Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

She laughed. “Oh no—Lord only knows how many mouths to feed he has now. I wouldn’t want the little mites to be orphans.” She paused a moment, studying his back. “Have you ever wanted a wife and family, Brent?”

He went rigid, but when he finally answered her, his voice was calm, even humorous. “Can you see me dandling little ones on my knee?” He turned to face her, raising his hand. “No, duchess, don’t answer that. If you would know the truth, there was a girl once. Soft, beautiful, sweet. But, of course, it was all a facade, an act. Now, are you quite satisfied?”

“Once, Brent? You mean years ago, or recently?”

“Recently,” he said curtly, then shrugged, not fooling her for a minute. “She is what she is, and briefly I was fool enough to think that—Well, enough. We all learn, don’t we, Maggie? Incidentally, you’re not having any trouble with James Cora, are you?”

Maggie kept her expression impassive. She knew the brief show of bitterness was but the tip of the iceberg. He’d have to be drunker than hell to tell her more. She accepted his change of topic, even as she searched her mind for a likely female candidate. “He’s a handsome devil,” she said mildly, “I’ll grant you that, but I don’t want him. A faithless bounder, and Belle knows it. Not that she’s a saint herself, of course.”

Brent studied his business partner silently for a moment. He admired her, he liked her even when she was being pushy. She was pretty, in an understated sort of way. She did not dress garishly. No one would take her for a whore or a madam. She looked quite prim, actually, with her black hair tucked neatly into a chignon. He wondered idly what her hair would look like out of the severe style. Her high-necked gown was dove gray, so modest in fact that it looked more suited to a schoolmarm.

“Stop staring at me like that, Brent,” Maggie said, frowning at him. “I know you don’t like what you see, but I don’t care.”

“Don’t be a fool, Maggie. You’re a very pretty woman, and that’s what I was thinking.”

“Well, that’s kind of you.” She rose to her feet and shook out her skirts. “Next thing I know, you’ll be wondering why I don’t want a parcel of brats on my knee.” She gave a parting shot. “Now, who could this infamous girl be, I wonder?”

“Maggie.”

“I’ll want a game of high-stakes poker with you tonight, Brent. Don’t lose all your money until I’ve had a chance at you.”

Why, he wondered, thrusting his fingers through his hair, had he been such a fool as to mention Byrony? Why the hell hadn’t he forgotten her? By now she’d given birth to her child. He felt something stir inside him, and despised himself. He’d made it a point to discover that Ira Butler dutifully traveled nearly every week to Sacramento. And gossip among the upper crust of San Francisco society was, quite honestly, that his bride was pregnant before the ring was on her finger. But she’d left town so as not to embarrass anyone. It was a smart move, and probably Ira’s idea, damn the man. He heard some shouting in the street and walked to the window that overlooked Montgomery. Below were two drunken men, miners from the look of them, fighting with great gusto. He grinned. He’d like to join them.

When would she return to San Francisco?

EIGHT

San Francisco, 1853

“Don’t touch her.”

Byrony straightened like a shot over Michelle’s crib at the sound of Irene’s furious voice behind her. The baby, who until this point had been looking blurrily up at her, began to cry.

“Now look what you’ve done. Ah, my poor little sweetheart. Come to Mama, love.”

Byrony watched in surprise as Irene leaned over the child and gently lifted her to her shoulder.

“I didn’t do anything,” Byrony said after the baby quieted. “Indeed, Irene, it was your voice that upset her.”

For an instant Byrony froze at the fury she saw in Irene’s dark eyes; then it was gone, and she wondered if she’d imagined it. But she hadn’t imagined Irene’s anger at her attention to the baby.

“Forgive me, Byrony,” Irene said, even as she clutched Michelle more closely to her breast. “I was upset about something, and took it out on you. So silly of me, really. Hush, my angel.”

“Of course,” Byrony said, and left the nursery. She walked to her bedroom and gently closed the door. She looked toward the locked door that adjoined her room to Ira’s. My husband, she thought, and laughed, a bitter sound.

They’d been in San Francisco for over two weeks now. Blessed cool weather was Byrony’s first thought. She loved the fog, the way it billowed like a fluffy cloud over the bay. Occasionally it blanketed the city, even coming over Rincon Hill. She shook away her thoughts. The weather was stark, cool and clear today, as stark as Irene’s vicious words. I’ve got to speak to Ira. He’s got to do something about Irene. And, God, I can no longer remain locked away.

Byrony waited patiently until she heard Ira moving about in his room. Patience. That was something she’d surely learned in the past months. Patience unto boredom. For the first time, she raised her hand to knock on the adjoining door, then lowered it. She’d never been invited into his room, just seen it briefly when he had shown her over his house. A stark, masculine room. She continued to wait until she heard him leave and walk downstairs. She straightened her hair, shook out her skirts, and made her way to his study. Firmly she tapped on the closed door.

“Byrony, my dear, come in.” Ira rose to greet her. “How was your day?” She felt his eyes searching her face. What was he thinking, she wondered, when he looked at her?

“I must speak with you, Ira,” she said.

“Certainly. Come and sit down.”

She did as she was bid, folding her hands in her lap.

“Now, what is the matter, my dear?”