Invitation to the Dance

by Tamara Allen

  “You won’t find anything.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “But if you do…” Will frowned. “You’ll give him the chance to explain himself?”

  Charlie handed back the pencil and stood. “Every chance.”

  “I should not like to see it end the same way,” Will said soberly.

  “I’ll make certain he’s unarmed when I talk to him. For his sake and mine.”

  On the way to the library, Charlie came across Alec racing down the hall with the book cart. “Slow up around the corners,” he advised. “I don’t want you let go because you’ve bowled down a horde of editors who hadn’t the sense to move out of the way in time.”

  Alec giggled, but dutifully slowed down. He’d only just moved past the telegraph office when Charlie, struck with inspiration, turned and caught him by his coat collar. “Hold a minute.” He drew Alec aside. “Anyone at the telegraphs yet?”

  “Mr. Loughney’s here, but he’s with Mr. Holloway.”

  “I don’t have much time, then. Guard the door for me? Keep Mr. Loughney out till I’m done.” Charlie opened the door and switched on the lights. “I’ll want you to keep watch for a reply, too, and when it comes, bring it to me. Don’t let anyone else see it.”

  Alec eagerly complied by spilling the book cart in front of the door. Loughney arrived moments later and Charlie half-listened to the two of them gather up books while he composed and sent a wire. When the deed was done, he slipped out another door and came back around to the hall in time to scoop up the last book and hand it to Alec. “There you are, my boy. Good morning, Mr. Loughney.”

  Mr. Loughney grunted in reply and smoothed back the frizzled white hair falling all around his face after his exertions. He disappeared into the telegraph office and Alec grinned. “I’ve asked him if I might come in and tidy up.”

  “Smart fellow. Take your time about it.”

  He wanted to take his own time in the library, but he’d barely begun when Will ducked in to warn him Mr. Holloway was again on the prowl. Charlie fished out the notes he’d taken at police headquarters, and scribbling down four paragraphs, turned it over to Will on the way out. Reluctant to tell Holloway about his investigation of Belcourt, Charlie put up no resistance when Holloway sent him off promptly to the mayor’s office for a piece on the final budget, the prospect of which meant an interminable afternoon listening to politicians argue.

  After three hours of it, Charlie decided he had quotes sufficient to liven up the story, and he hopped aboard the first streetcar back to the paper, to step into a department alive with activity. Some of the reporters had come in and nearly every head was bent over a column in progress. Still, the chatter went on unceasingly. Charlie took command of Will’s unoccupied desk, glad to be farther from the windows for once, and applied himself to the task of turning barely legible notes into respectable copy.

  When he’d finished, Will hadn’t returned; not keen on leaving the story in Trumbauer’s hands, Charlie went in search of him. After he’d checked the cafe upstairs and nearly every office on the second floor, it occurred to him he should have gone to the library first. There he found Will at the table, paging through one of the books Charlie had left out. It was rather inattentive paging, though, and Will’s pensive expression when he raised his head gave Charlie pause. “What’s the matter?”

  Will eased a scrap of paper from his waistcoat pocket and laid it on the table; a telegram, Charlie realized. “Alec gave you the wire.”

  “I guess you told him not to show it to anyone?” Will closed the book and laid it atop the others. “Mr. Palmer saw Alec with it and tried to take it from him.”

  “And Alec gave it to you before he could.”

  Will nodded. “Don’t you want to know what’s in it?”

  Charlie exhaled a breezy laugh. “I was wrong, wasn’t I? I’ve been thinking all afternoon that I must have been a fool to be so quick to believe the worst. For pity’s sake, if I’d just listened to you—”

  “You’re not a fool.”

  “Oh, God.” Anxiety curled in his gut and he thought he ought to sit down—or at least stand still—but he couldn’t seem to. “Really? Who the devil is he, then?”

  “Perhaps we should ask him.”

  “Ask him? Well, of course, we should ask him—”

  “Charlie, you’re going to wear a hole in the floor if you don’t stop pacing.” Will pushed out a chair. “Let us just invite him for supper and have him meet us at the house.”

  “I don’t want him anywhere near Caroline—”

  “Caroline’s going to the opera with Mr. Leighton tomorrow night. We’ll have Belcourt around then, if we can, and give him a chance to explain himself.”

  Charlie dropped into the chair. “You’re awfully calm. What explanation can there be that might forgive what he’s done? He’s a fraud—”

  Will cleared his throat gently. “So are we.”

  “Except we only did it for a news story.” Charlie breathed a laugh. “A hell of a story.”

  “I don’t know if that explanation will forgive what we’ve done. It’s still quite the deceit…” Will’s lip curled ruefully. “And may yet be a hell of a story in the Sun.”

  “I’ll shoulder the blame,” Charlie said. “I talked you into it—”

  “Initially. But I stayed in longer than I should have.”

  Charlie broke from his gaze. “You know, I am sorry—”

  “I know.” In rising, Will brushed an affectionate hand over his hair. “I’m not.”

  “No?”

  “No… However, let me just qualify that I’d rather you never did any such thing again.”

  Charlie slumped back in the chair and grinned up at him. “I need an editor.” He held out the copy he’d half-forgotten he was carrying, and Will took it.

  “You didn’t on that last piece,” he remarked. “If you could just manage such brevity all the time—”

  “Then what would you have to do?”

  Will only smiled at that, but had the story cut down neatly in time for it to go to print. The cable from London burning a hole in his pocket, Charlie sat at Will’s desk and together they composed his lordship the most sweetly worded invitation to sup with them at Delmonico’s. An acceptance came by return messenger, hastily written but full of Belcourt’s familiar good cheer.

  Wondering just how much a part of the act that was, Charlie decided to ask Archie if he would stay close to home in the evening. It seemed prudent to make sure everyone else was well away; an easy matter, since the holiday season was keeping all the household busy. Charlie didn’t trust that Belcourt would show up alone. He was too in the habit of taking Knox with him; and that might well be because Knox was the driving force behind their game.

  The four and twenty hours that had seemed endless yesterday slipped by with increasing speed as evening neared. Dressing for supper in a cold room was a misery, but Charlie went to the window again and again, anxious for some sign of Belcourt arriving in the gathering dusk. He was still dressing when he heard Archie head downstairs, Will shortly following, and he tried once more to affix collar and tie with unsteady fingers before giving the whole mess up and heading down, himself. In the parlor, Archie had taken up a post in the armchair at the window, but Will was pacing. Resisting the temptation to tell him to sit before he wore a hole in the carpet, Charlie stood at the mirror above the mantel and put his tie more or less to rights before Archie announced that a carriage had stopped at the curb.

  “I’ll answer it,” Will said, and vanished into the hall before the bell rung. Uneasy, Charlie motioned Archie to wait and joined Will at the door. In the deepening evening, he couldn’t tell who might be waiting in the carriage, but the gentleman coming up the sidewalk was decidedly not Lord Belcourt. He cut a taller figure in his long overcoat and high-crowned derby, his broad features concealed by a heavy, black beard. Reaching the door, he broke into the most genial of smiles and bobbed his head in greeting.

  �
��Beg pardon, Mr. Nesmith. His lordship asks if you’d come down to the carriage for a word.”

  “He doesn’t care to come in?” Will asked.

  The man appeared hesitant. “It’s not for me to say, sir…”

  Charlie turned to Will. “Lend me your coat. I’ll go.”

  “Beg pardon, sir. His lordship asked for Mr. Nesmith.”

  “I’ll go down,” Will said, clapping a reassuring hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “If he prefers to meet at the restaurant, we can ask for a private room.”

  It wasn’t Belcourt’s man, but rather his accomplice Will was following down to the street, and with that troubling realization, Charlie was down the steps and through the gate after him, catching up as Will reached the carriage. Charlie wasn’t surprised to see Knox within, seated as comfortably as a king while Belcourt—a subdued, grim-faced Belcourt—sat pressed into the corner, hands clenched around the brim of his hat.

  Knox seemed far more at ease, and indeed was smiling as he leaned toward Will. “Forgive us for taking you from a warm hearthside, Mr. Nesmith, but I promise you we shall be quick. It would have been simpler had you come down alone, but…” His gaze fell on Charlie and the sheen of good humor there took on a sharper edge. “I will make do. Mr. Landreth, if you will be so kind.”

  As the man stepped up behind him, Charlie tensed, ready to swing at him. But Landreth didn’t lay a hand on him. Knox chuckled. “No need to alarm yourself, sir. No need at all. You’re quite safe, as long as Mr. Nesmith cooperates.”

  “Charlie, don’t move,” Will said quietly.

  Charlie needed no instruction in that regard. Landreth had a gun trained on him—and Landreth wasn’t the only one. Lamplight glinted off the revolver in Knox’s gloved hand. “Now, Mr. Nesmith, if you will join us, we may consider the matter most amicably resolved.”

  All at once, Charlie couldn’t breathe. But Will seemed capable of it, perhaps fueled by the anger that made itself heard in his voice. “You tried to kidnap Rose Mayhew.”

  “It wasn’t something I cared to do.” Knox’s seeming regret rang false. “Certainly there’d have been no need for it if she’d accepted his lordship’s proposal—or had Mr. Kohlbeck stayed out of my business. Unfortunately, Miss Mayhew has proven too well protected and too difficult to reach… But I will be recompensed.” Knox’s mocking smile withered, his gaze agleam with dark promise. “Mr. Landreth is growing impatient, sir. Do come aboard.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Charlie sputtered, and as Will reached for the door, caught his arm. “Will, don’t—”

  Will turned to him, hazel eyes flashing with an annoyance Charlie remembered from the day they first met. It hit him like a fist in the gut, but he couldn’t let go. “Will…”

  “Stay put, Mr. Kohlbeck.” The brusque exhalation seemed to take the last of Will’s breath. He pulled from Charlie’s hold and climbed into the carriage. Belcourt moved to the fold-away seat, leaving Will the place beside Knox. As Will sat, Knox rapped against the roof with the knob of a cane and the coachman snapped the reins. Knox didn’t spare Charlie another glance, but Will did, with all the reassurance that was in him to give, Charlie knew; but that was no comfort. Once the carriage left Broadway, any hope of finding Will was lost.

  Charlie dared not dash after them. Landreth would shoot him in the back—or in the growing darkness, hit someone else. Wild with frustration, Charlie tried to jerk loose from the grip on his coat sleeve. “Did Knox tell you to wait till he was well away before killing me?”

  Landreth laughed and hauled Charlie back from the curb, pushing him toward the gate. “Anyone in the house?”

  “It’s a boarding house,” Charlie said. “People go in and out all the time.”

  “We’ll go in.” Landreth shoved the gun in his ribs and stayed close all the way up to the door. Archie probably hadn’t been able to discern much at first from the parlor window, but he was surely suspicious enough to be lying in wait somewhere. He only needed the right distraction…

  “You’re not going to shoot me in my own home?”

  “Suits me.” Landreth shoved him forward, and as Charlie turned toward him, raised the revolver. “I don’t see how it makes much difference for you.”

  Charlie tried to catch his breath despite the fear rising relentlessly into his throat. “It might make a difference to Constable Doolan, seeing as it’s his home, too.”

  Landreth laughed. “You ain’t fooling me.”

  Something small and brightly silver flew from behind the portiere, striking Landreth’s temple, and he flinched, cursing. Charlie sprang for the gun and got Landreth by the wrist, to find instant and iron resistance. Landreth grabbed him by the collar, struggling to turn the gun squarely on him, and it went off. A terrible crash of breaking glass rang in Charlie’s ears, but Landreth’s grip on him was gone in the next instant as Archie, with an arm around the man’s neck, dragged him backward and slammed him to the floor. Charlie stole a dazed glance toward the parlor and his stomach did another turn at the sight of Caroline’s shattered tea set. “Hildy’s going to come after us with a birch switch.”

  Archie was clamping irons around Landreth’s wrists. “She’ll be glad you aren’t bleeding on her floor, Charlie.”

  “She might prefer it.” Charlie dropped down and caught a fistful of Landreth’s hair, dragging his head up. “Where are they taking Mr. Nesmith?”

  “Go to hell,” Landreth gasped.

  Charlie breathed his own curse and got up. He didn’t have time to drag the answer out of the man. He was heading for the door when Archie called out after him. “Charlie, you can’t go after them unarmed. Wait! Charlie!”

  He wasn’t unarmed. He might be sick and shaking with fright, but he was confident he could cheerfully pound the daylights out of Isaiah Knox if he got his hands on him. Only one thing had the power to weaken him and that was the pervading fear that Knox had already left Broadway and gone too far afield to be found.

  Traffic was its customary tangle in the glare of street lamps and restaurants, moving at a pace that should’ve made the search easier. But the number of carriages went on into the distance, and though Charlie felt certain Knox’s coachman had been wearing a white scarf, he didn’t dare pass by a scarf of any other color for fear he was wrong. He lurched from one brougham to the next, finding them fewer in number than he’d thought, but still too plentiful. His eyes began to ache from such strained effort in the cold and he felt the promise of pneumonia in every breath he drew. Maybe he’d gone too far—or worse, Knox had turned down another street deliberately, in case someone was following.

  His doubts only deepened as he passed Union Square and he began to look around for a policeman. A brougham passed under the street lamp at 14th Street and started to turn. Charlie knew the chance he was taking, leaving Broadway, but he couldn’t let the carriage vanish. He broke into a run, determined to catch up before the carriage reached another turn.

  In moments, he was near enough to see the scarf, white as snow, billowing over the coachman’s shoulder. Hope soared, giving him new strength. Coming within reach, he sprang onto the carriage step and found a grip on the arm of the lamp. Out of the dim interior, Knox emerged, his grim features filling the window as he slammed a shoulder against the door. Braced for the blow, Charlie held on tight, but the relentless pressure as Knox leaned against the door threatened to dislodge him. Will lunged forward and grabbed Knox by the shoulders, pulling him away from the door—only a momentary success as Knox swiftly turned and shoved him back against the seat.

  Will struggled to stay upright and Charlie realized his wrists were bound. Without Will’s help, Knox would have him dislodged in a quick minute. He contemplated abandoning his perch to go after the coachman, but the sudden sting of a whip across his shoulders discouraged that idea. He ducked a second blow, but nearly lost his footing as Knox rammed the door with the strength of an enraged bull.

  His grip on the lamp slipping, Charlie hooked one foot on the step and pre
ssed his weight against the door to keep it from swinging out and taking him with it. Knox’s greater weight pushed it outward despite Charlie’s best effort, providing room through which to thrust his revolver.

  Belcourt shouted a warning too late as Will threw himself bodily against Knox. The gun went off and the horse bolted in fright. The carriage careened toward the park gates as the coachman struggled to slow the animal’s mad gallop, but the wheels struck the curb, tilting the carriage and sending the coachman tumbling. Charlie found himself lying almost atop the door and he knew with dreadful certainty the carriage was going to topple. He could only hold on…

  Until he couldn’t.

  He hit the ground with shocking suddenness, pain shooting through his shoulder, and it took him several gasps for breath to realize he was breathing—which meant he wasn’t dead. That seemed a miracle in itself, taking into account the deafening shattering of wood and glass that had accompanied his fall. His shoulder throbbing, he sat up and dazedly comprehended how far he’d been thrown. The carriage lay on the far side of Second Avenue, wheels still spinning, the horse engaged in a futile effort to get back on its feet. The carriage door burst open and a bloodied Belcourt climbed out. He barely glanced at Charlie before stumbling off in the direction of 14th Street.

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” As sore as his shoulder was, the rest of him seemed to be working and he went after Belcourt at a run. Two policemen just coming out of the park were quicker, apprehending Belcourt at the corner, and as they headed for the carriage, Charlie caught up. “You’ve got the fellow who tried to kidnap Rose Mayhew. And she wasn’t the only one—”

  “You haven’t heard my side of it,” Belcourt protested. “Look here, you and Nesmith are decent fellows. We hit it off, didn’t we? You’ve got to put in a good word for me—”

  “A good…” Charlie stared at him. “You tried to kidnap Rose! And you did kidnap Will—”

  “You don’t understand.” Belcourt looked around desperately as more policemen converged upon the carriage. “The whole business… It was only supposed to be a bit of play-acting. Isaiah swore it to me. We were going to win over a few gentlemen so they’d invest. I had some debts, you see…” His lordship’s genial smile was a sickly, timorous shadow of itself. “Tell Mr. Nesmith, won’t you? The threats Isaiah made were only to keep him cooperating. It was all just talk. We’d never have let him come to harm. I swear it!”