Chapter Five

Taylor gritted her teeth. Indian. The word was hated by the tribes and not used by them. Instead, she was Tsalagi and one of Yv-wi. The People.

Offended, Taylor drew herself up, prepared to do more than take offense. The bowing man straightened, giving Taylor her first good look at him. Her breath left her. Her knees weakened. She would have staggered had Mr. Talbott not already had a tight hold on her arm. Taylor put a hand to her chest and stared wide-eyed as a sudden vision robbed her momentarily of complete awareness of her surroundings.

In her sight now was a great and evil bird that descended on her, its hooked talons fierce and extended. It scooped her off the ground and bore her away to the sky. In the next instant, this bird of prey was suddenly attacked by another creature, a small yet determined bird, one Taylor somehow knew meant to save her even at the cost of its own life. The birds fought, their screams piercing the air and assaulting her ears. The war bird lost its grip on her. Screaming, Taylor twisted and turned and plummeted toward the hard earth below, toward the death that awaited her—

But instead she was returned to the moment, and to her body, with a jolt. Shaken but quiet, blinking yet aware, Taylor realized that the men apparently hadn’t noticed that anything was amiss with her. That had to mean that not much time, if any, had passed. How could this be? They were still standing where they’d been, and the door was still open. Had time somehow stood still? Taylor fought the urge to put a hand to her brow or do anything that would alert them to her discomfiture—or her sense of wonder. She’d had a vision. That was the only explanation possible. Never before had she seen one.

She knew in an instant that she’d been wrong, all these years, to scorn the stories of The People. Rube, her guard in the penitentiary, had been right, too. Because here before her was the proof of the legends told by the old ones to explain the world. Just then, the strange and wonderful creature that had captured Taylor’s attention closed the door to the outside. She watched his every move, analyzing every gesture for something of significance meant only for her.

Mr. Talbott turned to face the being, taking Taylor with him as he went. “Good evening, Bentley,” he said. Taylor’s breath caught—no time could have passed because Mr. Talbott was only now returning the greeting. “And yes, I did manage to bring a … uh, young lady home with me. May I present…” He looked down at her and frowned, then focused again on the spirit guide dressed in black. “Well, I don’t know exactly who she is, to tell you the truth.”

“I see, sir. That is most awkward then, is it not?”

Awestruck, remembering now Rube’s words to be open to a spirit guide and that she would know the sign, Taylor watched as the one called Bentley now ran his gaze over her. A shiver slipped over Taylor’s skin. He had seen her. Could he see inside her soul? This was a man-bird. A beaklike nose, thinning hair combed back, no chin, round little body clad in a white shirt, black cutaway coat, and dark pants over his skinny legs. He was magic. A bird changed into a man. For her. She was certain of it, just as she was certain that he could fly if he so chose. The old ones still spoke, at tribal gatherings, of the beings who could turn into birds and animals. She had heard the tales as a child and had believed them then. But as she’d grown and had been rejected by The People because of her white blood, she had rejected their ways as false and had waged war on them and their beliefs.

No longer. Because here such a creature was. But in a white man’s house. How had this happened? Was Mr. Talbott magic also? She looked up at him, noting his strong jaw and high cheekbones, his deep-set dark eyes. He smiled down at her, his eyebrows raised. A thrill chased through Taylor. Had he captured this creature somehow? Or had the man-bird come to him of his own free will? Taylor’s next thought narrowed her eyes with suspicion.… Mr. Talbott’s smile faded. Was this big man next to her the evil bird? Did he hold the wondrous being prisoner here, as he did her? Would he try to kill them both if they tried to leave? She had many questions but only one answer. The man-bird was her talisman, her most special spirit animal, appearing to her in her time of need. And he had come to her in this house.

Overcome with her sudden spiritual fervor, Taylor wrenched away from Mr. Talbott’s grasp. He made a sound, as if of protest, but did nothing to stop her as, in the ensuing quiet, she slowly advanced on this so-named Bentley. She didn’t wish to startle him and have him fly away. As she’d suspected he might, though, he moved back, away from her outstretched hand. But the wall behind him stopped him. His eyes rounded. She had him now. With her face maybe an inch away from his, she began her close scrutiny of him, noting every pore and blotch in his skin.

The man-bird shifted his gaze from her to Mr. Talbott. “Do you suppose the, uh, young lady could favor us with her name, sir?”

The man-bird’s voice was high and shaky, Taylor noted. Perhaps he was not yet used to his human form. He tried to scoot his way down the wall, his winglike arms flat against its surface. Taylor carefully matched him step for step along the way.

“She gave me her name, Bentley,” Mr. Talbott said, sounding cheery. “I just don’t know if it’s really her name. Or if she is actually who she says she is. It’s a devil of a mystery.”

The man-bird Bentley appeared to be afraid as he nodded his head. If he was afraid, then it must be true—he was a captive here. “I see, Mr. Talbott.” Then he gave Mr. Talbott a pleading look. “Actually, sir, I don’t see at all.”

Taylor gasped and pulled back. He was blind. He could not see. His vision had been stolen. Perhaps by a jealous and thieving crow? Taylor waved a hand in front of his face to see if he could see it. He stared round-eyed, his mouth open … but he didn’t move. Taylor turned to Mr. Talbott. “What has happened to his sight? Who has stolen it?”

A frown creased Mr. Talbott’s face. “His sight? Oh, old age, I suspect. He sees well enough, though, to get around.”

Taylor was relieved by this and went back to noting every tiny detail of the man-bird’s person. She jabbed at his cheek, noting the leathery feel of it. The creature remained still, not making a sound. He only watched her, as was right.

From behind her, and sounding as if something was funny to him, Mr. Talbott addressed the man-bird. “It seems our guest has taken quite a fancy to you, Bentley.”

“Yes, sir. So it would seem. Help me, sir.”

“In a moment, Bentley. Just don’t make any sudden moves in the meantime. Now, what were we discussing? Ah, yes. The young lady’s identity. By the way, Bentley, it might be a good idea not to call her an … well, you know. She doesn’t seem to respond favorably to that word. At any rate, she says she is Taylor Christie James.”

Taylor was busy plucking at the man-bird’s garments, but she turned to Mr. Talbott. “No. I do not only say this. It is true. I am Taylor Christie James, daughter of Tennie Nell Christie and Charles Edward James.” She leaned in to sniff the man-bird and then tugged hard at his sparse hair.

He startled her by shrieking and trying to fly. Taylor jumped back, retreating to Mr. Talbott’s side. She clutched at his sleeve as the so-named Bentley creature flapped his arms wildly and made strange strangled sounds as he retreated down the long hall and fled around a corner and out of sight.

A deep quiet followed his disappearance. Taylor looked up at Mr. Talbott and saw him staring down at her. She let go of his sleeve and stepped back. Great amusement lit his face. Upset in the extreme, Taylor struggled to find the words to make the omens known to him. “You do not understand. The man-bird has had his feathers clipped. He cannot fly. And the crow has stolen his sight. This is because in the past I have scorned the ways of my ancestors, saying that their stories are not true. Rube warned me of the danger because I did not believe. This is a bad thing I have done. A very bad thing that does not bode well for those of us in this house.”

Her true and serious words did not have the effect on Mr. Talbott that she desired. He grinned. “Well, I say differently, Miss James. I say this bodes very well.” He looked down the hall to where the man-bird had fled … and then back down at her. “Very well indeed.”

Taylor didn’t agree with him at all. But she held her silence … and prayed in Cherokee for the first time in a long time.

*   *   *

Early that next morning, his sleep disturbed by the vexing problem that Miss James embodied, Grey lay awake and thinking in his big and comfortable bed, his hands behind his head, himself propped up on pillows and covered by a sheet. He’d already made his way mentally through the extraordinary events of last evening, starting with when he first stepped out of Charles’s house. And ending with the near annihilation of every living creature in his household as the maids had run shrieking and crying away from the bedroom that he’d assigned Miss James. The bedroom attached to his own, of course, so he could keep a close eye on her—at great risk to his scalp or throat, he knew, should she decide to creep through the small dressing room that separated his door from hers. That was why it was locked and he had the key.

In any event, he’d had a devil of a time last night trying to convince her they meant her no harm or disrespect, that the two chambermaids were merely following his orders to show her how to use the plumbing in the bathroom attached to her bedroom. He’d told her in dire tones that either she could pay attention and learn and then attend to her own needs … or the maids would do it for her. Grey could still see Miss James’s eyes narrowed menacingly. He sighed, figuring he’d be damned lucky if he had any servants left in his house this morning. No doubt, they’d probably all cleared out last night. At least, the smart ones had. It was the only thing to do when a hellcat was loose in your place of employment.

Grey chuckled, remembering how it had finally taken the frightened man-bird Bentley’s personal intervention to save the day … or what was then left of the night. Grey shook his head every time he thought of poor Bentley being relegated to the status of a spirit animal, as Miss James had again explained to him in private. But finally, with Bentley standing by and nodding, corroborating everything Grey told her, they had calmed Miss James enough to convince her their efforts were not part of some hellish conspiracy against her. And that their actions were motivated by the simple yet fervent wish shared by them all that she wash the, uh, trail off her, don a clean nightgown, and get into bed, for heaven’s sake. It had been after two in the morning before everyone had been able to each take to his or her own bed.

With all that ordered in his mind, Grey turned his thoughts to the more serious questions of the mystery that surrounded Miss James’s sudden appearance in St. Louis and in his life. It was all so extraordinary. And unsettling. He had no idea who to turn to, who to talk to, about this. And why was that? Before today, he assured himself, he would have said that he had any number of family members or friends he could turn to in a time of trouble. But now? With this particular problem? No.

Grey rubbed at his forehead, certain the headache forming there had more to do with such an eye-opening revelation as that than it did with the amount of whiskey he’d consumed last night. Very troubling, that’s what this was. But what exactly lay at the base of these feelings of isolation? Was it that he didn’t trust anyone with the secret of who Miss James really was? And if not, why not? Well, for one thing, Grey couldn’t be certain that unseen and unfriendly forces weren’t close by and at work here. After all, the young woman’s sudden presence here, when coupled with Charles’s story, was extraordinary. And if all that was true—and if Grey wasn’t simply manufacturing trouble where none existed—then he couldn’t afford to take a chance on confiding in the wrong person, someone bent on doing injury or worse to Miss James.

Grey nodded and then froze in position. It was as if he had just heard himself, as if he had only now listened in on his own thoughts. Someone hurting Miss James? The very idea caused a burning anger in Grey’s chest. His hands fisted around his covers. Grimacing hatefully, he stared at a damask-covered overstuffed chair next to his bureau as if it had offended him. Someone will harm her only over my dead body.

Grey forced himself to calm down. No one was going to harm Miss James. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his heart and mind were trying to tell him something that he was steadfastly refusing to admit to himself consciously. Then, he had it. He snapped his fingers. Well, I’ll be damned. That’s it. I believe the girl. It had to be true. He believed she was who she said she was. Otherwise, he had no reason to protect her. Protect her? Then he remembered.… Aren’t I protecting Charles by keeping her away from him? He’d certainly thought so until now. But apparently it was the other way around. Grey shook his head, hating these doubts creeping into his heart. He refused to give them a home. No. Charles wouldn’t harm a fly.

Of course, that was true. Then maybe, Grey reasoned, neither Charles nor his daughter was a danger to the other—unless they were brought together and it became known that she was his daughter. Good God. Grey sat forward on his bed, his elbows propped atop his bent knees. A third party. Or parties. I keep coming back to that. Someone who seeks to harm them both. That has to be it.

Strangely comforted by the idea of an evil third party, since such a villain absolved Charles and Miss James from being such, Grey shook his head, finally coming to the conclusion that on his own all he had was questions. And the only ones with answers—if he could get one or the other, or both, to talk—were Charles and Miss James. A chuckle escaped him. Last night he’d worked so hard to make sure the two didn’t meet. And now here he was, only a matter of hours later, trying to figure out how best to bring them together. But beneath all that, Grey still had no earthly idea why, in the first place, he’d confronted her last evening. Why hadn’t he left well enough alone and gone on about his well-liquored way, as he most certainly would have done at any other time? It wasn’t as if involving himself in other people’s lives and concerns was his strong suit.

That being so, what he ought to do today was bow out of this family squabble—which in all probability was all it was—and go wake her and send her on her way. Miss James loose in St. Louis? Seeking lightness in the midst of his troubling thoughts, Grey shook his head and chuckled. That wouldn’t be fair to the unsuspecting and innocent city my brother hopes to be mayor of. Grey ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. But isn’t Charles both of those things as well … unsuspecting and innocent? By all accounts, yes. Even so, why am I working so hard to protect him? He’s a grown man. He can handle a charlatan, if she is one.

Grey stared hard at his sheet-covered toes as they poked at the covers. But not the truth. Charles can’t handle that.

The thought was an unbidden and lurking one. Taken aback, Grey found himself staring at the mirror hung on the opposite wall. His frowning reflection stared back at him. Now why do I think that? Who says Charles can’t handle the truth? Aren’t I jumping to a lot of presumptive conclusions here, none of which are really my business? Immediately he dismissed that notion. But it is my business. My own family could possibly be in the line of fire. Then another truth blindsided him. Great Scott. I’ve put them directly in the line of fire by harboring Miss James here in my home. Whatever trouble she’s bringing to Charles will find her right here. I’m a sitting duck.

Grey shook his head, watching his reflection mimic his every movement. Out loud, he said, “This is the final straw. I have got to quit drinking. And I have absolutely got to stop bringing home mysterious and beautiful Indians with me.”

So he was back to the beginning. He could trust no one. Not Charles. Not the man’s daughter. Or anyone else, not until he knew exactly who had told such an awful lie that had kept the two apart and why he—or she—had done so. There could be no innocent reason that someone would do such a heinous thing.

Grey shifted about irritably under the covers and went back to his original question to himself. Why in the living hell had he involved himself in the puzzle that was Taylor Christie James? This couldn’t merely be a vagary of fate. This wasn’t coincidence. Grey could not accept that. No, this was destiny, pure and simple. Somehow he personally was involved in this up to his eyeballs. Somehow the ramifications of her appearance would have significant effect on him and those he loved.

He didn’t know how he knew that. He just knew that he did, in much the same way that he alone knew how fragile Charles James was, how broken and sad. To the world, the older man showed a brave face, a strong countenance, keeping his private sorrow just that … private. Only by drunken accident late one night at a men’s social club gathering had Grey been the one with Charles when the man had broken down and cried for a little girl who’d been lost to him years ago.

On that night, even though Charles had not divulged many of the details or even why her very existence and then her death needed to be kept secret, Grey had sworn to Charles that his confession was safe with him. And it had been. From that bond had grown the deep friendship he now shared with Charles, despite his being so much older than Grey. And now Grey felt like a traitor to that vow just by having the man’s very much alive daughter under his own roof. What he should do was get up, get dressed, and go call on Charles. Then in the quietest way possible tell him what had transpired last night, gently break the good news to him—

What if Miss James’s being here and alive weren’t good news to Charles? What if she was innocent of any subterfuge and merely sought a reunion with her father—and he didn’t want one? What if the simple but equally devastating truth was that Charles had lied? That he’d abandoned the little girl—and evidently her mother, Grey assumed—and couldn’t live with the guilt? And so had made up the story of his daughter’s death in order to deal with his guilt?

In light of all that, what if finding Taylor here would push the man to violence against his daughter? Not wanting to be responsible for something that horrid, Grey couldn’t simply turn her over to him at this point, now could he?

Grey rubbed at his forehead and then his temples. How irritating. He was back to doubting his friend of five years. Grey thought back to that night of the confession on Charles’s part, now analyzing every gesture and word he could recall of his friend’s. His conclusion was that Charles’s grief had been no act, no lie. Then Grey recalled Charles’s exact wording. Charles never said that he’d seen the girl dead. He said he’d been told, by a reliable source—one he hadn’t named—that his daughter was dead. Well, that reliable source … a term indicating someone trusted by Charles … had obviously lied to him. Or maybe that source was innocent and only mistaken, too. Perhaps this person had simply been repeating gossip as if it were fact.

Oh, who the hell knows?

With that, Grey absolutely gave up. He threw the sheet back, his troublesome thoughts driving him out of his bed. He sat on its side, his elbows propped on his knees, his head in his hands. Disgust creased the corners of his mouth. The truth was that the possibilities here were nearly endless and just as confusing—and frightening in their implications. Uppermost in his mind was … who was this mysterious person who had kept Charles and his daughter apart all these years with lies?

Torturing Grey the most was the one question he’d been avoiding posing for himself, but one he was forced now to consider. The simple truth was that among the closest, most trusted people to Charles were members of Grey’s own family. His mother. His brother, Franklin. It was almost too chilling even to consider, but could the person behind all the lies be someone Grey loved and trusted as well? His chest tightened. But he couldn’t deny why he feared it could be true. The James family wasn’t the only one with secrets and unanswered questions. Grey recalled how he and his brother had grown up amid hushed conversations and stony expressions and tense dramas. Even now, there were some things his widowed mother wouldn’t talk about and questions she refused to answer.

Grey stood up, stretching and yawning. His own mother. She was one person he would have to question. He would try to be delicate, of course. But his first question would be why she had initially taken to her bed and cried when Franklin had told her of his very honorable intentions toward Charles’s wonderfully sweet and innocent niece, Amanda—the daughter of Charles’s older brother, Stanley, and his wife, Camilla. Amanda. Grey froze in place, thinking Good God, she’s another innocent to be considered.

He put a hand to his temple, rubbing hard and thinking just as hard. I am suddenly surrounded by people in jeopardy. Worst of all, he had no idea who was putting them in jeopardy or even which ones of them were. Nothing made sense anymore. None of the truths he’d lived with, none of the people he loved. They were all vulnerable—and all suspect.

Grey reached for his trousers and began tugging them on. With growing certainty he knew his mother was the first person he should question … rather obliquely, though, without admitting that Taylor was actually here. With any luck, his mother may have all the answers and could clear this whole thing up. Grey chuckled, figuring his chances of actually getting straightforward answers out of her—a woman with an imperious manner and a backbone of steel—were about as great as they were for getting them out of Miss James.

Just then, as Grey was closing the fly opening to his pants, the door between his bedroom and Taylor’s opened.

Grey was stupefied. He’d locked that door. He had the key. He spared a glance for the bedside table. There lay the key. What the—? He pivoted around, eyes wide, his hands still on his pants buttons as the door swung inward. Who the devil?

In stormed his answer. Miss James.

“How’d you do that?” He pointed to the open door behind her. “Did someone unlock it for you?”

“No.” That was all she said. Obviously the little heathen had picked the lock. But no explanation was forthcoming, to all appearances. And apparently she was unabashed at his near nakedness, as well as her own. Barefoot, clad only in a high-necked and too-short white nightgown hastily donated last night by one of the terrified maids, and with her black and lustrous hair cascading all around her, she announced solemnly, “You have a thief in your home. My clothes are missing.”

Grey shriveled inside. How to tell her he’d had them taken away … and burned. He moved his hands from his fly to his waist, planting them there. Without a shirt on, he felt at a disadvantage, whether it bothered her or not. And apparently it didn’t. As he watched, she looked him up and down. She then met his gaze. Her expression never changed. Amused insult seized Grey. Last evening she’d done the same thing. Looked him up and down and dismissed him. Apparently, this morning, she had again found him wanting.

But she still awaited his answer to her pronouncement that he harbored a thief in his home. “I can assure you, Miss James, that there are no thieves here. Your clothes were not stolen. They were instead … taken.”

She narrowed those wondrous blue eyes of hers. “It is the same thing.”

Grey ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. “No, it is not. They were taken on my orders.”

She met his words with silence. A staring contest ensued. Finally, she spoke. “Then you are the thief. You did not ask my permission.”

White man. It was there again, in her posture, in her attitude, on her face. Grey felt his patience growing thin. He was trying to help her. Only she didn’t seem to know it. Or appreciate it. Or care. “I had no need to ask your permission, Miss James. This is my house.”

“And those were my clothes. I did not get them from you. They were not yours to take back. Order them to be returned.”

This was getting tricky. He wondered if he’d need to call on the man-bird Bentley to restore peace—or his hair to his head—once he told her the truth. “I cannot. They were not … salvageable—”

“What is that word?”

“Well, in this instance it means you won’t be getting them back.”

Her expression soured. “Then I have nothing but this to wear.” She wadded up a huge portion of the thin nightgown in her hand and held it out to one side, succeeding only in perfectly outlining her very feminine figure for him. And showing him that she had nothing on underneath.

Grey’s breath caught. She was magnificent. He had to get her out of his room. Now. “I promise you, Miss James, I will straightaway find you suitable clothes for going about St. Louis with me.”

Toward that end, last night he’d ordered his housekeeper to the shops this morning, armed with what his hapless chambermaids, those who’d seen Miss James unclothed, had figured were her measurements. Hopefully, Mrs. Scott could find some decent shoes and ready-mades and unmentionables, garments of that nature. And hopefully the gray-haired bossy old creature would be here damned soon with her purchases. Because, if he weren’t mistaken, an Indian war was brewing right here in his own home, one he had no doubt he’d lose.

“These clothes you will buy, are they ones the woman you intend to marry would wear?”

Grey’s expression crinkled in confusion. Marry? Ah. He’d barely thought about that in all his thinking this morning. But apparently it was uppermost in her mind. Interesting. “I have no idea,” he hedged, “since you are not truly the woman I intend to marry. But the clothes will definitely be for you.”

“Is there another woman you intend to marry?”

Grey hadn’t expected that question and it gave him a bit of a start. “No,” he heard himself saying … and then adding, “I couldn’t imagine marrying anyone else.”

His pronouncement startled him as much as it obviously had her. Her blue eyes widened appreciably. Grey’s hands fisted. He stared at his reluctant guest, seeing her now as a woman—a softly rounded, beautiful, and desirable woman. But someone who wouldn’t hesitate to slit his throat. Someone whose culture and background were totally foreign to him. Someone who hated him for the color of his skin. Defeat swept through Grey, leaving him with a feeling of futility, of emptiness. She would never accept him—on any level. So why should he try? Why indeed. Grey quickly amended himself. “What I meant to say, Miss James, was that I certainly would not have come up with the scheme of passing you off as my fiancée if I were already involved with another woman.”

She visibly relaxed, nodding as if his words finally made sense to her. “Then … I am she. These clothes, I will not like them. And I will not wear them.”

“But you haven’t even seen them. If you’re concerned about fashion, you should know that I didn’t choose them. I wouldn’t have the first idea how to go about it. Instead, I sent my housekeeper, a very capable woman, around to the shops this morning—”

“No. You do not understand. I cannot wear these clothes. I will give you no reason to call me a-qua-da-li.” She crossed her arms and stood there … stubbornly. “I have spoken.”

Grey was at a loss. “Yes, you have. And I have heard you. But I have no idea what you said. That Cherokee word. I can’t call you … what?”

“‘My wife.’ You will not call me that. I am not. And I will not wear the clothes of such a woman to you.”

“I agree you’re not my … wife.” The word stuck in Grey’s throat. He’d never uttered it aloud in connection with himself. “But wearing the clothes—and you will wear the clothes—does not make you a wife in my society. Maybe it does in yours. But not in mine.” Grey crossed his arms, showing her that he could be just as stubborn as she was.

She raised an eyebrow in challenge. Then her eyes narrowed to slits. “These clothes you will buy are the trappings of a white woman who has been bought by a man. I am not such a woman. I make my own way. And I will not wear them.”

So it wasn’t differing fashion sense or matrimonial customs at all. It was prejudice. Again. That did it. Grey had a hangover, this was his house, and he hadn’t had his coffee yet … so naturally he roared. “You are half-white. And the half that is white will wear them, if I have to put them on you myself.” His gestures were as stabbing as his words were threatening. “Don’t think I won’t do it, because I will. And it has nothing to do with being bought. That’s patently ridiculous. But if you choose not to cooperate, Miss James, let me assure you that you will sit here in that nightgown for weeks on end locked in that very room.…”

Stopping him was the realization that he was pointing at an open door. One he’d locked, one she’d opened … without the key. Well, then, that was no threat, was it? “Locked up somewhere,” he amended weakly, his roar petering out to a peep, “until I have all my questions answered about who you are and why you are really here.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Unless, of course, you care to give me those answers yourself right now.”

Her expression impassive, she silently considered him. He noticed that her gaze kept sliding to his bare chest. Far from flattered, Grey figured she was merely trying to figure out where best to stab him to do the most amount of damage. Then she spoke. “I have already told you these things. Who I am and why I am here.”

“You have told me nothing. Only what you wish me to believe.”

Her chin came up a notch. Her lips parted, she meant to say something. Something scathing, no doubt, Grey supposed—

The door to the hall opened. Grey jerked around. Bentley was backing into the room, a full breakfast tray in his hands. “Good morning, sir. I believed I heard you up and moving around. And since we appear this morning to be, ahem, short of staff, I took the liberty of bringing you the—great good God in heaven.”

Bentley was, of course, now facing the room and its occupants … where, by all dictates of manners and morals, there should have only been one. The servant’s mouth was a perfect O that matched his widened eyes.

Well, I’ll be. He does look like a bird, was Grey’s first thought, his anger evaporating. He roused himself, behaving as if nothing were out of the ordinary. “While I would appreciate your bringing me the great good God in heaven, Bentley, since I could use the reinforcement, I will assume you don’t mean that literally. Now, don’t just stand there, man. Come in. You’re just in time.”

As Grey watched—suddenly realizing that here in the person of Bentley was someone he could trust implicitly … as did Miss James; how useful would that be to have someone in both camps?—Bentley’s pleading gaze flitted from him to Miss James and back to him. “I almost hesitate to ask, but in time for what, sir?”

“Well, it’s nothing hair-raising. Sorry. Poor word choice. I merely meant you’re in time to settle an argument between me and my distinguished guest.”

Bentley’s expression all but melted and slid off his face. “An argument, sir? Surely, I am not qualified—”

“But you are. Infinitely so, since you seem to hold a lot of sway with Miss James here.”

Bentley’s gaze flitted again to the quietly watching Miss James. “I assure you that I do not, sir.” His loud whisper held a note of desperation.

Grey cheerfully ignored the man’s denial. “Put the tray on the table, Bentley.” He waited while the unhappy butler did so. “Now, while I have my coffee—no, I’ll pour it myself—you tell Miss James why she can’t go about St. Louis in her unmentionables.”

A strangled sound came from Bentley. Grey turned away, making for the tray and hiding his grin. Yes, it was mean. He knew that. But he was a desperate man. And Miss James would do nothing to hurt Bentley. She revered him. Ignoring a twinge of what he refused to acknowledge as jealousy, Grey lifted lids on the various plates, looked over the choices, and then selected a piece of crisp bacon. Taking a bite and chewing, he turned curiously back to the silence in the room behind him.

Miss James was in Bentley’s face. Literally. Her eyes were soft and doe-round. Everything inside Grey tightened. He stopped chewing. He couldn’t swallow. He admitted it—he’d give his eyeteeth and his entire fortune to have her look at him like that. Just once.

Telling himself nothing good could come of such feelings, Grey held off rescuing Bentley just yet, instead turning back to the tray and pouring himself a cup of steaming coffee. Sipping at it, he again faced the quiet twosome across the room. Settling his gaze on Miss James, Grey narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. Perhaps if he could get her to accept one small thing from him, she’d then give in on larger matters. “Do you drink coffee, Miss James?”

She tore her adoring gaze away from the chubby and balding Bentley to look Grey’s way, sending him an unmistakably dismissive expression. “Yes.”

“Excellent. Would you like a cup?”

“Yes.”

“How do you like it?”

“Black.”

“Good.” Well, that was one thing he knew about her. How she liked her coffee.

“Allow me, sir … please … for the love of God.”

“You’re in an awfully religious frame of mind today, Bentley. But no, stay where you are. I can manage.” Grey turned, thinking to pour her a cup, only to realize there was only the one cup—his—since the staff had been expecting only him to be dining in his room. Grey sought the duo’s attention. “Well, apparently, I can’t manage without another cup. Here. Have mine.” He held it out to her.

She looked at the cup, then at him … as if he were a steaming pile of something she’d stepped in out in the horse barn. “No. I won’t take yours.”

Grey exhaled, tiring of her unrelenting prejudice. “Which is it now? Because I’m white or because I’ve already drunk from it?”

“Neither. Because I am polite and it is yours. I would not take your things as you have taken mine.”

“Well, that’s put me soundly in my place, now hasn’t it?” Grey fumed—all the more angry for being embarrassed that she was right.

“Please, sir,” Bentley interrupted. “Allow me to get another cup and saucer from the kitchen. I should be most relieved—er, pleased to be of service. I—” He stopped, as if choking on his own words. The man’s face paled. His eyes widened. “Oh, dear. This is most unforgivable. Perhaps it is because of the chaos downstairs. But I have forgotten until now, sir, that—oh, how awful of me. It was the shock of seeing, uhm, the young lady—”

“Bentley,” Grey warned. Once started down that stammering road of his, Bentley could go on for hours and never get to the point. “I’m thirty-two years old and aging by the moment, man. Spit it out.”

The butler fussed nervously with his hands. “Yes, sir. In all the excitement, you see, I forgot the true nature of my mission—besides your breakfast tray, I mean. And besides telling you that Mrs. Scott—oh, dear. I forgot that, too. Mrs. Scott has returned, sir, with the … items you requested. She said she would put them in … well, I’ve forgotten just where. But it’s not that which is unforgivable. I—”

“Bentley, for God’s sake, man, I will give you a twenty percent increase in your salary if you will but complete one thought or sentence.”

“Yes, sir. But you’re not going to be happy, sir.”

“I’m not happy now, Bentley.” Grey spoke with deadly calm.

“Yes, sir.” Bentley took a deep breath. Standing next to him, Miss James monitored every move of the little man. For his part, Bentley steadfastly avoided looking her way as he kept his focus on his employer. “I regret to inform you, sir, that your mother awaits your presence downstairs in the drawing room.”