Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

morning, early, usually on Rincon Hill.”

“Ah,” Chauncey said, her skeletal strategies at last beginning to gain meat.

Delaney Saxton was at his blandest at the Newtons’ dinner that evening. There were only six guests, and he guessed that Mrs. Newton had invited Miss Jameson for Tony’s benefit. Delaney gave his full attention to Penelope, half-hearing her amiable chatter, but his thoughts were on Miss Elizabeth Jameson. He laughed softly, remembering Lucas’ words. “She’s interested in you, Del. That maid of hers, a braw girl named Mary, pumped me until I felt like an empty well.”

Lord, but she looked stunning, he thought, sipping at his wine. She was seated between Tony Dawson and Mrs. Newton, and he could hear her tinkling laughter down the table. His eyes fell to her breasts, full and milk white, rising above the double row of lace. He felt a surge of lust and determined, somewhat peeved by his reaction, to visit Marie after he left the Newtons’. Damn, he even liked her nose, small and straight, with nostrils, he thought fancifully, that were utterly aristocratic. And those full lips of hers.

“Del, didn’t you hear a word I said?”

He turned to the lovely girl at his side, a lazy glint in his eyes. “Forgive me, my dear,” he said smoothly. “Actually,” he added, raising his voice a bit, “I was considering the impact of Spinoza’s philosophy on the flora and fauna of San Francisco.”

“That has nothing to do with my new gown! Do you not like it, Del? Papa paid a fortune for it, I assure you!”

“But Spinoza, my dear . . .” Delaney protested.

“He’s one of those Eastern politicians, I suppose,” Penelope snapped.

“No,” Delaney said slowly, “he’s more in the nature of a vigilante, I should say.”

Delaney grinned to himself at the sound of a strangled gasp from Miss Jameson and a hoot of laughter from Horace Newton.

“Del, you’re impossible!” Horace said, wiping a spot of gravy from his chin.

“But life is so utterly boring without impossibilities.”

Chauncey waved her fork at him. “Really, Mr. Saxton, you should not tell such plumbers! Why, everyone knows that Joe Spinoza is a remarkable example of the spurious logic propounded by the Tories to keep the dreadful Corn Laws in place.”

“I fear, Miss Jameson,” Delaney said, his eyes sparkling as he leaned forward to see her clearly, “that you have confused Joe Spinoza with his brother, Otis. Otis, as everyone knows, lived most of his life in trees, watching the leaves change color.”

“Hold it a moment, Miss Jameson, Del,” Tony Dawson cried. “I want to get some paper and write this down!”

“Please do not consider that, sir,” Chauncey said kindly. “It would only embarrass Mr. Saxton when he discovers that Otis Spinoza, far from living in trees, spent the greater part of his life in Northern Africa studying the effects of the desert winds on the structure of sand dunes.”

“I am certain, Miss Jameson,” Penelope said sharply, “that Del is not mistaken! He is very educated, you know, and reads scores of books.”

“Surely not, sir!” Chauncey said in astonishment. “Not books! Miss Stevenson doubtless jests at your expense.”

“My daughter never jests, Miss Jameson,” Mrs. Stevenson said with stunning clarity.

“Forgive me, ma’am,” Chauncey said with a charming smile. “Of course she does not.”

“There are some things young ladies should never do,” Delaney remarked to the table at large.

“Like show gentlemen up for idiots, Del?” Tony Dawson asked.

“Especially that.”

“I suggest then that you don’t stand up right away, Del,” Mr. Newton said. “You may find that you’re a good inch shorter!”

Delaney grinned directly at Chauncey, and raised his wineglass. “A toast to young ladies who seem to have forgotten that Americans have kicked the English back across the Atlantic two times in our short history.”

“To Otis Spinoza, may he soon build a tree house!” Tony called out.

“To American gentlemen who cannot bear to be bested and must hark back to ancient history!”

“To the gentlemen,” Mrs. Agatha Newton said, rising with a swish of silk skirts, “who will now be left to their port!”

Agatha Newton swept out of the dining room, trying to contain her mirth. Sally Stevenson had informed her that Miss Jameson was an utter snob. Sally always was a fool, she thought. She admitted that she had invited Miss Jameson because of Tony. He’d acted such a love-smitten sot that she couldn’t bring herself to disappoint him. She met Miss Jameson’s eye and gave a very ladylike snort. “My dear,” she said, lightly touching Chauncey’s arm, “I feared letting it continue. You would doubtless have left all the gentlemen’s self-consequence in tatters!”