Darby: Bride of Oregon (American Mail-Order Bride 33) Page 10

  Each time she climbed down onto a platform, she was sure she wouldn’t board again. But every time the whistle blew, her heart jumped and jumped, and wouldn’t settle again until she was safely aboard.

  At Longview Junction, when she chose not to get off the train at all, Beauregard came back to the car just to make sure she hadn’t slipped away. Maybe he thought she’d jumped off.

  He looked so relieved she wanted to laugh. But there was nothing to laugh about.

  She tried to tell herself she had agreed to his terms only because she had no other options. Then she would reason that she would live a privileged and pampered life. She would be envied. She would be the seemingly proud wife of a seemingly good-hearted man who wanted to help his city and his state become a place Oregonians would be proud of.

  When she was grasping at straws, she told herself she would be one of the lucky women who wouldn’t have to worry about sharing her husband’s bed. But the real reason she intended to sign that contract—the reason she would never own up to—was the fact that fifteen years was a long time to exact her revenge.

  And it might take that long to make sure he regretted every little detail of that contract.

  ~ ~ ~

  She spent an inordinate amount of time on her hair because she had an inordinate amount of time to waste. Not a strand was out of place after she attached the wide brim that matched her gown. Beauregard had left it for her in the private car. Though it was modest and tasteful, the loud green color led her to believe he’d acquired it at Rosemary’s. It was too large to have belonged to the two girls he’d taken upstairs that night. But who knew how many other women he’d visited before the train left the station.

  Yet another reason why she was happy she wouldn’t be sharing his bed! Let Jezebel worry about what diseases he might be carrying home.

  Darby sat quietly in her private car and waited for the man to come collect her. And for the last few miles of the journey, she worried that he would find yet another way to insult her with his contract. She understood his need to humiliate her. She did. But he obviously had a talent for it. A nasty talent. And no matter what her heart might tell her, she wasn’t going to put up with much more.

  It was just like that ring…

  It was just like that ring!

  He’d handed her a weapon to wield over him and he didn’t even know it!

  She hadn’t signed it yet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  For a modest reception, Jezebel had outdone herself.

  How a well-known owner of a brothel could manage to organize perfectly respectable events, like weddings and welcoming committees, Darby would never know. When she’d put it to Beauregard, in those early days, he’d give vague answers like, “She has her ways,” or “She has her connections. But with no clean cut answer, Darby assumed Jezebel’s brothel was frequented by powerful men who would rather jump to do her bidding than fall out of her favor.

  A band played as the train came to a stop, for pity sakes.

  Darby slipped into the persona of Queen Victoria again—a persona she both felt comfortable in and resented all at the same time.

  In the reverse of a reception line, she and her politician husband walked along a line of important men and their wives, and made hollow promises to have them over to dinner or get together for worthy causes. She was careful to repeat names so her new false friends would feel remembered. Careful to blush when mention was made of their honeymoon. Quick to move on when serious subjects were broached.

  A man named Poulson insisted that, since her husband had been gone so long, he absolutely must put in an appearance at his office and see to some urgent matters. When Beauregard easily relented, she suspected the man had been part of a plan to separate the two of them without raising suspicions.

  Her smiling husband walked her to the carriage where Jacobs waited to take her home. They turned and waved to the onlookers, then he kissed her on the ear and told her he’d be home just as fast as he could manage.

  The carriage pulled away, finally, leaving behind a wake of witty and suggestive calls meant to embarrass both bride and groom.

  She let the curtains drop over the windows and sat back to enjoy a moment of nothingness. She was numb, and planned to remain numb for a month or two at least. But one day, she would fight back.

  One day.

  ~ ~ ~

  The carriage slowed much too soon and she lifted a curtain to see that they had not, yet, reached the foot of the west hills. Would Beauregard join her after all?

  She stretched her neck a little and saw that their path was blocked by a city hack. The carriage door swung open and a cloaked figure climbed inside. After the intruder sat on the opposite seat, the hood flipped back to reveal Jez, grinning from ear to ear.

  “So, yer a Scot.”

  No reason to be surprised. He probably included it in his telegram.

  “Aye.”

  “And he’s letting you stay?” She shook her head. “Not like him at all. There must be a catch.”

  “None I’ll discuss with ye.”

  “Oh, pooh. You mean we’re not going to be friends anymore?” The woman laughed and reached for the door.

  Darby couldn’t let the chance pass. “Wait. I have something that belongs to you.” She pulled the ring from her finger and pressed it into Jez’s hand. “Good-bye.”

  The woman’s mouth hung open slightly and she kept looking from Darby’s face, to the ring, and back again, waiting for “the catch.”

  “No catch,” Darby said. “Good luck.”

  Jez said nothing and climbed out. It was a long minute before the carriage moved again. And when it did, it moved fast. The wheels clattered down the street so fast they made a high-pitched whirring noise she’d never noticed before. Thankfully, the man slowed for the twists and turns up the mountainside, but still they were stopping at the front steps in no time.

  Jacobs grumbled while he lowered the step and opened the door.

  “What’s wrong?” She looked around, expecting wild Indians to be flooding up the drive.

  “That Jezebel, that’s what. Don’t know what she could have been thinking, stopping us in the middle of the road like that.”

  “I thought she had some pull in this city.”

  “Oh, she does. She does. But she’s careful not to have much in common with Judge Beauregard. For why would she be friends with him when she is well known as the Phantom’s…favorite.” He had the decency to blush.

  “So, because she climbed into our coach, someone will put the pieces together?”

  “Exactly that. She goes to the judge’s offices for business matters. She’s never seen publically with him, or at his home. Now, who knows?”

  Darby laughed. “Well, it was just a matter of time, right? Sooner or later—”

  “No, ma’am. She put you in danger today. Not Rand. And when he finds out, he’s not going to be happy with her.”

  Darby swallowed a mouthful of hot emotion. “Oh, I don’t know, Jacobs. I think you’ll be surprised what she’ll be able to get away with now.”

  His eyes fell to the ground for a moment and he blushed to the top of his curly mopped head. “Elton told me you’re Scottish, ma’am.” He held up a thick stack of papers. “I reckon these letters to the staff are all about it. But don’t you worry. Rand Beauregard is a level headed man—when he can find his head. And I’m sure it’s around here somewhere.”

  She thanked him with a smile and turned to take a long look at her new prison.

  Fifteen years. It was a long time to be on the verge of tears all the time.

  Thank goodness I haven’t signed the papers.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Three days later, Hardy Jacobs was suddenly sent down the coast on business, so Darby had no one left willing to play cards with her. She soon wearied of thinking up clever ways to spend Beauregard’s money and instead, started finding things in the contract she wanted changed. He’d slipped the papers into her
hand as she’d climbed into the carriage at the train station, and she hadn’t seen him since. So, with nothing better to do than eavesdrop on the staff members—who were making wagers on all kinds of disturbing possibilities—she’d finally stopped picking apart his proposition and began writing her own.

  The whole idea of 15 years seemed set in stone, so she allowed it.

  She decided the best way to share the house was if there was a definite apartment created for him on the lower level so she needn’t worry he’d wander into her part of the house in the middle of the night. Also, if it was going to put her in danger to have him stay away from home too often, she wanted him back on the mountain five nights of the week. If it made Jezebel pout, too bad. The woman’s romantic life was no concern of Darby’s.

  She also wanted a guest house built so she could invite some of her friends to come stay from time to time. With train routes making travel so easy these days, there was no reason why she couldn’t invite some of her closer friends out for a month in the summertime. And Violet would be the first to invite.

  Darby also decided that she would reject any contract that included anything about children. There was no need. She wouldn’t be sharing anyone’s bed, and she was insulted he actually expected her to be unfaithful.

  “What a great arse he is,” she muttered, just as Jenny walked into the room. Her eyes were wide, but Darby realized the girl couldn’t have overheard. “What is it?”

  “A...uh...a...uh...Mr. Harrigan is here to see you, ma’am.”

  Harrigan! By the look on the lass’ face, it had to be the same Mr. Harrigan that had sliced Beauregard’s leg open. It also looked as though Jenny would faint dead away if she was required to go back and speak with the man.

  “Jenny, go to the kitchen and stay there. Do you hear me? If I ring a bell, you send someone else. You stay out of sight. And have Cookie fix tea.”

  “Yes’m. Thank you.” She was already in tears.

  Harrigan was at her home in the middle of the day? Then he couldn’t be planning anything nefarious. Could he? Monsters only came out at night, did they not?

  She glided into the parlor with a friendly smile. No need to be nasty until she took the man’s measure.

  The man was tastefully dressed in a warm brown suit and tie. He was far too handsome to be the man Beauregard had painted as the devil himself. But on closer inspection, he did look older. His eyes were slightly bloodshot. His face was closely shaved, but his skin had a gray pallor to it.

  “Good afternoon,” she said, not bothering to hide her accent. If the man were as well-connected as her husband, he already knew things the rest of the city didn’t.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Beauregard.” The man took her offered hand, gave her fingers a little squeeze, then released them. “I’m Bru Harrigan.”

  “So I was told. Will ye sit down?” She took a seat with her back to the wall and he was left with the more vulnerable position of sitting with his back to the hallway. It didn’t seem to bother him, so she assumed he already knew her husband wasn’t at home. Which guards were about was anyone’s guess.

  “I assume,” he said, “since you’re still in the house, you are still Mrs. Beauregard.”

  She laughed. “Until I am informed otherwise.”

  He laughed in return, clearly enjoying her honesty. “I hear you’re Scottish.”

  “Aye.”

  He laughed again. “You sound like a few sea captains I know.”

  “Weel,” she said, laying the brogue as thick as she could. “We’re all cut from the same cloth, ye ken?”

  Laughing even harder, he put his hands on his flat stomach and begged her to let him catch his breath.

  The cook shuffled out and set the tea tray on the table, all the while watching Harrigan like she thought he might lunge for her. Darby shooed her away.

  “I’m afraid ye have quite the reputation in this house, sir. We’re all convinced ye’re the Phantom.”

  The man’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

  She raised her brows. “I take it, from your reaction, that we’ve hit the nail on the head?”

  The man was literally speechless. She poured him some tea and handed him the cup and saucer. He took it from her, absently. “You think I am The Phantom?”

  She lifted her own cup and stirred it. “Are ye no’?”

  “No, madam. I’m just an honest shipping businessman with a few enemies who happen to have wild imaginations.”

  “Ah, poor man.”

  They exchanged a knowing smile.

  Darby hoped to confuse him even more. “Do ye know, ye’re the second stranger to come calling just to see if I’m Scottish? Should I expect more of ye?”

  “The second?”

  “Yes. The other day, a woman jumped into my carriage just to put the question to me.”

  He described Jez to a T.

  She nodded. “Yes. That must be her.”

  “That was Jezebel. She’s the Phantom’s woman.”

  “Oh? And here I was under the impression ye didn’t like women.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I think we both know I’m not the Phantom.”

  She gave him a conspiratory wink that committed her to nothing, and hopefully suggested that she would keep his secret. “But I wonder why ye...I mean, The Phantom, cares whether or not I am Scottish.”

  He shrugged. “The Phantom doesn’t care for Scots. Something he and your husband have in common.”

  She waved off the comment. “My husband and the Phantom have much more in common than that.”

  “Oh? Do tell.” He took a sip of his tea, grimaced, then set the cup down.

  “Well, I ken they hate each other.” She widened her eyes. “Oh, wait! He hates my husband. So that’s something the Phantom has more in common with ye.”

  He feigned surprise. “I? Hate your husband?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Just push those words closer together—I hate yer husband— you see? Ye are The Phantom.”

  He pushed on his knees and stood, still laughing. “My word, Mrs. Beauregard. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much for quite a while. I thank you for the tea, but I must be going.”

  “Forgive me for asking, Mr. Harrigan. But you never said why you’d come in the first place.”

  “Oh, I apologize. I should have said.” He picked up his hat from the table. “I just wanted to meet you, to see this famous Scottish woman for myself while I could.”

  “While ye could?”

  “You know. In case you decided to bolt.”

  She laughed at him with as much gusto as he’d shown. “Oh, Mr. Harrigan. We Scots doona bolt.”

  He nodded. “We’ll see, Mrs. Beauregard. We’ll see.”

  “Actually, it’s Lady Beauregard.”

  He chuckled while he tugged his large Stetson on his head, mounted his horse, and hooted like a deranged owl all the way down the drive.

  Elton separated himself from the corner of the house. “What would you like me to do, ma’am?”

  “I want you to go find my husband and make sure he’s all right. Tell him Harrigan came to the house. I didn’t understand the threat, but it was there. Tell him to be careful.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Two hours later, when she’d heard nothing from Elton or her husband, she decided she’d earned the right to panic. She was certain the tall guard would have sent word to her if he could have, so now she had two men to worry about.

  She left Jenny and the cook in the house, told them to lock all the doors and windows, and find a windowless room to hide in. She hurried out to the carriage house to see if Jacobs was around, but the carriage was gone along with her husband’s horse. The fools were probably running around the city changing clothes and changing hacks and making it impossible for Elton to find them.

  At least she hoped that was what they were doing.

  But she hadn’t been left alone. There were at least four guards watching the ho
use all the time. Elton was only one of them. And though she’d never been told how to call them in, she had a powerful whistle that would surely do the trick. So she stood on the back porch, curled her tongue, and sent a shrill message into the hills. In case they could see her, even if she couldn’t see them, she waved her white handkerchief over her head for a good half a minute. Then she waited.

  No calls. No whistles. No gunshots. Nothing moved in the dark forest just beyond the yard. Nothing from the clearing further up. And the orange of the sunset was slipping off the ends of the pine trees. It would be dark soon.

  Where were the guards?

  She made no bones about hurrying back inside. It might have been her imagination, but she could feel eyes upon her, watching her. And they weren’t friendly eyes.

  “Don’t let them be dead,” she muttered over and over again. “Please, don’t let them be dead.”

  Poor, Elton. So gentle. So loyal.

  “Please, don’t let him be dead.”

  She gathered candles and a bottle of whisky, then went in search of Jenny and the cook. She found them in a small room off her own that was intended to be a nursery one day. She laughed when she saw the pile of candles on the floor and the decanter in Cookie’s arms. “Brandy,” she said, and nodded to her prize.

  Darby lifted her bottle. “Whisky.”

  Cookie nodded to it. “Mr. Rand won’t drink it ‘cause it’s Scottish, but he keeps it on hand for guests.”

  Darby laughed. “Just like me.” But she sobered when tears threatened. She handed the bottle to Jenny. “Remember, you have to ration it. You might be here for days before help comes. So you’ll need a chamber pot of some sort, and you’ll need food.”

  Cookie stepped to the side to reveal a large ham in a small wooden cradle.

  “Ration that too,” Darby ordered.

  “Wait.” Jenny tugged on her sleeve. “Where will you be, mum?”

  Darby pulled away and backed out the door. “I’ll leave the lights out, so hopefully, they’ll think the house is deserted. Then I’m going to find my husband.”