There was the fact that all the buildings were newer—bigger, more extravagant—but there was also a difference in the people themselves. Although they emanated an ennui similar to that found at any ton function, there was still something fresh and eager about them—a sort of enthusiasm that was lacking in London.
“I’m pleased you were able to come tonight, my lord.” Mrs. Astor said once they sat down to dinner.
Jasper’s face heated, even though she didn’t sound as if she were chastising him. “Indeed, thank you v-very much for allowing such a l-last-minute acceptance.” He could see his gratitude pleased her. They both ignored the fact that she would have had to quickly reshuffle her seating chart to make sure he was at the place of honor at the foot of the table, on her right.
“Of course, of course—it isn’t unusual for one’s calendar to become muddled.” She tutted. “Finding efficient servants is such a trial. Even a good one will have their lapses; they can be so careless.”
“Indeed they can,” Jasper agreed, offering a silent apology to Paisley, who’d not lost or misplaced a single item in almost two decades.
“I do hope you are comfortably settled.”
“Yes,” he murmured. “Quite comfortable.”
“Tell me, how did you decide to take up residence on Union Square, my lord?”
“My m-manservant chose the l-location, ma’am.”
Around him, the conversation stuttered and stalled. And then people began to laugh, as if Jasper had said something amusing.
Mrs. Astor laid a dainty hand on his arm, the diamond on her ring catching the blazing gaslight that beat down on them from overhead, the glare traumatizing Jasper’s retinas.
“You are very droll to try and make us believe you would allow your servant to choose your housing, my lord.”
Jasper didn’t bother to tell her it was the truth.
“If you decide you do not care for it, you must come to me—I shall be glad to point you in the right direction,” she said.
“Oh? Where would you have r-recommended?”
“Right next to her,” a loud voice somewhere on his right whispered—Jasper suspected it was one of the three half-inebriated young bucks he’d been introduced to earlier. The remark caused more laughter and several chiding looks from the older guests.
Twin spots of color formed on Mrs. Astor’s plump, pretty cheeks, and her jaw tightened. “Union Square is quite fashionable, and I have several dear friends who live in the area, my lord.”
“So I will b-be in good company, then?”
“Oh, indeed, and it is a convenient area for entertaining.”
“Unfortunately, I have no w-wife to organize ch-charming dinners like this one.”
“Perhaps we should put our heads together and remedy that, my lord.”
Jasper chuckled and sidestepped the potential snare. “Who are your f-friends on Union Square?”
“Let’s see, there is Madeline Drexel, my cousin William’s wife, and Louisa Bayard, and—”
“Hetty Dunbarton lived there,” said the man on Mrs. Astor’s other side—his name already having slipped Jasper’s mind.
Mrs. Astor’s mouth tightened with disapproval. Before she could answer, the woman on the other side of the mischief-maker chimed in, “Dear Hetty, she was such a darling, even if she did insist on running rather mad with her causes. Such a tragedy what happened.”
Jasper wasn’t surprised that his neighbor, Mrs. Hetty Dunbarton, was such a popular topic. That didn’t mean he enjoyed the subject.
“Poor Royce,” an older man said, shaking his head. “Can you imagine being saddled with a daughter like that? Eloise was fortunate to have died when she did.”
Several guests gasped in shock at this heartless opinion, but more of the listeners indicated their agreement.
Within moments, the floodgates opened as others joined the conversation.
Since the moment he had arrived, his hostess and the other guests he’d spoken with had studiously avoided mentioning the reason for his presence in New York City: working with the Metropolitan Police. It was as if they’d decided to treat his job as some sort of unsightly rash that would clear up if given enough time and not agitated.
But Mrs. Astor should have known that Jasper’s first case in the city—the murder of four wealthy businessmen and subsequent suicide of one of their widows—was too juicy a subject to suppress for long.
The majority of the guests—especially the spoiled young ruffians at the far end—were burning with curiosity, and the topic drifted down the table like a scandalous handbill dancing down a sidewalk on a windy day.
Lina leaned closer and said in a lowered voice, “Don’t let this vulgar discussion put you off Union Square, my lord. It is an eminently respectable area.” He could see by Mrs. Astor’s pinched expression that she wished to turn the subject.
So did Jasper.
“The l-lady near the foot of the table—the one in the blue silk—looks familiar to me.” The question was disingenuous in the extreme. Jasper knew exactly who the woman was: Helen of Troy—or Helen Vogel, as she was more properly known—and the very reason that Jasper had scrambled to accept this invitation.
Mrs. Astor was visibly relieved at the change in subject. “That is Helen Vogel—no doubt you’ve seen her picture somewhere. She married Adolphus Vogel a little over a year ago and the wedding was … well, interesting.”
Jasper knew her delicate sniff and raised eyebrows likely meant it had been a vulgar affair.
He sat back as the servant replaced his oyster plate with consommé.
“I have only a slight acquaintance with Mrs. Vogel.” Mrs. Astor did not sound as if she harbored any regret about that. Jasper supposed the reason she’d invited the other woman was because of the thin society at this time of year. Most people would have gotten out of the city to escape the heat, regardless of the shaky state of the economy.
“Is her h-husband here?”
“He is the gentleman in the rust-colored vest.” Her tone told him what she thought about that.
Jasper glanced at the man in question. Adolphus Vogel was a coarse-featured ox of a man at least two decades older than his wife.
After speaking to Paisley about the dinner invitation, Jasper had had just enough time to take a quick trip to Fifth Avenue and Twenty-First Street and pop in at the Union Club.
Although Law had mentioned Vogel was a slaughterhouse magnate, he’d known nothing else about the man. Before Jasper approached Helen Vogel, he’d wanted to have a bit of background about the couple.
The best place to get such information would be at the Union Club.
He’d joined the exclusive club in the hope that it would be a source of information about the city and its inhabitants, and he’d not been disappointed.
He’d received a warm welcome from the rather conservative membership, who no doubt believed a duke’s son would be a raving tory. Had they known Jasper’s only club membership in Britain had been the Reform Club, he suspected his reception would have been a tad frostier.
He had already eaten dinner with two of the men at the club—Cyrus Field, whose transatlantic telegraph line project Jasper had invested in—and Edward Cooper—the only son of millionaire inventor Peter Cooper.
He particularly enjoyed Cooper’s company, and had even gone to his stickball club, although he’d not joined. Given the metal plate in his skull—not to mention the tiny piece of shrapnel the doctors had not been able to extract—playing sports with fast-moving projectiles aimed at his person would not be the wisest of decisions.
Unlike most society scions, Cooper had attended New York City’s public schools, as well as the hometown university, Columbia.
As a result of his deep roots, the man knew everyone and everything about the city. It had taken only a few glasses of Scotch and a little gentle prodding to turn up a good deal of information on Vogel.
“He’s not a member, but he’s applied twice,” Edward told Jasper, wi
th a look of wry amusement. “If you think he looks like a butcher, that’s because he was one. Now don’t think I’m being high in the instep,” he said, although Jasper hadn’t said a word. “My father derived a great deal of his money from his glue factory and did business with men like Vogel for years.” He hesitated. “But Vogel is a bit of a brute. His first wife threw herself off the roof of his four-story summer house.”
“When was this?”
“Years ago—at least ten.”
“Was there any evidence of f-f-foul play?”
“Oh no, nothing of that sort. Just a general suspicion that living with him might have driven her to it. He married again recently—Helen Raynor, Donald and Sarah Raynor’s daughter. A lovely girl,” he added, a wistful look in his eyes. “But the Raynors are mucked out thanks to Donald’s love for the tables, so I’m guessing the girl had a bit of a helping hand making her decision to marry Vogel.” He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “A damned shame. Anyhow, if you want to meet the Vogels, you should have accepted Lina’s invitation for tonight.” Cooper smiled slyly. “I know you didn’t because Nealy told me a certain hostess was livid.”
Jasper had smiled at his teasing. Cornelia was his wife, one of the social movers in New York society.
“I’m sure she’d forgive your fiendishly late RSVP; anything to get Lord Jasper at her table.”
Jasper knew the man was correct. Mrs. Astor didn’t want him because of him but because there were so few people in town at this time of the year.
And so here he was, seated at the right hand of the most powerful hostess in New York City.
As Jasper looked down the table between Helen and Adolphus Vogel he had to admit they were an odd couple. She was quite the loveliest woman he’d seen since … well, since Letitia.
An image of his erstwhile fiancée—a woman who’d since married Jasper’s elder brother and was now the Marchioness of Frome—flickered temptingly through his mind’s eye.
Jasper ignored Letitia; no good could come from thinking about his ex-lover.
Instead, he looked at the woman who’d summoned her shade.
Helen Vogel was celestially beautiful. Her glossy hair was a few shades darker than Jasper’s own chestnut brown, strikingly juxtaposed with eyes that were the rare ultramarine blue found in classical paintings. Her skin was the color of rich cream, and her lips were a pouty coral-pink bow.
It was difficult to tell if her shuttered, languid expression was that of a bored socialite or mere vapidity.
“I understand you are from Somerset, my lord, which part?” Mrs. Astor asked, clearly moving along from the unpalatable subject of the ethereal Mrs. Vogel.
Jasper wrenched his gaze away from the beauty and turned to his hostess with a smile. The informative part of the dinner, he suspected, was over.
* * *
Paisley had warned him that there would be dancing, and Jasper appeared to be an in-demand partner. He knew it was not because of his skill on the dance floor—his damaged knee rendered him a no better than adequate partner—but rather his status as an eligible bachelor.
He could not take much pride in his popularity as the other unattached males present were either ancient bachelors or green youths.
He looked down at the pink-cheeked girl he was currently dancing with, who immediately dropped her huge, guileless eyes to his white stock. “Mrs. Astor s-says you are just out of f-finishing school, Miss Emerson.”
She gave him a shy look from beneath lashes that were as thick as palm fronds. “Yes, my lord,” she whispered in a voice so breathy he could scarcely hear it above the din of dancers and music and chatter.
Jasper sighed—but not heavily enough to be noticed—and began the arduous task of mining her for information he really had no desire to extract.
That had been an hour ago.
He’d just returned yet another blushing infant to her mama when his hostess appeared, accompanied by Helen Vogel and yet another eager-looking matron, and more young ladies.
“This is Mrs. Vogel, Lord Jasper.”
“It is a p-pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Vogel,” Jasper said, bowing.
Helen Vogel dropped a graceful curtsey. “My lord.” She had a low voice, the sort a man enjoyed waking up to in the middle of the night.
“And this is Millicent Baruch—”
Jasper murmured the appropriate greetings to the other woman, but his eyes were pulled back to Mrs. Vogel as if they were on leads.
Her décolletage was magnificent, the opalescent green silk bodice low-cut and snug, showcasing the pale half-moons of her generous bosom. Her striking hourglass silhouette proclaimed her a practitioner of exceedingly tight lacing. She was a mere wisp, and he estimated her waist would measure no more than twenty inches.
One of the few memories he’d retained from his medical training was of the dissection of a female cadaver who’d been subjected to tight corsetry all her life. If Mrs. Vogel’s internal organs were similarly cramped and rearranged, he could not imagine she had the stamina to exert herself beyond an evening of dancing. And even that, he thought, looking at her rose-tinted cheeks, took its toll.
It was difficult to imagine her stabbing Frumkin six times and then dismembering his corpse.
Still, if Jasper’s last case had taught him anything, it was to never underestimate society women.
Before Mrs. Backhouse Astor could press another schoolroom chit on him, Jasper turned to Mrs. Vogel. “Are you engaged f-for the next d-dance?”
Her crystalline eyes widened with surprise, and then flickered around the room seeking somebody—her husband?—before returning to Jasper. “I would be honored, my lord.”
Lina’s frown told Jasper she was disappointed that the son of a duke didn’t have more taste and refinement when it came to dance partners. “Oh, do excuse me—I see Dodi van de Berg. Come, girls.” She floated away on a cloud of rose madder silk.
Jasper smiled down at the expressionless beauty beside him. “I’ve c-committed an inexcusable faux pas.”
For a moment, he feared she was nothing but a lovely shell, but her lips curved into the slightest of smiles. “Not as big as mine, by accepting.”
Jasper chuckled. “I sh-should apologize for landing you in t-trouble.”
“Oh, I can manage to put a foot astray without any help.” Her eyes drifted again to the same part of the ballroom.
Jasper followed her gaze and encountered the direct, intense glare of Mr. Vogel, who had positioned himself to keep an eye on his wife. He towered above the men around him, dwarfing them in girth, as well as height.
“Ah, that is un-fortunate. I was looking for guidance on the l-local customs. B-But now I see you will only lead me d-d-deeper into danger,” Jasper teased.
Her smile was slightly warmer. “Perhaps you should purchase a guidebook for such assistance.”
Jasper had seen several guidebooks since his arrival: Charles DeKock’s Guide to the Harems and Free Lovyer’s Directory of the Seraglios, to name a few. He doubted these were the guidebooks Mrs. Vogel had in mind.
The orchestra cued a Viennese waltz.
“Shall we?” Jasper asked.
She hesitated, her gaze sliding to the nearby bouquet of young misses gazing yearningly his way.
“I have d-done my duty, ma’am. Now I am intent on p-pleasure.”
She smiled at his flattery, but the expression was both perfunctory and weary. He suspected people rarely looked past her magnificent exterior to wonder about the person within.
Jasper led her into the dance, and neither spoke for a moment as they matched their steps and pace.
“I understand c-congratulations are in order,” Jasper said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You are only r-recently m-m-married.”
There was a lightning-fast flicker of emotion in her eyes—it was distaste. “Not recently; it has been over a year now.” Again, she looked to her husband. Mr. Vogel had rotated to keep watch, as if he thought J
asper might ravage his wife in the middle of a ballroom.
She must have realized how bald her answer sounded and amended. “But … thank you. And you, my lord? I understand you are not married. Are you a confirmed bachelor?”
“M-My mother believes I am.”
“You’ve attracted a certain amount of attention.”
Jasper followed her glance and saw they were being closely observed by more than one hawk-eyed mother and doe-eyed daughter.
For the first time, she wore a genuine expression of amusement. “The arrival of a duke’s son—and a handsome, unmarried one at that—has naturally caused a stir.”
“I am s-surprised to see so many people in t-town at this time of year,” he said, dodging the uncomfortable subject of his marital status.
Her smile disappeared so quickly he wondered if he’d imagined it. “Business matters have kept many of our husbands in town. We would have abandoned the city for Long Island, but not this year.” She cut him a glance. “Are there similar fears in London?”
“There are r-rumblings,” he admitted. He hesitated, reticent to disturb what was a very pleasant dance, but that was, after all, his purpose. “I’ve d-d-discovered we have a m-mutual acquaintance,” he lied.
Her forehead furrowed. “We do?”
“Yes, a M-M-Mr. Albert Beauchamp.”
Jasper had to pull her closer to keep her from colliding with a passing couple.
He told himself that he was a dog for enjoying her proximity. But he enjoyed it all the same.
All too soon she pulled back to a more respectable distance, her gaze flickered to where her husband stood, his expression thunderous.
“I think you must be mistaken,” she said hoarsely.
“It is better that I t-talk to you here than call on you at your house. I won’t tell your husband, Mrs. V-Vogel, but you must be honest with me.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. And then opened it again. “I knew him.”
“He was extorting m-money from you?” he asked, knowing that was not true.
Her cheeks became dangerously pale.
“Do you need to sit dow—”
“No!” The sharp word drew curious looks from a passing couple. “No,” she said again, more quietly. “You must promise me you won’t tell anyone.”
Crooked in His Ways Page 7