by Kate Belli
It made for an edgy, tense evening. Even as she engaged in acts as pedestrian as making a trip to the ladies’ retiring room or sampling a truffled mushroom, she kept one eye on Daniel, who, she noticed, equally kept an eye on her. She was hyperaware of his movements around the ballroom, attuned to whether he was dancing or drinking or, she noted at least once with no small shock, flirting. A slight jolt reverberated through her body every time she confronted the black half mask, and the constant stress of keeping her face relaxed while her brain was on overdrive took its toll.
She was drained. She was exhilarated. The rush of the hunt was like nothing she had ever experienced before.
Ernest Clark, her first quarry, eagerly requested a dance at the slightest dropped hint. Like Sarah Huffington, he was wearing a rather ironic costume, that of a sandaled, hooded Capuchin monk. Unfortunately, his outfit did not negate his true nature, and she learned nothing other than that he was an unrepentant, socially ambitious flirt who couldn’t keep his eyes off her décolletage. He sidestepped her tentative queries about his business relations so deftly that she wondered if she was being too obvious.
Or if he had much to hide.
She made marginally better progress with Peter Stuyvesant Senior, outfitted as King Lear in his right mind, over a glass of champagne. The old Knickerbocker was an acquaintance of her father’s and was happy to chat with her about their mutual friends and his deep regret over Reginald Cotswold’s passing. He too resisted discussing any business dealings, however, brushing aside her queries about the finances behind his and Cotswold’s charitable organization for orphans. He was happy to talk about the orphans themselves and the ways she might make herself useful should she wish to volunteer, and in the process revealed his appalling lack of recognition of basic humanity in Italian and Eastern European immigrants. She hid her revulsion at his backward ideals and mentally filed away the information, noting that he did not, in fact, seem to be interested in seeing these populations receive better housing. She hoped Peter Stuyvesant Junior hadn’t inherited his father’s horrid beliefs.
Now Genevieve looked around the ballroom, but she couldn’t spot the last person on her list. Daniel wasn’t anywhere in sight either. Wondering if perhaps both men were in the gaming room on the second floor, she wandered toward where the punch was being served, suddenly ravenous. It would be best to speak with her final subject before the elaborate two AM supper was served, and she and Daniel really ought to have one more dance to keep up the illusion of courtship.
Her stomach grumbled with disappointment as she found that the earlier refreshments had been cleared away, undoubtedly so the guests could reserve their appetites for supper. Distracted by hunger, she stumbled right into the Holgrave twins, dressed as a pair of … hyenas? Alley cats? Some sort of mangy animal with ears—it was hard to say which. Callie caught her arm and pulled her out of the path of the affronted twins, one of whom pulled up her tail with a decided “Hrmph!” before stalking away.
“Genevieve!” Callie exclaimed, wiggling excitedly, her bosom barely contained in the sparkly outfit. She drew several appreciative glances from nearby gentlemen.
“Callie, stand still before you fall out of your dress,” ordered Eliza, moving to stand strategically between her friend and the group of ogling men.
“Where have you been, Callie? I haven’t seen you all night,” Genevieve asked.
“On the dance floor.” Callie’s voice dropped conspiratorially. “On the hunt.”
An involuntary wince hit Genevieve’s body at the word “hunt,” as it was so close to her own goals for the evening. Of course, Callie meant hunting for a husband, but it was still disquieting.
“And how goes it?” inquired Eliza.
Callie accepted a glass of punch from the footman behind the table and led the trio to a slightly more private area of the ballroom.
“Mixed results thus far,” she admitted. “I danced the last quadrille with Richard Moore.” She nodded toward a knight from the Crusades, who appeared quite overheated in his chain mail. Callie peered after his retreating form while absent-mindedly taking a sip of punch. “I don’t know why they make dinner so late at these things. I’m simply famished. What do you both think of him?” She gestured with her glass toward where the knight had been swallowed by the crowd.
Eliza glanced in the direction Callie indicated. “I’ve heard he has gaming debts,” she admitted.
“Blast.” Callie pouted, taking another sip. “He actually had interesting things to say. Can you imagine being married to someone who had nothing interesting to say? What would you discuss at breakfast?”
“There’s always the weather,” Eliza remarked mildly, as Callie batted her eyes at a passing Henry VIII. He smiled back but made a regretful nod toward a trailing Anne Boleyn, made obvious by the severed head she carried under her arm.
Callie frowned. “Are there no single gentlemen at this party?”
Eliza smiled. “Callie, there are plenty of unattached men here. Isn’t your dance card nearly full?”
Callie waved this away. “Oh, pish. None of them are rich enough for what Grandmama and I need. Now Genevieve, did I or did I not spy you and Mr. McCaffrey in an alcove earlier this evening? After the promenade?”
Feeling the color rise to her face, Genevieve nodded.
“And did he finally kiss you?” Callie demanded.
“No,” she responded, cross. “Honestly, Callie, is that all you can think about?”
“Why would I want to think about anything else? Kissing is delightful. And speaking of, he’s coming this way. Stalking, really. My, Genevieve, he does stalk well, your Mr. McCaffrey.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to protest that Daniel wasn’t her Mr. McCaffrey, but in the face of their pretend courtship, she held her tongue.
A brief spasm of longing passed through her, shocking in its unexpectedness. What if he was hers?
And then he was there, and Eliza was discreetly pulling a protesting Callie away to give them some privacy. She shoved the unruly thought away.
He followed her friends’ retreat with an amused glance. “Do they believe it?” he asked in a quiet voice, as he gently retrieved and kissed her hand.
The feel of his lips on the back of her ungloved hand was unnerving. As was the way he gazed into her eyes, one corner of his mouth twitching upward. “They do,” she said. “As will everyone else, the way you’re behaving.”
“We need the courtship to seem legitimate,” he murmured, lowering her hand. “Now, I believe the next dance is mine, is it not?”
As Daniel led her onto the floor for the start of their waltz under the watchful eyes of half the Astor 400, Genevieve had a brief, strong flash of recollection of what it felt like to be fully accepted by society. To be the object of approving gazes rather than censorious ones. With her and Daniel’s sham courtship, she could feel the societal tides shifting, away from their dour disappointment that she’d chosen a career over a husband and toward a self-righteous satisfaction that she was finally fulfilling her proper role, even if it was with someone currently under their collective suspicion. Anger welled within her, causing her jaw to clench, even as her body mechanically followed Daniel’s in the graceful rhythms of the waltz.
Why must women fit into preordained molds? Why couldn’t she be accepted and celebrated as a journalist rather than only as a fiancée or a wife? A turn around the dance floor brought Eliza, standing alone at the edge of the dance floor, into and then out of her line of sight. Eliza was a brilliant artist, but her skill and merit were never lauded as they should be, simply because of her sex. Another turn and there was Callie, dancing in the arms of Victor Fairstoke, a widowed banker twice her age, ridiculously dressed as Don Juan. The man was known for having a string of mistresses barely out of the schoolroom, and Genevieve’s stomach knotted at the thought of Callie tied to the old leach. Her hand involuntarily tightened on Daniel’s shoulder.
“Is my dancing that bad?”
“What have you learned?” The music, along with their constant rotations, was likely preventing anyone from overhearing, but he still kept his voice lowered.
“Not much,” she admitted, relaying in equally muted tones her conversations with Ernest Clark and Peter Stuyvesant Senior. Daniel winced.
“The son is not much better.” He shook his head in disapproval bordering on disgust. “And to think they are both tasked with improving housing for the impoverished immigrants they so hate. Impoverished due to circumstance and lack of education, not their own failings.” She watched a range of emotions play across his face, realizing he was likely thinking of his own family.
Daniel gave his head a small shake again, though this time as if to clear it. “Enough. We’re not finished yet, and I have one more person I’d like to approach before the night is through.”
The waltz was winding down, and Genevieve caught sight of Felicity Holgrave, distinguishable from her twin Frances by eyes that were blue rather than brown, coquettishly smiling in Daniel’s direction. “One of the Holgrave twins?” she asked, raising a brow as he led her back to the edge of the dance floor.
A look of alarm crossed his face. “Absolutely not. Do you know what one of them said to me earlier? I actually don’t think I can repeat it to a lady, it was so salacious.”
Genevieve surprised herself with a giggle. It felt good to laugh in the face of everything: the endless black masks, the ignorance of men like the Stuyvesants, the constant rumbling of fear in the pit of her belly.
“I told you those breeches were too tight.”
“McCaffrey.” A hand clapped Daniel on the back. Ted Beekman had joined them. Daniel stared at the hand for a beat, and Ted removed it, smiling a jovial smile. “Great minds think alike, eh?”
Genevieve stifled a gasp. To refer to their previous engagement via a double entendre, particularly in front of her, was horribly inappropriate. Daniel’s gaze, which had already been quite neutral, turned chilly. “I beg your pardon?” he asked icily.
“I mean our costumes,” Ted said, gesturing toward himself. He was clad in a blue satin jacket, almost to his knees, over gray tights. He sported no mask but instead a giant blue-tinged beard, and his head was topped with a jaunty hat adorned with blue and gray feathers. “I’m Bluebeard. We seem to be the only pirates in attendance tonight.”
“Blackbeard was a pirate,” Daniel clarified. “Bluebeard is a folktale about a man who killed his wives.” His response was aimable enough, but Genevieve noticed that the coldness didn’t leave Daniel’s eyes.
“Bluebeard, Blackbeard.” Ted shrugged and laughed heartily. “We’ll just say I’m a pirate and be done with it, eh?”
Daniel turned toward her. “Champagne?”
“Yes, please.” She actually didn’t want champagne, but Ted was the final person on her list, and he was more likely to be candid without Daniel around.
It seemed as though half the ballroom watched as her ex-fiancé perfunctorily shook her hand and she inquired about his health, and the health of his wife.
“Oh, Amelia,” Ted boomed heartily, referring to his seemingly absent wife. He had always been the sort of man who boomed; she wondered how she had ever tolerated it. “She’s resting at home, of course. I am to be a father soon,” he explained, correctly interpreting Genevieve’s puzzled expression.
Genevieve paused a moment to digest this information, almost expecting small tendrils of pain to wrap themselves around her heart and squeeze; here it was, the life that had almost been hers. But the sting didn’t arrive. It was akin to receiving news from a stranger.
“Congratulations,” she said politely.
“Yes, yes. It’s been hard on her, you know. She hasn’t been feeling well for months.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” Genevieve replied. She took a breath, preparing to ask how his work was going, hoping to turn the conversation toward his role on the mayoral committee, but he interrupted.
“You’re looking very well, though,” he boomed again. Genevieve controlled the urge to wince. Couldn’t he speak in a normal tone of voice? “Very well,” he repeated, his gaze dropping down her body, a small, ugly smile playing on the corners of his lips.
The sudden urge to smack the smile off his face, to offer some kind of physical retribution for the shame he had caused her family, was so strong that she had to clench her fist for a moment to prevent her hand from swinging through the air. Over Ted’s shoulder she caught sight of Daniel widening his eyes at her from where drinks were being served. She forced a smile to her lips.
“Business is good?” The smile felt brittle, but it was the best she could muster.
“Hmm?” Ted dragged his eyes away from her bare shoulders. “Oh, very, very.”
Genevieve swallowed, glancing over his shoulder to Daniel again. Felicity Holgrave had indeed trapped him in conversation, but he met her eyes all the same, offering a quick, reassuring nod.
“I’m not surprised.” She willed her smile to become sweeter and cast a look toward Ted through her lashes. “You always were poised for great success.”
Ted’s chest expanded a bit under the blue satin. “Well, if I may be allowed a moment to brag.” He lowered his voice, his gaze sliding down her neck. It was hard not to shudder. “I am on the cusp of seeing a very healthy return on an investment. Very,” he emphasized, finally returning his eyes to her face.
She let out a small, feigned gasp, operating on pure instinct. “Lexington Industries?” she asked in a hushed tone.
Ted’s look turned shrewd. “Heard about it, have you? From whom?”
“I shouldn’t like to say,” Genevieve slid her eyes toward Ernest Clark’s behooded figure, slipping out the door toward the grand staircase. Ted followed her eyes and gave a small grunt. “But I was asked if perhaps my brother Charles would be amenable to joining the venture.”
Her heart pounded as the lies piled up. This was the closest she or Daniel had come to information about the mysterious Lexington Industries all night. And now the clock was starting to tick: as soon as Ted confronted Clark and the other investors—whoever they were—about speaking with Genevieve and discovered that in fact nobody had approached her, whoever hoped to do her harm would know she was getting closer to the truth.
They had to work fast now. And hope to get the information they needed.
“Tell Charles to come speak with me if he’s interested.” Ted looked thoughtful. “It would be a boon to have him on board. But I’m surprised you were not approached to invest.”
“Me?” She didn’t have to feign surprise this time.
“Why not? You’ve come into your money by now, have you not?” She had, the previous year. “We’ve other female investors. Could make quite a profit, you know.” Ted leaned in close, so close she could smell the liquor on his breath. Her skin began to crawl. “Think about it, hmm? You know where to find me.”
Ted tipped her a wink, running his hand on her bare arm for the briefest of moments before Daniel forcibly stepped between them. Ted gave a small bow and backed away, raising his hands. “Glad we had a chance to speak, Genevieve. I do hope you or Charles consider joining us. It would be ideal for our families to mend fences.”
Genevieve managed a tight smile until he was gone, then gulped half her glass in one swallow. “Odious man,” she muttered.
“Shall I knock out his front teeth?” Daniel asked, as if inquiring about the quality of the champagne.
“Much as I wish it, no,” she said. Excitement began to edge out her exhaustion. “We need to talk privately, and fast.”
CHAPTER 16
Daniel’s pulse began to quicken. “All right. Let me think for a moment on the best way to handle that. But I have one more person to speak to first.”
“I’m not sure we have time.” Genevieve swallowed the rest of her champagne. “Ted thinks
someone approached me about investing,” she whispered as she leaned in to hand him her empty glass. “Once he speaks to the others and realizes it was a ruse …” Her wide eyes bored into his, conveying urgency.
He nodded quickly, understanding. Their time was limited now. “I’ll be fast.” Rupert sauntered by and gave him a casual nod, then continued past.
Good, everything was arranged. “Meet me back in the alcove in five minutes,” he said.
“Not private enough,” she murmured. “Get us a room.”
Daniel couldn’t help himself; he jerked back slightly in shock. “What?”
She laid a hand on his arm and smiled up at him, but he could see the growing frustration on her face. “Don’t be such a namby-pamby. A hotel room, here. We haven’t time to return to your house, and everywhere else is too public.”
He patted the hand on his arm, keeping up the pretense of a besotted courting couple, and leaned in close again. “If anyone sees us, your reputation will be damaged irreparably,” he said through clenched teeth. “It’s too risky.”
“We haven’t any choice,” she hissed back, then feigned a small laugh, as if they were sharing a private joke. “Do you know Eliza Lindsay, there in the blue?” He nodded shortly; they’d been introduced some years ago. “After you retain a room, meet her at the top of the staircase and tell her the room number. She will relay it to me, and I’ll join you in fifteen minutes.”
He tried to protest again. “But—”
She cut him off. “There’s no time, Daniel. Go.” And with that, she patted his arm again, looking every inch the figure of a young lady in love, and made her way toward her friend.
Damn, damn, damn. She was right again, of course. Minutes, seconds, mattered now; they had to speak privately and compare notes as soon as possible. But damn if he didn’t think this was a foolhardy plan all the same. He just didn’t see a way around it.