‘With that beautiful gold tooth? Maybe the president,’ Thackery said dispassionately. Saint lightly slapped the man’s face.
‘Name. What is your name?’
‘Avery. I made me a good-sized strike. I was here celebrating, at the Oriental Hotel, and the little whore shot me.’
‘At least he won’t have to spend the night in the parlor,’ Saint said. ‘Thackery, hail a hack for him and get him back to his hotel.’
‘Dr. Saint,’ Thackery began, knowing the time for reckoning had arrived.
‘Well, what?’
‘Before I get him out of here
Saint pulled his attention from the man and eyed Thackery.
‘It’s Mrs. Saint,’ Thackery said. ‘She shot him.’
Saint said nothing. He didn’t move. His face was an unreadable mask.
‘She didn’t mean to, but he was trying to force her.’
‘Don’t defend her, Thackery,’ Saint said very calmly. ‘It isn’t necessary. Get him out of here, please.’
Thackery lifted the man in his arms. Saint followed him silently, not looking at his wife,
who was standing quietly in the entrance hall, watching.
When the front door closed, Saint walked calmly into the kitchen. Lydia was pounding at some bread. ‘I want you to go home,’ Saint said. ‘Now.’
Lydia wiped the flour from her hands, her eyes studying Saint’s face. She wasn’t blind_, nor was she deaf. ‘I don’t know if I should,’ she said.
‘Leave, Lydia,’ Saint repeated. ‘I won’t kill her.’ He gave a short, harsh laugh. ‘I’m a physician, remember?’
Lydia sighed. At least, she thought, he would speak to his wife. That, she supposed, was better than the deadening silence that pervaded the house.
Jules watched Lydia slip out the front door. She felt numb, blessedly numb.
Saint looked at her a moment, then said, ‘Come here into the parlor. You need a brandy.’
She followed him, standing quietly in the middle of the room until he pressed a glass in her hand.
‘Drink. All of it.’
She did, and fell into a paroxysm of coughing.
He didn’t touch her. Her face was red when she caught her breath.
z rZ r
‘Finish it.’
She did, then thrust the empty glass at him. Very carefully Saint set it down.
He held out his hand.
Jules simply stared. She loved his hands, she thought vaguely. The fine sprinkling of hair., the long fingers, their blunt tips. She had loved it when he’d touched her, caressed her. ‘Give me the gun,’ he said.
She opened her reticule and looked at the very small instrument that could very easily have killed that man. She couldn’t bring herself to touch it. She shuddered, unknowingly, and thrust the reticule at him.
Saint took the derringer, opened the chamber, and took out the second bullet. He then dropped the gun to the floor and stomped on it. Once, twice. It broke into three pieces, Jules saw.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘I believe it’s your turn, Juliana.’
‘Juliana?’ she repeated.
J believe,’ he said, his voice as cold as Toronto winters must be, ‘that ‘Juliana’ is more appropriate than ‘Jules’ for a whore. ‘Juliana’ is also more appropriate than ‘Jules’ for a liar.’
His words broke over her, filling her with his disgust, and she began to shake; she couldn’t help it.
IZ7
‘You might consider trying tears,’ Saint said, making no move toward her. ‘Though this time, Juliana, I promise you they won’t work.’
‘No, no, I won’t cry,’ she said. ‘Refreshing,’ he said. He walked away from her – he had to – to the fireplace. He leaned his shoulders gratefully against the mantelpiece. ‘Would you care to tell me what happened?’ he asked, his voice very polite, very calm.
‘Nothing, not really. He pulled me into an alley.’ Jules drew a deep breath. ‘I was frightened and we struggled. The gun went off by accident, Michael.’
‘Such a short, almost boring tale,’ he said. ‘Fortunate for your conscience that the man, Avery – not a bad fellow really, I imagine
won’t die because you’re a stubborn, witless little fool.’
As if drawn by a puppet’s string, her chin went up.
‘Would you mind telling me why you were out alone?1’ He waved a hand toward the window. ‘It’s dark, and was almost dark when you were out there. Obviously you thought you’d lost Thackery.’