His Substitute Bride. Elizabeth Lane
foreign-looking girl passed them. Two prosperous-looking businessmen stepped off a trolley and entered a bank.
Traffic sounds made a roar in Annie’s weary head. Right now she would gladly have traded lunch at Delmonico’s for a nice nap. But she knew Quint had planned the meal as a special treat. She would smile and do her best to enjoy it.
The stop at Quint’s apartment was brief, allowing for little more than hauling up the baggage and using the splendid porcelain facilities. They also met the smiling, middle-aged Chinese man called Chao, who worked as Quint’s cook and housekeeper.
The two-bedroom apartment was spacious and comfortable, with a brown leather settee and two matching chairs drawn up before the fireplace. The walls were paneled in walnut and sparsely but tastefully decorated with photographs Quint had taken on his visits to the ranch. There were shots of snow-covered peaks, willows in winter, the house, the barn, the cattle and the wagon loaded with hay. One picture showed Quint’s scruffy border collie, Pal, who’d lived into old age and passed on. Another showed a beautifully windblown Hannah on the porch with two-year-old Clara in her arms.
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