by Joanna Shupe
Resolved, she boldly struck out a hand. “Never mind. Whatever your reason, I am willing to help you as long as you do the same. Do we have a deal?”
Weren’t English girls renowned for being timid?
Obviously, no one had informed this English girl of that fact. Lady Nora hadn’t a timid bone in her body, from what Julius had seen. He glanced down at her outthrust hand, the moment stretching into years, as he debated whether or not to accept. Her idea seemed insane. Outrageous. Potentially scandalous.
Which perhaps explained why he liked it so damn much.
On the other hand, posing as a fiancé meant spending a lot of time with this particular woman. This wouldn’t be a hardship if she were his usual type: experienced, bold, and well endowed. But Lady Nora possessed only one of those qualities, the one on which he placed the least amount of importance.
Julius had no patience for virginal debutantes. Especially beautiful ones with dark curls, full lips, and gypsy eyes that changed color depending on the light.
A memory surfaced. He pictured her up on a chair and staring him down. “Last night, you stood on a chair.”
Her hand dropped to her side and she stared at him in surprise. “You remember.”
“Not all of it.” He grimaced. “I don’t usually drink that much. It was my birthday.”
“So your other parties, the ones I’ve read about, those were anomalies as well? Like when you rented out the ballroom at the Hotel Astor and held a ten-pin bowling tournament for your friends. Or the time you constructed an enormous fountain where the waiters had to ride in canoes just to ladle the rum punch.”
“The canoes were tiny,” he muttered, frowning down at her. Was he supposed to feel guilty about spending his money the way he wanted? “And that’s enough about me. How old are you exactly?”
“Twenty. How old are you?”
Christ. Nearly a baby. Just his presence in the same room would corrupt her. “Thirty. Which is why you should turn around, go home, and tell everyone you were mistaken.”
“You’ll never work your way into society if I do.” She lifted a brow, almost daring him not to agree to this insane plan.
And God help him, he was considering it. “What would my responsibilities be in this arrangement?”
“Very little,” she said quickly, almost eagerly. As if asking for more would scare him off. “Merely a few evenings together each week. I thought we would begin at the opera Friday night. Then a ball on Saturday.”
“And all I need to do is escort you?”
“That and mingle. I’ll take care of the rest.”
He scratched his jaw. She made it sound easy . . . but the carrot she dangled was tempting. The names of his father’s investors had eluded Julius for thirteen years. Rubbing elbows with the fancy set would give him a better opportunity to figure out who had ruined his father’s life, which was why he’d tried to buy his way into society over the years.
A man lives and dies by his word.
How often had his father repeated that phrase in the last days of his life? Probably a thousand times. No matter how long it took, Julius would find those three men—men who had left his father on the hook for everything—and destroy every single one of them.
She lifted her hand, regaining his attention. “Also, I should have an engagement ring of some sort. Is that a problem? I wouldn’t normally ask, but my aunt will wonder if I am not wearing one after a few days.”
A sensible request. “I can provide an appropriate ring. My mother has a dozen or so she left behind.” Refused, actually.
He’d been foolish enough to repeatedly buy his mother impressive jewelry after he made his initial fortune. Each piece had been returned without explanation. Like a fool he’d continued to spend more on bigger stones and elaborate settings, thinking to win her over. The opposite had occurred. Now his mother barely tolerated him.
“Is she . . . ?”
“My mother is very much alive. She’s also long since ceased keeping an eye on me, your ladyship. She left the city to move in with my oldest sister when I turned eighteen.”
In fact, he only saw her twice a year, once on Christmas and again in April for her birthday. He’d come to dread these excruciatingly awkward interactions.
When he’d started earning money on the exchange, he purchased a large house for her in Albany. However, other than him covering the upkeep and expenses on the property, she’d asked him for nothing over the years. Nor would she accept gifts from him. Trips were refused. Paintings returned. Clothes donated to the poor. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she had turned Quaker on him.
She disapproved of his money and the way he chose to spend it. This left them at an impasse, because he had no intention of giving up either his money or his lifestyle.
Speaking of lifestyle, he’d have to speak with Poppy as soon as possible. The popular actress had been Julius’s mistress for three months now, but their relationship needed to cool until after the engagement ended.
“Mr. Hatcher—”
“Julius,” he corrected. “If we’re engaged, you might as well use my first name in private.”
“Please, you may call me Nora. Do we have an agreement?”
“What happens if this fails?” he had to ask. If her father refused to summon her home, what then? Julius had zero interest in this arrangement becoming permanent. “Perhaps we should agree to a certain length of time for the engagement.”
“I suppose that makes sense.” She tapped two fingers against her lips. “Would three months be acceptable?”
Three months of the Metropolitan Opera House instead of Tenderloin dance halls? Twelve weeks of tepid champagne, chastity, and idle society chitchat? He’d lose his mind.
How quickly could he find his father’s investors? Perhaps not long if he made good use of his time at Nora’s side. Sink his hooks in with society so deep that calling off the engagement wouldn’t get him blackballed. Then he could continue to search, if necessary, even after she returned to London. “Two months.”
“Ten weeks,” she countered like a seasoned negotiator. “My father is busy with Lords and may not spare me a thought until the session wraps up for Lent.”
“Lent begins in five weeks.”
“Yes, but he may need time to catch up with the goings-on in New York.”
He didn’t like it. Ten weeks seemed forever but he could force her to reevaluate if he found his father’s business partners before then. “Fine, ten weeks.”
She beamed at his capitulation, and he couldn’t help but return it with a smile of his own. She appeared so inordinately pleased, almost as if she’d doubled her money on a shorted stock—
Of course. Why hadn’t he realized it sooner? A man. There was a man back in England to whom she wished to return. Things began to fall into place. He wondered briefly who she’d fallen for. A footman? A groom? Had to be someone completely unsuitable for her father to ship her off to America.
The woman had secret depths. He liked that. Perhaps this would not be so terrible after all.
He put out his hand, which she readily accepted. His palm pressed to her smooth, soft skin as they shook. “You have yourself a fake fiancé, Lady Nora.”
Chapter Three
During the New York social season, the Metropolitan Opera House buzzed with activity on Friday evenings. Much like the opera at Covent Garden, anyone worth knowing attended, sitting in one of the tiered boxes to best be seen.
The inside of the new building was far grander than anything they had in London. Paintings adorned most every surface of the light and airy space, and the furnishings were sumptuous. Rich reds and golds, with ornate carvings every which way one turned. Thousands of gas lamps created a warm atmosphere, the light reflecting off the heavy decorative gilding. Americans had no sense of subtlety, Nora thought as they wound through the corridors toward their box.
Her fake fiancé also lacked subtlety, apparently, judging by the three-carat pink diamond betroth
al ring delivered earlier today. She’d been forced to buy a special glove just to fit over the enormous thing.
They entered the salon attached to the Cortland box. A man unfolded from the sofa to greet them.
Julius Hatcher had already arrived.
One could not help but admire him. His hair had been slicked back, which highlighted the sharp planes of his roguish face, and he wore a fitted black swallowtail coat and white waistcoat, shirt, and tie. He had a barely leashed elegance, sort of like a wild animal one brought indoors in hopes of civilizing it. “Mr. Hatcher.” She moved forward and held out her hand. Julius bowed over it, a small smile playing on his lips.
“My lovely Lady Nora,” he murmured in a voice too low to be heard by the others. An involuntary shiver worked its way along Nora’s spine.
Before she could wonder on that, he straightened and faced her aunt and uncle, who were staring at the pair with avid curiosity. She threaded her arm through Julius’s and pressed tight to his side. Goodness, his frame was as solid as a block of marble. “Uncle James, Aunt Beatrice, allow me to present Mr. Julius Hatcher, my fiancé.”
Her aunt and uncle came closer and Hatcher greeted them both respectfully. This surprised her. He’d clearly been hiding proper manners under that ne’er-do-well exterior.
“This has come about suddenly.” The ostrich feathers in her aunt’s hair bobbed as she gestured between Nora and Julius. “I wasn’t aware you two were acquainted. Nora tells me you met in the park?”
She had already crafted a plausible story regarding their initial meeting, one she’d used when breaking the news of the engagement to her aunt days ago. Undoubtedly, her family now wished to hear Julius’s side, so instead of speaking, Nora tilted her face toward her fake fiancé and waited.
“I saw her on a walk in Central Park. Intrigued, I struck up a conversation. Soon, I was bewitched. I began meeting her each morning.” He stared at her with such genuine tenderness and devotion that even Nora was nearly fooled. “I haven’t been able to stay away since.”
Her aunt and uncle knew she walked in the park each morning, so the story was entirely believable. That is, if one believed Hatcher roused himself out of bed before noon. Scoundrels were predictable, after all, no matter the country in which they reside.
“Then allow me to offer our most heartfelt congratulations.” Her uncle slapped Julius on the back. “Welcome to the family, Hatcher.”
“Thank you, Cortland.”
“Shall we enjoy a cigar before the performance starts?”
“I’d like that.” Julius lifted Nora’s gloved hand and pressed it to his lips, and Nora’s heart started galloping. Goodness, the man was potent.
Julius followed her uncle and disappeared into the corridor, leaving Nora alone with her aunt. She exhaled, grateful for the reprieve to gather her thoughts. Did finding her fiancé attractive make the deception easier to carry out?
“He is very handsome,” Aunt Bea said as she studied Nora’s expression. “I can see you are fond of him.”
She swallowed the urge to deny it. While she disliked lying to her aunt and uncle, who’d been nothing but kind and welcoming to their unknown niece, she had to remember her purpose. Returning to Robert, the sensitive artist who owned a piece of her soul. “Yes, I am quite fortunate. Mr. Hatcher is a fine man.”
“He does have a bit of a wild reputation, however. Women, raucous parties. Gambling. I’m not certain your father will approve.”
Goodness, I hope not. “Please give him a chance, Aunt Bea. I think you and Uncle James will come to like him. You shall see he is quite different than how he’s portrayed in the press.”
In fact, he is much worse.
Her aunt patted Nora’s hand. “You know I merely want for you to be happy. And if you claim Mr. Hatcher is a good man, then I will believe you.”
“Thank you,” she gushed to her aunt. “That means so much to me. You and Uncle James have been so kind these past few weeks.” Not a lie. She had honestly enjoyed getting to know her father’s sister and her American husband. The couple hadn’t visited London since the countess’s funeral when Nora was seven.
In fact, Aunt Bea was almost too kind. Nora had originally hoped to use her aunt as an unwitting ally in escaping New York City. She’d thought the instant she showed interest in the wrong type of man her aunt would cable her father and a one-way steamer ticket would be purchased. Instead her aunt had surprised her. “Marry for love, Nora, as I did. Take your time and find the right man, no matter his status. I’ll not send your father reports, so stay here in America as long as it takes to let your heart guide you.”
An impossible feat, considering Nora’s heart wanted to guide her back to England. Still, it had been hard to resent a woman as lively and considerate as Aunt Bea.
“Oh, my dear.” The older woman’s round face softened. “It is you who have brightened our doorstep. As you know, we’ve no children of our own and it’s been a true joy to spend time with you.”
Experiencing an unexpected rush of guilt at her pack of lies, Nora moved to the waiting ice bucket and poured two glasses of champagne. She handed one to her aunt and retained the other. “Have you ever regretted not moving back to England?”
“Goodness, no,” her aunt said. “I hated it there. So rigid and constricting. I felt as if I could hardly breathe with all the expectation.”
Nora knew exactly what her aunt meant. “How did you meet Uncle James?”
“He came to London for business. The Cortlands are descended from the Duke of Huntington, you know.”
“No, I hadn’t known.”
“It’s not something your uncle crows about, but yes. His great-great-grandfather, I believe. Anyway, he asked me to dance at some such ball the year I debuted. Swept me off my feet. We were married that year and moved to New York. I never considered living anywhere other than by his side.”
“Did you not miss your friends and family back in England?”
“No, not really. All I had was your father, and he and I were never close.”
That was news to Nora. “You weren’t? I assumed because he sent me to you . . .”
Aunt Bea chuckled. “I can assure you, I was as surprised as you. Not that I am ungrateful. Whatever his reasons, I owe Bertrand a great debt for allowing you to come stay with me. You’ve been a breath of fresh air.”
Despite the affectionate words, a dark thought suddenly occurred. Had her father another reason for sending her to a different country, one nothing to do with her scandal? “Is he . . . ?” She cleared her throat. “Did he send me here to be rid of me? For good, I mean?”
Her aunt’s face crumpled, her kind brown gaze brimming with compassion. “No, my dear. Heavens, no. I cannot imagine your father wants to be rid of you. I’m certain he wishes for you to return to England once you and Julius settle down.”
But not to live, a voice whispered in her head. Her father had ordered her to find an American husband, one who would undoubtedly prefer to reside in America. She recalled his anger upon discovering her with Robert, the only time in memory when she’d received a dressing-down from her father.
“All of London will soon hear you’ve ruined yourself with this fortune-seeker, Nora. No decent man will ever want you after this.”
She had tried explaining that Robert had no interest in her name or her fortune, but the earl would not be swayed. He’d ordered her to New York, booking passage for her on the next trans-Atlantic steamship. Her room had been guarded, trapping her in the Mayfair townhouse, until the ship sailed. The only way to send a good-bye letter to Robert had been with the help of her good friend, Eva, who’d also been kind enough to keep Nora updated on all the happenings back in London.
Had her father sent her away for good? Was he too angry, too embarrassed about what she’d done? That would explain why he shipped her off to another country to find a suitable husband instead of allowing her to choose a man in England. He never wanted her to return to London.
&n
bsp; Fortunately, she had another idea in mind.
The smoking room in the Metropolitan Opera House overflowed with men eager to escape their wives and mistresses. Julius had visited the cramped space once or twice before but never lingered since he did not smoke.
Tonight, he trailed Cortland into the hazy room. The smell of tobacco and cigar nearly choked him, smoke burning his eyes. Christ, the ventilation was terrible in here. He’d tagged along so as to not offend Nora’s uncle. That, and he suspected James Cortland wished to have a private word.
Of course, circulating with the Knickerbocker men before the performance would serve his purpose nicely—not that he expected someone to walk up, shake his hand, and admit to ruining his father. But he hadn’t risen to the top of New York finance by not learning how to read people. He would watch facial expressions and mannerisms to discern patterns and spot abnormalities. All he needed were a few clues as to who might remember his father.
Cortland stopped and reached inside his jacket pocket, clearing his throat. “I would have preferred you asked for her hand properly, Hatcher, but I cannot quibble over silly rules. As long as you and she are happy, then Beatrice and I gladly give our blessings.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that. The proposal was very impetuous of me. Thankfully, Nora did not seem to mind.”
Cortland withdrew two cigars and offered one to Julius, who shook his head. Cortland’s brow shot up in surprise. “Don’t smoke?”
“No, not since I was a teen.” He’d tried for a while after his father’s death but never developed a taste for it. He lifted a shoulder. “One vice I never acquired, I suppose.”
Nora’s uncle began the process of clipping and lighting his cigar. Shorter than Julius, Cortland wore bushy white sideburns that matched his hair. He came from one of the most respected families in New York, the kind who had settled along the Battery when the rest of the island was wilderness. Before tonight, the two men had never been more than passing acquaintances.