by Tessa Dare
She watched him carefully, unabashedly, with piercing blue eyes that conjured images of calm azure oceans and cloudless skies. Many women found his stare disconcerting, but Mrs. Walker didn’t glance away or bat her lashes. There was a challenge there, one he recognized but did not fully understand. It was as if she saw through him, everything he was, down to the marrow of his bones.
He fought the urge to fidget.
“You are very young,” he blurted, then winced at his rudeness. Good Lord, man. Get a hold of yourself.
Instead of being offended, she held his gaze and cocked her head.
“How old should I be, then?”
Shaking off his surprise, he offered his hand in greeting. “Mrs. Walker, it is nice to finally meet you. I am Duke Havermeyer. Please, sit.”
They shook and then settled into the armchairs near his desk. She folded her hands in her lap. “You wished to see me?”
“Yes. I won’t waste your time with pleasantries but rather get right to it. I have a request. Undoubtedly you’ve heard of the scandal surrounding the Gazette.” She gave a brief nod and he continued. “The accusations are true, unfortunately, and the paper’s reputation has taken a nasty hit. This has led to a much larger problem.”
“Which is?”
Her demeanor was cool, reserved. Direct with no prevaricating. Exactly like her column. He liked that. Perhaps he’d merely been around reporters for too long, but he preferred someone who got to the damned point. “My board of directors. They are nervous and unpredictable on the best of days. After yesterday, they are downright skittish. They’ve lost confidence in the newspaper—and me. I need to win them back or there may be . . . unpleasant consequences. That is where you come in.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Mrs. Walker is the crown jewel of the Havermeyer Publishing Company. You write our most popular column, and you’re the woman everyone wishes to befriend. Who dispenses sage advice with one hand, and whips up extravagant meals with the other.”
She narrowed her gaze as if she were suspicious of the flattery. Granted, he had laid it on a bit thick, but he hadn’t lied. The woman possessed an impressive breadth of knowledge.
“And how does all that help you with the board?”
“I need for you to host a Christmas dinner party for the board of directors.”
Her eyes rounded. “A dinner party? For the board?”
“Now, I know Christmas is only a week away, but I have every faith that you, a woman so comfortable with entertaining, will be able to pull it together.”
“I couldn’t possibly. It . . . It is not enough time.”
He waved his hand. If anyone could work this miracle, it was Mrs. Walker. She was a household magician. “Nonsense. The woman who managed tropical plants and pineapple for her New Year’s celebration? The woman who boasts of having the best, most organized staff in the city? I have full confidence in your abilities, madam.”
“But this is your board, not some group of society wives,” she said.
“Don’t worry about that. You have an unlimited budget to work with and the board will undoubtedly be dazzled by anything you do. They’ll be thrilled merely to meet you. Mrs. Walker is one of New York City’s biggest mysteries and I am giving you to them for one evening.” She didn’t appear convinced, so he added, “I realize this is an imposition and that you are intensely private. However, I must insist. It’s for the good of the paper.”
She rubbed her eyes with her fingers. Time stretched, her chest rising and falling rapidly in the silence. A seasoned negotiator, Duke knew to remain quiet to let his quarry think.
“What happens if I refuse?” she finally asked.
A smart question, one he had anticipated. He cocked his head, his voice turning hard. “I am certain you have read your contract, Mrs. Walker, but in case you’ve forgotten, allow me to recall the fine print. You do not actually own the Mrs. Walker’s Weekly column. We do. Specifically, I do. Therefore, I could hire anyone to answer those letters and write her column. It does not need to be you.”
She swallowed, her delicate throat working. “A dinner party? With seven or eight courses?”
“Six? I realize I’ve sprung this on you without much notice. Now, this will take place on December twenty-second, so as to not take away from family celebrations.”
“That’s only five days from now!”
“As I said, I have full confidence in you.”
“I appreciate your faith, Mr. Havermeyer, but I simply cannot. Why not hire a chef and tell everyone that I—”
“No.” The one-word answer cracked through the office. “No subterfuge. This must all be aboveboard. You will prepare the menu, oversee the meal, and dine with us. Your staff will be on hand, of course.”
“My staff?”
“The dinner absolutely must take place at your home, Mrs. Walker.” Hadn’t he been clear? When he imagined this conversation, she’d been much more amenable. How hard could this be for a woman who had once hosted the viceroy of India? “The board will love the peek inside your home at the holidays. It lends a more personal touch to the evening. Mr. Walker is welcome to join, as well, of course.”
She paled, her hand shooting out to grip the armrest. “Of course.”
He steeled himself and pushed aside any guilt over his unusual request and the disruption it would cause her. She was an employee and HPC should be everyone’s top priority.
Still, perhaps he was being a bit harsh. He cleared his throat. “I would consider it a great personal favor—and I do not often ask others for help.”
“I . . .” She drew in a deep breath. “Then how could I possibly refuse?”
Chapter Two
“You’ve agreed to what?”
Rose traced the edge of a black floor tile with her boot. She and her friend, Henry, were in the butler’s pantry of the Lowes’ large home on Fifth Avenue, where her mother had worked for over ten years. Henry was the second footman here and currently locking the breakfast dishes away while Rose filled him in on Havermeyer’s request. The household was being shut down for the holiday, the owners on their way to Newport. “I told you. I had no choice.”
“There is always a choice. You say no.”
“And lose my position as Mrs. Walker? No, I cannot. You know why I cannot.” As her oldest friend, Henry was well versed in Rose’s plans for a better life, a freer life—for her and her mother.
He glanced up from the dishes, his expression full of sympathy. “Yes, I do, but she would not want this. For you to lie and swindle people.”
Perhaps, but Rose would not budge. She and her mother needed the money from her job at the Gazette. “It is one dinner party. How hard could it be?”
He huffed a laugh and counted off on his fingers. “Let’s see. You must find a cook, a husband, a staff, and a furnished home uptown to use as your own, one that no one recognizes.” Shaking his head, he turned back to his dishes. “I wish you luck.”
Only one year older than she was, Henry had been her friend for ages. Their families had been neighbors while growing up downtown and he was like a brother to Rose. Her mother had harbored hopes in regard to a match between her and Henry, but there hadn’t ever been a spark, not even before he had proposed to Bridget, another housemaid in the Lowe home.
That made her think of Duke Havermeyer. Her stomach fluttered merely recalling his large frame and intense brown eyes. Mercy, he was even better looking up close than in the far-off glimpses she’d had of him over the last few months, not to mention younger. The man couldn’t be much past thirty years of age.
And he would fire her if she did not find a way to make this dinner party happen.
She pushed down her panic and returned to the problem at hand. “I have been thinking on this—”
“Ah, hell.”
She ignored that. “I have an easy solution. I’ll come down with some horrible condition the day before and tell Havermeyer I must regrettably cancel.”
Henry
spun around, one dark brow cocked. “Are you serious? What if he merely reschedules?”
“Why bother after Christmas?”
“There is always New Year’s. You cannot think to put him off forever, Rose.”
Goodness, Henry was right. Havermeyer had seemed quite determined. Undoubtedly, he’d find some other way to back Rose into a corner. How on earth was she supposed to make this happen? “You must help me think of a way to pull it off.”
“Absolutely not. You need to level with him and hope he’s not too angry. Perhaps if you inform him of the situation—”
“No, it’s too risky. He’ll fire me on the spot.” After all, hadn’t he said anyone could write her column? If she wished to continue as Mrs. Walker, she must find a way for this to work.
Henry folded his arms and leaned against the counter, his disapproval clear in the flat lines of his mouth. “I told you not to make Mrs. Walker’s life so grand. Inventing all those dignitaries and European aristocrats as your dinner guests merely built her legend up to unreasonable proportions. That you’ve eluded discovery before now is a dashed miracle.”
“I still haven’t been discovered—nor will I if we figure this out.”
“We?”
“Yes, you must help me. I cannot go to my mother with this problem. Who else will I turn to if not you? Please, Henry.”
The moment stretched, and he stared at her, his expression blank. She clasped her hands under her chin and held perfectly still.
Finally, after what seemed ages, he exhaled loudly. “Fine, I will help you. But let it be said I believe this to be a terrible idea.”
“So noted,” she said quickly, bouncing on her toes.
He rolled his eyes heavenward. “So, what’s your first problem, Mrs. Walker?”
“An empty mansion with an owner no one’s met.”
He stroked his chin. “Wait, what if we don’t need an empty mansion?”
“We do. We must have a place to host the dinner.”
He waved the comment away. “What if the Walker home is undergoing extensive repairs and you are using the Lowes’ house instead?”
“Henry! I cannot use this house.” She lowered her voice, though no one was about. “I could not do that to your employers. What if you and my mother lose your positions?”
“You are right. It is too risky. I certainly don’t wish to be fired. And you know how particular Mrs. Lowe is about her things. She’d find out somehow, especially if gossip circulates. Why not let Havermeyer host it?”
“Because he wants Mrs. Walker to show off her home for the holidays. It lends a more personal touch, he said.”
“So his house is out. There’s a place on Seventy-First Street that has a For Sale sign in the window. Right off Central Park. I walk by it every night. Still furnished and it’s been on the market for the last six months.”
“We couldn’t use an empty house, could we? It belongs to someone.”
“I cannot see that you have much of a choice,” Henry pointed out. “And what does it matter, for a few hours? They’ve obviously moved elsewhere. If we slip the real estate agent a few bucks he might look the other way for the night. No one will ever be the wiser.”
Havermeyer’s generous allowance could help with this. And yet, it did not feel right. “What if one of the board members knows the owner? Or one of the neighbors?”
“Then you claim to have purchased the home recently and hope the truth is never discovered. Really, Rose. Unless you know of a mansion we may rent for the evening, I cannot see any other option.”
“You are right, of course. It all just seems so . . .”
“Wrong?” Henry glared down his nose in that disapproving manner of his she knew so well.
“I was going to say risky. The lies are piling up on top of themselves.”
“There is a surefire way to stop that. Tell Havermeyer the truth.”
“You know I cannot. He’ll fire me, considering all that is happening at the newspaper.”
“So shall I investigate this empty house for you?”
She sighed. What other choice had she? “Yes, but I’ll go with you. Think we might be able to convince any of the staff here to help? A footman and a maid or two would do. I’m able to pay them—or rather Havermeyer is able to pay them. He has provided a generous allowance for the event.”
Henry stretched to put a crystal water goblet high on a shelf. “They’d appreciate that, though it’s likely unnecessary. Most of the staff would throw themselves in front of a streetcar for you.”
Rose had been a regular fixture in the Lowe home for more than a decade. Her mother worked as an upstairs maid for years, then transferred to the kitchens when her knees had started to ache. So the staff treated Rose as one of their own, celebrating when she had landed the job at the Gazette. They had also generously offered to answer questions for her advice column while keeping her identity a secret. She adored them all for it.
“That is everything but the cooking,” Henry said. “You might ask Mrs. Riley to help. Her daughter’s about to have a baby but she might spare the time. Then all you would need to do is let the footmen serve.”
“Not quite everything.” Inhaling a deep breath, she plowed onward. “There is just one more tiny, small, teeny thing I need.”
Henry froze in the midst of picking up a fork. “No, no, no. Not me. Anyone but me.”
“Henry, you must. Who else is there for me to ask?”
His eyes were wild when he turned around. “What about that Elmer fellow you went skating with last month?”
“You mean the man renting ice skates at the pond? Be serious. I haven’t anyone else to ask.” She placed her hands together, pleading. “Please, Henry. Please, I am begging you.”
“I . . . cannot. I will muck it up for you, Rosie. I do not know the first thing about society and manners. I’m the worst choice for Mr. Rose Walker.”
“Stop right there. No one knows the silverware and table manners as well as you, and you see these society gents nearly every night. So you drink port with the men for a few moments after dinner . . . How bad could it be?”
He jerked a thumb toward the windows. “What about Bert? He’d be a fine choice.”
“He is a groom, Henry, and he smells like old fish. No, it must be you. Besides, we’ve been friends for ages. Playing at an old married couple won’t prove too difficult. Unless you think Bridget will mind—”
“Bridget is the least of our problems. I am terrible at pretending. You know this. I have never been able to tell a lie, not even little ones—and this is hardly little, Rose.”
“No one will find out except for the few staff members we ask to help. You said it yourself—a few hours for one night, Henry. Please.”
He dragged a hand down his face. “I am going to regret this, I just know it.”
She hoped none of them had cause for regret. This had to go without a hitch—or her job at the Gazette and dreams of reporting were over. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “You are the absolute best, Henry.”
He smiled at her fondly. “Are you going to tell your mother?”
“Goodness, no. We must swear everyone to secrecy, at least until it’s finished. I wouldn’t care to worry her.”
“Not to mention she’d never let you follow through with it.”
True. Mama still did not understand why Rose had to write as Mrs. Walker and not under her own name. But Rose had handled the family finances for years, and she hadn’t the heart to tell her mother of the direness of their situation. They both needed to keep their jobs. “I’d prefer to wait and tell her when it’s over.”
“That’s probably an excellent idea.”
“See, I told you this would be easy.”
He grimaced and resumed his polishing. “Rosie, I’ve known you almost all my life. You are stubborn and much too inquisitive for your own good. Nothing is easy when you are involved.”
* * *
A light snow dusted the city’s streets three nights later as Duke’s brougham rolled to a stop. Turned out Mrs. Walker lived in a modest town house on Seventy-First Street overlooking Central Park. Modest, but welcoming. There was a tiny evergreen tree in a large pot on the stoop and fresh garlands wrapped the iron railing. Her Christmas tree, colorful and bright, shone through the front window. How festive. The woman really did think of everything.
He’d been right to let her host tonight. His home was not nearly this welcoming. In fact, he hadn’t decorated for Christmas in years. There wasn’t a point to it, really. The tree and holly remained for just a few short weeks, then were thrown out like trash. Only written words were permanent, archived for future generations. Everything else was a waste of time.
Besides, he had no family. No wife. Not even a distant cousin or great-aunt to welcome at the holidays. His father had run off all the relatives, mostly in fear they would try to claim an inheritance when the old man died. Now there was no one left. No one but Duke.
He didn’t mind the solitude. It allowed him to focus on the newspapers, and the results had borne fruit.
If only someone would remind the HPC board of that.
The board and HPC investors had grown very rich off Duke’s daring and foresight over the last ten years. Yet, at the first patch of trouble, they intimated that new leadership might be required—including the president of the company. It was insulting. He’d be furious if he weren’t so terrified of losing it all.
He threw open the door and stepped out. It was imperative that tonight went well, that he wooed his way back into the board’s favor and helped them forget the scandal.
The front door cracked as he approached. An older butler appeared and pulled the heavy wood open slowly. Duke took the last step and crossed over the threshold.
The inside was bright and cheery. Lemon polish scented the air and every surface was gleaming. Tasteful decorations were carefully placed to draw the eye but not overwhelm. Most impressive was the large chandelier hanging from the ceiling, its crystal pieces shining like diamonds.
