by Tamara Allen
Someone had gone ahead to procure a cab, Will realized, when there was no wait at the curb, and other hands caught brief hold of him to assist in guiding him aboard. Charlie was effusive and gracious, but wasted no time hopping in after him. Once the cab began to move, Will started to sit up and Charlie pushed him back. “Not yet. Too many people about.”
Doubting anyone was near enough to peer into the cab, Will obeyed the instruction all the same and remained slumped in the corner, eyes closed, ears attuned to the noise of street traffic and the low rumble of the great crowd still pouring from the music hall. When he was sure they’d left Seventh Avenue behind, he dared a peek, only to see Charlie staring out the window, expression distant, strangely wistful.
“What is it?” Will whispered.
Charlie set a somber gaze on him. “I was just wondering whether Mr. Nesmith will be heading back home tomorrow.”
Will snorted softly. “You wonder that, do you?” He sat a little straighter and folded his hands in his lap. “What luck we’ve had will not be lasting. Reuben Nesmith may yet make inquiries.”
“I suppose so.”
“If he exposes me as a fraud…” Rose’s disappointment would be hard to bear. And Violet might well break it off with him altogether. “This has gotten a bit out of hand, hasn’t it? If we give it up, do you suppose Mr. Holloway will mind very much?”
Charlie seemed startled, as if part of him had hoped Will would stick it out. “I don’t know. He’ll likely grouse.”
“He’ll surely allow that everything could come crashing down before the season’s end.”
“The point might be made that it hasn’t come crashing down just yet.”
“If I take up the habit of fainting at every party, people may begin to politely suggest I stay home in bed.”
“Well, what if you did take to your bed for a few days, just till this Reuben fellow leaves town? Wouldn’t that solve the problem?”
“Charlie…” Will waited until Charlie, with clear reluctance, met his gaze. “You want to carry on with this.”
Charlie’s laugh was short and dismissive. “Mr. Holloway means to put me on space whether or not I write a season’s worth of society columns. This whole business was just a bit of fun, after all. A lark, truly.” His gaze shifted to the window. “Think you’ll stay on at Caroline’s when the month ends?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“And you’ll have to postpone the wedding again.”
He hadn’t thought about that, either. “What do you say to some supper?”
“We’d better stop at home to be sure no one’s asked after you.”
“So soon?”
“The Mayhews might.”
Will dropped his head against the cushion and closed his eyes. He wouldn’t regret choosing to go to the concert. For the most part, he’d had a wonderful afternoon, and he understood Charlie’s reluctance to call it quits. It would only be inviting trouble to continue, but…
Charlie dropped back beside him. “I hear you humming that waltz.”
“Do you?”
“Admit it.” The blue gaze had recovered its customary cocksure light. “You want the concerts and the parties—”
“I’ll admit I liked the concert, but I don’t care for parties. And they’re far more productive for gossip gathering.”
“Not necessarily. I could go sit on the stoop across from Caroline Astor’s and have a story in an hour’s time.” Charlie leaned nearer, his shoulder pressed against Will’s. “In fact, I could write a whole column on this William Nesmith, coming into town on business, all fired up to make the best impression, only to be swept into bitter rivalry with an English nobleman over the hand of lovely American heiress Rose Mayhew—”
“Charlie…”
“Wait, I haven’t finished.” Charlie cleared his throat. “Mr. Nesmith has been seen out on the town in the company of society matrons and debutantes alike, but was taken ill Saturday afternoon at Carnegie Hall and is presently under orders by his doctor to remain abed until he’s sufficiently recovered to resume the usual heedless round of balls and concerts. His absence at upcoming affairs will be greatly—”
“Charlie, for God’s sake.”
“It’d be a popular column.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Wouldn’t you sooner see it in the Herald than some other paper?”
“I haven’t been written up in the papers and I don’t expect to be. Everyone’s preoccupied with Belcourt. And I haven’t been in town long enough to become an attraction.”
“You might have sparked some interest today.” Charlie’s smile was warm, with the unexpected shine of something rather like affection in his eyes. “If Reuben leaves town, will you reconsider?”
Will gave in to a laugh. “I can’t promise.”
“But you’ll think about it?”
His answer in the end would likely be no, but Will couldn’t seem to bring himself to say it just yet. “I’ll give it my most thorough and earnest consideration.”
“Somehow that doesn’t reassure me.” Charlie sighed. ‘What else are you worried about?”
Will didn’t know where to begin. A venture already fraught with pitfalls had become only more dangerous. And one of those dangers, he realized, was sitting beside him. Somewhere along the line, he and Charlie had become comfortable with each other. He’d come to trust Charlie out of sheer necessity and…
They’d somehow become friends.
The revelation caught Will off guard, but he couldn’t think there was anything to make of the fond look Charlie had given him, nor the shoulder pressed companionably against his. It was the most innocent kind of leaning, really. He wouldn’t imagine otherwise, not when he felt too susceptible to something more.
What had Charlie just asked? Before he could fix on it, a soft laugh startled him. A chagrined laugh. “Never mind,” Charlie said. “I know what you’re worried about. But… Give it three days? That’s time for you to recover without rousing suspicion that you’re at death’s door. If Reuben hasn’t gone home by then, we’ll send you on your way. All right?”
Three days. “Yes. All right.”
“Really?” Charlie blew out a relieved breath. “Good.”
Will let out a long breath, himself, though he didn’t feel better in the least.
Chapter Twelve
Will had gone quiet and Charlie held his own tongue, unsure of what else he could say; an uncomfortable state of being, as far as he was concerned. He thought he’d discovered a knack for keeping Will cheerful in the midst of a thousand worries, but it wasn’t working. Whatever had put the tense lines around Will’s mouth and the troubled light in his eyes seemed a new concern. One that Will wasn’t sharing.
Charlie couldn’t even grouse about it, with his own secrets securely locked away. He wasn’t about to mention that wonderful, damnable moment when Will had fallen into his arms, and Charlie had wanted to—well, to keep holding on and quite possibly to…
No, he couldn’t tell Will that, not when Will was in love with Violet. Or making a very earnest attempt at it.
Charlie glanced out the window at the whirl and dash of Saturday evening Broadway and his mind went back to the terrible crowd in the grand lobby of Carnegie Hall. It would have been wiser to simply leave and later claim they’d gotten swept outside and missed seeing Mrs. Glasspoole at the door. Instead they’d created a fine piece of gossip, one they couldn’t even print. Charlie wanted to blame the giddy afternoon or even the beseeching look in Will’s eyes when he’d asked for Charlie’s help—that look that had left Charlie unable to think at all—but neither of them had really prepared for the possibility of another Nesmith showing up. He couldn’t blame Will for wanting to end the game.
Even now, he hardly dared believe he’d talked Will into holding out three more days. But he couldn’t take much pleasure in it while Will stayed so quiet and distracted. They arrived home without the gauntlet of visitors to run; ano
ther relief, but Will hardly seemed to notice until they’d gone in to find Caroline on the way out to the Philharmonic, Archie taking a turn as escort. Will greeted them with his usual good manners, but Caroline seemed to see past that and she stopped him with a hand on his sleeve. “Do tell us, Mr. Nesmith, how you liked the concert. I attended the one earlier this month and it was so splendid, I was tempted to go a second time.”
“It was indeed splendid.” Will seemed to be gathering himself into a better humor. “I think even Mr. Kohlbeck enjoyed it.”
Charlie hesitated, realizing it was better for Caroline to hear what had happened from them, rather than someone else. “The concert—yes, quite all right, for a bit of piano playing. We did run into Etta Glasspoole—” He paused as the slight wrinkling of Caroline’s brow betrayed her feelings concerning Mrs. Glasspoole. “She’s met up with Reuben Nesmith out of Chicago—”
“Oh, dear,” Caroline murmured.
“Just so,” Charlie said. “And—”
“We had to leave rather hastily,” Will cut in. “I’m ashamed to say I resorted to feigning illness in order to get away.”
Caroline beamed with merriment at that. “Oh my dear, you have no notion how many times I feigned illness in my youth to escape one dreadful function or another. It’s a necessity in society, you know.”
Charlie clapped Will on the shoulder. “There, you see. It’s not so terrible.”
Will seemed to catch on that he could hardly say a word against it, under the circumstances. “Yes, well, it’s left me in an awkward position—” The bell rang and Will broke into a rather stricken laugh. “And may not have deterred Mrs. Glasspoole. Charlie—”
“Leave it to your private secretary,” Charlie said. “Go up quick.” He pushed Will along the hall, only stepping aside when Hilda sailed past to answer the door.
Will tried to turn to Caroline. “Do let Charlie attend to this. I won’t ruin your evening—”
“We’ve plenty of time,” Caroline assured him.
Charlie turned him back around and determinedly pushed until Will was on his way upstairs. By the time he returned to the parlor, Etta Glasspoole was making herself at home on Caroline’s settee. Caroline had settled on a chair and Archie hovered behind her, poorly suppressed amusement in his eyes. A glowering Hilda shot past Charlie and he suspected tea would be quick in coming.
He intended to be as quick in ridding the house of Mrs. Glasspoole. Archie and Caroline seemed to find it a challenge to keep a somber air, making it doubly difficult for Charlie, but he provided the explanation Mrs. Glasspoole had come looking for, and she took it all in with wide-eyed interest, only assuming a more sympathetic countenance when she seemed to recollect it was required of the occasion.
“My dear Mr. Kohlbeck, I’m so dreadfully sorry I didn’t realize it sooner. Mr. Nesmith did look rather pale and fragile in the lobby, but I had no idea… Well, it is a shame, as I don’t believe Mr. Nesmith—Mr. Reuben Nesmith, that is—is able to extend his stay any longer. I shall certainly inquire, of course… But if Mr. Nesmith—your Mr. Nesmith—is back on his feet by Friday, I’m giving a little party… Of course it’s quite a big party,” she amended with a laugh, only to grimace in apology the moment after. “I do beg your pardon. The party is this coming Friday at seven o’clock. Do you suppose Mr. Nesmith may be well enough by then to attend?”
Trying to keep up with the twists and turns of her verbiage, Charlie struggled to right his own derailed thoughts and craft a suitable excuse. “Well, I don’t know that I can answer for Mr. Nesmith straightaway. He’s gone to bed—”
“Quite understandable!” Mrs. Glasspoole exclaimed. “The poor, dear soul. Of course you needn’t give me a definite answer right now. I just thought you might be able to allow some indication—I mean, since you know him so well. If there was even a chance, well, I might have some success in persuading Mr. Reuben Nesmith to remain until the weekend. Of course I can’t guarantee it, but even without him, I feel certain your Mr. Nesmith will have every reason to come. I should certainly like to introduce him around to everyone he should know,” she added as if there were no greater incentive to accept an invitation.
Charlie choked back a frustrated laugh. Sending Will up to bed was the best decision he’d made all day. “Mrs. Glasspoole, you know how these things are. Mr. Nesmith is always slow to recover when he falls ill—”
“Just the smallest indication, Mr. Kohlbeck—”
“Well, I…” Wondering if he could satisfy her with a maybe, Charlie hesitated as Caroline gently cleared her throat.
“Mr. Kohlbeck, I do recall that Mr. Nesmith accepted my invitation to the opera for Friday. I don’t know if he told you—”
“He did,” Charlie gasped. “I beg your pardon, Miss Donnett. And yours, Mrs. Glasspoole,” he said, turning to her. “I’m afraid this day’s gotten the best of me—”
“No need to apologize.” Mrs. Glasspoole’s smile this time seemed genuinely sympathetic. “I’m always at a loss without my daybook at hand.” She rose. “Well, if you care to come by after the opera, we always go late—”
The bell rang again and Charlie only barely stifled a groan. If Will thought they were inundated with callers, he’d likely come down—and that might prove disastrous. Mrs. Glasspoole said good-night just as Hilda appeared with Rose beside her. After exchanging greetings with the departing Mrs. Glasspoole, Rose came into the parlor and looked around, ostensibly for Will. But when her glance lit on Archie, she promptly turned pink and retreated a step. “I’m interrupting.”
“No, no.” Charlie caught her before she could run away. “Come and sit.”
“I can only stay a moment. Papa drifted off in the carriage and I didn’t have the heart to wake him. I just wanted to be sure you and Mr. Nesmith were safely home. We were told Mr. Nesmith was taken ill…”
“He’s feeling much better,” Charlie assured her. “I’m sure he’ll be himself again in a day or two.”
She clasped his hand impulsively. “I’m so glad! Do let us know if there’s anything we may do for him, will you?”
Startled, Charlie gave her hand a shake and grinned. “Kind of you to come by. I expect you’re going to Mrs. Glasspoole’s little party?”
“We are. Will you be there?”
“We’re attending the opera, if Mr. Nesmith’s recovered.” Charlie made note of Rose’s furtive glance in Archie’s direction, but carried on as if he hadn’t. “We’ll be sorry to miss you, but I suppose it won’t be long till the next festivity. Say, would you care for some tea?”
Rose and Archie were gazing at each other as if they both had something to say but not the courage to say it. Caroline was smiling. “I will have a cup, Mr. Kohlbeck. Thank you.”
“Won’t you be late?” Charlie asked.
“There’s always time enough for tea,” Caroline said. “Won’t you sit, Miss Mayhew? I don’t believe Mr. Kohlbeck and Mr. Doolan will be comfortable until you do.”
“I’m terribly sorry.” Rose appeared intent on twisting the life out of the kerchief in her hands. “I do have to go…” Her gaze seemed to ask Archie’s forgiveness.
His smile was nearly as bashful as hers. “May I escort you out?”
“Oh.” Rose went pink again. “I don’t want to trouble you, Mr. Doolan.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
She turned to Charlie. “I’ll say good night, Mr. Kohlbeck.” Her voice was soft, only the smallest tremor betraying her. “Thank you for the tea, Miss Donnett.”
Charlie decided not to point out that she hadn’t had any. Archie, in his hired dress suit, was quite capable of distracting almost anyone. Caroline said nothing, but she was still smiling. Rose took the arm Archie offered. “Are you attending the opera, Mr. Doolan?”
“The Philharmonic tonight, Miss Mayhew.”
“Oh,” she said again, as if it provided her the courage to keep up her end of the conversation. “On Friday, then?”
Caroline set down her te
a cup. “As a matter of fact, he is.”
Surprised, Charlie glanced at her. The sparkle in her gaze made the lingering smile all at once easier to decipher. But it was the smallest of smiles compared with Rose’s delighted brightening. “You care for the opera, Mr. Doolan?”
“I haven’t been before,” Archie said sheepishly.
“Oh, you will like it. I know.”
“I daresay I will.”
He would just to please her, Charlie mused.
“Miss Mayhew…” Caroline rose. “Would you join us on Friday? I think you will have time afterward to stop at Mrs. Glasspoole’s party. If you want to ask your father and send an answer tomorrow—”
“I should like to go with you.”
Mrs. Glasspoole’s party was losing guests at an unusual rate. And Archie, to Charlie’s amusement, seemed decidedly more taken with the idea of attending the opera. As he and Rose went out, Charlie sat and made himself a cup of tea. “I didn’t know you were such a hand at matchmaking, Miss Donnett.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Caroline adjusted her wrap and her gloves. “Good night, Mr. Kohlbeck.”
Charlie pondered for some minutes whether more than one marriage might soon be in the offing—or an elopement, when Mrs. Mayhew discovered her only daughter wanted to jilt an earl in favor of a young and near penniless policeman. Charlie had the feeling Mr. Mayhew would side with Rose, but whether that united front would overcome Mrs. Mayhew’s objections remained to be seen.
As for Mr. Nesmith’s upcoming marriage…
It seemed a pity, really, that Belcourt was the only one in danger of being jilted. But Violet didn’t appear to mind Will’s disinterest in her father’s business or his dislike of social functions or the likelihood that she would be living a life of more modest means for quite a while once she’d married. She must really love him after all, Charlie concluded—and Will, somewhere under that moderate, self-possessed, pragmatic exterior, must love her, too. That was as it should be, of course.