To Steal a Heart

by Jen Turano

  Maryanne lifted her chin. “Mrs. Kaffenburgh was suitably impressed with me the night of the Lanham ball and is surely going to speak highly of me to her nephew.”

  “But we have no idea when she’ll be seeing her nephew again, nor do we know when that nephew may be coming to the city to meet potential countesses.” Mrs. Allen took hold of her daughter’s hand. “You’re almost twenty, Maryanne, and at such an advanced age, you need to marry this Season. Society will begin to whisper about you if you don’t, and their whispers will not be kind. It could very well harm your chances of landing a well-connected, wealthy, and sought-after gentleman.”

  Gabriella frowned. “Shouldn’t she be concerned with landing a gentleman who holds her in great affection?”

  The look Mrs. Allen shot Gabriella was filled with incredulousness, although whether that was from the question itself or because Gabriella, a seamstress, had voiced it, was anyone’s guess.

  “Affection is not required for members of the New York Four Hundred,” Mrs. Allen said coolly. “We form alliances based on position and wealth, unlike the commoners, who evidently have their lives ruled by their hearts instead of their heads.”

  Even with her being more furious with Nicholas than she thought possible, Gabriella couldn’t help but feel rather sorry for him.

  The world he now embraced was not one she’d ever care to live in—even if his world came with no financial hardships and a lovely brownstone. Frankly, his world seemed cold and uninviting, calculated and almost cruel, and she could only hope that someday, before he lost the opportunity to escape, he’d realize that.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Maryanne,” Mrs. Allen said, drawing Gabriella from her thoughts, “I’m going to join Mr. Quinn because he seems . . . out of sorts.” She narrowed her eyes at Gabriella and considered her in a most disconcerting fashion. “Maryanne needs to get out of that gown with all due haste. We’re attending the opera later, and if Mr. Quinn agrees to accompany us tonight, she’ll need extra time to get ready.” With that, Mrs. Allen walked away.

  Knowing full well she was the reason Nicholas was out of sorts, she chanced a glance his way and found him walking out of the shop, holding Mrs. Allen’s arm.

  Returning her attention to Maryanne, Gabriella summoned up yet another smile. “Shall I help you get out of your gown now?”

  “Unless you want to experience my mother’s displeasure, you should.”

  Ten minutes later, with Maryanne on her way and Nicholas and Mrs. Allen, thankfully, waiting for Maryanne outside the shop, Gabriella headed back to the workroom to fetch additional pins to hem another lady’s gown, her emotions swinging from one extreme to the other.

  Hurt warred with temper—temper winning out in the end—which left her scowling, something she didn’t realize she was doing until Nan took one look at her after asking to borrow a pair of shears and made a beeline back to the showroom floor.

  Forcing a smile that took more effort than it should have, Gabriella fetched more pins and headed for the door, only to be intercepted by Monsieur Villard, who stood in her way even as he took hold of her arm.

  “I believe your services on the floor are no longer needed, mon cherie.”

  “You’re overflowing with customers, so I need to be out there,” Gabriella argued. “And I know I’ve mentioned more than once that I don’t like when you call me mon cherie.”

  “It’s French. Everyone likes endearments in that language.”

  “No, they don’t, and besides, you’re not even French.”

  Disbelief settled in Monsieur Villard’s eyes. “How do you know I’m not French?”

  Gabriella rubbed the back of her neck as tension, mixed with a great deal of regret, swept through her. “Forgive me, Monsieur Villard. I’m currently in a dreadful temper, but that’s no excuse for being so undeniably rude to you. Feel free to address me as mon cherie whenever you please.”

  She leaned closer to him and lowered her voice. “As for the French business, I knew within a minute of meeting you years ago that you weren’t French, but I really must beg your pardon for blurting out your secret like that. It was not well done of me.”

  Instead of responding to that, Monsieur Villard took hold of her arm and hustled her over to her worktable. He waited until she sat down on a stool before he smiled and shook his head. “I accept your apology and should have known better than to press you because you were clearly in a temper. I must admit I’m curious about the temper, though. I realize our customers can be trying at times, but I saw you assisting Miss Maryanne Allen. She’s not usually overly demanding, nor does she seem to be a bad sort.”

  “Unless you consider that she’s perfectly willing to cozy up to a particular gentleman even though she’s got her sights on someone a little higher in the instep.”

  “I might need more of an explanation than that.”

  “You have a shop filled with customers. Explanations of any kind will need to wait.”

  Monsieur Villard inclined his head. “I suppose they must, but do not even consider trying to slip away until we discuss this matter in-depth after the shop closes for the day.”

  Gabriella frowned. “We’ve never actually had in-depth discussions about anything before. Light-hearted banter is what you and I enjoy.”

  “I believe it’s past time we change that” was all Monsieur Villard said before he sailed out the door again, leaving Gabriella with only her thoughts for company—ones that didn’t do anything to quell the temper and hurt that continued to swirl through her.

  CHAPTER

  Twelve

  “I wasn’t certain we were ever going to see the last of our customers,” Monsieur Villard said, pulling up a stool next to Gabriella as the other employees shrugged into their coats and headed home for the night.

  Gabriella rose from her stool, hung up the dress she’d finished hemming, then retook her seat, feeling somewhat better after being given distance from Nicholas, Maryanne, and all the rest of the society people who’d crowded into the shop that day. “It was a busy day, sure to be followed by another busy day tomorrow.”

  Monsieur Villard’s eyes gleamed. “I believe the shop is truly on its way now. Why, I might have to see if I can acquire the pottery shop next door because we may need to expand our floor space.”

  “Mrs. Swanson might have something to say about that because she seems to enjoy her pottery shop exactly where it is.”

  “True,” Monsieur Villard said. “But she recently mentioned that she’d enjoy spending more time with her grandchildren, so perhaps she might consider closing up shop, something I’ll broach with her later. For now, let us return to the in-depth conversation we agreed to have.”

  “I’m not really one who enjoys in-depth conversations. We’ve managed to muddle along together for years now without them.”

  “But perhaps we shouldn’t have been merely muddling along,” Monsieur Villard countered. “You’ve been aware of my greatest secret all this time without me knowing it, and I, well, I’ve been aware that there’s something responsible for your slightly standoffish air, something I fear might be causing you to avoid forming deep friendships.”

  “I’m perfectly comfortable maintaining light friendships.”

  “But you’re not enjoying friendships of the more meaningful type.”

  Gabriella arched a brow. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

  “Not a chance.”

  She blew out a breath. “Fine, but you need to go first. Tell me why you’re posing as a Frenchman when you’re nothing of the sort.”

  “What convinced you I’m not French?”

  “Your French accent leaves much to be desired, and you also use the same phrases, rarely varying your choice of words.”

  “I have a large French vocabulary at my disposal.”

  “One you apparently don’t make use of.”

  Monsieur Villard raked a hand through his hair. “Oh, very well. I might as well confess all, but I’ll expect
the same of you later. I’m not French, which means my name isn’t Monsieur Villard, although my last name, oddly enough, is Villard. But that’s only because when my grandfather arrived in this country, no one could read his handwriting, so Valdavina became Villard.”

  “You’re Russian?”

  “My grandfather was Russian, and my grandmother was Irish. They lived their entire lives in the Lower East Side, refusing to move even after Grandfather Valdavina acquired this shop when he set himself up as a tailor. My father was also a tailor and took over this shop when my grandfather died, and then I inherited it when my father died.”

  “Villard’s Dress Shop used to be a tailoring shop?”

  “It was. That only lasted for about a year after my father died because I grew bored with tailoring suit after suit.” He smiled. “I’ve always been drawn to dramatic designs and finally decided to change directions, abandoning the suits for ladies’ gowns. I’ve not had a single regret, because I find designing innovative gowns far more satisfying. Besides, my clients these days are pleasantly scented, compared to some of their male counterparts.”

  “But why the French accent, and where, pray tell, did you learn to speak such awful French?”

  “Evidently, the French lessons I paid for were not good. But you should know the answer to the reason behind the subterfuge without even asking. Society ladies travel in droves to Paris every spring to order extravagant and costly wardrobes. I wanted a piece of those sales.” He frowned. “Do you think anyone else has noticed my questionable French?”

  “Probably, but since society ladies are mostly concerned about appearances, and because they seem to collectively accept your story that you’re French, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to take additional French lessons, though,” Monsieur Villard conceded.

  “An excellent idea. But returning to your name, did you change your first name as well when you decided to adopt the title of Monsieur?”

  “No, it’s still Phillip. My mother has a tendency to forget I’ve assumed a new identity, so I decided it would be best to keep Phillip in case she slips. I do pronounce it differently these days: Phil-eep, as opposed to good, old Phil-lip. You’re more than welcome to address me by my given name, although probably only when we’re not working. I wouldn’t want the other workers to feel I favor you.”

  “You do favor me, although I’ve always wondered why.”

  “I would think that’s obvious,” Phillip began. “You don’t try to impress me, or anyone for that matter, and I’ve always found your candor refreshing. I’ve often wondered why you’re unafraid to speak your mind, since women are taught from an early age to be seen and not heard.”

  “I grew up on the streets of the Lower East Side. I missed out on those lessons of what’s expected of girls.”

  Phillip’s eyes widened. “You grew up on the streets?”

  “I did, and in some of the meanest surroundings imaginable.”

  He leaned forward. “You must tell me everything.”

  It took thirty minutes to explain to Phillip about her life with Rookwood and the street children she’d once considered family. Thirty minutes in which Phillip went from looking completely horrified, to looking conflicted, to taking her hand and squeezing it every other minute. When she finished, he gave her hand another squeeze.

  “But why, after you got arrested and sent to an orphanage, didn’t you try to escape and reunite with your street family?”

  Gabriella bit her lip. “That’s a question I’ve often asked myself. I suppose I didn’t try to escape because the orphanage wasn’t a horrible place to live. I’d never felt right stealing from people, even though the people Rookwood chose as targets were so wealthy that they were unlikely to miss what we took from them. At the orphanage, I didn’t have to steal to eat. They also provided me with a basic education and taught me how to sew. Frankly, I discovered a sense of security at the orphanage that I never felt while living on the streets.”

  “But what of your family—the Goodhues? Do you know what happened to them, or how you ended up on the streets in the first place?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have any memories of my family, since I was only about four or five when I went to live with Rookwood.” She frowned. “There are times, though, when I think I remember being held by a woman who always wore white and smelled like vanilla.”

  “Could that have been your mother?”

  “For some reason, I don’t think of her as a mother figure, but as a . . .”

  “As a what?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t have an explanation for who she might have been or why I don’t believe she was my mother.” She withdrew the pocket watch that Billie Werkcle had tried to take from her the previous week and opened it up, showing Phillip the small miniature painted inside. “I stole this from a gentleman in Central Park when I was seven or eight. I used to pretend that the painted lady was my mother, convincing myself I bore a resemblance to her.”

  Phillip took the watch, considered the painting, then lifted his head. “It’s too small to see any distinct resemblance, but whoever this woman is, she’s lovely.”

  Gabriella shut the pocket watch and returned it to her pocket. “I never understood why Humphrey Rookwood let me keep the watch. It would have fetched a nice price if he’d sold it, but he told me it was mine.”

  “You said you were his best thief, so perhaps he wanted to keep you happy.”

  “Perhaps, but it seemed out of character for him to let me keep such an expensive piece.”

  “Have you ever thought about seeking Rookwood out to ask him questions about your childhood, now that you’re an adult?”

  “Not until recently. As I mentioned, after my unexpected encounter with my old friend Nicholas, I discovered that the orphanage lied to Rookwood about sending me out West. It’s curious, given his reputation, that anyone would have given him faulty information, and it has me wondering about why he accepted that information so readily.” She caught Phillip’s eye. “I’ve been considering traveling to the Lower East Side on my next day off to see if I can locate Rookwood.”

  “It’s been years since you lived in the Lower East Side. Conditions there are worse now than ever before, which means you can’t go traipsing off on your own to that part of the city.”

  “I don’t know who I’d ask to go with me.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Phillip said without hesitation. “Or perhaps you could ask Nicholas to go. From what you told me about him, he grew up on the streets with you, so he would probably be comfortable accompanying you there.” Phillip smiled. “Plus, anytime you mentioned him in conversation, you got rather animated, which has me believing you wouldn’t be opposed to seeing this old friend of yours again.”

  “The only reason I get animated when I mention Nicholas is because I’m beyond furious with him. He was in the shop today and refused to acknowledge me.”

  Phillip blinked. “The only Nicholas I’m aware of who was in the shop today was Mr. Nicholas Quinn.”

  “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned any of that,” Gabriella muttered.

  “Do not think for a minute that I will repeat what we’ve been talking about to anyone,” Phillip said. “Everyone, myself included, has secrets. Nicholas Quinn evidently has secrets as well, but if I’m understanding correctly, he somehow managed to escape the mean streets of the Lower East Side and became a member of the New York Four Hundred. That’s an impressive feat, although if he refused to acknowledge you today, he’s not worth your temper, or any heartache you may be holding over his obvious slight. You’re a lady who any gentleman would be honored to acknowledge. Remember that.”

  Exchanging smiles with Phillip, Gabriella took a second to simply enjoy the silence that settled over her and her employer, a man who seemed genuinely interested in deepening the casual friendship they already shared.

  She’d been incredibly careful to maintain her distance from everyo
ne since the time she was twelve, but it was lovely being in the company of a friend. Now that she thought about it, it was lovely spending time with the ladies of the Holbrooke boardinghouse, something she’d not done before they’d decided to take it upon themselves to clear Jennette’s name.

  Her thoughts suddenly came to a rapid end when the back door to the shop burst open and a gentleman stumbled into the room, his top hat and spectacles askew. Skidding to a stop, the gentleman—who, upon closer inspection, turned out to be no gentleman at all—settled her attention on Gabriella.

  “Daphne?”

  “Oh, thank goodness you’re still here, Gabriella. I thought for certain, after Elsy and Ann lost complete control of the horses, which resulted in us taking a most unexpected jaunt down to the Battery, of all places, that you would have left by now since your shop officially closed some time ago.” She dashed a gloved hand over a perspiring brow. “Eunice sent me to pick you up after work. Unfortunately, due to our trip to the Battery, I won’t be able to deliver you as timely as Eunice probably wanted. But with that said, what say we get on the road?”

  “Why does Eunice want me back at the boardinghouse in a timely fashion?”

  “Because something extraordinary has happened—something that may very well change our lives forever.”

  CHAPTER

  Thirteen

  “Are they trying to hit every hole in the road?” Phillip asked as Gabriella placed a hand against the side of the swaying carriage wall and braced herself as the carriage trundled over another large hole, leaving her teeth rattling.

  “I don’t think Elsy and Ann have the skill to purposely do anything as pertains to their driving abilities, or lack thereof.”

  “Doesn’t Eunice Holbrooke have anyone else at her disposal who might be more capable driving her carriage?”

  “She does, but evidently Mr. Ivan Chernoff is occupied at the moment.” Gabriella’s lips twitched. “I imagine you’re questioning the soundness of your insistence on accompanying me back to the boardinghouse, given the reckless ride we’re taking to get there, and the fact that Daphne has yet to disclose anything more about that something extraordinary.”