Emily dabbed at the juice that trickled down her chin. “These strawberries are so sweet. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten any that tasted this good. Where do you suppose Chef Sasha finds them this time of year?”
Cornelia Furman flopped into the chair by the foot of the huge bed. “No one knows. For all his bluster and noise, he’s quite a secretive man, you know. All I’ve heard is that the food comes on the train every day and that he tends to hurl a piece or two at his assistants when he’s angered by its poor quality.” Cornelia gave the bed a critical once-over, her gaze lingering on the coverlet. “You didn’t sleep in the bed. Why?”
Emily grinned. “Perhaps I’m one of your neater guests—one who makes up a bed after herself.”
Cornelia made a rude noise. “None of my guests make up their own beds. I wouldn’t be that lucky. They’re the sort of people who do nothing for themselves.” She made a comical face. “The nouveaux riches.” She uttered a sharp bark of laughter. “Believe me, they’re definitely not old money. Sometimes I wonder if they actually expect me to hold the handkerchief to their noses when they sneeze.”
She eyed the bed again. “No, you didn’t sleep in this very grand but very lonely bed.” She scanned the room, her attention settling on a settee that fit within the curves of the grand piano. “You slept there, curled up like a child, clutching your pillow for company.”
Emily stared at her friend. “You never cease to amaze me, Cornelia. As usual, you are right. I couldn’t bear sleeping in such a large bed by myself.”
A sly smile spread across Cornelia’s face. “Perhaps you will have better luck . . . be less lonely at the Christmas Ball.”
“Cornelia Persephone Furman!” A sudden heat flashed up Emily’s neck and across her face.
Her friend rolled her eyes. “Don’t look so shocked. The ball will be the perfect opportunity to find a rich and powerful man to sweep you off your feet.” Cornelia looked down at her uniform and gave her apron a derisive tug. “And you’d never have to wear such hideous apparel as this again.”
Emily pushed her breakfast tray aside. “What wealthy man in his right mind would mistake a maid like me for a lady of means and breeding?”
“It could happen.” Cornelia pursed her lips in a secret smile. “I have a new guest on my floor,” she said, like an older sibling dangling a sweet out of the reach of a younger one. “An invalid, but a very handsome man despite his infirmities.”
For a moment, a face flashed in Emily’s mind—the French count she’d met at the train. Although she’d seen him probably at his worst, he still had a charm about him, and certainly he was rather handsome. What would she do if someone like him began courting her? How would she act? What would she say? What would she—
“I can tell by the look on your face.” Cornelia laughed. “You’ve seen him already. Very dashing, don’t you think?” She leaned forward, joining Emily and creating an air of near conspiracy. “Wouldn’t you suppose a man like him would cherish a beautiful woman who found him almost as attractive as his ample fortune?”
Emily stiffened. “You make me sound like a gold digger.”
“Gold?” Cornelia scratched her head in puzzlement. “I’m not so sure if he has gold. But judging by the quality of his clothes, he certainly has access to some sort of substantial fortune. Now whether it’s a gold mine—”
“No, that’s not what I mean. A gold digger. You know, a woman who uses her charms to entice a rich man.”
Cornelia wore a confused look. “There’s nothing wrong with that. If you’re not born into money, then how else are you supposed to get it? As my mother always said, it’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one. My grandmother did. And my mother did. And I plan to, also, someday.”
“No, I’m talking about women who use fake charm and offer false interest in a man. Your mother truly loves your father. If she didn’t, she would have left him when he lost his fortune. But she didn’t. With a gold digger, love doesn’t come into the relationship . . . except, perhaps, the love of money.”
The light began to dawn in Cornelia’s eyes. “Ah, I understand now! It’s like the fisherman who dangles bait in the water, waiting for the fish to strike. When the hook is set”—she jerked an imaginary fishing rod—“he pulls in his catch. And then he cooks and eats it.”
It was as good an analogy as any. “Something like that.”
Her friend’s devious smile deepened. “But your charms aren’t false. You are an attractive young woman of obvious manners and education, staying in The Chesterfield’s finest suite, who—”
“—who dresses like an off-duty maid because that’s what she really is.” And no prosperous and handsome French count would be interested in the likes of me.
“You mean that is what you were, “ Cornelia corrected. “But perhaps there’s something we can do to change that.” She gestured for Emily to stand and twirled her finger, indicating that Emily should turn around in a circle. “Definitely something we can do.”
An hour laterEmily stood beside a worktable at Maria’s Dress Emporium, Hope Springs’ finest dressmaker. Not only had Cornelia coerced Rupert to unearth a large chest from the hotel’s storage area, but she’d enticed him to bring it down by wagon to the small alley behind Maria’s shop and lug it inside. He blushed mightily when both Maria and Cornelia gave him simultaneous chaste kisses on his cheeks.
Emily eyed the chest, a stone of doubt planted firmly in her stomach. “Are you sure this is . . . right?”
Rupert dismissed their crimes with a careless wave of his hand. “We’ve been holding this trunk for six months in lieu of payment from Lady Arkling. She ducked out of a three-month stay without paying. It’s about time it did us some good. And even better, it’ll clear up a corner of the storage area for other things.” He rubbed one cheek absentmindedly.
Cornelia used a small tool to pry open the lock, and it took all four of them to open the heavy chest and reveal a rack of clothes in one side of the trunk and a set of drawers in the other.
Maria reached in and plucked out the first gown. “The hotel bill is not the only thing that woman did not pay.” The dressmaker ran a loving hand down the fabric of the gown. “I made this for Lady Arkling”—she turned and ran her other hand across the other dresses—“and this one, and this . . . and didn’t receive a single penny in payment. So legally, these are my property.”
Emily stared at the beautiful green velveteen dress Maria had liberated from the trunk. “As much as I might like wearing such a lovely gown, the Major might disagree with you about the ownership.”
The dressmaker muttered something in Spanish which Emily suspected wasn’t too terribly complimentary of the Major. Then Maria turned around and held the dress against Emily. “Green is not his color. But I think this one, as well as the others, would look lovely on you.”
Rupert’s blush deepened again. “Yes, ma’am. I concur wholeheartedly. Especially the bit about the Major. Green is definitely not his color.” Before they could chide him for his unexpected interest in fashion, he tipped an imaginary hat. “And with that, I believe I must go.” Rupert scooted toward the door with a carefree whistle.
Maria held up a finger. “May I impose on your good nature and request you make a delivery for me on your way back to the Chesterfield?”
The young man stopped then nodded with enthusiasm. “Gladly.”
She pawed through a pile of fabric, extracting a pair of trousers that she quickly wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string. “Please take this to Café of Dreams.”
Rupert’s enthusiasm flickered. “For Chef Corrine?” His face reddened. “I still can’t get comfortable seeing a woman in men’s trousers.”
Maria held out the wrapped package. “They’re not men’s trousers. They’re women’s trousers. Now please, hurry.”
Emily hid her grin behind her hand.
Once Rupert departed, Maria and Cornelia turned back to the task at hand, insisting Emily try on each dress. They clucked over each one, and declared each one prettier than its predecessor. But they weren’t content with that. The two women poked, prodded, conferred, and pinned each outfit, adding bits of lace, taking some away, and making small changes to update the styles to current fashions.
As they toiled on the third dress, Emily finally spoke, letting her conscience free. “I do appreciate what you’re doing, and these are certainly grand dresses, but isn’t this a case of putting the cart before the horse? If the Major sees me walking around in such finery, he’s sure to notice it, if not me, and realize that I’m still here. He might even discover Miss Sparrow has put me up in the top floor suite and then her job might be in jeopardy.”
Cornelia, who had been kneeling to work on a hem, leaned back on her heels and tapped her forefinger against her lips. “You have a good point. . . . After a moment’s reflection, she stood. “Then what we need for Emily, first, is a fabulous Christmas ball costume. Something to attract the attentions of a rich man looking for a wife. Or perhaps a rich man who doesn’t know he needs a wife—yet. Then”—she indicated the pinned dresses with a sweeping gesture—“you’ll need all these other dresses as he courts you. Once the hook has been set in your prospective husband’s mouth, the Major won’t dare try to dislodge it by telling the man that you are no more than a lowly maid. How could Major Payne explain why you were living in the suite? And even if he could, your rich man will be so enamored of you that he will not listen to naysayers.”
Emily tried to push the image of the French count’s face out of her mind as she crossed her arms. “You have this all figured out, don’t you?”
Cornelia smiled. “I always do.”
The next morning, Franz-the-behemoth parked Delgatto at an empty table on the edge of the crowded dining room. A moment later, a waitress in a starched outfit scurried over to offer him a menu and a wide smile.
“Good morning, sir. Would you like to start with coffee or tea this morning?”
“Coffee,” he croaked. Morning was not his strong suit, and he refused to gain strength until he downed a pot or two of black coffee. The maid reappeared with a silver coffeepot and poured him a brimming cup. The first sip was an eye-opener—not only was it steaming hot, it was some of the strongest coffee he’d ever had.
“It’s our special house blend, sir. Would you prefer something different?”
Translation: If you’re not man enough to drink the hard stuff, we have some milder coffee in back for wussies.
He coughed, trying to regain his breath. “Oh, no, this is fine.” He took a second sip, hoping he could build some resistance to the inky brew. At least he didn’t cough the second time. “Delicious,” he managed between gasps.
A voice boomed behind him. “You may be in Virginia, boy, but this here is what we call Texas coffee.” Judging blindly by the accent, Delgatto expected a John-Wayne type to step into view. Instead, a small man slipped around to the front of the table. He wore a buckskin outfit that smacked of Davy Crockett in miniature, carried a large black cowboy hat in his hand, and wore a Texas-size smile.
“The name’s Horace McKinney, from San Antone. You new here, ain’t you?” Then without pausing, he added, “Mind if I sit he-yah?”
Although Delgatto meant his nod to be in response to being new, McKinney made it appear an invitation to sit. Somehow, Delgatto knew the man had pulled a similar trick on unsuspecting guests a dozen times before.
The little man straddled his chair with a bowlegged gait, plopped his hat on the table, then signaled to the waitress. “Bring me coffee and the usual, little darlin’.”
To the woman’s credit, she didn’t wince openly, but she did betray her distaste by stiffening slightly. “Yes, sir, Mr. McKinney.” She turned to Delgatto, her strained smile softening. “And you, sir? Have you made your selection, or would you like more time to consult the menu?”
“Just toast, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Nonsense,” McKinney roared. “That’s no breakfast for a real man. Bring him a couple of fried eggs, a rasher of bacon, and some of those grits I taught Chef Sashy how to make.”
The woman showed only the slightest bit of hesitation.
“Now, don’t you mind ol’ Sashy, little lady. He may roar like a wounded bull when he’s riled, but he’s nothing more than a pussycat. Now run along and put in that order. And tell him to get the lead out.” As the waitress hurried away, McKinney leaned back in his chair, smacking his lips. “I wish I could convince Sashy to come back home with me to San Antone. We could sure use a new cook at the ranch house. I’d even put up with the man’s hollering if it meant eatin’ his grub. You in for a real treat, son.” He continued without taking a breath. “Like I said, I’m Horace McKinney from San Antone. And you are?”
Delgatto offered the short man a deliberately limp handshake. “My name is Robert Galludat.”
“Ro-bear? Is that your name or your profession? Ro-bear . . . rob-ber?” He shook with laughter.
Delgatto maintained his usual poker face despite the extra heartbeat. A robber? Not exactly. I’m a burglar.
The man continued. “Can’t say I’ve ever met a man name of Ro-bear. They call you Bear for short?”
“In your country, it’s usually pronounced Rob-bert.”
McKinney’s laughter evaporated and he caught Delgatto in a look that revealed something deeper than a simple Texas cowhand. “All right, Robbie. Now what’s all this I hear about you being from France? I’ve been to Paris a couple of times and you don’t sound like no parley-voo Frenchy to me.”
And so the dance began.
Any story Delgatto made up now he’d have to remember and be able to repeat. “I matriculated in England.”
McKinney’s eyes narrowed. “An educated man, eh? Y’all don’t sound like no Oxford grad, neither.”
Delgatto met the man’s skepticism with a careless smile, but meanwhile, he wondered just how many simple nineteenth-century cowhands from Texas would understand the meaning of the word matriculate.
Not many.
He offered an equally careless shrug. “My tutor was American. I picked up my accent from him.”
The excuse seemed to assuage McKinney’s doubts. He leaned back and released a loud guffaw. “Well good for you, Rob. I can’t abide them snooty-sounding Brits, either.”
Delgatto watched as the occupants of three different tables, obviously British citizens, stiffened in reaction to McKinney’s loud exclamation. One gentleman directed a sympathetic look at Delgatto, which made him wonder if being accosted by McKinney was a ritual most new guests had to endure. And why did the man hide behind such a crass facade?
Perhaps the best defense in this case would be a strong offense.
“So you’re from Texas.” Delgatto gave the man a slow once-over. “I thought things . . . ,” he paused artfully to gauge the man’s height or lack thereof, “. . . were supposed to be big in Texas.”
McKinney seemed nonplussed by the pointed observation. “Abso-durn-lutely. My ranch is so big it takes a week to ride from one end to the other. Mah house is durn near the size of this hotel and a might more comfortable. And mah”—he looked over Delgatto’s shoulder at someone or something and paled slightly—“appetite ain’t quite what it used to be. Tell you what, Bobby-Boy, I’ll catch up with y’all later, you hear?” He pushed his chair back and moved with unusual speed and agility toward the nearest exit. Delgatto turned around and saw the source of his distress. A handsome older woman was making a beeline toward the table, maintaining her ramrod posture as she wove between the other seated diners.
“Mr. McKinney, I need to speak with you posthaste!” Her ironclad voice suggested few people had the audacity to ignore her commands. Her steel-gray bun suggested those who did ignore her commands would suffer a schoolmarm tongue-lashing that would cow even the most prominent, most prosperous CEO. She came to a standstill beside McKinney’s vacant chair.
“What an odious little man,” she said, not quite under her breath.
Delgatto took a long sip of coffee, then spoke over the rim of the cup. “I don’t believe he’s the simple . . . how do you say? . . . ‘cowpoke’ he would have us believe he is.”
She stopped at the comment, then turned, giving Delgatto a long critical gaze. “What has led you to this rather impertinent observation?”
Delgatto placed his cup gently in its saucer, then templed his fingers, careful not to place his elbows on the table. This woman smacked of propriety and manners and could either be a formidable foe or staunch ally, depending on her first impression of him.
He cleared his throat and spoke in a low tone. “Mr. McKinney mentioned he’d been to Paris and knew I did not sound like my French compatriots. Yet he doesn’t have the obvious air of a seasoned traveler. Plus, when I mentioned that I had matriculated elsewhere, he required no definition of the word, betraying an unusually extensive vocabulary. Finally, no self-respecting Southerner would use the word y’all in reference to the second person singular. It’s strictly used as a plural.”
The woman’s face cracked with what was probably a rare smile. “Excellent.” She held out a gloved hand. “Theodora Biddle. Of the Philadelphia Biddles.”
Delgatto lifted her hand to his lips, placing a continental kiss on the back of her dark glove. “Monsieur Robert Georges Galludat . . . from a lamentably small village in the south of France.” He offered her a pained smile. “I would stand. However . . .” He gestured weakly at the protruding wheels of his chair.
“Good manners. I like that.” She held her hand toward the chair vacated by McKinney. “May I sit?”
“By all means.” He made a concerted effort from his seated position to pull the other chair out for her, but she clucked away his gesture and seated herself without help. “So are you here for Dr. Ziegler’s miracle cure?”
Her lip curled slightly when she said the doctor’s name, and Delgatto made a split second decision based on her obvious distaste for the man. “I cannot, in good faith, believe all his claims. They are . . . what is the expression? Too good to be true?”
She nodded with so much energy that her hat slid back and forth on her head. “My thoughts exactly. His so-called mental cures that he learned from that mesmerist are nothing more than smoke and mirrors combined with an unhealthy dose of bunkum. I find him highly . . . distasteful. However, the hot springs and mud baths are particularly invigorating on their own, and I highly recommend them.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “They’ve done wonders for my old bones. If my sister, Birdie, and I didn’t come here every year, I daresay neither of us would be as mobile as we are today.” She glanced unabashed at his wheelchair. “May I inquire as to the nature of your infirmity?”
A small flash of panic quickened his heartbeat before he managed to suppress the emotion. He had to remember, to believe no one could pull a better scam than he, in the past, present, or future.
He adopted a suitably sad expression. “A riding accident. A small girl darted in front of me on the road to my villa, and rather than run her down, I managed to”—he almost said steer as in car—“pull my horse back, but he reared, I fell . . .” He allowed his voice to drift off as if it were too painful to recall.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Biddle didn’t pick up on the right cue. She pressed on. “So you have no use of your legs? No feeling?”
He spotted the ornate diamond hat pin tucked away beneath the feathers of her hat. One part of him yearned to examine the pin, perhaps pocketing it for a far better cause than holding Mrs. Biddle’s hat in place. But the more prudent part of him saw the pin as a way to puncture his alibi. One jab with the pin and his lies about paralyzed legs would be exploded like a balloon filled with hot air.
“Actually, I do have some feeling in my legs. Perhaps too much feeling, as I am always in some sort of pain. My doctors believe the mud baths here might help rejuvenate, reactivate my nerves, and restore part of my prior strength.”
“Then how fortuitous that we’ve met.” She leaned forward again, this time dropping her voice to a whisper. “There are people around here who prey on unfortunate, unhealthy souls like yourself. And I don’t merely mean that so-called Dr. Ziegler.” She made a pointed effort of craning and glaring past Delgatto’s shoulder at someone across the dining room. She straightened quickly. “Not now.”
The waitress appeared, carrying a tray loaded with several steaming dishes. After serving Delgatto, she pursed her lips at the empty place setting. “Sir, do you know if Mr. McKinney is planning to return to the table?”
“I don’t believe so. I’m afraid he left quite suddenly.”
“Oh.” She reshouldered the tray containing McKinney’s breakfast. “Is there anything else—”
“One moment, young lady,” Mrs. Biddle interrupted, gesturing toward her own part of the table. “No use letting good food go to waste. You may serve Mr. McKinney’s meal to me, but make sure the charge goes to him.” She stripped off her gloves. “Some people simply have no manners—to order food and not consume it. I cannot abide such wasteful actions.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Once the young woman set out the various plates and left, Mrs. Biddle picked up her fork as well as the conversation. “Now, as I was saying, there are unscrupulous people here who prey on the weak and infirm.” She paused to take a bite, chew, then swallow. “And your promise of good health makes you even more susceptible to their machinations.”
“How so?”
Mrs. Biddle stiffened. “See those two ladies in the corner? The young one in blue and the older one, her mother, in brown?”
Delgatto noticed the two women in question in furious conversation at a corner table. They were obviously mother and daughter, both blond, big-boned, and looking as if mere food couldn’t slake their hunger. “Yes. I see them.”
“Those are two of the worst around here. That’s Ermeline Molderhoffen and her daughter, Gertrude. The Molderhoffens are facing severe financial difficulties, and both mother and daughter are out to strike it rich by finding wealthy husbands.”
Mrs. Biddle glanced below the level of the table, ostensibly at his legs. “And an obviously rich but infirm young man might be a fine catch for them.” The woman colored slightly. “Especially an attractive young man.” The color faded as quickly as it arose, and she continued. “Should you let her, Gertrude will attend to you slavishly in hopes that any recovery you might achieve could be credited to her obsequious efforts. She will then trap you into marriage and expect you to use your fortunes to bail out the entire Molderhoffen clan from their financial failures. You’ll then inherit an enormous family of drunkards, ne’er-do-wells, and gamblers who will proceed to deplete your coffers as quickly as they emptied theirs.” She leveled a steely stare at him. “There are many crooks out there, Mr. Galludat, waiting to pounce on the unprepared or weak, ready to steal them blind and do it while offering an attractive, if not beguiling smile. Don’t become a victim.”
He contemplated the steam rising from his coffee. “I appreciate the warning, Mrs. Biddle.” He studied the rippled patterns his breath left on the liquid surface. “I truly do.”
And don’t worry, I won’t be the victim. I’ll be the one doing the stealing.