Tomorrow's Dreams (21 page)

Seth wasn't deaf to the pleading note in Penelope's voice, nor did he miss the way her breath had caught when he'd mentioned Adele. For a moment he considered asking her about her alliance with the company, then changed his mind. He didn't want to ruin their tentative, newfound intimacy by poking into what appeared to be a very sore subject. He also didn't want to start an argument by pointing out that, as the owner of the variety hall, he could easily order Adele to postpone the premiere, thus freeing her for the circus next Saturday. And since that didn't leave anything left to be said on the matter of the circus, he had no choice but to change the subject.

“Speaking of elephants and the company, I noticed the rather buxom manner in which the artist portrayed you on the playbill.”

“Isn't it awful?” she exclaimed, quickly seizing upon the new topic. “Adele decided that it was too expensive to have the printer make a plate of a drawing of me, so she had him print the posters with one he had left over from a previous job. I believe the lady portrayed is Catarina Contortina, a contortionist whose claim to fame is playing “Dixie” on the harmonica with her feet.”

Seth shouted with laughter at that. “Catarina Contortina! I'll bet that's her real name!” He guffawed again. “Speaking of names, how did you come up with Lorelei Leroux?”

Penelope looked at him hopefully. “Is that your question?”

He grinned. “Sure.”

“Adele read that the men out West are particularly fond of female performers with foreign-sounding names, so she decided to change my last name to Leroux in keeping with the French name du Charme. As for Lorelei,” she shrugged. “It goes with Leroux.”

They were in front of the Shakespeare now. Eyeing the swinging doors with distaste, she asked, “Can I ask you a question as well?”

His grin broadened. “They say that turnabout is fair play, and I always like to play fair. Ask.”

“Why did you buy the saloon? I mean,” she gestured toward the building. “It's not what I'd call a great investment.”

“No, but it's a great toy.” He chuckled at her shocked expression. He'd known she'd eventually ask him about the purchase and was ready for the question. “I've always had a fascination for the West and got an itch to own a piece of it after reading a recent article on Denver in the
Saturday Evening Post
.” He let his appreciative gaze sweep her from head to toe. “I took one look at the Shakespeare's entertainment and knew that the saloon was the piece for me.”

Miles was late. Very late.

Cursing her delinquent son beneath her breath, Adele flashed a hastily scribbled cue card to the corseted and bewigged Bert, who was onstage valiantly muddling his way through the first act in Miles's usual role as the hero.

Bert, who had forgotten his line and was now improvising to the visibly confused Lorelei, stopped dead in his tracks to squint at the placard. After hemming and hawing several times, he followed Adele's prompting and pulled Lorelei into his arms, declaring his undying love in a thunderous voice more suited to a commanding general than a lovelorn lothario.

“Jist kiss the gal and be done with it!” hooted one man.

“Hey, Lorelei-honey! Why don't ya come down here 'n let me show ya how a real man smooches!” That catcall prompted a chorus of exaggerated kissing sounds.

Gritting her teeth with annoyance, Adele tossed the card to the floor. Where the hell was Miles? She mentally ran through the list of unsavory possibilities. The jackass! Due to his lamebrain irresponsibility, she'd been forced to cancel
The Matchmaking Fairy
, a piece involving five characters of which two were played by Bert, and substitute it with
The Ballad of Lucy Mae
, a humdrum musical written for three players.

Notorious for the way it shockingly exhibited Lorelei's ankles and calves, an announcement of a performance of
The Matchmaking Fairy
never failed to pack whatever theater the company was playing. And it was packed tonight …

… Until Seth Tyler announced the change of program. In response to the disappointed crowd's boos, he'd magnanimously offered a refund of admission and a free drink to any man not wishing to view the company's tamer exhibition, an offer that proved to be very popular. So popular that he'd threatened to add an extra day to their run to make up for the lost revenue. And an extra day's run would mean losing their Tombstone engagement.

Peeking out at the now-sparse audience, of which two were raucously arguing over a mule named Trixie Belle, and a handful of the others were asleep, Adele mentally redirected several of her more vituperate thoughts from Miles to Seth Tyler.

The man was becoming troublesome, and in more ways than one. It raised her ire just remembering the possessive manner in which his arm had been slung around Lorelei's waist as they waltzed into the Shakespeare that evening. Barely able to contain her rage, she'd ordered the little hussy to her dressing room, bent on punishing her for disobeying her rules. However, when she tried to follow, the saloon owner had ordered her to stay.

With galling arrogance he informed her of Miles's negligence, then had the nerve to chide her for her thoughtlessness in designating him the girl's protector. After astutely pointing out that the company would be ruined should its star performer come to harm, and thus be worthless in the repayment of Miles's debt, he had imperiously reappointed himself as Lorelei's escort. She hadn't been deaf to the underlying threat in his voice, nor blind to the predatory glint sparking his narrowed hazel eyes.

A babel of catcalls drew Adele's mind away from Seth Tyler and back to the action onstage. Bert was kneeling before Lorelei, awkwardly shoving his wig back over his bald pate. Apparently the false hair had come off when he removed his hat to propose to Lorelei's character, Lucy Mae.

As Adele hissed at Bert, trying to alert him to the fact that his wig was on sideways, she heard the scurry of feet behind her. Whipping around and dropping to a crouch, a life-preserving reflex bred from years of association with the seamy underworlds of Boston and New York, she snatched her derringer from a pocket discreetly sewn into her underskirt. When she saw who it was she relaxed, but only a hair.

“Where the hell have you been?” she whispered harshly as Miles came dashing harum-scarum into the stage wing.

Stumbling over a sandbag in his haste, he whined, “It wasn't my fault. I would have been on time if—”

“Silence, you fool!” Adele commanded, raking his unkempt appearance with her disdainful gaze.

Miles stuttered once, then did as he was told. Turning red beneath her relentless scrutiny, he self-consciously combed his fingers through his rumpled hair.

Adele's eyes narrowed as they came to rest on his misbuttoned waistcoat and dangling shirttail. “You've been whoring again, I see.” She made a contemptuous noise in the back of her throat. “I'd have thought you'd have more sense after catching the clap from that slut in St. Louis.”

“I haven't ridden a whore since St. Louis,” he informed her in an indignant squeak. “That's why I'm seeing Sweet-Lips Alice. A man doesn't have to ride her to get his pleasure.”

Adele expelled a short, nasty laugh as she shoved her gun back into its hiding place. “Well, just make sure you don't forget yourself and buy anything else she's selling. The next time, I won't be so eager to shell out twenty dollars to pay for the cure. Especially not after tonight.”

Without warning, she lashed out and viciously boxed his ear. “Damn it, Miles!” she ranted. “We might lose the Tombstone engagement, and all because you couldn't bear to tear your precious cock away from some two-bit whore.”

Miles stared at his mother, his mouth working soundlessly.

“Well?” she demanded. “Don't just stand there gaping at me like a dyspeptic toad. What do you have to say for yourself?”

By degrees Miles's dumbfounded expression faded, replaced by one of wounded resentment. Pressing his palm against the side of his head, he blubbered, “It wasn't my fault!”

Adele eyed him scornfully. “Oh?”

“It was that Seth Tyler!” he accused wildly. “If he hadn't paid Goldie twenty dollars to have Alice ply me with booze, I wouldn't have fallen asleep like I did.”

“Let me make sure I understand what you're saying,” she gritted out. “You're telling me that that Tyler person bribed Goldie and Alice to make you late?”

“That's what Goldie said. She laughed and acted like it was all a big joke.” The corners of his mouth drooped petulantly. “I told her that I didn't think her prank was very funny.”

Adele wasn't amused, either. Through his adversarial actions this evening, Seth Tyler had thrown down the gauntlet and challenged her for the right to possess Penelope Parrish; a challenge she intended neither to ignore … or lose.

Not even if winning meant murder.

Chapter 13

It was just after seven the next morning when Penelope arrived at Seth's hotel. Dressed as she was, with her figure hidden beneath the shapeless brown wrapper she usually reserved for laundry day and her face shielded by the wide brim of a calico bonnet she'd borrowed from the company's costume trunk, she had managed to pass through the streets without drawing more than a cursory glance from the passersby.

As she stood beneath the wide entry portico adjusting the bonnet brim to better conceal her face, she silently implored God to let her pass through the lobby unnoticed as well. She knew that if she were seen at the hotel, the backwash of gossip might reach Adele's ears, and just imagining the consequences of such an occurrence was enough to turn her blood to ice.

Concluding her brief but fervent prayer with a murmured “Amen,” she reached into her reticule and rubbed her lucky ribbon for good measure. Crossing her fingers as an added precaution, she pushed her way through the plate-glass door.

This morning both Lady Luck and God were in a merciful mood. Save the nattily attired clerk, who was too engrossed in the magazine he was reading to do more than nod as she entered, the lobby was completely empty. Sighing her relief, Penelope uncrossed her fingers, quietly giving thanks as she moved to the center of the well-appointed room.

The American House, completed only a year earlier, was said to provide the finest accommodations in Colorado, and the lobby bore sumptuous testimony to the truth of that boast.

Tastefully decorated in cream and coppery brown with splashes of scarlet and gold, the lobby contained furnishings as fine as many of the first-rate hotels Penelope had once patronized back East. Comfortable chairs and sofas upholstered in hues ranging from tawny gold to deep chocolate were clustered throughout the spacious room; the floor was covered with carpet that bore earmarks of having been loomed by Wilton. Adding a crowning touch to the room's air of regal refinement were the rows of tall windows, which were arrayed to perfection with extravagantly swagged draperies of rich brown velvet.

To Penelope, who counted herself lucky these days if her lodgings included a vermin-free bed, the stylish elegance of the hotel lobby was a bittersweet reminder of the privileged lifestyle she had once so easily taken for granted … and lost.

After pausing a moment to savor her surroundings, she moved to the wide staircase and began her ascent to Seth's second-floor room. With her palm lightly brushing the smooth surface of the handrail, she slowly mounted each step. Higher and higher she rose. When she was out of sight of the lobby, she reluctantly forced her mind from her safe thoughts of the fine furnishings below to the dangerous ones of the man awaiting her above.

Just the idea of going to the hotel room of a man who was not her husband and serving in the intimate capacity of his valet should have shocked her into a fit of well-bred vapors. According to society's tenet of propriety, of which she was well versed in each and every inflexible rule, a true lady would have swooned the second Seth made his scandalous proposition. Should the aforementioned lady have the strength to retain her sensibilities in the face of such an affront, she would never—ever!—consider, much less agree to, such a wicked bargain. A
real
lady …

…
Would never find herself in this sort of situation in the first place
, Penelope concluded. As she stepped up on the second-floor landing, she was struck by an ironic realization: she, who had once prided herself on being the last word in refinement, who had been so quick to judge and condemn others for the slightest faux pas, now came up shamefully short when measured against her own pretentious yardstick of acceptability. For not only had she considered the terms of Seth's unseemly proposal; she had agreed to them. Most damning of all, she now found the prospect of fulfilling those terms strangely exciting.

With jimjams dancing a jig in her stomach, she wandered down the long hallway, her lips moving soundlessly as she read the brass numbers posted on the doors. Seth's was the last one on the right. Not wanting to disturb the occupants of the surrounding rooms, she rapped on the door very softly. There was no response.

Pressing her ear against the walnut-stained door, she listened for sounds of stirring within. Silence.

“Seth?” She knocked again, this time more insistently.

Still no reply.

With a frustrated snort, she jerked open her reticule and shifted through the catchall contents. After pushing aside several rumpled receipts, clumsily dropping her tin of lip balm and pricking her finger on the end of a broken hat pin, she found the room key stuck to the gooey underside of a half-eaten bonbon.

Sucking on her wounded finger, she fitted the chocolate-and-maple-cream-smeared key into the keyhole and tried to turn it.

It wouldn't budge.

As Penelope wrestled with the lock, she heard the sound of footsteps accompanied by labored grunts and the slosh of water. Peering around her bonnet rim, she spied a porter hauling two steaming buckets heading in her direction at an alarming pace.