The Rogue of Fifth Avenue

by Joanna Shupe

  “Do you not wish to?”

  She held perfectly still and awaited his answer. Perhaps he wasn’t actually attracted to her. Perhaps she’d misread his actions.

  She did not think so, however.

  His eyes closed briefly. “Yes, I want to . . . I shouldn’t, though.”

  “Because of my father?”

  It was a cheap accusation, guaranteed to annoy him, but she wasn’t going to give up. She’d worked to master roulette, craps and other games of chance. She knew what it meant to risk a little in hopes of earning a lot.

  She was willing to bet on Frank.

  “Because it’s inappropriate, Mamie. You are unmarried. Those things should be saved for your husband.”

  “Chauncey?”

  He visibly winced—and satisfaction flooded her like a righteous wave. Was he picturing her and Chauncey together? “If that is who you marry, then yes.”

  “It’s absurd. Why must I save myself for marriage? No such restrictions exist for Chauncey. He’s expected to have mistresses.”

  “Because that is the way the world works. Consequences exist for you that men don’t need to worry about.”

  “The women they’re with need to worry about it, however.”

  “Those women aren’t Duncan Greene’s daughters.”

  Back to her father. Could he ever forget, even for one second, who she was? “So women like Mrs. Porter, women like Chauncey’s singer, they don’t matter? They deserve the consequences?”

  “Don’t twist my words. You are asking me to engage in illicit behavior with you and I am refusing.”

  The bigger mansions began to appear out the brougham glass. Vanderbilt’s French chateau. The Bostwicks. The Astors. Places in which she had dined and danced. Where she’d rubbed elbows with the city’s wealthiest and most influential residents. It was a life built on money, greed and maintaining rules created almost a century ago.

  It exhausted her.

  Women were marching in the streets downtown, demanding the right to vote. Demanding temperance laws. Demanding better treatment for the city’s underprivileged. Uptown, however, the streets were quiet. Clean and spacious. There were no calls to action here, no angry mobs. Social visits were made between two and four o’clock, drives in the park at five. Dressed for dinner at eight o’clock, dancing until two. Perhaps if she’d never ventured downtown, if she had stayed in her gilded bubble, she would’ve happily married Chauncey, mistress or not.

  However, the world was bigger than these forty blocks. Mamie had seen it with her own eyes, and there was no going back.

  Which was how she knew Frank had to agree.

  “You’re no stranger to illicit behavior,” she told him. “I’ve read about your conquests for years. If you are not attracted to me, then I won’t ever ask—”

  “Christ. I cannot believe we are having this conversation,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I should have let you hire a hansom.”

  “Yes, you should have.” She lifted a shoulder. “You only have yourself to blame.”

  “I have no issue with illicit behavior when both parties willingly consent. However, you are betrothed—”

  “Not yet. Nothing has been signed, as you well know.”

  “Semantics. You told me yourself the understanding has been in place for ages. If anything became public you would be ruined. Your father would be furious. Chauncey would be humiliated. What you are suggesting is the height of irresponsibility.”

  “I’m no stranger to irresponsibility. Perhaps you should allow me to worry about how this might affect my future.”

  “And what of mine? Taking you to bed jeopardizes my career.”

  “Because of my father?”

  “And all his Fifth Avenue cronies I represent. Your father carries great influence, Mamie. These men tend to stick together.”

  She knew that to be true. Her father had ruined a family’s standing because the eldest son had offended Florence. Duncan had turned all the husbands and wives against the family, ensuring they were cut from the social lists, and the family moved to Albany three years ago.

  Perhaps Frank was not the best man for this job.

  If he wanted her beyond reason, passionately—like the men in the novels Florence hid under her bed—he’d overlook her father and the potential consequences to his career. But it seemed he didn’t desire her in that way. After all, he could have any woman he wanted. Just because she was desperately attracted to him didn’t mean the feeling was reciprocated.

  Disappointing, but not devastating.

  There were other men in New York City, ones not attached to her father in any manner. Mamie merely needed to encounter one who met her criteria. Handsome, successful, generous, kind and funny. A man who made her feel safe. Who encouraged her to be herself, not just Duncan Greene’s eldest daughter.

  “Fine.” She watched the familiar neighborhood pass as they rode.

  “What does that mean, fine?” he asked after a beat.

  “It means I’ll find someone else. My partner in illicit behavior need not be you.”

  A sound of disbelief erupted from his throat. “You cannot mean that.”

  “Do you honestly believe you are the only attractive man in Manhattan? Please. Handsome men are as plentiful as the horse droppings here.”

  “Not sure how I feel about that comparison but, thank you?”

  She chuckled. “Cannot allow compliments to go to your head. Besides, you’re perfectly aware of your effect on the female gender.”

  “You are attempting to distract me and I’m not about to let this go. You cannot engage in an affair.”

  “I’m a young, unmarried wealthy woman in the greatest city in the world. I may do whatever I please—and whatever I do is hardly your concern.”

  “So, we’re back to this?”

  “I suppose we are. You cannot track me all the time, Daniel Boone.”

  “No, but you are my employee. Perhaps I’ll hire a few Pinkertons to watch over you.”

  Was he jealous? She angled to see his face. “Why do you care if I sleep with a man before or after I marry Chauncey?”

  His lips were flat and white, unhappiness etched in the depths of his eyes. “Why does it matter to you, my reasons for objecting?”

  “You’re answering a question with another question. Stop using your lawyer tricks on me.”

  “I am using reason. I apologize if you confuse them for the same thing.”

  Very well. She’d be direct instead of vague. That seemed to be the only way to deal with Frank. “Are you attracted to me?”

  “Mamie—”

  “Answer the question, Frank. If my father were not Duncan Greene, would you try to get me in your bed?”

  “Yes,” he growled. “I’ve already told you I want you.”

  “I thought it was necessary to hear it again.”

  “Why?”

  The carriage slowed as they arrived outside the stone mansion she shared with her family. “For when I try to seduce you.”

  For when I try to seduce you.

  Seduce. You.

  So distracted by Mamie’s departing words moments ago, Frank nearly tripped going up the steps outside his home. That woman was dangerous. How was he supposed to concentrate on anything ever again after hearing her say such a scandalous thing?

  And his cock thought seduction a dandy idea, thickening and making a nuisance of itself.

  But he was more than his cock and balls. He was the best damn lawyer in the state. Perhaps the East Coast. He’d risen from filth to own a mansion designed by McKim, Mead & White, for fuck’s sake. His determination could easily withstand an intelligent, gorgeous, voluptuous, daring—

  “Good evening, sir,” his butler announced when Frank entered the vestibule.

  He exhaled and shook off the lingering talons of desire. “Evening, Barney.”

  The butler grimaced ever so slightly at the shortened version of his given surname, Barna
by. Frank couldn’t help it; he liked to keep the proper man on his toes. “You are home early,” Barnaby commented as he took Frank’s derby and walking stick. “Shall I keep the carriage ready for any plans tonight?”

  “No, I’ll be staying in. I have work to catch up on. Have some supper sent to my office, will you?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Frank hefted his leather satchel and continued to the office in the back of the house. Familiar sights and sounds greeted him, as well as the smell of lemon polish used by the staff on the wood. He loved this house.

  Hours later, the fire in his office had started to burn low when Barnaby knocked. “Sir, Superintendent Byrnes is here to see you.”

  Frank tapped the end of his pen on the rosewood desk. Byrnes, here? Frank wasn’t handling any big cases that would attract the superintendent’s attention. “Send him back.”

  A big burly man of Irish descent, Thomas Byrnes was considered by many to be a tyrant. Yes, he had reorganized and sharpened the city’s police detectives, but some of the interrogation methods he used were cruel and coercive. Byrnes would sometimes beat a suspect until he confessed, a technique he called the “third degree.” On two separate occasions, Frank had barred Byrnes from questioning a client without him present. Likely that hadn’t endeared him to the superintendent but Frank hardly cared.

  Byrnes walked in, clothed in a bespoke suit of navy check. An impressive mustache covered the lower half of his face. “Evenin’, Tripp. Hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”

  Frank was already on his feet with his coat in place. He held out a hand. “Superintendent, this is a surprise. I didn’t realize I had anything pending under your purview.”

  Byrnes unbuttoned his topcoat and lowered himself into the armchair across from Frank’s desk. A gold watch chain dangled from his silk vest. If not for his rough accent Byrnes could pass for any uptown swell in New York. “You don’t—not directly anyway. However, it turns out there is a little matter I need to discuss with you about a case.”

  “Oh?”

  “I hear you are representing a Sixth Ward resident for murder.”

  Frank paused. There was only one current client who fit that description. “Bridget Porter?”

  “Yes. That’s her.”

  “Mrs. Porter is indeed my client. Not certain how that concerns you, though.”

  “It’s about her dead husband. And one of my detectives.”

  “Who’s the detective?”

  “Edward Porter.”

  “Porter, as in . . .” A heavy weight settled in Frank’s stomach.

  “Cousin to the deceased, Roy Porter.”

  Frank sighed and tapped the end of a pen on his journal. He was beginning to understand why Byrnes had paid this call . . . and he didn’t like it. “Let me guess? The detective isn’t too fond of his late cousin’s wife.”

  Byrnes hooked a thumb in the tiny pocket of his vest. “Now, we all know marriages have squabbles, Tripp. That ain’t a matter for the police or the courts. These things should be handled quietly, internally—”

  “So why didn’t Edward step in to prevent dear-old-Roy from beating the tar out of his wife every weekend?”

  “I cannot say. But Roy’s dead and there’s a woman responsible. She murdered him in cold blood and deserves to pay the price.”

  “Hardly cold blood and you know it.”

  Byrnes held up his palms. “If it was such a problem then why not have her husband arrested? There are plenty of judges who dislike the men who perpetuate these crimes. A few will even take the husbands out back and horsewhip them to bring them in line.”

  Frank had also heard similar stories and applauded those judges. “That only helps if the husband is arrested. I’m beginning to understand why Mrs. Porter’s complaints would’ve fallen on deaf ears, however.”

  “We look out for our own, that’s true, but our policemen are honest, good men. They wouldn’t turn their backs on a citizen in dire need.”

  As a connoisseur of a deft turn of phrase, Frank recognized the specific word choice on Byrnes’s part. So, who determined dire need? What about just plain old need? “You said yourself marital squabbles aren’t for the police, that they should be handled internally. Where was Mrs. Porter to turn, then?”

  “Come now. You know the department doesn’t have the time or resources to break up every argument between a husband and his wife. However, if her life was truly in danger then the police would’ve stepped in.”

  Frank doubted it, not with her husband’s cousin on the force. Roy Porter could have avoided any number of misdemeanors or felonies by dropping his cousin’s name. The police force was so ripe with corruption—bribes, blackmail, torture—that “we look the other way” should be engraved on the badges. “What would you have me do?”

  “Let the court appoint another attorney. Your talents are wasted on such a trivial matter.”

  In other words, let Mrs. Porter hang.

  In previous years Frank would have agreed. It was a terrible idea to anger Byrnes, who was vindictive and petty to those who had wronged him. Moreover, these quid pro quo deals were common in New York City. Frank couldn’t begin to count the number of men who owed him favors at this point.

  And still . . .

  Mamie’s face came to mind, the fierce light in her gaze as she’d insisted on Frank’s help for Mrs. Porter. The way she’d cradled the baby to assist Mrs. Barrett. How she stole money and redistributed it downtown.

  Mr. Tripp is the very best attorney in the city. He’ll get you acquitted, I promise.

  Shit.

  He couldn’t let Mamie down.

  His leg bounced under the desk as he contemplated all the repercussions of what he was about to say. Developing a conscience was a damn nuisance. “I can’t do that, Byrnes. I mean to keep the case and see that Mrs. Porter is acquitted.”

  Byrnes’s lips flattened, his mustache twitching in barely repressed anger. “I’ve always taken you for a smart man, one who knows how these things work. Do not give me cause to rethink my opinion.”

  Frank pushed away from the desk and rose. “I suppose we are both full of surprises tonight.”

  Byrnes heaved himself out of the chair and buttoned his jacket. He said nothing else, just leveled a hard glare at Frank before turning on his heel and striding out of the room.

  That had gone . . . poorly.

  Frank had just made an enemy of the entire New York City police department.

  “Florence, I need your help.”

  It was almost midnight when Mamie strode into her sister’s suite. Florence tended to stay awake all night and sleep until the afternoon. She claimed the routine was better for her complexion. More like better for her scandalous lifestyle.

  Florence was reclining on her bed in her nightclothes. She quickly shoved something under her pillow and sat up, scowling. “Have you lost the ability to knock?”

  Mamie raised a brow as she approached the bed. “And what was that, a love letter?”

  “None of your concern, nosy. Why are you up so late? I thought you had a headache.”

  Mamie had complained of the ailment as a way of avoiding the Van Alan’s party tonight. She had too much on her mind to stand around eating canapés and drinking champagne. “I preferred not to go. Was it gay?”

  “It was positively awful, full of Daddy’s cronies and their wives. Not a single handsome man in attendance.”

  Mamie perched on Florence’s mattress. “That does sound terrible. I apologize for deserting you.”

  Florence settled into her pillows, her long wheat-colored hair framing her face. “Chauncey was there.”

  “Was he?”

  “Yes. He and Daddy were off in a corner for a few minutes. Chauncey appeared unhappy with whatever Daddy said.”

  Had that been over the infidelity clause? “That’s what I need your help with.”

  “Who, Chauncey or Daddy? I fear I have little help to offer with either. Men are positively bafflin
g.”

  “It’s even worse than you know.” Mamie launched into the entire story of the marriage agreement, their father, and Chauncey’s mistress.

  Florence’s face had gone red by the time Mamie finished, the tendons in her neck standing out in sharp relief. “He actually told you he refuses to give up his lady friend? Said that, aloud? I hope you slapped him.”

  Mamie’s lips curved. Florence had always been the feistiest of the Greene girls. “No, I told him I’d speak with Daddy about having that clause removed from the agreement.”

  “God, Mamie. I cannot see how you stay so practical in these matters.”

  Because she had no choice. She was the eldest, most responsible sister. Protecting her two siblings, allowing them to find their own happiness, was her duty. Her father’s determination was legendary, a trait she’d witnessed time and time again. And he was determined for this marriage to happen.

  One summer when she was twelve, she’d overheard her father chatting with Mr. Livingston, discussing Mamie and Chauncey . . .

  “Kids seem to be getting along,” Livingston said.

  “Yes, not that it matters.” Her father’s voice had been hard. “We agreed on the marriage when they were born and I won’t back out on that promise.”

  “Even if she doesn’t want him? Girls today are much more independent than in our day.”

  “Not Marion. She’ll do as I ask.”

  “You have two other girls, Duncan.”

  “No, it must be Marion. She’s the oldest and everyone in society knows of our pact. We’d look foolish to call it off now.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. And, rest assured Chauncey won’t fight me on it. He’s quite fond of her.”

  “Marion will do her duty when the time comes. The other two may marry whomever they wish, as long as Marion marries Chauncey.”

  Over the years, her father had repeated much the same to Mamie each time she expressed hesitation over marrying Chauncey. He would never bend, and she didn’t wish to disappoint him.

  So she’d stopped complaining.

  “Did you actually talk to Daddy?” Florence asked, regaining Mamie’s attention.

  “Yes. He refused to remove the clause from the agreement and accused me of being the one interested in infidelity.”