Invitation to the Dance

by Tamara Allen

  Will did, and the ball ran true, rousing such a sharp, astonished breath from him that Charlie had to laugh. “That was all right, but I wouldn’t play for stakes just yet, if I were you.”

  The hazel eyes brightened in most agreeable accord with Will’s smile. “Thank you.” He glanced away as if a little sheepish over his reaction. “Speaking of stakes, I think this charade has gone on long enough, don’t you?”

  “We’ll write the story tomorrow. I want it ready to go in on Sunday, so I suppose you’d better plan to leave town then.”

  “I’ll mention it at the Mayhews’ luncheon.”

  Charlie grinned. “We’ll all be sad to see you go. But wasn’t it a lark?”

  “I’m not sure I’d characterize it quite like that.”

  “No?” Charlie knew what was on his mind. “Why don’t you take Violet to Delmonico’s for supper? That’ll sweeten her.”

  “For heaven’s sake. I’m not going to begin marriage by bribing my wife every time we have a falling out.”

  “Why not? She’d probably like it.”

  “I’ll call on her tomorrow and we’ll talk the matter over calmly and sensibly.” Will began gathering the billiard balls. “I’ll just remind her that we won’t always have the opportunity to consult each other before making a decision. She’ll see the plain truth of it and we’ll be back on good terms.”

  “That’s how it works?”

  “So I’ve been given to understand.”

  Well, then. “What do you say to a little wager? If I win, you’ll ask Belcourt on Thursday what’s got him and Knox on the outs.”

  Will stared at him. “Do you have any sticking points?”

  “Come now. You’re as curious as I am.”

  “If you want to know, ask him yourself.”

  “He won’t tell me as readily. I’m just a poor secretary.” Charlie handed him a cue stick. “We’ll play to fifty. You can start with thirty.”

  “I could start with forty-five and you’d still beat me—but I’m not going to confront Belcourt on a matter that’s none of my business nor any of yours. The habits of a good reporter don’t preclude a respect for privacy when it comes to certain delicate or personal matters… And I think you know that perfectly well, Mr. Kohlbeck.” Will handed the cue stick back to him. “A good night’s sleep will suit me better than another game. If they do come back down, kindly give Lord Belcourt my regrets.”

  Charlie shrugged. “You’re betting I won’t go upstairs, then.” He said it in jest and Will smiled slightly, but his gaze stayed sober—and far too contemplative.

  “You’ll do what you want. I’ve no illusions my opinion matters to you particularly and I can hardly march you out of here and toss you into a cab. You’ll have to wrestle with your conscience on your own.” Turning to go, he glanced back. “If you do come home with a broken nose, be a good fellow and don’t wake me to complain about it. I’ve got an important breakfast engagement.” He smiled then—the bastard—and walked off, leaving Charlie with nothing to do but settle stubbornly by the fire with a glass of whiskey.

  “Smug, self-righteous…” Charlie downed the better portion of the whiskey in one burning swallow. Natural curiosity was a dangerous thing and he did let it get the better of him now and then. His nose—and his jaw and ribs—could attest to that.

  Will ought to understand it, having spent so long working on a newspaper, himself. But his over-developed sense of propriety had the better of him; and there was no curing him of it. Charlie wasn’t convinced Will would even remain with the paper, once Violet had laid down her own version of the plain truth.

  As for whatever might be going on between Knox and Belcourt—and Charlie had all sorts of theories, from a row over money to a lovers’ spat—it was unbearably tempting to go upstairs and inquire, if only to know. And if he did decide to go up, he damned well wouldn’t be stopped by the opinion of an editor from a newspaper that wasn’t much more than a neighborhood circular.

  Sometime after midnight, sobriety vanquished but nose intact, Charlie stood on the curb outside the hotel, looking for a cab. Will may have been right about a thing or two, but he’d badly misjudged the value of his opinion. Charlie wanted nothing more than to go home, crawl into bed, and send up a prayer that on the morrow, Violet Chapin would storm her way back to New Brighton, dragging the hapless Mr. Nesmith along behind.

  Chapter Nine

  Will went to bed a short hour after coming home, only to find that anticipating a good night’s sleep was the surest way to lie in miserable wakefulness. A guilty conscience, he had to admit, might have something to do with it. He and Charlie were supposed to be working together, but he’d walked away, leaving Charlie to wait on Belcourt’s unlikely reappearance—and to try to resist the temptation to go to his room and ask after him.

  Will had been as curious. The anger in Knox’s face and the shame-faced penitence in Belcourt’s—it told of a side to their relationship they kept hidden. Will hadn’t wanted to speculate and he certainly hadn’t wanted to inquire. Charlie was, of course, fired to go on up, and though Will didn’t believe he had, he couldn’t shake off a persistent uneasiness.

  Now he was caught in the grip of full-blown remorse and the only thing he could do was go back to the hotel to make sure Charlie hadn’t been hauled off to the hospital—or worse. But in the midst of buttoning his trousers, he heard a plodding footfall on the stairs, and he peered out in time to see Charlie reach the landing, head bowed, pace halting. Charlie was humming to himself, a reassuring sign that he was not hurt but merely drunk. He reached his door the same moment Will did, without even a glance in Will’s direction.

  “Charlie—”

  “Not sleep-walking, are you, Smitty?”

  Charlie opened the door and Will stayed him with a hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”

  Charlie looked at him then, a reproachful smile on his lips. “You’ve got an admonishment for every occasion. You mean to tell me how to edit, how to investigate, how to report, how to get properly drunk… I think you’d better come in and keep an eye on me. I might end up sleeping on the carpet with my nightshirt inside out.”

  “Charlie…”

  But he’d gone in, leaving Will standing in the hall. The house remained quiet, thankfully, but Will couldn’t bring himself to go back to bed. Instead, he leaned into the room. Charlie had dropped both coat and hat on the floor and was already shrugging off his waistcoat. He was clearly under the impression Will had followed him in, for he was rattling on grievously while he wrestled off articles of clothing and left them where they fell.

  Will stepped in and closed the door. “Charlie, if you’ll just give me the chance to—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Charlie sputtered. “If you’re going to scold me for trying to do my job, don’t bother.” He flailed his arm, dislodging his sleeve, and the shirt floated to the floor. “If you’re taking me to task for being drunk, well—I’m not drunk. I’m just tired and…” He tugged at his trouser buttons with strength enough to snap one loose. “Oh, hell. I’m a reasonable man, God knows. I’ve worked like the devil to learn this job, I’ve spent hours upon hours to get each story just right, only to have to smile and nod when dolts like Trumbauer turn every bit of copy into a cure for insomnia…”

  He dropped to the floor and pulled off his boots with the same grim doggedness, nearly taking the buttons off those as well. “I get my chance at a grand story that’s sure to put me on space and have Holloway singing my praises all over town, but I’m idiot enough to get myself into trouble and it’s not my story anymore—” Charlie stood, exhaling an exhausted breath, and plucked listlessly at his flannel drawers before apparently deciding he’d done enough to prepare for bed. He turned to Will for the first time since they’d come into the room. “In case you’re wondering, I didn’t go upstairs and Belcourt never came back down. I had a few drinks and left.”

  “I know. And I shouldn’t have walked out. I’m sorry for that.”r />
  Charlie stared at him as if he didn’t know what to make of the apology. Will gave him a gentle push toward the bed. “The story is yours, Charlie. It’s always been yours. Go to sleep.”

  Charlie was clearly too out of steam to do anything but comply. “Should’ve gone up,” he muttered as he disappeared under the pile of blankets and coverlet. “Something’s going on, you know.”

  Will knew. But there was nothing to be gained by talking about it at one in the morning. Keeping the matter from circling in his thoughts was more difficult and he arrived late for breakfast, only to find Violet and her aunt preparing to go out. Violet seemed tired, too, as if she’d been out as late. The troubled light in her eyes made him uneasy. He asked ten minutes of her time, hoping she might agree to that, and she allowed that he might come in for coffee. They settled in the garden room on rather uncomfortable wicker chairs and Violet took up her cup as if she were merely killing time until she might go on with her plans for the day. She was waiting on him to begin, he assumed.

  “I wanted to talk to you about our plans—”

  “Ah, then I am to have a say in what we do, once we’re married?” Before he could respond, Violet smiled brightly. “I know you apologized—I’m glad you apologized, dear—and I should be glad you moved from that dreadful boarding house, but I’ll admit I’m worried about the low company you’ve been keeping—”

  “Now, Vi, Charlie Kohlbeck is harmless…” Well, perhaps harmless wasn’t the precise word he wanted. Will smiled ruefully. “I’ve been assigned to work with him on a story, so I’m afraid I must spend more time in his company, but I promise you, Vi, I won’t fall into any disreputable habits because of it.” Apart from the habit of lying, he supposed. He didn’t think that was a habit—yet. He was lying to her, too, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her more. She might keep the secret, despite the temptation to tell her friends, but she wouldn’t think much of him for becoming so mired in a pretense that could end up a public embarrassment not just for him, but for her by association. He was not comfortable hiding it, but if the matter could be resolved in the next few days, he would escape falling in anyone’s estimation—including hers.

  His assurance didn’t appear to have made quite the impression he’d hoped. Violet’s brow was knit, her mouth a worried line. Only more uneasy, Will rose and moved his chair beside hers. “Violet, we’ll come out all right. There will be bumps in the road, of course…” He took her hands. “If it’s a little rough, starting out, you’ll be patient, won’t you?”

  Her face softened, but a glint of disappointment showed in her eyes. “I’ve been very patient, Will. You don’t think so?”

  He gave her hands a squeeze. “You are certainly very patient with me. And I know I’ve been contrary, turning down your family’s kindness in trying to make things easier for us. But if we manage it all on our own, just think how much more it will mean. Wouldn’t you rather a husband who’d made his own way in the world?”

  She broke into a soft laugh. “I’d rather a husband who wasn’t breaking himself down through over-work. Are you sleeping well, dear?” She slipped a hand loose to comb his hair back from his brow. “You aren’t out all hours, are you? Elliot tells me that reporters go out drinking and—” She dropped her gaze. “Chasing after girls—”

  “I think most of them just go home to bed.” Will leaned in to catch her gaze. “A fatter pocketbook is all I’m chasing. And Caroline Donnett only boards gentlemen, so you needn’t worry on that account, either…” As she drew back, dismay in her face, he hastened to reassure her. “It’s a charming and comfortable old house, far better than where I was…” Violet withdrew her hands, clasping them anxiously in her lap. Taken aback, Will tried again. “Truly, Vi. Come for tea and you’ll see for yourself—”

  “I couldn’t,” Violet gasped. “Will, do you even realize the things that are said about her?”

  “That she’s a little eccentric?”

  “She must be more than a little eccentric to hide herself in that house for twenty years…” Violet grimaced. “Of course, a girl might not want to show her face in good society after such dreadful behavior in her youth.”

  “Dreadful behavior?” Will tried to hold back a smile. “You mean because she never married?”

  “She might have married any number of respectable men. She simply refused to, after her father prevented her from marrying that wretched chimney sweep.”

  He couldn’t hide the smile after all. “She was in love with a chimney sweep?”

  Violet stared at him in amazement. “Will, do you pay attention to anything in the world?”

  Will laughed. “If it’s newsworthy. I’m not so certain Caroline Donnett’s long ago romance qualifies.”

  Violet looked reproachful. “Her family didn’t find it so amusing, I’m sure. Her poor father went to an early grave over it—”

  “I thought he went to an early grave over business troubles.”

  “The newspapers may have reported as much, but—well, newspaper men don’t always dig down to the truth, do they?”

  “A reporter would have to be terribly nosy to unearth a truth buried that deep…” Will could think of one who might qualify. “Anyway, Caroline Donnett is a capable and kind-hearted woman and not all that eccentric, that I could see.”

  “Then you haven’t yet seen her walking down Broadway, gowned like a girl of twenty and being rather too familiar with younger men. You haven’t seen her out in her garden, singing—”

  “It’s not so unusual to sing while you’re gardening. I’ve done it.”

  “Yes, and people thought it peculiar in New Brighton. Imagine how it looks on Broadway.”

  “I don’t know how anyone could even hear her on Broadway, unless they were peeking over her wall. Anyway, there’s no harm in flirting or singing. If you’re so troubled by her reputation, Vi, you needn’t come to tea… But I wish you would. I think you’d like her.”

  Violet’s features crinkled with exasperation. “Will, you don’t understand. You’re working toward our future, you say—well, so am I. One doesn’t travel in the proper circles without a little care and effort, you know. Father intends to host a good number of dinner parties for us here in Manhattan over the next year so we may foster useful friendships, but if people associate us with any sort of eccentric or unseemly behavior, they’ll shy away—and then where will we be?”

  Will made a face. “Dinner parties?”

  Violet’s sigh seemed to expel every last breath of air in her body. “My dear, if we don’t attend dinner parties, how do you propose we’re to have friends?”

  “I thought we’d accumulate them in the usual way, by bumping into them at church or work or while strolling in the park—”

  “This is too important to be made a joke of,” Violet cut in quietly.

  “I beg your pardon, Vi. I think you’re taking it more seriously than need be. We have plenty of time to make friends. And honestly, I’d sooner find friends of the sort who won’t think ill of me because I’ve made the acquaintance of people with some peculiar habits.” He let a smile slip. “Even you have your charming little habits, my dear.”

  Violet would not meet the smile with one of her own. “I wish you wouldn’t stay there.”

  “Vi, you are truly worrying over nothing. Lord Belcourt, himself, has been to tea at Miss Donnett’s.”

  “The poor man hasn’t been in town long enough to know better.” Violet sat back in the chair as if the conversation had tired her. “Will you at least promise you won’t mention where you’re boarding when you come to supper on Sunday?”

  “I won’t say a word about it.”

  “And promise to move in May? After our invitations go out, people will be paying rather more attention—”

  “Well, we haven’t definitely settled on June.”

  She blinked in surprise. “We have. The third of June. Ten years to the day when we first met.”

  “It would be wiser, really, t
o wait until autumn—”

  “Will Nesmith! Do you want to marry me?”

  “I want to marry you when I have something to offer you.” Will reached for her hand and she didn’t resist. “You’re comfortable here, and life will be different with two rooms and a kitchen. Certainly there’s nothing to stop us marrying in June, but the expenses will mount…” He shook his head. “I thought we might be practical about it.”

  She looked rueful. “You know, I don’t think you can err on the side of sentimentality.” She withdrew her hand and patted his gently. “Never mind. Auntie is waiting on me and I should not like to get into another argument with you right now. I want to think a bit, so…” She rose. “Perhaps lunch on Thursday—”

  “I’ve got to work. Friday?”

  “Yes, all right. Come to supper.” Affection warmed her gaze and Will kissed her, meeting lips as tender. As he drew back, he gave in to a grin.

  “We might run away right this minute and marry.”

  Violet laughed. “My father would never forgive us.”

  She had more reasons, he knew—certainly since her father doted on her—but she was erring on the side of practicality. He didn’t point it out, but went away smiling and rather hopeful they might come to an agreement on a sensible wedding date. Pairing that hope with one that Charlie was making good progress on the story, Will walked into the busy city department to see no sign of him. Mert Palmer, who hadn’t seemed to notice his entrance, suddenly ceased his rapid-fire typing long enough to wave Will over to his desk.

  “You looking for Kohlbeck?”

  “As a matter of fact…”

  Mert shot out of the chair, leaned out the open window, and shouted Charlie’s name. Will peered out in time to see Charlie appear, windblown and coatless, from the arcade steps. He had a pencil in one hand, fluttering papers in the other, and he used them to gesture impatiently for Will to come down to the street. Mert stayed him a moment. “You fellows pulled a hell of a trick to get to Belcourt. Wish I’d thought of it, myself.” He leaned back against the window sash, folding his arms. “You must be sorry all this high living’s coming to an end.”