Ally tried not to panic. “Your daughter?” My mother?
“Of course, dear. Lisa and your father are at the country house, waiting for your arrival. Where do you think they’ve been all this time? They can’t wait to meet your duke.”
Ally tried to hold herself together. Just illegally passing through the streets of Manhattan, about to see my mother and father, who disappeared ten years ago. “Granny Donny, are you sure they’re there?” Ally had to remind herself that Granny Donny had said a lot of things in the past two weeks that were highly questionable: the imaginary visits from viscounts and earls, the imaginary scandals among the cooks and servants and footmen and tenants, even an imaginary case of measles from which the “parlor maid” perished. (Brenda, the maid, had quit to follow her boyfriend to Cal State on a football scholarship.) But the end of the Lewiston house’s rental records loomed in Ally’s mind: There had been a change at the house two years ago. No more rental records. Why hadn’t she paid more attention?
“Of course I’m sure they’re there. We speak often.”
Ally had to hold on to the carriage sides to stop herself from jumping out and running away. She’d been ambushed, but not by brigands, by her past. It’s not true. She’s crazy, confused. They made their way past the chic stores and high-rises of midtown, past the prewar apartment buildings of the twenties, past the funky boutiques and restaurants of downtown, and finally into the chaos of Chinatown, with its mid-morning crowds moving in every direction like the Chinese character signs mounted on every spare inch of the buildings. Paula pulled the carriage like a pro and no one stopped them, every police officer unconcerned. Some even waved, and Granny Donny waved back, filled with childish delight.
As the neighborhood petered out into kosher delis and high-rise tenements, Ally started to relax. Her parents were not at that house. They’d have contacted her. Granny Donny was unsettled, confused. Identical redbrick former tenement buildings rose up around them. The final approach to the bridge loomed ahead.
But what if her parents were in Lewiston because they had somehow learned about Granny Donny’s loss of her faculties and were there to take her money? Turn back. Forget it. Never mind. The only thing worse than seeing her parents would be seeing her parents try to lay down one last con on Granny Donny to get her money.
She had to get back to the apartment so she could make more calls, do more research.
The traffic was rowdier now that the orderly woven streets of midtown had tangled into the chaotic fringe of lower Manhattan. Paula seemed twitchier, although it was hard to tell if that was because she could sense that Mateo was tense or because of the new sights and sounds and smells that surrounded them.
Mateo’s back stiffened as he directed Paula into the bridge-access lane. Ally’s skin went clammy as the traffic crawled toward the bridge. If Mateo had planned on making a speedy crossing before anyone noticed them, that didn’t look likely.
Ahead, tucked into the triangle beside the entrance columns, a police car was stopped, its lights spinning idly while the policeman inside did paperwork. Mateo cursed under his breath. Paula flicked her ears in annoyance. With each step closer to the stopped police car, Ally felt her heart thump faster.
Her parents. Had they been at the house for the last two years, since the rental records stopped? Been there and not called her? Not wanted to see her? Anger and pain made her bend over, pulling her stomach toward her thighs.
Let’s forget this whole thing. I can go back to living my old life. No problem. I’ll get back my old job at PS 142and live with Granny Donny and be quite happy, thank you very much.
Even Granny Donny was looking uneasy. “Where is Duke Whatthehell? Where could he be?” Confusion clouded her eyes. Maybe Granny Donny was having second thoughts, too. Was the trip too much for her? Was this all a huge mistake?
Ally checked her watch. It was eleven-thirty. “Any minute,” Ally reassured her, having no idea if her words were true or not. How long did it take for a “photo shoot” or whatever Sam had called it? “He’ll be here.”
Mateo stared straight ahead. The officer inside the car didn’t seem to notice them.
They were directly alongside the police car, its lights strobing blue and red across Paula’s flank.
The window of the cruiser slid down and the officer looked out at the horse, then up at Mateo. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said.
Oh, thank you, God. She loved the police, loved law and order. Good man, stopping them. They could forget this whole trip and go home.
The policeman pointed to the side of the road. “No horses on the bridge,” he said to Mateo. He didn’t add “asshole,” but his tone implied it.
“Well, we tried,” Ally said. “Mateo. Let’s just go home. It’s no big deal.”
“Certainly not!” Granny Donny cried indignantly. “We have such plans! Lady Lisa and Lord Ross are waiting!”
Ally winced at the mention of her parents’ names.
The policeman hauled himself from his car, stopping traffic so that they could get the rig to the side of the road. Paula snuffed and shuffled testily, as if the delay was a personal affront, an outdated species segregation she had no time or patience for.
Ally, however, felt like a death-row convict suddenly freed.
This was a terrible idea. My parents? What if it’s true? I can go home and think about what to do now, for about, say, ten years…
But where was home? She’d given up her childhood apartment to Will and June. She’d quit her job. She’d sold everything. Would she go back to living the rest of her life with her grandmother? And what of Granny Donny? Her birthday wish to go to the country? The need to get her out of the dangerous city? How could Ally be relieved at this monumental failure? Her failure to have fun and cut loose.
When they got to the curb, the police officer leisurely made his way to Mateo, who was so nervous his hands shook on the reins. The officer looked suspiciously at them, although suspicious of what, Ally was sure he couldn’t say. Just a dotty old lady in a Regency-era traveling gown, her panicked granddaughter, and a very oddly behaving coachman trying to trespass a bridge with a horse and carriage. Is there a problem, Officer?
Ally felt weightless as Mateo spoke with the impassive officer. “Just one carriage across the bridge? It’s for the old lady? Just once?”
The officer remained unmoved. He pulled his enormous ticket book from his belt and flicked it open. “License,” the officer demanded.
Mateo turned sheet-white and Ally wondered not for the first time about the mysterious coachman.
But before Mateo could respond, Ally heard someone call her name. “Ally. Mateo. Lady Giordano. Paula. There you all are! Sorry we’re late. Let’s go. Time is money, folks. Time is money!”
Needless to say, it was Sam.
One could solve almost any problem with money and title. The princess, however, had only a title, and so depended upon wit and skill. When these failed, she turned, reluctantly, to friends.
—From The Dulcet Duke
Chapter 16
Sam was hanging out the driver’s window of a black Jeep that had pulled up behind the police cruiser. Stuffed in the open-topped Jeep with him were a mob of twenty-somethings with various degrees of floppy hair and face piercings. Sam pulled to a stop behind the police car and everyone began unloading, first themselves, and then— what was all that stuff? The last one out of the vehicle, from the passenger-side front seat, was a stunningly gorgeous woman, who towered over everyone, even Sam. She was in full makeup, a slinky silver dress that barely covered her, and five-inch heels.
The gang descended on the carriage like ants, talking and squinting at it critically while the elegant woman, obviously a model, climbed into the carriage with a grace that seemed otherworldly in those shoes and that dress.
Ally was pushed into the far corner as the beautiful woman settled in between her and Granny Donny. “This’ll be fun,” she whispered to Ally. “Isn’t Sammy just a gas?”
&n
bsp; Before Ally could say she surely wouldn’t know, a man climbed into the carriage. He held a camera with an enormous lens, which he pointed at the model. He squatted this way and that at her feet, trying different angles, working the camera’s dials and knobs and mumbling to himself. Two more cameras were slung around his neck on thick straps. Everyone, in fact, had complicated and expensive-looking filming equipment: lights and poles and boxes. A short pink-haired woman swept into the carriage behind the photographer, engaging Granny Donny in discussion as if she’d known her all her life while she settled herself on the seat opposite.
Sam strode up to the police officer. “We have a bridge permit for two hours,” Sam told the policeman.
The policeman squinted at the group critically. “No one told me anything about a permit.”
Sam was going to get them over the bridge. Ally had to stop him. “You haven’t heard because he’s lying.”
“That’s funny, Ally. Lenny, give the officer the permit,” Sam said.
The tallest of the young men leaped from where he’d been hanging like a monkey on the sideboard of the carriage and loped back to the Jeep. He rummaged through the glove compartment. Ally was pretty sure there was no permit. There couldn’t really be a permit, right? The makeup artist began dotting blush on Granny Donny’s cheeks. Granny Donny was delighted at the attention.
Ally tapped Sam’s shoulder. “Sam! Psst. Forget it. We don’t want to go anymore,” she hissed at him.
“Don’t be silly. It’s no problem,” Sam responded happily. “You can owe me later.”
Another police car pulled up alongside the first. The officer inside rolled down the passenger window, leaned over, and called out, “All right, Eddie?”
“Excellent!” Sam cried before Eddie could answer. “The escort cars are here, boys. We were expecting the crew from the film unit, but this is a quickie; two cars’ll be fine. Let’s shoot this thing.” He shook the confused new officer’s hand. “By the way, have you met Chloe?” Sam called the model’s name, and she leaned down, offering her slender hand and a great view of her not-so-slender cleavage.
“Hello,” she cooed as if she were saying, “Let’s get it on, coppers.”
They grinned. The one named Eddie blushed.
“Nice ta meet ya!”
“There’s no permit!” Ally cried to the smitten men. “Let’s all go home.” But no one seemed to hear her.
“The light is getting too high,” the pink-haired woman called, holding up an electronic contraption.
“I never heard anything about a permit,” Eddie said to the new officer. “But I never do. Permits are a mess with that new guy in. And I think I saw something in the Post about a big shoot on the West Side with De Niro. Probably got lost in the shuffle.”
Sam was looking at the sky with a worried face. “We need to catch the sun before it gets too high. No one over twenty looks good in the noontime sun. Not that Chloe is anywhere near twenty.” Sam added the last bit quietly to the younger officer, but Ally overheard.
“I do not want to cross this bridge,” Ally repeated.
Sam ignored her. “If you want Chloe’s phone number, not a problem,” Sam assured the officer in a whisper.
Ally wanted to break both their skulls.
The second officer came to life. “Yeah, ya know, I think I did get word about a permit from Central,” he began. “Let me call it in and we’ll escort you.”
“Nice to see you,” Sam said to Ally as the chaos he had put in gear swirled around them. He leaned against the carriage, his arms crossed as he watched the two officers discuss the situation, not a trace of anxiety on his face.
A small crowd was forming on the sidewalk to watch the commotion. A mother and child had stopped beside Paula. The mother put down her grocery bags and held out the toddler, who shyly petted Paula’s side. At least someone wasn’t entranced by the half-naked model. “Isn’t it against the law to lie to a police officer?”
“Nah. The jails would be too full,” Sam said. “Anyway, who says I’m lying? You’re always trying to make me out as a bad guy, Ally. I may be a lot of things, but I always tell the whole truth. You should try it sometime.”
They watched Eddie shake his head no. The other officer kept talking, gesturing with his hand to the model. Mateo chatted up the young mother, who pulled an apple from her bag for Paula.
“Who are these people?” Ally asked.
“Crew from the Maybelline shoot. Old buddies. We’ve been working together on and off for ages. They’re happy to help.” He looked at his watch. “At least for another hour. We got through shooting Chloe early, and the second model is still in makeup. We got lucky.”
Lucky. The confusion around her was disorienting. The horse ate the apple. The officers were on their radios. Granny Donny was discussing milliners with the makeup lady while the model smiled and posed for curious tourists with digital cameras. And then there was Sam, looking totally in charge and smug and sure of himself. “I don’t want you to do this,” Ally said to Sam.
“Why not?”
“Doesn’t matter. Trip’s off. It was a terrible idea.”
He turned to her, astonished. “You lost your nerve. You’re terrified of me.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! My world doesn’t revolve around you, Sam.”
“Not yet, anyway.” He smiled his wicked grin. “After I get us over this bridge, you’ll owe me twice, and then how will you defend yourself from my considerable charms?”
“How did you know we wouldn’t get over the bridge?” Ally asked, trying to change the subject from his considerable charms.
“Oh, I was telling the Maybelline producer, Charlie Frank, about our strange journey, and he said there was no way you were getting over a bridge with a horse and carriage. In fact, he didn’t think you’d even get this far. You were lucky as hell. Anyway, Charlie and me and the crew here worked out an idea to get you over the bridge if you did make it this far. And here you are!”
“And your idea was to lie to the police?”
“I have connections, Ally. As does Charlie. The magic of being of the noble classes in this city full of the great unwashed. We dukes have our own rules.”
Ally had heard that one before. Our own rules. It helped her steel her will against his. “What does this noble Charlie know about horses?”
“Charlie Frank? He’s a pro. Been shooting in New York City for decades. Even back when the NYPD would help out on the porno shoots, shutting down the streets for privacy. That man can tell stories like no one. I once did a shoot with Charlie from a helicopter. A model hanging off the top of the Chrysler Building. He knows everything about shooting in New York.”
“We could all be arrested if you’re lying.”
“You know, Ally, you really are an awful coward. Say the word, and I’ll split right now. You could go back to your old, dull life. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
Was it? Ally’s head was swimming with the heat of the day and the fumes of the passing traffic and the chaos of Sam, who, of course, looked stunning in his jeans and china blue, button-down silk shirt that brought out the steel blue in his gray eyes. He was such a beautiful man. But more, he was right and she knew it. She couldn’t go back. Now that they had begun, she had to face whatever was waiting for her in Lewiston. Chances were it was nothing but an empty, broken-down house. She had promised her grandmother this trip, and she had promised herself she’d be wild and fun. “No. Stay. Let’s do this.”
“That’s my girl,” Sam said.
And for an insane moment, she actually wished it was true.
The trouble with meddling in a lady’s affairs was that most ladies’ affairs were such pits of mismanagement, that once one got started, it was frighteningly difficult to find a way out.
—From The Dulcet Duke
Chapter 17
One police cruiser, its lights flashing, led them over the bridge. The second brought up the rear. Paula clopped along elegantly between them, ig
noring the police cars and their flashy display. The black Jeep trailed them, almost empty now, as most of the crew was piled in the carriage. The model and Granny Donny sat on one bench. Ally, Sam, and the makeup artist were crunched together on the facing bench. The pretend photographer knelt in the space between the seats, crouched on the floor of the carriage, clicking away.
Ally wondered if he was really taking pictures or miming for the police.
Sam had sped over this bridge hundreds of times, but this was different, and it was hard to say why. He leaned back on the seat, enjoying the sunshine. Something about the open carriage and Lady Giordano, smiling so serenely, sure that life was just one big elegant ball waiting to be thrown. She hadn’t been the least bit surprised to see him. She’d counted on him, believed in him.
And then there was Ally, who sat beside him, looking shell-shocked. She kept looking back toward Manhattan, as if she had forgotten something important. She didn’t seem to notice the sparkling water below or the shining bridge above, or the clip-clop of Paula’s hooves as the road-mad Manhattan drivers slowed to give them a wide berth and curious stares. Classic Ally. Just like waltzing—or rather, not waltzing—in the park.
“Ally, you okay?” he asked.
“You know, this bridge took fourteen years to build. John Roebling, who designed it, died from an accident before it was done. He never even saw it.”
“Ally?”
“In fact, lots of men died. Two were hit by a giant snapped cable in 1872—”
“Ally?”
“And Washington Roebling, who took over the work after his father died, was hit by such a bad attack of the bends that—”
“Ally!”
She stopped. “What?”
“Shhhh…”
“But—”
He put a finger to her lips. “Shh. It’s okay.”
She seemed to stop.
He cautiously lowered his finger. “You look a little green around the gills.”
“I’m great. Super. Never better.”
How to Tame a Modern Rogue Page 12
