The Enchantment (2 page)

The businessmen. And tonight he'd meant to be one of them.

Ordinarily the thought would have brought a self-deprecating smile to his lips. The thought of him—

him—fitting in with the hardheads behind that door was worth a good belly laugh.

Ordinarily.

He clenched his fists in familiar frustration. If only he could be like other people; if only he could care more about concrete, day-to-day things, and less about castles in the air and people who might have been.

After all the work, all the dreaming, all the planning, he'd botched it. The door stood between him and every dream he'd ever had.

What now? he wondered. Knock again or simply walk away? It wasn't in his nature to give up; neither was it easy for him to fight publicly for what he wanted. He'd lived too long alone, friendless, to be comfortable with strangers. Especially with the type of people behind that door.

But even as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer. They wouldn't have believed him anyway— wouldn't have believed in him. He'd simply have to find another way to get funding for his project. And find it he would, even if he had to wait a lifetime.

Turning, he started toward the elevator. On his second step, a familiar fire wrenched his left ankle.

White-

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hot pain shot into his shin. He pivoted back toward the door, searching for support. His palm smacked against the carved mahogany of the front door and held him upright.

With one hand bolted to the door, he bent over. The top of his head brushed the wood. Shaking, he wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead.

After so many years of living with the pain, he knew how to combat it. He focused his every thought on the next breath, and the next, until gradually his breathing normalized. The pain receded, cooled, slinking back into the damaged bone in which it lived.

Suddenly the door opened and he fell face-first through the opening and landed on the wet white carpet with a thud.

"Aah!" From somewhere above his head, he heard a woman's shriek. A bell-like burgundy velvet skirt rushed toward him. The soft fabric breezed across his cheeks, then stilled. He caught a glimpse of white lace and black shoes before the skirt settled primly into

place.

Rolling onto his back, he found himself staring up into a woman's upside-down face. Silver-blond wisps of hair curled across the pale, perfect skin. Blue eyes peered questioningly into his own. Midnight blue, he thought dreamily, the color of advancing night.

She bent closer toward him. "Are you all right, Dr. Digby?" Her mellifluous voice flowed through him like warmed cognac. "I'm sorry I expelled you earlier; you see, I thought—oh, well, that's neither here nor there. The fact is, you're . . . welcome. I sent Mr. Jameson to announce your arrival to the men in the parlor."

Welcome . . . here! He grinned.

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She immediately popped upright and backed away from him.

He rolled onto his stomach. Squishing his palm deeper into the rug, he pushed to his knees, then to his feet.

The first thing he noticed was the woman; she was staring at him in obvious distress. As if he'd already done something wrong. Her exquisitely beautiful face was screwed into the most austere pinch he'd ever seen. Her gaze plunged to the mud splotches on the rug and riveted there, narrowing.

He lurched sideways to get off the carpet. When he landed, pain jabbed into his bad ankle. He gritted his teeth and ignored it.

In less than a heartbeat he was able to dredge up a smile. Swiping the borrowed top hat off his head, he executed an awkward, but much practiced bow. "Lar-ence Digby, at your service, ma'am."

Her intense blue eyes swept his attire from head to foot in a single glance. Disapproval tightened the corners of her mouth. "At my service, Dr. Digby? How comforting. I'll advise my housekeeper that you're here—finally. She can take your . . . cloak and direct you to the parlor. You may begin your presentation in one quarter hour. Will that be sufficient time?"

"Y-Yes."

Emma spun on her heel and headed for the kitchen. Her heels clicked in rapid-fire succession as she marched away from the disaster in her foyer. Dr. Digby indeed. One eyebrow cocked upward derisively.

This fund-raiser was in serious trouble. No one would give hard-earned money to an idiot like Digby—especially not with the problems on Wall Street. People funded scientists who inspired confidence. Not laughter.

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"Uh, ma'am?"

The sound of Digby's voice brought her to a reluctant halt. Without bothering to turn around, she answered him. "Yes, Dr. Digby?"

"I didn't catch your name."

"I'm Emmaline Hatter—your hostess."

"Oh . . . nice to meet you. I suppose I should have guessed," he said with a good-natured laugh.

"Yes. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go fetch Mrs. Sanducci."

"Uh, Miss Hatter . . . ?"

She pretended she hadn't heard and kept marching.

Precisely fifteen minutes later, Larence stood in the center of Miss Hatter's parlor, staring at the semicircle of important men who were staring back at him. Pungent swirls of tobacco smoke flitted around the room like ghostly apparitions, darting in and out of Larence's nostrils until his throat felt raw and dry. He swallowed hard, wishing he'd thought to ask for a glass of water. Sweat itched along his hairline. He rubbed his damp palms on the nubby wool of his trousers.

Placing his drawings on the wooden easel Michael had brought, Larence smoothed the long, white pieces of paper. Dampness seeped from his palms into the crisp sheets, making a yellowish smudge. Someone in the audience cleared his throat. The sound seemed to grab Larence by the neck and twist. Nervously he smoothed the paper again, although there wasn't a ripple to mar the artwork he'd slaved over.

Emmaline Hatter appeared at his side in a swirl of burgundy velvet. Rhinestones beaded her skirt and glittered in the pale glow of gaslight. She stood silently, her bare shoulders perfectly erect, her chin tilted slightly

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upward. Her classically beautiful face was expressionless, and yet Larence had the distinct impression that she was worried about something.

She clapped loudly, and the conversation in the room abruptly died. "Gentlemen, I thank you for attending this fund-raising dinner party. You all know Michael Jameson, president of Columbia College.

..."

There it was again, Larence thought dreamily, that wonderful voice. He closed his eyes, listening to its soft, singsong sensuosity.

Suddenly she touched him. Larence's eyes flew open. He stared disbelievingly at the hand resting on his forearm. Her fingers looked pale against the linty, damp black wool of his sleeve. Pale and unfamiliar.

Women so rarely touched him. . . .

"And now I'd like you to meet Dr. Digby, Columbia's famous history professor, who's going to tell us his startling new discovery. As we all know, everything new takes money, and education is no exception.

The college needs our donations to fund an expedition to prove Dr. Digby's theory, so please, be generous."

She was gone in a heartbeat. Taking a seat center stage, she plaited her pale fingers in her lap, drew her elegantly shod feet together, stiffened her spine, and waited.

He could feel her gaze on him. Cold. Blue. Demanding.

Suddenly he knew why she'd touched him. For some reason, it was important to her that he succeed tonight. The touch had been her public blessing. But why?

She cleared her throat.

Larence jumped at the sound. It was time. Fifteen years of research came down to this moment. This op-THE ENCHANTMENT 13

portunity. He wet his paper-dry lips. Please, God, don't

let me fail. . . .

He took a slim wooden pointer from his frayed canvas satchel, gripping it tightly enough to mask the trembling of his fingers. The audience shifted in their seats. A few hearty souls even leaned forward slightly. In the corner, Michael nodded imperceptibly. You can do it, he mouthed.

Larence took a deep breath, offered Michael a nervous smile, then turned for his notes. At the movement, another pain gripped his ankle. He stumbled sideways. His fist shot out for something to grab on to and connected hard with the easel. The tablet flew off the wooden stand, fluttered against itself, and fell to the floor. He clutched the thin metal frame with shaking fingers and steadied himself.

Larence's stomach knotted with shame. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the agony to abate before turning back to the audience with a forced smile. "Sorry," he mumbled.

Clumsily he retrieved his work and rearranged it. Taking another deep breath, he said another silent prayer, smoothed his borrowed black suit coat, and launched into his presentation. "In Roman times—"

A single, deflated sigh swept the audience. The words logjammed in Larence's throat. They didn't want to hear about ancient Rome.

Yet, he told himself resolutely. They didn't want to hear about it yet. Once he got into the wondrous tale of the seven lost cities founded by exiled Roman priests, they'd be enthralled. They had to be.

He wet his lips again. He'd planned this, practiced it a hundred times. He could do it. He could captivate 14

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and intrigue them with the legend that had fueled his dreams since boyhood.

He took a deep breath, focused his attention on the map of ancient Rome he'd drawn so carefully, and started over.

By the time Dr. Dimwit reached the sixteenth century, Emmaline had lost all feeling in her lower body.

She shifted uncomfortably on the hard, wood-slatted chair she'd rented for the evening, and immediately wished she hadn't. A thousand fire-hot tingles pinched her fanny and skittered in painful streaks down her shins. She took a deep breath, trying—futilely—to squash her irritation. It took all her self-control not to leap up and grab Digby's pointer from him. Her groggy gaze shot to the mantel clock. Eleven o'clock.

The idiot had been talking for three solid hours. Three.

She refused to look at him, knowing that if she did, she wouldn't be able to keep the contempt from her eyes. And that, she knew, would be a big mistake. At all costs, the investors had to think she believed in Digby's stupid quest. To avoid looking at him, she pinned her glare on the clock. The slow, methodical march of the timepiece's metallic hands punctuated Digby's monotone ramblings. That and the quiet hush of heavy breathing were the only sounds in the parlor.

Rain no longer thumped across the apartment's pitched rooftop or slashed at the small windowpane in 15

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silver streaks. The howling wind had dwindled to a late night sigh. Even nature, it seemed, had fallen asleep. Emma stifled a heartfelt groan. Little wonder. She shot a surreptitious glance at Digby. The dimwit was wide-awake, and talking with a degree of animation normally reserved for children on Christmas morn. His attention, as usual, was fastened on his drawings. Not once in the past three hours had he actually looked at his audience. Oh, no. He was too busy staring at his multicolored chicken scratches to care about his listeners. Emma was half-blind from squinting at the ridiculous drawings.

Still, blind or not, she should at least look interested. It was the only hope she had of fulfilling her promise to Michael without having to dig into her own bank account. She had to find something—anything—in Dig-by's speech that would inspire the men in this room to fund the doctor's expedition, and unfortunately she could only do that by listening to him.

Straightening, she forced herself to concentrate on what he was saying.

"On the seventh day of March, in the year of our Lord 1539, Esteban, a Moorish slave, and Fray Marcos de Niza, a Franciscan friar, left Mexico City. Their quest: to find the legendary lost cities of Cibola ..." The sixteenth century . . .

With sudden, certain clarity, she knew it was useless. She'd never get the men to invest in the professor's harebrained scheme. The party was a disaster; Digby was a joke. Nothing, not even her considerable clout on Wall Street, would make the professor look like a good investment.

Strangely, the realization brought relief. Admitting defeat made it easier to accept. The starch slipped out r

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of her spine as she settled sleepily into the rented chair. Her fingers unfurled. There was no point in pretending to listen to him any longer. She might as well relax.

Digby's words droned on. And on. And on.

The monotonous cadence of his voice coaxed the tension from Emma's body. Her eyelids fell to half-mast. Lazily she studied him through the spidery veil of her lashes. He was spouting off about something. Probably broken bits of pottery, or something equally vital to the world order. She didn't bother listening. The last time she'd paid attention, he'd spent half an hour on a bunch of muddleheaded priests who founded a few secret cities. Men who'd taken vows of poverty definitely didn't interest Emma.

Then, suddenly, he looked at her.

Emma lurched awake. Her heart skipped a beat.

A believer's passion shone from his bottle green eyes like the full-blown rays of a midsummer sun, scorching in its intensity. There was no mistaking it, even if one hadn't seen that look before. And Emmaline had. She'd seen it in her father's eyes a thousand times—every time he'd talked about one of his schemes to get rich quick.

Digby immediately turned back to his drawings. Emmaline swallowed hard, shaken by the sudden remembrance. She'd spent years trying to forget her father's farfetched dreams, and their cost to his family.

And now, unexpectedly, here they were again. Questions. What ifs. What if her father had been given the chance Digby was botching so badly? What if the city's richest men had spent a night listening to her father's dreams? Would he be alive now?

Emma forced the questions from her mind, just as she had done a thousand times before, by sheer force 18

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of will. Her father, and his useless, empty dreams, were gone, buried in a pauper's grave in Potter's Field.