Midnight Star by Catherine Coulter
“I fear, Miss Jameson,” Delaney said, his eyes sparkling as he leaned forward to see her clearly, “that you have confused Joe Spinoza with his brother, Otis. Otis, as everyone knows, lived most of his life in trees, watching the leaves change color.”
“Hold it a moment, Miss Jameson, Del,” Tony Dawson cried. “I want to get some paper and write this down!”
“Please do not consider that, sir,” Chauncey said kindly. “It would only embarrass Mr. Saxton when he discovers that Otis Spinoza, far from living in trees, spent the greater part of his life in Northern Africa studying the effects of the desert winds on the structure of sand dunes.”
“I am certain, Miss Jameson,” Penelope said sharply, “that Del is not mistaken! He is very educated, you know, and reads scores of books.”
“Surely not, sir!” Chauncey said in astonishment. “Not books! Miss Stevenson doubtless jests at your expense.”
“My daughter never jests, Miss Jameson,” Mrs. Stevenson said with stunning clarity.
“Forgive me, ma’am,” Chauncey said with a charming smile. “Of course she does not.”
“There are some things young ladies should never do,” Delaney remarked to the table at large.
“Like show gentlemen up for idiots, Del?” Tony Dawson asked.
“Especially that.”
“I suggest then that you don’t stand up right away, Del,” Mr. Newton said. “You may find that you’re a good inch shorter!”
Delaney grinned directly at Chauncey, and raised his wineglass. “A toast to young ladies who seem to have forgotten that Americans have kicked the English back across the Atlantic two times in our short history.”
“To Otis Spinoza, may he soon build a tree house!” Tony called out.
“To American gentlemen who cannot bear to be bested and must hark back to ancient history!”
“To the gentlemen,” Mrs. Agatha Newton said, rising with a swish of silk skirts, “who will now be left to their port!”
Agatha Newton swept out of the dining room, trying to contain her mirth. Sally Stevenson had informed her that Miss Jameson was an utter snob. Sally always was a fool, she thought. She admitted that she had invited Miss Jameson because of Tony. He’d acted such a love-smitten sot that she couldn’t bring herself to disappoint him. She met Miss Jameson’s eye and gave a very ladylike snort. “My dear,” she said, lightly touching Chauncey’s arm, “I feared letting it continue. You would doubtless have left all the gentlemen’s self-consequence in tatters!”
“I enjoy enlivening conversation, ma’am,” Chauncey said, drawn to the older woman, who in some elusive way reminded Chauncey of her mother’s sister, Lucy, who had died when Chauncey was fifteen years old.
“I did not find it so amusing,” Penelope said.
“No,” Agatha said soothingly, “of course you did not. You will play for us, will you not, Penelope? You present such a charming picture at the piano.”
“She will wait for the gentlemen,” Mrs. Stevenson said.
“You are right, ma’am,” Chauncey said. “There is no reason to waste talent on us.”
Agatha Newton was not at all surprised to see the gentlemen troop into the drawing room a very short time later. She was surprised, however, to see Delaney Saxton stroll immediately to Penelope Stevenson and stick to her like gum plaster. Odd, she thought. Very odd. Poor Tony. He hadn’t a prayer with Miss Jameson.
Delaney could not explain his actions to himself. He found Miss Jameson utterly fascinating, her wit razor sharp. They had sparred like a couple of duelists, and he’d enjoyed the hell out of it. But he had drawn away from her. He grinned sardonically as he strode up the steps to knock on Marie’s door, knowing full well that he intended to use his mistress’s lovely body to assuage his lust for Elizabeth Jameson.
Even as he caressed Marie a short time later in her bedroom, he was picturing Elizabeth Jameson’s white breasts in his mind. His fingers tingled.
“Mon amour,” Marie whispered softly as she guided his hand downward, “how do you think?”
“I am thinking how much I want to be deep inside you,” Delaney said, automatically translating her charmingly fractured English. He pulled Marie on top of him and plunged himself into her. “Ah,” he said. “Now I’m not thinking anything.”
His last thought before his body exploded in release was how Elizabeth Jameson would look astride him, her back arched and her hair flowing down her white back.
He didn’t stay the night, somewhat to Marie’s consternation. I didn’t treat her very well, he thought as he rode through the quiet night back home, and it’s all that little witch’s fault.
What, he wondered, laughing softly, would she do next?
Two days later, Delaney joined Tony Dawson, Dan Brewer, and Horace Newton for lunch at Captain Cropper’s.
“This damned fellow Limantour,” Horace grumbled, forking down a bite of broiled terrapin. “You know, Tony, the scoundrel met with us at the Land Commission, filed a ton of documents and all that nonsense. He claims to own a goodly chunk of the city, Alcatraz, and Yerba Buena.”
“Don’t forget the Farallon Islands,” Delaney said.
“It’s all a swindle,” Tony said. “No one is really excited about it yet, Horace.”
“I wonder, though,” Dan said. “I get the distinct impression that the man is going to cause us a lot of trouble in the long run.”
Tony ordered another round of beer. When the frothy mugs arrived, he raised his. “Here’s to your Midnight Star mine, Del. Dan tells me she’s producing at a great rate.”
“Well enough,” Delaney said. “The ore is rich as hell, but I have a feeling that the quartz vein isn’t going to last much longer.” His thoughts skittered briefly to Paul Montgomery, and he frowned. It would be months before he heard anything. He’d made the decision that he wouldn’t send any more money until he had heard from the man.
“Heard you had some trouble,” Horace said, belching behind his hand.
“A bit,” Delaney agreed. “A couple of Sydney Ducks more than likely, who had more greed than brains.”
“At least the bastards are gone from San Francisco,” Tony said. “Lord, Del, you missed all the excitement when the Vigilantes took over in the summer of fifty-one and you were over in England playing around.”
“With the Midnight Star as the result,” Delaney said dryly. He shrugged. “I just hope the claim jumpers will steer clear for a while. I don’t particularly care for being both judge and executioner.”
“Speaking of trouble, Del, when are you going to take the plunge? I saw old Bunker Stevenson the other day and he’s beginning to wonder if you’re running shy.” Horace gave him a wink over the rim of his glasses.
“Methinks,” Dan said slyly, “that Del here is running, but who will catch him is another matter.”
“I?” Delaney asked blandly, though he was aware of an increase in his heartbeat. “I never run, dear boy, at least from a two-legged filly.”
“Well, Agatha can’t say enough about the girl,” Horace said. “I have heard her mutter, though, that she’s too bright for her own good. Wonders what man would put up with that.”
“Sam Brannan was telling me that Cory Miniver threw his hat in the ring, along with another dozen males in San Francisco,” Dan said. “She turned him down flat.”
“I’m taking her to Maguire’s Opera House this evening,” Tony said. “There’s some Shakespearean drivel playing, and Miss Jameson being English and all, I thought she’d enjoy it.”
“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 believ
“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.
10
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
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.