Invitation to the Dance

by Tamara Allen

  Charlie pressed a warm kiss on his temple. “You’re done for the day. I’ll write up a column for the society page and take it in this evening.”

  “Charlie…” A weary breath escaped him, ruining his forthcoming argument, but it couldn’t be helped. Charlie’s arm was still around him as he stood. “Knox and Shaw were the first to hear the truth. I told them who I was. Of course they thought I was lying. At some point, they would have discovered I wasn’t…” He didn’t want to consider what they’d have done with him, then.

  “I might’ve convinced Holloway to put up the money,” Charlie said. “Or even the Nesmiths, if I promised to pay them back with interest. I’m sure the Mayhews would have offered to help.”

  “Once they knew the trick we’ve played on everyone?”

  Charlie was quiet before finally meeting his gaze. “We lied about our material wealth. We said we were someone—two someones—we’re not. But we’ve been ourselves. We’re the same fellows they know, only with…” Charlie cleared his throat, “leaner resources.”

  Will had to laugh. “Significantly leaner, yes. And though I’ve gained a degree of affection for the Kohlbeckian point of view, I’m not sure anyone else will see it the same way.”

  As they went out, Charlie looked at him sidelong. “Was that meant to be a compliment?”

  The walk down 31st Street back to Broadway was cold, the ride on the streetcar little better, and Will was glad to fall into a chair beside his hearth and leave an industrious Charlie to build a fire. He was nearly asleep when Charlie hauled him up and divested him of everything but shirt and flannels—no doubt in revenge for the last time he’d done the same to a tired and shivering Charlie—and put him to bed. Charlie settled beside him and the scratch of a pencil kept him pleasantly wakeful. He shifted nearer, making a pillow of Charlie’s lap, and didn’t stir until fingers combed gently through his hair.

  “Will?” It was whispered, as if Charlie thought he might be asleep and didn’t want to wake him.

  Will found an altogether serious gaze upon him. “Hmm?”

  “About the ball on Monday. I coerced you into saying yes, I know, but we’re not obliged to go. It’s probably wiser to have Rose to tea, if you really mean to tell her the whole truth before this business ends.”

  “I do mean to tell her. Not at the ball, but a day or two after Christmas.” Will drew him down and kissed him. “I’ll be well enough to go, if that’s worrying you.”

  Charlie remained somber. “Are you well enough to be the center of attention? There’ll be speculation about Belcourt and Knox, you know. Everyone will come to you, wanting to hear what you’ve got to say. We may not have a good time of it.”

  Will made a rueful face. “Curiosity’s got the better of my judgment, I think.”

  That won him a laugh. “Mine, too. What will become of us if neither of us can keep the other out of trouble?”

  “This will be quite the staid and proper ball. We can’t get into too much trouble.” Will sat up, sliding his arms around Charlie’s shoulders. “You’re sure that your real objection isn’t to Tristan und Isolde?”

  Charlie looked promptly aggrieved. “If I’d known I’d be called upon to sit through another opera so soon after the last—”

  “You’re not obliged to go,” Will said with a soft laugh.

  “I’m obliged to look out for you. All that caterwauling can’t be good for your head.”

  “And yet if I’m well enough to go, it will be entirely to your credit,” Will said, and kissed him again. Encouraged, Charlie gave up the argument—and his pencil and paper—to carry on most favorably with the looking after. There was no further discussion regarding the ball, but when Monday came and the hour was upon them, second thoughts assailed Will all the way home from the paper. If it had become rather easier to see society folks as mortals—ordinary mortals with, as Charlie had noted, more resources—still he hadn’t grown comfortable about crossing that threshold into their world.

  Apart from Mrs. Astor’s yearly affair, the Patriarchs’ ball was the pinnacle. Those in attendance would take stricter notice of him. If it was his last performance as the wealthy Mr. Nesmith, it would have to be a particularly good one. Reminding himself that he was no longer a seeming rival of the fictitious Lord Belcourt nor a potential suitor of Rose’s, he dressed and went down to find Charlie already in the parlor, chatting with Caroline as if only the most commonplace of parties awaited him.

  Charlie offered him a glass of port, evidently aware of his case of nerves, and directed him to sit while they waited for Mr. Leighton. Will wanted to pace—and would have, had only Charlie been in the room. Instead, he sat, unsparing of his coat tails, and drank the port in the slim hope it would steady him. Charlie kept up the chatter, occasionally bringing Will back to the present with a gentle kick under the tea table. But it was Caroline’s sudden change of subject that worked a miracle in that regard.

  “I’ve something to tell you.” In her blue satin gown and white gloves, her hair swept up becomingly by Hilda’s nimble hands, Caroline cut a stately, even matronly figure—until her lips curled impishly, her eyes sparkling like a lovestruck girl’s. “I may be giving up the duties of landlady. Walter has asked me to marry him.”

  “But you’ve only just met,” Charlie exclaimed.

  “We’ve only just found each other again,” Caroline said. “He’s still the dear soul I knew twenty years ago. He’s been quite lonely, I think…” She trailed off wistfully and Will had the feeling Walter wasn’t the only one.

  “You told him yes?”

  “Did you?” Charlie asked in a hushed voice.

  Caroline laughed. “I told him I would think about it, and so I am. This house will continue to take boarders. And Hilda will be in charge, if she likes, with a staff of her own.” Her eyes brightened. “I know you’ve promised to call on us and come to supper once you’ve settled in your new flat, but if perchance I’m not here… You will come and pay a call on me, won’t you?”

  Charlie was occupied with brushing his sleeve across his face, so Will answered for him. “Of course. This house has been home to us because of you and Hilda.”

  Charlie cleared his throat and finally met her gaze. “You’re sure—quite sure—about Mr. Leighton?”

  Caroline looked at him fondly. “Dear Charlie….” The front bell rang, but Hilda had no chance to answer it. Rising, Caroline smiled apologetically and hastened out.

  Will leaned sideways until his shoulder touched Charlie’s. “She does seem to be quite sure.”

  “It’s been barely three weeks.”

  “It didn’t take us much longer.”

  That brought an end to the argument, but all through the cab ride and the better part of the opera, Will was amused by the stern eye Charlie kept on the kindly Mr. Leighton. Whatever inspection Mr. Leighton unwittingly endured, he appeared to have passed it, for Charlie finally calmed down—to the point of dozing against Will’s shoulder until the opera concluded.

  When it was over, Mr. Leighton escorted Caroline home, and as Will stepped from a cab and up to the doors of Delmonico’s, he wondered if he and Charlie shouldn’t have gone home, too. But the Mayhews were expecting them; and Will couldn’t deny his curiosity was still piqued. He’d never have another opportunity to attend a ball so exclusive. It would be the finish of their lark, as Charlie called it, and it seemed fitting that the exit be grand.

  The hour was well past eleven when they made their way upstairs amid a growing crowd, into a bower of a ballroom hung with green satin garlands and golden baskets brimming with lilies. There were surely more than three hundred guests in attendance; some familiar faces but more Will had only seen as likenesses in the society page. Most were in exultations over the opera and paid him little attention as he and Charlie wandered the perimeter in hope of finding the Mayhews. Charlie was the first to discover Rose and Archie out on the floor with the other dancers as a waltz played. “Do you suppose he’s enjoying this?”
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  “He’s with Rose.”

  “And I’m with you.”

  Will laughed. “Had your fill of parties?”

  “They’re all a bit the same, aren’t they?” Charlie leaned against an unoccupied sofa and secured two glasses of champagne as a waiter passed. “This one is an eyeful, I’ll admit. But what is there to do but gawk at folks we’ll likely never see again? They’re not about to invite us to tea.”

  Will took the offered glass and sat. “I thought you wanted to come.”

  “I thought you wanted to come.”

  “Well…” Will broke into another laugh. “I did. I seem to be more susceptible to this nonsense than I thought.”

  Charlie slid over the arm of the sofa to slouch beside him. “No harm in being interested—for better or worse—in the doings of other folks. It’s only human nature. If it weren’t, we’d be out of a job.”

  “There’s something to that, I suppose.”

  “And Archie will settle in and be all right. The Mayhews are jolly enough. Even Mrs. Mayhew can be a good old gal when she’s not fussing.”

  Amused, Will glanced at him sidelong. “I’ve thought you a pessimist, Charlie, but you’re really not.”

  “Oh, I am,” Charlie countered. “I only mean to brighten the world a bit when you need cheering. Drink your champagne.” He downed his own and sat up. “Ready to run away? We can still have a fine supper down the street and stay the night at the hotel. We have the room for another week.”

  Will snorted. “You’re quite impossible.” But he drank the champagne and got to his feet. “We must pay our respects to the Mayhews.”

  “And then go? Or will you want to shake hands with Mr. Morgan and kiss Mrs. Astor’s ring?”

  “Mr. Kohlbeck, you’re my private secretary for a few minutes yet… So do shut up.”

  Grinning, Charlie followed dutifully as Will began another perambulation around the ballroom, one that lasted until the aspect of Mrs. Glasspoole loomed before them, with no avenue of escape. She was her ever cheerful self, embracing Will as if she thought him far too fragile to be enduring yet another social affair.

  “My dear, are you well? I’ve heard tell of one upset after another. I’m sure you never imagined your trip to New York would be so fraught with troubles. And this business of Lord Belcourt—or should I say, Mr. Shaw—what do you make of it? Mr. Glasspoole and I were utterly outraged. Well, everyone was, really. Such a terrible shock to all the hopeful young ladies. And poor Miss Mayhew, nearly wed to the terrible creature! I simply shudder to think what the newspapers would have made of it.”

  “Don’t we all,” Charlie murmured.

  “I think we must be grateful to the reporter who uncovered it.” Will steadfastly ignored Charlie’s sudden, blazing smile. “His persistence spared a number of people rather a lot of grief.”

  “Nothing more than one would expect from a good journalist,” Charlie said.

  Mrs. Glasspoole’s eyebrows rose, her lips briefly pursing. “I can’t say I’ve been spared any grief where reporters are concerned…” She sighed. “But this gentleman has done us a good turn, I’ll admit. I do hope he has nothing to do with the nonsense being talked about downstairs.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Will said. “What nonsense?”

  Mrs. Glasspoole glanced around before drawing nearer. “I’ve heard tell that a disgruntled guest sold his invitation to a reporter out of spite. And of course the man has gotten through the door and means to eavesdrop on every conversation he can.” She cast another worried glance around. “It’s a pity, I say, when respectable people can’t give a private ball without the popular press doing their best to ruin it… Why, Mr. Nesmith, are you all right? You’ve gone so pale. Mr. Kohlbeck, you must fetch him another champagne.”

  “I was thinking just that.” Charlie fastened a hand on Will’s arm. “Maybe a little fresh air, too. A pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Glasspoole.”

  A startled Mrs. Glasspoole took a moment to reply, but it carried to Will’s ears as Charlie rushed him away. “I’ve encouraged a number of ladies to add you to their dance cards! Don’t be too long!”

  Charlie pulled him right through the middle of the room as the strains of the next waltz began. “Good God,” Will gasped. “You think it’s Garber?”

  “Oh, hell.”

  Will went cold with dread. “He’s here?”

  “Coming right for us.” Charlie flashed him an encouraging grin. “Just let me talk to him, all right? When I give you the chance, go downstairs.”

  “But—”

  “Just go,” Charlie cut in as Garber neared. “He may already know…”

  “Well, Charlie Kohlbeck!” Garber clapped him on the back and Charlie grimaced.

  “Leave your cracksman’s kit downstairs, Garber?”

  Garber was unruffled. “My invitation is legitimate. Is yours?” He glanced at Will. “If you mean to provide a reporter with exclusives, Mr. Nesmith, you might’ve picked someone with more experience.”

  “Mr. Kohlbeck’s front page story seems to have satisfied the Herald editors,” Will said. “And the public.”

  Garber’s lingering smile thinned. “I hope it wasn’t as false as the story about you and Rose Mayhew.”

  Will ignored Charlie’s soft groan. “If you’re expecting some show of compunction over my desire to protect Miss Mayhew, you’re in for disappointment, sir. I’d lie again as cheerfully.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it.”

  “Implying… Just what? We’ve only ever spoken once.”

  “I saw the two of you chatting up Mrs. Glasspoole. Did you tell her your friend here is a reporter for the Herald?”

  The conversation had drawn attention—and with that sly question, Garber deliberately raised his voice. He wanted to create a stir and the crowd immediately around them obliged with increasing chatter. The possibility of being thrown out of the restaurant didn’t appear to faze the man. He was the picture of inquisitiveness as he turned to Will. “You realize what you’re risking? Invitations will dry up once it’s known Kohlbeck is the one writing the Herald’s society column. And you were providing him the access… Remarkably like Lord Belcourt provided for Isaiah Knox.” Garber’s gaze narrowed. “It does make a fellow wonder.”

  Hushed dismay fell over those nearest and every stare settled on Will. He was well aware that his silence was only shoring up the man’s implicit accusation. Despite the cold coursing through his veins, his face burned. Was everyone waiting for him to break down and confess? He might blurt out a desperate apology, but that wouldn’t bring forgiveness. He’d taken things not one step, but many steps too far, and still he wanted to carry on with the lie because the thought of confessing the truth was unbearable.

  He’d hardly opened his mouth to defend himself when Charlie suddenly spoke up. “You’re wrong about Mr. Nesmith. He was as deceived as the rest of you. I tricked him into hiring me on as his private secretary and…” He sighed. “It worked beautifully for a while. I went with him to parties and balls, and wrote up the columns with no one the wiser. He was angry when he learned the truth, but by then we’d discovered that Isaiah Knox and Douglas Shaw were conspiring to cheat several of you out of your money. Mr. Nesmith was as fired as I was to make sure they couldn’t get away with it. We nearly got ourselves killed…” Charlie’s gaze on Garber turned fierce. “Maybe the society columns were nothing more than gossip, but the report on Belcourt wasn’t. It was a damned good story and it was mine.”

  An onrush of shame submerged Will’s fear. Charlie had tricked him, tormented him, taken him on a mad adventure through the most treacherous stratum of society, encouraged him, protected him…

  And loved him.

  The last six weeks had been glorious because he’d had Charlie by his side. If he had to endure humiliation and disgrace, so be it. He wasn’t going to leave Charlie to stand in the pillory alone.

  “It was a damned good story,” Will agreed. “But it was ours.”

>   The music seemed distant, the crowd gathered around them suddenly too quiet. They hardly appeared to breathe; and he wasn’t altogether sure he was breathing, either. The bridge he thought he’d come ’round to burning eventually had caught fire before his eyes. It was only the tender admiration in Charlie’s face that gave him the courage to go on.

  “Six weeks ago, I accepted an editorial position at the Herald. The rest—well, it all came about in the most ordinary fashion, really. Reporters were competing for an interview with Lord Belcourt, and one reporter in particular…” He held Charlie’s gaze; or perhaps Charlie’s gaze held him, buoying him as always. “This reporter was a very determined gentleman who thought he might gain an audience by presenting me as someone of considerably higher social standing. And I went along because I was afraid of losing my job. I worked with Mr. Kohlbeck on the society page, but I played less of a part in reporting the Belcourt story—well, except for, as Mr. Kohlbeck mentioned, nearly getting myself killed.”

  There were some smiling faces in the crowd and he wanted to hope he wasn’t as universally reviled as he’d expected. He didn’t know where Rose might be; but he wouldn’t have the chance to find her and talk to her. A restaurant manager had stepped out of the crowd, in the company of two broad-shouldered fellows who looked practiced at escorting away troublemakers.