by Maureen Lang
“Ian,” she whispered, “wouldn’t you like to work with me?”
He turned to her with a look torn between panic and interest. Then anger flashed in his dark-blue eyes. He didn’t back away, but she might have wished he had when he grabbed her by the arms in a less than romantic way.
“Stop! I know what you’re doing. You can’t work with me, Meg, or learn any of the things my way of life can teach you. If your father were alive, he’d have my hide. . . .”
Instead of accepting his words, she saw only his struggle, and it was to that she appealed.
“Ian.” His name came so smoothly to her lips, so naturally. She’d meant only to use it the same way she’d used the coquette’s smile a moment ago. And yet she found herself enjoying the entreaty more than she’d expected. It felt so perfectly right.
Suddenly it wasn’t so much control she felt as . . . a lack of it.
This is madness.
And heaven.
It wasn’t the first time Ian had imagined taking Meggie into his arms, but even as he knew that was precisely what he was about to do, Ian knew in some small and still shrinking part of his mind that it was the last thing he should be doing.
She was clearly using him to get her way, manipulating him to suit her own naive wishes.
But he didn’t care.
His lips came down on hers gently, increasing in pressure when he found what he fully expected—complete and utter surrender.
“Ian.” His name came off her lips again, breathless, happy, like no other sound he’d heard. She put her hands on either side of his face, her eyes as light as ever and full of eagerness. “This changes everything, doesn’t it? We’ll be partners now?”
He wanted to promise her anything but knew that in a few moments, when he wasn’t quite so foolishly dizzy and giddy, he’d have to follow through on whatever he said in reply.
“I . . . can’t.” Never were two words more difficult for him to say. But once said, they gave him strength—strength enough to pull himself out of her all-too-willing arms.
This was Meggie. Meggie, whom John had placed on so high a pedestal that it couldn’t be Ian who made a mere woman of her.
She folded her arms again, but this time it was as if she were hugging rather than defending herself. “I don’t understand. Didn’t you want to kiss me?”
“Oh, I wanted to, all right.” No sense lying; she wouldn’t believe him anyway, when the kiss had already revealed the truth. “But there’s something you ought to know about me, Meg. I only trifle with women.”
She loosed her arms to put a hand to her forehead. “What does that mean?”
“I never allow myself emotional involvement—but I often take advantage of favors sent my way. I don’t lie to women with promises of undying devotion.”
“How honorable.” Ice couldn’t be colder.
“I never pretended to be honorable. If you’re bound and determined to get involved in your father’s way of life, I can’t stop you. But I’m not going to make a fallen woman of you too. I won’t help you there.”
Her shoulders stiffened as if shrugging off the embarrassment of a rejection. Rejection! If only she knew every word he’d just spoken was a lie. All she had to do at this moment was come near him again, and any noble intentions would be immediately forgotten. He’d dreamed of her for too many years to be strong for very long.
“All right. No personal entanglements. You’ve said you can’t stop me from taking up my father’s way of life, so at least that’s understood.”
He shook his head at her assumption, risking all good sense and grabbing her again, this time by the shoulders. “Think, Meg! This isn’t just one decision. You’re making a hundred decisions right here and now. A thousand. If you go through with this plan to use the Pembertons or help steal their gold, every decision you make—every day—will be based on what you decide right now. Every word you speak, every action you take, will be a result of this decision.”
“I’ve made up my mind. So in what way do you want to be partners?”
A gasp from the threshold drew Ian’s attention. Kate stood there, her mouth agape. “What are you saying? Partners in what?”
“Yes, let’s discuss my options, shall we?” Meg clasped her hands in front of her as if she were about to make an oration, obviously not at all vexed by Kate’s disapproval or Ian’s reluctance.
Her voice, though, was a bit too eager to push that kiss behind them in favor of this new, business-only partnership. Something Ian wasn’t quite ready to do.
“What are you discussing?” Kate demanded. “What sort of partnership? This is absurd; you both know it.”
A tap at the door sounded just as Meg started speaking. “I know no such thing. Shall I answer that?”
But Ian was already moving toward the door, and he opened it wide. A boy stood there, one hand holding out a note and the other displaying an empty palm. Ian slipped him a coin as he accepted the envelope.
He turned to Meg, looking anything but pleased. It took no more than a glance at the expensive linen envelope, emblazoned with a P, to know from whom the note had come.
Meg met his frown with a triumphant smile before she even opened it.
This note was as good as gold—as good as the Pemberton gold. Her past was behind her and the future ahead. The note made it so.
Written in the same perfect script Meg herself had learned, she read the words from Claire Pemberton.
My parents’ departure for Europe has delayed my response to your interesting and most unexpected note. What a delightful gift it would be for Mother if upon her return awaited the garden she always hoped you would design. So yes, do come, Meg. At once. Please let me know if you need transportation and I’ll send a carriage for you.
Meg refolded it into the envelope, then looked at the waiting faces before her.
“My invitation has been offered. I’m to come at once.”
“At once?” Kate repeated. “Surely there’s no hurry. You’ve just lost your father!”
Tapping the edge of the envelope with her forefinger, Meg shook her head. “Actually I’ll be keeping that to myself. Claire never met my father. No one but the Hibbit sisters knows that my father recently passed, and they’re far away in Connecticut with little connection to any of the families here in New York, at least throughout the summer. I intend keeping my father’s death to myself.”
“But why would you deny such a thing?” Kate cried. “It’s like denouncing your father!”
Ian folded his hands behind his back, glaring as if he were some kind of schoolmaster and she an errant student. “Because she doesn’t want her visit limited. Is that it? No wish to follow the rules of mourning?”
She looked away, raising her chin and returning his glare. “You’ll thank me when I deliver the information you need.”
“That’s just it, Meg—I don’t need it! I’m working on something else anyway and couldn’t devote any time to whatever it is you think you can accomplish.”
“That’s fine. It’ll probably take some time for me to learn much in any case. I welcome not having the pressure of any immediate demands.” She moved away from them both. “Still, I ought to get to the Pembertons’ as quickly as I can. I’ll send a note telling them I’ll arrive in the morning. Would you mind fetching a messenger, Ian?”
“Find one yourself.” He retrieved his hat and put it on, leaving without another word.
14
Collusion for illegal gain is punishable by fine, imprisonment, or in some cases, death.
An Informal Look at the Penal Codes of London and New England
Ian shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, determined to walk off his anger. Nothing was going as it should. If John had known how much trouble his daughter was, he might have sent her to a school of an entirely different sort. One with bars on the windows and matrons who long ago would have crushed that obstinate spirit of hers.
Even as such thoughts crossed his mind, Ian kne
w neither he nor John would have wanted such a thing. Not for Meggie. She was Skipjack’s daughter, through and through.
Ian stopped short, nearly colliding with a suddenly immovable object in front of him. Keys.
Perhaps the day wasn’t a total loss. At least he might finalize their deal.
“Brewster’s waiting for you. In there.” Keys pointed with his chin to the tall carriage standing by across the street. Then he tipped his hat and started walking away.
“Aren’t you coming?”
“Can’t. Got a shift tonight.”
“Wait!” Ian took a step closer, lowered his voice. “Do we have a deal, then? What we discussed earlier?”
Keys eyed him, the slightest smile curving one corner of his marred mouth. “Sure.” He glanced at Brewster’s waiting carriage before studying Ian again. “Why not?”
Then he turned away, leaving Ian to approach Brewster on his own.
“Step in, won’t you?” Brewster greeted from behind the door, opened no doubt by Jamie. All Ian could see was the sleeve of one of his gaudy suit coats. This one was green with a stripe of orange.
When Ian was settled, Brewster sent him a friendly smile—effectively doubling Ian’s guard.
“Can we take you anywhere? Uptown? The Bowery, perhaps?”
“I’m staying in the Village for now. You can take me to Washington Square.” That was close enough. No need for Brewster to be able to find him too easily.
“Jamie,” Brewster said, “go up top and direct the driver.”
A moment later they rolled down the avenue, and Ian cast his gaze out the window despite knowing Brewster studied him closely. Ian let him do so for several minutes, not caring if the entire ride was shared in silence. Better, in fact, if it was.
“For as long as I’ve known you, boy, you’ve never been an idiot. Until now.”
Ian offered Brewster a halfhearted smile. “Because I refuse to partner with you?”
“Because you refuse to partner with her.”
Ian folded his arms. Discussing the possibility of working with Meg wasn’t something he cared to do, especially with Brewster.
“John wanted her to be happy,” Brewster went on. “I’ve known her only a week, and already I can tell she wasn’t happy in the life he wanted for her. In any case, she’d be no less happy than she is right now if she worked with us.”
The cocksure smile on Brewster’s face set off a spark of anger in Ian, but sitting at countless card tables had taught him control. “Us?”
“Your little rebellion won’t last, Maguire. What are you but a lost-and-found whelp? Meg wants to take risks, the same as her father. If she tells us how to access the Pemberton gold, there will be plenty for all of us.”
Ian turned his gaze from Brewster, doing his best to seem bored with the entire idea. If only it were true.
“Don’t get in the way of letting her do what she wants,” Brewster added softly. “I’ll see that you don’t, if it comes to it.”
“Sounds like a threat,” Ian said, careful to tinge his voice with amusement rather than intimidation—though he knew the kinds of tactics Brewster used to carry out his threats.
Brewster said nothing, offering neither admission nor denial, and they fell back into silence. Ian had no desire to change that until they reached Fourth and Eighth.
He pounded on the roof of the carriage. “You can stop here.”
As the carriage slowed and Ian moved forward, Brewster extended the handle of his cane until it reached Ian’s chest. “Think about it, Maguire. The only thing standing in the way is your own misguided attempt to fulfill something John himself might not have wanted. If he knew she desired to be her father’s daughter, he wouldn’t have thought himself unworthy.”
Ian opened the carriage door, and Brewster withdrew his cane. As Ian descended to the street, he heard Brewster bang on the side of the carriage to call his attention.
“Neither would you be unworthy of her anymore, Maguire.”
Ian didn’t look back. Those same words—ones he’d been forcing away for days now—echoed in his mind until that was all he heard.
15
It should be unnecessary to state that sincerity and honesty are required in all things, so long as your sincere honesty is in the best interests of others. If not, then by all means seek the virtue of silence.
Madame Marisse’s Handbook for Young Ladies
Fifth Avenue, New York City
Meg waited while the driver of her carriage mounted the stairs of the white marble home on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Thirty-Fourth Street to announce her arrival. Her luggage was in tow, but she would wait for a Pemberton servant to collect it rather than ask the driver of the hired cab to do more than he’d already done.
She dismissed any trace of embarrassment. Perhaps she should have accepted the offer Claire had made to send a Pemberton carriage, but she’d been hesitant about letting even a Pemberton liveryman know where she’d been living so recently. The only hired carriages that strolled Fifth Avenue were for gawkers, even now in the off-season. If Fifth Avenue knew the real reason she’d arrived, she would deserve such judgment—or worse. Instead, her heart pumped with excitement. It might be too late to prove her father wrong about being any value to him, but it wasn’t too late to prove it to herself.
A Pemberton manservant arrived at the side of the carriage, addressed her by name, then gave orders to another servant about her belongings. He then led Meg into a wide foyer lit only by sunlight filtering through high-set leaded and stained-glass windows. Passing a set of doors that were carved like fish scales, she was taken to a full yet uncluttered parlor, a room replete with elegant furniture and original artwork that somehow managed to be unpretentious in both design and display.
The butler did nothing more than announce her name before a familiarly graceful figure came forward with hands outstretched.
“Meg! How wonderful that you’ve come.” Claire Pemberton grabbed Meg’s hands and pulled her into a quick and unexpected embrace. Meg hid her surprise. If Claire wanted to pretend they’d been the best of friends, it suited Meg’s purposes to let her.
Claire called back the retreating manservant. “Please tell my brother to come down, won’t you, Mr. Dunlop? He’ll want to meet our houseguest.”
“It’s so good of you to take me in, Claire.” Meg looked around the drawing room, seeing beyond the Persian carpets, the mahogany and teak furniture, past the deep forest green upholsteries and golden accents to wonder if here, in this room, might be a hidden safe or a passageway where the famous Pemberton bricks were kept. Who knew! For all Meg could guess, she might be standing above the gold right now.
“The timing for your visit couldn’t be better. Nelson and I have decided to stay here in New York this summer, since Mother and Father are traveling. We wanted a quiet season, but no sooner had we agreed than I wondered if it might not seem too quiet. Having you here swept away every doubt that we chose correctly.”
Claire, as always, was a portrait of loveliness. But Meg had always thought her beauty cold, her blonde hair nearly white as snow, her skin flawless but stiff—like cream left out on a winter porch—and her eyes a shade of glacier blue.
“I’m happy to be here and to offer ideas about the garden, of course. It’s a garden here in the city, then?”
“Oh yes, a tiny space compared to the one at Newport. I’m afraid since our gardener retired, the courtyard here has become more like a slice of jungle than a garden. I’ll show it to you after tea. I’m sure you’re parched!”
Just ahead of a maid laden with a tea tray arrived a slender man Meg knew from more than one social occasion through school.
“Do you remember my brother, Nelson? Nelson, this is Meg Davenport, whom I told you about the other day.”
Nelson was the reverse of his sister, the antonym of her beauty. Meg always thought it odd how two so opposite visages could come from the same family, and yet there was a shadow of similarity. Nelson
’s hair, though thin and lifeless, was as white as Claire’s. His eyes—small while Claire’s were large—were hazel but might shine blue, if the lighting were right. And his skin was a waxen pale in comparison to Claire’s pink-and-white luster, lending him a fragile look. But there were rumors at school about Nelson’s power in the courts and his reputation for justice that left little room to think him weak.
There was nothing weak about his smile. He exuded genuine welcome, echoing Claire. Relief over their glad reception allowed Meg no room for secret compunction about the reason behind her visit.
“I know we’ve met before,” Nelson said, “though you probably don’t remember me. As I recall, your dance card never had an empty spot at school functions.”
Claire laughed. “Yes, that’s true. Speaking of our school dances, look! I had our cook bake Madame’s cookies, to celebrate our little reunion.”
They chatted on so cordially that Meg wondered if she’d come to the right Fifth Avenue mansion. Surely this wasn’t Claire Pemberton, who spared barely a dozen words for Meg that last year of her residence at school? Both she and Nelson treated Meg as if she’d been adopted into the family—something she wouldn’t have guessed possible given the school’s treatment of Evie Pemberton. Surely neither one knew Madame had depended upon Meg as a reliable source to verify some of the trouble Evie caused, resulting in the youngest Pemberton’s expulsion.
“So your parents are traveling?”
Claire nodded. “Paris for the last of spring, Italy for the summer, then back to Paris before coming home for the fall season.”
“And did Evie go with them?”
Both Claire and Nelson erupted in laughter.