Stealing Mercy Read online

  And now he found her outside Steele’s hotel room, fumbling with the door, and any second the goons would reappear and find her trying to pick Steele’s lock with a bent hair pin. She wore a black gown that looked like it belonged to her barge shaped aunt, the lace and crinoline sagged around her shoulders. He found the ribbon bunching the fabric around her waist unattractive and yet alluring.

  She couldn’t be Steele’s accomplice, could she?

  He had plans for Steele’s room and didn’t want an audience or interference. Although he had sought out Mercy, he didn’t want her here, in harm’s way. He watched, waited, and hoped she’d grow frustrated and return to her aunt and to a life without Mr. Steele.

  Mercy paused, looked around, pushed the spectacles back on her nose and resumed her work. Trent stepped away from the plant for a closer look. Her dark hair had been tucked into a simple bun, but escaped strands curled down her neck. A pink flush stained her cheeks. She caught her lower lip between her teeth.

  The floorboards creaked and Trent turned to watch Steele’s henchmen, Lector and Orson, amble down the hall. Mercy had also seen them, and when she started, the black dress slipped and exposed a rounded shoulder. She pushed her back against the door and straightened the dress. Despite his impatience, Trent smiled as the bifocals slid down her nose.

  He wondered what she would say to the goons. Did she know them? Did they have a working relationship? He considered what they could do and say to her and then abandoned his place behind the potted plant.

  “Wrong room, my dear,” Trent said, his voice thick with false laughter. He held out a hand, praying he was a better actor than his sister. “We’re over here.”

  Mercy’s cheeks flamed red. She groped the lock behind her skirt, undoubtedly trying to extract the hairpin. “Goodness,” she said. “That would have been embarrassing.” She let Trent take her hand and pull her across the hall, away from the burly men.

  Her hand, cold and small, shook in his grasp. She radiated with nerves. Not Steele’s accomplice then. Unless, of course, she was trying to double cross him. Interesting.

  Trent bristled under Orson and Lector’s stares. He pulled her to him. “Hand me your key, darling.”

  “Pardon?” she stammered, clutching the hairpin.

  Trent gave the goons a tight lipped smile and then met her gaze. “Your key,” he repeated, grasping her arm. She felt soft and fragile and smelled of cinnamon. Her eyes widened in surprise and alarm when he tightened his grip.

  “Of course,” she said, slipping him the hairpin.

  Within seconds he’d unlocked the door to room twenty and pulled her inside. He closed the door and locked it with loud click.

  She shook off his hand and he let her go. She rounded on him, her voice a whisper. “What are you doing?”

  Trent took a step back, but couldn’t help grinning at her. He liked the flash in her eyes. She reminded him of his sister’s fiery tempered cat. “I’m saving you.”

  She placed her hands on her hips. “From what? From you?”

  “I say,” he said. “This isn’t much of a thank you.”

  “I’m supposed to thank you for pulling me into a strange hotel room?”

  Her voice rose an octave and he smiled, remembering her practiced baritone. Put that way, she did have a point, but he wasn’t about to concede. “You’re much safer here with me…although, if you’re worried you should have brought your measuring stick. And you still owe me for the shipboard tussle with Wallace.”

  She stopped glaring and for a moment looked contrite. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Mercy rolled her eyes. “I thought so. What is it with men? Always squirreling for a fight?”

  Squirreling? If he had to be an animal, he wouldn’t choose to be a squirrel or any other sort of nut collector. “What I’d meant was it’d been my pleasure to help you.”

  She blushed, avoided his gaze and glanced around the room. A pile of slips and petticoats sat on the bed. Face paints and bottles of rouge scattered the top of the vanity. A pile of trunks, each bearing a woman’s name, lined the wall. A variety of wigs in a host of colors sat on pegs; they looked like a faceless audience.

  “I suppose the cloak and dagger, or should I say breeches and felt hat, is the saner, more feminine approach.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to employ sane or feminine wiles, Mr. Michaels.” Then she asked in a smaller voice, “Whose room is this?”

  “It’s the dressing room,” Trent said. “I know someone on the stage.”

  She planted her feet and crossed her arms. “I’d like to leave before someone needs to change.” She dipped her head toward the door behind him. Beneath her breath she added, “Although some change might do us well.”

  “You think I need to change?”

  She shrugged and looked pointedly at the door.

  “I’m not the one in costume,” he told her.

  “I’m not in costume.”

  He had his own agenda and plans for Steele’s room and he needed to know that Mercy wouldn’t get in the way. He couldn’t allow her to attract the attention of Steele’s henchmen, so he folded his arms across his chest and shook his head.

  Mercy drew herself up, pushed the glasses higher onto her nose, and braced her shoulders. Although she had impressive height for a woman, he knew she couldn’t match his strength and he doubted that she would want to try. Chloe and her cohorts on the stage had to use paint to achieve this girl’s pale and rosy complexion. He frowned. Besides the glasses, something else had changed since he’d last seen her. “Your hair--”

  She touched her hair, tucking the escaping curls back into its knot.

  “Didn’t it used to be brown?”

  “No.” She shook her head and her eye twitched.

  Useful, he thought, smiling; she has a tick when she lies. “Yes,” he said, considering the curls and fighting the urge to reach out and touch a loose tendril. “I’m sure it was a honey color, a hint of red.”

  “You must have me confused with someone else.” She tried to move past him and he stepped left to block her path. She stepped right and he followed. A sigh escaped her lips and her shoulders squared as she redoubled her efforts to out maneuver him. His smile broadened as he blocked her way. “But you consider yourself disguised.” He tipped his head considering her. “Why?”

  She placed her hands on her hips. “Because I’m wearing glasses and I blackened my hair!”

  He shook his head. “Why are you disguised? That’s just one question. I’ve actually quite a few.”

  “And I don’t have to answer any of them.”

  “You will if you want to leave.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “I’ll call the constable.”

  “No one will hear you over the noise below.”

  She nodded towards the door. “The two men outside will.”

  Trent leaned back against the door. “Are you seriously interested in their help? I happen to know they aren’t particularly nice men.”

  She frowned at him, her hands clenched at her sides. “And I suppose that you are the king of polite society.”

  “Perhaps just the prince.” He paused, grinning. “Prince of Polite.”

  “Of course, the king would at least explain why he’s detaining me in a hotel.”

  The smell of cosmetics filled the closed space, making the walls seem closer. Straining, he heard the heavy footsteps of Lector and Orson move down the hall, and let his breath out in a slow, inaudible whistle. They’d been lucky. He lowered his voice. “Why were you attempting to break into Steele’s room?”

  Her eye twitched. “I thought it was my room.”

  “This isn’t the first time you’ve commandeered Steele’s quarters,” he continued, ignoring her lie. “Steele’s dangerous. What’s your connection to him?” His mind raced. Could she be his daughter? Sister? Surely, not his wife. He’d heard Steele’s wife had died by her own hand not too long ago. There had been,
he supposed, ample time for Steele to remarry. Of course, a wife wouldn’t need bent hair pins.

  She cocked her head at him. “Maybe I like dangerous men.”

  He didn’t smile. “I doubt that very much.”

  “I’m here with you,” she offered.

  “Ah, but not by choice.” He stepped away from the door.

  She sucked in her breath, clearly fighting the temptation to try and bolt for the door, but she stood her ground. “Right,” she said drawing out the lone syllable. “Why is that?”

  “You seem to make poor decisions. Breaking into Steele’s room would have been foolish. His goons would have --”

  “I didn’t know he had guards,” she said.

  “Now you do, so I suggest --”

  She put her fists on her hips. “You misunderstand. You don’t get to make suggestions.”

  He stared at her, and felt his mouth drop open. “I could have let those men take you --”

  “And lock me in a room?”

  She wasn’t letting him finish any of his sentences. “Well, yes --”

  “And then I’d be exactly where I am now. Held hostage by a strange man.”

  “I’m not strange.” Finally, a full sentence, but one he disliked. Just saying he wasn’t strange, conversely, made him seem so. Some things shouldn’t be up for discussion or question.

  Mercy folded her arms across her chest. “Well, that’s debatable and a matter of opinion.”

  Trent fought down his rising anger and frustration. The evening wasn’t going at all as he’d hoped. His plans couldn’t wait and they couldn’t be postponed any longer. “Let me escort you to your coach.” He held out his hand.

  She looked at his proffered hand with disdain. “Thank you, but I walked.”

  He dropped his hand. “You walked?” He looked at the drizzle streaming down the windows. “In the dark? In the rain?”

  “It wasn’t dark or raining when I left.”

  Trent put his hand on the doorknob. “But you must have known both were inevitable.”

  “Are we going to spend the evening discussing the likelihood of Seattle rain? I’m afraid I’ve more important things to do. Please excuse me.”

  He stood, watching her, anxious to leave and yet reluctant to let her go. Heaven knew when he’d see her again. “We’ll leave as soon as you tell me what you hoped to find in Steele’s room.”

  “Steele?”

  He shook his head. “Try again.”

  “He’s a handsome man.”

  He remembered his gram’s maxim, it’s easier to attract flies with a honey jar than with a bottle of vinegar. Mercy, with her lips pursed looked like she’d swallowed a slug of vinegar. That wouldn’t do. He needed to win her over. Trent rolled his eyes and held out his arm. This time she took it. He tucked her hand close to his side and led her out the door.

  In the lantern lit hall, he could see Lector and Orson lounging near Steele’s room. Orson had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing a multi-colored snake tattoo circling his massive forearms. Lector wore an absurd red bowtie that should have made him look less dangerous, but it didn’t. The tie emphasized the man’s log-like neck. Trent swallowed and admitted to himself that his task neared suicide. He drew Mercy a fraction closer, liking the feel of her against him. He wondered if Steele ever felt the same and he fought a wave of jealousy.

  Mercy smiled a trifle too brightly, her eyes lingering on the hulking men. Orson and Lector straightened, stood and moved away from the door

  Trent strode faster. The two men were watching him. He could feel their gazes on his back.

  “Oh very well,” she said, after a quick look at his face. She had to skip to keep up with him. “I wanted to know if he had an interest in--” her voice dropped to an almost inaudible tone, “Lucky Island.”

  Out of the line of sight of Lector and Orson, Trent picked up his pace. She trotted at his side.

  “I’m sure he does,” Trent said. After all, most moneyed men in Seattle had an interest, or two or three, in the prestigious brothel.

  She cut in front of him and raised her eyebrows. “A financial interest?”

  Trent stopped, ran his fingers through his hair, and asked, “You’re interested in Steele’s investments?”

  She batted her eyelashes, obviously thinking. When a couple passed them on the stairs, she bumped against him. Her hair tickled his chin. She smelled of pie. His mouth began to water and he hoped she wouldn’t know, or guess, that he wondered if she tasted as good as she smelled.

  He took a deep breath, acknowledging that time and opportunity were passing and as delightful as it was to spar with her, he had reasons of his own for breaking into Steele’s room. After the couple passed out of sight and earshot he said, “I’ll visit Steele’s room.” Then, unless she suspected, he added, “For you, but only if you promise to return to your aunt.”

  They moved through the nearly deserted lobby, the rustling of Mercy’s skirts betraying their haste. On the other side of the doors leading to the auditorium, Trent heard the fading aria and dying organ.

  The third act would begin momentarily and he wanted to leave before his sister began her solo. Her performing on the Seattle stage still set his teeth on edge. He’d been vehemently opposed to her role in the plan.

  Mercy motioned to the cloak check. “I need my things. You mustn’t wait for me.”

  “I’ll wait.” He fished in his pocket and drew out the token for his cloak. Then he took Mercy’s token and handed both to the girl behind the counter. Mercy cast him a nervous, curious look, but held her tongue while her cloak and umbrella were retrieved. He felt he could read and predict the questions flitting through her head as he folded his cloak over his arm and drew Mercy outside to resume the conversation.

  “Why would you risk breaking into Steele’s room?” Mercy asked as they passed through the outer doors and paused beneath the stoop. He held her cloak while she tucked it around her shoulders. Trent nodded and led her to the sidewalk. The rain fell on his bare head, trickled off his ear. He could see fog forming on the lenses the glasses perched on the edge of Mercy’s nose.

  “For you.”

  Mercy tightened her lips and lowered her eyebrows as if she didn’t believe him. “Why?”

  He nodded at the dark gardens. Beyond the maze of boxwood hedges, cherry trees in full blossom, lilacs in fat clusters, a rose trellis scaled the hotel wall and stopped inches below a shuttered window. “I think I’m a better climber than you. As delightful as it would be to watch you on the trellis.”

  She didn’t say anything, but scowled as they made their way down the walk. Rain dripped from the eaves in fat drops that fell with a loud kerplunk. Horses jingled their harnesses and coaches rolled through the muddy streets with sucking sloshes. They stopped in front of a black and silver coach and Trent knocked on the door. A curtain twitched and then the door swung open.

  “Sir?” Mugs stuck his curly head out the door.

  “Could you be so kind as to deliver Miss Faye to-”

  The sound of rain, horses, and a wind whistling through the coach filled an awkward pause. Trent finished, “To where ever she’d like to go.” It didn’t matter if she didn’t tell him her address. If she were no long living with her aunt, he’d get the directions from Mugs and see her again, soon. He pressed her hand. “Goodnight, Miss Faye.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Brazilian nuts need to be shed of their bitter, papery brown skin. Toasting will improve the flavor of all nuts and make them appealingly crisp.

  From The Recipes of Mercy Faye

  While the organ wailed in its pit and the dancers stomped on the stage, Trent stood outside the Grand Hotel, huddled inside his cloak against the drizzle. He’d been watching Steele’s window for several minutes-- he’d been watching Steele for much longer. The man sailed in and out of Seattle with regularity and he usually had a young female in attendance: a niece, a goddaughter, always a respectable explanation for a situation that border
ed on shady. The one hiccough in the pattern had been Mercy. Why had she masqueraded as Steele on the ship? Why was she attempting to burgle his room?

  Mercy and the revolving females had sparked Trent’s curiosity and he wondered if Steele had ever accompanied Rita. She’d disappeared a little more than a month ago sending his imperturbable grandmother into a frenzy that increased daily.

  Trent had, perhaps, an unreasonable confidence in the rose arbor’s ability to carry his weight, but, given the surge of anger he experienced every time he thought of Steele’s female menagerie, Mercy breaking into Steele’s room, and what could have resulted, he felt as if adrenaline could fly him through the window.

  While a cloud passed in front of the moon and the organ music climbed to a crescendo, Trent scaled the wall of The Grand. His boots crushed roses and thorns poked through his leather gloves. Coming level to the window, he pushed open the shutters and hoisted over the sill.

  Without aid of moon or stars, Trent had to let his eyes adjust to the inky darkness. He brushed bits of leaves and petals off his clothes as he looked around the room. A lone beam of light shot out from under the door leading to the hall and fanned across the floor. Steele’s room appeared identical to the room he’d just shared with the Mercy, minus the face paints and trumpery and with the addition of a large traveling chest. How many goons had it taken to lug that around?

  He didn’t bother with the chest. While a pair of footsteps sounded in the hall, Trent stood still and silent beside the wardrobe, searching for a safe. The footsteps paused outside the door and then resumed. Trent let out his breath and then noticed a wrinkle in the throw rug. He kicked it back and inspected the wooden planks marching together in perfect symmetry. He bent down for a closer look and, as he had suspected, two of the boards were missing pegs. Trent’s heart picked up speed as he pulled his knife from his belt and wedged it between the boards. Removing the slats, he found the safe, no bigger than a bread box. He lifted it from its nook and tucked it beneath his cloak. Then he made his way back out the window, but rather than taking the trellis, he scooted along the eaves and jumped to a second story balcony.