Poisoned Legacy

  POISONED LEGACY

  OF GOLD & BLOOD

  BOOK ONE

  By Jenny Wheeler

  “For here the men danced as they did everything else, with all their might.”—J. Borthwick, Three Years in California, (1851‒1854).

  “Even while you sleep among the campfires, the wings of my dove are sheathed with silver, its feathers with shining gold.”—Psalm 68:13.

  If you enjoy Poisoned Legacy, get a FREE PREVIEW - the FIRST FOUR CHAPTERS - of Brother Betrayed, Book Two in the Of Gold & Blood series

  A mysterious death. A missing partner. Can an opera singer and a businessman catch the culprit before he strikes again? If you like accurate portrayals of the Western frontier, fast-paced action, and tales of redemption, then you’ll love Brother Betrayed!

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  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Twenty Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty One

  Thirty Two

  Thirty Three

  Thirty Four

  Thirty Five

  Thirty Six

  Thirty Seven

  Thirty Eight

  Thirty Nine

  Forty

  Forty One

  Forty Two

  Forty Three

  Forty Four

  Forty Five

  Forty Six

  Forty Seven

  Forty Eight

  Forty Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty One

  Fifty Two

  Fifty Three

  Fifty Four

  Fifty Five

  Fifty Six

  Fifty Seven

  Brother Betrayed Offer

  Make A Difference

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Copyright

  One

  Saturday, June 27, 1868

  San Francisco

  Hector de Vile leered at Graysie Travers Castellanos over his wine glass with the confidence of a man who owned half of San Francisco’s Montgomery Street and let his eyes rest on her cleavage just a few seconds longer than good manners permitted. Graysie—she’d inherited the family name from her long-dead mother, Elanora Grayson Travers Castellanos—was glad the turquoise gown she’d worn for tonight’s show was, like all her stage costumes, modestly cut, but she tensed at the devilishly handsome financier’s blatant appraisal.

  “Your ‘Uncle’ Eustace has set you up for a big fall if you swallow his stories. The Ophir is no great shakes. He just didn’t want to admit it.”

  He swirled the red wine in the glass, spinning the crimson liquid right up to the rim without spilling a drop, then bent, sniffed the bouquet, and sipped. He ran his tongue slowly along his upper lip as he swallowed. As an acting display it ranked up there with Edwin Booth, she thought, and it provoked the desired result. She felt like a mouse being toyed with by a feral cat as he eyed her, tapping his glass with long manicured fingers.

  “You may be young and beautiful, but I don’t think you are a fool.”

  They were seated in her performer’s sitting room at Maguire’s Opera House on Washington Street. Her glass of soda sat at her elbow beside the riotous oranges and pinks of the ‘last night’ bouquet on a low coffee table. The final curtain had fallen on a great run of full houses; she the popular chanteuse sharing the spotlight with a French magician who pulled rabbits from hats. She had just plopped down into a backstage armchair with a grateful sigh when the stage manager announced de Vile’s uninvited arrival. She’d been astounded at his cheek; she’d never met him before, but he was a well-known benefactor of the arts and she knew she owed it to theatre owner Tom Maguire to play the welcoming hostess.

  She took a slow sip of her soda. “So, you knew Eustace?” She made it sound like a casual inquiry, but she could barely suppress a groan at the needling stab of uncertainty that twisted inside her at the mention of her ‘uncle’s’ name.

  Bachelor Eustace Mountfort was no blood relation but rather an old family friend of her mother’s. She couldn’t honestly recall if she had ever even met him. Life had turned to chaos after her mother died when she was nearly five years old, and she’d never seen or thought of the man until three months ago, when she’d been advised by a Sacramento solicitor that he’d bequeathed her some shares in an old partly worked out gold mine in the northern Sierra Nevadas.

  The solicitor had explained that the mine had closed a year ago. She had no idea whether the shares were worth anything, and she didn’t know anyone she could trust to advise her, so she’d done precisely nothing but lock them away in a safety deposit box. She had no clue why Eustace had got it into his head to leave her anything, particularly a shutdown mine.

  “Eustace?” He settled back in his chair. “Handled some cargoes for him when I was still at sea. He partnered up with Sir John Russell, as you probably know, but he didn’t have the killer instinct when it came to deals. It was the romance of it all that got him fired up.”

  “Really? I don’t know about the romance, but the lawyer did indicate Eustace had high hopes for the Ophir.”

  “My point exactly. The Ophir closed down a year ago because it wasn’t paying its way and he couldn’t afford to keep working it. Does that sound like a great proposition?” He cleared his throat and frowned. “It’s of passing interest to someone like me, who already has machinery and men to work it. But to anyone else…? Too much expense with a low chance of a good pay-out.”

  Graysie felt like a rock fragment being flushed downhill under a hydraulic flux. She was calculating whether she could resist the momentum or if she should just go with the flow when she heard a child’s wail outside the dressing room door. She was on her feet in alarm as the nanny burst in without knocking, Graysie’s four-year-old adopted daughter on her hip. When she saw de Vile, the middle-aged woman hesitated nervously, then she plunged on into the room regardless, carrying the red-faced, screaming child like a hot coal she couldn’t wait to drop.

  Graysie turned to de Vile with as much authority as she could muster and said loudly over the noise, “Mr. de Vile, a domestic emergency, I’m afraid. We will have to continue this conversation later.”

  De Vile pursed his mouth in irritation; he plainly had not expected to be cut short. “Later? Well, sure. Not convenient now, I get it.” He paused, the interruption temporarily robbing him of the initiative. Then, as if remembering his status as a respected businessman, he pulled his shoulders back. “I just must advise you, Miss Castellanos, my offer isn’t open-ended… I need to have a response within a week. It affects my plans for how many men to keep on…”

  He had to practically shout to make himself heard over the child’s cries. Graysie gazed at the tousle-headed toddler who was slowing slipping out of the nanny’s grasp. Her nose and eyes were running; her cheeks were flushed in an angry heat rash. “I do apologise…” Graysie began, then stopped herself. She hadn’t invited him. He’d just have to accept he’d come at an inopportune time.

  De Vile hesitated as if he was going to say something else but thought better of it. Taking up his hat, he strode out. The air quivered in the vacuum he left behind him, and then the nanny said defiantly: “I’m quitting, ma’am. I can’t take another minute of this baby girl’s tears. And I want somewhere proper to live. Not another hotel.”

  Graysie felt her heart drop. Not again! The third nanny to come and then go in the four months she’d been Minette’s guardian. She took the wriggling bundle into her arms, and her cries began to fade almost immediately. She draped the feverish little body over her shoulder, nestling her damp curls against her neck and making comforting shushing noises as she stroked the child’s back. “There, there, baby girl, you’ll be fine. It’s just a nasty dream. Just a dream… It will go away soon…”

  She looked inquiringly at the nanny, who nodded. “She woke up and wanted to know when her mother was coming back. I didn’t know what to say…”

  When Minette had started having bad dreams, three months after her mother had died in a gambling hall blaze, the doctor had warned Graysie that four-year-olds didn’t understand that death was irreversible. Minette might expect her mother was coming back, or think it was her fault she’d gone away. Once, she’d wandered off looking for Francine, convinced she was nearby. All she could do, the doctor said, was keep Minette’s routines as regular as possible. Surround her in a secure circle of familiarity, he’d said.

  And what had she done? Well, been forced to do? They’d been touring with the show, staying in different hotels, in different towns, all over the state, with Minette in the care of different nannies when she was on stage—always at night when the child needed to be settled
to sleep. She had to recognize it, life on the road wasn’t working for either of them.

  She sank back down into the armchair she had just vacated, Minette’s cries dying away to quiet little snuffling sounds. She was still stroking her back and the top of her head and crooning softly, “There, there little one, you can sleep now.”

  The room fell quiet except for Minette’s intermittent breathy little sobs. As the child fell into a light sleep, Graysie sipped the now flat soda and sank into a familiar daydream. Imagine if she had her own little house on a hillside, with flowers and fruit trees in the garden and enough grass for a pony.

  She could stay there forever with Minette; they’d never have to worry about another curtain call or fend off another pushy man. Goodness knew if the old mine was worth a dime, but she had more sense than to just accept de Vile’s assessment without question. Maybe, just maybe, it could be the doorway to the life she craved—one of peace and loving stability for Minette. She’d promised Francine she’d give Minette a good life, and she didn’t intend to renege on the promise. Maybe she could sell the shares at their true value—she bet it was twice what de Vile was offering—or maybe even find investors to help re-open it.

  She shuddered as she recalled de Vile’s phrase: “You’re young and beautiful but I don’t think you’re a fool.” Errgh! Was she supposed to be flattered?

  Well, she’d finished this run. She’d purposefully put off making any new commitments, and she’d managed to stockpile a small savings fund, so they could live for a few months without her having to sing for their supper. Now was the time to take a break from the stage and call de Vile’s bluff. He’d claimed he was doing her a favor offering to buy the shares, but nothing he said rang true. She needed to find out whether the mine was going to be a blessing or a curse. To discover if it could provide the stable home she so desperately needed. And if she was playing by de Vile’s rules, she had one week to do it.

  *****

  Australian adventurer Nathan Riley Russell stole a look around the popular Cliff House dining room and smiled in disbelief. For the first time since the death of his father in Hong Kong eighteen years ago, he and his two older half-brothers were in the same room. And not only in the same room, but eating at the same long table.

  At its head sat the eldest of the clan, China Pacific trader Sir John Russell, one of California’s most prominent merchants. Next to him in the right hand place of honor, sat real estate magnate and mine owner Hector de Vile, who Nathan had heard had a very sharp eye for a good deal. Beside him, two empty seats were reserved for late-arriving guests. He wondered fleetingly whether they’d beat de Vile in social standing.

  Three sons from his twice-widowed empire-builder father’s three wives, one English, one American and the last—his mother—Australian. He’d been closest to Seb, the American, who was bumping elbows next to him. Nathan wasn’t even born when John had been dispatched at age eight to boarding school in England, but after his eldest brother had returned to join the family business at fourteen, the three half-brothers had shared five momentous years in a rambling Queen’s Road house with Nathan’s mother Arabella presiding at head of table when Sir Robert was away on frequent business.

  They’d hiked islands and mountains, rallied the neighborhood kids into impromptu athletics and football—John the win-at-all-costs born leader, Sebastian the cheerful loner, and him. All he’d wanted was to win the older ones’ approval. It was just as well they had their first cousin, Ollie, the son of Sir Robert’s comprador, as mediator. But the curtains had come down on that world when their father died.

  Chung Ting Hon —the high-ranking Chinese merchant who’d been Sir Robert’s entree to China—governed the Hong Kong business like the Mandarin he was, while the Russell boys had dispersed to two continents. As the youngest, aged ten, Nathan had returned to Australia with his mother because, without his Taipan father, there wasn’t any reason for her to stay in Asia. At nineteen, John was being groomed to setup Russell & Chung Trading in California. His father’s death had accelerated that plan, and he’d moved to San Francisco around the same time as Nathan had gone to Sydney. Sebastian, the engineer and middle brother, had been twelve when their father died, a boy who’d only ever known Hong Kong until he had gone to live with an uncle in Boston, and then had come west after the Civil War.

  Hard to believe Seb was now thirty, a Union veteran of Gettysburg. And still a loner. 'At thirty-seven, ‘Sir’ John—he’d inherited his father’s title gained for heroism during the first Opium War—had lost none of his edge to win and ran an enterprise that included mines, real estate, and railroad investments, as well as his China interests. Cousin Ollie—their Aunt Amelia’s son from her liaison with the charismatic Ting Hon, now headed the Chinese side of the business, though his father was always on hand for advice if needed.

  As for himself? Once a carefree adventurer, at twenty-eight Nathan was struggling to recover from the deaths of his wife and baby son and desperate to save his stepfather’s bankrupt estate from dissolution. But a sharp dig in his ribs cut short Nathan’s nostalgia. With a lurch, he hauled his thoughts back to the present, where Seb was saying, “I was just telling Ollie about your mining adventures.”

  “An alchemist,” Nathan said. He was clutched by a hollowness inside that he guessed showed up in his smile as he turned to them. “That’s really what I’m looking for. Don’t tell anyone. Or maybe we could just incorporate my Sydney export house into Russell and Chung and turn it into a Pacific-Asian force,” he joked.

  On any normal Sunday, Cliff House, perched on a Pacific Coast headland a fast carriage ride from town, would be filled with the city’s fashionable set—the silver barons, railway millionaires and real estate kings who frequented the place for lively lunches that lasted till sunset. Today it hummed with Russell family members and John’s invited guests, mainly business associates—the merchants, politicians, mine owners, and developers hoping to get wind of a share tip or real estate deal that would make them their next fortune.

  Typical of John to turn a family reunion into a business opportunity filled with people just like him, Nathan mused. People desperate for their next big deal. His stomach cramped. Life would be so much easier if his mother and two teenage stepsisters were secure; if they were not faced with being forced out of their home unless he paid up the loan within the next year.

  As the waiting staff served platters of tasty hor d’oeuvres, he turned back to Seb. “Old John certainly knows how to put on a show.”

  Seb gave him a slow smile that lit up his tanned, round face. “Yeah. So he should—he’s an old man. Should have married long ago.” His eyes glinted with mischief and they both laughed.

  It had been a standing joke that they’d always had to defer to John because he was older.

  “But he always did know how to impress.” Seb’s admiration was grudging.

  They’d been plied with tasters of tiny, savory meatballs, creamy French cheese, Hickory-cured ham, and celery and dill pickles and were getting restless for the next course when the lively conversation suddenly hushed. Nathan’s fellow diners had turned to stare to the door, where a handsome woman in a red-and-black feathered hat was making a dramatic entrance. Behind her strode a tallish man, obscured from view by the lady and her remarkable plumage.

  Sir John stood and made his way towards them, hand outstretched in greeting. “Ah Mrs. Hayes. And Martens, old chap. Welcome.”

  Following his brother’s lead, Nathan had also stood as a mark of courtesy, but at the mention of the man’s name, his heart plummeted. He’d known a Willoughby Martens in Sydney. His stepfather had dismissed that Martens for fraud, and his activities had played a big part in the family’s subsequent financial collapse.

  He watched, and saw the shocked instant when Martens recognized him. His face was still sun-bronzed, his upper body strong and well-muscled, but there was a wariness about his glance, a darting slipperiness that hadn’t been there when Nathan had seen him last. As their eyes locked, Martens froze mid-stride, and the woman at his side hesitated.

  “Are you alright, Mr. Martens?” Her voice was soothing, a pleasing blend of flowing Californian phrasing and clipped Antipodean vowels. Another Australian? Martens looked past her to Nathan, an uneasy rictus smile frozen across his face.