The Other Bride. Lisa Bingham

      Chapter Four

      “You’re going to do what?” Doreen Llewelyn-Bowes blurted when the women outlined their plan to obtain a male escort. “Have you all lost your minds?”

      Phoebe was beginning to grow tired of Doreen. The other women had barely returned to the boardinghouse and gathered together their emergency funds before she’d begun a litany of complaints—they’d taken too long, the weather was too hot, New York was too noisy. When Mable and Maude explained the plan to hire Bertram Potter to escort them West, Doreen had stared at them with as much horror as if they’d announced they planned to strip naked and dance in the streets.

      “I really don’t know what you find confusing about the plan, Doreen,” Phoebe said. “We need a man—any man—who would be willing to travel West with us in the morning.”

      “B-but you said this Potter person was in jail!”

      “Merely a formality. He hasn’t committed a crime. Not really. He merely…played stowaway. I heard the captain say that he would forget the charges if Bertram could find a way to raise the necessary funds. If not, they’ll send him back to England.”

      “So let them.”

      “He’s our only chance, Doreen,” Twila said impatiently.

      Without another word, Phoebe dumped the bonnetful of coins they had collected onto an overstuffed settee. Allowing for those expenses that would arrive during their journey, the women had contributed any money they felt they could spare. Now, gathered in the sitting room, they feverishly counted their stash.

      “Do we have enough?” Edith breathed.

      “If I’ve figured the correct exchange for dollars into pounds, we’re…” Phoebe quickly counted, then bit her lip. “We’re five dollars short.”

      Five dollars. She found it ironic that only weeks earlier she had boarded a ship as the daughter of the Marquis of Dobbenshire. If only the title had come with tangible wealth rather than letters of credit.

      En masse, the women turned to look at Doreen.

      Betty proclaimed indignantly, “You haven’t contributed yet.”

      Doreen sniffed. “That’s because it’s a horrible idea. It won’t work.”

      “You’ll contribute or we’ll go without you,” Mable said. She clasped the handle of her walking stick in a way that warned she wasn’t so ladylike that she wouldn’t consider using it.

      Doreen huffed again, folding her arms tightly beneath her breasts. But her stance had lost some of its bravado. “I don’t have five dollars to spare.”

      “Give what you have,” Phoebe said softly, “and I’ll find a way to get the rest.”

      It was clear that Doreen didn’t believe Phoebe’s assertion, but she finally sighed with great theatrical emphasis. Bending, she lifted her skirts to remove a small coin purse stitched to the inside of a petticoat. Removing two large dollar coins, she tossed them on the pile.

      “I expect my money back when this preposterous idea fails to work,” she proclaimed. “If Gabriel Cutter frowns on women joining his group, he won’t let a felon board that train.” Then, turning on her heel, she left the room in a swish of skirts.

      “We still need three dollars,” Mable said, counting the money, then counting it again.

      Phoebe mentally reviewed the valuables she’d sewn into her spare corset—a few pieces of her mother’s jewelry and the signet ring her father had given her as a wedding present. The items were precious to her, worth far more in sentimental value than they could ever obtain on the market. But she was at a crossroads. She had no money to speak of, merely the smallest amount she had thought necessary for the journey. Even her friend “Louisa” could be of little help to her until she arrived in Boston and was able to exchange the letters of credit for cash.

      So Phoebe would have to sell something.

      Spying her dusty satchel still lying on the floor next to the door, Phoebe said, “Can someone show me to my room? I’ll just freshen up a bit, then we’ll find Mr. Potter and obtain his release.”

      “But how?” Edith whispered.

      Phoebe squeezed her hand in reassurance. “I’ve got a few valuables socked away for an emergency.” She grimaced good-naturedly. “I just hadn’t thought I’d be dipping into them before I managed to leave New York.”

      Phoebe’s heart thumped against her ribs as she pondered the audacity of what she was about to do. After taking stock of the treasures she’d hidden in her trunk, she knew there was only one item of value that she would ever be able to sell.

      The Dobbenshire signet ring.

      By selling the piece, she would be severing the last tangible link with her father. And although she had convinced herself that such an action would be an easy enough matter to accomplish, she was discovering that the thought of forfeiting the ring filled her with a small amount of sadness.

      True, her father had never loved her. She’d been an inconvenience to him and a burden—and he’d never lost the opportunity to remind her of that fact.

      But he was her father. Didn’t that title alone demand a certain amount of respect?

      Shaking free of that thought, she collected her things and followed the other women down the hall to her room, knowing that if she didn’t sell the ring quickly, she might well lose her resolve.

      Gabriel waited until he was sure he hadn’t been followed before making his way into the “rarified” area of town frequented by the wealthy.

      Checking quickly to ensure that he’d garnered no attention, he slipped into the lobby of the Biltmore Hotel and quickly made his way to a back set of stairs used by the staff. Tugging his hat more firmly over his brow to avoid giving anyone a clear look at his face, Gabriel wound his way through the narrow corridors to the presidential suite. He knocked once, paused, then scratched the gleaming wood three times.

      For one beat of silence, there was no response. Then the door creaked open a slit.

      Gabriel waited, knowing that he was being studied. This time a far more experienced pair of Pinkertons completed the inspection. He’d trained the two men himself during the past three years.

      “All clear, sir?” a voice whispered.

      “Clear.”

      The space widened only enough to allow Gabriel to slip into the darkened room. Then, with a thump, the door closed and the lock was driven firmly into place.

      Gabriel waited, hearing the rasp of a match. A bright flare of light revealed two men dressed like London dandies in creased trousers, silk shirts and brocade vests. With a wry smile, Gabriel noted that the elegant attire contrasted sharply with the ammunition belts draped across their chests.

      “Green and Miles.” Gabe nodded to the men.

      Isaac Green spat a stream of tobacco into a spittoon on the floor. The shot was made with amazing accuracy, revealing just how long the men had been cooped up in the opulent hotel suite.

      “You can call me Sally and pin a bonnet on my head as long as you tell me we can get out of this stinking hotel.” In as long as Gabriel had known him, Isaac had never been fond of being closeted indoors.

      “The crossing was smooth?”

      Abner Miles didn’t even pretend to misconstrue the meaning of Gabriel’s question. They all knew he wasn’t speaking of the weather they’d encountered while