A Golden Grave

by Erin Lindsey

  None of which brought us any closer to finding our killer.

  “Oops, that sounds like your carriage.” Clara pulled the curtain aside and peered out the window. “A brougham and all. My, my.”

  All right, Rose. You can do this. I gave myself a final pat-down, making sure everything was securely in place.

  “Gloves,” Clara said, handing them to me. “Cape. Hat. Bag.” And then, with a sigh, “Gun.”

  “Thanks,” I said, tucking the little derringer into my evening bag. “Really, Clara, thank you for everything. I don’t know what I’d have done without you. I wish you could come with me.”

  She gave a hollow laugh. “Then they really would faint clean away. It’d almost be worth it just to watch.”

  “Almost, but not quite?”

  “No disrespect, honey, but you couldn’t pay me enough to do your job.”

  Glancing at myself in the mirror a final time, I took a deep breath. “Wish me luck. I’m going to need it.”

  I picked my way down the stairs, gathering my multitude of skirts about me as best I could. Awkward as it was, it still felt like a dream. Except that even in my wildest fantasies, I’d never dared to imagine this. The little girl in me, the one who never let go of visions of herself as a princess, was leaping with excitement. But she felt very small and alone down there in the pit of my stomach. And she was making me nauseous.

  I found Thomas in the parlor. He stood gazing into the fire, a glass of cognac in his hand. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him drink cognac before. I’d dusted that crystal decanter for the better part of two years without ever seeing its level drop, but it was noticeably lower now. He’d poured himself a stiff drink, though it didn’t look like he’d actually downed any of it. Instead he just swirled the amber liquid around restlessly. He’s nervous, I thought. Why should he be nervous? He wasn’t the one living out a fantasy. Feeling suddenly like a voyeur, I cleared my throat.

  He turned. For a moment he seemed not to know what to say, as if the awkwardness from before still lingered. Maybe he’d sipped some of the cognac after all, because there was a glassy look in his eye, and when he smiled, it had an almost wistful quality to it. “Good evening, Rose. You look lovely. Very lovely indeed.”

  “Thank you. And you look very fine as well.”

  Fine was not the word I wanted to use.

  I’d seen Thomas in a swallowtail coat more times than I could count, and he always looked immaculate—whites gleaming, kid gloves fresh as new, silk hat brushed to a high gloss. But the sight never failed to send embers swirling through my insides, and though we were to spend the evening as cousins, I was already entertaining some extremely un-cousinly thoughts.

  “These are for you,” he said, taking a bouquet of lilies from the banquette at the window. He himself wore a small rose in his buttonhole, of the same brilliant red as my dress. “Not very practical for our purposes this evening, I admit, but I didn’t want to overlook the gesture entirely. We can have Louise put them in your room.”

  I brought the lilies to my nose, inhaling deeply. Though their scent relaxed me a little, it still felt like a dream. “They’re beautiful, thank you.”

  “Sherry?” Then, with a wisp of a smile: “Or perhaps something stronger?”

  “I don’t dare.”

  “Very well, then.” Setting his own glass aside, he grabbed his hat. “To battle.”

  CHAPTER 9

  A CATHEDRAL IN MARBLE—OYERLAND—A DASHING RESCUE

  The carriage trundled up to the Hendriks mansion at precisely ten-thirty. Liveried footmen waited to receive us, and no sooner had my head emerged from the brougham than an umbrella was opened over it, even though we were protected under the porte cochere. Between the drizzle and the moonless night, I couldn’t make out much of the grounds, but I’d passed the house plenty of times on my errands, and I knew it for one of the handsomest palaces on the Avenue. I could hardly believe I was actually mounting its steps, still less that I was doing so on the arm of Thomas Wiltshire, even if it was under false pretenses.

  “Are you ready, cousin?” he murmured.

  “As I’ll ever be, cousin.”

  It was like stepping into a cathedral, or so it seemed to me. The entrance hall yawned before us, its twenty-foot ceilings supported by pillars of blue-veined marble and fluted Roman arches. The walls, too, were marble, a stark white canvas for massive oil paintings and heavy velvet curtains. A magnificent staircase branched down from the mezzanine level in twin cascades, its iron lace balustrades entwined with ivy and yellow orchids. Clouds of lilies and jasmine graced every available surface, even the risers of the stairs; their spicy fragrance perfumed the air. Above it all, gas lamps hung in gilded pendants, bathing the hall in a golden glow.

  “Sweet Mary and Joseph.”

  “In the French château style,” Thomas informed me. Then, lowering his voice: “Rather too baroque for my tastes.”

  Passing between the embracing arms of the stairs, we came to a wide corridor lined with palms and ferns, where we met the tail end of the receiving line.

  “The ladies’ dressing room is on the second floor. That will be an excellent place to pick up interesting gossip. If you lose sight of me, it’s most likely because I’ve put myself to the same purpose among the men in the games room.”

  “You’ve been here before, I take it?”

  “Twice. Mrs. Hendriks’s annual February ball is one of the most prestigious events of the social season. This will be a much more subdued affair, I should think.”

  “Visibly.”

  “Sarcasm is unbecoming, Miss Gallagher.”

  And then there was no more time for advice. We’d arrived at the head of the receiving line, where an elegant matriarch in green satin awaited us. Mrs. Hendriks was the very picture of civility, as were her daughters, but our time with royalty was brief; Thomas introduced me, I murmured a few polite banalities, and we were off, but not before a small box had been pressed into my hand.

  Inside, I found a dainty silver bracelet with a dangling charm. For a moment I just stared at it, incredulous. “Thomas, they’ve given me jewelry.”

  “A favor.” He showed me his own gift, a silver scarf pin adorned with a single black pearl. “From Tiffany’s, or so says the ribbon.”

  “Should I wear it?”

  “If you like. It’s yours to do with as you please.”

  I glanced around; the other young ladies were indeed putting theirs on, with great shows of interest and admiration, so I did the same. It dangled prettily from my wrist, a welcome flash of interest against my white satin gloves.

  Continuing on, we made our way through a procession of parlors separated by heavy damask curtains. Everywhere, tasteful signs of wealth were on display: rosewood furnishings, silver bric-a-brac, painted porcelain. And the flowers. Sweet Lord, the flowers. On mantels and tables, chiffoniers and chandeliers, in such multitudes that I had to tuck my fingers under my nose to keep from sneezing. Thomas offered me his handkerchief, but snuffling into a gentleman’s fine linens was hardly the first impression I wanted to make. “I’ll be all right,” I said. “I only need a moment to get used to it.”

  Just then, a familiar laugh rang out in the next parlor; pushing aside the portiere, we found Mr. Burrows, sherry in hand, surrounded by a gaggle of admiring young ladies. He looked even more handsome than usual, a fact of which he was most evidently aware, and I almost felt sorry for the Knickerbocker princesses vying for his attention. If there was a more inveterate rounder in all of New York, I hadn’t met him.

  He spied Thomas first. “There you are, old man. And can this be Miss Gallagher? Why, I hardly recognized you.”

  “Mr. Burrows.” I inclined my head demurely, as was appropriate.

  Which of course he was having none of. He took my hand and kissed it, a playful smile teasing his lips. “You are a vision.”

  Thomas, for his part, greeted the assembled ladies with a courtly nod. Then, before we could be drawn into conv
ersation: “I say, Burrows, we’ve just passed the most extraordinary picture. Have you taken a look?” He gestured at a distant painting and raised an eyebrow pointedly.

  Excusing himself from his admirers, Mr. Burrows followed us to a discreet remove. “Admiring a picture is a poor cover, Thomas,” he said once we were safely out of earshot. “Anyone who knows me is not likely to be fooled by it.”

  “My dear Burrows, I am merely burnishing your reputation as a man of culture.” Thomas gestured at the painting as if he were pointing out something of interest.

  Mr. Burrows duly observed the canvas, but the rakish smile had returned. “I must say, Miss Gallagher, it is a shock to the system to see you like this.”

  “For us both.”

  “Simply radiant. I especially admire that brooch. Draws the eye to the décolletage.”

  “Jonathan,” Thomas murmured disapprovingly.

  “All right, let us be serious.” Mr. Burrows made a half-hearted gesture at the painting. “Why am I pretending to admire this ghastly thing?”

  “I hadn’t time to telephone, but Rose and I are meant to be cousins. She’s visiting from Boston, so you haven’t known her for long, understood?”

  “In that case, my kissing her hand was terribly fresh.”

  “It was terribly fresh anyway,” I said, “as you perfectly well know.”

  He shrugged. “Perching at the edge of shocking is just about the only amusement to be had at such events.”

  “A luxury we do not have,” Thomas said. “We’re trying to catch a killer, a task with which your assistance would be most appreciated.”

  Mr. Burrows’s expression darkened.

  “Come now, you needn’t look at me like that. I ask only for an introduction here and there, and perhaps another set of eyes.”

  Mr. Burrows took a long pull of his sherry, as though to banish a bad memory. “And what am I looking for?”

  I took my own turn to admire the painting, a gloomy depiction of some revolutionary battle or another. “Do you remember the description Sergeant Chapman gave us of a tall, gangly fellow?”

  “That’s awfully vague.”

  “Indeed,” Thomas said, “and there’s our difficulty. The only other clue we have is that it appears the killer sought to prevent the nomination of Theodore Roosevelt for mayor.”

  As before, the name registered on Mr. Burrows’s features. “Do you know him?” I asked.

  “We were at Harvard together. He was ahead of me, but we saw each other now and then at the Porcellian Club. Is he in some kind of danger?”

  “Possibly,” Thomas said. “We’ve only the shadow of a theory at this point.”

  “He’s supposed to be here tonight,” I said. “If he does come, it would be a great help if you could introduce us.”

  Mr. Burrows’s gaze grew abstracted with memory. “I watched him get the tar beat out of him once. In the ring, my freshman year at Harvard. He was completely outclassed, staggering about and gushing blood, but he wouldn’t give up.” He shook his head. “I’ll say this, if someone is out to get Roosevelt, he’ll have his work cut out for him. The man is a bull.”

  My glance did a tour of the room, taking in the fine specimens in their bright plumage and glossy coats. It was hard to imagine a killer among them, still less an assassin.

  “Don’t let those refined facades fool you,” Mr. Burrows said, guessing my thoughts. “A good share of these people are lucky, and they won’t hesitate to use that to their advantage.”

  “A timely reminder,” Thomas agreed. “We must remain on our guard—especially you, Rose. These people are new to you, and you don’t know what they might be capable of. Burrows and I will do our best to warn you where we can, but not all of their powers are known to us. Many have chosen to keep their talents hidden, and those are the most dangerous of all.”

  I nodded, feeling a little queasy.

  “All right, then,” Thomas said, “let’s be about it. I’ll introduce you to as many of our potential suspects as I can, and then we’ll have to split up.”

  Taking our leave of Mr. Burrows, we made our way through the enfilade of parlors and drawing rooms, leaving a trail of handshakes and pleased to make your acquaintances behind us. We saved the ballroom for last, and by the time we got there, the dancing was well underway. Several of the ladies were already resting, collecting in small clusters to sip wine and converse, and it was to one of these gatherings that Thomas guided me next. “This is as good a place as any to begin your inquiries,” he said in an undertone. “The lady in silver is Mrs. Gilbert Walsh. You recall, the banker? He was a key force pushing for Acton to earn the nomination. See if you can determine his whereabouts the night of the convention.”

  But before we reached our target, we were hailed by royalty. Ava Hendriks called Thomas’s name, and we had no choice but to answer the summons of our hostess.

  “Miss Hendriks,” Thomas said with an elegant little bow. “What a perfectly lovely evening. You remember my cousin, Miss Gallagher, from the receiving line?”

  “Of course.” She extended a gloved hand, and we shook. Or rather, I shook; Miss Hendriks permitted her hand to be grasped while she surveyed me with a cool-eyed gaze, subtly but unmistakably sizing me up. “We are in your debt, Miss Gallagher. We see Mr. Wiltshire so rarely. With his cousin in town, he will surely feel obliged to favor us with his presence more often.” She bestowed a radiant smile on Thomas.

  “I do believe Miss Hendriks intends to marry you off, Mr. Wiltshire,” put in one of her companions, a pretty brunette with a mischievous cast to her features. “She’s lined up several eligible candidates.”

  “Honestly, Miss Islington.” Miss Hendriks tutted theatrically. It was clear from her smile, though, that she wasn’t the least bit put out by this remark; on the contrary, she seemed to await Thomas’s response.

  He fended her off masterfully. “By all means, Miss Hendriks, send me your list. With your reputation for matchmaking, it promises to be intriguing.”

  “A worthy reply,” said the mischievous brunette, saluting Thomas with her glass.

  “It is ever my aim to please, Miss Islington.” Then he spotted one of our targets nearby. Turning to me, he said, “Cousin, may I bring you some champagne?” And before I could reply, he’d abandoned me to the mercy of Miss Hendriks and her court.

  Five pairs of eyes fixed on me. Nobody said a word. The ladies sipped their champagne, studying me as if I were some queer little creature in the Central Park menagerie.

  It was the princess herself who broke the silence. “Your dance card, Miss Gallagher.” She gestured at the blank piece of paper in my hand. “You haven’t any names at all?”

  Don’t blush. Don’t you dare blush. “Oh,” I said, turning it over as though I’d forgotten all about it. “I’ve been so preoccupied learning all the new faces and names. It’s been a whirlwind.” Smiling demurely, I added, “But I’m having a wonderful time. Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

  Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “And you’re from Boston, is that right? Do you know the Halversons?”

  “I can’t say I’m acquainted with them, no.”

  “Oh, really?” A tiny crease marred Miss Hendriks’s perfect brow. “The Philippses? No? The Huntington-Smiths, surely.” With each shake of my head, her expression grew colder.

  “Gallagher,” said another of her companions, a fragile-looking thing in blue satin. “That’s Irish, isn’t it?”

  This pronouncement hit the floor like a lead weight.

  The matter was plain, of course, Gallagher being as Irish as a jig, but so far no one had been tactless enough to mention it. Now it was out there, forcing everyone to openly face the distressing notion that an Irishwoman had been set loose in the ballroom.

  But of course I’d been prepared for that. “My grandmother—Mr. Wiltshire’s great-aunt—married an English landowner in Ireland, and my mother married an Irishman. I was actually born there myself, though I’ve n
o memory of it.” This was pure hocus-pocus, of course; I was no more a member of the Ascendency class than I was the Queen of England. It would have hurt Mam terribly to hear me spin such tales, as though I were ashamed of my heritage, but I didn’t have much choice.

  Or so I thought, but as it turned out, I needn’t have bothered.

  “That explains the accent,” Miss Hendriks said. “The way you say Oyerland is just sweet.”

  I stiffened. My Rs were a touch hard-edged, maybe—in spite of my best efforts, growing up in an Irish household had left its mark—but it took a keen ear to hear it. A keen ear—or a spiteful one. The message was clear: As far as Ava Hendriks was concerned, Irish was Irish. In her eyes, I was no more worthy than a potato farmer. Or a housemaid.

  The next few seconds were very delicate indeed. Mortification twisted my insides, and fury, too, but I didn’t dare show it. Did she even realize she’d insulted me?

  I gazed into her cold blue eyes and decided that she did.

  I might have said something very unfortunate then, but thankfully, I didn’t have the chance.

  “Miss Gallagher.” Jonathan Burrows appeared, an indolent little smile hitching his mouth. “I can hardly believe my good fortune. They’re starting a waltz, and here you are unoccupied. Would you do me the honor?” He extended a gloved hand.

  “Certainly, Mr. Burrows.” Mustering every scrap of dignity I had left, I allowed myself to be escorted to the dance floor. For a moment I feared I’d leapt from the frying pan into the fire, but when he clasped my waist and drew me in, my lessons took over, and I fell into step naturally enough. Even so, I waited until he’d led me through a few gentle spins before I felt confident enough to speak. “Thank you for that.”

  “Not at all. What did she say to you, anyway? You looked fit to explode.”

  “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  His glance went over my shoulder, lingering on Ava Hendriks and her coterie. “The little viper. She’s been spiteful since she was a child.” Gathering me in closer, he said, “Laugh, Rose. I’ve just said something terribly witty.”