“What is this, Tony?” Delaney asked. “I thought your finances were in good order. Surely you don’t need to chase the heiress.”
Tony sputtered his beer, and his handsome face darkened with sudden anger. “She’s a lady, Del! I wouldn’t care if she didn’t have a bloody dime!”
“No, of course you wouldn’t,” Delaney said. “Maguire’s Opera House, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Marie has a yen to see some Shakespeare, I believ
e. I just might see you there tonight.”
“Lord, Del,” Dan said, sputtering over his beer. “I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes if Old Bunker Stevenson sees you there, and with your mistress!”
Ah, Delaney thought, smiling mischievously at his friends. But what will Miss Jameson think?
Chauncey was amused at the dagger glances the Stevensons sent Delaney throughout the rather impressive rendition of The Tempest. His mistress was lovely, she thought objectively. Chauncey met Delaney Saxton’s limpid gaze but once, and gave him a broad wink. She was delighted when his eyes darkened. She chose to believe that his ire was due to the fact that he had expected her to show some jealousy, or at least some ladylike disapproval.
Tony Dawson scribbled down his thoughts during the performance for a short reveiw in the Alta for the next day.
“The theater is most impressive, sir,” Chauncey said when the play was over and Tony was escorting her out of the building.
“I got the impression,” Tony said, eyeing her closely, “that you were more interested in the people in the audience than the performers.”
“Did you now?” she inquired, giving him an impish smile. “I must admit to being somewhat surprised that gentlemen flaunt their mistresses so openly. It is not done in London. At least I don’t think it is.”
“You really shouldn’t know about such things,” Tony muttered.
“Or speak of them?” Chauncey said lightly. “Innocent, utterly guileless young ladies, you mean? Well-bred and brought up to be blind and deaf as well as dumb?” She had the unwanted insight that Delaney Saxton would have been delighted to tease and jest about the ways of men and mistresses. “Forgive me, Tony,” she said, wanting to exorcise any positive thoughts about Saxton. “I shall behave now, I promise you.”
“Would you like to have a late supper at the Poodle Dog?”
“I have heard all about the fourth floor, sir,” she said in a wistful voice. “I don’t suppose I shall get to see it?”
“Miss Jameson!”
“There are special private rooms, are there not? And all sorts of gawdy furnishings? And a complicated system of buzzers to call for very discreet waiters? Oh dear, I’ve done it again. Behold, Tony, a studiously polite, quite deaf-and-dumb young lady.”
“Miss Jameson, Elizabeth . . .” he began, his voice so soft Chauncey had the unlikely thought that he could cut butter with it. He was very handsome, she couldn’t deny it, with his dark thick hair and thick side whiskers. She quickly looked away from him. He was going to propose and she didn’t want to hurt him. She heard him sigh deeply, and began to speak of one of his articles about the new amusement resort called Russ Gardens that would be opening soon near the Mission Dolores.
“Russ is a German immigrant, isn’t he, Tony?”
“Yes,” Tony said, sighing again. “Christian Russ is his name. It’s going to be a family resort with band concerts and dining tables under the trees and the like.”
“I haven’t visited the racetrack there yet,” Chauncey said.
“You enjoy horses, Miss Jameson?”
“I love to ride, Tony. I have bought the sweetest Arabian mare. Her name is Yvette.” And tomorrow morning Yvette and I are going to take a gallop very early on Rincon Hill.
10
Chauncey breathed in the crisp early-morning air and reined in Yvette at Rincon Point. The view was breathtaking, with not a bit of fog blanketing the city. “Easy, girl,” she said, stroking the mare’s beautiful neck. “That, Yvette,” she said, “is Russian Hill over there. And just look at all the houses! I should have Mary along. Doubtless she would know the names and addresses of everyone who lives there.”
Her gaze clouded over. She knew it wasn’t excessively intelligent of her to ride alone, but her derringer was snug in the pocket of her green velvet riding skirt. She turned in the saddle to look toward Delaney Saxton’s house on the southern slope of the hill. She had seen him earlier talking to Lucas, at least she assumed it was Lucas, for he sported a black eyepatch that made him look utterly ferocious.
Where are you, Mr. Saxton? Damn you! She had, despite her plan, given him two more days after visiting Maguire’s Opera House with Tony Dawson, but he had done absolutely nothing. “Now, sir,” she whispered to the cool breeze that teased her hair, “it is out of your hands.” I am right to do what I’m planning. I will not be a coward.
She saw him. He was riding a thoroughbred palomino stallion whose golden mane shone in the brilliant early-morning sunlight. He rides very gracefully, she thought objectively, giving the devil his due. Soon he will see me, and we will show how gallant he is to a damsel in distress.