Nine years had passed since she had left the Duvall house. Nine years of a new life for her, learning and working as a freed woman.
Had Victor been searching for her all this time? And had Mr.Payne come to Sacramento as well to find out if she belonged to the Duvalls?
But that didn’t make sense. Mr.Payne knew exactly where she was.
If her old master found her, he wouldn’t hesitate to do exactly what Mr.Webb had done to Persila. He would beat and humiliate her, then take her back before Judge Snyder if he must.
And there was nothing she could do to fight him.
She slid her chair back and hurried to lock the lobby door. Like Persila, she had to run before her master found her.
Fanny giggled like an elf as she slid off her high-topped shoes and tossed them next to the bureau. He wished she’d given the slightest contest, but she’d followed him willingly up to his room, to the edge of the horsehair mattress on his bed.
Victor hushed her when she giggled again. “Mr.Kirtland will hear.”
She dangled her stockinged foot in front of him, the shadow of it dancing on the wall in the lantern light. “Ross won’t be back for hours.”
“And you’re not concerned about your guests?”
“We don’t have silly rules here, like at Isabelle’s place.”
He locked the door and sat down beside her on the ticking that covered the mattress. The entire room stank of camphene from the lamp. “Who is Isabelle?”
She wrinkled her nose, her pretty lips crunched together in a pout. “That awful Miss Labrie at the Golden Hotel.”
His mind wandered back to that confident, pure lilt in the voice of the woman who’d publicly disputed the act of slavery. Miss Labrie, he was certain, would prove to be more of a challenge than the woman beside him.
And less inclined to brain-numbing drivel.
She reached for his arm. “I don’t want to think about Isabelle.”
“Neither do I,” he lied.
She laughed again, twirling her foot until it knocked the leather portfolio off the bureau.
He dove for it, placing it back on top of the dresser. “Don’t touch that.”
She ignored his words, bending toward it. “What is it?”
He shoved her hand away. “I said don’t touch it.”
“You shouldn’t keep secrets from me.” She crossed her arms, seemingly offended.
“I’m not here to banter, Fanny.”
Scooting away from her, he fumbled with the three buttons on his pleated dress shirt. Then he took it off. He’d finish what he started, and then he’d go visit this Isabelle.
When he looked back over, Fanny had his portfolio in her lap. The flap was open, and she was staring down at the sketch of Mallie.
Irate, he yanked the portfolio out of her hands, the papers scattering on the floor.
“Fool,” he mumbled as he dropped to his hands and knees, shoving the papers back into the case. He had tired of the woman’s silliness long ago. Unlike Mr.Kirtland, he did not intend to let her or any other woman control him.
He placed the portfolio inside a drawer this time. If she tried to open it, he’d make certain she remembered that no matter what he asked, she must obey.
When he returned to the bed, Fanny wasn’t smiling anymore. Instead, her gaze was focused on the drawer. “Why do you have a sketch of Isabelle?”
His eyes narrowed. “What?”
