Deception by Gaslight

by Kate Belli

  The latest letter, published just yesterday, had been far more personal in nature. Robin Hood tore Sarah Huffington to shreds, recounting feuds she had begun, others’ reputations she had maligned, and accused her of marital indiscretion with one of her husband’s business partners, financier Ernest Clark (not named in full, of course, but anyone who was anyone knew what “E.C.” meant). While Genevieve didn’t particularly care for Sarah Huffington, née Alston, who had been two years below her at school and a horrid girl even then, it was still unsettling to see the details of her life spilled all over the newspaper in such a way. Also, she couldn’t fathom Sarah, who regularly looked down her long nose at young (though very wealthy) social climbers like Ernest Clark, engaging in a dalliance with such a man.

  Genevieve paused for a moment and looked around for the waiter, but he was busy at another table. Keeping half an eye on the window, she turned her attention back to her notes. Having glimpsed the original two letters before they were turned over to the police permanently for evidence, she knew they were composed in an educated hand, and the language and word choice also indicated someone with proper schooling.

  These were the knowns. The unknowns were tangled, complicated questions. What did it all add up to? Some of the thief’s complaints were political, some highly personal. The only connections between the victims seemed to be their social status and the fact that it was jewelry that had been taken.

  And what of Daniel McCaffrey?

  She didn’t know how, or if, he was related to the thefts. Only that she’d heard him and his companions talking about Robin Hood, that the thefts had started a few weeks after he arrived in town, that he’d been present at both social events apparently related to the thefts, and that he seemed to have a disturbing familiarity with both unsavory parts of town and dead bodies.

  Genevieve turned her full attention toward the window and shifted in her seat again, wondering if she could make Daniel appear by the sheer force of her will.

  The waiter appeared at her table instead, but rather than requesting more chowder, Genevieve asked for the bill. Either Daniel would be staying at the brothel all night, or he’d already exited through the back door into an alley. Regardless, it was time to go home; after all, she could hardly stay out all night.

  She rooted through her reticule for the proper change. It actually had been rather fascinating to observe the various men enter and exit the establishment. Most were well dressed, some even obviously upper class; she’d half expected to see someone she knew.

  “If you’re not overfull from the gingerbread, perhaps you would care to join me for dinner.”

  Her head snapped up.

  Perhaps she had conjured him. For standing in front of her, wearing an entirely solicitous expression, was the very man she’d been waiting hours to see.

  CHAPTER 5

  Genevieve shifted on the hard seat of the hansom cab while she eyed the man across from her. While it was more comfortable than the café chair, it had been a long afternoon of sitting. Nothing today had gone as planned. Agreeing to dine with the target of her investigative pursuits after he’d spent the last several hours in a brothel was unexpected, to say the least.

  Neither spoke as the cab lumbered downtown. Mr. McCaffrey folded his arms over his chest and regarded her mildly. She drew a breath to speak but paused, unsure of exactly how to begin. He quirked a brow at her, waiting.

  She finally asked what seemed like the most pressing question. “Where are we going?”

  “Delmonico’s.”

  She waited for him to elaborate. When nothing else came, she asked the next most pressing question.

  “Why?”

  “Because I thought you might be hungry.”

  She was, actually. Her last bowl of chowder had been eaten a few hours prior; she was famished. The mere thought of the delicious dishes one could order at Delmonico’s set her mouth watering.

  But then her brow furrowed. “Which Delmonico’s?”

  One corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile, seeming to indicate approval. “The original. William Street.”

  Oh, good. She settled back in her seat, satisfied. The other three branches were new, and she preferred the first location.

  As the cab wended its way through traffic, Genevieve pondered this unusual turn of events. She was now in a carriage, apparently headed to dinner, with the very man she’d been wanting to speak with all day.

  A man who might or might not be responsible for a rash of thefts all over the city.

  The social implications of being seen with Daniel McCaffrey at Delmonico’s flashed before her, but she dismissed them before they had a chance to fester. She was a journalist, and journalists did not let opportunities like this pass them by.

  They each watched the passing scenery for a few blocks. She stole an occasional glance at the hard, handsome lines of his face, sometimes brightly illuminated by the lights of theaters, music halls, or restaurants, sometimes softly accentuated by a gas streetlamp. She allowed the silence to unfold, knowing that sometimes a reporter’s best strategy was to stay quiet.

  When it became clear Daniel was disinclined to speak first, she asked another pressing question.

  “How long did you know I was there?”

  He turned his face toward hers, expression lost in the shadows of the carriage interior. “The whole time,” he replied.

  She briefly closed her eyes; she’d thought she’d been so careful. “I thought I was better at this.”

  “You’re not bad, actually. I’ve just had lots of practice evading your kind.”

  She turned back, only to find his face was still hidden in shadow. “Why not evade me tonight, then?”

  Daniel’s face was turned toward hers, but she still couldn’t make out his expression. The silence returned and unspooled, growing thick and warm in the close confines of the cab. He gestured out the window. They had arrived at their destination. “We’ll talk inside.”

  Genevieve followed Daniel into the large, well-appointed main dining room of the Manhattan establishment. Though cafés and coffeehouses had abounded on the island for at least a century, Delmonico’s had been the first true “fine dining” restaurant in the city, introducing concepts such as à la carte ordering and a wine list. Genevieve had eaten there since she was a child, her parents having been frequent patrons for years.

  She had removed her black head scarf in the cab, and now gratefully handed it and her Drab, heavy coat to a waiting employee. Her red-plaid wool walking dress and jacket had been chosen for warmth rather than style that morning, but now she was glad she hadn’t worn the dull-blue muslin. While not quite as dressy as she might have liked, the plaid was serviceable enough for Delmonico’s.

  Daniel appeared well known at the restaurant also, as the maître d’ greeted him warmly and immediately responded to his request for a private room.

  Oh dear, Genevieve thought. A private room. While not entirely improper, particularly given her age, dinner in a private room would still set tongues wagging.

  Straightening her back, Genevieve put on her best Polly Palmer persona. Let the tongues wag; she was here on business. Nothing else.

  Daniel nodded at a few acquaintances as they made their way toward the stairs that led to the private rooms, including, she noted with surprise, the Earl of Umberland and Esmie Bradley. As usual, Esmie was clad in an awful gown: bright pink again, this time with a high, ruffled neck that almost obscured her chin and covered in an alarming pattern of purple and green butterflies. The effect was somewhat dizzying. Sympathetically, Genevieve wondered how the poor girl could eat with the stiff fabric bunched around her neck, then wondered how Rupert would manage as well, being faced with such a blinding dress at the dinner table. They both looked miserable as they picked at their food in silence.

  Once settled in the ornate, dimly lit room, Genevieve felt more at ease. The heavily clothed table could have sat up to six, but was small enough that two didn’t feel overwhelmed.
The lavish settings of china and crystal were as familiar to her as those in her parents’ dining room, and she surveyed her menu happily. Spring lamb with mint sauce? Halibut in hollandaise sauce? Deciding that the cold night called for comforting food, she ordered squab chicken with a side of the restaurant’s famous potatoes, while Daniel asked for a terrine de foie gras for them to share, and chose a French wine.

  “You’re not having an entrée?” she asked in surprise.

  “I already ate.”

  She put down her menu in annoyance. “Then why ask me to dinner?”

  “As I said, I thought you might be hungry. And it was past time we talked, don’t you agree?”

  Genevieve remained silent, pondering the questions she wanted to ask, until the wine and foie gras and her meal arrived. After the ritual of the wine being opened, tested, and poured, she settled back in her chair, eyeing her unexpected dinner companion over the edge of her glass. He offered her some of the pâté, then helped himself to a small portion.

  “I thought you ate.”

  “I did.” He smiled. “But I cannot resist their foie gras.”

  She smiled back uncertainly, a bit disconcerted at how pleasant this encounter was turning out to be, then shook her head slightly to clear it from any foolishness. It was time to get to business. Was she a good enough reporter to discern if he was, in fact, Robin Hood?

  “Mr. McCaffrey,” she began carefully, “why did you come find me tonight? You’re apparently very good at evading journalists, as you’ve said. Why not let me lose you?” She focused on cutting her chicken, which was excellent, as usual.

  Daniel leaned back in his own chair, swirling his wine. “Why were you following me?” he asked bluntly.

  “I told you. I’m researching the Robin Hood thefts.”

  “And I told you, I don’t know anything about Mr. Hood,” he countered.

  She shook her head at him slowly. “But I think you do.”

  He raised a brow at her. “And what makes you think that?”

  “You and your associates were discussing Robin Hood in Five Points the night we met,” she began, but Daniel interrupted her.

  “Yes, we were talking about the thefts,” he said. “Everyone talks about them. Neither I nor they have any specific information for you, Miss Stewart. Or should I say Miss Palmer.”

  She put down her fork. “Well, what about you? Is there anything about yourself you’d like to tell me?”

  Daniel laughed, a rich, warm sound. “I haven’t spoken to the press in seventeen years. What makes you think I’d tell you anything new?”

  “Then why am I here?” she shot back. “As we’ve established, you could easily have evaded me tonight, and yet here we are at Delmonico’s. Why? And for goodness’ sake, call me Genevieve.”

  For a moment Daniel appeared slightly baffled, as if he didn’t know himself why she was there. He seemed to consider her, his eyes glittering in the candlelight.

  “Perhaps I simply enjoy your company,” he said finally, swallowing the last of his wine. “Genevieve.”

  Pleased she appeared to have gotten under his skin, Genevieve sipped her own wine and waited. Maybe silence would be her friend this time.

  She was rewarded when he nodded to himself, seeming to come to some kind of internal decision.

  “I know there has been speculation as to why I returned to the city after such a prolonged absence,” he began. Genevieve’s pulse began to quicken. After years of avoiding the press, the elusive Daniel McCaffrey seemed to be consenting to an interview. She withdrew her notebook from her satchel and raised it at him questioningly.

  Daniel nodded, and she put pencil to paper.

  “The truth is,” he continued, when it was clear she was ready, “I was hiding.”

  Genevieve was surprised. She didn’t know what she had expected to hear, but that wasn’t it.

  “Hiding?” she repeated.

  “Jacob’s fortune brings with it a great deal of responsibility, Miss Palmer. And truthfully, I inherited at such a young age that I didn’t know what to do with the money. I apprenticed in the law, as you know, and practiced here for a while. But I knew I wanted to do more. Could do more.”

  Genevieve wrote furiously. “Such as?” she prompted.

  “Helping the city’s less fortunate. Improving housing conditions, in particular.”

  “And why this cause? There are many ways to use a fortune to help the needy.”

  He raised a brow at her. “Because I was born in Five Points,” he said.

  Genevieve barely had time to stop her jaw from dropping open. She’d just been given the scoop of the year.

  Of the decade.

  “So how did you come to be Jacob’s heir?”

  Daniel smiled slightly and refilled their glasses, emptying the bottle. “That, Miss Palmer, will remain between me and Jacob.”

  That line of questioning was clearly a dead end. She switched back to a topic he seemed willing to discuss. “And you had to hide because …”

  “Because for a long time, New York held too many memories. I needed to spend time out of the city to see it clearly. To see what I could do with the money, how I could maximize its use, without those memories crowding in on me.”

  “What kind of memories?” she asked softly.

  The door swung open and a waiter entered, inquiring if they cared for any dessert. Daniel raised a brow at her.

  “No thank you, but I would take coffee.”

  “And a chestnut Nesselrode,” Daniel added. Genevieve raised a brow back at him.

  “I enjoy sweets,” he responded mildly.

  She waited for the waiter to leave the room, then impatiently poised her pencil again, trying another tactic. “Can you give specifics on how you plan to aid in housing reform?”

  “No,” he answered. “That is all I am prepared to say for now.”

  Genevieve tapped her pencil on her pad once, thinking to herself. “Robin Hood is concerned with the housing conditions in Five Points,” she ventured.

  “So his letters to the newspaper state.”

  “The Globe has received countless missives about him,” she continued. “Some expressing horror that he is still at large, an equal number cheering him on. The mayor seems quite determined. There’s talk of replacing the police commissioner if he’s not caught soon.”

  Daniel regarded her impassively. “Is that surprising to you?”

  “I’m not sure it’s entirely fair. Besides.” Genevieve shifted in her seat, a little uncertain. In for a penny, she thought, and plunged on. “The mayor is forming a committee to assess the situation around housing in impoverished areas, to make recommendations.” She kept a careful eye on Daniel’s face and almost missed the fleeting expression of sharp interest that flared and just as quickly disappeared under an ironic smile.

  “A committee,” he dryly remarked. “Surely that will solve everything.”

  Genevieve felt herself flush, even though she had exactly zero involvement with said committee. “Isn’t it better than nothing?”

  Daniel took a sip of wine and looked thoughtful. “It depends on who is involved,” he finally said.

  “Andrew Huffington, Reginald Cotswold, Ernest Clark,” she began. “Ted Beekman,” she added. At her ex-fiancé’s name, Daniel raised his brow again, but said nothing.

  Rupert must have filled him in. Genevieve felt herself flush again.

  “One of the Peter Stuyvesants, but I don’t know if it is Junior or Senior; Commissioner Simons; the deputy mayor …” she forged ahead, then trailed off, uncertain. “Perhaps something will come of it,” she finished lamely.

  “It won’t.”

  Anger flared. “Why mightn’t it? If Robin Hood’s actions are raising awareness—”

  “No,” he interrupted. “It’s a sham.” Something lit in his eyes, and he leaned toward her so abruptly that Genevieve had to stop herself from instinctively flinching backward.

  “Who stands to gain from the dev
elopment of these tenements, Genevieve? Who loses if housing reform passes? Why these men on the committee, when there are people doing work on housing reform?”

  “People like you?”

  “Not like me.” The half smile, the one she remembered from the alley, lifted the corner of his mouth. “I prefer to stay behind the scenes. Those working publicly.”

  He leaned in a few inches closer, and this time she didn’t have the urge to flinch back. Instead she leaned in too, closing the distance between them, mesmerized by the intensity of his voice.

  “Follow the money, Genevieve. That’s your story. That’s always the story.”

  * * *

  In a carriage bound for Washington Square, Genevieve held tightly to her satchel containing her notebook with its precious information. Scant though it was, it was still enough to earn her a major story. There was no way Mr. Horace could ignore her now. And Daniel being from Five Points … another piece of the puzzle toward the even bigger story: the possible unmasking of Robin Hood.

  But her mind kept looping back to Daniel’s words. Follow the money.

  She knew most of the men on the mayor’s committee. They ran in the same circles as her family. It was unsettling to think that people she’d known her whole life could be involved in something potentially immoral or illicit.

  Including someone she’d almost married.

  Despite her best efforts not to think about it, memories of her six-month engagement to Ted Beekman came flooding back. His sincere, ardent protestations of love for her. The long minutes they’d spent kissing in secluded gardens, behind half-closed doors, in cabs like this one. Behind the curtains in the darkened box of a theater.