by Kate Belli
* * *
The barest smattering of polite applause greeted the end of Mr. Meade’s speech, as a good portion of the guests had already dispersed. Genevieve had felt herself quite unable to move after Daniel’s departure, seemingly rooted to her own private square of carpet as the other partygoers flowed around her, eager to return to the music and the food. From the ballroom, the band struck up a quadrille.
Her mind was racing. She would send a telegram to her editor immediately tomorrow morning. Or later this morning, as the case was. It was Sunday, but Arthur would want this information about a mayoral candidate right away. It exposed Daniel, but half of New York now knew what he’d revealed in private to her at Delmonico’s.
“Shall we go in? I believe the supper is to be served soon,” Callie said, interrupting her thoughts. “Perhaps we can find a quiet corner to talk,” she whispered.
Genevieve shook her head. “No, not here. And I’m not hungry. Let’s find Eliza for you. I’m going home. I need to think.”
“Don’t worry about me, darling. I ought to go bat my lashes at some of these gentlemen. Eliza and I shall call tomorrow.” Callie squeezed her hand once, then allowed herself to be swallowed by the remaining guests filtering toward the ballroom.
As she didn’t see a readily available servant about to fetch her cloak, Genevieve went against the current of the few guests still drifting toward the festivities and ventured toward the back of the house, past the massive staircase. She poked her head into what turned out to be a water closet, then tried the ornate door across the hall, hearing voices within.
“Excuse me, I’d like my—” She stopped abruptly, feeling herself flush. Amos and Elmira Bradley turned in unison and glared at her from the confines of what looked like a private study. Amos’s face was red as a beet, his thick finger a mere inch from his wife’s nose as he towered over her menacingly. Elmira’s chin was raised and her arms were folded in front of her chest defiantly.
“Do pardon me,” she managed to whisper before yanking the door closed again. Mortified to have interrupted a domestic squabble, most certainly over Elmira’s challenging Mr. Meade, Genevieve picked up her skirts and hurried deeper into the recesses of the mansion, not daring to open any more doors, simply hoping someone would appear to help her.
This house was enormous. She turned down a hallway lined with paintings, only to find it dead-end at a closed door. Backtracking, she retraced her steps and tried turning left instead. Here she had more luck: a murmur of chatter emerged from a partially open set of double doors, mingling with the sound of rattling dishes. The kitchen must be back this way, and surely there she could find someone to retrieve her cloak.
A maid bustled out of an opposite door as Genevieve entered, and she found, instead, Esmie, who was leaning against a large, marble-topped work space in the center of the room. If the other girl was surprised by her sudden appearance, she didn’t let on, instead dipping a spoon into a silver bowl she held, frosty with condensation.
“Genevieve.” The spoon emerged, containing chocolate ice cream. “How may I help?”
“What are you doing back here?” Genevieve asked, confused. This had become Esmie’s unofficial engagement ball, after all. The rules of etiquette were quite strict, and Genevieve was sure they didn’t involve the bride-to-be hiding in a kitchen eating ice cream. “I’m sure everyone would like to congratulate you in person. And, congratulations.”
Esmie shrugged, a slender shoulder briefly emerging from and then disappearing back into a mountain of truly horrid orangish lace. “I wanted some ice cream. And as Mother won’t let me have any, I came here to be alone.”
If anything, Genevieve was even more confused. “Why are you not to have ice cream?”
Esmie looked her straight in the eye. “Mother doesn’t want me to gain weight,” she deadpanned.
Genevieve regarded her dubiously. It would take gallons and gallons of ice cream, eaten every day straight for ten years, to make Esmie Bradley into anything close to plump, let along large. One could hardly tell what her body looked like under the layers of terrible clothes she typically wore, but it was obvious she was unfashionably slim, with seemingly no curves on her slight—one could almost label it skinny—frame.
Truth be told, the girl could stand to eat quite a bit of ice cream.
“Is she truly worried?” Genevieve asked delicately, not wishing to offend.
Esmie shrugged again. “I was a plump child. Mother didn’t seem to care when we lived in Montana. But once we moved here, she became so concerned with fitting in … well, curvy is certainly fashionable, but being too plump is not.” She took another bite and closed her eyes in apparent bliss. Keeping her eyes closed, she murmured around a mouthful, “Mother doesn’t really do things in half measures.”
“I’ve noticed,” Genevieve responded, hiding her astonishment at the other girl’s behavior. This was more than she’d ever heard Esmie say at one time since, well … ever. Esmie opened her eyes and resumed eating her ice cream in a slightly more restrained manner. “May I ask—why didn’t Polly Palmer write about the theft of Sarah Huffington’s ring? It would have made sense, seeing as how you were at the ball.”
Genevieve’s mouth dropped open. “How did you know I’m Polly Palmer?”
Esmie favored her with a glance just short of withering. “Everyone knows.”
It wasn’t scandalous, her job, nor secret—women had been writing for the magazines since the 1830s—but it was unconventional for someone of her social status, and it did cause gossip. Ah well, let them gossip. Genevieve realized Esmie was looking expectantly at her for an answer, spoon paused in waiting.
“My editor wouldn’t let me,” she admitted, still feeling the sting of being passed over for the job.
Esmie nodded sympathetically and turned her attention back to her bowl. “Did you see her parading about tonight? Wearing crimson, of all colors.” She took another spoonful and kept the utensil in her mouth for a moment longer than was really polite.
Bewildered, Genevieve asked, “Who are we discussing?”
“Sarah Huffington, of course. She seems to be milking the attention around the theft for all it’s worth, flirting with every gentleman present. Eligible or not.” Esmie scraped her spoon against the bottom of the silver bowl, the sound causing Genevieve to wince.
Oh. Sarah Huffington and Rupert were friendly. Perhaps this was a display of jealousy?
“I thought Sarah was rather well entangled with Ernest Clark,” Genevieve ventured. “That’s what the Hood’s letter said …”
Esmie nodded, tapping her spoon against her lips once. “Oh yes. For some months now. That was hardly news.”
“I hadn’t heard,” Genevieve admitted. She refrained from mentioning that Eliza and Callie had seemed unaware of the affair as well.
“It was obvious to anyone who paid attention. You should get out more, Genevieve, if you wish to remain a journalist.” As Genevieve reeled slightly from this sharp bit of advice, Esmie’s manner softened. “I’m sorry, that was rude.”
Esmie walked to the far end of the room, where a large steel sink sat, and began washing her bowl. “The benefits of being a wallflower,” she explained over her shoulder, wiping the interior of the bowl with a cloth. “Nobody sees you. You blend in. But you see.”
She turned, wiping her hands neatly on the cloth before hanging it on a peg and placing the bowl in an open cupboard above the sink. All evidence of the ice cream was erased.
“You see everything.” Esmie tilted her head and gave Genevieve a long, appraising look. “I know all kinds of secrets.”
Unexpected gooseflesh suddenly prickled Genevieve’s arms. She cleared her throat uncertainly. “My friend Callie said she saw you at Mrs. Brown’s recently.”
“Yes, I decided to get my own costume for the Porters’ upcoming fancy dress ball.” Esmie raised her chin a notch, unconsciously mimicking the stance Genevieve had seen her mother hold in the study a few moments prio
r. The gooseflesh intensified. “Are you planning to attend?”
“I hadn’t planned on it, no.”
“You should have seen the monstrosity Mother wanted me to wear. The costume of a kitten. Bands of white fur, some of it fashioned into a tail”—Esmie gestured toward her nether regions, blushing—“and a headdress consisting of an actual stuffed cat.”
“Oh.” There really wasn’t anything Genevieve could add. It sounded horrific.
“I would be a bigger laughingstock than usual. I told Mother the bookstore was holding the new Stevenson novel for me, and I went to Mrs. Brown’s instead.” Her chin rose higher. “I wasn’t sure they’d accommodate me, as I had no appointment. But Mrs. Brown was very kind.”
Genevieve nodded, glad to hear the cat costume would not be making an appearance at the ball.
“Maybe you could accompany me to Mrs. Brown’s sometime?” Emsie continued in a tentative voice. “I need new clothes. Mother has always picked them. Now that I’m to be a countess, I should like to choose my own. Different colors. Styles that allow for more movement. I should quite like to try a bicycle, come spring,” Esmie’s gaze drifted wistfully toward the large rectangular window set above the sink. Snow was swirling in the lamplight outside.
“I should like that,” Genevieve replied politely, not sure if she would like it at all. She was trying hard to reconcile an image of Esmie Bradley, possibly the least graceful young lady in the Astor 400, on a bicycle. “But as for tonight, I do need to be off. I was just looking for my cloak.”
“One more question, if I may. And then I’ll fetch someone for your cloak. How well do you know Rupert?”
Genevieve hadn’t thought the conversation could get any odder, but obviously she had been mistaken. “Not terribly well,” she admitted, a bit taken aback. “We’re friendly acquaintances. My friend Callie Maple knows him better. But surely you know him better than anyone now, Esmie.”
The other girl rolled her eyes a bit ruefully, then leaned against the edge of the sink and began toying with her sash. “You know how it is. It’s a marriage of convenience. I have the money, and Mother wants a title. Mother.” She bit the word off with surprising force. “Well, that’s one good thing about this marriage: I’ll be across the ocean from her, once Rupert and I move to England.”
Esmie took a deep breath. “I can marry him, if I must, and it appears I must. But I do want to know …” She lifted her gaze to meet Genevieve’s. “Is he a kind man?”
Genevieve’s stomach dropped a notch at the thought of having to marry a man she barely knew. Sending a quick internal prayer of gratitude toward her lenient, eccentric parents, Genevieve pondered what she knew of Rupert Milton, the sixth Earl of Umberland. He liked parties. And pretty women. He liked champagne but not, so much as she’d heard, to excess. She believed he enjoyed pranks and silly, childish games somewhat; she recalled Callie telling her a long story—she’d only been half paying attention—about Rupert creating an entirely new version of lawn croquet at the DeWitts’ house party in Newport last summer, some nonsense where all the players had to sing a line of verse from their favorite song if they lost their shot. It had been, by all accounts, ridiculous fun, and some of the gentlemen had turned to slightly bawdy songs, to the delighted shock of the ladies present. It had been a bit of a scandal, but a very mild one that only furthered Rupert’s reputation as a delightful, if slightly unpredictable, guest. And that was Rupert to the core, Genevieve mused. Or at least what she knew about him. Delightful, slightly unpredictable, with a hint of benign scandal. And titled, of course.
Esmie nodded as Genevieve relayed this information. “And he needs a wife. A rich one.”
“I believe so,” she agreed, gently. She tried to visualize Esmie and Rupert living in the same house, eating breakfast together. Going for an evening stroll. Arguing in a friendly way over an article in the newspaper, as her parents often did. Try as she might—and she didn’t want to try very hard—picturing Rupert and Esmie in any kind of embrace was nearly an impossible task, and her mind skittered away from the mere idea. “Perhaps the worst you might find him is”—Genevieve groped for the right word—“inattentive.”
Esmie sighed deeply and unhappily. “I know,” she replied, so quietly Genevieve could barely hear her. “He’ll force himself to bed me a few times; then perhaps he’ll get lucky and I’ll insist upon spending a lot of time in the country, doing whatever it is I like to do.” She appeared deep in thought for a moment, and Genevieve wondered if there was a polite way to inquire after her cloak again, but then Esmie drew herself up with such suddenness that Genevieve took an instinctive step backward. The other woman’s eyes were hard, and the fury in her face was downright frightening.
“I like to do all kinds of things,” Esmie said, drawing the sentence out so it suggested a mountain of innuendo. Genevieve resisted the urge to draw a hand to her throat, the change was so severe. Esmie drew back her shoulders and narrowed her eyes. “He can keep his silly songs,” she spat.
Genevieve floundered for an appropriate response, stunned by Esmie’s rage. Fortunately, Mrs. Bradley chose that moment to thunder into the kitchen.
“Esmie! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. People want to talk to you. What are you doing in the kitchen?” Elmira’s inquisitive, birdlike gaze darted around the room, hovering with suspicion on the icebox and then narrowing at Genevieve.
“I was looking for someone to find Genevieve’s cloak. We fell to talking.” Esmie’s expression was once again bland as milk toast. She lied with a great deal of ease, it seemed.
“I’m glad to see Miss Stewart has found her way. Did you girls have a nice chat?” Elmira eyed them both. Despite being twenty-six years old and not the progeny of Mrs. Bradley, Genevieve shrank from the older woman’s glare, feeling guilty by association about the ice cream and still slightly stunned by Esmie’s wrath. She tried to look as innocent as possible and nodded enthusiastically, desperately wishing to be gone before any more Bradley family drama ensued.
Esmie looked mildly at her mother, as though she’d never even heard of ice cream. “Quite.”
“I’ll have our housekeeper retrieve your things, Miss Stewart.” Elmira’s lip curled a bit in distaste at the name. “Come along, both of you.”
Elmira Bradley swept from her kitchen without a backward glance, confident that both young women would follow in her wake. And they did, Genevieve allowing Esmie to pass ahead of her and walk closer to her mother.
It was the last time she saw Elmira Bradley alive.
CHAPTER 11
Genevieve sullenly pressed the button for the fifth floor, huffing a frustrated breath as the elevator doors clanged close.
She had been sure, sure that Arthur would allow her to write the piece on Thomas Meade’s gang ties, but her editor had assigned it to Clive. Again. Which, again, made no sense, as she had heard the entire exchange between Mr. Meade and Mrs. Bradley. There had already been a teaser piece penned by Clive in yesterday’s evening edition.
Well, Arthur Horace was about to get a piece of her mind. He was going to know just who he was dealing—
The elevator doors clanged back open, and Genevieve stepped into chaos.
The newsroom was in an uproar. Secretaries were rushing from desk to desk, frantically gathering files, transferring them to the appropriate reporters, and delivering what appeared to be urgent telegrams. One journalist was shouting into the newspaper’s telephone while others barked orders at their assistants. Genevieve walked in amazement to her desk, dodging newsboys and secretaries. Once there, she slowly removed her yellow gloves and surveyed the scene. A quick glance through the glass doors of Mr. Horace’s office revealed that Clive was standing in front of the editor’s desk, nodding while the older man gestured wildly.
To her surprise, Luther was in there as well.
What on earth was going on?
Genevieve grabbed the elbow of a secretary hurrying past, her arms full of files. “What happened?�
�
The shorter, bright-blonde woman looked at Genevieve in impatient excitement. “Robin Hood struck again. The letter arrived on Mr. Horace’s desk not five minutes ago.”
Genevieve gasped. “Who? Who did he rob this time?” she demanded, her eyes flying back to the door. Luther’s presence in Arthur’s office took on new meaning.
Luther covered homicide. Had someone been killed?
“The Bradleys. Miss, I’ve got to get these to Mr. Huxton …” The secretary pulled her elbow out of Genevieve’s grasp and scuttled across the room, files precariously slipping.
A thousand possibilities, a thousand suspects, flashed in her mind’s eye.
Anyone who had been at the ball could be the thief. Anyone.
Who had died?
She sat down with a clunk, keeping an eye on the door to Arthur’s office. Both reporters with him were now nodding as Arthur pointed a finger first at one, then the other. She picked up a pencil and thrummed it against her desk out of sheer nerves.
Finally, the door opened. She turned to a stack of papers piled before her, pretending to be engrossed as Clive passed with a smirk, but looked up and caught Luther’s attention with a little wave.
“Hey, toots.” Her friend sat heavily on the edge of her desk. He removed a blue handkerchief from an inner pocket and mopped his brow.
“Robin Hood? At the Bradleys’?” It almost felt as though she should be whispering, even though the entire newsroom had heard.
“Yeah,” confirmed Luther, looking at her somberly.
“But why were you in the meeting? Luther, has someone …?” It was hard to form the question.
He nodded soundlessly.
Genevieve’s breath caught in her throat. “Who?”
“Elmira Bradley.” Luther blew out a breath and looked back toward Arthur’s office. “This all just got a lot more serious, Genevieve.”
“No,” she gasped. Again, unbidden images from Saturday night popped into her head. Amos, shaking his finger in Elmira’s face. Mr. Meade, narrowing his eyes at his hostess from the stairs. Esmie, spitting the word “Mother” in such contempt. Elmira’s narrow back, peacock feathers bobbing, retreating down a long hallway toward the front entrance of the Bradley mansion. “Murdered?”
