by Kate Belli
That is, with greater urgency than he was already employing.
“A sham courtship,” Genevieve mused. “Seems like the plot of a salacious novel, does it not?” she teased, scooping up the last of her parfait.
The tightness that had been squeezing Daniel’s innards ever since he had seen her bruise eased the tiniest bit at the sight of her smile. But his eyes kept returning to that purple shadow on her cheekbone, already beginning to spread and darken, and the rage would bubble up again.
The man responsible had better pray that Daniel not find him.
* * *
“He said what?” squealed Callie, her voice floating up from behind the curtain at Mrs. Brown’s. It was a week after the attack in her office building that had nearly killed her. A week since her agreement to start a sham courtship with Daniel. It was painful to lie to her friends and family, but she saw no other recourse.
Her parents had taken the news that she would be spending more time with Mr. McCaffrey with slightly confused caution. “I thought you were done with all that,” her mother had said, frowning. “But of course, if you wish it.” Her father peered at her bruise, which had mushroomed into something truly grotesque, with gravity. She could tell he was uncertain as to whether to believe her story about tripping on the staircase in their home.
Callie, of course, was over the moon with the whole idea. Eliza was more circumspect, looking at her thoughtfully when she believed Genevieve’s attention was elsewhere.
Genevieve knew she wasn’t looking well; the bruises on her neck had faded within days and she’d been able to forgo a scarf around her neck, but a week after the attack she still sported the one on her face, now morphing from a wretched greenish-purple into a milder but still appalling greenish-yellow, visible even under the powder she had applied. Its only saving grace was that it masked the horrid dark circles under her right eye, though those under her left eye were still vivid.
She wasn’t getting much sleep. Every time she drifted off, the masked figure would appear above her in her mind, his hands on her throat, intent on squeezing the life from her.
In short, she hardly sported the glowing countenance of a young woman being courted by the city’s most eligible bachelor.
A larger squeal erupted from behind the curtain.
“Miss Maple, you must remain still, or unfortunately you will suffer more pinpricks,” came the steely, exasperated voice of Mrs. Brown, who was surely overwhelmed this week as all of New York society scrambled to get their costumes completed in time. Fancy-dress parties were all the rage, and society’s ladies in particular competed to see who could come up with the most lavish costume.
Callie murmured apologies from behind the curtain. Eliza, standing on a pedestal and holding up her arms as a seamstress stitched up the last of her heavy velvet midnight-blue dress, rolled her eyes in Genevieve’s direction. Genevieve, who had already been fitted for her costume, had changed back into her afternoon dress and was resting on a nearby pink-and-green-striped settee.
“Your costume is fabulous, Eliza. That blue matches your eyes perfectly,” Genevieve said.
Eliza’s cheeks pinkened with pleasure at the compliment. “Do you really think so? You don’t think Ophelia is too literary a costume, or too depressing? The poor woman does drown.”
Genevieve shook her head. “There have been plenty of Ophelias in past costume balls, I’m sure. I think Shakespearean outfits are quite common. It looks beautiful, Eliza; really it does.” And it did.
“Well, it certainly can’t surpass your costume, Genevieve. You might wind up being the belle of the ball.”
“Mine?” Genevieve looked in surprise at the large box that lay next to her on the settee, containing her gown for the ball. “But it’s so simple! Beautiful, of course,” she hastened to add, hearing Mrs. Brown’s muffled snort from behind the curtain. “And I am deeply appreciative of everyone’s efforts to create such a gorgeous costume on very short notice,” she called loudly.
She was grateful, very. After she and Daniel decided to pretend to be courting, Genevieve had sent notes to Callie and Eliza, asking if she could accompany them to their already-scheduled fittings. Callie and Eliza had been planning to attend the ball since they received the invitation and had put in their orders with Mrs. Brown weeks ago. Mrs. Brown, bless her, had thrown up her hands in dismay when Genevieve sheepishly trailed into the shop following her friends, but had come through like the professional she was.
“We do not have enough time to create anything truly complicated for you, Miss Stewart.” The older woman had surveyed Genevieve’s tall frame, clad only in her undergarments, with the eagle eye of a perfectionist. “But I think we can whip up something suitable.” And so she had. Unearthing a bolt of bright-white silk, snapping orders at seamstresses who buzzed around her like worker bees to their queen, Mrs. Brown had draped, hung, wrapped, and pinned the silk around Genevieve’s body until she was satisfied. Adding a few stitches here and there to secure the garment, she produced a long golden cord and wound it around Genevieve’s bodice and waist. Finally, she turned Genevieve to face the full-length mirror that hung in the dressing room, Callie and Eliza hovering in various states of undress behind her, exclaiming over the rapid results.
“There,” said Mrs. Brown in a satisfied voice. “Aphrodite. Make sure your maid dresses your hair high.”
She had just as quickly unwrapped Genevieve from the white silk and handed it to one of her apprentices, who scurried away to sew the gown up properly. Now her costume lay neatly folded and ready in a box next to her.
Eliza rolled her eyes again, this time at Genevieve. “We shall see,” she replied.
“Indeed we shall,” added Callie, stepping out from behind the curtain with a tired-looking Mrs. Brown following. “Though I tend to agree with Eliza, Genevieve. I think your costume will create a sensation. Oh, Eliza! How lovely you look!”
Genevieve and Eliza gaped at their friend. “Oh no,” murmured Genevieve in complete approval. “You will create the sensation.”
“Isn’t it just gorgeous? Mrs. Brown is a genius.” Callie beamed at the seamstress, who grudgingly nodded in acknowledgment of the compliment.
“I enjoy a challenge,” Mrs. Brown allowed, kneeling down to remove a trailing piece of thread from the gown’s hem before gathering her seamstresses and shooing them into the next room.
Callie was dressed as the Little Mermaid from the Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale. Her gown, a deep emerald green that matched her eyes, was covered in a multitude of large, flat beads meant to resemble scales, which shimmered and flashed as she moved. There were no straps or sleeves on the dress, which hugged Callie’s curvy frame. A deep V plunged between her breasts, forming a heart-shaped bodice that descended into a shockingly snug gown, revealing the swell of Callie’s hips and derriere. Even more shocking, a slit was cut into the skirt that started just above her knees, widening in the front and eventually becoming two short, pointed trains of fabric that trailed behind her.
“See how clever? It’s supposed to represent the moment the little mermaid’s fish tail transforms into human legs. And I can secure the tail after the procession, fastening it to the back of the skirt so it’s not in my way when I dance.” Callie did a slow twirl so they could admire the costume from all angles. “Isn’t it amazing?”
It was amazing. “You will have no trouble finding a husband in that outfit. I guarantee it.”
“Callie, are you certain it’s wise to show quite so much leg?” queried Eliza, ever practical. Genevieve had secretly been wondering this as well. While slightly shorter skirts were often worn for fancy-dress balls, they typically stopped midcalf. One could see Callie’s rounded, creamy legs starting at her knees, a length unheard of for a grown woman.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures, my loves,” Callie replied, gazing down at the gown. “You know my circumstances.” She looked furtively around to make sure Mrs. Brown and the other seamstresses had left
the small dressing room, then whispered, “I’m not quite sure how Grandmama is going to pay for this, but she assured me she’d find a way.” Straightening back up, Callie turned a bit to the left to see the gown from a different angle, looking over her right shoulder. “I am terribly fond of this gown, though. It’s going to look smashing with the diamonds.”
“Your grandmother is really going to let you wear them?” Eliza asked.
“Oh yes. The necklace, earrings, and bracelet. The gown is really just a showpiece for the jewels, of course. Now, can we stop talking about boring matters such as jewels and gowns and turn our discussion back to the really interesting topic? Genevieve, repeat for us please, word for word, exactly what Mr. McCaffrey said to you about this ball.”
“Yes,” Eliza interjected. “The two of you have been spending an awful lot of time together lately.”
“Has he taken you anywhere romantic?” Callie’s gaze wandered dreamily at the thought.
“Well, a comic opera at the Casino Theatre, an exhibition of Dutch paintings at the Metropolitan, and we ate at Lüchow’s in Union Square.” Genevieve ticked off her recent activities with Daniel on her fingers, then wrinkled her nose at her friend. “Is German food considered romantic?”
Callie stamped her foot impatiently. “Did he kiss you on any of these outings?” she hissed in a stage whisper.
“No,” Genevieve said firmly. “He has been the perfect gentleman.” Callie appeared crestfallen.
“Genevieve, are you being quite honest with us?” Eliza asked. Callie glanced at her in surprise.
“Whatever do you mean?” she asked.
“Yes, Eliza,” said Genevieve, tension suddenly coiling in the pit of her stomach. “Whatever do you mean?” She and her friend exchanged a long, considering look, while Callie’s eyes snapped between them in confusion.
“What is going on?” Callie asked.
Genevieve held Eliza’s gaze, silently daring her to voice her concerns. She knew her friend was in a hard spot, and on one hand felt guilty for exploiting it: there was no way Eliza could state that she believed the courtship was false without appearing wildly insulting. But on the other hand, Genevieve desperately needed her friend to accept the falsehood that she and Daniel were spreading.
The truth could endanger them. Endanger anyone she cared about.
It was Eliza who broke the silent standoff. “I just don’t want Genevieve to get hurt,” she said, sending a meaningful glance toward the fading bruise.
Genevieve swallowed. She was already nervous about attending the costume ball. She and Daniel had spent their recent outings discussing the best strategies for prying information from the relevant guests, a tricky position, as any one of them could be behind the masked man’s attack. It was going to be a delicate dance all night, with them going their separate ways, each ferreting out what they could, rejoining, pretending to be romantically involved, and engaging in the same steps again.
It could all come to naught. Or she could find the answers she needed. The answers, it seemed, that could keep her alive.
CHAPTER 14
Days later, Genevieve’s nervousness had not abated one bit, though her bruise, thankfully, had mellowed to a yellowy tinge.
Gnawing on her lower lip, Genevieve paced the front hall of her parents’ house, waiting for the carriage that would take her, Callie, and Callie’s grandmother to the Porters’ costume ball. As usual, Genevieve’s parents had declined to attend the ball but had given their typical absent-minded permission for Callie’s grandmother to serve as the girls’ chaperone, though chaperones weren’t entirely necessary in New York society. Wearing a warm, silk-lined cloak, which hid her Aphrodite costume, Genevieve reviewed the plans for the coming evening in her head again. And again.
She checked out the window. Still no carriage.
“Blast,” she muttered.
“Don’t let Mother hear you swear,” chuckled her brother’s voice behind her.
Genevieve turned and regarded Charles with pleasure, grinning at him. “I’d just tell her I was having a moment of solidarity with the working class, and she’d probably start swearing too.”
Charles grinned back. “That sounds like Mother, all right. You heading to the Porters’ costume ball?”
Genevieve couldn’t hide her surprise. “You knew it was tonight?”
Charles shrugged, looking down. “I still receive invitations, you know. Even though I never accept them.”
Genevieve regarded her brother thoughtfully. When they’d been younger, all of her school friends had mooned over her older brothers terribly, angling for invitations to her house so they could bat their eyes in the boys’ direction. Gavin had always flirted back, the scoundrel, but Charles would shrug it off and duck into another room, away from the girls’ giggling attentions. As adults, their lives had progressed in much the same way, with outgoing Gavin, ever the romantic, skipping off to Egypt without a glance backward, and Charles staying put and avoiding public attention, despite the widespread praise for his architectural designs.
“Why don’t you?” Before tonight, it had never occurred to Genevieve to ask. She had always assumed that Charles was simply uninterested in the machinations of New York high society, as she had been. She was realizing more and more, though, that her own disinterest had stemmed from insecurity about not fitting in and shame over her broken engagement.
“Society’s always happy to have more eligible bachelors,” she reminded him. And eligible he was. A successful—some even said brilliant—young architect with a promising future, he made plenty of money, and that didn’t even count their family fortune. He was quite good-looking, with eyes that were a clear amber, darker than hers, and thick, light-brown hair. “You’d make some debutante very happy.”
Charles smiled slightly. “Surely I’m too solitary and cranky for some bright young woman.”
“But you go out when we’re in Newport,” Genevieve protested. Charles loved summers at their Rhode Island home, spending hours and hours on the water in his sailboat. He even ventured to the occasional picnic, lawn party, or evening soiree when there, though he typically sipped a drink in the corner or talked boating with his friends, still oblivious to the young ladies who batted their eyes in his direction. But at least he attended.
He shrugged. “It’s different there. It seems … freer somehow.” The slight smile returned. “Maybe it’s the salt air.”
Genevieve felt a surge of warmth toward her brother.
“You should get out more,” Genevieve ventured. “Maybe try talking to some of the ladies who so obviously adore you. You might be surprised—some of them might share your interests. You could talk sailing, or architecture …” She trailed off, unsure of what else her older brother might like to do these days. He was rather solitary, she realized. He came to dinner at the house fairly often but didn’t share that much about himself.
Charles smiled wider. “You see? I’ve not much to offer a girl.”
“That’s not true! You’re handsome, and kind, and smart. Your buildings are changing the face of this city, and for the better. You’d be a catch for any girl,” she said loyally, knowing it was true.
“Ah, enough about me. What’s all this I hear about you and Daniel McCaffrey?” he asked softly.
The clatter of hooves and carriage wheels on cobblestones turned their heads. Callie and her grandmother had arrived.
Charles surprised Genevieve by folding her into a warm hug. “It’ll keep, little sister. Just make sure he’s worthy of you.”
“Charles, may I ask a favor of you?”
He stepped back and regarded her quizzically. “Anything.”
“Would you have any time to spare in the next day or so?”
“For you? Of course. What do you need?”
Genevieve quietly relayed her request, and Charles’s eyebrows raised in alarm.
“Not unless you tell me why,” he countered. “Does it have to do with this?” He gestured toward her
eye.
Genevieve sighed with impatience. “Don’t you trust me?”
Charles looked affronted. “Of course. But I also know you’re the first person to wade into trouble if there’s any about.”
“Then surely you’ll be comforted by my being as cautious as possible,” she snapped.
Her brother shook his head at her slowly, and Genevieve knew she had won. Gavin would never have backed down, but Charles, she suspected, understood and respected the need for secrets. She believed he harbored more than a few of his own.
“We’ll start tomorrow,” he conceded, grudgingly accepting a kiss on the cheek. “Once you wake up. But Genevieve …” She paused on the threshold, waiting. “If you spot any trouble tonight, stay out of it, won’t you?”
Her anxiety over the upcoming evening, which had lulled in response to their plans, awakened anew.
“I’ll try,” she promised. Charles didn’t look particularly reassured, but it was the best she could manage, as well as being the truth. All she could do was try.
* * *
At long last, the blasted parade was starting.
Daniel tugged at the kerchief tied around his throat and scowled at nobody in particular. He felt ridiculous. An elbow dug into his right side.
“You certainly look the part, McCaffrey.”
Daniel glowered at Rupert. “You’re one to talk. I’ve seen fewer ruffles on ladies’ gowns. What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you in mourning?”
Rupert shrugged. “Amos insisted I come. Funny, he’s become as obsessed with society as Elmira was. He’s demanding a full report on how many condolences I receive.” Rupert was dressed as a courtier from Louis XVI’s court, in a lavish, deep-blue jacket with gold trim and lace protruding from the sleeves. He sported a long, curled wig, and had added a small patch to the upper left corner of his mouth. His one gesture toward his fiancée’s mother’s death was a black armband, stark against the blue velvet of his coat.
“What is that thing on your lip?”