Beth Henderson - Reckless

“Cheeky little tart,” the man growled after her retreating form. Beads of water had formed on the rim of his narrow-brimmed bowler. The shoulders of his suit coat were soaked through and the lapels were limply turned up in an effort to keep the rain from further dampening his wilted shirt collar. “Now then, squire. ‘Bout our business.” He pitched to the ide, stumbling over his own feet.

Garrett nearly staggered himself when the Irishman fell against him. “What business might that be?” he asked, steadying the man upright once more. “The return of my wallet and watch, perhaps?”

Rather than take offense at the accusation of theft, the man grinned widely. “Yer’ve been snaffled afore, have ye, squire?”

“By better men than you,” Garrett said. “Shall we adjourn to the bar and see which of us pays for the drinks with my purse?”

The man chuckled. “I like you, squire. ‘Struth. Oh, look will you, I’ve mussed the front of yer lovely coat.” He brushed hastily at Garrett’s duster, removing imaginary soot. “Perhaps I could put yer right of a special little brew. Highly recommend it.”

The barkeep probably did store a “special little brew” behind his counter guaranteed to knock a customer out, Garrett mused. If a man accepted, he would wake up at sea, shanghaied more efficiently than any man who’d ever been impressed by the Royal Navy.

“Whiskey,” he said when they reached the bar. “Neat.”

“I’ll have the same as me friend here,” the dripping man declared. While waiting to be served, he leaned back against the scarred bar top, the heel of one shoe hooked companionably on the brass foot rail, and grinned widely on one and all. His clothing created puddles on the floor, the runoff sending out small rills that fed into the spittoon channel beneath the bar rail.

Garrett waited until they’d been served and his damp companion had unabashedly paid for the drinks from the wallet he’d lifted from Garrett’s pocket. “That’s the most atrocious accent I’ve ever heard,” he said.

“It’s dead to rights, my lad,” the other man vowed, his voice pitched low, the brogue abandoned. “Buzzed it from me da himself.”

Garrett studied the smoky glass the bartender had slid before him and the strong liquor within it. He wondered briefly if he’d been smart to follow the western creed of allowing a man his anonymity when it came to the past. Particularly when it came to the man who had become his traveling companion over the past few months. “Why are you following me, Dig?”

Another man pushed next to them and called for a bottle. Deegan shrugged back into character and reached for his own tumbler. “Tis a mortal sin fer a man to be forced to drink alone, squire.” He took a sip of his whiskey and grimaced. “Holy Saint Patrick! But that’s a fine elixir,” he declared hoarsely.

Since Deegan’s eyes had begun to water, Garrett ordered soda water before sampling his own shot.

Deegan toasted the other patron as he moved away from the bar, then turned back to Garrett. “If you had another friend handy I would have left you to your own bloody devices,” Deegan continued in an undertone. “But you don’t. That leaves you a choice. We can make a night of it in this charming little groggery or find a more appropriate setting to get soused. Either way you’re going to tell me what’s bothering you.” He held up a hand, halting any attempt Garrett might make at a rebuttal. “And don’t tell me it’s your dear old da’s demise.”

Garrett stared at the whiskey in his glass, considering his words. It would be so much easier to let Deegan remain nothing more than the companion of his Mexican adventures. With the loss of two heiresses in a single day, and dwindling finances, Galloway had his own problems.

In a corner a man shoved to his feet, angrily upsetting a table over his companions. A woman shrieked as one of the men leapt forward to seek revenge.

Garrett ignored the building melee, no longer in a mood for a fight. “Let’s get out of here,” he suggested. “I warn you, Dig, it’s an ugly tale. Melodrama at its worst.”

Manfully Deegan tossed off the rest of his whiskey. “I’m fortified,” he assured. “And who might the actors be?”

Garrett ducked in a reflexive move as a chair sailed across the room. “The cast includes myself, of course, my brother Ellery, and a beautiful innocent named Sybil Tilbury.”

Deegan signaled the bartender and tossed greenbacks onto the bar. “Two bottles of yer finest rotgut,” he said. ‘The squire’s spinnin’ me a fine tale as he sees me safely home. Were you wishin’ after the return of yer wallet, yer lordship? It seems to be a trifle empty.”

A dazzling parade moved past the window where the shadow crouched, dark clothing blending with the natural shadows in the garden. It was fortunate that the night was damp. It kept the revelers indoors and made observation so much easier.

The women in their jewel-colored gowns were unaware of the threat. The men in their onyx black suits never sensed the danger. They talked, flirted, danced, drank—unaware that another watched.

Gowns of watered silk, bedecked with lace, ruffles, ruching and ribbons, were on display, the carefully draped aprons caught up and drawn back into elaborate cascades that drew attention to a woman’s form. Trains trailed or were held outstretched to whirl with the steps of a dance. The elegant ebony tailcoats of the men moved in sync with the gowns, sailing with the rise and fall of the music, and occasionally a flash dazzled as lamplight caught the glitter of gold or silver threads woven into the pattern of a waistcoat. It was the moving, glowing fabrics that had life, not the people. Yet, at the moment, it was the people who held the watcher’s attention.

The stiffly starched fronts of the shirts held the prey at attention, and the corsets squeezed the soon-to-be bereft into improbable shapes. Weskits and waistlines strained across expanding torsos, clear evidence of the comfortable life-style enjoyed by the guests.

Candles and gas jets fought for prominence, creating pockets of alternating light and dark. The light was sought by women anxious to display a new bauble, a new gown, a new beau. The dark was the habitat of lovers, of stolen moments, of stolen caresses and murmured lies.

The shadow watched them all, carefully noting which of their jewels the ladies wore. The garnets of one guest were nice but could never compare to the bloodred rubies of another. The watery glint of aquamarines flashed by as a gallant swung his partner in an enthusiastic polka. A new debutante paused near the window, the light falling softly on her gently curved neck and the modest necklace of matched pearls that graced it. The possibilities were endless. It was so difficult to make a final choice. So delightful to plot the method by which to reap.

A man glanced out the window, his eyes seeming to meet those of the thief. He started away, looked back, then signaled to one of the waiters, motioning to the window.

The shadow melted away moments before two men with lanterns arrived to comb the garden for intruders. The thief waited just out of sight, enjoying the chase. Fools, that’s what they all were. It was so easy to play this game.

“You see anything?” one of the searchers called out.

“Hell, no. I think Stokes was seeing things. Had a bit too much champagne punch, if you ask me.”

“I don’t know. Claims he saw someone peering in from the bushes.”

“A cat most like.”

The shadow waited. So it had been Elmer Stokes who had raised the alarm. He would pay for that. What bauble had his wife worn? Had it been the jade or the fire opals? Did it matter? The victim had been chosen.

The parlor door barely closed behind Wyn before Hilde-garde Hartleby tossed aside the latest copy of Demorest’s Monthly Magazine and gazed excitedly on the folded newspaper in her guest’s hand.