Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

“Who are these Californios?”

“For the most part, they are either Spanish or Mexican and have wielded great power in the near past. They are the old aristocracy of California, feudal landlords, more or less. Their land-grant ranchos many times exceed two hundred thousand acres. Then we Yanquis poured in.” Delaney paused a moment, his jaw hardening and his eyes narrowing in anger. “It amazes me that we have such contempt for peoples with different languages, different cultures. Most the men I know call them ‘greasers.’ The Chinese are called ‘diggers.’ Pleasant, isn’t it?”

Chauncey frowned up at his set profile. “No, not particularly, but to be honest, Del, I’ve never thought about it. I know you saved Lin from a dreadful fate, but these Californios. You seem to take their problems personally.”

“I suppose I do. They’re a proud, easygoing people, and a man’s word is considered his bond. They live and die by their honor, and thus they will not survive. One family I know quite well. Don Luis Varga saved my life once back in fifty. Unfortunately, when I was out of California in fifty-one, his family lost some of their lands to gold seekers, their cattle to rustlers, and the rest to banks. They were forced to take residence in Monterey. Don Luis was brutally murdered when he tried to protect his cattle from the bandits. As I told you, they are a proud breed of people, and they believe in honor above all else. I suppose you think I’ve painted a perfect people with no flaws at all.” He smiled ruefully. “Actually, they love to gamble and are wretched at it. Those Californios who have found gold have lost it just as quickly. In many ways, they’re simple as children, with no clear concept of high interest rates or rampant inflation or . . . Still, what’s happening to them makes me mad as hell, and there’s little I can do about it.”

“I should like to meet the Varga family. I’ve never gambled, but I’m probably wretched at it too.”

“Perhaps you shall, one day.”

How very honorable he himself sounded, she thought, her softened mouth tightening into a thin line as she remembered, She said flippantly, baiting him, “It seems to me that you could do something for them. After all, aren’t you very rich?”

Delaney turned his head to stare at her thoughtfully. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I am rich, but not rich enough. And there’s a matter of power. One man can’t wield enough power to turn the tide of what is happening, and corruption is rife, both in the cities and in the state government.” He smiled wryly. “Did I tell you that a group of our most civic-minded men in the Pacific Club want me to run for the Senate?”

“You are considered so honest, then?”

“Isn’t that rather an odd question from a loving wife?”

“Come, Del, haven’t you ever . . . cheated anyone to gain an advantage?”

She was watching his face closely, and drew back at the sudden fury in his eyes. Then his thick lashes covered his expression and he said curtly, “No.”

“Not even during your travels? To England for instance? After all, it’s a great distance away. It seems to me that you could have promised anything and there wouldn’t be any retribution if you didn’t make good.”

He studied her silently. She spoke lightly, as if in idle speculation, but he felt tenseness radiating from her. “Would you care to explain, Chauncey?” he asked quietly.

She shrugged elaborately and turned her attention to the willow trees whose dipping branches nearly touched the water at the edge of the river some fifty yards away. “I was just making conversation. Theoretical questions, that’s all.”

She was lying, of that he was certain. But why the questions about his honesty? A woman wouldn’t marry a man she didn’t believe in and trust, would she? “Perhaps those are the theoretical questions you have about your aunt and uncle. What did you say their name was?”

“Penworthy,” she said without thinking.

She sucked in her breath, realizing the information she had just given him. Fool, she screamed at herself silently.

But he seemed to have lost interest. She breathed a sigh of relief. Still, she sought to distract him. “I noticed a scar on your shoulder. How did you get it?”

She is so transparent, he thought, turning again to face her. “I fought a duel with a rather gruesome individual named Baron Jones. Yes, I can see from the expression on your face that you remember him.”

“A duel,” she repeated blankly. “That is . . . barbaric!”

“Indeed,” he said dryly. “Unfortunately, out here it is sometimes unavoidable.”

“Did you try to kill him?”

“No, but I probably should have. He still occasionally presents me with . . . problems.”

“Why the duel?”

To her surprise, he flushed.

“You didn’t like the cut of his coat?” she asked.

“Actually,” he said, goaded, “he tried to force himself upon Marie, my mistress. That’s why I got you out of his sight as quickly as possible.”

“How distressing for both of you,” she managed, both surprised and furious at herself for the bolt of jealousy that shot through her. He grinned widely at her and she realized that she’d given him the upper hand.

“A man doesn’t like other men to poach on his preserves.”