His Substitute Bride

Annie couldn’t help wondering how Quint could afford such a place on a reporter’s salary. But then she remembered that he’d sold his share of the ranch to Judd and invested the proceeds. He would have all the money he needed. At the very least he could afford to take them to a nice lunch.

The name Delmonico’s had been synonymous with glamour and elegance for more than half a century. The San Francisco version was the most dazzling place Annie had ever seen. Glittering crystal chandeliers hung above what looked like acres of linen-covered tables decked with fresh flowers. Formally dressed waiters flitted among them, balancing silver trays the size of wagon wheels above the heads of the diners. Seated at a grand piano, a young black man played a tinkling waltz.

The waiter seated them at a table near a window and pulled out the brocade-covered chairs for Annie and Clara. Quint passed on their orders from the à la carte menu—braised chicken for Clara, poached salmon for Annie and a plate of oysters on half shell for himself. Then they waited for their orders, sipping fresh lemonade and nibbling from a platter of tiny crackers, smoked meats, pâtés and cheeses.

Clara’s ongoing chatter filled the need for conversation, allowing Annie to observe the diners. Most of the women wore skirts and jackets, beautifully cut and embellished with tucks and lavish embroidery. The fabrics almost made her drool—jewel-toned wools, raw silks, heart-stopping merinos and cashmeres, English tweeds to die for. And the hats! Merciful heaven, such hats! They were veritable museum pieces, piled with clouds of tulle, huge satin bows, artificial birds, sparkling jewels and jutting feathers. Annie had thought her own well-tailored suit and modest chapeau chic enough to wear anywhere. She had, in fact, been one of the most fashionable women on the train. But in this place she felt like a drab little country mouse.

“Why, Quint Seavers! What a surprise!” The speaker was a stunning woman with hair the color of a prairie sunset. She was dressed in a skirt and jacket of emerald silk bombazine, which looked costly enough to feed Annie’s mother, brothers and sisters for six months. A forward-curving black plume adorned her hat and framed one jade-colored eye.

“I missed you at the opening of my play,” she cooed. “You aren’t angry with me, are you, darling? After that awful scene at the club…”

“Not at all.” Quint rose. “Evelyn, I’d like you to meet Miss Annie Gustavson and my niece, Clara. Ladies, this is Evelyn Page, whose acting is the toast of San Francisco.”

Annie murmured a polite greeting. Ignoring her, Evelyn focused on Clara. “Your niece? What a delightful surprise! And she’s adorable! She looks enough like you to be your daughter!”

“So people say,” Quint muttered. “It’s good seeing you again, Evelyn. Save me a seat at your next opening night, and I’ll write you a nice review.”

“You’d better, you naughty man! Ta!” She sashayed toward the door with a flutter of her lace-gloved hand. Quint sighed as he took his seat.

“She’s pretty,” Clara said. “Are you going to marry her, Uncle Quint?”

“I hardly think Miss Page is the marrying kind,” Quint said.

“But she called you darling. Doesn’t that mean she loves you?”

Quint was saved from answering by the arrival of the waiter with their meals. Annie’s poached salmon, cradled on a bed of fresh, steamed kale, looked delicious, not like the lumpy gray-green morsels on Quint’s platter of shells. Annie had read about oysters, but she’d never seen them before. They looked downright revolting.

She gave them a tentative sniff and wrinkled her nose. “All I can say is, you’ve come a long way from Dutchman’s Creek, Mr. Seavers,” she teased.

Quint appeared not to have heard. He was staring at something—or someone—on the far side of the room. As she watched, his face paled, his eyes went flinty and his mouth hardened into a blade-thin line.

Chapter Two

Quint’s attention was riveted to the far side of the crowded restaurant. Only when a tall, swarthy man rose from his place did Annie realize who he was watching.

The man laid a bill on the white linen cloth. Then, strolling across the floor, he cut a path toward their table. A vague unease crept over Annie as she watched him come. He looked to be in his late forties, solidly built, with slick, black hair, an actor’s profile and a well-trimmed Vandyke.

His suit of fine gray worsted looked exquisitely expensive. Annie, with her eye for fabric and tailoring, recognized good custom work when she saw it. He carried an ebony walking stick topped by a brass lion’s head. Since the stick never touched the floor, Annie judged it to be an ornament, a weapon or maybe both. A large ruby signet ring decorated one finger. A penny-size mole splotched his left cheek.

Reaching their table, the man paused as if he’d just happened upon them. Quint had assumed an air of nonchalance. He made a show of swirling an oyster in the buttery sauce.

At last, with a huff of impatience, the stranger spoke. “Fancy meeting you here, Mr. Seavers. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your charming lunch companions?”

Quint finished the oyster and laid the small fork on the plate, taking his time. “Miss Annie Gustavson and her niece, Miss Clara,” he said. “Ladies, it gives me no great pleasure to present Mr. Josiah Rutledge, a member of our fair city’s board of supervisors.”

If Rutledge had caught the slight, he chose to ignore it. “Miss Gustavson, Miss Clara, my pleasure,” he murmured, bowing over Annie’s extended hand. Clara, she noticed, had slipped out of her chair and moved close to Quint. She shrank against his sleeve as Rutledge smiled at her. Annie had never known her niece to be shy.

Rutledge cleared his throat. “I read your column in the Chronicle last week, Seavers. You tread a fine line between speculation and libel. More pieces like that one, and you could find yourself in court.”

Quint didn’t stir, but Annie sensed the coiled spring tension in him. “I can hardly be sued for writing the truth,” he said.

“Truth?” The mole darkened as color flared in Rutledge’s face. “You wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you in the pants. Do you have any proof?”

Quint speared another oyster with his fork and stirred it in the sauce. A pinpoint of sweat glistened on Rutledge’s temple.

“Did you hear me, Seavers? I asked whether you had proof.”

Quint paused in his stirring. “Are you saying that proof exists?”

“You don’t have a blasted thing, do you?”

Quint shrugged. “Not yet. But give me time. Sooner or later, I’ll find a rope to hang you with, Rutledge. When I do, you won’t have to ask.”

“Ladies, my pleasure.” Rutledge turned away with a curt nod and strode toward the exit.

Clara was still clinging to Quint’s sleeve. “I don’t like that man, Uncle Quint,” she piped in her childish voice. “He scares me.”

Rutledge froze in his tracks, making it clear he’d heard. Turning slightly, he looked back over his shoulder.

His smile chilled Annie to the soles of her shoes.

They spent the afternoon seeing the city from an open horse-drawn cab. Quint did his best to be a good guide, but Annie could see that he was distracted. At unguarded moments, his features tightened into a worried scowl that was nothing like the rakish, playful Quint she remembered. Something was wrong; and Annie suspected it had to do with the man they’d met at Delmonico’s.

The cab took them up Market Street where electric trolley cars clanked along tracks of steel. On either side of the tracks, buggies, wagons and autos crowded the thoroughfare.

Annie gaped at the towering granite-faced Call Building with its wedding-cake top. City Hall, with its massive dome and pillared facade, looked almost as grand as the photographs she had seen of St. Paul’s in London.

“The pillars are supposed to be solid marble,” Quint said. “That’s what our taxes paid for. But I know for a fact they’re hollow and filled with gravel. The contractor probably split the difference with the city supervisor who gave him the job.” He glanced down at Clara, who’d fallen asleep against his shoulder. “San Francisco’s run by a bunch of crooks, from the mayor on down, and one day there’s going to be hell to pay for it.”

“Is that what you wrote about in your column? The one your friend Rutledge didn’t like?”

“My friend?” Quint mouthed a curse. “Rutledge is the worst of the lot. He knows I’m on to his shenanigans. But he’s right—I don’t have a lick of evidence to pin on him. He keeps his own hands lily-white while his hired thugs do the dirty work.”

“And all you can do, as the man said, is tread the line between speculation and libel. Isn’t that dangerous, Quint?” Annie’s gaze traced the worried lines on his face, lingering on the shadows beneath his warm brown eyes. It was all she could do to keep from reaching out and brushing back the lock of hair that had strayed from under his hat.

“Dangerous?” His frown deepened. “Maybe. But if I were to disappear, everyone who reads my column in the Chronicle would be aware of it. And I’ve got friends, good friends who know what I know and wouldn’t let it rest. That gives me a measure of protection.”

Her eyes searched his. Quint’s gaze flickered away, just slightly but enough for her to notice. “You’re not telling me everything, are you?” she asked.

He sighed. “Little Annie. You always could see right through me.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“No, and for your sake, I’m not going to. Just understand that I’ve stumbled onto a dirty mess. Rutledge is part of it, and things have gone too far for me to back off. I’ve got to bring him down.”

Annie’s white-gloved hand crept to her throat. “You are in danger! Have you thought of going to the police?”

“No good. Half the force is in Rutledge’s pocket.”

“Then the federal marshals. Surely—”

“Without solid evidence, they’d laugh in my face. All I can do is use the power of the press to jab at him and hope he breaks. Tomorrow’s column should really singe his whiskers.”

He reached out, took Annie’s hand and cradled it in his palm. “Meanwhile, I have two beautiful ladies to entertain, and I mean to enjoy every minute of their company.”

“But we’ve come at a bad time, haven’t we?”

“I’m the one who invited you, remember? Besides, where you and Clara are concerned, there’s no such thing as a bad time.”

“Spoken like the Quint Seavers I know and love!” Annie reclaimed her hand with a little laugh. Quint’s pretty words were lies, of course. He was playing a dangerous game with a dangerous man, and this was no time for distractions. Maybe tonight, when Clara was in bed and they had more time to talk, she would suggest that they cut their visit short.

Clara stirred and opened her eyes. “Can we please get some ice cream, Uncle Quint?”

Laughing, Quint tousled her curls. “Your wish is my command, fair lady. And I know just the place!”

Darkness had fallen, creeping in over the bay like a stealthy black cat. The last trolley car rolled into the barn for the night. Gaslit lamps glowed along the streets. Workmen with their tin lunch pails trudged home to the crowded wooden tenements south of Market Street. The mansions on Nob Hill blazed with light as carriages swept the rich off to parties or to the theater.

In the Jackson Street flat, Quint sat with his feet on the ottoman, gazing into the fire. From the bathroom came the sounds of Annie dressing Clara after her bath. Their girlish giggles resonated like music.

A legal pad and a freshly sharpened pencil lay on the side table. Quint had planned to spend some time jotting down notes for his next column. But tonight his mind was on other things.

The afternoon had been pleasantly spent, driving across the city, seeing the waterfront, the towering new office buildings and the legendary Palace Hotel where Teddy Roosevelt had been a recent guest. They’d laughed as Clara chased pigeons in Union Square and shared dripping ice cream in little sugared waffle cones at a sidewalk café. At the end of the day they’d come home to Chao’s savory lamb stew with fresh greens and flaky crescent rolls. Annie had insisted on washing the dishes so that Chao could go home to his family in Chinatown.

Clara had been a delight the whole time. As for Annie…

Quint paused in his thoughts, listening to the muffled sound of her voice through the bathroom door. He’d never given much thought to Hannah’s younger sister. The only time he could recall being alone with her was the day he’d taught her to shoot. It was a surprise to find her so intelligent, warm and perceptive. Little Annie Gustavson had grown up to be one fine woman. Any man on earth would be lucky to have her.

The bathroom door swung open and Clara pattered out in her white ruffled nightgown. With her freshly washed curls tumbling around her face, she looked like a six-year-old angel. Quint’s heart contracted as she scampered toward him. If he never did anything worthwhile in his life, siring this little girl would make up for it all.

“Would you tuck me in, please, Uncle Quint?” Her chocolate eyes melted him.

“I’ll be happy to tuck you in.”

“And would you read me Peter Rabbit first?” The small book had been a present from Quint two years ago, and she’d brought it along in her bag.

“How many times have you heard that story?” Quint teased. “Do you think it will be any different this time?”

“No. But I like it the way it is.” Clara skipped off to get the book. Annie had come out of the bathroom, her sleeves rolled up, her white shirtwaist unbuttoned at the collar. Damp tendrils of hair spilled over her forehead. She looked deliciously soft and mussy.

“While you’re reading, I believe I’ll take advantage of the warm water and have a bath myself,” she said. “We can visit later. Do you mind?”

“Go ahead. And help yourself to my new bathrobe. It’s hanging on the back of the door.”

She colored slightly. “Oh, really, I—”

“No, try it on. It’s cashmere. I paid a king’s ransom for it. It’ll spoil you silly.”

“We’ll see.” Annie ducked into the bathroom as Clara came bounding back into the parlor with her storybook.

Settling her beside him on the sofa, Quint began to read familiar tale of Peter Rabbit and his mother’s stern admonition not to go into Mr. McGregor’s garden. By now he knew the words almost by heart—which was a good thing, because his mind had begun to wander forbidden paths. The splashing sounds behind the bathroom door conjured up visions of Annie lying naked in the tub, her small, shapely breasts jutting like pink-crowned islands from a sea of soapy water. He’d never thought of Annie that way before. But damn it, he was thinking of her that way now.

Clara nudged him. “You left something out, Uncle Quint.”

“I did? What?”

“The part where Peter feels sick and looks for some parsley.”

“Maybe you should read it to me.”

“You read it better. But please, pay attention.”

Quint forced his concentration back to the trials of poor Peter. He had no business thinking about Annie Gustavson naked, he chastised himself. Unlike most of the women he knew, Annie was every inch a lady. If she knew what was going through his head, she would likely slap him senseless.

Annie eased back in the water, rested her heels on the end of Quint’s glorious claw-footed bathtub and closed her eyes. After the long, jarring train ride and the busy afternoon, this was pure heaven.

A bar of soap lay on a shelf next to the tub. Its woodsy, masculine scent recalled the way Quint had smelled when he’d leaned close to her in the cab. She held it under her nose and inhaled deeply, letting the subtle fragrance penetrate her senses. Soaping her hands, she sat up and lathered her skin. An image crept into her mind—Quint, naked in this very tub, rubbing the same soap onto his body. She pictured him massaging the lather into his armpits, down his broad chest and flat belly, between his legs…

Merciful heaven, this wouldn’t do! Her selfcontrol was slipping like a broken garter!

The water was getting cool. With a sigh, Annie rinsed herself, pulled the rubber plug and stepped out of the tub. Quint’s honey-colored cashmere robe hung on its brass hook. He’d invited her to borrow it. Annie might have refused the invitation, but she’d left her own light flannel dressing gown in the guest bedroom she shared with Clara. It was either put on Quint’s robe or get dressed in her clothes again which, since she planned to go to bed soon, struck her as a waste of time.

After toweling herself dry, she lifted the robe off its hook. It felt sensuous and weighty in her hands, like something between velvet and fur. Whispers of scent—Quint’s soap, Quint’s body—rose from the lush fabric as she wrapped it around her, slid her arms into the sleeves and knotted the thick sash. The softness was heaven on her bare skin. It made her want to purr like a cat.

Clutching the oversize robe around her, she stepped into the hall. Through the open doorway of the guest bedroom, Annie could hear Quint’s offkey baritone singing his daughter to sleep. What a shame Quint didn’t have children he could claim as his own. The man would make a wonderful father—if he could ever bring himself to settle down.

Tiptoeing into the parlor, she curled up on the settee and tucked her bare feet beneath the robe. In the fireplace pine logs popped and crackled. Annie basked in their warmth as she listened to Quint’s gruff lullaby. Hannah’s photograph, so beautiful, smiled down at her from the wall.

Why should Quint even want to settle down? she mused. He had plenty of money and a comfortable apartment, with a servant to cook and clean. And she’d wager he had his share of women, too, including the flame-haired actress who’d stopped by their table at Delmonico’s. As for children, maybe Clara was all the child he needed. He could love and indulge her without the burden of being a father. No ties. No responsibilities. Quint was as free as a bird, and he seemed to like it that way.

Why should she pin her hopes on such a man? It was time she opened her eyes and faced the truth. If she kept her heart set on Quint Seavers, she’d be committing herself to a life of spinsterhood.

“There you are.” He came around the back of the settee and settled himself at the opposite end. Reflected flames danced in his warm brown eyes. “Maybe you should keep that robe. You look a lot better in it than I do. How do you like it?”

Annie stirred self-consciously. “It’s the most decadent thing I’ve ever worn. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go put on my night clothes and return it to you.”

“No, stay.” His hand touched her wrist, rousing a tingle of awareness. “Clara’s barely asleep. You don’t want to wake her. Besides, I’ve never been alone with a woman wearing nothing but a cashmere bathrobe. Doesn’t it make you feel wicked?”

Annie’s cheeks flamed hot. He was playing with her, probably laughing at her discomfort.

“Stop teasing me, Quint,” she said. “I’m not one of your conquests.”

“Oh?” His left eyebrow quirked upward. “Then who are you, pray tell, Miss Annie Gustavson?”

“Hannah’s sister. Clara’s aunt. And your good friend, as well, I hope.”

He leaned closer, his eyes twinkling seductively. “You’re all those things. But that’s not what I’m asking. I want to know about the woman inside that prim and proper skin of yours. Who is she? Has she ever been in love?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

He grinned like a naughty schoolboy and settled back into the corner of the settee. “Little Annie. I’ve known you since you were in pigtails. But right now I feel as if I hardly know you at all.”

Annie stared down at her hands. She’d never considered herself shy. With most men, in fact, she could even be clever. But one smile from Quint Seavers was all it took to turn her into a bumbling, tonguetied schoolgirl.

She forced herself to meet his mocking eyes. “Can’t we talk about something else?”

“Whatever you like. You choose.”

“All right. Let me think.”

Quint studied her as she sat poised in silence. The collar of the cashmere robe framed her throat, lending a glow to her porcelain skin. Dampened by the steamy bath, her hair tumbled around her heartshaped face, framing her stormy eyes, her elegant cheekbones, her perfect, pillow-soft lips.

Lord, didn’t she know how beautiful she was?

He imagined tasting that mouth, nibbling at her lower lip, then crushing her in a long, deep kiss, his hands sliding beneath the cashmere to stroke her satiny skin, loosening the sash to…

“Tell me about you and Josiah Rutledge.”

Her words crashed Quint back to earth. His brief fantasy had been delicious. But this was Annie. She was family, and there was a child asleep in the next room. It was time he yanked his thoughts back above his beltline.

Pulling himself together, Quint rose to lay another log on the fire. “Would you like some wine?”

She shook her head. “No, really, I—”

“This isn’t Dutchman’s Creek, Annie. You’re in San Francisco now. Live a little.” He took a crystal decanter of merlot from the sideboard and filled two goblets half-full.

“Are you trying to corrupt me, Mr. Seavers?” Her eyebrows arched as he handed her the fragile glass.

“You look like a lady who could use a little corrupting.”

She took a tentative sip. “My poor mother would faint if she could see me now. Drinking wine in a man’s bachelor flat, wearing nothing but a sinfully expensive bathrobe…” Her eyes flashed at him over the ridge of the wineglass. “So sit down and tell me about your quarrel with Mr. Rutledge. After I’ve heard you out, we can decide whether Clara and I should stay out the week or go home early.”

Quint settled back onto the sofa, wondering how much he should tell her. He didn’t want to frighten Annie, or cause her to end the trip too soon. But how could he lie to those clear, intelligent eyes?

He started with the broader issues—the corruption in the city government, the rampant graft and bribery, and the dangerous state of the city’s water system. “The mayor and the board may be a bunch of crooks, but our fire department’s first-rate. The chief, Dennis Sullivan, has been on the job almost thirty years. He was the one who put me onto the story—said he knew for a fact that money had been paid out to fix the broken pipes and cisterns. But he’d inspected the sites himself, and found that what few repairs had been made were, to quote the good man, nothing but cow dung and feathers. I followed the money trail. It led back to the contractor and to the city supervisor who’d hired him—Josiah Rutledge.”

Annie leaned forward, the robe parting enough to reveal a glimpse of creamy skin. Quint willed himself to keep his eyes above her shoulders.

“But you said you didn’t have any proof against Rutledge.”

“I didn’t. It was pure guesswork. At first it didn’t matter so much. Getting the water system fixed was more important than nailing Rutledge. I hammered away at him in the paper, trying to make people aware of the problem. That was all I could do—until two days ago. That was when everything changed.”

Quint hadn’t planned to tell Annie about the incriminating letter. And he definitely hadn’t planned to tell her about the murder of Virginia Poole. But her soft, attentive eyes held him captive, spooling the story out of him word by word. By the time he was finished, he felt drained.

He leaned forward, staring into the fire. “I know I shouldn’t blame myself. But if Virginia hadn’t read my column she wouldn’t have contacted me and tried to give me the letter. And she’d probably still be alive.”

Annie gazed into her wineglass. “She did the right thing. You did the right thing, too. There’s no fault in that.”

“But she’s the one who paid the price. And now it’s up to me. I have to make sure that poor woman didn’t lose her life for nothing.”