Baron

by Joanna Shupe

  Tompkins’s barb, while true, irritated Will. “My enthusiasm, healthy or otherwise, is hardly your concern.”

  “Isn’t it?” Tompkins moved closer, lowering his voice. “I believe I know the reason you are not pursuing Miss Iselin more ardently. Need I say it?”

  Will locked eyes with Tompkins, and the truth was waiting there in the man’s gaze. No idea how Tompkins knew of Will’s affair with Ava, but he did. At least, the advisor was aware that another woman held Will’s attention, not of Ava specifically. “Again, my concern, not yours. You need to back off. If I decide to marry, it will be on my timetable, not yours.”

  “Are you hearing what you are saying? The campaign needs your betrothal. That will put your photo all over the papers, and voters will adore Miss Iselin. She’s innocent, smart, dedicated to do-gooder causes. Moreover, she is of your same social caliber. Anyone else would be a liability, one we cannot afford. One you cannot afford. Do you have any idea how they are snickering over the Sloanes since your sister married Cavanaugh and went into business?”

  Will did not like Ava referred to as a “liability,” though he’d certainly had the same thought a time or two. He was starting to care less and less about what the voters wanted, however. “Anyone who snickers over my sister will answer to me. And allow me to worry about my liabilities.”

  “I would, if I thought you could handle them. It’s becoming apparent to me that you cannot, that you are allowing a two-bit whore to ruin—”

  Anger, swift and fierce, rushed over Will, and he acted on pure instinct. Striking out, he snatched the front of Tompkins’s shirt. “Do not refer to her in such a manner ever again. If you do, I’ll cut you down where you stand, Charles.”

  Tompkins sneered at him, disrespect so obvious that Will wanted to pummel him. “You goddamned idiot. And here you were worried about that medium embarrassing the campaign through Bennett. If the opposition catches wind of you sleeping with the sister of one your employees . . .”

  He let the comment hang, so Will snapped, “My private life is no one’s concern but my own. If the opposition breathes one word about her, I’ll bury them.”

  Tompkins pulled free then smoothed his necktie and vest. “You won’t be able to shove the information back into a sack once it’s out, Sloane. And how will Miss Iselin feel, reading about your weekly trysts in the paper?” Will had no answer for that, so Tompkins continued, “You’re playing with fire. See that we don’t all get burned.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The afternoon had been a profitable one.

  She’d performed six private readings, with two of them for new clients. This meant a higher initial “consultation” rate and good news for her monthly income. Perhaps she could throw a little bit of money at Grey and Harris’s fictional corporation, ease their anxiety a bit. The blackmailers expected Ava’s clients to start investing more and more each week, and the absence of such investments would only make the two men suspicious.

  Opening her satchel, she tossed the blond wig inside. Blasted thing had been itching her for the last hour. A knock on the door gave her pause. Could it be Grey and Harris again? Her stomach sank. Should she ignore them? Perhaps they would go away if she didn’t answer the door.

  “Madam Zolikoff, I know you are there.”

  She couldn’t place the familiar male voice. A client mistaken regarding the time of his appointment? Reaching back into her bag, she drew out the wig and pulled it on as best she could. When she opened the door, she found Charles Tompkins, Will and John’s campaign manager, waiting in the hall.

  He wore a dark blue checked suit, with a matching vest stretched tight across his large belly. A derby in his hand, he smiled at her through bushy whiskers. “Good afternoon. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  “No,” she said carefully in her Russian accent. “Though I am curious what Mr. Bennett’s campaign manager wants with me. Is everything well with John?”

  Tompkins waved. “Oh, John is fine. Right as rain. May I come in?” Without waiting on an answer, the man barreled into the room, brushing by her on the way.

  She quietly closed the door. Though trepidation bubbled in her veins, she tried to appear calm and collected. “Was there something you wanted to see me about?”

  “You may drop the Russian accent, Miss Jones. We are well acquainted with each other, I think.”

  “I . . . You know who I am?”

  He gave a curt nod. “Yes, I have known for some time. Quite . . . enterprising of you. Not many women would have the courage to do as you’ve done.”

  She said nothing. He was here for a reason, and she wished he would get to his purpose.

  “John doesn’t know, of course,” he continued. “I haven’t had the heart to tell him.”

  A threat hung in the air, one that caused the hair on the back of her neck to rise. “But . . . ?”

  He strolled deeper into the room, swiped a gloved finger over the smooth surface of the wooden dresser as if inspecting it. She wasn’t fooled. Ava was a performer; she knew how to build tension with an audience. And though they were not on a stage, he was putting on a show as sure as the sun rose over the East River.

  “William Sloane was a careful choice for John’s running mate, Miss Jones. He has impeccable breeding, impressive connections, wealth, and charisma. The fact that he’s smart and attractive certainly does not hurt either.” He stopped moving and leaned against the dresser, his hands finding his pockets. “These two men are absolute certainties for the Republican nomination. The honorable party of Lincoln, a force against the tyranny of Tammany Hall. And once I have the full weight of the party behind them, the Democrats will be hard-pressed to beat us.”

  Her back straightened. One of the qualities necessary for her line of work was the ability to read people. Currently she was reading Tompkins so well, he may as well’ve been typeset. Therefore, she knew what was to come—knew and resented it.

  “You must realize how your association with Mr. Sloane jeopardizes our campaign hopes. How one word in the wrong ear could bring down everything we hope to accomplish.”

  “I’m not certain why you’re laying this on my doorstep. Mr. Sloane is your candidate, after all.”

  His gaze traveled the length of her form, slowly, almost as if peeling off her clothing with his eyes. Revulsion pebbled her skin. Thank goodness she was covered from neck to toe.

  “Men are notoriously stupid when it comes to pussy.” She jerked in response to the crude word—one she’d never heard spoken aloud before—and his resulting smile was cruel and cold. “You don’t mind if I speak plainly, do you? I assume you’ve heard all manner of words in your charmed life downtown.”

  How dare he . . . Hatred burned in her chest, rising up to clog her throat. “Actually, that is one I have not heard spoken before.”

  The side of his mouth hitched, as if he were amused. “You should familiarize yourself with it, Miss Jones, because that is what you are to someone like William Sloane. A quick fuck. Meaningless. Convenient. A warm body to spread her legs and relieve his tension. Men can be blinded by it, when it’s exceptionally good.”

  She could not speak. Her tongue felt thick and useless, full of anger and outrage. The words hurt, as he had known they would. She held no illusions about her relationship with Will, but to hear it put so plainly wounded her as surely as a swift blow.

  “Good Christ, I can’t believe it. I can see it on your face. You were under the impression that he actually cared for you.” He threw his head back and gave a few deep laughs that shook his prodigious middle. “What did you think, he would marry you? That society would look past your illustrious career and accept you? That Mrs. Astor would invite you for tea? Come now, Miss Jones. I thought you were smarter than that.”

  In the dark parts of her heart, the ones no one saw, the ones she barely acknowledged, Ava had hoped for a portion of that dream. One where Will wanted a respectable forever with her, where society and Mrs. Astor didn’t matter, onl
y their love for each other.

  But she’d been raised in the slums, where one rapidly learned that dreams were for fools and children. Her heart may have wanted a forever with Will, yet her head had never lost sight of the fact that it would not happen. Their circumstances prevented a happily ever after—not the one she wanted, anyhow.

  “What is your point?” she asked, surprised that her voice sounded steady despite the rioting emotions inside her.

  “My point, dear lady, is that you’d best break things off with William—quickly. If you do not, I will be forced to reveal your little scheme to the newspapers. Madam Zolikoff will be run out of town on the very next train.”

  “You wouldn’t, because exposing me also exposes Bennett as a fool. Not to mention all the sensitive matters he told me in confidence. You aren’t the only one with stories for the newspapers.” Not that she would ever break Bennett’s trust. But Tompkins didn’t know that.

  And yes, you are what he first accused you of being: a blackmailer.

  Tompkins nodded as if he’d expected this. “Will New York believe a decorated war hero and former United States senator, or a charlatan out to make a quick buck? And that would bring Stephen van Dunn into it. Quite an interesting man, our Mr. van Dunn. By the way, he has a shockingly good memory, especially when I promised to keep his name out of any of the stories.” She pressed a hand to her stomach, the room swaying under her feet. “I am not a fool. When I realized what was happening between you and Sloane, I quickly learned all I could about Miss Ava Jones. You’ll be lucky to make it out in one piece when I’m through.”

  Humiliation burned her skin, the horrors of her past washing over her like a bucket of cinders. Stephen, the affair, the pregnancy . . . Dear God. The idea of it all becoming public knowledge, used in some sordid attempt to discredit her, sent shivers along her spine.

  Yet everything inside her rebelled against backing down. She hated bullies, hated the idea that her life was no longer hers to control. Mind spinning, she tried to think it through. Perhaps the truth wouldn’t ruin her. After all, she’d suffered far worse and had recovered. Thrived, even, in a city where only the strongest and smartest survived. And besides, the newspapers would hardly print something so salacious, not with Comstock’s laws in effect, would they?

  Arrived at her decision, she set her jaw. “I do not appreciate threats. If Mr. Sloane wishes to stop seeing me, he may tell me so. Not you.”

  “I hated to do this, but you leave me no choice.” He heaved a dramatic sigh, withdrew a piece of newsprint from his inner jacket pocket. “Do you know where Mr. Sloane spent his weekend?”

  “In Newport.”

  He unfolded the paper carefully. “Yes, that’s true. But do you know why?” She hesitated, and his lips twisted cruelly. “Of course you don’t. Mr. Sloane is wooing a woman, Miss Jones. A young woman of his social standing, one he intends to ask to marry him before the summer is out.”

  Mouth gone suddenly dry, she attempted to swallow. Yes, he’d escorted Miss Baldwin earlier in the summer to the séance but, according to Will, the two hadn’t seen each other again. “Miss Baldwin?”

  Eyes glittering with malice, Tompkins held the piece of newsprint out. “No, not Miss Baldwin. He had four candidates for marriage this spring, and all have been eliminated except one. Here, read it for yourself.”

  She stared at the paper, knowing she should refuse. Whatever that article contained would not be welcome news. Yet she could not stop herself. Knowing was always better than not knowing, wasn’t it?

  Hand shaking, she took the paper and began to read.

  RAILROAD SCION WOOS ISELIN HEIRESS!

  SLOANE HOSTS PRIVATE SAIL FOR BEAUTY!

  SOURCE CLOSE TO PERFECT PAIR SAYS,

  “BETROTHAL IMMINENT”

  Obligations, he’d told Ava. Was the Iselin heiress that obligation, or had Will just preferred to keep this from Ava? She drew in a reedy breath. The truth stared up at her in stark black-and-white. If you continue, that makes you the other woman. The mistress.

  The back of her lids stung, a case of oncoming tears to further her humiliation. She beat them back through sheer force of will. Tompkins would not see her cry.

  “Fine.” She handed the newsprint over. “But let me tell him myself. Otherwise, he’ll never believe it.”

  Tompkins nodded, satisfaction blazing in his dark eyes. He tucked the paper into his pocket once more. “Of course, Miss Jones. But it had better be within the week.”

  * * *

  Will arrived late on Thursday afternoon, thanks to a board member who had been incapable of brevity. He took the stairs, anticipation hopping through his veins, a tripping of lust and hunger that only one woman could sate. As was their habit, she’d left the door unlocked, so he threw it open and stepped into the hotel room, hopeful of finding Ava on the bed. Naked.

  Instead, she sat primly in a chair, her back ramrod straight. In all the weeks he’d met her here, she’d never appeared so . . . serious. Was this a game? Were they to role-play this afternoon? His lust spiked once more.

  Unable to hide a wolfish grin, he shut the door and strolled toward her. “Hello, darling. Are we to play parts today? What is this, disapproving schoolteacher and recalcitrant student?”

  “Will, we need to talk—”

  “Oh, I have no doubt.” He shrugged out of his frock coat and threw it toward the dresser. “About my poor marks? Or have I been causing trouble in class?”

  Ava shot to her feet and wrapped her arms around her waist. “No. You misunderstand—”

  “Ah, is it the grieving widow and overattentive iceman?” His fingers went to his throat to loosen his necktie. “Or an ill soldier requiring nursing from a blushing innocent?”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose, a reluctant smile breaking out over her face. “My God, how many of these can you think up?”

  “Oh, I’m just getting started. Woman seducing her husband’s older, more handsome brother. Doctor examining his beautiful patient. Busty milkmaid and farmhand. Sultan and his favorite harem girl—”

  “Stop,” she laughed. “Just stop talking, you infuriating man.”

  Hands on his hips, he cocked his head. She was serious, he realized. “What is it, Ava?”

  She heaved a sigh, one that signaled unhappiness, and Will’s trepidation grew. He wanted to take her into his arms, kiss her until she smiled, but there was a distance in her posture, so he shoved his hands in his pockets instead. “Is something wrong? Did something happen?”

  “I know about Newport. About Miss Iselin.”

  “Newport?” He tried to think why she would be concerned about the sailing party with Kathleen. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “The newspaper had a full report of the sail, said you are planning to marry her.”

  He frowned. How had the papers learned of the events on Saturday? Tompkins? Will meant to have a conversation with his campaign manager at first opportunity. He did not want the details of his private life in the paper.

  But wasn’t that the reason for courting Kathleen in the first place? The publicity to help the campaign?

  Mind swirling, he dragged a hand through his hair. “Ava, you shouldn’t believe everything you read about me in the paper. I never even bother to glance at the gossip pages any longer.”

  “So you’re not planning on asking her to marry you? You didn’t have four candidates for marriage this spring?”

  “I did, but . . .” He didn’t even know what to say. That his enthusiasm for marriage had waned significantly since the two of them started sleeping with each other? That he couldn’t stop thinking about her? That he craved her every single second, down to the marrow of his bones?

  “Will, I can’t be the other woman. I cannot be the one getting the scraps of your time and attention. It would—” She snapped her jaw shut.

  “It would, what?” he croaked.

  She licked her lips and took a deep breath. “It would destroy me.”


  A heavy weight settled on his chest, the heft of the circumstances that separated the two of them. He felt her slipping away, and it scared him. “What are you saying? What do you want from me, Ava?”

  “I can’t see you again. We knew—”

  Will’s palm cracked against the top of the wooden dresser. Impotent fury surged through his limbs, unabated by his small outburst. He wanted to keep hitting something, just keep striking, until he could deal with the emotion tangling up inside him.

  “We knew this was temporary,” Ava continued, her voice louder and stronger. “I will not be your mistress and circumstances being what they are . . .”

  “Fuck circumstances,” he snapped. He hated the sad resolution he saw in her gaze. Was she so ready to give him up, then?

  “You do not mean that. Our lives could not be more different, Will. Our backgrounds, our responsibilities. You would resent me if I forced you to change any of that. I won’t cause you any regret.”

  He folded his arms and tucked his clenched fists under his armpits. “Is it really so easy for you to walk away?”

  A flash of hurt flitted across her face before she masked it. That brief crack in her icy resolve gave him hope. Perhaps he could convince her to change her mind.

  Striding toward her, he cupped her jaw in his palm. Her skin was soft and supple, and he knew how perfect it tasted. Drawing her face up, he forced her to look at him. “Is it?”

  “It hardly matters whether it’s easy or difficult,” she whispered. “Life doesn’t always give us painless, simple choices, but the choices must still be made, regardless.”

  “Yes, but why must those choices be made now?”

  “Because it hurts, Will. And it will hurt worse tomorrow, even worse the day after. Every day that I fool myself into thinking you’re mine—and only mine—merely causes it to hurt worse.”

  A sharp stab of pain flared behind his rib cage. How had this day gone so terribly wrong? He longed to go back to bed and start all over, to come here and find her smiling and eager for him. “Give me more time, Ava.” The pad of his thumb stroked her jaw. “I’m not ready to let you go.”