthearted way imaginable.”
“Then why were you staring out of the window looking as if you had lost your last friend in the world?”
“I intend to marry him,” Chauncey said baldly.
“So,” Mary said thoughtfully, “the wind sets that way, does it? You are certain then that he intends to wed Miss Penelope?”
“It appears so. She is silly and vain, but her father is quite wealthy. It seems Mr. Saxton is an opportunist as well as a villain.”
“You don’t think he loves the chit?”
“I know she doesn’t love him.” She shrugged, but her voice hardened with resolve. “As for Mr. Saxton, whatever his feelings are, I fully intend that they will change.”
Mary felt a wave of pity wash over her. It wasn’t right that Miss Chauncey, now freed from the greed of her aunt and uncle, should be forced to go to such lengths. She sighed, knowing well that once Miss Chauncey had made up her mind, nothing would change it.
“Stop looking at me as if I were a wet kitten straggling in the rain! It will not be bad, Mary. I will marry him, ruin him, then we will return to England where we belong.”
Miss Chauncey made it all sound so easy, Mary thought. But life wasn’t like that. Life was a slippery road full of potholes and sharp turns. She looked toward her young mistress and heard her talking softly to herself. “ . . . As his wife, I will know everything he plans, I will know exactly how to strike at him.”
Mary muttered an utterly improper string of words and left Chauncey’s bedroom.
* * *
“Del, you have a visitor.”
Delaney looked up from the ledger he was studying, a mobile brow risin
g at the smug tone of Jarvis’ voice.
“I gather it isn’t fat old Mrs. Tucker wanting me to subscribe to her latest charity?”
“No, sir. ’Tis that Englishwoman, Miss Jameson. She asked for you specifically, Del.”
“Is that so?” Delaney said softly, his expression becoming utterly bland. “Since the young lady is one of our prime customers, I suppose I should see what she wants. Do show her in, Jarvis. Oh . . . and, Jarvis, you needn’t listen at the keyhole!”
Jarvis cast his employer a wounded look, then took himself out of Delaney’s office. Now, what does she want? he wondered lazily, leaning back in his comfortable leather chair. When Miss Jameson appeared in his doorway, he rose slowly, straightening his gray waistcoat as he did so, and for a moment felt intense pleasure simply looking at her. Even with her mask, he had had no doubt that she would be beautiful, and he was right. Her glorious hair was piled charmingly atop her head, with curling tendrils falling over her temples. Her bonnet was trimmed in yellow silk to match her entrancing gown. Her eyes were an odd mahogany color, but he suspected that like her hair, they shifted color depending on the light. And her mood, of course. He met her gaze and saw that she was assessing him as openly as he was her. “What an . . . unexpected pleasure, Miss Jameson,” he drawled, walking toward her. “To what do I owe this honor?”
Chauncey swallowed, taking in his thick wave of honey-colored hair that fell over his forehead, and his twinkling eyes, fringed with thick dark lashes. Why couldn’t he have a weak chin, at least? To plan to see him and bowl him over was a very different matter from actually doing it. Be witty and outrageous. He is a man who can’t bear to be bored. She was startled for a moment at her insight, but she knew it to be true about him.
“It is a lovely day, Mr. Saxton,” she said, allowing him to take her hand briefly. “I have come to rescue you from your labors.”
Why, she is chasing me, he thought, both amused and intrigued. But his expression never changed. He waved toward the pile of papers on his desk. “Alas, Miss Jameson, I am but a miserable drudge. Behold my labors. I fear they will not go away without my personally dispatching them.”