The Lady and the Robber Baron

by Joyce Brandon

  Jennifer walked down the dimly lit, narrow hallway, past the large, communal dressing room, which already smelled of sweat, greasepaint, sour socks, and hot glue from steamy ballet suppers. She must have taken longer than she’d thought, for even Pops, the stage door manager, had left. Perhaps Chane had gone, too. She didn’t see him at the back of the theater.

  Strangely disappointed, she hurried past the stage, down the steps, and through the darkened theater. But halfway up the aisle she sensed another presence and slowed her steps. She stopped and peered into the semidarkness.

  “Don’t be frightened. It’s only me.” She recognized Chane’s slightly accented voice.

  “May I?” he asked, stepping out of the shadows to push the door open. Deep within Jennifer’s chest something quivered. Her knees felt weak, as if she had practiced to the point of exhaustion. He must have sensed her weakness; his warm hand cupped her elbow.

  She walked beside Chane through the lobby to the outer door. Two bellmen swung it open. Jennifer breathed deep of the woodsy atrium and sighed, feeling the tiredness in her shoulders.

  “You dance beautifully,” Chane said, motioning for his carriage.

  Outside, the sun was setting. Cold wind whipped around the corner of the building and blew tendrils of Jennifer’s hair out of its bun. The morning’s snow had melted into mud, which was now being spattered by heavy traffic that rumbled past on Fifth Avenue.

  She captured the stray strands of her hair and looked up at Kincaid. His features—the most angular she’d ever seen—were not handsome by ordinary standards. His jaw was wide and square. A ruler placed along the sides of his face would square off perfectly until it reached the alignment of his mouth, where it angled inward toward his chin. The bottom of his chin was as flat and wide as his mouth. It pleased her that he looked so ruggedly masculine.

  Chane seemed quite comfortable with her steady perusal. His sea green eyes, heavily and darkly lashed, smiled into hers.

  “My buggy…” he said softly, motioning toward what she thought of as a doctor’s buggy—a two-seater with a black top cupped overhead—a Stanhope. Two thoughts skittered through her confused mind. She was glad to see it was not the carriage he’d nearly seduced her in, and she was glad because her father had occasionally driven a Stanhope. She’d loved riding beside him. She knew she should refuse to ride with Chane again, but he’d found another weakness of hers, and his warm hand was exerting a slight pressure on her elbow.

  “I—” Jennifer stopped. It seemed ridiculous to resist. Part of her had already surrendered. “My driver and carriage are waiting,” she said weakly.

  “Send them home,” he said, now clasping her elbow with a firm hand. Before she could protest, he guided her to the only other carriage and waited while she told Langdon she had a ride. Langdon peered suspiciously at Kincaid, who slipped him a five-dollar bill. Langdon beamed, flicked the reins, and headed toward home.

  Jennifer allowed Chane to help her up onto the high seat. The driver who’d been seated in the dickey behind the cab handed the reins over to Kincaid, scrambled down, and joined the bellmen greeting new arrivals.

  On the busy street, horses galloped, men yelled, and whips cracked, but no one slowed to let them squeeze in. Kincaid waited for an opportunity. In the southern sky the gibbous moon flowed pale and ghostly overhead. In the west, high clouds caught afire from the sun setting behind the rim of buildings.

  “We should have walked,” Jennifer said, impatient with the heavy traffic.

  “We’d never have made it across this street on foot.” He laughed softly. Then, seeing his opportunity, he shook the buggy whip lightly and deftly, flicked the reins, and crowded the buggy into the flow of traffic.

  His shoulder brushed hers, and he glanced down at her. “You’re beautiful, princess.”

  His low-pitched voice set something fluttering within her.

  In the near dusk, shadows darkened the hollows of his cheeks. His eyes seemed to burn into her skin, but she couldn’t look away. At last he turned his attention back to the traffic and the slow trot of his team. Wind rumpled his black hair. Locks had blown across his straight black eyebrows, and she wanted to reach up and lightly brush the hair back into place.

  Kincaid drove in silence, occasionally looking over at Jennifer, who felt no need to speak. He turned down a street she didn’t recognize, then another. Just as she was beginning to worry about going off with him alone, he stopped the buggy in front of a large circular glass building.

  “The German Winter Garden,” he said, wrapping the reins around the brake handle and jumping down. “Have you been inside?”

  “No.” She knew from theater gossip that the German Winter Garden was a fancy speakeasy to circumvent the Sunday blue laws. People formed private clubs where they could buy beer on Sunday. Since she didn’t drink, she’d never been there.

  “Good. Come. You’ll be glad you did.”

  The interior was a revelation. The entire ceiling of the enormous circular room was a domed skylight. The last rays of sunlight lit the uppermost dome, turning it golden. Halfway up the vast hall, tiers of balconies encircled the main floor. Men and women strolled arm in arm along the upper balconies or leaned on the white wrought-iron railings, watching the people below and across from them. A small orchestra on a raised dais played Strauss waltzes. In the center of the enormous room, couples at small round tables nibbled on cheese and radishes and drank beer. A few danced.

  “This dome,” he said, sweeping his arm upward, “was built about 1855. It’s one of the earliest ever built with cast-iron rib framing.”

  “Is that good?”

  “They used to think so. Until the Glass House burned to the ground, leaving only melted iron.”

  She had seen pictures of the Glass House in its prime, but she’d never been inside it.

  “You know a lot of odd facts,” she said.

  “I’m an architect. I’m supposed to know odd facts about buildings. Would you like something to eat or drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Chane guided Jennie into a cluster of deserted tables sheltered by ficus plants in waist-high wooden tubs, pulled her close, and gazed deeply into her eyes.

  “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” Chane said, his voice husky with desire. “Your eyes command attention. The beautiful curve of your chin, your hairline, the arch of your slim neck…architecturally, you are as perfect a woman as I’ve ever seen.”

  Jennifer wanted to say something, but her mind wasn’t working.

  As he brushed her cheek with his warm fingers, her heart fluttered. Lowering his head, bringing his lips within an inch of her mouth, he whispered, “You can always stop me.”

  Jennifer knew she should stop him, but her chin seemed to lift on its own, and her lips parted slightly. His kiss was chaste, merely a warm touching of smooth lips.

  Then he sighed and stepped back, tugging at his cravat, his expression one of ecstasy and torment. A shadow of beard stubble darkened his angular jaws. In the fading light from the glass dome, his eyes narrowed as if he were trying to solve a weighty problem. At last he said, “It’s going to be difficult.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, not sure what either of them were talking about. All she knew was that a force was gathering inside her, and she wasn’t certain she could stop it—or that she wanted to.

  “This is going to upset a lot of people,” he said, searching her eyes.

  “You have no idea how many,” Jennifer breathed.

  As they emerged from their hideaway, Chane’s attention was caught by hands waving at him from a nearby table.

  “Yoo-hoo! Chane! Over here.”

  “Chane, who’s that waving at you?” Jennifer asked.

  “Oh, my God, it’s Nathan and Edmée. No quick getaway for us now.” Chane sighed. “Come on, you can’t help but like them,” he said, taking her elbow and guiding her over to their table.

  Edmée Brantley looked like a lovely, haut mond
e Gypsy with slanted green eyes, a fine bone structure, and a willowy body that was more elegant than voluptuous. Nathan was as blond as Chane was dark. He had sandy hair, tawny eyebrows, bushy blond wisps of muttonchop sideburns, and soft, gold-sheened, light-brown eyes. Every inch a king, Jennifer thought as Nathan smiled into her eyes.

  Chane and Nathan shook hands warmly. Chane handled the introductions with easy grace, fairly beaming at his friends, leaving no doubt that he was truly glad to see both of them. His happiness produced an answering warmth in Jennifer. Edmée went up on tiptoe, kissed Chane’s cheek, and smiled warmly at Jennifer.

  “You are such a vision, love! It’s no wonder our friend is smiling again,” Edmée said, lifting an elegant eyebrow and giving Chane an arch smile.

  “You lovebirds look like you’re on your way out,” Nathan said. “We won’t keep you.”

  “Not this time,” Edmée said, “but you must promise to dine with us soon. Why not make it a whole evening and go on to the opera?”

  “It’s a date,” Chane said, giving Jennie a quick look, and smiling as she nodded her agreement.

  After a round of good-bye kisses, Chane led Jennifer out the door to the buggy, still parked at the curb where they’d left it. He lifted her up onto the seat and walked quickly around to climb up beside her.

  He flicked the reins, and the horse stepped forward.

  Entranced, Jennifer rode in silence for a time. Stars blinked in the navy-blue sky. Kincaid put his arm around her. “Are you cold?”

  “No.” The air felt cold against her skin, but she was impervious to it. She closed her eyes. His arm felt warm and protective around her shoulders. She was enjoying the ride through the gathering dusk, pressed against his warmth.

  “How long have you known the Brantleys?” she asked, breaking the silence at last.

  “Nathan’s father owned the house next to our house in London. Edmée was the cousin of a woman in Paris I used to…know.”

  Chane’s voice had gotten huskier and more gruff at the end of that sentence. Jennifer looked at him sharply. A woman he had loved, no doubt.

  “What was her name?” she asked.

  “Colette.” The huskiness came again. Chane cleared his throat.

  “When did you last see her?”

  “Not for years.”

  “How many years?”

  Chane laughed. “What is this? The Inquisition?”

  “No. I’m just curious. How many years?”

  “I don’t know. Ten or so.”

  “You must have been a baby.”

  “I was twenty-three.” He frowned. “Six years ago.”

  “So what happened six years ago?”

  “What makes you think something happened?”

  “Because you’re not with her. If something hadn’t happened, you’d probably be married to her.”

  Chane laughed. “That’s quite an imagination you have there, Miss Prosecutor.”

  “I’m a Van Vleet, remember? The women in our family understand liaisons. Why didn’t you marry her?”

  Chane shrugged, suddenly defensive. His scowl matched Peter’s for signaling manly displeasure. He stared off into the distance, as though he were reliving something. His voice seemed to come from very far away. “Because there are some things I don’t forgive.”

  “Chris Chambard, a friend—actually more like an uncle—has often said to me that it doesn’t pay to have too many things one absolutely will not forgive. It’s bad for the digestion.”

  “Your ‘uncle’ is right. But, unfortunately, there’s one thing I don’t seem to have any choice about.”

  “Well, since I’ve risked my fragile reputation to go out with you, I think you owe it to me to say what that is.”

  “Fidelity,” he said gruffly.

  Chane drove through a series of backstreets until he reached the river. Then he stopped the buggy, tied the reins around the brake handle, put his arm around her, and relaxed. The smell of the dank, fishy, river mud in her nostrils, the feel of him against her side, the sight of the gibbous moon silvering a wide band of the river’s rippled surface, all combined to overwhelm her senses. For a moment they sat in silence, just listening to the sounds of distant traffic, the low, mourning whistle of a river barge floating past, and a few birds that hadn’t yet settled down for the night.

  Chane turned Jennie’s face so she had to look at him. She shook her head and looked away so he couldn’t kiss her. But she knew she wasn’t strong enough tonight to save herself. Within seconds she felt his warm lips nibbling at her neck, then her cheek, then her chin. She resisted as long as she could, then finally, with a sigh, she gave in to his warm insistence and raised her lips for his kiss.

  He groaned deep in his throat and kissed her as if there was no way he could stop. Heat flushed from some dark center into all her limbs. Breathless, she ended the kiss and hid her face against his chest.

  “What a treacherous little trifle you are, smelling of carnations and looking like an angel,” he said, his voice thick with passion and pleasure. “I want you, Jennie. I want you so much it scares hell out of me.”

  She shivered and hugged herself for warmth. “You’ll be sorry. We’ll both be sorry when it’s over, Chane.”

  “It will never be over. Marry me, Jennie.”

  “No…Please don’t do this,” she cried, moving as far away from him as she could manage.

  “Why not? I’ve never felt like this before. I love you.”

  “You don’t even know me.”

  “I don’t have to know you. I feel you—in every cell of my body.”

  She knew he wanted to make love to her, but he didn’t. He wrapped the carriage blanket around her and held her close. She reveled in the chill of the night air, the beauty of the moon-silvered river, the warmth of his arms around her. She felt alive and well and happy, but she feared it would all end badly. She wanted to ask him if he had been responsible for her parents’ death, but she couldn’t think of any way to open the subject. Just the thought of it made her shiver.

  “You’re cold,” he said. “Time to go. But I don’t want to take you home. Stay with me tonight.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just can’t.”

  “Are you afraid for your reputation?”

  Jennifer laughed. “It is assumed that ballerinas are loose women with absolutely no morals. And coming from the family I did, how can you even ask that?”

  “You are not your family. I’m not my family. I’m an individual. If you don’t label me because of my grandfather, why should I label you because of your parents?”

  Jennifer sighed. Chane was too reasonable. Everything he said made such good sense. “But other people think we are our parents.”

  “To hell with other people. Marry me. We’ll make a new family with new rules.”

  “I can’t marry. I’m already wedded to the dance.”

  “Don’t be silly. Dancers marry all the time.”

  “Then they become mothers and leave dancing. I couldn’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Well, if you aren’t the marrying type, then spend the night with me. You have to be one or the other.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You respond to my kisses. You want me the same way I want you. Can you deny that?”

  Jennifer shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t have to be loose or married. There are other choices.”

  “Celibacy? What kind of choice is that?”

  Jennifer lifted her chin and stared out at the river. At the moment it seemed an unacceptable one, but she would never admit that to him.

  “Look, maybe you don’t love me at the moment, but can we assume that you at least like me?”

  Jennifer shrugged.

  “Great. Can we assume that you don’t despise me?”

  Jennifer shrugged. She wasn’t ready to give in to the man who might have mur
dered her parents. Compelling as he was, she couldn’t shake Peter’s and her suspicions.

  Chane frowned and fell silent. His feelings were hurt, but he didn’t want to show it. He wasn’t accustomed to being rejected by women. The combination of his family name, his outgoing personality, his appearance, and his money, had always worked before. He had far more women interested in him than he could ever find the time to court, even if he were so inclined.

  But Jennifer Van Vleet, who was broke, with no good reputation, and without the benefit of family connection, would not give him the time of day, even though she responded quite passionately to his kisses.

  Jennifer saw the look on his face and let out a small, stifled cry. “Oh, Chane. I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

  Chane started to lie and deny it, but the sudden softness in her eyes made him shrug and look away. He was not above using any advantage, however pitiful, if it helped him to win her. Damn her! he thought to himself. Damn those lips, those eyes, that angelic face.

  Jennifer felt awful. It had never occurred to her that she might hurt his feelings. She had been proceeding as if he had none, as if all the terrible things Peter had told her about him were indisputably true. Of course, they could still be. His having feelings did not negate other rotten tendencies, but at least now he seemed human to her. With the proof of his vulnerability still pinching Chane’s strong, handsome features, Jennifer writhed with self-reproach.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

  “I don’t need your pity,” he said stiffly.

  A spear of heat shot through her loins. She lifted his arm and slipped under it to press herself against his warm side. “I might need something, though.”

  Kincaid looked down at her. “What?”

  “A…kiss?”

  “I don’t need your charity, either.”

  “Fine. Then take me home.”

  Chane heard the stiffness in her tone and realized that now he had hurt her feelings. Cursing himself for a fool, he lifted his arm from around her shoulders, grabbed the reins and tugged on them, to turn the horses. At one level, he realized they didn’t have room to maneuver, but he didn’t care. The horses stamped their reluctance to be forced into unexplored territory on a dark night, but he urged them forward.