by Maureen Lang
Meg shook her head at Kate’s attempt to save her from such a breach of etiquette, taking Kate’s hand long enough to lead her to the vacated seat. “I insist you enjoy the second half of the entertainment. Ian and I won’t walk far, only down the path toward the shade, where we won’t be in the way.”
Surely Mrs. Mason’s estimation of Madame Marisse’s graduates had sunk a peg or two, but there was nothing to be done for it.
“That’s very generous of you, Meg,” Ian said with a smile. “Lady Kate was just saying how she looked forward to sitting again, after our stroll.”
And so it was done. Meg let Ian lead her away, and she felt nothing but triumph.
Ian’s heart went unexpectedly light, considering his confrontation with Kate only minutes before. For the first time since John’s death—no, Ian couldn’t remember ever feeling this way—he was flooded with hope. His resolution to end any ties to Brewster would come to fruition, mainly because he had more incentive than ever. His partnership with Meg virtually guaranteed it, even if the only job they worked on together was this one.
“Oh, Ian! I have so much to tell—”
“Wait,” he whispered, glancing over his shoulder. That Mason fellow was far too watchful. He was, in fact, observing them now, just as Ian had expected.
A trickle of hope escaped when Ian glanced again at Mason. Who was Ian kidding? He’d once hoped not only to protect Meg from Brewster, but to protect her from herself. Now he was using her, but it still didn’t mean Ian could claim her for himself. A memory of how Mason had made Meg laugh still pricked his pride. While it might be true Mason was the one doing the pursuing, Ian wondered if Meg would stop resisting if he stepped out of the way.
“Is your visit with the Pembertons going well?” he asked at last, once they were well away from the group.
“Remarkably well.” Her eyes were filled with such delight that his stubborn doubts about working with her diminished. “I have information. The Pembertons bank at the Bank of New York—”
Perhaps she’d expected him to be more interested—or at least pleased—by her information. Even though he was careful not to frown, it came as no news. Anyone with an interest in banking knew which institutions the Pembertons used and that they were expanding their interests as far as Chicago, St. Louis, and even Denver.
“Oh,” she said, “did you already know that?”
“Where they do the majority of their banking doesn’t matter,” he said, “because they likely don’t keep all of their gold in one spot anyway.”
Her smile unexpectedly reappeared. “I believe the Pembertons have a safe inside their own home. Perhaps the gold bricks are there—right inside the house where I’m staying!”
This suspicion came as no surprise either, given the relative ease with which so many banks could be robbed. Still, perhaps she’d learned something to confirm what he already believed. “Why do you think so?”
“There’s a mysterious corner in the Pemberton office—a few square feet of space I cannot account for. It would be a perfect spot for a safe.”
He pondered the thought. “If the safe is of any size, it would require a specialized spot. Safes are heavier than you’d guess.”
“This spot is near nothing less than a cornerstone! I’ve measured the office as closely as I can, and I’m convinced the room is not all it appears to be.”
“It wouldn’t be the first hidden closet I’ve heard of,” Ian said. “But even so, it would take some time for me to investigate. Burglarizing a home isn’t what I do.”
Now her lovely, delicate brows came together. “But if I found out how to access the safe—if it’s there—it would be the same as getting into a bank safe! I’m trying to find all the information you need; I’ve even gotten up in the middle of the night to go over every inch of that wall. For the life of me, Ian, I don’t know how the corner is opened. And yet I’m sure, positively sure, something is there.”
Admiration mixed with surprise, and only belatedly did he think to worry she might have gotten caught before this whole thing went any further. “You’ve done that in the middle of the night? Undetected, of course?”
She nodded. “I spent a few nights listening for sleeping habits, to be sure I would be safe. And if I am discovered, the room is next to the library, where I can claim I came for a book.”
“It’s an office, you said. There must be a desk.”
“Yes, a large one near the center of the room.”
“And is the floor bare wood or carpeted?”
“There is a carpet, but only beneath the desk. The floor is tiled.”
“I once saw a design from a safe manufacturer that might be exactly what they have. Look beneath the rug, under the desk, where it would be relatively easy—yet perfectly hidden—to access a small trapdoor. If there is one, it may hide a release lever connected underneath the floor to a door in the wall. It could be beneath the desk or on another wall—anywhere, really, inside the room.”
“I hadn’t considered looking very far from the corner,” she said.
“I wouldn’t ask you to take the risk again, Meg, but I’ll have to know not only that it’s there, but more importantly what kind of safe they have. I need the brand, the approximate size, and what the handle looks like. I’ll know how to open it if I know that much.”
The directions came of long habit, as if there were no doubt about going through with this plan that would forever alter Meg’s life. Even as Ian was certain she would comply to the best of her ability—an ability he found impressive—he squashed the voices that threatened his hope. The doubts, the condemnation that wanted to bombard him from within. The fact was he needed what Meg so freely offered.
He’d just have to forget she was John’s daughter.
The concert soon ended, and Meg and Ian rejoined the group to say polite farewells. Kate grasped Meg’s hand a bit too long, and through the veil covering her face, Meg saw a silent but earnest plea. Meg stared back without flinching, pushing away the warning in Kate’s eyes.
As Ian led Kate away, Meg couldn’t help but pity her a bit. She knew what it was like to feel entirely ignored. Meg had felt the same from her father nearly all her life.
“Let me escort you to your carriage, Miss Davenport,” Geoffrey said.
Before she could refuse, before she could offer even the slightest glance of apology to Evie, Geoffrey claimed her hand and led her away.
“I see now why you were so distracted during the first half of the concert,” Geoffrey said quietly. His tone held something akin to sadness. “You were looking for your cousin, weren’t you? Hoping to see him here today?”
She let her gaze meet his, knowing that a lack of denial said enough. Still, it wasn’t easy to withstand his unhappiness. He’d only been kind and friendly to her, and if she were anyone but her father’s daughter, she might have enjoyed his company.
“It’s difficult to compete with someone who’s had a place in your heart for any length of time,” he said as he set a slow pace beside her, “but I don’t intend giving up.”
Meg grabbed the hand that rested on hers. She wasn’t sure it was right letting him think that Ian held more a place in her heart than he did. She knew only that they were partners; the rest was too confusing to sort out just yet. But it served her purpose to rebuff Geoffrey. He only complicated what she’d come to do. “Please do, Geoffrey. I cannot be what you want me to be.”
He leaned in on her, so close she was afraid he would kiss her. He stopped only inches away. “But you already are.”
Then Evie joined them, and any more such talk was tucked away.
27
It is essential for the young hostess to provide an evening of effervescent pleasantry, fit for fond memories. Vulgarities in any form are to be avoided at all cost, so as not to cause dyspepsia in her guests.
Madame Marisse’s Letters to Young Wives, No. 5
“You cannot be serious!”
Evie’s protest over the propose
d dinner procession echoed from one end of the parlor to the other. The three of them, Evie, Claire, and Meg, sat planning an event that was still four days away—days that hopefully would not prove to be four more filled with quarreling. Perhaps it was a good thing they’d forgotten about planning the picnic Nelson and Claire once mentioned; that would no doubt be a source of as much contention as this dinner party.
“Don’t imagine I’ll be any more pleased to walk in with you, Evie,” Claire said, “but it’s only one evening, ten feet from here to the dining room, and there is simply no other way.”
Meg looked between the bickering siblings, afraid Claire was correct. She was hardly thrilled with the arrangement herself, but if they were to follow decorum as set by London—and really, no company dinner did otherwise—then they must do it by rank.
Of course this issue would have been avoided altogether if they hadn’t invited Kate, but Evie would hear nothing of that. Or it could have been solved with something as simple as the truth. Kate was not nobility and as such didn’t need to be given preference. But as it was, Nelson, being the temporary head of the household and therefore the host, would escort “Lady” Kate into the dining room. She would sit at his right hand. That much was not in dispute.
Nomi was the eldest and therefore next in line of importance. This was some cause of concern, since it would have been simple for Claire to act as hostess and expect Ian to escort her. On the other hand, the whole purpose of the evening was to allow Meg to enjoy Ian’s company in front of Geoffrey, a plan which Evie fully endorsed. But because they’d agreed to allow Evie to join them, it meant one less seat available for another gentleman, leaving Ian the only available escort for Nomi.
It also meant putting Mr. and Mrs. Mason together, an obvious social mistake in a setting that was designed to expand one’s chances at diverse conversation. But there was nothing to be done for it.
In Claire’s display of humility that seemed to rankle her only because it meant walking in at her sister’s side, she suggested she and Evie go after everyone else. It wasn’t being last that seemed to bother Evie, but rather the irksome idea of Meg walking in with Geoffrey.
“Don’t forget we’re allowing you to dine with us as a favor to you,” Claire said to Evie’s continued scowl. “You’re the one so eager to grow up.”
The frown did not ease. “You couldn’t set a table with only nine people. I’m as necessary to the evening as either of you.”
“We could always invite one of Nelson’s associates and leave you off the list entirely,” Claire suggested. “That way I could at least walk in on the arm of a man instead of a child.”
“You won’t do any such thing. Not that you would hesitate to thwart me, but being a dinner partner to some other man would mean being false to your silly memory of Jude.”
Meg cleared her throat. “I think you’re forgetting, Evie, that this dinner was practically your idea.” Or at least that was what Meg wanted everyone to think. She’d done nothing more than make a suggestion to Evie, and the child had taken over just as Meg had hoped. “You haven’t been properly introduced into society as of yet, and even though this is a simple dinner party for neighbors and friends, it’s still stretching the rules to include someone your age.”
“Oh, all right, I won’t argue anymore.” Her glare softened somewhat when she turned to Meg. “Except having you sit with Geoffrey through the entire meal spoils the whole idea.”
Meg shook her head. “But I don’t plan to charm him, Evie. I plan to convince him of the truth: I have no intention of marrying him or anyone.” Perhaps if she told herself that often enough, and pronounced it publicly, she would believe it.
“Or anyone?” The shocked question came in unison from both Claire and Evie.
“Well, at least not anyone I know.”
“Not even your so-called cousin?” Evie asked.
Meg felt warmth scroll up from her heart to her forehead. Why did everyone insist she felt more for Ian than she wanted to admit? And yet it did no harm to let Evie think what she wanted.
“It’s true Ian is only a distant sort of cousin, honorary rather than blood. My friendship with him began when my father died and is on my father’s behalf.” Establishing anything more would no doubt make her create a labyrinth of lies too complicated for her to keep straight, so she wouldn’t try. “Just know that I’m no competition for Geoffrey’s attention, Evie.”
Claire was shaking her head, setting aside the list of menu ideas—another area of dissension they’d visited earlier. “I’m not at all sure this idea is a good one. For one thing, we’re practically encouraging her infatuation with Geoffrey. Anyone can see he’s too old for her and still considers her a child.”
“For now!” Evie insisted.
“When he leaves home for college or to travel again, he may come home with a bride, Evie. One his own age. I’m only trying to spare you future heartache.”
Evie was clearly unconvinced.
Meg picked up the paper Claire had set aside. She needed this dinner party to take place for altogether different reasons. Claire might resent her little sister, but in this case she was entirely correct about the evening lacking any element of protection for Evie’s young heart. Something Meg would rather not dwell upon too long.
“Getting back to the menu,” she began, “did we decide on three courses? We ought to have at least that many for ten of us and perhaps four quelque chose to start with.”
Evie laughed. “You can call them kickshaws around here, Meg. Claire isn’t much better than I at French.”
“All right, then,” Meg said. “What shall we have for the kickshaws? Shrimp? Or oysters? Both, perhaps, and celery, too.”
“Oh, Claire, can we have Cook make some candied fruit, the way she did at Christmastime? And a centerpiece of sugar flowers and figurines!”
Claire frowned. “We told Cook this was a simple dinner, remember?”
“Then we can order in for a confection centerpiece. I saw an advertisement for table ornaments in the newspaper just the other day. It’ll save ever so much time but be fitting for Lady Weathersfield. I’m sure she’s used to fancy dinners. We don’t want to disappoint her or disgrace our house, do we? And beside that, think how Mrs. Mason will appreciate it. She likes a fuss to be made over her.”
Claire nodded. “Very well; I’ll see about ordering something.”
Meg listened, wishing she could ease some of their eagerness for the designated evening. Kate, in all likelihood, had never graced her own table with sugar figurines. And Mrs. Mason . . . well, there was something about her that inspired Meg to remind her that even though half the families along Fifth Avenue could afford to pave the streets with gold, this was not the footstool of heaven.
The evening was set for Thursday, and invitations had already gone out. She had four days left—more importantly three nights—to discover more information about how to access the office corner. If it housed a safe as she suspected, she would supply Ian with access to the house, a floor plan he would be familiar with after this dinner party, and instructions on how to reach the safe that she would describe as he’d requested. He would know what to do after that to complete their plan.
The clock from the library struck three. Meg stood in the office, desperate to find what she was looking for. She had only tonight left; the last two nights had proven fruitless.
There was little light without a moon to shine through the two high windows. She was forced to use a candle. It was a risk, of course, but she would keep it well away from the windows. She closed the door to the library to prevent any shadows from escaping that way. The paraffin candle Meg had borrowed from the dining room earlier would leave behind no scent, unlike the bayberry in her room.
Keeping her back to the painting, she stared at the desk. That cross, the one that stood on the edge—was it only decorative, a symbol of Mr. Pemberton’s faith? But why have it when the painting did the same thing? Had she missed something as obvious
as what this cross might be?
Meg touched the carving, tipping it forward, then backward as if it were the secret lever Ian had described. But nothing happened, not even when she lifted it.
Almost nothing.
The cross in her hand, so smoothly carved, so stark a representation of the painting she’d turned her back on, beckoned her to look at what she’d vowed to ignore. But Meg refused to turn around.
She returned the carving to its spot, then rounded the desk and got down on her hands and knees. She’d searched here already, but if there was a lever behind this desk, Meg would find it—without a moment wasted staring at a portrait that was nothing more than canvas and paint.
Meg settled the candleholder on the floor behind her and pushed the chair out of the way. Then she rolled back the carpet as far as the heavy desk allowed and ran her hands along the smooth, cool tiling.
Nothing.
Surely if there was a secret lever, it couldn’t be too difficult to access, if one was to open the corner with any regularity. But repeating the action, lingering over tile edges, pressing and pulling at the lines of grout lest any seam conceal a hinge, she still found nothing.
At last Meg sank back on her feet, a soft moan escaping that she hadn’t realized was trapped inside. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps the room had been designed with the hall in front of it for the very reason she’d first assumed: the occupier of this room wanted no distractions, thus the only windows were up high for the benefit of light, but no view or compromise of privacy. Perhaps the measurement shortage in the hall meant nothing at all.
Still, it made no sense. The parlor, on the opposite end of the house, had no such secret corner. She’d measured that just to be sure. It appeared only this corner, in this room, was inexplicable.
She looked around the room again. The only place she’d steered away from was the painting. She didn’t want to go near it. Even as she turned away to restore the rug and chair to their original placement, the struggle waged within her. Superstition. Irrational fear. Omens.