“I’m getting used to the sight of you in clothes.”
I waited.
He laughed and shook his head. “I really did intend that to come out some other way.”
“I’m quite certain that you did.” I chuckled. “I’m getting used to your occasional odd comments.”
“I thank you for your indulgence, Miss Shane.” Saint Aubyn nodded. “Shall we?”
I took his offered arm and we started down one of the paths.
“The spring flowers are quite lovely here,” he observed, making appropriate small talk.
“Yes. You are here just in time for the violets, and soon, roses and lilacs.”
“Are you as fond of flowers as most ladies?”
“Yes. Except, of course, for red roses.”
He looked at me, quite puzzled. “Surely, all ladies hope for red roses, the time-honored symbol of love.”
“Also the time-honored signature of the stage-door Lothario.”
“Ah.” He smiled. “I shall never give you roses.”
“Good.” I took it as a pleasantry, since he would never have reason to give me flowers.
“Why, Miss Shane, how delightful.” An oily voice from one of the benches made us both stop and turn.
Grover Duquesne, Captain of Industry, complete with top hat and a newspaper in his pudgy hands, hoisted himself to his feet and looked up at me.
I felt the duke’s arm tense as I made no move to let go of him. A lady has every right to stay with the squire of her choice.
“Good to see you, Mr. Duquesne.” I bowed formally as those unctuous eyes swept over me.
“I don’t believe I’ve met your companion,” my admirer said, squinting at Saint Aubyn.
“Gilbert Saint Aubyn, Duke of Leith.” He made no move to shake hands.
The Captain of Industry decided to play the jovial American. “Well, how about that. A real duke. You do have some interesting friends, Miss Shane.”
“So I do.” I smiled and left it at that.
The two sized each other up for a moment. Not a word was said, but Saint Aubyn was clearly backing Duquesne off. Very far off.
“Well, I must be going. I hope to see you and Madame de l’Artois at the settlement house benefit performance next week.”
“Thank you.” I bowed.
Saint Aubyn nodded coldly, and Duquesne walked away, clearly annoyed but hiding it as best he could.
“One of your stage-door admirers?” the duke asked as we walked on.
“Yes.”
“It is not my place to say, but I would suggest your cousin be present whenever that man is nearby.”
“He is.”
“Do all of them look at you that way?”
“Thankfully, no.” I couldn’t repress a shudder. “The, ah, Captain of Industry is unusually persistent.”
“Quite.” Saint Aubyn looked at me for a moment, very carefully making eye contact, his gaze somehow managing to erase Duquesne’s filthy ogle.
As every woman knows, there are some men who make you feel dirty just by looking at you . . . and others who make you feel like something sacred, or a work of art, with the same mere glance. The duke was very definitely in the latter category.
His jaw tightened. “I considered teaching him a lesson in manners, but decided that since my last duel didn’t go so well . . .”
I patted his arm and stifled my smile. “I’m sure I am a much better swordsman than our Captain of Industry.”
“No doubt. But I also didn’t want to waste my energy on the likes of him.”
“Well, thank you for the thought, at any rate.”
“No one insults a woman in my presence, Miss Shane. Especially not one so magnificent as you.”
I had no idea what to say to that, so I merely nodded and allowed him to lead me down the path away from the fountain, surprised to share an almost-companionable silence.
“Miss Shane, fancy meeting you here.”
Arden Standish almost walked into us as he strode up the path.
“Why, Mr. Standish.” I gave him a cool smile. “How nice to see you again.”
“Walking out with a gentleman friend?” he asked with an expression that was only a few notches above Duquesne’s filthy gaze.
“Miss Shane is an old friend of one of my relatives,” Saint Aubyn said obliquely, clearly picking up something from Arden. “We are catching up on the latest news.”
“Ah. Well, I’ll leave you to it.” Arden bowed. “Many things to do to prepare for Philadelphia. See you at the benefit.”
“I shall look forward to it.” I bowed, and so did Saint Aubyn.
Arden was out of earshot before Saint Aubyn’s next breath. He used it to ask the obvious question. “The tenor from the other night?”
“Yes. He was also in our company for the last tour.”
Saint Aubyn’s jaw tightened a little.
“And to the best of my knowledge utterly beneath Frances’s notice,” I assured him. “He may have had a crush, as we say over here, but she would undoubtedly have handed him his hat and sent him on his way.”
A very faint smile played about his lips. “I expect she would.”
“The music really was her main love. A pretty blond boy couldn’t compete.”
The smile widened. “You are not especially fond of pretty blond boys, either.”
“Neither here nor there, Your Grace,” I started rather reprovingly, “but men are far more interesting than boys.”
That put a sparkle in his eyes for a moment, but then his face took on a much more serious cast. “Was he the only young man in the company?”
“We had a couple of others, young singers on their first tours, probably not even twenty years old. The rest of the company members are regulars, about a dozen chorus members, crew and helpers who travel whenever we do.”
He nodded. “Would any of them have put that mark on her arm?”
Of course, he would ask. “I honestly don’t think so.”
“And that man, Standish?”
“Highly unlikely.” I didn’t want to tell him what I’d learned about Arden, because he would blame me for not knowing what a bounder I’d hired . . . and I was starting to care what he thought of me.
Why, of all things?
Of course, I never want anyone to think ill of me; certainly, it would do me no good professionally to have a duke with a grudge against me. But why did I care if he thought I had good judgment? I was never going to see him again after we determined what had happened to poor Frances.
Was I?
Well, I did find myself in London on occasion.
Neither here nor there. I took a breath and managed a cool, professional tone. “It’s really very unlikely to have been a member of the company.”
“But not impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible. Anyone is capable of anything under the right circumstances.”
He stopped walking and looked hard at me. “You say.”
“I grew up in a hard part of the world, Your Grace. I know what people are capable of when they’re desperate.”
The cold blue eyes didn’t waver.
“That said, I have no indication that Standish would ever physically harm a woman, and if I had, I’d have sent him away without a character at once.”
“I believe you would.”
“I don’t lie,” I said quietly. “I’m capable of a lot myself, but I don’t lie.”
“I don’t lie, either.” He met my gaze squarely. “But I’ve been known to leave out facts that might be hurtful or harmful.”
“As have I.”
We were silent for a few moments as we started walking again. This time, it was a tense and cautious silence, until he broke it.
“Well, at any rate, we should go to your chemist. Should I be concerned that you have one?”
“Nothing to worry about.” I chuckled, balance restored for the moment. “I make my living with my voice. In addition to good technique, I also need a st
eady supply of peppermint and horehound lozenges. Mr. Chalfont keeps me well stocked.”
“Ah. Well, lead on.”
* * *
Chalfont’s Pharmacy was just a few blocks away, and Mr. Ernest Chalfont was busily compounding pills behind the counter when we walked into the quiet store.
“Miss Shane! Delightful to see you. Horehound or peppermint this time? Or would you like a tin of my daughter’s new recipe rose petal lip salve . . .”
“The lip salve sounds perfect.” I couldn’t help smiling as he noticed the duke and broke off, probably to spare me any embarrassment about my beauty secrets.
“And the gentleman?”
“Some information, if I might,” Saint Aubyn said.
“Certainly.” Mr. Chalfont put his order of pills down and pushed his reading glasses up to the top of his balding head, giving him a good hard look. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Quite sorry. Gilbert Saint Aubyn.”
They shook hands. “Friend of Miss Shane’s?”
“Yes.”
“Good enough for me.”
“Right, then. Miss Shane mentioned to me that she had heard that some patent medicines contain nicotine, and I wondered if you might know more about that.”
My barrister friend did not need to treat my druggist as if he were a witness. I sighed. “A mutual friend is using one, and I am concerned.”
Chalfont nodded. “You should be. Nicotine’s dangerous stuff. In higher concentrations, it’s an insecticide. It’s also far too easy to overdose.”
“Really?” Saint Aubyn asked.
“Really. If someone accidentally took even a slightly larger dose, depending on their size, they could be done for. Tell your friend to stop taking it at once.”
“Oh.”
“Is the mutual friend a young lady?”
Saint Aubyn and I exchanged glances.
“Yes,” I said. “One of the young singers I know.”
“I stopped carrying the stuff months ago, when my daughter told me one of her friends got sick, but there’s a tonic that some young women use. Supposed to make them paler and more beautiful or some such rot. It’s actually an emetic and just plain nasty.”
“That’s probably it.” It sounded like the sort of foolishness some girls would try.
“Well, get it away from her immediately and tell her to go for a good long walk.” Chalfont smiled. “Or maybe lend her your velocipede. That seems to work for you.”
I bought a tin of the newest rose petal salve while the duke looked around at the various other nostrums, and Chalfont grinned at me as he rang it up. “Quite a fine gentleman, Miss Shane.”
“A relative of a friend, Mr. Chalfont.”
“Too bad. He’d do much better with you than his little nicotine-drinking dolly.”
I just shook my head at that, since it would take much too much effort to explain, and slipped my parcel into my purse. “I’ll probably call for a new supply of lozenges for the next tour soon.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
Outside, Saint Aubyn offered his arm again, and I took it. “Shall I walk you home?”
“Thank you. I would like that.”
We walked in silence for a few moments, enjoying the sun and the spring breeze a bit, despite the seriousness of the errand.
“Thank you, Miss Shane.”
“I told you before, I’m glad to help.”
“Well, I greatly appreciate it.” He tensed a little. “Your reporter friend, is she expecting information in return for sharing that autopsy report?”
“No. But sooner or later, the story is going to come out. You may wish to control the circumstances of that.”
“What do you mean?”
“If the New Haven authorities notified you, her legal name is known somewhere. And eventually a professional gossipmonger will recognize you wandering about town.”
Saint Aubyn nodded. “There are only so many dukes.”
“Exactly. If you talk to Hetty, and explain it to her as a family tragedy, she writes a respectful, sensitive account, and that’s the end of it.”
“If I wait for one of the yellow sheets . . .”
“Screaming headlines, sensationalism and Heaven only knows.”
“Your friend is trustworthy?”
“Yes.”
“She writes for a good paper?”
“The Beacon.”
“I have read it.” He nodded. “How is this done?”
“I invite both you and Hetty to tea at my house, away from prying eyes. You tell her the story. After that, it is out of your hands, but in her very good ones.”
“I need to think about all of this.”
We were almost to the town house. I checked the little watch charm on my bracelet. It was heading for noon now, and Tommy and I had to start our journey uptown to join Hetty and Yardley at the game.
“But not this instant perhaps.” I saw no harm in adding to the party.
“Oh?”
“Would you care to do something very American this afternoon?”
He looked curiously at me.
“We’re going to see the Giants at the Polo Grounds.”
“Is that—”
“Baseball, of course. My reporter friend is writing a piece about lady fans, and we are going along.”
“Perhaps another day.”
“Not a fancier?”
“I don’t know enough about baseball to know.” He shook his head. “I have much to think about right now, and I would prefer to be alone.”
“Of course.” I nodded as I released his arm. “Well, thank you for a lovely walk.”
“And thank you for all of your help.”
We bowed. He moved slightly toward me, as if he wanted to shake hands, or something—who knows what British aristocrats do—and backed off.
“Until next time, Miss Shane.”
“Until next time.”
A tall, dark man who brings trouble, indeed.
Chapter 20
In Which We Pass a Pleasing Night at Home
The Giants had no trouble with the Spiders. One could not say the same for Hetty and the Baseball Writers. It turns out that one must be a member of the Baseball Writers to sit in the press box, and to be a Baseball Writer, one must be a man. This injustice did not sit well, even though she no doubt wrote a far better story because she circulated in the crowd and talked to female fans rather than lolling about the press box.
Either way, Tommy and I were just glad to see the game end without a rhubarb. Not on the field, but between Hetty and Yardley.
At a convenient corner, we paid off our driver and turned gratefully for home, leaving them to walk on to the news office, barely noticing our farewells as they sniped about whether Hetty’s story belonged on the sports or the women’s page. As for dinner, Father Michael wasn’t in evidence; he’d apparently been invited to sup at some other parishioner’s home. From the way Tommy told it, I suspected he’d be very grateful to return to us, indeed, and to Mrs. G’s efforts.
But Louis and Anna were in the neighborhood, and likely to come over after sundown, formally ending the Jewish Sabbath with a family meal. It would probably be Tommy and me for dinner, and then the Abramovitzes—and maybe the adorable Morsel—for coffee a bit later.
That was as happy a plan as we could wish for, since Toms and I always enjoy our time together, with or without the supporting cast. Tommy and I were always close. He was my protector from the time Aunt Ellen took me in, a shy and scared little creature, nearly starved from the poverty of the last days of my mother’s illness, and terrified of everyone. Aunt Ellen and Uncle Fred weren’t well-off by any means, but no one went hungry in their home, and Tommy always hated seeing anyone upset, so he took it upon himself to make me smile that first night, pulling a silly face and sneaking an extra cookie for me. After that, I stuck to him like a limpet whenever he was within range, and God love him, he didn’t shoo me away, as almost any other twel
ve-year-old boy would have done.
Soon enough, I was there when some of the neighborhood boys picked fights with him because he wasn’t the kind of brute they were, and I started throwing in on his side. I figured his tolerance for me was part of the reason they thought he was soft, so it was the least I could do. There’s more than one future Five Points gangster who lost a handful of hair when I jumped on his back and started doing my worst to help Toms.
Things were much quieter on this particular evening. As we waited for Mrs. G to do her magic, I was on my chaise with the library book on costume at Versailles, leafing through the plates and doubting that I’d have enjoyed wearing a grand corps, one of those heavily boned bodices that were a required part of court attire. Tommy was reading a study of the Wars of the Roses, research for The Princes in the Tower. Montezuma was perched on a bookshelf, happily chewing on a carrot, and periodically making his own unique contribution to the conversation.
“Stays, Toms,” I said, looking at a diagram of a particularly terrifying corset. “They’re the principal reason men still rule the world.”
Tommy looked up from his book. “I would have guessed skirts, but all right.”
“It’s all of a piece, isn’t it?” I brushed my hand across my heliotrope-print afternoon dress, in a soft and comfortable, but definitely not fancy, delaine. Like most clothing meant to be worn only at home, it was cut loosely enough that I didn’t need to wear stays, even though I don’t really lace tightly at all, because I need to keep my lungs and diaphragm free for my voice. “We wear all of this pretty and impractical stuff, which makes us look very appealing to men—”
“Some men.” Tommy chuckled.
“Too many. And most of us can’t even walk quickly when we’re dressed, never mind run for our own safety if necessary—or defend ourselves.”
“Most ladies do not have to dress for a duel.”
“Well, true. But it’s the idea. We’re all at the mercy of the world.”
“Do you think taking off your stays and wearing breeches would help?”
“We’d be healthier without the stays, for sure. But we’d all have to agree to change clothes at the same time, or people would just laugh us off the streets like they did women who tried the Bloomer costume before we were even born.”
“True.” He laughed. “Probably better to win the vote in your current outfits and change later.”
A Fatal Finale Page 14