Wicked

“Not at all.” Setting the camera on its stilt-like legs, Deegan offered her a hand and pulled her to her feet. She was hasty in releasing him, the action that of a woman ill at ease around an unknown man. It wasn’t a reaction he associated with females who frequented the streets of the Barbary Coast. Rather than lean on him, she wilted against the wall slightly as she got her bearings once more.

Deegan took the time to study her more fully. She most certainly wasn’t the wren he’d first thought her, based on her coloring and her frightened plea for help. Her eyes were definitely her best feature, not only because of their unusual shade, but because they were framed by an upsweep of long, thick lashes. Her face was one of character rather than beauty, and she was tall, an aspect he liked in a woman. A smudge of dirt marred the soft curve of her cheek in a streak that led his eyes to her lips. They were parted slightly and very kissable. Her whole manner bespoke a proper upbringing, one untarnished by life in a Coast pimp’s harem. If he’d gotten a good look at her earlier, he never would have made the mistake of thinking she was running from her lover. It was a shame if she’d never had a lover, he thought as he quickly scanned the rest of her delightful form. A definite shame.

A frizzed bit of bang covered her brow, while the rest of her chestnut-brown hair was braided and bound in a coil on the crown of her head. She didn’t seem aware that her close-fitting chip bonnet had been knocked awry. It hadn’t survived the adventure unscathed, for the once proud ostrich plume drooped, the quill broken, and the ribbons trailed away over her breast instead of being tied neatly beneath her chin.

Her brown walking suit was plain, the draped apron of the skirt trimmed with a modest binding of black fringe, and the high collar conformed tightly to the lovely length of her throat. It was clearly the creation of an experienced dressmaker, the coffee-colored fabric alone too rich in texture to belong to any woman in the Barbary Coast. She wore no jewelry, not even earrings, and rather than carry a drawstring purse, she had two satchels strapped across her torso like saddlebags.

She was quite out of the ordinary, which was probably the reason he found her refreshingly attractive.

Taking out his handkerchief, Deegan handed it to her. “You might want to tidy up before you rejoin your friends,” he said, indicating the smudge on her cheek.

“My friends?” Her lovely eyes became clouded with confusion as she accepted the pristine square of cloth. She touched the less bulky of her twin satchels briefly. “Yes, of course, but first I need to speak to the police to tell them about Belle’s murder.” She paused a moment and her eyes grew wider. She reached out, clasping his arm with one gloved hand. “Oh, and you must come with me. Between us, we can most certainly identify that man. I know I shall never forget his face, and I’m sure you had an excellent look at him, too.”

Despite the fact that he had associated closely with an operative of the Pinkerton Detective Agency a few months past, Deegan wasn’t keen on dealing with any branch of law enforcement at present, particularly the policemen assigned to the Coast. There was always the chance that one of them had been around long enough to remember him as Digger O’Rourke.

A gust of wind whistled down the alleyway, giving him an excuse to delay any excursion to the precinct house as it swirled her skirts and nearly tore her hat free. His wren shivered and left off scrubbing her cheek clean with his handkerchief to thump a hand down on her chapeau, further mangling the broken ostrich plume.

“Think about the police later,” Deegan urged. “For now, I think we need to get you out of the weather. Find somewhere that you can have something warm to drink.”

“Tea would be incredibly nice,” she agreed as she retied her bonnet ribbons.

A neat whiskey suited him much better and was easier to come by in the Coast. It would warm her much more efficiently, too.

“Do you think there is a tea room near the police station?” she asked, stooping slightly to reclaim her camera.

Deegan had no intention of finding out. “Allow me,” he said, taking the camera from her. She looked uncertain about giving it over into his keeping, but after a considering pause, relinquished it without an argument. He settled the box against his shoulder as she had done, surprised at how heavy the contraption was and how unruly the gangly tripod legs were.

“I don’t think it would be smart for you to trail about the streets just yet,” he remarked lightly, his attention seemingly on taming the tripod rather than on her. “Your determined friend may not have gone far.”

A frown formed small furrows over the bridge of her nose. “You are quite right. I hadn’t considered that. But I can’t just wait when Belle’s body is…is…” Her cheeks blanched suddenly and she wavered unsteadily on her feet.

Encumbered with the camera, Deegan could do little more than grip her elbow tightly to keep her upright.

“Oh, thank you,” she murmured faintly. “Just the thought of—” She broke off, swaying again. “Perhaps I had best sit down,” she suggested.

She looked as if she might slip to the ground in a swoon. Deegan glanced toward the street, then back down the alley, and made a decision. Another one he figured he’d regret later.

“Listen, my name’s Galloway. I was on my way to visit an old friend who lives in the next house. If you can make it to Hannah’s rooms, you’ll not only be able to sit down, you’ll have that cup of tea.” Hannah had been known to add a warming dollop or two of whiskey to the pot when the situation merited it, as this one certainly did, to his mind.

The wren gave him a weak smile. “It sounds delightful.” Her chin lifted in a show of determination. “I believe I can make it that far.”

“Good girl,” Deegan approved, but he kept firm hold of her arm to support as well as guide her.

“Today was Belle’s birthday,” she said, as if driven to speak. “She was just twenty. I brought her a portrait I’d taken as a present. When he—” She broke off again, swallowing her fear before adding softly, “Belle dropped it.”

Not knowing how to comment, Deegan kept his own council and tried to hurry her along.

“I’m sorry to be such a burden,” she murmured.

“You’re no such thing,” he assured her. “My avocation is rescuing ladies in need.”

The glib quip brought her smile back into play, if but fleetingly. “I wish you could have helped Belle, then.”

“So do I,” Deegan said, although he doubted a murder had been committed. No doubt his wren had witnessed one of the all too frequent acts of domestic violence that happened in the district. Her inexperience in such matters would lead her to embroider the event in her mind, turning it into an act of murder.

“How are you holding up?” he asked as they reached the back entrance to Hannah’s building. “My friend is on the second floor. Can you make it on your own?”

She gave the narrow staircase a dubious look. Deegan wasn’t sure whether her concern was over its steepness or lack of cleanliness.

“Yes, I believe so,” she said, laying a hand on the banister.

Deegan fell back two steps, hoping the flimsy railing was strong enough to hold her should she feel faint again. She weighed the equivalent of two feathers, or so he had imagined when he’d tipped her off her feet earlier, but he doubted upkeep on the building had improved since he’d lived there, even then it had been an excellent candidate for the city aldermen to condemn.

Nearly every step creaked in warning to the residents of their intrusion. The game little wren kept her narrow skirt lifted just above the dusty treads, forging on at a steady pace. Trailing behind her, Deegan sensed rather than saw eyes follow their progress and wondered how much it would cost him to make sure news of their visit to Hannah didn’t reach the ears of the man in pursuit of the wren. Hannah had had enough grief in her life without him adding more to it at this stage. Deegan peered more closely into the shadows above them until he found the silent watcher—a boy of perhaps ten, lying flat on the third-floor landing, his nose pressed to the spindles of the stair rail as he spied on them. A boy much as he’d once been, only filthier.

“Say, pardner,” Deegan called up the stairwell to the child. “There’s two bits in it if you’ll tell Mrs. McMillan she’s about to have visitors.”

Unfazed over being discovered, the boy lifted his chin off the dirty floor. “Yer mean old Hannah?”

She was barely thirty-seven years old, six years older than Deegan, but the boy already considered her ancient. Had the Coast made Hannah a crone before her time? Deegan hoped not. His memory of her was of sweet, smiling green eyes beneath a glory of flaming red hair. Trusty had always called her the loveliest creature he’d ever seen. She was certainly the most even-tempered woman Deegan had ever met. Living with Trusty O’Rourke and him, she had had to be.

“If you don’t hustle, we’ll beat you to her door, pardner,” Deegan warned. “Tell her Dig’s come to visit.”

The boy bounded to his feet, taking the rickety steps from the upper floor two at a time. He was in full throat by the time he reached the second floor landing. “Hey, Hannah. Yer’s got company.”

“I hope Mrs. McMillan doesn’t mind the interruption,” the wren said softly. She glanced down at Deegan two steps below her, her cheeks burning but not, he thought, with exertion. “I mean, if she’s already occupied with a, er—”

“Hannah’s retired,” he snapped, and regretted it immediately when her cheeks brightened still more. It had been a logical assumption for the wren to make, but Hannah hadn’t been a doxy in a long time. At least he hoped she hadn’t.

Judging from the sound alone, the boy hadn’t waited until he got to the door of Trusty’s old lodgings, but was banging the flat of his hand against the wall to alert Hannah. It took three thuds before Deegan heard a door open and her voice answer.

“Gracious, child!” Hannah admonished lightly. “You’ll wake the dead with that racket.”

“Ya got company, Hannah,” the boy announced. “A woman and some fella says his name is Dig.”

There was a feminine gasp of surprise followed by the rustle of skirts. Deegan scarcely managed to set the unwieldy camera aside before Hannah threw herself in his arms.

“My God!” she whispered hoarsely. “Is it really you, Digger lad?”

“It’s me, darlin’,” Deegan said, holding her close as he breathed in the remembered scent of her perfume. “Miss me, did you?”

“Silly question,” Hannah said, and kissed him hard on the mouth to prove it.

Chapter Three

Lilly stood to one side, waiting until the moment when Hannah McMillan and Galloway parted. Although she had never actually witnessed such an event, she doubted that Hannah’s greeting was that of a bird of paradise to a customer—even a favorite customer.

The woman didn’t resemble the soiled doves Lilly had met during her visits to the Coast. Although flirtatious curls spilled free at the nape of Mrs. McMillan’s neck and around her ears, she wore her copper hair swept up in a prim knot at the crown of her head. Her dress seemed as proper as Lilly’s own, but was a deep emerald green trimmed with brocaded ribbon. Having grown accustomed to the paint that Belle and her friends wore, Lilly was pleasantly surprised to find that the only color in Hannah McMillan’s cheeks was the result of her pleasure in seeing the handsome Mr. Galloway.

The kiss the two shared was over as quickly as it began. “There can be only one reason you finally came to see me, Dig,” Hannah declared, turning an approving gaze on Lilly. “And I must say, if I’d chosen her myself, I couldn’t have found a more perfect wife for you. I approve most heartily.”

Lilly was sure her face turned as red as a ripened apple. “Oh, but—”

Galloway chuckled and put a fond arm around the older woman’s shoulders. “I might well agree with you if my acquaintance with this lady was longer than a few minutes,” he said smoothly.

The compliment implied by his words made Lilly even more flustered, so she was relieved when he rolled right into a brief explanation of their meeting and subsequent arrival on Hannah McMillan’s doorstep.

“Dear me!” Hannah murmured when he’d finished. “Please don’t take offense. As fond as I am of this rogue, it was truly meant as a compliment. But from the adventure you’ve had, I’d say the sooner you have a comfy chair and a cup of tea, the better.” She gestured to the filthy boy who stood observing them silently. “Run down to the baker’s, Otis, and see if he has some nice little cakes. Tell him they are for me, then get something for yourself and your mother, too.”

Although he looked anxious to depart on the errand, Otis didn’t manage to get away immediately. Galloway’s hand on the boy’s thin shoulder held him firmly in place. “Before you go, I think you and I have some business to contract, pardner,” he said, idly tossing a coin in the air.

The flash of silver kept Otis’s feet still while his eyes followed the coin’s arch.

Catching the coin while it was still out of the child’s reach, Galloway bent nearer the boy. “Now then…” he murmured.

Lilly heard no more, for her hostess linked arms with her and led her down the narrow corridor away from the man and boy on the landing.

Before guiding Lilly ahead of her into the apartment, Hannah glanced back. “Oh, and Otis?” she called. “Have our cakes wrapped separately, dear.” She turned to Lilly as she softly closed the door. “Otis is the dearest boy, but, as I’m sure you noticed, cleanliness is not one of his virtues.”

At a loss for words, Lilly let her unusual hostess settle her on a deep red upholstered settee.

“Now you just sit still,” Hannah ordered, patting Lilly’s hand in a comforting manner. “Dig will be with us as soon as he’s given Otis money for the cakes. We’ll wait for introductions until he’s here.”

The suggestion suited Lilly fine. She almost believed she was asleep, caught in a dream from which she hadn’t managed to awaken. The soil on the heel of her leather glove and the tingling on her cheek where she had rubbed too roughly with Galloway’s handkerchief argued for reality.

And yet she couldn’t dismiss the dreamlike quality of the afternoon. Not only had help arrived most opportunely, but the man who offered it was disturbingly handsome, as befitted a hero in a flight of fancy. Of course, it was merely her inexperience with men, not the man himself, that made her nearly forget the horror of Belle’s murder. A more worldly woman would be immune to his casual charm and to the seductive aura of being assisted by him in eluding the harsh-faced man.

Of course, there was probably no woman more worldly than Mrs. Hannah McMillan, and that lady had leaped to such a surprising conclusion when she saw them together. The thought of marriage to a man like Mr. Galloway, while deliciously tempting to contemplate, was enough to recolor Lilly’s cheeks in confusion.

To keep her thoughts away from him, and the terrifying memories she would soon have to relate when she visited the police, Lilly shrugged free of her twin satchels, folded her hands in her lap and looked around at her surroundings.

The condition of the building hadn’t prepared her for the oasis Hannah McMillan had created in her crowded apartment. Rather than cracked and broken plaster, the walls were covered in a tasteful wallpaper featuring clinging red roses against a background of soft, sage green. Rose damask drapes were swagged back at the single, tall, narrow window. The sagging floor was covered by an Oriental rug, the yarns used by the weavers in creating a medallion design ranging from a lush green to a warm sand color. There was barely room for Hannah to move without brushing her skirt against a piece of furniture, yet she managed to maneuver through the maze with a grace Lilly knew her sister Vinia would envy.

The pieces Hannah had chosen were quite lovely, the carving on the breakfront and on the topmost dresser drawer depicting bunches of grapes, the vines trailing symmetrically away from the fruit. A small cookstove was situated so that heat from it warmed both the parlor and the bedroom beyond. As in Lilly’s own home, softly draped tea tables vied for space near the settee and before a grouping of two high ladder-back chairs and a comfortably upholstered wing chair.

Light from the window drew Lilly’s gaze to the large portrait of a slimmer, younger Hannah reclining on a chaise, her image resplendent in a low cut gown of gold. Below it, she noted with pleasure, the dressertop was covered with dozens of framed photographs rather than trinkets. Before she could take a closer look, the click of the latch closing behind her drew Lilly’s attention away from her surroundings and back to the enigmatic Mr. Galloway.

She felt unprepared for his entrance, since his approach down the hallway had been curiously silent. Lilly recalled only too well the sighs and creaks the boards had made beneath her own feet. Whatever the secret to his stealthlike passage was, he seemed unaware of having accomplished what to her was a remarkable feat.

“Ma’am,” he said. Briefly, his gaze slid over her.

Lilly felt every inch of the quick appraisal. When his lips curved ever so slightly, she was sure he was amused to find her seated on the edge of the sofa, her back ramrod straight, looking like a cornered calico cat about to take flight.

Galloway set her camera aside carefully on its gangly tripod legs. “If Otis should encounter your curious friend while abroad, he has promised to become addle brained,” he said, his voice, as well as the words, soothing Lilly.

Addle brained. It was certainly how she was feeling at the moment. And not entirely as a result of her unwelcome adventure. “You must tell me how much you paid Otis to forget,” Lilly insisted. “I will reimburse you and—”

He waved the offer aside as he removed his hat, tossing it over the spindle of a ladder-back chair. “A mere pittance. Think nothing of it. It was my pleasure to assist you.”

Knowing she shouldn’t accept, yet couldn’t afford to pay even a pittance, Lilly pondered how best to continue.

Galloway ran a hand through his tawny hair. If he meant to smooth it, the action was a failure. The thick, wavy locks tumbled in tousled elegance over his brow. Galloway seemed unaware of the strikingly romantic figure he cut as he leaned negligently against the door and gazed with pleasure on the cozy, middle-class comfort of the room. “This is nice, Hannah,” he said at length. “I was afraid you might have frittered away at a roulette table the money I sent.”

Already busy at the warmly glowing stove, Hannah barely glanced at him. “Is that how you made it?” she asked, filling a kettle with water and setting it on to boil.

“Does it matter?” he countered.

Hannah bustled about, taking delicate china cups and saucers from the breakfront. “No, of course not,” she said as she arranged things on a tray. “But this poor young lady probably thinks we have no manners, since you haven’t introduced us yet.”

“A shocking lack, what?” he murmured, his voice taking on the stilted tone Lilly had once heard an upper-class English character in a melodrama use. She doubted real Englishmen spoke in such an exaggerated fashion. The fact that Galloway had assumed the mannerism so easily, just as he had that of an Irish immigrant earlier, led her to wonder if he was an actor by trade. He certainly had the face and form to please a female audience.

She herself was certainly mesmerized when he stepped away from the door. “Shall we mend our manners immediately?” he asked, and bowed deeply before her. “My dear wren, as you no doubt have fathomed, the charming lady of this household is not only an angel of mercy to those in need, she is my dearest friend, Mrs. Hannah McMillan.”

Falling in with his theatrical manner, Hannah gestured grandly toward Galloway. “And this gentleman is not only my banker, he is as dear to me as a son,” she said. “May I present Mr. Dig—”

“Deegan Galloway,” Galloway interrupted smoothly.

Lilly thought she saw Hannah glance at him, her eyes widening a bit in surprise. The next minute, she was no longer sure the woman had been disconcerted at all. The warmth of the smile she bestowed on him belied the hesitation. “My dearest friend, Deegan Galloway,” she said, her tone putting a slight emphasis on his name.

“And I am Miss Renfrew. Lillith Renfrew,” Lilly said.

Hannah took a seat next to her on the couch. “Lillith. What a lovely name.”

“Thank you,” Lilly murmured. “I’ve often wished for one less ancient.”

“Nonsense. It suits you,” Hannah insisted. “It’s a name that requires character, and I can see quite clearly that you are such a lady. Perhaps you’ll sit for Deegan now that he’s taken up photography.”

“Ah, but I haven’t,” Galloway said as he took a seat across from them. “The camera belongs to Miss Renfrew.”

“It does?” Hannah grasped Lilly’s hands excitedly. “Then you must be the famous Miss Lilly I’ve heard so much about on the streets.”

Lilly couldn’t stop the pleased flush of color that rushed to her cheeks. “I’d hardly call myself famous,” she demurred. “But, yes, I have been taking photographs of the women and children of the neighborhood for a few weeks now.”

“Absolutely wonderful pictures, you mean,” Hannah corrected. She jumped to her feet and gathered a number of framed photographs from among her collection. “I know they are remarkable because I’ve become the caretaker of quite a few.”

One by one, she passed the mounted photographs to Lilly. Familiar faces trooped by—women like Belle, their beauty faded or destroyed by the ravages of their profession; children like Otis, ill-nourished and wizened beyond their years by conditions in the Coast. Silently, Lilly put names to each face as Hannah related how each of the photographs had come to be in her care.

Lilly ran the pad of her finger around the rough, handmade frame that surrounded one of the likenesses. It showed a woman in profile. They’d taken the shot that way so that her black eye was turned away from the camera. It was more difficult to tell the bruises from the dirt on the pair of little boys with gap-toothed grins, but the story Hannah told was one of true-life melodrama.

“They know I’ll be here when they return,” Hannah said quietly of the people in the photographs, “and that these precious pictures will be cared for while they are gone. Your generosity is wondrous, Miss Renfrew. In many cases, I believe your photographs are appreciated more than the bread and soup the missionaries offer.”

If she hadn’t been covertly watching Deegan Galloway’s face, Lilly was sure she would have missed the slight hardening of his expression at mention of a missionary society. “Please don’t beatify me, Mrs. McMillan,” Lilly requested. “I take pictures for quite a selfish reason. I’m still learning my craft and—”

“Piffle,” Hannah said. “You’re a kind-hearted woman and a credit to your family. Now, while we wait for the pot to boil, why don’t I let you straighten up a bit? There’s a comb, fresh water, a cake of scented soap and a brush for your clothing in the other room.”

Before Lilly could object, she found herself being swept into Hannah’s bedroom and left to repair the ravages her flight and rescue had made on her person.

Hannah closed the door quietly behind herself and folded her hands at her waist. Deegan remembered the stance and wasn’t surprised that her fond smile was temporarily stripped from both her eyes and her lips. “Promise me you’ll return later and tell me all that’s happened to you, Digger,” she said sternly.

“That I will, lass,” he vowed quietly. “I’m sorry I stayed away so long.”

“You should be.” As the kettle began to steam, Hannah picked up a dish towel and lifted it off the stove. “Right now, seeing to Miss Lilly is more important than our catching up. I hate to think what would have happened to her if you hadn’t been at hand.”