Island.”
Out of the line of sight of Lector and Orson, Trent picked up his pace. She trotted at his side.
“I’m sure he does,” Trent said. After all, most moneyed men in Seattle had an interest, or two or three, in the prestigious brothel.
She cut in front of him and raised her eyebrows. “A financial interest?”
Trent stopped, ran his fingers through his hair, and asked, “You’re interested in Steele’s investments?”
She batted her eyelashes, obviously thinking. When a couple passed them on the stairs, she bumped against him. Her hair tickled his chin. She smelled of pie. His mouth began to water and he hoped she wouldn’t know, or guess, that he wondered if she tasted as good as she smelled.
He took a deep breath, acknowledging that time and opportunity were passing and as delightful as it was to spar with her, he had reasons of his own for breaking into Steele’s room. After the couple passed out of sight and earshot he said, “I’ll visit Steele’s room.” Then, unless she suspected, he added, “For you, but only if you promise to return to your aunt.”
They moved through the nearly deserted lobby, the rustling of Mercy’s skirts betraying their haste. On the other side of the doors leading to the auditorium, Trent heard the fading aria and dying organ.
The third act would begin momentarily and he wanted to leave before his sister began her solo. Her performing on the Seattle stage still set his teeth on edge. He’d been vehemently opposed to her role in the plan.
Mercy motioned to the cloak check. “I need my things. You mustn’t wait for me.”
“I’ll wait.” He fished in his pocket and drew out the token for his cloak. Then he took Mercy’s token and handed both to the girl behind the counter. Mercy cast him a nervous, curious look, but held her tongue while her cloak and umbrella were retrieved. He felt he could read and predict the questions flitting through her head as he folded his cloak over his arm and drew Mercy outside to resume the conversation.
“Why would you risk breaking into Steele’s room?” Mercy asked as they passed through the outer doors and paused beneath the stoop. He held her cloak while she tucked it around her shoulders. Trent nodded and led her to the sidewalk. The rain fell on his bare head, trickled off his ear. He could see fog forming on the lenses the glasses perched on the edge of Mercy’s nose.
“For you.”
Mercy tightened her lips and lowered her eyebrows as if she didn’t believe him. “Why?”
He nodded at the dark gardens. Beyond the maze of boxwood hedges, cherry trees in full blossom, lilacs in fat clusters, a rose trellis scaled the hotel wall and stopped inches below a shuttered window. “I think I’m a better climber than you. As delightful as it would be to watch you on the trellis.”
She didn’t say anything, but scowled as they made their way down the walk. Rain dripped from the eaves in fat drops that fell with a loud kerplunk. Horses jingled their harnesses and coaches rolled through the muddy streets with sucking sloshes. They stopped in front of a black and silver coach and Trent knocked on the door. A curtain twitched and then the door swung open.
“Sir?” Mugs stuck his curly head out the door.
“Could you be so kind as to deliver Miss Faye to-”
The sound of rain, horses, and a wind whistling through the coach filled an awkward pause. Trent finished, “To where ever she’d like to go.” It didn’t matter if she didn’t tell him her address. If she were no long living with her aunt, he’d get the directions from Mugs and see her again, soon. He pressed her hand. “Goodnight, Miss Faye.”
CHAPTER 7
Brazilian nuts need to be shed of their bitter, papery brown skin. Toasting will improve the flavor of all nuts and make them appealingly crisp.
From The Recipes of Mercy Faye
While the organ wailed in its pit and the dancers stomped on the stage, Trent stood outside the Grand Hotel,
Out of the line of sight of Lector and Orson, Trent picked up his pace. She trotted at his side.
“I’m sure he does,” Trent said. After all, most moneyed men in Seattle had an interest, or two or three, in the prestigious brothel.
She cut in front of him and raised her eyebrows. “A financial interest?”
Trent stopped, ran his fingers through his hair, and asked, “You’re interested in Steele’s investments?”
She batted her eyelashes, obviously thinking. When a couple passed them on the stairs, she bumped against him. Her hair tickled his chin. She smelled of pie. His mouth began to water and he hoped she wouldn’t know, or guess, that he wondered if she tasted as good as she smelled.
He took a deep breath, acknowledging that time and opportunity were passing and as delightful as it was to spar with her, he had reasons of his own for breaking into Steele’s room. After the couple passed out of sight and earshot he said, “I’ll visit Steele’s room.” Then, unless she suspected, he added, “For you, but only if you promise to return to your aunt.”
They moved through the nearly deserted lobby, the rustling of Mercy’s skirts betraying their haste. On the other side of the doors leading to the auditorium, Trent heard the fading aria and dying organ.
The third act would begin momentarily and he wanted to leave before his sister began her solo. Her performing on the Seattle stage still set his teeth on edge. He’d been vehemently opposed to her role in the plan.
Mercy motioned to the cloak check. “I need my things. You mustn’t wait for me.”
“I’ll wait.” He fished in his pocket and drew out the token for his cloak. Then he took Mercy’s token and handed both to the girl behind the counter. Mercy cast him a nervous, curious look, but held her tongue while her cloak and umbrella were retrieved. He felt he could read and predict the questions flitting through her head as he folded his cloak over his arm and drew Mercy outside to resume the conversation.
“Why would you risk breaking into Steele’s room?” Mercy asked as they passed through the outer doors and paused beneath the stoop. He held her cloak while she tucked it around her shoulders. Trent nodded and led her to the sidewalk. The rain fell on his bare head, trickled off his ear. He could see fog forming on the lenses the glasses perched on the edge of Mercy’s nose.
“For you.”
Mercy tightened her lips and lowered her eyebrows as if she didn’t believe him. “Why?”
He nodded at the dark gardens. Beyond the maze of boxwood hedges, cherry trees in full blossom, lilacs in fat clusters, a rose trellis scaled the hotel wall and stopped inches below a shuttered window. “I think I’m a better climber than you. As delightful as it would be to watch you on the trellis.”
She didn’t say anything, but scowled as they made their way down the walk. Rain dripped from the eaves in fat drops that fell with a loud kerplunk. Horses jingled their harnesses and coaches rolled through the muddy streets with sucking sloshes. They stopped in front of a black and silver coach and Trent knocked on the door. A curtain twitched and then the door swung open.
“Sir?” Mugs stuck his curly head out the door.
“Could you be so kind as to deliver Miss Faye to-”
The sound of rain, horses, and a wind whistling through the coach filled an awkward pause. Trent finished, “To where ever she’d like to go.” It didn’t matter if she didn’t tell him her address. If she were no long living with her aunt, he’d get the directions from Mugs and see her again, soon. He pressed her hand. “Goodnight, Miss Faye.”
CHAPTER 7
Brazilian nuts need to be shed of their bitter, papery brown skin. Toasting will improve the flavor of all nuts and make them appealingly crisp.
From The Recipes of Mercy Faye
While the organ wailed in its pit and the dancers stomped on the stage, Trent stood outside the Grand Hotel,