Wild Star

  “Delicious wine,” he said, giving her a lazy smile.

  “Ira tells me you’re the best doctor in San Francisco.”

  “True enough, I expect, but then again, there isn’t much competition. At least I do my best not to kill folk if I don’t know how to cure them.”

  Saint watched her look from him to Brent Hammond. Brent was laughing at something Penelope was saying—polite man. Damnation, he thought, so the wind sits in that quarter, does it? Mind your own business, Saint. This Byrony’s a good girl and is simply enjoying looking at a handsome man. Look at Agatha staring at him. He’d just about dismissed it from his mind when he saw Brent’s eyes meet Byrony’s. Saint quickly gave his full attention to his dinner plate. He chewed thoughtfully on the pork, wondering about Brent Hammond. He knew her, it was in his eyes, and he was furious. Saint’s mother, bless her soul, had always accused him as a boy of being too fanciful. She was doubtless right. He was always seeing dragons when it was just fluffy clouds. Brent wasn’t about to poach on another man’s preserves, particularly if those preserves were another man’s wife. Still, he thought, life tended to be so bloody complicated. He felt an odd sort of protectiveness toward this young girl. He really couldn’t imagine her taking Ira as a lover, but then again, he couldn’t really imagine Ira being so foolish as to seduce a young lady. He said, to regain her attention, “Tell me, Byrony, who does the baby take after?”

  She looked at him blankly, then seemed to draw herself together. “Michelle has the look of the Butlers, so Ira tells me, so I suppose, sir, that an angel is close enough to the truth. When I first met Ira, that was my thought about him. The angel Gabriel, to be exact.”

  “Ah, but your particular angel is quite a businessman. If anyone could buy up stock in heaven, it’s your husband.”

  “He is very competent, I understand,” Byrony said somewhat diffidently. She had little idea what Ira did. It was simply never discussed.

  “Yes, indeed. You need to talk to Del Saxton or Sam Brannan if you want to know the scope of his abilities.”

  “Sam Brannan frightens the dickens out of me. He’s so vocal.”

  “That he is. He and Ira make a good team. Ira never raises his voice, and Sam rants and raves.”

  “Ira is a very kind man,” Byrony said.

  Why? Saint wanted to ask bluntly. Because he married you after he made you pregnant?

  She added, “Doesn’t Ira bank with Delaney Saxton?”

  “That’s right. Now, if you want your funny bone to collapse, it’s Del you want to talk to. I never can get in the last word with that man. Drives Chauncey crazy, but she gives him a good run for his money. You should hear them—Del with his lazy drawl and Chauncey with her starchy English accent.”

  There was a brief lull in the conversation and Ira’s attention was caught by a sweet rippling laugh from his wife. He turned from Irene and looked down the table. Ah, Saint was amusing her, he thought, grateful. He’d sat Saint next to her on purpose. He knew Saint could get anybody to feel good. All in all, he thought, the dinner was going well. The food Naomi had prepared was delicious, the wine exceptional, most of the guests in good spirits. All except Irene. It simply hadn’t occurred to him that Byrony had never taken her rightful place at the table, not until this evening. He wouldn’t have noticed this evening had not Agatha Newton blinked in surprise at the seating. Damnation. Irene was hurt. The entire situation was so difficult for her, and he felt helpless much of the time, faced with two vastly different women who both placed demands on him. Having one of his minions go to San Diego to buy Byrony’s mare had been an inspiration of which he was justly proud. He knew she was riding all over San Francisco, many times alone, but he had no intention of stopping her. He had given her a small derringer and shown her how to fire it. She hadn’t blinked. He doubted she had any concept of what a bullet could do to a body. He winced slightly at loud laughter. Bunker Stevenson was off again.

  Brent had determined before coming to the Butlers’ house for dinner that he would ignore Byrony. Above looking at her that one long moment, he’d succeeded, giving all his attention to Penelope Stevenson. He was amused by the girl’s antics, wondering what Maggie would think of the pretentious but quite lovely little twit. Ah, duchess, what irony there is in polite society. Here he was a gambler who kept a mistress, and was business partners and quite good friends with a madam. He was acceptable, but any lady would turn pale and faint were Maggie to be seated at her table, and all these so-called gentlemen would leer and make lewd jokes. He wondered what Byrony would think of Maggie, and nearly dropped his fork. Damn her anyway. And that ridiculous situation with the seating arrangements. She’d looked so helpless.

  He wanted to hate Ira Butler.

  He realized he’d been silent too long, but could come up with no more nonsense for Penelope’s pretty ears. He turned his attention to Chauncey Saxton. “May I say, ma’am, that you’ve taught your benighted husband quite a bit. I hear that he’s making better and bigger business deals every day.”

  Chauncey laughed, sending her husband a wicked look. “It’s all too true, Mr. Hammond. He comes home looking as if he’s lost everything, I tell him that he indeed will, then inform him how to proceed so that he won’t lose his shirt.”

  “Aha,” Delaney Saxton said. “What tall tale is she telling you now, Brent?”

  “We were just speaking about shirts,” Brent said, grinning, “and how you’re keeping yours intact.” He added, “That is an English shirt he’s wearing tonight, isn’t it, ma’am?”

  “Yes, Mr. Hammond, it is indeed. All things English last forever, I tell him.”

  “Something the English and gamblers have in common, perhaps. We’re always around to take care of other people’s messes, and we never brag about it.”

  Chauncey laughed. “And we only fade away in the end, sir?”

  “Brent, ma’am. With the look your husband is giving me, I feel as though I’m fading quickly, very quickly, right now.”

  “Ignore him, Chauncey,” her husband told her.

  “Why?” she asked, giving him a droll look. “Is he outdoing you as I always am?”

  “Women,” Delaney said, sitting back in his chair. “I swear that God sent all of you here to earth after he’d already tried famine and pestilence.”

  “There were also the locusts, don’t forget, Del,” Brent said.

  Byrony had been listening to them, unable to help herself. Why, she wondered, couldn’t he act like that with her? Funny and humorous and charming. She chewed slowly on a bite of pork.

  “Your attention, everyone,” Delaney Saxton called out. “Come on, Tony, get your face out of your plate. A toast: to Byrony Butler, a charming addition to San Francisco.”

  There was good-natured joking and laughter and everyone dutifully drank to Delaney Saxton’s toast. Byrony flushed and murmured thank-yous to everyone within hearing.

  Naomi and Eileen served coffee and brandy in the drawing room. Brent Hammond was the first of the guests to take his leave. He lightly touched Byrony’s hand and murmured inanities. It was odd, Byrony realized after he’d left, but she felt she was at last breathing normally. She hadn’t realized what a strain his presence had been. She turned a bright smile to Penelope Stevenson.

  “I don’t know why he had to leave so quickly,” Penelope said.

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Hammond. At least he’s taking me riding tomorrow.”

  Byrony felt a dagger of jealousy tear through her. “How very nice,” she said.

  “Father approves of him, so perhaps I’ll marry him.”

  Just like that? Byrony wanted to box her shapely ears, but instead she smiled. Agatha had mentioned to her that Penelope had also determined to marry Del Saxton before Chauncey had arrived in San Francisco.

  Penelope said, “He’ll have to give up his mistress and his gambling and all that. Do you know that he is partners with a whore?”

  “Not a whore, Miss Stevenson, a madam,” Byron
y said.

  Penelope shrugged an elegant shoulder. “I’ve seen her. She’s old, you know, close to thirty, so you’re probably right. No man would want her.”

  “Ah, my dear, I must interrupt you for a moment.” Ira smiled down in understanding at his wife. “Excuse me, Miss Penelope, but Saint wants to see Michelle. Would you like to take him to the nursery, Byrony? No sense in waking the child.”

  “Did you appreciate my timing, Byrony?” Saint asked her with a smile in his brown eyes.

  “You, sir, are the angel,” she said. Michelle was deeply asleep, her chubby legs drawn up, her tiny fist in her mouth.

  “She looks quite healthy,” Saint said quietly. “Who was your doctor in Sacramento?”

  “Chambers is his name.”

  “Don’t know him,” Saint said. “Are you breastfeeding her?”

  “I—that is, yes, of course.”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to pry or embarrass you. A beautiful baby. She indeed has the look of the Butlers. Does she have your green eyes or Ira’s blue?”

  “They’re blue.”

  “Ah.”

  “She’s still sleeping, isn’t she? You haven’t awakened her?”

  Both Byrony and Saint turned at the sound of Irene’s sharp voice.

  “Not at all,” Saint said easily. “If a baby could snore, she would. Shall we leave her to her dreams?”

  Irene looked undecided, then shrugged. “Certainly. The guests are beginning to leave, Byrony. You must come downstairs. You go ahead, I’ll make sure she’s well tucked in.”

  Byrony nodded and walked past her sister-in-law.

  “I imagine,” Saint said as they walked down the wide staircase, “that it is difficult for a lady who isn’t married to readily accept changes. You are lucky, I think, that she cares for the child. It could have gone the other way, I imagine.”

  Byrony wanted to laugh at his very kind but utterly mistaken observation. “Indeed,” she said.

  Chauncey Saxton took her hands. “You must visit me soon, Byrony. Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”

  Chauncey was surprised to see Byrony look briefly toward her husband before she answered. Ira gave a benevolent nod, and Byrony said, “I would much enjoy that, Chauncey.”

  “Good. Bring Michelle. I should like to make her acquaintance. Saint stole my opportunity tonight.”

  Byrony dressed with great care the following morning, then went to the dining room. Ira was already breakfasting.

  “I can’t believe everything is back to normal,” she said, looking about the pristine dining room. “Naomi is a treasure, isn’t she?”

  “Indeed,” Ira said, rising until Byrony seated herself on his right.

  “No,” she said, seeing his brief frown, “I don’t want to sit at the foot of the table. I don’t relish shouting to you to be heard. I do hope Irene isn’t still upset about what happened.”

  “Why should I be? After all, aren’t you the little wife with all the privileges?”

  The woman walked like a cat, Byrony thought, forcing a smile to her lips as she turned to face Irene.

  “Please, Irene,” Ira said.

  “Good morning,” Byrony said, her voice neutral. She’d hoped Irene’s recent behavior was a passing thing, but she was beginning to wonder. What had happened to the gentle, very quiet woman she’d spent so many months with? “Did you sleep well?”

  “No. Michelle was colicky.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t even hear her crying.”

  “Why should you? You aren’t her mother.”

  “Irene,” Ira said, his quiet voice holding a touch of warning. “You will please remember the servants.”

  Irene’s shoulders dropped. She took her seat at the foot of the table, shooting Byrony a cold look as she did so. A challenge? Byrony wasn’t interested, Irene could sit in Ira’s chair for all she cared.

  Naomi entered the dining room, carrying a platter of scrambled eggs and bacon and a plate of toast. Ira spoke of the foggy weather until the woman had left the dining room.

  “I’m having lunch with Chauncey Saxton,” Byrony said, breaking the heavy silence.

  “Excellent,” Ira said. “A charming woman.”

  “She wants me to bring Michelle.”

  “No. That is,” Irene continued in a more moderate voice, “the child was sick all night. Surely it wouldn’t be wise to drag her around with you.”

  “Would you like me to ask Saint to stop by and see her, Irene?”

  “That isn’t necessary, Ira. But she does need her rest.”

  And that, Byrony thought, is that. She dutifully repeated the baby’s problems to Chauncey three hours later. “She’s fine now, of course,” Byrony said, realizing that Chauncey might think it odd that Byrony had left her sick child. “She is napping.” She looked around the drawing room. “You have a lovely home, Chauncey.”

  “I’ll tell Del. I had nothing to do save move in. You just missed Saint, by the way. Do you know he still refuses to tell me how he got that name?”

  “You too? He did the same to me last night.”

  “A lovely dinner,” Chauncey said. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

  “Everyone was quite nice, really.”

  “Except Penelope, right?”

  “Well, when I met her, she made me feel like some sort of insect. And her mother—I was reminded of a ship under full sail. Oh dear, I shouldn’t be saying these things. I’m certain they are both quite pleasant.”

  “No, they’re not. I’ll tell you a little secret, Byrony. If I hadn’t rescued Del, he might very well have married that girl.”

  “Ira did tell me that you arrived here from England just last winter, and you and Mr. Saxton were married two months later.”

  To Byrony’s surprise, Chauncey dropped her eyes a moment. “I am very lucky,” she said. “Now, instead of having lunch here, Del invited us out with him. There’s a new restaurant that opened on Clay Street, Samuel’s Chop House. If you like, afterward we can do a bit of shopping.”

  Byrony readily agreed. Lucas, a pirate of a man if Byrony ever imagined one, drove the two women to Montgomery Street. “We will meet you here at four o’clock, Luc. All right?”

  “Certainly, ma’am,” Lucas said.

  Chauncey said behind her gloved hand, “I think there’s a real romance brewing between Lucas and my maid, Mary. Luc looks so ferocious, but he’s gentle as the proverbial lamb. I fear he will let Mary ride roughshod over him without a whimper.”

  Byrony was grinning as they walked into the Saxton and Brewer bank. They were the only females in this den of males, but it was obvious to Byrony that Mrs. Saxton’s appearance wasn’t a surprise. Hats were politely tipped, gentle greetings made. Chauncey introduced Byrony to several of the gentlemen, one of them, Dan Brewer, Del Saxton’s partner.

  “You have a lovely bank, sir,” Byrony said, having never before in her life even entered a bank.

  “I agree, Mrs. Butler,” he said, winking at Chauncey.

  “We’ll see you later, Dan. Now, it’s time I rescued Del from his labors.”

  Chauncey knocked on a closed door, then opened it and walked in, Byrony on her heels.

  “Oh dear, I didn’t realize you had someone with you.”

  Byrony stopped dead in her tracks. It wasn’t fair, dammit.

  “Not at all, Chauncey. Do come in. Ah, Byrony, welcome. Brent and I were just finalizing a bit of very profitable business.”

  Byrony heard Chauncey’s light, charming voice, but she didn’t hear her words. She didn’t realize she was backing up until Brent Hammond said, “How pleasant to see you again, Mrs. Butler. Were you going somewhere?”

  “Yes, she is,” Del said. “The ladies have graciously consented to have lunch with me. Won’t you join us, Brent?” When Brent paused, Del added, “Surely you don’t have a high-stakes poker game going on at noon?”

  Brent forced his eyes away from Byrony and said, “If I did, Del, I’d leave you in a flash. Most of my custome
rs are too impatient for poker, you know. Let them spin a roulette wheel or take their chances at vingt-et-un and they’re happy. So I’ll be happy to join you. Thank you.”

  I’m cursed, Byrony thought.

  “Mrs. Butler?”

  His voice was light, mocking, at least to her sensitive ears. She looked at his offered arm as if it were a snake to bite her.

  “I thought,” she said, her eyes lowered as she slipped her hand onto his forearm, “that you were taking Penelope Stevenson riding.”

  “Indeed I am, ma’am,” he said, arching a black brow at her. “Surely you don’t expect me to spend all afternoon with you?”

  Go to hell, Byrony wanted to say. Instead she said, “Why not, sir? Perhaps you’ll learn how to conduct yourself in the company of ladies.”

  Brent threw back his head and laughed deeply. “Instead of what, ma’am?”

  “What’s all this?” Del asked.

  “Mrs. Butler just informed me that she could beat me at poker. Five-card-stud.”

  “Most ladies have many more talents than you gentlemen care to admit to,” Chauncey said. “I’ll wager she can beat you, Brent—yes, indeed I do.”

  “Oh yes,” Brent said under his breath to Byrony, “I would wager that you have many talents. I’m simply wondering when I’ll be the lucky recipient.”

  “When hell freezes over.”

  “Such language from such a perfect little lady.”

  TEN

  Byrony leaned over Michelle’s crib, making nonsense sounds that made the baby kick her legs and wave her arms in excitement. Byrony laughed and picked her up, hugging her. “You still don’t care who pays attention to you, do you? Well, I understand that in a couple more months you’re going to become very choosy.”

  “She has a cold. Put her down.”

  Byrony didn’t turn at Irene’s voice, but she felt herself going stiff with dread. “A cold? She seems just fine to me.”

  “What would you know about a child?” Irene took Michelle from her, held her tightly against her breasts, and walked to the other end of the nursery.

  “I imagine that I could learn a little something, if you’d but let me.”