The Lady and the Robber Baron

by Joyce Brandon

  The pulse in Jennifer’s throat punched against her skin as she flashed back to the carriage ride after the fire, when his eyes had devoured her exposed breasts.

  “I hoped you wouldn’t notice.”

  “It’s very feminine, and less goddesslike,” he said. Jennie laughed and tossed her hair.

  An ache spread through Chane until it encompassed his entire body. As if she had guessed his distress, Jennie’s eyes widened. The look in them was so curious and innocent, she looked ten years old suddenly, the epitome of a little girl ballerina, all pink muslin and tender white arms and face. He felt stricken.

  “Mr. Kincaid?” Jennie asked softly, letting her hand rest on his jacket over his heart.

  Chane groaned. “Do you notice everything?” Possessive and intimate, his rough, masculine voice made her tingle.

  Jennifer slid her hand under Chane’s jacket. The muted thud of his heart tingled her fingers. He felt magnetic and warm beneath her hand. She felt more alive than she had in years. “Please don’t fall in love with me,” she whispered. “I can’t think of anything worse.”

  One of Chane’s strong hands supported her from the waist. The other lifted her chin. He seemed to have forgotten that they were dancing in a roomful of people. He gazed deeply into her eyes. “How about my not loving you?”

  The small pulse in her throat moved downward into her loins. She had no answer for Kincaid. His eyes reminded her that she had evaded his question, but he didn’t push it.

  The dance ended, and he led her back to their table. The maître d’ appeared immediately, followed by a flock of uniformed waiters bearing plates heaped with thin, steaming, savory strips of hickory-flavored chicken and three kinds of melon. It was delicious, but Jennifer picked at hers, and Chane barely touched his. Instead, he asked about her childhood, her schooling, her dreams, friends, and family.

  She waited for an opening to discuss her contract, but somehow Kincaid kept control of the conversation. Before she realized it, Chane waved the waiters away, took her by the arm and guided her out to his waiting brougham.

  He spoke to the driver and then joined her inside. A nearly full moon silvered the unusually quiet streets. Jennifer leaned against the heavily padded seat back and let the chill night air cool her hot face. The carriage traveled south, skirting Washington Square Park, over to Broadway, then down Canal Street and through the heart of Chinatown, which had grown enormously in the past decade and was now crowded and noisy, and even at that hour, smelled of incense and exotic foods.

  She’d been so bemused she hadn’t realized until now how far out of their way the carriage had come. Her home was far uptown, in the other direction. She should be upset about that, but she wasn’t.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked finally.

  The carriage rolled to a halt. Kincaid flashed her a smile. “Here,” he said, opening the door, stepping down, and holding out his arms for her.

  The carriage stood next to the roadblock that kept traffic off the recently completed stanchion of the Brooklyn Bridge. Jennifer stepped down and into his arms.

  “Isn’t it magnificent?” he asked, turning so they could look at the half-finished bridge jutting out over the turbulent East River. “You know how difficult it is to span a river this wide?”

  About a hundred yards out the bridge construction had halted. It had been stalled here for months, and perhaps would never be finished. Rumor had it that Roebling, the son of the original architect and builder, was ill, perhaps dying. His father had been killed in an accident on the bridge. The son had also been injured in a separate accident on the bridge and would probably die of his injuries as well.

  “Maybe this bridge is only a dream,” she said.

  “Roebling thinks he can build it, and I agree with him. He’s a remarkable man, but weakened now. He’ll be lucky to live to see it completed. But he’s training his assistant and writing everything down for him. It will be finished.”

  Chane gazed at the bridge, his profile strong against the clear, star-filled sky. “To think, a few years ago, it was only a vision in one man’s mind. Now he’s infected hundreds of men with his vision, and it’s taking shape. Someday, carriages will traverse this span, and Brooklyn’s days will be numbered. They’ve lived sheltered lives out there, but it will be very different once Manhattan reaches out with her Bessemer arms.” Kincaid seemed to be in a trance as he stared across the river, littered with chips of gray ice floating on the dark, oily-blue water.

  Jennifer fought back a sudden impulse to kiss Chane. For a long time they both stood still, staring out at the water until a uniformed policeman strode purposefully up to them and peered at them suspiciously, until he recognized Chane. “Oh, good evening, Mr. Kincaid.”

  “Evening, Withers. The young lady wanted to see the bridge.”

  “Well then, it’s a good thing I didn’t come by here just now, isn’t it? Have a nice evening.” Smiling, he turned and walked toward the far side of the bridge, where he gazed out over the water, his back to them.

  Chane lifted aside the chain meant to keep traffic off the bridge and guided her onto the bridge approach.

  Hand in hand they walked to the end of the first stanchion, where they could look straight down at the river below. The wind blew harder over the water. Jennifer felt both frightened and safe. The water was so far below, it seemed she was flying. She didn’t trust herself not to plunge forward.

  Chane must have sensed her thoughts, for his strong hand tightened its grip on her hand. “I won’t let you fall.”

  Cold wind whipped around her skirts, sending chills up her legs. The broad wide band of water sparkled like diamonds, blazing in the moonlight. Jennie was mesmerized by the light—she could have stood there forever. But without warning Chane turned, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her. Just like that first time in the carriage after the fire, his lips were chilled on the outside and hot inside. He kissed her until a fire ignited deep inside her belly and she was sure her knees would collapse. Finally, reluctantly, Chane relinquished her lips and held her close.

  A heavy gust of wind reminded Jennifer where she was and what was happening. “It’s late,” she whispered against his chest, suddenly afraid of his intensity.

  “I don’t want to take you home,” he said, turning her and walking her back toward his brougham. He helped her in and called up to the driver, “Fifth Avenue and Thirty-second Street.”

  Jennifer rode beside Chane in silence through street after darkened street. She had expected him to try to kiss her again, but he appeared deep in thought.

  It was a long trip back uptown, but somehow the time flew. Too soon, the carriage stopped in front of the Van Vleet town house. Chane helped her down, leaned against the carriage and turned with her in his arms. The streetlight carved new hollows in his craggy face.

  “Good night,” she whispered. Part of her wanted to reach out and touch his cheek. Even if she never saw him again, she had been touched by him. His passion for the bridge meant that in his own way he was an artist, too. This created a deep bond between them.

  “Good night,” he said softly, bending down as if he were going to kiss her.

  Her heart pounded. She drew back, fearful she wouldn’t be able to stop herself this time. “No more kisses.”

  “No more kisses,” he repeated solemnly, sudden merriment twinkling in his eyes.

  She pushed his arms away and walked toward the front porch. Kincaid made no effort to follow her. Jennifer stopped on the top step.

  “I can’t work for you,” she called back to him.

  “You signed a contract.”

  “No. My signature was forged.”

  “By your agent, who undoubtedly has the right to sign contracts in your name. It’s standard procedure. If you are at all trustworthy, you are honor bound to keep the terms of the contract.”

  “Well, I’m not,” she said stubbornly.

  “Any court in the land would insist you honor that contra
ct.”

  “Only if you pursue it.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because I would hate you.”

  “For how long?”

  “Forever.”

  He laughed. “You think you can hold a grudge that long?”

  “Longer.”

  “You give up on everything else. What makes you think you can hold a grudge at all?”

  Jennifer walked quickly down the steps to his side. “I do not—I never give up.”

  “Maybe at work,” he said, shrugging. “This is life. Maybe you only give up on life.”

  Jennifer frowned at him. The jut of his brow cast shadows that hid the expression in his eyes. But she was sure he was laughing at her. “You don’t think I can handle life?”

  He shrugged. “I suspect you can handle anything you want to handle.” He took her by the shoulders and shook her gently. “I’d give up, Jennie, but you keep letting me back in.”

  “I don’t mean to,” she said ruefully, feeling much younger than her twenty-two years.

  “As long as a woman keeps answering my questions, I can’t walk away, especially if she’s as beautiful and desirable as you.”

  She shook her head in confusion.

  “Maybe you really aren’t interested in digging into life. Personally, I like to get dirty every now and then.”

  “Get dirty?” she asked. She knew she needed to walk away from him and never look back, but something held her there.

  “Work with my hands. Slam a hammer onto a railroad spike, rope a steer and brand it.”

  “You’ve done all that?”

  “And more. Let me tell you about it tomorrow over dinner while we discuss how you’re going to get out of that contract.”

  “Fine,” she said. Somehow, by not kissing her, not even trying to kiss her, he’d thrown her off guard again.

  Jennifer was in her bed, dozing off to sleep, before she realized she’d made another date with Kincaid. “Drat!”

  She sat straight up and punched her pillow. “What have I done? Drat! Drat! Drat!”

  Chapter Seven

  The next day a note from Latitia was waiting for Chane, asking him to take her to the opera. He called her home, and while he waited for her to answer, he sorted through his mail.

  “Hello,” she said, sounding thoroughly comfortable with the telephone. There were fewer than four hundred telephones in the city, and most of them were in offices. The few people who had them in their homes spoke on them as if they had no confidence that anyone could actually hear them. Except Latitia, of course.

  They talked for a few moments before he said cautiously, “I’ve got an appointment in one minute. This week is, uh…” He loosened his cravat, which seemed suddenly tight. “This week I’m busy. I’ll be lucky if I even get to bed.”

  “And luckier still if it’s with me,” Latitia purred with a throaty laugh.

  Silence stretched out while Chane struggled to think of a reply that didn’t betray the fragile alliance he was trying to form with Jennifer.

  “So,” she said, sounding a little peeved. “How about next week? You’re going to the Madisons’ party, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know. My grandfather’s ill, so I’ve taken on a load of extra work. Don’t count on me.”

  She was disappointed, but he held firm. At last he hung up the receiver and breathed a sigh of relief. That would do for this week, but what about next week? If his luck held, he would be courting Jennie full-time, from now until they pitched dirt on his grave.

  At ten o’clock Chane met with his grandfather and two attorneys. In the afternoon, he returned to the Bricewood East and stopped by Steve Hammond’s smoke-filled office. Steve was a brilliant, restless man who smoked one cigarette after another and could talk circles around anyone. As Chane’s right-hand man, he worked so hard he rarely had time for relationships. Despite his awkwardness around them, women found Steve appealing. His deep-set, blue-gray eyes complimented his fair complexion and sandy-brown hair.

  Steve stood up, but Chane motioned him down. “Sit,” he said, dropping into the chair across from Steve’s desk. He stretched tired muscles and leaned back.

  “How’d the meeting go?”

  “I told my grandfather he could find another sucker for his inheritance.”

  “Ninety million dollars? Something must have smelled,” Steve said, frowning.

  “Everything was up to my grandfather’s usual high standards,” Chane said grimly. “Unfortunately, I had the gall to want to survive with my skin and reputation intact.”

  Shaking his head, Chane continued. “Not only did Number One sign contracts with the Chinese agents, he also bought a steel foundry, a quarry, and six other companies to sell goods and services to the railroad, all at exorbitant prices, all highly illegal. Number One was proud of the fact that he was all set to fleece both his stockholders and the U.S. government.”

  Steve raised his eyebrows, then laughed, his voice gravelly from years of cigarette smoking. “Your only choice, as I see it, would be whether you want to go to jail or hang.”

  “That’s the way it looked to me.”

  “So you walked out.”

  “I’m not going out West,” Chane said, his gut twisting at the thought of leaving Jennie behind. In the past, he’d always thought of himself as a coolheaded scientist, but what had happened to him when he met Jennie was far from scientific. He was on shaky ground and he knew it. What his next move would be, he had no idea.

  His mind flashed an image of her pale blond hair pulled back from her face, her strong neck and graceful arms curved over her head. She was a picture of pristine elegance and loveliness. That, and the heat of her kisses…

  “So you declined their offer?”

  Steve’s question jolted Chane back to reality. “But they declined my decline,” he said, grimacing at the amount of work ahead. “My grandfather promised to divest himself of the illegal companies. I have one more meeting with him this week. If all goes well, and he can prove certain things to my satisfaction, I’ll…damn, I guess I’ll end up building his railroad.” How could he do that and still court Jennie? Maybe the combination of unlimited money and the most fascinating woman in the world was warping his mind.

  Steve fished another cigarette out of his pocket. He bought the ready-made cigarettes, but he didn’t keep them in the package. He stored them in different pockets, so when he was in a business meeting and couldn’t smoke, he could fondle them. “If you’re too honest, you could lose your grandfather’s shirt for him,” he said.

  “If that’s all we lose, I’ll be satisfied.”

  “Well, as long as you know you’re not getting me on any trains,” Steve warned. He had a deep fear of train wrecks. Everytime there was a train wreck, the newspapers printed the gory details—describing six-foot splinters that impaled men, women, and children, flames burning trapped people to cinders, and fully loaded passenger cars that careened off collapsed trestles.

  “How’s Number One’s health? Any chance he’ll pull through this?” Steve asked, striking a match, holding it under the tip of his cigarette and taking a long drag. “If he recovers, we won’t have to worry about any of this.”

  “The doctor is cautious, but he didn’t expect Grandfather to live this long. The fact that he has could mean he’ll be with us for a while. My parents have decided to assume he will. They’re leaving for Europe tomorrow.”

  “I hope your grandfather has arranged a line of credit for his railroad.”

  “Not exactly. He wanted to leave us something to do.”

  Steve’s head spun with all the things he had to do in a few short weeks. “I’ll get right on it.”

  Chane walked toward the door. “Thanks, Steve. Hopefully, you won’t have to ride any trains,” he said, grinning.

  Steve followed. “I’ll have you sign that statement tomorrow. I’ll want it notarized with witnesses.”

  Chane laughed.

  Rehearsal seemed
to go on forever. Late in the afternoon, Jennifer saw Kincaid slip inside, find a comfortable place along the back wall of the new Bricewood Theatre, and lean back to watch. Her heart beat faster. Without admitting it to herself, she realized she’d been waiting for him all day. Of course, she had resigned herself to his presence. Unfortunately, it was his absence that had been bothering her.

  The Bricewood Theatre was almost as big as the Bellini Theatre had been. But it was newer and more modern. The footlights were electric instead of gas, making them safer and brighter. For that, she was glad—one fire was enough.

  Jennifer and fifty young men and women were on stage, seated at Bellini’s feet. He finished his instructions, moved his stool back to the wings, and motioned the dancers to their places. Jennifer walked into the first wings to wait for her cue.

  In the pit below Jennifer’s eye level, the director tapped his stick on the music standard, and the orchestra played the first strains of the theme for the Blue Bird. The glorious sounds of the music rose and fell in the huge empty space of the theater. Bellini’s voice counted the beats, and when her cue came, Jennifer pranced out onto the stage en pointe.

  In spite of the sudden inner turmoil caused by Chane Kincaid’s appearance, she felt she danced well, but she could not be sure. It was unfortunate that people saw only her image, but could not sense the wonderful sensations she felt within while dancing. She wondered what Chane observed.

  Bellini kept them later than usual. Finally, he dismissed them by rapping his cane on the floor and saying, “Eight o’clock tomorrow morning, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Jennifer glanced at Chane. He nodded to her and motioned for her to join him. Suddenly breathless, she nodded back.

  In the private dressing room she’d been given, she quickly stripped off her practice clothes, scrubbed herself with the water in her pitcher, and dried off. Even so, the others left before her, and the theater felt unnaturally quiet. She combed her hair, dusted herself with Gillyflower talcum until the whole room smelled like carnations, and put on the lavender peau de soie gown she’d worn to the Bricewood that morning.