The Lady and the Robber Baron

by Joyce Brandon

  Augustine frowned. She had been given instructions by her mistress. “You’ll stay home tonight, then?”

  “Yes.”

  Augustine trudged down the stairs to where the dreaded telephone sat on the library table. She would leave a message so madame would know her brother was waiting for her.

  Just as her hand touched the hated instrument, the bell inside it let out a rough shriek. She jumped. “Oh, mon Dieu!” The instrument shrilled again. With shaking hand she picked up the receiver. “Van Vleet residence,” she stammered.

  “Is Peter Van Vleet there?” a male voice asked.

  “One moment please.”

  “Is that for me?” Peter called down the stairs.

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  Peter took the stairs two at a time, smiling at the consternation on Augustine’s face. He took the receiver from her visibly shaking hand.

  “Hello.”

  “Mr. Van Vleet, this is Mr. Noonan at the Bricewood.” The voice was gruff and forced, as if he found speaking on a telephone uncomfortable.

  Peter wondered if something had happened to Jennifer.

  “I’m calling about the money you owe Mr. Kincaid.”

  “What money?”

  “You’ve had your fun, Mr. Van Vleet. Now Mr. Kincaid would like his twenty thousand dollars…tonight.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The man sighed audibly into the telephone. “Gamblers lie, too, do they? Well, it doesn’t surprise me.”

  Peter struggled to control his temper. “There must be some mistake, Mr. Noonan. I do not gamble. I especially do not gamble in any establishment owned by Mr. Kincaid.”

  Peter slammed the receiver down and counted to fifteen, which was usually enough to be sure the operator had disconnected the previous call. Then he picked it up again and asked the operator to get him the Bricewood.

  The telephone rang. A woman’s voice answered on the other end. “Hello?”

  “Is Mr. Kincaid there?”

  “No, I’m sorry, Mr. Kincaid has gone out of town. We don’t expect him back until tomorrow night.”

  Peter put down the earpiece. He would have to wait until tomorrow night to confront Kincaid with his mistake. In the meantime he would find Derek Wharton. If Derek had run up gambling debts in his name, he’d beat the stuffings out of him. Peter grabbed his coat and hat. “I’ll be back later.”

  “But monsieur!” Augustine protested. “Your sister—”

  The slamming of the back door told her she was wasting her breath.

  Jennifer paid the cabriolet driver and rushed up the steps to the door. Augustine met her in the entry hall.

  “Mamitchka, is Peter home?”

  “No, madame. I gave him your message, and he even said he would stay here until you returned, but then a man called, and it seemed to upset him.”

  “Do you know who it was?”

  “He didn’t say, madame.”

  “I’ll stay here tonight and catch Peter before he goes to work tomorrow.”

  Jennifer slept fitfully that night and woke with a start. At first she expected to find Chane beside her, then she remembered that he was on his way to or already in New Jersey.

  A fire crackled in the hearth. She slipped out of bed and put on her robe. Peter was not in his room. She hurried down the stairs. Augustine was in the kitchen, talking to the cook. They both looked up.

  “Bon matin, madame,” they said in unison, the cook’s heavier voice mingling with Augustine’s soprano.

  “Have you seen Peter?”

  “No, madame. He didn’t come home last night. I kept an ear peeled for him, too,” Augustine said.

  The clock in the entryway bonged seven times. She had slept later than she’d thought. She would barely be able to get back to the Bricewood in time for practice.

  “When he comes home, ask him to wait for me tonight. I’ll be back after the performance. I need to talk to him.”

  “Yes, madame.”

  Jennifer couldn’t believe her bad luck. The simple task of telling Peter that she had married Kincaid seemed to be turning into a nightmare. Well, she would just have to come back again tonight. She shouldn’t worry so much. He wanted only her happiness, of that she was sure. It bothered her that he hadn’t come home, though. It wasn’t like him.

  By five o’clock Peter was exhausted. The brokerage house had experienced more than its usual pandemonium today, with men buying and selling frantically as the prices of steel and cotton dropped faster than they should have. Rumors flew all day that an English company had bought Bethlehem Steel.

  Peter picked up energy as he neared the front door. He would try the newspaper where Derek worked. If he didn’t find him there, he’d give up for tonight. After working all day without sleeping last night, finding Derek seemed less important than getting some rest.

  At the newspaper office the clerk told Peter that Derek was on vacation. “Gone out of town, I heard.”

  At home, Augustine took his coat. “You look tired, monsieur.”

  “Exhausted, Augustine. I’m going to take a nap until dinner. Will you wake me?”

  “Your sister asked me to tell you she needs to talk with you. She wants you to wait here for her. She’ll come as soon as she can get away from the performance.”

  “I want to talk to her, too. Be sure she wakes me when she comes home.”

  Peter lay down on his bed and closed his eyes. He must have passed out. He felt Augustine shaking him, heard her telling him dinner was ready, but he only shoved her hand away from his shoulder and turned over to shut her out. He felt her cover him with a quilt and was grateful for the warmth.

  He woke later with the sense that he had slept through the evening and night and was late for work. Groggily, he sat on the side of the bed. The lamp was turned low. It flickered and threatened to gutter. The room was cold, and the north wind howled around the dark windows.

  He couldn’t figure out what had awakened him. Then it came again. A knocking at the front door. Muscles in his legs twitched. He felt too tired to move quickly enough to reach it in time. The front door opened. He heard a murmur of feminine voices, but the wind howling under the eaves blotted out the words. Peter stood and walked to the door.

  He pushed through the doorway and took the stairs two at a time. He could hear Augustine answering a question, then he recognized the other voice as belonging to Simone. Slowing, he ran his hands through his hair and glanced at the mirror in the entryway, but on the fly as he was, it was impossible to tell if he looked as bad as he felt.

  Simone looked up and saw him. Augustine turned. “Oh, monsieur, I thought you were sleeping.”

  “Thank you, Augustine. I was.”

  Augustine walked quickly back toward the kitchen, her heels clicking on the hardwood entry.

  Simone’s coat looked thin, too thin for this kind of weather. He remembered Jenn telling him that some of the young women in the dance company lived from hand to mouth. He felt sure Simone must be one of them. “Would you like to come to the fire and warm yourself?”

  A look of surprise flitted across her pretty face. “Yes, thank you.” She stepped toward the fire in the entryway. Peter took her by the elbow and guided her into the library. “This is warmer and not so drafty. Would you like hot tea?” he asked.

  Simone unbuttoned her coat. Under the influence of his intent blue eyes, she felt her hands trembling. The lamplight softened the healthy teak of his skin and cast a shadow under his sensuous bottom lip. Her fingers tingled with the need to touch his lean cheek.

  Peter helped her out of her coat and laid it over the back of a chair.

  “Why are you being nice to me?”

  He shrugged. Simone flushed, and her big, dark eyes flinched away from meeting his. Her bottom lip started to tremble. She sucked it into her mouth as if she could hide it from him. Her breasts looked round and plump beneath the simple wool gown. It was not the fine, soft wool Jenn wore, but more
like the wool in army blankets. Her slim white hands, so elegant and expressive, picked at the tiny white collar of her dark gown.

  “You seem different.” Her nervous gaze connected with his. She had beautiful eyes. Her thick, dark hair was pulled back in a bun the way Jenn wore hers when dancing.

  “Did the ballet let out early?”

  “No…no…I…uhm…didn’t feel up to it tonight.”

  The silence lengthened. She looked away, finally stood up and walked away from the fire. Nervously, she clasped her hands behind her, unclasped them, then clasped them again. Her hands trembled visibly.

  He walked over to stand behind her. “Why don’t you just tell me what you’re up to,” he said.

  Simone’s heart almost stopped. His deep voice sent chills down her spine. She felt faint from his nearness. She realized that he hadn’t rung for the tea he had invited her to have. That must mean he wanted her to leave.

  “Thank you for letting me get warm…”

  She willed her legs to walk to the door, but they ignored her. Peter stood behind her. She felt the harsh heat of his lithe body. His hands clamped on her shoulders. A shaft of heat started in her belly and speared downward to that nervous place between her legs. “I asked you a question,” he said, his voice gruff.

  Simone could not remember his question. Dumbly, she shook her head. His hands tightened on her shoulders. Slowly, he turned her. His blue eyes had narrowed into slits. A pulse pounded in her throat.

  “Why don’t you just tell me everything,” he said. He’d changed somehow. The polite young man had been replaced by an angry man. The sharp light in his eyes caused blood to race through Simone in waves. She felt faint. His strong fingers bit into the soft flesh of her arms. A lump swelled darkly in her throat.

  “Now,” he growled.

  “I can’t,” she whispered around the lump.

  “Oh, yes you can,” he said grimly.

  “Oh, God…”

  “Tell me,” he said, giving her a little shake for emphasis. He knew she knew Derek Wharton, and he felt certain she knew something about the phony gambling debt. “Tell me,” he gritted.

  Simone groaned. She might as well tell him. Nothing could be worse. “I fell in love with you that summer,” she said, her voice breaking at the end. “I wanted you to notice me. That’s why I swam naked in the pool…”

  He scowled at her, and her voice faded away. Shame flushed into Simone like a wave of smothering heat. She jerked away from him. She wanted to flee, but her feet felt rooted to the spot.

  Tears added the final touch to her shame. She wiped angrily at her eyes, rummaged in her reticule, but found no handkerchief. Peter reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a clean kerchief and put it into her hand, a smile twitching at his lips. Simone dabbed at her eyes, shoved the kerchief back into his hand, then turned to flee. She wanted to die, to shrivel up and disappear out of sight. He was laughing at her.

  She picked up her coat and ran toward the entry hall and the front door. At the door to the library, Peter caught her and turned her to face him. She fought him for a moment, but lost energy.

  He pulled her close against him. The warmth and richness of his body almost caused her to swoon. “I’m not laughing at you,” he said, his husky voice low, insistent.

  “I don’t need your sympathy…”

  “You won’t get it, either.”

  Her arm seemed to come up of its own accord. He grabbed it and put it behind her, pulling her harder against him with one hand and taking her coat and tossing it on the floor with the other. “You won’t be needing that.”

  A small tingling current moved from his hard body into hers, making it impossible for her to think or move away. One of his warm hands released her wrist and moved up to her face. “Was that why you kept tormenting me, because you wanted me?”

  Simone wanted to die. He was laughing at her. His warm hand stroked her face. He lowered his head and pressed his smooth, warm lips to hers. Slowly they insinuated themselves into her mouth and opened it to his ravaging tongue. She felt certain no greater thrill or pain was possible. To be kissed in this savage way by a man she loved and could never have.

  At last he lifted his head. “I must have wanted you from the first moment I saw you…standing in the hallway with your pitiful little carpetbag.”

  A rush of blood through her brain almost blinded her. “All those times we tormented one another,” he whispered, and lowered his head to kiss her again. Simone didn’t know if he was making fun of her or not, but now she didn’t care. His kisses caused such a burning in her, such need.

  He kissed her until they were both panting, until his slitted blue eyes blazed with passion.

  “I thought you hated me,” she whispered.

  “I hated the way I felt, knowing you were sleeping with my father—”

  A knock at the door interrupted.

  Peter steadied Simone and stepped away from her. “Come in,” he yelled.

  Malcomb opened the door. “Will you be needing anything, sir?”

  “No, Malcomb. You may be excused for the night.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Is Augustine in bed?”

  “Yes, sir. Would you like me to send her?”

  “No, thank you. Sleep well.”

  Malcomb nodded his thanks and closed the door.

  “Would you like some tea?” Peter asked.

  Simone shook her head. “No. Only you,” she whispered.

  Peter suppressed a groan. He wanted Simone, but he had learned his lesson about making love to young women. He’d been expelled from Harvard because a young woman climbed in his window and slipped into his bed the night of a surprise bed check. It might not have been terminal to his education except the young woman was the dean’s daughter.

  Simone misunderstood his silence. Flushing, she turned away, bumping into a table and almost knocking down a lamp. “Oh! Sorry! I’m so clumsy. I really must be going. I forgot I have practice early tomorrow!”

  She grabbed her coat and ran for the front door. Peter cursed and pounded after her, caught her as she fumbled with the inside locks.

  “Simone! Dammit. You’re skittish as a colt.”

  He forced her face around. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She trembled under his hand like a rabbit. A flame started deep within him and would not be extinguished.

  “Simone…”

  She tried to force her chin down. He caught her hair and forced her head back, then captured her wet, salty lips and kissed her until her lips warmed and opened beneath his and the flickering flame within him roared into an inferno. He picked her up and carried her up the stairs.

  Simone didn’t remember his undressing her. His body was more beautiful than any she had ever seen. His shoulders were wide, his hips slim. As he leaned over her, his blond hair fell over his eyes, and he brushed it away. Everything about Peter was purposeful. Some men were hopelessly clumsy at undressing a woman. Peter had somehow undressed both of them without her knowing. He kissed her neck—warm, nibbling kisses—and she burned with the need to surrender everything to him.

  And that was the way he took her, as if he wanted everything. She’d never felt more taken in her life. She felt branded by him. Changed. His slightest touch caused such a fierce hunger in her; his lovemaking was wild and selfish the first time, slower and more satisfying the second. He had fire and passion and blinding beauty. She didn’t want him to let her go…ever.

  But unfortunately, she still had to earn a living. Reality could not be pushed aside indefinitely. The clock struck nine o’clock. “Ohhhh. I have to go,” she groaned.

  “I’ll take you home.”

  “No. I can easily get a cabriolet.”

  That was true. The cab drivers combed Fifth Avenue from dawn to dark.

  They dressed, and Peter went down to stop a cab.

  “Will you call me?” she asked after he kissed her good night and helped her up into the cabriolet. His warm lips made her imp
ervious to the cold wind.

  “Yes, of course,” he said, touching her cheek.

  At the corner she leaned out and waved. Peter waved back and walked up the stairs to the front door. His body felt tired, but good. He’d leave a note on Jenn’s pillow to be sure she woke him when she came in.

  He closed the front door and climbed the stairs to his room. Just as he reached the top stair, the door chimes rang. Simone must have forgotten something. He took the stairs two at a time and swung the door open. Three huge men stood on the front porch.

  “’Bout time you came home, boy.”

  Peter recognized the voice as that of the man who’d called him about the gambling debt.

  “We don’t appreciate your hiding out for the last couple of days,” Noonan growled, stepping forward to block the door so Peter couldn’t close it. “Kincaid wants his twenty thousand dollars, and he wants it now.” The two men stepped close to Peter. One smelled like fish, the other like manure—a sailor and a farmer. He felt dwarfed by their size.

  “I’ve never set foot in Kincaid’s gambling casino.”

  “You hear that, boys? I told you he was innocent.”

  The sailor grinned, put his shoulder against the door and shoved his way into the entry hall.

  “Hold on!” Peter yelled.

  The farmer stepped around Noonan, grabbed Peter’s arms and held him. The sailor knelt and held his legs. Noonan raised his fist and sent it crashing into Peter’s face. Light exploded in his head. He staggered backward, vaguely aware of the men cursing as they struggled to hold on to him. He tried to get free, but they couldn’t be dislodged. The blows kept coming, and Peter stopped fighting. Noonan rained blows on his face and middle. Blood poured down Peter’s face, blinding him.

  He realized with surprise that Noonan seemed bent on killing him. He knew he should try to save his life, but it was too late now. The men holding him were too strong. Pain came in continuous waves, punctuated by crashing blows from Noonan’s meaty fists. At last, one of the blows knocked him unconscious.

  The next sound Peter heard was of someone screaming. He ached, but it was nothing like the pain he’d felt earlier. He tried to open his eyes, but they didn’t seem to work. The woman screaming sounded like Augustine. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her not to worry, but his mouth didn’t seem to work either. Blackness came again.