by Kate Belli
He now sat in the chair next to Genevieve and offered his handkerchief, which she gratefully accepted. “Oh child.” Arthur comfortingly patted her back. “I’m not disappointed in you. You’re young, but not fresh out of the schoolroom. You’re old enough to know your own business. But the reputation of the paper, you understand, and the other young ladies employed here … let me think on it.”
It was unfair, but Arthur was correct. If word got out, it would appear that he condoned such behavior, and the reputations of the secretaries and other women who worked at the paper would suffer.
“I do understand, Mr. Horace. And I want to thank you for all that you’ve done for me over the years,” she said sincerely. She knew he hadn’t wanted to give her a position originally but had been pressured to do so by her family’s position.
The older man smiled gently. “You’re a good reporter, Genevieve,” he said, which made her start crying anew. “Take the rest of the day off,” he suggested. “Get some rest. I know you’re friends with Miss Maple, and I’m sure she needs you now. I’ll let you know my decision.”
Nodding unhappily, Genevieve went to her desk to retrieve some notes she’d locked in her desk the past Friday. It was more imperative than ever that the truth be revealed, but she needed Daniel’s insights to help her patch together her discoveries about Lexington Industries. To figure out what it all meant.
To help her ascertain who Robin Hood really was.
Her stomach contracted. If he would even speak to her now, given the newspaper article.
Genevieve’s heart caught in her throat as she slipped her key into her top desk drawer, only to have it slide open of its own volition. Someone had tampered with the lock. The drawer was open.
The cold sweat immediately reappeared, chilling her despite the well-heated room. She affected an air of casualness as she reached into the desk, well aware that whoever had broken into it might be watching. The previous week’s notes on Lexington Industries were still there, but as she began to withdraw them, her fingers grazed something cold and metallic.
Puzzled, Genevieve clasped the object and pulled it out.
A small, glittering box sparkled in her palm. It was silver, its top encrusted with rubies and diamonds forming the shape of the Russian Orthodox cross.
Her heart pounded. She let her gaze slowly traverse the newsroom, but everyone was immersed in their own tasks. Clive was nowhere in sight and hadn’t been all morning. Only Luther was glancing at her from where he was speaking on the telephone. He gestured that he would be off in a moment and then he would come to her desk.
She gazed back down at the small objet d’art in her hand. She recognized it, of course, from her childhood explorations at Reginald Cotswold’s house. It was surprisingly heavy for such a small box.
It was a calling card. A message. Reginald’s murderer was sending a clear threat: back off, or you’ll meet the same fate.
Genevieve pocketed the box and grabbed her bag. Not caring who was looking, she dashed toward the stairs, once more not wishing to wait for the elevator. Past Luther, who put down the phone and called after her; past Verna, who jumped out of her path, startled; and past countless other reporters, stenographers, typesetters, and secretaries. Let whoever was working with a murderer see her run. She didn’t care; she had only one thought: to get to Daniel before the killer did.
CHAPTER 19
“You haven’t been able to find him?” Eliza asked sympathetically, cutting a slice of cake. It had been three days since Arthur ejected her from his office. Four since she had seen Daniel.
Genevieve shook her head, regarding the lovely piece of pastry on her plate. She loved cake. But today she couldn’t seem to swallow a crumb. Her mind was swirling. She looked out the front window of Eliza’s townhouse and gauged that she had about twenty minutes until the sun began its early, late-winter descent.
She would wait another ten minutes, then make her excuses and depart for home, where she would make her preparations for the night. A pang shot through her at the thought of leaving Callie, but Callie would be in Eliza’s capable hands. Besides, hopefully she’d have good news for her friend by morning.
It was excruciating to see their typically laughing, lighthearted Callie in so much pain. She had deep circles under her eyes and stared, pale and drawn, at the newly budding trees in the park though the window of Eliza’s family’s sitting room, ignoring her friends’ conversation.
Ever since the shock of losing the diamonds the previous weekend, which few knew constituted all that remained of the Maple family fortune, Eliza and Genevieve had been feverishly worried for Callie. Genevieve, setting aside her own anxiety about whether or not she had retained her job and about the fiendish newspaper article and equally fiendish Clive, had joined Eliza to think of amusements that might distract their friend, including a trip to the popular Elmsbury tearoom, which they had attempted that afternoon.
It had been an absolute disaster.
Rumors of Genevieve’s scandalous behavior had spread.
She didn’t know by whom. Maybe someone had seen her leave Daniel’s hotel room after all. Maybe someone from the newsroom was spreading unsubstantiated gossip. Maybe Officer Jackson had placed a few well-timed remarks.
Regardless of how the rumors had begun, the fact that she might have spent time in a gentleman’s hotel room in the middle of the night was clearly the topic of the day. The trio had been completely, utterly, and totally snubbed. Women whom Genevieve had known for years, girls she had gone to school with, cut her to the quick, refusing to say hello or even acknowledge their table’s existence. Some even physically turned their backs when Genevieve tried to smile at them in greeting. It was as though the three women were stranded on an iceberg in the middle of the Elmsbury tearoom, floating along by themselves while society swirled and paraded around them as if they didn’t exist.
“Maybe we should leave,” Genevieve whispered miserably.
“Nonsense!” Eliza hissed back. “I am not about to be chased out of the Elmsbury tearoom, and neither are you.” She looked for support from her comrades and found little. Callie was as deflated and gray as a glove left out in the rain, and Genevieve was so worn down she could barely muster the energy to hold her head high, let alone fight back.
This public humiliation was like nothing she had ever known. Her parents, who must have known the rumors to be true, given how late she had returned from the costume ball, had not broached the topic, but her mother, white-lipped, had barely spoken to her in days. In turn, Genevieve couldn’t bear speaking to her father, who simply regarded her with kind, sad eyes. But the rest of society seemed to have made up its collective mind. Even after her broken engagement, people had talked to her sympathetically. It was excruciating and bewildering to be ignored by people she had thought were friends. She just wanted to hide under her covers until … when?
Until the next person was killed?
If someone else hadn’t already been killed.
Because her biggest fear wasn’t for her own reputation, as exhausting and disheartening as it was to be the topic of so much gossip.
In truth, she was terrified for Daniel.
She hadn’t been able to find him.
At first she’d sent notes and telegrams to his house, pleading for a meeting so they could talk, saying she had been as surprised as anyone to see the story, saying she had a major lead in their investigations into Lexington Industries, even hinting at the discovery of the jeweled box, but from Daniel’s direction—wherever that was—there had been only silence.
She had followed these attempts with a knock on his door, hoping he would relent if he saw her in person. Charles had insisted on accompanying her, reminding her that she was in enough trouble as it was and that showing up unannounced and unaccompanied on Mr. McCaffrey’s doorstep was sure to set more tongues wagging. Dear, sweet Charles, who was normally so steady, was ready to find Daniel and knock the stuffing out of him for allowing rumors to circ
ulate unchecked.
Daniel’s housekeeper, Mrs. Kelly, only kept repeating that Mr. McCaffrey was not at home. It wasn’t until Daniel’s secretary Asher appeared at the door and reiterated this information with a look of pure hate that Genevieve fully understood.
Whether Daniel was truly home or not, he had seen the article and wasn’t home to her.
Still, she was beyond worried. The paper had printed a retraction in Tuesday’s edition, removing Genevieve’s name from the previous article’s byline and apologizing for labeling Mr. McCaffrey as Robin Hood. He should have made contact by now, if only to let her know he was safe.
“Please, let’s leave,” she had begged her friends at the tearoom.
Callie looked at her with dull eyes. Eliza sighed and began to gather her things.
“Good afternoon, Miss Stewart.” It was Esmie, pinning back a length of heavy black veil that had been covering her face.
Shocked gasps and whispers arose around them—both because someone dared approach their table, Genevieve assumed, but also because Esmie was in a public place so soon after her mother’s death. Esmie held her chin steady, her simple, slim-cut black dress contrasting quite beautifully with her pale hair and skin, which glowed like a pearl.
It was, frankly, the best Genevieve had ever seen Esmie look.
“Miss Maple, Miss Lindsay, hello,” Esmie continued, taking a seat. She leaned forward and took Callie’s two hands in hers, looking her in the eye sympathetically.
“I was so, so sorry to hear of your family’s misfortune, Miss Maple. To have your home violated so.” Genevieve could see the other woman’s throat move as she swallowed. “I understand how you must be feeling.”
Callie’s eyes filled with tears. “Miss Bradley, please. You lost your mother. The situations are not comparable in the least. Do let me offer my condolences.”
“Thank you,” Esmie said. “But I have heard your grandmother is not well following the ordeal. Please know I am wishing for her speedy recovery.” Callie seemed so overcome by the other woman’s kindness that a sob burst from her, earning yet more censorious looks toward their table.
Eliza stood, flustered. “We really ought to leave.” She put her arm around Callie, who had begun to cry in earnest, and led her out of the overstuffed pink room. Genevieve stood also, counting out a few bills to leave on the table, and hurried after her friends, but a hand stopped her at the door.
“Wait, Genevieve,” said Esmie, who had followed her. Impatient, Genevieve paused, her hand on the doorknob of the restaurant. Esmie gestured her to one side.
Confusion joined her impatience as Genevieve stepped into a small recessed area of the entryway. Through the glass door, she saw her friends hail a cab.
“I should rejoin my companions, Esmie. It’s quite cold outside.” Adding insult to the injury of her dark mood, winter seemed to have decided to pay a return visit to their fair city. The temperature had been plummeting for days, the newly sprung crocuses dotting flower beds left bent and bewildered.
“This will only take a moment,” Esmie said, her voice low. Her pale-gray eyes met Genevieve’s, resolute. “I understand Miss Maple and her grandmother are staying with the Lindsay family at present?” she asked.
“Yes,” Genevieve answered, even more confused. Eliza and her father were insisting that the women stay as their guests. Genevieve suspected that the Maple townhouse, which had been in the family for three generations, would soon be sold.
But how did Esmie know this? And why did she care?
“I believe if they return to their home tomorrow morning, they may find what was lost,” the other woman said carefully. Her expression was perfectly neutral. “Good day to you.”
Without another word, Esmie quickly brushed past Genevieve and was out the door, refastening her veil as she departed.
The shock of what Esmie had said froze Genevieve in place for a full five seconds as she struggled to wrap her mind around its implications. Willing herself to move, she yanked open the tearoom door, only to gape as the stiffly held back of the slender, black-clad figure turned a corner and disappeared like a wraith.
Speechless, Genevieve climbed into the cab with her friends. Thankfully, Callie had calmed somewhat, and even more thankfully, neither asked why she had been a few moments delayed.
They had now retreated to the Lindsay townhouse on the Square’s west side, where Eliza had gamely tried to recreate the experience they might have had at the tearoom with cake, scones, and Darjeeling, but nobody felt much like eating anything.
Genevieve stared again at the cake on her plate, then glanced out the window. It was ridiculous, this sitting around. She stood, startling her friends, and began to spin a string of lies about why she must leave.
It was time for action. She feverishly hoped Daniel had not been harmed. But if he hadn’t and was off somewhere ignoring her, licking his wounds, she was done trying to find him. Someone had to continue their investigation, and Esmie Bradley had made it clear that perhaps tonight, all their questions would be answered.
And if he had been harmed … well, then tonight would be the first step toward justice.
* * *
The bar’s wooden surface was the most fascinating mixture of textures and color Daniel had ever seen. Different shades of brown swirled, expanded and contracted, merged with streaks of black and reemerged, in a mesmerizing pattern.
Just like Genevieve’s hair. Warm, honey-hued strands, tumbling down her bare shoulders.
Daniel shook his head mightily to clear the image, and realized with a start that he was examining the bar’s surface through the clear base of his glass.
His empty glass.
Well, that wouldn’t do.
He blearily raised his head and looked for the bartender, tapping his glass on the wooden surface to signal he was ready for a refill. The barkeep, looking up from his paper at the far end of the bar, glanced toward one of the tables lining the wall behind Daniel. Daniel followed his gaze and noted Paddy’s dispassionate nod.
Well, that wouldn’t do either.
“I don’t need his permission for more whiskey,” Daniel protested, casting an accusing glance at Paddy, who turned back to his own drink without acknowledging the claim.
The bartender wordlessly tipped more of the amber liquid into Daniel’s glass and returned to his side of the bar. Paddy and Billy nursed their drinks in silence. Daniel decided not to pursue the unjust arrangement—since when was Paddy his keeper, anyway?—and moodily sipped his fresh drink, enjoying the warm burn of the liquid coursing down his throat. He knew that soon the burn would stop and transform into a thin but necessary layer of fuzziness that would add to the existing layers of fuzziness, and all of these layers would pile up until they were the consistency of a thick blanket. The woolly kind. This woolly blanket would protect him. It would insulate him from the thoughts and memories that he couldn’t stop from buzzing around his brain, stinging him with tiny, painful pricks.
Yes, the woolly blanket was his shield. But it also itched.
The memories pushed through despite his efforts, stinging and itching. His baby sister Mary, toddling across the room toward his parents. His father, picking up his five-months-pregnant mother as if she were a slight girl and swinging her round while their children laughed with delight. Maggie’s sad face, telling him to be good in Boston.
Dammit, there wasn’t enough whiskey in the world to build the blanket he needed. Nothing could insulate him. Not from his wretched, painful past, and not from the present, stinging betrayal.
He had trusted her.
Daniel hadn’t allowed himself to trust anyone, not for years.
What he should have trusted was his gut. Goddamn the goddamn press. Anything for a story. And he had been taken in, had truly, honestly believed they were on the same side, that she’d keep his secrets.
He would never forget the sight of Asher, paper in hand, looking mildly stricken. That alone was cause for alarm, as typically a
n illustration of Asher’s countenance could serve as the definition for poker face in Merriam-Webster. At first Daniel had been amused at the headline, wondering why it had taken one of the papers so long to accuse him of being Robin Hood after his origins were exposed by Tommy at the Bradleys’ ball. Reading on, though, he found more intimate, private details of his life. There it was, words glaring at him from the page. The insinuation that Maggie had been Jacob’s lover. The hint that her death had been self-induced. There was the usual suggestion of foul play that had accompanied Daniel since his teen years, but he was accustomed to that. It was having the sad details of his beloved sister’s life and untimely death splashed about on the front page that cut him to ribbons and made him feel as though he were experiencing Maggie’s death all over again.
All written under her byline: Clive Huxton and Polly Palmer. She must have rushed to this Clive person instantly, spilled all she knew.
This was private. It was nobody else’s affair that poor Maggie had felt compelled to make the choices she had. His initial pain transformed to a hot, burning rage at the paper’s intrusion.
The fire in his insides quickly turned to ice. He stared at the paper, disbelieving. All that time they’d spent together. All that time trying to solve the mystery of Reginald’s death, of Elmira Bradley’s. All the secrets he had shared. It had all been simply fodder for her career.
Daniel couldn’t fully remember the details of the past—was it two or three?—days. They had turned into a blur of misery and recrimination directed both at himself and at her. First he’d gone to Kathleen’s for a while, hiding out and getting drunk, but when he couldn’t stand her I told you so look any longer, he had made his way to Five Points, hat pulled low. Once in the tangled den of back alleys and twisting side streets, he’d stumbled from one tavern to the next in his childhood neighborhood, sleeping for a few hours when necessary in one of the cheap boarding houses that littered this area of town. He’d needed to be away from the farcical lives of the wealthy, from their avid gazes and prying questions. He’d needed to be away from anything clean, anything fresh and bright. Anything that reminded him that he had let his guard down, been prepared to trust a wretched member of the press.