by Jen Turano
He was a handsome man, large and incredibly broad through the shoulders, lending the immediate impression he was a man of action. He also sported a chin that spoke of a stubborn nature, something his daughter had apparently inherited from him.
Taking off his hat and handing it to the butler, Mr. Griswold ran a hand through hair a lighter shade of red than Permilia’s before he stepped farther into the hallway, clutching a leather traveling satchel in his other hand. That satchel was telling in that it indicated the man was evidently just now returning from a trip, that assumption proven a second later when the butler took the satchel from Mr. Griswold, inquiring how the business had gone.
“It was a productive trip, Mr. Dankin. Thank you for asking. And I suppose there’s no need for me to ask how matters were here at home while I was gone,” he said right as the shrieking escalated to what Asher thought was a concerning level, even though Mr. Griswold barely batted an eye over the ruckus being made in his home.
“Business as usual,” Mr. Dankin said before he moved to hand the satchel to a footman who’d appeared silently in the entranceway, or perhaps he hadn’t approached on truly silent feet, but had the sounds of his approach masked by the intensifying noise coming from somewhere in the house.
Shaking his head ever so slowly at that news, Mr. Griswold began unbuttoning his overcoat, pausing halfway through that task when he seemed to notice Asher standing in front of him.
“Ah, we have guests,” Mr. Griswold exclaimed, raising his voice to be heard over what sounded like an entire collection of dishes being thrown at a wall. “George Griswold. And you would be”—Mr. Griswold studied Asher for only the briefest of seconds—“Mr. Asher Rutherford, if I’m not mistaken.” With that, and not seeming to expect a response just yet, since the shrieking had escalated once again, Mr. Griswold finished unbuttoning his coat and shrugged out of it, handing it to the butler, who’d returned to his side.
Stepping forward, he extended his hand to Asher, pitching his voice to be heard over the continued noise. “I was hoping you’d see fit to pay me a call, which saves me the bother of hunting you down.”
Taken slightly aback over that less than encouraging greeting, Asher grasped the extended hand and gave it a shake, giving the door that the butler was now in the process of securely locking a bit of a longing look before he returned his attention to Mr. Griswold, who was watching him expectantly.
Clearing his throat, Asher released his hold on Mr. Griswold’s hand and tried his best to summon up a smile. “One might almost believe, given the use of the phrase ‘hunting you down,’ that you’re put out with me for some reason, sir.”
“That would be a reasonable assumption,” Mr. Griswold said right before another bout of shrieks began. “May I suggest we repair to my study in order to avoid whatever drama is currently transpiring in my house?”
“Don’t you think it might be prudent to discover what’s behind the drama before we repair to your study? It sounds as if someone’s in remarkable distress.”
“It’s just Lucy, and she’s dramatic at least twice a week.”
The matter-of-fact way in which Mr. Griswold tossed out those particular words had Asher setting aside any true concern he had about the drama unfolding out of his sight. Falling into step beside Permilia’s father, he soon found himself climbing up a curving set of stairs. Reaching the second level, he followed Mr. Griswold down a long hallway, stepping into what could only be described as a shabbily appointed but incredibly masculine study a moment later.
The walls were done up in a dark wood, while brown drapes were drawn firmly shut at the windows, not lending the room even the slightest touch of light from the evening sky—the light in the room dependent instead on the gas sconces on the walls. The furniture was heavy and dark as well, with the chairs upholstered in weathered leather.
A roaring fire was already blazing in the fireplace, as if the butler, Mr. Dankin, had been expecting Mr. Griswold. And a pile of newspapers—freshly pressed, from the looks of it—were stacked on the floor.
Gesturing Asher toward one of the leather chairs, Mr. Griswold proceeded across the room, stopping in front of a well-stocked cart filled with numerous crystal decanters. “May I interest you in a brandy?” he asked.
“That would be most kind.”
As Mr. Griswold poured the brandy, Asher settled into a worn chair that turned out to be remarkably comfortable. “May I assume you were responsible for the décor we’re now enjoying?”
Looking up, Mr. Griswold smiled. “Ida was put out with me for a solid month after I insisted on moving furnishings I’ve had forever into this fancy house we purchased after we got married, but . . . a man’s got to have somewhere to go that has his own mark on it.” He gestured around the room. “Because this room is not what anyone in the social set would find attractive, I’m normally left alone in here, unless Permilia’s home and decides to join me—which isn’t as often as I’d like.” He turned back to the brandy. “Ida and Lucy can’t abide the atmosphere in here, so this is where I spend a good deal of time when Lucy takes to being . . . theatrical.”
Asher shifted in the chair. “Forgive me for being forward, sir, since you and I have never spoken—although we have exchanged nods a few times at some of our mutual clubs—but has it ever occurred to you, if Lucy is prone to dramatics so frequently, that you might want to think about purchasing items that aren’t quite so easy to break? I would have to imagine her temper costs you more than a pretty penny at times.”
“I’ve stocked the library—that’s where I’m sure Lucy can be found at the moment—with inexpensive pieces of pottery and glassware, which has defrayed the expense of Lucy and her horrendous temper.”
“Have you ever thought about putting an end to her outbursts altogether, sir?”
Mr. Griswold walked across the room and handed Asher a glass of brandy. “I would be lying if I said I haven’t, but . . . being a stepfather is precarious business, Mr. Rutherford. It’s fraught with pretty tears from a stepdaughter and her mother, my wife, which has made my life less than peaceful over the past six years.”
He took the chair right next to Asher’s. “Permilia was never one to cry, you see, so after I married Ida and discovered both she and Lucy were prone to that troubling business, well, I’ve been quite like a fish out of water ever since.”
“I imagine Permilia was a very precocious child.”
All sense of affability disappeared in a flash as Mr. Griswold’s eyes hardened before he sat forward. “You seem to be on rather familiar terms with my daughter, Mr. Rutherford, which brings us back to the reason behind my mentioning that I would have been forced to hunt you down if you hadn’t shown up here in a timely manner.”
“I’m still not certain I understand why you would need to hunt me down, sir.”
“I don’t know a father alive who wouldn’t hunt down the scoundrel responsible for besmirching his daughter’s reputation.”
The small sip of brandy Asher had taken right before Mr. Griswold’s unexpected response went down the wrong way. The next minute, one of the longest in Asher’s life, or so it seemed, was spent gasping for breath while Mr. Griswold calmly regarded him with what might have been a small smile on his face.
Sucking in a breath of much-needed air, Asher set his brandy aside on a scarred oak table.
“I can assure you, Mr. Griswold, that I have done nothing to besmirch Permilia’s reputation. And forgive me, but if you truly understood your daughter, you’d know that she’d never allow a gentleman to even think about doing any besmirching without causing that man serious harm, or . . . shooting him.”
“So she’s still carrying her pistol, is she?”
Asher’s eyes widened. “I don’t know about that. I was simply trying to make a point, but . . . do you really suppose she carries a pistol with her at all times?”
“She used to, when we traveled the country, visiting the mines, but Ida might have made her give up that habit, once sh
e decided to take Permilia in hand and make a lady out of her.”
“I would think Permilia has always been a lady, sir. Perhaps a little rough around the edges, but a lady all the same. I also think that your daughter doesn’t appreciate Ida trying to take her in hand, or appreciate the idea that you’re apparently holding out hope that she’ll attract the attention of a gentleman who will be able to take over your mining ventures one day.”
Mr. Griswold blinked. “You obviously think far too much, Mr. Rutherford. Although I would like to know where you got the idea that Permilia believes I’m still holding out hope of her finding a suitable marriage prospect.”
“Permilia told me, of course.”
Leaning back into the leather chair, Mr. Griswold considered Asher over the rim of his glass. “Did she, now?”
“Indeed, at the Vanderbilt ball—and right around the time she’d begun to notice she was drawing unexpected attention from guests.”
“Gentlemen guests?”
Asher smiled. “One could hardly blame them for noticing Permilia that night, sir. She was looking very lovely indeed—although I don’t believe she understands her appeal.”
“And you find her appealing, do you?”
Seeing little point in denying what he’d come to accept as truth, Asher nodded. “She’s very appealing—when she’s not annoying me, that is.”
“It was implied in all the papers that the two of you spent an unacceptable amount of time together at the ball.”
“We danced one dance together, although we did speak with each other quite a few times.”
Mr. Griswold nodded to the pile of papers on the floor. “I don’t need to pull those out in order to refresh what I read from papers on the train, but according to three papers, you were seen arguing in the midst of dinner, the implication there being that you were experiencing a couple’s spat.”
“Our arguing had more to do with my not believing your daughter had overheard a murder plot with me as the intended victim rather than any romantic troubles between us.”
“Ah, so you do admit there is something of a romantic nature between the two of you.”
Asher’s brows drew together. “How did you get that from my disclosing a murder plot?”
Smiling, Mr. Griswold raised his glass. “There was something about your tone of voice when you said the word romantic, but since you have broached the subject of the murder plot, I imagine that explains why you have Pinkerton detectives following you.”
“You know I hired detectives?”
“That was mentioned to me by the Pinkerton detectives I hired to investigate you—although, you may rest assured that they didn’t disclose why you’d hired them, stating some nonsense about client confidentiality.”
Asher’s lips twitched when he noticed the clear disgruntlement on Mr. Griswold’s face. “May I assume you were most put out when you weren’t given the information you requested?”
“A bit, but don’t think for a second that I wasn’t given information about you that the Pinkerton Agency didn’t find to be confidential.”
Even though Asher had a fairly good idea what the Pinkerton Agency had disclosed about him, he asked anyway. “And what did you learn?”
Setting his glass aside, Mr. Griswold looked at him for a long moment. “You’re practically a self-made man, something I have no idea why you keep from becoming public. And you’re rumored to be an outstanding man of business, with innovative ideas that have taken your store to the head of the pack, so to speak.” He tilted his head. “You were able, at a relatively young age, to convince bankers to loan you the capital needed to build your store with only a small amount of collateral, which I believe you obtained from selling off family possessions. You were then able to fill that store with the finest goods, which makes me believe you’re not nearly the dandy you present to society, but more of a shark simply attired in fashionable clothing.”
Feeling surprisingly comfortable with the man sitting across from him, Asher smiled. “It’s always been about the image, Mr. Griswold, but I do thank you for the shark analogy. I was recently questioning the whole dandy business with a friend of mine, Mr. Harrison Sinclair. However, since he wasn’t exactly keen to help me achieve the whole looking-as-if-I-eat-nails-for-breakfast image, I think I’ll now hold fast to the shark image your words brought to mind.”
“Ah, you’re worried about impressing Permilia, aren’t you?”
Asher frowned. “I don’t recall mentioning a word about impressing Permilia just now.”
“You didn’t have to. When a man starts contemplating changing himself, or questioning how others perceive him, it’s always about a woman.”
“That’s almost exactly what my friend Mr. Harrison Sinclair said to me recently.”
“He must be a very astute man, this Mr. Sinclair. But a word of advice from a man who has seen much of life—you won’t find happiness by being anything other than who you’re really meant to be.”
“Which is why you should have considered the whole marrying-Ida business a little more diligently, Father, before you jumped into a world neither you nor I enjoy.”
Looking toward the door, Asher found Permilia standing there. She was looking incredibly delightful, even though she had what looked to be a widow’s hat complete with a pushed-up veil on her head. The only reason he could think she’d sport such a hat was because . . .
Rising to his feet right as Mr. Griswold did the same, he opened his mouth, but found himself pausing with his response when Permilia moved directly to her father. She immediately gave him a most affectionate kiss on his cheek, the action speaking volumes about her true relationship with the man, even if she’d just practically shouted to the world that she was annoyed with her father for the life he’d thrust them into.
Turning away from her father, she smiled at Asher right before she narrowed her eyes at him. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a self-made man?”
Asher blinked, moved right up next to her, took her hand, and brushed her fingertips with his lips. “How long have you been standing in the doorway?”
“I wasn’t standing in the doorway, I was lurking behind the scenes—something we wallflowers are known to do.”
Smiling, he squeezed her hand. “One would have thought, given what happened the last time you were lurking about—when you uncovered a murder plot—you’d be less keen to continue your lurking.”
“Old habits are hard to break,” she said, drawing back her hand before she gestured to the chairs. “But don’t mind me. I’ll be more than content to just sit aside and enjoy what seems to be quite the chat.” With that, Permilia turned around and plopped into the first available chair, wincing for just a second before she twisted to the right, stuck her hand in what turned out to be a pocket of her gown, and pulled out a pistol a mere second later.
“I thought something was jabbing me” was all she said as she laid the pistol on the table next to her, leaving little doubt that she still carried a weapon on her person more often than not.
Feeling distinctly outgunned because he had no doubt Mr. Griswold was not a man to ever be without his weapon, Asher cleared his throat, retook his seat, and vowed then and there that, in order to truly warrant the whole shark in dandy’s clothing title, he would get himself a flashy pistol and make sure he remembered to take it with him whenever he left his house.
“I was relieved to hear those men outside are from the Pinkerton Agency,” Permilia said, drawing his attention. “I’m also relieved that I didn’t shoot them when I thought they may be up to something dastardly.”
Asher frowned. “I’m sure they’ll be relieved as well that you’re no longer considering doing them in. But speaking of something dastardly . . . why are you wearing a hat with a veil attached to it? And don’t tell me it’s soon to be a new fashion, since I am remarkably up-to-date on what fashion trends we’ll soon see.”
“It’s too bad you can’t influence those trends more, though, Asher,” she r
eturned, completely ignoring his question. “I’ve been noticing that the fashion plates for next season are showing even larger bustled designs. And far be it from little old me, a woman, to point this out, but we don’t actually like wearing birdcages on our behinds. It’s rather uncomfortable, not to mention nearly impossible to sit down.”
“Perhaps if the Parisian designers would cease with their outlandish designs, we in the fashion industry over here in America wouldn’t be forced to torture women and stuff them into clothing that truly does need birdcage-sized bustles to allow it to hang properly.”
“Perhaps you should try to find American designers who have more sense than their Parisian counterparts, quite like the designer I used to create my snow-queen costume for the Vanderbilt ball.”
Finding himself, curiously enough, enjoying their argument immensely, Asher leaned forward and was just about to retort, but before he could get a single point past his lips, he realized that what she’d just suggested was an intriguing idea and demanded further contemplation.
Her costume at the Vanderbilt ball had been exquisitely designed and tailored to perfection. And now that he thought on it, Permilia was always incredibly well-dressed, although always in fashions that he knew she hadn’t purchased in any of the leading stores in New York, or spent much money on, given the frugal manner in which she seemed to enjoy living.
If he could secure the talents of the designer who’d created Permilia’s costume, he’d be uniquely positioned to offer true couture-like designs, quite like what all the ladies flocked to Paris to find every spring. That would set him apart in yet another way from the tried-and-true stores that lined Broadway, while—
The door to Mr. Griswold’s study suddenly flew open, banging against the wall a second later, the surprise of it having Asher jumping from his chair as Permilia did the same. Right after that, his mouth gaped open because Permilia, after she’d jumped from her chair, had snatched up her pistol and was already pointing it—with a steady hand, no less—directly at the person entering the room.