Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

Ira rose, his brow knit as he looked down at his sister. “You rest, Irene. Perhaps you will feel more the thing by dinner. Byrony, my dear, I will go along to my cabin now.”

She walked him to the door and said, “Would it be all right if I explored, Ira?”

“Certainly. You are a married lady now, Byrony. You do just as you please.”

She felt a stab of guilt leaving Irene, but her sister-in-law, seeing her excitement, waved her away.

“No need to worry, Miz Butler,” Eileen said. “I’ll stay with the mistress.”

Byrony spent two glorious hours exploring the Scarlet Queen. She clung to the rail until the steamboat left the wharf and turned north. She waved to the masses of people on the dock, not caring that she knew none of them. They were never out of sight of land. Desolate land, from what Byrony could tell, and so many islands dotting the bay. She wished she could speak to someone who could tell her where they were going and what she was seeing. Several men looked hungrily at her, but she ignored them. In her short time in San Francisco, every man she’d seen had looked hungrily at her.

“So few ladies, my dear,” Ira had said after several men had simply stopped in their tracks and stared at her. “And, of course, you are beautiful.”

“But, Ira, I’ve seen many ladies.”

“Not exactly ladies, Byrony. The largest part of the female population are—well, not ladies.”

“Whores?”

“Yes,” he’d said, looking startled.

She didn’t enlighten him. How could she tell him that it was but one of the insults her father had hurled at her head?

Byrony sneaked a look into a small salon that was obviously for men only. There was a thick cloud of smoke, occasional spurts of laughter, and, of course, gambling.

She returned to the cabin to find Irene still abed, Eileen seated in a chair beside her mistress. Eileen placed her finger over her lips.

“She’s asleep, poor lady. I’ll see that she gets some soup later when she awakens. Come, Miz Byrony, I’ll help you dress, but quiet now.”

She met Ira outside her cabin, and his soft whistle of admiration made her feel wonderful.

“Lovely, my dear, simply lovely.” He looked at the closed cabin door, a question in his eyes.

“Irene is sleeping. Eileen thinks it best.”

“Then come along.” Ira offered her his elegant black-coated arm.

“We won’t be sitting with the captain this evening. There are several business friends of mine who requested a separate table. You will, I believe, enjoy them, my dear.”

This proved to be the case. There was a Mr. Lacy, who owned a foundry, a Mr. Dancy, who was an investor from New York, and a Mr. Cornfield, who owned one of the newspapers. She was aware that Ira preened under their attention to her. I do look nice, she thought, straightening her shoulders and sending a smile to the balding Ezra Lacy.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “please continue your conversation. I am content to listen and learn.”

The dining salon was brilliantly lit; the tables were covered with white linen, the cutlery was silver, the plates fine china. She took a tentative taste of the broiled scallops and found them delicious. She heard a man laugh behind her and turned slightly in her chair toward the captain’s table.

She nearly dropped her wineglass. Staring at her, his eyes narrowed and so dark they appeared nearly black, was the gambler. She felt cold and hot at the same time. She shook her head, closed her eyes a moment. It was he, she was certain. She met his gaze again, and smiled. He raised his hand in salute.

Dear God, she thought. She believed her imagination had probably enhanced his male beauty, but it wasn’t so. He was wearing black, a pearl-gray vest over his white shirt. His hair glistened as black as his coat beneath the chandelier, and he sported a thick black mustache.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Butler?”

She got hold of herself and said easily, “Of course, Mr. Lacy. May I ask, sir, who is that gentleman there, at the captain’s table?”

“Ah, that is Brent Hammond. He’s a new businessman in San Francisco. He’s opening a saloon next week, the Wild Star.”

“I see,” she said. In the same city. Of course she knew he lived in San Francisco. It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t he look like a troll? Why did he have to stare at her with those dangerous, beautiful eyes?

She forced her attention back to her table. She heard Mr. Lacy mention something about the “duchess” and her house in conjunction with Hammond. His wife? His mistress? What was this house they were talking about?