Saint Bridget looking both very Irish and very virtuous. The overly sentimental artwork touched a chord in Dylan, and for a fleeting moment, a wave of sadness surged through him. As it often did, his heart kept trying to remember a past he had vowed to forget. Memories strained to break into his consciousness, but he resisted them, knowing they held nothing but darkness for him. He had spent a lifetime fleeing the past, and he wasn’t about to lose the race now. Through sheer force of will, he banished the phantom feeling, convincing himself that he had only imagined the sudden, searing pain.
Impatient with himself, he turned the card over and read the printed prayer. And there, at the very bottom, was the name of the deceased being honored: Bridget Cavanaugh. Beloved wife, mother, grandmother. The sponsor of the card was St. Brendan’s, just a few blocks away, according to the address given.
Dylan palmed the card and slid it into the flat front pocket of his trousers—appropriately enough, next to the part of him that wanted Kate the most. He grinned at his own crude wit. Suddenly his luck was about to change.
But first, of course, he had to figure out where she had gone. Donning his best smile, he breezed into the main salon. The crowd had thinned somewhat. Apparently others were also worried about the fire that had sent Lucy and Kate speeding on their way.
Dylan found a tray of champagne glasses and helped himself to two, lifting them in the direction of Mr. Pullman in a salute. Then, when Pullman turned away, he knocked them back like water.
Lately Dylan had a new sense of weariness, an ennui. The exhilaration of a narrow escape had lacked its former heady sweetness. Running for his life was becoming too routine, and for the first time ever, Dylan began to wonder what it would be like to settle down, go straight.
With a rueful half grin into his champagne glass, he drained the last drop. How on earth would he know? His earliest memory, one he couldn’t forget no matter how hard he tried, had been of a deception.
Just wait right there, my boy, and Mam will come back for you. He had tried to sit very still and quiet, hoping his good behavior would bring her back sooner. The steamy train station had seemed as big as a witch’s castle to him, with its gleaming marble floors, soaring ceilings, gritty air and skylights glittering high overhead. Mam had once told him that the plump naked creatures were supposed to be cherubs—little babies with wings—but to him they looked evil, their carved stone mouths puckered, their fat hands clutching at clouds and clusters of grapes, their curling hair frozen in stone.
The smells of steam and cinders had choked him as he watched passengers hurrying zigzag across the marble, heels clicking, black-faced porters whistling smartly and wheeling groaning carts of baggage out to the trains. Destinations were shouted down the terminals: Philadelphia. Saratoga. Buffalo. New Haven. Boston. He encountered a boy his own age who had boasted, “We have a first-class berth all the way to Boston,” before a governess grabbed him by the upper arm and hauled him off with a whack to the backside and the warning, Don’t consort with riffraff. You’ll catch a disease.
Much later, a man dressed in a black gown had taken him by the hand and brought him to a church that echoed with whispers and eerie songs. He had dug in his heels, not wanting to face what the priest had brought him to see—a plain pine box, candles burning low. Look at her, boy. Tell us her name. He had run away as quick as ever he could, slipping out the door and passing crooked headstones in the churchyard. He skirted a freshly dug grave that reeked of damp earth and broken lilies, and the dewy grass wet the toes of his scuffed shoes as he ran.
He returned to the steamy, oily train station, because his mam had told him to wait there. The black-gowned man came looking for him again, but he’d huddled under a bench in the waiting room until the man left. Hours or maybe days later, a kindly porter had asked him if he was lost. He had shaken his head and mimicked the well-dressed boy’s voice: I have a first-class berth all the way to Boston.
That had been the beginning. He had been nine years old, and he’d learned his lesson well. People didn’t keep their promises. And more important, folks believed what they wanted to believe.
Dylan was tempted to drink away the bitter taste of the unwelcome memory, but he couldn’t afford the indulgence. Things were looking bad for him and he had work to do.
“Shame on you, Mr. Kennedy,” scolded an annoying voice. “You’ve been hiding yourself from us.”
He put on a smile designed to disarm and turned to greet Alice and Mabel Moss, nieces of the mayor of Chicago. The smile worked. They giggled and put up fans to hide their prominent teeth.
“Ouch,” he said, “that accusation stings even worse coming from your beautiful mouth.” While they giggled even harder, he said, “I was out watching the progress of the fire. Looks to be a bad one.”
Mabel waved her fan with nonchalant grace. “Oh, dear, yes,” she said. “Uncle has gone to the courthouse to see that the alarm system is alerting the West Division.”
“But never worry,” Alice enjoined. “Chicago has a perfectly grand fire department. Steam engines, hose carts, alarms everywhere you’d care to look.”
“I do hope the fire’s not in the vicinity of Field and Leiter’s store,” Mabel said with a worried pout. “I’m expecting an order of silk from Bombay. I declare, it’s impossible to hire a decent dressmaker these days. The city’s positively overrun by—” she shuddered visibly “—immigrants and foreigners.”
“Can’t abide them myself,” Dylan said earnestly. “Especially the Visigoths.”
She frowned in confusion, completely unaware that while she’d spoken, Dylan had relieved her of her little reticule. He hoped it contained something more useful than Kate’s smelling salts.
He palmed the small bag as he bowed to the young ladies. “It has been a distinct privilege,” he assured them. “And now I must be going. Perhaps I’ll make myself useful in battling the fire.”
As he walked away, he heard one of them whisper, “He’s so brave.”
He resisted the urge to add a swagger to his step. He wasn’t being brave at all, but practical. Fires could be useful in appropriating a bit of short-term gain. He considered looting to be the sport of commoners, beneath him, but the occasional snatched jewelry or cash would not come amiss.
He stopped at the cloak room and sweetly convinced the matron in charge that the Italian silk opera cape and sleek Canadian beaver top hat belonged to him. Then he went outside and stood beneath the awning, studying the terrain. The edge of the canvas flapped in a high wind, though no evidence of fire had reached the area. He pressed down the new hat to keep it in place.
“I ordered my phaeton half an hour ago,” snapped an angry voice. “Why the devil hasn’t it been brought round?”
Recognizing Philip Ascot IV, Dylan tipped his hat. He had always disliked the type: bland, vacuous, with just enough education from the right places to give him the sense that anything he wanted was his for the taking. Ascot possessed nothing but a venerable family name to recommend him. Sadly, in some circles that was more than enough. It was said that Ascot was engaged to marry Arthur Sinclair’s beauteous daughter, Deborah, who came with a dowry in excess of a million.
If Dylan needed another reason to dislike Ascot, there it was. He had gotten to the wealthy Deborah first.
No matter, he decided, pacing the pine block sidewalk, trying to make up his mind where to go. The red-haired heiress would do just fine for his purposes.
