The Rogue of Fifth Avenue

by Joanna Shupe

  “So you’ll marry Chauncey instead?”

  “Why is it you or Chauncey? Why must I choose any husband?”

  “Because your father will do it for you unless you marry me.”

  “So, what? We elope?”

  “If you like.” He didn’t care for weddings, hadn’t attended but a few. City Hall would suit him just fine.

  “The romance of this proposal is positively overwhelming. I think I’d better sit before I swoon,” she said, sarcasm dripping in her voice.

  He dragged a hand over his jaw. “Better than Livingston, telling you he planned to keep his mistress during your marriage. Are you saying that was romantic?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “I cannot marry you. I cannot marry anyone at the moment.”

  A band tightened across his chest, the air squeezing out of his lungs. This had not progressed as he’d hoped. “Because of your father.”

  “He is one of the reasons.” She picked up her dress and shoes. “Not to mention, you never really asked me.”

  She carried her clothing to the bathing chamber adjoining his suite. Damn it. He’d bungled this. The first woman he’d ever considered taking as his wife and she was walking away from him. Do something, idiot. “Will you marry me?” he called after her retreating back.

  “No,” she answered immediately, then disappeared inside the bath and shut the door. The lock engaged, the sound like a gunshot in the empty room.

  Failure stung like needles under his skin. He hated this feeling, this helplessness churning inside him. He hadn’t expected her to say no.

  His argument, he’d thought, had been a good one. Marriage to him prevented the need for her to marry Chauncey, and he would gain the most vivacious and beautiful woman in New York as his bride. Duncan would pose a problem at first, but one Frank could manage.

  He’d continue to lie about his past, adding in a tragic tale to explain the lack of living relatives to Mamie. It wasn’t a perfect situation, but what was the alternative? For Mamie to marry Chauncey in a month?

  No, absolutely not.

  Mamie belonged to Frank, not that foolish peacock. He had to find a way to convince her. The romance of this proposal is overwhelming. True, it had been a bit on the practical side. A good thing, then, that Frank knew how to charm women.

  Indeed, he would woo her. Show her he was serious, that he cared for her and really did wish to marry her. And he wouldn’t stop until he won her over.

  After all, he’d escaped that shack and become the best lawyer in the city. He had a big house on the city’s most desirable street. Any night he wished he could dine at the popular restaurants, attend the sold-out performances or relax at any of the exclusive clubs. He hadn’t risen to this level of success by sitting back and waiting for things to happen. No, he’d worked hard—and then worked a bit harder—until he got what he wanted.

  And he wanted Mamie Greene.

  “I won’t stop asking you,” he shouted at the closed door.

  “And I won’t stop turning you down,” she shouted back.

  He reached for his trousers and smirked. “Challenge accepted,” he said under his breath. “We shall see who wins, Marion Greene.”

  The next morning Frank bounded out of his house later than usual. After he’d seen Mamie home safely—much to her annoyance—he hadn’t been able to sleep. His mind kept turning over the problem of how to win her over. Flowers were too tepid. Jewelry too traditional. Mamie was unique, unlike other women who needed material things. A woman out stealing money to support families downtown would not find a bauble or bouquet flattering.

  He had to think grand.

  And he also needed to think quickly. He had less than four weeks to convince her. That was not a lot of time.

  His town carriage waited at the curb. After nodding a greeting to his driver, he climbed up. Perhaps he’d read some reports on his way downtown.

  He sat—and recoiled in surprise. A man waited inside, one he hadn’t seen but once in fifteen years. “What are you doing in here?”

  Patrick’s mouth twisted. “Now, is that any way to greet your long-lost brother?”

  Frowning, Frank leaned toward the window. “Wait a moment,” he called to his driver. “Stay here until I say.”

  Smith, his driver, tipped his hat and said nothing. Frank would need to learn how Patrick gained access to the carriage, but that could wait.

  He tried to relax and appear as if Patrick’s presence hadn’t unnerved him. “Well?”

  Patrick stretched out his legs and folded his hands. Uncanny how much his brother resembled their father, with his sharp chin and dark blue eyes. It was a face that still haunted Frank’s dreams.

  “Care to tell me why you’re havin’ a man tail me?”

  Frank fought to hide a reaction. Clumsy of Otto to let Patrick spot him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Frankie. The man who was with you in the athletic club, he’s been following me and digging into my life. The only person who would’ve asked him to bother is you. So tell me, why have you suddenly developed an interest in your family?”

  “Ridiculous. I wouldn’t bother to have you followed, not with the company you’re keeping.”

  Patrick’s gaze narrowed, a flash of anger appearing before he masked it. “So high and mighty. You always thought you knew everything, and I can see that’s not changed in all these years.”

  “Enlighten me, then. Tell me you’re not one of Jack Mulligan’s thugs.”

  “I’ve watched you from a distance.” He glanced down and brushed lint from his clean but well-worn trousers. “Important fancy lawyer in your big house on Fifth Avenue. I always wondered why you didn’t move away when you left home. Why you’ve stayed in New York City when it’s clear you could live anywhere you wished. Then I got pinched and locked up in the Tombs. Imagine my surprise when someone sprung me, paid my bail and managed to get the charges dropped. Not many could accomplish such a feat, not even Jack. I realized then it was you.”

  “No, it certainly was not—”

  “Then there’s the money,” Patrick said, interrupting. “Ma gets two hundred dollars every month, no note, no receipt. Just an envelope of cash. She hid it for a long time and didn’t tell me. The old man’s been dead going on eight years, so why keep the money a secret from me, the only child who’s bothered to stick around?”

  Frank said nothing. A giant lump rested in his throat. Where was Patrick going with this?

  “You couldn’t leave us alone, could you? That’s why you didn’t move away. You think we need you, that we’re these poor, pathetic creatures who exist beneath you. Like you’re some white knight ridin’ to our rescue in a Brothers Grimm tale.”

  Anger sparked in Frank’s chest, eclipsing any surprise over the information Patrick imparted. “You were arrested for stealing, Patrick. Were you so eager to spend time in jail, then?”

  “I was caught taking something back that belonged to me, something a lot of men have tried to take the last few years. I just happened to retrieve it at the wrong time and was noticed by a roundsman. Doing a few months in the Tombs would be worth it, seeing as how I was successful in getting my property back.”

  “So I should’ve let you rot inside the prison, with the disease and vermin—not to mention Mulligan’s enemies.”

  “You still don’t understand. We don’t need you. The Murphies wrote Frank Murphy off ages ago, when it was clear you were ashamed of your background. What kind of last name is Tripp anyway?” He scoffed a deep laugh. “Not very creative, are you?”

  “Fuck off,” he growled, unable to help himself.

  “No, fuck you, Frank Tripp.” Patrick leaned forward, his face taut. “Fuck you for lording your wealth and privilege over us, like we should be grateful for any crumbs you deign to throw.”

  “That’s not what I am doing. I’m trying to help.”

  Patrick’s mouth
twisted into a bitter, cynical line. “Let me tell you about your help, then. Do you know what happens every month when Ma receives that envelope of cash?” He paused for an answer, but Frank said nothing. “She breaks down and cries for hours. Hours, Frank. She’s never spent one cent of that money, just shoves it in her mattress. When I asked her why, she said, ‘That’s Frankie’s money. I’ll give it back to him when he comes home.’”

  Frank’s tongue grew thick with emotion. He cleared his throat. Twice. “I wanted to ease her burdens.”

  Patrick shook his head. “Living way up here, with your fancy house and fancier women, all these servants . . . you think money is the most important thing in the world. What you don’t understand is that you broke her heart when you left. She doesn’t need money from you. She would rather know her son than have a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “You’re wrong. She was grateful when I left.”

  “Because you were going to school. She wanted a better life for you—we all did—but she didn’t know you were never coming back.”

  Frank clenched his jaw and stared out the window. Was that true? He could still picture her the day he left.

  She was in the kitchen, his father asleep in the back room. Frank knew to keep quiet, not to wake his father, especially not so early in the day. Colin had stumbled in around dawn, one of the working girls helping him inside. They’d been loud and drunk, reeking of gin. Frank had peeked from his pallet on the far side of the room to find his father’s hand down the front of the woman’s dress, their mouths tangled. He’d rolled to face the wall and crawled beneath his pillow.

  It was then he’d decided to take Mr. Stone up on his offer.

  “Ma, Mr. Stone says I can go to a boarding school he knows of out in New Jersey.”

  She paused stirring the soup on the stove. “Who’ll pay for this school?”

  “He will.”

  She had stared at him, hard. “And what does he expect in return from you?”

  “Nothing. He says I’m good at doing the books, that he should have been paying me more all along. I think this is his way of making amends.”

  “Frankie, no one does a good deed out of the kindness of his or her heart. He must want something from you.”

  “No, it’s not like that. He said I should go and get a degree. Get out of this neighborhood.”

  A voice boomed from the back. “Shut up, you stupid cow. Can’t you see I’m sleepin’?”

  Frank flinched and his eyes darted to where his father slept. “Why do you let him talk to you like that?” he whispered.

  His mother pulled him deeper into the kitchen, hugged him and kept her voice soft. “Go, my darling boy. Go take on the world and never look back.”

  “But she told me . . .” He trailed off. It hardly mattered now, not after all this time.

  “Stop following me and stop sendin’ her money. You’ve been gone for fifteen years. Leave us alone. We’re doing just fine without you.”

  “Indeed, fine,” he said, not bothering to conceal his sarcasm. “You’re in Mulligan’s gang and our mother still resides in the shack on Worth. Sounds dandy.”

  “You arrogant son of a . . .” Patrick’s jaw hardened. “I work for Mulligan, but not in the gang. I’m a brewer, for God’s sake. Part owner in my own brewery. And if you’d bother to see the inside of that house on Worth Street, you’d notice quite a lot of changes from the old days. But you haven’t bothered, have you?”

  Frank remained quiet. They both knew the answer to that question.

  Patrick reached over and threw open the door. He put one foot on the step and then turned. “We don’t need to be rescued. Not by you. Not by anyone. Leave us the hell alone.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The first gift arrived that next afternoon.

  Mamie was having tea with her sisters and mother when their butler, Williams, arrived. “Miss Marion, a delivery has arrived for you. We’ve left it in the entryway.”

  “Ooh.” Florence sent Mamie a knowing glance before she jumped up and hurried toward the door. “What could it be?”

  Mamie had confided vague details about last night’s activities to Florence, who thought Mamie was insane for turning down Frank’s proposal. No matter how many times Mamie explained her reasoning, Florence said she was letting their father win.

  Mamie preferred to believe she was saving Frank from the wrath of Duncan Greene.

  She put those thoughts aside for now and chased after her younger sister. Their mother and Justine followed as well, everyone headed toward the front door. What sort of gift had arrived? Flowers? Chauncey hadn’t sent a gift before, but perhaps he was worried she’d never sign the—

  She stopped short. In the entryway was a bicycle, with its gleaming metal and small leather seat. Large wheels and flat handlebars. A glossy red ribbon had been tied to the front.

  She blinked and tried to make sense of it. Chauncey definitely hadn’t sent this. He viewed bicycles as feminine acts of rebellion. That meant . . .

  “Look, there’s a card,” Justine said, strolling forward when Mamie paused. “Open it, Mamie, and tell us who it’s from.” Lifting the card from the ribbon, she walked it over to Mamie.

  Swallowing, Mamie opened the card.

  For my little rebel.

  Warmth settled in her belly, a squishy tenderness far more drastic than anything she’d experienced before. Only one person could’ve written that card. How had he known? She hadn’t told him of her conversation with Chauncey, who believed the bicycle was something only troublesome women enjoyed. Yet somehow Frank had chosen the perfect gift, something meaningful as well as fun.

  She adored it.

  I won’t stop asking you.

  Was he attempting to soften her up with gifts? If so, he would end up disappointed. She was Duncan Greene’s eldest daughter and all that entailed. For Frank, any association with her meant the end to his social standing, his career and his wealth. She couldn’t let that happen to him.

  And besides, he’d assumed marriage a foregone conclusion once the topic had been raised. No ring, no proposal. Not even an I love you. Just a calm, logical decision about his life that now happened to include her.

  No, thank you. That wasn’t how she wanted her future decided.

  “Chauncey is so very clever,” Justine said. “This is an extraordinary gift.”

  Mamie shot a glance at Florence, who merely smirked. Then Mamie tucked the card into a pocket within her skirts. No need to correct the youngest Greene sibling on the giver of said gift at the moment. She couldn’t very well tell her mother that Frank Tripp was wooing her.

  The front door swung open. Their father appeared, his face softening as soon as he saw the group gathered in the entryway. “Well, I am certainly lucky today. All my girls are in one place.”

  “Daddy, look! Chauncey sent Mamie a bicycle.” Justine went and kissed his cheek. “Isn’t it great?”

  He handed his satchel, cane and derby to the butler, then ran a hand through his hair to smooth it. “That certainly is smart. Well done, Chauncey,” he said as he examined the bicycle. “You know, I’ve seen them in the park but never ridden one myself. Have you tried it out, Mamie?”

  “No, not yet.” She had practical knowledge of how the machine worked, but hadn’t actually ridden before.

  “You and your sisters should take it out. The weather is beautiful. Just keep an eye out for streetcars.”

  Their mother had agreed, shooing the girls out into the spring air to try out the new toy. It had been an absolute gay time. Both Florence and Justine planned to ask their father to purchase more bicycles for the family.

  “Chauncey would succumb to a fit of the vapors if he saw you riding that,” Florence whispered as she and Mamie watched Justine pedal along the path. “How could anyone believe it’s from him?”

  Hard to say. Must have been wishful thinking, since Chauncey hadn’t ever bothered to send her anything. Not one note, not a single flower. Nothing i
n all the years she’d known him.

  She didn’t cable or write Frank to thank him. The bicycle was lovely—and quite thoughtful, if she was honest—but it didn’t alter anything. She would find a way out of marriage, any marriage, and the solution wouldn’t involve her growing affection for a certain Manhattan lawyer.

  Another gift arrived the following night.

  She returned from dinner and found a book resting on her pillow, a red ribbon marking a specific page. She assumed one of her sisters left the volume behind, likely because they wanted her to read a particular section. Of course, there had been the time Florence snuck an erotic playing card in Mamie’s copy of Wuthering Heights. Never had a jack of clubs startled a woman so completely.

  Was her sister playing another joke?

  After summoning her maid, Mamie kicked off her slippers and placed her wrap on the dressing table chair. Then she removed the jeweled pins from her hair, one by one, anxious to put this evening behind her. Dinner had been a long formal affair with several of her parents’ friends. Fielding repeated questions about Chauncey had tired her out. Neither of her sisters had been required to attend, which left Mamie no buffer whatsoever from the storm of curiosity.

  Her maid knocked then entered. As she began bustling about to get Mamie prepared for bed, Mamie asked, “Did my sister leave that book behind?” She pointed to her pillow.

  “No, at least I don’t believe so. Miss Florence departed just after cocktails began and I was in here after that, tidying up. There was no book on the bed then.”

  That was odd. Perhaps Justine was to blame.

  By the time Mamie was changed, combed and clean, she’d nearly forgotten about the book. She crawled beneath the bedclothes and reached to examine the novel.

  How to Master Sleight of Hand Tricks.

  The meaning was not lost on her and she didn’t bother to hide her smile. He was helping her better learn how to lift money from the pockets of unsuspecting swells. It was considerate—and a tacit approval of her charitable activities. Lord knew Chauncey would never encourage that behavior.