The Most Eligible Bachelor Romance Collection: Nine Historical Romances Celebrate Marrying for All the Right Reasons (12 page)

“Mean old Daniel can’t have cats at Mrs. Beake’s.”

“Then where did it come from?” She nuzzled its bitty neck.

“Estelle York.” He ruffled his hair, mussing it so a lock fell over his brow. “I think—this sounds arrogant, but I think she’s competing for the thousand dollars.”

He didn’t look arrogant. He looked stricken. Still, Josie’s stomach soured. Estelle York pursuing Daniel, for prize money or himself, wasn’t a happy thought.

“A cat seems an odd token of affection.”

“Chocolate would have been fine,” he joked. “Can’t say as I mind the muffins I got, or the notes waiting here when I got into work. But pets are personal. I have to give it back.”

He’d received goodies and notes? From women? Then some of the town’s maidens took Wilson’s ridiculous ad at its word. Her hands trembling, Josie tucked the protesting cat back into the basket. “If you want, I’ll keep the kitten until you return her to Estelle.”

Leaving with a cat but no architect for the Mothers’ Home wasn’t her plan, but sometimes it was best to accept God’s surprises.

“Tilly would hate competing for your affection.” He smiled at the name of her terrier.

She stood. “I have plenty of love for all.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” He rose then looked past her. His expression tightened.

A slender woman paused at the threshold. A plain bonnet framed a pale face and a determined jaw. “Mr. Blair, architect?”

Mrs. Crabtree pushed around the woman, her hand clutching the lacy jabot at her throat. “I told her to wait, sir, but she got away from me.” Her gaze skimmed down the woman’s gray cotton skirt to its muddy hem with the same look of disdain she’d given Josie’s trousers.

“I understand, Mrs. Crabtree.” Daniel crossed the office and extended his hand. “I’m Daniel Blair. May I help you?”

With scabbed, shaking fingers, the woman took his hand. Then she withdrew a soiled scrap of newspaper from her pocket. Josie’s gaze lifted. The woman wasn’t slender, after all. More gaunt. Like she could use a few plates of pot roast and a warm place to sleep.

Josie’s stomach sank. What foolish, wishful thinking that no one would take the ad to heart. She well knew from her work with the Ladies’ Aid Society how bleak things could be. A thousand dollars could save a woman from poverty or worse. Wilson was teasing females and torturing Daniel, all for an edge in a contest.

And Daniel was such a good man, he would want to help these women. Might even come to love one. What intelligent woman wouldn’t want his sweet, giving heart?

Her skin went cold. The basket slipped from her hands.

Daniel’s thighs ached from pedaling his cycle uphill a few miles back, but he’d reached the most pleasant part of the route he and Wilson had chosen for their race next month. He zipped through the entrance to Golden Gate Park on Stanyan Street and thought through the course. Seven miles in all, the race wouldn’t prove a challenge for either of them. That wasn’t the point. Josie didn’t understand that competition was how Wilson showed affection, and Daniel had always gone along with it for the sake of their friendship.

Although a true friend shouldn’t do what Wilson had done.

Within minutes, he rounded Strawberry Hill, breathing in the fruity perfume of the wild berries. He’d pushed harder than usual this morning, as if cycling faster would ferry him away from his problems. Or rather, his new admirers.

None showed interest before the reward. Which was why all this female attention—pleasant though it might be—kept him from getting too smug.

If anything, the whole mess made his stomach hurt. And pinched his wallet. He’d taken out his own ad decrying Wilson’s ad as a prank, but the cash prize on his heart promised by Wilson’s daily ad proved irresistible to some, three in particular: Estelle York, the raven-haired Olive Gloss, and architect’s daughter Goldie Addis.

Then there were the ladies already in his life, who were not the least bit happy with him. Mrs. Beake put a handwritten sign on the door shooing women away before they could knock. Mrs. Crabtree threatened to do the same. He’d just ordered enormous floral arrangements of apology for them, but it wouldn’t stop the interruptions. The one place he could avoid females was on his bicycle.

Except for one, but he didn’t mind that so much.

Josie, her trousers replaced by a navy-blue skirt, coasted toward him at a languid speed on her Yellow Fellow. A wide grin split her face. If only that grin arose from a fondness for him. “Look who’s training,” she called.

Daniel slowed his cycle and hopped off. “Seems you’re taking advantage of a pleasant Saturday morning, too.”

She alighted from her cycle and laid it on the ground. “A bit of it. Mrs. Predmore’s luncheon is in a few hours.”

And miles the other direction, just up the street from Josie’s home on Nob Hill. He couldn’t suppress a grin as he set his bicycle beside hers. “I think you missed a turn.”

A tiny smile pulled at one rosy cheek. “I needed to clear my head. Wilson and Nora return today, and I’m not sure what to say to him.”

She and Daniel, both. He’d prayed to forgive, and he knew he needed to confront Wilson, but all he sensed from the Lord was a strange sensation to let it go, for now. “It’s made me a target, that’s for sure.”

For females, and for a heavy load of ribbing from his friends.

“What happened with that woman, back in your office?”

The one with hollow cheeks, of course. His exhalation was long. “Not enough. One of her children is ill. She hasn’t had a man in her life in years. Just the sort of woman who could be helped by the Ladies’ Aid Society, but she refused. I gave her money for the doctor, and I promised to mention her to my friend at the Palace Hotel, who’s hiring, but I can’t marry her.” All he could do was pray.

The air grew heavy between them.

“You did what you could.” Then she grinned. “There’s no Mothers’ Home yet, anyway. Pity there isn’t an architect willing to design one for me.”

“Touché.” He laughed. “But you’re not perfect, either. Should I tell Estelle York you almost dropped her cat?”

“You wouldn’t dare. I caught the basket.” She swatted his shoulder.

His legs didn’t ache anymore. In fact, he felt more relaxed than he had since this whole debacle started. Maybe it had been too long since he laughed. “I think I’ll avoid Wilson altogether tonight and go to the Tivoli. That comic opera is ending its run.”

Her clear eyes widened. “
The Chimes of Normandy
? I’ve wanted to see it. Oh.” She covered her cheeks with her hands. “I’m not inviting myself. That just tumbled out. I’ll ask Fannie and Pablo Jiménez. We might see you there.”

He shouldn’t. But he couldn’t help it. “Why don’t we all go together? If you don’t think they’d mind.” Pablo Jiménez cycled, too, and whenever they met they discussed the sport.

She hopped on her toes. “They won’t mind.”

“I shall procure four tickets, then. If it doesn’t work, that’s fine. Your parents might object, after all.” Although they both knew her parents wouldn’t care that Daniel escorted her, or the Jiménezes chaperoned. They might not even notice her missing.

“I look forward to your call. You can visit Thisbe.” She wiggled her brows.

“And who, pray tell, is Thisbe?”

“Your cat.” Her gaze left his face, and her smile changed. “Good morning, Olive.”

For the briefest of seconds, Daniel had the urge to leap back on his cycle. Instead he prayed for strength and smiled. “Miss Gloss.”

He’d hoped for the weekend off from the raven-haired lady who’d happened to be outside Whitstone & Blair every morning when he went into work. She walked a small dog, which Josie greeted at once with a playful pat. Olive’s eyes flashed with curiosity as her gaze flickered between him and Josie. “Out riding together?”

Josie moved from the dog to her Yellow Fellow. “Just ran into each other, but I must be off. Mrs. Predmore’s tea is today. Have you reconsidered attending, Olive?”

Olive’s pale cheeks flushed. “I shall be there.”

“Wonderful. See you then. Until later, Mr. Blair.” With a hop, she mounted her cycle and rode away.

Just as well. He had to tell Olive, again, his heart was not up for reward. Without sounding like a conceited monster.

Chapter 3

A
rousing speech, Mrs. Predmore.” Josie’s tea gown of blue silk rustled as she shook hands with her hostess, a plump woman of middle years who wore spectacles and a ready smile.

“I am relieved so many came to hear it,” Mrs. Predmore said. “Thanks to your invitations.” As Josie stepped away so her hostess could greet other guests, she recognized many faces, some members of the Ladies’ Aid Society, some not. Her mother, finishing her latest sculpture, never arrived, nor did Mrs. Beake, alas. But Olive Gloss and her mother came. A thrill of triumph shot through Josie’s limbs.

And of course, Fannie Jiménez was there, in a daisy-strewn gown, waiting with an eager smile. The delicate blond clutched Josie’s hand. “Happy, dear?”

Josie nodded. “The more women we draw to the cause, the better for our community.”

“I need no convincing. I stand with you, as ever. Even when I knew better.” Her brow quirked.

“You wanted black hair,” Josie jested. “Paint was the best way I knew to give it to you.”

Fannie’s dramatic sigh made Josie laugh. “Mama still mentions it, you know.”

“We were nine years old. I should hope she mentions it with amusement.”

Fannie’s brow quirked again. Her mother was such a stickler. Josie’s mother had not appreciated the loss of her black paint, but that was the worst of it. There were benefits to having a mother consumed by artistic projects rather than rules.

“I should go, if Pablo and I are to be ready by seven.” Fannie eyed the door.

“Are you sure Pablo won’t mind?” Fannie’s husband, a cattleman whose family owned a successful rancho to the south, was a jovial, tolerant fellow who never seemed bothered by anything, but Josie had to ask.

“Chaperoning you and Daniel Blair tonight?” Fannie waved her hand in dismissal. “The two of you are fine company. Oh, hello, Olive. How nice to see you.”

Josie spun to welcome the newcomer. Olive’s rose-pink ensemble made a pretty contrast to her dark coiffure. “When Josie invited me, I couldn’t resist,” she said through a wide grin.

Josie almost stepped back. Something about Olive’s smile bothered her. Like it wasn’t a real smile at all.

What a foolish thought. Josie should show enthusiasm for the potential recruit, not distrust. “I hope you’ll attend our next meeting.”

Fannie touched her sleeve. “Forgive me, but I must be off.”

“Of course.” Josie kissed her friend on both cheeks. The room was emptying, and Mrs. Predmore’s staff lurked by the doors, ready to call for carriages. It was time for them all to leave.

She cast Olive an apologetic smile. “I should be on my way, too. It looks as if your mother is with our hostess. Shall we join her?”

Yet Olive didn’t budge, staring at her with that enormous smile. Farewells at gatherings could be so awkward. Perhaps she was shy? Since Olive was a few years younger, they did not know each other well. When Olive’s father passed away two years back, Josie tried extending a hand of support. The gesture had not been well received. But the girl had been grieving, and Josie hadn’t taken offense.

“Could you help me with something first, please? It’s rather delicate. Someone stepped on my hem.” Olive glanced down. “If we were going straight home, I wouldn’t bother, but Mama wants to pay a call. I have pins in my bag. Would you do it?”

The ruffled flounce at Olive’s hem was indeed torn a few inches. It looked to be an easy fix, but perhaps she had no skill. Poor dear. Josie gestured toward the hall. “I know just the room. I shall have you pinned in a trice.”

“Perfect.” Olive’s smile looked a bit more natural now.

Josie led the way until they reached the room she sought. But Olive didn’t go in. Instead, she opened a door at the end of the hall. “What’s this, do you suppose?”

“A cupboard of some sort.” Smelling of cedar and wax, it was large enough to walk in, with neat shelves on either side. But Josie hadn’t snooped in someone else’s home since about the time she painted Fannie’s hair black, and she didn’t intend to resume such behavior now.

Olive gripped Josie’s sleeve. “Let’s fix my hem here. I don’t want anyone to enter the ladies’ room and see I can’t do it myself. Please.”

Poor dear. Josie marched in, the faster to get it done so she could leave. “I’ll show you how, for next time. Leave the door open so I have light—”

The door smacked shut, leaving her in darkness. Was this door the kind that didn’t stay open?

“Olive?” Josie turned and reached for the door latch, finding air and then, ah, wood. “Is it stuck?” The moment her fingers touched the cool metal of the latch, a metallic scrape sounded.

The cupboard had a lock? And Olive had the key? Why, she’d have had to plan this. Paid a maid for the key, or stolen it.

But locked it was, for the latch didn’t give under her frantic twists. She patted the door. Then smacked it. “Olive. Let me out.”

Silence. Josie shoved her hip into the door. All she achieved was a sore side.