The Rogue of Fifth Avenue

by Joanna Shupe

  His feet hit the floor and he leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Wait, you’re telling me you—” Understanding dawned and he glanced at the ceiling. “The money at the casino. This was why you picked that man’s pocket. You’re stealing money from uptown swells and giving it to downtown waifs.”

  “Downtown families. These women are clawing and scraping to survive, raising children in the worst conditions imaginable. Those uptown swells have more money than they could possibly spend in three lifetimes.”

  “That does not mean their money belongs to you. The money is theirs to do with what they wish. If they wanted to donate it to the needy, they would. What are you, some sort of modern Robin Hoodess?”

  “Perhaps I am. You have no idea what these women—” She slammed her jaw shut. How could he possibly know? Not a man who’d been raised in Chicago to a privileged family and educated at a prestigious school. Not a man with a brilliant legal career who lived in a large house on Fifth Avenue.

  “What I know is that stealing from others is not the way to help these families. They need much more than the occasional extra sawbuck.”

  She shook her head. “You’re wrong. Money controls everything in this city, and men control all the money. Women like Mrs. Porter are powerless to improve themselves. You think with three children that she can pick up and go off to college? Get a high-paying secretarial job? She is imprisoned by the circumstances perpetuated by our society.”

  “She chose to marry him and have children, Mamie. The circumstances are of her own making.”

  “Wrong. Women are given no representation in our society. No votes, no rights. We’re nothing. She was at the mercy of that . . . monster. He spent their funds on gin and women. Came home and treated her like trash. What kind of man is that? Not the one who courted her, I can guarantee it.”

  “Men like Mr. Porter are as common as rats in the Lower East Side. She should have known better.”

  Mamie rocked back in her chair. “Known better? So this is her fault for falling in love with a man who was weak and cruel?”

  The lines of his face twisted, an uneasiness she hadn’t ever seen before. “That wasn’t what I meant. Do not put words in my mouth.”

  This was a whole new side of Frank Tripp. Yes, he was crafty and evasive, but she’d always assumed him intelligent and fair. This attitude about struggling women and their families staggered her. There could be only one explanation. “Yet I’m able to read beyond what is said. You are a snob.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped, though his gaze did not meet hers. “I’m not a snob. I understand what it’s like to struggle.”

  “Are you certain of that?”

  “Why are we discussing me?” He pointed at her. “We should be picking over your decision to traipse around Five Points dispensing ill-gotten gains.”

  “I assumed we were done discussing that.”

  “Wrong, my little thief.” He pushed away from the table and stood, thrusting his hands in his trouser pockets. “Have you any idea of the dangers you face on these streets? New York City’s murder rate is the highest in the country. Rape, assault, pickpockets . . . Your father would drop over of heart failure if he knew.”

  Here they went again, round and round with the threat of Duncan Greene. It was like a carousel that never ended. “Good thing he’ll never learn of it, then.”

  “Unless a journalist happens to uncover the story of a Fifth Avenue princess on the fringes of a Five Points murder trial.”

  Oh, dear. That hadn’t occurred to her. She opened her mouth and then closed it. Why hadn’t she thought of this before now? She looked up at him. “Will I be called to testify?”

  “Definitely not if you’re in my employ—which is the only reason you were downtown today, should you be asked. Understand?”

  “Is that why you told Mrs. Porter I worked for you?”

  “Yes, and I wanted her to speak freely.”

  “Do you ever tire of spinning the truth to suit your purposes?”

  “No, quite frankly. Would you rather I told the newspapers the real reason I took the case? That it was a favor to Miss Marion Greene?”

  “I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

  “Then we are clear. Incidentally, I should point out that I have now saved you yet again after you rushed forth without considering the consequences of your actions.”

  “If the world finds out what I’ve been doing, then so be it. What matters is keeping Mrs. Porter from the gallows.”

  “They don’t hang the condemned any longer in New York state. It’s death by electrocution.”

  Good God, that was a horrifying thought. Shocked to death. “Be that as it may, all I care about is saving Mrs. Porter.”

  The side of his mouth hitched, tiny lines appearing at the corners of his eyes. Lord, he was a handsome devil. “Marion Greene, a crusader. Well, let me see you off in a carriage, Miss Do-Gooder. I’ve got an arraignment to prepare for.”

  “Shouldn’t I stay? You might need my help.”

  “Not necessary. I’ll handle this all on my lonesome. You’d best return home before you’re missed.”

  She didn’t care for the idea but it was probably wise. Not only because her family might note her absence but because time spent with Frank Tripp was dangerous to her overall well-being. Just looking at him—the perfectly groomed hair and classic features, wide shoulders and long limbs—sent her pulse shooting into the atmosphere. The air sparked and sparkled when they were together, a charge that vibrated in her veins, creating a bone-deep desire she couldn’t shake.

  Did he feel it, too? Was that why he’d asked for a billiards tournament with her as compensation?

  He watched her, waiting silently across the room, a slight frown pulling at his lips. Likely he thought she’d put up a fight about staying for the arraignment. She started for the exit instead. The less time they spent together, the better.

  He went to open the door for her. Just as his hand reached the knob he stopped. She nearly collided with his back. “Oh, and do not discuss the case with absolutely anyone, employee.” He glanced over his shoulder to glower at her.

  Mere inches separated them, and both were caught by surprise at the proximity. She could see the shadow of a beard on his jaw, each individual lash fanning his eyelids. She also noted the pulse pounding in his neck. Was it her nearness he reacted to, or his general aggravation with her? Hopefully it was the first—because she didn’t wish to suffer alone, desiring a man who so thoroughly vexed her.

  She stepped to the side, putting more distance between them. “Not a problem, Mr. Tripp. Oh, and seeing as how I am your employee now, I expect a huge raise.”

  The door to Frank’s office burst open the next morning. Charles Thomas and James Howe barreled in, the two older men not bothering to knock or ask if Frank was busy before dropping into the chairs across from his desk.

  Howe and Thomas were two of Frank’s partners. Their offices were upstairs, where they handled most of the high-profile criminal cases. Frank didn’t see them often outside their weekly partner meeting.

  “Have you lost your mind?” Howe asked, tossing the morning’s newspaper on Frank’s desk. “You took a Sixth Ward murder case?”

  Frank had seen the article already. Hell, he’d been the one to contact the publisher last night to ensure the story made the morning edition. Relaying information meant he could control it. “Yes, I have.”

  Thomas squinted through his spectacles. “Pro bono? You know we don’t do that kind of work.”

  “Not exactly pro bono. I am being compensated.” By Mamie. In the manner of Frank’s choosing. A hundred cases were worth that bargain.

  Not that he would tell Mamie as much. It would only encourage her to rescue more tenement residents.

  “And I fail to see why it’s a problem,” he lied.

  Howe lifted a gray brow. “We have worked hard to build our reputation. We represent some of the wealthiest men in the city. Now, we never
complained when you took on one or two downtown clients.”

  Because said clients were all richer than Midas and hated notoriety of any kind. Frank helped them quickly and quietly—a situation that had suited everyone perfectly. Those were not clients the firm bragged about openly.

  No, they bragged about clients such as Duncan Greene and the Astors. The Fishes and the Cuttings. The Livingstons and the Van Rensselaers. In other words, the wealthiest and most prestigious families. And the publicity worked because the blue bloods all followed each other like sheep. Same architects, same tailors, same restaurants, same lawyers.

  Which was why Frank could not afford to upset the status quo.

  And yet, the restraints chafed more and more often these days.

  “But?” he prompted when the other two men fell silent.

  “But this . . . woman. She’s a wife living in a tenement.” Thomas recoiled as if these facts were downright horrifying. “It makes us all look . . . lesser.”

  “I fail to see how that’s possible with just one case. We won’t lose any business over it.”

  “Who is compensating you for the time?” Howe asked.

  “That’s confidential.”

  Howe cocked his head, almost as if he hadn’t heard Frank correctly. “What do you mean, confidential?”

  “It means the payment remains between me and the referring party.”

  Thomas sat a bit straighter. “You know our agreement, Frank. We cannot take cases on our own. All payments must be—”

  “There is no money exchanging hands. The payment is of a different sort.”

  “Ah,” Howe said. “Does this have something to do with the woman who accompanied you to headquarters last night?”

  Interesting. That piece of information hadn’t appeared in the papers. Had they been digging on him? “And how did you learn about her?”

  “I had an early meeting with an assistant prosecutor over another case. People are talking about it, apparently. It’s not every day you arrive at headquarters to represent a murderess.”

  He sighed. This was a waste of time he did not have. “If you two will quit sniping at me for doing a good deed I could use your help. It’s been some time since I defended in a murder trial.”

  Howe and Thomas exchanged a quick glance. They’d known each other for more than thirty years and often communicated without words. Whatever message was exchanged, they must have decided to help Frank because Howe said, “Have you been to see the coroner yet?”

  “Sending my investigator. I don’t expect to learn anything new, however.”

  “You never know,” Thomas said. “What judge did you draw?”

  “Smyth.”

  “Who’s your prosecutor?”

  “McIntyre. He wasn’t expecting to see me at the arraignment, that’s for certain.”

  “He’s good,” Howe said. “Undoubtedly he expected one of the court-appointed lawyers to defend her. Did they set bail?”

  “Denied. They argued her mental state is fragile and she’s a danger to her children.” Mamie wouldn’t be pleased about this. Frank had tried his best, but the judge hadn’t given him a chance to dispute the assumption with any facts.

  “Probably true,” Thomas said. “Those people just don’t value human life.”

  Those people? Frank shifted in his chair. Was that what he’d sounded like to Mamie last night, some stiff-necked, unfeeling snob? “What happened to all are innocent in the eyes of the law until proven otherwise?”

  “You of all people know how the law works, Tripp. Innocent hardly figures into what we do.”

  Yes, he was aware. Most of his clients walked a fine line, skirting the law when it so benefitted them. Frank had built a reputation on twisting the facts to excuse such skirting whenever rich clients were caught. It was not a particularly noble path he’d cleared for himself . . . but a damn lucrative one.

  “Just plead it out and finish the thing with all haste,” Howe said. “Get her to admit what she did and then we can all move past this.”

  “No, I intend to get her off. I plan to argue that long periods of mental and physical abuse drove her to murder her husband.” The strategy had come to him during their talk with Mrs. Porter and it seemed like the perfect argument. Not to mention it was the truth. “The jury will acquit her.”

  “Perhaps, but the firm will suffer from the publicity,” Thomas said.

  “And have you considered the drain on your time and resources?” Howe asked. “You cannot honestly care what happens to this woman.”

  Mamie certainly cared. And while Mrs. Porter’s circumstances were tragic, Frank learned long ago not to become emotionally involved in the cases he handled. This one was no different.

  “Let me worry about the publicity and my resources, hmm?”

  The two older men exchanged yet another look, one that promised this wasn’t the last conversation on the topic. After they said their goodbyes and departed, Mrs. Rand brought a stack of papers into his office. “What’s this?”

  “You asked for the Greene marriage settlement as soon as it was ready.” She held out the pages. “Here you are. I checked it against your notes and everything is in there as you directed.”

  Frank stared at the offering as if it were poison. Mamie’s marriage agreement. For marriage to another man. Part of him had hoped the document would take longer than a few days. Damn the efficiency around here. “Thank you, Mrs. Rand. Just leave it on my desk.”

  “Would you like me to send a copy up to Mr. Greene at home?”

  “No,” Frank blurted. Mrs. Rand frowned, so he lied, “I’ll take it up. No need to trouble yourself.”

  “Very good, if you’re certain.”

  She strode out of his office, leaving Frank to stare at the marriage settlement on his desk. He couldn’t bring himself to touch it, not yet. Touching it meant the engagement was real, not the figment of society’s imagination.

  The engagement is real, you idiot.

  Besides, what did he care? Mamie and Chauncey were destined for each other. Frank had no right to her. Never had. This idea of forcing her to spend time with him, whether billiards or dinner, was a terrible one. What had he been thinking?

  This business with Mamie had to stop. As much fun as he was having with her, Knickerbocker princesses didn’t end up with men from the wrong end of town, even wealthy ones. They ended up with society scions, fucking nitwits like Chauncey Livingston.

  Frank had always kept his career in the forefront of his mind. Success, power and money . . . the New York trifecta. And he’d gained all three. No woman, not even one as intriguing and clever as Mamie Greene, would ever jeopardize that.

  “Mrs. Rand,” he called. When his secretary appeared, Frank pointed at the legal papers. “Actually, I changed my mind. Go ahead and send one of these to Duncan Greene for review.”

  The afternoon sun had just started to dip in the sky when Mamie exited her carriage at the entrance to Central Park. She grabbed her parasol and walked to the gate, slipping inside.

  With little foot traffic today she was able to easily spot her escort waiting by a bench. Chauncey Livingston. Her soon-to-be fiancé. Chauncey appeared a bit pale, his face haggard. Was he ill?

  Are you not bothered by the rumors of actresses and opium dens?

  Frank must have been joking. Chauncey was no deviant. A little flighty, perhaps, but not a bad seed. She’d known him almost her whole life.

  More importantly, she didn’t need a reminder of Frank Tripp. She hadn’t seen or heard from him since the night of Mrs. Porter’s arrest four days ago. She absolutely did not miss him or his stupid charm. God knew she certainly didn’t miss arguing with him. But no contact at all? It seemed a bit rude.

  Not that her feelings were hurt. That would be ridiculous.

  It was just, as far as employers went, he left quite a lot to be desired.

  At that moment, Chauncey spotted her and offered a small wave. Dressed in a tan linen suit and straw hat, he wa
s every inch the wealthy young man about town. Perfectly at home in his privileged surroundings.

  He was always nice. Polite. Almost boring, if she were honest. He hated athletic endeavors and wasn’t much for theater or opera. Visited his club each afternoon, dined at the same restaurants. Spent eight days in Newport every summer. He went to London for the Christmas holiday.

  No surprises. Utterly predictable.

  Just like her future.

  It doesn’t have to be. You could have more.

  No, she couldn’t. She had decided against that years ago, when she and her father made their bargain. He wanted her to marry Chauncey and she would not disappoint him, seeing as he had no son to carry on the family legacy. Mamie was the legacy. She knew this, had been made painfully aware of it her entire life. She would marry Chauncey so that Florence and Justine could marry whomever they wished. Their happiness was worth this small sacrifice.

  Besides, it wasn’t as if she hated Chauncey. She didn’t love him but she was fond of him. And that was more than most society marriages.

  Most importantly, there was no rush. Chauncey didn’t seem to care how long it took to get to the altar—and neither did she.

  “Hello, Mamie.” Chauncey leaned in and kissed her cheek.

  “Hello, Chauncey. Nice to see you.” And it was. She held no ill-will toward her future fiancé. “I was surprised to get your note.”

  “It’s been some time since we’ve seen one another, I suppose. I apologize for that.” He offered his arm, which she took, and they began to walk the path together. She held her parasol with her free hand.

  “I expected to see you at the Vandermeyer costume ball,” he said.

  Ah. That had been the most recent night Frank caught her at the Bronze House. “I wasn’t feeling well and decided to miss it. Was it a gay time?”

  “Dashed good fun. Tippy brought a live cat in a bag, let it loose in the dining room.” He snickered. “Hilarious.”