by Kate Belli
A fleeting smile passed over her lips. “Yes, that’s the one. My father didn’t believe the last surviving pair of that species should be slaughtered to adorn a stupid hat, no matter how much Mrs. Bradley was willing to spend. He’s quite a naturalist.”
“They’re beautiful birds, and I quite agree with your father. It’s a shame they’ve been hunted almost to extinction.”
“Most people thought my father was mad,” she noted with a rueful look. “Nobody could understand why he was making such a fuss over two small birds in a faraway jungle.”
Daniel smiled. “I did.”
A slight shift came over her features, unnoticeable unless one was watching closely.
“And does that care apply only to exotic birds, Mr. McCaffrey?” she asked with more than a touch of asperity. “Or does it extend to the local citizenry as well?”
Ah. It begins. “More than you could ever know.”
“I see.”
“You don’t, actually.”
“Enlighten me, then.”
“I don’t believe I owe you any explanations, Miss Stewart.”
“And that’s where you’re incorrect, Mr. McCaffrey.” Her voice dropped low, and he had to incline his head slightly to hear her. “Don’t forget I saw you with a dead man.”
“You were also sharing space with the deceased,” Daniel reminded her.
A look of alarm crossed Genevieve’s features. “That is not the same thing.”
“No? You were only a few steps behind us on Mulberry Street. Do you really think we killed a man in the time it took you to catch up?”
She said nothing to this, but held his gaze speculatively as they continued to glide across the floor.
“The presence of that body was just as much a surprise to me as it was to you,” he continued, dropping his voice slightly as well.
A few more beats of music passed.
“Who was he?” she asked softly.
He shook his head at her but did so gently. “Nobody of consequence.”
The play of anger across her face was fascinating. “Surely his family would disagree with that sentiment. Or the police.”
“He had no family, and the police were notified. His demise was ultimately the result of his sustained overconsumption of gin, Miss Stewart. Bottle Alley comes by its name honestly.”
“His head had been struck.” It came out in a furious whisper.
They swept past Rupert and Sarah, the former of whom raised an inquiring brow at Daniel over his hostess’s shoulder. Daniel ignored him.
“And yet the police determined the cause of death was liver failure from alcohol.”
“How are you in possession of this knowledge?”
“Who do you think alerted the authorities?”
Her brows nearly shot off her forehead. “And what did the police make of a millionaire’s presence in Bottle Alley?” she asked archly.
He smiled slightly at her intuitiveness. “I did not say I remained in the alley. My associates did, and they informed me of the results.”
He waited while she digested this. “Why is it called Bottle Alley when it doesn’t lead anywhere?” she finally asked in a rather peevish tone. They were sweeping past the refreshment table again, where he observed her friends watching them with wide eyes. Hell, half the ballroom seemed to be staring.
“It used to be an alley that cut from Mulberry to Mott, but a tenement was erected within part of the space.”
“That can’t be true.”
“Why not?”
“An alley does not offer enough space for a building. There wouldn’t be enough light, or air,” she trailed off, then set her mouth in a frustrated line. “You must think me terribly naïve.”
He shook his head. “You’ll forgive me for making assumptions, but my guess is your life has offered little opportunity to think of such things. Ignorance is not the same as naïvety. I advise you to stay away from the topic of Robin Hood, Miss Stewart, but you may wish to learn more about the conditions that led to his necessity.”
Her gaze turned sharp. “Is that a threat?”
“No. It is simple advice not to waste your time. As I said when we last met, nobody will find Robin Hood unless he wants to be found.”
Under the hand that rested on her back, Daniel felt rather than heard her sharp intake of breath.
“What do you know?” It was a fierce whisper, barely audible above the music and the din of voices floating up from the periphery of the dance floor.
Daniel shook his head at her again, just once. “Only that, whoever he is, Robin Hood has eluded capture by the police thus far, whose methods are far more brutal than those of journalists. You won’t find him.”
A few more beats passed as they continued to circle the floor. The music, a waltz, was winding its way toward its finish.
“So you were on a slumming tour,” she stated matter-of-factly, before casting a look of disgust his way. “How dare you make me believe I was in actual danger!”
Anger, hot and fierce, slammed into him. “What?” For decades, it had been possible for the wealthy to take “slumming tours” of the city’s poverty-stricken neighborhoods, paying to observe the less fortunate as if they were animals in Central Park’s zoo.
“Did you have all the details worked out beforehand? Were those men paid extra for pretending to accost me so that you could play the hero?”
Daniel had to take a deep breath to calm the rage coursing through his body. There was no way she could know how offensive this accusation was to him. “Believe me, Miss Stewart, you were in just as much danger as you thought. Paddy and Billy are not men to be trifled with.” His jaw was clenched so tight he could barely get the words out.
“That’s the only possible explanation,” she shot back. “How else would a man like you know men like Paddy and Billy? If those are even their real names.” She looked at him accusingly. “Though how anyone could take part in such unfeeling and barbaric activities is beyond me, acting as though human beings were specimens under a jar.”
“Which is why I would never do such a thing,” he ground out.
“Then what were you doing there?”
Damn, damn, damn. So much for appeasing her curiosity, though he grudgingly admitted to himself it was likely an impossible task. Thankfully, the music was reaching its final crescendo, and Daniel swirled his dance partner through the last steps of their waltz.
They paused at the end of the dance, staring each other down in the middle of the ballroom floor, panting as if they’d run a race. Other couples ebbed and flowed around them, chatting easily. He caught her eyes with his and fixed her with an unwavering stare.
“I was not on a slumming tour,” he breathed, surprised by the low ferocity of his own voice. “That is all I can tell you, Miss Stewart.”
She stared at him intently, indecision clearly written on her face. For reasons he wasn’t prepared to explore, Daniel needed her to know this. He could abide many, many misconceptions she might have about him, but not that he would pay to gawk at the impoverished.
“I. Was. Not.” He waited, breath almost held, as the ballroom floor began to refill with a new set of dancers, many glancing at them quizzically.
Genevieve nodded almost imperceptibly, acknowledging his claim, and he felt his shoulders soften.
It was past time to leave. He escorted Genevieve to the periphery of the dance floor, murmured a polite good-night, and turned to go.
“Wait,” she whispered urgently.
He faced her, rearranging his features into a look of bland politeness. Her mouth twisted slightly, and he could tell questions were tangling up inside her, fighting to get out.
“Who are you, really?”
What she finally asked was so unexpected, and so refreshingly honest, that a burst of laughter escaped before he could stop it.
At the sound of his laugh, she folded her hands in front of her and glanced away, seeming embarrassed.
“I know you won
’t answer,” she muttered.
“Honestly, Miss Stewart, I’m not even sure I know how to answer,” Daniel replied, growing serious. “I do thank you for asking it, however. From the day Jacob Van Joost made me his heir at the age of seventeen, I know it’s foremost on every person’s mind when they meet me. You are the first person to ever simply ask me outright. Again, I thank you.”
“I doubt you’ll be thanking me for long, Mr. McCaffrey.” She extended her hand for a final shake.
“I would expect nothing less,” he politely, but honestly, replied.
Despite his often nomadic ways, there were a few constants in his life he’d learned he could count on: the unquestioning loyalty of choice friends such as Rupert; the unwavering undercurrent of guilt he carried over his inherited wealth; and the relief he felt every time he disembarked at New York harbor, when the miasma of sea air and garbage combined with the bustle of commerce and the tangle of multiple languages being spoken on the docks all hit him squarely in the chest with a singular, blessed sensation: I’m home.
He had the sinking feeling now that, whether welcome or not, Miss Stewart was about to become another constant.
CHAPTER 4
Genevieve stood before her editor’s desk, fuming. Arthur Horace looked back at her in exasperation. She could tell he was thinking what he often said aloud: Genevieve Stewart would be the death of him.
“Look, Genevieve,” said Arthur, mopping his brow with a handkerchief, “I’ve already sent Clive to cover the latest Robin Hood burglary. He’s at the Huffingtons’ now. And I can’t send two reporters; the police are reluctant enough to allow one on the scene.”
“But Mr. Horace, why didn’t you send me?” Genevieve began to pace the chief editor’s small office in frustration. “I was at the ball on Saturday and Clive was not. I can provide all kinds of insight into Sarah Huffington’s state of mind, the quality of the diamonds that were taken, and a detailed account of the refreshment table. Why on earth won’t you give me this story?” She stopped pacing and glared at him, her hands on her hips.
Arthur sighed and wearily regarded his sole female reporter. “As I said, I’ve already given the story to Clive. I can’t reassign it now.” He cut off her protest with a raise of his hand. “I won’t reassign it now. Clive is more suited to dealing with these types of situations, talking to the police and all that. I’m sorry, but the authorities simply won’t give the same details to a woman.” He frowned at Genevieve a final time, then hid his shiny, bespectacled face behind an open morning edition of the Globe, signaling the end to their conversation.
Genevieve nearly screamed. It was so, so unfair. She had been at that party, she should be the one writing about the crime that had occurred in the hostess’s mansion. Instead, Clive was there right now, doubtless oozing false charm all over the housemaids. It was particularly humiliating that, of all the other journalists on staff, her rival had been assigned this story. Clive had made it perfectly clear on more than one occasion that he didn’t think it was appropriate for women to work in newspapers. This would have been a perfect opportunity for Genevieve to finally best him, as she had actually attended the dratted ball and had a level of firsthand knowledge of the story—or the setting, at least—that Clive could not match.
Arthur’s voice drifted out from behind his paper. “I would never have guessed you were at the Huffington ball, Genevieve. Everyone knows you never go to parties.”
“I do go to parties, sometimes,” Genevieve muttered in response, half listening.
Arthur rustled the paper and peered around at her. Genevieve briefly considered telling Mr. Horace about her encounters with Daniel McCaffrey, but dismissed the idea almost immediately. Her editor would be thrilled to have such a piece of juicy information about the reclusive millionaire, but Genevieve knew he’d simply assume the high-and-mighty Mr. McCaffrey had been caught on a slumming tour, and that would be the end of it. A minor scandal would flare and be forgotten almost immediately.
Despite her better judgment, she didn’t believe Daniel had been slumming. Which was wildly inconvenient, as a slumming tour would have wrapped up the whole affair in a neat little bow. But Daniel was too familiar with that alley and its denizens for his presence to have been part of a tour; there was something deeper going on, and she wanted to get to the bottom of it.
Something that might have to do with a body whose head had clearly been bashed in, liver failure or no.
Arthur frowned at her and rattled his paper again, apparently mistaking her continued presence in his office for an attempt to sway him into letting her join Clive at the Huffingtons’. “I’m not changing my mind about this, Genevieve,” he began warningly.
“Can I at least see the letter the Hood sent here?” she asked. Robin Hood had committed three burglaries so far, and after each he’d sent a letter to the Globe, claiming responsibility for the attack and professing why he’d chosen his victims. In a society that celebrated wealth but turned a blind eye to how it was obtained, Robin Hood’s letters offered detailed accounts of his prey’s abundant greed and avarice. At first, the police had been averse to having the Hood’s letters printed in the Globe, but careful persuasion from Arthur had convinced them that public knowledge of the crimes might be helpful in catching the thief. So far all it had done was stir up gossip—and help sell newspapers.
“Clive has the letter with him.” Arthur sounded surprised. “You know that.”
Genevieve gritted her teeth in frustration. “Right, of course.”
Arthur raised a furry eyebrow in her direction. “Never mind about the Robin Hood burglary. I want that piece on the flower show on my desk by noon.”
“Yes, noon,” Genevieve grumbled, as Arthur buried himself behind his paper again. She turned to go, but a list of names in an unfamiliar hand on the edge of Arthur’s desk caught her eye. They were names she knew: her former fiancé, Ted Beekman; the host from Saturday’s ball, Andrew Huffington; her father’s friend Reginald Cotswold; and a few other familiar high-society New Yorkers.
“Mr. Horace, what’s this?” She picked up the list by its corner. “‘Mayoral Committee to Investigate Housing Reform’?” She gave her editor a puzzled look.
Arthur sighed, putting the paper down. “You saw the police commissioner leave earlier?”
Genevieve nodded and glanced toward the door, where she had indeed seen the smartly cut figure of Commissioner Simons making his exit as she entered for the day.
“He wanted me to know that, on his advice, the mayor is putting together a committee to explore the need for tenement reform. But he asked me as a favor to hold off on reporting it. They’re afraid it will seem as though they’re giving credence to this thief’s letters, and they don’t want to embolden the man.”
Genevieve furrowed her brow. “But it’s a simple fact that housing conditions for the impoverished are terrible. The mayor really needs a committee to explore the notion?” She thought of the run-down building jammed into the narrow confines of Bottle Alley. Criminals lurked in such alleys. And dead men. But children likely lived there as well.
“It’s not the fact of bad conditions, Genevieve. It’s the how of fixing them. Tear them all down and start anew? Renovate what exists? Who pays?” He took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes wearily before waving her toward the door. “Never mind about this committee, and keep it to yourself. I promised the commissioner. You concentrate on the flower show.”
Genevieve mulled over this secret mayoral committee as she made her way back to her desk. She pulled out her notes on the flower show but, glancing at the clock, decided she had enough time to spend a few minutes checking the paper’s files on a different topic. Surely someone, somewhere, had been able to uncover something about Mr. McCaffrey over the years.
A half hour later, a disheartened Genevieve stared at her notes. It was as if Daniel McCaffrey had simply sprung out of Zeus’s head at the age of seventeen, when he was publicly introduced as Jacob Van Joost’s heir
. There had been, of course, a flood of articles following the announcement, all rife with speculation as to his origins and his relationship with the venerated old Knickerbocker, many of them salacious in one way or another. And as Callie had darkly hinted at the ball, some subtly suggested foul play. Despite the best efforts of the journalists at the time, nobody had been able to uncover a thing.
She returned to her desk and pulled out her leather-bound notebook, examining the notes she’d made the morning after her encounter in Bottle Alley. Amending them, she began to write down everything she had discovered about Daniel McCaffrey: his elusive past, his frequent long stays abroad, his work as an attorney.
“What’s the word, Genevieve? How’s Monday treating you?” Luther Franklin perched on the edge of her desk, grinning amiably at her. Genevieve hurriedly closed her notebook and shoved it aside.
“Luther! Just the person I wanted to see.” She leaned back in her chair and smiled broadly.
“Yeah? Little old me?” A slight blush crept up Luther’s cheeks. Genevieve knew her fellow reporter was a trifle sweet on her, though she clearly didn’t return the sentiment. She did like him, though. He was a nice man, and fair; the antithesis of Clive.
And she had been waiting for him to come in—Luther covered homicide for the paper. He appeared too young for the job, with a round, open face, giving him an almost boyish appearance, but he was one of the best journalists they had.
Genevieve leaned forward conspiratorially. “Any dead bodies of interest over the weekend?” She picked up her pencil and began to tap it against her desk idly. “In Five Points, say?”
Luther’s genial brow furrowed. “Five Points, huh? Genevieve, people are always dying around there, you know that.”
