by Tamara Allen
“Boss, this piece on the carriage accident—”
“One moment, Mr. Kohlbeck.” Having approached the desk, Mr. Holloway folded his arms and the contemplative gaze slid from Will to Charlie. “I’ve had occasion, gentlemen, to fire reporters and editors who won’t get along—but I don’t like it. Especially when I’m losing men who do good work.” He sighed. “Ordinarily it does take more than twenty-four hours for the average reporter and editor to turn on each other. I have an idea what’s set the two of you off so quick, but let’s not dwell on it. I’m going to give you the chance—one chance—to right yourselves before requesting you seek other employment.”
Soft laughter rose from the reporters huddled at their desks on the other side of the room—laughter Holloway quashed with a glance. “We don’t need an audience for this. In my office, gentlemen.”
Charlie was down in a leap and following Mr. Holloway out the door. Will climbed down the route he’d come, clinging tightly to the chair back when his wobbly legs would not cooperate. His face was on fire—noticeably so, he imagined—and the knot in his gut would not untie. He’d been spared a firing, but he’d earned Mr. Holloway’s wrath and rightly so. He’d tried to drag Charlie down from his high horse, but had only succeeded in letting the man make a fool of him. Whatever Mr. Holloway now demanded of him would have to be done, no matter how unpleasant—and if it had anything to do with Charlie Kohlbeck, it was bound to be.
As he neared the office door, he could hear Charlie offering up his version of events in the most matter of fact way, reminding Mr. Holloway that he’d liked the piece just fine before Will had blue-pencilled the life out of it. The extended silence that followed made Will hope Mr. Holloway was reading the edited piece—rather than considering whether there was something to be said for Charlie’s argument. Not wanting to disturb Mr. Holloway if he was reading, Will came in quietly; but that was enough to swiftly draw the editor’s attention.
“Mr. Nesmith…” He nodded at the chair beside Charlie’s. “I’ll get directly to the point. To encourage a spirit of cooperation, I sometimes assign an editor and reporter to work on a story together from start to finish. I expect you to lean on each other, trust each other, and come up with a damned fine publishable piece in the next few days.” The corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. “Questions?”
Will had perched on the chair without sparing Charlie the smallest glance, but now he couldn’t help himself. Charlie, to his surprise, looked uncomfortable. There might be some satisfaction to be had in that, but Will didn’t take it. He counted himself fortunate to be still employed. Working side by side with Charlie only presented new dangers, but if he got through it unscathed, he’d find his way back into Mr. Holloway’s good graces and all would be right with the world.
“No questions, sir.”
“Good.” Mr. Holloway turned expectantly toward Charlie.
“No questions,” Charlie said in a subdued tone, as if he’d come to the same conclusion about working with Will.
Mr. Holloway picked up the story lying on the desk. “Is this finished?”
“Yes,” Charlie blurted before Will could say no. Mr. Holloway looked aggrieved.
“Mr. Kohlbeck, may I assume we will see no more metaphorical heads on pikes, no matter how much you may wish to take issue with Mr. Nesmith’s editing?”
Charlie slid down an inch in his seat. “Yes, sir.”
“Excellent. You know, I worked at that old desk when I first started at the Herald. I don’t like to see it abused.” He handed the story to Will. “When you’ve finished, come back for your new assignment.”
“I’m going to interview Lord Belcourt,” Charlie protested.
“You’ve got an appointment with him?”
“Not yet, but—”
“When you do, take Mr. Nesmith with you.”
“You’ve got to be kidding—”
“Mr. Kohlbeck, do you recall when I threatened to install a chalkboard beside your desk so you might practice those words you have a habit of misspelling?”
Charlie seemed to be containing a scowl with the greatest effort as he stood. “We’ll be back in five minutes.”
“Ten,” Will said.
The scowl briefly revealed itself as Charlie turned toward the door. Will met it with the politest of smiles. “Perhaps fifteen.”
Chapter Three
Keeping one eye on the look-out for Saint Hildy, Charlie leaned over the steaming bowl of oyster soup and blew on it, sending ripples dangerously close to the gold rim of Caroline’s French china. But Caroline, reigning benevolently from her seat at the head of the table, seemed more perturbed by the absent-minded tap of Ben McKinley’s spoon as he stirred his soup to cool it.
Charlie cleared his throat gently and Ben woke, withdrawing the offending spoon just as Hilda pushed through the swinging door. It was rumored that not a single piece of the Donnett family china had ever suffered so much as an unsightly chip, all due to Hilda Gray’s forty years of unwavering vigilance. What she might do to any boarder of Caroline’s caught tapping his spoon on a soup bowl, Charlie shuddered to imagine.
The tureen cradled in her lanky embrace, Hilda had returned for the sake of Davy Wheeler, who was reliably late to dinner. She had a soft spot for him, and the portion she ladled was no less generous than that bestowed upon the timely. He smiled at her sheepishly, which she took as satisfactory apology, judging by the smallest trace of an indulgent smile on her own lips.
As she left, much more perceptible was Ben’s sigh of relief. He shot Charlie a grateful look across the table. “I’ll never get used to it. Honest to God—” He glanced at Caroline. “Beg your pardon, ma’am.”
Caroline smiled primly and returned to her supper as if nothing were amiss. Charlie bent his head over his soup to hide his own amusement. When he’d moved into the Donnett household two years ago, he’d been both intimidated and awed by the prospect of boarding in mansion. Albeit of less impressive dimensions than the mansions on Fifth, the house had, once upon a time, played host to American royalty and even the occasional baron and earl. Now out of place at the less fashionable end of Broadway, the house had fallen into disrepair—along with likely the last Donnett to ever reside in it. Still, it remained a notable address for a reporter with a sometimes slim pocketbook.
Though Caroline Donnett was not yet fifty—and still quite pretty, Charlie thought, with her sweet, round face and curly blond hair—she lived like a recluse and had since her father’s death. Three years after losing him, she’d opened her doors to boarders more out of loneliness than necessity, and often asserted she liked having respectable young gentlemen about.
Charlie wasn’t sure how refined they seemed in Caroline’s eyes, but her boarders were a jolly group of fellows. Red-haired, freckled Ben was an upstanding sort, certainly. He’d come from a boisterous farm family to take up a clerkship in dry goods, and with his head for figures and his frank, friendly ways, he’d made gains no other clerk in his company had matched. Slim and dark-haired, Davy Wheeler was New York born and bred, evident in his natty attire and the silver tongue that had brought him to stockbroking glory at one of the biggest firms downtown.
Archie Doolan…
Charlie glanced toward Archie, seated at the other end of the table, and tried to shake off a niggle of regret. Brown-haired, blue-eyed Archie Doolan was six feet, four inches of shy, earnest gentleman—a truly gentle man—in a blue uniform with gold buttons. Charlie had met a number of policemen of the rough and tumble sort, but Archie was gentle with even the worst ruffians, perhaps sparking penitence in them by the sheer sweetness of his nature. It had done little to advance him in his career, but it certainly made everyone fond of him. A little too fond, maybe, but Charlie wouldn’t give that away. He’d seen the way Archie looked at girls and knew it was hopeless.
Though Caroline only boarded four in a house that had room for more, it was Hilda’s opinion that those four were entirely too much trouble to look
after. Still, she did it with ruthless efficiency, only occasionally raising a prayer to God as if she expected He’d be sympathetic when she’d had her fill of “terrible boys.” When those boys had affectionately bestowed sainthood upon her, she’d scolded them at the blasphemy; but Charlie thought she rather liked the teasing.
Caroline did not seem to mind, either, taking it with a quiet air of amusement when her boarders gathered at the dinner hour—as frequently as they could, since Hilda served up a better meal than any eating house—and proceeded to regale the table with the events of the day. She seemed to like boarding up-and-coming young brokers, particularly Davy, as her father had made his millions in the same fashion.
Charlie wasn’t as sure why she would care to let a room to a newspaper reporter, nor did he know just how up-and-coming he really was. He’d started out on one of the lowest rungs a fellow could, pouring beers in a Midland Beach saloon so scourged by wind and water, it was a wonder the white-washed boards hadn’t long ago clattered to the sand. That meager living had gotten him by until he could afford a boat, and then he’d done better, taking folks out fishing by day while working in the saloon most of the night.
He’d had little proper education—a regret brought home to him every time an editor tossed a brutalized column of copy back on his desk—but he’d worked like the devil to make up for it. The newspapers—he’d subscribed to every one he could afford—had given him tantalizing tastes of how the rest of the world lived, until at last he’d had to go see it for himself. He’d thought about New Brighton, hoping a start there would be the path to bigger things. Funny, that—how close he’d come to running up against old Smitty in much earlier days. And probably a lucky thing he hadn’t, for William Nesmith could take the life and drive out of just about any man with his quibbling ways. He’d be a thorn until he was safely married and subsequently so buried in debt, he wouldn’t dare risk his job with such damnable conscientiousness.
Until the time came, Charlie intended to avoid him, and he had little doubt Will would be just as happy with that arrangement. First, they had to make a show of fulfilling Holloway’s futile exercise in mutual appreciation. That would be a trial, but once it was done, he could chase that Belcourt interview; and if he got it, that would go a long way toward improving Holloway’s opinion of him.
But not, of course, if Mert Palmer beat him to it.
Charlie squirmed on the worn brocade, debating with himself for all of ten seconds before realizing he’d already decided. A dinner of oyster soup would have to do. He laid the spoon gingerly beside the bowl. “Beg pardon, Miss Donnett.” He was on his feet, uncomfortable with her dismayed air but determined to go. “I’ve got an assignment that won’t wait another minute. If I lose it—well, I can’t.” He was rounding the end of the long table and heading for the front hall. “You divide up my share,” he offered, throwing a grin over his shoulder. Caroline was smiling, only a touch of reproof in her eyes, and Charlie returned the smile apologetically. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Hilda would probably be less forgiving, but he didn’t have time to worry about it. Nor did he have time to waste on the overcrowded streetcars. He paid for a cab, reaching the 36th Street entrance just as Mert emerged in coat and hat. Catching sight of Charlie, Mert doffed the hat breezily. “Good afternoon, Mr. Kohlbeck. Lovely day, isn’t it?”
Oh, hell. “Where are you off to?”
Palmer’s smile might well crack his face in two. “Just chasing down a rumor.”
“To do with Belcourt?”
“Really, sir.” Mert slowed on the steps, seemingly to give Charlie time to take in the full measure of his reproach. “Shouldn’t you be down at the police court with Mr. Nesmith, writing up copy on this morning’s haul of pickpockets?”
“Awfully smug for a man wasting his day on rumors, aren’t you?”
“You never know when a rumor may become a certainty.”
Charlie hissed in exasperation. “You haven’t got a thing. You’d brag to the heavens if you did—”
“I won’t brag to you,” Mert said with a laugh. “But once I’ve won the bet, I’ll boast about it right on the front page. See if I don’t.”
Tempted to follow as Mert waved down a cab, Charlie lingered on the steps. The clever bastard had gotten hold of some tidbit that might win him an audience with Belcourt—but how? Every newspaper man who’d shown his face at the Clarendon in the past two weeks had been promptly turned away. Belcourt had attended a number of social affairs but always with a small entourage that did its devoted best to keep reporters at bay. A fellow would have to scale the walls of the hotel to have a hope of an introduction. That was tempting, too, but he’d likely only succeed in bringing his career—and his life—to an abrupt end.
Mert disappeared inside a cab and Charlie took a step toward the curb. “Damn it.” If he’d been paying more attention to rumors and less to bothersome old Smitty…
“Mr. Kohlbeck!”
He couldn’t rid himself of the man, it seemed. Will was bounding down the steps toward him, Alec Dalton in tow. Alec was the youngest office boy, a green-eyed, grinning scamp. He was fierce about keeping up with the others, a trait Charlie admired in him. Alec also had a talent for eavesdropping, one that Charlie nurtured with dimes, nickels, and the occasional bag of licorice.
Alec had overheard something of interest, Charlie could tell by both the boy’s bright grin and Will’s triumphant countenance. They were breathless when they reached him, and Will dropped his hands on Alec’s shoulders, turning him to face Charlie. “If you will, Mr. Dalton, tell him just as you told me.”
“Not to do with Belcourt?” Charlie had no hope of it, so Alec’s vigorous nod caught him off-guard. “What then?”
Will’s smile was rather less annoying at the moment. “The rumor being bandied is that Belcourt’s left the Clarendon and taken up residence at the Brunswick—”
“But he hasn’t,” Alec piped up. “Freddie Murphy sells papers at the Brunswick, and he told me square that Belcourt’s put up at the Hoffman House.”
“Palmer know that?”
“Palmer’s on his way to the Brunswick,” Will said.
“But that’s just across the road from the Hoffman House. If Belcourt’s still in the middle of—”
“He’s moved in,” Alec said. “He left the Clarendon before sun-up. No one wiser—” He grinned. “Exceptin’ us newsmen.”
Charlie couldn’t believe the luck. “Hail me a cab, Mr. Dalton. And here, this is for you.” He handed Alec a dollar bill. “If Mr. Palmer returns, tell him I’ve gone to the Clarendon.”
Alec stuffed the dollar into his waistcoat pocket and flew away. Will seemed rather more serious as he followed after Charlie. “We’re going now? Shouldn’t you have a word with Mr. Holloway first?”
“We?” Charlie turned to him, torn between amusement and disbelief. “This interview could take me off salary and finally put me on space. This is my story and I’m not about to share it—”
“I’m not asking you to. Take all the credit, if you like. But let us have this assignment done so we’ll be free of each other. I trust you want that as much as I do.”
“If you think I’m letting you edit this piece—”
“We’ll be working on the editing together, if you recall Mr. Holloway’s instructions.” Will looked a little glum. “I don’t care to take credit for any of it, I assure you. I’m not proud of myself for getting into this mess. If I can win back Mr. Holloway’s trust, I will be satisfied.”
Charlie refused to let that sting his conscience. “Come along if you want, but leave Belcourt to me. I’ve heard he’s skittish. He’ll need sweetening up.”
There was a mordant edge to Will’s laugh. “You’re just the fellow for it, if you can sweeten a man as efficiently as you provoke him to violence—”
“There’s no sweetening some fellows,” Charlie said. “Certainly not editors. Your lot must down a pint of vinegar with breakfast, to come in each after
noon with such sour dispositions.”
“Our sour dispositions would have nothing to do, of course, with your outrage over the smallest correction of your copy.”
Charlie climbed into the cab, grudgingly leaving a nearly equal amount of room for Will. “Crossing out nearly every sentence is your idea of a small correction?”
“You have a talent for superfluous sentences, Mr. Kohlbeck.”
“Have you considered you may have a talent for superfluous editing?”
Will smiled faintly. “We’ve trod this ground, haven’t we?” He sat back as the cab started down Broadway. “What do you intend to ask Lord Belcourt?”
Charlie settled against the cushion and tried to ignore his rumbling stomach. He should have had more than the soup, it seemed. “The usual inquiries. What does he think of New York? What does he plan to do while he’s here? Has he fallen for any eligible young heiress yet?”
“I don’t imagine he’d care to see that last written up, even if he were willing to satisfy your curiosity.”
“Well, it’s not as if we don’t know why he’s here—why they’re all here, hunting for a pretty penny. This Belcourt fellow is just more secretive about it than the rest.”
“Some men no doubt like their privacy when courting a lady.”
Charlie snorted. “If Belcourt comes toddling across the Atlantic to drop himself in a boiling kettle, he can expect to be cooked. Anyway, he should know better than to avoid the press. It only makes us more determined. He may as well have a bit of fun with it and play along, like the rest do.”
“So to your mind, those in society have an obligation to keep the public informed on every aspect of their daily lives?”
“What else are they good for? Belcourt should understand that New Yorkers want to know which well-to-do American girl will be taking up housekeeping in—wherever the devil he’s from.”
