by Tamara Allen
“Quite to the contrary, Mr. Palmer. I couldn’t be happier.”
Before Mert could give voice to the disbelief occupying every line of his face, Will escaped downstairs and along the length of the arcade to the farthest end, where Charlie had taken up residence out of the way of folks peeking into the windows for a glimpse of the press room. “You’re working down here?” He sat on the step beside Charlie. “Not because of Mr. Palmer, is it?”
“Palmer?” Charlie frowned. “What’s he done?”
“He wants to rebuke us for the way we got to Belcourt.”
That apparently warranted nothing more than an amused snort. “He paid up. He can rebuke all he wants. Here.” Charlie held out the better portion of the papers. “You may as well start on it. Tell me if I’ve forgotten anything.”
“Has Mr. Holloway seen any of it yet?”
“Not a word. We’re working on it together, remember?”
“Well, yes, but you ordinarily…” Will broke off, sensing Charlie wasn’t in the mood to be needled, himself. “Should we go upstairs?”
“God, no. I’ve got a headache and the racket up there won’t cure it.”
“It’s not particularly quiet out here. Or calm,” Will noted, getting a firmer grip on the papers as the wind threatened to pluck them away. “Let’s go up to the cafe. A cup of coffee may make you feel better.”
With every expectation the story would be as expressive and verbose as all of Charlie’s work, Will settled across from him at a table in the near-empty cafe, pencil in hand—only to realize the copy had already been blue-pencilled to a startling extent.
“You edited this?”
Hunched over a steaming coffee, Charlie grunted affirmatively.
Will sat back. “Why don’t you do it every time?”
“I do.” Charlie yawned. “I edit them to suit myself. This time I edited it to suit you.”
The man was exasperating beyond measure and Will could only laugh. “You’ve done a fair job of it—”
“But you want to make some changes.”
“A few.”
“In that case, I’m ordering breakfast.”
Once the story was in Mr. Holloway’s hands, Charlie disappeared on another assignment and Will returned to the city department and the pile of copy waiting to be edited. It seemed something of a novelty to sit at his desk and read the news instead of going out into the world to chase after it. Charlie was surely as relieved to be working on his own again.
If it seemed a little too ordinary after the week’s excitement, that was only natural. After Mr. Holloway approved the story—and once Will had said his farewells to Rose Mayhew and the rest—he could settle to work with an easier mind.
For the moment, distractions kept taking his attention from the pages in front of him. Mr. Holloway had passed by the doorway more than once without saying a word. Mert Palmer slunk about, occasionally sending a dubious glance in his direction. Charlie returned at dusk, seeming as distracted, and without preamble pulled Will out of his chair. “Let’s go, Smitty. Holloway wants us.”
“He doesn’t like the story?”
“He…” Charlie shrugged. “I thought I’d figured out all of his moods after two years, but that gleam in his eye not five minutes ago…” He shook his head. “He didn’t seem angry, but I couldn’t tell you what he’s thinking.”
“Maybe Palmer pricked his conscience.”
“I don’t think he has one. Anyway, there wasn’t anything wrong with what we did. Much.”
“Then why do we feel guilty about it?”
“We don’t.”
“We don’t?”
“I don’t.”
“Don’t you?”
Charlie stopped walking and turned a grim eye on him. “Maybe you’d better go on home. I”ll tell Holloway you suddenly took ill—”
“This was our story. We’re defending it together, for better or worse.”
“If you’d prefer for better, let me talk.”
“I haven’t been able to keep you quiet yet.”
Luther Holloway was at his desk, briskly sorting a stack of edited copy into two piles, and Will found himself glancing at each on the slim chance he might guess what was to come. But Mr. Holloway had clearly already decided which stories were going in and the pages whipped by too fast for any one copy to be recognized.
Charlie had applied himself to the same pointless effort, Will knew, when he snorted softly and dropped into a chair to wait. Will was slow to follow suit and Mr. Holloway spoke up. “Have a seat, Mr. Nesmith.”
“Yes, sir.”
The sorting done, Mr. Holloway moved one pile to the corner of his desk, keeping the other in front of him. Opening a drawer, he drew out a story he’d apparently set aside—their story, Will knew all at once—and laid it atop the others before him. “This piece…” He tapped an emphatic finger on the copy. “It’s excellent. In fact, it’s goddamned inspiring.”
“Inspiring?” Charlie sounded wary, no doubt in dread anticipation that he was about to be paired with Will for the rest of his days.
“An opportunity has presented itself, gentlemen.” Mr. Holloway sat forward, resting his arms on the desk, fingers laced. “You’re in a unique position to provide society news from the inside, so to speak, and I’d like to take advantage of it, if you’re willing to go on playing your parts for the next couple of months—”
“Months?” It was only after he spoke that Will realized he’d interrupted. “I beg your pardon, sir, but—months?”
“Well, through the social season,” Mr. Holloway said. “Just go on attending parties and such, and write it all up as you’ve done here…” He waved the copy. “We’ll print a couple of stories a week. More, if you can get them and they prove popular.” He smiled. “I expect they will.”
“What if we’re found out?” Charlie asked.
“We’ll call it a social experiment or some such nonsense. There may be complaints afterward, but even society folk love seeing their names in the papers. The fuss won’t last long.”
Will hated to think how long his job would last if he declined to undertake the social experiment. Charlie seemed to be warming up to the idea, but he wasn’t going to pressure Will to agree to it; that was clear in the way he scrupulously avoided Will’s gaze. Of course Charlie had the easier part of private secretary. Resuming the role of the wealthy Mr. Nesmith for another two or three months meant more rounds of parties, balls, and dinners—which meant a considerably increased risk of discovery. It meant further deceiving Rose, even if he were careful about keeping the Mayhews out of any stories. And it meant avoiding any outings with Violet—or taking her into his confidence and making her part of the scheme. With her social connections, it was risky either way.
He wondered whether he’d find it terribly difficult to win an editing position at the Times.
“Mr. Holloway, in all honesty, I don’t think I can—”
“Hold a minute,” Mr. Holloway exclaimed, then broke into a smile. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Nesmith. There’s something I forgot to mention. The paper will, of course, take care of all your expenses. And because I understand what we are asking of you, gentlemen, you will have a raise in your salaries of ten dollars a week.”
“Through the season?’ Charlie asked, as if he couldn’t let himself expect anything more generous.
“Not limited to the season, Mr. Kohlbeck, but at least until we deem you ready to go on space. And I don’t believe that’s too far off.”
“Oh.” Charlie sounded a little hoarse. “Well, that’s all right.”
“I thought it might be.” Mr. Holloway seemed amused. “Mr. Nesmith?”
It felt like a foolish undertaking, even for an additional ten dollars a week. He’d have to attend more balls and dinners in two months than he’d attended in all his twenty-seven years. He’d have to keep careful track of every answer he gave to every question asked him—and ask questions with the same care. And he’d have to be espe
cially cautious around the young ladies who sought his company—Rose, in particular. He didn’t dare even encourage friendship.
But… He could better afford to marry in June. And Violet would be delighted with that.
Still not easy in his mind about it, Will finally met Mr. Holloway’s gaze. “Through January, you said?”
“There may be a party or two before Lent, but we can permit your alter ego to leave town at the first of February, if you haven’t been found out by then.”
“And the stories,” Will said. “I assume you want more than idle gossip.”
“This is a society column,” Mr. Holloway reminded him. “Readers expect a good deal of frivolous happenings reported on. Not just dry news. Some gossip is acceptable.”
“Yes, sir…” Will sat up straighter in the chair, clasping his hands in his lap. He was resigned to the risks ahead, but he would be quite clear on what information he was expected to come by. “Some gossip… But perhaps not so much that readers start to wonder whether Ward McAllister’s back from the dead?”
“Well…” Mr. Holloway hesitated and his smile seemed to suggest that was precisely what he wanted.
Charlie, for his part, snorted in disgust. “I’m a much better writer than McAllister ever was.”
It struck Will then what he’d just agreed to; two more months of working side by side with Charlie Kohlbeck.
God help them both.
Chapter Ten
Charlie stood at the warmer end of Mrs. Mayhew’s ballroom, sending up—toward the regrettable array of sun, stars, and cherubs painted on the ceiling—a grateful prayer that he was only a private secretary in the eyes of the ravenous horde on the hunt for dance card prospects.
Will hadn’t been so fortunate. He was out on the floor—again—with a giggling, blond creature who, undaunted by the lung power required for the polka, kept up a stream of chatter that spared Will having to do anything but smile and nod. Though he did so as undauntedly, Charlie had the feeling he already regretted his agreement to extend the charade another two months. Rose Mayhew’s luncheon was a neatly laid trap, the number of unmarried young ladies surpassing anything Charlie had yet witnessed. Rose, herself, was once again in Lord Belcourt’s arms, as quiet as Will in the embrace of a more gregarious partner.
Free to take advantage of his less exalted presence, Charlie lurked from one conversation to the next, gathering up every plum of gossip dropped. He had half a dozen stories’ worth when he realized he was trying to spare Will, too. The poor man’s conscience wasn’t as impervious to self-assessment as his—and Will was likely too caught up in playing his part to even notice the magnificent veins of gossip waiting to be mined. Charlie knew for certain when at one point Will, red-cheeked and tousled from the dancing, drew him aside in evident need of relieving his bottled-up exasperation.
“Do you suppose we might be on our way?” Will glanced around as if he feared another young heiress might pop out from behind the drapes.
“We’ve yet to have lunch,” Charlie pointed out.
“Let us go out-of-doors, then, so I can breathe.” Will fished a kerchief from his tailcoat pocket and pressed it briefly against the back of his neck. “Or upstairs,” he added with a desperate glance in that direction. “Any place away from this ballroom—”
“What’s the matter?”
“What’s the matter…” Will looked at him in disbelief. “Do you have eyes? My God.” He lowered his voice. “They’re following me everywhere. Flirting relentlessly. Sizing me up as if…”
“As if you were the first-class stallion at the horse show?”
Will gaped at him for a long minute before assuming a familiar reproach. “I think I’d really rather you hadn’t put it into words.”
“Sorry. I had the impression you were leaving it up to me.”
“My mistake.” Will tucked away the kerchief. “Charlie, I don’t know if I can endure two months of this.”
“It won’t be so terrible. I’ve overheard enough to fill a week’s worth of columns. Enough to take us through the end of November, anyway. Even if we have more invitations, we’ll be able to send our regrets for the rest. We’ll be as careful through December and January. Then you’ll hardly have to show your face at all.”
Will seemed to perk up a little. “I take back what I was thinking about you.”
Charlie laughed. “Now you have to tell me what it was.”
“Oh, I expect you already know.”
A wry gleam in his eyes, Will returned to the line of fire, and Charlie walked through both drawing room and garden again in the hope of turning up more gossip. He didn’t ponder too long over what Will had been thinking about him, because that might lead to pondering what else Will might think about him—inevitably leading to the conclusion that he rather liked the idea of Will thinking, for better or worse, about him—which was a pointless line of pondering when Will was nearly engaged and probably didn’t like him all that much to begin with.
Still, it was pleasurable torment to let his mind wander in that direction. He was often enough taken with a fellow’s attractiveness, without there being any possibility of said fellow fancying him in return. He and Will had come to an agreeable truce by dint of the circumstances, and maybe they were working together in a way Charlie found enjoyable, but Will had reservations—and Charlie was assuredly one of them.
If he dwelt on it, it could well become an unpleasurable torment. Better to just go back to the usual haunts, if he wanted companionship of that sort.
Passing the ballroom, he lingered in the doorway until he finally caught sight of Will, dancing now with Rose Mayhew. The smile on Will’s lips was genuine and Rose was laughing at something he’d said. Charlie wanted to grab hold of him and haul him off the floor. If Will was foolish enough to fall for Rose and she for him, that would be somewhat less amusing and more in the vein of utterly disastrous. He’d have expected Will to show better sense…
“You don’t care for dancing, Mr. Kohlbeck?”
Startled, Charlie put on his cheeriest grin before turning to find it was only Mr. Mayhew, who seemed a good-natured sort if ever there was one. “Frankly, sir…” He let the grin yield to a resignation that was probably a little too telling. “I suppose it’s an agreeable snare for most fellows, but I’m not keen to be caught.”
Timothy Mayhew’s eyes only brightened. “Such the cynic you are, my dear fellow. But I know just the thing that will make you appreciate such snares, as you call them. Care for brandy and cigars?”
“Brandy and…” Charlie broke into a laugh. “Brandy and cigars will give me a new appreciation of dancing?”
Mr. Mayhew chuckled. “No, but the ramblings of a curious old man might.”
Charlie realized to what he was likely referring. “I think brandy and cigars will suit me just fine.”
The Mayhew library was a world quite separate from the rest of the Mayhew mansion. Charlie suspected Mrs. Mayhew must have left it to her husband to furnish it as he pleased. While she had gilded and frescoed and ornamented every other inch of the house, the library was a walnut-paneled island of quiet, uncluttered calm. The tables and armchairs were older, as if they’d been moved from a previous residence rather than bought new. The carpet in front of the stone hearth was worn and the pair of standing lamps were moved about frequently, judging by shades gone askew. Even the haphazard arrangement of roses in two different vases on a nearby table seemed more Mr. Mayhew’s doing than his wife’s. It was just the sort of library to make a fellow feel right at home.
Once he was settled beside the fire, Mr. Mayhew seated opposite, Charlie made only the most deliberate small talk. If Mr. Mayhew was of a mind to chat about land deals and gold mines, it was better to let him broach the subject. He seemed in a wistful mood and Charlie wasn’t sure why until the man finally put aside the barely touched brandy and set a somber gaze on Charlie. “Mr. Kohlbeck, I find myself reluctant to bring this up with you since I don’t quite know the relationshi
p between Mr. Knox and your employer. If Mr. Knox has Mr. Nesmith’s trust—”
“He doesn’t. I mean to say, there’s no business relationship between them and I don’t expect there will be. Does that ease your mind?”
Mr. Mayhew smiled. “To be honest, I was hoping Mr. Nesmith did know more about Mr. Knox’s business practices. Not that I mistrust Lord Belcourt’s opinion of the man, but I want to be sure of him before I take him up on any of the deals he’s presented.”
Charlie stepped carefully, himself. “You want to buy land out west?”
“I’ve been giving some thought to Colorado, to be precise. It seems a fine place to establish a brewery…” He hesitated, his smile twisting into something like chagrin. “To be truly honest with you, Mr. Kohlbeck, I don’t like the idea of Rose leaving us for a life in England. Oh, I wouldn’t deny her if she loves him, but I thought I might encourage him to make a life here and—”
“Give him charge of your Colorado operation,” Charlie said.
“Just so. But I don’t know if he’s suited for it or if he’d even consider the notion—though from what I understand, he hasn’t really anyone back in England.”
“Is that Mrs. Mayhew’s wish, too?”
Mr. Mayhew snorted softly. “She fancies the idea of a nobleman in the family, but she’s been fretting over it as much as I have.” He took up the brandy. “Lord Belcourt owns land in Colorado but I can’t seem to pin him down on whether he intends to make much of it. I don’t think he knows. Or perhaps Mr. Knox hasn’t been entirely straight with him.” Mr. Mayhew exhaled in frustration. “I’ll make further inquiries and do what I must to protect Rose, but…” He shook his head. “There are times I find myself wishing she’d fall for some ordinary fellow and settle down right next door.”
