Twin of Ice (Montgomery/Taggert 6)

“Could have knocked me over with a feather,” Mr. Weatherly was saying. “That blond fella that follows Mr. Taggert around came in an hour ago and asked for a dozen rings, and they were all for Miss Houston.”

“Mr. Taggert didn’t choose them himself?” Houston asked.

“It was his idea; the blond man said so.”

Very calmly, Houston stood, the closed box of rings in her hand. “Thank you so much, Mr. Weatherly, for coming personally with the rings. Perhaps you’d like to see them, Mother,” she said, handing the box to Opal. “I’m sure they need to be sized. Good day, Mr. Weatherly.”

As Houston went upstairs to her room, her heart lightened. The rings themselves didn’t matter, but he’d read her note and he meant to marry her. That was what was important. Of course, he hadn’t asked to see her but soon they’d be married and he’d see her every day.

Upstairs, she began to dress for dinner.

* * *

Houston smiled at Marc Fenton, who sat across from her in Miss Emily’s quiet, pink and white Tea Shop. Opal had taken a seat not far away, but she tried to leave them their privacy. Mr. Gates had insisted that Opal accompany Houston because he said he had no more faith in the morals of young Americans.

Marc was a good-looking man, short, stocky, blond, with wide-set blue eyes and an infectious grin.

“I hear you’ve made the catch of the season, Houston,” Marc was saying, as he took another raisin tart onto his plate. “Everyone’s whispering about how he’s half barbarian and half knight-on-a-white-horse. Which one is the real Kane Taggert?” he asked, eyes twinkling.

“I thought perhaps you could tell me. Mr. Taggert used to work for you.”

“He left when I was seven years old! I barely remember the man.”

“But what do you remember?”

“He used to scare me to death,” Marc laughed. “He ran that stable like his own private domain and nobody, including my father, trespassed.”

“Even your sister, Pamela?” Houston asked, as she idly toyed with her teacup.

“So that’s what you want to know about.” He laughed again. “I knew nothing of what was going on. One day, both Taggert and my sister were gone. You know, to this day, I still get a little nervous when I take a horse and don’t ask permission.”

“Why did your sister leave?” Houston persisted.

“Father married her off immediately. I don’t think he wanted to take any more chances on his daughter falling in love with another stableboy.”

“Where is Pam now?”

“I rarely see her. She moved to Cleveland with her husband, had a kid, and stayed there. He died a few months ago and her kid was very sick for a long time. She’s had it rough in the last year.”

“Is she—?”

Marc leaned forward in conspiracy. “If you want to know more about the man you’re planning to marry, you ought to talk to Lavinia LaRue.”

“I don’t believe I know her.”

Marc leaned back with a smile. “Of course you don’t. She’s Taggert’s light skirt.”

“His . . . ?”

“His mistress, Houston. I have to go now,” he said, rising, leaving money on the table.

Houston also rose, put her hand on his arm. “Where do I find Miss Larule?”

“LaRue, Lavinia LaRue, and ask down on Crescent Street.”

“Crescent Street?” Houston’s eyes widened. “I’ve never been there.”

“Send Willie. He knows his way around there. Meet her somewhere private. You don’t want to be seen with the Lavinia LaRues of this world. Good luck on your wedding, Houston,” he said over his shoulder as he left.