Part 7 (2/2)

Diana pictured Damon Bathory in her mind, trying to convince herself she was doing the right thing. Confusion threatened to overwhelm her. What was it about the man? The previous day, completely under his spell, she'd lost all perspective. That was the answer, she supposed. He was a sorcerer. And what else? This time, she meant to find out. She'd not allow herself to be charmed by him again!

Jerusha tugged at her sleeve. ”What are you up to, Diana Spaulding?”

A low whistle sounded as the train shuddered into motion.

”There is someone I followed onto the train,” Diana confided as they left the station, ”but not Lavinia.”

It was too late to change her mind. The train plunged into a tunnel that would keep them underground until they emerged, far to the north, at 125th Street.

”Who?” Jerusha's hoa.r.s.e voice broke on the question. She was about to lose it again.

”Someone I don't want to see me. By blending in with all of you, I can pa.s.s unnoticed.” Why would anyone look at a plain brown wren when the eye was drawn to brightly colored parrots?

”Who?” Jerusha repeated, this time in a whisper.

”A man. I was to meet him later today for an interview. Instead, I discovered him here, boarding this train. I mean to find out where he's bound.” He was not going to Buffalo. That much was certain. This train was headed in the wrong direction.

She'd been a gullible fool last evening, letting herself believe everything he said. Take her to the circus? Hah! No doubt he'd only pretended to enjoy her company, letting her think he was beginning to care for her as a woman in order to lull her into forgetting to be cautious. She'd been as completely taken in as one of those addlepated young ladies who'd flocked to his readings.

If she hadn't seen him today, by accident, she'd have had a long wait in that hotel lobby. Had he even left her a note? Somehow, she doubted it. He'd lied to her, cast out seductive lures, all so he could sneak out of town like a thief in the night.

Jerusha reached out to touch the colorful bruise on Diana's jaw. The light coating of face powder she'd used to cover it had been washed away by the storm. ”Did he do this to you?”

”No.”

She started to say he was not that kind of man, then fell silent. Any man was capable of physical violence when angry and she'd seen flashes of temper from Damon Bathory. He'd frightened her more than once.

He'd also touched her with a tenderness that had made her ache.

Once he'd admitted to knowing she was following him, she should have realized that the rest of his story would not survive close scrutiny. Why, he'd had plenty of time to come up with all sorts of nefarious schemes to get rid of her! He might even have hired that thug who attacked her.

”He's hurt you in other ways,” Jerusha said. ”You care for him and he doesn't return your feelings.”

When Diana tried to deny it, Jerusha just looked smug.

”I can tell by the look on your face. You never were any good at hiding your emotions.”

The realization that her friend might be right jolted Diana. Was more than her pride involved? Had her heart fallen victim, as well?

In a very short time, her feelings had become impossibly tangled. Not since Evan's whirlwind courts.h.i.+p had she experienced so many rapid changes of emotion.

”What am I doing here?” she whispered in sudden panic.

”Well,” Jerusha said with a smile, ”you claim you're after a story for that newspaper of yours.”

”Yes. Yes, of course I am.” Squaring her shoulders, Diana tried desperately to reorder her priorities.

The very fact that Bathory had run away from her meant that he had something to hide. She might have a personal reason for wanting to find out the truth about him, but she was also sure that she could turn what she learned into the scandalous story Foxe had demanded.

Thinking more clearly now than she had at any time since she'd impulsively boarded the train, Diana considered how much it would be prudent to reveal to her traveling companion. If Bathory's ultimate destination was not Hartford, or if he did get off the train sooner, then she might need to rely upon Jerusha's generosity for the wherewithal to continue her quest.

Diana turned to study the woman beside her. Jerusha had removed the outlandish hat to reveal bra.s.sy blonde hair and, as if to contradict that effect, tiny mother-of-pearl earbobs. She dressed, as all the company did, to attract attention and draw in the paying public, but in spite of the bright clothing and heavy cosmetics she wore, she looked tired and ill. There was no opportunity to stop and rest on tour. She must go on, sick or not, until she either recovered or collapsed on stage in the middle of a performance.

”You should sleep,” Diana told her.

”I'd rather hear about your man.”

”He's not my man.”

”It would take my mind off my misery,” she wheedled.

After only a token protest, Diana gave in. By the time she'd finished her account, an edited version of events of the last few days that left out both Horatio Foxe's theory about the murdered women and any mention of the attack on herself, the train had crossed the Harlem Bridge and left Manhattan behind.

”Damon Bathory.” Jerusha sounded impressed.

Diana rested her head against the back of the mohair-covered seat. ”If I don't get this story, I could lose my job.”

”He made quite an impression in San Francisco,” Jerusha said. ”We were there at the same time he was, you know.”

San Francisco? A queasy feeling came over Diana. The second murder had taken place in San Francisco.

If Bathory had lied, if he had been behind the attack on her, could that mean he might have murdered those women, too?

Did she dare trust her sense that he was not the sort of man to hurt a woman? Her instincts had not been all that reliable when she'd married Evan.

She remembered what she'd told Horatio Foxe, that by the logic he'd used, a member of any theatrical company on tour at the same time as Bathory might have committed those murders. Slowly, she turned to survey the other occupants of the railroad car.

”Was this the same company Toddy took to San Francisco?” she asked Jerusha.

Her friend looked surprised by the question. ”Why, yes. Billy Sims and Charles Underly joined up shortly before we began that tour.”

Diana regarded each man in turn. Sims played opposite Lavinia in the comedies. He doubled as a stagehand when Toddy needed him to. In her review, Diana had described his acting as wooden. For all his good looks -- carrot-colored hair, vivid green eyes, and a winning smile -- he did not convey much personality from the stage.

He caught her looking at him and gave her a c.o.c.ky grin. Diana answered with a weak smile, noticing two things that suddenly made her uneasy. Those green eyes of his were oddly flecked with gold, giving them an unsettling brightness. And he had a scratch on the side of his face, as if someone had clawed at him in an attempt to escape his clutches.

Sims could have nicked himself shaving, her more rational side said. After all, she could not remember marking her attacker in that alley. Surely, her imagination was running away with her. And yet, for size and shape, it could have been Billy Sims who'd accosted her. And he wore a plain wool coat, just as her a.s.sailant had.

Disconcerted, she broke eye contact with him, s.h.i.+fting her attention to Charles Underly. With his head bent, she could not see his features, but she remembered that he relied upon contortions and exaggeration rather than more subtle expressions when he trod the boards.

His hands were folded over the top of a silver-headed walking stick. She'd never seen him off stage without it, although he did not appear to need it to get around. Diana a.s.sumed that carrying it was an affectation, but it did seem to rule him out as the man in the alley.

As if Underly felt her gaze, he raised his head and looked directly at her. Diana braced herself, expecting to see dislike, derision, or disdain in his bloodshot eyes. She had, after all, panned his performance in The d.u.c.h.ess of Calabria. Instead, she got a blast of simmering hatred that seemed to go far deeper than simple pique over a bad review. If looks could kill, she thought, she'd be in her death throes by now.

When Jerusha started to cough, Diana was glad for the distraction. She patted her friend's back while Jerusha fumbled in her bag for a small bottle of Hale's Honey of h.o.r.ehound and Tar, a patent medicine that claimed to stop any cough, even one caused by consumption.

”Where was the company last November?” Diana asked when Jerusha had put the bottle away and cleared her throat. There was one easy way to put her foolish fears to rest.

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