Wicked Treasure (Treasure Chronicles Book 3) Page 8

  Clark adjusted his hat to shield his eyes against the afternoon sun. Western Clark rode to where he wanted to go, and the world could steam itself. Southerner Clark… well, the south would be different and he would have to adapt to get what he sought.

  “I’m sure.” Clark nodded before swinging into the steamcoach and pulling the door shut. A fan whirred in the ceiling to provide scant relief against the heat.

  “What do you suppose he meant?” Alyssa asked. Jeremiah studied a map as if that would grant them answers.

  “It means that they don’t appreciate callers,” Amethyst said. “They’re closed off, maybe in mourning. Of course, it is rude to close off callers, but they are royalty. I don’t suppose they care what they do.”

  Clark leaned against the cushioned seat and curled his hands into fists again. Muscles ached across his knuckles. He had to stay calm.

  Fields of corn, hay, cotton, and tobacco swam by the window, with sunlight beating down from a sky with only a few white clouds. He rehashed in his mind what he’d studied about the royal family.

  The citizens of the country revolted against King Michael, and instead of seeing his country torn apart, he turned it over to the rebellion’s leader, the current President Wilcox. King Michael passed on to the afterlife, but the country allowed the queen and her son to live in the south on a plot of their choosing.

  “What did you learn in school about the royal family?” He looked away from the coach window.

  Jeremiah folded his map. “Nothing good. We’re governed by President Wilcox and his advisors, and that’s all we need.”

  “Because democracy is the future,” Zachariah recited.

  Amethyst ran her fingers through Jolene’s hair. “When the king died, New Addison City went into mourning for a week, but that was all. No one spoke about the queen and prince.”

  Clark rested his hand on his holster beneath the jacket. The thing that kept nagging at his mind… why exactly would the forgotten prince want Jolene Treasure-Grisham?

  Clark clenched his jaw. Beyond the wrought iron fence of Blooming Flower Plantation, Bromi slaves weeded in tobacco fields and a man in a suit rode between them on a mechanical horse. The country had shimmed Bromis from the west to toil in the south, far from their homes.

  The man at the plantation gate waved them away with a gloved hand. “No visitors.”

  The driver turned back to the speaking window in the front of the coach. “What are your names, sir?”

  Jeremiah cleared his throat. “The Mitchells come to visit the south.”

  “Mitchells,” the driver repeated. “A family.”

  The gateman ducked into the booth attached to the fence and returned with a clipboard. “Sorry, but no Mitchells on the visitor list. I can’t allow passage.”

  Clark fought to keep his expression stoic. There had to be a way past the gate into the plantation.

  “Where to now?” The driver wiped a handkerchief from his pocket across his brow.

  “The nearest inn, please.” Amethyst smiled as she slammed shut the speaking window and flounced back onto the seat with her brocade skirt spread over her legs. “Rude, aren’t they? Not accepting callers. That’s a wonderful way to shun society.”

  The coach jostled them as it turned around on the gravel road. Clark relaxed his jaw to keep from biting his tongue. A new plan would form and—

  “Now the fun begins.” Amethyst rubbed her hands together and wiggled her eyebrows.

  “This isn’t fun,” Jeremiah exploded. “This is aggravating. We were refused entrance.”

  “If they knew who we were, they wouldn’t have dared.” Amethyst rolled her eyes.

  “Yes, lets tell them their enemies are right at the gate,” Jeremiah said.

  “What was your fun?” Clark interrupted, holding up his hand.

  “Well,” she drawled, “now we stay in town to wheedle our way in. We make ourselves unforgettable and desirable.”

  “We make them welcome us.” His grin matched hers before he lunged across the coach to kiss her. “Brass glass, I love you.”

  methyst slid the white silk shawl off her shoulders and handed it to the waitress at the door. “Thank you. I would prefer a…”

  She wanted a window seat, the chance for a view of Summerhaven City, but drinking tea alone wouldn’t allow her the chance to be noticed. In New Addison City and Hedlund, people came to her table. Here, she had to go to theirs. Bloody gears.

  She tapped her fingernails together as she scanned the only restaurant in town, so long as she didn’t count the bistro area of the bakery. Couples sat at the tables around the bottom floor and open-back steps led to a loft, where young women giggled on chairs and loveseats.

  “I’ll sit upstairs,” Amethyst said.

  “Are you alone, miss?” The middle-aged waitress bobbed her head.

  “Yes. This afternoon I am.” People thought Alyssa nice, but nice wouldn’t win favors in society.

  The waitress set the shawl on a mahogany hook beside the glass entrance doors and lifted a paper menu from the holder. “This way, please.” The heels of her black ankle-boots clicked against the polished floor as she led the way upstairs. Amethyst lifted her chin and stared straight ahead as she followed; Alyssa would have stopped at each table to greet the patrons.

  A cold smile earned more whispers and memories than a welcome.

  Amethyst trailed her fingertips over the railing as she ascended the stairs, her gaze suddenly on the waitress’s plump derriere. She jerked that gaze up higher, to the metal tiles on the ceiling and a candle chandelier. A violin player sat near the entrance, her music spiraling into the air fragranced with spices.

  Restaurants in New Addison City were more crowded and smaller, rental space higher priced, and placed in Hedlund were still coming into their own—most days a drunkard staggered inside from the street to grope a woman or spill a patron’s mug—but this one had an elegant touch. Most voices were low, the people all dressed in finery. She’d missed old world elegance.

  At the top of the stairs, the whispering girls ceased as they turned their attention to the waitress and newcomer. Amethyst kept her gaze above their heads as she scanned the room, spotting a two-person table near the window overlooking a balcony with a wrought iron railing.

  “I’ll sit by the window,” she said. “Thank you.” There, Alyssa would appreciate that nicety.

  The waitress carried the menu to the designated table and set it beside a folded linen napkin. “Would you care for a drink to start?”

  Amethyst spread out her dark blue silk skirt before sliding into the high-backed chair. “I understand you have bubble tea.” According to the hotel manager when she’d asked after eating establishments. “I would love to try that. I haven’t had the privilege yet.”

  “Yes, miss. I’ll return anon.”

  Anon. Amethyst almost laughed. Most of the servers in Hedlund couldn’t form a complete sentence.

  She opened the menu and tipped her head to the side so the audience could see her chignon braided with pearls. One girl whispered something, followed by another. Amethyst hummed to keep their attention on her as she studied the menu. Most of it was simple fare, but more extravagant than the plain chicken-and-biscuits she’d grown to hate from the west.

  The waitress returned from below with a glass of brown liquid with floating pink beads. “Your bubble tea, miss. It is sweetened orange pekoe tea with tapioca pearls. The pearls are soaked in cherry juice.”

  “Thank you, that sounds divine.” It truly did. “I will have the caprice salad.” Tomatoes, greens, oil, vinegar, and sliced mozzarella cheese also sounded divine.

  “At once, miss.”

  Amethyst should have corrected her regarding her marriage status, but let the girls wonder if they could marry her off to a poor brother or cousin. She folded her hands beneath her chin and smiled out the window, finding her audience in the reflection.

  She counted to thirty, but still no one meandered over. That
wouldn’t do. Amethyst glanced at them, finding a few still eyeing her, but most had returned to their conversations. What would win her more fans: the curious newcomer or the cool easterner?

  The easterner was much more fun to portray.

  Amethyst slid her chair back and rose, one hand on her hip, to sashay toward their table, which looked to be three pushed together. “Excuse me.” Bloody gears, she sounded annoyed. She couldn’t let them see that.

  “Yes?” asked a red-haired girl in a green dress. The color worked well with her pale complexion. She had to be the palest of the group.

  “I’m new to Summerhaven,” Amethyst said. There, see where that led.

  A girl with hair a lighter shade of yellow than Amethyst’s stood up and put one hand to her bosom. “Well, bless you. Welcome to Summerhaven. You’re not here alone, are you?” Her southern drawl could have been music.

  “I’m here with my husband.” Amethyst turned her hand to show them her gold band with the set of three diamonds. The ploy for them to try to marry her off hadn’t succeeded. “We’re looking to buy land so we can start up our own plantation.”

  “Aren’t you adorable,” the girl gushed. “Don’t you go sit over there alone. Bring your drink over here and join us. If you’re going to be staying in the area, we’re all bound to become good friends.”

  Excellent. Amethyst plucked at her black sash as she considered the bubble tea. Technically, she should leave it there for the waitress to bring over, but the girls stared at her with genuine smiles, goody-two-shoes like Alyssa. Amethyst used the napkin to hold her glass, the ice inside forming condensation, and took one of the empty seats.

  Dressing in a plain blouse and skirt had been a wise decision. The girls wore silks and laces, but the cuts were simple, the only extravagance in the billowing skirts.

  “What’s your name, dearie?” asked the girl beside Amethyst, dressed in a sleeveless yellow gown.

  Her mind drew a blank. Something Mitchells. “Charlotte Mitchells.”

  “Why, I’m Charlotte, too,” a girl also in yellow gushed.

  The red-haired girl lifted her glass of ice water. “A big Summerhaven hello to our new Charlotte Mitchells! May you and your husband prosper here.”

  “I bet he’s a looker to have you,” someone else said.

  Amethyst giggled. “We are just thrilled to be here. I even heard that our royalty is in the area? That’s not true, is it?”

  The girls all paused, each one of them. Amethyst counted fifteen. One bit into a watercress sandwich—how rude to eat while Amethyst spoke—as if to refrain from answering.

  “Yes,” the girl beside Amethyst said. “They have the Blooming Flower Plantation on the outskirts of Summerhaven. Least, I think that’s what it’s called.” She glanced at the others, but no one nodded or shrugged or even shook their heads.

  “I take it you don’t care much for them?” Amethyst took a sip from her glass, her eyebrows lifted in question.

  “It isn’t that,” the red-haired girl said. “They’re aloof. Antisocial.”

  “Welcome to Summerhaven, Miss Mitchells.” A girl in gray raised her voice. “I’m Camilla Randolphs. Here we are talking about unpleasant things, and we haven’t even been properly introduced.”

  Amethyst set her glass down a little too hard. Oh no, this Camilla would not change the subject on her.

  “I’m afraid I’m terribly interested in the royals now.” Amethyst smiled to bely the edge in her tone.

  “Let me tell you about them then,” Camilla countered. “I take it from your accent you’re an easterner. I spent a summer up there, so I know how the south is viewed. We’re stuck up and laid back. Well, mayhap we are, but we will welcome you into our homes to give you our last crust of bread. The royals wouldn’t even give you a taste of their cake. You see them in town and they’ll look through you. They’ll splash you with mud and never call a sorry. It was sadness for Summerhaven the day they arrived. I’ve heard about it from my parents.”

  Amethyst could handle moodiness. In fact, it might be a delight. “I must admit I’m curious to meet them now. Is there a place I could go to find them?”

  “They don’t do town functions. They’re above all that. They don’t invite us into their home, either,” Camilla said. “Most of their belongings are ordered. The Bromi slaves run errands. No, Missus Mitchells, there’s not much chance you will meet them.”

  Bloody gears. Amethyst lifted her glass and flashed Camilla Randolphs a smile of straight teeth. “I am going to accept that as a challenge.”

  Zachariah felt like an idiot. His mother would have scolded him if she knew he thought that word—it counted on her list of curses a proper gentleman should never utter, not even in the sanctuary of his own mind—but he hadn’t a clue what to do.

  He was the biggest idiot of them all. He should have stayed home at the ranch. He should have gone back to the army. Had they laughed at him when he volunteered to come on the mission? Had they whispered behind his back, “What does Zachariah think he can do to help?”

  He slowed the horse he’d rented from the city stable as he passed the general store for the hundredth time.

  “Go ride about town,” Clark had said. “Gather information and see what you can see.” Maybe Clark hadn’t used quite those words. Maybe he’d given Zachariah more concrete directions and being an idiot, Zachariah had forgotten them.

  Riding through town was a waste. No one spoke to him. Steam and gears, no one even looked at him. Had Clark expected someone to come up and spill secrets?

  He’d seen the stores, the library, the school house. He’d seen a sign for a university labeled “Eight Miles South.” He could go there to quiz professors on what they knew regarding the royals.

  Zachariah sighed. He had to talk to someone.

  As the horse trotted past the lumberyard, for perhaps the fifth time that day, a man loading planks into a wagon bed looked up. Zachariah tugged on the reigns to slow the horse, who seemed to have loved a day of calm exercise.

  “Morning.” Zachariah touched the brim of his brown cowboy hat. He’d left it on, hoping it would spark attention, and he already had a western accent.

  “Morning.” The man rocked back on the heels of his boots and adjusted his felt cap.

  “I’m new to Summerhaven…” That much already seemed obvious.

  “Yes, sir.” The lumberyard worker folded his arms. “Can I be helping you with something?”

  Tell me how to get into the Blooming Flower Plantation. “I’m here with family. They want to start a plantation here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A steamcoach rolled by the cobblestone road, almost soundless, unlike the coaches back in Hedlund that rattled with a grinding of gears and constant puffs of steam. The first few he’d passed, he’d almost recoiled from. They had a sleeker feel, more sideways oval than round. Aerodynamic.

  “So I’m wondering what there is to do around here,” Zachariah blurted out. He shouldn’t have worn a blue suit jacket and starched white pants, his black boots pulled up to his knees. It made him look fancier than the average man.

  The worker hooked his thumbs through his suspenders. “Got to say, I’ve seen you go by here quite a few times looking lost as a hunk of cotton in the wind. You free tonight? A couple of my buddies are going gator hunting and you can join in. You know how to hunt, don’t you?”

  “Of course. I grew up on a ranch.” He’d been hunting with his father and Jeremiah a few times. He hadn’t shot anything, and they’d eventually sent him back to the house after he made too much noise. The one time Jeremiah had landed a deer, Zachariah had wept.

  “Come on back here around seven. The guys and I will meet up with you then after supper. You got a rifle with you? A double barreled shot gun?”

  At one time during his travels, Zachariah had gone into the general store and seen one of the wired laser guns. “I can get one.”

  “Good, good. See you at seven.”

  “Grea
t.” Zachariah grinned. He’d have to get back to the inn to tell them that he’d pry his new “gang” for information. Maybe Clark or Jeremiah would know what a gator was.

  lark pushed opened the door to the saloon and leaned against it, his hands in the pockets of his brown slacks. Where the west had music and girls who liked to wear their bustier just under their breasts, this saloon had only people lounging around the drinking counter and bent over tables. Playing cards swapped hands. Cigars added smoke to the dimly lit air.

  Clark stepped inside and the door banged behind him. No one looked up. A man in the back of the saloon let out a cheer, followed by a laugh. Somebody had won.

  He stepped over a puddle of dark liquid soaking into the dented floor to make his way to the counter. Men clanked tankards and laughed, while the attendant filled shot glasses with whiskey.

  “Hey, there.” Clark leaned against the counter at a space between two groups. As no one else wore a hat, he took his off and held it in one hand.

  The attendant set down his bottle of whiskey to step over. The chain of a brass pocket watch hung from a slit in his pinstriped vest. “What can I do you for, stranger? You’re new to Summerhaven?”

  “That I am.” Clark let his western speech permeate his words as thick as he could. “I’m looking to buy some land. My young wife and I want to start up a plantation.”

  “That so? Well, sir, you might want to start out small. The land around here has already been bought up, so you’ll be looking to buy from someone who already has a claim.” The attendant pushed his spectacles up his nose.

  “I heard that. Clark leaned one arm against the counter to appear relaxed. So far, none of the men had turned around to offer him advice or a chunk of property. “I also heard that most of it is part of Blooming Flower Plantation. You think they’ll want to sell?”

  The attendant laughed. “Not a chance, but good luck to you if you see them long enough to ask for some. What will you have to drink?”

  “More vodka,” a man yelled from down the room. A second attendant, also dressed in a pinstriped vest and slacks, emerged from a door by the rows of alcohol bottles.