Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Copyright

Wyn regained her senses first

“We can’t do this. Must forget it ever happened,” she insisted, her breathing still labored.

“Forget it? The bloody hell I can forget it.” Garrett took one long stride and reached for her.

Wyn slipped away. “We have to,” she said. “Have to make sure it never happens again.”

“Wyn!”

She evaded him, taking running steps back into the glow of lantern light. She turned as she pulled open the hatch, looking back at him over her shoulder, sorrow and regret clear in her eyes. “It can’t,” she said. “It can’t.”

Before he could stop her or ask for an explanation, Wyn was gone, slipping through the hatch, headed back to the safety of the stateroom she shared with her widowed friend, leaving him alone with the increasing whine of the wind and the echo of longing he’d heard in her voice….

Dear Reader,

This month, we are very pleased to be able to introduce Silhouette Yours Truly and Special Edition author Beth Henderson to our readers with her first historical for Harlequin, Reckless, the story of a young woman, accused of being a jewel thief, who is rescued by a mysterious baron intent on clearing her name. The Literary Times calls Beth Henderson’s writing “fresh and creative,” and we hope you’ll agree.

Rae Muir, whose first book, The Pearl Stallion, made Affaire de Coeur’s Top Ten List for 1996, is back with All But the Queen of Hearts, a lively Western set in Nevada Territory with an unsinkable heroine whose determination and skill in the kitchen finally win the heart of her reluctant hero. Also keep an eye out for Laurie Grant’s new Western, Lawman, the fast-paced sequel to her 1996 release. Devil’s Dare, about a lonely lawman who rediscovers love in the arms of his childhood sweetheart.

And for those of you who enjoy the Regency era, Taylor Ryan’s The Essential Wife is the delightful story of a dashing nobleman who suddenly finds himself in love with the penniless heiress whom he has arranged to marry out of pity.

We hope you’ll look for all four of these wonderful books, wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farren

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S. 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Reckless
Beth Henderson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BETH HENDERSON

began writing when she was in the seventh grade and ran out of Nancy Drew books to read. It took another couple of decades, and a lot of distractions and pro-crastination, before her first book appeared in print.

That happened in May of 1990, and since that time she has written romantic-suspense, historical, young adult and contemporary romance under a variety of names for a variety of publishers.

Although a native of Ohio, Beth spent twenty years in the West, living in Tucson, Arizona and Las Vegas, Nevada. During that time she sampled a number of professions and has been a copywriter and traffic director in radio, done print display advertising and been a retail department manager. Now returned to her hometown, she is thrilled to be a full-time writer and loves to hear from readers. Her address is P.O. Box 262, Englewood, Ohio 45322, U.S.A.

To my aunts, Catherine Hemme Ocskasy and Marjorie Daniels Schemmel

Prologue

San Francisco, 1879

With the heavy brocade drapes drawn, only a sliver of moonlight entered the room. It was enough to catch the gleam of cut stones and to silver the rich setting as the necklace dangled from the dark-gloved hand.

The thief smiled, a small, self-satisfied curving of the lips, and admired the piece. The diamonds were as clear as water and nicely matched. They had been hoarded away in a vault at the bank for years, nearly forgotten by the family, before Oswin Hartleby had remembered them. His first wife had been a rarity in San Francisco society for she hadn’t cared for ostentation. But Hartleby’s second and much younger bride liked to flaunt his wealth. To please her, he’d spent a fortune having the diamonds made up in a glittering necklace and matching earrings: The gold for the setting had come from his own mines.

Nearly played out mines.

Of course, no one had known that until life with a wife forty years his junior had been the death of old Hartleby. There were some who claimed that, married to the coldly beautiful Hildegarde Keyes, Oswin’s last years had been joyless. It was the young widow who wasn’t smiling now. Hartleby’s will had been read the day before and the news had sped about town, running rampant through the parlors. Oswin Hartleby had left few bequests and astonishingly high debts.

Old fool, the thief thought in derision, then grinned widely in amusement. Poor Hildy. Having lost her husband, she was about to lose her precious diamonds, as well. If not to a thief in the night, or hungry debtors, then to her prickly middle-aged stepchildren who felt the exquisite set should remain in their care.

The stones shimmered in the thin ray of moonlight. The necklace was a gaudy trinket in many ways. It reeked of new money, lacking the taste that came with inherited wealth.

It was much admired in San Francisco.

If, by some chance, the widow didn’t weep for it, there were a good many other covetous women in the city who would.

The necklace dropped into a dark bag with a slight tinkle of sound and was joined by the matching earrings. There was little else of interest in the jewelry box to add to the cache. Although they’d been married nearly five years, Hildy had received promises from Oswin rather than more baubles. The thief closed the lid quietly and walked silently to the window. More moonlight spilled into the room, outlining the dark-clothed form as the drapes were parted. If there had been another in the room they would have seen a figure of average height but little else. A silk mask covered the lower section of the thief’s face, a cloth cap disguised both the color and length of the robber’s hair. A shapeless sack coat and baggy trousers hid any trace of build. To all intents and purposes it had been a shadow that had retrieved the diamonds from the wall safe in Hartleby’s house.

If any of the sleeping residents heard a sound in the master suite, they put it down to Oswin Hartleby’s ghost Now that he was gone, his young widow had moved her personal belongings to a more cheerful room down the hall.

The thief moved quickly, letting the drapes fall closed, returning the room to its peaceful slumber. Outside the night grew attentive to a shadow’s needs. Tendrils of fog stretched from the sea to shroud the moon. When the veil was complete, the thief slid from hiding, hastening to take Hartleby’s diamonds to their new home.

Chapter One

The slap echoed in the parlor.

A lone beam of sunlight shone through the bow window, falling on the intense young couple who stood frozen in the center of the room. It burnished the pale flaxen locks of the woman, and brought a brighter sheen to the rose fabric of her afternoon gown and the multilayered train that spilled away from it across the fading patterns in the Oriental rug. The man’s dark-suited back was turned away from the day, his expression temporarily masked by shadows and the tawny, rather rakish side whiskers that framed his lean cheeks.

The woman was the first to recall her lines, words she had heard other women speak, words she had never thought to utter, especially to this man.

“How dare you,” Winona Abbot rasped. Her hand stung sharply, a physical reflection of the blow Deegan Galloway had dealt her ego.

“I love you,” he answered simply. “I made a mistake and…”

“A mistake!” Wyn swung away from him. Crossing the room, she snapped open the pocket doors. Moments ago they had turned the front parlor of her family’s Nob Hill mansion into a private haven for lovers. Now that same sanctuary felt like a prison that confined Deegan and her in each other’s company.

“You don’t understand, Wyn,” he said.

She wheeled back to face him, the rich fabric of her train whirling with the motion. “Oh, I understand only too well. It was never me you cared about, Deegan. It was my dowry. After all,” she snapped, her usually soft tone harsh with sarcasm, “there is so much a man can accomplish with a quarter of a million dollars.”

He stood his ground on center stage, the imprint of her hand still clear on his face. “With you it was never the money, Wyn. Never.”

If he meant to pacify her with the compliment, the effort was a failure. Her deep green eyes, dark lashed and mysteriously foreign against her fair coloring, flashed with indignation. The delicate curve of her chin tilted upward in a challenge. “So you admit it You are a fortune hunter.”

Deegan drew a deep breath, the air hissing through his clenched teeth. “I wish to God I knew who told you about Leonore Cronin.”

There was a part of her that wished she had never learned of his perfidy, as well. But she had, from Leonore’s own lips. “Did you think she and I didn’t travel in the same circles, Deegan?”

“I thought,” he said, “that you would understand when I did the girl a kindness…”

Wyn’s brows rose at the inappropriateness of the term.

Deegan plowed on as if he hadn’t noticed, “…and danced attendance on her last night. She looked so miserable sitting with the chaperons along the wall. I merely asked her to dance.”

“I see. And was it then or on a previous occasion that you poured honeyed love words in her shell-like ears?”

She noticed Deegan had the grace to look embarrassed at hearing his own words thrown back in his face. How many times had he praised her own beauty using the trite phrase? How many times had she fallen happily into his arms, her maidenly reserve melted by his murmured praises of her charms?

At twenty-five, Wyn had thought she knew the wiles of men well enough not to make herself a fool over one of them. She had been wrong.

Wyn turned her back on Deegan, unwilling any longer to gaze on his handsome features. She had believed she loved him and yet had never been sure of him, never trusted him. That being so, the pain of his deception should not be this sharp. Wyn rested her brow against the highly polished molding around the door. “Oh, Deegan,” she whispered in anguish, “tell me true. Was this gallant behavior begun before or after you discovered Leonore’s father made his fortune in Nevada silver? Did you know she is his sole heir?”

When he didn’t answer immediately, her heart broke a little more.

“Wyn…” Deegan took a step toward her, his hand touched her shoulder.

“Don’t.” She didn’t want him to lie to her anymore, wouldn’t tempt him to do so for the sake of a relationship that, for her, no longer existed. Wyn straightened her shoulders, gathered her courage. “I think it would be best if you left.”

Deegan’s hand fell away. “You aren’t being fair to me, Wyn,” he said quietly. “I love you. You love me. I would think you’d be pleased that I played Galahad for your little friend.”

Played Galahad. Is that what he called the hours he’d spent with Leonore? According to the desolate girl, he had called on her with flowers, had whispered tender words, had squired her on rides through the park, had in every instance shown that he was courting her. In Leonore’s eyes Deegan had done everything except formally ask for her hand. Earlier that day when they had both chanced to visit the same home, Leonore had burst into tears when Wyn was teased about her own relationship with Deegan Galloway. Flinging the accusation that Wyn had set out to steal her fianc#233;, Leonore had run from the room, leaving an embarrassed silence behind her.

“Please, Wyn. Forgive me,” Deegan pleaded softly.

How could a woman forgive unfaithfulness? It was the ultimate insult and Deegan had compounded it by being unfaithful to two women at once.

Surreptitiously Wyn regarded him, her gaze dispassionate. Once she had thought his brown eyes to be beautiful, an almost feminine feature in his otherwise masculine face. But now there was a desperation in them when they met hers. Rather than eliciting tenderness and compassion, the emotion hardened Wyn’s heart. Leonore had looked that way before fleeing earlier that day. Wyn would never forget that moment, or the man who had caused the younger woman such pain and disillusionment.

“I think you’d better go, Deegan,” Wyn said.

Long after he’d collected his hat and stormed out of the house, Wyn continued standing at the front window, staring out unseeing over the city, remembering.

They had met at a ball, introduced by her elder brother. Wyn had thought the men were business associates. She certainly saw Deegan at all the Nob Hill parties. She had begun to look forward to his attendance on her, to his tenderly whispered compliments, to his growingly insistent kisses.

She had been so close to succumbing to Deegan’s wishes. He had wanted her. Her, not her dowry, even if she had flung that accusation at him. Compared to the fortune Leonore Cronin would inherit, the sum settled on herself appeared minuscule. Fool that she was, she had thought he cared for her. His protestations of love had been many, always followed by kisses guaranteed to undermine a maiden’s resolve. As she weakened, Deegan grew bolder until she had begun to crave the stolen minutes, the clandestine caresses, with the passion of an opium eater. Wyn grew flushed at the memory of the time they had spent together, longing for what she would no longer have and embarrassed that she had so forgotten herself in sampling those forbidden delights.

The future of which she had dreamed would no longer become a reality, for with Deegan went her last hope. While her friends had found mates and married, she was still alone, a spinster, on the shelf, overlooked or forgotten when it came to love.

The truth was difficult to admit. She was an acclaimed beauty, an heiress. With those lures to attract a mate, why had she not been able to find a man who drew her?

Even Deegan, handsome and charming as he was, hadn’t managed to do that. She had been tempted…only tempted.

The sun slipped into the western seas unnoticed. The sky grew dusky and lamps came to life in the nearby homes and along the sloping streets. Unseen, a maid came to attend to the gas jets in the hall, only to creep silently away from the parlor rather than disturb Wyn. It was only when the front door swung shut and impatient male footsteps sounded in the entryway that Wyn came out of her reverie.

“What the devil are you doing in the dark?” a man’s voice demanded.

Wyn turned from the window at the first bark of her older brother’s voice. “Oh, hello, Pierce. Back already?”

He tossed aside his hat and fumbled for a match in the pocket of his coal black frock coat. “Already? I stayed at the shipping office an hour later just trying to catch up on various matters. I’ve got a train to catch tomorrow, if you recall.”

The match scraped to life. A moment later the room was filled with the soft glow of light. Pierce adjusted the gas jet on the wall then dropped full length onto the plump cushions of the sofa. “Don’t you know it’s damn cold in here, Wyn?”

“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”

He glanced at her, a frown of concern drawing his dark brown brows together over his straight patrician nose. “Not coming down with something, are you, Ace?”

Wyn shrugged. “Do you want a fire?”

“Lord, yes. But first, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing. I’ve just been thinking.” Wyn gathered her narrow skirts and sank companionably to the floor near him. “Do you still need financing for the new ship?”

Pierce pushed off one shoe then the other. The sound of each falling was hollow against the tongue-and-groove wood flooring. “Let’s just say the bank is anxious. They’d like a payment since we’re running behind schedule on building the Nereid. Are you going to light a fire, or do I have to do it?”

“I’ll do it. Have you got another lucifer?” He fumbled in his pocket again and passed her a match. Wyn leaned forward on her knees to light the fire. It had been laid on the hearth earlier by a maid in anticipation of the damp San Francisco evening. “Just how much does the bank want?”

“More than I feel comfortable discussing,” Pierce admitted. Although he had become titular head of the Shire Shipping Line in the past year, Wyn knew her brother had moments when he doubted his ability to run the family business.

The flame caught the tinder and ate greedily along the underside of a log. Wyn sat back on her heels and leaned one arm along the sofa cushions where her brother lay stretched out. “On my last birthday, you and Pop arranged for me to have some money of my own,” she said.

“Your dowry, Ace. Besides, you’ll need it to reel Galloway in.”

“Mr. Galloway has proven to be a cad,” Wyn said tightly.

Pierce sucked in air between his teeth. “Worse than me, huh?”

“Infinitely worse than you.”

He shook his head sadly. “Damn, and I thought I held the record. I guess you found out about the mouse.”

“Leonore Cronin? Yes, I did. Do you mean to tell me, you knew he was courting her and didn’t tell me?”

Pierce snorted. “La Cronin didn’t have a chance against you, Ace. And so I told anyone willing to give me odds on the outcome.”

Wyn sighed. “If you had a wager on it, I can understand why you didn’t drop a hint. What was my standing in this particular race?”

“Hell, you were the favorite, of Galloway and of the betting books.”

“Thank you for the kind compliment, brother dear,” Wyn murmured, her spirits beginning to return. Having the matter reduced to the level of a sporting event put things in a different perspective, making it appear ridiculous for her to continue railing against fate.

“I’m sorry I lost you your wager.”

Pierce sighed deeply. “You know I’ve always been a rotten gambler. Let’s hope I’m a better businessman.”

Wyn smiled warmly at him. “You are, much to the astonishment of the business community. Tell me truthfully, Pierce. Is the Nereid bankrupting you?”

“Truthfully? Nearly. That’s why I’m leaving for Boston tomorrow to oversee the final construction. It means changing my schedule. I won’t be able to sail on her maiden-voyage as planned. However, a personal appearance on my part now should soothe the bankers. Our Shire cousins are careful administrators in the Eastern office, but they don’t see the Nereid as a necessary expansion of our business.”

“The Shire Line has always carried passengers,” Wyn said. She held her palms toward the fire, suddenly aware of how cool the room had become. “And each year we’ve ordered larger ships to be built.”

“Maybe it’s just me,” Pierce said. When Wyn made a discouraging noise, he laughed. “Okay, it’s the expense. We’ve never gone in for steamships before, and the Nereid is more than just that. She’s a luxury liner, designed specifically for passenger business rather than shipping.”

Wyn stared into the fire and came to a decision. “Pierce, I want you to take my money. All of it.”

He sat up abruptly. “Hell, no!” His stockinged feet hit the floor with an emphatic thud. “I do have my pride, Wyn. Pop and I worked it all out when I decided to take over the Shire office. Rather than divide the company up into shares, I bought each of my siblings out. That money is yours, Ace. It belongs solely to you and your future husband.”

“I’m not going to have a future husband.” Wyn took his hands in hers and gazed up into her brother’s concerned face. “Don’t you see? This is the perfect solution. I do believe in your plans for the Nereid.” At his doubtful expression, she squeezed his hands. “All right, it’s you I believe in, Pierce, in your dreams for the line. I want to invest my money back into it. Think of it as a loan. You can pay me interest, dividends, whatever you want to call it.”

He wasn’t convinced. “And if indeed I do bankrupt the company with this scheme? You’ll lose it all, Ace.”

“Then you can take care of me for the rest of my life,” she assured him brightly. “I’m not worried. The point is, you need to pay the bank something on account and I want to tie my dowry up so that it is no longer a lure for fortune hunters.”

Pierce still looked doubtful. “You haven’t thought this through, Wyn. I know it sounds good to you at the moment. Hell, it sounds like a godsend to me and you know I’m a proven cad who’ll leave you high and dry like I did…”

Wyn pressed a hand to his lips, silencing the grim reminder of the girl he’d nearly wed.

“You won’t let me down, Pierce. I know you won’t. I can’t say the same about any other man and since I can’t, the best thing to do is never marry.”

He removed her hand from where it sealed his mouth. “Don’t gammon me, Wyn. You’re a beautiful woman. There’ll be lots of men who want you whether you’ve got a dowry handy or not.”

A smile crept to her lips. “Are you going to take my money?”

“Hell, yes, I’m going to take it. I’m not that noble. But I’ll do so on one condition only. Since I can’t be there, you’ve got to be the family representative aboard the Nereid for her maiden voyage,” Pierce insisted.

Wyn cocked her head to one side. “Can I take Hildy with me?”

Pierce’s brows rose in mock surprise. “The far-from-sedate Widow Hartleby?”

“She’s on the verge of a decline,” Wyn divulged.

Pierce’s mobile brows snapped together over the bridge of his nose. “Probably more so over the loss of her diamonds than over old Hartleby’s demise. However, since you can’t exactly travel alone—”

“You prude,” she accused.

“Where my sister is concerned? Damn right, woman. I suppose Hildy is a better solution than hiring a companion.

“She’s nearly a pauper,” Wyn said.

“I’ll arrange her passage, but that’s it,” Pierce insisted.

Wyn surged to her feet and, plumping down on the sofa next to him, hugged her brother fiercely. “It’s a deal. You are the best of relatives no matter what the others say.”

Pierce’s frown darkened even more. “And what exactly does the rest of our family say, my dear Winona?”

The bellboy caught the coin, his eyes widening in surprise as he recognized the denomination, and responded by giving the man who’d tossed it a snappy salute.

Amused by the youth’s enthusiasm, Garrett Blackhawk smiled as he pocketed the telegram the lad had presented and closed the door of his suite at the Palace Hotel.

The boy was his second welcome interruption of the evening. The visitor sprawled in the comfortable chair by the fireplace had been the first, delaying Garrett’s dressing for the dinner party he wished to avoid. The delivery had delayed Deegan Galloway’s pitch.

“Forgive the intrusion, Dig. You were saying that you’re persona non grata in Frisco?” Garrett asked, drop-ping with careless elegance into another chair, his right leg thrown loosely over the padded arm. He was in his shirtsleeves, evening trousers donned, starched shirtfront and collar in place, tie still dangling loosely around his neck. Although the clock on the mantelpiece was a constant reminder that he was late, Garrett made no attempt to rush his unexpected guest. Instead he reached for the cigarette papers and bag of tobacco on the table at his side and began rolling a smoke.

Deegan sighed deeply and buried his nose in a snifter of brandy before answering. “I was merely hedging my bets, Garrett. There’s no way around it. I’ve got to marry a woman with money or seek employment. Either one will have to be done in another city. Between them, those two women will make it impossible for me to succeed here.”

Blackhawk deftly sealed the edge of his cigarette and soon had obscured his face behind a screen of smoke. He’d heard it said that he fit his name well. Some insisted that, like a hawk, there was a predatory gleam in the obsidian shadows of his eyes, and a hunter’s alertness in the tall, tapered frame of his body. His hair was sable in color, luxuriant in texture, and frequently tousled. Although born an English gentleman, of late his skin had been warmed to a primitive bronze by the sun of three continents. The craggy lines of his face could have belonged to a Spaniard, a Bedouin or a Mayan, and, at one time or another during his travels, Garrett had found it prudent to assume the identity of each in turn. He was careful in his choice of companions, allowing very few to know him well. Deegan Galloway was one of the specially chosen permitted to see the man beneath the mask.

Garrett drew deeply on his cigarette, savoring the taste of tobacco on his tongue, enjoying the slight euphoria of the smoke in his lungs. “You have my abject sympathy,” he assured Galloway.

“Sure and it isn’t enough,” Deegan drawled in an exaggerated brogue, then abandoned the affectation, returning to his normal speaking voice. “I came begging a grubstake as you very well know.”

Blackhawk reached for his own glass of brandy, adding the lush body of the wine to the tally of sensory delights he planned to sample over the course of the evening. His current company was pleasant, and the brisk dampness of the San Francisco air reminded him sharply and depressingly of home. It was one of the reasons he was anxious to leave the city. Business kept him a temporary captive.

A hardwood fire burned on the hearth, efficiently warming the hotel room. It reminded him of nights before the huge fireplaces at Hawk’s Run in Shropshire, only there the heat would have been supplied by locally mined coal. The estate might well be as distant as the moon for all the thought he’d given it over the past two years.

“If you want a position that will take you far away, you’re welcome to become my secretary and take up residence at the Run,” Garrett offered. “It would be a favor that would enable me to stay blissfully distant from the place.”

Deegan chuckled. “Trying to turn me into an Irish peasant? You forget I’m an American, born and bred. My da was the potato eater. Although your largess is appreciated, I’ll stay on this side of the Atlantic. A monetary handout will be more than sufficient, my friend.”

Garrett grinned in response to Galloway’s request. “At least you know your limits. I notice you didn’t ask for a loan.”

“Lord, no.” Deegan swished the brandy in his glass, watching the liquid swirl. “You’d never get it back, and well you know it, old chap.”

Garrett took another soothing draw on his cigarette. Rolling his own had become a habit, one picked up out of necessity during his travels. It made him feel self-sufficient, perhaps a ridiculous affectation, but one he had no intention of giving up. “Did you love her?”

“Who?”

He’d known Deegan long enough to recognize when his friend was evading something. ‘’Whichever. You said there were two women.”

Deegan tossed off the last of his brandy. “Devilish greedy bastard, aren’t I? Most men would be content with winning one heiress.” He reached for the brandy decanter on the table between them. “What makes you think I loved them?”

“Not them, just one,” Garrett clarified. “Do I need more than the fact that you rarely drink?”

On the point of refilling his goblet, Deegan halted. Garrett blew a series of smoke rings while his friend struggled silently within himself.

Deegan set the decanter down and pushed his empty glass away. “It’s the situation, not the woman. Besides.” he insisted lightly, “you know I love money more than I could ever love any woman.”

It was interesting how a man could lie to himself, Garrett mused as he drew on his cigarette. Interesting how he could believe the lie. “Tell me about her anyway, Dig,” he urged.

Deegan slumped deep into the cushions of his chair, stretched his legs out and grinned. “Not believin’ me, are ye, laddie,” he said. “The lady’s not for me. Knew it the moment I set eyes on her. She’s so beautiful, so graceful.” The artificial lilt dropped from Deegan’s voice, replaced by a quality that could only be described, Garrett felt, as dreamy. “It was like seeing an angel to watch her dance,” Deegan continued. “She glides, my friend. Glides. And when a man waltzes with her it’s akin to floating right in the clouds.”

Garrett smiled faintly. “Sounds to me as if Cupid’s sunk his arrow deep.” He drew a final lungful of smoke and leaned forward to toss the butt of his cigarette into the fire.

“Hmm,” Deegan murmured thoughtfully. “Doubtful, my lad. How could I be when she deserves someone like you?”

Caught exhaling the smoke, Garrett choked. “Bloody hell, Dig,” he gasped when he could breathe once more. “You don’t have to kill me to get into my wallet.”

“My point exactly. I get by on my wits…”

“Such as they are,” Garrett grumbled, uneasy at the turn the conversation had taken.

“But you, my friend,” Deegan insisted with a wry grin, “have the magic touch. You seem to make money by merely thinking about it Little did I know when I rescued you from that strumpet in Sonora…”

Garrett got to his feet with languorous grace. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit here and listen to your insults,” he said, leaning toward the mirror that hung over the mantelpiece and turning his attention to the involved process of fixing his tie. “You rescued me? That isn’t how I re-member the event. If memory serves, there was a lynch mob after you when you barged into my bedroom.”

“All in your perception, my friend. As I was saying…”

“And loving the sound of your own voice,” Garrett dded under his breath. It had been a decidedly nasty hock to have Deegan turn the conversation on him. If here was something he didn’t need in his life right now t was a beauty with ethereal habits. That kind of woman welonged to the life he abhorred, the life that would claim him once more in the distant future.

Gliding and floating. Garrett fumed silently as he looped the narrow band of black silk into a crisp bow. Deegan may claim he wasn’t in love with the woman, but he wouldn’t convince anyone else with talk like that.

Deegan was listing the physical attributes of his goddess now. Garrett wished he hadn’t drawn the man out. If only he’d turned Dig away earlier instead of welcoming him as a savior. If only he’d made a stir when the telegram had arrived, the whole mess would have—

Telegram.

“You remember where I put that blasted wire?” Garrett demanded, interrupting Deegan in midsentence. Something about hair of spun gold.

“In your pocket,” Deegan supplied. “Now her eyes are…

Garrett stopped listening again. “Why do I have such cursedly abominable taste in friends?” he asked.

“You mean me,” Deegan said, far from insulted. “It’s your money, laddie. It attracts rogues like myself.”

“Meaning if I had my wits about me, I’d stop finding ways to make more of it,” Blackhawk growled. The paper he’d received from the bellboy was creased from his own careless handling. Absently Garrett smoothed it out. “You might be interested in this, Dig. I’ve been waiting to hear from a man in Cheyenne. I’m thinking of investing in a cattle ranch in Wyoming Territory.”

“Spare me,” Deegan pleaded. He reached for the cigarette materials and was soon tapping tobacco along the length of the small square of paper in his hand. “No doubt a week from now you’ll be camped in some forsaken spot staring deeply into a complacent cow’s brown eyes. Cattle.” He signed in resignation. “Who would ever have believed a civilized Englishman would prefer the face of a longhorn to that of a beautiful woman?”

“I don’t,” Garrett said, at last opening his message. “Beautiful women always rank ahead of a cow, although the cow will give me less trouble.” He scanned the telegram quickly, then read it again more slowly before crumpling it in his hand.

“The bloody hell.” Barely audible, the words were rough to the ear. Garrett followed them with a few well chosen curses from three other languages. The crushed telegram shot into the fireplace, caught flame among the coals and was soon reduced to curling black ash.

Deegan halted in the act of lighting his cigarette. “Trouble?”

Garrett’s jaw was stiff with suppressed fury. The future had galloped in on fleeter hooves than he had expected. Mentally he called himself every kind of fool. Had he really believed the burdens he’d carried for so long would remain at bay even for a few more months?

Well, he’d had two years of hard-won freedom. They would have to suffice him a lifetime. A cold, bleak lifetime.

It took a moment for Deegan’s quiet question to register. Garrett remained standing, staring down at the hearth, at the smouldering black remains of the telegram. “My father is dead.”

Silence stretched between them, and the sounds of the hotel around them seemed to magnify. Garrett was conscious of the rattle of a wheeled trolley cart in the hallway, of the sound of running water through the plumbing, the footfalls of a guest in the room above. Outside on the street, a man yelled an obscenity at another driver, wheels rumbled, a horse whinnied.

“Your father. I’m sorry,” Deegan said.

“Not half as sorry as I,” Garrett noted wearily. “It means I have to go back, take on the responsibility of being head of the family.”

More importantly, he knew, it meant facing the accusations again. Dear Lord, it was more than any man should be pressed to endure.

Garrett forced a wan smile. “Why don’t you return at one tomorrow, Dig? I’ll arrange something with my bank for you, but I don’t think I’ll be a very companionable bloke tonight.”

The facade of the carefree adventurer was no longer present on Deegan’s face. “If there’s anything I can do, you have only to ask,” he said. “I’m not quite as shallow as I’m made out to be. I stand by my friends when they need me, Garrett.”

“I know, Dig. I know.”

Chapter Two

Although the day had been sun filled, around midnight the damp chill turned into a cold rivulet of rain that coursed down the back of Garrett’s neck. He had been walking the city streets ever since Deegan left. It had taken but a moment to scribble his regrets to his host of the evening, sending a bellboy off with the message. He hadn’t bothered changing clothes, but had shrugged on, over his evening attire, the long vaquero’s duster he’d worn in Mexico, and added a battered, broad-brimmed slouch hat. His outward appearance blending with a thousand other men in San Francisco, Garrett trudged through the muddy streets, his mind far from his surroundings.

It had taken his solicitors in London months to find him. If he hadn’t become interested in the cattle ranch and contacted them, the firm of Hafner, Horrigan and Long would still be searching. He’d been carefully avoiding them for a long time, but now the ever-restless trace of his journey was at an end. Of necessity he would be in touch with the solicitors frequently, his travel plans limited by the thin binding lines of the telegraph that linked him to their office.

Garrett worked his way along Kearny Street, his footsteps aimless. According to the wire, his father had died six months ago. What had he been doing the day Stewart Blackhawk was interned in the family crypt? Garrett wondered. Had he been in South America yet, in the Amazon jungles? Or had he reached Mexico at that time? The memory of one carefree day was gone, no longer a time that he could pinpoint to a particular event or place.

Six months. The delay in reaching him served as a reprieve, no matter how short. Various business interests would supply the excuses he needed to delay a month, two at the most, then he would have to shoulder his responsibilities at Hawk’s Run once more.

He’d tried so hard to outrun them, to distance himself from both the good and the bad. And the whispers.

The rain was more mist than storm, making it a match to his mood. It dampened the streets as much as the wire had dampened his spirits. Coach lamps created glowing fingers of light on the glistening pavement and highlighted where puddles had begun to form in the depressions. The drizzle discouraged even the braver souls from walking the streets. Those men who did scurried for shelter quickly, heading into the warm, brightly lit doorways of various saloons and private gambling clubs, and the more dimly lit and even warmer parlors of the bordellos. A more perfect night for grieving was difficult to envision. If, that is, he could grieve for the man he suspected had not been his father.

Garrett’s legs ate the distance, taking him away from the city proper and into the shadowy lanes that comprised the Barbary Coast. Rain dripped from the bent brim of his hat, dampened the waxed length of his duster, and still he strode on as sure in each step as if he had a particular destination in mind.

His thoughts were thousands of miles away in another land. What were the Salopians saying of him in the local tavern now? he wondered.

Ever since his dark head had made its appearance among the fair-haired residents of Hawk’s Run, there had been rumors concerning his birth. A nursemaid had been dismissed for spreading the tale that he was an elfin child, a substitute left when the brownies stole the true golden-tressed heir. Despite the fact that black-haired ancestors were visibly present among the oldest of the portraits in the family gallery, the levelheaded gentry whispered that he was a bastard, the child Antonia Blackhawk had cuckolded her husband with as his own. Although he’d spent many a rainy afternoon staring at the paintings, Garrett had never recognized his own features among the host of dark ancestral faces.

Matters had not improved as he grew taller and broadened, his form that of a muscled athlete rather than of a fine-boned scholar like his diminutive father. Stewart Blackhawk had been an academician, brilliant when it came to translating ancient Greek poetry, inept and uninterested when it came to running his estate, cooly distant and silent when it came to Garrett’s doubts and questions concerning his birth.

With the family debts mounting, Garrett had left the halls of Cambridge and made his dark features a familiar sight in the meadows of Hawk’s Run. He had worked alongside the tenants for plantings, for harvests. Yet the whispers continued, reviving tales of wizardry that brought fertility back to tired fields.

In the City of London it was no different, for men there jokingly claimed he bewitched weak investments into profitable ventures. It was even said, more seriously, that he had blinded Stewart Blackhawk to the truth, for the man never commented on the validity of his eldest son’s birth, an oversight the grown Garrett recognized as neglect rather than belief. Sometime during his childhood, Garrett had begun believing the rumors himself simply because his father had never eased his son’s mind over his legitimacy.

Members of society read a wealth of mystery and intrigue into Stewart’s silence on the subject as well and whispered all the more. And so, assaulted by suspicion on all sides, Garrett had set out to be exactly what they termed him. He had adopted the qualities of a chameleon, changing with his environment, one moment the mystic who communed with supernatural folk, the next the arrogant upstart who flaunted the Blackhawk name.

He had learned much in playing these parts. He’d discovered he was a natural deceiver, a man who could don the face of an actor, who could adapt to any situation and find something to claim as his own in every outcome.

Or he did most of the time, Garrett admitted silently. In Cairo his so-called powers had been impotent, and Sybil had paid the price for his pride. It had been a tragic and most humbling experience.

He had grown as a result, had learned that he hated what fate had made him. What fate was forcing him to become once more.

He was back to living a lie. The life he had enjoyed as a ragged Bohemian adventurer the past two years had disappeared, leaving in its place a man who of necessity must become the epitome of the unruffled British aristocrat.

In other words, he was going to be a bloody damn hyp-ocrite.

The rivulet inching down his neck grew more uncomfortable. After extended stays in Egypt, along the Equator, and in Sonora, he was used to the unrelenting rays of the sun and had forgotten the chilling trials of a cloud-ridden climate.

Rather than be miserable, Garrett decided in favor of shelter. The saloons of the Barbary Coast were somewhat drier than the streets, although they smelled worse. The company was more rowdy than convivial and the whiskey was vile enough to take paint off a house. It was better than being alone with his thoughts, and being with strangers meant, if he could not check them, at least he could keep those thoughts to himself.

He nearly changed his mind when he entered the nearest door. A combination of scents assaulted him, of which cheap whiskey, cheaper perfume, cigar smoke and sweat were the most recognizable. The whole was overlaid with the taint of mildew.

“Why, hello, handsome,” a woman greeted throatily. She sashayed up to him, hips swinging, breasts bobbing. Her smile was a smear of rouge, and her eyes were fanned with runny streaks of kohl. She posed briefly, one hand propped on a cocked hip. The garish purple of her gown was mirrored in bruised circles beneath her eyes. The smile she gave him was tired, and as falsely brilliant as her brassy-colored hair.

She could easily have been a reflection of his own soul—worn, tawdry and devoid of hope.

“Lookin’ fer a little fun tonight? Somethin’ ta warm yer blood?” she purred.

“A drink, I thought,” Garrett said, making no effort to hide the upper-crust edge of his accent. The need to hit something was strong, and past experience had shown that in a low-class saloon the sound of his accent alone increased the possibility of a brawl.

“A drink, is it?” a man’s voice demanded in a heavy Irish brogue. “Well, squire, ye’ve come to the right place.” A disheveled, extremely wet man launched himself away from the support of the door behind Garrett and staggered forward, making shooing gestures at the woman. “Get along with you, lass. The squire and me’s got business ta discuss.”

Miffed at his interference, the woman turned her shoulder to the newcomer. “Ya’ll remember me, won’t ya, handsome? I’ll be around when this boyo passes out.” She stared hard at the man who stood swaying at Garrett’s side. “He looks like the kind that always does,” she added in disdain before moving toward another prospective customer.

“Cheeky little tart,” the man growled after her retreating form. Beads of water had formed on the rim of his narrow-brimmed bowler. The shoulders of his suit coat were soaked through and the lapels were limply turned up in an effort to keep the rain from further dampening his wilted shirt collar. “Now then, squire. ‘Bout our business.” He pitched to the ide, stumbling over his own feet.

Garrett nearly staggered himself when the Irishman fell against him. “What business might that be?” he asked, steadying the man upright once more. “The return of my wallet and watch, perhaps?”

Rather than take offense at the accusation of theft, the man grinned widely. “Yer’ve been snaffled afore, have ye, squire?”

“By better men than you,” Garrett said. “Shall we adjourn to the bar and see which of us pays for the drinks with my purse?”

The man chuckled. “I like you, squire. ‘Struth. Oh, look will you, I’ve mussed the front of yer lovely coat.” He brushed hastily at Garrett’s duster, removing imaginary soot. “Perhaps I could put yer right of a special little brew. Highly recommend it.”

The barkeep probably did store a “special little brew” behind his counter guaranteed to knock a customer out, Garrett mused. If a man accepted, he would wake up at sea, shanghaied more efficiently than any man who’d ever been impressed by the Royal Navy.

“Whiskey,” he said when they reached the bar. “Neat.”

“I’ll have the same as me friend here,” the dripping man declared. While waiting to be served, he leaned back against the scarred bar top, the heel of one shoe hooked companionably on the brass foot rail, and grinned widely on one and all. His clothing created puddles on the floor, the runoff sending out small rills that fed into the spittoon channel beneath the bar rail.

Garrett waited until they’d been served and his damp companion had unabashedly paid for the drinks from the wallet he’d lifted from Garrett’s pocket. “That’s the most atrocious accent I’ve ever heard,” he said.

“It’s dead to rights, my lad,” the other man vowed, his voice pitched low, the brogue abandoned. “Buzzed it from me da himself.”

Garrett studied the smoky glass the bartender had slid before him and the strong liquor within it. He wondered briefly if he’d been smart to follow the western creed of allowing a man his anonymity when it came to the past. Particularly when it came to the man who had become his traveling companion over the past few months. “Why are you following me, Dig?”

Another man pushed next to them and called for a bottle. Deegan shrugged back into character and reached for his own tumbler. “Tis a mortal sin fer a man to be forced to drink alone, squire.” He took a sip of his whiskey and grimaced. “Holy Saint Patrick! But that’s a fine elixir,” he declared hoarsely.

Since Deegan’s eyes had begun to water, Garrett ordered soda water before sampling his own shot.

Deegan toasted the other patron as he moved away from the bar, then turned back to Garrett. “If you had another friend handy I would have left you to your own bloody devices,” Deegan continued in an undertone. “But you don’t. That leaves you a choice. We can make a night of it in this charming little groggery or find a more appropriate setting to get soused. Either way you’re going to tell me what’s bothering you.” He held up a hand, halting any attempt Garrett might make at a rebuttal. “And don’t tell me it’s your dear old da’s demise.”

Garrett stared at the whiskey in his glass, considering his words. It would be so much easier to let Deegan remain nothing more than the companion of his Mexican adventures. With the loss of two heiresses in a single day, and dwindling finances, Galloway had his own problems.

In a corner a man shoved to his feet, angrily upsetting a table over his companions. A woman shrieked as one of the men leapt forward to seek revenge.

Garrett ignored the building melee, no longer in a mood for a fight. “Let’s get out of here,” he suggested. “I warn you, Dig, it’s an ugly tale. Melodrama at its worst.”

Manfully Deegan tossed off the rest of his whiskey. “I’m fortified,” he assured. “And who might the actors be?”

Garrett ducked in a reflexive move as a chair sailed across the room. “The cast includes myself, of course, my brother Ellery, and a beautiful innocent named Sybil Tilbury.”

Deegan signaled the bartender and tossed greenbacks onto the bar. “Two bottles of yer finest rotgut,” he said. ‘The squire’s spinnin’ me a fine tale as he sees me safely home. Were you wishin’ after the return of yer wallet, yer lordship? It seems to be a trifle empty.”

A dazzling parade moved past the window where the shadow crouched, dark clothing blending with the natural shadows in the garden. It was fortunate that the night was damp. It kept the revelers indoors and made observation so much easier.

The women in their jewel-colored gowns were unaware of the threat. The men in their onyx black suits never sensed the danger. They talked, flirted, danced, drank—unaware that another watched.

Gowns of watered silk, bedecked with lace, ruffles, ruching and ribbons, were on display, the carefully draped aprons caught up and drawn back into elaborate cascades that drew attention to a woman’s form. Trains trailed or were held outstretched to whirl with the steps of a dance. The elegant ebony tailcoats of the men moved in sync with the gowns, sailing with the rise and fall of the music, and occasionally a flash dazzled as lamplight caught the glitter of gold or silver threads woven into the pattern of a waistcoat. It was the moving, glowing fabrics that had life, not the people. Yet, at the moment, it was the people who held the watcher’s attention.

The stiffly starched fronts of the shirts held the prey at attention, and the corsets squeezed the soon-to-be bereft into improbable shapes. Weskits and waistlines strained across expanding torsos, clear evidence of the comfortable life-style enjoyed by the guests.

Candles and gas jets fought for prominence, creating pockets of alternating light and dark. The light was sought by women anxious to display a new bauble, a new gown, a new beau. The dark was the habitat of lovers, of stolen moments, of stolen caresses and murmured lies.

The shadow watched them all, carefully noting which of their jewels the ladies wore. The garnets of one guest were nice but could never compare to the bloodred rubies of another. The watery glint of aquamarines flashed by as a gallant swung his partner in an enthusiastic polka. A new debutante paused near the window, the light falling softly on her gently curved neck and the modest necklace of matched pearls that graced it. The possibilities were endless. It was so difficult to make a final choice. So delightful to plot the method by which to reap.

A man glanced out the window, his eyes seeming to meet those of the thief. He started away, looked back, then signaled to one of the waiters, motioning to the window.

The shadow melted away moments before two men with lanterns arrived to comb the garden for intruders. The thief waited just out of sight, enjoying the chase. Fools, that’s what they all were. It was so easy to play this game.

“You see anything?” one of the searchers called out.

“Hell, no. I think Stokes was seeing things. Had a bit too much champagne punch, if you ask me.”

“I don’t know. Claims he saw someone peering in from the bushes.”

“A cat most like.”

The shadow waited. So it had been Elmer Stokes who had raised the alarm. He would pay for that. What bauble had his wife worn? Had it been the jade or the fire opals? Did it matter? The victim had been chosen.

The parlor door barely closed behind Wyn before Hilde-garde Hartleby tossed aside the latest copy of Demorest’s Monthly Magazine and gazed excitedly on the folded newspaper in her guest’s hand.

“Not another robbery!” she breathed, sinking dramatically back onto the sofa, one hand pressed to the string of jet beads that lay against her breast. “What was it this time?”

Wyn tossed her friend the news sheet and reached up to unpin her plumed walking hat. “Don’t you mean who?”she asked.

Hildy refrained from reading the story. “Let’s make it a game,” she urged. “If I know what was taken, I wager I’ll know the who.”

Wyn unbuttoned her light coat and tossed it casually over the back of a chair. Since the pernicious state of Hil-dy’s finances made it impossible to pay wages, she had lost both housekeeper and housemaid. Those friends who came to visit the young widow quickly learned to make themselves at home.

“You must admit, Wyn, there is no one who knows the contents of the jewel boxes of our set better than I do,” Hildy insisted. Her soft brown hair was arranged in playful curls that spilled from a knot at the crown of her head. Despite the deep mourning color of her gown, there was nothing mournful about the flush of excitement in Hildy’s cheeks as she leaned forward in anticipation. “I used to make lists of my favorites and give them to Oswin hoping that he would visit the same jewelers,” she admitted. “If anyone can match the pieces with the person, it’s me.”

“All right,” Wyn agreed, reclaiming the newspaper and settling into the deeply cushioned chair across from her friend. They had played together in the school yard as children, and had attended their first ball arm in arm. Young men had clustered around them both, vying for favors. As inseparable as they had always been, Wyn had still been stunned at the news Hildy had whispered one evening soon after their presentation. She had promised her hand to Oswin Hartleby, a wealthy man nearly forty years her senior. “But, why?” Wyn had demanded. “Because I’m tired of being just comfortable,” Hildy answered. “I want to be rich.” Her wish had been granted, if only for a handful of years.

Wyn scanned the newspaper until she found the story about the most recent theft She had come to visit Hildy nearly every day since her bereavement, making an effort to cheer her friend’s lonely hours. Hildy had always been a social gadfly and the constraints of widowhood had depressed her nearly as much as the loss of the Hartleby fortune.

“Here it is.” Wyn rustled the paper, making a production of refolding it. “The thief walked off with opals,” she announced.

“Hmm.” Hildy tapped a finger against her lips in thought. “Cordelia Earlywine or Olympia Stokes.”

“There’s more.”

“More?” Hildy’s eyes widened with pleasure. They were a deep sapphire blue and surrounded by long, curling lashes.

“Diamond cravat pin, diamond shirt studs.”

Hildy jumped in her seat. “Stokes!” she shouted.

“If it were possible,” Wyn said as she tossed the newspaper aside, “I’d wager on your ability to pinpoint the robber’s victims using nothing more than a description of the missing jewelry.”

“Perhaps there is a future for me with one of those detective agencies,” Hildy suggested. “Do you think Mr. Pinkerton would hire me?”

“Only if you could name the thief as easily as you do the victim,” Wyn answered.

Hildy sighed. “Well, that I can’t do. If I could I’d have my diamonds back.” Petulantly she leaned back into the cushions of the sofa, apparently no longer interested in the robbery now that the latest victim had been identified. “Have you heard from Pierce?”

Wyn stretched her feet out, studying the toes of her shoes where they peeked from beneath the dark green pleats that trimmed the hem of her skirt. Her brother had been in Boston a month and in that time she’d received two letters, both assuring her that her money was being put to excellent use. Earlier that day a telegram had arrived. “He’s on his way back. The liner is nearly finished. We sail in three weeks.”

Hildy bounded back up, squealing with excitement before sobering once more. “Oh, but, Wyn! Whatever shall I wear? I refuse to traipse around in funeral black. Oswin has been dead three months, which is quite long enough to mourn him in my opinion. I have resolved to travel in half-mourning.”

Deciding she would prefer to delay hearing how Hildy intended to finance a new wardrobe, Wyn tried changing the subject. “Did you write to Rachel?”

Three years before, Hildy’s sister had made the coup of the social season by marrying Sir Alston Loftus and moving to his ancestral home in England.

“Oh, Rachel and Lofty will be expecting us,” Hildy assured, casually unconcerned. “I told them in my letter that we’d be on our way before they could reply, but there’s a standing invitation. Now…” She resettled on the couch, her expression changing to one of serious intent as she reached for the magazine she’d abandoned earlier. “I’ve been thinking,” Hildy said, and quickly leafed to the fashion section. “Oswin only left me the use of the house, so I can’t sell it, but his will wasn’t as specific about the furnishings. If I sell off the heavier pieces, I should be able to get at least a decent start on a new wardrobe. Enough to travel with at any rate.”

“What if the Hartlebys object?” Wyn asked.

“I won’t tell them,” Hildy said, dismissing her late husband’s middle-aged offspring. “Will you be using your dressmaker before we leave? What do you think of this pannier overskirt? Too overdone?”

Resigning herself to the planning of her friend’s ward-robe, Wyn moved over next to Hildy on the sofa and was soon discussing the merits of bunting for a lightweight excursion costume.

Pinkerton operative Magnus Finley hung back as his suspect paused at the corner to let a freight wagon rumble by. It wouldn’t do to be discovered. It had taken weeks of intensive field investigation and paperwork to get the case to this point He couldn’t afford to lose it all now through a careless step.

The dray passed, the horses trudging on down the street, hooves dropping in weary thuds. The driver’s face was as long as those of his team, his expression just as dull. He made no effort to hurry the animals but sat hunched forward, his hat pushed to the back of his head, the reins dangling in his hands.

The suspect waited until the wagon was well past before attempting the street. Magnus continued following without crossing. He was fairly sure of the final destination. He’d dogged the same footsteps along this same path for a week now as the suspect spent a good deal of money. The largess manifested appeared to indicate that the jewels had been sold rather successfully.

Which was extremely odd since none of the known fences in the city claimed to be aware of a recent sale.

If the thief had found a buyer, it wasn’t just the Stokes woman’s opals that had changed hands. The Hartleby diamonds were still unaccounted for, as were sets of various other precious and semiprecious gems.

Numerous operatives had been put on the job as one robbery followed another. Clients ranging from weeping widows to blustering businessmen had descended on the Pinkerton office demanding results. The local police had not reclaimed the jewels nor had they indicated progress in learning the thief’s identity. But Finley thought he’d discovered a vital clue. Until he could prove his suspicions, he was playing his cards close to his vest.

The suspect entered the expected doorway, the shop of a valise and trunk maker. Finley settled in the mouth of an adjacent alley. He knew from experience that it would be an hour or more before his quarry left.

The door swung open and closed a little later as a young boy emerged, hastily pulling on a sack coat and donning a cloth cap. He gave a quick glance up and down the roadway before heading toward Market Street.

Finley snapped open his pocket watch and consulted it He began to think about dinner, considering various restaurants where he could eat and still keep one eye on the person he trailed. There had been no deviation in the suspect’s schedule in the seven days Finley had been on the job.

A cab rattled up, the wheels clattering noisily, the horse’s hooves striking the pavement sharply. The boy from the shop hopped down from the back of the vehicle and dashed inside. Moments later he returned, struggling with a small trunk. The shop door swung open again as Finley’s suspect and the shop owner emerged and stood watching as the baggage was wrestled aboard.

The boy tugged on the brim of his cloth cap when a coin exchanged hands. The suspect took a warm leave of the luggage maker then murmured a direction to the cab driver and climbed into the interior. After his employer, returned to his work, the shop boy remained gazing after the retreating vehicle, a look of longing in his face.

Caught without transportation to follow, Finley went in search of information. He crossed the road, staring down the way as the cab rounded a corner neatly and was lost from sight. “Somebody’s in a might hurry,” he remarked to the boy.

“Train ta catch,” the youngster said wistfully.

“Wonder where to?” Finley mused. “Sacramento, I’ll bet”

“Further,” the boy insisted. “Headin’ ta the East ta get on a ship.”

Finley shrugged as if in wonder and moved on. He’d barely put the corner of a building between himself and the boy when he took off at a run.

Chapter Three

To Pierce Abbot Shire Shipping Line San Francisco

Brother dear,

You may run up the flags and pop the champaign. Loath as I am to admit it, you win our wager. The Boston relations are indeed deadly dull. How a social butterfly like yourself ever managed to retain your sanity in their company for an entire month is quite beyond comprehension. Undoubtedly they were the true impetus that kept your nose to the proverbial grindstone.

Hildy and I did enjoy one bit of excitement during our blessedly brief sojourn. Someone nipped off with the family sapphires.

My own modest cache of gems remained untouched, possibly because it is so modest. No, I don’t regret selling off the better stones at the last minute to keep you flush with the bank. I believe in your scheme as I always avowed.

Besides, the boat is quite a delight and I will enjoy the profits more than an untouched dowry or all the gemstones in the world.

The captain made us quite comfortable. I’ve been proclaimed the reigning BELLE for the maiden voyage—who better qualified than this confirmed old spinster?

Shall report all the dazzling details of the trip upon docking in Liverpool.

Your loving sister,

Wyn

Aboard the Shire Liner Nereid

Boston Harbor

Eve of Departure

Garrett stood at the ship’s rail, sable wings of hair whip-ping to blind, his sight as he stared out over the vessels bobbing in the sun dappled bay. The majority of passengers lined the Nereid’s rails, where they could wave excited farewells to friends and relatives. He had taken a stance away from them, savoring his privacy for a brief while longer. Soon the ocean liner would ease away from the pier, leaving the tainted city skyline far behind. However, the social conventions that it represented would sail with them, the state preserved intact, neatly compartmentalized by the price paid for a ticket. His own place among the elite was guaranteed, if not by the location of his state-room, then by his name and the honored invitation he had received to dine at the captain’s table.

He had Deegan to thank for that. Garrett grinned grimly. He would have his revenge on his friend later. For now he was content to stare out to sea, his companions limited to the squawking gulls. His loyal and determined Patroclus was no doubt among the first-class passengers making up to yet another heiress.

There was an autumnal bite in the breeze. It wafted inland off the choppy waters calling to the primeval core of a man and drawing forth the memory of ancient passions in his blood. Although the New England air carried a different scent and taste on its currents, Garrett remembered having felt this particular call before. It had been when he’d taken ship from the shimmering, parched sands of Egypt, running from the fears and impotency he’d felt there. He had stayed at Sybil’s side for three long, sleepless days as her spirit lingered in her fevered, emaciated body. The day he left Sybil and North Africa behind, there had been a pleasant Mediterranean breeze filling the ship’s sails, healing his battered soul with a promise of hope. Back then the world had lain open and new before him, a host of untasted adventure available, and his for the sampling. This time Garrett felt as if Neptune’s wind had snatched away that brief hope, and was searing his soul rather than healing it

He’d kept his mind on other details in the weeks since receiving the wire from home. Consulting with bankers, he’d arranged backing for the mine he’d visited in Brazil and the railroad he’d helped survey in Mexico. Deegan had pitched in, making travel arrangements, writing letters, to all intents and purposes assuming the duties of a secretary. But, although he was doing the work of one, Galloway refused to officially accept the post when it was offered once more. He preferred to remain a companion, albeit a nearly constant one. Within a week, they’d been on a train bound for Wyoming Territory, and from there, along the steel rails to Boston town.

In all, it had taken seven weeks to put his affairs in order. Garrett wished it had been longer. He still wasn’t prepared to face a life at Hawk’s Run.

Perhaps he never would be.

Once he’d thought of this voyage as his last reprieve. The final chance he would have to be the man he wished to be. The arrangements Deegan had made destroyed that hope.

“Damn, but you live under a lucky star,” Galloway had announced upon their arrival days earlier in Boston.

Having nursed depression over his future with the better part of a bottle of whiskey the night before, Garrett hadn’t felt particularly lucky. He’d managed to crawl out of bed and dress, but the drapes in the hotel suite remained tightly closed against the light of day. He barely squinted at his friend before closing his eyes again and covering them with his arm. “I’m quite sure that star fell on me last night,” Garrett said.

“So happens I’ve got a friend who runs a shipping line,” Deegan rambled on enthusiastically. “I checked in with Pierce’s office here and they’ve got berths available on a steamer pulling out on its maiden voyage.”

“Just what I deserve. A coffin in steerage,” Garrett groaned.

Deegan went to the window and threw the drapes open to let the sun spill in, bringing with it glorious pain to Blackhawk’s already throbbing head. “Hell, no,” Dig had insisted. “I told them who you were and got the Shire Line’s equivalent of the President’s Suite.”

His destiny was beyond recall now. His trunks had been delivered aboard the Nereid earlier that day and were resting untouched in the elaborately decorated stateroom. Rather than enjoy the comforts his station in life afforded, Garrett had opted for an isolated corner of the deck in the hope that the breeze would renew his spirit.

Since it had turned traitor, he watched a pair of gulls ride the wind currents.

They looked stationary, as if they were toys suspended by strings, their wings spread wide, their bodies dipping occasionally as the master puppeteer manipulated wires to give them a semblance of life.

Fate was his puppeteer, Garrett mused. Deegan was the current stage manager, pushing him to assume the mantle he had shunned in the past. The estate itself would complete the transition, closing all doors behind him. There would be few moments like this in the coming days, the coming years. He had a part to play. His lines were rusty from disuse, but he’d been born for the role. Bred for it. The richly appointed stateroom, the hand-tailored clothing, the seat at the captain’s table—they were the props, they set the stage. From this day forward he was no longer a man like any other, he was Blackhawk of Hawk’s Run.

The gulls tired of their game. One folded back its wings and dove into the water only to emerge with dinner in its beak a moment later. The other bird fluttered out among the anchored fleet of merchantmen and soon disappeared from sight.

The steam-powered engines had come alive during his reverie, Garrett noticed. They sent a thrumming through the ship that translated itself through the boards of the deck. There was no turning back now. No chance to lose himself. He was committed as never before.

The crowds at the rails nearest the dock sent up cries of excitement, of pleasure, of farewell. With the roar came a shift in the air. The weight in his soul lightened briefly. He’d misjudged Neptune after all. Perhaps if he stayed on deck long enough, the breeze would continue to offer his heart this temporary surcease.

If the brief miracle was the providence of the wind, that is.

Underlying the tide of distant, raised voices was the soft, nearby whisper of silk. The pungent aroma of the bay was replaced by the subtle scent of spring flowers.

Even without the sensory clues, he was aware of the woman’s presence. He had felt her arrival.

She stood the length of two deck chairs away, her stance nearly a replica of his, her forearms resting on the ship’s rail as she gazed out at the dancing waters. A ridiculously flamboyant Gainsborough hat was pinned securely over her spilling flaxen curls. The stiff breeze had spun out a few strands so that they tossed like loose ribbons around her shoulders. She was tall and slender, her figure enhanced by the narrow cut of her suit, the fitted jacket, long waistline, draped apron and green-striped fabric all obviously chosen to draw a man’s appreciative eye.

She sighed with obvious pleasure when the ship pulled away from the dock.

Her eyes were closed when she lifted her face toward the bay breeze. Bright, wind-whipped color touched her cheeks, her lips parted as if she anticipated a lover’s kiss. She breathed deeply a moment, savoring the taste of the air. And with her action, his interest was further pricked.

It had been weeks since he’d indulged his carnal appe-tites and the matter of selecting a willing partner had al-ways been a most enjoyable part of the game. A journey of eight days lay ahead of them. Dalliance with a lovely woman would ease the despair in his heart. Or at least keep it at a distance until they reached England.

This one was a remarkedly beautiful woman. Incredibly long, dark lashes lay like unfurled ebony fans against her rice paper skin. They were exotic and at odds with her breeze-tossed blond tresses.

When her lashes lifted, it was to reveal eyes the shade of thickly wooded pine forests, mysterious, shadowed and intriguing. They widened in surprise, clouding with confusion, when she realized Garrett was staring.

“I hope I haven’t intruded on your thoughts or disturbed your solitude,” she said.

Her voice was cultured, her accent that of the western American coast rather than the eastern from which they sailed. There was a faint throaty purr in her tone that reminded him of a contented feline. Or a satisfied mistress.

‘’Not at all,” Garrett assured. “My official claim on this section of decking has yet to be filed at the assay office.”

Her amused smile started a pleasant tightening sensation in the pit of his stomach.

“My appearance was timely then,” she said.

“Most, from my view,” Garrett agreed. “My own company was becoming a bit of a bore.” He nodded toward the hallooing of the crowd. “No one to see you off?”

She shrugged and stared out over the water again. “It’s doubtful they could even find me in the crush.”

Because she wore gloves he had no inkling as to whether she wore another man’s ring. He guessed that she was traveling without a male escort, for any man would be a fool to let this beauty out of his sight.

“Besides,” she added, her voice growing nostalgic, “I’m one of Trident’s hedonists. My grandfather was a ship’s captain and I seem to have inherited a love for the feel of the wind on my face and the taste of the sea on my tongue.”

She was a most unusual woman, Garrett mused.

There were many lovely ladies littering his past. His success in London had not been tied solely to financial transactions. Before he’d gone to Egypt in Sybil’s wake, he’d cut a bold swath through the ballrooms of the elite, seducing many a lovely guest or sultry hostess during the movements of a dance, rutting amongst many a cuckolded peer’s lace-edged sheets. There had been little pleasure in any of the affairs. He’d been labeled the black-hearted Blackhawk before his arrival and had merely played each scene as it was written.

None of the beauties in the past could be compared to the lovely, disheveled woman who dallied with him at the ship’s rail, not even Sybil.

The wind drew a long strand of her flaxen hair across her face. It brushed her cheek, teased her nose, caressed her mouth. When it eluded her grasp, Garrett took the opportunity to close the distance between them. Without asking her permission, he trapped the errant lock between his fingers.

It was the texture of finely spun silk threads and glistened with a sheen more akin to moonlight than sunlight. Her hand grazed against his when they both moved to secure the curl beneath her hat.

“Perhaps I’d better do this,” she said.

If they’d still been alone, he would have been tempted to rip her ridiculously large picture hat away, to free her pale golden tresses so that they entangled in the wind. Then he could bury his hands among the glorious strands and turn her face up to his. But they were no longer alone. The Nereid was nearing the mouth of the bay and other passengers were strolling the decks, invading what had once been his preserve alone.

His alluring companion tucked the tangled curls back beneath her hat. White, even teeth worried a corner of her bottom lip as she worked. Despite the crowds, Garrett nearly gave in to the compulsion to draw her close and kiss her. Savor her.

“There. Much better,” she announced brightly. “Thank you for coming to my aid, sir.”

“It was an honor,” he avowed, forcing himself to look away from her lips. “But the name isn’t Galahad, it’s Blackhawk. Garrett Blackhawk.”

Galahad. Wyn paused as the name sounded an unwelcome echo in her mind. Deegan had dredged up that particular knight of the Round Table in conjunction with his courting of Leonore Cronin. The Galahad of legend had been pure, noble and unselfish. That description hadn’t fit Deegan and she doubted the high-minded ideals would settle any easier on Mr. Blackhawk’s broad shoulders. At least he had disclaimed any resemblance to the knight.

He was attractive, too, although perhaps a bit forward. When his eyes had lingered on her lips, she’d felt breathless. There had been a singing in her blood, and an excited fluttering beneath her ribs that she hadn’t felt since Deegan Galloway had enthralled her senses.

Garrett Blackhawk made her feel that way with nothing more than a look.

What a frightening and thrilling sensation!

And how comforting to know that she no longer had money with which to tempt the man. No doubt he had recognized the expensive tailoring of her clothing and equated that with wealth, which she would have again if each voyage the Nereid made was profitable. That was in the future though. For now, she felt safe.

“It is a pleasure to meet a fellow traveler, Mr. Black-hawk,” she declared. “I’m Winona Abbot.”

She offered Blackhawk her hand and was faintly disappointed when he didn’t play the gallant and place a kiss on her wrist or on the back of her gloved hand.

Instead his fingers curled around hers, his grip firm and businesslike. It lingered long enough for her to experience another delightful chill of awareness.

“Winona,” he repeated, his voice appearing to caress each syllable of her name. “It’s quite unusual and beautiful. Like its owner.”

Wyn smiled to herself. Oh, yes, he had definitely staked a claim. There wasn’t a man alive who could deal with a woman honestly. They felt the need to flirt, to cajole, to compliment. Well, this time she would enjoy the experience but she wouldn’t be hurt when he was revealed as a cad.

If only she didn’t find these roguish bounders so attractive.

“In the language of the Sioux Indians, Winona translates to firstborn daughter,” she explained. “Or so I’ve been told. And what about you, Mr. Blackhawk?”

His smile was rakish but perhaps she only thought so because his coloring was so dark, his skin so warm, his eyes so bold. He was as tall as her brother Pierce, a fact that appealed to her. Due to her own above-average height, she often met men eye-to-eye. With Blackhawk her eyes were level with his lips. It had to be the reason her gaze returned to linger on them so often.

“The Blackhawks are Saxon rather than Sioux, despite certain similarities in name imagery,” he said. “We had a strain or two of Celt creep in before the Conquest but there hasn’t been much culling from other bloodlines since then.”

His voice was a pleasant baritone, yet not overly deep. It was the crisp way he pronounced some words and yet seemed to linger over others that drew her. It wasn’t just that his tone differed from that of American men. A host of English men materialized each season in San Francisco, many on the lookout for wealthy wives. Blackhawk’s voice was similar to theirs and yet it wasn’t. Perhaps the difference was that his words were more a caress than a sound.

What a fanciful thought!

“Would you care to tour the deck with me, Miss Abbot?” he asked.

Fanciful or not, his voice was blatantly sensual. She felt it to the tips of her toes.

Wyn shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I already have an engagement.”

“Later, perhaps.”

“Perhaps.”

When she made no immediate move to leave, he closed the scant space between them even more until the hem of her skirt brushed the toes of his boots. He took her gloved hand and raised it in his. Wyn was barely conscious of her surroundings when at long last his lips brushed audaciously over her fingertips.

The breeze was fresher now that they were at sea, but the passion in Blackhawk’s eyes held the chill at bay, and warmed her. His hair was as dark as his name implied and lay in tumbled splendor over his brow. She recognized the work of a master tailor in the cut and fit of his dark suit, and of an artist in the design of his boots. Deegan had dressed as dapperly, though. Clothes were part and parcel of a fortune hunter’s trade.

“What are you thinking, Miss Abbot?” Blackhawk asked, recalling Wyn to the present.

She gave him a considering look. “I was wondering, Mr. Blackhawk, if you play whist.”

Hildy was busily sorting through her belongings when Wyn returned to the suite of staterooms they shared. With her new status as a Shire Line stockholder had come the privilege of boarding the ocean liner the evening before. Wyn had thought she and her friend already settled, their trunks unpacked, their gowns hung neatly in the clothes-press, the few personal belongings they’d brought scattered around the trio of linked cabins.

“Have a nice stroll?” Hildy asked, without turning her head. A number of her new gowns were tossed negligently aside, covering divan, chairs and ottomans in the parlor. She held a gown decorated with silver tissue before her and considered her reflection in a cheval mirror.

Wyn closed the hatch, carefully securing it behind her. “There was a lovely breeze off the port side,” she said. “Since the captain was occupied with putting to sea, I managed to enjoy myself without his running commentary.” Of course, she admitted silently to herself, the encounter with Mr. Blackhawk had greatly enhanced the minutes she’d spent on deck.

“That’s the burden you must bear for being the lady of his choice this voyage, dearest,” Hildy reminded. “You yourself told me there is always a belle on the voyage. If I didn’t have other plans, being fawned on by a man in uniform would appeal strongly to me.”

Wyn walked through the archway that led to her sleeping quarters, unpinning her. hat as she went. Two long strands of hair dangled over her shoulders. She touched one briefly recalling how Garrett Blackhawk had rescued it from the wind, imprisoning the contrary lock between his long, elegantly tapered, masculine fingers. Rather than refix the knot at the crown of her head, Wyn pulled the rest of her hairpins free and let the curls spill loosely down her back. “Plans? What sort of plans?” she called out to Hildy.

Her friend appeared in the hatchway, an elaborate gown over each arm. “In which of these do I look the most attractive?” she demanded. “The silver or the deep lavender?”

Hair brush in hand, Wyn glanced back over her shoulder. “Don’t tell me you have a new prospect in mind already?” In Hildy’s vocabulary, a prospect meant an available, marriageable man.

“I cornered the purser while you were communing with nature,” Hildy said. “I gushed compliments about the ship until he regaled me with a list of viable names.”

Wyn sank onto the stool before her dressing table and worked at the tangles in her hair, half envying her friend’s single-mindedness. Perhaps she should adopt it. If her requirements in a husband were only half as mercenary as Hildy’s she would soon have a home of her own, then children about her skirts.

And a lifetime of winter in her heart.

It was better to remain alone.

“By all means, make it the lavender then,” Wyn advised. “It nearly gave the meat packing magnate in Chicago apoplexy when you wore it to dinner at the hotel.”

Hildy held the dress against her curvaceous form and peered past Wyn to her reflection in the ornately framed mirror that hung over the dressing table. “Quite a staid little man, wasn’t he?” she mused. “Hopefully I’ll have better luck this time. The steward tells me we have a member of the British aristocracy aboard and he will be eating at the captain’s table with us tonight.”

“A duke perhaps?” Wyn suggested.

“A baron. Not a very exalted rank, but I understand he’s wealthy.”

“Perhaps he knows your brother-in-law. You could ask him as a conversational opening.”

Hildy exchanged the lavender for the silver gown and considered her image in the glass a second time. “And totally destroy the good baron’s interest? The Loftus family connection is the last thing I should mention. You’re right about the lavender. Lord, I hate being in mourning, even half mourning. Are you wearing the terre-verte?”

“Not if I’m going to stand near you,” Wyn said brushing through another wind-born tangle. “Besides, I have no need to dazzle anyone. As the only Shire Line family member aboard, I’ll have the captain’s undivided attention even if I dress in sack cloth.”

“Well, you are the Belle,” Hildy said. “Oh, but I did learn a bit of distressing news.”

Thinking the ship had developed a problem, Wyn put her brush aside and turned to face her friend. “Don’t tell me one of the grand saloon chandeliers is loose.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Hildy scoffed. “The ship is perfect. It’s the quality of the passengers that is at fault.”

The rakish dark face of Garrett Blackhawk flashed in Wyn’s mind. He was probably only one of many fortune hunters aboard. Hildy surveyed her reflection a last time, considering how to make her conquest. Yes, Wyn reflected, there were a good number of mercenary passengers aboard, and they were not all male.

Hildy tossed her gowns over the end of Wyn’s bunk and perched on the lid of her largest trunk. “If I’d discovered he was aboard before we sailed you could probably have had him tossed off,” she said and assumed a thoughtful expression. “Do they still keelhaul people?”

This was serious indeed. “Not aboard a Shire ship,” Wyn answered, “and never to a paying customer.”

Hildy sighed. “Well, perhaps Deegan didn’t pay for his pas—

Blood rushed to Wyn’s face. “Deegan? Deegan Gallo-way?” she demanded in a tight voice.

“I don’t believe he noticed me,” Hildy admitted. “He was engaged in conversation with a very pretty girl and a mountainous woman whom I took to be her mother.”

Not only was he aboard, he was dallying with another heiress! Wyn surged to her feet, fuming and confused at the tumult of emotions his name raised in her breast. Had Pierce arranged this? She recalled clearly that he’d placed a wager on Deegan’s success in winning her. Pierce’s disreputable conduct in the past lead her to believe in the likelihood of the scheme. He’d probably sought Deegan out before leaving San Francisco months ago and arranged everything.

Well, he’d read her heart wrong if he believed she would fall readily into the perfidious Mr. Galloway’s arms again.

Wyn strode angrily around the cabin, unaware that Hildy was unnaturally quiet.

Had Pierce actually used her eagerly offered money to appease the bank during construction of the ship, or had he merely told her that he had? If it was still nestled in the vault of the Bank of California, she was going to cheerfully murder her older brother.

“I wonder what he looks like?” Hildy murmured.

No, she would torture Pierce first. She would see about acquiring thumb screws from a moldering dungeon and—

“What?” Wyn snapped, halting in mid stride.

Hildy looked up, her face still contemplative. “I was just wondering what the baron looks like,” she repeated.

“Fat and balding probably,” Wyn said, her voice bordering on a growl. Didn’t Hildy realize the complications Deegan’s presence presented?

Hildy shivered theatrically. “Oh, I hope he isn’t,” she said with a sigh. “I’d enjoy an improvement over Oswin, in looks, age, and money.”

Especially money, Wyn thought ruefully. It had come as a nasty shock to Hildy to find the man she’d married for his wealth had died nearly a pauper. Apparently her friend had yet to learn her lesson. There were other things in life that mattered more than a healthy bank account.

As if reading her thoughts, Hildy sighed again. “I do wish I had my diamonds rather than the paste copy to wear. The baron will probably notice the difference. Those of noble birth tend to be more educated in these matters than Americans are.”

Spoken like the true snob Hildy was, Wyn decided with disgust.

“What do you think the baron will think is my most attractive asset?” Hildy asked seriously.

In resignation, Wyn sank back down on the dressing stool. She had suggested Hildy accompany her on the voyage to restore her widowed friend’s spirits. Deegan Galloway could be dealt with successfully later. For now, it was Hildy who needed her whole attention.

Wyn pasted a bright smile on her face. “Your charm,” she declared staunchly. “It will stand you in good stead once you are a baroness.”

Hildy laughed softly and leaned forward to hug Wyn. “You’re lying but I love you for it,” she said.

The porthole framed a portrait of early evening. Flamboyantly painted shadows in various shades of purple appeared like bold brush strokes across the eastern sky. The stateroom suite was located on an upper deck and, to Wyn’s mind, afforded some of the most spectacular views available. How lovely it would be to escape to the bow of the ship and watch night gather. The heavens would sparkle in their full glory and, when the moon rose, the ocean would metamorphose into a gleaming reflection of the vast universe above.

But as an Abbot aboard a Shire ship, she had responsibilities.

“Perhaps we’d best change for dinner,” Wyn suggested. “You wouldn’t want another lady to attach your baron before we arrive.”

“If another woman so much as looks at him, promise me you’ll help me toss her overboard,” Hildy said, her tone of voice making Wyn wonder if her friend was actually serious rather than theatrical. Obviously, bringing a man with a title up to scratch meant a lot to Hildy. If that was the case, Wyn vowed silently to do whatever it took to make Hildy happy once more. Perhaps in doing so it would mollify her conscience over the way her blind attachment to Deegan had inadvertently hurt Leonore Cronin in San Francisco.

“I do wish the purser had been able to give me a few details about the baron’s appearance instead of being insidious,” Hildy said as she gathered her gowns from the bed.

Wyn began working loose the buttons of her form fitted jacket “Perhaps he hasn’t met the man,” she offered.

The fabric of Hildy’s evening gowns rustled softly, brushing against the flounces of her day dress as she crossed the room. “No, he said he met all the truly important passengers as they came aboard. But all he would tell me was that the baron’s appearance was quite appropriate to his name.”

Wyn turned her attention to the fastenings of her cuff. “What is his name?”

“Nothing spectacularly strange sounding.” Hildy paused in the doorway a moment. “It’s quite plain and distinctly Anglo-Saxon really. It’s Blackhawk.”

Chapter Four

Preferring to spend as little time as possible in his suite, Garrett changed for dinner and retreated to the gentlemen’s smoking room where he plied a steward with silver for information. It took only a single clandestinely passed bribe to learn the direction of Winona Abbot’s stateroom, and that she represented the Shire family aboard the liner.

The news cheered him immensely, for it meant they met on far more equal footing. Both were not only financially comfortable, they were wealthy. Even though Deegan had handled the arrangements for their trip, Garrett’s nose for business had led him to make inquiries about the Shire Line before actually boarding the luxurious steamship. What he’d heard had impressed him. A number of shipping companies had folded when pitted against the sailing expertise of the White Star Line and Cunard, but the Shire Line had held fast, cutting a niche of their own in both the Atlantic trade and that of the Pacific. Considering that luxury liners had been making the crossing regularly since the Great Eastern launched in 1859, a good twenty years previous, he was rather surprised that the Nereid was the Shire Line’s first attempt to corner a share of the first-class passenger trade. Perhaps they had dallied, learning from the mistakes of their competitors. He wondered idly if the Shire and Abbot families had considered issuing stock, taking their shipping business out of the realm of a closed company, opening it to investors. A block of Shire stock would work well with his other investment interests. As soon as things were settled on his family’s lands, he’d, check into the matter, escape to London and—

Garrett nearly laughed out loud. Considering the way his associates in London treated him, London was anything but an escape. It would be little more than a brief reprieve from the oppressiveness of the Blackhawk estate.

That destination, thank God, was still more than a week away. A week in which he intended to immerse himself in the delightful pursuit of Winona Abbot. This would no doubt be the last time he could trust a woman to see him as simply a man rather than as Blackhawk of Hawk’s Run.

Unless, that is, his wretched reputation was known by someone aboard, which, considering a good many of the passengers enjoying the luxurious accommodations were British, was quite possible. It was only a matter of time before news of his past escapades buzzed in the plushly appointed saloons, flitting first in the men’s lounges before flying fleetly to that of the ladies’, where it would be tat-tered even more thoroughly. Perhaps even embroidered upon.

It certainly had been in the past.

Ah, his wretched past

When she learned who he was, would it change the way Winona Abbot looked at him? The memory of her darkly lashed deep green eyes lingered in his mind as strongly as the vision of her shapely form teased it.

It was only their first day at sea. Surely word would not spread this quickly. Surely he could remain anonymous for a brief while longer. Until she learned who—what—he was, Garrett intended to enjoy every moment he could steal with Winona Abbot.

It was a simple matter to lie in wait for her when it drew near to the hour for dinner. Fortunately, she was alone when she left her stateroom, rather than accompanied by her companion. The helpful steward had given him a name, but all Garrett recalled now was that the other woman was a widow, nothing more. She, after all, hadn’t been the subject that held his interest. He was relieved the widow appeared to be keeping to the cabin rather than join the company in the dining room, for sharing the blond beauty was not on his itinerary.

Winona didn’t notice him lurking in the shadows near the companionway. Her attention was on a contrary button on the wrist of her long ivory glove. Even with her head bent, Garrett found she was far more beautiful than his memory had painted her. No longer tossed by a sea breeze, her flaxen locks were upswept to a knot that spilled artful curls to tease her creamy shoulders. Delicate drop earrings danced as she moved, the cut of the crystal stone catching the light of each lamp she passed along the darkly paneled corridor, creating quickly flashed prisms of color. She wore no other jewels, but Garrett was too entranced to question why. His attention was drawn instead to the neckline of her bodice as it dipped low over a bosom that was both full and cleverly concealed by a swath of fine pale blue tulle. Silk a scant shade deeper molded to the rest of her torso, accenting her narrow waist, and swept in a shimmering apron around her generous, womanly hips. Fabric cascaded behind her in a graceful train, rustling with every gliding step she took. As he watched, she finished with the button and bent slightly to catch up her train before descending the stairs.

Garrett waited until she lifted her slimly cut skirts before he stepped forward. The delay allowed him a glimpse of her delicately turned ankles and high-heeled satin slippers.

He doubted there was another woman aboard to match her for beauty and grace.

She noticed him just as the ship dipped slightly, gently tipping the deck upon which they stood. Ever-alert to opportunity, Garrett took advantage of the situation.

“Good evening, Miss Abbot,” he murmured, slipping his hand beneath her elbow to steady her. The scent of her perfume teased his senses, a mixture of rose water that hinted of vanilla and clove. Its effect on him was erotic, titillating. And yet when she looked up at him, her very expression was one of innocence. “It is Miss Abbot, not Mrs.?” he pressed.

She didn’t pull away from him but paused, as if considering whether to accept his escort or not. Rather than answer his question, she posed one of her own. “And it is Baron Blackhawk, rather than Mr., is it not, my lord?”

Garrett grimaced wryly. Obviously he had been too wicked in the past to merit a respite from fate now. “Found me out already?” he asked as the deck righted once more.

Winona seemed little aware of the ship’s movement. “You needn’t feel flattered,” she said lightly, and proceeded down the staircase. “I did not go seeking the information, sir.”

Far from appalled at whatever rumors she had heard about him, she appeared to be far more miffed that he hadn’t told her of them himself. Garrett grinned to himself, pleased she cared that he hadn’t. “I am crushed,” he murmured.

“Yes, I can see you are,” she answered dryly. “Why didn’t you tell me you were titled, my lord?”

“Actually, it was to avoid having you call me my lord in just that tone of voice. I’d much rather hear you use my first name, which, if you recall, is Garrett,” he said.

She stepped away from the touch of his hand as they reached the bottom of the stairwell. The glow of the setting sun reached them through the glass of a nearby porthole, casting a pink glow around her, coloring her cheeks a warm, blushing peach.

She turned slightly to face him, her chin lifting in resolution. “I think not. I’m sorry if you got the wrong impression of me earlier on deck,” she said. “I really am not interested in a shipboard romance, or a brief flirtation. You would do much better to set your sights on another lady if dallying is your goal, my lord.”

“And if it isn’t?” he asked.

“Forgive me if I doubt your word, but what other reason might you have for lying in wait for me?” When he didn’t answer immediately, she smiled knowingly. “Believe me, sir, where men are concerned, I am far from an innocent as to their intent when they seek me out”

“You would convict me without a trial? My dear Miss Abbot, surely that goes as much against an American’s grain as it does an Englishman’s,” Garrett insisted. “Do you not believe that I enjoyed your company this afternoon and wished to continue our conversation?”

She shook her head slightly. He was pleased to note the corners of her mouth still curved upward in amusement. “What I believe is that you don’t enjoy taking no for an answer, my lord.”

The hatchway to the outer deck swung open. “Ah, my dear!” a voice greeted loudly, interrupting her. Although Garrett had only met the man once upon boarding, captain Kittrick’s gravelly baritone was quite distinctive. “Thought I’d come along to see you safe to our grand galley. I see someone else’s had the same idea, though, eh, Baron?”

Garrett held back a snarl of frustration. “Quite,” he agreed, allowing his voice to drop into the sarcastic drawl he had perfected in London a lifetime ago. “We shan’t have to duel over who wins the honor of escorting the lovely Miss Abbot, shall we?”

Winona’s eyes widened in surprise then clouded with a hint of confusion at his metamorphosis from determined flirt to bored aristocrat. Garrett couldn’t blame her. He hadn’t even been conscious that he was doing it. Donning the role on cue had become so natural over the years.

Kittrick chuckled as if he’d heard a great joke. “A duel? By George! You’ll find me quite game—ha-ha. What shall we use? Shuffleboard cues? Ha-ha.”

Before Garrett could respond, Winona slipped her gloved hand onto Kittrick’s proffered arm. “Nonsense, Captain,” she insisted lightly. “Lord Blackhawk was merely asking for directions to the dining room. I’m sure he won’t mind tagging along behind us.”

She glanced back at him over one shoulder, issuing him a steady green-eyed challenge. “Will you, my lord?” she purred.

Although Hildy and, no doubt, the captain believed Blackhawk was wealthy, Wyn maintained her belief that he was nothing more than a fortune hunter and thus a cad. She had surmised it earlier, and had seen no evidence that he was anything else yet. But he was an awfully attractive one. She only hoped that Hildy would see past his hand-some exterior to the true man beneath. That she would realize he was not the man she had hoped he would be.

Such would not be the case, though. Her friend’s breathing would be just as erratic when Blackhawk was around as her own was at that moment.

If only he weren’t so…so…

Dangerous.

Yes, that was it. There was nothing in his appearance that could not be found just as attractive in a dozen other men aboard. It wasn’t the way the midnight black of his evening wear fit him. It was obviously the work of a master tailor. It wasn’t the breadth of his shoulders or the leanness of his build that pulled her eyes to him so often. Other men were as well of feature and form. No, it was something else. Something she had simply not managed to isolate as yet to explain why she thought him splendid.

He was most definitely that. The color of his coat and trousers was a continuation of his natural coloring, adding to the illusion that he was a reflection of his namesake, the black hawk. Was it simply his superficial resemblance to a hawk that gave him the aura of a predator himself, inclining her to believe he was as dangerous to court as would be the predatory bird?

Wyn was not surprised when Blackhawk chose to pick up the verbal gauntlet she’d tossed. “I would be honored to arrive on your heels, Miss Abbot,” he vowed, his deep voice still harboring the newly acquired sardonic edge. Rather than trail behind though, he fell into step at her side. “However, I find it very inhospitable of the good captain to keep you all to himself.”

Kittrick chortled. “Jealous of me, are you, Baron?” He patted Wyn’s hand on his arm. “Well, you see, I have first call on this lovely lady. She’s my chosen belle for the voyage.”

“Not an easy choice to make, I’ll wager,” Blackhawk said. “There are so many other lovely ladies aboard.”

“That there are,” the captain agreed readily. “But I’ve an eye for the special ones.”

“You do at that,” the baron murmured, casting Wyn another glance of approving admiration.

She laughed softly. “Thank you, my lord, but I can do without blatant compliments. You had best find another ear in which to feed them.”

“And if no other appeals to me?”

“I’m sure a good number of them will,” Wyn assured him. “Simply the knowledge that you are a lord—”

“A very minor one,” Blackhawk interrupted. “So minor, the state barely deserves notice.”

He was far too intent upon singling her out for a flirtation. Wyn wished she had followed Hildy’s course in remaining in the press of passengers at departure. If only she hadn’t been alone at the rail earlier, he would be as much a stranger to her as he was to the rest of the Nereid’s company. If only Hildy hadn’t decided that having a baron aboard suited her plans for the voyage perfectly. She must find a way to discourage him before Hildy misread the whole situation. Her friend’s emotional state was too fragile at this time to recognize that Wyn was not encouraging him.

Although to not encourage him was difficult. Very difficult.

He leaned closer to her as they walked, his voice dropping to a confiding rumble that made Wyn regret her vow to help Hildy find romance this journey. “Believe me,” Blackhawk murmured, “a good number of people have gone quite out of their way to avoid noticing the baronage in the past.”

“’Indeed? But I sincerely doubt they are among our companions on this voyage,” Wyn persisted. “Do you not agree, Captain?”

“Humph,” Kittrick said. “You see, sir, you are our sole personage, you might say, on this trip. There’s a good bit of money traveling with us, but it’s not the inherited kind, if you catch my drift.”

“Neither,” Blackhawk said, “is mine.”

“Still, that’s not how folks will see things,” Kittrick continued. “And, you being a single gentleman, the ladies will be atwitter. We’ve a number of families with marriageable daughters sailing with us and the purser’s planned at least one grand ball before we dock. Two if the crossing is smooth.”

Wyn smiled at Blackhawk. “You see, my lord? You will be quite merry without adding me to your string of conquests.”

“Will I now?” he asked, lifting one dark brow in patent disbelief.

“Can’t help but be,” Kittrick said with a chuckle. “Can’t say I envy you though, sir. It’s a hard life for a man dealing with bevies of beautiful women demanding his attention. Damned hard life.”

Wyn was glad that their leisured steps down the long paneled inner passageway at last joined another corridor and they began to encounter other guests. It enabled her to slip free of the captain and his now-captive lord. She lingered only long enough to enjoy the sight of the enthusiastic Kittrick taking great pleasure in introducing the baron to his fellow passengers, then she slipped into the dining room.

Although she had seen it the evening before, the intricacy of detail in the room still left her feeling stunned. The area appeared vast upon first sight, the bulkheads rising the height of two full decks before arching in a shallow dome over the room. Elaborately painted friezes rose above rows of portholes, the style and subject matter a distinct reflection of her older brother’s flamboyant taste. For a change Pierce had exercised a hitherto unknown sense of good taste. She had feared to see furnishings that rivaled those chosen by a whorehouse madam. She did, after all, know exactly where Pierce tended to spend his spare time.

Instead of a blur of scarlet, the room was tastefully decorated. An unknown artist had created massive portraits of two ancient sea gods. It was easy to recognize the Roman god of the sea, Neptune, with his spear, surrounded by ships, sea serpents and mermaids. The mermaids were lush creatures. Definitely Pierce’s choice. The Greek god Nereus was lesser known but, having fathered the sea nymphs known as the Nereid, his appearance in the frieze was de rigueur. He was banked by a host of his lovely daughters. Very lovely daughters.

Pierce definitely needed a new direction in his life.

The long dining tables had been set in advance, their tops covered with gleaming white linen, each place setting a picture of perfection, from glistening china to delicate crystal to highly polished silver flatware.

A number of the luxury-class passengers were already seated at their assigned tables or picking their ways through the crowded room in search of their places. The captain’s table sat at the head of the room, far from the double-doored entranceway, directly, she noted, under the complacent gaze of Nereus himself. The company there would number ten, four on either side of the board with chairs at both head and foot, as well. Some of the captain’s other guests were before her, already seated where the stewards directed. There was an older couple, so obviously married they had begun to resemble each other in feature, a very pretty, very young woman who was obviously their daughter, and a dapper but solemn-faced young man.

Choosing not to wait for Hildy—who planned to make an entrance—or the captain, Wyn began picking her way toward her own place. Briefly she wished it could be at one of the other tables rather than in the very visible chair at the captain’s right hand.

She’d barely taken two steps when a startled male voice gasped nearby.

“Wyn.”

Wyn closed her eyes briefly, letting the sound of Deegan Galloway’s voice wash over her. He still said her name with a lilt that hinted at adoration. It had once sent pleasant chills skittering up her spine. This time she felt nothing and, as a result, bereft that the sensation was missing.

“Wyn,” he said again, his voice sounding a bit thunderstruck as well as awed at her appearance. ‘’What are you doing here?”

She opened her eyes, turned to stare at him coldly.

A faint rush of color flooded what was visible of his face beyond his tawny side-whiskers. He’d added a dashing mustache since she’d last seen him. It enhanced his appearance, she thought. When his devilish smile curled beneath it, female hearts would melt en masse. Except for hers.

Deegan’s eyes shifted as he glanced nervously aside. “I mean, I thought you were still in San Francisco. How does it happen you’re aboard the Nereid?”

“I could ask you the same, Deegan,” Wyn said. “More to the point, I’m wondering what you are doing in this dining room. Considering the state of your finances, I would have thought steerage the limit of your travel funds.”

He flinched. “That’s cruel, Wyn, even if I did deserve it As it happens, I’m traveling with a friend of mine.”

“Female, I suppose,” Wyn snapped, incensed despite herself. “I hope she can afford your tastes.”

Deegan actually grinned with pleasure. “Well, he can, at any rate. It is a bit difficult, you and I stuck on the same ship. I swear, Wyn, if I’d had any idea that you were sailing on this pleasure palace, I’d have booked with another line. I chose a Shire ship out of loyalty and affection for your family, believe me.”

It was difficult to be spiteful over his actions after such a declaration. “Thank you,” Wyn murmured, albeit reluctantly. “But I’m sure that you will agree, the less we must deal with each other during the voyage, the more pleasant this journey will be.”

An expression of shifty unease flitted across his face. “Well, there may be a difficulty in avoiding each other. You see…” His voice trailed off as he glanced away, back toward the wide entranceway and the crowd of richly dressed people congregated near it.

Wyn wasn’t to be distracted though. She kept her eyes firmly on his face, determined this time to see the real Deegan Galloway, and not be seduced into thinking him a different man than he was.

“Yes?” she prodded.

“You see,” Deegan bleated, still scanning the crowd for someone. Obviously a party to rescue him from the awkwardness of their encounter, Wyn decided. “My host is a fellow who draws the limelight, and, er, even standing on the outskirts of it as I am…”

Wyn gave an unladylike snort of disbelief.

”…I doubt you and I will be able to escape rubbing shoulders because…”

The interruption didn’t come from among the gathering at the door. It sneaked up on them from the rear.

“Excuse me,” one of the stewards murmured. “Miss Abbot? Might I show you to your chair?”

Wyn jumped at the chance to end her unwelcome conversation with Deegan. “Certainly,” she agreed, rewarding the uniformed attendant with a brilliant smile as she took his arm.

Her smile dimmed considerably when the man addressed Deegan, as well. “Would you mind coming along, too, Mr. Galloway?” he asked respectfully.

Deegan gave Wyn a weak smile of apology before answering. “Yes, of course.”

“We will begin serving shortly,” the steward assured them both, leading the way to the captain’s table. He held Wyn’s chair, allowing her time to arrange her skirts and train before taking the seat. “Is there anything I can get for you at this time?”

Wyn just wished he would leave, taking Deegan with him. “Nothing, thank you.”

The steward turned to Galloway. “And you, sir?”

“Just point out my place and leave it at that,” Deegan said.

The steward looked taken aback a moment, but recovered swiftly. “I’m sorry, sir. I thought you knew. You are, just here.” He gestured to the right.

Wyn’s heart sank.

“We’ve seated you next to Miss Abbot, sir.”

Magnus Finley slipped into the dining room with none of the fanfare a good number of the guests appeared to demand. He, unlike them, preferred his presence to be overlooked. While the price of his passage had given him the luxury of hobnobbing with the wealthy, it had also been modest enough to allow him to go unnoticed by them. His assigned seat was located a decided distance from the captain’s table, yet allowed him an excellent view of the guests gathered there. It had taken a bribe to secure this particular chair, but he felt it well worth the expense, one that would no doubt come out of his own pocket rather than company expenses, since he had decided not to take Captain Kittrick into his confidence. From his observations thus far it was already apparent that, if apprised of his mission, the blustery captain was more likely to make a slip that would tip off the suspect Finley had gone to such trouble to follow all the way from San Francisco. Kittrick wouldn’t have taken kindly to the suggestion that one of the passengers chosen to sit at his table was an alleged jewel thief.

In all honesty, it wasn’t a single passenger that Finley had his eye on. While his own investigation led him to favor one suspect over all others, the reports of various Pinkerton agents had made it advisable to add other names to his list Especially when it was discovered that all of them were sailing aboard the Nereid. It had only been that afternoon that he had learned the suspects would be gathered together at the captain’s table that evening.

The situation led him to hypothesize a new theory: it might not have been a single thief who had lifted jewels in San Francisco, or added to the cache in Boston, but a team of clever thieves, each able to vouch for the other, to cover the other’s tracks when capture threatened.

As the last of the glittering passengers made their way to the tables, Finley kept an unobtrusive eye turned to the table at the top of the room. He hoped to discover a clue—a series of clues—that would allow him to narrow the scope of his investigation before the ocean liner docked in Liverpool. Even though he would be contacting police officials in Britain for assistance in apprehending the thief, if he still had more than a single suspect to follow, Finley doubted he would be taken seriously. Especially since the whole case currently hung only on suppositions, educated guesses based on the fact that these suspects had had the opportunity to commit each of the crimes, rather than on the evidence of a witness to the thief’s escape or of a fence trying to extricate himself from involvement in the series of crimes.

There was nothing solid about the case yet. Nothing that would hold up in a court of law. Unless he had an out-and-out confession, in the presence of witnesses, Finley feared the case would drag on, that the agency’s clients would lose confidence in the Pinkerton office and withdraw, leaving him frustrated with the knowledge that the criminal had been the only winner in the drama.

They all looked like winners now. The guests gathered at the main table were amongst the most glittering. His own tablemates appeared tacky and lacking in both grace and taste when compared to the captain’s chosen few. While the woman across from him was gowned in expensive finery, her dress was too frilled and her gems were of an inferior grade. The man at her side sampled his wine with a shopkeeper’s profit-conscious expression rather than with the appreciation of a true aficionado. The guests on either side of the couple were cut from the same mold, eager to be a reflection of the class to which they aspired and from which they were held back by their own antecedents.

Nearly all the people he watched at the far table belonged to a different breed. The very naturalness of their movements, choices and actions, set them apart even though Finley suspected their bank accounts on the whole were inferior to those of the guests at his own table. It was their financial resources that had occupied him of late as he studied reports for patterns he could use to prove a motive for involvement in the now long series of jewel robberies, or as proof that profit had been gathered from the sale of one of the stolen items.

He had not yet found what he was seeking. But he would. Finley was sure of it. The clue he sought was awaiting his notice, perhaps had already been gleaned and not recognized for its impact as of yet. If such was the case, he knew from experience that only time would allow it to rise to the surface.

The stewards arrived laden with tureens of soup. Finley watched them deftly maneuver among the waiting guests, tilting their trays to avoid spilling the broth when the deck tilted slightly beneath their feet. His mind wasn’t on the dexterity of the crew members though, it was on the information he had gathered on the passengers whose names headed his list of suspects: Deegan Galloway, Winona Abbot and Garrett Blackhawk.

Chapter Five

It ranked as one of the worst evenings of her life, Wyn decided as she watched the soup imitate the ocean, moving from side to side in her shallow bowl. Not only was Dee-gan seated on her right, his placement forcing her to speak civilly to him when table etiquette so demanded, but Garrett Blackhawk occupied the chair directly across from hers so that she felt his glance on her frequently. It made Wyn nervous since Hildy was at her most bubbling effervescence on his left

Why must he continue to be so contrary and single her out over all the ladies at the table? If not with his attentions, then with his eyes? She’d particularly chosen her gown because it paled in splendor next to Hildy’s. Miss Suzanne Carillo, who looked to have only recently lengthened her skirts and put her hair up, wore a gown far more rich and attractive than hers. While Blackhawk didn’t appear to have noticed Hildy’s daringly cut dress or Miss Carillo’s elegant one, Wyn didn’t think there was a single thread of her own ensemble that hadn’t fallen under his approving scrutiny. Nor had he missed the fact that his study left her flustered.

Perhaps that was frustrated, Wyn corrected herself waspishly. Either way she would have been in a far pleas-anter frame of mind if Hildy weren’t involved. Or if he were anything but the fortune hunter and con man she believed him to be. Why was it that she was always attracted to the wrong type of man? Hadn’t she learned anything in her disastrous past?

As if she didn’t have enough on her plate of problems, there was Deegan to deal with, too. When his foot brushed against hers beneath the table, she was transported to another world, an aeon ago, when such touches had been considered intimate, precious, stolen caresses. She could feel the heat of his body next to hers, smell the scent of his cologne, both so familiar.

And yet, she didn’t feel any of the same sensations that had once assailed her when in his presence. In its place was this all too intoxicating awareness of every gesture Deegan’s friend Garrett Blackhawk made.

His friend! Another unhappy coincidence. It had been nearly as much a shock to learn that Blackhawk and Dee-gan were traveling companions as it had been to learn that Blackhawk was Hildy’s baron. Now that she considered the matter though, Wyn was inclined to believe the two men belonged together. They were both handsome, charming and unconscionable liars. One had only to listen to the farfetched tales they told over dinner to realize the last. They were fortune hunters. Dazzling young, unsuspecting women was part of their trade.

How had they come to be aboard the Nereid? Had they pooled their funds, plotted their current course, determined to, between them, seduce at least one wealthy young woman into plighting her troth before the ship reached England? Which of them would it be who requested the captain perform a wedding service while still at sea? And who would be the victim bride? Miss Carillo? Her parents doted in equal measure on the unscrupulous pair. The fact that the Carillos merited inclusion at the captain’s table was like waving a red flag before the likes of such men. Only passengers of a certain status were awarded the pleasure of Kittrick’s company. More often than not, that status was given to the very wealthy. Or the titled.

No wonder Blackhawk was claiming to be a baron! It enabled him, and Deegan as his associate, to be placed in a position that allowed them to meet only the richest women aboard, be they young heiresses or lonely widows.

Hildy’s pursuit of the baron would no doubt slow down his courtship of the impressionable Miss Carillo, but Dee-gan would have all the opportunity single-minded determination could afford. She should warn the young woman’s mother.

Wyn glanced to where the lady in question sat, her face aglow as she surveyed the guests. It seemed doubtful that Mrs. Carillo would give due merit to any warning issued by another woman. She was too enthralled to be among the elect company.

Which meant the Carillos’ money was new money. They would squander it in Europe, likely buying whatever they wished. Wyn had little doubt that a husband for their daughter headed the shopping list. It had been the reason a good many wealthy American families had gone abroad.

And if such were the case, the Carillos might as well take Deegan, Wyn thought. At least he wasn’t as bad as some of the cads she had had the misfortune to meet.

“Would you care for more wine, Wyn?” Deegan asked.

“No, thank you,” she murmured coolly.

He grinned at her fondly, then turned to his right to offer the same service to the blushing Miss Carillo. The young woman’s murmured answer was lost as her mother tossed table etiquette to the winds and leaned forward to claim his attention.

“This is all so exciting!” she gushed. “I do wish you would tell me of the adventures you and Lord Blackhawk shared in the Amazon, Mr. Galloway. I know Mr. Mosby is interested and my precious Susanne is quite breathless in anticipation, aren’t you, my dove?”

Mr. Mosby, looked disconcerted. Miss Carillo colored even more brightly in confusion but leaned a bit nearer so as not to miss one of Deegan’s dulcetly dropped words.

“In Mexico, my dear lady,” he corrected. “I haven’t the stamina that a trek up the Amazon entails. Dealing with bandits in the mountains of Sonora was quite chilling enough.”

“Bandits! Good heavens!” Mrs. Carillo gasped. “However did you get involved with them?”

Wyn listened with half an ear as Deegan spun out a tale that she was quite sure he made up as he went along. Since he worked Blackhawk into the scenario, she wondered if the two men would meet later to coordinate their stories.

Blackhawk, she had found as the captain drew him out, told just as hair-raisingly improbable tales, a good many of them featuring Deegan as his companion in arms. Of course, he was far less sensational in the telling than the dramatic Galloway. She felt it had something to do with the baron’s delivery. The adventure, when retold in the careless, drawling affectation he had assumed at the captain’s appearance earlier, took on the mantle of a tedious trial endured with a stiff upper lip. She was quite sure that, like Deegan’s tales, not a single word bore the least resemblance to the truth.

“You hid from savages in a cave overnight, then in the morning discovered a fabulous vein of gold ran directly above your head?” Hildy demanded, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement as she gazed at Blackhawk. “Did you immediately file a claim, my lord?”

“Bother the gold,” Captain Kittrick snorted. “However did you escape the savages?”

Wyn sampled her soup and let the conversation wash over her.

She should have been prepared. Having Blackhawk at the captain’s table practically insured that the company would be agog. She’d seen her keenly republican neighbors in San Francisco become overnight royalists when a traveler with an old-world title arrived in the city. It had happened again that evening as the captain made the introductions. He’d barely let Blackhawk’s name trip from his tongue before Mr. Mosby, the young man seated next to Miss Carillo, had stammered that he’d heard of the baron. Even Blackhawk’s sardonically lifted eyebrow had not stemmed the flow after that. Eyes aglow with something like hero worship, Mr. Mosby had asked about a mine in Brazil. That had put Mr. Carillo in mind of a rumor of a rail line Blackhawk was said to have been involved with founding somewhere in Mexico. Mrs. Carillo remembered hearing a friend tell of an incident involving the Blackhawk name in Egypt a few years ago, although she had not been able to bring the details readily to mind. Hers had been the only statement that neither Blackhawk nor Deegan had seen fit to expand upon thus far.

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