The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Vicki Delany
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well. We’ll talk later.” Graham left me, presumably to entertain all and sundry with the tragic story of his incarceration. They’d be invading the fort ready to rescue French counts locked into iron masks in the ancient cellars by the time Graham had finished.
I’d begun to hope that the night would be relatively uneventful, when Jack Ireland strolled into the dancehall.
He surveyed the room, his gaze smooth, cool, arrogant. His shirt was white, his heavy gold pocket watch ostentatious, a diamond stickpin in his paisley silk cravat.
Irene’s dance finished and, rather than taking her partner to buy a drink, as was part of her job, she pushed him away. Sam stopped at the bottom of the stairs leading to the private boxes, clutching a fistful of empty champagne bottles. Ray forgot that he was about to evict someone and loosened his grip on the man enough that the reprobate ducked back into the press of patrons. Helen Saunderson stood in the shadows wringing her rough hands on a tattered dishrag and watching Ireland.
He walked toward me, exchanging greetings with men as he passed. “Front page coverage in the San Francisco Standard this week, Mrs. MacGillivray. Collins, come over here!” He waved an arm. “You’ll be a hero, like I promised you.”
Sam scuttled out of the room. He touched Helen’s arm as he passed and drew her away.
“What did I say? All I want to do is make those two famous, and they act like I’ve poisoned their tea.”
“I think, Mr. Ireland, that they’re entitled to their privacy. We’re a strange bunch up here in the Yukon. If a man or woman wants to be left alone, we believe one should respect that.”
He genuinely looked confused. “Privacy? You can’t eat privacy. Soon as my story runs, people will be pouring money into the Standard offices. To buy Mrs. Saunderson and her children out of bondage.”
“If you…”
He held up a hand.
“Now hear me out, Fiona.”
“Mrs. MacGillivray.”
“Fiona. Those nice people in San Francisco don’t know or care that this isn’t some cheap whorehouse you’re running here. They want to help an unfortunate family out of their troubles. And if it makes people feel good to help, I’m not going to criticize them.”
“Oh, stop your nonsense,” I said. “A lie is a lie.” Ireland had lost interest in the debate and turned away.
Irene watched him from the far side of the room, and he studied her lazily. “Whatever you say, Fiona.” He cocked his index finger, and Irene brushed aside the man holding his ticket up to her and walked towards us. You could have shattered her smile with an ice pick.
“Mr. Ireland, good evening.”
“Irene, my dear. Can I have the honour of this dance?”
She nodded, and they swept into the music. Irene moved with as much enthusiasm as the wooden planks beneath her feet, but my girls know they can reject the offers of any man who they fear might mean them harm. I blended back into the crowd, encouraging men to dance.
Irene danced almost every dance with Ireland. They made a nice looking couple, although I didn’t care for the way he tossed her about the floor as if she were his own private property, nor for the flashes of pain that crossed her face.
I planted myself in the dance hall to keep an eye on them, although I normally spent the night passing between the hall, the saloon and the gambling rooms, the latter being where the most serious fights were likely to start. Graham Donohue stayed in the bar, and Ray Walker came in now and again, scowling.
“Everything all right here, Mrs. MacGillivray?” Richard Sterling stood beside me, all looming bulk, crisp red tunic, neat brown pants, high, shiny boots and broad-brimmed hat. I took a step back.
“Sorry,” he said, colouring slightly.
“Everything’s perfectly fine, Constable. Thank you.”
He touched the brim of his hat. “I’ll be on my rounds, if you need me.”
I watched the dancing for a while longer. Irene didn’t smile. Her countenance was dark and troubled, but she still danced with Ireland. Maybe I’d been wrong and she’d fallen down the stairs at her rooming house. It had been known to happen, just not as often as stiff-minded matrons and pompous priests liked to believe.
It was Saturday, so we didn’t have much time left until midnight closing. I was looking forward to going home and crawling into my narrow bed for the only full night’s sleep I enjoyed all week. Hopefully Mrs. Mann would have left some of that magical poultice out.
I was standing at the far side of the room, up against the back wall, trying to stifle a yawn, when the orchestra called out, “Take your partners for the next dance,” and for a brief moment everyone shifted so that a space opened up before me, leading all the way to the door.
In which I saw Jack Ireland dragging a reluctant Irene behind him.
I practically sprinted to catch up with them, almost tripping over the train of my dress, which was just long enough to wrap itself around my feet. I wrenched the train out of my way with a muffled curse. Surprised faces watched me fly past.
“…out of this dump,” Ireland was growling as I arrived within hearing range.
“I’d just as soon not leave right now.” Irene’s voice was as low as a whisper made to a lover, but not nearly as welcoming. “Mrs. MacGillivray won’t like it.”
“Never mind Mrs. MacGillivray. Stick with me, and you won’t have to kow-tow to the likes of her again.”
“Did I hear my name?” I stumbled to a stop in front of them, yanking at my skirts to pull the tumble of fabric out from under my feet. “Had enough dancing, Mr. Ireland? It’s almost closing time, anyway. Irene, please go up to my office, I have to talk to you about last week’s hours. There seems to be a slight problem.”
“Yes, Mrs. MacGillivray,” she said with such a gush of gratitude that it was clear I hadn’t been mistaken as to what had happened after she’d left with Ireland the previous night. There had been no tumble down the backstairs.
“Irene,” he said, “I’m leaving. And you’re coming with me.”
“Not if she doesn’t want to,” I said. Ireland turned his black eyes on me. I didn’t look away: I’ve been stared down by harder men than he. “But it is most definitely time for you to leave, Mr. Ireland.”
“You just wait until you see what my paper has to print about you.”
“What? That I serve nothing but toasted crumpets and tea and hold secret revival meetings behind locked doors every evening? That’s the only thing you could write that would hurt my business. You haven’t been in Dawson long, Mr. Ireland, and I suggest that you don’t make your visit last any longer.”
“Come on, Irene, let’s get out of here.” His hand closed around her arm.
“Irene,” I said, “you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. MacGillivray. I’m staying. I’m sorry, Jack, but I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided not to go to San Francisco with you.”
Ireland’s eyes bulged, and a purple vein throbbed in the side of his neck. He tightened his grip on Irene’s arm, and she grimaced. “You’re making a mistake, Irene. I can make you a star.”
“I don’t want to be a star.” Her voice broke as she tried pry his hand off her. “I want you to leave me alone.”
“I suggest you release her, Mr. Ireland,” I said, conscious of the press of men gathering around, attracted by our angry words.
He released Irene, turned to me, and shoved me in the chest with such force that I lost my footing and fell backwards.