by Maureen Lang
“Of course you remember me, Dex!” Ian said. “Vandermey, man!” Then he pulled away to bow more formally to the ladies beside Dex. “Ian Vandermey, at your service. I admit I received no invitation for tonight, but when I saw a notice in the paper about your event, I sent a donation to Dex’s mother immediately. I explained Dex and I went to school together, and she insisted we surprise Dex tonight. I suppose you’ve already guessed he made the glee club while passion alone failed to grant me a spot.” He nudged Dex with an elbow. “Dex went on to tour with the best of them, and I stayed behind, ever diligent in my studies.”
“Vandermey, you say?” Dex was clearly searching his memory—after all, Ian’s research had revealed the man had been at Harvard less than seven years ago and should recall it in detail. But Ian doubted Dex would deny what he could not recall, not at a charity ball among those whose social status had yet to make the top tier.
So Ian offered some help. “Yes, you remember, of course, how we cheered at Hamilton Field? You know, at the game! The first football match between Harvard and Yale, in ’75! I ought not speak of too many details of the day, considering the ladies, but how we celebrated that victory!”
Ian’s laugh was as contagious as ever, and soon Dex joined in, confirming to the women beside them that Ian was indeed his old college chum. Embarrassment over a forgotten schoolmate had no place in high society.
And Ian knew he was in.
Meg left several dances free on her card, feigning delicacy of stamina. Although she’d never been formally introduced to New York society, she did have the stamp of approval by being a Pemberton guest, which therefore put her in demand. Geoffrey was her most persistent suitor of the night. His face had fallen when she told him she’d promised the first dance to Nelson, but lightened when she gave him her second and a claim to another line farther down her card.
Claire introduced her to many suitable and capable dancers, as well as other women to chat with. But Meg noticed the women did not exude much eagerness to spend time in Claire’s quiet company, leaving Meg in Claire’s semi-isolated realm. Having learned Claire’s self-imposed seclusion was likely a result of her shattered heart, Meg was content to stay by her side. She had no desire to meet or impress new people, as these functions were designed to do for someone not already known in such circles. While skipping dances was frowned upon as a failure of the host to provide enough dance partners, this was yet another rule Meg was glad to break.
For the moment, though, Claire danced with a young man whose smile never left his face, even while Claire failed to look his way. She danced in his arms, her pale loveliness undeniable and marred only by her restrained expression. Despite the reminder not to think of Claire as her true friend, Meg couldn’t help wondering just how utterly devastated she must have been to remain unhealed after so long.
Meg was tempted to ponder the thought, even as she told herself not to. She was becoming far too fond of Claire as it was. But something caught her eye—rather, someone—simply because of the intense stare aimed directly her way.
A moment later Mr. Brewster stood before her, bowing formally with a smile on his fair-skinned face. “Good evening, Miss Davenport. I trust the evening finds you well?”
“Why, Mr. Brewster!” she said, hoping her face didn’t reflect the absolute shock she felt at seeing him. Here! “How nice to see you.”
“Likewise. Tell me, my dear, has your visit with the Pembertons been . . . profitable?”
She spared a glance around them, seeing that for the moment the other ladies she had been standing near were either dancing or engaged in conversations of their own. “I’ve enjoyed myself more than I can say, thank you. And how are you? It appears you need no help in garnering invitations to society events after all.”
He leaned close, so close that she caught the scent of peppermint on his breath. “My dear child, who said I had one?”
Meg blinked in an effort to control what she knew to be widening eyes.
“I came to see you, of course,” he continued, low, though he’d pulled back his face to a more polite distance. “To offer you a bit of advice that your father’s protégé seemed loath to give you. Advice on how best to use your time with such a family as the famous Pembertons.”
“And what would that be, Mr. Brewster? Advice that would secure me as your partner rather than Ian’s?”
He laughed as if she’d said something witty. “You’ve no more an obligation to me than you have to Maguire, but to work with him is to work with me. I’m quite certain I’ll be able to convince him that we would all be better off enjoying each other’s cooperation. It’s in that vein I offer you a bit of direction, nothing more. To use as you wish.”
She wanted to express her doubt that Ian would so easily work with Brewster, but his offer intrigued her. “What sort of direction?”
“You know only of the gold,” he said, glancing once over her shoulder. “But there is something just as valuable in that house, something they won’t soon miss should you be wise enough to recognize it.”
“What could be more valuable than their—?”
“A seal, Miss Davenport. With a flourished P. You find that, and you’ve found something that someone like your father could put to good use. It’s unique to the family name, one with all the prestige that money and integrity can demand. You find that seal, and you’ll have the power of the Pemberton name behind anything you’d like to do.”
“As in . . . creating fraudulent . . .”
“No need to discuss details now. Such a thing might easily be found in any drawer of an office, not even locked away. Be discreet enough in your aim for it, and they won’t know it’s missing.”
Meg put a hand to her throat, nearly dropping her fan in the process. This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? To have a partner willing to use whatever her position inside the Pemberton home could provide?
The music ended, and before saying another word, Mr. Brewster took himself away. Barely a moment later, before Meg could contemplate what he had advised her to do, Claire returned. Her cheeks were still pale, with no trace of the excitement some of the other girls had shown after sharing a dance with a handsome partner.
“Who was that you were talking to?” she asked as another dance began and the two stood side by side, watching.
“Someone I once met—through my father.”
Claire’s gaze went in the direction of Brewster’s retreating back, but Meg didn’t care to watch. Somehow, here under the lights and in the company of those he was so eager to victimize, he hadn’t seemed at all as charming as her father had been. Yet how was he different from him? Not at all.
“May I say something I could regret, then?” Claire asked gently. “But something completely from my heart?”
Meg nodded.
“I’m glad you didn’t introduce me to him. I was watching him while I danced, and . . . well, I didn’t like the way he looked at you. As if he . . . weren’t as old as your father.”
Heat rose to Meg’s face, though she couldn’t deny Claire’s words. He might not have been as interested in Meg herself as he was in what she could bring to him, but Claire had been close enough in her assessment.
There was but one thing to do. Make light of it. “He did rather remind me of the snake in the Garden. He speaks with something of a hiss.”
Claire laughed but covered her mouth with her fan. “Oh, forgive me for enjoying that!”
“Then I should ask forgiveness for saying it, I suppose.” Meg shook her head. “Except I haven’t quite so healthy a conscience as you. The farther I am from school, the less those rules haunt me. Now, would you care for some punch? I’m parched!”
“I’d love some, except I’m promised for the dance after this one. Aren’t you as well?”
“No, I’ve agreed only to waltz with your brother or Geoffrey tonight.”
They watched the rest of the old-fashioned quadrille, until it ended and Claire’s partner arrived to claim his
dance. Meg watched them go off, knowing Claire granted her dances out of politeness. Surely she and Claire had something else in common: they both longed for someone who was not here. Well, not that Meg longed for Ian’s company the way Claire longed for her former fiancé. Meg only wished to speak with Ian. Let him know Brewster was as eager as ever to work with her, and there was only one way to prevent that. By Ian’s agreeing to work with Meg.
She turned away from the dance circle in an attempt to distract herself with her mission for punch but stopped abruptly when someone waylaid her at the refreshment table.
“Ian!”
As if her thoughts had conjured him, he stood before her in perfect image for the evening. Fine clothing, impeccably tied cravat, gloves as spotless as any gentleman’s. His hair, though still a trace too long, was so charmingly thick she wouldn’t have seen it cut for anything.
“Will you give me the pleasure of dancing with you?”
How foolish she’d been to believe either Brewster or Ian could be barred from polite society. They were free to do as they wished!
Meg reached for the fan hanging at her wrist. While flirting with such an object had not been among the lessons officially taught under Madame Marisse’s watch, the language had been mastered by most students anyway. Not a single transmission came coherently to Meg’s mind just then, however, so she hoped the simple flutter meant only that she needed the air.
“I would love to dance.” She only hoped her feet could keep up with her heart. Her silly, racing heart. She ought to have been this pleased to see Brewster, knowing he at least would welcome Meg’s willingness to do what she could. But her heart was acting far too pleased at the prospect of working with Ian instead.
The waltz allowed Ian’s hand—though gloved—to take hers, equally gloved. She entered the dance with movements embedded in her memory, because her mind was entirely engaged elsewhere. She wanted to tell him that Brewster was here, at this very same event, as uninvited as Ian must be. She wanted Ian to know Brewster trusted her to work with him, even if Ian didn’t.
But other thoughts filled her mind instead, with far more urgency. Without thought to a single dance step, she let every ounce of her concentration rest on his face.
“Are you well, Ian?” She searched his face for any hint of the grief that had been so much a part of him when she saw him last. Or leftover worry from the bank job she knew he’d been part of.
“I’m well, Meg,” he said. “And you?”
“Quite fine.” Such foolish, useless words when so many others threatened to make her forget the simplest rule of etiquette. “I’m beginning to believe my father must have been quite an accomplished man.” She grinned. “Was he the one to teach you to fit in at such a place as this?”
“He could fit anywhere from Battery Park to the top of Fifth Avenue.” He let his gaze linger on her face a moment before adding, “Like you.”
She issued a breathy laugh. “But it took the entire staff of an exclusive school to tutor me. Perhaps he alone might have done as well.”
Once again Ian’s gaze rested on her like a caress. “As I’m sure you already know, men are far less complicated. In polite society or otherwise. All we need do is anticipate the needs of the ladies around us, and we’ve accomplished everything society expects.”
“Then perhaps you need to revisit such a lesson, Ian,” she whispered, “and anticipate the needs of the lady you’re dancing with.”
“That, Meggie, is exactly what I’ve been trying to do all along.”
Meg would have thought to blame some mysterious ingredient in the punch for her light-headedness, but she hadn’t consumed any. What sort of flirtation was this between them? They acted the typical couple at any society soiree, when they were anything but.
She must collect herself and get down to business, the business in which she was so eager to prove herself capable. “Did you know Mr. Brewster is here as well?”
He nodded curtly. “Second-tier charity balls lure nearly every kind of patronage, even the lowest.” He lost the frown he’d sported at mention of Brewster’s name to wink at her. “Myself excepted, of course. And this—or top tier—is where you belong, Meg. Any one of the gentlemen present would be a fitting choice for your happy future. You could be the one to take him to the top tier.”
“Is immediate company excepted in that choice as well?”
“Absolutely. In fact, if your father were here, he’d make sure of that.”
“Not only is he gone, Ian,” she whispered, surprised at her own ferocity over a matter she refused to take seriously, “but were he here, I would do exactly as I’m doing now. Proving to him, and to you, that he shouldn’t have shut me away all my life. I came here with a mission, one I intend to see through. With you or with Mr. Brewster.”
“Stay away from him.” His growl matched the tone she’d set, but barely a moment later he smiled—a forced smile, but a smile nonetheless. “What did he say to you just now?”
“He wanted to know if I’ve learned anything in regard to the reason I’ve come. And to suggest I might look for something a bit less obvious than the—” she dropped her tone even lower—“gold.”
“Such as?”
“A seal of some sort. With a flourished P. Unique to the Pemberton family.”
“Used on banknotes—and the gold bars themselves, or so it’s said.” Ian’s gaze wandered the room, but it was clear he wasn’t considering their surroundings. He was likely imagining what Brewster would do with such a seal.
“He said if I find it, I might be able to smuggle such a thing away without it being missed, at least initially.”
Ian smirked. “I doubt they leave it lying around the house. Have you seen it?”
She shook her head.
“Look, Meg, I still think this is foolish. Why don’t you return to Kate’s? I’m sure she would appreciate your company. Perhaps she’s planning to take a trip. She’d welcome you as a travel companion.”
“Alas,” Meg said, more confident now because it was clear this seal was of interest to Ian, too, “I’m otherwise occupied.” Then, sliding a sideways glance at him, seeing he still glowered at her, she gave a smile far more sincere than the one he’d offered. “It might be quite simple to see about that seal.”
Ian’s grip on her hand increased, though he did not miss a step in their dance. “It may.”
“It wouldn’t be so hard to work with me, would it, Ian?”
He looked none too pleased over whatever struggle raged inside of him, if indeed one did. It certainly appeared to be so. “I’d like to arrange another meeting. Tomorrow, perhaps? Two o’clock? In Central Park.”
Meg nearly held her breath with anticipation. “Claire and her sister go to the park every afternoon except Tuesday, when they receive callers. I always accompany them, but of course I won’t be alone.”
“That’s fine. I’ll look for you tomorrow. I don’t want to overstay my welcome tonight, so I’ll be leaving before supper is served. Brewster has left, so you won’t be troubled by him again.”
“Then . . . we are working together?”
He held her gaze, and some of the grief she’d seen in his eyes after the death of her father momentarily reappeared. “I don’t see that I have much choice.”
She’d won! The music of his words sent her feet to floating with the dance. But when he squeezed her hand, she let him catch her gaze again.
“Don’t look so happy, Meg. Our partnership could be the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.”
She shook her head. “No, Ian. I’m sure it’s the best.”
Ian allowed himself to look at Meg longer than he should, especially when images of partnering with her—in every sense of the word—came to mind.
Seeing Brewster here had changed everything. Clearly the man was intent on swaying her to his kind of life—and Ian would only transfer the blame to himself if he allowed Meg to work with him rather than Brewster.
Yet . . . he kn
ew exactly what Brewster had in mind for that seal. Any number of lucrative deals could be had with such a thing. It was just the kind of tool Skipjack would have welcomed: taking from a family who wouldn’t miss a few thousand here, a few thousand there. If it was cleverly used and with enough restraint to prevent the victim’s wrath, in all likelihood no charges would be pressed. Embarrassment over being hoodwinked came in handy from those who could afford to lose now and then.
It would be an easy mark.
“If we go forward, Meg, things will get far more complicated for you, no matter how simple the circumstances appear. So far you’ve been relatively honest in your visit with the Pembertons, haven’t you?”
“Mostly.”
“Every day will birth a lie if we work together. Can you do that? Lie to people you’ve been sharing a roof with these past weeks?”
“Don’t think I’ve changed my mind, Ian. I haven’t. I am my father’s daughter.”
“All right, then.” He softened his voice. “There is an art to lying, Meg. One I’m sure they never taught at Madame Marisse’s.”
“No, not formally. I believe they called it polite conversation.”
“This is no light matter. When you introduce me to the Pembertons, you cannot give away anything except what we want them to know. It requires a certain sophistication. Not everyone has a knack for it.”
“Did I not just tell you I am my father’s daughter?”
He squeezed her hand again. “Listen closely, and don’t interrupt. We haven’t much longer to speak. When you introduce me tomorrow at the park, don’t feel the need to give too much information. Novices at lying sometimes hope to cover their deceit with unnecessary details. Don’t let yourself embellish in the false hope that it’ll make your lies more believable. Be less specific, not more.”
As he spoke, each word drew down his heart, lower and yet lower. But he couldn’t stop himself. “Don’t speak too quickly or fluctuate your tone. Don’t stutter or let long pauses hamper the way you speak regarding me. You’ve spent considerable time with the Pembertons already, so they know your mannerisms. If they’re different when you’re lying, they’ll notice. And by all means make sure the emotion you feel is consistent with whatever you’re talking about. Because of that, I’ll be known as your cousin. I don’t think we could be believed as casual acquaintances.”