Invitation to the Dance

by Tamara Allen

Charlie broke into a quiet laugh. “Belcourt seems a good sort of fellow. As for Mr. Knox…” He had to go carefully. “I’ve read of the sort of fraud land agents get up to, but frankly, I don’t know Isaiah Knox. I think I’d start to worry about him if he’s encouraging you to invest, but doesn’t insist you inspect the property or send someone to do it.”

  Mr. Mayhew nodded. “It was my understanding he and Lord Belcourt were traveling west, but when I suggested I might send someone with them to look over adjoining properties, Mr. Knox shied away from agreeing to it. He said something about Lord Belcourt having hired him with the expectation that he’d be wholly attentive to his lordship’s needs on this trip and if I wanted to be a part of it, he would require a show of good faith.”

  Charlie held back a more cynical laugh. “What’s the cost of good faith these days?”

  “Half the investment money. But if I’m not satisfied, he’ll return it, minus the expenses of travel, of course.”

  “Do you know if he’s extended the offer to anyone else?”

  “I don’t know that he has, but I’ve mentioned it to a few friends. Even told them I’d be glad to introduce them to Mr. Knox.” There was a note of regret in his voice. “I must go forward with greater care.”

  Charlie nodded solemnly. “You don’t want to end up like these fellows in the papers who’ve lost everything.”

  The creases in Mr. Mayhew’s brow deepened. “Quite a number, are there?”

  “Land seems the safest of investments,” Charlie said. “But that makes it all the easier to be misled.”

  “I’m not one for speculation in any form,” Mr. Mayhew admitted, rising. “Thank you for your counsel, sir. I’ve kept you long enough.” He paused, his smile returning. “I do hope Mr. Nesmith is feeling better?”

  Surprised by the question, Charlie belatedly remembered Will’s manufactured illness. “Oh, yes, he’s rallied admirably since our arrival. I suppose the air in New York agrees with him.”

  Mr. Mayhew raised an eyebrow. “There’s a man with a unique constitution.”

  Charlie laughed. “Mr. Nesmith’s unique in a number of ways, I think.”

  “Rose told me he was most kind to her at the Worthams’ party. The dear girl isn’t at ease around too much attention. Most vexing to her mother,” Mr. Mayhew went on as they stepped out of the library. “She’s hoping Rose will make a good match. But I don’t like this business of trotting girls about from party to party until they’ve grown pale and anxious over whether there’ll be any worthy gentlemen left before they have a turn. A good match, indeed.” Mr. Mayhew shook his head. “I just pray she finds a good man.”

  It seemed almost a pity, to Charlie’s mind, that Rose and Will hadn’t met under different circumstances. Will was the sort of ordinary fellow Mr. Mayhew would have found suitable; even the sort Charlie might’ve hit it off with in a cozier way—under different circumstances.

  He’d always hoped to find a good man, too.

  Winding his way back to the ballroom, Charlie discovered the ordinary fellow in question seated at one end of a small sofa, Rose at the other end, attempting to converse under the critical gaze of Mrs. Mayhew. Before Charlie could make himself an objectionable third party, Lord Belcourt appeared and spirited Rose away to dance. That drew the resilient Mrs. Mayhew away in search, no doubt, of a better vantage point.

  Charlie dropped beside Will and leaned back against cushions tufted to bursting. “Grand spot for a nap.”

  Will cocked a dubious eye at him. “It may have escaped your notice, but even private secretaries have manners.”

  Charlie grinned. “You missed my company.”

  “Hardly. Rose is a much better conversationalist.”

  That stung. “Collecting quite the bouquet, aren’t you?”

  Will seemed to check a sigh. “I have no intentions regarding Miss Mayhew.”

  “You still have intentions regarding Miss Chapin?”

  That set free the imprisoned exhalation. “Go away. And don’t come back till you’ve gotten another column’s worth.”

  “Will a good deed suffice?”

  Reproach yielded to wary interest. “Good deed?”

  “I think I’ve got Mr. Mayhew shying away from doing any business with Isaiah Knox.”

  “Is that fair? We don’t know that Mr. Knox is up to no good.” Will’s gaze was relentless. “You’re awfully cynical, Charlie.”

  “We investigate people at their worst. How do you avoid being cynical in those circumstances?”

  Will considered for a moment. “Write something about people at their best?”

  Charlie snorted. “Who’d read that?”

  “I would.”

  “You would,” Charlie agreed, and sat back again, lacing fingers over his waistcoat. “What did you and Rose talk about?”

  When Will was quiet, Charlie glanced at him, to see his smiling profile. But Will only shrugged. “I can’t divulge a lady’s secrets.”

  “Can you divulge yours?”

  Will laughed. “I haven’t any. At least, none you’ll discover.”

  “That sounds like a challenge.”

  “I thought you’d see it that way.”

  “So you want them discovered.”

  “By you? God, no.”

  “By Rose?”

  “I consider Rose a friend, but I wouldn’t burden her with such things. It would hardly be proper.”

  “By Violet, then?”

  Will hesitated—then laughed softly, a rueful note half-buried in the sound. “Violet already knows of the secrets that matter.”

  “You’ve secrets that don’t matter?” Charlie found himself lowering his voice. “Such as?”

  Will settled a good-humored gaze on him—one a fellow might almost mistake as affectionate. “Always the reporter. Why don’t you ask someone to dance? There are any number of respectable young ladies who don’t know you well enough to know better.”

  Charlie obligingly rose and took himself to one of the parlors, though he was not really in a frame of mind for eavesdropping and he’d already done more flirting than he’d meant to—though not with any of the young ladies in the house. Once farewells were said and he was beside Will in a cab on the way home, he reflected that it was probably just as well that Will didn’t know his secrets. The stirring of unexpected attraction he’d begun to feel would ease up after a while, as had his attraction to Archie and to one or two fellows before that. An evening lark around town would go a long way toward curing him—and he’d have a better night of it than the one Will was facing, making up to Violet for all his seeming transgressions.

  But Charlie had barely finished supper and changed for a night out when Hilda came upstairs to tell him he had visitors. Alarmed, Charlie dashed across the hall and into Will’s room, startling a dozing Will into wakefulness.

  “We’ve got company.” Charlie tossed aside the newspaper Will had been reading and hauled him to his feet. “The Mayhews are here.”

  “Rose and her parents?” Will combed his hair with his fingers. “Why on earth…” He reached for the coat he’d left on the back of the chair. “Do you suppose we’re found out?”

  “Impossible.”

  “But what if we are? What can we do?” Will blew out an anxious breath. “I suppose there’s only one respectable course of action.”

  “And that would be?”

  “To get down on our knees and grovel for forgiveness.”

  Charlie made a face. “I was hoping you were going to suggest a few months abroad.”

  “You’re mistaking me for one of the wealthy California Nesmiths,” Will said with grim humor as he buttoned his coat and made a second attempt to smooth his hair. “Let me explain things, all right? After all, I agreed to carry on this charade.”

  “You think I’ll tell an even bigger tale to get us out of it.”

  “Well, won’t you?”

  It hardly seemed the time to argue. “Explain things, then. But don’t throw yourself
to the wolves alone. I started this charade, remember.”

  Will snorted. “That’s a memory I’ll take to the grave.”

  At the top of the stairs, Charlie stopped to listen, but all was quiet below. Will nudged him. “Is everyone away?”

  “Ben and Caroline are still at the concert. Archie’s gone to work and Davy’s out for the evening. It’s just us and Hildy.”

  “And the Mayhews.”

  “Right.” Charlie followed him down to the hall, where voices could be heard—and laughter. He pulled Will up short outside the parlor door. “If they do know,” he whispered, “they’re taking it awfully well.”

  “They might be here for some other reason,” Will ventured.

  “You might ask them,” Hilda said, startling a gasp from Charlie. He turned to glare at her, but gave it up when she glared first. Instead, he took the tea tray she was carrying and stepped into the parlor after Will.

  At their appearance, Rose jumped to her feet, beaming at Will from under her feathered bonnet. “Good evening, Mr. Nesmith. Mr. Kohlbeck.” She turned to her father, who was rising more slowly from his comfortable spot on the sofa. “I apologize for visiting so late and so unexpectedly—”

  “We do.” Timothy Mayhew nodded a greeting, and at Will’s invitation to resume his seat, did so. “The timing was necessary, though, for our purpose—”

  “We’ve come to invite you to a concert,” Rose went on eagerly. “Tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Paderewski is playing at Carnegie Hall. Will you come? We’ll have the loveliest time.”

  “Well…” Charlie fumbled for an excuse. “I seem to recall that Mr. Nesmith has a meeting with his stockbroker tomorrow—”

  “Paderewski?” Judging by the awe in his voice, Will had succumbed to the mad devotion shared by everyone in New York. “Of course we’ll attend. We’d be delighted.”

  Charlie choked back a laugh. “Delighted,” he agreed. “Care for some tea?”

  Will couldn’t keep his relief from shining through, either, and bade Rose take Caroline’s armchair while he poured the tea. Accustomed to Will’s natural reserve, Charlie noticed how at ease he was with Rose—how charming while they talked about concerts, plays, and other such polite distractions common to the season. He was only being gentlemanly, of course, but Rose clearly loved talking of things other than the usual gossip. Charlie mused distractedly on the idea of introducing Violet to Lord Belcourt on the chance it might free Rose and Will to pursue their common interests and perhaps something more. What a pity it seemed that people so seldom met at the most opportune moment. Falling in love would never be entirely free of complications; though if anything in the world ought to be…

  Catching sight of Archie stopping in the hall, Charlie grinned at him. “Taking the rest of the night off?” He rose as Archie came into the parlor. “Mr. Doolan, may I present Mr. Timothy Mayhew and Miss Rose Mayhew.”

  Archie shook Mr. Mayhew’s hand and smiled shyly at Rose. “I don’t mean to upset your visit…” He looked from Will to Charlie. “There’s been some difficulty at the electric plant down on Elizabeth. A good number of streets have gone dark, so you’ll want to go carefully when you head home.”

  “Oh, dear.” Rose turned to her father. “We’ll have a time, finding a cab.”

  “I’ll ring for a carriage to be sent,” Mr. Mayhew began, rising.

  “Miss Donnett doesn’t have a telephone,” Archie said. “If you’ll allow me, sir, I’ll escort you and Miss Mayhew safely home whenever you’re ready to go.”

  Archie had been born a gentleman, something Charlie had been convinced of shortly after they’d met. Rose seemed to think the gesture as admirable. Her gaze was bright with curiosity and quiet approval as she turned back to him. “Thank you. Papa, I think we must accept Mr. Doolan’s kind assistance.” She set an apologetic gaze on Will. “I hope you won’t mind if we’re on our way.”

  “Under the circumstances, of course not.” Will shook Mr. Mayhew’s hand. “We’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  “At two sharp, gentlemen,” Mr. Mayhew said cheerfully. “Thank you for the tea. Mr. Doolan, do proceed. We aren’t far, really.”

  Archie was smiling at Rose. “I’ll have a cab for you in an instant.”

  “Quick as that?” She smiled as shyly, but there was a teasing light in her eyes. “We’d best stay right with you, then.”

  “I’m at your service, Miss Mayhew.”

  Never had words so formal been uttered so warmly. The look that passed between them… Charlie saw it for what it was, though he’d never known it, himself; that intimate recognition of something so sweet and right, waking in the small, unexpected moment—only to seem, in blooming, as though it was always meant to be. The opportune moment… Maybe only destined for some.

  When the Mayhews had gone, Charlie went upstairs for his overcoat; but once in his room, he was not keen on leaving. He might navigate the darkness safely and find a cozy haven for drinks and companionship, but it didn’t suit his mood. He wanted…

  He didn’t know what he wanted, but maneuvering through saloons and noisy dance halls for the chance of a tryst with some old acquaintance wasn’t it. He was considering an early night when a soft tap at the door startled him from his thoughts. He didn’t know if he was in the mood for any company, but he grudgingly opened the door. Will stood pensively on the other side, making no move to come in until Charlie invited him. Once in, he paced about for so long without speaking that Charlie finally asked him what was wrong. That seemed to take the air out of him, for he sat on the edge of the bed, features etched all the more glumly.

  Charlie sat beside him. “Come on, Smitty. Out with it.”

  Will lifted his head, meeting Charlie’s gaze. “I want to apologize.” He exhaled audibly. “I’ve given you a wretched time for creating this mess, but I’ve been as quick to prolong it. The thing of it is…” He shook his head with a helpless air. “Paderewski, for heaven’s sake. Those tickets are impossible to come by. To hear him play… I couldn’t pass it up, Charlie. A rare chance like that.”

  “Rather like the opportunity to be the first reporter in town to interview an earl?”

  Will smiled ruefully. “If you’re saying I’m as bad as you are, I’m admitting as much.”

  “Oh, you don’t know half the tricks I get up to. Anyway, I think Mr. Mayhew came with the tickets more because of me than you. At least, I hope so, if it means he’s changed his mind about investing with Knox. We’ll keep the Mayhews out of our column, I promise you.” Charlie clapped him on the back. “They were happy you accepted, you know. Just keep up your part. The season will be over before you know it.”

  The rueful smile lingered. “Thank you for trying to smooth down the sharp edges. Even the ones I’ve sharpened, myself.”

  “Oh, that’s no trouble.” Charlie leaned against him. “Say, did you send a message to the maiden fair about her supper?”

  Will nodded. “I don’t suppose she’ll be too pleased. Her aunt makes such a fuss over these grand suppers—”

  “And Violet wants to show you off?”

  “I think she wants me there to stave off the dull chatter of her aunt’s circle.”

  “Well, she can hardly blame you for the street lights. It’d take you an hour just to find a cab.”

  “I might’ve gone with Archie, I suppose.” Will rose, moving to the writing desk, where Charlie had left a couple of half-scribbled stories. “All this is copy for the society column?”

  “Enough for the week.” Charlie stood. “Not ready for editing.”

  “Or collaboration?” Will asked lightly.

  “You’ll edit. You can’t help yourself.”

  “You’ve been editing already,” Will noted as he sat at the desk. He’d hardly begun reading before he lifted a surprised gaze. “Maud Harding… Isn’t she the young lady whose parents just announced her engagement to—”

  “John Dunbar’s eldest son.” Charlie sat on the bed. “A good match, they say.”

/>   “And she’s eloping? With a minister?”

  Charlie shrugged. “Margaret Claridge started that story at the luncheon and it spread like no fire I’ve ever seen.”

  Will’s brow knit. “Do ministers elope?”

  “If they can’t go about it the usual way, I suppose so.”

  “Do her parents mean to prevent it?” Will had returned to reading.

  “Miss Claridge says that Miss Harding’s mother has offered to send the girl abroad for a year if she’ll refrain from running away.” Charlie leaned back on his elbows. “Miss Harding asserts she’ll go abroad anyway, as a missionary.”

  “And Mr. Dunbar’s eldest?”

  “Broken-hearted, it seems. But Miss Claridge and her crowd will do their best to comfort the poor man.” Charlie dropped back on the bed, closing his eyes. “He’ll be the most eligible bachelor in town this season.”

  “Hmm.” Will was quiet a long minute. “This piece on the portrait artist—Thomas Latimer—canceling all his sittings and going abroad… Is that society news?”

  “You haven’t read the whole thing.”

  Another long minute passed, and when Will snorted softly, Charlie couldn’t help but grin. “Do you think Mr. Sloane will catch up with him?”

  “I imagine he’s determined, if Mr. Latimer did indeed seduce his wife.” Papers rustled. “Edward Sloane was at the Worthams’ party. Quite the lion of a figure and he seems possessed of a quick temper.”

  “Yes, that story may turn into more genuine news at some point.”

  Will was quiet another long moment and Charlie peeked at him, to find the hazel gaze set directly upon him. “What is it?”

  “You don’t like this assignment any more than I do.”

  “I don’t think much of it.” Charlie sat up. “Still, it has had its moments.”

  “Hasn’t it?” Will laid the papers in a neat pile. “Are you writing a piece about Mr. Alford and his abrupt departure for Europe—so soon after closing his brokerage?”

  “He’s probably tired of that police detective following him everywhere.” Charlie got up and fished a notebook from the desk drawer. “Honestly, does anyone go abroad just for the sake of a holiday anymore?”