Invitation to the Dance

by Tamara Allen

  Mrs. Mayhew seemed to hear it because she smiled with heartfelt regret. “I’m in a most indelicate position, Mr. Nesmith. You see, I’ve forbidden Rose to be in the company of Mr. Doolan. He’s far too persistent in his attentions and Rose is too young to understand the trouble she may be courting. She’s disobeyed me twice and I can’t go back on my word under the circumstances.”

  “If you’d permit me to speak on Constable Doolan’s behalf…”

  Mrs. Mayhew shook her head. “A mother must trust her instincts. A girl in Rose’s position is not always pursued for the purest of motives.”

  Glad Charlie wasn’t present, Will bit back his own frustrated retort, but couldn’t stay altogether silent. “Archie loves her.”

  Mrs. Mayhew frowned. “Have they run away together?” She turned sharply to her husband, even as she clutched at his shoulder to keep her balance. “Timothy, you haven’t allowed this? Behind my back… How could you?”

  Mr. Mayhew had no chance to object. A scream rang out from beyond the trees, shocking them both into silence. Charlie, far ahead, glanced around at Will in alarm. That brought Will to life and he raced to catch up as Charlie disappeared behind the trees. Past the intruding shoreline, Will caught sight of him again, flying along. A quarter mile farther, a hulking figure of a man in a black coat had Rose pinned in his arms as he tried to drag her to shore. Archie was locked in a furious scuffle with a second man, both of them kicking up sprays of ice as they fought to stay on their feet.

  Rose screamed again, fighting wildly, but the man was immune to the bite of her blades. Her cry seemed to do something to Archie, though, for suddenly his assailant hit the ice with resounding force and lay there, weakly flailing. Archie left him and bounded toward the shore, reaching Rose just as her would-be kidnapper let her fall into the snow. Archie went to her aid—but Charlie leapt to the bank and dashed after the man.

  The fellow Archie had laid low was on his feet again and escaping into the trees. Will pursued him, crashing through the frozen tangle of snow-covered tree limbs and slippery underbrush as shouts came from somewhere ahead. The forest opened before him, giving him a glimpse of Charlie grappling with Rose’s attacker. Will scrambled out to the road and a looming shape behind him knocked him flat, into the path of a carriage rushing straight toward him. He rolled away blindly as hooves thundered past and when he dared raise his head, it was only in time to see the carriage vanish around a bend.

  Climbing onto shaky legs, he staggered toward the snowbank where Charlie lay, half-buried. As he dropped to his knees, it took a moment of fighting off dread just to find his voice. “Charlie?”

  An answering groan reassured him and he got both arms under Charlie to ease him out of the snow. Charlie grimaced, laying a hand chilled bone-white against his reddened cheek. “God Almighty, that hurts.” He reached down and scooped a handful of snow, pressing it to the side of his face. “Did you get the son of a bitch?”

  “Afraid not.” The reply came none too steadily and Will decided not to mention that the son of a bitch had nearly gotten him. “Can you stand?”

  Charlie exhaled a visible breath and closed his eyes. “Don’t suppose you’d carry me?”

  “I might.”

  Charlie blinked at him, seemingly suddenly aware of his relief. “Sometimes you’re damned tempting to take advantage of.” His grin was pained, but his gaze shone. “Get me standing and I can walk.”

  The skates made it challenging, but Will kept Charlie upright with an arm around him until they’d reached the shoreline and stepped back onto the ice. Mr. Mayhew met them, drawn with worry. “They’re gone? Did you recognize them? Who the devil were they?”

  Charlie shook his head. “I couldn’t get him to say a word, not until I threatened him… And then he only laughed and said we couldn’t keep her shut away for good.” He sagged against Will. “I think the two of them must be in the employ of someone else. That was an expensive brougham.”

  Mrs. Mayhew was listening as she stood with her arms around Rose. “That’s not uncommon.”

  “I don’t care how damned common it is,” Mr. Mayhew rasped. “I’ll have every police detective in town hunting those bastards.”

  Archie limped toward them, his face bloodied, his hand wrapped in a crimson-stained kerchief, his eyes agleam with apology. “I’ll be first in line for it, sir.” He drew back his shoulders, the smallest wince escaping him. “I wish I’d done more.”

  Mrs. Mayhew had her back to him, her head tucked close to her daughter’s; but when she lifted her head, something had taken the place of grief in her strained features. “Timothy,” she said quietly, and gave a still sobbing Rose into his care. As Rose clung to him, Mrs. Mayhew turned with a little wobble and skated toward Archie, stopping before him with a brief touch of his sleeve even as he raised a hand to assist her. She dropped her hand, lifting her gaze to his. Though Will could see no more than her profile, regret was etched into every line… And not a little wonder. She couldn’t seem to find her voice, but after a moment, held out her hand.

  The smile that spread across Archie’s battered features surely hurt, Will mused, but there was no trace of pain in his joyful gaze. The change in Mrs. Mayhew’s feelings had not come about as they’d planned, perhaps; but Rose and Archie had reason to hope. Will was thankful they’d all come through relatively unscathed…

  Especially the dear, blessed fool leaning hard on his shoulder and grinning as triumphantly as if he’d brought about the happy ending, himself.

  Chapter Eighteen

  After an agreed-upon postponement of supper with the Mayhews and a lively time in a busy police station, Charlie was glad to come home to a hearth fire and the toothsome smell of Hilda’s roast beef in the making. Though he was tired and sore, he hadn’t given his bruised face much further consideration—not until Caroline and Hilda exclaimed upon it and immediately set about doctoring him. It was rather agreeable to be fussed over, but he didn’t enjoy it as much as he might have, for Will was too quiet and Charlie knew he was worrying. The police had assumed that Rose’s attackers had ransom in mind and the Mayhews had gone home under more than just Archie’s devoted protection; though Charlie suspected that might have been enough, had the kidnappers shown up at the house.

  Having gone to bed but not to sleep, Charlie hoped Will might peek in. When he didn’t, Charlie snuck across the hall and peeked, himself. Will stood beside the fire, brushing his overcoat. “Be sure you lock it,” he remarked without looking around.

  Invitation enough. “Awfully confident it was me, weren’t you?” Charlie locked the door and dropped into the chair by the fire.

  “You’re the only one who doesn’t knock. Besides, I heard your door.”

  “In hopes?” At Will’s forbearing glance, he grinned. “I only came in to say good night.”

  “Did you?”

  The man was impossibly distracted. Charlie stood and moved up behind him to lean on his shoulders. “All right, Smitty. What’s the matter?”

  Will’s vigorous brushing slowed, becoming more precise. “Do you suppose,” he said conversationally, “that anyone’s ever torn up an invitation to a Patriarchs’ Ball?”

  Charlie drew back and came around to look him in the face. “You’re serious.” He couldn’t believe it. “Where?”

  “On the mantel. Mr. Mayhew handed it to me before we left the police station. He’d forgotten it in all the excitement.”

  Charlie took the envelope by the edges and gingerly extracted the card. “‘December twenty-third. Admit Mr. William Nesmith. Invited by Mr. Silas Glasspoole.’“It still wouldn’t sink in. “The highest hats in all of Manhattan. The snobbiest, most self-satisfied idle rich in New York—hell, the country—and they invited you…”

  “It’s Mrs. Glasspoole’s doing.”

  “Well, of course. But…” Charlie eyed him in amazement. “You don’t want to go? Good God, the stories you could get—”

  “It’s a lot of nonsense.” Will struck t
he defenseless coat fiercely with the brush. “Besides, I’m meant to be leaving town. Another week—”

  “Another week won’t do any harm.” Charlie propped the card against the mantel clock. “Aren’t you curious?”

  “Perhaps I am. But I’m coming to believe curiosity’s not a trait to be cultivated. It only gets a fellow into trouble.”

  Charlie couldn’t keep from smiling. “You want to go.”

  “I don’t belong there and neither do you—”

  “I’m not invited… Am I?”

  Will lowered the brush. “As a matter of fact, you are. Mrs. Glasspoole is of the apparent belief I’m not well enough to go anywhere without you.”

  “Can’t imagine why she thinks it,” Charlie said with a snort. “I don’t suppose I could go without you?”

  “Charlie—”

  “Now admit you’re intrigued.” Charlie bumped a shoulder against his. “One last lark?”

  Will resumed brushing rather doggedly. “One last lark. With the Astors and the Belmonts and the Goelets and the Morgans—”

  “None of whom can hold a candle to you.” Charlie tried to confiscate the brush and noticed the mud caked nearly to the collar. “What the devil did you do to your coat? There was hardly a lick of dirt on mine.”

  “The road was muddy.” Will laid the coat over a chair and scraped at it once more, half-heartedly. “I’ll have to take it for a proper cleaning.”

  It dawned on Charlie what he was saying. “That son of a bitch… He knocked me down and went after you?” A solid stripe of mud was all but imprinted into the coat fabric along the bottom—as if a carriage wheel had rolled right over it. A sick sensation stirred in his gut and he raised a disbelieving gaze. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Will frowned. “I wasn’t hurt—”

  “He might’ve killed you.”

  “I’m perfectly all right. What would’ve been the good in scaring you?”

  Charlie shook his head. He couldn’t answer, certainly not with any degree of calm. He wanted to be angry—he wanted to give Will hell for not confiding such a thing—but cold fear would not move aside for it. He got a handful of Will’s nightshirt and pulled him close, burying his face against Will’s neck. Arms came around him, kisses raining the most blessed comfort on his skin, and he swallowed the ache rising in his throat. “Don’t ever do that again.”

  Will’s head bent close to his. “I’m sorry.”

  The knot in his gut eased, but he wanted to stay. He wanted to curl up with Will and fall asleep knowing Will was safe and sound. He wanted… To keep from making a fool of himself about it. He fought back the rising emotion, refusing his burning eyes that relief. “I’d better say good night.”

  Will drew back without relinquishing his hold, and his gaze swept Charlie’s face until his own was as solemn as Charlie had ever seen it. “You took a nasty knock today.” Will’s fingers brushed lightly over the bruise. “A doctor would want you watched over.”

  “You’re not a doctor.”

  “I’m not a reporter, either.”

  Charlie laughed and lowered his head wearily to Will’s shoulder. “It’s a dubious excuse at best. Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure you’re staying. You’ll want a good night’s sleep if you’re going back to reporting genuine news tomorrow.”

  Smitty at his most pragmatic. That—oddly enough—was comforting, too.

  Charlie fell into bed, hoping to stay awake long enough to express his full appreciation, but once Will was nestled against him, he promptly fell asleep. Morning brought the happy thought that he was done with the society page—barring anything interesting to come out of the Patriarchs’ Ball—and he all but waltzed into the city department, prepared for even the drive out to Orange, should that be his fate. He was warming his bones at the radiator with his fellow reporters when Holloway, apparently unmoved by the spirit of the season, stalked in with assignments.

  To Charlie’s surprise, Holloway didn’t inquire about his bruise, but seemed to take pity on him, sending him out no farther than police headquarters to write up copy on a theft. When he got back to the paper, Will was still huddled at his desk, wearing down his blue pencil at a steady rate.

  “Smitty, you work too hard.”

  “Perhaps to make up for certain reporters who lounge about.”

  Charlie perched on the desk. “While you’re cozy here, I’m traipsing all over Manhattan.”

  Will glanced up at him. “The streetcar to police headquarters and back?”

  “It’s cold out. The streetcars are at a crawl and I had to walk partway. Tourists are blocking the sidewalks to gape at the Christmas displays. My hands and feet are frozen. I’m sure to come down with something—”

  “And yet your capacity for grumbling is undiminished.” The blue pencil moved swiftly and mercilessly. “Go sit by the radiator and write your copy.”

  “Did I mention I ran into Archie?” The pencil paused and Charlie hopped to his feet. “You’ve got work to do—”

  “Sit.” Will swiveled toward him. “Have they caught the men?”

  “No… And I think he expects they won’t, despite our descriptions.” Charlie settled on the corner of the desk. “He did say Mrs. Mayhew had him stay for supper once he’d escorted them home.”

  “Did she? He must have been pleased.”

  “I don’t think he’s stopped smiling since. And he said she didn’t mention Belcourt at all.”

  “She was already losing hope in Belcourt. They’ve heard no word from him since the Whitmores’ ball.”

  “Doesn’t that strike you as peculiar?”

  “I imagine he’s allowing Rose time to sort her feelings. Or he thinks he’s lost out to the better man.”

  Charlie let an arch smile come. “One of them.”

  Will looked reproving, despite a lingering amusement. “Not even Mrs. Mayhew believed I proposed. She assumed the reporter made it up.”

  “Just think of the gossip we’ll print when Belcourt toddles into the Patriarchs’ ball.”

  “Absent Mr. Knox.”

  Charlie snorted. “You don’t suppose his lordship will think of a legitimate reason to bring his land agent?”

  Will laughed. “Yes, a pity he’s not Belcourt’s private secretary.”

  “It’s peculiar, really, that Belcourt seems to have very little in the way of servants or staff. Or friends, for that matter.”

  “How can you tell? There’s always such a crowd milling about him.”

  “I’ve seen no signs of intimacy. Have you?”

  Will absently tapped the pencil. “He hasn’t really sought out attention since coming to New York. If he arrived without the usual retinue, it was surely deliberate. Perhaps he does mean to do no more than tour his properties and encourage new investors.” His gaze shifted to Charlie, alight with curiosity. “You’re not suspicious of Belcourt now?”

  “Suspicious isn’t really the word. I just wonder if Knox has played him for a fool or taken him into some sort of scheme to reach wealthy New Yorkers. Belcourt is the one providing him access, after all.”

  “If he is? It might be in bad taste, but—”

  “It’s worse than that if Knox is defrauding investors.”

  Will’s gaze narrowed. “You’re still trying to uncover what went on between them the night we played billiards.”

  “I want to think I already have. And it’s a hell of a clever scheme,” Charlie said, warming to the subject. “Belcourt comes across the Atlantic pretending to be in search of a bride so he’s invited to the best parties. He brings along the charming Mr. Knox to sniff out the greenest millionaires and sell them some backwater bogs for far more than the land is worth—or worse, gold mines that are all played out.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake.” Will tossed down the pencil and sat back. “A man could stand sneezing on the sidewalk in spring and you’d wrest a story out of it. Why don’t you challenge Belcourt to a game of billiards and put up a wager purely
for information? Though I don’t expect you’d hear much unless you got him drunk first.”

  Charlie smiled reluctantly. “It’d never work. He knows his way around an American table better than any Englishman I ever saw…” An outlandish thought struck him and he dismissed it as swiftly. He probably would wrest some sort of story out of just about anything…

  But Will had come to the same conclusion. The apprehension in his face said as much. His lips parted, then pressed flatly as if he didn’t dare put the notion into words.

  So Charlie did. “Lord Bunnyfeather.”

  Will choked out a laugh. “Surely not. Someone’s inquired after his credentials…”

  “Who? He made his appearance at the ideal time. Everyone’s been tripping over each other to welcome him, invite him to balls and luncheons, introduce him to their daughters.”

  “But he spends money as though he’ll never run out. He’s staying at one of the most expensive hotels in the city.”

  “And he’s paying the bills? Or is everyone extending him credit?”

  Will stared at him. “It can’t be an invention. He couldn’t have carried it this far.”

  “Suppose we inquire? There are books on the peerage down the hall in the library. Or we could send a cable to the proper authorities in London.”

  “Charlie…” Will seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “You want to go to the time and trouble of investigating the man based on his billiard game and an argument he had with his land agent? That’s hardly even-handed.”

  “So… No one else would be suspicious?”

  “On so little? I don’t think—”

  “Then why did you jump to the same conclusion?”

  Will frowned. “Yes, it’s happened before—”

  “And you’ll recall that no one checked on Lord Gordon’s credentials for a good, long time. What harm is there in confirming that Belcourt is who he claims to be?”