Jo Goodman (25 page)

Samuel Brannan slowly withdrew his hand from Berkeley's. She had spoken only to him, her voice low and intent. Now the gathering was waiting for him to pass judgment on what he had heard. His thoughtful gaze told her she had given him something to think about, but it was his cocksure, brash personality that spoke to the crowd. "Miss Shaw is confident of our success," he boomed as he came to his feet. He raised his glass of seltzer, saluting Berkeley and the future of the Vigilance Committee.

Grey's light touch on her shoulders kept Berkeley in her seat as drinks were lifted and a raucous cheer went up. He bent toward her ear and whispered, "Can you do another?"

She nodded. Lorne Fitch sat down next, his wife beside him. Berkeley took most of the cues from her. She went carefully through the information Grey had provided for her earlier and gathered new insights along the way. She told him that he came from a large family in New England and eventually identified the city as Providence. She discovered he met his wife at a church social and was so taken by her that he stammered through most of their first conversation. Berkeley's recitation not only won over Lorne Fitch, but his wife as well, as they both were skillfully guided through fond memories of courtship and marriage, giving up secrets they believed they hadn't given up at all. The banker's question had nothing to do with the success of his business ventures. He wanted to know something far more personal.

"Tell me if you can, Miss Shaw, will my wife and I be blessed with another child?"

It was then that Berkeley dropped Mr. Fitch's palm and took up his wife's. She only had to lower her guard a bit to know the truth, and if she hadn't felt the life force in Marilyn Fitch's touch, she would have known by the look in the other woman's eyes. Berkeley hesitated, silently asking Mrs. Fitch's permission to give up this secret. The banker's wife offered her a blissful smile and nodded.

Berkeley's glance slid to Mr. Fitch. "When you ask about another blessing," she said, "I assume you mean one beyond the child your wife's carrying now."

Fitch leaped up from the table, toppling the chair behind him. He lifted his wife by the elbows and searched her face. The truth of Berkeley's words was plain on Marilyn's glowing skin and beatific smile. He'd been blind not to have seen it before. "I'll be damned," he said, grinning widely. "Will it be a boy this time, Miss Shaw?"

It was Grey who responded. "You only get one question," he said. "If you want to know the answer to that, then you can pay for the privilege or wait nine months."

The gathering laughed heartily as the banker was put to a blush. It was Marilyn Fitch who laid down two pieces of gold from her reticule and slid them toward Berkeley.

"A boy," Berkeley said confidently. She palmed the gold pieces and they disappeared down the front of her beaded bodice with credible sleight of hand.

It was the second time that evening she drew Grey Janeway's displeasure.

Anthony Bottoms was the final guest to be invited to Berkeley's table. It was nearing midnight when Grey pretended to relent his previous decree that Berkeley had finished performing for the evening. It had been Shawn's idea to let some time elapse between the first two readings and the last one. In the future there would always be the question of whether or not Berkeley was truly done for the night. Men who wanted her attention would be encouraged to stay at the tables longer. As long as the possibility existed that she might have time to take their hand, they would wait for her.

Berkeley wished now that Shawn had not gone to Grey with his idea or that Grey had not received it so well. She wished she had done more than smile wanly when Grey asked if she was still prepared to meet Mr. Bottoms. And when she touched the gambler's cool hand she wished she was wearing gloves.

Anthony Bottoms was a dandy, smooth and polished and without substance. Touching him was like licking icing from a cake, sweet at first, sickening when repeated. Berkeley's exhaustion left her defenseless.

The first contact raised the flesh on Berkeley's arm. The shiver that rippled through her was quite real, though not caused by an attraction to Anthony Bottoms as the onlookers thought. Berkeley's exotically colored eyes darkened at the centers. She drew her chair closer to the gambler, and when she bent forward her breasts swelled slightly against the beaded neckline of her gown. Her voice was quiet, just as it had been with the others, but it was intimate as well. She reached the husky pitch she had hit once with Sam Brannan and stayed there throughout the interview with Anthony Bottoms.

"You're a bit of a confidence man," Berkeley told him. "It's in your blood. Generations of gamblers. Is that right, Tony?"

The man who had always despised the shortening of his Christian name, swallowed hard and nodded.

"I thought so," she said. Her smile was a shade wicked. "You're good at it though. You watch others, make a note of their weaknesses, their habits under stress. Your father taught you how to do that. Would you say you exploit others, Tony? Take advantage of their weaknesses? No, that isn't how you describe what it is you do. It's all fair in your mind because others enter into the game with you willingly. They like your style. Some of them even envy it."

Berkeley raised her eyes to him and gave his palm an imperceptible squeeze. "I like your style," she said deeply. "Very much indeed."

Grey Janeway was certain he didn't like what he was hearing. He stepped closer to where Berkeley was sitting, not touching her yet but close enough that he knew she could feel his presence. He wasn't worried that Anthony Bottoms would take Berkeley's revelations too seriously, especially not when Grey's flinty stare was leveled on him, but Grey could not say the same for the men who were pressing in, intrigued by the intimate nature of her conversation with the gambler.

Anthony Bottoms fingered his mustache. It was an unconscious gesture he made when he was nervous, an emotional state that was largely unfamiliar to him. He felt the force of Grey's coldly remote eyes and the searing heat of Berkeley's. He was not a man accustomed to these extremes. At a gambling table he was used to making others uncomfortable. Charm and polish did not serve him well in these circumstances.

"Do you have a question for me, Tony?" Berkeley asked. One brow was lifted archly. "Would you like to know if you've sparked the interest of a certain woman?"

Anthony Bottoms felt beads of sweat forming just under his mustache.

"Perhaps you want to learn if the luck you've had this evening will continue the rest of the week." There was the suggestion in her voice that she was not speaking of his good fortune at the gaming tables. Berkeley crooked her finger at him and beckoned him closer. "Do you want everyone to know the suit and royal line of the card you have up your sleeve?" she whispered. Berkeley sat back, her smile secretive as Anthony Bottoms leaped to his feet.

"What did she tell you, Bottoms?" someone in the crowd asked.

"Out with it," another voice prompted. "Don't leave us in suspense."

"We're not bloody mind readers, you know," said a third. This roused a round of laughter and more insistence that Anthony share what Berkeley had whispered to him.

Anthony pulled at his mustache and forced a smile behind his hand. "She's says I'm going on a trip back East," he told them. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a receipt. "I only bought this today, gentlemen, and I haven't told a soul."

Berkeley shrugged off Grey's light touch and stood. She looped her arm through Anthony's and sidled close to him. Her saucy wink was meant for him alone, but the men crowding in saw it. "Why I do believe you're a knave, Tony Bottoms. And you've quite captured my black heart."

Anthony Bottoms thought of the jack of spades secreted in the cuff of his shirt. It was just as well he was planning to leave Frisco. This woman could ruin him, and she had let him know it in no uncertain terms. He had thanked her in the only way he could, by cementing her reputation as someone who knew more about the future than the rest of them. He envied Grey Janeway. The man was going to make a fortune with her.

"Step aside," Anthony told his friends smoothly. "I want a farewell dance with Miss Shaw." The sea of men parted, and he spun Berkeley away as the music swelled.

Grey let them go, but his eyes followed. He accepted the congratulations of his guests with little comment. Berkeley Shaw was a success, and it was because he had insisted she not back away from her opening night commitment. He wondered that he did not feel better about it.

"I'd like to retire," Berkeley told her dancing partner. After taking the floor with Anthony Bottoms, she found herself in the arms of a succession of men. She smiled gaily and laughed from time to time and tried not to think about the strangers who put their hands in hers or laid their open palms against her waist. She tried not to think about the fact that none of the men were Grey Janeway. "Would you mind escorting me to the stairs?"

Martin Reade bowed with correct formality. He was a tall man, slenderly built, and rather endearingly awkward. "I'd be happy to escort you safely to your room."

Berkeley didn't tell him that her safety was not at issue. None of the upstairs rooms and suites would be given out until tomorrow. Except for Mike and Grey she was quite alone on the floor. "Yes, thank you. I'd like that." The waves of dizziness were coming at her now with little respite between each crest. The curving staircase presented a more intimidating climb than any three of San Francisco's hills.

"You're very pale, Miss Shaw," Martin noted. "Should I find Grey?"

"No. No, he doesn't need to be disturbed. Please, just get me through this crush."

Martin took Berkeley's arm and began to wend both of them toward the stairs. Berkeley had to turn away three prospective dancing partners before Martin took over the duty by saying she was unavailable. It wasn't until they reached the foot of the wide staircase that Berkeley knew she couldn't make the ascent. She placed her hand flat in the middle of Martin Reade's chest to stop him.

"There are stairs at the back through the kitchen," she said, her voice hardly above a whisper. "Take me there."

He regarded the distance to be traveled skeptically. "I'll carry you up this way."

"No! Not in front of everyone. Please, help me get to the back stairs."

By keeping to the perimeter of the large hall, Martin and Berkeley were able to reach the kitchen with relative ease. Annie Jack's domain was still a hive of activity, even at this late hour. The cook and her helpers were putting the finishing touches on a four-tier cake.

"Out!" Annie yelled at them. She went immediately back to the work, proof that she expected to be obeyed.

Berkeley could feel Martin begin to retreat. "The stairs are that way." She pointed past the table of hovering helpers toward the pantry. "She doesn't bite."

"Annie
do
bite," the cook said. "She's fixin' to tear a leg off someone if they trespass in her kitchen."

Martin hesitated. It was Berkeley who pulled him along. Annie Jack actually raised her frosting knife at them and waggled it threateningly as they passed her table. A dollop of buttercream icing landed on the sleeve of Martin's jacket. Berkeley didn't wait for more to follow. She jerked him by the elbow and hustled him to the base of the stairs.

"Ignore her," Berkeley said, referring to Annie's bellowing. "She's not going to follow us, and I require your help."

Martin Reade rose to the occasion. He helped Berkeley steady herself by offering his arm so they could climb the narrow stairs together. It was a satisfactory arrangement for half the trip. Martin carried her the remainder.

"I think I should get Grey," he said as he lowered her feet to the floor in front of her door.

"No. There's really no need." She turned the handle. "If you'd just come inside a moment in the event I need you. Perhaps you would help me out of this gown?" Berkeley pulled on his hand, not giving him time to refuse her. "It won't take long. Here, this way. My bedroom's through here."

Martin stumbled after her, bewildered by her insistence and more than a little uneasy by the possible consequences. He looked over his shoulder several times, expecting to see Grey Janeway standing in the doorway with loaded pistols.

It wasn't Grey who eventually appeared but one of Sam Brannan's bodyguards. The man's broad shoulders filled the doorframe. He had a thick neck and legs as solid as pier pilings. His arms were crossed in front of his chest, but there was nothing in his posture to indicate patience. His squarely cut chin lifted aggressively as he indicated Martin should leave.

"Mr. Brannan sent me to look after the lady," he said. "You can go, Reade."

"I don't know, Hank. Grey should know Miss Shaw doesn't feel well."

"He knows." Hank Brock stepped aside. "Mr. Brannan told him. Go on, with you, Reade."

Martin made a stiff bow in Berkeley's direction and missed the frightened appeal in her eyes. He slipped past Brock and hurried out of the suite.

Hank Brock was handsome in a rough-hewn fashion. His face looked as if it had been carved with a thick chisel and a heavy hand. The strokes were broad and blunt. His hair was a shade darker than his eyes, and both were very nearly black.

Berkeley sat down slowly on the edge of her bed. "I'm going to be sick, Mr.—" She stopped. She couldn't remember his name.