Shadow of the Fox Read online

  “It’s no laughing matter.”

  “Her grandfather won’t like the news that he’s been harboring an American spy, but he won’t go running to the authorities,” Mitchell said. “I’m confident the wealthy landowners will conclude their corrupt Mexican governors are not worth the pain of resistance. He’ll keep his mouth shut.”

  Grainger winced at the words. If he only had her grandfather to worry about, he wouldn’t be here.

  “It’s worse. She’s going to tell Santoro.”

  “That weasel? Why? Meek little senoritas answer to their elders, not unmarried males who are not part of their family.”

  “Next week she is to be betrothed to him.”

  “Holy Mary and Joseph.” Mitchell spat on the ground. “If the brat thinks she’s in love, then I guess we do have to worry, laddie.”

  The thick walls were suddenly unbearably warm. Grainger rose, walked to the doorway and filled his lungs with cool night air. The courtyard was so still that sounds of guitars from the cantina could be heard in the silence. He took two steps back into the room and faced Mitchell. “This is no love match. She hates his guts.”

  “Then why would she carry tales to him?”

  “She hates him so much she wants me to help her escape. She wants me to take her to Santa Barbara to find her uncle. If I don’t, she’ll tell.”

  “Does she mean it?” Mitchell flicked his cheroot onto the dirt floor and ground it under his heel.

  “We’re not dealing with a fragile flower here,” Grainger said. He momentarily recalled the feel of the knifepoint pressing into his neck. “This is a woman who knows what she wants and is willing to take risks to get it.”

  “Well this time you’ve really tied your balls in a knot, haven’t you?” Mitchell’s words ended in a snort. He kicked the dirt with the toe of his boot, connecting with a piece of wood that landed against the wall. Something scurried into the corner.

  Grainger sighed and gripped the doorframe. “I want to stay and brazen it out, but I’m not sure if I can.” He couldn’t see Mitchell, but he had a habit of cracking his knuckles when he was thinking.

  If only he’d been more careful, he would never have responded to Sorina’s note. But he was curious and the thought of seeing her on the beach alone was tempting. Prepared to lie and tell her he’d asked a literate house servant to read the note, he was mortified when she’d startled him into using an English epithet with the news of her pending betrothal. It wouldn’t have mattered. She remembered him.

  Just like he remembered her.

  “You know, laddie, I’ve been standin’ here wonderin’ how it is you know Miss Sorina Braithwaite.” Mitchell’s match flared as he lit another cheroot. The smell of sulfur and tobacco drifted under Grainger’s nose.

  “A couple of years ago, when I was assigned to the American Embassy in England, I attended a ball in London. She was there, visiting her father’s relatives.”

  “So she knows your name?”

  “Not exactly. I’d had a bit too much champagne and we had . . . an encounter . . . in the garden. Nothing damaging. Let’s say it was not my proudest moment.”

  Although it was certainly memorable.

  The guitars in the distance had stopped playing. Bits of laughter echoed in the darkness, carried on a freshening breeze that cooled his cheeks and ruffled his hair.

  She’d been a girl in the first blush of womanhood, seeking a sympathetic ear in the dark with a man who should have known better. A spurt of warmth heated his body. Mitchell didn’t need to know that part.

  Mitchell took a final puff, handing the cheroot to Grainger, who inhaled deeply then snuffed it in the dirt next to him. Rising, Grainger stiffened his shoulders and faced his colleague. “I have to do what she says, don’t I?”

  “Yes, laddie. You do. We can’t show our hand with the army so far away. But if you take the girl away, Santoro will follow. It’s an opportunity to distract him. While you’re gone I can work on a plan to break up his gang and destroy his arms cache. Where is the betrothal to take place?”

  “Here in the old mission church. Next week. The bride and her guests will be staying with the Avilas. I don’t know about Santoro.”

  “Betrothing is serious business in this culture, but it’s not marriage. After the ceremony, there’s usually a rodeo in the town square, followed by a barbecue and dancing. If Avila is involved there will be a horse race, right down the El Camino Real on the east side of the mission. That will be an event you might use as a diversion. All eyes will be on the race. Santoro will be in the thick of it with his horse, El Tigre. Use the time to get away.”

  “I have a plan, but I haven’t fleshed out the details. Vega and Santoro will follow once they know the girl is gone. I’m a sailor, not a horseman. I won’t get far on a horse. But trading ships sail up the coast all the time. I thought to head south to San Diego, then find a ship heading north. It will probably stop in Santa Barbara before following the coast to Yerba Buena. Once she finds her uncle, I’ll come back.”

  “Actually, that might work. Santoro and Vega won’t know you’re with the girl. Not right away. But if you get caught, it won’t go well for her. Vega is a decent man, but Santoro? We know what he is.”

  “I think she knows that.” He shuddered to think what Santoro might do to his errant bride-to-be if he caught her and brought her back.

  “And if what I hear of the snake is true, it would be worse for you,” Mitchell said.

  Grainger squared his shoulders. “I’ll be careful.” He couldn’t see Mitchell’s expression, but he could imagine the planes of the man’s face curving into a smile.

  “Find me when you arrive next week at the hacienda, laddie, and fill me in on the details. I’ll see a letter gets off to Larkin. We’re supposed to stay here and observe and report, but your little peccadillo might turn into an opportunity to do serious damage to the weasel’s operation. In the meantime, I don’t want anyone to think you’ve run off and disobeyed orders in a time of war.” Mitchell’s hand squeezed his shoulder before he disappeared into the night.

  His handler knew he would never disobey his orders. He’d reported to him for several months now. But if anything happened to Mitchell others might wonder, and without documentation, he could find himself in big trouble . . . trouble he’d worked his entire career to avoid.

  Letters, even diplomatic ones, sometimes go astray.

  He wouldn’t think about that now. Mitchell had given him his orders and he would carry them out.

  Grainger donned his sombrero and looked toward the village. Lights still flickered in the buildings around the square. Music filled the night, something lively, punctuated by shouts and clapping hands. On his way he would check out the ruins of the Great Stone Church, where an earthquake toppled its seven domes and cracked its stone walls in 1812. It was still considered a sacred place, used for baptisms and other ceremonies. If the weather was good, the betrothal would take place there.

  Avila’s hacienda, which lined almost the entire west side of the plaza, had outbuildings in the rear. He’d been there often, delivering stock. Tall trees screened the river. When he finished his reconnaissance, he would amble into the bar patronized by Avila’s vaqueros. A quiet drink in a dark corner might turn up some useful conversation.

  The whiskey would be welcome.

  God knows he needed it.

  ~ ~ ~

  A row of simple two and three-room dwellings made of white-washed adobe bricks lined two sides of a wide central space that served as the town Plaza. One or two doubled as stores with places to live in the back. Others were homes, made from simple structures left over from a bygone era.

  The old ruined mission stood on the north and another adobe anchored the south, forming a crude, enclosed rectangle where corn, beans, sheep, and pigs we
re sold on market days. Grainger knew every shack in the pueblo, every tree, and most of the ruts in the dirt roads. Such knowledge might be useful one day.

  Perhaps sooner than I thought.

  Lusty voices belted out a popular song from a low building on the end of the east row. As the only settlement between San Diego and Los Angeles, the town was a popular stopping place for travelers.

  Grainger avoided the rowdy bar at the end of the street and slipped into one closer to the road that led into the mountains. A group of four men played cards in the corner. A young girl, who appeared to be little more than a child, wiped glasses with a rag behind the counter. After ordering a whiskey, he slunk off to a corner where he could overhear the conversation at the card table.

  Two men he recognized from Avila’s ranch. The other two were strangers. Sipping his drink quietly in the corner, his sombrero tilted over his forehead, he studied the broad nose and scarred face of the man with the largest pile of coins in front of him. He was also the loudest.

  Scooping his winnings into a small leather pouch, he stood and gestured toward his companion. “Time to return to camp. These sheep have been sheared.”

  His companion pushed back from the table, grinning at Avila’s men, his drooping mustachio not quite hiding his lips. “A pleasure, gentlemen.”

  “Santoro is camped nearby?” one of them asked.

  “No. But he arrives soon. We’ll stay for the fiesta to celebrate his betrothal. Then we begin examining the land that Señorita Braithwaite’s dowry will bring to him.”

  They sauntered over to the bar. The loud one flipped a coin at the young girl, his eyes roaming her youthful curves. He licked his lips and laughed as she turned her face away and clutched the rag with both hands. Grainger ground his teeth. Swine generally had four legs. This pig had two.

  The quiet one left, but the loud one turned to Avila’s men. “Remember what I said. If you want to join us, be at the camp in the canyon in one week’s time. And remember the signal. If you forget . . .” He drew his finger across his throat, turned, and disappeared into the night.

  Grainger leaned back in his chair and pretended to doze. When the two remaining men left, he finished his drink and lurched to the door. Prying eyes sometimes stood in shadows, waiting to see who exited buildings and what state they were in.

  His horse was still tied to a post at the back of the old mission. Stumbling as if influenced by drink, he entered the ruins of the Great Stone Church and headed for a doorway that once led into the sacristy. Looking up at a window in the wall holding the one remaining dome, he thought he saw a shadow. Locals thought the place haunted by the ghost of a young girl killed in the earthquake that brought down the building. Grainger didn’t believe in ghosts. But the stillness of the night made the atmosphere tense. A blanket of unease sat lightly on his shoulders.

  Finding his way to the rear courtyard, and out toward a stand of pepper trees, he mounted his horse and turned north. The El Camino Real was the fastest way to return. He had hard riding ahead if he was to get back in time for a few hours’ sleep, but he’d done it many times before. And there’d be little time for thinking before Señorita Sorina expected his answer.

  Was she so coldhearted that she would give him up to a man like Santoro? Perhaps she didn’t understand the man’s true character, or the rumors swirling around him. He portrayed himself as a cultured, egocentric popinjay—interested in money, food, and a comfortable, orderly life. And yet, she must know more. He’d sensed it. Her reluctance to marry him had confirmed it.

  God help her if they failed.

  Chapter 11

  The dark-blue silk dress was spread over the bed. The color reminded Sorina of the sea at night, the same sea she’d like to drown herself in if Lobo failed her.

  Several days had passed and she had not heard from him. Why had he not contacted her? Did he think she would not go through with her threat to expose him?

  She circled the bed warily, as if the dress were alive and would suddenly rise from the bed, wrap itself around her neck, and choke her. It had once been her most prized possession, her first woman’s dress. Now it would be a symbol of shame.

  Wisps of memory floated into her head: a busy street in Mayfair, a shop window with a display of dolls dressed in the latest fashions, a thin woman with a pointed chin and a French accent, exclaiming as she draped the fabric over Sorina’s shoulders.

  Her English aunt had resisted the fabric and the style, thinking them much too sophisticated for the barbarian from another continent. But the modiste had convinced her, saying it brought out the color of Sorina’s skin tone, and was exactly the right shade for her black hair. She’d surely have an offer for her hand once the unmarried gentlemen of the ton saw her in the gown.

  Her aunt had ordered the gown without another thought. Sorina was sure she’d done it in the hopes of ridding herself quickly of her embarrassing, unconventional niece.

  When the gown arrived and her maid laced her stays and finally slipped the cool fabric over her head, Sorina thought someone else stood in front of the looking glass. She’d felt like a woman for the first time in her life.

  Although not done, she’d insisted on wearing the dress several times after that because it was her personal favorite. She had it on the night of the ball at her aunt’s town house in London, the night she’d met Lobo.

  She hoped he felt guilty when he saw her in the dress again, knowing what fate awaited her.

  May his horse piss on his boot if he lets me down.

  A gentle knock was followed by Maria, cradling a long black mantilla of Belgian lace. It would be draped over the tortoiseshell comb that would fit snugly among her coronet of braids. A delicate black lace fan would complete her ensemble.

  “Oh, my lady, what a beautiful gown.” Maria’s eyes grew wide as she fingered the tiny flowers accenting the low bodice. “You will be the envy of every woman at the ceremony.”

  She didn’t doubt that, but it would not be her gown that would draw the attention of the women in attendance. It would be Santoro, whose reputation was that of an accomplished gentleman, reminiscent of the grandees of old Spain. Few knew his darker side. Her grandfather certainly didn’t. She’d mentioned it to him once and he’d flown into a rage, telling her not to listen to scurrilous gossip.

  I still wouldn’t marry him if he were a shining example of Castilian knighthood.

  The man strained her patience and irritated her nerves. She could barely stand to be in the same room with him. And this was the man whose bed she would one day share? Never.

  “Maria, nothing has come for me, has it? A letter of good wishes? A gift?”

  “No, my lady.” She frowned and pursed her lips. “I’m sure it is not a gift.”

  “What?”

  “It is a flower pot, holding a single red rose.”

  “Let me see it.”

  Maria peered at her oddly, but obeyed. She opened the bedchamber door and stooped. When she rose, she held the container in her hand. Was it from Lobo? Did it signify something? The smell of roses had been strong in her aunt’s garden the night of their encounter.

  Sorina picked up the pot. Round, smooth pebbles, much like the coarse sand in the cove below the cliff, were placed around the stem. She carried it out to the inner courtyard, where the light was better. A faint mark lay on the underside, two single scratches that seemed to form the letter L.

  “It’s pretty. I shall keep it in my room.”

  “As you wish.” Maria took it from Sorina’s hand and put it on the writing desk. “Perhaps the rose will cheer you up before it wilts, señorita. I know you are much vexed with this betrothal.”

  “And only you know why.”

  “Yes, my lady. Sadly, I do.” Maria wrung her hands, her lower lip trembling. Shrugging, she turned to the bed and fold
ed the dress for packing. Reaching under the bed, she tugged out a valise and raised the lid. “Oh! What is this?” She lifted the pistol from the small trunk.

  Oh my God. She’d forgotten she’d stuffed her uncle’s weapons in the trunk with his outgrown clothes, clothes she used when she needed to dress as a boy. How could she have been so careless?

  Sorina snatched the gun out of her maid’s hands. She placed it back into the small container and slammed down the lid. “It is nothing. Part of an old costume my uncle once wore when attending a ball in Los Angeles.” The lie came quickly.

  “Attire for a ball?”

  “Yes, a costume ball. He was dressed as a highwayman. Masquerades were quite popular many years ago.” The lie rolled off her tongue. “My traveling trunk is next to it. Put this one back.”

  Maria tilted her head, shrugged, but lifted the lid and continued to paw through the contents. The remaining garments were shirts and pantaloons, clothes her uncle had worn in his youth. “Look at this, milady.” She held up a belt buckle of tarnished silver. A letter was carved in the intricate design, but the tarnish hid it.

  “I’ll take that.” Sorina curled her fingers around the smooth metal, depositing it back in the trunk.

  “Do you not want me to polish it? It looks valuable.”

  “No, no. It was part of the costume. You have a great deal to do before this day ends. I do not want to keep you from your duties.”

  “As you wish.” Maria slid the container back under the bed and drew out the empty one. “This needs airing before we pack your beautiful betrothal clothes in it. I shall set it outside and return later.”

  She propped open the door with her foot and slipped outside, closing the door behind her.

  Sorina sank into the nearest chair, unaware that she’d been holding her breath.