The Lady and the Robber Baron

by Joyce Brandon

  Jennifer rang the doorbell and waited. Wind whipped and howled in the skeletal trees overhead. The moon shone down, illuminating a wide band of the snow banked on both sides of the road in front of the Van Vleet town house.

  It was taking Augustine forever to get to the door. Jennifer glanced again at the strange buggy parked at the curb, but she didn’t recognize it.

  At last the door opened. Augustine gave a little cry of surprise and joy at the sight of her. “Oh, thank God you’ve come, madame. Mon Dieu, the young master’s hurt bad.”

  “Peter?”

  “Oui.”

  “What happened?”

  “Three men…” Tears filled her eyes. “They were animals! They dumped the young master on the floor of the entryway and left him there, like a dog.”

  “Oh, Lord! Is he…?”

  “Dr. Hamilton is with him. I don’t know…”

  Jennifer ran forward and stopped in the library doorway. Peter lay on the floor before the fire. “We thought it best to bring him to the fire…I’m so sorry, madame.”

  Jennifer ran forward and knelt beside Peter. Blood had soaked into his white shirt, turning it dark brown. His face was swollen, his nose obviously broken. His beautiful nose…

  “Who did this?”

  Peter didn’t move or respond.

  “Peter, can you hear me? Who did this to you?”

  Jennifer touched his hand. It felt cold. Fear cramped her stomach. She doubled over. “He’s not…”

  Dr. Hamilton shook his head. “He fades in and out.”

  Jennifer carefully touched Peter’s undamaged hand. Dr. Hamilton opened Peter’s shirt and exposed ribs that were black and blue. He touched one of the bruises, and Peter winced.

  “Peter, it’s me, Jennifer. Can you hear me?”

  His hand moved under hers. He squeezed her fingers.

  “Who did this to you?”

  “Kin…caid.”

  “He’s delirious. It wasn’t Chane. He’s gone.”

  Peter’s eyelashes flickered, but his eyes were so swollen and blackened they didn’t open. “His men…” Peter whispered, his voice little more than a hoarse croak.

  “No. No. I don’t believe it.”

  “It was…Noonan.”

  Nausea overwhelmed Jennifer. She didn’t believe it, but Peter did.

  She and Augustine stayed by his side all that night. Jennifer felt feverish with the need to confront Chane with her questions. She willed him to return, to confirm what she knew—that he would never hurt her brother.

  Toward morning Peter opened his eyes and seemed to know her. She gave him warm broth and held his hand and told him how much she loved him. He mumbled something.

  Jennifer leaned down. “What?”

  “I need to see Jenn, to tell her.”

  Augustine shook her head. “He doesn’t even know you’re here, madame.”

  “I need to warn her,” he whispered.

  Jennifer kissed Peter’s forehead. “I’m here, Peter.”

  “Tell her to stay away from Kincaid—”

  “Hush! Rest now, love.” Peter slipped back into sleep. Jennifer handed the washcloth to Augustine. “Take care of him,” she whispered. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “If I need you…”

  “I’ll be at the Bricewood.” Chane should be back today. She would see him at once. He would explain.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jennifer waited all morning in Chane’s office. Twelve noon came, and still Chane hadn’t arrived. She asked Chane’s secretary to call her as soon as Mr. Kincaid returned. She knew he could explain. She just wished he would hurry back and do it.

  Reluctantly, she walked back to the Grand Ballroom to watch the beginning of rehearsal. She sat next to Bellini in the fifth row.

  “How’s your brother?”

  “Badly beaten.”

  “Do you know who did it?”

  Jennifer felt sick. “No, not yet.”

  Watching as a spectator made her feel jumpy, as if the energy she usually used dancing had pooled inside her and turned to nerves.

  At three o’clock one of the hotel employees came in and whispered to Bellini, who stood up and rapped his baton on the wood trim of the upholstered seat in front of him.

  “No performance tonight,” his voice boomed. “Blizzard coming. If what they say is correct, it’s going to be a bad one. We’ll resume when weather permits.”

  Grinning dancers looked at one another in amazement. They saw it as a chance to play hookey, to stay home and wallow in all the excesses dancers rarely had time for. They headed toward the dressing rooms, talking excitedly.

  “Best get home before you get stuck here,” Bellini growled.

  Jennifer didn’t know what to do. Peter needed her, but it was imperative that she see Chane, who might be within minutes of arriving. Unless he was trapped somewhere by the weather.

  She walked past Steve Hammond’s office. He stopped what he was doing when he caught sight of her and waited respectfully for her to speak.

  “Have you heard from Chane?” she asked.

  “The telegraph wires are down,” he replied. “The last we heard, the blizzard had closed everything. You’ll be safe in the hotel. I wouldn’t try to leave here, though.”

  “Thanks,” she said forlornly.

  She walked toward the lobby. Frederick stood by the doors, waiting. Seeing her, he walked over. “Do you have a ride? Or are you staying here?”

  “I don’t know. I want to go home…”

  “I’ll take you.”

  Something about his solicitousness made Jennifer uncomfortable. “I live in the other direction,” she said stiffly.

  “This is no time to be huffy. You won’t get another cabriolet in this weather.”

  As they headed toward the exit together, Frederick waved at Latitia Laurey. Jennifer scowled, wondering uneasily what Latitia was doing at the Bricewood again. It unnerved her slightly to realize that Frederick knew the woman. Frederick flushed. He would probably prefer she not know he was being courted by a rich and powerful woman. Frederick was not above succeeding however he could, but he always wanted everyone to think it was because of his great skill as a dancer. He tightened his grip on her arm, and she decided that her need to check on Peter outweighed her concern about Latitia, Frederick, and everything else except Chane. And he would not return today, anyway.

  Through the arched doors leading out of the Bricewood, snow fell continuously. Frederick helped her into the small, covered cab. The driver’s coat and hat were covered with an inch of snow. He shouted at them, “You are my last passengers of the day.”

  The wind howled so loudly and the snow swirled so thickly they seemed lost as soon as they emerged from the sheltering overhang. Snow swirled against the canvas window cover on her side. Jennifer tried to peer through the ragged, wind-driven flakes, and hoped the driver knew his way.

  Wind rocked the cabriolet. She could hear the sounds of the horse’s hooves slipping occasionally on the icy street. At one point the driver stopped, jumped down, climbed the streetpost, and wiped snow off the sign. “Third Avenue! I thought we’d past that long ago,” he yelled as he clambered back on board.

  Only two blocks to go. Frederick lived on East Twelfth and First Avenue, just a few blocks from the old Bellini Theatre. Even wrapped in her heaviest coat and bundled in blankets, Jennifer felt the icy coldness of the wind. They passed few buggies and almost no pedestrians. Apparently, the rest of the town had already stopped trying to travel.

  At last they reached Frederick’s apartment. The driver jumped down and helped Frederick clamber out of the cab over the curbside snowdrift. Then he held his hand out to Jennifer.

  “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m not getting out here. I live at Thirty-second Street and Fifth Avenue.”

  He shook his head. “I may have misunderstood, but now that I see how long it’s taken, I’m not going back uptown again tonight.”

  “I mus
t get home.”

  “Sorry. It looks like I just can’t make it.”

  “But I have to get home.”

  “I only live six blocks from here, and I ain’t going another foot more’n I have to. Five more minutes and my horse’ll freeze to death.”

  Frederick cupped his hands to be heard above the roaring of the wind. “Come in. You can stay with me.”

  “I have to get home.”

  “Not in this weather!”

  The driver looked cold and tired and sorrowful as he said, “You’ll have to be getting out, miss. My old horse don’t do well in the cold.”

  Reluctantly, Jennifer climbed down. Frederick took her hand, and the two of them made their careful way across the icy sidewalk through blowing snow. Frederick unlocked the front door of the building.

  The entry hall was dimly lit. His apartment was dark and cold. Frederick lit a fire in the fireplace. Jennifer filled the teakettle and lit the kindling in the iron stove in the kitchen. He had a typical dancer’s apartment—a place to sleep. A cold-water flat, it lacked many of the amenities.

  Frederick added wood to the fire and they huddled before it, shivering.

  “Do you have anything to cook?”

  He laughed. “They’ll find our bodies here when the ice melts. I can see the headline now. ‘Lovers starve to death in spite of everything Frederick Van Buren could do.’”

  “We’re not lovers.”

  “Well, we damned sure used to be.”

  “We’re not anymore.”

  “Because you sold out.”

  “Sold out?”

  “You bought that bastard’s line, hook and sinker,” he said bitterly.

  “I fell in love.”

  “With his money.”

  “My family has always had money. I didn’t need to marry it,” she said angrily.

  “Not anymore, from what I heard,” he said smugly. “Your parents died penniless. And I’m not saying you’d deliberately marry for money. But you’re young and naive enough to be influenced by his money and power. You just haven’t seen yet what a blackguard he is.”

  “Money alone does not make a blackguard.”

  “No, we have to factor in his lying, cheating, and stealing, don’t we?”

  “You’re just jealous because you’re almost twenty-nine years old and you haven’t made anything of yourself.”

  “My, how you’ve changed,” he crowed. “You used to think that being a dancer was something.”

  Jennifer flushed. “I still do, but—” She stopped before she admitted she didn’t think him that great a dancer.

  Frederick must have read her mind. Anger flashed in his dark eyes. “He’s a lying, cheating blackguard, and he’s taking you for a ride. He’ll throw you over the same way he did Latitia just as soon as the next pretty face comes along. He’ll never marry you.”

  “He already did,” Jennifer blurted.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Well, it’s true.”

  “If a man of his stature had married, it would have been all over the papers.”

  “We married on shipboard. No one knows. I’m keeping it a secret until I’ve had time to tell Peter. And you’d better not say a word, if you value what’s left of our friendship.”

  “Oh, so it’s a friendship now, is it?”

  Jennifer ignored him and walked into the kitchen. “You have the most barren pantry I’ve ever seen.” She opened every cupboard. They were all empty. Frederick went upstairs to borrow groceries from his neighbor. He returned with six potatoes, an onion with its top sprouted, a quart of milk, a pat of butter, and a loaf of stale bread.

  Jennifer peeled the potatoes, then cut them up with the onion for potato soup and set them to boil. It was the only thing she knew how to make by herself. Frederick sat at the table and fretted about his mistakes in rehearsal.

  Listening to his griping, Jennifer slowly relaxed. She had known Frederick for years. He might be less than a gentleman, but she was comfortable with him. Being trapped by the snow gave their adventure the air of an out-of-town performance. Jennifer worried about Peter and Chane, but she realized there was nothing she could do. The blizzard had taken control of her life. Somehow, they would all survive, and Chane would be able to explain.

  Frederick found a bottle of red wine. “We’re stranded here,” he said happily. “Might as well enjoy ourselves.”

  Jennifer refused the wine. They sat before the fire on Frederick’s thin rug. He questioned her about Peter, and she told him everything she knew about the beating.

  “Kincaid did it,” Frederick said firmly.

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “What if he did?”

  “He didn’t. And I don’t appreciate your saying he might have.”

  Frederick rolled his eyes. “Sorry.”

  By seven o’clock the soup was done. Jennifer seasoned it with a little butter, salt, and pepper. Frederick sliced the stale bread, and she toasted it in an iron skillet with the last of the butter.

  It made a fine dinner. The soup was hot and filling. The toast was crisp and buttery. They ate ravenously. Outside, the wind roared and rattled the windows; inside, it was warm and cozy. A full stomach made Jennifer relaxed and sleepy even though it was still early. She hadn’t slept at all last night, except for a few minutes on the way to the hotel.

  She curled up on the sofa and left the bed for Frederick. “Are you going to sleep there?” he asked. “You don’t have to. I’ll behave myself.”

  Jennifer’s disbelief must have telegraphed itself to him. He scowled and turned away. “I hate that bastard.”

  “Why are you acting jealous now? You were happy to be rid of me.”

  “I was not!”

  “Yes, you were. You didn’t once ask me to reconsider.”

  Frederick flushed. “I was too mad.”

  “Liar! Besides, you were already having an affair with your secret admirer!”

  “She confused the issue, I admit that, but I always loved you…”

  “Oh, spare me!”

  “What do you know about it? You’re not exactly Miss Virginity.”

  “How can you even mention your seduction of me. Especially after those awful lies and all that finagling on your part!”

  Shamefaced, Frederick subsided.

  Two days and nights passed in this fashion, and still the storm did not let up. Frederick continued to pout about her not loving him anymore; he seemed to be growing more and more maudlin about their past relationship. As she made her bed the second night, he grumbled sourly. “There was a time you would have slept with me.”

  “We don’t want you walking those ‘hallowed halls’ again, though, do we?” she snapped.

  “Jennifer, please don’t be mean to me. I love you.”

  She knew that he loved himself more, but she kept quiet. Without warning he glanced over at her with such bitterness that it stunned her. “I hate Kincaid. You know good and well he had Peter beaten. It’s common practice in this town to whale the tar out of men who welch on their gambling debts.”

  “Peter doesn’t gamble.”

  “Maybe Peter doesn’t admit he gambles.”

  “He doesn’t gamble. I know for a fact. If anything, it was probably that Derek Wharton he hangs out with. Derek is a known gambler, and a cheat, and a liar. He probably gambled under Peter’s name.”

  “What a fool you are,” Frederick said bitterly, shaking his head. “Everyone in town knows that Kincaid employs thugs for the very purpose of beating deadbeats.”

  “He isn’t like that.”

  “Look, I wasn’t supposed to tell you this, but I got it on very good authority…” He paused, pressed his lips together as if he still might not tell her, and then sighed. “But I think I better.” He glanced up at her, as if gauging her readiness to hear this news. “Look, I know Kincaid ordered your brother beaten. I was trying to tell you without telling you. But I know it was not accidental or done by anyone else. Kincaid o
rdered it because he knows Peter is plotting against him. He may not have wanted him beaten so close to death’s door, but he wanted him hurt bad enough so that he would get the message.”

  Jennifer’s heart felt like a lead weight. “How do you know that?” she asked. If Chane could do that, he was a monster.

  Frederick frowned, and she knew he was trying to decide what lie to tell her. “A woman,” he finally said.

  “A woman you are sleeping with?”

  “You threw me over. What the hell was I supposed to do?” he asked bitterly.

  Jennifer closed her eyes and shook her head in weariness. She didn’t care if he had six women. But she knew it would only hurt him if she admitted it. “It’s okay,” she said.

  He stared glumly into the fire, looking thoroughly miserable. “I love you, Jennifer. I’ll always love you.” Without warning he started to cry, his face twisting with grief. “How could you be so blind and loyal to that bastard? Now you’ve married him, and he’ll take you away, and you’ll have babies until your body is as fat as a sausage and your ankles are swollen and falling over your shoes like those old Italian women in the market. You’re a ballerina, Jennifer, a butterfly. Other women can have babies, but you…you…God! You’re a dancer. Now…now you’ll never dance again.” His anger and grief overcame him and he doubled forward, crying like a furious three-year-old. And once started, he couldn’t seem to stop crying.

  Filled with revulsion at the picture he had painted of her future, and filled with sudden tenderness for him, because he cared so much, she reached over and stroked his shoulder. Blindly, he pulled her into his arms. Crooning words of comfort, she held him, and he cried more softly now.

  Frederick had always been intense. Before, they had been intense together, about their dancing. Now, he was hurt and furious that she had given it all up to do something he could never understand.

  Still holding her, he slowly lay back onto the rug. As she stroked Frederick’s head, a sinking feeling started in her belly. Frederick was right. She had no business marrying anyone. But the baby inside her had trapped her. And with a man like Kincaid, there’d be other babies. A long string of them until she died or wished she’d died. She started to cry, too. She realized she had betrayed Peter and herself. The one she should have betrayed was Chane.