by Joanna Shupe
Tripp shrugged. “That you are promised to Livingston in a long-standing agreement between two important families. He values my insight as his lawyer, et cetera. Exactly what one would expect.”
She drained the rest of the champagne in her glass. “He told me you could sell water to a drowning man.”
Tripp laughed at that, the lines of his face easing, making him appear younger and more carefree. And yes, more handsome, dash it. “I’ve never tried so I could not say. Tell me, what about Livingston appeals to you?”
“You cannot be serious.”
He held up his hands as the waiter refilled their glasses. “Are we not to make polite conversation? I genuinely wish to know. What is it about a man like Livingston that interests you?”
This was hardly polite conversation. “It’s none of your business. And I have known Chauncey all my life. The decision for the two of us to marry was made years ago.”
“And you never complained? Never considered refusing?”
Of course she had, years ago. But her father would never relent. “It’s a good match. Our families are close and he is the type of man I’m expected to marry.”
Tripp’s mouth fell open before he quickly shut it. “A ringing endorsement if I ever heard one. Are you not bothered by the rumors of actresses and opium dens?”
Actresses? Opium dens? That hardly seemed like the Chauncey she knew, a man more interested in sailing and horses than vice. She studied Tripp’s face to gauge the veracity of those wild claims . . . yet she saw no sign of falsehood. The man is a practiced liar. Believe nothing that comes out of his mouth. “We are not yet betrothed. Chauncey is free to spend his time as he sees fit.”
“Ah, yes. That brings us to how you are spending your time—”
Black-coated waiters returned with plates. They served Mamie first. She stopped the waiter with her hand. “What is this?”
“A bisque of shrimp.”
“I didn’t order it.”
The waiter looked at Tripp then back to her. “The gentleman has preordered your dinner, miss.”
Without asking her first? Mamie took a deep breath. “Please have this removed. I have an aversion to shrimp. Mr. Sherry knows my dinner preferences. Tell him it is for Miss Marion Greene. If you would ask him to bring me those items instead, I would be most grateful.”
The waiter nodded and took the soup away. “And you, sir?”
Tripp rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Take mine away as well and just bring two of everything in Miss Greene’s order.”
The waiters disappeared and Tripp shifted in his chair, his expression contrite. “I apologize. I had no idea you hated shrimp. I only thought to save time by ordering in advance.”
Save time . . . and make decisions in her stead. “I’m quite capable of speaking my own mind.”
“So I’m gathering,” he murmured. “Look, this dinner has clearly started off on the wrong note. I apologize. May we begin again?”
Two apologies? She hadn’t expected that. “If I agree then will you drop this inquiry into my affairs?”
“You mean your stealing?”
She sucked in a harsh breath and cast glances at the neighboring tables. Thankfully, no one was close enough to overhear them. “Have a care, Tripp. I’ve not yet agreed to start over.”
“And neither have I. Remember, I know your secret. And if you wish for me to keep said secret then you’d best explain yourself.”
She would do no such thing. “Would you believe kleptomania?”
“Not even under oath.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “What is the purpose of this dinner? For you to pry into my life? Or to pass judgment and cast aspersions on my character? Because I had thought we called a truce.”
The lines of his face sharpened as he leaned in. She imagined this was what he looked like when handling a difficult witness in court. “I told you I wanted answers, Mamie, and I mean to have them.”
God, his arrogance. Her heart was pounding in her chest, every angry beat a reminder of how much she disliked him. “I am not on trial, Tripp—and I owe you absolutely nothing.”
Seething, Frank lounged in his chair and watched as Louis Sherry fawned over Mamie. The restaurateur had arrived moments ago with the first course to apologize for the mistake with their order. Then he promised to bring her all her favorite dishes tonight. Frank had absolved the owner of any wrongdoing, of course, but Sherry wouldn’t hear of it. He prided himself on service and couldn’t bear the thought of any customer leaving unsatisfied. While Frank respected Sherry for the dedication to his guests, he mostly felt annoyed at the interruption.
Annoyed because he still hadn’t received an answer on the reason behind her theft.
Annoyed because he’d erred badly this evening—and he hated to fail.
Annoyed because she looked exceptionally beautiful.
Annoyed because he had minded propriety instead of reserving a private suite for them.
He downed the rest of his champagne. A private suite with an unmarried woman who was the daughter of his client and who hated everything about him? Had he lost his damn mind?
There was no denying his fascination with Mamie. Fascination . . . and attraction. Yes, he was drawn to her. Not that he could act on it, but she was a spark that lit something inside him. He hadn’t experienced it before, this burning obsession, and certainly not with a female who loathed him. Who fought him at every turn. So why this one?
He had to forget her and move on. New York City was full of women, all of various shapes and colors. Finding a companion for a night or two hadn’t ever been a problem before, though it had been a while for him. A month, perhaps? He needed to dedicate more time to the endeavor, he thought as his gaze unwittingly drifted to Mamie’s décolletage. Oh, fuck. That view did not help matters whatsoever.
He quickly shifted toward the windows. Stop staring at her. She was the daughter of a client and not some trollop on display at a dance hall.
He needed to visit Mrs. Wright’s on West Twenty-Seventh Street and work this . . . restlessness out of his system. Tonight.
“What has put you in such a sour mood? Unable to lie to any judges today?”
He met her amused stare. “I’m hardly sour.”
Exhaling, she picked up her soup spoon and sampled the cream of artichoke soup. “I won’t answer your questions. I suppose that leaves us at an impasse.”
Frank nearly snorted. He’d never been at an impasse in his life. No, he was paid—quite handsomely—to maneuver around impasses. A very good thing, too. Seeing as the direct approach was clearly not working with Mamie, he’d need creativity and cunning to deal with her. Patience. Skill.
All that at which he excelled.
Growing up with nothing, Frank had learned early to play the long game. He’d spent years studying diligently, taking odd jobs, saving money, working through college. High marks had earned him an apprenticeship with an established attorney, where even more saving and studying had been required. No one gave you anything free in this life and the best rewards came as a result of hard work.
So he could wait for answers. He’d slowly chip away at Mamie’s resistance and build her trust until she told him everything.
“I suppose it does,” he lied and began eating his soup. “Tell me about your family. Your sisters. What are they like?”
She blinked, possibly confused at his easy capitulation, but answered. “Well, you’ve met Florence. My father calls her the hellion.”
“Why?”
“Because she believes rules don’t apply to her. She’s fearless.”
“And you follow the rules?”
The edges of her mouth turned up slightly before she sipped another spoonful of soup. “To you, it might seem like I do not. However, believe it or not, I’m the responsible one.”
“I don’t believe it, actually.” He reached for his champagne glass. “Nothing about what I have observed over the last six months demonstrates responsibility.�
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“You caught me in unexpected locations on three occasions. The rest of the time I’m playing dutiful daughter, society debutante and charity worker.”
“An unproven claim,” he could not help but return. She flashed him an angry glare and he held up his hands. “I apologize. Undoubtedly you are right and I have misjudged you.” Not likely.
Patience, Frank.
“And what of the youngest Greene sister, the one who has yet to come out?”
“Justine.” A fond smile softened her expression. “She is the best of all of us. That girl will change New York City one day.”
“How so?”
“She sees the good in everyone. A do-gooder by nature. Wishes to make the world a better place.”
He cocked his head and studied her. “You admire her.”
“Yes, I rather do. It’s hard not to, really—though she did take me in a game of billiards for twenty-five dollars earlier today.”
“You play?” That surprised him.
“A bit. Our father hardly uses the billiards room so it’s become our clubhouse of sorts. What about you? Do you play?”
“A time or two.” A lie. Frank had practically paid for college using his pool-playing skills. No need to recount those sordid tales, especially as he’d told everyone he came from a wealthy family.
Black-coated waiters arrived to clear the soup bowls as she asked, “What of your family?”
A heaviness settled in his stomach, one that had nothing to do with food. “Happily living in Chicago,” he lied.
“Is that so? What does your father do?”
Toast points topped with caviar were placed on the table, but Frank hardly noticed. Dead from alcohol after beating his wife and family for years. “My grandfather made some money out in Dakota. Copper mine.” The falsehood tripped easily off his tongue after so many years.
Her gaze narrowed slightly. “And where did you go to school?”
“Yale.”
“Was any of that the truth?”
He stilled. No one had ever seen through the stories he told to protect himself. No. One. “Why on earth would I lie?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “But your eyes . . . they dimmed when you were just speaking. I get the sense you’re not telling me the truth.”
Panic gripped the edges of his chest, squeezing. He could only imagine telling her the real story of his childhood.
Well, you see, I grew up in a shack down off Worth Street. In fact, a tenement would have been a palace in comparison. There were seven of us packed inside, practically on top of each other in the filth and grime. One brother died on the streets in a gang fight. Another brother was nearly killed in a factory machine accident. My two sisters . . . Well, let’s just say they were put to work early. Me? I hustled and studied. And, thanks to the generosity of a saloon owner who pitied me, I made it out. I changed my last name and went to a boarding school as a charity case. Once there, I never looked back.
He studied his soup as if memorizing it. “I’m due for a visit, is all. My mother’s been after me for the better part of six months to come home.”
She heaved a sigh. “The Greenes may be rich but we are not stupid.”
He was beginning to see that. Not that he ever thought her stupid, per se, but she was far more complex than he’d given her credit for. But he still wasn’t telling her the truth.
No one knew his history . . . and no one ever would.
“But I will let it go,” she said, popping a piece of toast and caviar in her mouth. “For now.”
He couldn’t help it: he chuckled. “I’m beginning to think you are the lawyer at this table. I feel like I’m on the witness stand.”
“Without even trying, I might add. Imagine if I actually devoted my energy to the task.” She appeared all too pleased with herself, with her eyes sparkling and a wide grin on her face. The verbal sparring between them excited her as well, and that knowledge slipped under his skin to wrap around his insides, heating him everywhere. If she were not the daughter of a client or twenty-three years old and unmarried . . . the two of them might have had a great deal of fun together in bed.
But she was those things and to pretend otherwise was foolish.
Frank had gone to great lengths to distance himself from his childhood, Five Points and the rest of the Murphies. What was he supposed to do, invite those miscreants to Fifth Avenue for tea? Yes, he secretly kept tabs on them. Sent money to his mother anonymously. Had even bailed his brother out of the Tombs a few years back. However, that part of his life was over. He had a different future mapped out for himself—and it didn’t include a bunch of thieves, lowlifes and alcoholics.
Nor did his future include a blue-blooded wife. One who would expect honesty and fidelity. Frank descended from a long line of men who hadn’t been capable of staying with a single woman. He’d seen firsthand what cheating had done to his mother, how it belittled and shamed her. Women coming around the shack looking for their father, some with small babies. God only knew how many children Colin Murphy had fathered.
What wealthy family would hire him if they knew? His career would be over if his lower-class upbringing became public. His clients and partners in the firm believed he’d grown up in privilege, as they had. He’d concocted an elaborate backstory that included money, private school and an elite university. There was no going back on that now, not unless he planned to walk away from everything he’d built.
And he loved his life far too much to ever leave it . . . or let someone destroy it.
Mamie could barely restrain herself from digging for more information. Frank had obviously lied; she’d been around him enough to recognize the signs. So what had he been lying about? Yale? Chicago? The copper mine? All of it?
She wanted to reassure him that stories of a less than ideal childhood would not shock her. While her own upbringing had been full of love and comfort, her visits downtown had certainly opened her eyes to the struggles other families faced.
More than a year ago, Mamie had asked Justine to suggest a charity endeavor for her. There were only so many balls, trips to Newport and operas Mamie could take. She’d longed for something more, a way to help people less fortunate. Justine had suggested the Sixth Ward Advancement Committee, which assisted needy families around Five Points.
Through the committee, Mamie had seen the awful conditions of the tenements, the small confines crammed with too many bodies. The children, most of all, broke her heart. Forced to earn wages at an early age, they seemed far older than their years. Most did not escape but went on to hold low-earning or dangerous jobs as adults. Hopelessness permeated every alley, every street lamp and every cobblestone.
The Advancement Committee wished to convert those they helped to Christianity, even though many families practiced other religions. Mamie had protested, asking why aid could not be provided freely, why a religious stipulation must be placed on receiving charity.
She was asked not to return to the committee meetings.
So, she began lending aid herself. She chose families rejected by the Advancement Committee and Florence had taught her the basics of how to pick a pocket. Yes, she stole to acquire the aid money, but where was the harm in taking something that would never be missed and giving it to someone in desperate need? Those in the top stratum had so much, while others near the bottom had nothing. It was righting a wrong based only on circumstances of birth.
She studied Frank over the rim of her glass. He was so perfectly attired, meticulously groomed. Nothing out of place. The most expensive fabrics and accessories. Yet he was not Chauncey, who dressed similarly but was bred in laziness and privilege. Frank was rougher, with an edge that spoke of determination and drive.
It was such an edge that interested her.
“Why did you pursue law?”
He leaned back, champagne glass dangling from his fingers. Guests carried on conversations around them, the main dining room boisterous and bright. Mamie hardly noticed.
Frank consumed her attention, almost as if the two of them were alone tonight. It was strangely intimate, though they dined in a very public place.
“I wished to make a difference, I suppose.”
“And have you?”
“I like to think so, at least in the lives of my clients.”
“Like my father?”
“Yes.”
“What sort of legal assistance has he required over the years?”
“You know I cannot answer that, Mamie—”
“Evening, Tripp!”
A couple now stood next to the table. They were well dressed but Mamie didn’t recognize them as members of high society. The woman, a statuesque blonde, appeared to be in her early thirties while the gentleman was considerably older.
“Phillips.” Frank rose and shook the man’s hand, then turned to the wife. She lifted her hand and Frank dutifully kissed the back of it. “Mrs. Phillips.”
“Frank,” Mrs. Phillips drawled, “how nice to see you. It has been ages.”
“Indeed.” Frank moved back and addressed the husband. “Mr. and Mrs. Phillips, may I introduce Miss Greene?”
Mr. Phillips smiled kindly at Mamie and bowed. “Miss Greene. This scamp is treating you well, I trust.”
“As well as can be expected,” she returned. “We are speaking of Mr. Tripp, of course. Good evening, Mrs. Phillips.”
The wife frowned at Mamie, barely giving her a nod, before smiling broadly at Frank. Suspicion prickled along the back of Mamie’s neck. She’d witnessed jealousy in other women before. Had something transpired between Mrs. Phillips and Frank at some point in the past?
“How was Vienna?” Frank asked Mr. Phillips.
“Boring,” Mrs. Phillips said before her husband could answer. “We’re so glad to be returned to New York.”
“Now, it wasn’t as bad as that.” Mr. Phillips leaned in closer to Frank. “I had quite a number of meetings. You know women. They hate to have too much free time on their hands.”