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    The Jewel Palace: A Novel
    The Jewel Palace: A Novel
    The Jewel Palace: A Novel
    Ebook249 pages3 hours

    The Jewel Palace: A Novel

    By Jo Ann Ferguson

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    About this ebook

    Miranda Gallagher hears someone downstairs as she waits for her husband, Seamus, on their wedding night. It’s not her husband, but an intruder. With all the gold-mad people crowding into Seattle on their way to the Yukon, Miranda meets the intruder with her late father’s gun. She is shocked when the man, who calls himself Russ Foster, tells her that her husband sold the house to Russ so he would have money to get to the Klondike. A search for her husband ends with a corpse, and Miranda discovers Russ, though he now owns her house, doesn’t intend to throw her out into the street. Instead, he asks her to be his business partner when he turns her home into The Jewel Palace, a gentlemen’s club. Not a brothel, but certainly not the respectable life Miranda had. But she has nowhere else to go. Russ, who is an excellent businessman, has seen that the best way to get rich is to supply the men going north and to help the men who hit a strike spend their money when they return to Seattle. Miranda tries not to fall in love with Russ, but she’s charmed by his kindness and sense of humor. Then the past intrudes, and everything they have done to make The Jewel Palace a success is threatened. Is their love strong enough to save them?
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Integrated Media
    Release dateApr 7, 2015
    ISBN9781504008945
    The Jewel Palace: A Novel
    Author

    Jo Ann Ferguson

    Jo Ann Ferguson is a lifelong storyteller and the author of numerous romantic novels. She also writes as Jo Ann Brown and Mary Jo Kim. A former US Army officer, she has served as the president of the national board of the Romance Writers of America and taught creative writing at Brown University. She currently lives in Nevada with her family, which includes one very spoiled cat.

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      Book preview

      The Jewel Palace - Jo Ann Ferguson

      …

      ONE

      There it was again!

      Miranda tightened her hold on the oak banister. She squinted to see through the thickening twilight. Maybe it was just the wind. Maybe rain was striking the door. Maybe … Seamus would come to the kitchen door, wouldn’t he? He would not walk all the way around the house after leaving the buggy in the carriage house out back.

      The front door rattled again. Fear thumped in her skull. Someone was at the front door.

      She inched back up the stairs. Throwing open a cabinet, she drew out her father’s old shotgun. Would it be enough to protect her? Her fingers trembled. She hugged the gun to her chest.

      Where was Seamus? He should be here. Horror threatened to strangle her as she heard a key twist in the lock. Seamus had the only key besides the one hanging in the kitchen. But he would not come in the front door.

      Gritting her teeth, she raised the gun and slid her foot to the first riser. She eased down the stairs, avoiding the one that creaked. Whoever was coming in had better have a good explanation or … She was not sure what she would do.

      Where was Seamus?

      The door swung open. She pressed against the flowered wallpaper, thankful to have the shadows. In the dim light spilling through the window on the landing above, she saw a man enter. He was tall, taller than Seamus.

      She drew the gun against her shoulder as Papa had taught her. Holding her breath, she took another step. She wanted to be close to the door. Then a neighbor might hear her scream for help. Someone might still be sitting out on their porch.

      Miranda clamped her lips closed to silence her gasp as the man dropped a pair of carpetbags and closed the door. She swallowed roughly as he locked the door again. What was he planning?

      The man laughed, the sound echoing up the curving stairwell. Perfect.

      Maybe you think so, you two-bit thief! she cried.

      The man swore as he stared up at her.

      Hands up! Her voice quivered, but she kept the gun aimed at him as she came down the stairs. Get out of here.

      How do you expect me to do both? His deep voice rumbled. I—

      Shut up! Put your hands up!

      His hands rose slowly. She saw the glitter of gold at his cuffs, but his frock coat cloaked him in darkness. His hair must be ebony, for she could not see it in the shadows.

      Where did you get a key? She had to ask the question. If Seamus had been jumped by this thief, she would—She shifted her sweaty hands on the gun to keep it from shaking.

      My name is Russ Foster. I should ask who you are and why you’re pointing a gun at me. Amusement filled his voice. And in your nightgown at that.

      Even through the shadows, the heat of his gaze roamed along her white wrapper. She resisted the temptation to pull the scooped neck to her chin. Her fingers shifted on the gun. It was heavier than she remembered. She had to hold it steady. Answer my question.

      I thought I had. I’m Russ Foster.

      So?

      So this is my house.

      This isn’t your house! It’s mine!

      His voice remained calm. I’m afraid you’re mistaken, ma’am.

      No, I’m not! I’ve lived here for the past eight years. Get out of here or I’ll send for the police.

      No cops!

      Get out of here! She motioned toward the door with the gun.

      He grabbed the barrel.

      Miranda screamed as he jerked the gun from her hands. She ran toward the door. He caught her arm and pushed her against the wall.

      Don’t move, he ordered.

      Get out!

      Not until I get a few answers. He raised the gun.

      She slapped it aside. Get out!

      You’re mighty brave or this gun isn’t loaded. He cracked the shotgun open. His dark brows rose as he shook out a pair of cartridges. Tossing them on a table by the stairs, he said, Mighty brave or mighty stupid.

      Miranda stared at him. The gun had been loaded? Papa had never left his guns loaded. If she had had any idea …

      No, she cried in horror as he reached toward her. I’ll scream!

      Who is here to hear? His hand curled around her elbow, pulling her a step closer. Answer me.

      She dampened her dry lips. The faint light swept across his face, emphasizing every roughly hewn plane. Beneath a dark swath of mustache, his lips were straight. She was unsure what he would do if she lied … or if she told the truth. The servants—

      Would have been here by now if they were in the house. Anyone else?

      No, she whispered.

      Good.

      Terror froze her heart in midbeat. What do you want?

      He laughed tersely. That is a question you shouldn’t be asking when you’re dressed in silk and smelling so sweetly of lilacs.

      Sir, I—

      The name’s Russ Foster. Steering her into the front parlor, he sat her on the cream settee. You’d better sit down before you swoon, ma’am.

      Miranda clenched the edge of the horsehair cushions. When he put his hands on the settee’s curved back, he slanted toward her. She pressed back. Stay away!

      All I want from you are some answers, he said in the same rigid voice. Who are you?

      Miranda.

      He swore vividly. Heat climbed her cheeks, but vanished into icy fear as he asked, Miranda Gallagher?

      She frowned. We haven’t met, have we?

      Not before this.

      Then how do you know me?

      His smile was wry as he clasped his hands behind him. Your husband mentioned you, Mrs. Gallagher, when he sold this house to me today.

      Sold? Seamus sold this house to you today? Miranda shook her head. You’re lying. He wouldn’t do that.

      I’m telling you the truth. He held up a key. How else do you explain my having a key to the front door?

      If this is Seamus’s idea of a joke—

      It’s an expensive one. I paid him well for this house. He reached beneath his coat. It fell back. A shoulder holster was a dark wound against his silver waistcoat.

      She screamed and jumped to her feet. Don’t shoot me!

      Mr. Foster chuckled as he pulled his hand out from under his coat. I wasn’t planning to shoot you, Mrs. Gallagher. At least, not now, although I was tempted when you pointed that shotgun at me. Some advice, if I may. Don’t point a gun at anyone unless you intend to use it. He held out a thick collection of papers. Do you recognize this?

      I can’t see well enough. She hoped his eyes were as useless as hers. She wanted to hide the blush she knew was bright across her cheeks.

      He told me there are gaslights in here.

      He?

      Your husband.

      She flinched at the venom in his voice. Papa liked the more intimate glow of a kerosene lamp in the front parlor, so we never had gas lines put in here, although he permitted it in other parts of the house.

      Papa? He swore again.

      Mr. Foster, please watch your language.

      He frowned. You shouldn’t be worrying about proprieties when you look like a meringue confection.

      She crossed her arms in front of her. I had not expected callers at this hour.

      What time is it?

      Before she could answer, the tall case clock in the foyer rang once. Half past eight.

      He swore again. Where’s your father?

      Miranda stared as he turned to light the lamp on the mantel. She had never imagined the devil would be dressed in a dusty frock coat and scuffed shoes. Yet only a demon would come into her life and disrupt it with these poisonous lies. He had to be lying. Seamus would not do something so horrible. He loved her. He had told her that over and over, vowing his undying adoration and begging her to marry him. Yesterday she had agreed. This afternoon, he had brought the justice of the peace to marry them. Tonight …

      Miranda blinked as light flared. Mr. Foster turned to face her. A taut smile tipped his lips beneath his black mustache as his gaze wandered along her again. She pulled a blanket off the back of the settee and settled it over her shoulders.

      He was younger than she had guessed. He could not be much more than her own twenty-three years. With his eyes and hair as black as the Dark Prince’s heart, she could believe he had been sent by Satan. He had the devil’s own handsomeness as well, for his nose and jaw were strong without being arrogant. When his lips straightened as he looked past her, she knew he was angry.

      Rage burned in his dark eyes. Answer me! Where is your father?

      He died just over a year ago. She glanced down at the white silk of her wrapper, then back at him before his gaze could follow hers. I just got out of mourning.

      In time for your wedding?

      Yes.

      Mr. Foster choose a chair and motioned for her to sit. As she perched on the settee again, he asked, How long have you and Gallagher been married?

      This is—was—our wedding day.

      "Today? He sold me your house on your wedding day?"

      She drew back from his fury. Then she realized it was not aimed at her. When he leaned toward her, she gasped as he plucked at the translucent white silk of her wrapper.

      This is for your wedding night? he asked.

      Mr. Foster, please let us deal with the situation at hand. She pulled her wrapper under the blanket.

      His dark eyes twinkled. At hand is what you will not allow, Mrs. Gallagher.

      This is ridiculous. Seamus should be back soon. He told me he needed to do an errand and—

      Collect his money from me. He took her hands between his. Before she could pull away, his next words paralyzed her. He sold this house to me to get money to go to the Klondike.

      The Klondike? she choked. She drew her hands out of his as she stood. Going to the window, she drew aside the blue velvet drapes to see the moonlight pooling on the grass beyond the front porch. She looked toward the harbor. Today’s newspaper had been filled with news of ships leaving for Canada. I don’t believe that.

      His voice was heavy with fatigue. "When Gallagher signed these papers, he told me he was sailing on the Rosalie tonight. Bye-bye, Seattle. Hello, Skagway, and the gold fields along the Klondike."

      I don’t believe it. The words rang over and over through her head.

      It’s true.

      Miranda wrung her hands together as she let the drapes fall back into place. But how could the man who promised to love me forever only a few hours ago abandon me like this?

      I don’t know. Mr. Foster stood and walked toward her. With his hands in his pockets, he sighed.

      Not only that, she whispered, but he sold my father’s home out from under me.

      He gave her a wry smile. I don’t know what to say except that I’m sorry. Those are the facts.

      Obviously, she retorted. As you said, how else could you have a key to my house?

      When he did not answer, her eyes widened at his odd expression. His hand rose toward her. She wanted to move away, but her feet seemed glued to the rug. His fingers grazed her hair, which was hanging loosely about her shoulders.

      With gold like this, Mr. Foster said, so low she could barely hear his words over her pounding heart, I don’t understand why he would leave for the Klondike. His hand curved along her cheek. When he could spend his wedding night savoring all the passions within the sea-blue depths of your eyes, why would he long to sail away? He is crazy to throw aside the cool white splendor of you in these robes for the icy embrace of the North.

      She whirled away as sobs burst from her. Dropping onto the settee, she pressed her face into her hands. This was insane! This could not be happening! Not tonight of all nights. Seamus loved her. Over and over and over, he had asked her to be his wife. He had said he could not live without her, that he did not want to live without her, that she would come to love him as he loved her.

      Everything she wanted, every dream she had dared to believe might come true, every hope she had was dead. As dead as Papa. Again she was alone. Again the loneliness would smother her as it had until she had agreed to marry Seamus to escape it. No voice save her own in the huge house after the housekeeper, Mrs. Hagen, and the cook, Mrs. Jia, went to their rooms over the carriage house. No one to listen to her dreams and her fears. No one … no one at all.

      Her hand was taken and a glass pressed into it. Take a drink, Mrs. Gallagher. When she did not move, Mr. Foster’s deep voice became softer. Drink, Miranda. It should help.

      His hand steered hers to her lips and tilted the glass. Fire scored her throat. She choked, unable to get her breath. With a cry, she pushed the glass away.

      Blast! All over my trousers!

      She ignored him. Her throat was on fire! The glass was put back into her hand. No! she rasped.

      Go ahead. It’s only water this time.

      She gulped desperately. The water washed down her agonized throat. Taking a deep breath, she released it slowly. She could breathe again. Her shoulders sagged back against the cushions. Her voice was raw as she whispered, Thank you.

      Next time, I’ll remember you’re not used to spirits.

      Next time? She sat straighter. Mr. Foster, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m sorry about this confusion—

      Me, too.

      She paid no attention to his lopsided grin. If you will leave an address where Seamus might reach you, I shall have him contact you when—

      When he returns from the Klondike? His sarcasm lashed her. Miranda, get this into your head! He’s going; and who knows when, or if, he’ll come back?

      Stop it! She leaped to her feet. Get out of my house!

      "My house, Miranda."

      She pointed to the door. Please, leave. I don’t want to have to send for the police.

      He caught her by the shoulders and twisted her back to face him. The blanket fell to the floor. His hands softened on her shoulders as his fingers glided across the silk to cup her face in his rough palms. She watched his lips curl in a smile that rose along his tanned cheeks to flash in his eyes.

      If I were stupid enough to get hitched to a woman as beautiful as you, he whispered, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave you before I’d consummated our wedding vows. I would kiss you until you writhed with the need for me.

      Don’t, she murmured.

      He drew her hair back and pressed his rugged cheek against hers as he put his lips next to her ear. She quivered as he whispered, I would caress you until my fingers had memorized each curve of your soft skin, and then I would teach you every inch of me.

      You shouldn’t—

      His low laugh whirled through her. Maybe not, but I can imagine sweeping you up into my arms and playing the eager groom. His mustache brushed her ear. Would you be as sweet as you look, honey, or would you scratch me like a blue-eyed wildcat?

      Mr. Foster! She pulled away, her chest heaving as she fought the tendrils of fantasy he wove like a magician. Please, remember yourself!

      He shook his head as if awaking from a deep sleep. His face hardened again. Picking up the blanket, he tossed it to her. As she draped it over her shoulders, he asked in a strained voice, Where does your husband go to drink?

      Why?

      "Don’t waste time asking stupid questions. The Rosalie is scheduled to sail within the hour. He gripped her shoulders again, but there was nothing gentle in his glower. Gallagher said something about buying a round for his cronies before he boarded. Maybe I can find him and settle this."

      Astor’s.

      What or where is Astor’s?

      Where Seamus goes with his friends.

      Where is it? When she gave him the address, he scowled. That place?

      What’s wrong with it?

      His grin returned quickly. "It’s a good place not to be. Don’t get me wrong. A friendly drink and a friendly fight can make for a good evening, but there’s a disgusting odor of trouble bubbling out of that place. Reminds me of gas from a swamp."

      Mr. Foster, if you prefer not to go there, I can understand. She glanced toward the shotgun by the door. It’s no place for a gentleman.

      A gentleman? He laughed. A moment ago, you were scolding me for forgetting my manners.

      This time she knew her blush was bright, because he chuckled again. I don’t care who or what you are. I want this settled, and you can’t settle it if you get yourself shot!

      Shot? He smiled, anticipation glowing in his eyes. The place is sounding more interesting all the time.

      You could get killed.

      He cupped her chin and tilted her face up so she could not avoid his sparkling eyes. Your concern is charming and unexpected. Before she could retort, he went on, Don’t fret, Miranda. I have some experience with a gun.

      She stepped back. Good. If you will give me five minutes—

      For what?

      I can’t go dressed like this.

      Who said anything about you going? This business is between your husband and me.

      Mr. Foster, if you think I intend to wait here while you and Seamus arrange a new bargain to sell my father’s bequest out from under me, you’re sadly mistaken.

      And if you think I’m going to take you down there, you’re sadly mistaken.

      Go, she said, pointing toward the door. I shall send for the police. I’ll let them investigate this.

      Miranda watched as he hesitated. Mr. Foster had no desire to involve the law in this. Not that she blamed him, for the authorities would only complicate what was already

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