The Treasure Hunter's Lady (3 page)

“My pleasure.” He peered out of the alley. The automobile had rolled on and someone had captured the frightened horse, but who knew what other trouble she might run into before she reached her destination. “Maybe I ought to escort you. See that you get where you're going safely.”

Her eyes fell on the tear in her skirt. She tugged the material up, revealing a lacy white petticoat and a few inches of curved leg. One slender finger poked through the hole. “Blast and damn!”

Her outburst made him smile. He didn't bother trying not to stare at her leg. “You ought to see about getting that patched up. As it happens I'm on my way to a tailor. I'd be happy to—”

“I'm late,” she interrupted. The material fell into place as she straightened. A look of consternation covered her heart-shaped face. “Late to see my seamstress. There you stand trying to draw me away with moist kisses and you're no better than a common vagabond by your dress. Blast and—”

“Damn,” he finished for her. With no one else to blame for her lack of sense, she'd turned her anger on him. Naturally. “Seems to me you're the one carryin' on like a magpie. Watch your step crossing the road next time. You might not always run into a wayward cowboy willing to save your neck.”

“Rude American,” she countered, hands framing her hips.

He squared his weight and cocked an eyebrow. “I stopped a crowd of folks from weeping at your wake and you're having a fit of temper. Any proper lady would've offered a reward to her hero.”

She drew herself up and sniffed disdainfully. “You've received your
reward
, sir. Remove yourself from my path so that we may both carry on with our business.”

Her hair slipped over her shoulders again, curling around her face in untamed ringlets. Dear God, her eyes were icy and crackling with ire. A grin tugged at his lips. He swept his hat off, stepped aside and gestured for her to go along. “A fine reward it was. Maybe we'll meet another day in some close alley.”

She checked for her handbag as she muttered, “I certainly hope not.” Thrusting her nose into the air, she turned and left him there.

Red-gold hair flew behind her like living fire. She glanced over her shoulder and he returned her gaze with a wink and grin. She picked up the skirt, all but running across the street. He shook his head. It was lust, probably caused by the crazy old fortuneteller’s wild predictions about love.

Abel settled his hat on his head again. Of all the times to meet a filly he'd like to tame, this was the most inconvenient. Some things were just more important than chasing women. He traced the amulet under his shirt.

****

The ballroom in Andrew Christensen’s home was filled wall-to-wall with guests. Romy recognized several of the faces, but she stuck to the areas where the gas lamps didn’t throw much light. For the last twenty minutes she’d been desperately avoiding the DuGuards. Once or twice she feared they’d glimpsed her, but she had managed to blend into the crowd or the shadows before they could approach. All the running and ducking had left her overly warm and exhausted.

She tried to judge the distance to the refreshment table and calculate her odds of making it there without being spotted when she heard a familiar voice call her name.

“Romancia!”

Romy flinched at the sound of Sara's—or was it Wincie's?—voice. She attempted to hide behind a robust gentleman in a black suit, but her stiff skirt crashed into his legs. He sent her a bewildered look and shuffled off. Like a compass to north, the trio found her.

Imogen stopped short, eyes bulging. “Romancia. That dress is . . . .” She faltered for a word.

“Unique,” Wincie supplied, shielding her eyes with her hand.

Eyesore was a more appropriate term. Somehow the shade had come out all wrong. Blue as a gaslight flame, it stuck out amid the more subdued colors filling the ballroom. Row after row of gathered satin ruffles spilled down the wide skirt, which had given her trouble as she navigated through the door earlier. The stiff cream bodice of scalloped lace—cut obscenely low in her opinion—itched like the devil. Romy feared the stares and whispers would start up again now that Imogen had singled her out.

How she'd like to find that cowboy and make him pay for saving her life.

“It's fortunate that you're so lovely.” Imogen eyeballed the giant blue and white bow at the waist. Several more striped bows could be found at the back and on the cap sleeves. “You could walk around in a canvas sack and attract the stares of admiring gentlemen.”

Romy didn't dare trust the compliment. She knew for a fact her nose was too long, her eyes too wide and far apart, giving her an almost doll-like appearance. Her mouth was too big, particularly when her mind let loose. And she was very close to allowing it.

“Thank you for that kindness, Imogen,” Romy said through her teeth.

Sara bounced a colorless ringlet hanging by her ear. “Has Mr. Woefield made an appearance yet?”

“Haven't seen him,” Romy answered truthfully. Though if he'd asked for Romy, anyone in the room could point
her
out. She scoured the corners again, looking for a place to hide from Imogen's flock and Mr. Woefield.

“Exquisite design.” Wincie ran her hand over a dark green marble column. “We've never been invited to Mr. Christensen's manor before.”

Sealed tombs had more warmth than the businessman's city mansion. Romy swallowed her distaste for the house and its design. “I met him for the first time last year, before we moved to Boston. He has a house in the New York countryside much more to my liking.”

The country manor was surrounded by nothing but ancient forests and rolling hills. A massive stable housed big, sleek hunting horses. He'd allowed her use of the horses and the grounds, but it didn't change her opinion of Andrew Christensen. On the surface, he appeared composed and generous. Something in his eyes struck a nerve with her. When he thought no one was looking, he let his easy smile and jovial manner slide into something small and greedy. She'd once asked Papa about Christensen's shifty change of character, but he claimed not to notice any strange behavior.

“I fear dear Romancia will never be content in the city. Perhaps if she finds my nephew to her liking, I'll gift them the summer house.”

Smooth as polished glass, Christensen slipped through the crowd to stand at Romy’s side. A plump, younger man followed in his wake. Her father approached on her other side. His face was pinched as though he had a headache.

She didn't know whether to be more alarmed by Papa's appearance or Christensen's innuendo.

Christensen held two crystal flutes of pale champagne. He offered one to Romy. “Care for a drink, my dear?”

Papa gave her the slightest inclination of his head.

She accepted the sparkling flute and smiled politely. “I'm parched. Thank you, Mr. Christensen.”

A shrewd light glowed in his light hazel eyes. “You may omit the formalities, Romancia. Your father and I are business partners and old friends. And this is a night for celebrating such relationships. Have you been introduced to my nephew?”

A little taller than herself, the gentleman Christensen nodded to offered her a wan smile. “Samuel Woefield.”

Muddy green eyes roved over her, lingering on the display of cleavage. She gasped with indignity, but Papa pinched her arm before she could speak. With reluctance, she extended her hand and the young businessman accepted it, brushing his lips across her knuckles. Thank God for gloves, at least. She tipped the champagne glass to her mouth, glad to have a reason to occupy her hands.

Christensen smiled. “Someday, Maggard and I may be more than partners. We may share blood.”

As for blood, hers turned cold. The sip of champagne she'd been about to swallow shot down her airway. A spray of bubbly liquid spewed from her mouth. One of the girls pounded on her back in an unhelpful manner. Romy gasped for air and straightened. Everyone within a ten-foot radius turned to stare. Woefield looked horrified as he brushed at wet spots on his jacket like they were embers.

Papa took her elbow. “Are you well, Romancia?”

“Air. I need air,” she wheezed, pressing her hand to the base of her throat.

“Of course.” He gave Christensen an apologetic look. “Excuse us.”

The circumference of her skirt made it difficult for Papa to support her, so he walked as close as he could, leading her through a pair of French windows to a narrow balcony outside. The second he released her arm she knew she was in trouble. He shut the doors and rounded on her. “Dear God, what was that display about? It's the best news you could hope for and you spit champagne at the man! Are you mad?”

Tears stung her eyes, but she held them at bay. This man was not her father. If she didn't know better, she'd guess the Amazonian people had inserted an imposter in his place. Papa was the most patient man she knew and he certainly never considered her a lunatic.

Maggard paced the length of the balcony, alternately staring into the distance and shooting harsh looks at her. “This is a very important night for us, Romy. It's set up partly to ensure your future. A future you cannot afford to ruin by acting like a heathen. Your mother, God rest her soul, never acted like a savage in a room full of important dignitaries and benefactors of the Smithsonian. What goes on in your head—I hope I never find out. Do you suppose you can manage to act civilized now?”

“Yes, Papa.” A tear slipped down her cheek and she hated herself for crying. “But suppose I don't want to marry Samuel Woefield?”

His head jerked up and an expression hard enough to chip diamonds crossed his face. “There are women inside that room who would face ravenous wolves to marry him. Count yourself among them.” He paused and his face softened. “Come inside when you're more composed.”

She pressed her hand to her eyes realizing, too late, the kohl on her eyelids would smear on the white gloves and down her face. She wanted to yell at his retreating back that the women inside the ballroom
were
ravenous wolves.

****

Scaling the thick vines growing over the brick wall surrounding Christensen's property sounded easier than it looked, though it probably wasn't the toughest challenge Abel would face any time soon. At least Maggard's information appeared correct. The manor was a quarter mile away—a leisurely walk.

A hand shot out of the shadows and clutched his shoulder. Abel jumped and spun, reaching inside his coat for the Bennett. Obadiah Huber, a half-German, half-African man melted out of the darkness.

“You're going to draw unwanted attention if you fire that weapon, Courte.” His eyes and tone remained calm though he frowned at the handgun.

“You ought to know sneaking up on people gets you shot,” Abel snapped.

White teeth flashed in Huber's face. He worked in the house as a porter, with access to any room in the mansion. “You need me. How else are you going to get inside?”

“True.” He begrudged every favor he had to cash in to get another step further in his journey.

“This is your invitation to the ball.” Huber offered a piece of heavy paper. “Come find me once you're inside. I'll lead you up to Christensen's library.”

Abel studied the front of the invitation, with its flowery words in embossed letters. He didn't recognize the name on the invite, but it hardly mattered. The back of the invitation had Christensen's family seal stamped dead center.
Pompous bastard
. “Thanks. I appreciate your cooperation.”

A scowl passed over Huber's lined face. “If you get caught snooping around in there, I've never heard of you.”

“Fair enough,” Abel conceded. “See you on the other side.”

He tucked the invitation in the pocket of his vest and set off across the manicured grounds. The evening hadn't progressed far; plenty of rich folks in their fancy garb were still arriving. He only needed to slip in line to be on his way to Christensen's library.

Worry licked at the back of his mind. If he got caught, he'd go to jail for certain. The local law enforcement wouldn't take kindly to a stranger breaking into the home of a prominent citizen. Even if they understood what was at stake, which they wouldn't, because he still had trouble getting his head around it. The term
wild goose chase
came to mind. Good-bye freedom, hello insane asylum for deluded criminals. Not that he'd be there long at the rate things seemed to be escalating. The tremor in his hands was unrelated to nerves. Shoving the worry aside, he proceeded across the back lawn.

An elegant waltz drifted from a few open windows along the rear of the manor. The kind of music he'd learned to dance to at the university, but had no use for in Texas. All this spit and polish just to get together and brag about how much money each person had accumulated turned his stomach. People with too much money in their hands had odd ideas about things, no matter where they came from.

Like that woman in the alley. Damn near turned into a greasy spot in the street; all she cared about was getting to a seamstress. Abel couldn't think of a single reason to be in such a hurry to mend a dress—unless it was a wedding gown. Women got particular over weddings, but even with that as an excuse, he couldn't see what all the fuss was about.

He passed beneath a low balcony and heard sniffling over the strains of music. Abel peered up at the biggest skirt he'd seen since photographs of the antebellum South. It took a moment for his eyes to relay to his brain what he was seeing. Who else but the woman parading through his thoughts could be wearing it? Her face was buried in her gloved hands, but there was no mistaking that hair.

“This would be the part where you say, ‘Romeo, oh, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?’” Abel couldn’t help himself.

She lifted her head and stared down at him through reddened eyes. “You!”

He grinned. “Remember me, do you? I was hopin' for an alley, but a balcony will do just fine.”

“Oh, no. Don't you dare come up here.” She looked like she was about to say something else, but whatever thought crossed her mind faded when she glanced over her shoulder. “My entire evening has gone wrong since I saw you on the street.”