Mr. Brewer gave a loud belly laugh. “Honest? Well, Miss Jameson, that’s indeed a relative term in San Francisco. Everything is freer out here, if you get my meaning. The biggest crooks are our politicians, but I guess that’s true most anywhere. Mr. Stevenson now, he’s rich, richer than Del as a matter of fact. He owns the bulk of the iron foundries, a lucrative business here, and one of the newspapers.”
Richer than Delaney Saxton. How can I ruin him if he weds an heiress?
“I just arrived in your beautiful city, as you know, Mr. Brewer, and you are my first acquaintance. Perhaps it would be possible for me to meet Mrs. Stevenson and—”
“Of course, Miss Jameson, of course!” he interrupted her jovially. “A young lady like yourself needs to meet other ladies of your own standing. Perhaps you would like me to call with you at the Stevensons’?”
Chauncey gave him her most royal look, as if to say: I call upon them?
Mr. Brewer had not gained his modest fortune by being stupid. Not only was Miss Jameson an extraordinarily lovely young lady, she was also quite rich. An eccentric, he thought, excusing her. Undoubtedly Mrs. Stevenson would trade her jewels to be called friend by this rich young Englishwoman.
“On the other hand,” he said, “perhaps I should instead tell Mrs. Stevenson of your arrival in our city. Then she could call on you . . . tomorrow? I am certain she would be pleased to present you with an invitation to her ball.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brewer,” Chauncey said in her most regal voice. She rose gracefully, extending her hand to him. “You have been most kind, sir. I trust I will see you again soon.”
Mary showed Mr. Brewer to the door and turned to Chauncey, her broad forehead lined with a frown. “You didn’t count on that, Miss Chauncey.”
Chauncey didn’t pretend to misunderstand her. “No,” she said slowly, “I didn’t. I am rich, Mary, but if Mr. Saxton marries this girl, the Stevensons’ wealth combined with Mr. Saxton’s will make things much more difficult.” She fell silent and walked over to the wide bow window to stare down at the bustling activity below on Market Street.
“What are you thinking, Miss Chauncey?”
“I’m not certain yet, Mary,” Chauncey said, not turning. “First I will make the acquaintance of Mrs. and Miss Stevenson. Perhaps it is just as well that Mr. Saxton is not here. I will have time to learn all about the lion before bearding him in his den.”
7
Delaney stared meditatively into the mirror as he carefully arranged his cravat. He satisfied himself with his first effort and turned away to shrug into his black frock coat, held by a silent Lucas.
“This evening will be a bloody bore,” Delaney said.
“Perhaps not,” Lucas suggested. “Don’t forget you’ve yet to lay eyes on that new English lady, an angel by all accounts.”
“Only by Dan Brewer’s account. According to Penelope, the girl’s hardly passable and a true English snob.”
Lucas grinned. “Well, you’ll be able to judge for yourself.” He handed Delaney a black velvet mask and a black cape.
“What utter nonsense,” he heard Delaney mutter under his breath. “I suppose I’ll be quite late. Bring the carriage back and don’t wait up for me, Luc. I’ll get home with somebody, I’m certain. And drive slowly, I need to recoup my strength and my patience before I can be pleasant to Mrs. Stevenson.”
Lucas did as he was instructed. Delaney leaned back against the stiff leather squabs and closed his eyes. There had been trouble at the Midnight Star, his mine in Downieville, and two men were dead as a result. Damned violence, he thought, still unable to accept it, as common as it had become in his life. And now he was on his way to play the gallant at a masked ball!
Miss Elizabeth Jameson, an Englishwoman. When he had arrived home two days before, Dan Brewer could speak of nothing else. The lady was wealthy, beautiful, and eccentric. Dan showed Delaney the finely cut diamonds in the vault. “She must be eccentric,” Dan declared. “Why else would she come here, for God’s sake?”
“Maybe she’s hanging out for a rich husband,” Delaney said.
“Ha! She wouldn’t have to walk a block to find one!” He glanced at his friend and partner slyly. “Did I tell you, Del, that it was you she wanted to see when she first came to the bank?”
“No,” Delaney said dryly, “you didn’t. I don’t know her from Adam . . . Eve, rather. I wonder why.”
“She said something about the captain of the Eastern Light singing your praises.”
An unmarried young lady was still something of an oddity in San Francisco, and Delaney was curious, he couldn’t deny it. He grimaced, remembering another bloody long English tea with Penelope and Mrs. Stevenson the afternoon before.
“Just imagine,” Mrs. Stevenson had marveled loudly, “a real English lady here, and she will be at our ball. We enjoyed te
a with her at the Oriental. Only the best suite for her.”
“You make her sound like an exotic bird,” Delaney said.
Penelope tittered. “Bird indeed, Delaney! Mama, does she not have a beak of a nose?”