That night at dinner, Delgatto managed to seat himself close to the Scranton coal heiress, otherwise known as Juliana Brady. She was quiet, just on this side of mousy, and just as cheap as McKinney had suggested. She examined the menu prices and questioned the waitress about every dish, as if trying to determine if its ingredients warranted its price. To her credit, she kept her comments low key, not necessarily drawing attention to herself and her ever-present sense of thrift. But he noticed, of course, and wondered if perhaps the family fortunes weren’t quite all they were cracked up to be. Maybe she was trying to keep up appearances by staying in a Tower suite, but had to cut corners elsewhere.
He tried to imagine the woman dressed in the fairy outfit.
He squinted. Maybe.
Two young men came over to her table, and Delgatto overheard them inviting her to a party.
Go, he commanded under his breath. And stay out long enough for me to case your room.
She offered them an earnest smile and graciously declined the offer. Delgatto watched his plans go up in the proverbial puff of smoke.
Then she added, “Brother Callaghan has asked me to sing at both of his services tonight, as well as all next week.” She gave them her most earnest smile, laying her hand on one young man’s arm. “I know he’d love to see you there, as would I.”
Hallelujah, Sister Juliana!
The two young men stammered their excuses and extricated themselves from her grasp as quickly as humanly possible. Evidently, they weren’t churchgoing types.
She paid no mind to their rapid retreat and continued with her meal. Delgatto watched her do everything short of licking her plate clean. Waste not, want not, pay not. Yet somehow, as she hoovered her meal, she managed to remain prim-looking, eating it one precise bite at a time.
After she was through, she folded her napkin neatly, signed her check, and pushed away from the table. While she retrieved her coat and hat from the cloak closet, Delgatto managed to get up ahead of her. As she passed by, he artfully dropped one of his walking sticks. A well-mannered soul, she stooped to retrieve it. He made sure to collide with her.
With reflexes that would have made Fagin proud, he dipped into her string purse and removed her room key, all the while looking as if he was holding onto her for balance. He didn’t even flinch when he ran into something unexpectedly sharp in her purse.
“Oh my goodness,” she chided. “Are you all right?” She reached out and steadied him.
“Merci,” he said. “I am so sorry to have lost my balance. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“No. Not at all. It’s quite all right.”
He bowed stiffly at the waist, then picked up her hand and kissed it in his best suave and continental way. “I thank you for helping me maintain both my balance and my dignity.”
She colored slightly. “You’re quite welcome.” She paused, taking a quick glance at his walking sticks. “You know, The Chesterfield is a marvelous place for recuperation, but it addresses only the needs of the body. Have you thought about addressing the needs of the soul? You may find that a great aid in your recovery.”
“Indeed, I have. One of my brothers is a Roman Catholic priest and the other is a doctor. Between the two of them, my mind, body, and soul are all being well cared for.” To forestall any talk of Protestant conversion, he kissed her hand again. “But thank you for being concerned about my spiritual well-being. It is greatly appreciated.” The clock in the Grand Foyer began to chime, offering him a perfectly timed escape. “Oh, would you look at the time? I must retire to my room and begin my evening prayers. Would you excuse me?”
“Not at all.” She indicated her coat and hat. “I must run myself or be late.” She offered him a shy smile. “I’m making my singing debut at the church tonight. Until next time . . .”
“May your performance be enlightening to all those who hear it.” Delgatto shot her his most charming smile, bowed again, then waited until she took a few steps away before turning and heading for the hallway that lead to his room. As he lumbered along, he kept his eye on a mirror that afforded him a good view of the front entrance. He watched as she exited the building and kept watch until he was sure she was well on her way to church.
While he walked along slowly, he took the time to examine his hand, trying to determine what sort of sharp thing he’d run into while dipping into her purse. The three evenly spaced indentations suggested he’d come up against a fork.
In her purse?
He shrugged. Some people had very strange eating habits.
Pivoting, he headed for the stairs for one of the count’s after-dinner exercises. His fellow guests paid him little attention other than to shift to the opposite side of the staircase, leaving him one handrail to himself.
After making his laborious trip to the top floor, he was rewarded by an empty hallway outside Juliana Brady’s door. Under the guise of resting against the wall, he slipped the key into the lock and, making sure the coast was clear, entered the room.
In the darkness, he practically stumbled over a set of suitcases sitting near the door. She was leaving? But hadn’t she said something about singing at the church all the next week?
He sighed. In any case, she’d made it easy for him if she’d packed everything up. All he had to do was go through her bags. And he was lucky, too. Had he waited a day, she and possibly the Heart of Saharanpur might have walked out of his life.
He unfastened the first bag and was greeted by her underwear—stiff, cotton things with about as much personality as she had. But beneath the last layer of clothes, he found a curious assortment of items—a silver-handled hairbrush engraved with the initial “W,” two framed pictures which fit suspiciously similar sized spots in the slightly faded wallpaper over her bed, three towels with the hotel crest on them, a copper vase bearing the hotel crest, and a handful of costume jewelry, mostly odd pieces—single earrings, broken strings of beads, and the like.
In the second bag, there was only a perfunctory layer of clothes and more reclaimed goodies which either belonged to the hotel or, very likely, its other guests. Evidently, the woman would steal anything that wasn’t tied down.
The last bag had a false bottom which was filled with silverware pilfered from the dining room. He counted the pieces and discovered she’d stolen service for twelve, including serving pieces. All it lacked was one fork, and Delgatto knew the exact whereabouts of that missing piece: her purse.
But that didn’t matter. The most important point was that despite all the things she’d stolen or liberated, she evidently had never gotten her hands on the Heart of Saharanpur.
Delgatto allowed himself one really good curse word as he contemplated how easy it would have been to have simply stolen the Heart from her.
He eyed her loot, suddenly seeing a complication at hand. If she left without being discovered for the sneak thief she evidently was, then once the stuff was reported missing, the Major might start an investigation and even step up the hotel’s security, making Delgatto’s life even more complicated.
But if she doesn’t get away with this . . .
He bent down to examine the seam running along the bottom of the large carpet bag.
I’m afraid you’re going to suffer some equipment failure.
After several failed attempts, Emily finally got the newly christened “Fannie” out of her room. The nonanatomical spelling of the name turned out to be the sticking point. After the girl left, Emily found herself pacing, creating a path from door to window and back again, as if waiting for a shoe to drop—or in her case, a sign from the East.
She groaned at her own pun, then jumped at the sound of an unexpected knock on the door.
She sighed. Tiffany-turned-Fannie had returned twice already for reassurance. As Emily opened the door, she mentally prepared the final piece of advice she was going to offer the girl, but James East stood at her door.
Her mouth gaped open and her mind instantly filled with a thousand thoughts, the most pressing being: What will the staff do or say if they see a guest standing at my door?
Even worse: What will the Major do?
She scanned the hallway, thankful to realize there were no witnesses to this transgression. Then she grabbed Mr. East by the lapels and literally hauled him into her room, slamming the door shut behind him.
He grinned, and his expression almost knifed through her resolve.
“What are you doing here?” she managed to say without a telltale gasp.
“I need you . . .”
She swallowed hard, realizing how many different meanings the words had.
“. . . to help me.”
Something inside of her twanged in disappointment.
“I’ve discovered one of the hotel’s guests is a sneak thief. She’s evidently preparing to leave, perhaps even skip out on her bill.”
Emily fought to concentrate on the problem at hand. “The Major will explode. What guest? And what has she stolen?”
“A Miss Juliana Brady, staying in a Tower suite. And she’s stolen mostly odds and ends, some of it not worth much. The most valuable thing is a silver-handled hairbrush that quite probably belongs to another guest.”
“Miss Woodrington. She’s already reported it missing. For a while, one of the maids was under suspicion. But from what I’ve heard, she’s no longer being blamed.”
“Well, she didn’t do it. This Brady woman did. Who knows? She may simply suffer from a case of kleptomania.”
“From what?” Emily had never heard the word, but at first blush, it sounded both painful and contagious.
He smiled. “Kleptomania—it means she steals things without even thinking about it. It’s like an uncontrollable urge to steal.” He grew thoughtful. “But then again, I’ve never heard of a kleptomaniac stealing the exact service for twelve, one piece at a time. They’re usually not that well-organized.”
“I’m surprised Chef Sasha hasn’t burst out of the kitchen, threatening to cut off the hands of whoever has been stealing his silverware. I’ve been told he counts it periodically.”
“Judging by the fact her bags are packed and ready to go, I think she’s making her move tonight.”
“Then we need to inform the Major immediately.”
Mr. East smiled. “I have an even better plan.”
Emily stood the first watch, lurking in the shadows of the hall window curtains, keeping a close eye on the door to Miss Brady’s Tower suite. Somewhere between one and two in the morning, the door opened and Miss Brady stepped out, bags in hand.
Emily pulled the string that hung down from the window to the corresponding window below, alerting Mr. East, who waited one floor down. After the woman started down the stairs, Emily abandoned her post for ones with progressively better views, but out of the woman’s direct sight. Finally, the woman reached the top of the lobby stairs. She peered around the balustrade carefully and discovered the room was empty. A night manager sat in a chair behind the front counter, peacefully asleep.
She started down the stairs, tiptoeing unnecessarily on the carpet. As she approached the last few stairs, Mr. East stepped into view, right in front of the woman.
“Going somewhere, Miss Brady?”
She suppressed a small scream. The night manager shifted in his chair, snorted, but didn’t wake up.
“You startled me,” she offered in weak explanation.
“So I did. It’s awfully late for a lady such as yourself to be headed out.”
“It . . . it’s an emergency.” She took a minute to think. “I’ve received a wire. That’s right, a wire from my father, who is terribly ill.”
“That’s terrible! I hope he gets better. Please, let me call a porter for you. You shouldn’t be lugging that load by yourself.”
Her voice betrayed her panic. “Oh, that’s all right. I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.”
“Nonsense.” He held out his hand. “At least allow me to help.”
She recoiled. “I can’t. I couldn’t.” After a moment’s hesitation, she added, “I don’t want to compromise your rehabilitation.”
Emily could see his cold smile. “Funny you should use that word.” He reached out and literally tugged a carpetbag out of the woman’s hand. “My doctor told me today I needed to start lifting weights.” He demonstrated the bag’s evident weight by shaking it. “I think this meets with his new prescription.”
The woman shrugged. “If you insist.”
The next moment was a blur. The woman stretched out a booted foot and knocked away Mr. East’s cane. When he failed to topple over as she expected, the woman dropped her two other bags to grasp the one he held. A tug of war ensued, and Mr. East seemed to have the better of her until the woman released the bag. As he stumbled backward with his newfound treasure, she took the opportunity to snatch up the cane and give him a good rap on the head. He dropped the bag and clutched at the offending cane instead, trying to wrench it from her grasp.
Somehow, the woman managed to seize the bag, shoulder him out of the way, and run toward the door. Emily shouted for help, which startled the night manager. He fell out of his chair, disappearing behind the counter.
Emily watched in amazement as Mr. East leaped at the woman, tackling her and causing them both to sprawl to the floor. Her bag flew across the room . . . and skidded to a stop at the Major’s feet.
He stood there, his arms crossed.
“Is there a problem?”
The woman spoke first. “He’s gone crazy, Major Payne. I found the poor fool out here wandering around and muttering to himself. Then he attacked me.”
She scrambled to her feet far faster than Mr. East, who appeared slightly groggy and none too steady. The woman sidled up to the Major, grasping his arm. “Save me!”
The hackles rose on Emily’s neck. Surely the Major wouldn’t fall for her trick. What if he believed the woman?
Emily ran down the stairs. “No, wait. She’s lying. I saw the whole thing.”
The Major quirked an eyebrow. “You did? Just what did you see?”
Emily cleared her throat. She had to be careful. “I watched her come down the stairs and then Mr.”—she came a hairbreadth close to calling him Mr. East—“Galludat asked her what was wrong. She said she was leaving, and he offered to help carry her bags. Then she got agitated and began to fight with him over the bags.” Emily stared at the woman. “She knocked away his cane, took it, and hit him with it.”
To Emily’s surprise, the Major nodded. “That’s exactly what I saw.” He turned to the woman, placing an iron clasp on her arm. “As it happened, I decided to take a late-night stroll, and I witnessed the entire thing.” He lifted her bag. “This is rather heavy, don’t you think? Would you mind if I took a look?”
Miss Brady bristled. “Indeed, I do mind. These are my . . . personal and private effects.” She colored prettily. “My unmentionables.”
Emily helped Mr. East to his feet, not sure whether his heavy weight against her was a part of his crippled count act or whether he had suffered some sort of injury. At least his voice rang out strong and clear.
“Then why not let the maid go through the bag? She’s seen unmentionables before.”
Miss Brady stiffened, snatching the bag from the Major’s grasp and clutching it to her chest. “If you do not desist, I’m going to . . .” She searched for the proper threat.
“Scream?” Mr. East supplied. “Call Sheriff Garrett? I don’t think so. The sheriff is the last person you need to see.” He reached over to the bag, which the woman held to her bosom with two protective arms. Rather than try to wrench it away, he grasped a small string that protruded from the bottom of the bag.
One tug of the string, and the bottom seam of the bag split open, releasing a shower of knives, forks, and spoons to clatter against the floor.
Emily reached down and retrieved one knife, holding it up so that the hotel crest reflected in the light.
The Major smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Galludat. Your powers of observation are commendable. Miss”—he stuttered only briefly over her name—“D-Drewett. Your services are over for the night. You will be excused from tomorrow’s morning muster and your morning duties will be assigned to another for one day.” He glanced at his captive. “You and I will wait in my office until the marshal arrives.” He turned to Mr. East. “Sir, you look a bit unsteady. I’d be glad to call for an attendant to help you back to your room.”
Mr. East momentarily tightened his grasp on Emily, filling her with a sudden flood of warmth. “Perhaps Miss Drewett would be willing to help me.”
“C-certainly, sir,” she stammered. To her surprise, the Major nodded his consent.
“Very well, then. Good night—and, again, my thanks.”
Miss Brady uttered a very scandalous epithet as the Major unceremoniously hauled her toward his office. The night manager peeked over the counter and wiped his brow, evidently having escaped the Major’s notice. Sleeping on the job was a court-martial offense in the Major’s hotel military.
But to the man’s chagrin, the Major stopped just short of the doorway leading to his office and pointed at the manager. “I’ll deal with you after I’m through with her.”
The man paled visibly and sank back out of sight beneath the counter.
Delgatto tried not to laugh, but Emily’s suppressed giggle got the best of him. As they stumbled down the hallway, they covered their joint laughter in an effort not to wake up the other guests.
As they reached his door, his dizziness abated and he began to realize how delicious it felt to hold and be held by Emily. A clean scent rose from her hair as she used her passkey to open his door. As they entered, he used his foot to shut the door.
She stopped and glanced at him. She wore a look that was a mixture of curiosity, desire, fear, and excitement.
He knew that look.
He shared that look.
Suddenly, he forgot all his reasons why it made no sense to fall in love with a woman in the past. He forgot why he was back in time. He forgot what the Heart of Saharanpur looked like.
All he could do was think about her, anticipate what she’d look like in the throes of passion. What sweet music her voice would be, saying his name over and over again.
He kissed her and felt her breath catch in her throat. He could feel her pulse thrumming through her body, her heart racing. And it wasn’t in fear.
She ran her hand around the back of his neck and pulled him closer, her kisses frenzied, demanding. He returned her passion tenfold, which in turn inflamed her.
A few precious moments later, they were almost tearing the clothes off each other. Beneath her stark uniform, she wore lace-edged undergarments, old-fashioned by his standard, but twice as enticing as modern lingerie. He slowly untied the ribbons that kept her chemise shut, revealing the pale skin of her breasts and then slowly exposing each dusky nipple.
He drew one into his mouth, marveling over the sweet taste of her skin and the even sweeter sounds of her moans of pleasure. He felt himself harden in desire.
She tangled her hands in his hair and began a rocking rhythm that echoed both her gasps for breath and the intensive tempo of her heart as well as his.
He found the bow tie that held her bloomers closed and pulled it, loosening the string. Sliding his hand down her waist and toward the vee between her legs, he was rewarded with her strong reactions to his touch, her lovely shudder as he reached her, and her gasp of pleasure as he began to stroke her.
She pulled at his hair, forcing him to abandon her breast and slide up to take her mouth instead. She was wanton in her desire, exacting, demanding, and he was pleased to do her bidding.
She found his free hand and splayed it on her breast. He complied, grasping the rosy nub between his fingers and supplying the right amount of pressure to make her arch her back in response. He returned the favor by guiding her hand to his crotch, where she began a tortuous rhythm that would soon drive him totally mad.
They fell to the bed where, after only a few moments of delicious torment, he broke away long enough to kick himself free of his pants. Then they returned to their efforts with even stronger passion and a more frenzied rhythm.
Somewhere in his brain, he realized this act was like nothing he’d ever experienced. There was something magical and different about being with Emily, about sharing with Emily more than just his body, but something deep inside of him, too. Just the thought of her set him on fire. The act of touching her, being touched by her, was almost more than he could take.
Just as he feared he was going to explode right then and there, he slipped into her. She gasped at first, but soon their motion became as one as their hearts and bodies united. She came first, her breath in strangled gasps and her body jerking in reflex to each soul-shattering wave of sensation that crashed over her. It was even more intoxicating to watch her writhe and moan in pleasure. The sight of her extreme satisfaction brought him to his own pinnacle of sensation and he came, knowing she was watching him surrender to his own pleasure.
Spent and exhausted, they lay in each other’s arms, unwilling to break the divine silence that hung about them like an afterglow. Breathing was difficult enough. But after a while, he found the strength to say the words he really longed to hear aloud.
“Emily, I love you.” She caught him in a soulful gaze and he felt compelled to elaborate. “I can’t imagine when I didn’t love you.”
She shifted his arms so that she lay on top of him. Instead of replying, she ran the gentle tip of her forefinger down the side of his bristled jaw. “Why?”
He managed to shrug. “If I could explain it, then I’d be the king of the world. All I know is that I want you forever. . . .”
His conscience cut it short about a dozen words too late. But you don’t have forever. You barely have today. She’s yesterday and you’re tomorrow.
She must have read his face and seen the sudden wave of doubt wash over him.
“But . . .” She swallowed hard. “But you have your duties. Your responsibilities.” And to his surprise, she added a quiet, “I understand.”
He wanted to scream, No you don’t! But this was a discussion they could never have. Time travel was a concept he barely understood himself and could never explain to her. But didn’t she deserved an explanation that had some resemblance to the truth?
He cleared his throat. “Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, there lived a pretty happy family. They had a nice house, liked their community, and were content with the world at large. Then one day, someone came into their life and stole one of their most precious belongings. Suddenly, their world wasn’t so great. They lost their house, got kicked out of their town. In fact, the town sorta dried up and blew away, all because someone stole this . . . special belonging of theirs.
“So they plotted to get it back. The only trouble was, they didn’t know where it was. All they could do was prepare and plan. They taught their children all about this missing article and schooled them on every way possible of finding it and getting it back. And their children taught their children. And so it went. So many years have passed by that you may wonder if the missing article will bring them any happiness. They can’t get their house back. They can’t rebuild their community. What if the only thing they’ll end up having to show for their eventual success will be the return of the item itself? Is that enough to inflame each successive generation, who don’t remember the house or even when their family was just a family?”
At her confused look, he shook his head. “Ignore me.” He pulled her into his arms. “I think the point I’m trying to make is that my duties have always superseded all aspects of my life.” He kissed the top of her head. “And you’re the first person I’ve ever met who has made me wonder if I should forget my family and just go on with my own life.”
To his surprise, she nodded. “I think I understand. It wasn’t my idea to come here to work. My family asked me to, for reasons of their own. The day we met, I was to return home, unfortunately not having completed the task I was sent to do. But then an illness hit our town and they’ve been quarantined. I was forced to stay here.”
“Are your family sick?”
She graced him with a smile for asking. “No, they’re fine. But the town’s been quarantined. They can’t leave and I can’t come home. I should be homesick, but I’m not. I’m secretly glad I’m not going home to face their disappointment for failing in my duties.”
Although neither had spilled too many details, Delgatto saw the common thread in her story that matched his.
“So what do we do?” he asked.
She shrugged. “We complete our tasks and then we get on with our lives.”
It was the unspoken word that gave him hope.
Together.