Steal Me, Sweet Thief Page 5

  McAllister was as charming as Elaine was sullen. Clearly younger than the English peer, the lawyer demonstrated a certain brashness, taking charge of their evening with an authority that left her breathless. She and Elaine were to be his guests, he insisted, and he proceeded to order steaks and duckling and napoleons and Champagne and brandy, all the while relating the tale of his interesting odyssey.

  He was charged, it seemed, with the duty of securing a cast of the finest musicians for the Bay City, and had been successful thus far save in the quest for a diva. San Francisco audiences, he declared, would brook no foreigners, preferring, as befitted that brassy and totally American city, a homegrown soprano. He was to find such a soprano and lure her by any means necessary to the far coast to be the jewel in the crown, as it were. And he was pleased to announce to them, lifting his own Champagne goblet, that he had, this very evening, uncovered that jewel.

  Geneva was silent, even as the loquacious and charming California attorney toasted her with his bottomless dark eyes. It was Elaine who relieved her of the necessity of asking, and his host the need to reply.

  "Geneva? In the 'Wild West?' Hah! Unthinkable. Quite funny, actually. She's afraid of horses and cannot, I am quite certain, handle a six-shooter."

  Elaine had consumed a quantity of the Champagne, thanks to McAllister's application. McAllister chuckled. It was a warm, indulgent sound that tickled the base of Geneva's spine like a teasing, caressing finger.

  "I'm not much with a gun, myself," he remarked self-deprecatingly. "But San Francisco is civilized. Why, it's so civilized that there are almost as many politicians behind bars as there are bank robbers."

  Geneva laughed, more at the tone McAllister had used than at his amusing remark. Suddenly the attorney was looking at her again with that direct, probing gaze, the like of which gentlemen in New York did not subject a lady. The laugh died in her throat. Overcome by a desire she knew was dangerous, she could neither find a remark nor avert her own stare from his.

  "I am prepared to offer excellent conditions, Miss Lionwood," McAllister went on seriously. "Please say that you'll come."

  Geneva prayed he could not detect how very much she wanted to. She felt a hard weight in the back of her throat as she gazed steadily into the dark, compelling eyes of R. Hastings McAllister. She swallowed.

  Elaine Atherton, Earl of Trent and the key to Covent Garden, sat across the table with a studied look of utter boredom on his features, his eyes glazed and drooping from too much drink. How many more mistakes could she afford to make with men?

  "I imagine—" she measured her words carefully, keeping her tone soft and even in spite of her inner tumult—"I would be even more valuable to San Francisco having conquered Covent Garden."

  McAllister's brow rose. "Covent Garden?"

  Geneva nodded, granting Elaine a fond glance. To her surprise, the peer registered alarm.

  "Lord Atherton has arranged for my debut in London in November, haven't you, darling?" she announced, sipping the last of her Champagne.

  "Damn it, Geneva!" Elaine snapped. "That was not for publication!"

  "Why not?" Geneva was startled by his outburst.

  Elaine, still scowling, sent a pointed glare in their host's direction. McAllister pursed his wide mouth, surveying his guests.

  "With your permission, Miss Lionwood, Lord Atherton." He rose. "I will return shortly."

  "How dare you, Geneva?" Blame's voice was ugly and overloud. "I resent being placed in a position of—"

  "Of what?" Geneva, furious, kept her own voice low. "Of being forced to acknowledge publicly what you so earnestly promised me in private? Debuts are seldom well-kept secrets, Blaine. How is it that the world is to be ignorant of my performance at Covent Garden?"

  Blame's angry expression became, to her disgust, one of confusion.

  "No, don't answer, Lord Atherton." She stood up. "It is all too plain to me, now. How convenient it would have been for you, to set me up in the chorus at Covent Garden with the promise of things to come, while keeping me as a pet in a little house in St. John's Wood."

  Conversation at adjoining tables had ceased, and Geneva felt the eyes of society upon them. Blame seemed helpless, looking about himself like a wounded animal. Geneva drew herself up, contemptuous of his inability to form even a graceful lie for her.

  "You are despicable, Blame," she remarked through a smile. "And I don't know which is the greater: your vanity, or your stupidity."

  Kieran Macalester, lately known as R. Hastings McAllister, watched the tableau with no small satisfaction from the archway of the Gentlemen's Grille. He was always pleased when his instincts were proven correct: Lord Atherton was a phony. Not taking his eyes from the regal figure m white that was the exiting Miss Lionwood, he handed the waiter one of Humble's hundred-dollar bills and aimed himself in the direction she had taken.

  Predictably, it had begun to rain. Geneva stood under the canopy outside of Delmonico's and pulled her flimsy silk stole closely about her shoulders. A futile gesture, she realized bitterly. The garment offered precious little defense from a New York autumn night, and a rainy one at that. The doorman, in a warm topcoat of blue with gold braid, returned to his station, having safely ushered an elegant, if slightly tipsy, couple to a cab.

  "Madam?" He addressed her, his features devoid of expression.

  "I—I require a cab," she replied in an exasperatingly faint voice. Her scene with Blaine had left her weak and shaking, and more than a little upset. Her gremlin had apparently taken the evening off.

  "May I see you home, Miss Lionwood?"

  The warm baritone behind her belonged to none other than the intriguing California attorney. She wanted to take refuge in that voice.

  "Yes, thank you, Mr. McAllister," she murmured. He gazed at her with a startling expression of tenderness. Through an odd trick of the light and shadow of objects behind him, he appeared to have a small pair of horns upon his head, very much like a gremlin or a devil, until he applied his top hat. Through her despair, she smiled at the sight.

  "You are shivering," he reproved. "Here."

  Before she could protest, he had removed his own cape and placed it about her. His hands lingered on her shoulders for a moment as she fastened the buttons about her neck. It was a gallant gesture that rendered her numb with gratitude. The garment smelled like the tailor shop from which it had, no doubt, recently come. It was heavy and warm, and it made her feel very safe.

  The doorman readied the cab and Geneva climbed inside with the help of the solicitous attorney, who seated himself across from her. She knew, by the fall of the light, that he could see her face. But she could not see his.

  "Your destination, sir?" the doorman prompted after a moment.

  "Miss Lionwood?" McAllister's polite tone was respectful of her state.

  "The Biltmore, please," she barely whispered, and McAllister relayed the same to the doorman, who nodded.

  "Very good, sir."

  He closed the door, and the cab lurched off.

  "The Biltmore!" McAllister repeated, sounding pleased. "By some coincidence, my own destination as well."

  Geneva said nothing. She breathed a sigh—a broken one. She had done it, after all. Three important men in her life, and, for one reason or another she had alienated each of them in the space of a day.

  "Miss Lionwood, if I may." McAllister's smooth baritone broke the silence. "I take it there will be no debut at Covent Garden?"

  Disappointment knifed her. She wished, desperately, to be alone. To cry, to rage, to scheme with her gremlin and to piece her career back together as best she could, without Blaine, as pitiful as he had proven to be, to champion her. Henry Abbey would never take her back. Maple son had not dismissed her, but after Don Giovanni she knew that there would be little hope of his keeping her on for the rest of the season, even in the chorus, much less as an understudy. There remained only the courteous and charming, if mysterious, R. Hastings McAllister and his offer of San Francisco
.

  "No," she answered at the end of another long, deep sigh. "There will be no debut."

  "I am sorry." He allowed a moment of silence out of respect, she assumed, for her devastation.

  "However, may I hope that Covent Garden's loss will be San Francisco's gain?"

  He was a shrewd one, this McAllister. Brassy. And persistent. Ordinarily, she admired such qualities in men, but tonight her heart was heavy with the thought of New York and London having trickled through her fingers like the very rainwater that beaded down the isinglass windows of the cab.

  But what about San Francisco?

  "It is unchivalrous of you to seek to take advantage of my late misfortunes, Mr. McAllister," she replied coolly, hoping he could not detect the devastation in her voice.

  She heard him sigh. "You're right, of course," he allowed. "I'm not as patient as I might be. I beg your pardon."

  McAllister was a refreshing change from the men in her life so far. He was polite without being obsequious. He was like an uncut gem. That was allowable, even desirable, in men from the West, she decided. Their refinement should always have some hard edges, like the Rocky Mountains compared with, say, the Adirondacks. Her poetic and topographical simile improved her spirits a little.

  "My ill humor is not your doing," she remarked by way of forgiveness. "In fact, your bouquet was the highlight of my otherwise abysmal day."

  He chuckled again. It was a rich, comforting sound, the verbal equivalent of the cape he had so gallantly offered to her. "You're alarmingly perceptive, Miss Lionwood. Or am I hopelessly transparent?"

  She could not help smiling at the compliment. "As to that, Mr. McAllister," she responded, hoping to be mysterious, "only time will tell."

  The cab jolted to a halt. They had reached the Biltmore. McAllister alit first and helped her down, holding onto her hand a moment longer than was needed. She did not object. She liked the feel of his hand, strong and sure. He did not wear gloves, and he did not apologize for that. It seemed as though he wanted to demonstrate his power, or at least to give a glimpse of it. She found herself searching his face for—what? He smiled at her, that wide, honest grin accented by deep, teasing clefts in each cheek.

  "Tomorrow," she said, wanting to smile, herself, "Don Giovanni closes with the matinee. I'll give you my answer after that." He seemed satisfied with her response. "May I take you to dinner, then?"

  Brassy, she thought again with an unwanted shiver of excitement. Considering him, she feinted. "No, I have dinner in my rooms after matinees. But," she added, pulling her hand gently away from his, "you may join me there. Suite 20G."

  With a graceful gesture, she removed his cape and handed it back to him. "Good evening, Mr. McAllister."

  The doorman admitted her to the building. Kieran did not follow her. He was aware of a faint aroma about the cape Geneva Lionwood had lately worn: the scent of jasmine. He watched after her and presently heard a long, low whistle. The sound startled him until he realized that he had issued it.

  New York City suited Kieran Macalester more than he would ever have guessed possible. He had arrived by train four days earlier, having spent nearly that long in transit. He'd used his time wisely, however, studying the books on opera he had borrowed from Garland Humble. He'd poured over New York newspapers as well. They fed an eager public reports of the greater and lesser doings of opera's personalities.

  It had been ridiculously easy to pinpoint Geneva Lionwood's whereabouts, and subsequently to formulate a plan to insinuate himself into her company. He had, with little trouble, procured several fine forgeries, among them a letter of introduction to Colonel Maple son from a member of the Beekman family (in Europe and unavailable for confirmation). With it, he gained entrance to the Beekman box at the Academy of Music to experience for himself what he had only read about.

  Geneva Lionwood was everything Humble had represented, and more. For once, the spider had not exaggerated. She was lovely beyond any faded old tintype, beyond anything Kieran could imagine. But more than that, she possessed a vulnerable quality that had reached right into his chest and wound itself tightly about his heart from the first moment her gaze met his.

  She was a living, breathing catastrophe waiting to happen to him. "Sir?" the cab driver interrupted his thoughts.

  Kieran pulled at the end of his black silk bowtie until the accessory hung in two black strands from his collar. Geneva Lionwood Humble was also no fool. There was a reason for her postponement of an answer to R. Hastings McAllister regarding the San Francisco venture: He was certain she intended to check his story. He patted his breast pocket, where he kept Humble's letter, listening for the reassuring sound of crinkling paper. It was there, as always.

  "Fifty dollars in gold," he said to the driver, without looking at him. "You take me wherever I need to go, you don't ask questions and you never saw me before in your life."

  "Yes, sir!" The driver was enthusiastic. "Where to?"

  "The nearest telegraph office," he replied, climbing in again.

  "But isn't there one inside the ho—"

  "Is that a question?"

  "No, sir."

  And the cab rolled off into the waning night.

  Chapter Six

  Macalester's work kept him busy until nearly mid-morning, when at last he retired to his rooms at the Biltmore. He intended to peruse some additional literature on opera that he had acquired—anything to take his mind off of the captivating soprano—and to catch a short nap before attending Geneva's matinee performance, but his body had other plans for him. Overcome by weariness from his late-night missions as well as four previous days of much work and little rest, it was not hard, as the words on the pages before him blurred, to succumb to the overwhelming temptation of sleep.

  He awoke abruptly to the sound of knocking and he started in his chair. The open book on his lap fell to the floor with a thud, and for an uneasy moment, he did not remember where he was.

  A second round of knocking made him aware, in the pale gray light of dusk, that he was in his suite at the Biltmore. Instinctively, he felt at his breast pocket for the letter, Humble's letter to the governor, petitioning amnesty for himself and Billy. He knew an instant of terror when he realized it wasn't there. Damn!

  He stood up so quickly that he upset his chair, and it wasn't a small chair. His eyes focused on the coat that fell as the chair toppled. A long white envelope slid half out of the inside breast pocket.

  The letter.

  Relief made him weak.

  "Western Union, Mr. McAllister," a brisk, young, male voice paged him from the hall with the third round of knocks.

  What time was it? Groggily, Mac stumbled to the door, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. Wordlessly, he opened it to an annoyingly fresh-faced young man in a crisp gray uniform and cap. He signed for the man's offering and fished in the pockets of his rumpled pants for a tip. If the messenger wondered why he was half-dressed in evening clothes, which by this time hung about him like rumpled old sacks, he did not ask. He merely thanked him, and Mac closed the door again, lighting a lamp before opening the note.

  "Set up dummy office San Francisco Opera and Light Theater Company immediately Stop Purpose to confirm R Hastings McAllister as representative seeking soprano to curious party GL Stop Do it and don't ask questions Stop Reply."

  That had been his message to Garland Humble in Fort Worth in the small hours of the morning. Humble surely had the contacts and the resources to accomplish such a deed. If he did not, well, procuring his wife would be more difficult. More difficult, but not, Macalester was certain, impossible. He read on.

  "Done Stop Better be worth it you SOB Stop" He grinned. That, he supposed, would depend entirely upon the value Garland Humble placed upon his very charming wife. The mother-in-law clock on the mantle chimed the quarter hour. Six-fifteen.

  Damn! Dinner with Geneva! He had forgotten. He quickly fed the telegram into the lamp, watching it combust into a brief, bright flame. Regrettably,
he had no time to bathe and, having slept in his evening clothes, he would have to settle for one of the two additional new suits Garland Humble's expense money had provided. He washed, shaved and changed in fifteen minutes, then decided that a further delay to the hotel florist in the lobby might be worth the extra time. It was only money. And Garland Humble's money, at that. Certainly, he'd buy the largest bouquet he could carry.

  Geneva ignored all of Elaine's notes, which had been arriving with flowers and chocolates and even a diamond hat pin since before breakfast. The humiliation she had suffered at his hands at Delmonico's before McAllister, a complete stranger, was more than her ambivalent personal feelings for the English lord could endure. She shunned his repeated attempts to see her, both in her rooms and at the Academy, in favor of her personal mission to verify the mysterious R. Hastings McAllister's credentials and offer.

  Indeed, McAllister's offer was looking better and better with the passage of time. The telegram awaiting her in her dressing room after the matinee was a positive response to her query sent earlier. Maple son's personal assistant at the Academy and Audrey Stancil had confirmed the arrival the day before of a tall, ruggedly handsome man bearing credentials that had impressed even the colonel, a man who, aware of his own importance, did not impress easily.

  And Geneva was tired. Since her arrival in New York more than two years before, she had worked and studied, had trusted and been betrayed, had been promised and been denied more times than she could count. It was not her abilities that held her back, she realized: It was merely her tragic flaw to have been born and raised on the wrong side of the Atlantic Ocean.

  The opera world was crammed with singers less talented and less musical than she, but because their names were Patti or Calve or Nilson or Sembrich or Campanini or LaBlache, they were embraced by an American public starved for a link to the Continent. It was all so very discouraging.