The Lady and the Robber Baron

by Joyce Brandon

  Chane frowned, wondering where this was leading. The gold felt good in his hands, better than anything he’d ever felt. It seemed to have a life of its own. His arm was getting tired of holding the weight, but he couldn’t bring himself to put it down.

  “So,” his grandfather breathed, “you’re starting to get a little respect for it, aren’t you?”

  “I never had disrespect—”

  “Hogwash!” his grandfather rasped, interrupting. “You’ve never thought about it one way or another. So don’t lie to me. You’ve had everything in life you’ve ever wanted, and it’s made you lazy. You didn’t have to work like a dog to scrape together that first little pile of money the way I did.” He held up his hand to stop any further comment. “That whole stack is yours, if you give me your word.”

  “On what?” Chane asked.

  “That you’ll build that railroad and keep Laurey and Van Vleet from getting a dime of my money.”

  “Van Vleet?” Chane said weakly. “If you mean…” He groped for Jennifer’s father’s name.

  “The old man’s dead, but his daughter isn’t, is she?”

  “What has she to do with this?”

  “You know damned good and well her father killed your cousin.”

  “Annabelle starved to death…”

  “My ass! She died because that bastard seduced her and held her up to public ridicule!” his grandfather stormed.

  Chane could have argued that starvation is a willful act, but he remained silent rather than taking the chance of precipitating another stroke or a heart attack.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” his grandfather said, his tone hard and grating. “Van Vleet’s dead, and to some that would end it. But I don’t want any grandson of mine marrying anyone—and I mean anyone—with the name Van Vleet.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I pay to know the things that are important to me,” he said, cutting Chane off. “I may be numb in half of my body, but my brain still works. And I won’t have one dime of my money going to support a Van Vleet, especially one who flaunts her body in public for money.”

  Chane put the gold brick down and stood up. “No thanks.”

  “What the hell do you mean, no thanks?” his grandfather roared. “This is over a million dollars in gold! Do you think there’s a woman on this earth who’s worth that?”

  Chane didn’t want to upset his grandfather, but he had no choice. “I choose my friends,” he said carefully, quietly. “I’ll choose my wife. I’m not willing to sell you either one of those rights.”

  “You just met her! How the hell can you be so sure she’s wife material?”

  “I don’t know that she is, but I’m not willing to sell away my right to find out for myself.”

  “Damnation, boy! I’m trying to save you! The Van Vleets are nothing but trouble. They aren’t like us! They’re libertines! Do you want to be the laughingstock of New York? What the hell is the matter with you?”

  “She’s different.”

  “Do you really think there’s a million dollars’ worth of difference between any two women?”

  He’d never thought about it that way. “It’s the principle,” he said finally.

  “All right. I’m willing to gamble if you are. I’m willing to bet that if I give you the money, you’ll be too smart to marry her. I’m not opposed to your having an affair with her. Might even make me happy if everyone in New York knows about it.”

  “What if I marry her?”

  “I’d have you committed to an institution, if I could.” Number One stopped. Chane was his only hope of getting that railroad built, the only one he trusted to do it and do it right. And there was no need to antagonize the boy. He had his own way of seeing to it that things didn’t work out between them—Jason Fletcher, who was not above killing the Van Vleet whelp if it came down to it.

  “If you’re stupid enough to marry her, then I guess that’s your problem. Take the gold. Maybe having that much gold will make you grow up, where nothing else could.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch. Just build my railroad and save it from Laurey. It’s all yours.”

  “Even if I marry Jennifer Van Vleet?”

  That galled the elder Kincaid, but knowing he’d already made arrangements to keep it from happening, he swallowed his bile and nodded. “Even if you’re that stupid.”

  Jennifer didn’t see Chane all day. But at five o’clock she received a message that she had a telephone call from her attorney. Bellini excused them for the day, and she rushed to dress and make the call before her attorney left his office. He was probably calling to give her the date for the estate sale, the date when all their possessions would go on the auctioneer’s block.

  Her heart pounding sickly, Jennifer went through the confusing ritual of waiting for the operator, asking for the attorney, and waiting while the call was put through. At last she heard a male voice on the other end of the receiver and asked for Mr. Berringer.

  “Speaking.”

  “Mr. Berringer, it’s Jennifer Van Vleet.”

  “Oh, well, young lady,” he said, his voice changing to a tone that sounded very near a sneer. “I have some news for you about your parents’ estate.”

  Jennifer closed her eyes, praying it wasn’t going to be too soon.

  “Yes?”

  “You’ve heard it already, haven’t you?”

  “No, no. I meant that as a question.”

  “I’m sure you did.” Something in his tone chilled Jennifer’s blood. She had never particularly liked Berringer, nor he her, but usually he was more respectful. Perhaps as the estate diminished and she was being forced closer to penury, his true feelings were surfacing.

  It was not uncommon for people to snub her or look down on her, but usually they were consistent. Berringer seemed to have moved very quickly from treating her with bare civility to being openly disrespectful.

  “And what is your news?” she said grimly.

  “All of the debts owed by the estate were paid today.”

  “Paid? By whom?”

  “An anonymous donor.”

  “Anonymous? Does that mean you have no idea who?”

  “No, it does not mean that at all,” he said with obvious arrogance. “I didn’t say I didn’t know or that everyone else will not know.”

  “Well, if you know, please tell me at once.”

  “The contact person works for Chantry Kincaid the Third.”

  “Chantry Kincaid the Third,” Jennifer repeated, stunned. “Why would he do that?”

  “I was hoping you might tell me that.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You do know the man?”

  “Yes, but…I have no idea why he did it.”

  After a brief exchange in which she realized that Mr. Berringer didn’t believe her, she finally hung up the telephone. The desk clerk motioned toward her, and a bellman carried a note over. Reluctantly, she took the note and read it. It was from Sammy, her agent. It was odd to receive two telephone calls in one day. Weeks went by without her ever receiving one. Puzzled, she rang the operator again and waited. Finally, she heard Sammy’s voice on the other end.

  “Hello.”

  “Sammy, it’s Jennifer.”

  “Jennifer Van Vleet?” he asked loudly and jovially. “The toast of seven continents?”

  Jennifer realized that he must have good news for her. Perhaps he’d gotten word from the ballet company in London. They had been waiting for months to hear about the appointment that could make her career, the appointment of the new prima ballerina. “Did you hear from London?” she asked.

  “London? No, no. But you are one very lucky lady, my dear. We’ve just finished negotiating your new contract, and I can safely say that you are going to be the best-paid ballerina in New York.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you’re a star now, my dear, a big star.”

  “What do you mean?” she repea
ted. “How did this happen?”

  “I mean you’re now making almost ten times what you were making.”

  “Ten times!” Jennifer couldn’t believe it.

  “Well, aren’t you happy?” Sammy cried.

  “Where did this increase come from?” she asked suspiciously.

  “You know Peter sold your contract to the new owner of the Bellini Company. Steve Hammond negotiated this for the Bricewood. You lucked out, my dear. Hammond seemed to have no idea what pitiful salaries ballerinas receive.”

  “And who is this Hammond person?”

  “The acting representative for Chantry Kincaid the Third, naturally,” Sammy replied.

  “Naturally,” Jennifer said, boiling with anger.

  Kincaid! Jennifer put down the receiver and walked away. She had told him about her financial problems, and he had taken care of them. He probably thought she could be bought like the rest of his women. How dare he? Furious, she stalked to Kincaid’s office and jerked open the door. Startled, Steve Hammond looked up from the tablet he’d been scribbling on.

  “Where is Mr. Kincaid?”

  “He left with a couple of attorneys a few minutes ago.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “He’s got three meetings this evening. I’m not sure.”

  “Would you leave him a note and ask him to call me at home?”

  “Certainly.”

  At eight-thirty the doorbell rang. Jennifer heard it and wiped her eyes. Chane hadn’t called, and her fury had dissolved into tears of shame and frustration. The tears had relieved her anger and let her realize she shared in the blame. She shouldn’t have told him about her financial problems. He had undoubtedly assumed that since she’d told him, he was supposed to pay her debts and give her a huge raise. And the next logical progression was that he now owned her.

  Well, maybe he did. Her sense of fairness told her that if she’d brought it up, she’d been asking for whatever she got. He’d only done the expected thing. A woman tells you her financial problems, it is natural to assume that she’s naming her price. Why hadn’t she realized this last night?

  Downstairs, she heard Malcomb’s voice and then Kincaid’s. Trembling, Jennifer leaped off the bed and ran to her mirror. Her face was a mess. Her eyes were red and swollen, her skin blotchy.

  She heard footsteps coming up the stairs. She picked up a comb and made a pass at her hair. Malcomb coughed at the open door. “Mademoiselle.”

  “Yes, Malcomb?”

  “Mr. Kincaid is here to see you.”

  Her impulse was to tell him to tell Kincaid to go to hell, but she realized she had to see him one last time. “I’ll be down in a moment.”

  Jennifer willed her hands to stop shaking. She dabbed powder on her cheeks, but that only made her eyes look worse. Finally, she washed her face in the basin, dried it, and tossed down the towel. It didn’t matter if he knew she’d been crying. After tonight, she’d never see him again.

  Kincaid paced the entry hall. When she started down, he stopped and looked up at her, but she refused to glance in his direction until she was at the bottom of the stairs.

  He grinned as if his conscience were entirely clear. “Hello, princess.” When she didn’t respond, his face sobered. “What’s wrong?”

  “I take full responsibility for this latest debacle. However, it just proves to me—as if I needed any proof—that we are not in the least compatible.”

  A frown pulled his brows down. “What happened?”

  “You paid off my debts and gave me an enormous raise, didn’t you?”

  Chane was certain he had told Steve to maintain his anonymity. “What if I did?” he asked cautiously.

  “I can’t accept either.”

  “Why not?”

  Her pale face flushed with bright pink color. “Because I do have some morals. I’m not a strumpet who can be bought for a few dollars.” The frustration on her lovely face tugged at his heart, and he realized suddenly that he had misjudged her, and in so doing he had shamed her. That knowledge stung him deeply.

  “I didn’t mean…Oh, God, I never dreamed that you would be hurt by it. I just wanted to make things easier for you.”

  She recalled the tone of Berringer’s voice. Tears welled up and she began to cry. Chane stepped forward. She covered her face with shaking hands. “Here, let me,” he crooned, pulling her close to him.

  “No.” Jennifer stepped back. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Jennie—”

  “I mean it.”

  “Is there any way you can forgive me?”

  “No.”

  “I meant no insult.”

  Her lips trembled. “Do you have any idea how awful it is to be suddenly poor? To be held up to ridicule for the simple shame of having your parents die a terrible public death?”

  “I didn’t realize—”

  “Well, that is nothing compared to the shame of having a rich man pay your debts, and having your attorney sneer at you as if he knows exactly what you did to precipitate such a generous act of charity.” She wiped ineffectually at the tears that flooded her eyes. “I don’t blame you,” she said. “I shouldn’t have told you my problems. I didn’t think.”

  He realized suddenly how young she was, how sheltered she had been by her family and her work. The hot sting of shame washed through him, and he felt sick. She hadn’t been negotiating with him last night, she’d only been unburdening herself. “I deserve any castigation you want to heap on me,” he said quietly. “But don’t send me away.”

  “I have to. Don’t you see? We’ve done everything wrong. If I’m not burning down theaters, you’re turning over carriages. You’ve ruined my reputation, such as it was, and any association with me will ruin you. We are not meant for each other. We’re disastrous to each other. Don’t you see?”

  “No. I don’t see. I love you, Jennie. Let me take care of you.”

  “Don’t be nice to me,” she said, dabbing at her eyes.

  “Jennie, money means nothing to me. I just use it to solve problems—”

  “Stop it!”

  “I’m telling you the truth. I won’t even notice the money spent today on your behalf. Except that it pleases me to be able to relieve you of worries. Please let me do that. We can’t live our lives to please our enemies. What kind of life would be left for us under those conditions?”

  Confusion and misery fought for supremacy on her lovely face. “Please,” Chane repeated. “I love you. I want to marry you. I don’t care what anyone in the world thinks about either one of us.” He didn’t tell her he had turned down a million dollars when he thought it would stand between them.

  Slowly, he reached out and pulled her into his arms. She sobbed and collapsed against him, trembling violently. Chane was overwhelmed with love for her. She was so tender, so sweet and so unreasonable. In that moment, he would have died for her.

  “Marry me,” he whispered. “Let me take care of you.”

  She hiccuped, then laughed. “I’m such a mess.”

  “You’re a beautiful mess,” he said, kissing her eyes, her cheeks, and finally her mouth, which was cold and wet with tears. He kissed her until she warmed, sighed, and relaxed in his arms. Finally, he released her. “Where’s your coat?”

  “I can’t go anywhere.”

  “We won’t go out in public.”

  He took her to his apartment at the Bricewood. She knew he was going to make love to her, and even knowing it, she couldn’t stop herself from getting out of the carriage and walking to the elevator.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked as he closed the door behind her.

  “No.”

  Again a fire was burning in the fireplace. “Who keeps this fire burning?”

  “My housekeeper.”

  “Why don’t I ever see her?”

  Chane grinned. “She’s careful to stay out of sight when I entertain.”

  “Oh.”

  He led her to the fire, took her coat off, and snuggled
with her on the sofa. Resting in Chane’s arms, gazing into the fire, slowly getting warm, all worked to relax her. Jennifer closed her eyes for only a second, then opened them to see that Chane was asleep and the fire had burned down. The room felt cold. Shivering, she tried to stand up to put another log on the fire. “What?” he asked, pulling her back into his arms.

  “We must have fallen asleep,” she said, smoothing the hair off his forehead. He looked so sweet when he was sleeping. Peter must have been wrong about him. This man couldn’t have killed anyone.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  He stood and pulled her up into his arms. “I don’t think this relationship will survive one more bungle on my part. It’s time I put you to bed, before I freeze you to death.”

  He lifted her and carried her to his bed. He kissed her for a long time, then stood her carefully on the carpet while he turned down the covers. He unbuttoned her gown, took off her shoes, and then tucked her in.

  “Aren’t you going to sleep with me?”

  “No. I don’t think I can risk that again.”

  “What?”

  “Be so near you and not make love to you.”

  “Well, could you do it if you did make love to me?”

  Chane shook his head. “I’m not willing to bungle one more thing between us.”

  “Maybe we won’t bungle it.”

  “With my luck, I would.”

  He leaned down and kissed her forehead as if she were six years old, then turned and walked out of the room.

  Jennifer closed her eyes and tried to go back to sleep. The image of Chane sleeping, his handsome face so smooth and clean and innocent, tormented her. He had made love to many women in his life, and she had only made love to Frederick. Chane could be with someone who knew how to handle herself among men—like Latitia Laurey.

  With his looks, money, position, and personality, Chane could have any woman he wanted. Jennifer bet that he was the most eligible bachelor in New York, surely one of the most eligible. And she was treating him like dirt. He could have any woman he wanted, and for some reason he had chosen her. She should be honored, but she didn’t even know how to act with him.