by Kate Belli
There wasn’t a body, and then there was. Over and over and over. All it took was a slant of light.
Genevieve took a deep breath and managed a smile for her friends, watching identical expressions of cautious relief cross their faces. Callie offered to get them all some lemonade and squeezed through the crowd. Genevieve watched her friend’s curvy figure, clad in green satin, draw admiring glances as she made her way to the refreshment table, then allowed her gaze to sweep across the expanse of the ballroom, over shiny bald pates and headpieces adorned with beads. The sights were so familiar, the same as at the dozens of similar balls she’d attended since coming out at the age of eighteen.
Her gaze inexorably returned to Mr. Pineapple Waistcoat, who seemed to stiffen slightly under its weight. What else wasn’t she seeing? she suddenly wondered. What else would be revealed if the light shifted in the right way?
Who was he? What was he doing at the Huffingtons’ ball?
“Why did I agree to this again?” Genevieve murmured to Eliza as they were severely jostled by the ample form of a passing matron dressed in a garish yellow taffeta. She scowled at the bouncing yellow feathers protruding from the oblivious woman’s retreating coiffure.
“I know you hate these things as much as I do, Genevieve,” her friend replied, taking her hand. “I am truly grateful you are here.” Eliza peered at her anxiously. “Are you sure you’re feeling well?”
Genevieve nodded absent-mindedly. “I was working late last night and am tired, that’s all. I am sorry I don’t come to parties more often,” she managed, wishing to change the subject from her near faint. “I can’t quite believe your father is still insisting you attend every social event of the season.”
Eliza scrunched her face. “You’d think he’d have surrendered the idea of marrying me off by now, wouldn’t you? I am twenty-four, after all; I’ve been coming to these parties since I was eighteen and still am not married. It’s quite clear I’m destined to be an old maid.”
“And you know you could marry half a dozen men in this room tomorrow, if you gave any of them the slightest bit of encouragement,” Genevieve replied absently. It was true. Eliza, though beautiful and wealthy, was famously uninterested in suitors.
“But I don’t want any of them, you know that,” said Eliza, a bit sourly. “I know it breaks my father’s heart every time I say it, but I can’t wait until I am officially too old to participate in this silly charade anymore. Just declare me a spinster already and be done with it. You are lucky to be spared, Genevieve.”
“Yes, I suppose I am fortunate my parents are not pressuring me to wed,” Genevieve murmured, fanning herself and looking in vain for Callie with their drinks. She kept half an eye on Mr. Pineapple Waistcoat, though; he had moved slightly toward the entrance to the ballroom.
Don’t you dare leave.
“Oh, I am sorry,” Eliza began sincerely, looking stricken, but Genevieve cut her off with a wave of her hand.
“It’s fine,” she reassured her friend with a smile, even though a slight pang went through her. A softer and quieter pang than it used to be, true, but it was there all the same. Both women were dancing around the topic of Genevieve’s broken engagement, now some six years ago, to Ted Beekman. Ted had ended their agreement largely because he disapproved of Genevieve’s eccentric family. Her parents, perhaps out of guilt, had not broached the subject of matrimony with their only daughter again. When she insisted upon pursuing a career in journalism afterward, the Stewarts had used their influence to help her gain a position.
“Is he here?” Eliza queried as softly as she could in the din, as if reading her thoughts. For a moment Genevieve gaped at her, thinking she meant Mr. Pineapple Waistcoat. Then she realized that of course her friend was referring to Ted.
“I haven’t seen him,” Genevieve replied just as quietly. There was no use pretending she hadn’t been looking, at least before she spotted the man from the alley. One of the reasons she avoided social events was the inevitable awkwardness of running into Ted and, of course, his wife. Amelia was a nice enough girl and had played no part in the breakup. She had become Ted’s wife simply by virtue of being of appropriate social standing, appropriately staid, and available. Genevieve often privately thought that being completely empty-headed may have also worked in Amelia’s favor; Ted disliked being challenged.
“The downside to having a family such as mine,” she continued, attempting to make light of her past difficulties. “It often results in broken engagements.” She raised her fan again and wished desperately for a cool drink.
Truthfully, a breath of fresh air would also be lovely, but she did not want to risk losing sight of the man from the alley. He was watching the dancers now with a dispassionate expression, but every few moments his eyes subtly slid in her direction.
He was keeping watch on her as well, then.
Eliza’s eyes narrowed. “Your family is as Old New York as they come.” It was true. The Stewarts were an old and venerable clan who traced their origins to the colonial era.
“Yes.” Genevieve nodded. “But we’re odd. And after my mother … well, there’s no use in rehashing ancient history.”
“Here you are, my darlings: lovely, cool refreshment.” Callie emerged from the crowd, holding out two cut-crystal goblets, her brilliant emerald eyes sparkling. “And I have the most exciting news. How are you feeling, Genevieve?”
“Better, thank you. This is helping,” she said, holding up the glass of lemonade. And it was. The tang of citrus on her tongue seemed to clear her head.
“More exciting than Rupert Milton and Esmie Bradley waltzing?” Eliza asked dryly.
“That is always a most unusual sight,” Callie agreed, snagging a glass of champagne from a passing footman’s nearly empty tray. “I don’t know if I’ll ever become accustomed to it. But didn’t Rupert look handsome?” She sighed. “It is a shame he’s only after a fortune. Ooh, but this is what I wanted to tell you. Just moments ago, I spied the Earl of Umberland and Mrs. Bradley speaking.”
She paused dramatically.
“Yes, Callie?” Eliza prodded.
“With Daniel McCaffrey!” Callie finished triumphantly.
For a moment, Eliza and Genevieve simply gaped at Callie, who smiled back and took a satisfied sip of her champagne.
“The Daniel McCaffrey? He’s here?” asked Eliza with wide eyes.
“The one and only,” whispered Callie, leaning closer to them. “The man who inherited the Van Joost fortune! Can you imagine?”
Genevieve’s eyes whipped back to Mr. Pineapple Waistcoat. He was speaking to Rupert Milton now, though Mrs. Bradley and Esmie were nowhere in sight.
Danny, Paddy and Billy had called him.
“Callie, is that him?” She gestured toward Mr. Pineapple Waistcoat with her brows. “Talking with Rupert Milton?”
“Isn’t he handsome?” Callie murmured dreamily.
Genevieve closed her mouth, which she realized was hanging open like a carp’s. Her mind struggled to wrap itself around the fact that her one possible lead on Robin Hood and the elusive Daniel McCaffrey, about whom she’d heard rumors and stories for years, were one and the same.
Eliza craned her neck slightly to get a better look. “You’ve never met him?”
“No,” admitted Genevieve faintly. “He’s been abroad for so long.”
“He’s close to the age of your brothers, isn’t he?” Callie peeled her eyes away from Mr. Pineapple Waistcoat—Daniel McCaffrey, her brain corrected—long enough to shoot her a quizzical look.
Genevieve shook her head slightly, trying to remember if either of her older brothers, Gavin or Charles, had ever mentioned meeting the mysterious millionaire. “I think so. But they didn’t go to school together, as far as I know.” She swallowed hard, her mind swimming. “Does anyone know what his relationship to Jacob Van Joost actually was?”
He was smiling at something Lord Umberland was saying. That same wry half smile as the night before. It was s
o dislocating, Genevieve almost lost her breath.
“I heard from a reliable source he was from the San Francisco branch of the family,” Eliza said promptly, exchanging her empty lemonade glass for one full of champagne. “One of the Van Joost cousins ran away when he was a teenager during the gold rush, and Mr. McCaffrey is supposedly the bastard child of this cousin’s sister. He was the only family old man Van Joost could find before he died.”
Callie was shaking her head. “No, no, no, I heard he grew up in India. Some of the original Dutch Van Joosts settled there, and the last daughter of that line married a semi-disgraced Scotsman. When the family’s shipping company failed, they begged old man Van Joost to take in their only son. He only did so after both parents died of snakebites,” she finished dramatically.
“And I always heard that Daniel McCaffrey is Mr. Van Joost’s actual nephew, the product of the oldest Van Joost brother and an Irish laundress.” Genevieve could feel her temper rising. “That version says the couple ran away to Philadelphia, where they lived under the laundress’s last name. But these are all ridiculous. Nobody knows anything for certain, do they?”
She stole another glance in his direction, catching his eyes sliding away from her and back toward Rupert.
Why hasn’t he left? The thought popped into her mind, sudden and unbidden. He clearly recognized her from the alley and had seen her before she saw him.
It was almost as if he were goading her to expose him.
“And then, of course, there are the other rumors,” Callie began delicately.
“Callie,” warned Eliza, “can we not speak of such horrible things? No proof of foul play was ever discovered.”
“It would be devastating for such a handsome man to have committed murder,” Callie nodded, artfully arranging an errant curl over her left shoulder.
Eliza wrinkled her nose. “That was not my point.”
The hairs on the back of Genevieve’s neck prickled at the word murder. Her unruly brain again flashed the image of the body in the alley.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she began. The rest left her mouth almost before the thought had even formed. “I need to speak with Mr. McCaffrey.” Her heart began to accelerate slightly. Was the light starting to shift?
“What?” Callie exclaimed, looking confused. “I thought you hadn’t met.”
“Genevieve, what is it?” Eliza, ever sensitive to anyone’s mood variations, grabbed her hand again.
“Work,” she said shortly. Which wasn’t entirely a lie.
CHAPTER 3
“Mr. McCaffrey, I believe you owe me some answers.”
Even though he’d been mentally preparing himself for this confrontation since he decided to stay at the ball, Daniel felt the muscles of his jaw tighten. God, he hated the press. And damn Billy’s loud mouth. If he hadn’t been expounding on Robin Hood so vocally, the reporter wouldn’t have overheard them and he wouldn’t be having to deal with a delicate situation in the middle of one of the most exclusive ballrooms in the city.
“Good evening, Miss … Palmer, isn’t it?” Daniel replied, knowing the silly pen name wasn’t really hers. She was obviously itching to pepper him with questions, not that he intended to give any satisfactory answers. “Would you like to tell me who you really are?”
“Not a trace of last night’s accent, I see,” the girl noted tartly. “And I told you who I was last night, which is more than I can say for you.”
So, she doesn’t want to make this easy, Daniel thought. Well, two can play at that game. “Young ladies who write for papers always use pen names. But if you don’t care to tell me, I can always ask our hostess for an introduction. Because really, Miss Palmer, a formal introduction would be more proper.” Daniel plucked a fresh glass of champagne from a passing tray as her eyes narrowed in annoyance.
“Proper?” she fairly hissed. “You were rolling around an alley in a perilous part of town, dressed and smelling like someone who hadn’t bathed in a year, and now you’re worried about being proper?”
“Of course,” he replied smoothly. “It’s all about context.”
“What’s about context?” Rupert had popped up next to Daniel’s right shoulder like a jack-in-the-box. “Oh, hello Genevieve. Surprised to see you here. Where’d you find that champagne, McCaffrey?”
“Why is it so shocking I’m at a party?” the girl bristled. Daniel suppressed a small smile; Rupert was often a useful distraction.
“You rarely come out. Ever since it went south with what’s-his-name. Always thought you were too good for him, you know. Sir!” Rupert attempted to flag down a footman several feet away, but the man’s tray was emptied long before he was able to fight his way toward them. “Hell’s bells,” Rupert muttered.
The reporter—Genevieve, Daniel corrected himself—stood with her mouth gaping, seeming too stunned to speak. Whatever breakup Rupert had been alluding to was clearly a sore spot. Daniel mentally filed the information.
“Language, Rupert,” came a mild reproach. Their hostess, Sarah Huffington, sleek as a seal in a steel-gray gown, sidled up on Daniel’s left. He passed a speculative eye back toward Genevieve, wondering how willing she might be to discuss publicly what had transpired between them in Five Points.
Her mouth was set tight with anger, though she seemed to be regaining her composure. As he watched, she squared her shoulders and raised her chin a notch, a stance he recognized from the night before, when she’d similarly squared off against Paddy and Billy. She fixed him with a meaningful look, accompanied by the slightest raise of a delicate left brow. Her combined stance all but shouted your move.
Daniel took a slow, deliberate sip of champagne and weighed his options. Would she allow her reporter’s instincts to outweigh social niceties and expose him?
No, he thought. If she had been invited to the Huffingtons’ ball, she was high society, and social decorum had been drilled into her since birth. She wouldn’t risk it.
He answered her raised brow with a gentle quirk of his own.
Go on, it said. I call your bluff.
Rupert’s gaze bounced between the two of them as if he were watching a tennis match. Never able to abide silence for too long, he broke the increasingly tense moment.
“My apologies. Are the two of you not acquainted? Daniel McCaffrey, may I introduce Miss Genevieve Stewart?”
Her challenging gaze didn’t alter as she leisurely extended a gloved hand for him to shake. He took it, unsurprised and satisfied by the firmness of her grip.
“Heavens, did I fail in my duties as hostess?” Sarah Huffington drawled, watching the exchange with avarice. “I rather thought we’d stumbled upon a lovers’ quarrel. Rupert and I do enjoy a good scene.”
“Well, if it’s a scene you want, you’re about to get one.” Rupert dropped his voice to a mock whisper. “Elmira Bradley is heading this way.”
“Oh, that odious woman,” Sarah sighed, twitching her red curls briefly as she made a moue of distaste. “You know I wouldn’t have them in the house, but Andrew insisted. He and Amos have made piles of money together, and are about to embark on some other new venture. I’m very fond of the money, but I find her most disagreeable.”
Daniel kept his features neutral, casually glancing toward Mrs. Bradley, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Genevieve almost imperceptibly stiffen another degree.
“Let’s take to the dance floor and avoid her, then.” Rupert smiled persuasively, holding out his arm. “I’ve most certainly had my fill of Elmira Bradley for the night.” Sarah treated him to a look of amused condescension but acquiesced, laying a delicate hand on his elbow.
“You lovebirds ought to follow suit,” she advised over her shoulder.
Sarah Huffington’s teasing didn’t bother Daniel; the well-known socialite, recently married to a shipping magnate thrice her age, was a malicious gossip who enjoyed stirring up trouble, then stepping back to observe the results. Miss Stewart seemed to be having a different reaction, though, as she let
out a small, frustrated huff.
Again Daniel found himself weighing his options. Mrs. Bradley had been waylaid by some acquaintances, and he and Genevieve were alone. Her light-brown eyes were assessing, and she appeared to be deciding whether there was enough privacy to speak. He could take his leave, but if she was as dogged as he suspected, she’d be hanging about his office doorstep soon enough, no doubt waving a notebook in his face and asking more of the kinds of questions that could get her killed.
Best to satisfy at least some of her curiosity now.
Depositing his glass on a small table nearby, he held out his elbow.
“Dance with me.”
She blinked at his offered arm as if he were presenting her with a poisonous viper, and for the barest of moments he thought she might refuse.
She nodded once, then tucked her gloved hand into his arm, and Daniel escorted her to the center of the room, where they joined a multitude of other couples swirling around the elegant dance floor.
They danced in silence for a few minutes. Daniel was surprised how well his dance partner fit into his arms, and inexplicably pleased to notice, as he had been last night in the alley, that she was nearly as tall as he was. His palm fit perfectly into the small of her back, and she matched his every step with an agile, natural ease. Daniel glanced at her face and found her looking distractedly beyond his shoulder. He risked a peek in that direction.
“Mrs. Bradley doesn’t seem to have many friends here,” he remarked, noting the subject of her gaze. “Are you among them?”
This snapped her attention back toward him, as he’d thought it might.
“No,” she answered emphatically. “She doesn’t like me, or my family, and the feeling is mutual.”
Understanding clicked. Stewart. “You’re Wilbur Stewart’s daughter, aren’t you?”
Genevieve looked surprised. “You remember the case?”
He was surprised in turn. “Of course. Mrs. Bradley on one side, willing to pay an ungodly sum to commission a hat with Koola bird feathers from the last of its species, and your father on the other, fighting tooth and nail to defend the birds.” He gave a low, delighted chuckle. It made sense now, that she was the daughter of someone like Wilbur Stewart. “It was a brilliant defense and set quite a legal precedent. Any lawyer worth his salt knows that case.”
