The Horsemaster's Daughter (69 page)

She smacked his hand away. “I have work to do.”

He grinned broadly as she left the room. He had not expected to be so royally entertained during his sojourn in the capital. He had not expected to be entertained at all, and only the memory of Noah kept him focused on his goal. He intended to introduce the legislation that would protect Noah’s legacy, see that his agenda passed before returning to his freewheeling ways.

But Franklin Cabot’s daughters turned out to be a surprise. Helena was as lovely as a song, but she didn’t interest him half so much as the other. Prickly, ill-tempered and plainspoken, Abigail would never be the belle of anyone’s ball. Yet she embodied the most intriguing combination of idealism and irascibility he had ever encountered.

He put up his ivory dresser set and razor case, his clock and a few personal items, but found himself distracted by the thought that Abigail was downstairs in Rowan’s study, probably doing something far more interesting than stacking shirt collars.

The professor’s study occupied the parlor and most of the dining room on the main floor. Books, magazines and manuscripts cluttered every available surface and were stacked in floor-to-ceiling shelves. Gadgets and machines abounded, as they did all through the house: mechanical enlarging machines, a Royal Typing Machine, a few other contraptions Jamie didn’t recognize. He suspected a number of the inventions worked in theory only. But the professor’s study was like a child’s nursery, untidy and filled with playthings to amuse an inquisitive mind.

Abigail sat at the cluttered desk, an ornate fountain pen in one hand and a look of terrible despair on her face. She had not heard him come in, and watching her in this unguarded moment had a profound effect on him. Suddenly she was not merely a diversion and a necessary link to a powerful senator. She was a woman with feelings and secrets and dreams of her own.

Not that those secrets and dreams were any of his business, but he grew more curious about her by the moment. She was so damn interesting to him, from the carelessly scraped-together bun of her hair, to the hem of her outmoded brown dress. Watching her was like watching an industrious bird building a nest, fussing over each little twig and thread. In the strangest way, he wanted to be part of her world—not because she made it seem so inviting, but precisely because she seemed so put off by him.

He trod noisily on the bottom stair to alert her, and strode into the room as she looked up from her writing.

“Still toiling away?” he asked.

She spread her hand on the page, the protective gesture both childish and testy. “I didn’t realize I was being timed.”

“You’re not. But I bored myself with my unpacking, so I came to ask if you would take a walk with me.”

“No, thank you.” Her reply was as swift and decisive as the stroke of her pen at the top of the page.

“Do I offend you that deeply?” he asked, putting on a wounded look. He turned to a piecrust table by the window and examined a brass orrery. Spying her reflection in the bay window, he was startled when she slipped a few pages under the ink blotter on the desk.

They were probably trade secrets or private notes on Rowan’s inventions, Jamie speculated. Though tempted to catch her out, he stopped himself. Let the woman have her secrets. God knew, he had his, and he needed to make an ally of her father.

“Where has the professor gone?” he asked without turning.

“To the laboratory, to work on subdividing his arc lamp.”

Jamie pretended to understand this. Nodding sagely, he gave her a chance to pull the blotter back in place. “I only asked you to go for a walk, not a ride in a closed carriage.” Such rides created endless scandal in the city. Many a young lady’s reputation had been tainted by forbidden, private rides.

“I’m not fond of taking walks,” she said. “I’m not fond of company.”

“Why not?”

“I seem to have little to say.”

He considered the pages hidden under the ink blotter, but didn’t mention them. Walking over to her, he offered a smile that worked like a charm on most women. “Then you need not say a word. I’ll do all the talking.”

She stared at him, clearly unmoved by the smile. “Such a blessing.”

Remembering her reaction when he’d touched her before, he stroked his hand across her back, then let it linger at the nape of her neck. “I can be entertaining if you’ll give me a chance.”

She jerked away, as he’d known she would. “And why should I do that? Why should I give you a chance?”

He propped his hip at the edge of the desk, knowing his nearness would rattle her. “Because you’ve never met someone who has seen the pyramids of Egypt.”

“Oh, and you have.” She scooted her chair back to distance herself from him.

He edged forward an inch. “And the Taj Mahal.” Another inch. “The Vatican and Versailles.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “I’ve always wanted to visit the Vat—”

A door slammed in the lower hallway. “Hello?” called Helena’s voice.

“—ican,” she finished, lurching up from the chair and staggering a little.

He cursed under his breath. He’d been so close to cracking through her façade.

“In the study.” Abigail flashed a look at Jamie. “Helena would probably love to take a walk with you.”

He tucked his thumb into the waistband of his trousers and drummed his fingers. “I didn’t invite Helena.”

Her gaze drifted to his hand, then she seemed to realize what she was staring at, and looked away. “You should.”

“Why?”

She exhaled an exasperated sigh. “Because it’s a rare opportunity. Everyone wants Helena.”

“Wants me for what?” Bright as a just-minted penny, Helena stepped into the room. Strolling over to the mantel, she took a handful of pumpkin seeds from her apron pocket and fed them to the mouse.

“Mr. Calhoun wishes to take a walk, and I told him he should ask you to go with him.”

“I’d be happy to, wouldn’t I, Mr. Socrates?” The mouse’s pink nose quivered at her. Helena’s warm smile created a perfect dimple in her cheek. “In fact, we can post the letter together.” Dusting off her hands, she glanced at the desk. “Is it ready yet?”

“Almost.”

“This is so good of you.” With a decided lack of self-consciousness, Helena explained. “Abigail has a brilliant facility with words. She looks after all my correspondence for me.”

“How fortunate for you. Your sister’s a regular Cyrano de Georgetown.”

Scowling, Abigail sifted a bit of blotting sand over the letter.

“Papa will be so pleased, won’t he?” Helena said. “This was a tremendous idea you had, Abigail.”

“It wasn’t my—Never mind.” Abigail regarded her sister with exasperation.

Jamie perked up at the mention of Senator Cabot. Yes, this might actually work. It made sense that the head of Railroad and Finance should want to form an alliance with the vice president. Cabot wanted his daughter to marry a Butler, and Jamie knew without asking that the senator didn’t care which girl walked down the aisle.

“I must invent affection where I feel none,” Helena said with a martyrlike sigh. “Papa expects it.”

Fascinating, thought Jamie. She was indifferent—both to Butler and to the fact that her sister was smitten with him.

Abigail tapped the excess sand into a jar on the desk. “You hardly know Lieutenant Butler. How can you be certain whether or not this might grow into genuine affection?”

“That’s a very good point, Abigail. I shall try very hard. Did you write him a lovely letter?”

Abigail pinched her lips together and made no reply.

The oak box contraption on the wall let out a crackle, then a screech. Jamie nearly jumped out of his skin. He swung toward the thing, assuming a combative stance, reaching for a pistol that was not there. He hadn’t carried a side arm since he’d fled a revolution in Andorra, but now he wished he had one. The machine rumbled ominously, and a hammer beat against a pair of bells. The whole room rattled with the sound, as though a dozen angry ghosts had slipped into the coffin-shaped device and were spitting curses at the mere mortals gathered in the study.

“I’ll get it.” With an expression of pure delight, Helena went to the contraption and leaned into the machine, almost embracing it, her generous breasts brushing against the large conical structure at the top.

“Yes, it’s Helena Cabot,” she shouted into the shrieking cone.

Jamie had supposed the woman to be rather limited in her intellectual powers, but now he suspected she was insane as well. Abigail did not appear at all perturbed by her sister’s behavior. In fact, she got up to join her, leaving the letter forgotten on the desk. A thin, alien voice announced something about a connection, then a disjointed phrase crackled through the cone.

“You’d better not be touching anything in my study.” The machine emitted a broken male voice. “And you’d better not be feeding Socrates. He’s on a special diet.”

“What the hell is that?” Jamie demanded. The faint, disembodied sound gave him the shivers.

Abigail laughed. “It’s Professor Rowan. Don’t you recognize his voice?”

“I’m calling to say I shan’t be back for supper,” the black horn announced.

She was right. The phantom voice was Rowan’s.

“Where the devil is he?” Jamie edged toward the tall wooden box, looked down into the cone. “You said he was at the laboratory.”

“It’s true,” said Abigail. “Professor Rowan is over at the college, perhaps a half mile away. He’s transmitting his voice to us through the device.”

Both women burst into laughter. “I confess I thought the same thing you’re probably thinking the first time I saw a telephone work,” said Helena.

“This is a telephone?”

“Indeed it is,” Abigail explained, indicating the apparatus on the wall.

“I’ve heard of them,” Jamie said, feeling a twinge of awe at the whole process. It was amazing to think of Rowan far away, his voice sounding here in this very room. “Never seen one before. Is it useful?”

Pinch-faced Abigail shocked him with a smile that sparkled with a contagious enthusiasm. “Last week, we telephoned the White House. The president’s chief adviser was so frightened he swore there was a poltergeist in the Oval Office.”

“But it’s Mr. Calhoun’s first day here,” Helena contradicted, yelling into the mouthpiece. “Surely you won’t neglect your guest.”

“He’s not a guest, he’s a boarder,” said the voice. “And a grown man besides. He can feed himself.”

“I’ll give him the message.” Helena’s face flushed with delight the whole time she spoke to the cone. She really was taken with the eccentric professor, Jamie reflected. Oh, wouldn’t her father love that.

Jamie bent down to address the mouthpiece. “Don’t worry on my account,” he shouted.

“Ah, there you are, Calhoun. I wasn’t worried. I am ending this transmission now. Don’t disturb anything in the study.”

He was a real charmer, Jamie thought. What an odd company he had joined, two spinster sisters and their weird, slovenly neighbor.

Abigail yelled some incomprehensible technical phrases into the device, and the professor answered in kind. With chalk on slate, she made some notations.

The transmission ended and a servant appeared, looking a bit fearful, twisting her hands into the fabric of her apron. “The very devil’s in that thing, I swear to heaven. Your father has sent me to tell you to join him for afternoon tea.”

“And so we shall,” Helena said. “Thank you, Dolly.” She and the maid started down the stairs. Predictably, Helena had forgotten her promise to walk with Jamie.

He stepped close to Abigail, barring her exit. The clean, no-nonsense aroma of plain soap failed to mask her subtle feminine scent. Bending close to her ear, he said, “I’ve not had my tea yet.”

“The professor keeps his in a jar,” she said tersely. “Right next to the arsenic. He has a hired man to look after things. Have you met Gerald Meeks yet?”

“Actually, I was hoping—”

“I know what you were hoping, sir. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a fool.” She pushed past him and started down the stairs. “I’m sure you’ll manage to make the acquaintance of my father in due time. But don’t expect me to make it easy for you.”

He chuckled, holding her shawl for her and cupping his hands over her shoulders for a moment. An unmistakable heat leaped between them. He could tell by the flare of alarm in her eyes just before she looked away that she felt it, too.

“Indeed, Miss Cabot,” he said. “With you, nothing is easy.”

After seeing her out, he returned to the study, circling the telephone transmitter with a mixture of wonder and distrust. Strange indeed, but it captured his imagination. If they could speak to someone a half mile away, why not two miles? Or ten or a hundred? He would speak with the professor about it. There was investment potential in this newfangled invention.

As he was leaving the room, he happened to glance at the desk where Abigail had been working. Picking up one of the pages, he saw m1 © Ho ® 5 log (delta) ® 2.5n log (r) followed by a long calculation, in writing so neat it resembled print. No doubt about it, the woman was bizarre.

Beneath her formula lay the letter she’d prepared in her sister’s name, a short, dispassionate note to Lieutenant Boyd Butler.

Dear Lieutenant, Your letter was most welcome and I await your future missives…

It sounded as bland and indifferent as Helena’s attitude toward the man. Like a lamb to the slaughter, Helena Cabot was being offered up to accommodate her father’s political agenda. Both sisters seemed preoccupied with pleasing their father, and both saw the vice president’s son as the way to do it.

Pondering the situation, he drummed his fingers on the surface of the desk. A corner of white paper stuck out from under the blotter, and he remembered the hidden pages.

Jamie decided to investigate. He might have been a good man once upon a time, but that had been long ago. The mishaps that had befallen him, the deeds he’d done or been forced to do, changed all that. He felt no qualms about helping himself to the neatly penned pages. No qualms about pouring himself a glass of whiskey and lighting a cigar. No qualms about sitting down by the window to read Abigail Cabot’s private correspondence.