Deception by Gaslight

by Kate Belli

  She had given Ted her heart, freely and willingly, enjoying her status as an engaged young woman of means, enjoying the intricacies of planning a major society wedding. She was so caught up in the excitement of it all, thought she was so in love, happily would have given him her virtue before the wedding had the opportunity arisen, and it very nearly had.

  She remembered the moment all too well: Ted had had her clasped in an enthusiastic embrace in the darkened sitting room of her parents’ house after a late soiree. Her parents, oblivious to basic propriety as usual, had retired to bed, assuming their soon-to-be son-in-law was on his way home as well.

  Ted’s cool, smooth lips had pressed firmly against hers as he stroked her hair and back, occasionally breaking free to murmur “My darling” before reuniting their mouths. Genevieve had never felt so happy, so desired. Everything was so delightful until Ted lunged forward, pinning her down on the settee with his weight, and then began thrusting his tongue inside and around her mouth in vigorous strokes. Genevieve gave a little squeal of surprise, which quickly turned to one of dismay. It was like being licked by an overenthusiastic mastiff and left her feeling not desired but as though she was being overpowered. She was pushing on his chest, trying to wrest his heavy form off her body, when her brother Gavin walked in.

  Ted jumped up quickly and smoothed his hair while Genevieve sat up, dazed and trembling slightly as she tried to make sense of the riot of emotions coursing through her. Gavin’s gaze swept the room, quickly taking in the scene. “Beekman,” Gavin greeted her fiancé coolly.

  “Gavin, good to see you,” Ted blustered, moving forward to shake her brother’s hand. Gavin regarded it for a moment distastefully.

  “You have exactly thirty seconds to leave this house,” her brother responded, the menace in his voice very clear.

  Ted drew himself up taller and tried to look affronted. “Now see here, Gavin, you know we’re to be married next Saturday. Sometimes young couples get carried away.”

  If anything, Gavin’s voice grew icier. “You’re not married yet.”

  Giving Genevieve a quick peck on her flushed cheek, Ted quickly took his leave. Gavin then sat down and put his arm around her, giving his only sister a worried look.

  “Are you all right?”

  Genevieve wasn’t sure why she was still trembling. Her fiancé had kissed her. A bit more roughly than she had liked, but it was just a kiss.

  “Yes,” she finally responded.

  “You know, Muffy, you don’t have to marry him.” Muffy was the pet nickname her other brother, Charles, had given her when they were children, short for Little Miss Muffet. When she was four, Gavin had grown tired of his baby sister dogging their steps and had tried to scare her away from their games with an actual spider, held by one wriggling black leg and waved in her face. Genevieve had grabbed the spider in her own chubby fingers and deposited it into a glass jar that housed a toad she’d caught that morning in the park. She had intended for the toad and the spider to be friends, but the toad promptly ate its new tenant, much to the delight of her older brothers.

  “Guess she ain’t little Miss Muffet after all,” Charles said admiringly, and the nickname stuck. From then on, her brothers had treated her as one of the boys.

  Though unafraid of spiders, the adult Genevieve was shocked and, truthfully, a bit terrified at her brother’s suggestion. Of course she had to marry Ted! Invitations had been sent, orange blossoms purchased that couldn’t be unpurchased; bridesmaids’ dresses had been designed and created specifically for the event. Three hundred fifty individual tulle bags filled with sugared almonds and each tied with a tangerine-colored ribbon were piled in boxes in her father’s study, waiting to be distributed. If she didn’t marry Ted, what would become of all those sugared almonds?

  That was exactly one week before the wedding.

  Four days later, her mother’s highly publicized arrest and jailing during a march for women’s rights and birth control caused a furor throughout New York society and escalated into a ridiculous scandal. The day after that, Ted claimed he had no choice but to succumb to pressure from his parents and break off their engagement.

  Genevieve hadn’t quite been left at the altar, but it was close enough. Three days before the wedding was close enough. Her wedding dress was still pristine, never worn after the final fitting, already slightly out of fashion in its box high on a shelf in her wardrobe. The public humiliation had been immediate and swift. Society sided with Ted, its collective opinion being he had done the right thing to not align himself with a family whose matriarch was clearly a bit unhinged, despite the old Stewart name. Even so, Genevieve had always wondered if the incident in the sitting room had been a factor.

  Jilted at twenty years old, Genevieve hadn’t known what to do with herself. Given that she’d always enjoyed reading and knew women were writing for papers, she’d told her parents she wanted to give it a try. They’d helped her find a position with the Globe and she had thrown herself into her chosen work, attempting to claw her way toward some kind of meaningful career.

  It was all she had.

  Well, that wasn’t quite true. She had her family, whom she loved despite their oddities, and she had her friends. She avoided parties, avoided Ted, and time had mostly healed her heart.

  Without risk, there is no reward, her father liked to tell his children. And look at what the Stewart children had done with that advice: Her oldest brother Gavin, jaunting off to the desert without a backward glance. Her brother Charles, designing beautiful buildings that were changing the face of the city.

  She hugged her notebook tighter.

  What was she willing to risk to unmask Robin Hood and break the story of the century?

  Everything.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Reginald Cotswold is dead.”

  Genevieve sat down hard on the edge of a wooden chair facing her editor’s desk. The seat was mostly crammed with papers, but her knees had buckled unexpectedly at the news. Mr. Horace regarded her with alarm.

  “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.” He peered at her worriedly. “Shall I send Alice for some water?”

  Her hand floated to her mouth, and she was surprised to find it trembling. “Murdered?” she managed.

  Mr. Horace let out a bark of surprised laughter. “Heavens, no. Died peacefully in his sleep. He was ninety-one, after all. A good long life.”

  “But—wasn’t he on that mayoral committee? The one on housing reform?”

  Her editor’s gaze turned sharp. “I told you to forget about that committee, Genevieve.” He shook his head. “You weren’t supposed to see that list; nobody was, until it was announced.”

  “Hasn’t it been announced?”

  “No, and I’m not sure it will be. The deputy mayor seems to want to keep it quiet, for reasons known only to him. Are you quite all right?” He glanced at his closed office door. “Let me get Alice.” Mr. Horace clearly did not want to deal with whatever female vapors he assumed Genevieve was enduring.

  She took a deep breath and firmed her voice. “No need. The news simply came as a bit of a shock. Mr. Cotswold was a great friend of my father’s.”

  “Ninety-one, Genevieve,” he remarked mildly. “His death can’t be all that surprising.”

  “No,” she agreed, though in truth it was surprising. Reginald Cotswold was one of those renowned pillars of Knickerbocker society, well known for his charitable deeds and for being continually appointed to various committees. One simply assumed he was a permanent fixture, and he had been in remarkably good health, including the last time she’d seen him.

  Which, she recalled with a start, had been at the Huffingtons’ ball.

  “I’d like you to write a remembrance of him,” Arthur said. “About his philanthropy, his habits, that kind of thing. He’s rather a symbol of a certain type of citizen of this city that is rapidly disappearing, for better or worse.”

  Understanding grew: Arthur was referring to her kind of people, to
the hushed, dignified, old-money set of New York, who until a decade or so ago had ruled the city with a collective iron fist. But vast, shiny piles of new money were being accumulated on a daily basis by newcomers, and power was starting to shift and erode older social barriers.

  She herself felt no particular qualms about this shift; it was simply the way of the world. The new elbowed out the old, and whether the old were destroyed in the process or simply bruised about the edges mattered not. The old could make room or be plowed over as if by a racing streetcar.

  “He hasn’t any family left,” Arthur continued, “but his housekeeper’s been with him forever and said she’d be happy to speak to someone. Alice will locate the address if you need it. I don’t know where I’ve placed it.” He patted several nearby piles of paper, causing one to wobble precariously.

  “It’s fine. I know where he lives,” Genevieve hastened to assure him, eyeing the stacks. “Or lived, I should say.”

  She stood to go, relieved that even though her mind was still unsettled, her legs seemed to have recovered.

  “Wait, Genevieve. I need you to cover another story as well.” Arthur pulled a sheet from the stack, almost toppling a teacup that had been balanced on the top. “Barnum Brothers Best Baby Contest. Yes, that’s the one. I forgot to give it to you this morning.”

  She stared at the address. A best baby contest? “Mr. Horace,” she began wearily, “I don’t know anything about babies.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do fine, Genevieve,” Arthur said as he began rereading his editorial. “Noon tomorrow. On the nose. Barnum first, then Cotswold.” He turned his attention fully to the piece on his desk, scratching out a word and replacing it, shaking his head.

  Conflicting feelings battled within Genevieve as she shrugged into the tailored dark-blue jacket that matched her skirt. For the past week, logic had been telling her to approach Mr. Horace with her information about Daniel being from Five Points. The mere fact that he’d revealed his origins was huge news, answering a years-old question.

  But the possibility of a bigger story kept holding her back. Daniel’s cryptic advice about the mayoral committee had been unsettling, but now in light of Reginald Cotswold’s death, it felt almost sinister. She tried to tell herself that surely her father’s friend had died of natural causes associated with old age but couldn’t shake the deeply disquieting notion that someway, somehow, his death was connected to larger events.

  Hopefully her visit with the housekeeper would reveal more.

  And there was still the unsettled matter of Robin Hood. It had been almost two weeks since his theft after the Huffingtons’ ball.

  As she placed a freshly sharpened pencil into her satchel, her mind groped to recall exactly when she’d seen Reginald at the ball. On the few occasions she attended parties, Genevieve often danced with him, as he was amusingly quick-witted and surprisingly spry for his age. But she hadn’t that night. She paused, thinking. No, the only memory she had of him was seeing him deep in conversation with Ernest Clark in a dim corner of the ballroom. She’d meant to seek him out to say hello, but of course the whole evening had been upended by the appearance of Mr. Pineapple Waistcoat himself, Daniel McCaffrey.

  “Off so soon?” came a low, nasally voice from behind her, interrupting her train of thought. Genevieve clenched her jaw in annoyance. Clive.

  “Yes,” she replied curtly, not bothering to turn around as she put her notebook into her satchel. “I’m leaving this second.” She hoped to dart out of the office without having to reveal where she was going.

  It didn’t work. In a moment Clive was in front of her, perched on the edge of her desk.

  “And just where is old Hoary sending you?” Clive smirked an oily grin, making Genevieve grimace. His diamond stickpin flashed in the early-afternoon sun.

  “That is between me and Mr. Horace.” Genevieve tried to scoot around her desk toward the door.

  That didn’t work either. Clive grabbed her hand as she tried to get past him, pulling her back toward the desk. “Really, Mr. Huxton!” Genevieve snapped, snatching her hand out of his grasp.

  Clive let her go, looking unfazed. “Fine, Miss Stewart. Run away on your little mystery errand. You know I’ll only read about it in tomorrow’s edition with the rest of the city.”

  Genevieve’s annoyance grew, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “As a matter of fact, I’m covering P. T. Barnum’s Best Baby Contest,” she informed Clive with as much dignity as she could muster. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him about the piece on Mr. Cotswold too, but something made her hold back.

  Let him read it in the paper when it’s published.

  To his credit, Clive didn’t laugh, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “Good old P. T. Barnum. Well, he’s colorful enough, and you’re talented enough that you could probably wring a good story out of this.”

  Genevieve regarded Clive with surprise. Had he actually paid her a compliment? “What do you want, Clive?” she asked.

  Clive smiled and looked down at the desktop. He fiddled with the pencil Genevieve had been chewing earlier. “Perhaps when you’re finished with the babies, you’d join me at Delmonico’s and tell me all about it.”

  Genevieve gaped. The mention of Delmonico’s sent her thoughts instantly to Daniel McCaffrey. “Really, Mr. Huxton,” she stammered in confusion, “I was under the distinct impression you disliked me.”

  Clive smiled and looked down at the desk again. Clive looking shy? Genevieve was flabbergasted.

  “Come on, Genevieve,” he said. “You know I only give you such a hard time because you’re the only other reporter on staff with an ounce of skill.”

  Genevieve knew no such thing. In fact, Clive was fond of loudly stating, in her presence, that while it was perfectly acceptable for an unmarried young woman from the working class, such as Alice, to have employment, particularly secretarial or factory employment, any woman over the age of twenty-two was simply stealing a man’s job.

  As Genevieve was twenty-six, she took this rather personally.

  And yet she hesitated. Could it be that Clive was threatened by her, causing his abominable behavior? Had he been harboring tender feelings for her this whole time? It seemed utterly implausible, yet he—oh dear—was actually trying to gaze into her eyes.

  He wasn’t so bad looking, Genevieve thought while trying to avoid gazing back. There was a reason Alice and the chambermaids giggled in his presence. He had thick dark-blond hair shot through with golden highlights, which might have been nice if he hadn’t slicked it so prodigiously with hair oil. He had attractive light-blue eyes. Sneaking a peek at him while avoiding his searching gaze, however, Genevieve admitted to herself that there was something in his manner she didn’t care for. His manicured hands. His ridiculous diamond stickpin. Why did he need to decorate himself? What was he trying to prove? A man like Daniel McCaffrey would never wear such a loud diamond, Genevieve thought, and he was one of the richest men in New York.

  “Genevieve?” Clive interrupted her rambling train of thought. “Five o’clock, then?”

  “Mr. Huxton … Clive … I’m sorry, but I can’t have dinner with you.”

  “You already have plans, I take it? Perhaps later this week?”

  This was going to be harder than she’d thought. “No, it’s not that,” she began. “I just don’t think it is a good idea for us to get any closer than we are. You know, working together and all.”

  Clive’s soft-eyed expression of encouragement began to shift into a sulky pout. “You don’t think I’m good enough for you, do you?” he asked. “I know I’m not society, but I didn’t think you Stewarts cared about that.”

  “Now, that’s not it at all,” Genevieve protested.

  “Well, what then?” Clive stood up and looked down at her. “I’ve been to university too, you know,” he sneered. “I know I’m just from the outskirts of Albany, but the gossips all say your laughingstock of a family doesn’t care if you marry wealth.”


  Genevieve gasped at the insult to her family. “Marriage? Mr. Huxton, we were just speaking of a meal. And it has nothing to do with Albany.”

  “Oh, I know what you think,” Clive interrupted her. “You’ve made yourself perfectly clear, Miss Stewart.” He curled his lip and fixed her with one last, scornful look, then strode across the office back to his desk, where he began to angrily shuffle papers. Genevieve stared after him, baffled.

  She shook her head and pulled on her yellow kid gloves. Clive had always been slightly unpredictable, but she had a bad feeling that her refusal did not bode well for any future interaction. Well, there was one positive aspect of the whole encounter, she thought to herself as she left the office the long way to avoid Clive’s desk. After this, dealing with best babies was bound to be a snap.

  * * *

  “Watch where the hell you’re going, mister!” The shrill shriek of the unknown woman’s voice carried loudly over the din of traffic on Broadway as she bent to pick up her spilled packages. A few passersby turned to stare briefly, ascertained that nothing more exciting than the jostling of two fellow pedestrians had occurred, and kept moving.

  Mortified, Daniel stooped to help her. “I’m so sorry, madam; allow me to assist you.” He had been so busy staring at Genevieve’s quickly moving form that he’d completely ignored his surroundings, a potentially life-threatening act on a street as busy as Broadway. While he’d managed not to walk into oncoming traffic, he had crashed into the poor woman in front of him, sending her many bundles flying.

  Daniel quickly snatched a parcel wrapped in brown paper—bread from the feel of it—before it was squashed under a booted foot, then scurried after a hatbox that had rolled dangerously close to the edge of the sidewalk. Straightening up and cursing under his breath, he hurried back to the red-faced woman, who was waiting for him impatiently.