“Chauncey, stop playing games with me!”
“Games?” She raised an eyebrow. “I have told you often enough that I wish to travel. Now, enough about my plans, Gregory. You were quizzing me about contracts, remember?”
Gregory sighed. He wished Chauncey had confided her plans to Frank Gillette. He reluctantly drew himself back to Chauncey and her question. “Not exactly contracts, Elizabeth. A good lawyer can handle that. It’s the people involved that are important. You must learn everything about anyone you intend to become involved with in a business venture.”
“Yes,” Chauncey said, nodding her head, “I understand that, Gregory.” Indeed she did, she thought. Her eyes glittered. She could taste the revenge now. How she would savor it as she watched Delaney Saxton ruined!
“I do have several more questions about transferring funds, Gregory,” she continued. “If I decide to travel around a bit in America, how can I be certain that my money will be available to me when I wish it?”
“It’s a bit difficult, particularly in America. Not in large cities like New York or Boston, to be certain, but if one goes farther west of Chicago, honoring drafts becomes a bit hazardous. I, of course, will provide you with names of men whom I trust, and banks that have endured during the currency fluctuations.”
She was not that ignorant about San Francisco anymore. “If I decide to travel beyond Chicago, then it appears I should carry my money with me.”
“It’s true. What several people of my acquaintance have done when traveling to more uncivilized areas is to turn their money into gems. Diamonds most often. They’re easy to hide, don’t alert thieves, and are easy to turn back into currency. But, my dear, I cannot imagine that you would ever want to visit such places.”
“Likely not,” Chauncey said blandly. “But it never hurts to know about such things, does it?”
5
San Francisco, California, 1853
Delaney Xavier Saxton dismounted from the broad back of his stallion, Brutus, and stood on the corner of Second Street and Bryant, gazing with pride at his gray-stone-faced house, one of the most impressive additions to South Park. And it was nearly always sunny here on the southern slope of Rincon Hill, the San Francisco fog rarely wrapping it in a thick blanket of white. After nearly a year he still enjoyed contemplating the impressive structure with its wide portico and deep-set stone steps. He was pleased that the architect, Archibald Grover, had been able to reproduce his father’s home in Boston from the rather amateur drawings Delaney had made for him. Although he hadn’t thought so at the time, the devastating fire of June 1851 that had destroyed his first home had been something of a blessing. His new house had permanency; no fire would destroy it. It was a house that would become a home, with a wife and children filling the now-vacant rooms with laughter and joy.
The thought quickly turned his expression to a frown as Penelope Stevenson came to mind. Penelope, with her lovely face and dainty figure. She already treated his house with proprietary complacency, as did her mother and wealthy father, Henry Stevenson. Henry, known to his business cronies as Bunker, was beginning to press him, intimating in that brash, loud voice of his that his little girl could have her pick of eligible men.
It was true. There were still few marriageable ladies in San Francisco. The majority of women were whores, rich men’s mistresses, or tight-lipped matrons who sought continually to improve the society of the city with their endless subscription balls, charity dinners, and Shakespearean productions. Penelope was quite pretty, Delaney thought objectively, pretty when her little mouth did not pout or turn down sullenly at the corners. And for some reason, she wanted him. Why was he still hesitating to ask that fatal question? He shook his head, knowing well the answer. He didn’t love Penelope. She was eighteen years old, still childish in so many ways, capricious, vain, utterly spoiled by her doting father, and an outrageous flirt.
“Mr. Saxton, do you want me to take Brutus to the stable?”
Delaney turned at the sound of Lucas’ deep, rumbling voice.
; “Yes, please, Lucas. The old fellow needs a good rubdown.” He added ruefully, “And I’ve been a poor master, standing here like a fool, woolgathering.”
“Miss Stevenson and Mrs. Stevenson will be here soon, sir, for tea.”
Delaney snorted. “Tea, for God’s sake,” he muttered. “As far as I know, Mrs. Stevenson has not one whit of English blood in her fat veins.”
Lucas’ bland expression didn’t change. “Lin Chou has made cakes, but I don’t think they’re particularly English. Made with rice.”
Delaney laughed. “I suppose I had better see to improving my appearance. I’m certain Mrs. Stevenson won’t approve of male sweat.”
“Likely not,” said Lucas. “You were at the post office, sir?”
“Yes. I’ve a letter from my brother in New York.” He saw Lucas’ face drop and said with more optimism than he actually felt, “Not a letter today from your sister, Lucas. You know the mails as well as I do.”
“Aye, I know.” But Lucas was disappointed. His sister, Julia, lived in Baltimore. Lucas had written her dozens of letters, begging her to join him in San Francisco. She would agree in one letter, only to put him off in the next.
Delaney patted Brutus’ glossy neck and strode into his house. His booted steps sounded loud on the Chinese granite entryway, and the large chandelier overhead rattled with his movement. He climbed the beautiful carved oak staircase to the upper floor. His bedroom was enormous, the floor covered with several beautiful carpets from China. The huge bed was made of rosewood, as were the night table and armoire. Possessions, he thought, standing quietly for a moment in the middle of the room. At last I have all the possessions I could wish for, and still . . . A large high-backed sofa faced the marble fireplace, with two wing chairs flanking it. Delaney sank down into one of the chairs and pulled his brother’s letter from his waistcoat pocket.
“Dear Del,” he read, “I hope this letter finds you in your usual good health. Actually I will be glad if this letter finds you! Giana is doing splendidly, as are Leah and Nicolas. My life is never dull, I can promise you.” Delaney skimmed the next page of the letter that dealt with Alex’s business and suggestions to Delaney on investments he might consider. “Speaking of investments, brother, I’m enclosing a clipping from the London Times. Wasn’t Sir Alec FitzHugh one of the men who invested in your mine in Downieville? It appears he’s quite dead, has been, as you can see from the clipping, for nearly ten months now. Unfortunately, Giana and I hadn’t noticed it. In fact, she was wrapping a gift to send to her mother when she came across the paper, and wondered if you knew about his demise. I trust you were duly informed long ago by his lawyer.” Delaney laid down the letter and gazed into the empty grate of the fireplace. No, he hadn’t been informed by Paul Montgomery, Sir Alec’s solicitor in London. Every month he sent a bank draft to Montgomery, quite large amounts, for the mine had proved a true find, as Delaney had known it would. Why hadn’t Montgomery written to him? Perhaps he had, Delaney thought, remembering his comment to Lucas about the chancy mail system. Hadn’t Sir Alec had a daughter? Was Montgomery simply giving her the money now? Still, he should have notified me, Delaney thought, slowly rising from the chair. He had heard about his own solicitor’s death, which had occurred before Sir Alec’s. He didn’t like coincidences.
As he bathed and changed into a frilled white shirt and a black frock coat, he mentally composed the letter he would write to Paul Montgomery. He was somewhat distracted when he greeted Penelope and her mother some thirty minutes later in what Mrs. Stevenson persisted in calling his drawing room.
“My dear Mr. Saxton, how delightful to see you again! Penelope has missed you sorely, sir! How nice of you to invite us for tea.”
The woman was as loud and vulgar as her husband, but Delaney’s smile never faltered. “My pleasure, ma’am. Penelope, you are looking lovely, as usual.”