Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

The tender pork tasted like year-old bread to Byrony. She hadn’t looked at the guest list, so it was her own fault that she’d suddenly lost her voice when Brent Hammond strolled into the drawing room. I must act natural, she’d told herself over and over. He means nothing to me, nothing. I can’t act like a silly twit, mooning over a man who despises me. I am a married lady, and that’s the end to it.

Dumb w

ords that meant nothing. Thank God that very nice Tony Dawson was paying a lot of attention to Mrs. Newton. She was a very nice lady, but Byrony couldn’t think of anything to say. She heard the kind voice of Saint Morris, San Francisco’s finest doctor, according to Ira. She forced herself to turn to him. Like most of the gentlemen, he was young, not even thirty. He didn’t look like any doctor she’d ever seen in Boston, pampered and soft-handed. More like a lumberjack.

“I’d like to lay eyes on that baby of yours, Mrs. Butler,” Saint Morris said. “Ira hasn’t stopped raving about her. Calls her his little angel and all that nonsense new fathers say.”

“I take it you’re not a father, Dr. Morris.”

His dark brown eyes twinkled. “Been too busy, ma’am, to tell you the truth. At least that’s what I always tell myself. I meet a nice lady now and again, but I can’t seem to bring myself up to scratch. Call me Saint.”

“Only if you will call me Byrony. Were you truly christened Saint?”

“That’s a long story, Byrony. A long story indeed.” He gave her a big grin, revealing beautiful white teeth. “If I told you my real name, I expect you’d howl with laughter and call me a missionary.”

Byrony leaned toward him, enjoying herself. “Is it Horatio?” she whispered. “Or perhaps Milton or Percival?”

One of his big hands covered hers briefly, and he shook his head. “Ah, you should have known my dear mother. What a wit that woman had.”

“I see I’m getting nothing out of you, Saint.”

“Nope, not a thing. Delicious meal, but you’re not eating much, Byrony. If I believed in the efficacy of tonics, I’d prescribe one for you.”

“Ah,” she said, “so you didn’t come West in one of those covered wagons as a medicine man?”

“Not at all, more’s the pity. It would have been more pleasant if I had.”

“I suppose that’s another long, very interesting story you’re not about to tell me.”

“Delicious wine,” he said, giving her a lazy smile.

“Ira tells me you’re the best doctor in San Francisco.”

“True enough, I expect, but then again, there isn’t much competition. At least I do my best not to kill folk if I don’t know how to cure them.”

Saint watched her look from him to Brent Hammond. Brent was laughing at something Penelope was saying—polite man. Damnation, he thought, so the wind sits in that quarter, does it? Mind your own business, Saint. This Byrony’s a good girl and is simply enjoying looking at a handsome man. Look at Agatha staring at him. He’d just about dismissed it from his mind when he saw Brent’s eyes meet Byrony’s. Saint quickly gave his full attention to his dinner plate. He chewed thoughtfully on the pork, wondering about Brent Hammond. He knew her, it was in his eyes, and he was furious. Saint’s mother, bless her soul, had always accused him as a boy of being too fanciful. She was doubtless right. He was always seeing dragons when it was just fluffy clouds. Brent wasn’t about to poach on another man’s preserves, particularly if those preserves were another man’s wife. Still, he thought, life tended to be so bloody complicated. He felt an odd sort of protectiveness toward this young girl. He really couldn’t imagine her taking Ira as a lover, but then again, he couldn’t really imagine Ira being so foolish as to seduce a young lady. He said, to regain her attention, “Tell me, Byrony, who does the baby take after?”

She looked at him blankly, then seemed to draw herself together. “Michelle has the look of the Butlers, so Ira tells me, so I suppose, sir, that an angel is close enough to the truth. When I first met Ira, that was my thought about him. The angel Gabriel, to be exact.”

“Ah, but your particular angel is quite a businessman. If anyone could buy up stock in heaven, it’s your husband.”

“He is very competent, I understand,” Byrony said somewhat diffidently. She had little idea what Ira did. It was simply never discussed.

“Yes, indeed. You need to talk to Del Saxton or Sam Brannan if you want to know the scope of his abilities.”

“Sam Brannan frightens the dickens out of me. He’s so vocal.”

“That he is. He and Ira make a good team. Ira never raises his voice, and Sam rants and raves.”

“Ira is a very kind man,” Byrony said.

Why? Saint wanted to ask bluntly. Because he married you after he made you pregnant?

She added, “Doesn’t Ira bank with Delaney Saxton?”

“That’s right. Now, if you want your funny bone to collapse, it’s Del you want to talk to. I never can get in the last word with that man. Drives Chauncey crazy, but she gives him a good run for his money. You should hear them—Del with his lazy drawl and Chauncey with her starchy English accent.”

There was a brief lull in the conversation and Ira’s attention was caught by a sweet rippling laugh from his wife. He turned from Irene and looked down the table. Ah, Saint was amusing her, he thought, grateful. He’d sat Saint next to her on purpose. He knew Saint could get anybody to feel good. All in all, he thought, the dinner was going well. The food Naomi had prepared was delicious, the wine exceptional, most of the guests in good spirits. All except Irene. It simply hadn’t occurred to him that Byrony had never taken her rightful place at the table, not until this evening. He wouldn’t have noticed this evening had not Agatha Newton blinked in surprise at the seating. Damnation. Irene was hurt. The entire situation was so difficult for her, and he felt helpless much of the time, faced with two vastly different women who both placed demands on him. Having one of his minions go to San Diego to buy Byrony’s mare had been an inspiration of which he was justly proud. He knew she was riding all over San Francisco, many times alone, but he had no intention of stopping her. He had given her a small derringer and shown her how to fire it. She hadn’t blinked. He doubted she had any concept of what a bullet could do to a body. He winced slightly at loud laughter. Bunker Stevenson was off again.