by Kate Belli
He piled the packages into her already-laden arms. “Are these all of them?” he asked politely. The woman responded by nastily telling him, in no uncertain terms, exactly where he could go. Daniel raised his brows at her retreating form, impressed; he hadn’t heard cursing like that in years.
Turning southward again, he scanned the busy street for a sign of Genevieve’s trim figure in her blue suit, but the pedestrian traffic had swallowed her up. He was near Park Row, though, where the city’s newspaper buildings were housed. It was a bit after noon; perhaps she’d been returning to the office from lunch.
Daniel shoved his hands in his pockets and began walking again toward Gramercy Park. He’d been returning from a meeting with a client, and the crisp February day was so fine he’d sent his own carriage back to the office without him, preferring to walk. Ever since he’d been a child he’d enjoyed losing himself in the kaleidoscope of city life: to flow along with the bustle of the streets, to eavesdrop on bits of passing conversation, to casually glance in the shop windows, and to see what new wares were on display. He loved the energy and humanity of navigating the streets of New York; it made him feel invigorated and truly alive. And today, whose profile should emerge for a brief moment from the interchangeable flux of faces but that of the very person he’d been pondering as he walked: Miss Genevieve Stewart. Sidestepping a chattering trio of factory girls on a smoke break, his restless mind roamed over the issue of Genevieve.
He was clearly, oddly irrational where this problematic woman was concerned. He’d had no business inviting her to dinner, no business telling her anything about his past. And yet he found himself wanting to open up, to tell her everything: what had happened to his sister, to his other siblings, how he had become Jacob’s heir.
What harm would it do if you told her the truth? His mind whispered persuasively. Maggie is dead, Jacob is dead. After all these years, what does it matter?
“Because I made a promise,” he whispered back to himself, too low to startle his fellow pedestrians. And he kept his promises. He would protect those he loved, even after their deaths.
Besides, he hadn’t returned to New York to socialize with a lady reporter, no matter how compelling he found her. He was there for one purpose, to finally use Jacob’s money for some good. To help people in the neighborhood in which he’d been raised. Even if some of his methods were unorthodox.
Shaking his head free of the vexing Miss Stewart, Daniel turned his mind to the equally thorny problem of tenement reform. It was proving more difficult to enact changes than he’d anticipated, as corrupt landlords, police officers, and politicians all profited from the terrible living conditions of the less fortunate. He had upcoming meetings scheduled with the chief of police and several prominent members of City Hall, but so far he was meeting more resistance than expected.
And now there was this mayoral committee to contend with. Even though it was not meant to be public knowledge, it was a poorly kept secret. He’d heard about it from two other sources in the days following his dinner with Genevieve at Delmonico’s.
Well. Hopefully he’d thrown Genevieve off the scent of Robin Hood, for a little while at least.
He breathed deeply and considered the upcoming evening. One of the great benefits of wealth was a good cook, and he wondered what his cook Mrs. Rafferty was making for dinner. Perhaps there was still some of that delicious roast lamb from Sunday; she could surely work marvels with that. Maybe a stew. Nothing went to waste in his house. He supposed that later, when he’d finished with work and was settled in his favorite chair with a book, he could have a whiskey. He had that wonderful single-malt that had just come in from Scotland. Another benefit—
Daniel grunted, his reverie interrupted by the impact of his shoulder on something solid. Dammit. Have I knocked over another woman on the street?
“I beg your pardon,” he began, but stopped midsentence from pure surprise.
“Danny.” Tommy Meade smiled his narrow smile, black eyes glittering.
Daniel returned the greeting mildly, though all his senses immediately snapped to attention. Tommy Meade never sought one out without a reason. And he never traveled alone.
“Fancy running into you here,” Tommy commented, continuing to smile.
Yes, a remarkable coincidence.
“What can I do for you, Tommy?”
Tommy affected a look of deep hurt. “What, a guy can’t run into another guy from the old neighborhood on Broadway?” The man took a half step closer, placing his whip-thin body only inches from Daniel’s broader form. Daniel hadn’t fought him for many years, but he was sure Tommy’s slight frame encased the same rock-hard, wiry muscles it had when they were young. Besides, there were always Tommy’s henchmen to consider. Daniel flicked his gaze to the right and spotted at least one, sallow faced and slouching in a doorway, pretending to read a paper but avidly watching the whole exchange through half-lidded eyes.
“You used to be friendlier, Danny,” Tommy said sadly, shaking his head.
Daniel held the other man’s gaze levelly. After a few moments of silence, Tommy laughed.
“Yeah, I guess that’s right. Not really friends, were we? You insisted on running with those Bayard Toughs.”
There was no point in answering. The Oyster Knifers, Tommy’s gang, were the Bayard Toughs’ rivals. Gang membership was serious, lifelong business where they were from.
“Look, Danny,” Tommy began. “You know I’ve been on the city council for some time now. I’ve been a little disappointed that you haven’t come to any of my rallies or meetings since you’ve been in town. I’ve sent messages.”
“And as I responded to the first message, I have little interest in politics,” Daniel replied curtly. He tried to sidestep Tommy, who neatly blocked his movement with a matching one. Out of the corner of his eye, Daniel saw the henchman straighten. Tommy didn’t even look in the bodyguard’s direction, but at the slightest shake of his head the thug settled back into his doorway.
“Just hear me out, Danny. For old time’s sake. You say you have no interest in politics, but that’s not what I hear.” Tommy smiled his thin smile. “In fact, I hear you’ve been hanging round the Bend some nights, offering legal advice.”
“Helping the less fortunate with their legal troubles is not necessarily political,” Daniel replied.
“It is in this town, particularly when we’re talking housing or labor conditions.”
Daniel felt his insides clench with rage. He wondered briefly how many unscrupulous landlords, policemen, and city inspectors were in Tommy’s pocket.
“Between you and that pesky Robin Hood,” Tommy continued, pausing to send a meaningful look his way, “a lot of folks seem to be getting restless. People don’t like having their own misfortune pointed out to them.”
“People don’t like realizing they’ve been the dupes of a corrupt system,” Daniel corrected.
“We’ve been trying to clean up that area for a good spell now, you know. While you were off dallying with the crowned heads of Europe. Poor old Gerry, did you hear? Seems he got the wrong idea about our efforts.” Tommy rocked back on his heels and fixed Danny with a hard look.
So that was how Gerry Knox had wound up with his head caved in under a pile of garbage in Bottle Alley. And how the police report would reflect a different story.
It had been so long, yet his body automatically began to prepare for what was starting to seem like an inevitable fight. His knees bent slightly in readiness to duck or feint, and the muscles in his shoulders and arms tensed.
Ever observant, Tommy took note of the subtle shifts in Daniel’s form and held his hands up. “I didn’t come here to argue with you, Danny,” he said. “I came to ask personally for your support.”
“For what?” Daniel ground out, refusing to relax.
“Why, for my candidacy! I’m running for mayor.” Tommy’s smile widened. “It would be such a boon to my campaign to have the support of someone as respectable as yourse
lf, not tainted with the slightest hint of scandal.”
Daniel stared at the man, incredulous. Tommy Meade, terror of the East Side, as mayor of New York?
“Don’t look so stunned, Danny boy,” Tommy sneered. “You always were so high-and-mighty. Must have been your sister’s influence. Ah, but she was a beauty. Went to work for old man Van Joost, didn’t she?” Tommy grinned wolfishly, and Daniel knew the other man had just played his trump card.
Tommy gave a slight nod, as if observing that Daniel had indeed gotten his message. He took a step back and stared at Daniel coldly. “You know I could win this, Danny. I’m exactly the pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps kind of man they want, a survivor of the Draft Riots, the bad boy from the tenements made good. And besides,” Tommy continued, spreading his hands wide and assuming the role of the benevolent politician, “I am for the people. I’m for reform.”
Daniel felt cold rage envelop him. “You’re interested in profiting off the people, not in making their way easier.”
“Why, Danny,” replied Tommy, smooth as a snake, “whoever said the two were mutually exclusive? Think about it.”
With a quick wink, he turned and melted into the crowded street, his henchman disappearing along with him. Daniel stood alone for a few moments longer, forcing himself to breathe deeply until he felt he could move without punching an innocent passerby. Then, muttering a curse that caused a few startled stares, he too lost himself in the throngs of pedestrians.
CHAPTER 7
After her confusing encounter with Clive and an alarming afternoon navigating an exhibition hall full of crying babies (what made any of them “best,” anyway? They all looked rather the same to her), a brisk walk in the crisp winter air did much to lift Genevieve’s spirits. She had brooded during the entire carriage ride back to her home, where she had gone to change into something more suitable for visiting the house of the recently deceased, and once there decided to make her way north on Fifth Avenue to Mr. Cotswold’s mansion by foot, despite the chilly temperatures.
It had been the right decision. With each passing block, her black mood improved, and by the time she arrived at the front steps of the Cotswold townhouse, her shoulders, which had been bunched up tight near her ears, were relaxed and her arms were loosely swinging by her sides. She felt so jaunty, in fact, that she had to forcibly slow herself down as she climbed the stone steps and remind her body that the home was in mourning.
Genevieve paused halfway up the steps, gazing at the dark-brown facade of the house with appreciation. It was a deceivingly simple exterior, its clean lines belying the lavishness of the interior. Reginald and his now-departed wife had built the house in the late 1860s, when wealthy families were beginning the march of mansions up Fifth Avenue, each more elaborate than the last. While many of the houses built then had already been torn down as society moved further north toward Central Park, the Cotswolds had stayed on. Genevieve had spent many happy hours here as a child, playing hide-and-seek in the vast house with her brothers. The Cotswolds, having no children of their own, had been surprisingly indulgent of the Stewart children’s antics.
A pang went through her at the memory. Sally Cotswold had died over a decade prior, predeceasing her husband, and as far as Genevieve knew, the pair had no other family. She wondered what would become of the lovely house. Knowing Reginald, he likely had arranged for the proceeds from its sale to benefit any number of charities. Smiling sadly to herself, Genevieve made an internal vow to do her best to preserve his memory with her written remembrance.
The heavy front door creaked open, startling her out of her memories. Three police officers made their way out of the house and down the steps, the last one pausing as he passed her, his gaze briefly but appreciatively traveling down her figure. Genevieve felt her shoulders immediately begin to tense again.
He tipped his hat. “You have business at the house, miss?”
“Yes,” she responded icily, tipping her chin up. “I’m a family friend, expected by Mrs. Dolan.” What she said wasn’t technically a lie, even though it wasn’t the full truth—Arthur had cabled a message over that she would be arriving this afternoon. There was no reason for the police to know she was also a journalist.
But why were the police here at all? Reginald’s death had been natural.
Or so she’d been told.
“Is aught amiss?” She dropped her haughty demeanor, exchanging it for a furrowed brow and a look of helpless concern. Better to catch flies with honey. She blinked her eyes a few times for good measure. “My father was a dear friend of Reginald’s,” she added, deliberately using Mr. Cotswold’s Christian name, in essence reminding the officer that her family, being on such intimate terms with the Cotswolds, was also high society. Like the eye blinking, such tactics were unpleasant but sometimes useful.
“I don’t like to say too much, miss, but seeing as you’re a friend of the family …” The officer hesitated, glancing down at his companions, now impatiently waiting at the bottom of the stairs and stamping their feet in the cold. “Perhaps you can help Mrs. Dolan,” he continued, smoothing his elaborate moustache. “She seems to be having a hard time coping with Mr. Cotswold’s passing. She was in hysterics just now, insisting we treat the man’s death as murder.”
Something bright and unpleasant unfurled in Genevieve’s stomach, and she did not have to feign an expression of horror.
“Whyever would she think such a terrible thing?” she asked.
“Apparently a bauble has gone missing,” the officer confided, leaning a bit closer. Genevieve placed a hand lightly on his forearm, pressing her advantage.
“Not Robin Hood?” she gasped, rather impressed at her own performance. Perhaps journalism was the wrong calling; she would have excelled on the stage.
The officer puffed out his chest a bit and patted her gloved hand. “Not likely, miss. Robin Hood isn’t a killer, far as we know. Meaning no disrespect, but with the piles of knickknacks in that house, Mrs. Dolan likely misplaced one in her grief. It’ll turn up.”
Genevieve allowed herself a few more eye blinks. “I’m sure you’re right, Officer …?” She paused and gazed at him inquiringly.
“Officer Jackson, miss.” He smoothed his hands down the front of his uniform jacket and somehow managed to expand his chest a degree more.
“Officer Jackson, then. Thank you for letting me know. And thank you for being so helpful. I would have been quite alarmed to hear such an assertion from Mrs. Dolan, but now I feel most reassured.”
A satisfied gleam lit Officer Jackson’s eye, and he touched the brim of his cap as he moved to join his companions. Genevieve offered a smile, but it was immediately erased as the officer’s eyes dropped to her bosom with a small leer as he passed. She watched his retreating back incredulously, fighting the urge to cover her chest with her arms, which was ridiculous, seeing as she was encased in a snug velvet jacket from chin to midthigh. Her own gaze dropped to her bosom doubtfully as the officers rounded the corner and she caught the sound of their retreating laughter.
Perhaps the jacket was too snug? It was quite new, the color and texture of tilled soil, trimmed with a bit of black rabbit’s fur. She was fond of it.
Stop it, she scolded her own fretting mind as she rang the bell. It was a lovely jacket, and she wasn’t about to let her pleasure in it be ruined by a rude man with ridiculous moustaches who happened to be a police officer.
A young maid with wide eyes and a black armband on her gray dress opened the door. She took Genevieve’s hat, gloves, and jacket, then gestured toward the front drawing room. “Mrs. Dolan is in here, miss.”
“Oh! Miss Stewart.” The plump, gray-haired housekeeper bustled over to her, her black bombazine skirts rustling, and pulled her into an embrace. “I’m sure you’ll forgive me being so forward, but it is good to see you. I have been quite beside myself.” Mrs. Dolan waved a pink handkerchief in the air in a distracted gesture, then dabbed at her eyes.
“You must call me Ge
nevieve,” Genevieve insisted. “You’ve known me since I was born, Mrs. Dolan.”
The housekeeper offered a watery smile. “You and your brothers were a handful. But the Cotswolds appreciated your high jinks; they believed children should be lively. Oh, there I go again.” She patted at her wet eyes, then gestured for Genevieve to sit. “I’ll have Letty bring in some tea. Or would you prefer coffee?”
“Tea is fine,” Genevieve reassured her. The drawing room looked much the same as it had for the past two decades, with oversized paintings in heavy gilded frames dominating the walls and thick carpets blanketing the floors. But her comfort in the familiar surroundings was overshadowed by her concern for what the policeman had revealed on the townhouse’s front steps. She leaned toward the woman she had known since childhood, who had often cared for her and her brothers while the adults dined and chatted the night away, recalling that Mrs. Dolan might have known another child.
“Mrs. Dolan, did you hear that Daniel McCaffrey is back in town?” she began, settling herself on an armchair that was surprisingly comfortable for so much gilding. “Do I remember correctly that Mr. Cotswold was friends with Jacob Van Joost?”
“He was indeed. And yes, Mr. McCaffrey came to visit me a few weeks ago.”
This was news.
“You are that well acquainted?” She’d thought perhaps the housekeeper would have a distant memory of the man as a boy, not a recent one.
“Oh yes. I’ve known Mr. McCaffrey since he was a lad. He didn’t accompany Mr. Van Joost here often, mind, perhaps about once a year. He spent so much time abroad at school when he was young, you know. Once Mr. Van Joost died and left his fortune to young Daniel, and the newspapers began to insinuate all kinds of terrible things—no offense to your current employers, dear—well, Mr. Cotswold brought Daniel around more, when he was home from university and the like. To encourage him, you know. The poor lad needed a guiding hand.”
Genevieve had to fight to keep her mouth from dropping open in astonishment. All this time, society had wondered at Daniel McCaffrey’s origins and whereabouts during his youth, and at least some of the answers had been right here all along, in the Cotswold drawing room.
