His Substitute Bride. Elizabeth Lane

froze in his tracks, making it clear he’d heard. Turning slightly, he looked back over his shoulder.

      His smile chilled Annie to the soles of her shoes.

      

      They spent the afternoon seeing the city from an open horse-drawn cab. Quint did his best to be a good guide, but Annie could see that he was distracted. At unguarded moments, his features tightened into a worried scowl that was nothing like the rakish, playful Quint she remembered. Something was wrong; and Annie suspected it had to do with the man they’d met at Delmonico’s.

      The cab took them up Market Street where electric trolley cars clanked along tracks of steel. On either side of the tracks, buggies, wagons and autos crowded the thoroughfare.

      Annie gaped at the towering granite-faced Call Building with its wedding-cake top. City Hall, with its massive dome and pillared facade, looked almost as grand as the photographs she had seen of St. Paul’s in London.

      “The pillars are supposed to be solid marble,” Quint said. “That’s what our taxes paid for. But I know for a fact they’re hollow and filled with gravel. The contractor probably split the difference with the city supervisor who gave him the job.” He glanced down at Clara, who’d fallen asleep against his shoulder. “San Francisco’s run by a bunch of crooks, from the mayor on down, and one day there’s going to be hell to pay for it.”

      “Is that what you wrote about in your column? The one your friend Rutledge didn’t like?”

      “My friend?” Quint mouthed a curse. “Rutledge is the worst of the lot. He knows I’m on to his shenanigans. But he’s right—I don’t have a lick of evidence to pin on him. He keeps his own hands lily-white while his hired thugs do the dirty work.”

      “And all you can do, as the man said, is tread the line between speculation and libel. Isn’t that dangerous, Quint?” Annie’s gaze traced the worried lines on his face, lingering on the shadows beneath his warm brown eyes. It was all she could do to keep from reaching out and brushing back the lock of hair that had strayed from under his hat.

      “Dangerous?” His frown deepened. “Maybe. But if I were to disappear, everyone who reads my column in the Chronicle would be aware of it. And I’ve got friends, good friends who know what I know and wouldn’t let it rest. That gives me a measure of protection.”

      Her eyes searched his. Quint’s gaze flickered away, just slightly but enough for her to notice. “You’re not telling me everything, are you?” she asked.

      He sighed. “Little Annie. You always could see right through me.”

      “You didn’t answer my question.”

      “No, and for your sake, I’m not going to. Just understand that I’ve stumbled onto a dirty mess. Rutledge is part of it, and things have gone too far for me to back off. I’ve got to bring him down.”

      Annie’s white-gloved hand crept to her throat. “You are in danger! Have you thought of going to the police?”

      “No good. Half the force is in Rutledge’s pocket.”

      “Then the federal marshals. Surely—”

      “Without solid evidence, they’d laugh in my face. All I can do is use the power of the press to jab at him and hope he breaks. Tomorrow’s column should really singe his whiskers.”

      He reached out, took Annie’s hand and cradled it in his palm. “Meanwhile, I have two beautiful ladies to entertain, and I mean to enjoy every minute of their company.”

      “But we’ve come at a bad time, haven’t we?”

      “I’m the one who invited you, remember? Besides, where you and Clara are concerned, there’s no such thing as a bad time.”

      “Spoken like the Quint Seavers I know and love!” Annie reclaimed her hand with a little laugh. Quint’s pretty words were lies, of course. He was playing a dangerous game with a dangerous man, and this was no time for distractions. Maybe tonight, when Clara was in bed and they had more time to talk, she would suggest that they cut their visit short.

      Clara stirred and opened her eyes. “Can we please get some ice cream, Uncle Quint?”

      Laughing, Quint tousled her curls. “Your wish is my command, fair lady. And I know just the place!”

      

      Darkness had fallen, creeping in over the bay like a stealthy black cat. The last trolley car rolled into the barn for the night. Gaslit lamps glowed along the streets. Workmen with their tin lunch pails trudged home to the crowded wooden tenements south of Market Street. The mansions on Nob Hill blazed with light as carriages swept the rich off to parties or to the theater.

      In the Jackson Street flat, Quint sat with his feet on the ottoman, gazing into the fire. From the bathroom came the sounds of Annie dressing Clara after her bath. Their girlish giggles resonated like music.

      A legal pad and a freshly sharpened pencil lay on the side table. Quint had planned to spend some time jotting down notes for his next column. But tonight his mind was on other things.

      The afternoon had been pleasantly spent, driving across the city, seeing the waterfront, the towering new office buildings and the legendary Palace Hotel where Teddy Roosevelt had been a recent guest. They’d laughed as Clara chased pigeons in Union Square and shared dripping ice cream in little sugared waffle cones at a sidewalk café. At the end of the day they’d come home to Chao’s savory lamb stew with fresh greens and flaky crescent rolls. Annie had insisted on washing the dishes so that Chao could go home to his family in Chinatown.

      Clara had been a delight the whole time. As for Annie…

      Quint paused in his thoughts, listening to the muffled sound of her voice through the bathroom door. He’d never given much thought to Hannah’s younger sister. The only time he could recall being alone with her was the day he’d taught her to shoot. It was a surprise to find her so intelligent, warm and perceptive. Little Annie Gustavson had grown up to be one fine woman. Any man on earth would be lucky to have her.

      The bathroom door swung open and Clara pattered out in her white ruffled nightgown. With her freshly washed curls tumbling around her face, she looked like a six-year-old angel. Quint’s heart contracted as she scampered toward him. If he never did anything worthwhile in his life, siring this little girl would make up for it all.

      “Would you tuck me in, please, Uncle Quint?” Her chocolate eyes melted him.

      “I’ll be happy to tuck you in.”

      “And would you read me Peter Rabbit first?” The small book had been a present from Quint two years ago, and she’d brought it along in her bag.

      “How many times have you heard that story?” Quint teased. “Do you think it will be any different this time?”

      “No. But I like it the way it is.” Clara skipped off to get the book. Annie had come out of the bathroom, her sleeves rolled up, her white shirtwaist unbuttoned at the collar. Damp tendrils of hair spilled over her forehead. She looked deliciously soft and mussy.

      “While you’re reading, I believe I’ll take advantage of the warm water and have a bath myself,” she said. “We can visit later. Do you mind?”

      “Go ahead. And help yourself to my new bathrobe. It’s hanging on the back of the door.”

      She colored slightly. “Oh, really, I—”

      “No, try it on. It’s cashmere. I paid a king’s ransom for it. It’ll spoil you silly.”

      “We’ll see.” Annie ducked into the bathroom as Clara came bounding back into the parlor with her storybook.

      Settling her beside him on the sofa, Quint began to read familiar tale of Peter Rabbit and his mother’s stern admonition not to go into Mr. McGregor’s garden. By now he knew the words almost by heart—which was a