Invitation to the Dance

by Tamara Allen

  Charlie had to laugh. He was sure to have suggestions… But the first order of business was a fire. He knelt at the hearth and struggled to pluck out a matchstick with fingers he could no longer feel. A rap at the door startled him into dropping the box, spilling matches everywhere. Vexed, he glanced around just as Will opened the door. “I thought I’d beaten you home…” He trailed off at the outright dismay in Will’s face. “Oh now, I’m only a little rained on. You’re not going to fuss, are you?”

  Even as he said it, he realized he wouldn’t mind. Will moved to his side and knelt, scooping up the fallen matches. “Charlie, for heaven’s sake. Best let me before you set yourself on fire.”

  Charlie let him, instead contemplating the effort necessary to get on his feet and shuck off his damp clothing. He was so chilled and tired. Conversation was easier. “Garber didn’t see me, did he?”

  “No, no. He was too intent on talking to Lord Belcourt.” Will lit a match. “He seemed to know who Rose was and tried to speak with her, but Archie and I stood guard so he couldn’t trouble Rose nor Miss Donnett.” He frowned. “Mr. Garber did have a photographer with him. I’m fairly sure he only caught Lord Belcourt’s likeness, though.”

  “He won’t give up.”

  “I could tell as much.” Will stood, setting the matchbox back on the mantelpiece. “So you walked home, did you?” Despite his outward amusement, concern glimmered in his eyes. “You’d better get out of your wet clothes. This is no time to be courting pneumonia.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s ever a time.” The cinders were slow to light and he wanted to just curl up on the rug and go to sleep. Will appeared to have other ideas. Rising, he hauled Charlie to his feet and began unbuttoning his coat. Charlie discovered that even an expression of irritation required some effort. “I don’t need help—”

  Will snorted. “You need a good many things. A thicker overcoat, for one. A scarf, gloves…” He shook his head. “Perhaps a governess.” He pushed Charlie’s coat off his shoulders and draped it over the armchair. “You haven’t done your dress suit any good.”

  Charlie blew out a weary breath. “Smitty, listen. I was thinking on the way home that maybe you’re right. Maybe it is time to end this nonsense before we’re exposed in the papers. The wrong papers.”

  “Any paper would be the wrong paper,” Will said with a wry laugh. “But I take your meaning. The moment you left, Rose asked after Mr. Kohlbeck, but luckily, the gentleman from the Sun didn’t overhear it.”

  “If Garber gets an interview, Belcourt might mention my name.” Charlie shrugged off his dress coat. “Did Belcourt seem inclined to meet with him?”

  “Not particularly. I think that will depend on whether Mr. Garber is your equal in brazen disregard for the most basic standards of polite society.”

  “Well, I’ve haven’t yet hit a constable with a beer bottle just to get myself locked up in the same wagon with the drunken brother of a police captain.”

  “Good God. Did he?”

  Charlie broke into a grin at the memory. “The captain was hopping mad when he found out Garber had written a story about it.”

  “It seems to me you have more respect for Mr. Garber than he deserves.”

  “He does give younger reporters new standards to which to aspire.”

  “If you hope to hit a policeman with a bottle someday, I can only advise you not to count on me to come fetch you out of the Tombs.”

  “That’s a fine way to talk after I came to your rescue at Carnegie Hall.” Charlie fell back on the bed, and dragging the quilt into his arms, huddled against it, shivering. “Would you put on the last of the coal before you go?”

  Will stood over him with a far too sympathetic smile. “Those are hired trousers, Charlie.”

  “Oh, let me sleep.”

  “Charlie—”

  Charlie groaned. “I may hit you with a beer bottle.” He fumbled for the buttons, but his fingers were still cold and aching. Will pushed his hands away and efficiently unbuttoned him—a fine torment, that. Charlie closed his eyes and tried not to imagine what might have come after, in different circumstances. The present circumstances only led to Will taking his trousers and leaving him to manage the remainder of his clothing himself.

  Still shivering, Charlie stripped down and crawled back under the quilt. Once Will had built up the fire, he came back to the bedside with a more sober air. “I’m hesitant to tell you this, but I think you should know. Rose mentioned that Isaiah Knox contacted her father again to press for a meeting with him—”

  “That son of a—”

  “And,” Will went on with a familiar edge of exasperation, “Mr. Mayhew declined to meet with him.”

  “Oh.” Charlie settled back. “Good. That’s the whole of it, then?”

  “The whole of it,” Will said. “But perhaps not the end of it. He’s apparently contacted the Whitmores as well.”

  “Does he mean to chase after every millionaire in New York?”

  “He’s certainly taking advantage of his association with Belcourt. And from what we’ve seen, I don’t believe Belcourt will discourage him. Of course that doesn’t mean Mr. Knox’s business practices aren’t aboveboard—”

  “But you’re starting to wonder, too.”

  “It’s hardly a crime to be aggressive and persistent.” The corners of Will’s lips twitched. “Really, I’d think you’d admire a fellow who has the same sort of push and perseverance you do.”

  “Not as much as I admire your talent for backhanded compliments.” Charlie settled further into the pillows, making a half-hearted effort to keep his eyes open. “You’d better be kind to a fellow on the verge of pneumonia. I’m of a mind to dress right now and take you to Mrs. Glasspoole’s party just to teach you a lesson.”

  Will appeared not at all perturbed by the threat. “You’d like to go? I understand Mr. Garber is on his way there.”

  “Is he?” Charlie snorted. “Let him report on it, then. He won’t better the society nonsense we’ve printed.”

  “He said as much, himself.”

  Charlie roused himself back to near wakefulness. “Don’t be cruel, Smitty. I know you’re just making things up—”

  “I’m not. Belcourt mentioned the Herald article and Mr. Garber admitted gossip is running wild with speculation over how the paper’s getting so many details… Almost as if Mrs. Astor were writing copy, herself.”

  Charlie choked on a laugh. “Really? That’s magnificent. Maybe I was too hasty, thinking we should quit.”

  Will smiled faintly. “One other thing I haven’t yet mentioned. We’re obliged to carry on this improbable fiction until the third.”

  Charlie was all the more amused. “You accepted another invitation.”

  “By accident.”

  “How’s that done?”

  Will seemed suitably chagrined. “After Mr. Garber left, the Whitmores told us about a party they were planning for the first Tuesday in December. I very innocently remarked that it sounded like a splendid affair—”

  “And they invited you.”

  “They invited all of us. Miss Donnett accepted right away. And when Rose said yes, Archie lost all power to resist. I could hardly decline, under the circumstances.”

  “Clearly not.”

  “I was cornered, you understand.”

  “Ambushed,” Charlie agreed cheerfully. “Positively ensnared. A prisoner of your own good manners—”

  “You seem quite sharp for a fellow on the brink of pneumonia. I think you’d best go to sleep and we’ll sort out the rest of it in the morning.”

  “Just be sure you don’t accept any more invitations between now and then.”

  “Good night, Mr. Kohlbeck.”

  Charlie drifted off, smiling.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Will didn’t believe—not really—that Charlie was on the verge of illness after his misadventure, but it was no mere jaunt down from the opera house and the temperature couldn’t have been above
forty degrees. Fevers sometimes took people off rather quickly after such exposure and when Will had walked in to find Charlie flush and shivering—well, it had alarmed him. Though Charlie had decidedly improved before falling asleep, it was no assurance he’d escaped a bout of fever; and Will wasn’t entirely convinced Charlie had the sense to raise a fuss if he did feel feverish.

  Waking in the small hours with that worry in his head, Will fished his rumpled dressing gown from under his blanket and crossed a chilly hall to slip into Charlie’s room. It was warm and Charlie must have thought so too, for he’d pushed the quilt off, baring his backside from shoulder to calf—winsomely so, Will thought, before it struck him that he had no business staring. He drew the quilt back up before laying a hand on Charlie’s brow, and took comfort in the lack of fever. As he withdrew, a slumbering Charlie turned toward him as if wishing for more than that brief touch.

  The desire to oblige him took Will’s breath away. He had no business falling for Charlie—no business even thinking such a thing—but his heart beat at a telltale pace, his thoughts tumbling in utter disorder, and he couldn’t summon the strength or even the decency to leave the room. Charlie’s face, so quiet and content in sleep, drew him, spoke to some part of him too buried to identify, but impossible to refuse. He wanted to tell Charlie—God help him, he wanted…

  A soft knock at the door made him gasp and he stood immobile, thinking his only respectable recourse was to hide. Before he could crawl under the bed, Hilda, wrapped in both dressing gown and coat, peered in. She’d assumed an innocent reason for his presence, he knew, when she smiled in obvious relief. “No fever, then?”

  “No fever,” Will said quietly. “Did Miss Donnett tell you he walked home?”

  “She didn’t. ’Twas the puddle of water in the hall.” Hilda made a quick study of Charlie before seeming entirely satisfied that he was well. “I’ll fetch up some more coal—”

  “No, no. I’ll lend Charlie some of mine, if need be.”

  Charlie sighed, grimacing. “Fine pair of old biddies,” he muttered, turning over. “Let a fellow sleep, will you?”

  Will met Hilda’s gaze with a wry smile. “I believe we’ve been dismissed.”

  “So we have.” She started for the door, only to stop short and pull something out of her coat. “Beg your pardon, sir. This came for you while you were away. I should have brought it upstairs earlier—”

  “That’s all right.” Will recognized the handwriting on the envelope. “I suspect it’s nothing that couldn’t have waited until morning.”

  “You’re a kind soul, sir. I do hope it’s nothing worrying. I should not like to think I’ve given you something that will keep you wakeful.”

  Will knew precisely what the note contained, but once he’d settled in the chair by his own fire, he felt strangely reluctant to read it. Violet wouldn’t visit him at Caroline’s house for the most unreasonable of reasons, but she’d sent a note no doubt to request that he pay her a call. She was probably not pleased with him for being so difficult to reach of late, and he didn’t blame her for it. He couldn’t take her to Delmonico’s—not when there was the risk of being recognized—but a fine supper could be had at a number of safer places. He realized ruefully that he’d be following Charlie’s advice to please Violet, but it was the most practical peace offering when he couldn’t entirely explain himself.

  He sat for a while, pondering all the possibilities—including simply telling her the truth of the matter—and finally fell into a restless sleep. When a hand on his shoulder shook him gently, it was a struggle to wake.

  “Poor old Smitty. This is what comes of staying up half the night. You really didn’t need to…” Charlie cleared his throat. “Not that I don’t appreciate it.” Behind the cheer in his voice was a warming affection. Washed and dressed and in apparent good humor, he took a seat on the ottoman. “I’m off to turn in your opera piece and a story of mine. Have a quick look at it, will you?”

  Will yawned. “Give me a minute.” He took the paper and rose, moving to the window to let in the morning light.

  “What’s this?” Charlie had Violet’s note. The note Will still hadn’t read. Will held out a hand and Charlie turned the envelope over to him. “She’s upset?”

  “She has every right to be.”

  “You’re not going to tell her everything?”

  Will shook his head. “She might find it necessary to lie for me. I don’t like putting her in that position. I’ve told enough lies, myself, in the last few weeks.” Will sat at the desk and fished a blue pencil from the drawer. “I think I’m still capable of telling the truth, though…” He looked at Charlie. “Frankly, I’m ashamed to be found out by anyone I know back home. This is an assignment on the face of it, yes, but it’s become something more than that. More than a social experiment. More than you learning to work with me, and me with you.” He couldn’t help smiling, certainly not when Charlie broke into a grin. “To be truly honest…” Will dropped his gaze to the copy in Charlie’s near-illegible script. “That’s the one part of this whole mess I don’t regret.”

  “I knew I’d win you over.”

  The smug note made Will laugh. “It’s a pity you didn’t wager on that, too…” He met the sparkling blue gaze and wanted to be even more truthful. But that wouldn’t do either of them any good. “I can’t bring myself to tell her. Maybe once we’re finished.”

  Charlie dropped into the chair Will had vacated by the fire. “We’ll attend the Whitmores’ ball and let word spread that you’re going home. You can depart right after, on a late train, so no one will feel obliged to come bid you good-bye.”

  “Might we have Rose to tea? I’d like to bid her a proper farewell.”

  “If you don’t mind her flirting with Archie the entire time.”

  “I don’t, but I can’t speak for her parents. I expect they have no idea she fancies him.”

  “Her mother will be the one to object,” Charlie predicted. “She’s got her heart set on a nobleman.”

  “I think Rose’s heart has other ideas.”

  “So did Miss Vanderbilt’s heart, from what I hear. And Rose is as susceptible as any girl to her mother’s wishes.”

  “Does no one marry for love anymore?”

  Charlie looked solemn. “Seems you’re the last. You and your not so shrinking Violet.”

  “If you ever hope to come to supper at our house, you’d best make peace with her.”

  “I don’t know that my heart can take it.” The retort sounded surprisingly glum, but when Will turned to him, Charlie had already bounced out of the chair and was headed for the door. “I’ll send my heartfelt regards, though. Bring the copy down to breakfast when you’ve finished.”

  Will made quick work of both editing and dressing, hoping to call on Violet and talk her into an early dinner. When the butler showed him directly into the garden room and offered to take his coat, Will realized Violet had been expecting him. The note she’d sent, it was still in his dressing gown pocket, but he seemed to have followed the instruction it contained. She was downstairs in ten minutes, gowned prettily in green silk, a white shawl around her shoulders. As he rose, she smiled with only the mildest warmth and said nothing when he kissed her cheek. When she sat across from him, he saw the newspaper she had tucked under her arm, and he wondered if he might be sharing the whole, ridiculous story after all.

  “Vi, whatever you’ve read in the paper—”

  “You’ve seen it, then?”

  “Well, no…”

  Her brows rose and a thinner smile took shape. “I thought it must be the reason you came earlier than I’d asked. I’ll admit I’m glad you have. I’ve been quite curious to hear the explanation.” She unfolded the paper and laid it gingerly on the tea table between them. The caption beneath the photograph of Lord Belcourt mentioned only him, but the Whitmores stood on one side, and farther back, almost out of frame, Will had been captured with Rose beside him, her gloved hand on his coat sleeve. T
hey’d been caught in profile, smiling like old friends.

  Whatever Violet might be thinking, it was tucked away behind the bright, expectant shine in her eyes. Will tried to resist the guilt jabbing at him. As simple as the explanation was, it seemed entirely unbelievable in the face of that photograph. But the simple explanation was all he had.

  “Vi, I did attend the opera last night with Miss Mayhew. We were in a party of five, including Mr. Kohlbeck, and there for the purpose of writing a story. There’s nothing nefarious going on, I promise you.”

  The bright shine faded, shrouded in doubt. “You were writing a story. Are you a reporter now?”

  “Temporarily. I’ve been assigned to work with Mr. Kohlbeck—” Before she could take issue with that, Will swiftly continued. “I agreed to the assignment because I was offered a raise of ten dollars a week. It was the means to a summer wedding, Vi.”

  The doubt remained. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I haven’t really had the opportunity. This assignment, it’s been very time consuming. You and I have hardly seen each other, I know—but it is only temporary and it seemed worth the chance to gain favor with the managing editor.”

  Violet tilted her head, gaze narrowing. “You mean to say you’ve been attending parties and operas and such since you began at the Herald?”

  “Well, the stories are for the society column, Vi. It was necessary—”

  “And you couldn’t invite me to a one?”

  He seemed to be doing more sinking than swimming. “Neither Mr. Kohlbeck nor I were in a position to invite anyone. These weren’t mere social functions. We went to gather information, and people were more conversant, believing us single gentlemen.”

  “You mean women were more conversant. Rose Mayhew in particular, it seems.”

  “I’m not pursuing Rose Mayhew. She has a beau—”

  “And if she didn’t?” Violet’s laugh was soft and humorless. “I think most men prefer a girl of eighteen to an old woman of twenty-five… Though I’ll admit I’ve always thought you the exception to that rule.”