by Joanna Shupe
Will didn’t bother to answer, since the question was clearly rhetorical. “So can you expose them? I want it in tomorrow’s edition, before they come back to threaten her again.”
Cabot’s mouth hitched, his lips twitching as if he were fighting a smile. “Tom, I need to speak to Sloane in private. Do me a favor and wait in the outer room, will you? Feel free to help yourself to some coffee.”
“Sure thing. Thank you, sir. Mr. Cabot, I mean.”
Tom fled the room, and Will braced himself. Cabot was no fool.
“I do love this story. Cigar?” Cabot reached into the box on his desk and withdrew a perfectly rolled cigar. Will selected one as well, grateful to have something to do with his hands for the moment. Once both cigars were snipped and lit, Cabot leaned back in his chair, and placed his booted feet up on the desk. “So, it’s the sister.”
Will slowly exhaled a mouthful of smoke. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“The reason for your shitty mood. The bags under your eyes. The way your suit hangs off your shoulders. And it’s not like you to get involved in something like this without a dashed good reason.”
Christ, did Cabot have to be so perceptive? “Any chance we could avoid having this conversation?”
“None.” Cabot grinned and pointed at Will with his cigar. “Not if you want your story printed, big boy.”
“Sometimes I truly hate you.”
“Nah, you love me—just like everyone else in this fine city. But I’m not going to hold the presses for much longer, so you’d best tell me your story.”
“Do you promise to keep her name out of it?”
Cabot scratched his whiskered face. “Gonna be a challenge to write a story about a woman being blackmailed when I can’t use the woman’s name. Do you have feelings for said woman?”
“Yes,” Will admitted, shocking even himself. “We were . . . intimate. But no longer.”
“Will Sloane and Madam Zolikoff,” Cabot said with a delighted sigh. “I think my reporter’s heart has died and gone to heaven. What I wouldn’t give to print that story.”
“Well, you can’t—not if you want to keep your balls intact.”
Cabot barked a laugh. “I can’t believe it! Will Sloane just threatened my second favorite body part. I’d expect that of Cavanaugh, not you. This woman must’ve done a number on you.”
She had, but Will wasn’t about to discuss that now. Rubbing the ache in his stomach, he clamped the cigar between his teeth and puffed.
“I hear you are courting Miss Kathleen Iselin,” Cabot said slyly, stirring the pot in his usual style. “At least that’s what the Sun is reporting.”
“Merely a rumor, thanks to Tompkins. I invited her and her mother for a sail in Newport.”
Cabot stared out the tall windows for a moment. “You should watch out for Tompkins. He’s . . . dangerously ambitious. Enough to not care how he gets to the top.”
Will thought about that for a moment. He’d never liked Tompkins, but the man had served his purpose thus far. Still, Cabot was usually right about people. “So will you run the story?”
“Of course.” Cabot came to his feet. “Two reasons, the first being that I love to poke at Tammany every chance I get.”
“And the second?”
“You’re going to owe me a damn large favor in return.”
* * *
Hunched over her kitchen table, Ava picked at her buttered roll. If she took to her bed for the day, would anyone care?
Grey and Harris would notice, of course. No doubt the two thugs would track her down later today. She had no idea what to do. Time had run out, and no amount of stalling would pacify them. Tom had told her not to worry before leaving for work a few minutes ago, but his optimism had not caught fire. Nothing had gone right in Ava’s life lately. Why should this be any different?
She unfolded the faded piece of newsprint. An advertisement for an idyllic farmhouse in upstate New York stared up at her. Picket fence and two floors. A porch perfect for a swing and a decent yard where the kids could play. The ad had appeared several years ago, but she’d kept it as a reminder of possibilities. The goal of a better future.
A lump formed in her throat. She needed to leave New York—now more than ever. Memories lingered in every corner, along each street. Every time a fancy carriage went by, her eyes strained, hoping for a glimpse of sandy blond hair . . . God, she was pathetic. But she didn’t yet have enough saved to buy this house, or one like it. Tom’s wages at Northeast had helped tremendously and their savings had grown, but Tom maintained he had no interest in leaving the city.
How could she split the four of them up? The idea of leaving her eldest brother behind and starting a new life somewhere else without him was painful. But there was Sam and Mary to consider. Tom would be fine, working for Will and building a future here, but the two younger siblings still needed a way out. Looking after them was Ava’s responsibility.
Without warning, the door opened, startling Ava. Tom burst in, a newspaper under his arm. “I thought you left for work,” she said, alarmed. “What’s wrong?” Had Will fired him?
“Here.” Tom tossed the Mercury on the table. “Read that.”
She’d purposely avoided newspapers since learning of Will and Miss Iselin. The last thing she could handle right now was to see a betrothal announcement or some other tidbit about the perfect society couple. “Why?”
“Ava, just look.”
She allowed herself a peek at the headline—and gasped.
TAMMANY BLACKMAIL PLOT UNCOVERED!
GREY AND HARRIS DEFRAUD HUNDREDS!
FAKE COMPANY USED TO LURE INVESTORS!
“How . . .” And then she knew. Will had done this. Somehow, Will had learned of what was happening, and he’d convinced the Mercury to run this story. She dragged her fingertips across the black type, fighting tears as the ink smudged her skin.
He loved her.
She did not doubt it. Will would never write her an ode or a letter of devotion, but this . . . this was her railroad man’s way of expressing his feelings.
“You told him.”
“Yes,” Tom said. “I knew he’d help. I saw the way he stared at you when you weren’t looking. And it’s obvious why he invited us to his house on that sweltering evening. I don’t know why you’re both walking around like someone killed your dog, but I had to ask him for help.”
She began to read the article, ignoring the small thrill that Will was suffering as well. “A part of me will always be waiting for you.” Perhaps he hadn’t finalized his betrothal yet—not that it mattered. He could never marry her, and Ava could never be his mistress. The newsprint blurred before her eyes, and she took a deep breath, struggling for composure.
“He kept your name out of it,” Tom added.
“That’s a relief.”
“I thought you’d be happier. Mr. Sloane said those two men will be arrested today.”
She forced a smile. “I am happy. Very. This is a relief, especially since I hadn’t yet figured out what to do about them. Thank you, Tom.”
“You’re welcome. I keep telling you that I can help. You shouldn’t have to do this alone anymore, Ava.”
She nodded, fighting fresh tears and unable to speak. Tom seemed to understand. He placed his derby on his head. “I should go, or I’ll be late for work.”
“Do you like working there? What if we . . .”
His expression hardened, determination causing him to appear much older than fifteen. “I love working there. I don’t miss my old life one bit. And don’t ask me to leave, Ava, because I won’t.”
She nodded. His answer hadn’t surprised her, and she had no right to force him to give up something he was fond of. “Run along before you land yourself in trouble.”
Tom turned and reached for the knob. “Any message you’d like me to pass on?”
Her gaze fell to the newspaper once more. “No,” she answered quietly. “I’ll take care of that myself.”
The opera droned on, one aria blurring into another as the night dragged. Will paid little attention, unable to feel the stirring voices and rousing music as he usually did. In fact, he hadn’t felt much of all in the past nine days.
She made you feel. She made you feel more than you ever thought possible.
Yes, and she was gone. Christ, when would these depressing thoughts cease? And even these thoughts were a stroll through the park compared to the dreams plaguing him at night. Those were charged with sexual tension, so hot he woke up sweating. Hell. He’d never consumed so much alcohol in his life.
The crowd began to clap, so Will joined in. When the din died down, Mrs. Iselin leaned over. “I see a dear friend I’d like to visit with.”
Will stood, ready to escort her to a neighboring box, but the woman placed her hand on his arm. “Thank you, Mr. Sloane, but I will see myself over. It’s not a great distance. You and Kathleen enjoy yourselves.”
He waited until she disappeared before retaking his seat. Kathleen peered over at him. “You seem distracted.”
“I apologize. I’ve had a long week, which is a poor excuse but also happens to be the truth.”
She waited a beat before saying, “It was very kind of you to escort us tonight.”
“My pleasure. I was happy to receive your mother’s note, requesting an escort. Will you be in the city a long time?”
“Only the weekend. My father had to return, and so I convinced Mother to come as well.”
“And why was that?”
She tucked her chin, avoiding his eyes, and he suddenly understood. He was the reason she’d returned this weekend.
The knowledge should thrill him, considering his plans for a wife. And Miss Iselin was a perfect choice. Politically minded, intelligent, beautiful, innocent, with a social pedigree to rival the Sloanes . . . So why wasn’t he elated?
Because you desire someone else.
That hardly mattered. Ava had made her mind up. She wanted nothing to do with him.
“I see,” he said, unsure of how else to respond.
“You sound unhappy over my return. Should I have stayed in Newport? I thought . . .”
She drifted off, though he understood her plainly. I thought you would be pleased to see me. Christ, he was a cad. This girl was off thinking of him, hoping he returned her interest, yet he was focused on someone else—a woman he’d never have.
What else did you expect Kathleen to think, since you invited her sailing and escorted her to the opera?
Suddenly the weight of the room—the expectations and audaciousness of their precise little world—pressed down on his chest. His bowtie constricted his airflow, and he could not breathe. He shot to his feet. “I think I’ll fetch a drink from the salon. Something for you?”
“Champagne, please.”
Will hurried to the outer portion of the box and poured himself a tumbler of scotch. He’d just tossed it back when Kathleen appeared in the doorway. Swallowing, he grimaced at the unholy burn that erupted in his stomach. At least I can feel that.
Without commenting, he removed a bottle from the silver ice bucket and poured her a glass of cold champagne. She accepted the flute, her small fingers wrapping around the stem. He started to turn away, but a hand on his arm stopped him. “Will, wait.”
He paused, staring down at her. “Yes?”
Color stained her cheeks, but she lifted her chin, as if she’d come to an important decision. “One of the reasons I haven’t been courted much this year is because I’m too perceptive. I have a fortune, yes, and I’m pleasing enough to the eye. But men—well, men my age—don’t want to hear my opinions and thoughts. They want to impress me with their knowledge of horse racing or yachting. But you’re different. You not only talk to me as an equal, you listen to what I have to say.”
God, he had to stop this. It was too much, her regard. He didn’t deserve it. “Kathleen—”
“No, wait. Let me finish.” She took a quick sip from the crystal flute. “I should like us to be honest with each other. I’m not some empty-headed debutante out to trap a husband, regardless of his feelings on the subject. I want a good man, an honest man. More importantly, one who wants to be with me. Do not feel as if you must pretend.”
He sighed. “I . . . I don’t know what to say. It was not my intention to cause you discomfort.”
“I’m enjoying myself; I always do at the opera. However, I can sense your unhappiness. Your wish to be somewhere else. And I am deeply sorry for forcing you to escort us this evening. If I had known, I never would have asked my mother to write to you.”
“Do not apologize. I am the one who is sorry. When I agreed to escort you, I’d forgotten how perceptive you are.”
She smiled, and her loveliness struck him once more. But he still didn’t feel anything except admiration and friendship for her. Which meant he had to do the honorable thing.
“While you will make a wonderful wife for one fortunate man someday, I’m afraid that man will not be me.” Once he said the words, his entire body relaxed . . . and he knew it had been the right thing to do. He could not make this woman happy, and she deserved better.
“I understand,” she said quietly. She absorbed the news and then drew herself up. Her lips twisted into a small smile. “Honestly, I’d rather find out now than several months down the road. I hope we may remain friends, however.”
“Indeed, I should like that. You’re an intelligent, beautiful woman, Kathleen.”
“Thank you, Will. Our acquaintance has filled me with hope. Even if you are not my future husband, this proved there was at least one man out there willing to listen.”
He chuckled. “No doubt there is another, and I am certain you’ll find him.”
* * *
“The great Madam Zolikoff!” Mr. Ashgate, the evening’s host and the man who’d hired her, had to shout to be heard above the noise. “Welcome!”
Guests crowded the space behind him, a larger group than she’d anticipated. Would all these people join the séance?
The evening had been arranged only a few days ago. Though she’d given a séance just the night before, Ava had been desperate to work, to keep her mind off one particular person, and so she’d jumped at the opportunity without doing any of her usual research. Normally she asked questions, such as whether she knew the host or not. Who would be attending? How was the room set up? Would she have complete control over the environment?
This time, she’d asked zero questions, and unease slithered down her spine. She fought it and smiled pleasantly. “Good evening, Mr. Ashgate.”
He pumped her hand, jerking on her shoulder. “We are honored to have you here tonight. This is indeed a treat. A night we’ll all remember, to be certain.” He led her forward. “Come, let’s introduce you.”
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Ashgate, I should like to see the room where the séance is to take place.”
“There’s time enough for that. Come.”
She soon found herself mingling and meeting the guests, an act she did not mind under regular circumstances. But Ashgate’s enthusiasm held a touch of something other than excitement. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but an underlying current pulsed through the room, one she did not care for.
Breathe, Ava. You’re being ridiculous.
The guests contained prominent members of society, the wealthy and privileged elite who reminded her too much of Will. Undoubtedly, he would know each one, whereas she had only seen their names in the newspapers.
An older man approached her. “Madam Zolikoff, I am Robert Murphy.” He bowed over her hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
She smiled and made all the appropriate responses, but her mind began swirling. She knew him . . . but how? Robert Murphy. Why was that name familiar? Ridiculous when both were common enough names. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d met him before.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Murphy.”
“You
have quite the reputation. I am prepared to be vastly entertained tonight.”
“I certainly hope so.” Speaking of that, where was Ashgate? He’d disappeared ten minutes ago, saying he would return. She smiled at Mr. Murphy. “Is this your first séance?”
“Yes. I hear you are well connected to the spirit world. In fact, Mr. Bennett sings your praises.”
“You know John Bennett?”
“Indeed, for many years. I’ll be running against him for governor.”
More unease wormed through her. So this was the Democratic favorite, the one backed by Tammany. “Is that so?”
“It is, though one never knows. Bennett and Sloane may not get the nomination. Politics in New York are a tricky business.”
Eager to escape, she nodded politely and excused herself to hunt for Ashgate. Perhaps she could withdraw her entertainment for the evening. Claim the spirits were not receptive. Fake an illness. Anything to get out of here.
“There you are!” Ashgate appeared at her side. “Would you care to see the parlor?”
You can do this. A quick one-hour performance and then you can leave.
Ashgate led her to the room where the séance was to take place. Anxious to see the space and set up, she followed him. There were more guests tonight than she anticipated, and she wanted to see how big of a table Ashgate had provided. Any more than six or seven guests made a performance impossible.
He slid back a pocket door and led her inside. “I certainly hope to see a spirit tonight.”
“Not all spirits like to be seen,” she said, dropping her carpetbag to the floor. “If we can coax them, they might oblige us. But they are a slippery group, Mr. Ashgate.”
“I understand, I do. It’s just that the other séances we’ve had here, none have been able to produce an actual spirit. But I told Mrs. Ashgate that if one woman could perform such mystical feats, it would be Madam Zolikoff.”
“Thank you,” she murmured. Summoning apparitions was tricky, especially without a reliable partner in the room. Ava would need to pretend to be the spirit herself, while throwing her voice to her seat at the table. Thank goodness she’d packed cheesecloth.