“As always, Frazier, your timing is poor,” he mumbled to himself, running the lock of hair against his stubbled cheek. It smelled of dirt and the leather strap that held it tight, but it felt like heaven as it stroked his flesh.
His heart tightened when he realized he couldn’t confess his feelings to Hope and still pretend to be obsessed with Angelique. Once the words were spoken, he’d be lost, and too many years of hard work counted on him being able to convince Angelique he wanted her back. Unfortunately, recognizing his feelings for Hope now would only complicate matters. But it was already too late for that, wasn’t it?
There was only one solution.
With a ragged sigh, he shoved the key back in his pocket and stalked to the desk. He snatched up the two bits of crumpled paper as well as the bid, folded them over twice, and stuffed them in his vest pocket. Although he’d planned to prolong Charles’s suffering for as long as possible, suddenly that prospect held no appeal. There was no telling how long he could keep Hope waiting before she grew tired of the game and moved on. He couldn’t let that happen!
No, his former plan would have to be abruptly revised. He would ruin Charles, he’d worked too hard not to, but he’d do it as quickly as he could and take time to savor the victory later. Then, as soon as he was free....
He didn’t permit himself to complete that thought as he stormed from the room and into the hall. The door was slammed closed behind him and locked. Turning on his heel, he was surprised to find the hall empty.
A scowl furrowed his golden brow. He hadn’t expected his brother to give up so easily. Three times Charles had come to the study door, banging and demanding entrance, all the while shouting accusations that Drake had stolen his key. Of course, he was right. Each time he’d shown up, Drake had sent him away. Now, he’d half expected to find his brother camping out at the foot of the stairs, pouting the way he had as a child when their grandfather insisted the two boys go out on the Mary Elizabeth.
“Damn him!” Drake muttered as he stalked down the hall. He’d see the generous donations returned to their benefactors if it was the last thing he ever did!
Hope eyed Drake cautiously as she slipped a spoonful of oyster stew into her mouth. The oysters were soft and succulent, the potatoes firm, but the spicy concoction might have been made of sand for all she tasted of it.
All day she had been avoiding Drake; an easy task, since he’d been locked in the study all morning and gone most of the afternoon. This, she’d heard from the servants who’d brought her morning and afternoon meals on a tray, as she helped herself to the leather-bound books she found in the library.
On the best of days, Dickens could hold her interest like no other. Today she might as well have been reading a two-bit western. When she thought of it now, Hope couldn’t recall if she’d read A Christmas Carol or Oliver Twist, and she didn’t care. Right now about the only thing that interested her was the way Angelique insisted on pressing intimately against Drake’s upper arm as he reluctantly recounted some of his tamer adventures in California.
Charles sat at the head of the table glowering. He made no attempt to eat, instead contenting himself on glaring at his brother with an angry, sullen stare as he drank glass after glass of brandy.
And what the hell had gotten into Drake!? All evening he had commented on the wonderful hard rolls, so much like his great-grandmother Bradfield’s. Then he’d praised the spices in the stew as exactly the ones his great-grandmother Stillwell would have used. Over and over the two names were bandied about.
Never in all the time she had known Drake had Hope heard these two women mentioned. At first she’d taken his observations as idle chatter used to fill the awkward pauses. Then she’d glanced at Charles. He seemed to pick up on the insinuations—if, indeed, there were any—immediately, and his expression grew more grim with each mention.
“You bluffed?” Angelique gasped with false astonishment. “Why, how clever. I would never have thought to do such a thing.”
Drake repressed a surge of disgust and smiled down on her. “Then we should play poker sometime, you and I. It would make an interesting game.”
Angelique batted her thick lashes and Hope’s grip tightened on the spoon as it clattered to her bowl. “You’d have to teach me, of course.” Again, the lashes batted as she smiled coyly. “And, I warn you, it may take a good deal of time. Charles says I am a slow learner, that I have no gift for cards. Isn’t that right, dear?”
Charles grunted in reply and looked down at his untouched bowl. His gaze was steamier than the hot stew.
Angelique fixed her attention on Hope. “Do you play?” she asked, then just as quickly answered her own question. “Why, of course you do. I don’t know what made me ask. After all, you did live in California, didn’t you?”
She stressed the words in such a way that Hope could feel her spine bristle. In spite of herself, she fixed the woman with an innocent glance. “Of course,” she said with a wave of her spoon. “It’s a state law. Anyone crossing the Nevada border must know how to play a good hand of poker. They won’t let you enter California otherwise.”
“Isn’t that interesting?” Angelique replied, apparently oblivious to the sarcasm of Hope’s words. “So tell me,” she continued, dismissing Hope as she turned her attention back to Drake, “what else did you do in the West? Surely you did something besides play cards.” Her eyes sparkled with a sadistic twinkle that was belatedly concealed. “Did you get into many gunfights? Or fistfights? Did you ever kill a man? Or two? Or three?”
“I was known as a hired gun, for a while,” he admitted reluctantly. His gaze locked with Hope’s and there was an emotion shimmering in the green depths, unreadable as it was undeniable. “I think we’ll skip over that part of my life. It’s not a dinner table topic, and I don’t want to upset you.”
Angelique pouted prettily, but still Drake refused. She gave up
quickly, launching into a soliloquy of the people who had attended last night’s ball.
Hope recognized none of the names flung so casually about, but inferred, by Angelique’s awe-inspired tone, that they belonged to people of prominence. She averted her gaze to the rapidly cooling oyster stew. The silver spoon hesitated beside the bowl. She had suddenly lost her appetite.
“Mutton?” Charles came out of his self-enforced silence to offer Hope the tray piled high with lean meat.
Although her stomach rebelled at the thought, she thanked him and accepted the platter with a wooden smile. Moving the bowl, which was quickly whisked away by a servant, she placed only one succulent slab on her plate. It was one more than she wanted. Passing the tray to Angelique, she resisted the temptation to tip the juicy contents into the other woman’s lap.
“Mutton?” she stiffly repeated the offer, holding the heavy platter out until the muscles in her forearm screamed in protest. She had to offer three times before the woman reluctantly acknowledged her, and even then it was with a sigh of impatience.
With a look bordering on disgust, Angelique took the tray. She stabbed several pieces of the aromatic meat for herself, then chose only the most tender slices to ease onto Drake’s plate.
He showed no obvious protest at the overly courteous gesture, and that fact galled Hope all the more. Politely, she declined the bowl of mashed sweet potatoes as well as the tender boiled onions. Normally, the small, sweet onions were a favorite she’d longed for in the secluded gold mines of Thirsty Gulch. Today, she had no taste for them.