Midnight Star (11 page)

“What is this, Tony?” Delaney asked. “I thought your finances were in good order. Surely you don’t need to chase the heiress.”

Tony sputtered his beer, and his handsome face darkened with sudden anger. “She’s a lady, Del! I wouldn’t care if she didn’t have a bloody dime!”

“No, of course you wouldn’t,” Delaney said. “Maguire’s Opera House, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Marie has a yen to see some Shakespeare, I believe. I just might see you there tonight.”

“Lord, Del,” Dan said, sputtering over his beer.
“I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes if Old Bunker Stevenson sees you there, and with your mistress!”

Ah, Delaney thought, smiling mischievously at his friends. But what will Miss Jameson think?

Chauncey was amused at the dagger glances the Stevensons sent Delaney throughout the rather impressive rendition of
The Tempest.
His mistress was lovely, she thought objectively. Chauncey met Delaney Saxton’s limpid gaze but once, and gave him a broad wink. She was delighted when his eyes darkened. She chose to believe that his ire was due to the fact that he had expected her to show some jealousy, or at least some ladylike disapproval.

Tony Dawson scribbled down his thoughts during the performance for a short reveiw in the
Alta
for the next day.

“The theater is most impressive, sir,” Chauncey said when the play was over and Tony was escorting her out of the building.

“I got the impression,” Tony said, eyeing her closely, “that you were more interested in the people in the audience than the performers.”

“Did you now?” she inquired, giving him an impish smile. “I must admit to being somewhat surprised that gentlemen flaunt their mistresses so openly. It is not done in London. At least I don’t think it is.”

“You really shouldn’t know about such things,” Tony muttered.

“Or speak of them?” Chauncey said lightly. “Innocent, utterly guileless young ladies, you mean? Well-bred and brought up to be blind and
deaf as well as dumb?” She had the unwanted insight that Delaney Saxton would have been delighted to tease and jest about the ways of men and mistresses. “Forgive me, Tony,” she said, wanting to exorcise any positive thoughts about Saxton. “I shall behave now, I promise you.”

“Would you like to have a late supper at the Poodle Dog?”

“I have heard all about the fourth floor, sir,” she said in a wistful voice. “I don’t suppose I shall get to see it?”

“Miss Jameson!”

“There are special private rooms, are there not? And all sorts of gawdy furnishings? And a complicated system of buzzers to call for very discreet waiters? Oh dear, I’ve done it again. Behold, Tony, a studiously polite, quite deaf-and-dumb young lady.”

“Miss Jameson, Elizabeth . . .” he began, his voice so soft Chauncey had the unlikely thought that he could cut butter with it. He was very handsome, she couldn’t deny it, with his dark thick hair and thick side whiskers. She quickly looked away from him. He was going to propose and she didn’t want to hurt him. She heard him sigh deeply, and began to speak of one of his articles about the new amusement resort called Russ Gardens that would be opening soon near the Mission Dolores.

“Russ is a German immigrant, isn’t he, Tony?”

“Yes,” Tony said, sighing again. “Christian Russ is his name. It’s going to be a family resort with band concerts and dining tables under the trees and the like.”

“I haven’t visited the racetrack there yet,” Chauncey said.

“You enjoy horses, Miss Jameson?”

“I love to ride, Tony. I have bought the sweetest Arabian mare. Her name is Yvette.”
And tomorrow morning Yvette and I are going to take a gallop very early on Rincon Hill.

Chauncey breathed in the crisp early-morning air and reined in Yvette at Rincon Point. The view was breathtaking, with not a bit of fog blanketing the city. “Easy, girl,” she said, stroking the mare’s beautiful neck. “That, Yvette,” she said, “is Russian Hill over there. And just look at all the houses! I should have Mary along. Doubtless she would know the names and addresses of everyone who lives there.”

Her gaze clouded over. She knew it wasn’t excessively intelligent of her to ride alone, but her derringer was snug in the pocket of her green velvet riding skirt. She turned in the saddle to look toward Delaney Saxton’s house on the southern slope of the hill. She had seen him earlier talking to Lucas, at least she assumed it was Lucas, for he sported a black eyepatch that made him look utterly ferocious.

Where are you, Mr. Saxton? Damn you! She
had, despite her plan, given him two more days after visiting Maguire’s Opera House with Tony Dawson, but he had done absolutely nothing. “Now, sir,” she whispered to the cool breeze that teased her hair, “it is out of your hands.”
I am right to do what I’m planning. I will not be a coward.

She saw him. He was riding a thoroughbred palomino stallion whose golden mane shone in the brilliant early-morning sunlight. He rides very gracefully, she thought objectively, giving the devil his due. Soon he will see me, and we will show how gallant he is to a damsel in distress.

She click-clicked Yvette into a gallop. A little fall from your back won’t hurt me, my girl, she silently assured her mare. She forced herself to let out a terrified scream, then dropped the reins. The mare lengthened her stride, and Chauncey slid around in the saddle. He had seen her! He was pushing his stallion into a gallop, leaning close to the horse’s neck. Soon I shall heave myself out of the saddle and execute a very graceful roll on the grass.

There were few trees on the eastern slope of Rincon Hill, and Chauncey, swiveling back around, did not see the broad-branched pine tree until it was too late. Her shriek was very real. The branch struck her hard against her head and she was hurled violently from the saddle, striking the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Delaney’s yell of warning died in his throat. He knew, of course, that she had ridden here to see him, but none of that mattered now. He felt fear course through him at the sight of her motionless body on the rocky ground.

He leapt off his stallion’s back and rushed to her. He felt for the pulse in her throat. It was thready. He lightly slapped her cheeks. “Miss Jameson! Come, wake up!”

Chauncey’s eyes fluttered open and she stared blankly up at him. “Damn,” she said very softly, and tried to sit up. She moaned, raising her hand to her temple, and fell back. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said calmly. “You struck your head, and must lie still. Do you hurt anyplace else?”

Chauncey felt a well of blackness drawing her down. She moistened her lips with her tongue, but could manage no more words.

“Elizabeth,” Delaney said, fear curdling his guts. Suddenly he was aware that he was kneeling between her wide-spread legs. She had bent her knees when she had tried to rise, and their position was that of a man preparing to make love to his woman. He backed away, sweat breaking out on his forehead, and forced himself to straighten her legs and pull the frothy white petticoats over her beautifully laced drawers. “Jesus,” he muttered. “I don’t believe this! Elizabeth, hold still. Don’t try to move. I’ll be right back with help.”

Delaney rose, knowing it would be dangerous to move her himself. He spotted Joe Thatcher slouched on the seat of his beer wagon, and frantically waved him down.

“Accident, huh?” Joe asked laconically, jumping down from his wagon. “Damn, Mr. Saxton, it’s that rich lady from England.”

“Yes,” Delaney said, his voice clipped. “I’m
going to lift her into the wagon, Joe. I’ll try to hold her steady. Drive us to my house. It’s closest.”

Joe spat a wad of tobacco, unfastened the hinges on the back of his wagon, and lowered it. “Here we are, Mr. Saxton. It ain’t none too clean, but—”

“It’s fine.” He saw that she was conscious, but her eyes were tightly closed. “Hold on, Elizabeth. I’ve got to pick you up. Everything will be all right, I promise you.”

He slipped his hands beneath her shoulders and thighs and slowly hefted her into his arms. She moaned softly, and he winced at the sound. He laid her atop some quite smelly old blankets in the wagon and jumped in beside her.

“Drive slowly, Joe. I don’t know how badly she’s hurt.”

Joe spat again and whipped up his horse. Delaney held her shoulders steady, trying to keep her from bouncing about when the wagon hit the inevitable ruts.

It seemed an eternity to him before Joe pulled up in front of his house.

Delaney quickly stuffed a dollar into Joe’s hand and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Lucas!”

The front door flew open, and Lucas rushed out. He took in the situation in a glance. “Shit,” he said succinctly.

“Yes,” Delaney said. “She got knocked off her horse by a tree branch. I’m going to carry her upstairs. Go get Doc Morris. And after that, Lucas,” Delaney shouted after him, “Brutus and the lady’s mare are wandering about on Rincon Hill!”

Lucas moved more quickly than Delaney had
ever seen, his peg leg in stiff gait. Lin met Delaney in the entryway, her black almond eyes wide. She muttered something in Chinese, but Delaney didn’t pause. He carried her quickly up the stairs, kicked open the door to his bedroom, and strode to his bed.

“Elizabeth,” he said softly as he laid her gently on her back. He lightly stroked his hand over her pale cheek. Dirt covered the ugly swelling over her right temple. He repeated her name again, and Chauncey, hearing the sound vaguely, forced her eyes to open. “I hurt,” she whispered, biting her lower lip.

“Where besides your head?”

“My ribs, I think.”

He gently pulled off her dashing riding hat and smoothed her hair away from her face. “The doctor will be here very soon. No, don’t try to move.”

“It isn’t fair,” she muttered, trying to stifle a groan of pain.

“I know. I’ll have that tree cut down immediately.”

“Don’t you dare try to make me laugh!”

“I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. I didn’t see that dumb tree.”

He felt an unwilling smile curve up the corners of his mouth. “So, little one, you wanted an accident, but not a real one.”

Shut up, Chauncey! Are you out of your stupid mind?

She turned her head away as she whimpered softly and fell into blessed darkness.

Delaney eased down beside her and took her
limp hand in his. A lady’s hand, he thought inconsequentially, studying the slender fingers with their immaculate buffed nails. He unfastened the brass buttons of her riding jacket, not that it would help ease her breathing much.

“Damn,” he said softly, gazing at the fast-rising ugly bruise on her temple. Head injuries were serious business and he had never felt so damned helpless in his life. He was aware of every tick of the clock. Why wouldn’t she wake up? “Elizabeth,” he said softly, but she didn’t stir. To his profound relief, he heard Doc Morris’ stertorous breath as he climbed the stairs.

“Well, Del, what’s all this?” Saint Morris asked as he walked into the bedroom. “It is the English lady. What the hell happened? Lucas muttered about a fall from a horse.”

Delaney rose from the bed. “It’s her head, and she whispered something about her ribs. She took quite a spill. A tree branch got her.”

“Has she been unconscious the whole time?”

“No, in and out.”

As Saint Morris spoke, he stripped off his frock coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves. “Let’s take a look.”

Delaney moved aside, watching with narrowed eyes as the very competent Saint, one of the few real doctors in San Francisco, gently prodded at the growing lump at her temple. Delaney had always thought of Saint as the most substantial man he’d ever known. He had more the look of a lumberjack—barrel-chested, huge shoulders. But his large hands were incredibly competent and gentle.

“She’s alive,” Saint said matter-of-factly.
“Concussion, most likely. Damn all these ridiculous clothes women persist in wearing! Get me Lin Chou, Del. I can’t examine her through all of these layers.”

Delaney felt a spurt of relief at doing something, anything, of help. Lin Chou was standing in the corridor with Lucas.

“Missy all right?” she asked.

“Right now Doc Morris needs to get her clothes off. I’ll be out here when you’re done. Oh, Lin, put her in that nightshirt of mine I never wear. It’s in the bottom drawer.”

“Shit,” Lucas said again, studying Delaney’s face.

“Yeah,” Delaney said, running his hand distractedly through his hair.

“What the hell was she doing out on Rincon Hill?”

“You should know,” Delaney said. “Didn’t you tell her maid all of my habits?”

“So that’s the lay of it,” Lucas said thoughtfully. “She wanted to meet you.”

“So it appears. Damn, what’s taking so long?” He swallowed convulsively, picturing her pale face and white lips. It was all his fault, he admitted. If he hadn’t played the elusive fool, she wouldn’t have been forced to go to such lengths.

“I’m a bloody fool,” he said.

Lucas snorted at this, and said, “I’d best go get her maid, Mary. She’s likely worried sick.”

“Good idea, Luc. And don’t mind me. Saint said something about a concussion. I doubt Miss Jameson will be leaving here for a while. Have her maid pack Miss Jameson’s things and her own. They’ll be our guests.”

Delaney wanted a drink but he was loath to leave his post outside his bedroom door. He could hear Saint talking to Lin, but couldn’t make out his words. It seemed a week passed before the door opened and Saint came out, rolling down his sleeves over his muscled forearms.

“Well? How is she?”

“The tree branch won,” Saint said. “She’ll live, Del, but you’ve got yourself a boarder for a while. Can’t let you move her, not with that concussion. As for her ribs, as far as I can tell, she may have cracked a couple. She won’t be feeling like waltzing much for the next couple of weeks.”

“Is she conscious?”

“Nope, and it’s probably just as well. Lin told me you’ve a store of laudanum. She’ll need it.”

“No internal injuries?”

“Doubtful. One thing about all those damned clothes, they did protect her somewhat. Now, Del, I’m ready for a glass of whiskey.” He saw Delaney’s worried gaze go back toward the bedroom, and shook his head. “There’s naught you can do, Del. Lin will call if she comes around. When she does, I’ll feel her belly and see if she has any pain there.”

“I sent Lucas for her maid and clothes.”

Saint shot his friend a sideways glance as they walked into Delaney’s library downstairs. “Dan Brewer was telling me about the girl. Seems she has an interest in you, so Dan says.”

“God knows,” Delaney said. “She’s quite a . . . handful.”

“Lovely little thing. Never did like females who played the silent mouse. Not natural.”

“Here’s your whiskey, Saint.” The two men
clicked their glasses together and downed the contents in one gulp.

“Will you stay until she comes out of it?”

“Can’t, Del. Mrs. Cutter is birthing her third. Since she’s an old hand at it, I came here first. I’ll be back. Don’t be so god-awful worried. Keep her calm and quiet when she comes around. A little laudanum in water. She’s certain to need it.”

Lin looked like a possessive little guard dog, Delaney thought when he entered his bedroom. She was standing still as a statue next to the bed, her eyes fixed on Miss Jameson’s face.

The covers were pulled only to her waist, likely in deference to her ribs, and Delaney smiled at the sight of his nightshirt. I never would have looked like that in it.

“Missy not make a sound,” Lin said.

“You can go downstairs now, Lin. Lucas should be bringing her maid along soon. I’ll watch Miss Jameson.”

“She’s very beautiful,” Lin said. “For a white woman.”

“Speaking as a white man, I’d have to agree with you.”

After Lin left, Delaney pulled over a chair and eased down into it. “Why, Elizabeth?” he said softly, studying her face. “Why are you so interested in me?” There was no response of course. He liked her name, aware for the first time that he had used it. Elizabeth Jameson, a very well-bred name.

Chauncey felt the sun shining on her face. It’s time to get up, she thought hazily. I’ve been
sleeping much too long. There’s so much to be done. She opened her eyes and rational thought fled. What was he doing here in her bedroom?

“Hello,” Delaney said, leaning forward. “I’m glad you’re awake.”

“But I always wake up in the morning,” she said, then frowned. A bolt of pain shot through her chest, and she gasped aloud. “Something is wrong.”

“Hold still, Elizabeth,” he said, gently pressing down her shoulders. “You had an accident. Don’t you remember?”

She nodded slowly, and the slight movement of her head made her very sorry. “I want to go home,” she whispered, feeling tears sting her eyes.