‘Why are you telling me this? It is terrible, of course, but it has nothing to do with me.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t know. I don’t want you hurt, Jules.’
‘Then why did you go visit Jane Branigan?’ ‘She wanted to speak to me, that’s all. Nothing more.’
‘About what?’
‘It’s not important.’
‘Are you going to sleep here tonight?’ ‘Your mind,’ Saint said, clamping down on
12,29
his body’s instant response to her words, ‘jumps about more unpredictably than that strange animal in Australia. No, I’m sleeping downstairs. I’m expecting a patient, he’s coming up to see me from San Jose.’That was a bloody lie, but what else could he tell her? No, I won’t sleep here or I’ll strip off your nightgown and force you. Again. And this time you wouldn’t be asking me to, since you know …
‘Good night then, Michael.’
He merely nodded, and turned to leave. ‘You needn’t be quiet when you leave to see Jane Branigan,’ she called after him. ‘I’m a very heavy sleeper.’
A muscle moved convulsively in his jaw. ‘Good night, Jules,’ he said, and strode from the bedroom.
Jules heard the front door open and close some fifteen minutes later. She turned off the lamp beside the bed, flipped onto her stomach, and cursed into the pillow.
It was only a week until Christmas, and the days had shortened drastically. It was only a bit after four in the afternoon, and Jules had to move to the window to read the letter. It was from her sister, Sarah. It was a taunting,
rather petty letter, in which Sarah described in great detail her wedding to Tory Dickerson, a visiting planter from Oahu. ‘Good for you, Sarah,’Jules said aloud to the silent parlor. ‘Now maybe you’ll be just a little bit happy.’ She folded the letter, then took it up to Thomas’ room, propping it up on his pillow.
She was alone, Lydia having left an hour earlier to buy some Christmas presents.
She wandered about the house, gazing into Michael’s surgery. There were several glassfronted cabinets, two chairs, a desk, and a long table, where, she supposed, he examined people. She studied the bottles in the cabinets, but without much interest, for she recognized only a few of the labels. He’d been gone most of the day, called by David Broderick’s servant to come to his house. Broderick, it seemed, had broken his leg.
She grabbed her cloak, gently placed her derringer, now loaded, into her reticule, and stepped out into the growing darkness. She didn’t see Thackery. Perhaps he was off visiting Lucas. She had told him at noon that she wasn’t going out today. Well, so much for him. She would take care of herself.
She would go visit Maggie. Certainly it was too early for Maggie to be entertaining men. Her eyes narrowed as she walked toward
qqQ
Kearny Street. Where are you, Mr. Jameson Wilkes? I’m not a virgin, not anymore, but I certainly would like to see you!
She became aware of the number of men staring at her. She raised her chin. There were catcalls and whistles and some lewd comments tossed her way, but she ignored them, staring straight ahead. She saw some women, gaily dressed, and knew they were prostitutes. She had nearly gained Portsmouth Square when she heard an astonished voice from behind her.
‘Good God! Jules, is that you?’
She turned slowly, recognizing Brent Hammond’s voice.
‘Hello, Brent,’ she said. ‘How are you this fine day? No fog, but Michael tells me there’s not much during the winter. It’s getting dark so much earlier now, isn’t it? How is Byrony?’
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Brent said, eyeing her speculatively. Where was Thackery?
‘I’m visiting Maggie.’ ‘Like hell you are!’
‘Your language is foul, sir, and it’s really none of your business. It was nice seeing you. Now -‘
‘Stop, Jules! Does Saint know what you’re up to?’
‘Up to?’ Jules raised a supercilious brow. ‘I
am a free person, Mr. Hammond. I am out walking and visiting, just as I suspect your former slaves can now do. Good day, sir.’
Brent ground his teeth. Then he smiled, his charming, seductive smile. ‘Very well. Do allow me to escort you to Maggie’s apartment. I’m certain she’s very anxious to see you, particularly here.’