Rivals (36 page)

He gazed at her upturned face, her dark eyes shiny with more tears. She was his weakness. He'd never been able to refuse her anything. And he couldn't now.

Kell caught the next train south by himself. Ann remained at her father's house in Kansas City with their son.

The bon ton of Kansas City filled Coates Opera House for the special performance of
Manon
. Between acts, they mingled to see and be seen, to talk and be talked about. Men in their black evening dress gathered in groups, striking negligent poses of elegant ease and puffing on their Havana cigars while they bragged about their latest business coups and groused about the failing banks, often taking malicious delight in the economic fall of a competitor. Women in their best silks and satins glided about, whispering behind their fans about this person and that and lavishing compliments on one another.

“Ann, how good to see you again.” A blond-haired woman glided up to her, dressed in a gown with lace and feather trimming that was so tightly corseted Ann wondered how she could breathe. Not that she cared. Helen Cummings was not a friend—not since she had stolen Ann's beau five years ago, then compounded the offense by marrying him.

“Helen, how are you?” She smiled politely and prayed that the woman was miserably unhappy.

“The same—deliriously happy.” She waved off the question with a sweep of her lace and feather fan. “I heard only yesterday that you were back for a visit. When did you arrive?”

“A week ago.”

“That explains it,” Helen declared. “Bobby and I were away.”

“Yes, I believe someone mentioned that you were in New York.”

“I don't need to ask how you're managing in the wilds of the territory. You look simply ravishing in that gown,” she remarked, somewhat grudgingly. “I was admiring it earlier and someone mentioned it was a Worth.”

Actually it was patterned after an illustration Ann had seen of a gown designed by Worth, but if Helen Cummings chose to think it was an original, Ann wasn't about to correct her. In truth, she knew that her gown of Parma violet damask was the most elegant gown of any worn that night—and distinctive, too. The corsage was pointed in front and trimmed all around the low neckline with white tulle and lace. A double garland of beads sewn on tulle with delicate crystal pendants curved from the bust to the right side of the waist, fastened there by clasps in the shape of St. Jacques shells. Similar garlands of beads and crystals were strung diagonally across the damask skirt above a flounce of embroidered lace. She wore her dark hair parted in the middle and drawn back in large waves to form a high coil, then adorned it with twists of beads to match the gown.

Helen Cummings was clearly envious of the result, and Ann intended to keep it that way. “It is beautiful, isn't it? My husband saw it and insisted that I have it, regardless of the cost,” she lied. Kell had cast only a cursory glance at the illustration and hadn't laid eyes on the finished gown yet. She'd gotten it from the dressmaker's only this afternoon—after much screaming and railing on her part.

“Speaking of your husband, where is your wealthy cattle baron?” the blonde inquired with a touch of snideness.

“He was called away—on some sort of urgent business.” Ann shrugged, pretending she didn't know what it was all about.

“You surely aren't here this evening by yourself?” Helen looked properly shocked.

“No.” Ann smiled smoothly. “Papa brought me.”

“Your father—it's been ages since I've seen the good doctor. Where is he? I must say hello.”

“He's—” Ann glanced toward the end of the room where the men were gathered in small clusters, a miasma of cigar smoke hanging over them. Her gaze immediately became riveted on a man dressed in a single-breasted waistcoat in black, a small white bow tie around his neck and studs marching down the front of his stiff shirt. He stood with one leg slightly cocked, his hair gleaming blackly in the flickering gaslight and his eyes—his blue eyes…

“My dear, you're gaping,” Helen chided. “Who is it that has so caught your eye?”

Ann recovered her surprise and astonishment at seeing Jackson Stuart, and broke into a smile. “Why, it's a dear friend,” she replied, stretching the truth a little. “I had no idea he was in the city.”

To her immense delight, Jackson Stuart noticed her and immediately made his way toward her. She could hardly wait to introduce her dashingly handsome acquaintance to Helen Cummings and watch the woman's envy. Then she experienced a moment's unease and shot an anxious look at the petite blonde, the daughter of one of Kansas City's oldest and most influential families—and the daughter-in-law of another. If Jackson Stuart showed so much as the slightest interest in her, Ann swore she'd never speak to him again.

But he took no notice of Helen as he halted before her. “Mrs. Morgan. I wondered if our paths would cross during my sojourn in Kansas City.” He bowed over her hand, holding her gaze with his warm look.

Helen Cummings stirred beside her, fluttering her fan to gain his attention. Ann knew the woman was just panting to be introduced to him, but she deliberately ignored her. “It seems Fortune was kind to both of us, Mr. Stuart.”

“Indeed.” He straightened and bestowed on her that faint smile that somehow managed to be so incredibly sensual. “How quickly time passes. It seems such a short time ago that I stayed with you and your husband at Morgan's Walk, but already a month has passed.” Then he paused, his glance flickering elsewhere. “Is your husband somewhere about? I don't remember seeing him.”

“No, Kell's away on business. It will probably be a week or more before he returns.”

“Really?” Jackson Stuart pretended he hadn't known that…just as he pretended he didn't know the cause for Morgan's absence. But his money belt bulged with his share of the proceeds from the sale of the stolen horses to a less than scrupulous trader in the Cherokee Strip. Thanks to the fleetness of his black stallion, he'd made it back to Tulsa in time to see Kell Morgan get off the train—alone. He couldn't help feeling a certain smugness that his plan was working so well. He vaguely regretted that it had been necessary to kill those two cowboys, but it had been the only way he could make sure Kell Morgan came back—and that he might consider it too dangerous to have his wife and son return, in the event the night raiders struck again, going for the cattle herd. He'd been certain Ann Morgan would agitate to remain in Kansas City—and he'd obviously been right.

“Helen, may I present Mr. Jackson Stuart, late of the Oklahoma Territory.” As Ann Morgan introduced the blonde woman with her, Jackson caught the slight edge in her voice and noticed she failed to identify the woman as a friend. “Mrs. Helen Cummings. We both attended the same finishing school.”

“Mrs. Cummings.” He acknowledged the introduction with a polite bow and nothing more.

“Mr. Stuart, it is such a pleasure to meet a friend of Ann's…especially such a handsome one,” the woman declared, looking at him through the long sweep of her top lashes.

Although it went against his nature, he didn't flirt back and, instead, merely smiled. Out of the corner of his eye, he observed the flicker of satisfaction that fleetingly crossed Ann's expression, and knew she approved of his aloofness.

But Helen Cummings wasn't to be put off. “What is it exactly that you do, Mr. Stuart?”

“I dabble in many things—blooded horses, cattle, land…” He let it trail off as if his interests were too many to mention.

“What brings you to Kansas City?”

He was spared from answering that as an older man walked up to them. “There you are, Ann. I've been looking for you.”

“Papa, I'm so glad you're here. There's someone I want you to meet.” She quickly hooked her arm with her father's and drew him forward.

Jackson Stuart looked with interest at the next obstacle he had to overcome as she introduced him to her father, Dr. Frank Compton. He was somewhere in his fifties, a little below average height. Gray silvered his dark hair at the temples and streaked the mustache and goatee he wore. His eyes were the same brown-black color as his daughter's and his features possessed a certain benign softness that befitted his profession. Although, at the moment, he appeared somewhat distracted, as if he had other things on his mind than meeting Jackson Stuart—despite the fact that Ann Morgan implied that he was a longtime personal acquaintance of her husband, an implication that couldn't have fitted better with his plans.

“Delighted to meet you, Mr. Stuart, but I'm afraid you'll have to excuse us,” he declared, politely but briskly.

“Papa, what's wrong?”

“I'm sorry, child, but I'm afraid we must leave.” He patted the hand that clutched at his arm. “It's Mrs. Stanhope's time. Their carriage is waiting out front for us.”

“But—must we leave now? The opera isn't over yet,” Ann protested pleadingly. “There is still the last act to come. There is such a beautiful aria in it, can't we stay? What will another hour matter?”

“A great deal to Mrs. Stanhope,” her father chided, an indulgent smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

“Must I go, too?” There was a decidedly petulant droop to her lower lip.

“You know it wouldn't be proper for you to stay. An unescorted lady. Unless, of course, Mrs. Cummings and her husband—”

Jackson Stuart broke in before the doctor could suggest that Ann join the Cummings party. “With your permission, Dr. Compton, I would be honored to serve as Mrs. Morgan's escort for the remainder of the evening.” He did his best to appear harmless and respectful under the doctor's sharply assessing look. “As a matter of fact, I would welcome the opportunity to repay the accommodations and hospitality your daughter's husband has extended to me in the past.”

“How very thoughtful of you to offer.” Ann fairly beamed at him, not taking her eyes from him as she said to her father, “I assure you, Papa, Mr. Stuart is a most honorable man. Were Kell here, I'm sure he would vouch for him as well.”

The good doctor hesitated, then smiled. “In that case, it would be churlish of me to refuse your offer, Mr. Stuart. I leave my daughter in your capable care.”

“I promise you won't regret it.”

“I'm sure I won't,” he replied and turned to his daughter. “Advise Mrs. Flanagan that I likely will be very late, but I hope to be home before morning.”

“I will.”

Well before the final act began, they took their seats in the private box, with Jackson Stuart occupying the one that had previously been taken by her father. Although she pretended not to notice, Ann knew they were the cynosure of all eyes. The whole house was atwitter, fans spreading as everyone speculated about the handsome stranger sitting next to her. She loved the attention. She'd gone too long without it. The last time she'd created such a stir among her friends had been when Kell had courted her—another stranger, but one with red hair…a rich cattle baron from the Indian Territory. Not a single one of her friends had thought she would marry so well—not after losing Robert Cummings to Helen Thurston. She'd proved them wrong. Now, with Jackson Stuart sitting beside her, they would all wonder what her life was like at Morgan's Walk. Not for anything would she tell them the truth. She preferred to have them think she commonly entertained the likes of Jackson Stuart.

As far as Jackson Stuart was concerned, the evening couldn't have turned out better if he had planned it. During the ride in the closed hansom cab to her father's residence, Ann inquired about the length of his intended stay in the city.

“That will depend on how much I find to keep me here,” he replied. “I had thought about traveling on to Chicago, or New York—or maybe south to a warmer clime, like New Orleans. And you? You will be staying—what? Another three weeks?”

“At least,” she confirmed.

“Then perhaps I will, too.” He smiled at her undisguised glow of pleasure at his answer.

“The Throckmortons are having a reception tomorrow afternoon. If you have no plans, perhaps you'd like to attend.”

“If it means having the pleasure of your company, I'd be delighted.”

The cab waited while he walked her to the door and chastely kissed her gloved hand. When he walked back to the hansom, he silently congratulated himself on his luck. She couldn't know that she was playing right into his hands.

“Where to now, mister?” the driver asked from his perch behind the cab.

Jackson Stuart looked up at a night sky so black that it seemed to possess a velvet shine. And scattered across it, like crushed and loosely strewn crystals, were the stars. The night was young and he was on a winning streak. Long ago, he'd learned to ride it for all it was worth.

“I've heard Madam Chambers has a blackjack table,” he said idly, then smiled at the driver. “Fourth and Wyandotte.” The address was squarely in the heart of the city's bon-ton block of sin. He climbed into the cab, wondering if Annie Chambers, the madam of the swank and exclusive brothel, would remember him.

24

D
uring
the next ten days, Jackson Stuart became her constant companion, escorting her everywhere and anywhere she went—shopping expeditions, skating parties, dinner receptions, and gala holiday balls. There were only two places he didn't take her—to church…and to bed. But the latter would come…in due time. Everything was progressing exactly the way he'd anticipated, including the familiar usage of their given names, begun almost a week ago—at her behest.

“I have never seen you look more beautiful than you do tonight, Ann,” he declared as he swirled her around the ballroom, holding her close, no longer concerned about keeping the proper distance between them. Neither was she, he noticed, aware that she frequently invited the brush of his lips against her temple and cheek when they danced.