Deception by Gaslight

by Kate Belli

  The woman glared back at him, pulling toward the street. “Let me go,” she hissed. “Or I’ll hit you again.”

  Daniel stared at her incredulously. She apparently hadn’t been scared enough. “I’ve seen grown men killed for less than the stunts you were pulling there,” he yelled, resisting the urge to give her a little shake. Christ, the woman had just barely escaped two of the most notorious criminals in the Bend and was sharing Bottle Alley with a corpse. Most women he knew would have fainted by now.

  “Just let me go and let me leave,” she said, suddenly looking tired. “I assume you wouldn’t have saved me from them if you wanted to harm me yourself, so please let me go.” She tugged at her arm again, trying to release herself from his grasp.

  “I’ll let you go after I’ve put you in a cab,” he responded, leading the woman toward the open end of the alley. He glanced at her again as they walked and shook his head, wondering at her foolishness. “You nearly got yourself killed tonight, and I wanna make sure you get out of here before you finish the job.”

  The woman pursed her lips but said nothing. They reached the alley’s end. It was almost full night, and the gas lamps illuminated the area’s run-down buildings with a soft light. Daniel scanned the street for an oncoming carriage.

  “Who is he, or was he?” she asked quietly as she looked back over her shoulder.

  He felt a slight tremor pass through her arm. He knew exactly who she meant, but he had no intention of answering. The sooner she forgot what she’d seen, the better. He tightened his grip on her arm and kept scanning the street for a carriage.

  “What about Robin Hood? Do you know anything about him?” she probed again, her voice soft in the night. “I heard you talking about him with those men.”

  Daniel’s irritation rose. “See, miss, these are exactly the kind of questions that could get you killed.” He fixed her with his piercing stare. “People round here don’t like talking to strangers. I need you to promise me I won’t see you in this part of town no more.”

  She gazed at him levelly. “I want this story. I could do it justice, do it right. I know what I did tonight was rash, and really, thank you for helping me. But I have to pursue this, especially after tonight. It’s the best story in the city right now.” Her look changed to one of pleading. “Please, if you know anything, talk to me.”

  He shook his head at her. “Drop it, miss. None of you reporters is gonna find out anything about the Hood unless he wants to be found. Now promise me.”

  “I don’t have to promise you anything,” she replied angrily, looking down the street for a cab now herself. She tugged at her arm again and glared up at him. “Why can’t you let me go?” She scowled, pulling harder.

  At the sound of an oncoming carriage, both Daniel and the woman turned toward the noise. Quickly noting that it was someone’s private conveyance and not a cab, Daniel turned back, only to find his face inches from the pretty reporter’s.

  She was tall enough that he wouldn’t have to stoop to kiss her full, lovely mouth. Were he inclined to kiss her.

  She blinked in surprise, breaking the fragile spell.

  Daniel turned away to cover his unease and used two fingers of his free hand to sound a low, long whistle. Within a moment a cab clambered into view.

  He paid the driver as the reporter stepped into the carriage with a surprising amount of dignity for someone so covered in muck.

  “Where’s she going?” the driver asked.

  “I don’t know,” Daniel muttered. He didn’t like this unhinged feeling he was having; he just wanted this troublesome female out of his sight. Reporters always brought rotten luck, and this one was no different. “Take her home, wherever that is.” He peered into the cab’s window at the girl, who stared stonily ahead. “He’ll take you home, miss. Now please, do us both a favor and stay away from this part of town.”

  She favored him with an icy glare. “Not to worry, sir. I sincerely doubt we shall ever meet again.” She rapped the roof of the cab sharply. “Washington Square, driver.”

  With a small lurch, the carriage pulled away. Daniel watched it go, absent-mindedly rubbing his jaw where he’d been hit. Whoever she was, that odd and pretty woman packed quite a punch.

  “Washington Square,” he said softly. Well, that address could mean any number of things; all kinds of people lived on the Square now. The girl was probably right about one thing, though. It was doubtful they’d ever cross paths again.

  Still, he’d gotten damn lucky tonight. Had she known who he was, he’d probably have had to board the next steamer back to London. While he could cross the Atlantic in relative comfort, he’d just returned to his hometown a few months ago and would prefer to wait another year or so before heading abroad again. He had things to take care of here in New York.

  Starting with what, or who, was waiting for him in the alley.

  CHAPTER 2

  The appearance of the blonde reporter in one of the city’s most exclusive ballrooms the next evening was so unexpectedly jarring, Daniel choked on the sip of excellent champagne he’d just taken.

  He managed to force down the swallow, but only barely, and his throat and lungs protested with a violent coughing fit—a condition not helped by repeated back thumping from his well-meaning friend Rupert.

  “Egads, man, this champagne is meant to be sipped, not gulped. I thought you were among the few Americans who knew that kind of thing,” Rupert drawled while continuing to pound.

  Daniel shrugged his friend off his back with an irritated twitch of the shoulders, his breath easing slightly. Rupert raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, then, expire right here in the middle of Andrew and Sarah Huffington’s ball. Everyone has seen that I have tried to help you and was rudely rebuffed. You will have no one to blame for your senseless death but yourself.”

  Daniel ignored his friend’s typically ridiculous antics. His eyes had not once left the rose-silk-clad figure across the room.

  The reporter. She’s here.

  What had she called herself? Polly Palmer? Surely a pseudonym. And what was she doing in the Huffingtons’ ballroom?

  “Are you quite recovered?” Rupert regarded him with his typical bland facade, but Daniel discerned actual concern in his friend’s eyes. The jolt of seeing the reporter must be showing on his face. He quickly rearranged his features into what he hoped read as impassivity and straightened up.

  “Fine now, thank you.”

  “Good, because my probable future mother-in-law is heading this way. Don’t make me talk to her alone.”

  Mrs. Elmira Bradley, mother to Esmerelda Bradley, Rupert’s almost-affianced, was indeed heading straight for them, in a gown so vividly purple it was almost eye-watering. Daniel rearranged his features yet again, this time into a polite smile aimed at Mrs. Bradley, though over her approaching shoulder he kept his attention on the woman in rose. The reporter was talking to some other young ladies, one of whom he vaguely recalled meeting at some function or other over the years. He searched his memory, hoping it would jar a connection, but came up short.

  She didn’t appear to have seen him yet.

  “My dear Mr. McCaffrey, are you quite all right?” Mrs. Bradley had reached them and was fluttering around Daniel like a small, pesky bird.

  “He is fine, Mrs. Bradley, absolutely fine,” declared Rupert, as he plucked another glass of champagne from a nearby tray. The glass was pressed into Daniel’s hand, and he grasped it automatically. “Simply drank this wonderful vintage too quickly, and is now in need of more.”

  Daniel took a dutiful sip, the bubbles unpleasantly tickling his irritated throat. A crowd of people had gathered in a small knot near the refreshment table, partially obscuring his view of the reporter. He shifted his body slightly to the left, pretending to nod to an acquaintance across the room, and got her back in his sights.

  Mrs. Bradley beamed. “Ooh, you do like it, then? The sommelier is coming to work for us, you know. We had a devil of a time luring
him away from ol’ Huffington, but apparently he’s the best, and I wanted the best. And you know I get what I want.” She gestured with a lavender fan toward Rupert’s chest to emphasize her point, before unfurling it and fanning herself. The numerous diamonds decorating her purple satin–gloved fingers winked furiously in the dim gaslight provided by lamps festooning the ballroom’s walls, which had been hung with gold silk for the occasion.

  Daniel resisted the urge to snort. Get what she wanted, indeed. Elmira Bradley, like many of the newly moneyed of New York, held a particular fondness for the British titled class, craving the perceived old-world glamour and entitlement that accompanied such aristocracy. She had been pushing for a match between Rupert, the sixth earl of Umberland, and her heiress daughter for months. The fact that Rupert’s family had barely two pounds to rub together seemed not to matter a whit.

  The cluster around the refreshment table loosened. He had a direct view of the reporter now, and if she looked his way, she would have an equally direct view of him. Her companions appeared engaged in animated conversation, but she seemed listless, barely contributing to whatever they were saying.

  She was more attractive than he recalled. Her honey-colored hair was piled off her face, and her simple, dusky-pink gown draped over her perfectly.

  Attractive, despite her obvious tiredness.

  Should he leave? Daniel toyed with the idea, imagining himself making polite excuses to Rupert, who would be surprised and irritated and would later accuse him of reneging on his promise to attend the ball. His hostess Sarah Huffington would be gracious but disappointed. He didn’t go out in society much; he knew his presence was a bit of a coup for her.

  But he did want to go out sometimes. He would be in New York for several months and had no desire play the hermit during his stay. If this girl was part of the Astor 400—and she must be to have been invited—surely their paths would cross again sooner or later.

  Mrs. Bradley beckoned to someone to her left, and a painfully thin, pallid girl with pale-blonde hair emerged from behind a potted palm. “And here is Miss Bradley!” she exclaimed, nudging the girl in Rupert’s direction. “Though I think it might be appropriate for you to start calling her Esmie,” she added with a wink.

  The reporter had accepted a glass of her own champagne but wasn’t drinking it. Daniel took a sip of his, this one going down easier, listening to the exchange between Mrs. Bradley and Rupert with half an ear.

  Esmie offered Rupert a nervous flash of a smile, which quickly faded as she regarded him in what appeared to be utter terror, despite the fact that the couple had been courting—or going through the motions of courting—for some time. Mrs. Bradley nudged her daughter again, less gently this time. “Esmie, talk to his Lordship,” she hissed in a loud whisper.

  Who was the reporter, really? Daniel had assumed she was some scrappy transplant from another part of the country, perhaps boarding in the newly flourishing bohemian section on Washington Square’s south side. She looked at her champagne as if surprised to find it there, and raised it toward her lips, but lowered it again.

  Esmie opened her mouth, only to have her mother interject before she could speak. “Not about that horrid book you’re reading.” Esmie’s mouth snapped shut, and she flushed a deep, unflattering red, fixing a stony stare to the right of Rupert’s head.

  “I quite like books,” Rupert attempted helpfully, only to be cut off by Mrs. Bradley.

  “You wouldn’t like this one, your Lordship; it’s about some horrible man who changes from good to evil in the blink of an eye. Not that my Esmie is some bluestocking, mind,” she hastily added, apparently fearful of giving Rupert the wrong impression. Esmie closed her eyes briefly in what appeared to be abject humiliation.

  Stay. A forceful thought, that. Surprising. He turned it over in his mind a few times.

  Fine, he would stay. Let himself be seen.

  Smiling gently at Esmie, who still looked pained, Rupert softly stated, “Mrs. Bradley, this marvelous band has just begun a waltz, and my evening simply would not be complete if I were denied the opportunity to dance with lovely Esmerelda. May I?”

  Esmie shyly took his hand, and Rupert led her toward the dance floor. Daniel idly followed their progress before shifting his focus back to the reporter.

  What would she do if she saw him? Would she scream? Faint? Alert the authorities?

  “O-of course,” Mrs. Bradley stuttered after the couple, who were already on their way. Her chest puffed slightly in triumph as she watched the Earl of Umberland turn her spindly, pale daughter around the room. Looking around in glee, she spied a group of her cronies nearby and swept toward them without a word to Daniel.

  He would deny everything, of course. A case of mistaken identity. While he hated to capitalize on the notion of womanly hysteria—the women he’d grown up with were tough as nails; by Daniel’s reckoning they were by far the stronger sex—the popular belief could prove useful.

  If she became hysterical.

  The reporter’s companions turned their attention to the dance floor. Daniel followed their gaze and was dubiously rewarded by the always terrifically odd sight of Rupert Milton and Esmerelda Bradley dancing. Someone had not dressed Esmie kindly. Her thin frame was nearly drowning in a voluminous gown adorned with an alarming amount of puffs, bows, and ribbons, and the gown’s bright-pink color was extremely unflattering to Esmie’s already pinkish complexion. In marked contrast, Rupert looked elegant and refined in his expertly tailored black evening clothes, his dark-blond hair swept back. He gracefully swooped Esmie around the dance floor, expertly navigating her frequent missteps and near falls.

  Daniel’s chest tightened slightly. It was a painful sight. His friend desperately needed a wife, a very rich one. Esmie’s family craved a title and the respectability they believed it would bring. Rupert had already confided to Daniel that he would likely hold his nose and go through with the match.

  But, Daniel mused, what of affection, attraction, or—hell, what of love? A quick, unwelcome vision flashed in Daniel’s head: his mother sitting on his father’s lap, throwing her pretty head back and laughing at some jest he’d made. God, they had been so very poor, destitute really, but he’d never seen two people love each other with such fierce devotion.

  Daniel forced the memory of his happy parents, now long dead, out of his mind. Putting his glass on a nearby table, he turned away from the spectacle of Rupert and Esmie, his gaze immediately returning to the spot where the mysterious woman from the alley had been standing.

  She was not watching the dancing but gazing toward a pair of French doors leading to a balcony, open in case any guests cared to brave the chilly temperatures for a breath of fresh air. At some point she’d relinquished her glass, and her gloved fingers twisted idly in front of her waist.

  Daniel’s thoughts, as they had so often over the past twenty-four hours, returned to their encounter in Bottle Alley. The girl did have backbone. Even if it had been remarkably poor judgment, he knew of no other woman—and very few men, for that matter—who would have been brave enough to enter that alley in pursuit of a story. Nor did he know of too many women with such a powerful left hook.

  What if she didn’t become hysterical?

  Almost as if she’d read his thoughts, the blonde sharply turned her attention from the open doors and in his direction. Her gaze swept past the refreshment table, past the dancers, and past him, then snapped back, fixing on his face with shocked, unmistakable recognition.

  Here we go, then.

  * * *

  Genevieve had never fainted in her life, but as the edges of her vision blurred and the constant, abrasive chatter of the ballroom became muffled and distant, as if she were hearing the sounds of the party from deep beneath the calm waters of a still lake, she realized she was on the verge of experiencing the phenomenon.

  The world wavered as her knees began to buckle, and she instinctively grabbed on to the nearest solid object to steady herself, which luckily w
as Callie’s shoulder.

  “Genevieve! Are you quite all right?” Eliza had a sudden strong arm around her waist.

  As quickly as it had come, the sensation vanished. Colors snapped back to vivid sharpness, and the sounds of high laughter, raised voices, and music reassaulted her hearing. She nodded in the direction of Eliza’s concerned face, but her focus was centered across the room on the tall, dark-haired man with the profile that could have been sculpted from stone.

  Mr. Pineapple Waistcoat was here. Here.

  And he was staring straight at her.

  “This is my fault,” Callie fussed, waving her green fan at Genevieve’s face. “I absolutely hounded you to come, though I knew it would be the worst sort of crush.”

  “Callie, stop that,” Eliza commanded, swatting the fan away. “Genevieve, what is wrong?”

  “I became a little dizzy for a moment. It’s so loud in here, isn’t it?” she replied faintly. Mr. Pineapple Waistcoat was speaking with someone she didn’t recognize now, but his glance surreptitiously flicked in her direction every few seconds.

  “About as loud as usual, I suppose.” Callie looked around doubtfully. “Let’s go outside, get a breath of air.”

  “No,” Genevieve said, more forcibly than she intended. There was no way she was letting that man out of her sight. Callie and Eliza both blinked at her. “I’m fine, honestly.”

  She wasn’t fine, though, and hadn’t been all night. The crowd of pressing bodies combined with the competing scents of over a hundred different perfumes had been making her feel light-headed for hours. And Callie had hounded her to come, when she hadn’t wanted to, but she had agreed that morning, hoping the party might distract her from memories of her encounter in the alley. But it was no use; while her eyes had been automatically noticing and cataloging the clashing colors of ladies’ gowns, the brief flash of an acquaintance’s face emerging from and then being swallowed by the crowd, the open mouths of a group of gentlemen laughing nearby, her brain had been constantly replaying the moment when the pile of rags in the alley suddenly merged into the recognizable shape of a dead human.