by Joanna Shupe
“Don’t worry. That giggle was enough to put me off marriage, let alone her mother’s poor treatment of you.” The giggle sounded akin to a goose choking on a handful of pebbles. He couldn’t imagine hearing that noise every day for the rest of his life.
His sister relaxed somewhat. “Thank goodness. You need a woman who will challenge you—and shake you loose when you become too concerned with propriety and society’s silly rules. Not to mention when you stay at your desk all hours of the night.”
“You make me sound unbearable.”
“Well . . .”
He tried not to be offended. “Keep it up and I shall not spoil my niece or nephew.”
“As if I’d believe that,” Lizzie scoffed. “You’ve already sent over enough gifts for six children. Speaking of that, Emmett said the giant rocking horse must go if it’s a girl.”
“That is ridiculous. He has met you, hasn’t he? Hard to imagine any daughter of yours being afraid of anything.”
Lizzie stopped abruptly, just outside the curtain to their box, and put her free hand to her mouth. Will glanced down, his brow drawn tight. Dear God, there were tears swimming in her eyes. “Are you . . . crying?”
“That is the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Rising on her toes, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You’re a good brother.”
Emotion swelled and stuck in his throat. She told him that often, and he considered himself lucky that she’d never discovered the truth about their parents. The shame and fear their mother had lived with. The coldness of the Sloane household before Father died. The countless lies spun by an older brother to reassure a small girl who’d lost both her parents.
Lizzie had grown up believing their parents had been in love, utterly devoted to each other, and Will never had any intention of letting her learn otherwise. He’d cut off his own arm before disabusing her of an idyllic childhood.
They entered the salon at the back of the Sloane box, Lizzie gliding in first, and Cavanaugh shot to his feet, his thunderous gaze bouncing from his wife’s face over to Will. “What did you say to her?”
Lizzie wiped her eyes. “Calm down. He said something sweet, I swear—and you of all people should know how I cry at everything these days.”
Cavanaugh relaxed and reached for her. With his free hand, he brushed a thumb over Lizzie’s cheek, murmuring to her.
Will had no desire to witness the tender moment, so he continued to his seat inside the box. The performance had started, and he tried not to feel disappointed in the evening thus far. After all, there were three more girls on his list. He’d have a betrothal in place before the end of the summer.
* * *
The show was an unmitigated disaster.
Some Mondays, Ava had trouble connecting with her audience. They weren’t as ready to believe in her talents, seemed more reluctant to participate than other crowds. Using her abundant charm, however, she always found her way, coaxing them into expressing shock and wonder during her performance.
Tonight’s audience, however, could not be coaxed. They could not be charmed. She felt sweat beading on her forehead, her upper lip, as she struggled. Only unsmiling faces verging on scowls glared back at her, unwilling participants in the give-and-take she normally found so easy.
She refused to believe her failure had to do with the fact that he was once again in attendance. Just as the show started, Will Sloane had taken a seat in the front row, arms crossed over his impeccably dressed chest, and commenced frowning at her.
God, she hated that man.
He made her . . . jumpy. Nervous. Unsettled. And she didn’t understand why. She’d seen plenty of handsome men before—New York was practically dripping with them—so it couldn’t be merely that. But there was something different about Will Sloane, something powerful that caused a reaction inside her. A spell he cast to turn her into a quivering mass of female foolishness.
Time for drastic measures.
She signaled behind her chair where the audience couldn’t see. Matthew, the boy who worked the curtain, slid two heavy wires beneath the fabric at her back. Pretending to be in a trance, Ava flailed about in the near darkness. While moving her arms and legs, she slipped the looped ends of the wires under two opposite legs of the small table. When the dark wires were secure, she gave Matthew another hand motion.
The wires tightened, Matthew hoisting them up over the rigging, and the table began to lift, rocking back and forth over the stage. The crowd tittered, and she thought she might have them—until Matthew dropped the wires prematurely. One of the table legs landed on her toe, the pain causing tears to spring to her eyes, and she wanted to cut the show short right there.
In the end, her theatrics fizzled. Will Sloane’s expression turned positively smug, as if he were feeding off her misery. Ava ended the show abruptly, barely waiting for the meager applause to die down before dashing behind the stage to her dressing room.
She ripped off her wig, shoved it in her bag, and threw on her coat. Not even bothering to remove her heavy cosmetics, she hurried to the service door of the theater. This exit proved a longer walk home, but at least she wouldn’t have William Sloane waiting for her out front. Pushing into the alley, she clutched her carpetbag tighter and strode toward the street.
A slow clapping erupted out of the darkness before she even took five steps. Oh, dash it. Sloane slid out from the gloom, applauding, his derby pulled low and an ebony cane tucked under an arm. A wide smile transformed his face into something breathtaking, and her dress felt too tight all of a sudden. Yet she struggled to remain stoic. She did not want him sensing her discomfort. God knew he’d gloat about that as well. You’re an actress, a performer. So perform, Ava.
“Thank you, Mr. Sloane. Did you enjoy the show?”
“Oh, yes. Quite entertaining. I was trying to decide if they would throw the bruised tomatoes or rotten lettuce first.”
She clenched her teeth. He was a plague. An impossible, spoiled man with too much free time. “Why are you here? You are worse than typhoid to get rid of.” She started for the street. Eventually she could lose him in a crowd.
“I came to strike a bargain with you.”
She dodged a few drunken men stumbling down Twenty-Sixth Street, waving away the stench of whiskey with her hand. Sometimes she loathed this city. “I am not interested in bargaining with you, not when I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“We keep dancing around this issue, and I’m losing patience, Ava.”
Her head whipped over her shoulder. “I did not give you permission to use that name.”
“I have no other name by which to call you, other than Madam Zolikoff. Remember?”
“Then I’ll address you as Will, I suppose.” He stiffened, disapproval etched on his handsome face, and she nearly grinned. So proper and condescending. Hearing his given name on her lips must grate against every bit of his fancy upbringing. “Because to refuse reveals you as a top-rate hypocrite.”
“I’d rather you gave me your last name.”
“No chance, Wiiiiiiill.” She drew out his name for good measure, satisfied when he scowled.
He was impeccably dressed once again, his black wool coat fitted to his tall, poised frame. No frays or stains. No stitch marks from mending. His high-gloss cane had a polished silver handle. What was it like to come from so much privilege and wealth? To never have to worry about how you were going to feed or clothe yourself, let alone three siblings? That sort of security had never been within Ava’s reach; she’d lived with the stress over their future every day since her parents died—and probably even before.
William Sloane, on the other hand, was the king of New York City. Or a grand prince, at least. He ran one of the biggest companies in the country. Hobnobbed with important politicians and society’s elite. Wealthy and handsome, he undoubtedly had armies of employees and servants who rushed to accommodate him at every turn. Ava had seen his name in the papers no fewer than thirty-two times in the last week alone.
But she would not accommodate him. The endgame for her and her siblings was in sight. Because if she failed . . . A vision of Tom behind bars flickered in her mind and turned her blood to ice. She shivered.
“Cold?”
“No,” she snapped. The concern in his voice annoyed her. If she dropped dead of an illness, his problems would be solved. So why fake the interest in her well-being?
She cut right to cross Twenty-Fifth Street, hurrying to beat an oncoming carriage. Sloane kept pace, taking her elbow to assist her across, his body placed between her and the impending traffic. The chivalrous gesture caused her chest to flutter, even as she knew the reaction to be ridiculous. Undoubtedly the behavior was executed by rote, not a purposeful courtesy to her. Another way the two of them were completely different.
“Are you planning to walk the length of the city with me? Because I wish you’d say whatever it is you want and disappear.”
He made a sound. “If you would stop and listen to me, I wouldn’t need to chase you everywhere.” Now on the other side of the street, he took her elbow and pulled her over to the buildings. “I want you to hear me out.”
He did not release her arm, and the two of them stood close, much closer than any etiquette book in his fancy library would have allowed for. She looked up at him, struck by their difference in height. He towered over her—most men did, after all—and Ava expected to hate it. Strangely, the opposite was true.
The smooth skin of his throat above his collar stretched up to a pronounced jawline. No hint of stubble there, no facial hair to hide behind. He was supreme confidence in a derby hat, all male swagger and keen intelligence. And while part of her was repelled by him, an inexplicable attraction simmered as well. A coil of heat unfurled in her belly, the urge to fold herself into his big frame vibrating under her skin.
“I would love to know what you are thinking right now,” he said in a quiet, intimate tone she hadn’t heard him use before.
“Laundry,” she lied. “I’m thinking about the wash awaiting me tomorrow. I really do not have time to waste, so spit out whatever it is you need to say so that I may get home.”
Chapter Four
While she was a practiced liar, Will did not believe her for a moment. Laundry would not be responsible for that spark in her honey brown eyes, a spark that strongly resembled prurient interest. Not that she’d leered at him, but there had definitely been heat. A flash. Something unexpected—and his body leapt to attention.
Do not glance at her lips or the fall and rise of her generous bosom. Too late. Damn it.
She still wore the lip paint from her performance—a bright red color visible from Brooklyn, no doubt—and the sight of the plump flesh so tantalizingly on display had his skin growing tight and itchy. The reaction bothered him, but he was only a man, for God’s sake. Any woman’s mouth this lush and tempting would arouse him. Wouldn’t it? Pity the mouth was attached to a woman he couldn’t tolerate.
She stepped back, jerking her arm out of his grasp. “Now you don’t feel like talking? I don’t have time for this, Will.” She spun on her heel and hurried down the walk at a brisk and determined pace. Hell.
He forced his legs to move. When he caught up to her, he blurted, “Bennett and I have a political rally in Albany next week. I want you to attend.”
She stopped and gaped at him. “What? Why on earth would I go to your rally? Besides, I cannot travel to Albany next week. I have responsibilities,” she said, drawing out the last word, as if he did not understand the meaning.
“I realize that, which is why I’m inviting you to next week’s rally instead of this Saturday’s event in Yonkers. I want you to see what your presence is risking. Bennett and I have an opportunity to do quite a lot of good for the people of New York. Once you see that, you’ll better understand why I am so keen to keep you away from Bennett.”
One thing he’d learned during his years in business: Arguing was sometimes not enough. Some opponents had to be shown they were wrong. Those who picketed Northeast in ’83 with claims of unfair compensation for the rail workers? He’d personally escorted the leaders to a town in Pennsylvania and let them observe the better-than-average living conditions for Northeast employees. Or when reporters claimed the railroad companies were not paying for worker injuries out in West Virginia? Will had organized a trip to visit several families there who continued to receive Northeast benefits after being hurt on the job.
Often, people had to see it in order to believe it. Not Ava’s clients, of course; they were happy to believe without any proof whatsoever. But Will didn’t believe in blind faith. He believed in facts, and the sooner she understood what he and Bennett hoped to accomplish, that they planned to destroy Tammany’s destructive grip on the state, she would be reasonable regarding her association with the future governor.
“God, your arrogance!” she said. “If you want to keep me away from him, then why invite me? Isn’t that counterproductive?”
“You’re going as Ava, not Madam Zolikoff. And you won’t speak to Bennett. You’re there merely to observe.”
Her eyes narrowed, her brain undoubtedly planning to fight him every step of the way. But he was prepared to fight unfairly, as unfairly as necessary to prove his point.
“I have no desire to see any political rally in Albany, no matter who is speaking.”
“That may be true,” he said, “but I think you should consider coming—especially when you hear what might happen if you don’t.” He jabbed his polished ebony cane into the walk for emphasis.
She pressed her lips together, probably to hold back from shouting at him. “You’re threatening me.”
“I once told you that a man in my position can make things uncomfortable for a woman in your line of work. Have you heard of the Society for Mediumship Research?”
Even in the dim gaslight of Twenty-Third Street, he could see her face pale. “No.”
“A group out of England. Studies the validity of psychic phenomenon. A strange thing happens to every medium they investigate. Would you care to guess what?”
She shook her head, obviously bright enough to follow the implication. Will continued, just to be certain. “Each medium this organization looks into is exposed as a fraud. Run out of town. Forced to move and start over somewhere else.” He paused to let it sink in. “Is that what you want, Ava? Because I can send them a telegram and book their passage. They can be here before the summer season starts in Newport.”
“You are a bastard, Will Sloane.”
“True. Now, are you still going to turn me down for the rally?”
She shifted to face the street. If he needed to play an unpopular card to win the hand against an opponent, he could do so without blinking. He hadn’t built Northeast Railroad into one of the most powerful companies in the country by coddling anyone. Better to collect enemies than friends.
He let the silence drag. Ava was stubborn but not stupid. Certainly she could see that refusing his simple request—traveling to Albany, not the ends of the earth—would be detrimental to her livelihood. Unless she didn’t believe he’d actually do it . . . which would be a colossal mistake on her part.
She appeared tired tonight, with her brown hair a bit mussed and dark circles forming under her eyes. The show had not gone off well, and he did feel a pang of guilt for further complicating her day. Still, he would not let her ruin any political career of his before it started.
She dragged in a breath and locked gazes with him. Anger sparked bright in the brown depths, her cheeks flushed, and a feeling of foreboding settled into his stomach.
“Go to hell, Will.”
Damn it. Disappointment caused him to snap, “You’ll regret this.”
“No, I won’t. Regret is letting some man I hardly know dictate how I live my life. Do your worst, railroad man.” Spinning, she stepped toward the street. Her arm went up to wave at a passing hack, and the driver jerked the horses to a halt. Before Will could assist her up, she disappe
ared inside and rolled off into the night.
* * *
Ava let the driver take her three blocks, then she asked him to stop. She didn’t want to waste the fare home but had needed to get away from Will Sloane. After passing the driver a few of her hard-earned coins, Ava jumped to the sidewalk and kept walking south.
Dratted arrogant man.
Just when she thought he couldn’t make her any angrier. Let him bring whatever group he wanted to investigate her. What she was doing wasn’t a crime. They had to prove she was knowingly swindling people, which was nearly impossible to do. Mediums never claimed their powers infallible—there had to be room for error. Therefore, no group, British or American, would be able to throw her in jail or run her out of town. She might need to find other work, but Ava had performed many jobs over the years. Finding one more would not be a hardship.
And you’d earn a fraction of what Madam Zolikoff gains you.
True. Before she’d transformed into one of New York’s most popular mediums, she had clerked in an office for two dollars a week. Before that, a hatcheck girl in a restaurant. She’d swept floors, washed laundry, served food . . . anything to keep her siblings fed and safe. But Madam Zolikoff had been a stroke of genius.
The idea came from a friend who had seen a medium perform. She gave Ava all the details on the experience. Ava had then researched psychic abilities and even went to see a few performances. The act had seemed easy, especially when one considered the money involved.
People paid handsomely for entertainment in New York. In one night as Madam Zolikoff, Ava earned more than three times what she’d taken home in a month from her last job. Not to mention better hours and more freedom . . . and no handsome young men, determined to take advantage of her.
Ava’s chest compressed with regret and shame over the memory. Were all sixteen-year-old girls so foolish, then? Stephen van Dunn had been the boss’s son, not to mention wealthy and a feast for the eyes. A charmer, he was forever complimenting Ava’s work, hair, or clothing. Stephen’s father, Richard, hadn’t been around often, leaving managerial duties to his son, and Stephen began asking Ava to work late. That had quickly led to more intimate moments, which became—what she believed to be—a real relationship.