“Such a pity,” she said in mock sorrow. “And I was told that you were a man of great resource. Perhaps, Mr. Saxton, you can forgo your labors, just for a short time. I, sir, will buy you lunch.” At his look of surprise, Chauncey added on a mournful voice, “You see, sir, I have already received three proposals of marriage and I fear that eager gentlemen are even at this moment waiting for me to emerge. Have you no sense of gallantry, sir? I am, I assure you, a lady in distress.”
“Somehow, Miss Jameson,” Del said smoothly, “I cannot imagine you tolerating any distress, particularly from eager gentlemen. Are you always so forward?”
Her eyes sparkled. “Only when it is absolutely necessary. Now, sir, I find my ribs are rattling from hunger.”
Delaney gave her a mock bow. “Your wish, dear lady . . . Shall I ask Dan if he wants to join us?” He was further intrigued to see that his suggestion had taken her aback and that those extraordinary eyes of hers had darkened. “No,” he said quickly, deciding to save her from further forwardness, “I imagine that Dan is in the righteous midst of making more money for us. I, on the other hand, will be pleased to eat some of our profits.”
She laughed. “No, Mr. Saxton. It is I who will save your profits for you. The most expensive establishment, if you please. I am not at all niggardly.”
“Particularly when you get what you want?”
Something suspiciously like pain glistened in her eyes, but she was laughing again, and he thought he must have imagined it.
“Particularly then,” she agreed.
He gave her a flourishing bow and offered her his arm. He was aware of every male eye upon them as he escorted her out of the bank.
“The wood-plank sidewalks are a good idea,” Chauncey said, eyeing the muddy street. The light rain had stopped early that morning, but the air was still damp and thick with fog.
“Yes,” he said, moving to the street side to protect her.
“You men are lucky, sir, with your boots and trousers,” Chauncey said, observing men walking in the wide street, oblivious of the mud puddles.
“And practical, Miss Jameson. Our vanities lie in other directions.”
“I assure you, sir, that it is men and their vanity who have forced women to adopt such ridiculous garments!”
“Acquit me, ma’am. I should much enjoy seeing you garbed in trousers and boots.”
His drawing comment found its mark, but Chauncey quickly recovered. “Perhaps someday you may get your wish,” she said blandly, shooting him an impish smile.
She turned away from him, absorbing the raucous noise that surrounded them. There is endless excitement here, she thought, gazing at the merchants, vendors, and myriad drays and wagons that filled California Street.
“Your city is alive, sir,” she said. “Every sense is awakened.”
“I have found other cities boring in comparison. I see you are wondering about all our modern brick buildings.” At her inquiring look, he laughed. “Even if you weren’t, you should. They are our defense against fire. All of the original argonauts, as we’ve been dubbed, have lost everything to fire in the past, myself included. Careful, Miss Jameson, that gentleman is a bit worse for drink.”
“You do not appear to be suffering overly now, sir,” Chauncey said, watching the stumbling man pass them.
“No,” he agreed blandly, smiling down at her. “Have you attempted climbing any of our hills?”
“Yes, I visited the semaphore on Telegraph Hill. Most intriguing. As for the rest of them, I believe I will wait.”
“Ah, here we are. Pierre’s Culinary Establishment. A very upper-class restaurant, I assure you, ma’am. Quite draining on the purse.”
The restaurant was a marvelously gawdy place, its huge front room hung with dark blue velvet draperies. Chauncey quickly saw that she was the only female present. Delaney greeted many of the other men, but did not pause.
“François,” he said, smiling at the small potbellied man who was hurrying toward them. He added under his breath, “His real name is Jud Stubbs and he hails from Pennsylvania, I believe.”
“Mr. Saxton, and the lovely new English lady. Such a pleasure, madame.”
“Your fame has spread, even to the kitchens,” Delaney murmured to Chauncey.
“I pray you will be polite, sir. After all, I am paying!”
François ushered them to a quiet table away from the windows, hovering over them as he gave them the menus.
“You will love the menu, Miss Jameson. François has himself endeavored to produce it in French.”
Chauncey managed to contain her giggles until François had left them to themselves.
“François joined forces with a very real Frenchman, Pierre LeGrand, some six months ago. I assure you that Pierre does the cooking. Really, Miss Jameson, you must contain your mirth. I cannot imagine what all the gentlemen now staring at you must be thinking.”
“Doubtless what they are thinking redounds to your benefit, Mr. Saxton.”
“So sure of yourself, Miss Jameson?” he drawled. To his delight, she did not appear at all discomfited.
“Of course, sir. Have I not already received three proposals of marriage in but a week and a half?”
Why, he wanted to ask her, do you appear to want me? He said nothing.
François handed Delaney a bottle of vintage Bordeaux wine. “This will doubtless be excellent, François. Thank you.” To Chauncey he murmured, “All the comforts of London, ma’am.”
When their glasses were filled, Delaney raised his and said, “Let us drink to you, Miss Jameson, and may you succeed in your endeavors.”
She flushed; she couldn’t help it. He is mocking me, she thought, and stiffened her spine. “Indeed, Mr. Saxton. To my success!”
“Why do I feel as though I’m a pig on the way to slaughter?” he remarked, giving her a crooked grin.
“You, sir,” she said severely, “are already wallowing in your conceit!”
“But I shouldn’t order the roast pork, hmm?”
“Perhaps a pig’s jowl would be more suitable.”
“Since we have covered everything except ham, Miss Jameson, I think I will direct you to the fish stew. I think you will find it quite unexceptionable. As to François’s pronunciation of ‘bouillabaisse,’ it is better left unheard.” He handed the menus back to François and gave him their order.
“I bow to your superior knowledge, sir.”
“But not to my superior wit?”
“I believe you told me, Mr. Saxton, that the gentleman in question has less than an ounce of wit.”
“You have hoisted me again, ma’am. It is not what I am used to.” He smiled at her, a smile of genuine warmth. Had he used the same unconscious charm on her father? She felt something harden inside her.
“There are many things, Mr. Saxton, that one must become used to,” she said quietly.
“I feel you are plumbing depths while leaving me to flounder in the shallows. You remind me somewhat of my sister-in-law.”
“Your sister-in-law? Now I am drowning, sir.”
“Her name is Giana, and like you, she is English. She lives in New York with my brother, Alex. She is quite a stubborn, strong-willed little wench, but my brother has her under control now, I believe.”
He was drawing her, but she wasn’t paying attention. His sister-in-law was English, thus his English relations. She sipped from her wineglass. “What was her name, sir?”
“Sir? Since you insisted I accompany you to lunch, ma’am, and in addition you have trusted me with your money, perhaps you should consider calling me Delaney. I am not that old, only twenty-eight to be exact. Not even the exalted age of a loving uncle.”
“What was her name . . . Delaney?”
“Van Cleave,” he said, watching her closely. He heard the tension in her voice and didn’t understand it.
“Van Cleave,” Chauncey repeated thoughtfully. “I am afraid that the name is unfamiliar to me.”
“England is small,
but not that small,” he said. For some reason, he didn’t want to tell her that Giana’s mother was now Aurora Arlington, Duchess of Graffton. Did he expect her to gush over him as did Mrs. Stevenson? No, she wouldn’t do that. Just exactly what she would do, he couldn’t begin to guess.
There was silence between them for some minutes while François served the bouillabaisse. Delaney said thoughtfully, tapping his fingertip on his wineglass, “Everyone wonders why such a . . . lady as yourself is visiting San Francisco.”
“You as well, sir . . . Delaney?”
“Of course. I was given to understand that you not only possessed a beak of a nose but also were a terrible snob. I am pleased that the former is not true. But the latter . . ?”
“Oh, a dreadful snob, I assure you,” she said lightly. “This is quite delicious. I shall doubtless go to the poorhouse with a happy stomach.”
“It is not that expensive, Miss Jameson. May I tell you that you are the first lady to invite me to lunch?”
“Perhaps you should cultivate your charm.”
“But you did invite me, ma’am. I must not be that bereft of interesting qualities.”
“Shouldn’t everyone become acquainted with their banker?”
“You have a very agile tongue. I am not used to such quickness in a woman.”
“As I said, Mr. Saxton, perhaps you should cultivate your charm.”
“Back to ‘Mister,’ am I? I deserve it. Forgive me for insulting your sex. Then again, I am not quite used to having a woman seek me out.”
He watched her closely, but she kept her eyes lowered to her plate until, he guessed, she gained control. Which she did very quickly.
To his utter astonishment, she grinned impishly and waved her fork at him. “Did you not wish to say ‘blatant,’ Delaney?”
“You, Miss Jameson,” he said, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms across his chest, “are an enigma.”
“Do you dislike enigmas?”
“No. Such oddities add spice to life.”
She flushed. “I am not an oddity!”
“How about a rich, well-bred oddity?”
“At least when I have afternoon tea, it is not an affectation!”
“Poor Mrs. Stevenson.” He shook his head mournfully. “She does make such an effort, does she not?”
Before Chauncey could reply, a gentleman approached their table, his eyes never leaving her face.
“Ah, Tony,” Delaney said blandly. “How many scathing articles have you written today?”
“Nary a one, Del,” Tony said, his gaze still on Chauncey’s face.
“Forgive me. Miss Jameson, allow me to present to you Anthony Dawson, one of the owners of our most sterling newspaper, the Alta California. He also has pretensions to writing.”
Why won’t the wretched man go away? Chauncey thought ten minutes later. She tried to be polite, but her voice grew more clipped by the minute.
Delaney merely smiled, appearing somewhat bored as he listened to the endless stream of compliments Tony was pouring into Miss Jameson’s pretty ears. The compliments didn’t surprise him. It was the utter lack of feminine response to the compliments that struck him. A handsome man, Tony, he thought, but Miss Jameson had no interest in him, none at all. Why me?
“I scent another proposal,” Delaney said blandly as he escorted her out of the restaurant.
“I hope not,” Chauncey said, a frown furrowing her brow.
“I suspect you will become quite used to them if you remain long in San Francisco. Tony Dawson is a good man, you know.”
Good men don’t interest me!
“Will you see me back to my hotel, Delaney?”
“Anything to keep the wolves at bay, dear lady.”
He did not ask to see her again. She dallied, waiting, but he said nothing.
“Will you come up for tea, Delaney?” she asked at last in desperation. “Real English tea?”
He cocked a brow at her. “Forgive me, ma’am, but I must see to the safekeeping of your diamonds. I trust you will enjoy your visit to San Francisco.” He tipped his hat to her and strolled away.
She felt her frustration mount. What was wrong with him? He had enjoyed her company, she was sure of it. Damnable wretched man!
9
Chauncey waited three days for Delaney Saxton to do something, anything. She saw him several times when she was shopping with Mary, but he merely greeted her politely and walked on.
“What is the matter with him?” she muttered, knocking a stone out of the way with the tip of her parasol. “Am I going to have to chase him down like a fox in the hunt?”
Mary didn’t reply to this, too intent on the splendor of Portsmouth Square. “That, Miss Chauncey,” she said, interrupting her mistress from her gloomy thoughts, “was the Jenny Lind Theater until just last year. Imagine that. All to praise the real Jenny Lind, but she never came here, you know. Bob, one of the porters, was telling me that it burned down three times! Finally Mr. Maguire sold it to the city. It’s now the city hall of San Francisco.”
“Doubtless good riddance,” Chauncey said ungraciously eyeing the touted architectural ornament with its American flag.
“What I want to do is go inside the El Dorado. A real gambling house,” Mary continued, pointing to the huge painted sign on the building next to city hall. She giggled. “It’s hard to imagine a gambling saloon next to the government building.”
“All right, Mary,” Chauncey sighed. “I’ll try to stop being an utter bore. Let’s talk about the weather.”
“So warm,” Mary murmured. “I cannot believe it’s February, and here we are wearing only light pelisses.”
“Marvelous,” Chauncey agreed. “Next you’ll be waxing eloquent about the beauty of the bay.”
“As sparkling as sapphires,” Mary said readily. “Come now, Miss Chauncey, all isn’t lost yet. You are going to a dinner party at the Newtons’ tonight. Surely Mr. Saxton will be there.”
“Yes,” Chauncey said sharply. “As well as Miss Penelope Stevenson.”
“Ah,” Mary said.
That evening, as Mary arranged Chauncey’s hair, Chauncey was cudgeling her brain for a likely strategy.
“Mayhap Mr. Saxton does love Miss Stevenson,” Mary said, a refrain that now came with depressing regularity.
“Bosh,” Chauncey said. “She has an insubstantial mind.”
“But she is quite pretty, doubtless laughs at everything Mr. Saxton says, and can keep house. What man ever cared about a woman’s mind, for heaven’s sake?”
“The voice of experience?” Chauncey asked, raising an ironic eyebrow. “You are a year younger than I. Besides, your Miss Penelope doesn’t even know when to laugh. It’s accidental if she hits it right. What I need is a foolproof plan.”
“You’re going to abduct him?”
“If Mr. Saxton doesn’t pay me proper attention this evening, I just might. Well, not quite, but—”
“Since Miss Stevenson will be present, you don’t wish to be totally outrageous. You can’t really expect the man to abandon his fiancée at the sight of you?”
“She is not his fiancée!”
“Yet.”
“We will see” was all Chauncey said, her voice stubbornly set.
“Did I tell you I met Mr. Saxton’s man this afternoon?”
“Mary!” Chauncey swiveled about on her dressing-table stool and gave her maid a wounded look. “How could you!”
“Lucas is his name and he’s a likable fellow. Introduced himself, bold as you please, and offered to carry my one little package. He has the look of a pirate with that black eyepatch and his one wooden leg.”
“Did you learn anything?” Chauncey asked with admirable patience.
Mary grinned. “Yes, miss, I did. He told me that there will be a big celebration for Mr. Washington’s birthday this month in Portsmouth Square.”
“Mary!”
“You’ve lost your sense of humor, miss. Very well. Mr. Saxton rides every
morning, early, usually on Rincon Hill.”
“Ah,” Chauncey said, her skeletal strategies at last beginning to gain meat.
Delaney Saxton was at his blandest at the Newtons’ dinner that evening. There were only six guests, and he guessed that Mrs. Newton had invited Miss Jameson for Tony’s benefit. Delaney gave his full attention to Penelope, half-hearing her amiable chatter, but his thoughts were on Miss Elizabeth Jameson. He laughed softly, remembering Lucas’ words. “She’s interested in you, Del. That maid of hers, a braw girl named Mary, pumped me until I felt like an empty well.”
Lord, but she looked stunning, he thought, sipping at his wine. She was seated between Tony Dawson and Mrs. Newton, and he could hear her tinkling laughter down the table. His eyes fell to her breasts, full and milk white, rising above the double row of lace. He felt a surge of lust and determined, somewhat peeved by his reaction, to visit Marie after he left the Newtons’. Damn, he even liked her nose, small and straight, with nostrils, he thought fancifully, that were utterly aristocratic. And those full lips of hers.
“Del, didn’t you hear a word I said?”
He turned to the lovely girl at his side, a lazy glint in his eyes. “Forgive me, my dear,” he said smoothly. “Actually,” he added, raising his voice a bit, “I was considering the impact of Spinoza’s philosophy on the flora and fauna of San Francisco.”
“That has nothing to do with my new gown! Do you not like it, Del? Papa paid a fortune for it, I assure you!”
“But Spinoza, my dear . . .” Delaney protested.
“He’s one of those Eastern politicians, I suppose,” Penelope snapped.
“No,” Delaney said slowly, “he’s more in the nature of a vigilante, I should say.”
Delaney grinned to himself at the sound of a strangled gasp from Miss Jameson and a hoot of laughter from Horace Newton.
“Del, you’re impossible!” Horace said, wiping a spot of gravy from his chin.
“But life is so utterly boring without impossibilities.”
Chauncey waved her fork at him. “Really, Mr. Saxton, you should not tell such plumbers! Why, everyone knows that Joe Spinoza is a remarkable example of the spurious logic propounded by the Tories to keep the dreadful Corn Laws in place.”