The Damnation Affair

saloon girl’s gaze. Invisible woman-signals flashed between them like charmgraph dots and dashes, and finally Mercy relaxed a trifle.

“I b’lieve that’ll do.” She let loose of Gabe’s arm long enough to roll the wad of bills more tightly, and offered it to him. “Will you hold this, Gabe?”

“Be right pleased to,” he mumbled. Why were his cheeks hot?

“Very well.” Miss Barrowe closed her front door with a small, definite snick. “Are you accompanying me to church, Miss Tiergale?”

“No ma’am.” Mercy stared at the ground now, Miss Barrowe’s dainty boots clicking on the steps as she picked her way down to the garden path. The marm opened her parasol with an expert flicker and flutter, and— surprisingly enough—offered her own arm to the saloon girl. “It ain’t proper. Leastways—”

“That,” the schoolmarm said decisively, “is a great shame. Would you care to walk with me at least as far as the Lucky Star? I believe it is upon my route.”

Mercy almost flinched. “No ma’am. There’d just be trouble if…well.”

“Don’t you worry.” Gabe’s cheeks would not cool down. He had the attention of both women, now, and he hadn’t the faintest idea why he’d spoken up. “Tils gives you trouble, you come right on over to me.”

Mercy actually laughed, cupping one gloved hand over her mouth. There was, however, little of merriment in the sound. She knew as well as he did that he couldn’t settle down in the Star and stare Tils into keeping his temper permanently. “Mighty kind of you, Gabe. I’d best be on my way. Thank you, ma’am. When are we fixing to start?”

“Tomorrow is Monday.” Miss Barrowe now looked faintly perplexed, a small line between her eyebrows. “If that suits you, and the other ladies.”

“Suits us fine, ma’am. Mornin’.” And with that, Mercy Tiergale turned on one worn-down bootheel and strode off, her skirt snapping a bit as the morning breeze freshened.

He searched for something to say. The parasol had dipped, so Miss Barrowe’s face was shadowed. He doubted her expression would be anything but polite and cool. “Right kind of you, ma’am.”

She was silent for a long moment. He could have kicked himself. Should have followed Mercy and not given the miss a chance to snub him.

“Is there likely to be trouble arising from this, Mr. Gabriel?” The lacy stuff shivered as she adjusted her parasol, and the honest worry in her clear dark eyes pinched at him.

Just why, though, he couldn’t say.

“Not if I can help it.” His jaw set. “You just settle your mind, Miss Barrowe.”

“I don’t mean for me,” she persisted. “For Miss Tiergale. She seemed…concerned.”

“I said to settle your mind.” He half-turned, offered his arm without much hope. “Walk you to church, ma’am?”

Her gloved hand stole forward, crept into the crook of his elbow like it belonged there. “Does that mean I shouldn’t worry for Miss Tiergale, as you will assist her and her…compatriots?”

“It means I can handle one whorehouse manager, ma’am.” As soon as it left his lips he regretted himself. “Beg pardon.”

Her lips had pressed together. Her free hand hovered near her mouth, but her eyes were wide and sparkling. She composed herself, and her smile was almost as bright as Damnation’s morning sun as she turned slightly, her skirt brushing his knee as she leaned ever so slightly on him. “Indeed. I have faith in your ability, sir. Forgive my repeating myself, but will you be attending church today?”

He thought of saying he had pressing business, but it seemed all good sense had deserted him. The pressure of her fingers inside his elbow was a popcharm, jolting up all the way to his shoulder. “Yes ma’am.”

Oh, Hell.

Chapter 10

Cat rubbed delicately at the skin about her eyes. It was drowsy-hot, especially in the schoolroom, and the scratching on the board was enough to set even a saint’s teeth on edge. Cecily Dalrymple was writing out I will not throw ink, her fair blonde face set in mutinous agony. The rest of the children, temporarily chastened, bent over their slates, and Cat took a deep breath. “Once more,” she said, patiently, and little Patrick Gibbons almost stuttered as he recited.

“A…B…C…”

“Very good,” she encouraged, ignoring the fidgets. The youngest students chorused with Patrick, raggedly but enthusiastically. They made their way through the alphabet, and Cat’s warm glow of entirely justified (in her opinion) satisfaction was marred only by the back row’s restlessness.

Miss Bowdler’s books were very useful, but Cat had learned more applicable skills following her mother about on the endless round of charity work a Barrowe-Browne was obliged to undertake. Not to mention the example of one of her governesses—a certain Miss Ayre, quiet and plain but with a steely tone that had made even Robbie sit up and take notice on those few occasions her patience had worn thin.

It was Miss Ayre’s example she found herself drawing on most frequently, especially as every child in the schoolroom was dismally untaught. Ignorance and undirected energy conspired to make them fractious, but they were on the whole more than willing to work, and work hard, once she gave them a direction. Perhaps it was the novelty of her presence.

Still, there were troubles. The Dalrymple girls, for one. Turning those two hoydens into respectable damsels was perhaps beyond Cat’s power, but she had an inkling of a plan. The older girl’s longing glances at the sad, shrouded pianoforte had not passed unnoticed, and Cat suspected that with the offer of lessons she would have a valuable carrot to dangle before the haughty creature.

“That is quite enough,” she said sternly. Mancy sparked on her fingers, and there was a crackle. Little Tommy Beaufort let out a garbled sound and thumped back into his seat. “Mr. Beaufort, since you are so eager, stand and recite your alphabet instead of tossing rubbish at your classmates. Begin.”

“A…B…C…”

Hoofbeats outside. That explained the restlessness of the back rows—they had heard the noise before she did. Was it Mr. Gabriel again? Whoever it was seemed in quite a hurry, but she held Tommy to his recitation, nodding slightly.

The horse did not pass the schoolhouse. Who could that be? But she stayed where she was, standing beside her desk, and when Tommy finished she gave him a tight smile. “Very good. Now, first form, take your slates out and begin copying from the top line on the board—A fox is quick. Second form—”

Thundering bootsteps, and the door was flung open. Cat blinked.

It was Mr. Tilson, the owner of the Lucky Star. She had seen him in church just yesterday, nodding along to Mr. Vancey the cartwright’s stumbling reading of the Book. Mr. Gabriel had sat next to her, his hands on his knees and his face as dull and unresponsive as she had ever seen it.

Mr. Tilson was sweating, and had obviously ridden hard. Foam and dust hung on him in spatters, and his suit coat was sadly rumpled. He was red-faced, too, and Cat stared at him curiously. His hat was cocked sideways, and the slicked-down strands of his dark hair were dangerously disarranged.

“You!” He pointed at Cat, and spat the word. “You. I’ve words for you, Miss.”

What on earth? She drew herself up. The children had frozen, including Cecily Dalrymple at the board. Their eyes were wide and round, and quite justifiable irritation flashed under Cat’s skin. “Mr. Tilson. You shall not shout indoors, sir. It sets a bad example.”

That brought him up short. The redness of his cheeks and the ugly flush on his neck was not merely from the heat. It was also, Cat suspected, pure choler.

He actually spluttered a little, and her fingers found the yardstick laid across her desk. “Step outside, sir. I shall deal with you in a moment, once I have finished giving the second and third forms their lessons. Miss