Read Online The Duke of Olympia Meets His Match by Juliana Gray - Free Book Online Page B

one thing, if Mrs. Schuyler was the agent carrying the French documents, who the devil had searched her room?
    The saloon had fallen into a reverent silence as he passed through the doorway, or at least as much silence as two hundred Americans could possibly contrive together. The long communal tables had been pushed to the side, and the heavy chairs were arranged in rows, the backs toward the entrance, facing the scene of action, where a tall, plainly dressed woman enacted a mesmerizing pantomime that Olympia decided was meant to resemble either the coronation of a cannibalistic queen or opening day at Ascot.
    He ran his gaze over the tops of the hats assembled before him. They belonged mostly to women and children, but a few doughty chaps had braved the occasion for the sake of civilization, God preserve them. Every single face was attuned to the performer with utmost attention, except for one: the figure of Mr. Morrison, who had apparently declined to sit in the chairs provided. He stood instead off to the side, arms crossed, and had allowed, over the course of the past hour, an expression of dull irritation to take over his face. It disappeared at once when he caught Olympia’s gaze. He uncrossed his arms and edged around the rows of chairs to the duke’s side.
    â€œWhat a spectacle, eh? Thank God it’s almost over.”
    â€œDear me.” Olympia consulted his watch. “Have I missed it all?”
    â€œâ€™Fraid so. The starboard side is winning handily, thanks to my daughter. If her mama didn’t have other plans, I’d start her on the stage and make our fortunes, eh?” He let out a whispery chuckle.
    â€œAn elegant plan, indeed. How I admire modern American parenting.”
    The woman finished her pantomime and stood expectantly at the left-center of the stage, imploring her side to guess.
    â€œThe ‘Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves’?” someone hazarded.
    Olympia continued, in the same hushed voice, designed to be heard at a distance of exactly one foot. “Does Mrs. Schuyler not choose to participate?”
    â€œMrs. Schuyler?” Mr. Morrison looked about, as if just noticing her absence. “Why, I guess not. She’s not much hand at parlor games.”
    â€œA great shame. One wonders why not. Surely she doesn’t disapprove of such innocent diversions?”
    â€œOh, no. She’s no Methodist. Just—I don’t know—shy, I guess, that’s the word. Keeps to herself. Now, she’s the perfect chaperone for our Ruby, straight as an arrow and that kind of thing. No trouble at all. But I tried to make talk with her one evening after dinner, friendly word or two, and . . .” Mr. Morrison shook his head.
    â€œUnimpeachable?”
    â€œI’ll say.”
    As he spoke, Olympia regarded each figure before him, examining and discarding. This practice had become so automatic over the decades, he hardly noticed how he operated these separate and concurrent lines of thought: the one holding conversation with Mr. Morrison, the other picking rapidly and effortlessly through the possibilities before him. At the exact moment his eyes came to rest on the tall woman occupying the makeshift stage (“Fish and chips!” someone exclaimed) he was able to observe to the other man, somewhat acidly, “A sensible position, I would imagine, for a woman in such a vulnerable situation.”
    â€œEh? I don’t quite follow you.”
    â€œMay I ask you a question, Mr. Morrison? Do you happen to know the year in which Mrs. Schuyler’s husband was called to his eternal rest?”
    â€œWhy, I understood him to have—well, you know”—Mr. Morrison made a gesture to his temple, as of shooting oneself—“when Cooke’s bank went belly-up in seventy-three. They were old friends, you know, and he kept all his money there.”
    â€œI see. Twenty years of this sort of life, then.”
    â€œNearly so,